How Sarah Palin Earned My Vote in the WA Primary

Basically by being awesome and by our having a bunch of losers on the primary ticket.  I have decided to write her in.  I know it's a futile gesture.  I don't care.  I know she does not want the nomination.  Too bad for her.  James A. Garfield didn't want it, either.  Not that what ultimately happened to poor James A. ought ever ultimately happen to Gov. Palin -- forbid it, Almighty God! -- but, if the nominating process took a turn toward what happened at the 1880 Republican Convention . . . well, that would be über-sweet!  Admit it.  Dontcha think to yourself in your deepest, most secret thoughts, after this handful of primaries:  This is the GOP field?  Seriously?

No one speaks about issues and ideas that are important to me as well as Gov. Palin.  Well, maybe Marco Rubio . . . but I cannot tell whether it's his words or his drop-dead gorgeousness that moves me more. (Just kidding!  Maybe.)  Anyway, did you see and hear Sarah's speech at CPAC?  Phenomenal.  You just come away from hearing her speak with that knowledge, deep down in your gut, that she gets America, that she loves America, and -- chances are -- she probably would like you, if she got to know you.  These are three things I have never thought to be true of Pres. Obama.  He does not get America; I truly doubt whether he loves America qua America; and I'm pretty sure that he would not like me or my family or anything we believe in or work for (other than the income tax bill we dutifully pay every year -- that, I am sure, he likes very much). 

When I think about how this good, insanely-intelligent, patriotic woman has been maligned by media elites and party elites, it drives me nuts.  How hard on her family, had she chosen to run for President!  How hard on the country that she has chosen not to!  I was so excited for this race.  I was geared up to support whole-heartedly any good candidate -- though I always had my fingers crossed that that candidate would be Sarah P.  Now, February's not even finished, but I am.  Finished with this lot of lame-o's, I mean. 1 wooden technocrat + 1 repugnant D.C. legislator +1 dorky D.C. legislator = my writing in "Sarah Palin" when WA's primary comes to be*.  Of course, in November, I'll vote for whomever the Republican nominee is.  I mean, even though it will be one of these uninspiring gents, I will still agree with him more than I ever will with any Democrat, especially with Pres. Obama.  But, how disheartening to know already that I'll have to settle again.  Pbbbblt!

*Pace, Ms. Coulter, Ms. Spumoni, and half the good folks at Ricochet.  I love and/or respect you all; but, I'm still writing in Sarah Palin.

Update: Criminey!  The primary has been cancelled in WA by the state legislature.  There will still be caucuses; but, we will be on vacation, so I cannot even go and be grouchy at a caucus (because I SO would).  Well, this pretty much makes this whole post moot.  But, I will leave it posted, because I am still quite annoyed, and it was a good venting exercise.  God help us.

Surprise! It's Raining!

OK, so this is so a summer rainstorm
and not a winter PNW rainstorm. 
But, what a gorgeous photo, eh?

 After almost a week of sunny, sunny sun, the sound of raindrops on my window pane is startling.  But nice.  It is, after all, only February, and I likes me rain.  But, for all you people out there (and you know who you are) who think you could never survive the wet and gloomy winters of the PNW, it just shows to go ya:  you never can tell.  Would a little 60-degrees-and-sunny week at the beginning of February be enough to get you through the onslaught of gravitationally directed dihydrogen-monoxide molecules that fills most days between October and May?  Because, we get these little surprise weeks quite often, you know.  Little treats from heaven where we can stretch out in the sun and pick up some Vitamin A before scurrying back inside for the next three months of inclementation.  At least we get a lot of reading done, up here in the PNW.  And we all have grease-streaked towels set aside in the garage to wipe down our bikes after rainy rides.  Can't stop us noways, nohow.

Book Notes: February 5-11

I am ecstatic to report that I have at last finished George Eliot's lugubrious tome, Middlemarch.  Or have I?  It could well be that in some alternate reality or dimension I am still slogging through this Victorian monstrosity at glacial speeds.  But, in this current cosmic slice, I do believe I have finished.  And that is a good thing.

OK, so the tone of that first paragraph might lead you to believe that I hated this book.  But, no, I really did not.  I do not know if I exactly liked it; but, certainly not hate.  Hate is reserved for really gawd-awful books like A Prayer for Owen Meany.  And Middlemarch is not bad.  It may even have been a masterpiece if the author had had the self-discipline to lop off about 200 pages.

The Mill on the Floss is an Eliot novel that I love.  Silas Marner is an Eliot novel that I did not love.  I guess I always thought that Middlemarch would be the tie-breaker that would firmly place me in or out of the Eliot camp.  But, novels, like the life that they tend to imitate, are rarely so clear-cut.  All-in-all, I am glad to have read it.  And, I cannot imagine ever wanting to revisit it again.

It seemed to take Eliot quite a ways into the narrative before she found comfort and assurance in her authorial voice.  She seems to have been overwriting through much of the early setting and staging of the novel.  I'm not sure for what she was compensating, but as a writer who tends toward overwriting herself, I could sympathize, though not condone.  It did not help that many of the plot points were absolutely uninteresting to me -- such as Mr. Brooke's foray into politics and the Reform Bill.  I never quite connected with Dorothea Brooke, who always seemed to walk the line of too-good and annoying without ever coming into clearer definition as a human being.  The marriage of Lydgate and Rosamond was painful to witness; and the only cheering aspect of the story was when Eliot mercifully brought us back into the company of the Garths -- especially the delightful redemption of Fred Vincy and his romance with Mary Garth.  Those were the only true and beautiful parts in a novel that just seemed to try too hard.  Most of it is quite the bummer, with a slightly redeeming finale to cap it off.

I do have to comment with great admiration on the meticulous structure of the plot, though.  It could have been cleaner in its foundation, but all the joists and hinges fit seamlessly and swung easily through to the nigh-breathtaking conclusion.  So, kudos to George on that.

Read Middlemarch if you have about ten to twelve hours to spare.  It's 800+ pages of Victorian verbosity that will leave you slightly edified and greatly fatigued.

Book Notes: January 15-21

In the very early days of our marriage, I declared to Jason that we should have a little bunny for our apartment.  He reluctantly agreed, and we brought home a speckle-headed Holland Lop that we named Specklehead.  Then, a few days later, I said that it is not good for rabbit to be alone, and could we not just buy him a little friend?  So, back to the pet store we went and brought home with us a big, black Holland Lop that we named Al.  Al had distinctly amorous intentions toward little Specklehead, but, as we were hip, swinging city dwellers in Southern California, we just attibuted his lustful advances to the fey zeitgeist of the time and laughed it off.  It will not surprise Bob Tarte -- or anyone else who reads this -- that, a few months later, Specklehead had a litter of kits.  And, it will surely not surprise anyone that, within six months, we had seventeen rabbits living on our apartment porch.  Jason was bitter.

How bitter, I did not realize until I got Sadie a little, brown Holland Lop for Christmas in 2009.  "Oh, don't get a rabbit," Jason moaned when he saw me looking at breeders on-line.  For some reason, I thought he was comically grousing and did not take it seriously.  But, when Kona the Bun chewed all the buttons off of his TV remote control by January 2010, I learned how seriously he had meant his original protest.  And that led to a serious row.

Last summer, I approached this fiery volcano of anti-bunny sentiment with a bold plan.  If, I said, we could get Kona a little friend -- and neuter him (Kona was already spayed) -- I would happily move the rabbits outside, and they would never again cross his threshold or nibble on his entertainment enablers.  To my surprise and gratification, he agreed.  Mr. B was located, purchased, and shorn of his manhood; placed in a roomy hutch-with-a-run combo in the backyard within the confines of an arranged, but celibate, marriage, he and Kona got along swimmingly from the first and have lived in happy, mutual-face-licking harmony ever since.

This is a long way of introducing a book filled to the brim with charm, humor, and poignancy. Bob Tarte's foray in the perils of pet ownership really began with the acquisition at his wife's behest of a rascally rabbit named Binky.  Fast forward through the addition of parakeets, parrots, and dove and even more rabbits, and Mr. Tarte arrives at his book's eponymous position: Enslaved by Ducks.

Truly, if you like animals or have ever had a pet outside the cat-and-dog realm, I cannot think how you would not be enamored of this book.  If you have a reluctant -- nay, embittered and oppressed -- spouse whom you have lured into your animal-keeping web, then you must read this book.  It is told almost exclusively from Mr. Tarte's point of view, as he drags his feet and mutters under his breath down the road to lagomorph lodging and fowl husbandry.

But, my favorite person in the book is Bob's wife, Linda. She is the one who oh-so-gently pushes and advocates for the expansion of their animal overlords.  She is the one who constantly uses the phrase that I thought was mine exclusively: a little friend.  Every animal needs a little friend; and, spineless but resentful Bob eventually bows to her will. 

Linda never really comes out of her shadowy supporting role in Enslaved by Ducks.  When I first started reading the book, I thought that her desire for animals was a substitution for a longing for children.  Dammit, Bob, I thought; get on the ball and give this poor lady some babies before she overruns your house with rabbit pellets.  Then, in further reading, it dawned upon me that this couple was a lot older than I had originally thought.  Linda seems to have already had children by a previous marriage.  So, I let Bob off the hook there.  What the reader does find out of Linda just makes her seem like the sweetest lady ever -- with a generous, loving nature that seems simply to need a much larger outlet than even her doting, grousing husband.  I think that, despite the abundant birds and buns, Mr. Tarte lucked out.

Anyway, lots of laugh-out-loud moments and some poignant parts make for an altogether satisfying and undemanding read. Quack!

Book Notes: January 8-14 (B)

Infuriating book!  I was met to the left and to the right on every page, it seemed, by ideas and actions with which I strenuously disagreed!

Scott Miller's The President and the Assassin: McKinley, Terror, and Empire at the Dawn of the American Century is a skillfully-woven tale that, indeed, incorporates the threads of socialist/anarchist terrorism, the burgeoning American imperialism, and the presidency and assassination of William McKinley at the turn to the 20th century -- or, as Miller terms it, "the dawn of the American century."

All in all, I am more glad to have read the book than I was ever glad during the reading of the book.  The whole Spanish-American War was depressing, and the anarchists at home and abroad who fulminated so obnoxiously against decency, morality, and civilization were disgusting. But, the history is sound, and I now know more than I ever thought I would about the birth of American empire and the utter contemptibility of Emma Goldman, Albert Parsons, et al.

I could go on and on about how much I hated the anarchists, but maybe some other time in some other post.  I just saw the anarchist symbol spray painted on the stone address marker of a house on our street last week, and that, combined with my already hostile view of all graffiti and people who constantly bitch, made me not in the least charitably inclined toward those vile turn-of-the-century malcontents while reading The President and the Assassin.

A completely satisfying book, overall; having read it, I came away thinking that I've gotten as good a grip on the events and personalities that led to the assassination of a decent man and an earnest president as ever I'll find in a single volume.  Now, I have read books on every presidential assassination except for John F. Kennedy's.  And, somehow, his -- the most controversial and conspiracy-theory laden of all -- is the one least interesting to me.

A Little Moral Lesson in Latin

I printed this story from the National Latin Exam's site.  It was part of last year's exam for beginning students of Latin, of which I am one.  Last night, I had a jolly time translating it and answering the questions.  It's a cute story, so I thought I'd post it here, with my translation.

A Slave, a Cook, and Their Master

Rūfus erat servus bonus et in agrīs semper labōrābat. Nunc servus post magnam vīllam cum equīs habitat. Dominus et līberī in magnā vīllā habitant. Dominus est poēta optimus et multam pecūniam habet. Rūfus equōs dominī cūrat. Sed dominus est vir sevērus et Rūfum nōn laudat. Dominus in culīnam intrat et clāmat, “Parā mihi cēnam!” Coquus est in culīnā et cibum parat. Coquus magnam cēnam laetē parat. Cēna est optima. Rūfus ad iānuam culīnae ambulat et cibum videt.

Servus Rūfus cibum nōn habet. Rūfus culīnam intrāre timet. Coquus rogat, “Exspectāsne, Rūfe, cibum?”  “Ubi est cēna mea?” dominus in trīclīniō clāmat.
Coquus dominō cēnam dat.

Dominus clāmat, “Da mihi vīnum!”
“Quis est in culīnā?” dominus coquum rogat. 

“Rūfus ad iānuam cibum exspectat,” coquus respondet.

“Vocā Rūfum!” dominus clāmat. “Nōs servīs cibum iam dedimus!”

Dum dominus cēnam cōnsūmit, coquus Rūfum vocat. Dominus multum cibum habet sed Rūfus nūllum cibum habet.
Dominus clāmat, “Cūr octō equōs meōs in agrīs nōn cūrās? Cūr cibum exspectās? Nōs servīs cibum iam dedimus.”
Rūfus respondet, “Quod ego equam gravidam heri cūrābam,cēnam nōn habēbam. Hodiē ego equōs īnfirmōs cūrābam et iterum nōn ēdī.”
“Sed quis octō equōs meōs nunc cūrat?” dominus rogat.
“Hodiē sunt decem equī, domine,” Rūfus respondet. “Heri equa geminōs peperit. Geminī erant īnfirmī et ego eōs cūrābam. Hodiē decem equōs pulchrōs habēs!”
“Tū es bonus servus!” dominus clāmat. “Tū numerum equōrum meōrum auxistī. Ego tibi cibum laetē dō, quod tū bene labōrās.”

My Translation:
Rufus was a good servant and was always working in the fields.  Now, he lives behind the large estate house with the horses.  The lord and his books live inside the large house.  The lord is a great poet/playwright and has a lot of money.  Rufus cares for the lord's horses, but the lord is a severe man and does not praise Rufus.

The lord enters the kitchen and yells, "Prepare me dinner!"  The cook is in the kitchen and prepares the food.  The cook happily prepares a large meal -- the meal is the best!  Rufus walks to the kitchen doorway and looks at the food.

The servant, Rufus, does not have food; he is afraid to enter the kitchen.  The cook asks, "Are you waiting for food, Rufus?"

"Where is my dinner?" the lord yells from the dining room.  The cook gives the lord his dinner.

The lord yells, "Give me wine!" "Who is in the kitchen?" the lord asks the cook.

"Rufus is waiting for food in the doorway," the cook replies.

"Call Rufus in here!," the lord yells.  "We have already given our servants food."

While the lord is eating his meal, the cook calls Rufus.  The lord has a lot of food, but Rufus has no food.

The lord yells, "Why did you leave my eight horses in the fields without care? Why do you wait for food?  We have already given our servants food."

Rufus replies, "When I was caring yesterday for a pregnant mare, I did not have dinner. Today, I had to care for weak horses, and again I did not eat."

"But who is caring for my eight horses now?" the lord asks.

"Today, you have ten horses, master," Rufus replies.  "Yesterday your mare gave birth to twins.  The twins were so weak that I had to care for them.  Today, you have ten beautiful horses!"

"You are a good servant!" the lord exclaims. "You have increased the number of my horses.  I will happily give my food to you, because you have done good work."

Question 40 on this exam was as follows:

40. The lesson illustrated by this story is A) good work brings rewards B) secrets are hard to keep C) beware of strangers bearing gifts D) a simple life is best

I think we can all agree that it is "A."  Now, wasn't that a cute story?  Didn't you like how the lord was always yelling?

Book Notes: January 8-14(A)

Alan Jacobs is one of my favorite American writers.  His biography of C.S. Lewis, The Narnian, is a thorough delight, and his exploration of the curse of Adam, Original Sin: A Cultural History, is as engaging as it is informative. When I saw this latest book, The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction, I ordered it immediately, without really reading to see what it was about.  Alan Jacobs writing about reading?  My cup runneth over! 

Let's see:  I found this slender volume a quick and enjoyable enough read; but, I do not think that it was written for me.  It really is about reading in this age of manifold distractions; but, I do not have that problem.  In fact, I am sure my husband would say that he wishes I were more able to be distracted from reading.  In the chapter, "Quiet, Please," Mr. Jacobs writes about the trials of the intellectually ambitious lower classes in England who wished to better themselves through books, and how difficult it was even to find a quiet space to absorb the written word.  Mr. Jacobs quotes as follows: So many [scholarship boys from poor families] learned the early habit of working with the wireless on and the family talking, of building a cone of silence around themselves. I could completely relate to that.  My cones of silence are wide and tall and virtually soundproof when I'm lost in a good book.  So, a distracted reader I am not.

Mr. Jacobs is also adamant that our reading choices not be directed by prescript Lists and Authorities that tell us what we must read to be cultured, intelligent, and whole.  He stresses the direction of Whim -- our internal resonance with the materials that fill our soul -- over that of Authority.  Very well and good.  I read almost exclusively by Whim; however, I keep revisiting books and genres that I think I ought to like or at least be familiar with, even though they drive me nuts (I'm thinking here mostly of that ponderous and portentous collection of pressed wood pulp that is Russian Literature*).  Ought I to give these trials and forays up once and for all, Mr. Jacobs?  Not so fast.  He later writes about the need to continually revisit books you could not at first get a handle of until you have that lightbulb-over-the-head moment and get them.  I shudder that he used as an example of such readerly tenacity his struggle over the years to appreciate the great G.K. Chesterton.  How could anyone have to force themselves to read Gilbert Keith?  Especially someone who loves C.S. Lewis as much as Mr. Jacobs obviously does?  I cannot dwell upon that without getting a wee bit depressed, so I'll trot along to the happy conclusion that, all of a sudden, while re-reading The Man Who Was Thursday, Mr. Jacobs got it.  Well, at least sort of.  So, I guess I cannot justify throwing Fyodor, Leo, and Boris into the recycling bin quite yet.  Though I want to.  Only like all the time.

Speaking of recycling bin, I was a little sad that Mr. Jacobs's effusions on the pleasures of reading did not include the pleasures of reading book books.  He seems a devotee of Kindle, and he also seems to spend a lot of reading time looking at other various screens.  One of the great pleasures of reading is the physical book, I think.  Not that I haven't waxed rhapsodic on this enough, but I just want to state once more for the record that nothing, nothing could ever replace for me the pleasure of holding a physical book.  The position of my hands when I read is one of comfort and joy, and not one that I can duplicate with one hand behind a screen and the other on the page-forward button.

There are some funny parts where Mr. Jacobs quotes Harold Bloom (disapprovingly, yet lovingly) as that eminent critic gleefully bashes the Harry Potter phenomenon.  And there is some very good stuff about engaging with books through marginalia.  The chapter, "Judge, Jury, and Executioner," was convicting to me, because I have nothing but absolute confidence in my own ability to judge and make pronouncements about what books are worthy, and Mr. Jacobs seems to imply that I ought not be so full of myself.  He also wants me to slow down when I read; but, I do not see that happening.  I savor what needs savoring (and mark what needs revisiting), but whole works are seldom so full of the tasty bits.

So, The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction, was not a book written for me.  And it is not the book I was expecting it to be, but that is not the author's fault.  What I was really hoping for was the kind of book that leads me to want to read what the author loves.  I wanted to know what this very good and thoughtful writer, Alan Jacobs, reads that transports him beyond the wily fingers of distraction.  But, I did not get a sense of that at all.  In fact, he seemed almost hesitant to write about the books that fulfill his Whim, lest he shuffle unwittingly in the realm of Authority.  Maybe it is because I am older than the college students who often seek his guidance, but I do not think he could unduly influence me.  I just want to read about what he likes to read, and then, maybe, find someone whose work I had not heard of or yet considered.  That's all.

*This does not include Chekhov, to whom I am devoted. 

Another Reason Homeschooling Rules!

Sadie was up before I was this morning to read the next book in the Sisters Grimm series.  I wandered into her bedroom to check on her about half and hour ago and got the "Sshh!" with the raised index finger before I could say much of anything.  I backed out silently.  Just passed by her door a minute ago, and she is hunched, crossed-legged on her bed, still reading away.  And, this can be the Monday morning routine because we homeschool.  Why not let her revel in the realms of imagination fully, blissfully before coming back down to common earth to do math and cursive and Latin?*  Don't you remember -- you bibliophiles out there who had to "go to school" -- those days when you were cruelly ripped from your journeys of fancy and plopped unceremoniously in front of a bowl of Cheerios, then marched off to the dull greyness of institutionalized education?  I surely do.  Nothing is as magic as time truly lost in a book -- that time we carve out for ourselves to read simply because we want to.  Now, to a certain extent, Sadie can continue the magic as long as she needs to, without any artificial timetable imposed.  We're living the dream, baby!

*Not that there is anything "common earth" about Latin, which is the most awesome subject ever!

Book Notes: January 1-7

 American Massacre: The Tragedy at Mountain Meadows, September 1857 by Sally Denton was a compelling read about an horrific chapter in early LDS history.  A wagon train of about 140 emigrants from Arkansas was passing through Utah territory en route to California when, in a shocking and senseless attack, a group of Mormon militia (some disguised as Indians) slaughtered nearly all of them -- sparing only around 17 children under the age of eight.  Almost as impossible to fathom as this massacre was the incredible early history of the LDS church as written by Ms. Denton.  If you have a generally favorable view of Mormons, as I do, you will realize when reading this book, how different that religion is as practiced today from its founding.  Brigham Young comes off as a real piece of work -- manipulative, paranoid, slick, and shady.  Every religion (every culture or political cult, as well) has incidents in its past both painful and embarrassing.  That the LDS church has emerged from the murky cultishness of its 19th century roots and is now a mainstream part of American life is a testament to a people of general good-will and strong virtue.  I disagree with much of their religion (obviously, as I am an orthodox Christian), but I cannot disagree with the utter pleasure I have had in the company of most of the adherents to that religion.  I just felt like I had to add that, in case anyone passing along in the cyber-realms would think that my looking askance at the founding of the LDS church was an indictment of the church as it stands and functions today.

Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine, and the Murder of a President by Candice Millard was my first finished read of 2012 -- and what a great way to start off the new year!  Do you know anything at all about the too short presidency of James A. Garfield?  I did not.  Nor did I know anything about the man himself.  This book is not a complete biography by any means.  It follows a brief, pre-presidential sketch with the excruciatingly drawn-out tale of his demise.  But, there is enough here of the man Garfield to make a sensitive reader weep buckets at those "saddest words of tongue or pen": what might have been.  My dad suspected elements of hagiography, but I think not.  It is possible that such a man as Mr. Garfield could become president of a grateful nation almost entirely through no effort or desire of his own, simply on the strength of his own virtues as recognized by an eager country, right?  At least, I want and need to believe that it is possible.  And what a man!  The villainy of the piece is distritbuted between the would-be assassin -- insane and unscrupulous self-aggrandizing nomad, Charles Guiteau, and the team of doctors -- led by the overly-confident, backward-looking, self-aggrandizing celebrity surgeon D. Willard Bliss -- who actually had the greater hand in his death.  Interwoven in the tale is Alexander Graham Bell's quest to invent a non-invasive method for detecting the location of a bullet inside a body.  This book is a pleasure to read.  I wept buckets.  I'll be keeping my fingers crossed that the GOP convention of 2012 has the same unexpected and highly delightful results as that of 1880 -- that is, pulling out of the shadows a man or woman of true integrity and vision to lead the ticket, for the destiny of our republic.

Imaginary Jesus

"Can I ask you a question?"

I sighed and closed my Bible. "Yeah."

"Why does your Jesus still wear a robe?"

"What do you mean?"  I looked at Jesus, who had reentered the cafe.  He flashed me a quick grin, which I took to mean he had taken care of the parking ticket, and sat down at a table across the cafe, by the window.  Meaning I was stuck here with Pete the Christian.

"What I mean is, here's God, the creator of the universe.  He becomes a human being and lives on Earth for thirty-three years.  He completely assimilates to human  culture.  Wears our clothes.  Wears a body like ours.  Eats our food.  But, here he is, two thousand years later, and he's still wearing robes and a sash.  Seems like he might put on a pair of jeans every once in a while.  They're great inventions, jeans."

I watched Jesus thoughtfully.  "That is weird.  I guess I never thought about it."

Pete leaned in close, and I could smell the overpowering aroma on his breath when he said, "Let's go ask him about it."

Matt Mikalatos, author and protagonist of the "not-quite-true story," Imaginary Jesus, then walks across the Red and Black Cafe in downtown Portland, with the rough and tumble Pete, to confront his Jesus -- a sash-and-robe wearing, perpetually bemused sort of deity with impeccable personal hygiene.  It's only when Pete punches this Jesus in the face, and Jesus skedaddles out of that cafe at godspeed, that Matt begins to wonder if he really is the real Jesus.  Pete ought to know; he is the Apostle Peter, and he's met the real Jesus.  So, the two give merry chase to the impostor at the very beginning of this gem of a book that confronts in an hilarious and heartfelt way the believer's lifelong quest to get past the constructs and wish-fulfillments that are our imaginary Jesuses and to the reality of the Christ.

Mr. Mikalatos has covered nearly all the imaginary Jesus bases here.  You'll find, among many others,  Political Jesus, Testosterone Jesus, Magic 8 Ball Jesus, Works-Only Jesus (no mouth), Faith-Only Jesus (no arms), Free Will Jesus, Meticulous Jesus, Hip & Groovy Portland Jesus, and you even catch a glimpse of shadowy Mormon Jesus in the conversations between Matt and LDS Elders Laurel and Hardy (he thanks them in his acknowledgements, so I'm not sure whether they are realio-trulio or an extended joke -- but, either way, how delicious!).  Of course, he missed my favorite imaginary Jesus, Justine-Centric Jesus, which is the one I conjure all the time who is almost exclusively interested in me -- my comforts, my troubles, my petty concerns, and, lastly, a wee little bit my salvation.  But, all these artificial filters through which we pour our own prejudices, pleasures, and world-views to get a handle on a integrated picture of a tame Jesus are as amusing as they are convicting.

The work of two men kept running through my mind as I read Imaginary Jesus (it took me less than three hours in one evening -- quite the speedy read!).  The first was my beloved and revered G.K. Chesterton, who is the father of Christian paradox and has given me the gift of reconciling the often disparate notions of the Trinity.  This is the ability to say, "Yes, that is True, and that is True as well," when grappling with the Infinite and Holy mystery.  And, the second man was the singer/songwriter Bob Bennett, who has written one of the best songs about this Glorious Paradox of Christ called "Both Things."

Oh we are living in our contradiction/But our questions are always "either/or"
To this convenient fragment of fiction/God answers with "both, and" and "more"

Whether Lamb of God at Eastertide/Or the Savior that Christmas brings
Jesus the same yesterday, today, and forever/ Is Both Things
~from Christmastide, 2009

Christ is our Both, And, and More.  And the imaginary Jesuses we construct -- and I think we all do, because we must -- because we are, on this side of the veil, human and frail and finite and fickle -- cannot diminish Him, but can be impediments to getting nearer to the One we need.  But can an imaginary Jesus serve a purpose, or is he just an illusion of the devil?  I think, and I write this tentatively, because I am unsure; but, I think that there is a purpose to imaginary Jesuses, simply because they can be little scratches that open the path to the heart of Christ.  They become dangerous only when they become the end of our search, not the beginning.  Because, if your Jesus is a holy, white flame whose name you can barely whisper because you are face-forward on your knees before Him, then that is a true part of Jesus, but not the real Jesus.  And, if your Jesus is a warm embrace whose name you cannot refrain from repeating in delirious joy, then that is a true part of Jesus, but not the real Jesus.   The challenge and charge of our lives, I think, is to recognize when we have distorted Him into someone He is not, or into someone that only captures part of the Truth.  And then, to fall anew upon His grace that is our only hope of communion with Him -- world without end.  Amen.

Jason's Lament or Why We'll Always Have Books

On this past Mother's Day, I was surprised and gratified to receive from my luscious hubby a Kindle.  He had an anxious look in his eye as he handed the package to his bibliophilic wife.  "It's the closest thing to the printed page," he assured me.  "And, now, you can store thousands of books in one place."  Then, wistfully, "I thought you might like it for when we're traveling . . ."  Ah, my poor, sweet spouse.  So many times I had  seen that fleeting grimace cross his face when I filled my tote with tomes for our numerous plane trips.  Usually around four big ones.  Really heavy ones.  Tote-strap-straining, knee-cap-bashing, TSA-suspicion-inducing volumes from whose extravagant bulk I would usually extract two completely devoured books per trip.  But, you always have to pack more reading material than you possibly need.  I mean, the worst thing in the world is to be trapped on a plane with nothing to read. 

So, in the gift of the Kindle, Jason was hoping not only to give me pleasure, but to make his own life a little easier.  And I like my Kindle.  But, I still love my books.

In fact, it is with dismay that Jason has noted no significant decrease in the incoming stream of books to our home.  True, I've purchased a few items for Kindle; but, those have always been books I may not have otherwise purchased.  That is, for my Kindle, I have only bought the ephemeral and amusing -- books on current events or political memoirs.  Nothing that I would ever care to read again.  It's like an instant, expensive library.

But, books are so much more.  If there is a book by an author I know and love, I purchase the paper and glue version.  If there is a book I may want at some point in the future to use as a reference, I purchase the paper and glue version.  If there is a book about which I am so enthusiastic that I cannot help but scribble notes in the margins of, I am thankful for the availability of those margins and realio-trulio printed words over which I can run a highlighter.

As every voracious reader knows, you get a system with books wherein you can find almost instantly any passage you want by memorizing (without trying) the pinched thickness of pages both before and after your desired passage and the format of the text on the page and the topic sentences of the paragraphs thereon.  It is a skill as surely as a cook's ability to plop in the right amount of spices without thinking or an equestrian's ability to sit on a spooked horse without panic.

"But," my husband pleads, "you can do all those things with your Kindle.  Search through it; make notes; highlight text, take it with you wherever you go . . ."  Unfortunately, though some people may be able to use and appreciate those features, I find them cumbersome and annoying.  Plus, there is something about the feel and smell of a book that Kindle, no matter how slender, readable, or portable, can never duplicate.  Pace, Mr. Bezos.  I'll stick (mostly) with books.

So, I think that, much like the poor, books we'll always have with us.  Or, maybe at least, we'll have them until my generation (or the generation right after mine) dies out and takes with it the old-fashioned notion that ink and pressed wood pulp is the ideal medium on which to enjoy written expression.  But, oh, what a gloomy world that would be -- without reassuring shelves of spined-out volumes reminding us of where we've come from and heartening us with whispered promises about where we could go.  I feel sorry for the future digital people.

The Top 25 Reasons I Love Homeschooling

It's recess, so here's a little fun:



Homeschool Funnies



25. Learning Latin is awesome!

24. No carpooling

23. Gas consumption down 50%

22. Hot lunches on cold days

21. PacSci without the crowds

20. No sitter needed for parent-teacher conferences -- heck! no parent-teacher conferences!

19. Latin is really too much fun!

18. Hearing Sadie pronounce German words sehr gut

17. Riding bikes together in the middle of the day

16. Science experiments!
15. School in jammies is a-OK
14. Less $$ spent on nice school clothes = more $$ spent on nice books
13. Have I mentioned Latin?  It rocks!
12. Sadie loves her math curriculum (Teaching Textbooks)
11. No mean girls breaking Sadie's heart; no one telling Sadie that she's not as smart as they are

10. I know everything that's going on at school and will not be surprised by Sadie's saying things like: "Dinosaurs were just giant lizards that kept growing because they lived at the time when everything lived longer before the Flood."  Oy vey.

9. School conforms to our schedule, and not vice versa.

8. Sadie can read ahead anytime she wants.

7. Carpe diem -- carpe Latinam!

6. Working simultaneously through two science curricula is stimulating!

5. No more sitting through those torturous, seemingly interminable Christmas and Spring music concerts

4. Dancing to the Beatles during recess

3. Sadie's illustrated daily journal entries

2. Finding out that Sadie "loves" Squanto -- and knowing that she will never love Justin Bieber
1. Spending tons of time with my precious child who is growing up so quickly and will be out and on her own before I know it.  Why would I want to spend my days in any other way?

The Most Affecting Essay I've Read in a Long Time

I wanted to share with whomever stops by this oft-neglected blog a truly heart-wrenching and devastating editorial essay I read in the latest magazine/catalogue from Memoria Press.  I bawled upon finishing it.  I wonder: will it affect you in the same way?

WARNING: THAR BE SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THE MOVIE THE BOOK OF ELI

Letter From the Editor

by Martin Cothran
Classical Teacher, Late Summer 2011

My daughter and I recently went out on a date. After missing the movie we wanted to see, we ended up watching The Book of Eli, a movie I had not heard anything about.

The movie opens in the future, after some sort of apocalypse. There is little vegetation, water is scarce, the roads are littered with abandoned cars, and the sun shines down harshly on a bleak landscape, pocked with craters.

The man named Eli (played by Denzel Washington) is walking West, scavenging on his way, but it is unclear why. He seems to have a clear purpose and one he is determined to follow.

He comes upon a town along the road which is ruled by a man named Carnegie (played by Gary Oldman). Carnegie has sent out his minions on motorcycles to bring him books, which are now scarce and valuable.

He is looking for one in particular.

Eli comes to the notice of Carnegie and Solara (played by Mila Kunis), the daughter of Carnegie's mistress. Eli invites Solara to pray with him—something she has never done. This leads to Carnegie finding out that Eli has the book he is looking for—a King James Bible.

Solara joins Eli on his journey, and they are chased by Carnegie and his men, who think the book is a sort of talisman that will give them political power.

When Solara asks how he knows where he is going, Eli tells her, “We walk by faith, not by sight.” He reveals to her that the book he has is a King James Bible—the only one left.

“Do you read it all the time?” she asks him, as he sits by the fire, running his fingers over the text. “Every day,” he says decisively. He is walking West with this book, he confides to her, because God has told him to.

Carnegie and his men eventually catch up with them, Eli is shot, and his Bible is taken from him. But he somehow manages to survive, and he and Solara finish the journey, ending up on the Golden Gate Bridge, surrounded by the ruins of San Francisco.

"That's it," says Eli, facing into the wind toward Alcatraz.

Back in the town, as Carnegie opens the pages of the book, his face contorts into a look of despair. As the camera pans up, the pages of the book reveal no text.

It is printed in braille.

Eli and Solara row out to Alcatraz, where a group of men have salvaged the books they have retrieved from a ruined civilization and created a vast library—history, literature, science, and religion. But, explains a white-haired man, there is one book they do not have: the Bible.

Eli has the Bible, and yet he has no book. He asks the man to get out paper and write what he says. Eli, mortally wounded, then begins: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth …” As he begins to recite the entire Bible, which he has learned by heart, the camera zooms in on his eyes, and it becomes apparent that Eli is blind.

We the viewers have not seen this, blind as we have been, though, had we paid closer attention, it would have been clear from the beginning.

The movie is the story of a man’s single-minded purpose: the preservation of a book—and of literature in general. The men on the island were doing what monks in monasteries scattered throughout Europe did throughout the Dark Ages—copying and recopying the words of a fallen civilization. And Eli is doing what we once all did—committing those words to memory.

We live in a post-apocalyptic world, although we are often blind to it. The civilization we once called Christendom lies in ruins, and the only hope of saving it is through an act of preservation. Our culture has destroyed itself, in part through a large-scale act of educational self-immolation.

Each of us, on each of our little islands—with the purpose and determination of an Eli—need to be copying and recopying the words that were once taught to every school child. And, like Eli, we need to be committing them to memory so that we—and those who come after us—will not forget them.

And that is one of the many reasons why we have chosen to homeschool Sadie.

Good Morning!

Well, I'm trying out running again.  Ugh.  I hate it so.  And, I just found out by driving the route this morning, my 2-mile circuit is really only 1.7 miles.  So, now I feel a whole heck of a lot less self-righteous.  Boo-hoo!

So, I'm sitting next to a bubbling aquarium with 2 Bullfrog tadpoles this morning.  Well, one's a tadpole, the other a froglet with wee little legs poking out the back.  They're pretty cool.

Got our 2 Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches.  They are lovely!  Sadle-the-Ladle had one crawling all over her yesterday, which she said was "tickly, but awesome!"  They have not hissed at us yet; I think they were well-handled by their breeders.  And, if any giant, gruesome-looking tropical insects could ever be called "cute," these are they.

To complete the enumeration of our personal Animal Kingdom: 5 caterpillars in Sadie's room; 8 ladybug larvae; 2 pods of Praying Mantis eggs waiting to hatch with 100-200 mantis nymphs in each; 2 bunnies in the backyard; 1 cat in the basement; 1 horse at the ranch.  What a menagerie!

Underground Chicken Ranching is still on my agenda.  Totally taboo in our uptight neighborhood (boo that HSA); but, our Cambodian neighbors have a stealth chicken, and I want one, too.  Actually, I want three: 1 New Hampshire Red, 1 Australorp; 1 Plymouth Barred Rock.  My poor husband just shakes his head and dreams of the day his trucking career will take him far from home many days of the month.  He is not so much the animal guy.

So, why did I need to sit and write about animals this morning?  I suspect it has something to do with my being laced up in my running shoes and looking for any way to put off the inevitable.  I hate running.  Pbbbbbbllt!  Adieu!

Just Putting it Out There

You know that intimate impersonality of the blog and social media worlds?  How you can know someone's politics, their religious views, what they ate for dinner last Thursday, but still not have a clue about some of the deeper aspects of their character, behavior, and values?  Well, in an unprecedented move, I am making a bold proclamation to bridge the gap on Trivialities between the known and the unknown.  I am pulling back the curtain a little today, to expose for public approval or censure a crucial component to my philosophical standings.  Yes, I am a cyber-pioneer of sorts.  Thanks for noticing.

So, here it is.  I'm just putting it out there.  Judge me as you will.

Indeed, we are the sort of family who puts our rabbits on leashes and takes them for walkies (hoppies?).

Whew.  I know I feel relieved to get that out there.  

What I Love About Sadie: Part 3,409,245

8-year-old Sadie kept hounding me for a Praying Mantis habitat and eggs.  How could I refuse?  While I was on Insect Lore, looking to order her request, I saw a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach habitat as well.  "How would you also like a couple of Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches?" I asked her when she crawled out of bed this morning looking like hell warmed over (like mother, like daughter, eh?).  Quoth the Sadie: "I would LOVE it!!!!"

It's not for nothing we call her The Bug.

Today's Dream

You know how every so often a conversation with a friend will turn all dreamy and abstract and wander into the realm of "supposes"?  Suppose you knew you had only 24 hours left to live; what would you do?  Suppose you were dictator of the world; what would you command?  Suppose you had a hundred million dollars; how would you spend it?  And my favorite: suppose you had the talent and training to do exceptionally well one thing;  what would you do?

Usually, to this latter, I answer, "Oh, I would love to be a singer/songwriter, just like one of my heroes, Carolyn Arends."  Other times, in a more literary frame of mind, I'll say, "I sure would like to write novels as well as Jane Austen or Flicka Spumoni."  Occasionally, my more spiritual side will peek through and I'll muse, "I would love to worship the Lord as wholly and beautifully as Pam Summers." 

But today . . . today I would answer, "I would be a Fosse dancer."     

Breakthrough (and Nigh Immediate Regression)

Tonight, in an unexpected and gratifying turnaround, hubby handed me the remote control and said -- here I quote -- "Pick something."

Joy.  Bliss.  Freedom.

So, I flipped through channels with the carefree insouciance so often experienced by those of the sterner sex.  I alighted upon a real keeper.  So I thought.

The Seattle Channel was hosting "Art Zone with Nancy Guppy." 

Featured tonight were an acoustic guitarist singing a self-penned anthem about Tent Cities, a clown act complete with red noses, a lady who wrote a song about her mother's death and yet mysteriously cannot play said song on guitar, and a band called The Femurs (my favorite bone!).

We got as far as the clowns. 

Really, I think he showed great restraint.  Alas, I was stripped of controller rights, probably forever.  'Twas brief; 'twas shining; 'tis passed.

On a brighter note, I think I have now some new lyrics for my work-in-progress blues song.  Maybe I can play it on the Seattle Channel someday . . .  

Mean Girls

Girls are mean.  Or, at least, too many girls are mean.  Mean in that deceitful, backstabbing, particularly vicious and underhanded way so particular to the so-called fairer sex.  Mean, mean, mean girls.

Girls like Kennama, an especially nasty example from Sadie's school.  What do you think of a girl who spends the entire school year acting as if my beautiful, precious daughter has icky germs?  Who squeals and carries on if Sadie comes too near her or -- heavens forbid! -- touches her desk or chair?  What do you think of a girl who then decides simply for kicks to act last week as though she is my daughter's new best friend?  Who gives her her Webkinz account name and asks that Sadie become her on-line friend?  Who says that she wants to set up playdates with Sadie and then gives Sadie a fake phone number?  And then, the following Monday, de-friends Sadie on Webkinz and tells her that they never really were friends -- that Kennama had only been playing a trick on her?  And then, when Sadie asks another girl to find out if she could still be Kennama's friend receives the cold reply, "Um, not going to happen."  What in the world do you think of a girl like that?  And, more importantly, what do you do about it?

Well, first I cried.  And Sadie cried.  And we had a good howl together in the car on the way home from school.  And then Sadie, being Sadie, seemed to let go of it.  Not so her mother, whose half-Italian status was fully awakened and ready to enact a vendetta.  I wanted simultaneously to yank Sadie out of school and punch Kennama in the nose.  Oh yeah.  In a heartbeat, I had the scenario well-developed in my mind, and I've played it out many times since for sheer amusement.  And then, after I had my fun with that, I called my dad and blubbered on the phone to him.  He said, "You really cannot do anything here, honey.  You just have to let it play itself out, though it breaks your heart."  "I know, I know," I agreed. 

Then, I e-mailed my dear friend, Flicka, and told her I was both bummed and livid over something that had happened to Sadie at school.  Because she is such a good friend, she knew I needed a call back and a hashing out together of this problem.  So, on the phone I spilled the whole stupid, sad, infuriating mess out.  And Flicka suggested that I go to the teacher and let her know about this bullying.  Ah, now that was a word I hadn't thought of:  bullying.  I guess I think of bullying as physical assault, not emotional.  But, this loathsome Kennama had really crossed a line with her devious plotting against my daughter's peace of mind.  It was bullying.

So, Dad is right; and Flicka is right.  I cannot do anything with this girl or her parents directly, but I can, at the very least, make the school aware of the situation and demand that this foul Kennama be allowed nowhere near my sweet girl.

What do you think of mean girls?  I was a mean girl only once, I think.  There was a well-developed (if you know what I mean) girl who was new to our school in seventh grade.  Oh, it must be a torture to look like a woman in a class of girls! What this poor kid went through.  Her name was Desiree, and in the first few weeks of school, we were tight.  But, because she was different, I soon came to understand that the entire cadre of seventh-grade girls was set against her.  And, you know, in that subtle, stealthy way that herd mentality influences without ever really saying anything, I began to realize that by being Desiree's friend, I was setting myself up for a fall.  And so, I dropped her.  I'll never forget the way it felt that night when I sat at the kitchen table, refusing to take her phone call.  My mom kept holding out the phone to me and I just kept shaking my head.  Eventually, my mom just apologized and hung up the phone, and I ran to my room and cried hot tears.  Because I did not want to lose Desiree; and I lost her just the same.  All so I could be "in."  And something changed in me that night -- I guess because it was so against my nature and my own desires -- and I consciously knew that what I had done was so wrong.  I knew I would never behave that way again.  And yet, for some reason -- probably shame -- I could not make it right.  I just could not bring myself to do it.  Desiree changed schools a few weeks after that.  I hope that someday, beyond the veil, I'll meet her again and be able to ask for her forgiveness face-to-face.  I've already asked for His.

So many times, when, in a pensive mood, I dwell on regrets (you know you do it, too), that is one of the first that comes to mind.  Mean, mean, mean Justine.  After that, I started hanging out with boys more.  Boys aren't mean like that.  "And if they are," my dad pointed out, "they turn out to be gay."  Boys are too busy trying to figure out how to get into your pants to play games with your mind.  And, somehow, that's a lot easier to deal with.

Inevitable

This poor guy knows my shame.

I guess that, in my heart, I knew it would happen to me someday.  And, now it has.

Mismatched shoes.  Unintentionally mismatched.  That I did not notice were mismatched until I'd been wearing them more than five hours.

So they were boots.  Both brown.  And that's where the similarities end.  Different heel heights.  Different leg lengths.  Different toe shapes.  Different shades of brown.

I blame the "spring forward," which got me out of bed at a truly ungodly hour to make 9:00 AM (read: 8:00 AM, bio-rhythmically speaking) service before teaching 11:00 AM Sunday School.  I felt ill-used, indeed.  And foolish.  Definitely foolish, because it wasn't until we were at lunch after church that I noticed the discrepancy.

At least no one else seemed to notice.  Or, if they did, they were kind enough not to say anything.

How did I walk around with two lengths of heel without limping?  Amazing.

UPDATE:

I was too lazy (and embarrassed) to take pics yesterday; but, today, by popular demand (from my pal Kadie), I am posting pics of the two unrelated boots that I wore yesterday in blissful ignorance.  Yes, it is nigh incredible that I did not notice the heel difference.  I will say that, once I noticed that they were mismatched, all of a sudden I realized that my right leg (the one wearing the lower heel) ached a bit.  I limped until we made it home -- much to the amusement of my husband. 

Little marching (but not "matching") boots.



The view from the top.  Silly, silly me.



Toe-to-toe -- something's not adding up!



Where's MY Support Group?

Women Who Love Honey Nut Cheerios Too Much.

Best. Cereal. Ever. 

(I could eat a box a day, and I only refrain from doing so because I live with other human beings who might look on in horror.)

I'm sick.  I need help.

Words Wanted!

Are you any good at coining pseudo-scientific, Latinish-based words?  Or, maybe you know of ones already in existence that can describe two physical and psychological reactions I frequently experience?

The first is that head-rushing, heart-racing euphoria that comes when I have one or more new books to read.  Also can apply to the general feeling of walking into a bookstore.

The second is that heart-sinking, anxious tinge of depression that I get when I count out the presumed number of my remaining days (which, really, I am probably too optimistic in calculating, because God only knows how much time I have left) and realize how many books I will have left unread at the end of this earthly time.  Also can apply to the general feeling of walking into a bookstore.

A cure for the former condition is not desired.  A cure for the latter is found in my confidence that Jane Austen, C.S. Lewis and G.K. Chesterton are all currently working on new novels and essays just on the other side of the veil (and who knows how many they've already completed?), and that enjoying books is not a pleasure for this world only.  All good things shall come through His grace in His kingdom, and few things are better than really good books. 

Read on, my friends!

Books are hindrances to persisting stupidity. ~Spanish proverb

Tiger Mom and the Math Olympics

Accommodating and nurturing Dad this morning to his daughter who will be participating in the Math Olympics today:  "Remember, no matter how you do, you're a winner just for getting into the Math Olympics."

Oh gag me.

Italian-Welsh, and newly-baptized "Chinese" Mom (inspired by Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua) to same:  "But, you'll really be a winner if you bring home a medal."

(Of course, were I really gung-ho Chinese, I might have said, "And don't even think of coming home without one."  But, I'm not that Chinese.)

Snow Bug! Part 2

Well, we got about 3" of snow last night, so you know what that means in Western Washington . . . SNOW DAY!!  Jason's parents (visiting from South Dakota) have been making fun of us all morning.

(We're only so wussy up here because of all the icy hills.  Really.)

Sadie has been having a blast this morning with the snow saucer we got her on clearance at Lowe's in January.  How cool that she's actually getting a chance to use it this winter!

And some still pics:

I hope you all are continuing to have a safe and happy winter!

Yessir, That's My New Baby!

It's only because I have one of the ten great husbands on earth, you know.  I mean, how great of a guy do you have to be to indulge your wife's equine proclivities with such equanimity?  Pretty darn great, in my opinion.

So, to the above left is my new baby.  His registered name is UDidWhaaat (Jockey Club # J28162), but the folks at the ranch call him Wayne.  I call him Big Red; and, boy, is he a hubba-hubba honey, or what?

I rode from the age of nine, until I left for college at eighteen.  It was the biggest part of my life.  The day I sold my last horse was one of the saddest in my life.  I've had horrible nightmares about him for the past eighteen years -- usually involving his sitting neglected in his stall with no one to care for him.  But, I had thought that I was over horses.  Until Sadie began to take lessons at the Pony Tail Ranch in Renton.

As I watched her learning the ins and outs of horsemanship, it all came flooding back to me -- coupled with an incredible yearning.  A few weeks ago, the owner of the ranch introduced me to Big Red.  Yowser!  He's an off the track Thoroughbred who was never raced.  You might think that's a lot of horse for an almost-eight-year-old and her eighteen-year-horse-hiatus mama to handle.  And, you'd be right.  But, it's not like this is uncharted territory.  My last horse, Spirit, was also OTTB.  I have a bond of natural sympathy with this noble breed.

So we're taking it slowly and having a blast.  He's a good boy -- very affectionate and willing.  I have every confidence that we'll get along swimmingly.  I cannot help but think that this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  And I am so blessed to be able to share it with my daughter.

Beatles, Bieber and the Bug

All things considered, the Beatles are pretty cool.

"Well, duh," you say.  "We've had more than 40 years of knowing the Beatles are 'pretty cool.'"

But, you see, maybe your parents liked the Beatles and listened to them and exposed you early and often to their general "pretty coolness."  Mine did not.  I grew up hearing a lot of Gilbert & Sullivan, a lot of Mozart and Handel, and more folk and Celtic music than you can shake a lemon zester at; but, no Beatles.  Any knowledge I had was what I could glean from what little I knew of popular culture at large.  So, when Jason wanted to get The Beatles Rockband for Wii, I was indulgent and, yet, skeptical.  I mean, these Beatles -- they had one or two good pop songs, right?  Then they went all psychedelic and crazy.  Goo-goo-ga-joob.

Well, now it's Beatles in the morning, Beatles in the evening, Beatles at supper time in my home.  And, though I've learned to have a grudging admiration for their inventiveness and sheer prolificity, it is not I who is driving this latest local incarnation of Beatlemania.  It is my nigh-eight-year-old daughter.  Sadie has set her pre-tween sights on four mop-tops-come-hippies of my parents' generation.  And, I could not be more pleased.

Because, it could surely be worse.  It could be Bieber.

Here is how Justin Bieber first made his obnoxious presence felt in my life:  Sadie came home from a birthday party last October, shaking her booty and singing some song whose one lyric seemed to be an endless repetition of "baby."

"Oh gawd," I moaned.  "What's that wretched song you're singing?"

"Oh, Mom!  It's Justin Bieber.  He's so cool!"  Sadie returned to waggling her rear-end and singing the mono-lyrical anthem.

"Oy."  Sadie laughed at me and ran off to her room.

I turned to Jason, who was standing right there observing this atrocity in silence.  "How," I queried, "Could a girl raised on wonderful, meaningful lyrics and complex melodies ever indulge in such drivel?  I mean, Carolyn Arends, Bob Bennett, the Clumsy Lovers . . . and that's just the pop music!  How about Machaut and Josquin and Mozart and Handel and Tchaikovsky?  How about Gilbert & Sullivan, forsooth?"  Apples don't fall far from trees.

"Well," said my more temperate mate, "I guess that's what the kids are listening to."

"Not under my watch," I vowed.  And I kept close watch on my Sadie-Bug.  Was she really interested in this Bieber fellow?  I truly did not know much about him, other than this "baby" nonsense and that when I saw his face for the first time, it looked like a lovely one to punch.  And then give a haircut to.  Sheesh.  In the meantime, Sadie took every opportunity to rub salt in my wounded sensibilities by praising Old Biebhead each time she saw his pouting mug on a publication.

I suspected, though, that Sadie was just pulling my leg.  Getting a rise out of me.  Taking me for a ride.  And, my suspicions were confirmed when we went to see The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  Shown in the previews was a trailer for a bio-pic that someone apparently felt was crying out to be made about this adolescent hack.  I sat there, just dreading that Sadie would turn to me in the dark and insist on going to see it on opening weekend.  I dug my fingernails into the arms of the theater seat and prepared myself for the brief whispered argument that was about to happen.  I glanced sideways at her.  She popped a Milk Dud in her mouth and chewed complacently.  She said nothing. 

Sadie is never one to be quiet when an idea or plan is brewing in her head.  Every movie night out begins with Sadie poking me in the dark and demanding to be taken eventually to the movies that excite her in the previews.  So, my suspicions blossomed into hope.  "This," I thought to myself, "Is not a Bieber fan.  Hurrah!"  And it made watching The Voyage of the Dawn Treader even more of a treat.

After the show, I turned casually to Sadie and said, "Hey, how about we go to that Bieber movie when it comes out?  That would be fun, huh?"

Before she could stop herself, she screwed up her face in disgust.  "Oh no, Mom!  Not that!"  Then, she remembered what her official position was (it was really her eternal "default" position which is, on every subject, What Will Annoy Mom the Most?).  "I mean, yes.  OK, let's go." 

"All right!" I beamed.  "I'll be sure to pre-order tickets for opening weekend!  I can hardly wait to see it with you!"

Sadie looked crestfallen.  She muttered something and stalked off, toward the theater exit.  I turned in triumph to Jason.  "Victory is mine!" I whispered excitedly.  He chuckled.

Over the next few weeks, whenever Sadie was being naughty, I would threaten to take her to see the Justin Bieber movie.  It never failed to get her back on track.  I finally got her to admit that she did not really like his songs and had only been acting like she did to get on my nerves.  Antagonistic child!  We've had a few nice months of Bieber-free-ness, now that Sadie has dropped the charade.

Anyway, she has the Beatles now, whom she really does like.  And with some reason, too.  She's decided to sing a Beatles song in her school's talent show tomorrow.  So, we've been rehearsing "Here Comes the Sun" every day.  And it is a really, really lovely song.  And I'm so glad -- and I'm so glad -- and I'm SO GLAD -- it's the Beatles and not Bieber.  I'll even let her put up a poster in her bedroom of the Lads from Liverpool.  That's a grateful mom!

Book Space

As someone who scored seven new books for Christmas and has since purchased six more, and as someone who bought four bookshelves in the month of January alone, I could not resist getting this button from Cafe Press:

And since I've been obnoxiously and obsessively seeking out potential homes for my BFF in a desperate campaign to move her and her delightful family out west for waffles and bacon and general gemütlichkeit, I have been peeking at the interiors of many for-sale houses on-line.  And they all seem so bare and strange.  Then, I realized that nary a one I had viewed contained shelf after shelf after shelf of books.  Weird, huh?  Do people simply pack away their books when they place their houses on the market?  Is it because books are so personal and revelatory that they cannot bear to parade them before the eyes of strangers?  I'd like to think so; because, the alternative is too terrible to contemplate.

May your 2011 be filled with good books!