Sarah Smith and the Something More

Ah, Mother’s Day.  It came around again.  Of course, Provie was drawn out of the mothballs in the attic and given a good shake and presented to us in her annual splendor.  For Christian women, she comes hand-in-hand with Mother’s Day.  There is no escaping her.

I will confess here and now that I am none too fond of the Virtuous Wife from Proverbs 31, whom I have nicknamed Provie. Oh, I know her worth is far above rubies.  I know that her own works will praise her in the gates.  In fact, I am willing to concede that some of the most beautiful things ever written about women in the Bible are written about her.   The words are sublime and inspiring: "She does him good and not evil all the days of her life." "Her children rise up and call her blessed." "She opens her mouth with wisdom, and on her tongue is the law of kindness."  There is much to admire, but something is missing.

My husband says I am far too hard on her; I don’t care.  “She just wants to take care of her family,” he says, “You know half a dozen women who are just like the Virtuous Wife.”  Then, he lists off my wonderful friends in support of his statement.  “Yes and no,” I reply.  I do indeed know myriad women who mirror some of the outward qualities of Provie, but they are so much more so than she. I mean, does anybody really like this Proverbs vision of the ideal woman? She's always getting up early and buying fields and spinning and filling up ships and getting food and displaying her merchandise. Sounds like a real bore to me.  And, yes, her husband will have no lack of gain.  And yes, she reaches out her hands to the needy.  I get it; she’s pretty darn amazing.  But again, something is missing.

This view of a wife comes to us from God, of course.  He inspired Solomon to put down the words.  We know, then, that He must want us to take note of the qualities of this Virtuous Wife.  This character sketch apparently also comes from that good, ol' scoundrel, King Solomon’s, mom. He called himself King Lemuel in 31:1, but he wasn’t fooling anybody.  I can only imagine that Bathsheba harangued him constantly to make better choices in his love life.  As she watched the parade of foreign beauties arriving in Jerusalem to share her son’s bed, she must have wished for him just one Hebrew wife who had in her possession the greatest attribute of all: fear of the Lord. Years later, I imagine, he wrote this proverb under divine inspiration to make it up to her; “Ma was right all along,” he must have sighed to himself, as he witnessed the deceitful charms and passing beauties of his pagan wives.  Thus, was ensconced for all times the wifely ideal.  Again though, I say,  something is missing.

I believe that the Christian ideal of womanhood must veer at least a bit from this Proverbs 31 portrayal, by necessity of this Age of Grace in Christ. Proverbs 31 is all about doing. Provie works and works and works and works.  It is good work, too.  Blessed work that fortifies and edifies her family.  She is at a distance, though.  We do not get to know her.  When will she draw near a moment and just be? Doesn’t it remind you of Martha, Lazarus’s sister?  I can imagine Provie’s being worried and troubled by many things.  But, I as a Christian woman want to choose the greater part.  I want to choose the one thing that is needed.  So, I offer up as my own role model Sarah Smith of Golders Green.

Do you know Sarah Smith?  She is the Great Lady from Chapter 12 of The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis's novel about heaven and hell.  The narrator boards a bus in hell that is bound for heaven.  On it are miserable souls kept in the bondage of their own making.  He then takes a tour of heaven with 19^th century Scottish author, George MacDonald, as his guide; he, along with the other souls under damnation, must make a choice: to die to themselves and find life anew in the realm of glory or to return to hell in the chains of self-satisfied sin.  In that plane, as in ours, too  many make the latter choice.  It is not Scripture, but it is Spirit-soaked.  My favorite part is when he first views the Great Lady (edited):

Then, on the left and right, at each side of the forest avenue, came youthful shapes, boys upon one hand, and girls upon the other. . . . Between them went musicians: and after these a lady in whose honour all this was being done. . . . Only partly do I remember the unbearable beauty of her face.

"Is it? ... is it?" I whispered to my guide.

"Not at all," said he. "It's someone ye'll never have heard of. Her name on earth was Sarah Smith and she lived at Golders Green."

"She seems to be ... well, a person of particular importance?"

"Aye. She is one of the great ones. Ye have heard that fame in this country and fame on Earth are two quite different things."

"And who are all these young men and women on each side?"

"They are her sons and daughters . . . Every young man or boy that met her became her son . . . Every girl that met her was her daughter."

"And how ... but hullo! What are all these animals? A cat-two cats-dozens of cats. And all those dogs . . . why, I can't count them. And the birds. And the horses."

"They are her beasts. . . . Every beast and bird that came near her had its place in her love. . . . And now the abundance of life she has in Christ from the Father flows over into them." I looked at my Teacher in amazement. "Yes," he said. "It is like when you throw a stone into a pool, and the concentric waves spread out further and further. Who knows where it will end? Redeemed humanity is still young, it has hardly come to its full strength.”

“But already there is joy enough in the little finger of a great saint such as yonder lady to waken all the dead things of the universe into life." (emphasis added)

Now that . . . that makes me weep with shameful knowledge of my own shortfalls and sins and doubts and denials. I cannot feel bad about not getting up early and filling up a bunch of ships; but, I can remember times when I have not shown the love of Christ to those upon whom I have come in my life, and feel real and true sorrow.  My husband says, “Of course you like this Sarah Smith, because you like gadding about with kids and animals and not doing any real work.”  As always, he knows me only too well.  There is nothing to suggest, though, that Sarah was less than industrious during her earthly time – but she was something more.  There was overflowing  joy in her; there was overarching love in her.  If Provie is Martha, then Sarah is Mary – both women, good and true; but one who just got it a little better.  There is only one thing I want from this life: to live it in a way that, when the shadows fade and we are out of the cave and into the sunlight, my eternal legacy will mirror just a hundredth of that of Sarah Smith of Golders Green.

After All, Early June Strawberries Are the Best

Or maybe I just think they are because it had been so long since I'd plucked a ripe strawberry from the vine and enjoyed its sweet juiciness then and there.  Despite our chilly spring here, some of my strawberries are already bright red-ly eatable; so, I ate them!  Blueberries will start coming ripe next.  And I've even plucked a few snap peas as well.  They said I was silly planting my garden in March . . . but, I'll get at least two harvests of some crops this summer!  Happy garden produce time to all gardeners out there in cyber-ville!

I Hate Anti-Stratfordians

I know, I know, hate is a strong word.  But, I do hate anti-Stratfordians, and here is why:

I just finished Bill Bryson's updated and expanded illustrated edition of his Shakespeare biography.  It is a nifty piece of work -- wry and inquisitive without falling into wild speculation; appreciative without being hagiographic; concise and yet very satisfying.  The last chapter raised my blood pressure a bit, though: Claimants.

Now, Mr. Bryson does a nice smack-down of the anti-Stratfordian poppycock peddlers.  He gives many different theories the once-over, finds each one severely and comically wanting, and dismisses each in turn.  Mr. Bryson asserts with authority and incredulity at there having ever been any question of it Shakespeare's authorship of the plays attributed to him.  And that is well and good.

But, I want revenge.  Yes!  Revenge!  It absolutely infuriates me that so-called scholars and other people who ought to know better continue down this perfidious path unpunished, besmirching not only the name and reputation of one man, but the entire ideas of the individual human spirit and creative genius.  William Shakespeare, the son of a glover (eew!  tradesman!), was a provincial know-nothing who only attended grammar school and then trod the boards for a living.  There is no way he could have written some of the most sublime artistic expressions of English language.  Ergo, he must not have written them.  Must have been an aristocrat . . . or two . . . or three!

That whole conjecture is repulsive to my American soul; but, it ought to repulse anyone who marvels at and is grateful for the great works of art that enrich our lives and expand our humanity.  To think that it is only a certain "type" of person who can scale the heights of Mount Horeb to brush his fingers against the face of God, is to know nothing about art or about history.  Tell me again of all the great poet kings.  David.  Yes, but according to the anti-Stratfordians, David could not have been king at all and written those glorious psalms because he was born an obscure shepherd boy in the wilderness of Judea.  Must have been Saul -- oops, he had backwater roots, too.  Um, Jonathan?  He was born royal, so it must have been him.  See how ridiculous that theory is?

Was William Shakespeare chosen by God in the same way as David or Abraham?  Or, was it sheer human gumption and a ton of hard, diligent work that brought him to the summit of his art?  Or both?  I guess your opinion on that depends upon your opinion of creative work.  I believe that all art wells up from the spring of our Creator God.  I believe that there is no such thing as a thoroughly secular piece of art, because all creative expression in man is a reflection -- whether conscious or not -- of how he views and honors his Creator -- either to His glory or to man's damnation.  I also believe in the 10,000 hour rule -- that excellence in anything comes at the price of, if not blood, then toil, sweat, and tears. 

Those not of a spiritual bent might disagree with part of my premise.  They would do well not to; but, that is up to them to decide.  What is not up to them to decide is on whom the spark of genius will fall. I believe it falls on far more than we will ever remember in posterity, but few are willing to make the sacrifices to realize their own genius.  William Shakespeare made those sacrifices.  Interestingly, his friends made their own sacrifices, too, after Shakespeare's death -- ensuring that the Bard's works were collected and published and kept alive.  Fall on your knees, you lovers of language, in gratitude for the people who saved Shakespeare for us, and the good God who covered it all with His blessing.

Anyway, to deny William Shakespeare credit for his achievements is the most base sort of robbery. 
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
I know that the villain Iago said that; that does not make it less true.  I also know that those rascally anti-Stratfordians have parlayed their lies into, if not riches, then renown.  But, they are trying to steal from the glover's son, the grammar-school boy, the actor, the playwright --  yes, and even from all in this world who yearn to reach that elusive summit, no matter how low our origins -- the only good name that should ever be attached to that very good body of work: William Shakespeare.

Also Read . . . or Reading . . .

Some other books I'm getting through are as follows: 
How to Keep Kosher: A Comprehensive Guide to Understanding Jewish Dietary Law by Lisë Stern is so not written for a shiksa, Christian, and Messianic Jewish dilettante like me.  But, it is a wonderful book!  I've been wondering lately if we who are Christians give up something beautiful when we ignore Jewish laws and traditions in our true freedom in Christ.  After all, our Savior walked this earth as an observant Jew.  So, I've been exploring things like keeping kosher and keeping the Sabbath.  This makes my husband very tense.  The man loves bacon.  I see it as just another way to worship and honor my awesome God -- to remember all the things He did before putting on flesh and dwelling with us.  Ms Stern's book is written with clarity, humor, understanding, and charity.  There are many ways to keep kosher -- many different levels of observance.  This book will help you achieve however strict or casual an observance to which you are called.

In the same spirit as the above book, I'm also reading Sen. Joe Lieberman's paean to remembering the Sabbath Day and keeping it holy, The Gift of Rest.  Why aren't Christians more particular about honoring God by observing this commandment?  I think it is because it is -- at least for me -- too easy to get caught up in the constant rush and excuse our lack of obedience through a misunderstood (or calculatedly misunderstood) freedom in Christ.  It's not about being legalistic and whited sepulchre-ish.  It's about opening up to even greater gifts through obedience. It is definitely worthwhile to me to study further the blessings of true, biblical rest.

And now for something completely different: I have found that one of my favorite writers, Bill Bryson, has released an updated and illustrated edition of his excellent biography of William Shakespeare!  Oh, happy day!  So, I'm indulging in that toothsome treat as late as I can keep my eyelids open at night.  Loving my two Bills!

Starting on some Angela Thirkell, as well.  Right now I have read the first couple chapters of The Demon in the House.  She is said to be of the same vein as Austen, Wodehouse, and Benson.  I'm having a hard time getting into this first volume, but I'll keep at it.  It took me a little while to get into E.F. Benson, as well, and that ended up reaping fruitful rewards.

Lastly, I'm trying to read one of the Unspoken Sermons by George MacDonald every couple nights.  They are so packed with beautiful, startling, revolutionary, revelatory, and awe-inspiring ideas -- I cannot digest more than one at a time.  I can barely digest the one.  This man was so anointed and Spirit-soaked; it just reminds me what a puny, measly, crummy little baby Christian I am.  But, you know, it reminds me in a good way -- how much "further up and further in" I have in store for me if I just stay faithful in my walk.  Yay!  I can see why C.S. Lewis chose George MacDonald as his spiritual guide in that marvelous book, The Great Divorce.  If Jack is anywhere done with the real George on the other side of the veil, I'm going to steal him away for a while myself.

Three By Christie

In my ongoing effort to make note of every book I read in 2012, I ought to write that I re-read three Agatha Christie novels last week.  I know: re-reading mysteries?  Doesn't that defeat the point?  But, Ms Christie wrote so many mysteries, so many of which I have read, and they are so skillful and so sly that I forget whodunnit after a few years.  So, I keep cycling though my mass markets, year-after-year.

There are actually only four of her mysteries whose denouements I can never forget: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Murder on the Orient Express, Murder on the Nile, and And Then There Were None.  If you've never read Agatha Christie, don't read Roger Ackroyd first (as I mistakenly did); but, do read it once you've met and fallen in love with Monsieur Poirot in other mysteries.  It is a humdinger.

The three I read last week were: Sparkling Cyanide, Why Didn't They Ask Evans?, and Murder is Easy.  Not much to note about them other than that Christie makes what must be such a difficult writing task look so darn easy.  And the crimes, even murder most foul, are so darn fun.  Dang Brits!  Why do Americans even try to write?

(That said: I know several American authors who write extraordinarily well.  You'd almost think they were British.  But, as a national whole, the Brits outclass us by sheer sparkling, spectacular volume of wit and skill with pen or quill.)

Review: Theology in Aisle Seven

Just submitted to Amazon:

What do a fenced-in backyard, a fraudulent E-bay transaction, a headless snake, and a bad case of laryngitis have in common?  Through the eyes and pen of author and songwriter Carolyn Arends, each becomes a spiritual signpost, pointing ever nearer to the mysteries of God.  Using these and myriad other everyday occurrences, Carolyn marks her path as skillfully as a sailor marks the stars. And, after reading this collection of columns, the only conclusion the reader can draw is that we are constantly standing on holy ground, and nothing and no one ought to be overlooked as ordinary in this grand adventure of Christian life.  

The title of the collection sort of sums up the thread binding each column to the others.  Theology in Aisle 7 refers to an experience in that hotbed of potentiality: the office supply store.  In Chapter 7, Letting Go of God: Trying to Organize a God who Transcends, Carolyn relates her purchase of a desktop file sorter (Organizational Supplies, Aisle 7) with her then recent decision to pursue a Masters in Theology.  She writes, “On the same day I bought my new organizer, I decided on a concentration in spiritual theology.  I’ve been longing for more structure, not only in my office but also in my faith.”

A friend teases her a little, asking whether a part of her was looking for more control in her course of studies in systematic theology.  No, Carolyn realizes, not part of her – all of her!  She writes again, “I really don’t like it when God behaves unpredictably, when he seems to be as much about mystery as about revelation, and when he refuses to fit into the slots I have labeled for him.”  She longs for a tidier faith, a PowerPoint presentation God, a concise, inarguable exposition of God’s will and man’s work.  Like anyone else who grapples with the Holy One, she is left strengthened in her weakness, knowing that, “We have a God who both transcends our messy lives and incarnates himself in them.  That reality is hard to organize, but it is the best news there is. . . .Praise God, there is not a thing in Aisle 7 – or in the universe – that can contain him.” 

The whole of this collection reminds me of a sermon I recently read by the extraordinary George MacDonald (Phantastes), wherein he writes about our desire to shove God into a clearly marked box and be done with Him: “Sad, indeed, would the matter be, if the Bible had told us everything God meant us to believe.  But herein is the Bible itself greatly wronged.  It nowhere lays claim to be regarded as the Word, the Way, the Truth.  The Bible leads us to Jesus, the inexhaustible, the ever unfolding Revelation of God.  It is Christ 'in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge,' not the Bible, save as leading to him.” (Unspoken Sermons, “The Higher Faith”) This is why, unless we wrestle daily in Spirit and Truth and find our hips dislodged and our hearts broken, we will never revel in spiritual renewal -- that wholeness of what God desires for us.  This collection is one way that Carolyn Arends offers us insight into her journey and encouragement on ours.

So, if you go looking for Theology in Aisle 7, what you’ll find instead is a meandering path of constant wonder where every footprint is filled with grace.  Do not be deceived by its switchbacks and unexpected turns; it has a defined destination that is no less than the very heart of God.  Happy travels!

P.S. Thanks to Flicka Spumoni for the heads-up on George MacDonald's Unspoken Sermons.  Wow!

Theology in Aisle Seven

Lucky us!  Carolyn Arends has a new book out!  Unfortunately, it's only available as an e-book right now.*  Also, it is a collection of her Christianity Today Magazine columns -- all of which I have already read.  But still!  A new book by Carolyn!  Of course, it's well worth getting. My favorite chapters are Chapter 2 -- Initiator: Come, Lord Jesus—oh, wait—he’s already here; Chapter 3 -- Merciful Victor: Why defeat at the hands of God is magnificent; Chapter 5 -- Benevolent Lawgiver: Why God’s law is good news; Chapter 13 -- Saying More Than We Can Say: The Arts; Chapter 24 -- Going Down Singing: The gift of mortality; and, especially, Chapter 25 -- Lessons from a Headless Snake: God’s coming victory.  They are truly all good, though.  Thought-provoking and encouraging and full of, um, fullness -- Spirit and Truth. 

So, go already!  Get it sent to your Kindle or Nook!  Read!  Enjoy!  And come back and let's talk about it!

*I just cannot get used to these new-fangled reading devices.  I bought her book for my Kindle and will happily re-read her columns on it, should I ever dig it out of my bedroom trunk and recharge it.

And Then There Were Three

We got our replacement duckling for the one that died when Princess Paula was shipped.  And with him came another duckling, just for kicks (and warmth during shipping).  So, now we have three ducklings.  Problem is, they grow incredibly quickly, and Princess P is two weeks older and about 3X bigger than the two boys.  So, they think she is Mama Duck and Sadie has been displaced from her maternal role.  This makes Sadie sad; but, the ducks seem happy.  They are having a hoot exploring the house together.  Here is a video of them wandering about, because ducks are cute (and messy and smelly).  I, for one, can hardly wait until they grow their feathers and wings and we can release them into our backyard to eat our slugs and terrorize the neighbors' dogs.

What If They Offered an IPO for a Silly Company, and Nobody Bought It?

About 70% of what is wrong with our economy can be summed up in Facebook's projected IPO of $38.  That would put the value of this cyber-concoction of dandelion fluff and jarred moonbeams at around $104 billion.  Uh-huh. 

I know lots of people like Facebook.  And that's fine.  But, what is it about Facebook that even remotely brings its value up to such an astronomical level?  The advertising potential?  Really?  Have you ever bought something you were not already going to buy because a "friend" "liked" it on Facebook?

And this is just my curmudgeonly, quasi-Luddite opinion, but about 75% of everything that is wrong with our culture can be summed up by the existence of Facebook at all.  The very phenomenon calls to my mind this lovely quote from a Wall Street Journal editorial on September 1, 2006: The therapeutic ethos of recent years has encouraged each of us to get every thought off our chest, lest we suffer from the ordeal of civility.  Engaging in face-to-face conversations, living within our communities, loving our neighbors as they are given to us from outside our control, measuring our words before we speak them -- these are the actions that civilize us, that build us up, that help us find common ground; emphatically not flinging posts at each other through cyberspace.

OK, leaping down from the soapbox now.  I mean, it's not that blogging is much better, truly.  But, it is more in depth and more about substance and thought than Facebook, I think.  Wherever your networking fancy takes you, go with God.  But, don't be surprised by the stupendous fall of Facebook in the near future.  It is a very silly company.

Book Notes: April 30 - May 15 (Alas, Au Reservoir, Lucia!)

In the introduction to the Knopf's Everyman Library edition of Sanditon and Other Stories (a collection of Jane Austen's juvenilia, fragments, and one complete epistolary novel), Peter Washington writes of Miss Austen's relatively new status as a major author -- one whose works have launched a thousand academically pretentious and dubiously premised critical theses.  He writes of readers such as I, "Dismayed by this assault, many old Janeites have staged a tactical retreat, instinctively turning for comfort to writers more likely to withstand academic appropriation -- Wodehouse, Angela Thirkell, E.F. Benson.  Benson is an interesting case, because he now has the status Austen used to enjoy.  He was a fine novelist with greater depths than one might suspect . . . but he is rightly favoured for his light touch, his dry humour, his caricatures, his lucid, lambent style, his old-maidishness, all the features that once belonged to 'Miss' Austen."  Oh heck yeah!  Mr. Washington had me at "light touch and dry humour."  I already knew I loved P.G. Wodehouse; now I had two more authors to discover.  E.F. Benson came first.

Do yourself a favour*: Read Benson's six novels that make up the Mapp & Lucia series.  Oh, they are so very, very good for whatever ails you. The first book I read (and I was lucky to have figured out how to read them in order, which is the best way) was Queen Lucia.  At first I was puzzled, as I did not really like the main character and was unsure how to view her going forward.  Then, all of a sudden, it hit me smack in the gob, and I was a confirmed Luciaphile in a heartbeat. Someone once, erroneously in my opinion, described Miss Austen's books as "exercises in regulated hatred."  They missed the fun, the sheer comic brilliance, of a master craftswoman who can laugh at "follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies" without ever losing that essential benevolence.  E.F. Benson is even easier to catch in the humour of it all, because his characters are so bald in their ambitions and transparent in their snobberies.  Everyone in the books knows what everyone else is up to, and watching these refined middle-class British suburbanites plot and scheme and maneuver is like watching a chess match between two masters with nothing important at stake other than prestige and eclat.

Lucia's Progress finds Lucia and Elizabeth Mapp at it again in Tilling -- that town by the sea.   If you do not know the characters, there is not much to tell you about them, other than that each disguises a near blood lust for the other's throat beneath a veneer of chilly, sarcastic civility that is utterly diverting.  [spoiler] The twisting and turning plot finishes up with Elizabeth put down quite soundly and Lucia rising to prominence as Mayor of Tilling.  Ta-da!

I took a break from E.F. Benson to read a type of book I generally like: The Book of the Dead: Lives of the Justly Famous and the Undeservedly Obscure by John Lloyd and John Mitchinson.  I haven't much to say about this one, other than that it was interesting enough for a pleasure read, but not as wittily written as I've come to expect from British writers.  Maybe I was too full of Benson yet to appreciate the two Johns fully.  But, I learned just enough about various characters who are currently dead but were once very much alive doing interesting things.  They grouped these dead into categories that might have surprised the subjects in their living years.  For instance, Freud, DaVinci and Byron had "bad starts in life."  Some people were grouped as monkey-keepers.  Other for their sexual proclivities.  All in all, a good beach read. 

But, it was soon back to Lucia & Mapp, this time for the final novel of the series, Trouble for Lucia.  Remember, you're still under spoiler alert.  Lucia is mayor of Tilling and appoints Elizabeth Mapp as her mayoress, just to keep her out of Lucia's hair.  And everything goes swimmingly for the new mayor, as her sworn-but-never-stated enemy Elizabeth grinds her (fake) teeth in frustration.  Hijinks ensue; prestige is won and lost by all; and it looks in the end as though Lucia may finally get her come-uppance and see Elizabeth Mapp triumph once and for all.  Does she?  I'll leave that spoiler out.  With one sigh of regret and another of satisfaction, I lay aside this final volume with a final "Au reservoir" to my beloved Tilling-and-Riseholme-ites.  I should think I'll be ready to read the lot again within a year or two.  They are definitely akin to Miss Austen in their re-readability as well as their immense fun.

* the extra 'u' in favour is to honour my beloved Brits; the extra 'u' in honour was for consistency

The World is Too Much With Us

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
          Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
          Little we see in Nature that is ours;
          We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
          The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
          The winds that will be howling at all hours,
          And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
          For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
          It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
          A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;                      
          So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
          Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
          Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
          Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
                                                            ~ William Wordsworth, 1806

Feels like that lately.  But, I've got a duckling sleeping on my lap and the sun is shining and I still see much in Nature that is mine.  So, adieu computer and bonjour glorious spring day!

Good Night, Wolf Boy

One small child can imagine monsters too big and black to get into any picture, and give them names too unearthly and cacophonous to have occurred in the cries of any lunatic. The child, to begin with, commonly likes horrors, and he continues to indulge in them even when he does not like them. . . .The fear does not come from fairy tales; the fear comes from the universe of the soul. ~G.K. Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles, "The Red Angel"

And to paraphrase from that same essay with a Sendakian nod: Fairy tales do not give a child his first idea of a bogey. What fairy tales give a child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of the bogey. The baby has known the wild things intimately ever since he had an imagination. What [this fairy tale] provides for him is a Max to tame all the wild things by staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once.

It would be the rare parent who has not to some degree committed to memory the smooth cadences of the text of Where the Wild Things Are.  It just flows so easily -- in the deceptively simple way of all great prose -- that a few times of reading it through will imprint it indelibly in the grey cells.  I used to have to read this book almost every day through the preschool years of two little girls.  I think I will have it (with maybe a few mistakes or mis-rememberings) memorized forever.  It is a lovely book; it is everything that a book of this sort ought to be.

I'm sure I've read and enjoyed others of his books over the years.  But, Where the Wild Things Are is such a triumph of children's literature, Maurice Sendak's eternal prominence in the genre was secured by that one offering.  And now, he is gone.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Sendak.

The Funniest Thing You've Never Seen (Yet)

We received our ducklings in the mail yesterday.  Sadly, one was dead in the box.  The other, our little girl, Princess Paula, is very, very, very much alive.  And, as she is an only duckling for now, she is quite dependent on constant human attention.  Sadie opened the carton, so she was the first person Princess saw, and she imprinted on Miss Sadie-Pants instantly.  Today, she has been following Sadie everywhere on her scrambling little webbed feet -- and it is the funniest and cutest thing I have ever seen.  The video I took does not do the preciousness of it all justice, but here it is anyway:

Miss Anne Thrope

Ana B Designs

Somedays, I kinda hate being a Christian.  Oh yeah.  Because some days I hate people, and I know I'm not technically allowed to do that, as a purported follower and lover of Christ.  But, goll durn it, people suck, don't they?  I mean, not us.  We're cool. Totally.  I mean other people.  L'enfer, c'est les autres.

Hell is other people.  People like those heinous May Day protesters yesterday who wrought havoc on beautiful downtown Seattle. No matter how much of a self-aggrieved ne'er-do-well loser you are, nothing gives you the right to assault private property.  Nothing. Idiots.

Hell is other people.  People like the guy who stole the check from my mailbox last week and then washed it and wrote a $250 debit to my checking account, causing me no end of grief in closing that account and opening a new one and all the attendant tsuris of that.

Hell is other people.  People like the guy who hacked my credit card number off the Internet in March.  Then, this gem of a fellow made some delightful charges to the thousands.  Thank goodness Citibank has a vigilant fraud department and a kind and understanding group of people to help. So, hell is not those nice Citibank people.  Take that 99%!

Hell is other people.  People like a certain neighbor who came over to bitch about our needles and leaves getting into her yard.  These come from trees that do not in any way hang onto her property.  What does she expect me to do about this?  Everybody in this Evergreen State has neighbors' and neighborhood trees depositing foliage into their domain.  Flicka says she was trying to get me to agree to go do her yard work for her.  No way, Jose.

Hell is other people.  People like the Compassion International "child" I sponsor, who turned 21 in March and is still on the program.  When I was 21, I had already lived away from home on my own for 3 years and was working full time and paying my own college tuition.  What gives?  All right, so a young lady in Ethiopia cannot really be hell for me.  How about heck?

But God is good, even though we people are so bad -- and I the worst offender of all.  And He has given me wonderful friendships with far better people than I in whom I find more than a glimpse of heaven.  So I am blessed.  And I'm going to keep repeating that to myself until it pierces my soul and drives me again to my knees with repentance and gratitude.  In the middle time, though, you will find me in the phone book under Thrope, Miss Anne.

My Vacation -- And, Yes, Everybody Cleans Behind Their Refrigerator, Right?

Jason and Sadie have run off to join the circus.  Sort of.  They're in Sioux Falls for the week, working at the Shrine Circus and hanging out with Jason's parents.  They're also taking in a Brian Regan show while they're out there.  And I am at home having my vacation.  Spring cleaning!

Everyone cleans behind their refrigerator, right?  I asked Jason to help me move it out yesterday before I took them to the airport so that I could get behind it.  The act of pulling the fridge forward caused a water line to crack and, behold, water started spraying everywhere.  Jason immediately attributed this ill-timed catastrophe to my insatiable cleaning habits.  "Oh, you just had to clean behind the fridge!"  "Don't you blame me," I retorted with fire in my eyes, "everybody cleans behind the fridge!"  Luckily, we have a separate water shut off for the refrigerator, so Jason was able to make it to the airport on time with very little fear that I would return to a flooded kitchen.  The plumber came, pulled the line and capped it, and it is all good.  $200 worth of clean refrigerator space good.

And, in the end, I was able to clean out the rest of the kitchen yesterday, too.  The cupboards got it inside and out.  Cookbook shelves are spotless.  The kitchen table gleams.  I was a little disappointed that my kitchen was not nearly as filthy as I had anticipated.  I guess I'm always finding time to dump and scrub and re-order in there.  But, that's OK.  I can console myself with many, many other projects in my dear, little house.

Today, I shall clean the walls of our vaulted ceiling living room.  They are covered with soot from innumerable fires during the winter and the candles that I burn incessantly year-round. Yech.  Also, we never painted our baseboards after we had the floors redone in 2008 -- and you know how impossible it is to keep unpainted baseboards clean -- so out comes the paint!  Ooh, and closet clean-outs are on the horizon!  And gardening!  I just love my alone time, don't you?

Book Notes: April 15 - 21

Imagine dining on a 600+ page serving of lutefisk.  Revolting, right?  Then, imagine an opportunity soon afterward to snack on some Biscoff cookies.  How heavenly they would seem, especially in comparison with your previous meal!  So, I finished Doctor Zhivago and immediately began Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate with a Kinsella chaser of Twenties Girl.  Delightful, refreshing, insubstantial, ebullient concoctions of witty fluff that just race breathlessly along.  And, of course, written by Brits. Ah . . . now I'm home!

This was my second try with Nancy Mitford.  I first read The Pursuit of Love a couple years ago.  I enjoyed it well enough.  I enjoyed Love in a Cold Climate even more.  Could that be because I has just plodded through the lugubrious Doctor Zhivago?  Perhaps.  But, there is quite a bit to love about Love in a Cold Climate, regardless of whatever fare you were subjected to immediately prior.

Fanny is back as the narrator of all -- far enough away from her subjects to expound upon their follies with the proper irony; close enough to give us the real scoop.  This time, it is her feckless cousin of sorts, Polly, who is causing general consternation and hullabaloo among the family members. Can Polly even feel the love her mother expects her to fall dutifully into?  Well, she sorta, kinda can -- at least when it means engaging herself to her recently widowed uncle!  Everyone spends a great deal of time up in arms and out of sorts over her choice -- until the heir of Polly's dad's entailed estate shows up from Canada via Paris and gives everyone something new to talk about.  It all rolls pleasantly and amusingly along and the ending leaves all the characters in one mode or another of happiness and the reader satisfied.

Even more toothsome and nutritionally bereft than Love in a Cold Climate is Sophie Kinsella's recent offering, Twenties Girl.  If you just enjoy very funny writing that is not at all taxing on the grey cells, you ought definitely to read Kinsella.  Her novels are screwball comedies with dizzy, lovable heroines and appropriately dreamy leading men.  I have never read a Kinsella book without laughing out loud at least a dozen or so times.

Twenties Girl is about the haunting of Lara -- a 27-year-old corporate headhunting entrepreneur who daily fights an unhealthy obsession with the boyfriend who dumped her two months before -- by Sadie, the twenty-three-year-old ghostly incarnation of Lara's 105-year-old aunt who just died.  Sound confusing?  Stick with me.  Sadie needs Lara to find for her a very special glass bead necklace that has a dragonfly pendant at the end.  Over the course of the book, it is revealed why this necklace is so very important. 

The pacing is brisk, the writing is effervescent, and the heart and soul of the book is Lara's developing relationship with her great-aunt's sassy young self.  And, like all of Kinsella's heroines, Lara finds herself in embarrassing and side-splittingly funny situations and finds the most inventive ways out of them.  And, as in every stand-alone Kinsella book, the heroine finds some at-first aloof and then beguiled leading man in which to fall deliriously in love.  If you like this sort of thing -- and I do -- you will do yourself some good to read Sophie Kinsella.  Highly recommended are the first Shopaholic book, The Undomestic Goddess, and, now, Twenties Girl.

I'm in the midst of another favorite British author's work: Lucia's Progress by E.F. Benson.  I hope that by the time I have finished it I will have utterly done away with the depression of spirits that attended my reading of Boris's banal blatherings.  God bless the Brits!

   

Wonderful, Frustrating Vermont

Vermonster . . . King Arthur Flour . . . Calvin Coolidge . . . Gardeners' Supply . . . and now, Terry!

I received their catalogue in the mail yesterday (probably because I belong to the Adventure Cycling Association).  OMGoodness!  I cannot believe how much I love their products!  Stinkin' Vermont.  Stop being filled with goodness.  I'm on the verge of forgiving you for Howard Dean.

These are the cutest cycling clothes I have ever seen.  I am tickled by all the skirts and dresses offered -- 'cuz cycle chicks need to be pretty, too, as well as awesome.  And get this: open-toed pumps that are designed for biking!  Really!

Terry is making it totally easy to sell my car next month and be bike-a-licious all the time.  Bring it on!

Update: Of course, lest you think that Vermont is too cool, you come across articles like this.  Aargh!

Flowers and Frogs

As I was planting geraniums yesterday morning, I saw something move near my hand in a very unexpected way.  Leaning down, I saw a little green frog!  It was about the size of an Oreo cookie, bright emerald hue, just beautiful!  I wonder whence it came?  There is no pond near our driveway's border where I was planting flowers.  No place for it to tad its pole.  Just a little miracle of an amphibian.  I called Sadie out to see it.  She played with it a moment or two, then set it gently down where I found it, and it hopped off -- grateful thoughts swelling in its froggy heart, I am sure.

And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world . . ."

I'm All In For Mitt!

A little late to the {grand old} party, I know.  While dear friends were putting their necks on the line for candidates long ago, I vacillated in the quagmire. Such a dearth of choices for the GOP!  How is a girl to choose?  Oy.  Up until September 2011, I fully expected to go booster-to-the-extreme for Sarah Palin's candidacy.  My heart broke and my interest waned on the day she announced a no-go.  Then, I went all Pontius Pilate -- washing my hands of any involvement with this primary. 

Soon after, though,  I started to have dreams about Mitt Romney.  Not sexy dreams.  Just stop it.  Nor dreams wherein your house has turned into a jungle and you have to swing on vines to get to your kitchen.  No, just dreams where I met him and he was nice.  Genuine.  Good guy.  I awoke each time feeling rather Mittish.  In one dream in particular, I remember that I was eating breakfast at IHOP and Mitt was there, too.  Then, something terrible happened (shooting?  terrorism?) and the restaurant was in lockdown.  Mitt said, "Let's pass the time by singing hymns."  He led the way with a stirring rendition of "Then Sings My Soul."

If you love the Lord, you have to put at least a little credence in the power of dreams.  Dreams of significance and their waking partners, visions, are peppered throughout our sacred texts.  Maybe the old women will be dreamers of dreams, as well?  I don't know.  But, those dreams helped me at least get used to the idea of a candidate for whom I had hitherto had little to no interest. 

I have since found many things that I love about Mitt.  Mostly having to do with his marriage with the estimable, gracious, and lovely Ann.  I adore Ann Romney.  Did you know she is a Grand Prix level dressage rider?  Suh-weet!  I used to ride dressage in my teens.  I only showed at level one; but, I was working on level two tests when my dressage horse developed laminitis and had to be put down.  I love dressage! Some may have danced ballet on stage in their teen years . . . I danced ballet on horseback in mine.  ;-)

Most of my hesitation about Gov. Romney had to do with his personality (i.e., did he have one?) rather than with his policy positions.  I'm totally GOP.  I cannot find any plank in the Democrats' platform that I can even half agree with.  Even a Democrat idea that might sound reasonable is always followed up with the implied or stated addendum: And so the government should . . .  That is their one-trick pony -- and, horse lover though I am, that pony should be euthanized.  It broke its legs back in the 1930's and its neck in the 1960's.  Put the poor beast down.

So, I am all in for Mitt.  Frankly, I would have been all in for any Republican at this point.  Even Newt (pace, Flicka).  Pro-life, pro-business, pro-family, pro-freedom.  That's my GOP.  And, I just donated to Mitt's campaign today to be entered in a drawing to have a meal with Ann the Awesome.  Hope I win!

Now, What Was I Supposed to Do on April 18? If, Indeed, I Was Supposed to Do Anything.

Ever just had a date moseying along mid-air above the synapse trail?  Hovering sinisterly amidst the grey matter?  Just a date and a feeling that something important was either going to happen on that date or you were supposed to do something important on that date or . . .??  April 18 is my such date.  Why on earth do I feel a sense of dread and immediacy when I contemplate that date?  Like I really, really need to either do something or have something happen on that date.  Hmmm . . .

Library book due?  No.
Bill to pay?  No.
Writing deadline to meet?  No.
Playdate set up?  No.
Am I taking a trip?  No.
Is Jason taking a trip?  No.
Did I promise to do something for someone on that day?  Maybe; but, who knows what that something is? Certainly not I.

Anybody have any suggestions to jog my prematurely senile memory?  Help!

Update:
Hooray!  Just remembered that I needed to put together the donation box for the charity pick-up on April 18!  Thank goodness that's solved.  Now, where are my car keys . . .