Today the DH and I start our epic road trip. We’ll be gone for about three and a half weeks. The basic itinerary looks like this:
Google maps reckons it’s a five and a half thousand mile round trip, which I confess is more than a little daunting. I do not feel remotely ready. I haven’t uploaded music to the tablet; I haven’t got audio books set up; I’m not ready with podcasts — I guess we’ll just sing camp song duets and play the license plate game.
We’ll manage. Whatever happens, I should get some good material for the blog! I’ll try to stick to the normal post schedule, but internet access may be a little sketchy, so don’t be surprised if I post late or not at all.
Although I’m eager to see my children and lots of neato sights, I’m not looking forward to sharing the road with nutty, impatient drivers.
Someone’s embarrassed!
In other travel news, I bought my plane ticket yesterday to visit my wonderful DP in July. It’s going to be a busy summer!
Stay tuned for further installments of “the Melvilles en vacances”. Now to the packing…
Hi from daughter #2! How was your weekend? Ours was pretty low-key, which was just what we needed.
That said, I did actually go out on the town Friday evening. An old acquaintance invited me to a live show for a podcast we both listen to. (That’s the modern age for you — though I never see this person, she and I have kept up with one another’s lives entirely on Instagram, so we had chatted about the podcast via DM. Then, on Friday, many of our conversations began, “Your niece and nephew — they must be two and a half?” or “Did you guys buy the new condo or are you renting it?” A little bizarre, to be honest!)
A high quality photo, I know.
I had low expectations, and they were just barely met. I like the hosts, but they are not natural comediennes or performers, so it felt pretty rehearsed. And I disliked their guests a lot.
But I chalked this up as a new experience — definitely out of the ordinary for me!
For the rest of weekend, we did our usual routine. A visit to the in-laws, a trip to the grocery store, a yoga class. I really think that’s when I’m happiest: when I’m doing the things I need to do to lay the groundwork for a good day-to-day life! We meal plan, we stay active, we cuddle dogs for calming endorphins (or whatever). As my mother says, you have to know what makes you feel good, and you have to do those things.
So on that note, I’ll mention that I’ve continued to tap these resources:
We are just about finished with the Bob Dylan documentary after watching it bit by bit, and I was reminded of this song, which is one of my favorites.
Some more Walt Whitman:
O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?
Sea-winds blown from east and west,
Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,
These and with these and the breath of my chant,
I’ll perfume the grave of him I love.
-Walt Whitman, from “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”
A colleague of mine will teach a seminar on “The Meaning of Death” this fall, and I couldn’t help but insist that he include Walt Whitman’s elegy for Abraham Lincoln on his syllabus. Have you read it? The neat thing is, his students will be able to visit Ford’s Theater, where there is a museum of items related to Lincoln’s assassination. A little morbid, sure. Interestingly, I recently heard Conan O’Brien talk about how he visited that exhibit when he was 5 or 6 years old, and he said he’s been obsessed with Lincoln ever since. There really is something jarring — in a good way — about that kind of history.
And also, my spiritual resources, which largely include Jan Karon.
Will Father Tim marry his neighbor?!?
On top of A Light in the Window, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that a top-hits radio station in my region was purchased by K Love, a Christian radio station. As I was leaving Whole Foods, annoyed that it was raining when I had to load up my groceries, I turned on the radio to hear, “It’s our worship hour this morning — let’s take a moment to reflect on gratitude!” I thought, “Well, OK!” And that’s the attitude I’ll take into this week.
Recently, a friend lent me a book that she particularly wanted me to read so we could talk about it. She told me that Rochester, NY chose it as an all-city read (is that a thing?) and she heard about it on NPR. “Hmmm,” thought I, “those are not very good recommendations. But I’ll give it a try.” So I read Omar el Akkad’s American War.
The book is set in a near future America in which climate change has caused the seas to flood the coasts, fossil fuels have been banned, and the south has seceded from the union as a result. The ensuing civil war has caused widespread depredation throughout the south, and many people, including our main character, a young girl named Sarat, have ended up living in refugee camps. Sound familiar? You can see where this is going. Sarat’s family gets killed, she is manipulated into becoming a terrorist, gets captured and tortured for years, and ends up committing a terrible war crime. Betrayed at every turn, by nearly everyone she meets, she becomes a soulless killer.
The book is aimed at making Americans understand how an average person can become a terrorist. In an interview, the author claimed that he did not want his readers to sympathize or empathize with the characters; he wanted them to understand. That sounds like a reasonable goal and the book accomplishes it, though I learned nothing new. It is full of pithy statements that sound insightful until you think about them:
“And what she understood… was that the misery of war represented the world’s only truly universal language. Its native speakers occupied different ends of the world, and the prayers they recited were not the same and the empty superstitions to which they clung so dearly were not the same – and yet they were. War broke them the same way, made them scared and angry and vengeful the same way. In times of peace and good fortune they were nothing alike, but stripped of these things they were kin. The universal slogan of war, she’d learned, was simple: If it had been you, you’d have done no different.”
The cynical view that all governments will do anything to keep power, that people will always put self-interest ahead of duty or morality, and that most people are powerless victims is understandable these days and therefore forgivable. We see the same thing all over TV and the news can sure make it look that way. But is it true? Maybe for some, but not for most Americans (and, indeed, Canadians, Brits, etc..). Nor has it ever been.
Didn’t we just celebrate the 75th anniversary of D-Day?
Reflect on that for a moment and consider the remark quoted above, “If it had been you, you’d have done no different.” Isn’t that the point? We fought WWII because we did not believe that in the Nazis’s place we would have done no different, and we fought to defend our way of life. Yes, people get swept up in global movements against their will and some of them will do bad things as a result, but the majority will not. That’s what American War leaves out.
Humans are much more complex and certainly better than el Akkad would have us believe. Moreover, while American War paints a very dark picture, it offers no solutions other than the implied ‘do the opposite of what was done to Sarat.” That is, governments should not use the weak, torture, kill or engage in Game-of-throne type political games (indeed, they should not). But it seems too easy to blame governments, for we know that terrible experiences do not uniformly produce terrorists. There is nothing in the book about fanatical religious or political beliefs; there is no moral dimension and no suggestion that the perpetrator take responsibility for her actions.
I cannot recommend American War. It left me dissatisfied, although perhaps that was its goal.
Next time I blog about a book it will be one that I truly enjoyed!!
Well, I imagine my followers on instagram are pretty tired of my content lately–it has been pretty much exclusively focused on the flooding river and what I see each day on my drive to work. Too bad, I say. The river is fascinating, the flooding is incredible, and it is June in Jefferson City and that’s what’s going on.
Anyway, I thought I’d round up some other river content for your Friday.
I imagine that Mark Twain was just as struck by the Mississippi River as I am daily by the Missouri. Huck Finn has been on my Should-Read-List for awhile–so I think after I finish Moby Dick, it’ll shoot to the top.
–This is the best river content:
Which also always makes me think of this:
–A solid Friday movie pick could be The Africa Queen.
Maybe next week I’ll have another topic to talk about. Hopefully, the river won’t keep rising–if it goes a foot further, I won’t be able to get to work!
The other day while texting with my childhood BFFs about my current existential job crisis (it’s grim), I summarized to them, “Que sera sera.” I love that this phrase is basically a verbal shrug. I also love that it immediately calls to mind Doris Day.
I have only seen The Man Who Knew Too Much once, and I don’t remember anything about it except the final scene scene. At any rate, now that the song is stuck in my head, I think I’ll leave it there!
Daughter #1 here. Well, I missed my assigned blogging day last week–and clearly almost missed today’s. Sorry. I don’t have a personal computer.
Last week, I ventured across the state to Joplin for a two-day work event. I endured a very stressful drive in a torrential downpour for part of it and then spent the rest of the 4 1/2 hour drive trying to outrun the storm. It started raining five minutes after I arrived in Kirkwood.
The next day, I flew to Naples, Florida for a weekend with my gal pals. I got some sun and convo . Glimpsed a dolphin. Enjoyed some spritzes.
Now, I’m back in the flood zone that is Mid-Missouri. Every day I’m amazed that I don’t work in a lake region. And because half the streets are closed, traffic is a joy.
I’ve been trying to focus on the beauty around me–even as things seem less than perfect.
For some reason last week’s headline about traffic jams on Mt. Everest really appalled me — why on earth would anyone do this?
Is it to get bragging rights? That’s a long way to go, a lot of money, and hassle (not to say danger) just to be able to say afterwards that you did it. Isn’t the idea of climbing mountains to pit oneself, alone or with a few chosen companions, against the elements? What does one find out about oneself if the experience is more like climbing the stairs in the subway station at rush hour than exploring uncharted wilderness?
My idea of a good time is more in tune with Eric Newby, an English author and adventurer in the long tradition of amateurs who wanted “to shun the celebrated spectacles of the tourist and without any concern with science or politics or commerce, simply to set [his] feet where few civilized feet have trod.”
Newby belonged to that generation who fought in WWII and then went on to great things. According to Wikipedia, he served in the Black Watch and was captured during a raid on Sicily in 1942. They later awarded him the Military Cross for the raid, so he must have done well. He escaped from the POW camp, hid in the Slovenian countryside, but was recaptured in 1944 by the Germans. After the war, he married the Slovenian woman who helped hide him (there’s even a movie about that love story!). After working for a few years in the fashion industry, he chucked it all in (the job, not the wife) and took off with a friend to a remote corner of Afghanistan to climb mountains, though neither of them had much experience. He wrote about their adventures in the immensely popular and typically humorous, A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush:
“I was heavily involved on all fronts: with mountaineering outfitters, who oddly enough never fathomed the depths of my ignorance; possibly because they couldn’t conceive of anyone acquiring such a collection of equipment without knowing how to use it…”
His story makes one long for the days before tourist buses and fancy gear. Well, I may not be able to live it (indeed, would not be capable in any case) but I can stay home and read about it. Let’s hope more people turn to books!
If you’re interested, you can read his obituary, which, since a modern journalist wrote it, is not very flattering.
Well, I (daughter #2) am back in College Park after a week and a half at home. While it certainly never escaped me that the DP’s recovery was serious business, I have to admit that it also felt like a lovely midwestern escape, providing more sustained quality time with my dear mother than I’ve had in a long time. That meant something to me! Needless to say, leaving was quite difficult. I’ve been on the verge of tears ever since!
On my flight home, I coped with a complimentary mimosa and more Mitford. This passage spoke to my angst about returning to work on Monday:
How could he have considered taking Monday off? Monday was the diving board poised over the rest of the week. One walked out on the board, reviewed the situation, planned one’s strategy, bounced a few times to get the feel of things, and then made a clean dive. Without Monday, one simply bombed into the water, belly first, and hoped for the best.
– From At Home in Mitford
So this week, I will try to make a clean dive, rather than a belly flop.
In the meantime, here are a couple more sources of inspiration to get us the through the week:
You might have missed Bob Dylan’s birthday on May 24. We celebrated at home with a music session and a cathartic singalong. DN and I are also making our way through the No Direction Home documentary, which is a balm for my soul. The other night, we saw the scene in which Bob Dylan tries to explain that “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” is not just about nuclear fallout, despite the interviewer’s insistence that it must be. Allen Ginsburg then opines that Bob Dylan just wrote the truth — and that was it. I’ve never liked Allen Ginsburg more.
Finally, a word from another birthday boy, Walt Whitman (May 31). I have always felt that Whitman is basically a motivational speaker, so perhaps these lines will inspire you, too:
I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content, And if each and all be aware I sit content.
One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
– From “Song of Myself”
Whitman was just always feeling himself, as they say. He was way ahead of his time when it came to self-love, body positivity, self care, etc. Talk about confidence! But also, he loved everyone else, too. And that part of him always makes me feel good.
What is it then between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?
Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not,
I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine,
I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it,
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,
In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me,
In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me,
I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,
I too had receiv’d identity by my body,
That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body.
It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, The dark threw its patches down upon me also, The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious,
My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?
Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil, I am he who knew what it was to be evil, I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting,
Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,
Was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching or passing,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat,
Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet never told them a word,
Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,
Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.
Closer yet I approach you,
What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance,
I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.
– From “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”
There you have it. A bit belated, but tonight we will raise a glass for the birthdays of two wonderful sources of inspiration for hard times (or just Monday).
Having barely returned from the UK, my DH is now off to Vancouver! Quel jetsetter! It seems as if we’ve settled into a routine for these trips: he flies and I do the driving. We arose this morning at 3:30 a.m. so that I could drive him to Ottawa to catch a 7 a.m. plane to the west coast. Here we are about to head out, bleary-eyed but resolute.
We avoided hitting nocturnal animals, crossed the border without mishap and got to the outskirts of Ottawa as the day dawned. It was raining (what else?).
We made good time because there was very little traffic. I bid the DH a fond farewell and headed home. Easy-peasy.
I think my driving makes him car sick!
The return drive was uneventful, but it sure was hard to keep my little eyes open. I managed to take a couple of photos while crossing the bridge over the St. Lawrence (don’t worry the speed limit is 25). The bridge is big — about two miles long and very high — and driving over it gives me the heebie-jeebies.
I got home just before 7 and went straight back to bed, where I fell instantly into a deep sleep. Alas, my neighbors woke me up again twenty minutes later, so I got up, made tea and started this post. End of story.
Now I need more tea so that I can start planning the rest of my weekend. Any suggestions about what I should do now that the cat’s away (so to speak)?
Here’s a mid-week dispatch from daughter #2! We are making steady progress in recovery and have even taken a short walk around the block and dined out al fresco this week. It is still a long road ahead, but our DP is soldiering on.
Luckily, we have had a couple of visits from the wee babes, who always lighten the mood (even if they do wear us out). On Monday, we splashed around in the backyard, which was great fun. I think I need a monogrammed seersucker swimsuit!
Just a wee bit tentative. This isn’t a bathtub!?
And today, we had another quick visit, which included some light reading. The kiddos like to sort books by color, which is really very Apartment Therapy of them.
One simply must sit down to read Carl Jung.
Lottie also had a fun time perusing the wedding album from DN and my nuptials two years ago, after asking to see “pictures of baby Lottie.” I gather that this a new habit of hers and I was happy to oblige. She was able to name all of her relatives in family photos like this…
The wee babes also had stellar seersucker outfits at this event.
…and when we looked at a bridal portrait, she said “Aunt Susie has a BEAUTIFUL dress.” This is brilliant commentary that I can certainly get behind! The wee babes will be VIPs at their Aunt Catherine’s wedding this weekend. Now I can’t wait to return such a compliment to Lottie, who will surely be wearing a BEAUTIFUL dress of her own!
In the meantime, we will continue our normal routine of reading, snacking, napping, and watching Murder, She Wrote.
