Woodstock 2012--back to the garden

Sunday last, decades late and on the fly, I finally made it to Bethel Woods, AKA, Woodstock. Not much more than a whim, on the way back from a weekend visit to my Aunt Sally’s country house, my cousins and I paid a quick visit to the site and museum.

I missed out on the original. By that time I was married with a 6-month-old daughter, living at the Jersey Shore. Like many of my generation—more than will admit—I experienced it second hand via TV. My aunt, however, the very same I just visited, did make it. She responded to urgent calls for help and brought sandwiches to the muddy minions.

The pull of the place took me by surprise—this despite the obvious corporate sensibility of the born-again pastoral concert space. It is lush, green and well-groomed, patrolled by an equally well-groomed staff in green blazers sporting ID’s around their necks.

It was mid-afternoon and folks were already arriving for the evenings (what’s left of the) Grateful Dead concert. My cousin and I shared a chuckle over the gathering of the faux hippies that live to follow.

You can grab a bite to eat, then stroll the store with everything “Woodstock” you can imagine (except the Peanut’s character). But the jewel in the crown is the museum. I kid you not. More than worth the price of admission, I could have stayed for hours.

More than a history of the iconic festival, it recounts the entire story of the 60s, with multi-media displays reaching back to the clean cut American Bandstand days. You can sit in a flower power bus and watch a flick narrated by those who made the cross country trip. You can slouch in a bean bag chair and gaze up at a HUGE panorama of festival films. The very scope of the scene take ones breath away.

Waves of nostalgia washed over me, not only for the times, but for my youth. It’s cliché but true. It was another world, long gone—and yet just a brief millisecond ago, on the edge of my peripheral vision.

How the hell did I get to be a 65-year-old grey haired granny? And how did that naked, tolerant mass of humanity, squirming in the Catskill mud, become the tight-assed, narrow- minded bunch running this country today?

I really thought we were a better lot.

gratitude

It’s a bit nippy on the shady side of the street outside No Joes this morning as I sip my brew, aptly named: sledgehammer. This sunny, dry, fall-like weather won’t last. I already see thick clouds closing in—boding a return to the violent summer storms of the past few days.

And that’s okay by me. The storms may be inconvenient, but that doesn’t measure up to REAL summer weather. By that I mean FLORIDA weather. When the worst of the storm hit several days ago, turning the daytime black, with claps of thunder loud enough to shake the dog, I was alone and calm, feeling entirely SAFE. This old Dutch colonial is nothing if not sturdy, with plaster walls so thick you cannot hear from room to room.

At that very moment, my “home” in Sarasota was among the towns being battered and flooded by Tropical Storm Debby. Almost the entire state was underwater and threat of tornadoes, expected to continue for up to five days. Yes, folks, that DAYS, not hours. And it’s a trop storm, not even a hurricane!

As I hung out of my friends cozy couch to wait out the NJ storm, my thoughts flickered to a major drive in leaving the sunshine state in summer—and gratitude washed over me—gratitude for my friend,s generosity of spirit in opening her home to me each summer.

Until I moved to Florida a decade ago, storms were inconvenient, as a journalist there was a bit of a pain, but never were they fearful. As a child growing up on the north shore of Long Island, the hurricanes that reached us were fun times, lit with the glow of candles and flashlights. Of course, it’s easy to be brave in a brick split level under the protection of loving parents. Not having to travel to work also helps.

Unfortunately, I do not live in a condo of brick, or stone, or masonry of any sort. I am one of the other little pigs of story lore, who build—perhaps bought—her house of sticks. Yupper, it’s a 1970s wood condo with a metal roof. The sound of rain bouncing off said roof is enough to drown out the loudest of TV audio.

(An aside: this “house of sticks” is a grand metaphor for me life, eh? Unlike my friends and family who have built their “houses of brick.” Just thought I’d say it before someone like my son pointed it out.)

On the, albeit mild, plus side, Sarasota is considered a relatively secure site, storm wise. Longtime residents crow that the town is a “sacred” place, protected against extreme elements. They point to the area as one the native Indians fled to escape storms in years gone by. In my view however, such arrogance in unfounded, as Sarasota is merely the highest ground around. Note I said highEST which is not all that high. And my particular condo complex is on its crest.

The roads around me flood, but so far, the unit has remained dry. This is particularly fortunate as I no longer have a lick of insurance, sorta going commando.

I try not to think about the wind.

To sum up: Tropical storm there + me here = GRATITUDE

what now?

Why is freedom so hard to handle?

I sit at a favorite small table at a favorite place, No Joe’s Coffee House, sipping a favorite dark brew. It’s a picture-perfect early summer morning downtown Red Bank, NJ. I am engaged in a favorite pastime, people-watching. Most of me is calm, approaching joy. Yet something tugs at me from the depths of my soul. There is a disquieting sense of emptiness, aimlessness, an essential aloneness that goes beyond loneliness. It gnaws at me, growing, demanding attention.

I recognize this. It is not new and I dread its return.

Once again, I am faced with building a “life”, without the familiar moorings. I have tried—and failed—several times before. And I knew, as I began again on my 65^th birthday, this would most likely be my last chance--my last chance to build some kind of meaningful life, with a measure of abundance and a sprinkling of joy.

I am deliberately leaving out here, the underlying financial angst that comes with facing impending old age with no resources and the real chance of homelessness at age 70. There is no doubt creating this so-called-life would be easier without the base-level concern over enough money to survive. But honesty forces me to admit; even a lottery win wouldn’t cure these ills.

Free floating anxiety is kept at bay by writings such as this and list making. I tentatively reach out to family and friends, working to fit into their active lives.

For as long as I can recall, I have marveled at the ease others seem to have with the most ordinary of life’s interactions. When not at work, I would often go for days without human conversation, not counting the occasional store clerk. I envy those my age casually busy with family and grandchildren.

With my children and lone grandchild scattered thousands of miles east and west, our contact is rare and takes extraordinary effort and expense. I remain grateful for them and happy they appear to be leading rich productive lives. No, I don’t seriously consider moving closer to either as neither one needs me hanging on the fringes of their lives.

I have long understood that the lack is in me, but I am at a loss as to what to do about it. Even years of therapy didn’t much help.

I once thought of writing a novel about a woman who spends her time traveling from one family member/friend to another, finding her fulfillment by burrowing inside the lives of others.

Too close for comfort.

the morning after

I am not a party animal. That surprises many people. Yes, I am outgoing and not a bit shy, befitting a journalist. Yet, even as a child, my parents had to cajole or force me to attend family gatherings. The larger and more formal the event the less attracted was I.

And as I age it’s only gotten worse.

Firstly, I am not comfortable in formal dress. Regardless of my weight or fitness level, clothes and I have never been friends. I feel constricted and downright cranky by the demands of accommodating the female form.

I am also not much of a drinker, so an open bar is no draw.

Although I admire the scene, the effort, the expense, the food, et al, I almost always find myself on the edge of the action, observing. I am the odd-man-out. Nobody knows where to seat me. And I’ve never really had a reliable dancing partner.

At a recent such swanky Bat Mitzvah for my cousin’s daughter, I watched in silent joy—mingled with envy—as my young cousins danced the night away with their own daughters, each on the verge of adolescence. I flashed back to my own younger self, watching my now late parents partner up for dance after dance. They were quite the accomplished pair. Late in the evening, when my dad had enough to drink, I got my turn. We would Lindy around the floor. And that was all she wrote.

The major source of my joy is reconnecting with family and friends. But the throbbing music needed to rev such events makes it next to impossible to engage in any meaningful conversation.

Lucky for me, my Aunt Sally offered to share her room, so I was able to participate in my favorite part of these celebrations—the morning after.

Low key and mellow, these morning-after-breakfasts allow me to really chat up those family and friends that remain. And this was a particularly productive time. The buzz was tangible. Laptops, Facebook, photos, Ancestry.com etc. flew around the intimate gathering. Coming directly from my own family vacation I even had a bunch of those old sepia photos. You know the ones with some folks nobody alive can identify.

And there was no pounding beat and intense DJ to drown out the laughter.

It went a ways to sate my real hunger, not for fancy top-drawer food, but for a visceral infusion of memory—to help fill the void of those I can no longer reach out and touch.

Unexpectedly free

If there ever was any doubt, today helps clinch the fact that I am certainly one weird duck.

So I oversleep this am to 6:30 and rush to make it in to work by 8, arriving only 3 minutes late. I punch in and dig in fast, only to be called over by my manager who asks if I have traded shifts with anyone. You guessed it, I wasn’t scheduled. I thought my day off was tomorrow.

So there I be, dressed, earings bra et al by 8 a.m. with no place to go. After a pit stop at a local Publix, I drop by Bed Bath etc. to purchase a new toaster—one which toasts on both sides simultaneously. I am unsuccessful.

By now it is 9:30. I head over to the local mall, an uncharacteristic move, only to find it doesn’t open until 10—this in the midst of a cutthroat holiday season. I hang out anyway, finally trolling the most upscale of shops, including Saks, trying to get into a festive mood.

Here I am, fresh from a bankruptcy, with what amounts to not much more than a minimum wage job, strolling through yards of merchandise well beyond my means. And here comes the strange part: It makes me feel better. It always has. I find being surrounded by abundance, seeing it, touching it and (in the case of Whole Foods, for example) smelling it calms me. It is somehow uplifting to know it’s out there. I’m not sure why.

I bought nothing but a short eggnog latte and sat reading on my nook for a while, as the din of shoppers around me slowing mounted.

I was there—but apart. And that’s fine.

pledge week

To continue with the subject of pleading for money...

I confess to being one of a handful of folks who look forward to—yes, adore—pbs station pledge weeks.

It’s not that I enjoy the begging for cash part. But the smarty-pants program directors husband the best of the best to coax said cash out of our hands.

Wayne Dyer, Daniel Amen, Christiane Northrup, John Denver, Peter Paul and Mary, South Pacific, along with some new folks. Songs of the ‘50s, ‘60s, ‘70s, ‘80s, (The sound track of our collective lives )... “Visions of southern Italy” ...and the list goes on.

I can’t get enough of these shows and I watch them over and over, every chance I get in the allotted time period, using the pledge breaks to toggle between pbs stations to catch what’s on there.

I am greedy, storing up the images until the next time. Sometimes, I even pledge...

Hungry. Homeless. God Bless.

On my way home from work, stopped at a light. Out of the corner of my eye I spy I youngish woman with mousy blond hair.

She stands perfectly still, staring straight ahead in 95 degree heat. She holds a sign chest high: Homeless. Hungry. God Bless.

Thoughts of my impending Chinese take-out start to make me queasy

It's a long light. She does not move, doesn't even blink. She makes no eye contact. Her quiet dignity touches me. I don't even care if its true.

I pull out the only cash I have--$1--roll down my window & reach out--apologizing it isn't more. She smiles, thanks me, takes a step forward & renews her stance.

And I head for the Chinese restaurant.

coldback

With the flaps over the Arizona immigration law and the building of a mosque at Ground Zero, I’ve once again been considering “the other.” By that I mean the tendency of us human animals to cull out “those people” from the herd.

Once done, we imbue those “others” with unfavorable qualities, e.g : lazy, greedy, opportunistic, fanatic. “They” are the enemy, dangerous, the source of our problems—whatever they are at that moment in time. They are out to take our jobs, our resources, corrupt our youth or terrorize us.

Illegal aliens. Muslims. Gays. Whoever.

It’s a subject I have long considered. I recall sitting in high school history class marveling at my good fortune—being both female and Jewish--at being born in the mid 20th century America.

Yet, I was still never far from the definition of “outsider.”

I was a hs junior when Kennedy was assassinated. I returned home from school to a call from my mother. I’ll never forget the first thing she said: “Thank God he (Oswald) wasn’t Jewish.”

Regardless, she was not immune from turning on “others.”

Fast forward a decade. She and I are arguing about the then California uproar over illegal immigrant mothers “ abusing” our healthcare system. My mother, first generation born in this country, ranted on about these Mexican women crossing the border to give birth on our soil. So what, I retorted, they are risking their lives so their children can have a chance at the American Dream. (Sound familiar? I read now some law makers want to change this. )

Ok, so here’s the rub. I found out not long ago, that I, too, am descended from an illegal alien. It seems that when my paternal grandfather came over from eastern Europe he couldn’t enter legally. So like many other Jews at that time, he went to Canada and crossed the border in the Chicago area before making his way to New York.

So he wasn’t a wetback—he was a coldback.

We have met the “other” and he/she is US!

writers write

Decades ago, my young daughter reproached me with those words: writers write. It has haunted me lately because I haven’t been—writing, that is.

I could blame the extremely thick Florida heat.
I could say I am distracted and out of sorts since giving up sugar about 6 weeks ago.
I could curse the atmosphere at my day job.
I could bemoan being homesick for the Jersey Shore—the real one, not the TV variety.
I could complain about my shifting work schedule.
I could whine about being empty, with naught to say.

While all this may be true, it matters not.
My daughter is correct: writers write.
All else is irrelevant.

There are few things more miserable to be near than a “non-writing” writer. So I find myself avoiding people when not at work, trying in vain to pressure myself to produce.

As for what I’m doing here, writing about how I’m not writing, it’s akin to those Seinfeld shows where they jabbered on about “nothing.” Big yuk.

I guess I’m just trying to prime the pump, move my fingers across the keys in the hope that something will catch. It’s a bit like going through the motions of exercise, meditation et al...sort of the ol’ “fake it until you make it.”

Writers write. Writers write. Writers write...

attack of the techno devil

Looking back, it started about a month ago, with a noisy, but innocuous seeming microwave problem. It made a loud noise which continued even after it shut off. After a few moments of panic, I discovered the motor running the turntable seemed to be running on. I wound a metal flap to access it and now shut it down manually after its use.

Then I awoke from a couch nap just before the holiday weekend to find no picture on my flat screen TV, which couldn't be more than 2 years old. So I shut off the power to reboot and was rewarded with a series of well-spaced colored lines. To this date it remains, with me watching on my old not-so-flat, not-so hi-def bedroom TV.

And today, it's my laptop. (I'm writing this on my Dell net book). I started getting weird virus messages--even tho I have so-called virus protection. And before you know it, I couldn't connect to the net. Since the net book and my nook connected fine, I knew it was the computer. Now, I can connect to certain site, the machine shows I have an "excellent connection" however, most other sites refuse to connect and when I run the diagnostic--get this--it won't work because there is no connection and THEN Verizon directs me to and ON-LINE SITE to correct the problem. Since this is a holiday, I can't get a hold of a human, of course.

Since I have an old TV and this tiny computer I'm gettin' by. And through all this, it's hard to get too upset. In fact, I awoke this morning to a sound that made me more than smile--I let out a breath I wasn't aware I was holding.

Abbie, my calico cat/companion of 17 years, appeared whining at my door. She had been AWOL for 2 nights, the longest ever. I was hoping it was a combo of the driving rain and fireworks that sent her into hiding, but some part of me feared she was hit by a car or fodder for some gater.

Her arrival put things in perspective.

ps: Did I forget to mention my toilet--recently repaired--has started leaking from the bottom again. A story for another day...

AND the tub drain is still running slow even tho I fed it liquid plumber........................................

Story time + nursing =...

Another adventure in bookselling.

So it’s Saturday morning, and parents with kids are gathering for story time in the children’s department. I notice an attractive new couple with an infant and a toddler among the small crowd lining the stage. As I put stuff together to get started, I notice she is breastfeeding her daughter.

Now, this is not unusual. As those who know me or are regular readers of this space, are aware, I am a great proponent of the practice. I go out of my way to make sure my kid’s department is hospitable to moms looking for a place to feed their young.

Most go about nursing with a degree of modesty. Not this young mother, however. Her babe chowed down with gusto, her mom’s breast bare. And when the child was done, mom made no attempt to shield her nipple from public view. It wasn’t as if she was flouting it or anything. It was as if she—and her husband--didn’t notice. She suited up for story time, but later I saw her walking around the department, again seemingly without a clue.

I confess to almost laughing out loud. The sight of a totally bared breast in public didn’t so much shock, as surprise me. And the total comfort of this young mom astounded me. This is Florida, you understand, not New Jersey, where breastfeeding is protected by law.

Back in the early 1970s, when those of us in the La Leche league were rare indeed, I was considered a fanatic for not only breastfeeding, but for continuing until my children were each about a year old—almost unheard of in this country back then. Frankly, I was mad with happiness to find a use for the pair I’d been lugging around since the age of 11.

Mother-nature made has come back in vogue in years since, as science has discovered it’s advantages for both mother and child. Regardless, we in the USA have an uneasy relationship with public breastfeeding, with many viewing women’s mammary glands primarily as sex organs.

I refused to rush off and hide to feed my own children when at home, forcing even my own father to deal with his own issues. I also nursed in public, using clothing to maintain decorum.

What really pleased me was that I heard no obvious snickering or signs of discomfort from those at my story time, which included men and women of varying ages. No one complained to me or to the store’s management.

Rock on, mom!

SICK

That’s SICK. In capital letters.
A true 4-letter word.

I am finally up after 10 days of being so wretchedly ill that for the first time since this blog started, I failed to post in a timely manner. And for that, I apologize.

But this time, there was no choice. For days, I lay on the couch, coughing up stuff that made me gag.

The milk in the fridge soured, the food ran out, the garbage overflowed. I didn’t much care. I lived on green tea with honey and some protein shakes I happened to still have.

Me, who never loses an ounce when sick, dropped 7 pounds in a week. Sure, that would be a little good news, as I certainly could stand to drop even more—but I know it will hop back on these ol’ bones as soon as my appetite returns with a roar.

I was finally forced to venture out the day the cat food ran dry.

The weird part of this was that I lost my voice—and I mean TOTALLY. I couldn’t even call in sick and had to drag myself in one day to let them know I couldn’t work.

Yes, yes, I know it’s kinda funny for someone who talks as much as me to be silenced. But the truth is, it was incredible frightening. It lasted for almost 5 days, before I could croak out sounds. I felt completely isolated without use of the telephone and once found myself wondering if one could text 911—that is, if I could figure out HOW to text.

Yes, I fleetingly thought of reaching out for help via email. But I have no family here and just about everyone else is busy working etc. Also, I didn’t want to expose anyone to whatever was bouncing around my innards.

Each night, I was sure I’d feel better the next day, if I could just hang on. But I didn’t. I finally filled a prescription for antibiotics and now feel almost human. Either the virus had run it’s course or the drugs quashed the evil bacteria. I’ll never know which.

And at this moment, I don’t much care.

lessons of motherhood

I received my first Mother’s Day card in a good many years this week, thanks to my son’s new wife. My off-spring, you see, do not believe in celebrating a day “invented by greeting card companies.”

I have made an uneasy peace with it. I know how they feel about me. Besides, I’ve never much hankered for that which is not freely given. In that spirit, I hereby take note of a few things my children have taught me.

CREATIVITY: I mean this in the most basic sense, as in: I can really build another human being; I can produce milk that will keep that child alive and well. It’s one thing to be told all your life that women in general can do these things. It’s quite different thing, however, to actually do it.

VULNERABILITY: With the birth of my daughter more than four decades ago, I learned the true meaning of vulnerability – not hers, mine. I specifically remember the moment when I realized that any individual having control of that little bundle had me at his or her complete mercy; that there was NOTHING I would not do to keep her safe.

PARENTAL MATH: Children are originals, not reproductions. Regardless of how much they may resemble their parents, children are more than the sum of their genes.

RESILIENCY: My son is the true teacher here. Since he was a lad, he’s been impossible to permanently flatten. While it’s true that many of his troubles are of his own creation, so are his solutions. If faced with a wall too steep to climb, he will reassess and change direction; whatever it takes to get around it, under it or through it. He seems to know where he wants to go and willingly engages “creative” detours en route. I confess to a silent admiration for his ability to bob and weave through life.

ASSUMPTIONS: Don’t rest on them and life will be a lot more fun. Why can’t you eat ice cream for breakfast? Why not get dressed for school before you go to sleep? Who says underwear must be folded before it’s put away? Where is it written that hair must be the same length on both sides or a pair of earrings identical? Look for reasons to say yes. What can it hurt?

LABELS: They don’t mean squat. This I learned from my daughter, the thrift-store shopper. Forget sizes and categories. One person’s bedroom slippers are another’s party shoes. The odd thing is, once you start thinking this way, it tends to spill over into the rest of your life.

TRUST: And I don’t mean in “experts.” Because it was so important to me, I managed to shake off all those older and wiser souls who advised me that I couldn’t totally nurse for six months, care for two children while working and going to school etc., etc.

I will never forget the dingbat psychologist who insisted my grade school-age son was a potential serial killer because he drew human figures without necks. Since I knew that this was simply his chosen style of cartooning, I was in no danger of confusing and offbeat sense of humor with the profile of a young Ted Bundy. (Can you imagine what some art teacher might have said to Gary Larson’s folks?)

NORMAL IS AS NORMAL DOES: I have little idea what “normal” behavior is and neither does anyone else. I don’t care what degrees the person holds. Go with your gut. If you sense something is wrong with your child, don’t’ let anyone dissuade you. But the reverse also holds true. And if your kid crosses an authority figure, find out what really happened before you do anything rash.

BE A GROWN-UP: This is the biggie. I am all of 21 years older than my daughter and 23 years older than my son. If I had not had them, I fear I would have remained eternally in the “what’s-in-it-for-me” stage of human development, never suspecting that I have a considerable amount to offer. That’s no small insight.

All in all, I would say motherhood has given me more than it took. Thanks to my children, I know myself.

A happy greeting-card-holiday to all...

times square terror

This is gonna sound weird, even for me.

But as I sit, sipping coffee from my ‘I (heart) NY” mug, watching the scene in Times Square unfold early Sunday, the story is fresh, the smoking car—as it were—recently towed.

The CNN reporter is doing a stand-up in the most famous spot in America’s most famous city.

And all I could do is peer behind the reporter to take in Times Square as folks go about their business, wishing like hell I was there.

Yup, even a car bomb couldn’t scare me off.

New York, New York, a helluva target.

With “apologies” to Sarah Palin, it’s where the heart of “Real America” beats.

It was also such a helluva New Yorkish story. Where else could a STREET VENDOR sporting an “I Love New York” t-shirt, flag down a MOUNTED POLICE OFFICER to report a suspiciously smokin’ SUV? The only thing missing was the cop chowin’ down on a bagel with a smear as he bends down to catch what the vendor was saying.

Where else would it take only 53 hours to pinpoint a suspect and flag down a jet about to take flight to Dubai to take him into custody? So CSI New York.

Call it: The miracle on the tarmac.

I caught Police Commiss Ray Kelly on Charlie Rose right after that and was only mildly surprised to learn that police had foiled seven such car bombs since Sept. 11.

And New Yorkers go about the business of being New Yorkers.

New York, New York.
It’s a helluva town.
Still.

the doomsday network

Forget Revelations, Stephen King novels and chainsaw massacre flicks. The Weather Channel is where the scary stuff lives and breathes.

From blizzards to floods, tornadoes to hurricanes, not to mention earthquakes present and future, they specialize in “end of the world” scenarios complete with state of the art graphics.

I guess that’s what happens when you have an all-weather-all-the-time channel. I hate to say this, but these unending misfortunes of Mother Nature are Mother’s Milk to these folks. At times, I swear, they hardly seem able to suppress their enjoyment.

They could hardly contain their glee in reporting on the “global gridlock” resulting from the recent volcanic eruptions.

Just the other day, a female anchor interviewing a “storm chaser” of a violent mile-wide tornado, actually opined it must be really hard give up chasing the storm and start helping people caught in its wake. To his credit, he shot her down.

Not content to report and forecast weather—which can be unsettling enough—they keep inventing new forms of speculation and retelling old weather related horror tales.

Oh, I forgot, there is also the effects of global warming in which to wallow.

I have to monitor weather channel viewing. I can’t allow myself to get drawn in to watching more than my local forecast. It’s just too dangerous to my tender psyche.

Moving to Sarasota, the lightening capital of the world, hasn’t helped. I live alone with my cat in a 1970s condo made of wood—like the Little Pig’s house made of sticks. A loud metal roof adds to my feeling of vulnerability. When the tropical rains hit, it drowns out even the loudest setting on the TV or stereo.

Once upon a time, I actually enjoyed electrical storms, finding then incredibly erotic. No more. The start of hurricane season literally makes me sick to my stomach.

Ok. I admit it. I’ve become a weather weenie.

chasing the moon

I just finished The Girl Who Chased the Moon, the latest novel by Sarah Addison Allen. It took me all of one day. Darn it. Her books slide down so smooth you hardly notice. I wanted this one to last longer.

I really needed one of her books. I’ve been on a reading jag lately, finishing up a book every few days. And as good as much of the writing has been, they haven’t been very nourishing or uplifting.

I like my literature to be better than real life.

I’ve been in love with Allen’s work since her first, Garden Spells, was chosen by Barnes & Noble. I snapped up her second, The Sugar Queen, as soon as it hit the shelves.

She is my favorite kind of novelist—a total original—who surprises and delights. I can’t get over how her mind works.

The stories are all set in imaginary small town South, peopled with quirky characters. Oh, then there’s the magic. Not your ordinary magic, mind ya. And not too much of it. It dances around the edges. Her characters take to it naturally—natural magic? Does that make any sense? It sort of reminds me of a warmed-up version of the old TV series Northern Exposure, an all time fave.

Two examples from her latest which won’t ruin anything: bedroom wallpaper that changes patterns according to the occupant’s mood; and a sugarholic that can not only “sense” but “see” cakes being baked from afar in the form of sparks in the wind.

It’s not that her works are devoid of tragedy. But they are never allowed to overpower the plot or the book’s inhabitants. What can I say? I like a happy ending.

I repeat: I like my literature better than real life.

Then there’s her impeccable sense of place. She breathes life into those Southern towns, as only a native can. She does for her mythical South what Harlan Coben does for the real New Jersey. And I’ve already read his latest.

Now what the heck am I gonna do?

passover pain

I thought my 100th post would be something special. Instead, here it is, a brief riff on an aching heart tilting toward pain.

The weather up north is rotten, I hear. The weather here couldn’t be more perfect. Blue skies, a cool breeze, even a day off. Over at Ed Smith stadium, close enough for me to walk to, folks are gathering to watch the Orioles play the Red Socks. A festival atmosphere abounds as I drive passed to Publix. It could be my very own Yankees and I’d still remain untouched.

I pick up a few things at the store, lingering a bit at the Passover table with its giant boxes of matzos et al. I throw a container of Streits chocolate non pareils into my bag—a favorite of my moms.

Yesterday, I stopped at Whole Foods and spurlged on a serving of prepared brisket for dinner.

The cashier wishes me “happy Easter.” I flinch inside, although I am certainly not an observant Jew.

I am not happy. Tears cascade down my cheeks on the short ride home.

I miss my family. The large extended family that was and the little which remains, scattered much like the Jews of old. The pull of ritual is embedded in my DNA. The sights, the smells, the sounds of Passover Seders past are extremely sharp this year. They do not fade with time.

It’s that simple.

adventures in bookselling—sex

MADE YOU LOOK!

Seriously, though. Among the store sections that most of us HATE to straighten is the SEXUALITY section. It’s located—either by accident or design—on the far side rear of the store. Walk back there at any time and you’re likely to find bunch of crusty ol’ guys or giggling young would-be studs—depending on the time/day of the week.

For some reason I can’t fathom, the Kama Sutra comes wrapped in glossy, bright red paper, which naturally gets pulled off by those I search of, shall we say, enlightenment of the sexual nature. OK, so maybe pulling off a wrapper is no big thing, But why CONTINUE to take them off? It’s all the same book, folks.

(An aside: as a young child my mother would often return from shopping with a box wrapped in blue and white striped paper. When I inquired as to what it was, she replied “napkins.” For years, I wondered why our paper table napkins came gift wrapped. Only to discover in my early teens that Modess wrapped their sanitary napkins in that paper for discretion, I assume. Like anybody who knew what a sanity napkin was, wouldn’t recognize the paper, eh? Let’s hear it for the 1950s.)

Back to the 21rst century, people.

So the other day I’m heading to the head and glance down at an attractive, obviously enamored young couple, laying all over each other in one of our large armchair. As I’ve said before, many of our “customers” confuse our store with their living rooms.

I can’t help but notice the book splayed in front of the them—which they are studying—displays an intimate coupling I’ve never been limber enough to attempt, even in my youth.

“Hey guys,” I say softly, bending over. They look up, the girl turning scarlet. “No worries about me,” I add. “But the way you are sitting, anyone heading to the restroom will get a full view. You may want to switch to the chair on the other side of the table."

When I come out of the restroom, they smile and wave from the other seat.

Now for something completely different. A small case of sexual confusion.

A colleague adopted a tiny kitten a short time ago, which he named Bea Arthur. He would often regale us with tales of the trials of bringing up a toddler cat.

Last week I saw him sitting in the break room and inquired as to what Bear Arthur was up to. He grimaced a bit before explaining he had noticed during one of his daily bathing (Yes, his pet was bathed daily.) , something odd. Upon further examination, Bea turned out to be Bentley.

Who knew?