Book, Nook, and Kindle

Bell, Book, and Candle is a title that always fascinated me, though I never read the book or viewed a production of it on stage or screen, if it ever existed in those forms, and I think it did. I do know what the story is about. But when I typed my blog title today, that older title rushed through my memory like a hurricane gale. I’m interested in what begets what, and “Book, Nook, and Kindle” took on a fascination for me, though I’m not pleased that two of my words rhyme. Now, when some company comes out with its Cook or Crook program of reading, “Book, Cook, Nook, and Kindle” won’t sound like a huge editorial blunder.

Now for some more begetting, what I started to write about in the first place.

Perhaps ancient papyrus scrolls were the inspiration for today’s ingenious devices known as Nook (Barnes & Noble) and Kindle (Amazon), and there may be others. How clever to fill your dance card with titles of books you plan to read and pack the electronic notation away in a small purse-size holder and be on your way to the beach, to the cabin, or on your business travels. It must be suitable for reading in bed too (something sleep experts say we should not do). A great feature is that you can enlarge the print to suit your vision requirement. And you may save trees.

However, there must be millions of people, like me, who prefer the look, feel, smell, of real books. To hold a book in your hands, to see all of it at once, to smell the leather, if it’s one of those, to use a bookmark to show how far you’ve read percentage-wise, is a great pleasure. The displeasure comes when one has to move books from one house to another, the menfolk say. That reminds me of a sad little story. Let me tell you.

In the early years of our marriage, we moved from a small town to a tinier place in the road where John’s work took him. He decided we would move ourselves to save money and borrowed his Uncle Ray’s truck, which he drove the distance of about 70 miles. I rode in our car, holding our new baby daughter, with John’s step-brother driving. Not long after the last turn-off to a two-lane road, and after an old leather hassock took a spin out the back of the truck, I began seeing books flying out and landing well off the road, out of sight of John’s rear-view mirror. I began to ache. I said we had to stop and get those books. We did. We gathered the lot of about a dozen books and left the old hassock to the elements. We drove on and found more books. But we were losing time. We saw more than one car stopping for our books. They might have thought we were scavengers too. That was heartbreak real. Over the years since, when I couldn’t find a certain book I needed at the moment, I often chose to save my search energy by the consolation that “it must have been lost from the truck when we moved.”

Nevertheless, in spite of great technological advancements in the publishing world, nothing will replace real books. Not abridged recordings, not e-books, not movies, not Nook nor Kindle. Think how naked a room would look without books on at least one bit of wall. And professional movers of your household goods don’t lose your books off the truck.

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Today I Celebrate

Today is my 87th birthday and a doctor at one of those fast med places told me yesterday I was in great health and had 10,000 more miles to go. He’d never seen me before and made his assumption based on questions such as “Did you grow up on a farm?” and “Why did you move to this part of the country?” and “Do you have family near by?” Naturally, we got around to books. An older man (who owns the clinic), he told about having five acres of land, going out to the fields to work, wearing earphones and listening to Books Aloud. If he talks this way with every patient he sees, no wonder I had to wait so long to be called in.

But the truth is, he based my projected longevity on my mental attitude. That goes a long way, of course, and is no guarantee, but is perhaps better than a medication. Now, if I could only place in some of those writing contests announced at the IWL conference going on today and tomorrow in Coeur d’Alene, it might add another year to my life, to write more manuscripts for competition for next year. I’ll let you know if I do place. If I don’t place at all, well, that’s another story.

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Another Earliest Memory

It’s great fun and perhaps gives insight to hear what other people’s earliest memories are, and try to relate them to the rest of their lives. Here’s a good one. My older son said he remembers that when he was three years old and playing around a house that was being remodeled for us to live in, he stuck a nail into a wall socket to see if it would turn on to make a light! Naturally, he felt more than he saw. And grew up to be a civil engineer. There must be a commection.

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Amazing Grace and Pop Culture

Several years ago my daughter, independent soul like me, did graduate studies in France, determined to mix with the natives for polishing off the language, instead of with Americans there. Once she found herself at two o’clock in the morning sitting with new friends in a Paris bistro. Sleepy and wanting to go home, she tuned out her surroundings, till suddenly the spotlight found her, the only blonde in the place. The emcee spoke in French about an American among them. Would she come to the microphone and sing a song? Of course, she declined: she was an artist, not a vocalist. But the emcee did not relent. Finally, my daughter decided it would be less embarrassing to sing than to sit under the persistent spotlight with the French egging her on.

She stood, shocking her audience by her height. Five feet, eight inches tall and slender, she wore three-inch heels and a long black dress, with her hair piled on top of her head. Many of the men present were shorter than the total she. She got to the microphone, thinking, “They won’t know what I’m saying,” and began singing the only song she knew, “Amazing Grace.” Perhaps they might think she was singing about Princess Grace of Monaco, whose beauty was amazing. Enriching the performance, my daughter couldn’t carry a tune. She got no offers from the Paris Opera.

Within a year left-wing Joan Baez was singing “Amazing Grace.” Then it picked up all over. Everyone was singing it. But I’ve heard no finer or more touching rendition of the song than that of the tenor soloist at the memorial service for President Ronald Reagan. My computer says that man’s name was Ronan Tynan. A CD of that would be absolutely great. I cried during his singing that day, for it all came back to me: my childhood in church; my daughter’s solo off key in a Paris bistro; Joan Baez; and the framed copy of the song, hanging today on a wall in my home.

Not for a minute do I believe my daughter ushered in the current popularity of the famous song into pop culture, but it is a tear-jerking idea to think it possible. What struck me about it was her saying “Amazing Grace” was the only song she knew to sing. Over the years, she heard me sing lyrics from “You Are My Sunshine” to “The Lost Chord” to “How Great Thou Art,” but she never heard me sing “Amazing Grace.” It took a while to make its way into my repertoire. I much prefer it sung by a master tenor soloist, or by an out-of-this-world choir. Today it is seldom sung in my church, the very denomination of my childhood.

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After the Party ©

We walk beneath ribbons tailing
celebratory balloons marking time
on the ceiling.
At intervals we check their
recommended daily allowances
as they float down the days.
In their sly descent
we bounce them back up
with delicate fists.
We mean to stay them,
stuck there on the ceiling,
bedecked with multicolored
serpentine dangles that catch
in our hair, giving the
entire display a shake-up.
We boost them up again and again,
waiting for the next party,
even if they hang there dead.

♥

Meeting Celebrities for a Good Cause

That late afternoon in August of 1979, my husband John and I, along with our eighteen-year-old son Phil and his friend Rick, mingled with the celebrities as if we belonged to this element of society. Invited as guests of the annual Danny Thompson Memorial Golf Tournament in Sun Valley, Idaho, we anticipated an exciting evening before the four days of golfing started in just over twelve hours. The only disappointment for Phil was that his girlfriend Kathy wasn’t with him.

Most of the excitement for me came before the banquet started. At the edge of the crowd on the lawn, we met former President Gerald Ford and his wife Betty, with several Secret Servicemen hovering around in their sharp blue blazers and light gray pants, with little pins on their lapels. President Ford agreed to pose with John for a snapshot, for in those days many people, even strangers, commented on John’s looking much like the president. The eventual photo, however, showed distinct differences in facial features, but the two men’s clothing matched to a tie.

Almost as soon as the camera clicked, Phil pulled us away, for he’d spied a more fascinating superstar, Hank Aaron. Through the crowd of famous faces smiling at us like old friends, he guided us to meet his baseball hero. Phil, an avid sports fan, had given up participating in all physically competitive school sports by this time but had held onto baseball longest, through his senior year of high school. A summer of bowling followed and then only chess remained. For Phil was sick.

We watched him greet Aaron without giving his own last name but he did introduce John and me with full names, and then Rick. Not so shy as Phil, Rick spoke up, as perhaps none of us could have done.

“Mr. Aaron, we know you’re playing golf this weekend for that cancer foundation.”

“In Minnesota, I think they said,” Jeff added.

“Yeah, and that’s exactly why I’m here. Baseball’s my game.”

“And how we know! But if you should make a bad shot tomorrow—” Phil hesitated, not knowing quite how to finish his sentence.

Rick spoke for him, “You can take it over for ten dollars.”

“I can?” Aaron probably already knew that, for he most likely participated in this event every year.

Rick continued talking. “That’s called a mulligan. And that money goes to Phil here.”

Aaron looked at Phil who would have been bald if he had removed his Atlanta Braves cap. A glance at the cap put a twinkle in Aaron’s eyes. He looked back at Rick.

“He’s got leukemia, sir, and is headed for Baltimore for a bone marrow transplant. So, we want to urge you to play your worst for him tomorrow.”

While Rick talked, Aaron selected a pristine baseball from a big box of them and looked at Phil once more.

“Your name’s Phil, right?”

“Yeah, and I’m your greatest fan.” Phil’s voice was about an octave lower than Rick’s, so deep in fact, that Aaron seemed charmed by it, as I always was.

“And you’ve got leukemia?”

“Yeah, I have. For over two years. That’s why I’m wearing this cap. My hair’s gone. This transplant’s the last resort, they tell me.” Phil smiled his sweetest but as if he questioned last resorts.

Aaron wrote his name across the baseball and shook Phil’s hand, wishing him luck. He signed another baseball for Rick.

A few other guests closed in to get to Aaron, and our little group of four receded, with Phil’s still saying, “Thank you,” over his shoulder.

Then we ran into Clint Eastwood. Phil proffered the baseball.

“How about autographing this baseball for me?” He cradled the ball in Eastwood’s hand before the actor knew what for.

The actor’s most riveting eyes bore into mine. His face shouted was this my child, asking him to sign a baseball? His thoughts must have reached someone else, for across the heads came a clear rebuke.

“Sign it, Clint.”

Eastwood hunted for the voice and found it in Hank Aaron. The actor signed the baseball. As we moved on, Rick whispered something to Clint. I knew what it was without acknowledging it.

We met Telly Sevalas with his handsome baldhead and his brother with a full head of black hair (real?), Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill, George Blanda of football past, and other athletes, politicians, and entertainers. Soon the two men who had founded this particular golf tournament three years before approached us. Harmon Killibrew, a baseball Hall-of-Famer himself, a Republican, and former Idaho Congressman Ralph Harding, a Democrat, wanted to know at whose table Phil would like to sit during the banquet beginning in minutes.

Without hesitation, Phil said, “I’d rather sit with athletes than with politicians.” He gave the politician a big smile.

Our table seated the four of us, the official from the Minnesota research organization, George Blanda and his wife, and a tennis player whose name escapes me now. When our plates appeared, the tennis player was served fish while the rest of us had prime rib. The handsome young black tennis player had lost a brother to leukemia and had learned something about proper diet for cancer patients. So had we. At home Phil did not eat beef but it was too late now to change entrees.

♫

The Danny Thompson Memorial Golf Tournament in Sun Valley exists to raise funds for leukemia and cancer research, in memory of Thompson who played for the Minnesota Twins, and who died of leukemia in 1976. Thompson, a big league shortstop, wanted to be remembered as a commendable baseball player rather than as a leukemia victim. However, he is possibly overruled, for the tournament has grown into a huge money-raiser for cancer research with emphasis on leukemia, with its most consistent supporter of golf, as well as of research, the late President Gerald Ford. Killibrew and Harding did not know each other before they became founders of the event. Killibrew engaged athletes to take part in the tournament and Harding, the politicians. Several movie and television personalities have homes in the Sun Valley area, for Sun Valley is world famous for its winter sports, more so than for its golf.

During the past thirty-three years the tournament has become one of the most major fund-raisers for cancer research in the country, with noteworthy progress achieved in patients’ recovery. In 2008, it contributed $710,000 to the fund, supporting research at the University of Minnesota at Minneapolis. This is only part of the $4,000,000 the tournament has contributed, not only to the work in Minnesota, but also to the Mountain States Tumor Institute in Boise.

At this institute Phil received the first treatments for his acute leukemia, with an early prognosis that he would live two more months. My husband withheld this information from me, knowing perhaps that for me it would be too much too soon. But the prognosis was wrong. We sought alternative medicine—which proved quite effective—in addition to the chemotherapy, and Phil lived two and a half years more. He continued both types of treatment, allowing him to graduate from high school and plan for college. Twentieth Century Lanes, where Jeff’s bowling team sprang, sponsored a local drive for funds, which covered cost of a dozen or so roundtrip flights between Idaho and Maryland for family members during the two-month period, and for their meals, and their stay at a nearby Ronald MacDonald House at the Sheraton Hotel. These were extras insurance did not cover except the patient’s travel. Both of Jeff’s brothers took time off from their jobs and donated plasma. I took leave from teaching school. Phil’s father was with us when he needed to be, but we depended on someone’s regular paycheck coming in. Phil received $6,000 from the golf tournament for golfers’ bad shots getting a second try, the local drive brought in $17,000, and at the beginning of November we headed for Baltimore.

But the bone marrow transplant at Johns Hopkins Hospital failed. All the patients in Phil’s ward, which treated not only leukemia but also aplastic anemia, died unless they had an identical twin to donate marrow for the transplant. Phil’s brother Mike was not a perfect match for donating marrow for Phil.

Internet findings show progress in cancer recoveries has increased through the Minnesota research but without pinpointing results for leukemia. Any statement of success for leukemia from any source most likely refers to only chronic leukemia, not acute, as was Phil’s type. In recent years the name of this horrible disease has become cancer of the blood, as if that might make it less menacing.

All drives for cancer cure are commendable, but European countries don’t have our problem. We must be doing something wrong. Perhaps it’s time we looked into their routines, starting with diet.

But one has choices. Phil never smoked in his life, resulting in the head physician on the ward’s reporting that Phil had the best pair of lungs he’d ever seen there. Phil also stayed with the diet we learned about in alternative treatments. After four remissions, an unusually high number for cancer of Phil’s type, he made the choice himself to go for the transplant. This takes a great deal of courage and he certainly measured up for those days of hope and days of despair.

In the meantime, the action goes on in Sun Valley every August for The Danny Thompson Memorial Golf Tournament. Some of my last memories of Phil are based there. Like never forgetting Phil, I shall never forget the tournament of 1979.

♥♥

You Never Know Who Might Be Looking

A few nights ago and for the first time, I checked the tabs that appear just above the space where I post my blogs and I found a comment to one of the earliest blogs that I had not seen before. In February I wrote about the 1944 publication of Yours Is the Earth by Margaret Vail with whom I carried on a correspondence for several years, till she suffered a stroke. The comment from someone named Deanna said she had read the book a long time ago too and had always wondered if Vail got her husband back from a German prison camp. My blog gave her the answer and she was grateful. How wonderful that a simple blog filled that need. That comment was worth all the time and energy I’ve put into my whole blog posting.

I also noticed I’ve had readers in Canada, Netherlands, Italy, Libya, Australia, Mexico, Belgium, Slovakia, and Germany, as well as the United States. And my blog Phenomenon has had many more readers than any other blog of mine. That pleases me.

Next weekend is our annual conference of the Idaho Writer’s [sic] League, with the notification of winners in numerous writing contests. The competition is keen, with so many members in the organization, but I hope I place in something, to say the least.

A note to the writers reading this. A scrap of paper stays on my desk, a clipping from an unknown source, to remind me of exactly what writing entails. In essence, it says writers are conducting one phase of writing by just thinking about writing. Noticing, wondering, and recalling events of the day and how one might use them in writing, is writing. By thinking this way, these habits become a natural phase in the actual writing process. Perhaps I’ve already mentioned this in a blog, but it reminds me of something I read in Savage Beauty, biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay, by Nancy Milford. Vincent often sat looking as if doing nothing but actually thinking about the next sonnet, which she worked out completely in her mind before picking up her pen. Her husband informed guests to the house not to disturb her if they found her like this, for she was writing. I love it and approve this “technique” with cheers. I’ve found it so with parts of writing fiction. I doubt anyone could accomplish this feat for an average-length book of fiction. Certainly not if the characters write the story themselves. Except perhaps Ray Bradbury.

And that reminds me. You may recall my blog about the importance of your earliest childhood memory. Well, Ray Bradbury gets the trophy for this one. He said in some source he remembers being born! He remembers the big light above him and the pain. Now I wonder what affect that light and the pain had on the rest of his life. Does he enjoy a great deal of light around him? Or does he prefer a darker environment? Has he had any pain since that time? Perhaps a lot of it? With his IQ, his resolving any problem in this regard would be my guess.

I see you. You don’t believe one can have such a memory, do you? I do. Think about it this way. First, stop comparing him with yourself. Then remember plenty of people recall memories as early as three years of age. Georgia O’Keefe was two years old with her first memory. Now, if anyone at two, someone else will be at twenty-two months, someone at fifteen months, and someone at fourteen months, ten months, and right on down to zero days. Bradbury is just the one who remembered earliest. If this upsets your thinking, do the research. Find out for yourself. Maybe you can prove him wrong.

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One Job for a Forklift

In the temporary business of transporting prawns from one point to another in a small town in Scotland, the main character of my current reading began driving his van load away when he came to the exit of the compound and found a red BMW blocked it. Everyone in the town knew it belonged to an obese politician from the city, whom no one here liked, showing up now to stop that very delivery of prawns.

But our man Dan saw a big stack of large pallets and had a bright idea. He got the man who worked the forklift to move prawns to lift that BMW to the top of the stack of pallets which was eight feet high. The man did so without a scratch or dent to the car.

The story has been busy with other scenes and characters. But if I finish reading this book tonight, I’ll tell you how that bit ended before leaving tomorrow for my day out. So far, it’s one of the funniest stunts I’ve ever heard of. I hope it doesn’t give the obese fellow cardiac arrest.

Ah! The politician had to talk for three hours and pay £50 to get his car back on solid ground. Served him right. Remember this story, when you’re tempted to play tricks on people. They may backfire.

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Cause and Effect

Tonight, while checking for something in my files, I read the first chapter of one of my stories, in which an autumn rain stars as an important feature. About half way through it, I left the computer to check windows, to make sure rain was not blowing into the house through a window left open. What a shock to discover it was not raining at all in my real world, but only in my fiction. Outside it was a warm September night with the house's windows closed.

The truth is, if such a thing can affect the writer in this way, it will also impress the reader but perhaps not quite so strongly. At least that much of the story must be satisfactory.

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PHENOMENON

I was looking down at the papers on my table when someone walked past, showering me with goose bumps. I did not look up, for I felt what I would see would be hard to take. Through my eyelids, it seemed, I saw only his feet in white shoes and his legs in light blue pants. The walk, the legs, and the presence were just like Phil’s. But our son Philip died in January two years before at age nineteen, after a two-and-a-half-year struggle with acute leukemia.

Our table arrangement formed a U, where a dozen English teachers signed up students, not for our own classes, but for other teachers’ classes. Those who signed up with me did not know they would not be in my class.

It was a relief this young man did not stop at my table, because I might have made a fool of myself, and possibly of him. I felt Phil was in the room, yet not in a form to connect with me. Of course, I knew the boy couldn’t be Phil, but just someone who walked like him, yet his presence both chilled me out and surrounded me with warmth. I dreaded to look up, wherever he was, like dreading to finish reading a good book, but finally I did look up and found him across the room.

His hair was red!

From across the large room, the boy looked just like Phil from the back. Only in height did they differ. When he turned around and left the room, I saw his face. Still exactly like Phil. For the remainder of that day I could not get this boy out of my mind.

Over the years most of my students were advanced seniors, enrolled in subjects such as college-level Shakespeare, the humanities, World Lit, and advanced composition. Sophomores were, of course, in my German classes. But this fall semester it was my turn to teach one class of sophomore English composition. I looked forward to stressing the areas in which I always found a lack at the senior level, such as the conjugations of the verbs lie/lay, sit/set, and rise/raise.

The good discipline in my classes over the years was partly due to seating charts. They also enabled me to learn their names quickly. Therefore, on my sophomores’ first day with me they met a non-alphabetical seating chart on the chalkboard which would change every few weeks. If anyone asked why, I said, “Well, everyone can’t sit on the front row at the same time.” That was usually their introduction to my brand of humor.

On this occasion I had thirty-five desks to fill and had thirty-five names. I had no idea what my new students were like, for I had not signed them up. The most striking name to my thinking was that of Noel Curtis whose gender I did not know, and I placed him or her at the front desk in the middle of five rows, ten feet from my desk in the corner. I looked forward to their arrival; after all, I had taught them in my mind all night long the night before, instead of sleeping.

When the tenth-graders arrived that first day, they were eager, friendly, cheerful, orderly—thirty-four of them. Now the tardy bell was about to ring and this front chair in the middle row was the only one still empty. In the last two seconds Noel Curtis arrived and took the only seat left without seeming to look for it. The others cheered his being on time.

I looked into his blue eyes and wanted to say, “Talk,” but I said nothing. He looked at me as if reading my mind, and said, “English is not my best subject. Speech is.” I believed it. His voice was deep and rich like Phil’s, but I could have distinguished between them. His nose was slightly fuller across its midsection than Phil’s and Phil was an inch or two taller, at six feet, two inches as a senior. At his age, Noel should still be growing. His fair complexion, typical of redheads, the blue eyes, his shrug of shoulder, turn of head, his smile—or lack of it—everything, just like Phil. His presence comforted me and I determined to bring a camera to school and get pictures of this boy. I did not share these sentiments of mine, for I was careful not to “scare him off.”

That first day proved Noel was the class leader, perhaps not realizing that himself. Better yet, the class held him in high regard. It seemed they knew him from junior high but Noel himself was not so communicative with them. That day he did not make contact with any particular one and never called anyone by name. He was not an “A” student in my class but he had warned me, and I wondered why some English teacher in the past had not taught him to love the subject.

As time rushed by, I wished for something spectacular because Noel was my student. The whole situation was such a phenomenon that I didn’t want ever to lose it.

A few days into the semester I told Noel he reminded me of my son and that I wanted to bring my camera and get a picture of him, if he had no objection. He gave no comment and showed no change in facial expression, a response that could be interpreted either way. Then I kept delaying to bring the camera, thinking I had all semester to get the job done.

One day before the first change of the seating chart, Noel was missing from class. I gave instruction for the writing assignment and began walking around the room in case anyone needed help. I was close to the door when Noel showed up with the paperwork for checking out of school. Just like that, he was out of my life, and I had not brought my camera to school. I hardly knew him when he left. The next day a new seating chart greeted the class from the chalkboard.

Something big had just happened in my life and I wondered. Our family had gone through a great sorrow, one that parents never get over. Our son Phil died after a bone-marrow transplant. The room Phil had sat in, in German class, and parked his motorcycle helmet in, and to which he came when he had just suffered relapses and needed to go right into hospital, could help, I thought, if I never saw it again. I was later grateful not to have known Noel in that room. How could I have endured that? Now I moved to a different room but Phil’s absence in my life was still almost unbearable. Then two years later I knew Noel for a few days.

I do not believe Noel was an angel on a mission, but I could argue the point. Let me suggest a few peculiarities. It was shortly after I mentioned taking a picture of Noel that he checked out. Is it possible to catch an angel on film? My guess is no. Noel’s popularity with his classmates was unusual, for he was not an athlete to be adored. Prowess at debate and public speaking does not usually garner such hero worship as just participating in athletics. But while they showed their admiration for him, he seemed to take it without the ordinary reciprocation one might expect, almost as if he was actually not paying any attention to them. I sensed a goodness in the boy, something I’ve never felt to this extent about any other of the 5,000 or so students I have taught. Many were truly fine persons, but none impressed me as being good as Noel did. When he came into my classroom that first day, I watched him. He did not look around the room for an empty place, but came toward the front of the room and straight to the seat reserved for him. But if an angel, he could have seen that empty desk through the wall before he entered the room and would have known just where to sit. To come through the wall itself would have given him away.

I really don’t want to know anything more about Noel. I want to keep this memory as it is. If an angel, he served his mission.

♥♥

An Ending, a Beginning

As you approach the ending of a book you’re reading, you often can begin to notice technical errors, mostly misspellings. Seems the printer wants to get the job done as soon as possible. But I met a whopper last night as I finished reading The Cobra. Forsyth refers to Flagstaff as the capital of Arizona! Of course, he’s British, but he must have atlases in his workspace. And seems no one at the publisher’s caught it. Now let me inform you, Liverpool is the capital of England. How would he like that?

But The Cobra is a good book. I went from those Little Bird helicopters, smuggling boats, and big ships right into Black Hawks in the true story In the Company of Heroes. So I knew exactly what this author, Michael Durant, was talking about. I thought I would read just through the prologue in this one to get a head start—it was almost 2:00 a. m.—but that prologue was 25 pages long. I got that job done and still got to bed by 2:00. (I prefer short prologues, don’t you?)

I highly recommend The Cobra. The titles to the sections—COIL, HISS, STRIKE, VENOM—were indeed well-chosen.

♥

Computers versus Books

There is so much to write about, themes tripping over other themes, that one hardly knows which to select. One thing that bears questioning, though, is how anyone has the time to work a facebook and keep up with other facebooks, in addition to blogging and reading blogs, in addition to twitters – whatever they are -- and even while writing creatively. Is there any time left for living? Or does one live on just certain days? One does live while creatively writing, but in doing those others – really? Minutes ago, I read a blog in which the blogger said she had spent the entire holiday weekend checking people’s plagiarizing others’ writing on the web and in reporting them to Google. (Some sort of credit seems to be involved.) What she needed now was a glass of wine – I think she said a big glass of wine – and a long nap. But I suppose she had to go back to work on Tuesday, perhaps doing similar maneuvers. I think she might also agree that ain’t living. Well, it was Labor Day and she seems to have labored.

Another theme now. I heard Virginia Tech is being childish, saying they won’t buy any more Idaho potatoes. Don’t worry. They’ll get over it and buy. Where else can they get good Idaho potatoes but from Idaho?

Books again, of course. My latest is The Black Prism by Brent Weeks. Never heard of the author but so what? He probably hasn’t ever heard of me. It’s 629 pages of fantasy but without elves and fairies. One reason I bought it is the flap says he doesn’t have any cats and doesn’t wear a ponytail. (I lack about 25 pages in The Cobra. If Frederick Forsyth has done the proper research, this ought to be MUST reading for all American adults. European adults too.)

On my shelves for some time now is another book yet to tackle and of reasonable length. It’s In the Company of Heroes by Michael J. Durant with Steven Hartov. When a book says the author wrote with another person, with the other person’s name much smaller on the book jacket, it usually means the “with” author created the final wording, while the main writer had the story to tell – two different skills entirely. I can hardly wait to read this true story. And that other book. And that one. And this one. And th . . .

♥

God’s Country

Where I live is God’s country. You’ve heard that about other places, but this one is for real. Although all of them are God’s, He has especially blest this little section. So far, we don’t have problems with hurricanes and tsunamis. We’ve had only a few small earthquakes, one in which two small children were killed as they walked to school. Flooding is scarce and minimum. Humidity is low. My house is in a river valley in the northern desert of the Rocky Mountains, a fascinating combination, and a day’s drive to our inland seaport, and a shorter drive to the tall timber. Map-wise, we should be on Pacific Time, but no, we’re on Mountain Time. We could use more rain sometimes, but our farmers haven’t suffered too much from the lack of it. You still can get your Idaho potatoes in stores.

But we do have range fires and forest fires. My late husband worked as a smoke jumper during the summers while he was at university. One time he parachuted to fight a fire and was on the job for 72 hours before the relief team showed up. Sometimes he slept on the ground in snake country with a tarp over his head. He didn’t have claustrophobia while I had enough for both of us, but I didn’t know him then. (The other nine months of the year he took care of the white mice in the science lab.) But few homes in Idaho have been destroyed in these fires, mainly because we have a relatively small population. When I see nice homes burning in California, I think how fortunate Idaho is in this regard. Really, it is God’s country. And sagebrush smells good! The only way to smell it is to roll a bit of it in both hands, and smell your hands. John taught me this the very day I met him.

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The Word Is Out

What a game! Last night Boise State beat Virginia Tech 33-30 in Washington, D. C. But I thought the best part was a map of the United States appearing on the screen, showing just where Boise is and an arrow shooting to D. C., over 2,600 miles distant. I hope now everyone in the country will know Iowa is not where Idaho is.

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I wrote a blog for today, then in error erased it. Maybe tomorrow.

Genes

While not being trained in the –ology of genes, I find it fascinating to observe some of the results of gene blending. For instance, take a look at the four children in our family, in chronological order.

Female, Male, Male, Male

Eyes:
Green, Brown, Brown, Blue

Hair:
Ash blond, Auburn, Blond, Red

Height:
5 ft., 8; 6 ft., 4; 6 ft., 2; 6 ft., 2

Build:
Slender, Works at it, Works at it, Slender

Other comparisons:

All good at math.
#1 and #4 most creative, worked best alone.
#2 and #3 most career-minded with other people.
#1 and #2 read books avidly.
#2, #3, #4 active in high school sports.
All college majors had to do with math.
All spent some time in Europe.
#1 and #4 died of leukemia, at ages 52 and 19.

As noted above, fascinating.

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Have a Good Laugh

One of the best similes I ever came across is on page 209 of Crossfire, the latest novel by Dick Francis and Felix Francis. It deserves a whole blog by itself. Here it is.

“He spoke with his mouth full, giving me a fine view of his sweet-and-sour pork ball rotating around like the contents of a cement mixer.”

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