To be a mountain you have to climb alone
and accept all that rain and snow. You have to look far away when evening comes. If a forest
grows, you care; you stand there leaning against
the wind, waiting for someone with faith enough
to ask you to move. Great stones will tumble
against each other and gouge your sides. A storm
will live somewhere in your canyons hoarding its lightning.
If you are lucky, people will give you a dignified
name and bring crowds to admire how sturdy you are, how long you can hold still for the camera. And some time, they say, if you last long enough you will hear God;a voice will roll down from the sky and all your patience will be rewarded. The whole world will hear it: “Well done.”
Here’s an essay for you, since we’re talking housework. It’s from twelve years ago, it would appear, cuz Steve and I weren’t married yet. Living in sin, woot!
“Whenever I do something good, right away I’ve got to do something bad, so I know I’m not going to pieces.” — Paul Newman
You know what my husband is doing right now? Vacuuming, cleaning the house (nervous energy, I suppose) and otherwise getting prepared for the hockey game that starts at 5. Finally it’s the real Stanley Cup playoffs. Since it is two Eastern teams — Detroit and Pittsburgh — GO PENS! — silly me. I thought we were still in the pre-pre-playoffs, like we have been since last September.
I’ve heard that some are still watching NBA games but no sir, not over here. With all this free time on my hands, I have been liberally drinking pinot grigio, vodka lemonades and mojitos, admiring the petunias and watching the children jet around. Where do they get the energy? It’s been so hot here. Also… reading. Reading, reading and reading.
“Paul Newman: A Life” (Harmony Books, $29.99, 490 pages), is one of the best biographies I’ve ever read in my life, and I’m not just saying that because I used to work with the author, Shawn Levy. (Not the director, the writer.) He was always a decent guy to work with, plus a good reporter and movie critic, to boot. He did an outstanding job on this book, go buy two copies — no, three. Because you’ll need one for yourself, one for your mom or auntie, and one for your girlfriend. Men, you’ll need three copies, too. Because you know you secretly wish you were Hud, or Brick, or Chance, or Butch, or the hottie (literally) from “The Towering Inferno.” So, chop-chop, already.
And speaking of chop-chop? You know what he loved? Salad dressing (you already knew that. Red wine vinegar, olive oil, herbs, garlic, onion and ground mustard seed) over a bowl of chopped celery, or perhaps over a nice Caesar with romaine hearts, homemade croutons and sliced tomatoes. And popcorn. Dishpan after dishpan of hot, delicious, freshly-popped popcorn.
Even though he drank (like a fish), smoked (like a chimney) and raced cars (like a madman), I am convinced that he lived into his 80s because of all the salad and popcorn. I will continue to drink, but I will eat more popcorn and veggies. Chop-chop.
My only wish is that there would have been more pictures in the book. Even though Mr. Levy included two generous spreads of photos, c’mon. He was Paul Newman. We needed three or four sections of photos. Sigh.
“Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that’s a real treat.” — Joanne Woodward
And now… a little review for MotherTalk. The New York Times is just coming out with a Young Reader’s Edition of “Obama: The Historic Journey.” Oh, good. Lots of pix. (Maybe we need a Young Reader’s Edition of the Paul Newman book? Mmmm…) Great book — also available in an adult version. (Viking Children’s Books, $24.95, 94 pages.) My favorite quote:
The weekend before the inauguration, President-elect Barack Obama and his family had stopped to visit the Lincoln Memorial, studying the words carved into the marble. Considering his inaugural speech, ten-year-old Malia turned to her father and advised, “First African-American president. Better be good.”
My daughter and I are considering starting a mother-daughter book club at her school, so I turned to “The Mother-Daughter Book Club: How Ten Busy Mothers and Daughters Came Together to Talk, Laugh and Learn Through Their Love of Reading.” (HarperPerennial, $12.95, 296 pages.) (Tips include how to start your own club, reading lists and discussion guides.) We’re thinking “Twilight,” “Inkheart,” maybe an Edward Eager book, from the olden days? Any ideas?
Reviewed today:
And now, a funny YouTube clip of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward on “What’s My Line?”:
Did you realize, Internets, that it’s my late father’s birthday today? HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD, PEACE OUT.
Now let’s read and review some brand-new picture books, with our guest reviewer, 7-year-old hunka hunka burnin’ love Wacky Boy. He has taken a break from trying to make his sister wipe out on her skateboard and will join us shortly.
Princess Pig, written by Eileen Spinelli and illustrated by Tim Bowers, is a hilarious tale of a delusional little pig. Or is she…? (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009, $16.99, unpaged.)
Wacky Boy sez, “Even though boys aren’t into princesses, they will like this book. Good illustrations, and the story is funny. It’s a good book.”
The Sleepy Little Alphabet: A Bedtime Story from Alphabet Town, is written by Judy Sierra and illustrated by Melissa Sweet. (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009, $16.99, unpaged.)
Wacky Boy says of this one, “The ABC book is…. funny and cute. I will not give it to my cousin.” That’s so sweet! What a kind boy. (And we’re not keeping any of today’s books, by the by. I’ll add them to my school library in the fall.) (But we do love our books over here, don’t you know. It’s just — their mother is a librarian. Books need to come and go.)
“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.”
— “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” T.S. Eliot, 1919
Do I own a copy of that poem? I do not. But I know it almost by heart. That, my friends, is the power of libraries. And the Internet. The Sleepy Little Alphabet really is a darling book. The text skips along, and the illustrations are lovely.
Ditto for Ten Days and Nine Nights, An Adoption Story by Yumi Heo. (Schwartz & Wade Books, 2009, unpaged, $16.99.) The drawings remind me of the work of one of my favorite illustrators, Maira Kalman. Our heroine marks a circle on the calendar. She has ten days and nine nights to wait until her new sister arrives. What will she do with her time? Really charming story about welcoming a new baby into the family.
Bye-bye to one of Grandma’s old Bundt pans and one of her cake pans, too. Steve said uh-uh, so off to Goodwill they go. Something about “aluminum,” “brain damage” “your entire family is crazeee enough already without more crazeee thrown in…” something.
What are you doing for the long weekend? Do you have a long weekend? We do. I wish I could say we’ll be out on the boat, at the lake…
But there is no boat.
In fact, there is no lake.
I’ll be… sorting. WACKY COUSIN 2.0 IS COMING OVER TOMORROW! And his mama, too. She has to drive him, he won’t have his license for another 14 years. The kids are thrilled. They will teach him New Tricks.
(Re: kids. I bought Harry Potter DVDs 1, 2 & 3 — we have 4 & 5 already. Getting ready for 6 this summer!)
And speaking of cult phenoms: reading “Eclipse,” whoa. Whoa. (Yes, I realize that we’re always months and years behind everyone else as far as cult phenoms go. Do not care.)
This weekend we might:
1) assemble an Adirondack chair
2) stain it
3) drink mojitos
4) see family
5) go to church? (like how that’s down the list? after drinking?)
6) hang out laundry on line
7) celebrate my late father’s birthday, which falls on Memorial Day this year. Figures.
8) SLEEP
9) ride bikes
10) play tennis
11) eat a lot of food
12) play Wii Fit and not even leave the house
13) Ha.
14) That’s it!
15) Oh. And try to stay off Facebook. Gorgeous weather, we have to stay away from the computers once in awhile.
16) Can’t wait for Steve and the kids to get here!
I spent a large portion of the day packing up Dear Granny’s white dishes with the fluted edges (those are going to my auntie), the “Arkansas crystal,” the white dishes with the pretty blue flowers — Dresden! It’s this pattern. It doesn’t go with my apple pattern at all, but whatever. I think I need to pack the apple dishes away for awhile. Some of the pieces are antique, some are newer, all are getting chipped. (This is the pattern I crave, but my family in the South collects the apple pattern, so gooooooo, Jonesboro! I went with that. Besides — how girly is the Desert Rose? The girlier the better, that’s what I say, but it’s a little foofy for Steve.) (If I had it my way I would have five china cabinets.)
Tumblers, decanters, lace tablecloths, placemats and napkins, glass platters, painted china from her girlfriends, candle holders… and every time my mom and uncle put a box in the car, they added a box of Christmas stuff, too, unbeknownst to me. Which is why my living room, dining room and kitchen are now full of Christmas wrap, Santa candles, a Santa doll, a tiny baby Jesus (“The replacement!” my sister told me. “Because Josie ate the original Jesus.” That’s right. My grandparents fat, adorable, charming black Lab, Josephine, ate Baby Jesus. Along with two pounds of Hershey Kisses that my Dear Granny had tied to the Christmas in an enthusiastic show of decorating)…
As Planet Nomad would say, that sentence was too long I’ll start over.
Yes.
Am I unpacking/repacking/sorting? No, I’m not. I’m eating homemade tortilla chips, smokey chipotle salsa and garlic cheese curds from the Interstate Farmers Market.
Poor Steve, dear Lord, my poor, poor husband. All he said about Entering Christmasland: Santa Threw Up Here was, “Oh good, we got it back!” when he spotted the enormous Harry & David tin. He was remembering when we sent it to her for Christmas, a few years back.
“Remember? She said, ‘You shoulda seen all the junk that was packed in here!'” Heehee.
Did I mention the candles? OK. Back to unpacking. I am intimidated. And thrilled. Because how cool is this that I get to take care of my Dear Granny’s things for her? Also — and please I hope this doesn’t offend anyone — she and I have sometimes been described as “tacky” or “country.” That is the true reason why I inherited all this loot, not because she remembered me in her will or because I’m extra-special or something. The quilt with the cow, pig, corn fabric, the Laura Ingalls Wilder book set that is tattered and faded, the fake fur coat, the little wooden plaque decorated with buttons that reads “Friends are Sew Special”… it’s because no one else wanted this stuff. The costume jewelry in the plastic box, the 8,000 blank Christmas cards from Bi-Mart, the empty vials of nitroglycerin… excellent.
How could they not want it? This stuff is great. They are all, you know. Sophisticated. So they think. Well nyah-nyah, you just wait til I serve them a glass of ice tea in one of the clunky green goblets. Or some appetizers on the Arkansas Razorbacks platter. Classssssssssy.
Just sayin’.
(PS — Even though they don’t (usually) read my blog, I owe my kids the biggest thank you right this second. I can hear them brushing their teeth in the bathroom, chattering away. Happy and sweet, as always. The past few months have been so rough, and they have been just amazing. Always giving me the hugs, the love, not complaining even when I ask them to repeat themselves four times because I’m nine times distracted. They are such good kids. They’re keepers, as my Dear Granny would say. They are such keepers. Them, and the green goblets. And the glass candle holders shaped like stars.)
, 
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