It's Been a Bad Year - For Reading

 I don't know what has been wrong with me this year. You would think that with so much stay-at-home time, I would have had plenty of time to indulge myself in reading. The reality is that I read one book all the way through - ONE BOOK. And that was a children's book (The Watsons Go to Birmingham, 1963 by Christopher Paul Curtis). 

I had started A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley at the beginning of the year, but returned it to the library when the pandemic struck, since there was no guarantee of when I would be able to get it back. And I've been picking at Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser for the past couple of months, but I recently decided I'm going to put it in "hibernation," as a Facebook acquaintance said she does. And that's it. Unfortunately, I haven't even felt like I wanted to read, which is kind of odd - you might think I would want to escape to some fictional world with problems that could be resolved at the end of the plot, unlike the real-world problems we were all facing.

That's not to say I've been an intellectual blob these months. I decided to get serious about studying Spanish. I've been doing lessons on Duolingo for 329 consecutive days. I still have trouble understanding spoken Spanish, but I'm steadily getting better at reading, and I've tried to write some.

I've also become a faithful reader of the Facebook posts by Dr. Heather Cox Richardson, a history professor who is writing what she calls "Letters from an American" that summarize the day's events in politics and place them in a historical context. Her speciality is Civil War history, and it is fascinating to see the links between what was going on just prior to the beginning of the war and today's events.

Anyway, I'm going to put Sister Carrie aside (who needs to read about those characters' miserable lives??) and get a fresh start tomorrow. Maybe 2021 will be better, all the way around.

Not What I Was Expecting

Back a couple of months ago in the summer, I decided I wanted to read something that might help me understand better the Black Lives Matter movement. I didn't want to buy a book (bookshelf space in this household is at a premium) and I've apparently let my library card expire (I didn't know they did that). I decided to go to the books we already have, since I knew we had a copy of Christopher Paul Curtis' Newberry Honor novel The Watsons Go to Birmingham - 1963. Just the title alone promised a story - through a child's perspective - of the famous Civil Rights events in Birmingham, specifically the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church.

I finished the book last night (yes, it took a long time - for some reason, I haven't done much reading during the pandemic 😞).I have to say, I feel like this book is something of a bait-and-switch because it really didn't live up to what the title led me to believe would be in the story.

The story is about the Watson family who live in Flint, Michigan, told through the eyes and voice of Kenny, a fourth-grader. Kenny has a strong family with a father, mother, an older brother and younger sister. Kenny's main problems in life are that he's often the object of bullying because he has a "lazy" eye and is really good at reading. His older brother, Byron, sometimes saves Kenny from the bullying and sometimes instigates it.

Byron is a key character in this story. He's the reason the Watsons decide to go to Birmingham in the first place. His parents are concerned that Byron is falling into the wrong crowd and bad behavior, so they decide to take him to Birmingham to live for the summer with Mrs. Watson's mother, Grandma Sands.

All of that sounds like a good set-up for a story that puts the Watsons in Birmingham as outside observers to the growing tension that culminates in the bombing. But that's not what happens in this book. (Spoiler alerts!) Instead, the first 3/4 of the story is about life in Flint and Kenny's problems with Byron and a friend who steals his toy dinosaurs. We're well past the halfway point in the story when the Watsons decide to go to Birmingham, and then we get a couple of chapters devoted to describing getting ready for the trip (including getting an Ultra-Glide record player for the car) and the trip itself.

Even after the Watsons finally get to Birmingham, there's only one little throwaway line about the racial tension. Kenny overhears the adults talking about white people and their hatred for blacks. Instead, the story talks about Kenny's experience of being in the South for the first time and how hot it seems to him. There's a chapter in which Kenny nearly drowns and has to be rescued by Byron, who is suddenly an entirely different person than he was in Flint (which seemed really out of character).

It isn't until the last two chapters that the ideas I expected to be at the forefront of the story come into play. Kenny is sitting in the yard on a Sunday morning when he (and everyone else in the neighborhood) hears a loud boom. They all go running to the church, and there is some good description of what Kenny saw, swirling smoke and little details like scattered hymnals. There's nothing too graphic, since this is a book for kids, after all.

That's where I think the book fails to meet its promise. There's only one small detail that hints at the effects of the violence - Kenny sees a man bringing out a little girl, and the man looks like he "had been painting with red, red paint." As an adult, I understand Curtis is describing blood, and maybe a child would pick up on that, too. I don't know. I don't want any kid to be traumatized from reading the story, but I really do think they need to understand the seriousness of what happened. We learn hard lessons by facing hard, ugly truths.

This book is NOT about the civil unrest or the black community in Birmingham in 1963. It's not really about the church bombing. The bombing is just something that enters into Kenny's life and seems no more or less traumatic to him than nearly drowning a few days before. His only connection to the bombing is that he thinks his younger sister is there (and I think it's sort of a cop-out what Curtis uses to explain why she wasn't...). The final chapter has Kenny suffering some PTSD from the events, but it feels a little forced to me. Again, Byron rescues him.

What this story IS about is that relationship between Kenny and Byron, and that's a good story. If we retitled the book to be something like "Daddy Cool and Me" ("Daddy Cool" was Byron's preferred nickname), I wouldn't be writing this post complaining. But I feel it's a little misleading to include the references to Birmingham and 1963 in the title when they are only peripheral to the overall plot.

Curtis has a really good author's note at the end that does address the civil rights issues. I just wish he had written the story to focus more on those issues. That would have been a great service to the canon of childrens' literature.

Topsy-Turvy

A week ago Thursday, I had just come into school for my afternoon office hours, planning to prep for my class at 4:00 and get started grading the exams I had given on Tuesday. I hadn't been there 10 minutes when my boss came in and dropped a bomb that turned everything topsy-turvy.

"The university is considering whether to take classes online as a response to the coronavirus," she said. "Will you be our point person in training the faculty for going online?"

At the time, I was happy to do it, because I have entertained daydreams of how nice it would be to teach online and gain those five hours per week that I spend driving from home to the office and to be able to do laundry while grading rather than sitting in an office. In the 10 days since, my mood has sobered as I consider the future.

So, after she left, I went into planning mode to cancel my class and prepare for a 3:30 meeting with her and the deans. Over the next three days, I spent several hours in meetings to scramble to plan while the upper administration was also scrambling to plan. It was frustrating to try to create a plan for training (which would need to be extensive since a couple of years ago the administration had actively rejected the idea of online teaching as not consistent with our mission) without knowing whether or not we were actually going to need to use the training. But at 9:45 Friday night, our president announced the university was going online for the rest of the semester, following a two-week spring break in which faculty could get ready for going online.

Then came two days of training that coincided with the onset of social distancing in the wider context. Our first day we had in-person training; overnight, the number of cases of the virus had grown to the point that the CDC recommended no meetings of groups larger than 10, so we had our second training day via video conferencing. We were also told that we need to get anything we think we might need for an indefinite period of time out of our offices, since we would not be allowed back on campus after Friday, March 20.

So here I sit in my sewing room that has unexpectedly become a faculty office. I'm trying to figure a legitimate way to teach public speaking online. I'm dealing with an internet connection that was already iffy that now is burdened by a whole community that's suddenly online at once (the public schools have been moved online, as well) and wondering if I'll need to get up in the middle of the night to be able to post lessons and grade stuff online.

It seems like the entire fabric of "normality" has been shaken violently (and probably isn't through shaking yet?). We had a text message yesterday that our church has canceled services until at least the end of the month. Without school and church to punctuate my week, it's kind of hard to remember what day it is. My son went last night to pick up a few groceries I thought we might need to round out our menu over the next few days - he reported there were no meats, no flour, no eggs (but at least he was able to get a bag of apples and a can of cooking spray, ha ha). How long will it be until the surge of "stocking up" is over and shopping goes back to "normal"? Will it go back to "normal"?

There's a lot of uncertainty about the future of "normal," at least in my mind. Is the virus as serious as health officials say, and how long will it take to "flatten the curve" sufficiently that health services are not overwhelmed? What impact will closing down so many businesses have on the economy? Are we getting ready to be in another Great Depression? (My dad said there are many conditions now that are similar to the conditions that led to the Depression of the 1930s.) How will people like my daughter, who was laid off from her part-time job as a lifeguard, be able to pay their bills and feed themselves? She's fortunate to have us as a backup, but will a private college survive the upheaval, or will I be "retired" a little sooner than I had anticipated?

One thing I keep thinking in the back of my mind - things like the Black Death or the Great Depression weren't just fiction. People lived in those hard, hard times, and I ask myself whether we are getting ready to be some of those people. Whether we want it or not!

I guess we don't have a lot of choice in the matter, so just like those earlier people, we have to keep plugging on. There's a hymn I really like called "Living By Faith" that starts,

"I know not today what tomorrow may bring,

If shadow or sunshine or rain;

The Lord I know ruleth o'er everything,

And all of my worry is vain." 

I think I'll keep that one on a repeating loop in the coming days.

An Update

I have sprouts!

It took a long time, and I had to start twice, but I finally have some pomegranate seedlings. They are really cool-looking, such a bright green on these gray, dreary days we've had for most of February. But they are unlike any other seedling I've ever seen; ever since they've emerged from the soil, their little leaves have been coiled into a tight roll. I keep expecting to see them begin to unfurl, but there's not a hint they will, so far. So interesting....

The Power of Comfort Food

I had a mandatory workshop for school Saturday, which put me in not the greatest of moods. I'll admit it - I am pretty selfish with my time. I'm especially selfish with my weekends during the school year, because those are my only "free" times to do laundry and grade stuff and maybe, just maybe, have a couple of hours for something fun.

Add to that the fact that the workshop was really just a re-hash of information and policies I already know. So there wasn't much point to spending the biggest part of my Saturday listening to lectures. As the day went on, my mood went lower and lower.

I would liked to have spent what was left of the day at home, but I had a social commitment that evening. I went, but I probably wasn't the most engaged guest. Until I saw the menu, that is.

The hostess had made Frito chili pie with fresh taco toppings (and I had promised to bring guacamole, so we had that on top, as well). Another woman in the group had made two cobblers, peach and cherry,made with big red and black sweet cherries (but I had eyes only for the cherry!).

I haven't had either of those things in a long time, and they just absolutely hit the spot Saturday night. I know this is a small thing, but the bright color of the lettuce and tomatoes and the fresh jalapeno slice atop the pile of Fritos and chili was just so pretty and cheerful that I felt my mood lifting as soon as I sat down with my plate. And the cobbler, with its flaky crust topped with a sprinkle of extra sugar, was soul-soothing.

Intellectually, I've understood the phrase "comfort food," but Saturday night, I came to an experiential understanding. And man, it was delicious!

I Used to Like Him

Last year, I decided I was going to read the entire Harry Potter series, and it took me most of the year. I also had time to read In That Time of Secrets, but then I was left with a couple of weeks at the end of the year before starting a new reading challenge. I decided I would read through my own novels since it's been a while, and I was hoping it would maybe spark me into writing again (it hasn't, so far). When I finished the first one, I thought I might as well go ahead with the second one since they are a pair. While reading the second book, I made a discovery that kind of shocked me - my beloved leading man, John David McKellar, is a racist.

Just a little context - John David is a "pioneer" who has moved West looking for opportunity and a home. The place he decides can give him those things is not free for the taking, though; it is land that was ceded by treaty to the Cherokee tribe. While writing the novel back in 2010, I was brought face to face with the unethical way the United States came to be "settled" - stealing land and breaking treaty after treaty with the Native Americans, mistreating them at every turn. I set up the conflict in the novel as centered around John David and a Cherokee man ("Little" Elwin Root) who wanted the same spot of land John David wanted. A good story needs strong conflict.

What I hadn't realized in the excitement of writing the story is just how racist the things were that John David accepted in the person of another character or even the things that came out of John David's own mouth. Maybe it's an indication of how the world has changed in the 10 years since I wrote the novel and how much more "woke" (to use the young folks' slang) society is in the aftermath of the Black Lives Matter movement and the travel ban on Muslims and the caging of immigrant children at the Mexican border. But I found myself cringing as I read things my "hero" in the story was saying and the attitudes they reflected about his place in the world and Little El's place.

I try to defend him by offering several excuses. 1) I was trying to accurately reflect the time period and its attitudes, and sadly, racism against Native Americans was reality. 2) John David's grudge against Little El is rooted in personal things rather than simple racism (but is that where racism always starts, at least on a personal level?). 3) Characters in a story can't be too perfect; they need to have believable flaws (and I always thought his flaws were part of what made John David an appealing character). 4) As a literary character, John David is on an arc of personal growth from mindless stereotyping of the Cherokee as "savages" to an understanding that the differences between him and Little El are superficial and that Little El is a human worthy of respect.

I've recently started reading the part of the story where John David's arc starts to turn away from the blatant racism toward understanding and respect. But as I remember, there are still vestiges of  those racist attitudes, even after John David has "redeemed" himself. I'm afraid he's going to always be tainted for me now, a character in my mental library who's always going to be carrying an asterisk.

As I was writing this post, I remembered a song called "We Americans" off the Avett Brothers' latest album. In the song, Seth Avett ponders the legacy of a country built on "stolen land with stolen people," and how we can move forward together from that past when so much of that past still remains viable. People grumble about the occasional awkwardness of the lyrics (he's trying to fit in a lot of ideas), but I find it to be a profound and moving song. I'll attach it here and you can see what you think.

Stuff

It's January, and the last thing you might expect in the heart of winter is a post about a tornado. But a couple of weeks ago, an F2 tornado whipped through a rural area south of here and destroyed the home of a couple who are members of the church my husband and I belong to. The tornado tore the roof off their house, and although all four walls were still standing, the house is a total loss. We spent some time last Saturday helping with clean-up, and I had some (half-formed) thoughts to sort out.

The first thing we did was at the church's family life center, where the couple had brought things to dry out. My job was to unpack dishes, wipe them down, and leave them on a table so the woman could re-pack them for storage. I felt a little bad because I found it sort of fun, kind of like opening Christmas presents. She has a lot of neat, unique dishes. Some of them were obviously pieces that had been given to her by older family members, like a couple of small china bowls with a really lovely pattern of violets. I have no idea what the bowls were for (maybe finger bowls?) but they were SO pretty. As I was wiping down her dishes, I started thinking what people would see if the contents of my kitchen cabinets were packed into boxes and spread out on folding tables in a church gymnasium. The answer is - not much. Most of what I have is pretty functional, and most of it is not all that pretty or valuable. I do have a partial set of stoneware that was on my wedding registry years ago, but we didn't get the whole set. I also have a little collection of creamers that I put together during a phase in which my mother and I enjoyed going "junking." Some of them are kind of neat.

But....during Christmas break (before the tornado), I was trying to make room in my cabinets for another functional piece (a grain mill, which I might talk about in a different post), and I thought, "Why am I keeping these creamers? And why did I buy this set of handmade mugs from a student at the university's art sale? I'm never going to use them. Why do I keep them?"

Later, we went over to the site of the damaged house to help with clean-up. I got the job of scooping up mushy drywall scraps and insulation from the living room/kitchen floor to be carted out to a trash heap. (I discovered something about myself - I am a compulsive "cleaner." I would have stayed all day or until all the mess was scooped out, if I hadn't had to take my husband's wishes into consideration, ha ha.) Most of what I saw while scooping was just the soggy remains of the ceiling, but I did come across a few items, like a picture of the family in a frame with a broken glass, or the remains of a potted plant. It's amazing to think how all that destruction happened in seconds. It's also sobering to think these houses that we think are so solid are basically just a collection of toothpicks and cardboard, no match for Nature when she gets serious.

I may not have pretty dishes, but that doesn't mean there wouldn't be a lot of "stuff" to go through if a tornado hit this house. I look around the rooms and there is so much stuff we've accumulated over the years. Functional stuff like the canisters full of beans and rice. Outdated stuff like the collection of CDs we haven't listened to since digital music came along. Stuff that other people have given us, like the antique typewriter from my dad. I have big weaknesses for three categories of stuff:

• Books - I think I've kept almost every book that came into my possession; I have nearly every picture book and chapter book that belonged to my kids, even the ones I didn't like that much.
• Fabric - I have, over the years, accumulated a lot of fabric that I intended to make into clothes but somehow never had time for. Now my kids are grown up and my husband is retired, and no one really needs me to sew for them. But the fabric remains.
• Family pictures and memorabilia - This is another thing I didn't have time for - yet. I've kept all kinds of stuff from our family vacations, planning to make scrapbooks so we can relive the fun. But right now it's all stuffed in boxes and bags, waiting for "someday."

Again, I ask myself, "Why do I keep all these things? Would I really miss them--even the brochures I picked up on our trip to Yellowstone--if something happened and I lost them?" There's a big move toward minimalism these days, and I understand the appeal. But still, I sort of like to have more than one set of placemats to switch around once in a while. And some of the creamers are really pretty, even if they are in a box where I see them maybe once a year.

I don't know. The relationship with stuff is complicated. Maybe it takes something like a tornado to clarify that relationship. While wiping down dishes, I accidentally let a small piece that was tucked inside a larger piece fall out, and it broke. I felt terrible about it, and while I was apologizing to the woman who had already lost so much, she said something to the effect of, "Things are just things. I think the Lord has given me a view of what really matters through all this."

Amen.

It's About Time!

For most of my life, I've lived in the same rural community. I've had a couple of stints of living and working in a couple of different towns, and I spent about a year and a half in Kansas working on my graduate degree. But the greater part of my 57 years has been spent in a small corner of the world tucked up against the Ozark Mountains, where lies some really beautiful scenery.

Sad to say, I haven't really taken advantage of that fact the way you might expect a person to. A case in point is the Strawberry Bluff, which offers a nearly 180-degree view of the Arkansas River Valley some 30-40 miles away. I've lived within five miles of this awesome spot all my life and had never been to see it - until yesterday.

As often happens, we made this visit on a whim. We had gone to town for a short errand, and on the way home, my husband said, "Let's go for a drive." The day was chilly, thanks to lingering clouds, but it wasn't too cold to hike the short distance from the road out to the edge of the bluff. I don't know what's more fascinating to me - the panoramic view or the massive bluffs.

We didn't stay very long because it was chilly and Jeff didn't have a jacket. So there wasn't much time to sit and take it all in, which is what I felt that I wanted to do. I'm a slow thinker (ha!), and I need to be able to sit and look at something for a while to process it. But now I know where it is, and it's not going to be another 57 years before I go again! I need to remember that work shouldn't take over our lives and that I need to take small moments to treasure this beautiful place where I have the privilege to live.

Life....Abundantly

Later today, I am going to cut up this pomegranate. Not because I want to eat it, although I'm sure I will. No, my plans for this pomegranate are to try to plant some of the seeds in hopes of being able to grow a pomegranate tree.

Will it work? I don't know. I've read online that pomegranates are relatively easy to grow from seeds, BUT that it is unlikely that the fruit produced by the seedling tree will be the same as the original fruit. Why bother, then?

That's the question I pondered this morning in the dark when I woke up at 6:00 (school habits remain, even on Christmas break), and I came up with an explanation that sounds a little weird but is exactly what I think is going on with me right now.

The news is so depressing these days - tensions that could lead to unnecessary war, impeachment hearings and questions about adherence to the processes outlined in the constitution, immigrant children being separated from their parents and the trauma from that stretching into the future, policies that roll back all the protections for the environment and that ignore the damage we are doing to the world. And that's just the national picture; add on the little frustrations from work and family, and it was would so easy to despair.

As all this is going on, I find myself compelled to grow things. Part of that could be explained, I suppose, by the fact that we are trying to get our farm business in the black. I think it's more than that, though, because pomegranate is not going to be a viable farm product. I don't need three fig trees. Why am I planning to pay better attention to the ginger pots in the aquaponics house? Why am I trying to come up with a rotation that will keep something growing in the herb garden all summer - and all winter? Why am I feeding that bowl of sourdough starter on the cabinet every day when I bake maybe once a week, less as school gets going? Why do I have three jars of kombucha brewing in my bedroom (the warmest part of the house)?

The answer I found this morning was that all these things are life and hope, and I crave them. Even in January, when the apple trees are dormant, they promise life; in the spring, they will put on buds that will uncurl into soft green leaves and maybe those beautiful flowers and maybe, this year, the first little green apples. The bright green lettuces in the aquaponics house and the little outdoor greenhouse have a short life span, but they look so cheery, whether they are waiting to be set out or are grown into a full-size head ready for harvest. Even my kombucha, with its creepy-looking SCOBY suspended in the jar, is teeming with innumberable bacteria and yeast, sharing with me the delicious by-product of their life.

So I will go and prune the apples in the next week or so, and I will water the lettuces and feed the sourdough starter, trying to do my part to nurture and support that life. I will clean off those pomegranate seeds and stick them in potting soil, hoping to see a pale green stem bending its back to break through the surface in a few days. Little green things - the antidote to despair.