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In addition to the advertisement from Boggy Meadow Farm that CLH
sent me the other day, there was also a page
from the Boston Globe with an article "Teachers Pick 100 Kids' Books to
Read Across America." The NEA made the selections. The NEA,
folks, the National Education Association. Tell me then why The Lion,
the Witch and the Wardrobe was the 13th book and Little House on
the Prairie and Little House in the Big Woods the 28th and
40th but The Chronicles of Narnia and the Little House books are
separate selections. And The Phantom Tollbooth is 63rd though it
should be in the top ten. Anyway, with the three single books dropped,
I would put in their places something by Cynthia Voigt, Jackaroo or
Homecoming or even Bad Girls--I'm shocked that there's nothing
by her. And The View from Saturday, E. Konigsburg's recent Newbery.
And Alice in Wonderland or Through the Looking Glass, by
golly. There wouldn't be children's books without those except
Kingsley's wretched Water Babies or MacDonald's Christian propaganda,
At the Back of the North Wind. These books on the list I have not
read except the first three which I might have forgotten:
- Jon Scieszka, The True Story of The Three Little Pigs
- Theodore Taylor, The Cay
- Eve Titus, Basil Of Baker Street
- John Archambault, Chicka Chicka Boom Boom
- Lynne Reid Banks, The Indian In The Cupboard
- Christopher Paul Curtis, The Watsons Go To Birmingham--1963
- Tomie De Paola, The Art Lesson
- Mem Fox, Wilfried Gordeon Mcdonald Partridge
- Ruth Stiles Gannet, My Father's Dragon
- Kevin Henkes, Lily's Purple Plastic Purse
- Mary Hoffman, Amazing Grace
- Bill Martin Jr., Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?
- Robert N. Munsch, Love You Forever
- Robert N. Munsch, The Paper Bag Princess
- Laurie Joffe Numeroff, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie
- Gary Paulsen, Hatchet
- Marcus Pfister, The Rainbow Fish
- Wilson Rawls, Summer Of The Monkeys
- Barbara Robinson, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever
- Louis Sachard, Sideways Stories From Wayside School
- Esphyr Slobodkina, Caps For Sale
- Elizabeth George Speare, The Sign Of The Beaver
Twenty-two. Almost a fifth or maybe a quarter of the list. Such a slacker
I am.
Last Friday
a friend, Cece, defended her dissertation. Afterward we met at Pearl Street
Grille. Not at the Pub on Pearl; we opted instead for a pleasant atmosphere--one
with Guiness posters on the walls instead of Michelob mirrors. I met a
student two years ahead of Cece, Jay, and his wife Jae, and Tony, whom
Jae acts with in a CU play. After I congratulated
Cece, as I sat down where there was room, I found myself among strangers.
Jae introduced herself to me, which I appreciated. I like knowing everyone
at a table and dislike the assumption that everyone knows everyone and
if someone doesn't know someone else, wouldn't want to. The former I proceeded
to assume: I knew that everyone there so far was a DU
student or student's SO, so I asked Tony where he was in the program.
"The program? What's the program?"
"See, we're all from Stepford, and you must marry
one of us--" and, relenting, "Actually, the reason we're here
is that Cece just defended her dissertation." Oh. Well, Tony was just
here with his friend, who was herself a mere spouse. Wandering aimlessly
outside the grove of academe, except he's just about to go back to Wesleyan
(his alma mater) to produce a couple of one-act plays he's written. When
I told HAO about him the next day, I confessed that yes, he does fit my
minimum appearance requirements and while she and I usually don't find
the same men attractive, I thought he was appealing and intelligent and
worth getting to know. "But his name's an adjective,
so he should just be your friend," she pointed out. Right.
Anyway, I was pleased to have met someone not affiliated with DU. And I know better than to try to set anyone up. The only thing I know they have in common is that they are single.
At some
point, RDC told me that Cece's husband wanted to see certain pictures
of Barbie and Sabrina
from Halloween. I don't understand this thing men have about two women
together and asked Bob what the deal was. He said all men have this fantasy.
So I asked RDC if his own social standing had risen when the gossip was
that HAO and I were sleeping together. Apparently this was a rumor the
husband had never heard. He looked overwrought.
RDC worked
Saturday night and I went to the Smoking Dude's,
recently back from Italy with Clove. Another all-DU event, plus HAO's
eponymous friend. Somehow, card-playing became the focus of several people's
attention. I was invited to join, but I said I would be Elizabeth Bennet
and just observe the games. The SD prefers group activities like a boys
and girls chorus of "Summer Lovin'"
and so he played "Jack and Diane" to snap our local Indianan out of his
euchre-induced trance and redirect him music-ward. It didn't work. "My
Sharona" followed, which made me very happy anyway. I had been singing
it on the way over.
When I got
home from walking with HAO Sunday, RDC called to me through the window
that Blake had had a shower and RDC wanted him to stay under a lamp to
keep warm, since all the windows were open, and to hurry in and see what
worked to keep Blake in one spot. There on my desk was RDC's old student
lamp, shining upon Blake, still damp and dinosaurish, perched upon the
shorts RDC had just exercised in. It's not the smell of sweat that arouses
Blake but patterns. These shorts have a blue geometric pattern on them
and Blake likes them. And ragg wool socks, and a tie-dye jerga, and I
have no explanation for Blake's hormones. We had some flight practice
with them though. We played toss with the shorts in the hallway and Blake
would fly back and forth, following the shorts. At this point I don't
think adopting a mate for him would help. She'd just be a plain grey,
no dots or plaid or anything. Just a couple of racing stripes and less
brilliant ears and wings than his.
On our walk,
HAO's and my first clue to put on our Nancy Drew hats appeared in the
parking lot: a grubby black woolen mitten on a stick. The grubby mitten
was one thing but the stick made it intriguing. HAO picked it up as if
it were Mr. Hand from South Park. Then she realized it was Evidence and
put it down again. "Pro'ly a sock puppet," I suggested. "They're a bad
sort."
And so we walked. People often put gloves and dropped things that they see on a prominent branch in case the owner returns, but here was a mitten on a decapitated branch and then, a piece up the trail, a blue fleece right-hand glove. Curiouser and curiouser. Now, we didn't know what hand the mitten was, of course, but then we turned a corner and at a distance was blue sweatshirt. We shied away from it like the horses in "Holy Grail." We could not deduce any meaning from how it was strewn on the bush. You could almost say it was haphazard. But it must have meant something because it was gone on the way back. Having communicated its message, it self-destructed in one minute.
Don't you wish your weekly walks were as exciting?
Relatively,
RDC's and my walk on Saturday was tame. I met a labrador, which was excellent.
I saw it walking with its humans and I veered toward it, magnetized. "All
labs belong to me," I explained to the humans, who were lab-worthy enough
to understand this principle. Taylor--a silly name, the humans' fault
not hers--knocked me down (I didn't resist) and determined my gender and
made nice. I bearhugged her barrel of a ribcage. I love Blake, but you
can't hug a cockatiel. Cupping one in the hand is okay and snorting big
nosefuls of cockatiel dander a dandy pasttime, but a lab was built for
constricting embraces and a lab is what I want.
The strewing of
the sweatshirt reminds me of the throw CLH gave me for Christmas. A rose
wine chenille, it is lovely and not fit for the futon, which thanks to
Blake was often simply the statue of a futon. It lived folded on my sweaters
until we moved and bought our cushy furniture. After cleaning the old
place, we did very little unpacking the Sunday of the moving weekend.
Occasionally, I made some desultory gesture, a micro-movement as SARK
would say. One was to unearth the throw.
First I threw the throw on the couch. It didn't look right. Then I hurled
it, hurling being more natural to me than throwing. That failed miserably,
as anyone could have predicted. Finally I tried to strew it. I think throws
should be called strews, because only in that action can proper distribution
be possible. I am not sure its shimmering appearance and cloudlike hand
quite go with the upholstery, which is a buff sueded nylon. This is more
comfortable and attractive than it sounds, but not as sophisticated as
chenille.
The Stepford
Wives is out of print! That's ridiculous!
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