IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR!!

    
     So, friends, last Thanksgiving I posted here about my guilt over not having instilled much of a sense of family tradition in either of my kids, and my delight that we've begun a new Thanksgiving  one of our own: during dessert, everyone at the table takes turns reading aloud from that literary classic, Walter the Farting Dog.  Of course, we honored our tradition this year too, as expected.  But what I did not expect was for Walter to be referenced on my birthday, which was last week.  Obviously, I grossly underestimated my husband.  He must have known of my lingering doubts about my ability to transmit beloved traditions to the next generation.  Because I am now the extremely proud owner of

MY VERY OWN WALTER!!  Okay, he's only about six inches long, which is why he fits so comfortably on the windowsill above my kitchen sink, but guess what he does!!  Come on, guess!  Wow, you're good.  Yes, he FARTS!  In fact, he alternates between two different fart sounds, one slightly wetter than the other, but both deeply impressive.
     You know how some people add a new ornament to their Christmas tree every year?  Well.  Not only will Walter himself be enfolded into our annual tradition, but there's something else almost as good.  My husband has told me that the Walter book we own is, in fact, one of a SERIES!!  I can hardly wait until it's Thanksgiving again.  And neither can Walter.

RANDOMLY

     As for my giveaway contest: the only commenter who expressed a real love for Katherine Paterson, or at least for one of her books, was Yvonne Ventresca.  So Yvonne, if you read this, shoot me an email and the book is yours!!!

     On a completely different subject: sometimes I just think about weird shit, you know?  Like this weekend, for instance.  For no discernible reason, I've been musing about the ways in which most  common Anglo-Saxon names tell us about what life was like in medieval England.
     Start with building a house, for instance.

     To construct the frame, you would need a Carpenter, also known as a Sawyer.  You'd need a Mason for the brick foundation, and a Joyner to make the door and window frames.  Then a Glazer would install the windows, a Painter would do the whitewash, and a Thatcher would add your thatched roof.  Or, if you were too fancy-pants for thatch, then you'd need a Slater, right?
     Once your house was built, you would have to hire a Porter or a Carter to bring over all your belongings from your old home.  Then, if you had some extra cash left over, you might hire a Gardner to tend your flower and vegetable beds.  You wouldn't be able to afford a Cook or a Butler, but you would probably know the people who did those jobs up at the manor house.  A Farrier would shoe your horses, and a Shepherd would watch your flock.  You would need transportation for various reasons, which would require the  services of a Wag(o)ner and/or a Cartwright.  There are lots of different kinds of Smiths and lots of different Wrights, each with their own specialty crafts.
     And you would have to eat.  Your town would have Hunters to go out in the woods to kill animals for their meat, Fowlers to do the same with birds, and Fishers for fish.  The livelihood of the Hunters and Fowlers, of course, would depend on the products of the local Fletcher (arrowmaker) and Bowman.  The meat would be delivered to the Butcher, who would cut it up and sell it to you.  Meanwhile, Farmers and Grangers (synonymous) would be out in their fields harvesting grain

 which would be brought to the Miller, ground into flour, and sold to the Baker to make your daily bread.

     But you would need the services of many of your other neighbors too.  The Collier would bring you coal to heat your house.  The Tanner (also known as a Currier) would prepare leather and sell it to the Shoemaker who would make your shoes.  The Weaver would make fabric and sell it to the Mercer, who would have the Dyer dye it, and would then cut it into lengths and sell it to you to either make your own clothes or have the Taylor do it.  The Barber would cut your hair or pull your decayed tooth.  You would go to the Chandler for your candles, the Cutler for your knives, the Cooper for your storage barrels, and the Carver for your walking sticks, and the Tinker would stop at your house periodically to fix the things that got broken.
     What an interdependent community.  Everyone's wellbeing depends on everyone else getting their job done, and your doing the same.  And on the rare occasions when there was a festival and you could all cut loose, you would gather in the square to listen to the music of the Harper and the Piper and the voices of the Singers, and everyone would dance.

 

     Okay, so what kind of weird stuff do you think about in your spare time?

     

SERIOUSLY???

     It's one thing to have only three people enter your book giveaway contest, but it's an entirely different and much suckier thing to have the person you declared the winner NOT EVEN SHOW UP TO CLAIM THE PRIZE.  I have two words for you people: Katherine. Paterson.  How could anyone not want to read her memoir, let alone acquire it for free?  The woman is a god. 
     This is ridiculous.  I'm reopening the contest for as long as I feel like reopening it.  Your job is to post a comment.  Don't make me come after you.  I repeat:  Katherine. Paterson.  The one.  The only.  Leave a comment or I will tear this book by my most beloved author into teensy little pieces and then throw the pieces onto a bonfire.  It will feel to me as if I were burning KP herself, but don't think I won't do it if you force me into it.  I DON'T PLAY.

BOOK GIVEAWAY CONTEST: KATHERINE PATERSON'S MEMOIR, "STORIES OF MY LIFE"

    

     If you read my blog every so often, you probably already know that my friend Michele and I were fortunate enough to meet the one and only Katherine Paterson on an afternoon in September.  Also, that afterward we were disappointed - horrible ingrates that we are - because she clearly didn't want to talk with us about her books while we were there.  Moreover, that Michele and I afterwards put our heads together and came up with a belated list of questions to ask her, which I emailed to her.  Additionally, that I received no response for weeks.  And finally, that KP ended up responding to my email after all, telling us she didn't have time to answer our questions, but that she would try to send us "something" instead.  Which turned out to be two copies of her recently-published memoir, STORIES OF MY LIFE.

  I've finished reading my copy now, and here's my review: many stories, much life.  I thought I knew my fair share about KP before, having been more-or-less obsessed with her and her books for many years, and now HAVING BEEN TO HER HOME.  (Okay, I confess: when I used her bathroom I was sorely tempted to rifle through her medicine cabinet and steal a KP-purchased Q-tip or something.  But my conscience won out.  Barely.)

     Well, it turns out that I didn't know much about her before after all, and I know a lot more now - all of it G-rated (she was a minister's wife, not a Hollywood starlet), much of it frank nonetheless and tinged with self-deprecating humor.  There's quite a bit of old-Southern-family history; quite a bit more of globetrotting-missionary-parents history, including her own early childhood in China; a very satisfying collection of family photos; and a respectable dose of her four years living as a missionary in Japan and her ensuing 50 years of married life, children, pets, and writing career.  And the book ends with a deeply poignant description of her beloved husband's final illness and death, and what she learned from living through those experiences.
     And now I want to give this book away, and I can't really explain why except to say that I think KP would want me to.  If you look at her Facebook page, you'll see immediately that she is (at 84) a fully engaged citizen of the world, and that sharing is what she does and what she approves of.  I don't think I'll read KP's memoir again unless someone decides to give me a pop quiz on her life, which seems fairly unlikely, so I will happily share my read-but-pristine copy with a lucky winner and fellow Patersonphile.  Here's the deal:  leave a comment on this post naming your favorite Katherine Paterson book, with a brief explanation as to what makes that book stand out for you.  I'll choose my favorite comment and ship the book to the commenter, no matter where he or she lives. The contest begins now and ends next Sunday, the 29th, at 11 p.m. Eastern time.  Please enter, and tell your friends about it!  I hate running giveaway contests and getting only a handful of entries!!
     GO.

IT FEELS LIKE WAR

    From the pen of my friend Nilanjana Bose, expressing some of my own thoughts better than I ever could. 

ALL THE WORLD'S A WAR ZONE

The flowers dry, the candles burn;

both reach their ends. The world still turns.

The streets are full, the café chat

is about revenge, tit for tat,

air-strikes, mortal wounds, ground combat.

I cannot take in any of that.

I only know she won’t return.

Although each time the doorbell rings

my heart leaps once, instantly sings

then recalls the days before.

She’ll never be back at my door.

The talk is thick with migrants; war;

how exactly to settle the score.

But I can’t relate to those things.

 

There must be justice, and a stern

reprimand,  offenders must learn

how strong we stand, crime never pays.

The news channels are choked for days

with some or other leader’s speech-haze,

clips gone viral, constant replays,

rehashing the current concern.

I just know that flowers dry rough

that candles aren’t warm enough.

I just know that my room’s gone cold,

my heart is shrivelled and grown old;

she’ll never again cross this threshold

whatever events might unfold.

That’s my truth, the rest’s just stuff.

For all the families - in Nigeria, in Egypt, in India, and in France and elsewhere in the world, who have lost loved ones to terrorism.

 

                           **************************

 

Read more of Nila's beautiful poems at http://nilabose.blogspot.com.

EACH OTHER IS ALL WE HAVE

     For the last week I've been reading Astronomy magazine's special issue, "The Immensity of the Cosmos."  And it, in combination with recent news events, has got me thinking about the concept of God.
     When humans first came up with the idea that an invisible Higher Power or Powers existed, the known universe consisted of all the places to which one could sail in a ship, and then return.  The job of supervising all of Creation was a vast one, but it was finite.  God could hold the Earth in the palm of His hand.
     But now what is God's purview?  Still just our Earth, or the rest of our solar system as well?  Comets?  Asteroids?  Dwarf planets?  Or what if God controls the whole Milky Way galaxy?  It contains about 400 billion stars, only one of which is the Sun around which our solar system revolves.  How may of those 400 billion stars form the centers of their own planetary systems, and on how many of those planets is there life?  Does God watch over all of those too, or did we Earthlings just get incredibly lucky in the Higher Power department?  If God is focused entirely on our planet, do all those other planets out there have their own watchers?  And once that question is answered, what's the story with all the other galaxies in our cosmos?  Who's keeping an eye out for them?
     You see the problem.  Knowing so much more about our universe than our distant ancestors did, it's hard to maintain their geocentric perspective.  And yet we know so pitifully little.  Are there a billion Earths revolving around their suns out there in the unimaginable distances of space?  Given the sheer immensity of the cosmos, it does seem more likely than not, although we will never know.  But could our own tiny, insignificant speck of a planet really be assigned an immortal, omniscient Ruler who keeps track of everything each of us humans does so that we can be rewarded or punished accordingly after this earthly phase of our lives ends?
     It seems to me very difficult in the 21st century to teach this theory to children and expect them to accept it.  Astonishing, really, that so many do both teach and accept in this way.  But what I find most astonishing of all is the number of people on our tiny wisp of a planet who are able to convince thousands of others that (1) there is a God watching us with a scorecard, (2) this God demands to be worshipped by us in one precise way, and no other, and (3) this God will choose to reward those of us who kill as many other people as possible because they do not worship Him in the one correct way.
     Those teachers/demagogues only pretend to love God.  What they really love is having and exploiting the power to create havoc.  Instead of God having created these teachers in His/Her own image, they have created a God in their own image: a supreme hatemonger, a superhero of murder, a vampire who lusts for the taste of human blood.  To the poor, the disenfranchised, the children of despair, they cynically teach a religion of  immolation, of annihilation.  On a tiny rock circling a tiny sun in a vast and uncaring universe, they devote their lives to teaching the hopeless that hope lies only in destruction and that human life doesn't matter.
     But it does matter.  Our lives might not matter to a God who may or may not even exist, but our lives do, and must, matter to each other.  The people in Paris who two nights ago rushed to help, to tweet their addresses out to strangers in need of shelter, knew the truth: each other is all we have.

 

MURPHY'S STILL HERE

     A short update on my beloved dog: he's on a special diet and a whole slew of meds, and he's still with us.  My whole family is treating this "bonus time" with him, however long it will be, as a gift, and we're spending as much time with him as we possibly can.  I cancelled out on the writing conference I was supposed to attend last week.  Instead, my son came home for the weekend to make sure he would have a chance to say goodbye.  Murphy isn't supposed to do anything remotely physically challenging, but Sunday was a beautiful day, and all six of us managed to take a very short, slow-paced hike.  And as always, Murphy expressed his gratitude with an abundance of kisses.

     Murphy is happy.  Since his diagnosis he's been acting pretty much like himself, although with slightly less energy.  He has no idea he's close to the end of his life, and he acts so normal that sometimes we humans forget too.  Maybe it's a coincidence that he put us on notice last week of his illness and that we have time to do everything with him that we'd like to be able to.  Or maybe it's not a coincidence at all, but instead a characteristic last gift to us from our devoted and generous friend.  Either way, we'll take it.