Goodbye to Maeve Binchy

It is with genuine sadness in my heart that I write this post, my last at this location.  I woke today with the news that Maeve Binchy, one of my most treasured authors, passed away yesterday after a short illness. 

My romance with her works began in high school when my mother gave me Light a Penny Candle, Binchy's first novel, to read.  I was immediately drawn to the charming warmth of the writer, and her characters literally bloomed upon the page, becoming real before my eyes.  Shortly after that, my mom took me to our nearest bookstore for my birthday, and I remember grabbing every single Binchy book off the shelf, piling them high in my arms.  An older woman passed by and asked, "Is she good?"  And I replied, "Yes, she's wonderful."

And she truly was.

Oh, Maeve, you will never know how much you meant to a girl growing up on the edge of San Antonio, as far from the green hills of Ireland as you can possibly get.  How I sat reading your books through my high school classes, through the pep rallies, the football games, and the ceaseless chatter of my classmates.  My senior year English teacher noticed your books on my desk, and introduced me to your fellow Irish writers, Brian Friel, Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, and W.B. Yeats.  It always comes back to Yeats, in the end, doesn't it? 

You were a talented and prolific writer, and best of all, you wrote what you knew.  Nothing was off limits, and you covered the topics that affected real, everyday people plucked off the streets of Dublin and all the tiny little towns dotting the countryside of your beautiful island.

It didn't matter that Benny, the main character in Circle of Friends, grew up half a world away, half a century before I did.  She was me, and her struggles and coming-of-age experiences were my own.  You knew that, and your great talent lay in your realistic descriptions of your characters and their ordinary lives.  We saw ourselves in your books, and we were comforted by your words.

Thank you for sharing so much of yourself with your readers throughout the years.  You wrote for all of us, across the world, and we loved you for that.   I was fortunate enough to read all of your books except one, and it is sitting on my shelf, waiting to be opened tonight.  I'm grateful that it's there to comfort me, because there won't be more coming now.

Sweet Maeve, you left us too soon.  But the skies over Ireland are brighter tonight because of your words. 

(Visit The National Gallery of Ireland's site to see a gorgeous portrait of Maeve Binchy by Maeve McCarthy.)

Light Summer Reading

My light summer reading list.  Can you tell I took this picture with a borrowed camera?

My all-time favorite pastime is reading, but since I began my blogging class, I've been neglecting the stack of books on my bedside table and spending too much time in front of the monitor and keyboard.  That isn't necessarily a bad thing, since I'm writing my heart out, but if I'm not constantly reading, then what will I blog about?  As I'm getting into a writing routine, I'm working to find a balance between writing and reading that is still fun and inspiring.

Lately, I've been enjoying a new subscription to Lucky Magazine, a free gift with purchase from Sephora.  I've noticed that several online beauty stores are offering free magazine subscriptions lately, so I always choose that option instead of a small sample product, since it's definitely more bang for your buck.  When I stocked up on some facial wash recently, I also scored subscriptions to More Magazine and Better Homes and Gardens, all of which will keep me busy for at least a year.

 
I'm also finding inspiration in The French-Inspired Home by Texas designer, Carolyn Westbrook.  Her work is beautiful, and it's fun to stare at such gorgeous rooms before falling asleep at night.  And just this week, I received my copy of Cupcakes and Cashmere by Emily Schuman, based on her elegant blog of the same name.  It's truly inspiring to see a blogger I admire publishing her first book, and the work is literally filled with stunning pictures and helpful hints on every subject from seasonal beauty to vintage shopping.

But the icing on the cake this summer has got to be the precious copy of Cinderella, illustrated by Roberto Innocenti, that I bought to read to the boys.  But really, who am I kidding?  They haven't even seen it yet, because I am enjoying it too much to share.

I was not previously familiar with Innocenti's work, but his 1920s-style illustrations are truly captivating and add a new sense of glamour to my favorite fairy tale.  In this edition, Cinderella wears a sleek black bob and, with the dapper prince on her arm, bears a striking resemblance to a certain American woman who stole the heart of the future King of England.  It's a fun take on an age-old love story, and the pictures are nothing short of spectacular.  Here are a few to inspire you.

Roberto Innocenti's Cinderella.

The stunning title page.

At the ball.

After the wedding.

What's on your reading list this summer?  I'd love to hear!

Goodbye to Ray Bradbury

It seems so appropriate that Ray Bradbury, the great social commentator who captured our nation's attention with his science fiction works, died yesterday as Venus passed between the Earth and the sun.  Just like that extraordinary celestial event, Bradbury enlightened generations of readers and forced us to look differently at the world around us.

In the days after September 11, 2001, I used many of the stories from his Martian Chronicles collection in my eighth grade English class, challenging my students to think outside their comfortable boxes a bit to imagine life on another planet, full of new experiences and the uncertainty of the unknown.  "All Summer in a Day" always struck a particular chord with them, perhaps because it captured the absurdity of adolescence, just in a very distant setting.  And I have always maintained that Stewie Griffin, the evil baby in Seth McFarlane's "Family Guy," is loosely based (whether consciously or not) on the main character in Bradbury's "The Small Assassin," an incredibly chilling story.  When I'm watching an episode of "Mad Men," my mind sometimes drifts to Bradbury's stories, perhaps because the settings of both are so similar, and I imagine Don Draper as the unhappy hero dreaming of a far off world, a rocket ride away.

Our world lost an incredible writer yesterday.  Just like the transit of Venus, we won't encounter another author of his magnitude for a long time.

Goodbye to Maurice Sendak

Maurice Sendak passed away today after complications from a stroke, and the world has lost a wonderfully talented writer of children's literature.  My sisters and I grew up reading his books, and I want my boys to find that same sense of wonder and excitement that we experienced while pouring over Outside Over There and Where the Wild Things Are, both of which still send shivers up my spine.  (Who lets their child wear a WOLF suit?)

Here is a wonderful tribute to Mr. Sendak, who is now where the wild things are. 

Jackie After O

Tina Cassidy's new book, Jackie After O: When Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Defied Expectations and Rediscovered Her Dreams, was released today and I can't wait to read it!  Cassidy, who is fond of long titles, is a well-known natural birth advocate and author of Birth: The Surprising History of How We Are Born, which I read both before and after my first c-section.  That work was incredibly well-researched and fascinating to read, and I have no doubt that this piece will be the same.  It would make a wonderful gift for Mother's Day, which is just around the corner. 

Art and Lit in the News

Today on "Morning Edition," I heard a story about this program.  I love the idea of free college classes open to anyone willing to enroll, and I'm seriously considering taking this poetry class in the fall, when both boys will be in school twice a week and I'll have more time to myself.  Because even Target gets boring after a while, and it's been too long since I've actively studied any poetry.  Wanna try it with me?

Tonight, I ran across this adorable short film and had to share it.  Take a few minutes (okay, more like twelve) to watch and enjoy it.  We've all been in her shoes and it will leave you smiling.

A Poem for James, Who Is Afraid of Owls

This poem is from today's Writer's Almanac, and perfect for my little boy.

A Barred Owl

The warping night air having brought the boom
Of an owl's voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,
Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
"Who cooks for you?" and then "Who cooks for you?"

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,
Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw. 

--Richard Wilbur

The Forsyte Saga

I recently watched PBS' version of The Forsyte Saga, and now I'm about a quarter deep into John Galsworthy's epic tale of a wealthy family in Victorian England.  The book itself totals nearly 900 pages and comprises three novels, two short stories (or interludes) between the main pieces, an extensive family tree, and explanatory notes.  It's not exactly light summer reading, but I'm thoroughly enjoying it and Galsworthy's writing is so much fun and timely.  Despite being written almost 100 years ago, the author's observations of privileged society are still incredibly applicable today. 

I also have to add that the book itself is incredibly beautiful.  I'm a book lover, so I know never to judge a book by its cover, but my copy, an Oxford World's Classic, has on its front a detail from Invitation to the Waltz by Francesco Miralles Galaup.  I find myself staring at the cover almost as much as between the pages, and the woman's dress, a lovely shade of pale pink, accented with a moon-shaped broach encrusted with jewels.  As she looks over her shoulder, a man standing behind her signs her dance card, and both subjects are completely absorbed in the task at hand.  It's easy to imagine these figures as the main characters in the novel, and it's such a stunning portrait for the cover of an equally stunning saga.

I also think the book looks lovely on my nightstand, which, if you're familiar with the Forsyte family, is both ironic and expected at the same time.

Where I'm From

The English teacher in me loves a good writing prompt, and I found this one here.

Where I'm From

I am from neighborhood streets sizzling in the sun, from Yardley Soap, and from the quiet of a sunset over an old farmhouse.

I am from the black and white house, third one on the right, filled with the laughter of three little girls and the smell of cinnamon toast in the morning.

I am from the roses, the violets, the pansies blooming in our backyard as we searched for fairies among the leaves at dusk.

I am from hayrides in that old blue pickup and stubborn-as-a-muleness, from Colleys and Kowaliks, from Nell and Deborah who said what they thought and loved without ceasing.

I am from not keeping my mouth shut and speaking the truth, shouting so all could here.

From the ladies in green hats peeking out between flowers and only putting three things on your plate at the church potluck.

I am from staunch, fire-in-the-belly believers who built their church under an old oak tree and were washed in the blood of Amazing Grace.

I'm from the River City and an old Polish town, from fajitas grilling as mariachis play and sausage frying in a pan in an airless kitchen.

From the fears of two brothers checking trotlines past dark, the long legs of the aunt I only met once, the "Wild Man" grandfather who jumped over fences and caught rabbits by their ears.

I am from quilt-covered beds, the yellow house on Vinecrest, and the smell of the wooden secretary when it is opened every few years, like the pages of a treasured book.  

A Poem for My Sister

The Sitting Time

Don't listen to the foolish unbelievers

who say forget.

Take up your armful of roses and

remember them

the flower and the fragrance.

When you go home to do your sitting

in the corner by the clock

and sip your rosethorn tea

It will warm your face and fingers

and burn the bottom of your belly.

But as her gone-ness piles in white,

crystal drifts,

It will be the blossom of her moment

the warmth on your belly,

the tiny fingers unfolding,

the new face you've always known,

That has changed you.

Take her moment, and hold it

As every mother does.

She will always be 

your daughter

And when the sitting is done you'll find

bitter grief could never poison 

the sweetness of her time.

--Joseph Digman

Cesarean Awareness Month

I can't let April pass without mentioning Cesarean Awareness Month once again.  My family is complete now, and I am fully at peace with the birth of my sons, which is a wonderful, wonderful feeling.  I've been honest about my struggles in the past, and I know that my experiences have shaped me into the woman and mother I am today.  A bit like the lady in this poem.  Oh, and April is also National Poetry Month, so this ties in nicely, don't you think?

Truth in Advertising

 If we'd moved her,
she'd still have 'em,

the ad for Acme
Moving says, with a photo

of Venus de Milo.
But who, intact,

would Venus be?
Some standard-issue

ingénue. Give me
a woman who's lived

a little, who's wrapped
her arms around the ages

and come up lacking: that's
the stone that can move me.

--Andrea Cohen

I Feel Like This Sometimes

This week James climbed out of his crib, hurt his elbow, went to Urgent Care and had x-rays (all is well).  This week Rhys got to my potted plant before me, and it shattered in a muddy mess on the kitchen floor, before I had even finished my breakfast.  This week I went to the dentist and found out I have an actual cavity that will require a filling, which will require another trip to the dentist, which will require finding a baby-sitter, which will require more money.  This week I discovered that the test I've been avoiding for too long is very expensive, but not expensive enough to meet my deductible.

Today, I got this poem in my inbox, and it sums up my week exactly.  I'm constantly amazed at the power of poetry to capture things perfectly every time. 


After Reading There Might Be an Infinite Number of Dimensions

I'm thinking today of how we hold it together,
arrive on time with the bottle of Zinfandel, a six-pack

of Scuttlebutt beer, how we cover our wrinkles
with Visible Lift, shove the mashed winter squash

into the baby's mouth, how we hold it all together
despite clogged rain gutters, cracked

transmissions, a new explanation for gravity's
half-hearted hold. I'm wondering how we do it,

comb the tangles from our hair, trim the unwieldy
camellia, speak to packed crowds about weight loss

or fractals. I'm wondering how we don't
fall to our knees, knowing a hardened pea,

lodged in the throat, can kill, knowing
liquids are banned on all commercial flights.

Leaves fall. The baby sucks her middle fingers.
Meanwhile, the refrigerator acquires

an unexplainable leak. Meanwhile, we call
the plumber, open wide for the dental hygienist,

check each month, with tentative circlings,
our aging breasts. Somehow, each morning,

the coffee gets made. Somehow, each evening,
the crossing guard lifts fluorescent orange flag,

and a child and her father cross the glistening street.

--Martha Silano

That Woman

With the recent popularity of The King's Speech, it seems that Wallace Simpson is in the news again.  I've always been a bit intrigued by the American woman who single-handedly disrupted the line of succession to the British throne, and two new books and a movie directed by Madonna attempt to explore her life more intently than the way she's been depicted for so long. 

As Anne Sebba, one of Simpson's biographers asks, "Why and how did a middle-aged woman, not conventionally beautiful, beyond childbearing years and with two living husbands win over a man so forcefully that he gave up not just a throne but an empire to live with her?"

I'm curious to find out.  Here's a recent article about Simpson and her newfound influence in popular culture.  

To a Young Son

Here's another sweet poem from The Writer's Almanac today.

To a Young Son

Today I passed your room
and you were slowly quietly
combing your hair.
It was a pleasant, calm moment.
I felt the silence of the room
and could almost hear you growing.
You combed without a mirror,
your eyes distant and pale,
your head slowly nodding
like the head of a stroked animal.

Xerxes the King sent out a spy
who returned to camp, astonished to say
that the Spartans were all stripped to the waist
their bodies gleaming in the Aegean sun
and they were all carefully combing their hair.
The king was afraid then.
The Spartans were preparing to die.

I turn slowly from your doorway
and return to the linen closet where I
will fold this memory in my heart
among everything that is clean and fresh and white.

--June Robertson Beisch

A Love Poem

Have I mentioned how much I love Garrison Keillor?  Here's another poem by him.

A Love Poem

A summer night, and you, and paradise,

So lovely and so full of grace,

Above your head, the universe has hung its lights,

And I reach out my hand to touch your face.

I believe in impulse, in all that is green,

Believe in the foolish vision that comes true,

Believe that all that is essential is unseen,

And for this lifetime I believe in you.

All of the lovers and the love they made:

Nothing that was between them was a mistake.

All that is done for love's sake,

Is not wasted and will never fade.

O love that shines from every star,

Love reflected in the silver moon:

It is not here, but it's not far.

Not yet, but it will be here soon.

--Garrison Keillor

The Big, Bad Wolf

James is scared of the hallway by his bedroom, which doesn't have any windows of its own and can get really dark, even during the day.  He calls it the "pretty scary hallway" and doesn't like to walk down it alone.  I don't want him to feel afraid, so I've decorated it with toddler-friendly decor, we leave the windows to the bedrooms open during the day, and I praise him for being brave when he does venture into it by himself. 

He's also fascinated by and fearful of owls right now, largely because his grandfather has an artificial one in the garden to scare away birds.  "Harold" has glowing eyes and makes a loud noise, and he can be pretty disconcerting to a little guy.  We used a gift card left over from Christmas to buy a stuffed owl online, and James had fun picking it out on his own.  Hopefully, "Pink Owl" will help him see how harmless and helpful owls really are, especially since they are so popular right now.

Going through these innocent fears with my son has got me thinking about my own childhood monsters, which were, in no particular order, The Big, Bad Wolf and Moammar Gadhafi.  And now that Libya is in the midst of political unrest, I realize that they are really one in the same.

My fear of wolves, which exists even now, undoubtedly comes from the fact that those frightening beasts featured heavily as the antagonists in the literature of my childhood and, for whatever reason, I really took them to heart.  Not to mention that my mom had a music box when I was little that played "Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf."  I still get chills whenever I hear that song, and I refused to bring the music box home when she recently dug it out for my boys.   

And then there's the fact that I was a precocious second grader who watched the news and read the newspaper in 1986, right around the time that the U.S. decided to bomb Libya.  I remember lying in bed after President Reagan addressed the nation, and listening to planes flying over our house.  I prayed and prayed that they were not sent from Libya to bomb us in retaliation, and I'm pretty sure I stayed awake all night.  After that, I remember feeling sick to my stomach whenever I saw Gadhafi on the news or heard his name mentioned anywhere, but I don't think I ever properly vocalized my fears to my parents.

Now that he's back in the news and I'm an adult with children of my own, I don't feel that feeling of sheer panic any longer.  It is interesting to watch this revolt unfold from the perspective of a rational adult, rather than a scared little girl with no understanding of the world's politics.

I realize that, no matter how much I try to shield them, my boys will see and hear things that will frighten them as they grow.  I'll do my best to be there for them.

**Random side note:  Did you know that Gadhafi supposedly has a group of 40 female virgins called the Amazonian Guard that act as his own, personal army of bodyguards?  How does one get that job?  I don't really want to know. 

Deep Thoughts

My husband and I always look forward to the newest copy of Robert Redford's Sundance Catalog.  Sure, the clothing is pretty and the jewelry is absolutely delicious, but it's the short piece at the front of the catalog, written by the great Redford himself, that gets us every time.  I'm always so inspired by his writing that I've used it in my English composition class, even if it was to point out the need for some serious editing and revision.

Here's his gem of wisdom from the current catalog:

There is so much noise.  And it's not white noise.  
It's manic and multi tonal--multi layered.  Sometimes my ears ring.  
My jaw aches.  My shoulders hunch.  My eyes wince.  
Where is the quiet, the calm, the space?

So what can the Catalog offer you at this time?  Quiet.  
Because there's no noise in just looking at pages.  And color, because the world around us seems so dark and grey.

As for the product?  Well, as always, that's up to you.  
Happy year to come.

Ah, Robert Redford.  Actor, director, champion of independent film, and deep, deep thinker.  He puts Jack Handy to shame.

The Craft: Part II

I openly admit that I am not crafty, and I don't really enjoy making things with my hands.  But I did recently run across a cute craft project that looked incredibly easy and inexpensive, so I ventured out to Hobby Lobby last weekend and gathered the supplies.  I'm proud to say that I found everything for around $10, including a glue gun, which I can use again. Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?  (The fact that I now own such a device humiliates me just a little.)

Without further ado, here is my creation.  Yes, it's kitschy, but it was fun, and I guess that's the point.

I must admit that I had so much fun making those little flowers that I completely covered the bottom of the wreath with them after I took this picture.  And my mom loved the idea so much that she went out and bought the supplies to make more wreaths when my sisters and I visit her this weekend.  We can all sit around the table wrapping yarn around plastic for hours while our children play unsupervised at our feet and our husbands shoot the breeze outside.  How very Jane Austen.

And that's a good thing.

"Boys Enter the House"

While my boys were outside in the nice weather tonight and I prepared dinner, I listened to Selected Shorts, a favorite, but rare, pastime of mine.  The final story was one I'd heard or read before somewhere, but it resonated differently with me tonight, since I now have two boys "with blond and brown locks."  Here's the best copy I could find.

"Boys Enter the House" by Ricky Moody

The King's Speech and So Firth

I'm so busy with my two little guys that I don't get out to the movies much, or at all really, but I am excited to see The King's Speech with Colin Firth eventually.  It's supposed to be amazing and Firth is nominated for an Oscar for his performance of George VI of England. 

Now, I don't subscribe to the belief that Firth is particularly attractive (sorry, ladies!) and I've never understood the preoccupation with Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy, or Firth's portrayal of him.  Darcy was an egocentric jerk, if you ask me, and his only real attraction was his money and his property.  But that's a story for another day.

I do, however, think that Colin Firth is an incredible actor and truly gifted, and I recently watched A Single Man, the directorial debut of fashion designer Tom Ford (who is really handsome and was born in Austin), starring Firth as a closeted gay professor mourning the tragic death of his partner.  It was beautifully written and directed and, in true Ford manner, every aspect of the piece was styled to perfection.  Firth was nominated for that role last year, as well.  Maybe this year he'll finally win. 

Anyway, though I haven't seen this year's movie about King George VI's valiant efforts to conquer his shortcomings while leading England through World War II, I did finally watch the Masterpiece Theatre version from 2002, called Bertie & Elizabeth.  This version focuses upon the loving marriage of the king and his wife, England's beloved Queen Mum, and their willingness to accept the throne after his older brother famously abdicated to marry Wallis Simpson, a divorced American woman. 

Bertie, as King George was known, struggled with an embarrassing stutter for most of his life, and through the support of his wife and the help of a speech therapist, he was able to overcome it.  I'm guessing that's the premise of Firth's movie, too, and from the previews I've seen, some of the scenes are incredibly similar to the Masterpiece version.

The story is so romantic and unique that audiences can't help but fall in love with the characters, and the fact that it's based on actual events in the lives of the parents of the current Queen of England makes it all the more appealing.  I can't wait to watch and I'll be cheering for Colin Firth at the Oscars.