Lest the non-politics minded of my readers think this is one of my "crazy liberal political posts," let me assure you that I am annoyed with everyone right now - Left, Right, Inbetween - anyone in our House of Representatives who voted yesterday to end overtime and a 40 hour work week for our citizens.
Don't get me wrong; I think the work week should be shorter. Working 40 hours a week has long been the American way of doing things. Europeans who want to "play hard like Americans" are catching up but historically, only we have aimed to spend more time at our jobs than with our families. Sure, countries like Mexico and Columbia and parts of Europe have a maximum 48 hr work week on the books, but they average more like 35. Japan has a longer work week on the books, too, but times there are a changin.'
Overtime? Well, if you worked where I did not too long ago, you cringed whenever "mandatory overtime" raised it's ugly head. I was already working 40 hours a week at a very stressful job. Why oh why would I want to stay even longer? Sure, the overtime pay was time and a half but my free time away from the office was valuable, too. Yet, on the flip side, if I was a struggling, single mom and the only way my weekly earnings became enough to make ends meet was by earning overtime, I'd be shattered by the prospect of losing those precious extra dollars. And employers have understood this desperate need and held it over employees' heads. "You'll work the extra time because you need the money and you need this job." Sound familiar?
I think that most people at most jobs, blue collar and white alike, could work very hard for 35 hours a week and get the job done. But, and this is an ENORMOUS but, the paycheck one receives for the 35 hours of work should be a decent, full, gives-a-person-enough-to-pay-rent/mortgage-buy-food-and-live-a-life kind of compensation. Right? Seems fair, but things haven't been happening fairly for the average worker bee in the US for a while now, and that is what scares me about what happened in the House yesterday.
In a perfect world, our leaders in Washington DC would cap overtime and decrease the work week but maintain or increase workers' salaries. Thereby our citizenry would have a true work/life balance and still earn enough to cover all its necessary expenses. However, if recent history is any indicator, that is NOT what will happen if this new bill moves successfully on through the Senate. I fear we will indeed see an end to overtime and the 40 hour work week but no one will be enforcing employers to ensure that paychecks are commensurate with employees' living expenses. We would simply see the middle class and below sink further and further into debt and possible financial ruin. Am I over exaggerating? I don't think so.
Is anyone in Congress actually looking out for the workers? Hello??
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Hey Barkeep, pour me another Zythum.
Z is for Zythum.
What's that? You are unfamiliar? Well, zythum is an ancient malt beverage, a liquor made from malt and wheat, basically ancient Egypt's first foray into beer.
Beer. It seems to be a love it or hate it beverage. I myself enjoy it, though I seldom drink it anymore. My husband prefers wine and I'm okay with that, too. We simply do not drink much these days so, if you come to visit, I won't have a varied display of micro brews for you to choose from. I did, however, have a Guinness on St. Patrick's Day. Natch.
This past weekend my best friend from college, Elizabeth, flew in to visit with us. I had missed her so much and spending time with her did my heart a world of good. Like any great friendship, even though it had been years since we'd last seen each other, within minutes it was as if we'd never been parted. Elizabeth remains one of the funniest, most intelligent, and kindest people I've ever met and we all had such fun catching up.
During the course of the weekend, we somehow got on the topic of beer. I think we'd been discussing frat parties back in the day at our Alma mater, UC Davis. Elizabeth said that she hated beer. Now, I know that Elizabeth has never been much of a drinker, even back in our Davis days. I probably attributed this at the time to the pale, mostly flavorless swill that poured out of kegs. Seriously, that stuff was pretty nasty. In fact, most beer I was exposed to back in the early 80s was similar: blond, anemic fairy pee. I assumed no one could possibly have been drinking it for the taste.
Then the summer after college graduation, I went to Ireland with one of my aunts and was introduced to Guinness stout for the first time. Wow. That was delish. Much to my surprise, there was a whole world of darker ales out there. Who knew? Certainly not the folks at Coors and Pabst and Miller or they wouldn't have persisted in manufacturing those light colored beers.
So, when Elizabeth stated that she hated beer, I said that the beer at frat parties was pretty bad and how I much preferred dark beer, and stout like Guinness. I might as well have confessed that I enjoyed having my toenails pulled out with pliers, such was the uproar. Apparently this otherwise wise and rational woman totally and completely finds Guinness the foulest, most bitter substance ever invented. Then my daughter chimed in with, "When I visited the Guinness Brewery, I was surprised they didn't offer pretzels or nuts to eat with the Guinness, you know, to make the Guinness easier to get down." Et tu, Brute?
I somehow felt like the national beverage of My People had been insulted. However, I do love both Elizabeth and my darling daughter so I guess they are entitled to their own opinions. Maybe.
Hmm, perhaps I need to pour myself a tall, cold Zythum.
What's that? You are unfamiliar? Well, zythum is an ancient malt beverage, a liquor made from malt and wheat, basically ancient Egypt's first foray into beer.
Beer. It seems to be a love it or hate it beverage. I myself enjoy it, though I seldom drink it anymore. My husband prefers wine and I'm okay with that, too. We simply do not drink much these days so, if you come to visit, I won't have a varied display of micro brews for you to choose from. I did, however, have a Guinness on St. Patrick's Day. Natch.
This past weekend my best friend from college, Elizabeth, flew in to visit with us. I had missed her so much and spending time with her did my heart a world of good. Like any great friendship, even though it had been years since we'd last seen each other, within minutes it was as if we'd never been parted. Elizabeth remains one of the funniest, most intelligent, and kindest people I've ever met and we all had such fun catching up.
During the course of the weekend, we somehow got on the topic of beer. I think we'd been discussing frat parties back in the day at our Alma mater, UC Davis. Elizabeth said that she hated beer. Now, I know that Elizabeth has never been much of a drinker, even back in our Davis days. I probably attributed this at the time to the pale, mostly flavorless swill that poured out of kegs. Seriously, that stuff was pretty nasty. In fact, most beer I was exposed to back in the early 80s was similar: blond, anemic fairy pee. I assumed no one could possibly have been drinking it for the taste.
Then the summer after college graduation, I went to Ireland with one of my aunts and was introduced to Guinness stout for the first time. Wow. That was delish. Much to my surprise, there was a whole world of darker ales out there. Who knew? Certainly not the folks at Coors and Pabst and Miller or they wouldn't have persisted in manufacturing those light colored beers.
So, when Elizabeth stated that she hated beer, I said that the beer at frat parties was pretty bad and how I much preferred dark beer, and stout like Guinness. I might as well have confessed that I enjoyed having my toenails pulled out with pliers, such was the uproar. Apparently this otherwise wise and rational woman totally and completely finds Guinness the foulest, most bitter substance ever invented. Then my daughter chimed in with, "When I visited the Guinness Brewery, I was surprised they didn't offer pretzels or nuts to eat with the Guinness, you know, to make the Guinness easier to get down." Et tu, Brute?
I somehow felt like the national beverage of My People had been insulted. However, I do love both Elizabeth and my darling daughter so I guess they are entitled to their own opinions. Maybe.
Hmm, perhaps I need to pour myself a tall, cold Zythum.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Carpe Diem
Y is for YAY, I'm almost done with this Alphabet Blog Challenge! Blogging every day shouldn't seem like a lot to do, but when one is very busy, it can be a chore. Last week, knowing I would not be able to blog each day, I pounded out four or five posts the Sunday prior. But now, I have come to the end. Almost.
Y is really for Years. Time. Measurements of what we've done or not done.
I am constantly measuring the years, as the song says. Just this morning on our walk, my husband and I were talking about a house we'd owned in Colorado Springs from 1996 (when it was built) to 1999. We were saying that we can't believe that house is 17 years old now. Then immediately I said, "Well, 17 years was all the time my mom ever lived in the house I grew up in and that seemed like a lifetime, then." My brain has to be able to compare and contrast similar time spans to somehow put them into perspective for me.
I do this with everything.
Watching period TV shows sends my mind into happy calculation mode. When watching something like Call the Midwife, set in the late 1950's, I'm looking at the babies thinking, "Weird, they're only three years older than I am so they would have been in fourth grade when I was in first, or seniors in high school when I was a freshman." On the show, these babies seem born into another, old fashioned world entirely. Or, watching Mad Men, I am constantly looking at Don who was born in either late 1925 or early 1926 - too much Dick Whitman back story to delve into if you haven't kept up - and realizing he is my mother's age. This slick, debonair man-about-town was born prior to the Great Depression. He would be 87 now, though with all the drinking, stress and cigarettes it's difficult to imagine Don lasting past 70. I'm around Bobby Draper's age so I am always trying to picture him as a 50-ish man in 2013 and wondering if he's a better father than his own?
Why does any of that matter?
If someone posts on Facebook that their elderly mother died at age 80, I immediately think, "Well, you're my age and your mom was 80 so you had your mom for 52 years which is 32 years longer than I had my mom." This has NOTHING to do with not feeling empathy for someone's loss and I NEVER say these things out loud! I think people are unbelievably lucky to have their parents when they themselves are already middle aged. But my mind is forever calculating time spent with loved ones, time lost, time forgotten. Always rationalizing. Always measuring the years.
When looking at faded, sepia photographs of my grandparents and great grandparents, it can be easy to think of their youth as something that happened long, long ago and is largely unrelatable. But when they were young, their lives stretched out ahead of them as seemingly unending as all of ours. My grandmother, Adeline, who was my mother's mother, is seen here around 1905 with her younger sister Clara and her mother, my great grandmother Clara. Below is the house in which they grew up, with an awning over the front door. But I would be inside that house many, many times. It was torn down when I was in high school, but it had housed my grandmother and her sisters, my own mother and her brother and assorted relatives over the years. My grandma is about four years old in this photograph and no less "real" and "living" than I was at age four. I look at my great grandmother, who I only knew as an elderly woman with long gray braids wrapped around her head. This photo starts my mind thinking, "She would have been in her mid to late 20s here. At that same age I was..." Always measuring, relating, perhaps trying to unite two separate worlds.
You may click on the photograph to enlarge it
Y is for Years. Even if we live to be one hundred it will be a blip on the timeline to someone looking back decades from now. Maybe that's what I am always doing, unconsciously trying to make sure the years we were allotted were appreciated.
Y is really for Years. Time. Measurements of what we've done or not done.
I am constantly measuring the years, as the song says. Just this morning on our walk, my husband and I were talking about a house we'd owned in Colorado Springs from 1996 (when it was built) to 1999. We were saying that we can't believe that house is 17 years old now. Then immediately I said, "Well, 17 years was all the time my mom ever lived in the house I grew up in and that seemed like a lifetime, then." My brain has to be able to compare and contrast similar time spans to somehow put them into perspective for me.
I do this with everything.
Watching period TV shows sends my mind into happy calculation mode. When watching something like Call the Midwife, set in the late 1950's, I'm looking at the babies thinking, "Weird, they're only three years older than I am so they would have been in fourth grade when I was in first, or seniors in high school when I was a freshman." On the show, these babies seem born into another, old fashioned world entirely. Or, watching Mad Men, I am constantly looking at Don who was born in either late 1925 or early 1926 - too much Dick Whitman back story to delve into if you haven't kept up - and realizing he is my mother's age. This slick, debonair man-about-town was born prior to the Great Depression. He would be 87 now, though with all the drinking, stress and cigarettes it's difficult to imagine Don lasting past 70. I'm around Bobby Draper's age so I am always trying to picture him as a 50-ish man in 2013 and wondering if he's a better father than his own?
Why does any of that matter?
If someone posts on Facebook that their elderly mother died at age 80, I immediately think, "Well, you're my age and your mom was 80 so you had your mom for 52 years which is 32 years longer than I had my mom." This has NOTHING to do with not feeling empathy for someone's loss and I NEVER say these things out loud! I think people are unbelievably lucky to have their parents when they themselves are already middle aged. But my mind is forever calculating time spent with loved ones, time lost, time forgotten. Always rationalizing. Always measuring the years.
When looking at faded, sepia photographs of my grandparents and great grandparents, it can be easy to think of their youth as something that happened long, long ago and is largely unrelatable. But when they were young, their lives stretched out ahead of them as seemingly unending as all of ours. My grandmother, Adeline, who was my mother's mother, is seen here around 1905 with her younger sister Clara and her mother, my great grandmother Clara. Below is the house in which they grew up, with an awning over the front door. But I would be inside that house many, many times. It was torn down when I was in high school, but it had housed my grandmother and her sisters, my own mother and her brother and assorted relatives over the years. My grandma is about four years old in this photograph and no less "real" and "living" than I was at age four. I look at my great grandmother, who I only knew as an elderly woman with long gray braids wrapped around her head. This photo starts my mind thinking, "She would have been in her mid to late 20s here. At that same age I was..." Always measuring, relating, perhaps trying to unite two separate worlds.
Y is for Years. Even if we live to be one hundred it will be a blip on the timeline to someone looking back decades from now. Maybe that's what I am always doing, unconsciously trying to make sure the years we were allotted were appreciated.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Semper Fi
X is for Xylophone. Okay, not really but it's an instrument you just don't hear enough of unless you've got a kid in marching band and are treated to performances during field shows.
X is for X-ray. I seriously considered doing the whole post on my dislike of x-rays, our nation's over use of the medium and the many health risks. But, I am simply not in the mood at the moment to be that serious.
X is for Xanthocyanopsy. This is a form of colorblindness in which only the colors blue and yellow are seen. You knew that already? Sorry.
X is for Xenodochial. This means being kind and hospitable toward strangers. I am always telling my husband, "You are soo xenodochial, Hon."
X is for Xylopyrography. This intrigues me because it is the act of engraving designs on wood with a hot poker. That is so darn specific. Does one put "xylopyrographist" on a resume? "I see here you can make designs on wood with a hot poker, but any experience using a laser?" "No, just the xylopyrograph."
And finally,
X is for Xenoglossia. This word means the understanding of a language that was never studied. I once received an official letter from the United States Marine Corp asking me to join up because of my valuable language skills in Arabic. As I have never, not once studied the Arabic language, I must have been blessed with a fit of xenoglossia.
X is for X-ray. I seriously considered doing the whole post on my dislike of x-rays, our nation's over use of the medium and the many health risks. But, I am simply not in the mood at the moment to be that serious.
X is for Xanthocyanopsy. This is a form of colorblindness in which only the colors blue and yellow are seen. You knew that already? Sorry.
X is for Xenodochial. This means being kind and hospitable toward strangers. I am always telling my husband, "You are soo xenodochial, Hon."
X is for Xylopyrography. This intrigues me because it is the act of engraving designs on wood with a hot poker. That is so darn specific. Does one put "xylopyrographist" on a resume? "I see here you can make designs on wood with a hot poker, but any experience using a laser?" "No, just the xylopyrograph."
And finally,
X is for Xenoglossia. This word means the understanding of a language that was never studied. I once received an official letter from the United States Marine Corp asking me to join up because of my valuable language skills in Arabic. As I have never, not once studied the Arabic language, I must have been blessed with a fit of xenoglossia.
I kid you not.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Quidditch, Anyone?
W is for Witches.
No, not Halloween, hairs on the chin, evil witches, though they have their place. And I'm not talking about Wiccans either, those earthy, wise-woman devotees of herbal medicinals and charms. No, I am thinking more of the evolution of witches in recent drama.
For most of my childhood, my image of a witch was divided into two distinct categories. One was either green faced and terribly frightening like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz, the other a beautiful, witty suburban housewife like Samantha on Bewitched. For some reason, child sized brains are capable of accepting both these visions of sorceresses as believable. The Wicked Witch of the West was easily my favorite early childhood villainess and Samantha Stephens? Well, who didn't love her, find Endora intimidating-bordering-on-scary, and get completely exasperated with Darren? Although, let's be real. By the time I was a teenager I had completely reversed my positions on Darren and Endora. Darren was an idiot. Who was he to demand his wife pretend to be something she was not? And Endora, it turned out, had the right idea all along. Who wouldn't want to "play" with people a bit? If someone cuts in front of you on the freeway or a coworker says something to publicly humiliate you at work, are you telling me you wouldn't let loose with a well aimed jinx or two if you could? I thought so.
But then I grew up. And, just as life was a lot more complicated as an adult so, it seemed, were witches. Who knew, right? The close of the twentieth century was to bring a big change in the way witches and wizards were portrayed in books and on film.
First, Wicked, the Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West was written by Gregory Maguire in 1995. I found this book absolutely enthralling. In my mind, this was the real story of the Wicked Witch, just as different from the Oz books and film as a documentary is from a TV sitcom. Who couldn't sympathise with poor Elphaba, the green skinned girl? There was just something immensely satisfying in having finally been told the "truth" about Oz and Munchkinland and their inhabitants. (If you're beginning to fear that I have difficulty separating fiction from reality, you may be on to something. Shhh.)
And, it turns out Elphaba and Glinda were capable of singing their hearts out, eight shows a week on Broadway, too. Amazing.
Then J. K. Rowling produced her first volume in the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. (Or Philosopher's Stone if you read it first in England.) I've already stated in my blog how much I love the Harry Potter series, the writing, the suspense, the heartwarming friendships. But what I haven't banged on about endlessly is how very accessible and ordinary she made the witches and wizards seem without ever diminishing the extraordinary world of magic in which they lived. Witches and wizards were just like us, except we weren't lucky enough to go off, at age eleven, to the most wonderful school in the world. Or ride the Hogwarts Express. Or have wands. Or play Quidditch.
Rowling's wizards and witches had arguments and worried about finances and far flung family members' safety. The description of the interiors of The Burrow, Malfoy Manor and Shell Cottage gave us insight into the ways different families of wizards lived. And the fact that Harry, Ron and Hermoine loved nothing better than to ditch their school robes for jeans and sweatshirts made them so...real.
My daughter was just the right age for Harry Potter to come along. She read the books and watched the movies from age 8 to 18. For almost all her remembered childhood, there was always a new book being published and a new film due out. When we walked out of the theater after seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 2, she remarked sadly, "It's like the end of an era."
Too true. And I, for one, will never think of witches the same way again.
No, not Halloween, hairs on the chin, evil witches, though they have their place. And I'm not talking about Wiccans either, those earthy, wise-woman devotees of herbal medicinals and charms. No, I am thinking more of the evolution of witches in recent drama.
For most of my childhood, my image of a witch was divided into two distinct categories. One was either green faced and terribly frightening like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz, the other a beautiful, witty suburban housewife like Samantha on Bewitched. For some reason, child sized brains are capable of accepting both these visions of sorceresses as believable. The Wicked Witch of the West was easily my favorite early childhood villainess and Samantha Stephens? Well, who didn't love her, find Endora intimidating-bordering-on-scary, and get completely exasperated with Darren? Although, let's be real. By the time I was a teenager I had completely reversed my positions on Darren and Endora. Darren was an idiot. Who was he to demand his wife pretend to be something she was not? And Endora, it turned out, had the right idea all along. Who wouldn't want to "play" with people a bit? If someone cuts in front of you on the freeway or a coworker says something to publicly humiliate you at work, are you telling me you wouldn't let loose with a well aimed jinx or two if you could? I thought so.
But then I grew up. And, just as life was a lot more complicated as an adult so, it seemed, were witches. Who knew, right? The close of the twentieth century was to bring a big change in the way witches and wizards were portrayed in books and on film.
First, Wicked, the Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West was written by Gregory Maguire in 1995. I found this book absolutely enthralling. In my mind, this was the real story of the Wicked Witch, just as different from the Oz books and film as a documentary is from a TV sitcom. Who couldn't sympathise with poor Elphaba, the green skinned girl? There was just something immensely satisfying in having finally been told the "truth" about Oz and Munchkinland and their inhabitants. (If you're beginning to fear that I have difficulty separating fiction from reality, you may be on to something. Shhh.)
And, it turns out Elphaba and Glinda were capable of singing their hearts out, eight shows a week on Broadway, too. Amazing.
Then J. K. Rowling produced her first volume in the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. (Or Philosopher's Stone if you read it first in England.) I've already stated in my blog how much I love the Harry Potter series, the writing, the suspense, the heartwarming friendships. But what I haven't banged on about endlessly is how very accessible and ordinary she made the witches and wizards seem without ever diminishing the extraordinary world of magic in which they lived. Witches and wizards were just like us, except we weren't lucky enough to go off, at age eleven, to the most wonderful school in the world. Or ride the Hogwarts Express. Or have wands. Or play Quidditch.
Rowling's wizards and witches had arguments and worried about finances and far flung family members' safety. The description of the interiors of The Burrow, Malfoy Manor and Shell Cottage gave us insight into the ways different families of wizards lived. And the fact that Harry, Ron and Hermoine loved nothing better than to ditch their school robes for jeans and sweatshirts made them so...real.
My daughter was just the right age for Harry Potter to come along. She read the books and watched the movies from age 8 to 18. For almost all her remembered childhood, there was always a new book being published and a new film due out. When we walked out of the theater after seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 2, she remarked sadly, "It's like the end of an era."
Too true. And I, for one, will never think of witches the same way again.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Victory Comes in Doing the Right Thing
Can you believe I've made it to V? I only have four more posts left on this "blog a day" thing. Whew!
So...V is for...Vegan.
It's what I am. I try to be a good vegan. There are always going to be people who go even further than I do in striving to be a perfect vegan. Perfect I am not. But I am committed to not knowingly consuming any animal products nor wearing any animal products on my body. We don't own leather furniture or buy leather bound books or...well, you get the idea.
Why do I do this? Well, my husband and I first became vegans for health reasons. We understood that meat and dairy are harmful to the body in many ways and that cancers feed on a dairy and meat diet. We wanted to avoid all the health complaints typically assigned to "old age" if we could. And giving up meat and dairy was not all that difficult.
After we had become vegans we realized what an impact a vegan diet has on saving animals from cruelty and death. Absolutely no animal needs to be slaughtered to become my lunch and no animal needs to live a life of pain and confusion in a medical lab.
But should I lecture people? Well, many activists would say, yes! Keep our message in front of people daily!
But here's what I think. Some vegans feel that all we have to do is show folks how animals suffer and then people, who are basically compassionate, will stop eating meat. But I disagree. I think that most people already know how much animals suffer. They understand that a lot of true sadists work in slaughter houses. They know that "cage free" eggs often come from chickens who live shoulder to shoulder, crammed by the hundreds into a 50 x 50 foot room. People know this all happens and yet, they somehow compartmentalize that knowledge and still go on eating meat.
So, if I constantly tell my friends and family about how animals are abused, am I really telling them something they don't know or am I merely annoying them with something they do know but choose to ignore? My thought is that we are all grownups and we make our own decisions about everything in life and I do not need to bang people over the head about veganism.
That does not mean I am complacent about cruelty. Far from it. And the cruelty is everywhere and it can be overwhelming.
So today, I posted a link on my Facebook page. It is sad and heartwarming at the same time. It showed chimps being released from a medical testing lab and allowed to be free for the first time. Seeing them tentatively step outside, hang back, and hug each other in joy is amazing. Animals want to be free and happy. It's that simple.
So...V is for...Vegan.
It's what I am. I try to be a good vegan. There are always going to be people who go even further than I do in striving to be a perfect vegan. Perfect I am not. But I am committed to not knowingly consuming any animal products nor wearing any animal products on my body. We don't own leather furniture or buy leather bound books or...well, you get the idea.
Why do I do this? Well, my husband and I first became vegans for health reasons. We understood that meat and dairy are harmful to the body in many ways and that cancers feed on a dairy and meat diet. We wanted to avoid all the health complaints typically assigned to "old age" if we could. And giving up meat and dairy was not all that difficult.
After we had become vegans we realized what an impact a vegan diet has on saving animals from cruelty and death. Absolutely no animal needs to be slaughtered to become my lunch and no animal needs to live a life of pain and confusion in a medical lab.
But should I lecture people? Well, many activists would say, yes! Keep our message in front of people daily!
But here's what I think. Some vegans feel that all we have to do is show folks how animals suffer and then people, who are basically compassionate, will stop eating meat. But I disagree. I think that most people already know how much animals suffer. They understand that a lot of true sadists work in slaughter houses. They know that "cage free" eggs often come from chickens who live shoulder to shoulder, crammed by the hundreds into a 50 x 50 foot room. People know this all happens and yet, they somehow compartmentalize that knowledge and still go on eating meat.
So, if I constantly tell my friends and family about how animals are abused, am I really telling them something they don't know or am I merely annoying them with something they do know but choose to ignore? My thought is that we are all grownups and we make our own decisions about everything in life and I do not need to bang people over the head about veganism.
That does not mean I am complacent about cruelty. Far from it. And the cruelty is everywhere and it can be overwhelming.
So today, I posted a link on my Facebook page. It is sad and heartwarming at the same time. It showed chimps being released from a medical testing lab and allowed to be free for the first time. Seeing them tentatively step outside, hang back, and hug each other in joy is amazing. Animals want to be free and happy. It's that simple.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Unfreakinbelievable
U is for Unbelievable. It's unbelievable that I forgot to blog today until 8:30 pm my time.
It's also unbelievable how much I love to read. Seriously.
Readers understand. Books are...well, books open up worlds. I remember when I learned to read. Okay, I don't remember the moment I put together letters and realized I'd created a sound, a word concept. But I do remember the first non school book I ever read all by myself. It was Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present by Charlotte Zolotow. The illustrations were done by Maurice Sendak and they are beyond lovely, like little twilighty, impressionist paintings. I own my original copy which was printed fortyfive years ago last month.
Mr. Rabbit helps a girl find the perfect gifts for her mother. He asks her what her mother likes.
"She likes red," said the little girl.
"Red." said Mr. Rabbit. "You can't give her red."
"Something red, maybe," said the little girl.
"Oh, something red, said Mr. Rabbit.
"What is red?" said the little girl.
"Well," said Mr. Rabbit, "There's red underwear."
"No," said the little girl. "I can't give her that."
That was the point, when reading this out loud for the first time to my mother, I laughed. I got the joke. And my mother realized that I was not merely sounding out words but had grasped the storyline. In that one magical moment I got reading. And this I do remember. My mom said simply, "Now, your world will never be the same."
So many wonderful authors impacted my childhood. Elizabeth Enright, Sydney Taylor, Eleanor Estes, and the inimitable Madeliene L'Engle to name a few. Reading took me away from my suburban existence in Concord, California and transported me to Depression era Chicago or Whitechapel, England of the 1880s or a bucolic farm in 1920's Austria. I sat in my eighth grade civics's class but my mind wandered to Rebecca and Maxim deWinter at Manderley. Reading opened my mind to so many places I had never visited and may not ever see.
And, I confess, U is also for how unbelievably many times I reread books. I am the consumate rereader. I would reread and reread a favorite book as a child until my mom stuck a new, enticing publication in front of me. I am not sure why I would fixate on certain books, but I did. And I still do today. Any time I am not reading a new find, I go back to a favorite and reread it.
One of my favorite "go to" rereads is the Harry Potter series. I read the first book with my daughter when she was eight. We would take turns reading out loud the wonderful adventures of Harry, Ron and Hermione in preparation for the Harry Potter film which was due to arrive soon. After that, she and I read the remaining books on our own, and I was just as excited about the books as she was. And today, if I am between new books, I will pull up one of the HP novels on my Kindle and dive in.
It is a testament to J K Rowling that I can read a scene I have read multiple times, and seen in movie form, and still get nervous and think, "I hope everything works out okay!" She is so gifted at creating tension in her writing, completely absorbing her readers. The last three books in the series are deeper and darker and always thrilling.
One of my personal rules, and I know others who share this thought, is to ALWAYS read the book before the movie. Many movies miss the mark of keeping up with the book entirely. Others capture the book's tone well, but even the most faithful film adaptations are limited by time. So, read the book my friends. It will fill in all sorts of gaps. I remember the summer after my freshman year in college. My family decided to rent a houseboat and float around Lake Shasta for a week. I spent most of that time furiously finishing the book Shogun because the miniseries was set to air the night we returned home. God forbid I should watch a show without having read the novel on which it was based. As if.
If you haven't read a good book lately, go and grab one. They're everywhere. Trust. me.
It's also unbelievable how much I love to read. Seriously.
Readers understand. Books are...well, books open up worlds. I remember when I learned to read. Okay, I don't remember the moment I put together letters and realized I'd created a sound, a word concept. But I do remember the first non school book I ever read all by myself. It was Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present by Charlotte Zolotow. The illustrations were done by Maurice Sendak and they are beyond lovely, like little twilighty, impressionist paintings. I own my original copy which was printed fortyfive years ago last month.
Mr. Rabbit helps a girl find the perfect gifts for her mother. He asks her what her mother likes.
"She likes red," said the little girl.
"Red." said Mr. Rabbit. "You can't give her red."
"Something red, maybe," said the little girl.
"Oh, something red, said Mr. Rabbit.
"What is red?" said the little girl.
"Well," said Mr. Rabbit, "There's red underwear."
"No," said the little girl. "I can't give her that."
That was the point, when reading this out loud for the first time to my mother, I laughed. I got the joke. And my mother realized that I was not merely sounding out words but had grasped the storyline. In that one magical moment I got reading. And this I do remember. My mom said simply, "Now, your world will never be the same."
So many wonderful authors impacted my childhood. Elizabeth Enright, Sydney Taylor, Eleanor Estes, and the inimitable Madeliene L'Engle to name a few. Reading took me away from my suburban existence in Concord, California and transported me to Depression era Chicago or Whitechapel, England of the 1880s or a bucolic farm in 1920's Austria. I sat in my eighth grade civics's class but my mind wandered to Rebecca and Maxim deWinter at Manderley. Reading opened my mind to so many places I had never visited and may not ever see.
And, I confess, U is also for how unbelievably many times I reread books. I am the consumate rereader. I would reread and reread a favorite book as a child until my mom stuck a new, enticing publication in front of me. I am not sure why I would fixate on certain books, but I did. And I still do today. Any time I am not reading a new find, I go back to a favorite and reread it.
One of my favorite "go to" rereads is the Harry Potter series. I read the first book with my daughter when she was eight. We would take turns reading out loud the wonderful adventures of Harry, Ron and Hermione in preparation for the Harry Potter film which was due to arrive soon. After that, she and I read the remaining books on our own, and I was just as excited about the books as she was. And today, if I am between new books, I will pull up one of the HP novels on my Kindle and dive in.
It is a testament to J K Rowling that I can read a scene I have read multiple times, and seen in movie form, and still get nervous and think, "I hope everything works out okay!" She is so gifted at creating tension in her writing, completely absorbing her readers. The last three books in the series are deeper and darker and always thrilling.
One of my personal rules, and I know others who share this thought, is to ALWAYS read the book before the movie. Many movies miss the mark of keeping up with the book entirely. Others capture the book's tone well, but even the most faithful film adaptations are limited by time. So, read the book my friends. It will fill in all sorts of gaps. I remember the summer after my freshman year in college. My family decided to rent a houseboat and float around Lake Shasta for a week. I spent most of that time furiously finishing the book Shogun because the miniseries was set to air the night we returned home. God forbid I should watch a show without having read the novel on which it was based. As if.
If you haven't read a good book lately, go and grab one. They're everywhere. Trust. me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)