Quick Trick Book Stacks

I realized this morning it was time to clean up the book stacks again. They keep growing beside my bed. Three current library books, two of them on cooking and French diets (ah, deliciousness!). One note book. Two classics, several Pilcher, Heyer, and Diana Wynne Jones. Most of them sort of migrated there, from the basement shelves, or the book case on the other side of the bedroom. When the stack gets so high that it reaches the top of my (admittedly low) mattress, and interferes with making the bed, it's time to have the books re-migrate back to their proper locations.

So, one pile over to the book case. But, unfortunately, there's no room there either. The Heyers in the second shelf from the bottom have become obscured behind sideways-stacked books I've been meaning to read; most of them I picked up at last year's library book sale. (Oh dear, it's almost book sale time again! Where am I going to put the new ones?) Ah, but there are also quite a number of books there that I'm done reading! They can go back to their homes on the basement shelves. One paperback set of "Lord of the Rings". Several small German novellas about Lorenzo de' Medici. A Maeve Binchy. An assortment of mystery novels, and a copy each of "Emma" and "Pride and Prejudice" (I got nicer copies that match the rest of the gilt-edged set, so these ones can go downstairs for now). Okay, pile those up. Add the ones from beside the bed that are destined for the basement. Pick up the stack, carefully pinching down on the top book with my chin. (The worst is when you pinch too hard, and the books from the middle of the stack pop out- clatter bang ka-bumble! The whole stack goes. Do not try this at home, people, you have to be a trained librarian to treat books that badly.) Now, two flights of stairs down to the basement. I hope nobody's left anything sitting on the stairs for me to trip on, I can barely see where I'm going. Down in the rec room, I don't feel like sorting the books into their proper places, so I'm going to just leave them on the cabinet for now. Who knows, one of the kids might like to pick up one of those books to read, and they wouldn't notice it if it was neatly filed on the shelf, would they?

Back up the two sets of stairs (who says book worms don't get any exercise?). Okay, so now there's space in front of the Heyer books where I can pile a couple more of the books that have sat beside my bed in the mean-to-read pile. A mean-to-read shelf, it's somehow much tidier that a loose stack beside the bed, don't you think? Steve thinks so; probably partly because the books aren't as likely to fall on him from the shelves as from the book stacks (splat, flat teddy).

Quick trick book stacks. Somehow they just grow around here. Incidentally, that phrase is a corruption of Fox-in-Sock's "quick trick brick stacks". If you have young children in your life, and you haven't read them Dr. Seuss' "Fox in Socks", you absolutely must do so. Forget the Cat in the Hat (he's annoying and inconsiderate anyway), go with Fox in Socks. I dare you to read that book through in one go without tripping over your tongue at least once on the way.

Life, the universe and quick trick book stacks. What's on your mean-to-read pile?

Crystal

My crystal fell from the kitchen window. The suction cup that holds it on the window pane let go, and the crystal clattered to the window sill. Now, it's done that lots of times before, no harm done - I just wipe the spot on the window, moisten the suction cup, and stick it back on, maybe after polishing up the crystal a bit to make it sparkle again. But this time, I was quite sad to see, the crystal got chipped. Too bad. I've had it for years; don't even remember where I first got it - a hand-me-down from someone, I believe. It's hung in my kitchen window, which, in this house and the last one I lived in, faces East, and it has painted rainbows on my walls and floors even when there weren't any to be had outside.

So now it's broken. My first thought was where I could get a new one - perhaps the gift shop in town? They used to carry things like that. I don't know if they still do, I could check next time I'm down there. But then I got to thinking: maybe a chip isn't the end of the world? Maybe not even the end of the rainbow. (Wait - the end of the rainbow? Isn't that meant to be where the pot of gold is hiding? Ah, whatever.) Regardless, the chip is a fault, a serious flaw in the beautiful faceting of my crystal. I can't tell if it has impacted the rainbow-painting yet; the sun hasn't been at the right angle to shine through it. But, it occurred to me, perhaps the chip, the flaw, might become an asset instead of a liability? Perhaps there will be new rainbows, different ones - not as straight as before, more curved, more (dare I say) interesting?

As I said, I don't know yet. I have to wait for the right morning, preferably a winter day when the sun's angle is low enough to send the colours dancing over my cupboard doors. Just one more thought, though: the chip on the crystal is not unlike the tiny chip that's missing from one of the diamonds on my engagement ring. You need a jeweller's glass to see it, as the diamond itself is already really small (0.1 carat, I believe); I know the chip is there, but most people couldn't tell. And it certainly hasn't impacted my marriage in any way. Rainbows do not seem to care about chips, in crystals or in diamonds.

Oh, and just so you're clear on that, none of this has anything to do with rainbow chips, those frighteningly multi-coloured concoctions of sugar, strange fats, unpronounceable whatsits, and food colouring, which people sometimes put in their innocent and unsuspecting cookies. It might, however, have a whole lot to do with such topics as "Autistic Pride" (a movement that seeks to make the diversity of human life more widely accepted among humankind), which uses rainbow colours as its symbol. I leave you to figure out the connection for yourself.

Life, the universe, and chipped rainbow-makers. It's all in the angle of light.

September

It's a slippery kind of day. No, not the kind that slides around when you  try to grab it, the kind that makes you want to wear your furry slippers. The air suddenly has turned cool; it's rainy, and summer is definitely over. There's this lovely poem I found a few weeks ago:


September has come,
It is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn
Whose nature prefers
Trees without leaves and a fire in the fire-place;
So I give her this month and the next
Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already
So many of its days intolerable or perplexed
But so many more so happy;
Who has left a scent on my life and left my walls
Dancing over and over with her shadow,
Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls
And all of London littered with remembered kisses.

-Louis MacNeice, "Autumn Journal"

"...hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn"- oh yes. I'm just a cold-blooded European, I suppose; you won't find me at my best in scorching, blistering summer heat. Fires in fire-places make me happy (in forests around me,  they don't- which is another reason summer is not my most favourite season around here).

Incidentally, I'm sorry I can't state a better reference for that poem  (MLA style, anyone?); I just pulled it off the web, someone else's blog, I think. But I first ran across it quoted in a Rosamunde Pilcher book. Yes,  I read Pilcher - so sue me. I know the high-brow-literature intelligentsia would turn up their noses at her, but she's actually a really excellent writer, with her intricate interweaving of so many interesting characters. And even though not everything and everyone ends happily every after, it generally ends satisfyingly ever after. The poem made me pull out her  novel "September" again, which is a sequel to the award-winning "Shell Seekers"; one of the characters from the first book is part of the ensemble cast of the second and gets something of a redemption in it.

My only quibble with Pilcher is that she lumps in Georgette Heyer with Barbara Cartland as scribblers of romantic claptrap that she in turn sneers at. How dare she? Heyer is the Grande Dame of the Regency  romance - she invented the genre, for crying out loud - and her meticulously researched historic fiction, romantic though it may be, bears practically no resemblance to Cartland's drivel. Incidentally, Heyer, who  was a contemporary to Agatha Christie, also wrote quite enjoyable whodunits; her husband, a solicitor, helped her with some of the plot details.

So now I want to read Heyer again. Off I go, padding upstairs in my  slippered feet, to find my copy of "Envious Casca" (I've got one, don't  I?) to add to the growing pile of books beside my bed which I've been  meaning to re-read.

Life, the Universe, and slipper days. Time to put the kettle on.

Haste

Apples and peaches and pears, oh my! Yes, all at the same time. It's been a really weird growing season this year hereabouts; everything seems to be about two or three weeks behind schedule. I've just made a batch of apple jelly, have half a dozen pints of apple sauce simmering in the canner, and a dehydrator full of pear slices humming away on the counter. Yet just last week, I was canning peaches! There's even still some available at my favourite local produce store, and it's the middle of September.

In fact, I think I might go back tomorrow and get some more to attempt yet again to make a batch of peach wine. I tried it last year. But in my infinite wisdom, I decided that to exactly follow the recipe was too tedious. It calls for crushing the peaches, then adding sugar, yeast, and warm water, until it's at the right temperature for fermentation. I figured that I could hasten that process by just chucking everything together in my big stockpot, and cooking it until the peaches were soft and everything was nice and warm (I can hear the wine makers among you snorting in disbelief as I write this...). Well, it didn't work. Oh, the stuff's alcoholic alright- in fact, if running a still wasn't illegal in this country, I could probably turn it into a pretty decent paint stripper. Also, it never clarified, but stayed cloudy even after months in the bottle. I'm afraid there's no better name for my brew than hooch. Peach hooch. I dumped most of it down the drain; it really wasn't worth keeping. I suppose that's what you get from undue haste.

So I just cracked open the last bottle I'd kept, and tasted some of it. For some reason, the flavour brings up a memory of my favourite aunt, which is decidedly odd as she was a confirmed teetotaller. After a few sips, I figured it out: there's something about the aroma that reminds me of her favourite scent, the original Eau de Cologne. Not unpleasantly so, I might add; it's possible that 4711's secret recipe includes something like peach distillate. It definitely has alcohol in it, that much I know.

Well, we'll see if this year's batch (when or even if I make one) has that same elusive perfume. If the wine turns out undrinkable, it might still be useful as a scent. It certainly is attractive to bugs- there were plenty of fruit flies buzzing around the glass, and a wasp actually went and committed suicide in it. I believe it was the same one that checked out a ripe, fresh peach not five minutes earlier. I suppose he didn't want to wait for the peach to ferment into something tastier, and just flung himself into the glass- "Goodbye, cruel world!" Had he consulted me, I could have warned him that haste makes hideous hooch.

Life, the universe and peach hooch. If you come by next year this time, I might be able to offer you a glass.

Ink People

Just for some visual silliness to go with the usual verbal kind, here's my latest painting. It's called "Very Small Ink People Playing in a Field of Colours", and it shows, well, very small ink people playing in a field of colours. Watercolours, to be precise. The whole thing is about 5x7", and was just splashed about this morning.

In case you're wondering, this is, of course, High Art. With a capital A. The kind you're supposed to study carefully, and then you nod wisely and make some erudite comments about composition and complementary colours. Not a lot of chiaroscuro to be had, I'm afraid; you'll have to find some other fancy words to throw around to impress the unwary. (Incidentally, I used to pronounce that word chiaro-scuro, thinking the o's were the ending of each part of the compound word, and feeling oh-so-clever for saying it that way; but then I learned that it's actually chiar-oscuro, clear-obscure. It means, of course, the light-dark contrast that people like Rembrandt do so fantastically well, and people like me can only dream of. But at least I can pronounce the word right, and now you can, too.) Oh, you could also draw some really intelligent inferences about the deep meanings of the ink people's poses, and how it reflects the inner state of my being at the moment of drawing them. And most likely it's also a scathing indictment of the social realities of twenty-first century life.

On the other hand, you could also look at this, and quietly chuckle at it, or briefly grin, or even just vaguely twitch up the corner of your mouth or left eyebrow. That would be quite sufficient for me, thank you very much.

Life, the universe, and ink people. I have a feeling there's more where those came from.

Reboot

Oh, very well. Bonnie Heather says I should start blogging again. Steve

agrees; he's got bored with sitting on my bedside table watching me

sleep at night. Yes, of course he can do that - he can see in the dark.

Stuffed animals have excellent night vision, in order to fulfil their role as

protectors of the innocent and the bane of bogeymen. You didn't know

that? Well, now you do.

Steve and I have been to California a couple of times in the last few

months, visiting with my man who's temporarily living in Geekville (aka

Silicon Valley). It was interesting getting to know a different part of the

world, and especially seeing the variety of the ethnic mix of people. You

know what surprised me? Black people- they talk "black"! And here I

thought that was just movie stereotypes. I even saw some that were

"acting black", you know, doing the "Yo, what's up, my man?" with

complicated hand slap. Really! I was thinking "Wow, they actually talk

like that! Who knew?" which is almost verbatim (in translation) what I

thought as a ten-year-old in Germany, having had a few months of

English instructions, overhearing an American mother in an

Autobahn rest stop saying to her little boy: "Come on, let's go back to

the car!" I was quite astonished that English-speaking people actually

use the word "car" for an automobile; here I'd thought that was just a line my teacher was feeding me.

It was actually quite funny, my surprise, and a bit embarrassing. I mean,

good grief, why shouldn't a distinct ethnic group have a distinct dialect?

Why was I so surprised at that? Sheer ignorance, I'm afraid. I frequently

shake my head at my own silly presuppositions. Up here in rural

Western Canada we don't have many black people, more's the pity; so

my experience with hearing the dialect has been mostly limited to TV.

Besides, I don't know if Canadian blacks use that dialect as much, or if

it's more of a US thing. (Incidentally, pardon me for the non-PC

terminology. It's mostly laziness; I prefer using the one-syllable

shorthand, "black" and "white", to the multi-syllable "Af-ri-can-A-me-

ri-can" or "Eu-ro-pe-an-Ca-na-di-an" etc etc. If it offends you, feel free

to substitute the polysyllabism of your choice as you read this.) I like

dialects, don't you? They're the auditory equivalent of skin tones and

hair textures and nose shapes. The world is so much more interesting

when there's variety.

And to prove he really did come along, here's Steve waiting at the airport for our connecting flight.

Life, the universe, and dialects. It's good to be back.

It's a Wrap

Well, it's happened. Fuzzy blue blog mould has set in. The gaps between my posts are getting longer and longer (when averaged out statistically over the time period of one month); I've just lost my oomph. My blogging oomph, at least; my general state of oomphiness is actually doing rather well, thank you very much- it might be part of the reason for the lack of blogging oomph that I have other things on my mind these days with less time and inclination to waffle on publicly about not-much-at-all.

So perhaps it's time to call it a wrap. For the time being, let's carefully roll the tortilla around the filling (ham, cheese, mayo, avocado and bell pepper, by preference), and be done. It was an experiment to start with, and one that was quite successful, I might add. I've enjoyed talking to you all, and I think, perhaps, some of you have enjoyed being talked at?

Steve also wants you to know that he has liked being the feature illustration in several of these posts. So here he is, one more time, poised to face the future atop my laptop screen (a split second before he fell off and hit the keyboard. Splat.).

Don't worry, I think we'll be back, Steve and I, with more deep, profound and philosophical (but most likely just plain silly) observations. When we're around again, we'll let you know.

Life, the Universe and Everything. Be seeing you!