Searching Wordfind for a word starting with Z, I found the following words accepted by Scrabble:
zebra – any of several fleet black-and-white striped African equines (“A horse in striped pajamas” in the song I learned from watching Captain Kangaroo, but larger than the horse; one tried to bite the inspection sticker off our windshield at the Natural Bridge Wildlife Park when we stopped to gawk.)
zoa – any of the individuals of a compound organism; sing. zoon. (An epiphanic [Well, d’oh] moment when I realized how the word protozoa came to be. Once upon a time I knew that.)
zed– theBritishspokenformoftheletterz.U.S.wordzee (Zed was used by Dorothy L. Sayers’ character Lord Peter Wimsey, as played by Ian Carmichael, the only actor who has done justice to the role.)
It’s zed that fits today, the final day of the April challenge.
I shouldn’t post at all, since I bailed out of the challenge after R. On day S, I could have written that I’d run out of steam, but I didn’t think of it until Day U. Posting wouldn’t have been fair.
This Zed post isn’t fair either, but it has a purpose: to thank the bloggers who read my challenge posts. While my energy was at low ebb, I fell behind in reciprocal reading, but I have your addresses and will make it up. And then some.
It was a pleasure blogging with you. I look forward to April 2019, when I will again sign up to write.
The etymology of zed is worth noting:
c.1400,fromMiddleFrenchzede, fromLateLatinzeta, fromGreekzeta, fromHebrew zayin, lettername,literally “weapon”; so called in reference to the shape of this latter in ancient Hebrew. U.S. pronunciation zee is first attested 1670s. Other dialectical names for the letter are izzard, ezod, uzzard, and zod.
All my life I’ve heard the phrase “from A to izzard,” but I didn’t know izzard is officially related to Z.
William and Ernest, rescue cats from Austin Pets Alive, came to live with us in 2009. Nine years later, David and I live with them.
Ernest came first. David named him Earl Gray, which morphed into Mr. E., which morphed into Ernest. It takes time to find the right name. A gray tabby, he was six months old and had had a traumatic experience. First, the veterinarian prepared to spay him and then realized he was a neutered male. Then he escaped from his foster mom’s apartment and was out for several days before they managed to trap him. He showed no signs of trauma, however, the day we met him: when the APA volunteer put him in David’s lap, he turned belly up. There was no doubt he was ours.
We got William about a month later. He’d been traumatized, too–he escaped the shelter and was found under a trailer on the property three days later. David named him William of Orange, but since he’s a cream tabby, I changed it to William of Orange Cream Soda. With two darters, we had to double up on door watch duty. We’d had William a week when Ernest came down with a digestive malady. Our vet couldn’t identify the cause, so we left him for observation. The next day, William became lethargic and refused to eat. I held him all morning, but saw no improvement, so I hauled him to the vet. He had a high fever, she said, but she didn’t have a diagnosis. I left him for observation.
The next afternoon I called to check on my children. Both were doing well, she said. She had put William in the cage with Ernest and his temperature returned to normal and he was gobbling up food. I agreed to leave them over the weekend to be sure they were okay.
On Monday I went to get them. The tech brought Ernest out, then started to add up the bill: Ernest–one male, intact.
Wait a minute, I said. He’s been neutered. APA had it done.
She pulled him out of the cage and turned him belly up. He was indeed a male, intact.
Okayyyyyyy. Poor thing–first he was a female about to be spayed, then he was a neutered male, then he was a male, intact.
A couple of weeks later, he went back to the vet and, for the second time, came home a neutered male.
William’s life hasn’t been nearly so eventful. He began as a neutered male and continues to be one. He’s developed diabetes, so David gives him an injection of insulin twice a day. Since the injection is accompanied by food, he appears in the kitchen promptly at five o’clock every evening.
Although they were rescue cats, William and Ernest have thrived in our home. At social events, I am popularly known as “the one with cat hair all over her black slacks.”
They’ve also starred in David’s video “Invisible Men Invade Earth,” (see below), which was screened at film festivals in Beaumont, Houston, Fort Worth, and Dallas (twice). The highlight was their appearance at Fantastic Fest in Austin. Audiences love them–we’ve noticed that the older the audience, the louder they laugh.
One critic at Fantastic Fest called their film “weird.” They applied the same adjective to David.
We’re proud of William and Ernest’s accomplishments, but we would be just as proud if all they did was lie around and sleep.
Invisible Men Invade Earth–David Davis, writer, producer, director, sound effects, and everything else
My Day Q post is recycled from last year, a short-short story prompted by this photograph by Fatima Fakier Deria, on Friday Fictioneers. The event it’s based on occurred in 2002, but it will forever live in infamy.
Beautiful . . . waves, sunset . . .
Deck chairs . . .
Can’t wait, two nights at sea,
then—Can Cun. We’ll shop till we drop.
Uh-uh. Swimming, sunbathing, siestas. Bar open yet?
Soooooo relaxing. Waves rocked me to sleep.
Hurry, let’s claim our chairs.
Chairs. There’s pizza near the pool.
Wearing your patch?
Don’t have one.
Sit here. Sea air helps. ‘Bye.
Find a doctor.
You’ll be fine.
Move, or I’ll ruin your sneakers.
I’m going home . . .
You’ve had a shot of phenergan—you’ll be fine.
. . . if I have to walk on water.
Phenergan worked!Can Cun! Let’s shop till we drop.
. . . I’m queasy.
Author’s note: Day 3 is fiction. The speaker in green did not become queasy. Life is not fair.
This afternoon I was in a panic because it’s Day Q and I didn’t know what Q stands for. I was desperate enough to google “words starting with Q.” But halfway through the list, it occurred to me that yesterday my word was obstinate, which makes today Day P. And I was so relieved, because I had a word ready.
If I hadn’t fallen asleep in the recliner, my post would have been online hours ago. But heaven forfend that I should miss out on the Great Race Against Time.
Anyway–sixteen years ago, after I learned I’m descended from Clan MacLean of Duart, I just had to see our castle, so David and I flew to London, then drove to Oban, Scotland and the Isle of Mull–and then we drove down to Lorna Doone country and and saw Robber’s Bridge, and left a bit of paint the same color as the lime green Peugeot we were driving–the bridge is narrow, not much wider than the car, and, preparing to cross, David said, “Is there enough room over there?” and wanting to be agreeable, I said, “Yes,” and I was wrong.
On our way back to London, we spent one night at a B&B that had photographs, prints, paintings, and figurines of cats all over the place, and live cats in whatever space was left over. She said, “The kitties just keep coming, and what is one to do?”
The next night we stayed in a catless B&B thirty miles south of London. David spent the whole evening mapping out a route to Waterloo Station that ensured he wouldn’t have to make any right turns. Getting out of Waterloo Station on our arrival had been exhilarating, and we knew if we had that much excitement on the way back, we might end up in Scotland again and miss the Chunnel to Paris. Or we might get stuck in traffic around the Marble Arch, another experience we didn’t care to repeat. (I didn’t know a round-about could have so many lanes.)
But we got to the train on time and all was well until we got off the train in Paris and I saw that every sign was in French.
I posted about our first two days there–“Getting There” and “Starving and Art”–several years ago but didn’t get around to writing about the second night, which I think of as “Papillon in Paris.”
After dinner that night, we walked the short block to the hotel and then back to sit outside the cafe across from where we’d had dinner. David ordered two scoops of chocolate ice cream for me. When the waitress left, he confided that he might have ordered two soccer balls. But she brought ice cream.
Later we took a walk. We passed an empty building with a old sign out front that said “Moulin Rouge.” (It didn’t resemble the one that inspired the movie.)
We walked past a long line of knotheads waiting to get the counter at McDonald’s. (A travesty.)
We walked and walked, and when we were ready to go back to the hotel, we discovered we didn’t know how to get there. We’d paid attention, walked around a just two or three blocks. We couldn’t be lost . . . Then an epiphany:
Paris blocks are not rectangular.
We were lost.
So we started walking again. And walking. And walking. And, it seemed, compounding our error. Finally we stopped at a sidewalk cafe and asked a couple sitting there for directions. The woman stood and gave us detailed instructions complete with arm waving. David’s French and her English didn’t quite mesh, so he had to ask her to repeat several times. She patiently answered. What it boiled down to was that we must go to the Arc de Triomphe and at Rue Papillon, turn left.
We had seen the Arc de Triomphe that afternoon. It was miles from the hotel. David asked for clarification. She clarified–Arc de Triomphe, Rue Papillon, turn left.
The man was watching from his seat at the table. He looked like he was enjoying the drama. Suddenly he chimed in: “Right.”
She repeated the instructions. “. . . and turn left.”
This was getting scary.
She said it one more time, paused, and asked, “You know papillon?”
David nodded and flapped his arms.
We thanked them and went on our way. We could hear the man laughing almost to the Arc de Triomphe, which was (thank goodness) a faux Arc not too far away. At Rue Papillon we turned left.
And soon we found Rue Cadet. We passed a store with a vase of purple irises in the window. I recognized them. They were the same irises I had admired three times that evening during our search for the hotel. The two lost lambs had passed the hotel three times.
So that is the story of Papillon in Paris. I wish my narrative could do it justice. But there’s no way I can adequately describe David’s impromptu imitation of a butterfly. Flap, flap, flap.
You just had to be there.
By the way, we finally figured out that the man wasn’t saying, “Right.” He was telling us to turn left at the light.
I just confessed to a friend that I’m obstinate, and I did it in an email, so I might as well make it the subject for Day O. I’m convinced all my secrets are available online anyway, so what the heck.
It happened in this wise:
I was seven, visiting my grandfather for a week in my hometown, my favorite place in the whole world because it was very small and safe and many of my father’s aunts and uncles, all of whom were over sixty, and some over eighty, lived there. I pity anyone who’s never had the privilege of sitting on a front porch on a hot summer day while old ladies play forty-two, or of sitting with old men on the bench in the shade of ligustrums outside the post office.
“Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.”
My great-aunt’s front porch was the best place to listen, because those ladies told the most interesting stories. (This story, however, isn’t theirs; it’s mine.)
My grandfather, whom younger people, even those not related to him, called Dad or Uncle Frank, lived around the corner from my great-aunt. His house faced the side street and his front porch wasn’t visible from hers, or even from her back windows, so I had a measure of privacy; female relatives so often think children need supervision. My grandfather assumed I could take care of myself. I appreciated that and didn’t take advantage.
One day a friend who’d been hunting, probably on my grandfather’s farm, brought Dad a rabbit he’d shot. Dad said we would have fried rabbit for supper. I was delighted. Fried rabbit was a delicacy.
That afternoon, I wandered over to my great-aunt’s front porch, where a group of ladies had congregated, and announced Dad and I were having rabbit for supper. That got their attention.
One of the aunts said, “You’re not going to eat that rabbit!”
This is where the word obstinate comes in.
I was going to eat that rabbit, and her statement–really an order–ensured I was definitely going to eat that rabbit.
And I ate it.
Twelve years later, thanks to a college anatomy and physiology course, I learned about tularemia and why I shouldn’t have eaten the rabbit, or even touched it or breathed around it.
It’s a wonder I’m still alive.
My only consolation is that if my aunt had told my grandfather not to eat the rabbit, he’d have gone ahead and eaten it, too.
Changing the subject–O is also for Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh! I remembered, for the nth time, that today is the deadline for submitting my chapter to my critique group, Austin Mystery Writers. It’s written, but I have to clean it up. Otherwise–another O word–my advisers won’t be able to see past the parts I already know are wrong.
As a pilon, I’ll add omnishambles, which means a situation, especially in politics, in which poor judgment results in disorder or chaos with potentially disastrous results.
According to Dictionary.com, and based on the Random House Dictionary (2018), the word was “first used in theBBCTVseriesTheThickofIt,a politicalsatire,” in 2009. It’s chiefly British but, I assume, can refer to situations anywhere else in the world. Use it as you think fit.
I like the term she chose very much, but I wondered if there are alternatives. So I went to the glossary of literary terms–several of them, in fact, since they’re all over the Internet–and came up with some possibilities:
a verse of poets
a rime of poets
an iamb of poets
a lyric of poets (although lyric is more suited to songwriters)
a scansion of poets
a prosody of poets
The search sparked a new question: What is the name for a group of mystery writers?
a plot of mystery writers
a conspiracy of mystery writers
a complication of mystery writers
a murder of mystery writers (perhaps to close to a murder of crows)
a grit of mystery writers
a cozy of mystery writers
And another question: What are the members of a critique group called?
This one is easy. Borrowing from an unkindness of ravens, I choose to call members of a critique group a kindness.
K is obviously for Kathy, a name at the heart of a lifelong kerfuffle.
The plan was to name me Katherine for my great-grandmother and to call me Kathy. But at the last minute, when the nurse came in and asked for the baby’s name so they could type up a birth certificate, my mother added Mary for my grandmother. Later she told my father what she’d done and he said that was fine with him. He liked his mother-in-law. My grandmother liked the name.
Mother later told me she’d wanted to spell Katherine with a C, but she was afraid her grandmother would say I wasn’t really named for her (the family was funny that way).
Thus was I denied the privilege of assuming the mantle of romanticism connected with hearing Heathcliff call across the moor, Catherine! Catherine! (I don’t think he did that in the book or the movie, but I have a good imagination.)
The precaution turned out to be unnecessary,because every time my great-grandmother, whom we called Grannygirl (that’s another story) wrote my name, she spelled it Catherine.
(I was glad I’d been spared her first name, Minna. She didn’t like it either and changed it to Minnie but later wished she hadn’t.)
Otherwise, my name was fine with me, too, as long as we stayed put. But when we moved and I had to enroll in a new school in the middle of second grade, the teacher said they already had a Kathy so I had to be Mary. I didn’t mind–it was just one more of the slings and arrows of being uprooted from my hometown and moving halfway across the universe*–but when I discovered the other Kathy was always called Kathleen, I thought the teacher’s reasoning was a little off.
The next September, I sat with twenty-something other third-graders and their mothers while the teacher called names from a stack of book cards. She got to Mary K. Waller; my mother marched me up and said she’s here, and she’s called Kathy; the teacher said, No this is Mary K-A-Y. I sat back down. Mary Kay didn’t appear. The teacher went through the no-shows and once again, Mary Kay didn’t appear. My mom said she thought that must be a clerical error–one person read the names, another person wrote them down?–and so I settled in as Kathy.
The next year, mothers didn’t hang around for the settling in–I suppose fourth graders were deemed able to fend for themselves–and when the teacher called Mary Waller? I let it slide. Later when my mother asked why, I said something like, “Meh.” Vicki, my best friend from third grade, called me Kathy; others who’d known me before took their pick.
Fast forward to college: Roommates said Kathy, but otherwise, I was Mary. Once I was Mark. The first time the philosophy professor called for Mark Waller, I said nothing, but when Mark didn’t answer the second time, I raised my hand and said in a small voice–one doesn’t want to accuse a prof of illiteracy on the first day of class–Mary? he rechecked the list and laughed. Since then, two more people have made the same error. Perfectly understandable: when you’re skimming, Mary K. resembles Mark.
I was a bit miffed, however, last Christmas Eve, when the young man at Best Buy told me he didn’t have my order. I said the computer said he did have it. He said he didn’t. I said would he check again. He pointed at his monitor and said there was only one Waller on the list.
I said, “Mark?”
He said, “Yes.”
I said, “Mary K.?”
He said, “Oh,” and forked over the box. I was as sweet about the situation as I could manage, considering it was Christmas Eve and I knew he’d been extra busy; but, considering it was late afternoon on December 24th, and I’d started shopping on December 23rd, my store of sweetness was at low ebb. My words might have carried an undertone that said, Knothead.
My adult life has comprised a series of minor tangles with officialdom. Minor, because I’ve defaulted to Mary. Sometimes I forget. Last week, the nurse assigned to handle my infusion looked up from her monitor and said, “Hi. I’m Holly.”
I said, “I’m Kathy.”
Her expression changed from welcoming to stricken. I got it, admitted I was Mary, and watched her begin to breathe normally again.
My mother once said she thought I didn’t like my name. I did, and I do. It has a pleasant sound, and my written initials have a pleasing symmetry.
It’s sharpened my mental acuity and flexibility by requiring me to (usually) remember who I am in (almost) any setting.
But there are drawbacks. The first hearkens back to the third-grade Mary Kay thing. I do not like being confused with a cosmetics company.
The second concerns two questions I’m asked more and more frequently by young people who don’t understand that Mary Katherine was a perfectly acceptable, mainstream, plain, ordinary, everyday name before it gave way to Lisa and Jennifer and Ashley and Madison:
Are you Catholic?
Are you a nun?
I’m a member of a large Protestant family that recycles names.
* About 250 miles to the southwest, to Del Rio, on the border with Mexico. It was a nice place, and after a few months, I loved being there. Sometimes I wish we’d stayed.
Little Google Fiber’s come to our house today,
To scramble through the attic and drag cables on the way,
And cut some boards and drill some holes and stuff some cables that
Will link up with some other stuff beside the thermostat;
But first the upstairs closet had to be cleared out for space,
The downstairs china cabinet moved and china all displaced,
“And Kathy can’t just lie in bed,” they said, “or lounge about,
‘Cause we’ll see her in her jammies
I heered ’em in the attic, flippin’, flappin’ like a bat,
And a-scritchin’ and a-scratchin’, like a sheetrock-eatin’ rat,
And the warnin’ that they said we’d get? Like knockin’ on the door,
And sayin’, all polite-like, “Ma’am? Here’s me and all my corp
Of drillers and of draggers, we don’t want to scare you none
By creatin’ a cacophony before your sleep is done,
So please wake up, get up out of bed. It puts us in a pout
When we see you in your jammies
But, no, the warning never came, and I was in still in bed,
Although my husband came upstairs an hour ‘fore and said,
“Dear, don’t you think you’d better rise and put some lipstick on
And stretch your arms and stretch your legs and give a drowsy yawn,
And don some clothes and stuff those PJs in the nearest vase,
Cause those raggedy old things reflect on us a sad disgrace,
And the Google guys will run and flee. You’ll cause a general rout
If they see you in your jammies
Though I am a thoughtful wife and always try to please,
My lids were heavy, and I stayed in bed and took my ease,
And so it was that I was still in Morpheus’ embrace
When the scritchin’ and the flappin’ up above me did take place.
And I sprang up from my bed and ran, but threw up neither sash,
Nor did I fly to ingle-side to brush aside the ash.
I screeched, “That isn’t Santa, it’s the Google men, no doubt!
And they’ll see me in my jammies
So I scrabbled and I flipped and flapped and sounded like that rat,
Although louder and lots faster, like unto a scalded cat.
“I’d be ready now,” I said, “if only Google had been nice,
And not made me move the china so my muscles needed ice,
And my body and my soul cried out, ‘This raveled sleave of care
Must be knit up, and sore labor’s bath I needs must have! Oh swear
That Google will not taunt me for a loathesome layabout
‘Cause they see me in my jammies
Exciting stories sometimes end in flaming denouements.
This one has a climax that is really, really blah.
I got up, brushed my hair, found clothes, as usually I do,
And dressed and, looking ‘neath the bed, dragged out my other shoe,
Went downstairs, and stared at the wall, and checked email, and when
The Google man knocked on the door, and David went, ’twas then
I said, “Ha ha ha, you cannot say, you early-rising lout,
That you saw me in my jammies,
The poem “Little Orphan Annie” was written by James Whitcomb Riley in 1885. The original title was “Little Orphant Annie,” but an error in a later printing changed the name.
The poem was inspired by Mary Alice Smith, a child who came to the home of Riley’s parents as a “bound” servant to earn her board and keep. She worked alongside Mrs. Riley and the other children and helped with housework. The Rileys referred to her as a guest and treated her as one of the family. In the evenings she told ghost stories to the children, including James, the future poet.
In the 1920s, Mary Alice Smith inspired the comic strip “Little Orphan Annie” and the Raggedy Ann doll created by Johnny Gruelle.
Thanks to Wikipedia for the information shared here.
Thanks to James Whitcomb Riley for writing the delightful poem that popped into my head as soon as I heard the Google men scrabbling around in the attic. Read in just the right way, the last four lines can scare the stuffings out of a bunch of eight-year-old girls at a Brownie troop meeting.
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
An’ all us other childern, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you
Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers,--
So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout--
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’one, an’ all her blood an’ kin;
An’ onc’t, when they was “company," an’ ole folks was there,
She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed what she’s about!
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
An’ little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ‘at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns’ll git you
To read other Day J posts, click AtoZ.
This post first appeared on Telling the Truth, Mainly in July 2017.
The reason for the rule: I buy books. It started over twenty years ago, the day I walked in with a purse and walked out with four or five books and my purse much diminished. The indulgence must stop.
Today, however, on the way home from an appointment, I remembered a legitimate reason to stop there: In February, leaving the store after AMW’s book launch, I realized I’d left two plates of brownies on the refreshment table. David asked if we had enough plates at home that we wouldn’t starve. I said, Yes. I’d planned to leave some brownies for the staff anyway, and I could get the plates the next time I was there. So we went on home.
I’ve visited the store several times in the past two months. However, I’ve thought about plates only when I was elsewhere.
Today, on the way home from an appointment, I remembered. It occurred that I would be there legitimately next week. But I managed to come up with an excuse: It had been two months. How thoughtless of me.Their break room probably didn’t room for extra dishes. I doubled back.
Unfortunately, no one at the information desk (or anywhere else) knew where they were–or even remembered them–and it took several people a full half-hour to find them.
Fortunately, that gave me time to fall into my favorite trap: I saw books, wanted them, carried three to the cafe, read the cover flaps, and took notes. The good news is that I didn’t buy they them. The other good news is that they gave me an idea for a blog post. In addition, each of those books started with an idea.
That may be stretching things, but today is all about breaking rules.
Abdel Kader Haidara, an archivist and historian, traveled from Timbuktu across the Sahara, along the Niger River (the first person to do so), in search of ancient Islamic and secular manuscripts that were “crumbling in the trunks of desert farmers.” Then a complication arose: Al Qaeda showed up. The manuscripts were “destined for sure destruction.”
Among the manuscripts he saved:
a treatise on Islamic jurisprudence from the 12th century;
a 13th century Koran written on vellum made from antelope hide;
the original travel diary of Maj. Alexander Gordon Laing, the first explorer to reach Timbuktu via Tripoli and the Sahara, who in 1826 was murdered by his Arab escorts;
an Arabic grammar written over Maj. Laing’s the pages of Maj. Laing’s diary.
In his race to save “the world’s most precious manuscripts,” Haidera became “one of the world’s greatest and most brazen smugglers.” He and a network of librarians sneaked 350,000 volumes to safety in southern Mali. His act demonstrates that “ordinary citizens often do the most to protect the beauty and imagination of culture.”
Anarticleabout Haidara and the manuscripts published on April 21, 2014 appears on the National Geographic website.
Author Joshua Hammer speaks about his book, the history of Timbuktu, and Haidara’s accomplishment on Youtube. Slides of manuscripts are included.
Instead of writing about the other two books in this post, as I planned, I’m going to save them for a later. They’ll fit Days L and T.
Or, if I’m creative, they’ll fit any letter I wish them to.
To read more posts dedicated to the letter I, click AtoZ
Hawthorne and his wife, Sophia Peabody, moved from Concord to Salem in 1845 and the next year he was appointed “Surveyor for the District of Salem and Beverly and Inspector of the Revenue for the Port of Salem.” While in the position, he had difficulty writing, and told writer Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, whom he’d met in college, “Whenever I sit alone, or walk alone, I find myself dreaming about stories, as of old; but these forenoons in the Custom House undo all that the afternoons and evenings have done. I should be happier if I could write.”
After Whig Zachary Taylor’s election to the presidency in 1848 election Hawthorne, a Democrat, lost his job. A letter he wrote in protest was published in a Boston newspaper, and his dismissal became known and talked about throughout New England. But he returned to writing and in 1850 published The Scarlet Letter.
It was one of the first mass-produced books in America, selling 2,500 volumes within ten days and earning Hawthorne $1,500 over 14 years. The book was pirated by booksellers in London and became a best-seller in the United States; it initiated his most lucrative period as a writer. (Wikipedia)
It has been called the first psychological novel, and writer D. H. Lawrence later said about the book that there “could be no more perfect work of the American imagination.
Unfortunately, Hawthorne died long before Lawrence expressed his opinion; the novel became the subject of controversy among his contemporaries.
Hawthorne’s friend Edwin Percy Whippleobjected to the novel’s “morbid intensity” and its dense psychological details, writing that the book “is therefore apt to become, like Hawthorne, too painfully anatomical in his exhibition of them.” (Wikipedia)
It also added to his troubles. There was a “furious” response from newspapers, politicians, and members of the clergy. (Hawthorne also mentioned his job in the introduction and referred to certain politicians, so he shouldn’t have been surprised that those readers weren’t complimentary. Just my opinion.)
I detest this town so much that I hate to go into the streets, or to have the people see me. . .I feel an infinite contempt for them, and probably have expressed more of it than I intended; for my preliminary chapter has caused the greatest uproar that ever happened here since witch-times.
“He half-expected the crowds to tar and feather him,” says St. John: ‘from such judges as my fellow-citizens, I should look upon it as a higher honor than a laurel-crown.'”
The Scarlet letter was published in mid-March 1850. In late March, the Hawthorne family moved to Lenox, Massachusetts, in the Berkshires. In 1851, he published The House of the Seven Gables, which poet James Russell Lowell said was better than The Scarlet Letter and called “‘the most valuable contribution to New England history that has been made.'”
When I began this post, I intended it to comprise mostly pictures of the House of the Seven Gables. But to ensure I got my facts straight, I googled, found the chapter by St. John, and was struck by the above quotation. I’d assumed Hawthorne had positive feelings about Salem. After all, he’d set a novel there.
The A to Z Blogging Challenge calendar looks like this:
But in my mind’s eye, until this evening, the calendar looked like this:
If I’d paid attention, I’d have noticed I was supposed to post yesterday, a Saturday, instead of taking the day off.
If I’d paid close attention, and counted, I’d have seen that my April calendar provides for only 22 letters, four fewer than the official calendar assigns spaces to, and also four fewer than are found in the alphabet. I was embarked on an A to V Challenge.
When I realized I’d gone wrong, I considered dropping out. After all, I’ve breached the rules, failed to post as required.
But it’s a glitch, not a transgression, and a blog challenge isn’t a life-and-death matter. So I proceed.
Two weeks ago, my radiation oncologist used the word remission.
Nothing has changed. My most recent CT scans show the same results as those done in December 2016, three months after I completed radiation treatments. The bone scan, my first, was also clear.
The oncologist, although he’s now smiling as if he means it, continues to be conservative. Stable is the word he uses. “As long as you’re stable…”
The radiation oncologist has always been more upbeat, possibly because she isn’t in charge of my case, possibly because she has a cheerful nature. A year ago, she was calling my scans awesome. I liked that word.
Remission, though, has a certain ring to it–a medical ring.
For two years, I’ve been living from scan to scan, and that won’t change either. The challenge continues: to live with past, present, future all at once; to wrap my mind around the contradiction–I have cancer, I had cancer, I . . . what?
The next CT is scheduled for early June. Scan to scan.
Read more posts dedicated to the letter G by clickingAtoZ.
The new Roku remote, purchased as an upgrade so I could listen to the television through earbuds, didn’t work as planned. Periodically, without warning, the sound left the earbuds and reverted to the TV speakers.
(That’s not a technical explanation. It’s just the best I can do.)
After several momentarily successful fixes–push this button, push that button, push the other button–David said my laptop might be causing interference and he would build a Faraday cage.
An enclosure to block electromagnetic fields, named after the inventor, English scientist Michael Faraday.
He constructed two, neither of which resembled the one in Wikipedia:
The beta looked like this:
The working model looks like this:
When the sound continued to cut out, David investigated further and discovered the batteries were at 0%. He changed the batteries.
Believing there was more to the malfunction than maxed-out-batteries–after all, sometimes they worked and sometimes they didn’t–David suggested I continue to use the Faraday cage.
Better safe than soundless.
We visited the Faraday Museum in London in 2002–David’s choice. It was much easier than my choice, St. Paul’s Cathedral. At the Faraday, we didn’t have to walk up a mile of stairs, and I didn’t get a bad case of acrophobia plus a mild case of the fantods in the Whispering Gallery.
Read more Day F posts from the #AtoZChallenge here.
The Way I read a Letter’s — this — ‘Tis first — I lock the Door — And push it with my fingers — next — For transport it be sure —
And then I go the furthest off To counteract a knock — Then draw my little Letter forth And slowly pick the lock —
Then — glancing narrow, at the Wall — And narrow at the floor For firm Conviction of a Mouse Not exorcised before —
I’ve been trying to remember the last time I opened a real letter. Not a bill, not an invoice, not a request for donation, but a real letter from someone who knows me well, that begins with Dear Kathy, ends with Love, and has a middle meant just for me.
Oh, all right, I admit it–I never opened my mail behind a locked door, as Emily Dickinson does hers–but still, there was something delicious about those pieces of paper now called, with condescension, snail mail.
Opening a snail mail envelope was like opening a gift.
Sometimes it held two page on onionskin from my English pen pal, telling me about a rock concert she’d attended.
Sometimes it held fifteen pages from my cousin in California, a detailed narrative of the plot of a movie she’d seen on the late show.
Once it enclosed a card from my Aunt Betty, picturing a sad little dog and the caption, “I’m feeling dejected ’cause you was neglected,” and a note saying she’d planned to call and wish me happy birthday but had fallen asleep on the couch, and when she woke it was past both our bedtimes.
Most letters weren’t memorable; they contained news of school plays and shopping and chickenpox and report cards and last night’s overdone roast and church and swimming and Christmas caroling, just everyday life.
But they were special nonetheless, and it was the snail that made them so–traveling slowly, making us wait, and then, when hope was dwindling–surprise!— an envelope addressed in a familiar hand would fall out of messy handful of bills and circulars and slide across the concrete floor of the post office foyer.
Several years ago, I joined the Letter Writers Alliance, an organization “dedicated to preserving this art form; neither long lines, nor late deliveries, nor increasing postal rates will keep us from our mission.” I received a membership card and pledged to “carry on the glorious cultural tradition of letter writing.”
As a member, I’m supposed to take every opportunity to write letters. But I don’t. My penmanship isn’t what it used to be–too much time at the keyboard.
But I have good intentions. I buy pens and stationery to feed my habit. Who knows when I’ll loosen up and begin to correspond?
By the way, here’s what Emily does when she finally gets that envelope unlocked.
Peruse how infinite I am To no one that You — know — And sigh for lack of Heaven — but not The Heaven God bestow —
It’s what we all do: We read how infinite we are to the writer–the person whose name is written beneath the word Love.