Why?

I read a message concerning two of our Presidential candidates this morning, that angered me very much. It saddens me beyond belief that people who call themselves spiritual or Christian actually have the nerve to pass judgment on other people, not only without knowing any of the correct facts, but without giving the person a chance or bothering to find out a single thing about him.

What principle gives ANYONE the right to call another person a whore or an anti-Christ?

At the risk of sounding dogmatic myself in my anger I am trying to control my reaction and not use trite and overused phrases like....judge not lest you be judged. Somehow these phrases come out anyway.

Some people will laugh at my horror and say that I should be hardened and inured to this type of attitude by now, because of its prevalence. That is probably true. I should be. But I'm not. Perhaps I am still naive, to a certain extent, to hold on to such an idealistic view of humanity...a view that expects something other than close-mindedness and judgmentalism. But I don't want to let go of this naivete. I am still horrified every time I read a claim like the one I read this morning. And I still feel vindicated when I see or hear of someone with an unusual sense of generosity or goodwill towards others.

Bookstory

Hubby and I were out birthday shopping for V. last night and decided to stop by The Dusty Bookshelf, our neighborhood vintage bookstore. I have always loved the nooks and crannies of used bookshops, and the treasures you can find there. One of my hopes for V. is that he will end up loving books and bookshops as much as I do. They have given me so many wonderful memories.

There was the one I went to in Columbus from the time I was 11 or 12. It was a great little shop with a great owner...a true collector. He had a passion for fine books. Some of the first books in my antique book collection came from this shop. My daddy would take me for a special occasion, usually my birthday, and we would walk in the door to the jingle of a bell. There was a fish tank and a pot of stale coffee always sitting in the middle of the store, and sometimes another collector sitting in one of the armchairs talking to the owner about books he had for sale. I would wander through the tightly wedged shelves and debate for an hour whether I wanted this book or that, and end up handing over my precious birthday money for a 19th century edition of Tennyson, perhaps, or an ancient textbook.

A few years ago I decided to go back to visit the shop. I walked in, alone, to the familiar tinkle of the bell and stood in the middle of the shop. Something felt wrong; a chill ran down my spine. A very young man came out of the back room of the shop and asked if he could help me. I walked towards him, the uncomfortable feeling still lingering in my spine, and asked where the owner was. "Oh," he said, and stopped. "He died two weeks ago, of a heart attack. I came in to work the next morning and found him lying there." He pointed to the spot I had been standing when I walked in, in the middle of the bookshelves. I started to cry, for some reason. I had not been in for so long, and had come in that day wanting to tell the quirky old man how much I had always loved his shop and looked forward to coming there as a child. And I had missed him by two weeks.

He had died suddenly, in the middle of the things he loved most. It was fitting somehow.

The young man asked if I had known him. I couldn't say I really had known him, in the true sense of the word. But I felt as though I had. Every book in the room had been hand-selected, by him. I asked what would happen to the shop....and discovered that the books were being sold off for pennies and the owner's widow was selling the shop. I asked him to convey my condolences to the widow, and walked out. I felt sick. I went to my car and drove away, bewildered by the abrupt slam-shut of a treasured memory.

I had missed him by only two weeks, forever.

Ode to a deceased Sebring

You served us well, in your own style.

In you, I put on my engagement ring for the first time, and six months later, drove away from a church.

In return, you begged us for a head gasket. We gladly obliged.

In you, I drove myself and my dear husband loyally back and forth to our jobs every day, until we finally got a second car.

In return, you determined you really needed that oil problem fixed, to the tune of $800.

But you were loyal. So we showered you with gifts. We bought you a new top, a new coat of paint, new leather to dress you up. We even got you new chrome trim.

And were you satisfied? No, you were not.

In you I drove in terror to the hospital to be induced with my first child.

In return, you started burning oil yet again, and when we went to repair you, you locked up just for the grins of it and drove the bill up to over $900.

In you we made the ten hour trip with our seven-week-old baby to start a new life in the wilderness of Kansas.

And this time, you had had enough. You burned oil. You clanked. You refused to start. You blew a hose.

We gave you a new fuel system. It cost $700.

But was that enough? No. You had had it. You considered staying with us for a couple more weeks, and then sat down and never started again.

Poor Sebring. You traveled with us in Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Virginia, Washington DC, Maryland, New York, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, Ohio, and Kansas. We came to love each other.

And in the end, we left you sitting alone in the snow like an abandoned child.

And for what?

A miserable $300.

Goodbye, my lovely Sebring.

Muffins and money (grateful)

So of course we are in a rough spot so far as the car goes. It looks like we're finally faced with a decision that may involve getting rid of it, despite all of the money for both cosmetics and repairs that we've put into it. (For anyone reading this...don't EVER buy a Chrysler Sebring! Let our experience warn you!) But yesterday after doing our taxes we realized that the amount that we are getting back on our return is going to make the decision either way much, much easier. So my mood instantly lightened from depressed to only mildly anxious....

And as a result of this state of extreme levity, I randomly decided at 10:00 last night to make jelly-filled muffins (actually they were apricot-preserve-filled muffins.) They turned out lovely and I enjoyed a nice cup of tea as I sat down with Chekhov again...

American muffins.
British tea.
Russian author.
It was truly a lovely combination.

I am rather anxious to get back to "An Anonymous Story." It is fascinating and I am falling more in love with Chekhov by the minute.

And by the way, I made a dozen muffins. I have had two, but there are only five left. Do the math and figure out how many muffins went in Hubby's tummy...

Coffee and Chekhov

So V. finally decided to sleep last night and Hubby fell asleep at ten, so I (the girl in the contrary body which will never sleep when it has the opportunity) of course had to think of something to do. Out came the volume of Chekhov's short stories, recently borrowed from the library after a blinding realization of the gaping holes in my understanding of Russian literature. I cozied up with the dogs in bed and opened to "The Grasshopper."

Now first I must say I had forgotten how truly accessible Chekhov is. It's been a very long time since I have paid him any attention. And secondly, it has been longer than I can remember since I have been so completely and utterly caught up in the realm of imagination as I was by this story. Reading it gave me sudden reminiscences of my high school days when books were my life and really all that mattered was to move from one to the next without too much of a time gap in between. Completely aside from any comments on content, style, or down-through-the-ages-ness, any author who can give me back that sensation wins high marks in my book.

But moving on...I have also recently discovered Lydia Chukovskaya, one of few prominent Russian female literary figures from the time of the Soviet regime. I have read both The Deserted House (originally written as Sofia Petrovna, and not published for more than 30 years after its conception due to "ideological distortions"), and Going Under, her much later semi-autobiographical work reminiscent of her separation from her husband and daughter. Both books convey the raw emotion and terror of separation and death, experienced by so many under Soviet rule, although Going Under is perhaps more sophisticated in a literary sense.

Now it may sound corny, but somehow the idea of having your books suppressed for 30 years, being monitored by the KGB, and going through an extensive involuntary separation from your family tend to put into perspective my current extreme frustration at putting $1500 into my lemon of a car. It also (albeit in a lesser sense) puts into perspective my five months of sleepless nights. And it even (to a much smaller degree) puts into perspective my upcoming year-long separation from my husband. At least the money problems are surmountable. At least our separation is to a certain extent voluntary. And at least I have a child to cause me sleepless nights.

So that's all for post number one, folks. I will try hard to keep up with this blog, unlike others I have started in the past and not even told people about, because of the sneaking and ultimately validated suspicion that I would not write more than two or three posts before dropping them. Please keep up with me and read my posts as you get time, as this will help keep me motivated...