The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane - Kate DiCamillo

I have been reading more than I've been writing, but such is the life of a mid-semester-er.  Summer's coming - today was the first t-shirt-and-no-sweater day this year.  I am a cold-weather person, but even I get excited when I feel that first hint of warmth in the air.  It's the same feeling as a good hug, and I always appreciate such changes, even if they also make me sick.

Spring, I mean, not hugs.

Anyway, the book I'm writing about (The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane) has been out since...2006, I think?  I first read it in 2008 - beginning of the new year, actually - and it's become something of a regular event.  When I can handle it, that is.  Reading Edward Tulane is not unlike sitting by your best friend's deathbed.  This is probably why the reviews are mixed...

Edward is a china rabbit - a entitled, pompous china rabbit, that is.  He gets lost one day, and goes through a variety of owners.  Throughout the years, he slowly changes into a toy that cares for his owner(s).  The problem is that if you care for someone and lose them, it hurts.  So Edward not only learns to care/love, but also has to handle separation and loss...many, many times.

Parents have voiced some real issues here.  First is the problem that the toy gets lost and is, at times, mistreated.  Losing a loved toy as a kid sucks, and parents have to lie and say how it'll be found and loved by someone else.  That doesn't always happen to Edward, which is the harsh truth for many lost toys.  Not the best thing for a young kid to find out.

Secondly, the lives of the humans aren't that great.  Abilene, Edward's first owner, has a posh life.  That's all well and good, but becomes a harsh contrast to the two kids living in a shack with an abusive father, or the homeless men riding the trains.  Again, hard truths to learn, and maybe even harder to read it through the eyes of a toy.

I can understand the parents' concerns, but I wonder, if I read it as a child, would I have been bothered?  The toy is lost, yes, but he eventually makes it home.  And while the other characters' lives were tough, it was nothing more than reading, say, Bridge to Terabithia or The Journey of Natty Gann.  So, I doubt the concerns over young readers' emotional endurance.

Honestly, I think the discussion arises because there are multiple messages present in the book.  It's like A Series of Unfortunate Events: there were always jokes present (usually about books and authors) that only adults would get.  But those "inside jokes" didn't take away from the younger readers' enjoyment.

In Edward Tulane, readers get the same lesson as Edward: be open to love.  For young readers, this is something mostly unprecedented.  They can see that Edward opens up and cares about people, and that he experiences loss, but they're seeing it vicariously: they don't have the years on them to really understand.

Adults, on the other hand...we get it.  Edward, in the beginning, is hard.  He doesn't get hurt, because he doesn't care about anyone but himself.  When he starts to care, he also starts to hurt, and he tries to distance himself.  But he keeps hoping, and eventually is rewarded.  It's the most basic love story - that of friendship and loyalty and protection.  And when reading it, we remember various losses.  And we know.

I hate that parents don't want their kids to read Edward Tulane.  It's books like this that I treasure the most: the ones that have different meanings at different times in your life.  Even though I didn't read it as a kid, I know what my reaction would've been.  I would've been concerned about Edward, hoping he found his way home, and that his friends and previous owners all lived "happily ever after."

But as an adult, I get what Edward's lesson is: don't be afraid to care, and don't ever stop loving.

1/30 Out of the Pocket

I swear, I don't know what's going on with the sports literature - specifically, football.  I don't keep planning this.  And I still skim over the description of the games.  I ran across this one via my hometown library's e-book access (and if you use any library in TN, you oughta find out if they're a member of the R.E.A.D.S system).  It's about a gay high school quarterback (Bobby) dealing with the after-effects of being outted at the beginning of his senior year.

First, what I liked - the narrative was solid.  Never once did I fail to believe Bobby's voice.  And it's good to see gay characters breaking the stereotype, and his being gay becoming just part of who he is (his last spoken line at the end is wonderful).

But...I just didn't buy into the whole scenario.  I mean, ok, it's southern California.  I get that things might be a bit more progressive there than, say, at the high school I went to.  But really, it all just seemed too easy.  Bobby's  close friends are a little shocked at first, but just in the way that anyone reacts when told something so major (especially at 17).  Then they're fine.  His coach and mom, well, their reactions are less than perfect (mainly denial, but none of that "I have no son" business), but they come around quickly.  And his dad is completely supportive, but this could be because he is diagnosed with cancer halfway through the book.

Then the whole school finds out, and, save for, like, 6 of his teammates, people are clapping for the guy for coming out (which was accidental, though they aren't aware of that).  The whole concept was that the kids had less of a problem with Bobby's being gay due to being raised in a more gay-friendly culture than their parents.  That was true for some of them, but it seemed to Bobby's friends/teammates, that it was more because of who he was - their friend.

So while I believed Bobby, I didn't believe anyone else.  And that makes me wonder...is the author, Bill Konigsberg, writing about what would happen, or what should happen?  Most of the conflict Bobby runs into is in his own mind - it's his issue with being gay, not anyone else's.  At least, not anyone he's close to.  How is it that Bobby's coach can go from "you're just confused" to "hey, no problem, we're all a family!" in a handful of weeks?  Or that his mom can turn her perspective around overnight?

Then there's a major issue that was skirted over - Finch, the school newspaper reporter and all-around invisible man, is the one who outs Bobby in his column.  He does so to have an impressive writing sample to send in with his college applications.  He tells Bobby it was also to do him a favor (since Bobby was in agony over whether or not to tell anyone).  Bobby, understandably, is furious at Finch, but eventually realizes Finch gave him the opportunity to "change the world" for gay male athletes.

But before Bobby has this epiphany, he confronts Finch about the betrayal.  Finch says that Bobby doesn't get it - that everyone loves a "jock" and he can do no wrong.  But Finch will always be ignored, and basically, were the situation reversed, the outcome would've been different.

Now, that's something interesting to bring up - how maybe certain things only matter in high school if you're not top dog.  Or maybe if you don't act like they matter - or maybe if you're the one to break the news.  But the idea ends there.  Bobby writes a follow-up article explaining that Finch broken confidence, but ultimately says he thanks him for it.  And that's that - the whole "it wouldn't be like this for everyone" allusion is over.

Why didn't Konigsberg follow up on that one?  And if we're writing about how things should be - about how most kids will basically be understanding, and adults will come around - why give some unresolved mention that this is typically not how things are?

Maybe I'm wrong on this one.  Maybe there's been enough exposure to where, for the most part, the negative backlash for gay teens is inner turmoil.  Not that that makes life easy, but it's a big step up from the days of inner turmoil AND getting thrown out of the house AND getting beaten up at school AND being told you're going to hell.  That's progress...isn't it?

Still, though, I'm not sure this was the most realistic depiction of a coming-out story.  If Konigsberg was just going to depict a few months in Bobby's life (that just happen to overlap with his coming out) and not try and convey a message about sexuality, it would be one thing.  But the message is there, and it just seems to be lost in the idealism of what should happen when an athlete comes out.

(Sans the Fred Phelps scene.)

Overall, not a waste of my morning, but not the best thing I've read all year.

-B.

1/28 - The Catcher in the Rye

There are like four or five books I'm wanting to write about - one that's relatively new (published in the fall), and a few that are "older."

But I can't let today go by without acknowledging Salinger.

I will be honest - the only Salinger book I've ever read is Catcher in the Rye.  But it's not the only one I own, and so it's just that whole "scheduling" nightmare that Nine Stories and Franny and Zooey are caught in.  In light of Salinger's death, I'll probably expedite those.  When an author you love dies, you sort of have that weird "death of a friend" reaction.  Instead of wishing you had called him one last time, you're left wishing you had read [that book] when he was still alive.

It makes no sense, I know, but very little we think makes any sense (if you were to really think about it).

Catcher is one I go back and read once every three years or so, starting at age 12.  What makes this one of my favorite books is that it was suggested to me by my dad.  When I was a kid, Dad wasn't a big reader.  (This has since changed, but only recently, and still not fiction.)  He disliked reading as a child/teen, so if he were to recommend something to me, I knew it had to be good.  Catcher in the Rye was that book.  He gave me a copy when I was in middle school, saying "if you feel misunderstood and hate the world and everyone in it right now, you'll appreciate this."  I didn't hate everyone, but he was right.

Catcher's a book that I appreciate for different reasons at different points in my life.  The last kick was the fact that it was written for adults, but appreciated by teenagers.  I love books like that that get "adopted" by a young adult audience, without being written for them.  I think that's why - the author writes what is true, and teens are receptive to that.  Holden doesn't really know what to do with his life, which, I imagine, would be a refreshing narrative in comparison with YA books of "old."  Fifteen now is still like fifteen then, so no wonder it's still a favorite novel of teenagers each generation.  That's universality, man - it's the Dark Side of the Moon for literature.

Salinger was an old dude, so it's not like we can really feel cheated.  I think it was Homer Simpson who said "That's what old people do,  son.  They die."  But you still feel a loss in the literary realm.  Salinger wasn't publishing - and his quotes on why he stopped make a pretty interesting case for the definition of art - but he was still writing.  And even if he stopped sharing what he saw, the world still seems different without that perspective:

Among other things, you find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know.  Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now.  Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles.  You'll learn from them--if you want to.  Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you.  It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement.  And it isn't education.  It's history.  It's poetry.

1/18/10 "The Rifle" - Gary Paulson

When I lived in North Carolina, I took a conceal/carry class in Johnson City over Memorial Day weekend.  I did it for a few reasons: first, for the hell of it; second, because my dad had recently gone through the class and thought I’d find it interesting; and third, because despite growing up around guns, my parents never had firearms in the house (meaning I had no experience).

I took the 8-hour class, I shot three rounds on a colt .22, and I got certified to carry a concealed weapon that I didn’t even own. 

Later that summer, I took another firearms course from the TWRA.  This time, they had an assortment of firearms: .22s, .38s, a peacemaker, a glock, a 9mm beretta.  They also had rifles of various calibers.  I shot the rifle first.  My handgun skills were mediocre, but I was a crackshot at the rifle.

Let me back up.  We didn’t have serious firearms growing up, but we did have Dad’s BB gun back from the 50s.  It was shaped like a rifle – about the size and even weight of a .22.  When we lived in the country, Dad explained that yes, Ralphie, the gun could put your eye out.  That’s why we shouldn’t shoot at each other.  It probably had enough power to kill a small bird, so Atticus said that's why we shouldn’t shoot at animals.  And then my father and I spent the afternoon shooting BBs straight up into the air and running from them as they fell back to earth.

(We did the same thing with a bow and arrow a year or so later. The only rule my Dad had about danger was that he wanted to be a part of it.)

We moved into the city limits when I was 7.  Neighborhood watch tends to frown on blindly shooting BBs up into the sky.  By this point I was old enough to be trusted with the gun – that is, to not shoot something living.  It was too big, and I was too small, to worry about me going Cobain or Hemingway.  So I’d go out on Saturday mornings, when the air was thick with humidity and the tall grass wet with dew, and shoot coke cans off our wooden fence.  The BBs would lodge in the thin aluminum, or if I missed – which happened less and less as I got older and steadier – they’d disappear into the wood out back.

I did this a lot, growing up. That’s why, I think, when I held the rifle for the first time near twenty years later, it seemed more natural.  I knew what it was to have this extension of myself.  The handgun concept was still new, but this…this was familiar.

Before I left for Kentucky, my grandmother gave me my great-grandma’s .410 shotgun.  I took it home and cleaned it (and cleaned it and cleaned it), and before I left, Dad and I went out to a friend’s property and fired it.  It was still a good shot, so I took it back and sat it next to my bed.  I like it sitting there.  Partially because it belonged to Granny A-, the family matriarch I met once or twice before she died at age 104.  The mother of my grandfather, a wild man who died long before I was born, but is still very much alive in my father’s stories.

And partially, because I know how to use it, if I had to.

I say all this to explain that, part of the reason I picked up Gary Paulson’s The Rifle was because of the title.  Also, I’m a big fan of Paulson.  I read Hatchet back as a kid, as well as Dogsong and a few others.  As an adult, I’ve gone back and read over the classics, and tried to find the ones I’ve missed (because man, Paulson wrote a lot).

Paulson writes about the woods, and animals, and nature, and the man knows what he’s talking about.  He lives in New Mexico and owns property in Alaska where he trains dogs for the Iditarod (which he’s raced in a number of times).  He is a hunter and a trapper.  He ain’t no city slicker.

And I say all this to explain that The Rifle might possibly be one of the most misunderstood books I’ve come across in recent years.

It’s a novella, basically – about 100 pages long.  I read it while simmering rice to mix with some gumbo I’d made the night before.  Wikipedia claims it proves the statement “guns don’t kill people, people kill people,” which is wrong.  Reviewers on Amazon call it “liberal propaganda,” which is wrong.  It is, simply put, a depiction of the continuing life of a rifle, as well as snippets of the lives it comes into contact with.

Given that it’s just 100 pages, and that everything in the story is moving towards this one event, it’s hard to write this and not spoil the climax.  But honestly, you know what’s going to happen from the “teaser” on the back.  I clipped along at a steady pace, and then slowed during the last 20 pages or so…knowing what was coming, and trying to hold it off.  Paulson’s good like that.  His style is such that information is straight-forward and blunt.  His characters – his young men – are hard.  And you love them.  And as though this were real, when something happens, response is such that readers are quick to blame something, someone, anything, anyone.  That’s why reviewers will call this book anti-gun.

But I think they’re missing the point.

Early in the story, the narrator explains that everything is connected.  One change in the past could alter a major outcome in the future.  He implies importance in understanding the full picture of history, and not just “selecting” information to store away for later.  Otherwise, we fail to see where we are and how we got here, and we stand to lose a lot from that ignorance.

This book is not pro- or anti-gun.  But you can look at it like an allegory all the same.  What’s wrong with failing to see or understand how history builds on itself?  How one moment can have a dramatic effect nearly two hundred years later?  The message is more about the importance of history – not just overall history, but individual as well.  Which is why I see the gun in my bedroom primarily as an offshoot of my lineage…and why it always sits on its butt, opened and unloaded, and with the barrel pointed upwards.

And the ending?  The ending is a reminder that not everything dies, so it’s important to pass it along with care, and knowledge.

1/16/10 - "Deadline," Part II.

Ok.  So.  As previously mentioned, everyone who can understand the English language by age 15 or so should read Crutcher's Deadline.  Yes, I have expanded the original requirement.  I have my reasons.

Crutcher's novels are generally sports-related, and Deadline is about football.  I've already discussed this - I know sports lit means more to team athletes than it does to me.  That's not to say I can't appreciate it, because I do understand what people get from participating in or watching football (see previous entry: The White Gates).  And if at some point I have a kid - boy OR girl - and they get into football...well, my parents went to all of my band concerts, so you'd better believe I'd be there and would learn the lingo fast.

Granted, Crutcher doesn't only write about football - the first book of his I read, Stotan!, is about a swim team, and I know he's covered track.  But like all good books, there is a balance of pure action (the games/meets) and plot.  They tie in together, but reading a Crutcher novel for someone who doesn't follow certain sports isn't like reading the sports page.  It's an addition, not the glue that holds it together.

So this works in two ways - you've got appeal to folks who don't follow sports, but you have a hook for any readers who do.  This is what I like about sports lit and the presumably "reluctant reader" - you can have enough description of a sport to appeal to its young followers, and then balance it out (or use it for) plot/character development, symbolism, etc.  I am convinced that is why my entire 7th grade English class reacted the way we did to S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders - we were 12 and, having recently seen   and most likely misinterpreted Dangerous Minds, were into the idea of gang fighting.


The thing with Crutcher is, he's both real, and represents reality.  Make no mistake, these are two separate things.  He's real in the sense that his characters are real teenagers.  They drop the F-bomb.  They think about, and talk about, and have sex.  They are full of that energy that is both euphoric and terrifying, and aren't quite sure where to direct it.  Crutcher is the second YA author who I thought was much younger than he actually is, because his descriptions of high school, of teenagers, were too pure to be written by an adult.  As we grow up, we lose that sense of what being young really was - the good and the bad and what we really did and said - and idealize it in our minds and gloss over it in our writing.    But that's not how it is, and I always admire those writers who, for lack of a better description, keep it real.

Crutcher also represents reality in the same way that the Degrassi series does.  That is, his characters are facing issues that might be overlooked in other works of fiction.  Crutcher routinely writes about mental illness (and we're making that a very umbrella term: not just depression/anxiety), about rape, about molestation, about alcoholism, about suicide, about drug use, about abuse (again, very broad), and about illness...just to name a few. And these aren't issues that are brought up, like, one-per-book: you'll have run the entire gamut by the time you get the the end of Deadline.

Even writing that, I know it sounds like his work is melodramatic.  But what separates Crutcher's writing from ye old "problem novel" is the fact that that he doesn't just focus on one problem.  Narrator Ben Wolf is dying, yes, but by the time you reach the final few chapters of the book, it almost seems like he's getting off easy compared to what's going on with other characters.  It puts things in perspective.  Ben doesn't tell anyone what's going on with him, just the same way other characters aren't up front about their own demons.

So, what's the rationale for making this required reading for all of humanity (yes, one last expansion)?  It isn't the previously described drama, which Crutcher handles with an impressive, delicate distance (in fact, if you read reviews on Amazon, some readers feel there should have been more emotional outbursts to such situations...but at some point, we need for fiction to show how reality should be, not how it most often is).  Rather, it is Ben's response to his one-year "deadline" - his dedication to his final year of school, his persistence in his final football season, and his passion at leaving "something" behind before he's gone.  What he starts out to do is to challenge the school's "traditional" teaching of American history (and props to Ben for referencing James Loewen's Lies My Teacher Told Me, Alex Haley's The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and David Sedaris).  What Ben winds up attempting is a seemingly futile request to have a local street name changed to "Malcolm X Avenue," and thereby force his small, all-white town to recognize that racism still exists.

The book is back at the library now, but there's a line towards the end about how Ben "lived like [he] was going to die tomorrow, but with the understanding that any action affected others."  In context, that was such a powerful idea - to live without fear, but to recognize that things said and choices made have an impact on others, even after we're gone.  And "gone" could mean anything here - graduating, moving - though Ben is focusing on a more permanent departure.

There's so much more to the book that what I've said.  Ben's coach...I could write so much about that character, but I'm pretty sure 80% of it is due to the fact that I was seriously infatuated with him by the time the book was over.  Essentially, Crutcher really hit a stride here.  I'm plenty happy to embrace this as his magnum opus, but personally, I'm still hoping the best is yet to come.

1/10/10 - Every Soul a Star

Every Soul a Star (Wendy Mass)

This covers about two weeks (leading up to a total solar eclipse) through the perspectives of three teenagers.  It’s the old “unlikely friendship” story, though there are actually 6 characters in the group of friends.

Mass’ plot is really strong.  She jumps back and forth between each character, but the story isn’t 100% linear.  For instance, Ally will describe one incident and you’ll see Jack present, but it won’t be clear what’s happening.  Then Jack will follow up and give his perspective, and what was going on in that original scene will become clear (without the exact same scene being replayed).   But since the time overlaps, you don’t get clarity on some points immediately, which is good.

I love the various narratives in the story, but they came with an issue: there’s not a strong distinction between the voices unless there’s dialogue.  This might not be a problem, except really the majority is narrative.  I mean, it’s obvious who’s talking, but there should be some alteration in tone or even syntax.  Like, Bree is a “popular girl,” and every now and then she describes something as “fab.”  But those times are few and far between.  Wouldn’t she, even in internal dialogue, have a more distinct voice than Ally?  Or Jack?  For that matter, for someone really intelligent, Ally’s narration should sound different than Bree.

You can make the comparison with Robert Cormier – The Chocolate War was primarily focalized (third person) through Jerry, but when Cormier would swap perspectives into another character, the voice shifted.  One character had a catch phrase or two that another wouldn’t – just like in reality, if they were speaking.  So the fact that Mass is using first-person narrative should necessitate such distinction even more.

Aside from that, the descriptions of space and astronomy were wonderful.  The description of the solar eclipse was amazing, absolutely amazing.  And the fact that the kids were part of groups that real people can join – SETI, for instance – was cool.  I like when authors use these real-life references, so the reader can, say, go to SETI’s website and hook her computer up and be part of the search for extra-terrestrial life.  Not that I’m talking about me, or anything…

But the best thing I took away from this book was the realization that on August 21, 2017, Christian Co. KY – about an hour or so from where I live – will have the best viewing of a total solar eclipse.  I cannot wait to see the moon’s shadow race up to meet me.

01/9/10 - Deadline

1.  Deadline - Chris Crutcher

I should say a lot about this book.  But not now.  I tried but everything's fragmented, and not only do the ideas not tie together, they're not complete.  And though I'm writing these for myself, I still can't stand fragmentation.

(Plus, the last few responses have been hella long.  Brevity'll break it up a bit.)

All I will say is this: if it were required that all high school freshman read one book, this would be it.  I realize that's a pretty fascist idea for someone who registered as a socialist in college, but I truly believe it.  Now's the time when I justify why, but we'll have to come back to that later.

For now, just get the book.

1/7/10 - "Marcelo in the Real World" and "The White Gates."

Classes start in approx. 5 days (that’s 120 hours, but who’s counting?), which means this whole “two books a day” frenzy will soon be at an end.

Until summer.

But, for the next few days – excepting the hours that are spent doing laundry and cleaning and cooking and doing what I’m paid to do – I’m trying to knock out as many novels as I can. I went to the library the other day for one book and came out with five, because I’d find a couple that I remember reading something about, and a couple that just looked interesting (judgment based on title and/or subject and/or dust jacket). And although I do not have an addictive personality for things many people would be addicted to, if i seen a book that "looks interesting" at the library, I have to take the book with me.

Relevant Aside: I can’t explain why when I go in a bookstore or library I get this feeling of intense hunger, like I could eat forever and never satisfy it. At times it’s depressing – to know that, no matter how much I read, there will always be more. I’ll always be missing something – something great – and I’ll never get it all. But at other times it’s comforting to know greatness will continue to be there: there’s no way I could ever experience it all. Someday I won’t get to anymore, but hell, at least I would’ve made a dent in it.

In one of my first grad classes – Lit. for Young Adults – we had to write an essay over what we liked to read when we were kids. I wrote how my reading experience was much like what happens when you go to an all-you-can-eat buffet with a serious appetite and no real focus. You’re standing in line, near chewing your arm off from the hunger, and when you get ahold of that white plate, you just kind of go into a zone. Before you know it, you’ve got steak and seafood and Chinese and tacos and pizza all piled together, and you’re only headed back to your seat because you can’t fit anymore on the damn plate. But this doesn’t mean you won’t go back and get, say, some casserole and baked beans, and eventually make your way to the desert (salad? salad is just not an option in these times).

My point was, I didn’t have a preference. I read everything. Some things were recommended to me, and others I picked up after reading the summary. Eventually I got to where I liked certain authors (Katherine Paterson, S.E. Hinton, Gary Paulson, Kevin Anderson of the novelized Star Wars/X-Files world), and would seek out their work. But probably 75% of my choices were arbitrary – I picked up those books because I needed to read something, and it just felt right.

For a while, the hunger subsides.

Anyway.

The last two books are recent. Marcelo in the Real World (Francisco X. Stork) and The White Gates (Bonnie Ramthun).

Marcelo is up for awards this year, and it’s clear why. The narration is wonderful. The ability to identify with Marcelo – who, for lack of a better label, identifies along the Autism spectrum – is solid without being preachy or anything.

Since we’re on the subject, that’s something that pisses me off – I can’t stand it when you’ve got a character that is in some way disabled, and they’re used to “teach a lesson.” Like that’s the ultimate purpose. It just seems limiting to assume that a character is going to automatically know more about life or the world because they are “different” in some respect. Typically they are not the primary characters. But god, it’s so old, and just so limiting. For as much as I loved the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series, that irked me about the first book: Bailey has cancer, Bailey teaches Tibby about the world and life and shit, and then Bailey dies. Of course Bailey dies. We knew she would – it’s the way this formula works! And for a writer who really kept an element of realism to her work, Brashares disappointed me on that level.

Granted, the Bailey situation heightened the other 3 novels and it became more real and better crafted. But the first one, I dunno, the whole clichéd kid-with-cancer bit just didn’t do it for me. And so I’m really glad Stork keeps Marcelo real. You lose the character’s verisimilitude, you lose the reader.

I know there’s more to be said on how important novels like this can be for Autistic teens (even if Marcelo isn’t autistic), but what got me was the religious aspect. Religion is complicated. I hate talking about it, in any capacity. Many YA books I read sort of gloss over it – the character has some religious connection, but not strong. Maybe they go to church on Christmas and Easter. This keeps them in the good graces of the Christian kids, but lets kids of other or no faiths understand that this person won’t be preaching to them – easy way to make everyone happy. Marcelo, however, considers religion to be his “special interest.” And he’s Catholic, but he hangs with a female rabbi and names his dog after a Buddhist prayer. God is discussed in the book, but in a very abstract, open sense. Marcelo’s beliefs are Marcelo’s, but they transcend organized religion and delve more into spirituality – or, more appropriately – humanity. It’s satisfying to see another option besides YES RELIGION and NO RELIGION, both of which only work to exclude.

For as deep and rich and real as Marcelo was, The White Gates was not. I knew that going into it. And I did not care, because this was a novel about snowboarding. Snowboarding. When I saw the boarder on the cover, I thought “Oh shit yes,” and took it without even reading the summary.

First, the critique. This follows the typical kid-mystery where the kids are in danger and save themselves of their own accord. Not likely, but still exciting and empowering, so suspend your disbelief at the door.

Near as I can reckon, though, there are two types of books: ones where you forget the author, and ones where you don’t. It’s much like the movies – you forget that’s an actor on screen and instead buy into the fact that it’s a character. In The White Gates, I could hear Ramthun about 80% of the time over the characters. Now that’s a problem in a kid-mystery, where the kids outsmart the bad guys (adults) and take control of the situation. The one thing you don’t want to hear during those times is the author – an adult.

But hell, this is Ramthun’s first YA novel. Stepping back and letting the young-folk characters direct the story takes time. Besides, I picked up the book not for the unknown story, but because there was a snowboarder on the cover.

I’ve read a handful of YA novels dealing with sports. The last one was The Million Dollar Throw by Mike Lupica. It was about football. I do not care for football. It’s not a moral stance; I just generally don’t care for the game. So I read through the novel and, I admit, I skimmed the chapters where he describes all things football. I knew it had to do with the plot, and I knew that readers who enjoy (or at least understand) football would get more out of it. And although I really liked the book, I just wasn’t one of those people.

But with The White Gates, I was totally one of those people. For the issues I had with the voice, I was in love with her description of the slopes, and Torin’s response to the sport. I remembered the same agony of spending the majority of your first runs on your ass, and then identified with Tor’s excitement when he felt the board finally “come alive” beneath his feet.

And the best part – the part I have always felt, will hopefully always feel, when I strap in – was this:

He could still feel the sensation of being up and riding a snowboard. It was exactly like the dreams he’d had as a small child, of flying through the sky without wings or plane, being able to swoop and soar however he liked.

It’s an amazing feeling, and she did a helluva job capturing it. And not just the feeling, but the sounds of the sport:

A sound like someone tearing a piece of paper in two announced the arrival of Gloria.

Ahhh..that sound…

Now if you’ll excuse me, we actually got some snow here. And while my backyard isn’t a ski resort anymore – oh Torin, I’ve lived your life briefly – I’ve got enough of a slope to practice my jumps.

01/04/10 - Books.

Ten years ago I was thinking that I knew Y2K was a crock, but also sort of disappointed it didn’t follow through. I think I could survive in social anarchy – my reading preferences as a young adult prepped me for it.

On that topic, last January I started a list of all the books I read during the year. The main purpose was a memory-jogger for years down the road: if I was reading a book and a plot seemed familiar, I could actually cross-check it instead of pressing on until something clicked. But also, I wondered about how many books I read in a year. I finished at 69, with 2 incomplete (so they’ll make this year’s list - can’t figure out if that’s equal or not).

I really thought I could clear 100, because while I do read actual books for adults, my favorite genre is young adult fiction. Some of those you can knock out in a day. And while I read a lot of YAF, I was also living in North Carolina for most of the year. North Carolina, with ski slopes in the winter. North Carolina, with clear lakes for fishing, and trails for hiking, and summers that feel more like early spring. Reading is a top priority for me, but ignoring where I lived would’ve been like turning away from the glance of a man you love. Sometimes you’re strong, sometimes you’re not. I was infatuated – in love, even – and as we do, I sacrificed moments of my free time. And I have no regrets.

Where I live now has all of the cold, less of the snow, and none of the hills. While I’d love to run, it’s actually cold enough that when my mind tells my body it’s not a good idea, my body listens. And we sit inside, getting fat on cabbage soup, country ham, and biscuts, and wait for the thaw.

And until then, we read.

But a year passes and I am thinking, I oughta start responding to some of this, because what good is a list without annotations? I look back in 10, 20, 30 years and remember I read “Coraline” in 2009, but don’t remember that I loved it and hated that the movie added a new character? Or that my favorite thing about Gary Paulson is that not only is he a great writer, but he’s the type of guy who, when the robots take over – and they will take over – will survive out in the woods with his dogs? Or that Twilight sucked?

Hence, my actual return to the blog, as I have found something less awkward to write about than, like, my feelings. So here you have my feelings…on books.

1. If I Stay – Gayle Forman.

Trivia: This is officially the first ebook I’ve ever read. I say this because it might explain the next critique – I wasn’t totally convinced by the dialogue. Conversations between characters are something I pay attention to, and if I don’t buy it, then my disbelief is failing to suspend. It’s not that it really got to me – parts of it just seemed unconvincing, especially for teenagers (and parents in their 30s). But it wasn’t persistent, which makes me wonder if the first-experience-reading-online had something to do with it. Additionally, this is one of Forman’s first novels. If she had to leave something to be desired, then the occasional lapse in dialogue is ok by me.

On the plus side, I totally bought into the overall plot. The story isn’t original, but the take is new. The emotion is real, without being overly done or sentimental, which is difficult in any book with a focus on death/dying. And the descriptions are really solid – again without being over-the-top.

There are also all kinds of comments about punk rock, which (to me) was awesome.

2. Surface Tension – Brent Runyon

It’s 4 days into the new year, and if I have to pick a favorite book of the year (out of the 4 I’ve read so far), this is it. I think this will still be it by the end of the year, or at least in the top 5.

Another ebook – this one picked because the author contributes to “This American Life.” And because he’s a guy. I really, really like it when men write YAF. I’m not sure if that’s sexist or the opposite, but it makes me happy because it’s going against the norm, and they can be pretty damn good at it.

This one’s broken up into summers (subtitle: "A Novel In Four Summers") – a boy and his family return to a family lake cottage when he is 13, 14, 15, and 16. I read this because I could relate, sort of. We didn’t have a family cottage or anything, but every summer, my parents and I went to the same location and stayed in the same place. I knew what it was like to leave a place and come back a little different each time. And while I am not now, nor have I ever been, a 13 year old boy, I always appreciate a book that can make me empathize with someone. The boy and girl thing, it’s like living next to someone and having a mirror view of their room. The picture is a little distorted, but every now and then you get a clearer image, and you realize they have an E.T. poster, too. Surface Tension is like getting a better view of the mirror.

The voice is believable. The tone has shifted from 13 to 14, 14 to 15, and so on. But it doesn’t change and become something else. What I like best is that it is entirely first-person – not only appropriate for a teenage narrative (male OR female), but you also get ambiguity. Anything Luke experiences alone, you get the full picture. But when other people are involved – especially the adults – there is confusion because we’re only hearing one side of the story. Issues were raised that made me want clarity or explanation, but the day would end and Luke would be off doing something else. It wouldn’t make sense to explain every little moment. That’s not how life works, especially not if you’re a young teen. Stuff happens, and it doesn’t always make sense. It was refreshing to read something that brought back feelings of confusion and ambiguity.

I wasn’t 100% into Jenn (“16” – who writes a postcard like that?) but the method made sense. Pretty much, my only criticism is that I just wish this one were longer, but then would I appreciate it as much? The irony is that as an older Luke chastised himself for wishing away his childhood, I read through his narrative quickly, always glancing to the next page, and then wished I had slowed down a little once it was over.

What should also be on this list is the textbook I’ve yet to read for the syllabus I’ve yet to write for class that starts next week.

12.1.09

Just now. Not a poem. Maybe soon:

Summer, and you protect your ears

Against the lawnmower's roar

With music.

Your iPod skips a song,

Landing on one you downloaded

Long ago. And have not

Listened to since.

And in that instant, you are

What you claim you can never be:

Two places at once.

As the music pours in,

As sweat pours out,

You are in your car.

Parked, in the snow.

The song playing

For your ears,

The very first time:

You need to go in.

You need to finish.

It is very cold.

It is getting late.

But you stay to write

But you stay to hear

Down that line you liked.

The chorus one last time

In both worlds, the music is
So clear.  Though it's hard
To discern which smell it is
That permeates the air:

The fresh-cut grass

Or, the snow.

Death is a doorknob made of flesh.

Only once at LMC did I leave my office keys at home.  As such luck works, of course, no one was around to unlock the door, so I had to go back.  That's the only reason why I caught "The Writer's Almanac" on NPR.

Listening with half an ear, I was passing Lowe's headed quickly back to the school when Garrison Keillor read Jim Harrison's poem "Larson's Holstein Bull" -

Death waits inside us for a door to open.

Death is patient as a dead cat.

Death is a doorknob made of flesh.

Death is that angelic farm girl

gored by the bull on her way home

from school, crossing the pasture

for a shortcut.  In the seventh grade

she couldn't read or write.  She wasn't a virgin.

She was "simpleminded," we all said.

It was May, a time of lilacs and shooting stars.

She's lived in my memory for sixty years.

Death steals everything except our stories.

It was a delayed reaction, but I rolled the third line over and over in my head for a few seconds until I physically shuddered.  I knew what Harrison meant: I could anticipate what a "doorknob made of flesh" would feel like in my hand - reaching out, expecting cold metal and instead finding warm (slightly warm?) skin, thin skin, covering harder bone underneath.  Same way it feels to touch someone's hand, or elbow, or jawline, minus the positive emotional component.

There's much more to the poem, but I never forgot that line.  I searched out the poem and wrote it down in my print journal - my handwriting on that third line even scratchier than normal.  Occasionally, in my head, I'll hear Keillor read it - his voice matter-of-fact, like an everyday experience.  It always invokes a shudder.

For me, the impact lies not just with imagining the grotesque description, but also in the symbolism regarding death.  You reach out, expecting something normal, and instead experiencing something terrifying.  Such is the reminder that life goes on.  It's difficult to realize that when you die, life will continue.  Just as difficult a realization is that life continues even when you're living.  The difference being that when you're alive, and everything seems regular, it might not be.  Life presses onward and onward, and if you expect normality - the standard, everyday brass doorknob - sometimes you grab hold of something else altogether.

More proof my primary education didn't prepare me for academia

Back in grade school, we called the act of someone pulling someone else's pants down in public "shanking."  I thought that was the typical slang until I went on to college or watched a movie and heard the term "pantsing" for the first time.  (Seriously, I was at least 18 before I heard it called that.)  And I then learned that a "shank" was synonymous with shiv - a weapon fashioned in a prison, and getting "shanked" meant you got stabbed with said shiv.

Though actually, we weren't misusing term too terribly.  Prisoners get shanked in the lunch line...and that's where kids would often get, well, "shanked" at Westside Elementary.

I'm beginning to think grade school wasn't meant to prepare me for upper-level education.  I think it was meant to prepare me for five-to-ten.  My grades back then would probably testify to the fact.

Hazy Shade of Winter

I love the cold.

It’s strange, because most people I know dislike winter. They’re summer people. I guess living in TN you have to be, because once summer hits, it’s HOT and you’d better be ready. But I hate the heat the way most people dislike the cold.

There’s this thing called seasonal affective disorder, where you get depressed (either slightly or majorly) in the winter. Less sunlight, less time spent outside…it psychologically gets to people. Some people it affects more than others, but I know plenty of folks who are just happier in the summer than winter.

But there’s a SAD for summer as well. Not depression, but you sleep less, eat less, even suffer from anxiety in extreme cases. Basically, it’s restlessness. I feel that, and once the cold months move in, it just feels like things slow down. And I relax.

I was always this way. When I was a kid, I went outside just as much during the winter as I did in the summer. Maybe more. I loved the cold, snow or no snow (and in south east TN, it was usually “no snow”).

And it’s still the same now. Take Monday evening, for example: I left work and it felt just like winter. It was cold, but the wind wasn’t blowing. Snow was falling, gently, adding to the blanket already on the ground. The sky was grey, and the sun was already setting behind the clouds. Everything was quiet and still. No one was out. Those days feel like the world is wrapped in a blanket, like time is standing still. I left my gloves in my bag so I could feel the cold on my skin. I breathed in the chilly air, filling my lungs, and sighed, content. Being in love with winter is like being part of a secret not everyone understands.

Maybe that’s what I like best about it.

Google This.

The moment I switched my search engine preferences was well after Google became a verb.  I heard it on a movie—Maid in Manhattan, I think it was: “You can Google it when you get to school.”  I hadn’t heard Google used like that before, and I loved it, so I made the decision to stop using Yahoo! and start using Google for my online researching needs.

Yes, this online-life change came about because the noun had become a verb.  But it’s not the whole “sounding like a hipster” appeal that attracted me; I just always like it when nouns become verbs.  I try and use a noun as a verb on a daily basis—like, “facebook” : “Facebook me tomorrow, Josh, because I’ll be at work.”   That one’s become pretty standard, so sometimes I like to come up with my own.  Take, for instance, the word “crockpot”: “You wanna come over for dinner tomorrow?  I’ll crockpot a chicken.”

The grammarian in me knows using a noun like a verb isn't the best decision (unless someone else is doing it online), but I can’t stop.  I love it.  Essentially, you’re taking power away from what was the noun and giving it to yourself.  It’s not the crockpot that’s doing to work; it’s you, because you’re the one crockpoting.  Same thing with “Googling.”  You don’t “Yahoo” or “Webcrawler,” and even though it contains a verb, “AskJeeves” just doesn’t have the same effect. 

So Google it was, and Google it has been for six years or so.

Thanks to Google, I've been able to slack off in online researching.  Not only will it search the site without me having to actually GO to the site, but it'll fill in the question for me. Now, I used to search by noun phrases, using AND or NOT and quotation marks to get really specific.  Now I just write out the question, as informal as possible, and wait for Google to fill in the rest.  For some reason, this is fascinating--I love typing stuff into the search bar to see if anyone else has asked the same thing.

After Sarah Palin made the comment about being able to see Russian from Alaska, I started wondering if it really WAS possible.  In my defense, it was late and I'm pretty sure I had had a few beers.  The sane and sober part of me knew it wasn't true, but the drunk part just wanted to check.  So I went to Google and typed in "Can you see Russia..." and it was immediately filled in with "...from Alaska."  I was thrilled.  Not only did I find out the answer (no, you can't), but it was satisfying to know that other people were wondering the same thing, that we were all out there Googling together.

Adulthood and stuff.

I was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for my lunch the other day--well, it would have been a PB&J if I had any jelly.  Which I did not.

I scavenged through my cupboards to find something to go with the PB and came up with a container of honey.  Mmmmm, peanut butter and honey...so I'm standing in my kitchen, , drizzling honey over the bread, and I start to wonder about how much sugar is in the honey.  Then I realize it's replacing jam--and not just any jam, this is jam my grandmother made herself, so you know it's nice and sugary.  But still, one of them had to be higher up on the chain of "unhealthy."

And that's when I realized I am an adult.  You can go for years getting degrees and jobs, and you can sign paperwork that gives some of your money to the government, and you can get health insurance and pay back loans and vote and donate money to public radio.  You can start running for health, you can buy whole-grain bread instead of white, and 1% milk instead of whole, and you can even start drinking light beer.  You can do all of this, and still retain some youth.

But the moment you think to yourself "I wonder if I'm getting too much sugar in my diet" is the moment you're an honest-to-god adult.

I think I heard my knees crack as I walked out of the kitchen.

Anyway.   Here's some stuff I wrote on Friday of last week (fall break):

Lines Written in a Subaru Car Dealership in Boone, NC.

Yesterday I almost got lost in Elizabethton.  Getting lost in Elizabethton, Tennessee, would’ve been the most embarrassing thing to happen to me in a while, and you have to keep in mind that the day before fall break, one of my classes decided they should “set me up” with one of their instructors (long story, but it came about during a student’s informational speech on the new golf coach.  Er, thanks, guys).

But what happened was, there’s a country road on the outskirts of Hampton that bypasses Elizabethton.  After somebody showed it to me a year or so ago, I started using it a lot any time I had to cut around the city (usually to get to Banner Elk so I could night-ski).  It’s a pretty effective time-saver, unless you realize that the road is closed.  But no worries—there was a detour sign.  So I turn down the road I’ve never been on, assuming it’ll eventually intersect with the original road, or at least get me back to the main highway.  But no.

The first problem is, there’s only one detour sign.  I realized after a minute or so, there should’ve been another sign or two, just letting me know I was going the right way.  I guess TDOT assumed anyone on that road actually knew their way around and wasn’t just, y’know, using a country road to avoid traffic.

Typically when you get that sense of “something’s not right,” you reassess the situation.  In this case, “reassessing the situation” means “turning around, getting back to the main road, biting the bullet, and driving through town”  But I’m persistent, and I kept thinking “there’s no way I can get too far off-track, and I’ve gone too far to turn around now.”  That’s a little mantra that I’m sure will one day get me arrested, killed, or married: “I’ve gone too far to turn around now.”

This day, it all worked out for the better, and it’s all thanks to the fact that last summer I wanted to earn some extra cash.  The road I was on eventually ended at a fork, and at this fork was a church.  The church looked familiar, and sure enough, I realized I’d been on this road before, just facing the opposite direction.  It’s the same road I took to get to my boss’ parents’ house, where I did some yard work last summer.  I checked beyond the church and sure enough, there were the laurels, and there was the park, and suddenly I knew my place in the world, if at least for thirty seconds.

Had I not driven out there a few times before, I would’ve been screwed.  It’s not a straight-shot back to town, and while it’s on the same side of town as the highway, it’s at a different angle.  That’s why I’d rather get lost in the city than t he country.  Finding your way in the middle of nowhere is frighteningly more difficult than it should be.  You almost have to revert to some basic method of navigation, like looking at the sun (or the stars, if you’re so unfortunate as to get lost at night).   When I get lost in the city, I just pick a really big building and drive towards it, because the most important thing in a big city is finding a place to park, and there’s usually decent parking around really big buildings

And yet again, another philosophy which might one day end badly...

Goin' whichever way the wind blows

I spent the past 10 days elsewhere. It was temporary but fantastic, which just reiterates the fact that my four years are up and it’s time to move on. If I really belonged somewhere, I would miss it when I was gone. But I didn’t, so I don’t. So…another year (or less!) and it’ll be time to go somewhere else. I don’t know where. I have no idea what’s there, or who will be there, or what I’ll do.

And honestly, I don’t really care.

I like Johnson City. There are definitely things I’ll miss about it. There are things I am happy I came here, stayed here, was here for…and some things I wish had happened differently or maybe not at all.  Such is life. I have roughly another year to finish up whatever I haven’t done yet—hiking, mainly—and things I want to do one more time—local concerts and one more season of snowboarding. Another year of editing and teaching and hopefully going to some conferences. Another year where Sevierville is the “halfway meeting point” between me and my family on birthdays, etc.

But for now it’s early summer. There are still days to go before anything can change. Here’s to making the last 365 count. If you want in on any part of any of it...let's keep some days clear.

The stone-cold, honest-to-god, absolute, slightly ineffable truth.

"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."

---J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Diet Advice

I work for a medical journal; therefore, I find it necessary to post medical advice occasionally. Like medical advice that comes from an email forward. That doesn't make it any less credible, especially that part about the alcohol or the calculating one's BMI...

Diet Questions Answered

Q: I've heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life; is this true?
A: Your heart is only good for so many beats, and that's it. Don't waste them on exercise. Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer; that's like saying you can extend the life of your car by driving it faster. Want to live longer? Take a nap.

Q: Should I cut down on meat and eat more fruits and vegetables?
A: You must grasp logistical efficiencies. What does a cow eat? Hay and corn. And what are these? Vegetables. So a steak is nothing more than an efficient mechanism of delivering vegetables to your system. Need grain? Eat chicken. Beef is also a good source of field grass (green leafy vegetable). And a pork chop can give you 100% of your recommended daily allowance of vegetable products.

Q: Should I reduce my alcohol intake?
A: No, not at all. Wine is made from fruit. Brandy is distilled wine, which means they take the water out of the fruity bit so you get even more of the goodness that way. Beer is also made out of grain. Bottoms up!

Q: How can I calculate my body/fat ratio?
A: Well, if you have a body and you have fat, your ratio is one to one. If you have two bodies, your ratio is two to one, etc.

Q: What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?
A: Can't think of a single one, sorry. My philosophy is: No Pain = Good!

Q: Aren't fried foods bad for you?
A: Foods are fried these days in vegetable oil. In fact, they're permeated in it. How could getting more vegetables be bad for you?

Q: Will sit-ups help prevent me from getting a little soft around the middle?
A: Definitely not! When you exercise a muscle, it gets bigger. You should only be doing sit-ups if you want a bigger stomach.

Q: Is chocolate bad for me?
A: Are you crazy? Cocoa beans! Another vegetable!!! It's the best feel-good food around!

Q: Is swimming good for your figure?
A: If swimming is good for your figure, explain whales to me.

Q: Is getting in-shape important for my lifestyle?
A: 'Round' is a shape.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at an iPod

I

Among two teenage siblings

The only speaking thing

Was the sound of the iPod.

II

I was of three minds,

Like an iPod

In which there are three playlists.

III

The iPod whirled in the washing machine.

It was part of the small tragedy.

IV

A man and a woman

Are one.

A man and a woman and an iPod

Are one and a half.

V

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of bass

Or the beauty of treble,

The iPod whistling

Both just right.

VI

Icicles filled the long windows

Of my apartment.

The shadow of the iPod

Crossed them, quickly.

My mood

Traced in the shadow

Of having dropped it again.

VII

O fat men of RIAA,

Why do you imagine golden royalties?

Do you not see how the iPod

Holds the bootlegs

Of the pirates around you?

VIII

I know noble ballads

And brash, inescapable powerchords;

But I know, too,

That the iPod is involved

In what I hear.

IX

When the iPod was out of sight

It marked the moment

Of actual solitude.

X

At the sight of an iPod

Glowing a pale light,

The lovers of euphony

Stop their cries.

XI

He rode over Connecticut

In a station wagon with his parents.

Once, a fear pierced him,

In that he realized

The battery was low

On his iPod.

XII

His mouth is moving.

My iPod must be playing.

XIII

It was day all night

It was a party

And there would be a party.

The iPod sat

In its docking station.

They know I'm something to be caught

I go out at night on this motorcycle I bought about 6 weeks ago, on my 25th birthday. I love this bike. We seemed to be made for one another. Even the license plate (which has long since expired) says "1983"--the year I was born. I don't believe in fate, but at times I wonder.

In order to legally ride the bike, I need 1) current tags and 2) a motorcycle license. I have neither. I have the title, and about 30 minutes of my time and $75 of my money would get me cleared for tags. The license comes from taking a written/driving test, or taking a 2-day class. I plan on doing this. I will eventually go to the courthouse and get the tags, and I'll take the test, and I'll be completely legal.

But for now, I sneak out at night and ride up and down neighborhoods. Not for any purpose other than clearing my head, keeping the engine running, and wasting gas (hard to waste gas on something that gets 70+ mpg, thankfully). The weather is warm, and there's little traffic, so I practice changing gears and hand signals, all the while warding away any cops with a Jedi-like mantra in my head: "You don't see my tags have expired. No. You don't want to pull me over." Seems to work.

I live where the streets are named after presidents. But there's this bigger neighborhood where I go to ride. All of the streets are named after Robin Hood: characters, location, etc. Where I lived as an undergrad, I used to pass this street called "Cinderella Drive." Now I drive through Sherwood Forest. It's like I moved from one Disney movie to another, but at least none of the animals are singing to me. Yet.

I go slowly up and down each street. I try not to go too fast, because the bike can get loud. At the same time, I don't want to go too slowly and appear to be casing the joint. I pass by people and nod; they usually return the gesture. The other day, I saw a guy getting on his motorcycle. We shared a glance of mutual understanding, sort of like we shared some secret. Though, "secret" is not an appropriate description, because our "secret" was the metallic beasts we rode...which anyone could see.

I like to ride through this area because it's really beautiful. The houses are older, and they're probably not what people would think of as "incredibly nice" nowadays--what, with McMansions popping up on every undeveloped property imaginable--but they're old-school nice. Big yards, gardens, colorful trees and plants. You can pass through at night and smell the life: woodsmoke and fresh cut grass in their respective seasons, homecooked dinners, and of course, the flowers.

When I say it's beautiful, it's not because I aspire to live somewhere like that. Nice as it is...it's still a neighborhood. The yards are big, but not big enough. There are fences. Everything is trapped. Some trees are enclosed in brick circles--like they're these massive plants that someone decided to grow in their front yard. It's all too close, and it's all too restrictive. A little ironic, I suppose, that it would all be named after a hero and his crew who lived away from that type of life.

Still, the visuals are intoxicating: it's like driving through a painting. You're not a part of it--you can't stop and touch it--but it's a nice experience to be connected to something and still very much separate from it.