An early summer walk for the first time in sandals reveals just how much time I've spent outdoors already: nice tan lines that suggest I've been doing more than I feel I have. By now, I usually have sandal tan lines; I started correcting that this evening.
We will be leaving for Poland in less than two weeks. To say we're excited about it is obviously an understatement. We're always excited about going back to see friends and family.
And, of course, we're eager (or at least I'm eager) for architecture like this.
They’re really both a blessing and a curse. The half a dozen blueberry bushes we have at the base of our driveway produce so many berries that we can make jams and cobblers through the early summer and even freeze some, but it does require picking them. And that is the rub.
It always seems to be an all or nothing prospect. One day there are hardly any ripe. The next day you have to spend two hours in an attempt to make a dent endless berries
Then K comes home from work and her portion of the work only begins. Transforming those sweet berries into lovely jam, takes the entire evening. We will enjoy throughout the winter months, but she doesn't enjoy them now.
Finally, there's a certain sisyphean element to it: no sooner do you finish picking one round of bright berries and the next batch ripens to rich, dark blue, and you start all over again.
I finished a book a couple of days ago that had been on my to-read list since college if not longer: Carl Bernstein's and Bob Woodward's All the Presidents Men. I knew a little about Watergate; now I know a bit more. Two conclusions I drew from the book: first, the Republican party, for at least half a century, has had many members who are primarily concerned with maintaining power by any means necessary. Watergate was the lowest point until January 6 and the GOP's unwillingness to convict, but those are just the things we know about. Second, while there were those who sought to stay in power at any cost, there were some Republicans who had at least a rusty moral compass and had some line somewhere that they considered beyond the pale. Today's GOP can watch the sitting president incite an insurrection and not only do nothing about it but also fall back in line when it's clear that their constituents require it.
After such a depressing book, I needed a laugh, so I turned to Dickens's The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit. Few people can so humorously and clearly introduce characters as Charles Dickens:
But when the company arrived! That was the time. When Mr Pecksniff, rising from his seat at the table’s head, with a daughter on either hand, received his guests in the best parlour and motioned them to chairs, with eyes so overflowing and countenance so damp with gracious perspiration, that he may be said to have been in a kind of moist meekness! And the company; the jealous stony-hearted distrustful company, who were all shut up in themselves, and had no faith in anybody, and wouldn’t believe anything, and would no more allow themselves to be softened or lulled asleep by the Pecksniffs than if they had been so many hedgehogs or porcupines!
First, there was Mr Spottletoe, who was so bald and had such big whiskers, that he seemed to have stopped his hair, by the sudden application of some powerful remedy, in the very act of falling off his head, and to have fastened it irrevocably on his face. Then there was Mrs Spottletoe, who being much too slim for her years, and of a poetical constitution, was accustomed to inform her more intimate friends that the said whiskers were ‘the lodestar of her existence;’ and who could now, by reason of her strong affection for her uncle Chuzzlewit, and the shock it gave her to be suspected of testamentary designs upon him, do nothing but cry—except moan. Then there were Anthony Chuzzlewit, and his son Jonas; the face of the old man so sharpened by the wariness and cunning of his life, that it seemed to cut him a passage through the crowded room, as he edged away behind the remotest chairs; while the son had so well profited by the precept and example of the father, that he looked a year or two the elder of the twain, as they stood winking their red eyes, side by side, and whispering to each other softly. Then there was the widow of a deceased brother of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, who being almost supernaturally disagreeable, and having a dreary face and a bony figure and a masculine voice, was, in right of these qualities, what is commonly called a strong-minded woman; and who, if she could, would have established her claim to the title, and have shown herself, mentally speaking, a perfect Samson, by shutting up her brother-in-law in a private madhouse, until he proved his complete sanity by loving her very much. Beside her sat her spinster daughters, three in number, and of gentlemanly deportment, who had so mortified themselves with tight stays, that their tempers were reduced to something less than their waists, and sharp lacing was expressed in their very noses. Then there was a young gentleman, grandnephew of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, very dark and very hairy, and apparently born for no particular purpose but to save looking-glasses the trouble of reflecting more than just the first idea and sketchy notion of a face, which had never been carried out. Then there was a solitary female cousin who was remarkable for nothing but being very deaf, and living by herself, and always having the toothache. Then there was George Chuzzlewit, a gay bachelor cousin, who claimed to be young but had been younger, and was inclined to corpulency, and rather overfed himself; to that extent, indeed, that his eyes were strained in their sockets, as if with constant surprise; and he had such an obvious disposition to pimples, that the bright spots on his cravat, the rich pattern on his waistcoat, and even his glittering trinkets, seemed to have broken out upon him, and not to have come into existence comfortably. Last of all there were present Mr Chevy Slyme and his friend Tigg. And it is worthy of remark, that although each person present disliked the other, mainly because he or she did belong to the family, they one and all concurred in hating Mr Tigg because he didn’t.
What wonderful description: we know so much about their appearance and personality just through a few lines of description. How anyone can feel anything but affection for Dickens is beyond me. (Granted, he does get longwinded at times, but as I always explained to my students, even great artists can succumb to their basest temptations and stretch things for sake of a few more quid in the bank.)
