Jean Harper

No, I haven’t been updating my blog. Here’s a list of what I’ve been doing instead of writing anything here lately:

1. I took home the dog that a student gave up, the dog that Kurt kept for quite awhile, the dog that incited the fight that made Kurt almost lose a finger, the dog that didn’t know how to be a dog, and I gave this dog lots of love and attention, and found hm a good home where he could be the only dog.

2. There’s this horse I have who demands a lot of attention. He’s like an irascible old man: loves his routine, and when he doesn’t have his routine, look out. Grumpy, grumpy, grumpy. 1200 pounds of grumpy is a lot of bad mood. So, I’m out at the barn a lot more lately.

3. The book. I’m up to chapter four.

4. Three classes. One senior project. A slew of committees. The sturm und drang of academic politics. “Tempest in a Teapot” as my mother used to say. Unfortunately, there seem to be a lot of teapots lately.

5. Grants. I keep finding people who will give me money if I write a lot of words on a page and send them my supplication. I mean, application.

6. Kurt. It’s 84 miles from my house to his. 74 miles from my house to his work. 79 miles from his house to the barn. 72 miles from his work to my work. I’m logging a lot of miles, and so is he. Not that I mind, nor does he, not a bit, but there it is. A lot of time on the road.

And that’s why I haven’t been writing a lot here lately.

7. Oh, and this: everything interesting that I have to say right now either
a) goes in the book, OR
b) will get me into big trouble so it goes straight past GO and into my journal.

I bet you’re curious now, aren’t you? You’ll just have to wait for the book.

And, nope, you can’t see my journal.

A student I had years ago at another institution far away wrote to me recently with thoughts and questions about writing. Here’s some of what I wrote back to him…

I have often thought — and said — that it took me about ten years to get over my MFA in creative writing. I’m very glad I have the degree, the experience, and the training in writing. But. My writing during the MFA program, and in its immediate wake, was not my own. It was writing that paid attention to the markeplace, to the notions of some of the more insistent voices teaching in the program, and it was at least in part “competitive” with my fellow students.

I wrote, as a graduate student, and in the years immediately afterward, stories that wanted not to tell a story, but stories that wanted to get published. A couple did. That was nice, but the victory felt hollow. I was not writing what mattered to me. I kept paying attention to what was being published in The New Yorker, and Story, and whatever the hot lit mag of the moment was. I paid attention to the faculty voices in my head that said “a story must have conflict” and a story had to “have something at stake” even though I didn’t believe that was necessarily true. In my heart, I knew that a story is sometimes a mystery, a cipher, a lens — sometimes cloudy, sometimes clear — upon the world. Sometimes the conflict can be so subtle it only becomes apparent after we put the story down, walk away, and realize the story is following us through the hours and days of our life. Sometimes what is at stake cannot be held out for inspection. It’s interior, fleeting, momentary. (more…)

We have a lot of snow on the ground here in Indiana. A lot of snow for Indiana, that is. About, oh, 14 inches or so after two snowstorms in the last week. It’s not the depth of the snow that matters out here; it’s the wind that blows the snow across wide open fields into big drifts that really makes the difference. And there has been quite a bit of wind.

So, today, for the third day in a row, we have a snow day. No school, campus closed. It’s a nice reprieve from teaching, meetings, meetings, and more meetings. Mostly the meetings. I don’t miss those one bit.

I would be willing to bet that the progress of work will not be slowed at all by the loss of three days of meetings. In fact, I’m getting a LOT more work done because of no meetings. I imagine everyone else is too.

Will this be an object lesson, one that anyone who has anything to do with setting up meetings will pay attention to? Probably not. In fact, I would be willing to bet that someone, perhaps right now, is sipping a second cup of coffee, gazing out the window at the blowing and drifting snow, musing upon the wide open spaces of time that have appeared in the last few days.

Hmmm, they will say to themselves. All this wide open time because of no meetings.

A swirl of snow will swoop across their yard. They will be inspired by the wind, and the snow, and of course, the coffee. An idea will begin to rise up.

What if… they will think. …what if we investigated how much time could be saved by not having so many meetings. Think of the possibilities…

And now, yes, I can see them sitting at their desk, coffee cooling, idea burning. They are typing, quickly, eagerly, an email, one that will go out to half a dozen colleagues. An email that expresses much enthusiasm, this brand new idea. An email that ends with this request: Can we meet next week?

The semester is now in week #2, and I admit: already, I’m wondering how I will get everything done that I want to, have to, need to get done. A short list:

*** a conference presentation next week, in of all places, Las Vegas. Am I ready? No. Not yet.
*** a plan for a new literary magazine, a plan I need to hatch, including among other things budget, calendar, marketing, and yes mission and vision, (oh, ew, how I hate those overused words)
*** three classes to teach, three different levels, and an independent study for a senior project. Eighteen books total. And that is not even counting the other reading to do for historical/social/cultural/critical context. I like to read, but oh my.
*** maybe a grant project to work on…I’ll know Monday. If I get it? The project is due, oh, in May.
*** a sabbatical to plan for, which means applying for as many writing residencies as I can find
*** a book to write
*** a horse to train
*** and all the rest of life to live

It’s the “rest of life” that is the siren call right now. I’d like nothing better right at this moment than to sit in front of the woodstove, read a book purely for pleasure. Bake a loaf of bread. Make a big batch of soup from a complicated recipe. Play with Owen. Read some more. And if it ever is warm enough again, ride my horse. Then maybe do frivolous things: go to Big Lots. Knit a voodoo doll. (yes, that) Watch a bad movie. Eat cheese cubes. Drink wine.

Oh my. I shouldn’t even write that stuff. I can feel myself wanting to jump ship, abandon all work, and swim toward those lovelies.

Not today, Jean. Not today.

My sister posted a long entry on her blog recently detailing her objections to Facebook. I was intrigued enough by what she wrote to be moved to reply, somewhat point by point. So, here goes.

The objections on her blog post are, first:

It minimizes human contact, so that people are communicating via little badly written blurbs and comments. I like talking to people, face-to-face and on the phone. I don’t like trying to sound clever and cute in a one sentence update on my life.

Sure. If the only contact you have with other human beings is, indeed, through Facebook then your human contact is pretty flat. However, if you use Facebook as a communication tool (one of many), it augments face-to-face contact. For instance, I often send out messages on Facebook about upcoming events at school, or ask questions of my students, or ask for general advice (like where to get a good, cheap haircut, for instance), or post notes on significant things that have happened (like when my cat died).

Most of the people I have “friended” on Facebook live near me, I work with them, or they are my students. These are people I see much of the time; the Facebook phenomenon I have noticed is that when we see each other face-to-face, we have a more up to date knowledge of how one another is, what has been happening, and our real-time conversations are that much richer.

Additionally, Facebook helps me stay up to date on what is actually happening in my community. I know about events, gatherings, visiting speakers, calls for social action, etc. Our local newspaper and radio stations are woefully inadequate to this task. Facebook, however, with the network of “friends” I have there, keeps me in the loop.

A second objection:

It brings people back into your life who have long since moved on, and who have moved on for good reason. Many friendships have a shelf life, and once the friendship has expired, it’s in everyone’s best interest to let things go. I probably don’t have much in common now with the friends I had in my late twenties. But I have new friends now with whom I share quite a bit.

No, Facebook doesn’t “bring people back into your life.” You do. There is no Facebook rule that says you must friend someone. I have seen old boyfriends on Facebook, former mean girls from high school, weirdo colleagues — and I look, and make no contact. The beauty of Facebook is that you get to choose reconnections. Just as you do in life.

A third objection:

It encourages a highschool popularity mentality, even when you’re resisting that trap. I’m way past highschool, and would like to think that I’m mature, but when I see that both of my siblings have over a hundred friends each, and I only have five friends, I start to feel my ego shrink and my posture change and I feel again like the braces-ridden runty highschool freshman that I once was. No thanks. I don’t need that.

Only if you “count” your friends, and value that number. I don’t. I choose friends because they are neighbors, colleagues, students, real friends present or past. I’m pretty discriminating.

For what it’s worth, I went on Facebook originally as part of a research project I’m doing which involves looking at useful ways to integrate social networking media into the classroom. I’m finding that a nuanced usage of Facebook has some good effects: It humanizes me as a teacher for my students, first of all. They know when I have a cold, or my cat throws up on the sofa, or the awful day the sewer backed up into my basement. Secondly, I can communicate with my students in a low-key, conversational manner, often sharing ideas about books, events, ways to navigate the academic system, etc. Thirdly, I get wind of student frustrations and problems and can often find ways to offer assistance or guidance.

A final objection:

It’s an absolute time suck. If I were to become a Facebook junkie, I would lose valuable time that I could spend reading, creating, socializing, blogging (yes, I know, I need to be more consistent with that), or taking an afternoon nap on a weekend. Or cooking or cleaning or volunteering or planting a garden or getting in shape.

Well, of course it can be a “time suck.” Anything can. Watching television, playing solitaire, drinking too much wine, braiding your horse’s mane, writing your memoir. Any activity that we allow to overtake a balanced life, an existence that is healthy, measured, and conscious is wasteful. The key is: see Facebook as a tool. Not a life.

Abby ends her blog by asking two question:

How long can something as inane as Facebook survive? And how many of you are mad at me right now?

Facebook is only inane if you use it not as a tool, but as a way of faux-living. It’s just a communication tool. As is writing a blog, writing letters with stamps on them, sending text messages, talking on the phone, sending emails, etc. It’s only a tool. Blame not the tool for inanity; blame the wielder of the tool.

Anger only comes from misunderstanding. Try giving Facebook a different kind of chance. See if you appreciate it differently.

The grammar mailbag had an intriguing question in it recently. Here’s the question, and my answer:

Dear WriteWrite:

Grammar was not one of my favorite endeavors…. I am working on a card for a friend, and want to include this message:
“you never know who you will find at Jack’s Place”
But then, alas, I was told that the proper term is “whom”.

Which is the correct term?
Best Wishes,
Jill

Dear Jill, and by extension, Jack

Well, “whom” is technically correct — direct object and all that rot. However, it is also stuffy and outdated. From a nifty website I found, a good trick:

“As a ready check … simply substitute the personal pronoun “he/him” or “she/her” for “who/whom.” If he or she would be the correct form, the proper choice is who.” If “him” or “her” would be correct, use “whom.””

So, we would do this:

“you will find him/her at Jack’s Place”

Thus, we have a winner: whom. However, there is a stuffiness to this that lands wrong on many ears. For instance, the local paper used to include an information box with stories — they may still do so — that read “Whom to call.” Who says that? The Ghostbusters didn’t. “Who do you call? Ghostbusters!”

Grammar is more flexible and more amenable to bending than most English professors like to admit. For instance, when I answer the phone and someone asks: Hi, is this WriteWrite?, do I say, “It is I”? Not likely. I say: “It’s me.” There is a tonal flexibility in conversation that we employ regularly. So, if I were writing a card for dearest Jack, I might hastily write:

“you never know who you will find at Jack’s Place”

But then…I have never been a fan of “whom.” If one would prefer to avoid the dreaded “whom” question, it might be possible to write

“you never know what you will find at Jack’s Place”

Since, perhaps, “what” could refer to knick knacks, paddywhacks, and, hmm, odd personalities as well. One could also argue, as English professors like to do, that the use of the second person (you) is in and of itself troublesome. That’s where the stuffier still pronoun “one” comes in handy. So an alternative could be:

One never knows what one will find at Jack’s Place

Ick, right? Incredibly stuffy. So for a total stuffy overload, one could do this:

One never knows whom one will find at The Old Book Shop

On balance, it depends entirely on what effect you (the writer) are trying to elicit. If it were my card? I might write this:

You never know what you’ll find at Jack’s Place

And then you will evoke the wrath of those that loathe the contraction (you’ll). One cannot win, my friend. Go for the tone you want, and ignore the grammar police. Except for me. I’m always right.

cheers —
WriteWrite

This year, I’ve decided to read 100 books — new books and old, heavy and light. The list is completely idiosyncratic; it’s got everything on it from Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics and Making Comics, to Moby Dick and Walden, short story collections, new novels and nonfiction, Hemingway, Pablo Neruda, St. Exupery’s war writings, and a great number of horse books. This week I’ve managed to get through three books on the list — a short story collection, a poetry book, and a children’s book. Excerpts and thoughts about each below:

Expletive Deleted
edited by Jen Jordan
2007 Bleak House Books

I got this book awhile ago because it contains a short story by Scott Wolven, who is I think one of the best short story writers around. And a good guy, a real writer, and funny as hell. Scott’s story in this collection — “St. Gabriel” — is beautiful, dark, and haunting. Another story I liked a great deal is “Johnny Seven” by David Bowker. It’s told from the point of view of a kid, always a difficult prospect to carry off. Bowker does it well, managing to keep the kid-voice throughout, with just a tinge here or there of the adult who must be remembering this years later. It’s the kind of story that transports you to another place, keeps a grip on you, and then when it releases you at the end, you are just a little breathless, a little rattled, and not quite sure if you’re still there, or back here. Here’s a short passage (expletives not deleted of course…):

“You scared?” said KC.
“What of?”
“I dunno,” said KC. “I just feel something bad is going to happen.”
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s called the rest of your fucking life.”

The Golden Key
(part of a longer work, Dealings with the Fairies)
George MacDonald, illustrations by Maurice Sendak,
afterword by W. H. Auden
originally published in 1867;
this edition 1967, Farrar Straus and Giroux

This is a rather sleepy, somewhat maudlin tale of two children in search of first the Golden Key, and then the lock the key will open. Their journey takes years and years, which oddly they seem not to recognize as years, rather as moments, until the very end when it is their time to leave this earthly life. Oh, right. This is an allegory. A rather Christian one, I suppose. At the end (spoiler alert) the children ascend “up to the country whence the shadows fall.” Of course, they are no longer children, now they are grown, old, their work on earth done, having found key, lock, and inserted former into latter (with a moment of moving aside a large rock…hmm), and been assured that death is not the end of life but instead, “more life.”

Okay. I get it. The book is a bit heavy handed, yet there are enough engaging and strange images to make the read (and it is a short one) rewarding. The image of the beautiful fish who want to be eaten so they can turn into fairies was rendered so lovingly that any tinge of horror was quite absent. That alone, and other images just as inventive, make this worth reading.

Here’s a passage:

Then the Old Man of the Earth stooped over the floor of the cave, raised a huge stone from it, and left it leaning. It disclosed a great hole that went plumb-down.
“That is the way,” he said.
“But there are no stairs.”
“You must throw yourself in. There is no other way.”

She turned and looked him full in the face … then threw herself headlong into the hole.

Two by Two (poems)
Denise Duhamel
University of Pittsburgh Press 2005

I love Denise Duhamel’s poetry. It’s funny, smart, sexy, serious, literate, direct, and when you read it, it is as though Duhamel herself is speaking to you, the reader, directly. The voice is authentic and down to earth, confiding and ruminative and smart ass all at once. Happily, I know Denise herself just a bit (I met her at Yaddo, and we bonded over me throwing up violently and passing out at her feet, and her trying really hard not to freak out — but that’s another story). I can say without a doubt that, yes, the voice you hear in these poems is really her voice. She’s one of the most generous writers I know; she works hard at writing and teaching and doing the real work both demand. She’s the real deal.

Here’s a link to several of her poems online; my favorite of this bunch is “Egg Rolls.”

In future weeks, I hope to post more about other books I’ll be reading.
97 more to go…

One of the drawbacks to being a writer is that I can’t help but cast a critical eye on other writers’ writing. The voice, the tone, the details, the structure, all that stuff on the page. And, the means of production of a piece of writing. That matters too. When you can’t quite trust the authenticity of a piece of writing, its genesis, then the whole reading experience — for me — becomes tainted. For example, I have not had the stomach yet to read Elizabeth Gilbert’s mega-blockbuster bestselling memoir Eat, Pray, Love because I have paid attention to the writerly scuttlebutt about how the book came to be.

That scuttlebutt is, essentially, this (I’m passing on bitchy writer gossip here, so take it for what it’s worth): Gilbert was going through a crappy divorce, needed to get out of town, and pitched a story idea to her publisher: how about I travel through, oh, a pretty foreign country or two, eat really great food, get spiritually aware, and write about it? What do you say? Sure thing, crowed the publisher. And here’s a big advance. Have a nice time!

Well. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I suspect (more…)

I do lament the decline of the daily newspaper. However, when I read a sentence like the last one in the paragraph below, I want to retract my lamentation:

The remnants of financial disaster linger. Many neighbors have no credit cards. Repossessed family cars have not been replaced. Vacation destinations remain for most the stuff of advertisements in newspapers from which coupons continue to be clipped.

Huh? I had to read that final sentence a couple of times to get it. It’s not quantum physics, but gee whiz, that’s a convoluted mess.

Okay, writing fans, let’s rip into it then, shall we? (more…)

Indianapolis, Indiana
Currently: 14°F Light Snow
Wind: West at 14 MPH
Wind Chill: -1°F
Sunrise: 8:05 am
Sunset: 5:33 pm

This is how to greet the New Year — leap into it with full enthusiasm.

I love my brother, but … well, read his post and my response and see what you think: LINK

The new year is a few days away, and I’m wondering about resolutions for the year. I’d really like 2010 to be a different kind of year than the last few. Healthier, more productive, calmer, more centered, um thinner (yes, that). The usual stuff.

There are some big things I want to accomplish this year, the “what” of resolutions on my list below. How I accomplish those things is idiosyncratic, personal, and — at least for me — rather private. I’m not going to reveal when I write (in the morning) or what I wear when I write (whatever I slept in, fuzzy slippers, thick glasses), or whether I write with a pen or pencil or laptop or big fancy desktop computer (all of the above). I’m not going to tell you which diet I’m going to choose (Pollan + South Beach + Moosewood +no wine, no popcorn). I certainly am not going to admit to the best technique I know to get myself teaching with more enthusiasm and energy in the classroom (large cafe mocha from the coffee machine, extra cream, extra sugar).

All that how-ness of getting closer to the desired what-ness is the stuff you can find in any number of self-help women’s and men’s magazines this time of year. There are innumerable tricks and techniques and tactics from which to choose. Of course, those choices aren’t the ones that matter. It’s choosing what you want to do that matters most. At this point in my own life, I have the luxury to choose what I want to do. I’m over 50, tenured, relatively solvent, in a wonderful relationship. I’ve written a book, made a movie. I have good friends, and a great life I’ve carved out here in a strange little city in the Midwest. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not even myself. There’s a lot of freedom in that. Freedom to do exactly what I want to do this year, which is this:

Finish the nonfiction book I am working on now, Horses and Divorces.

Show my horse, Oliver, in August at the Indiana Dressage Society schooling show in the USDF Training level 4 test.

Lose 20 pounds. Yes, you read that correctly. Twenty. This year.

Reclaim my teaching magic.

Publish my poetry and my fiction.

Read widely, idiosyncratically, voraciously: novels, poetry, memoirs.

Eat more consciously: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.”

Remind myself, fairly regularly, that life is finite. You know: in this particular edition of life as it is, we die in the end. That informs everything. Oh, yes, and in a good way. No darkness there. Just appreciation.

all dogs love Christmas

I swear, every year, every semester, I get sick just when classes end. I mean, like clockwork. I’m done teaching - BAM! - a virus lodges in my head. And stays there for two weeks. Sometimes I go to the doctor, sometimes I don’t. Either way, I’m sick for two weeks. In the spring of this year, I happened to also be at a writing residency, and became known as The Woman from Indiana With the Cold. Famous, I was. Brilliantly famous.

Now? I’m the Woman In Indiana With Another Cold. And not so bloody famous.

When I have a cold, I tend to discard optimism. The world is not shiny bright, not filled with benevolent people, not a place of warmth and hope. I don’t start thinking dark thoughts, but I do see things differently. Sometimes so differently, that I realize I must have a fever, or have suddenly developed acutely focused vision, or both. This afternoon, that shift in perception came on as I waited in the UPS store to mail a package to my sister in Massachusetts. There was a long line. Most people had come alone and stood silently, shifting from foot to foot, sometimes sighing, sometimes sneezing, clearing their throats (yes, I was among that group).

In front of me stood two older women who seemed to know each other; they chatted away as the line moved forward. One woman wore an expensive shearling coat; the other, a worn red wool coat. The woman in shearling had gray-white hair dyed blond; gray-white roots showed at an awkward part in the back of her head, a part that revealed not only the true color of her hair, but the white of her scalp, and what seemed like a large mole at the top of her head. The woman in red wool had a tight perm, her gray hair flattened at the back, where it seemed as though she must have slept on it. The woman in shearling spoke with a kind of affected upper class accent, drawing out her vowels and syllables, as though the words issuing from her lips were little sacred texts. She mentioned, frequently, a daughter-in-law in Baton Rouge, accentuating the ROO in Rouge, as though the city were important, very important, and extraordinarily (didn’t we all know) French.

Happily (for me, in my grim cold-ridden mood), the woman in red wool seemed not to notice any of this haughty pretension; this woman had a Kentucky accent — part southern, part hillbilly — and while I could not quite catch what she talked about, it was clear from her tone of voice that she was merry, confident, and oblivious to her friend’s condescending demeanor.

About then, a young mother with an adorable girl-child entered the shop. The child, blond, dressed in pink, had little pony tails erupting from her head, and the frank stare of unrepentant two-year olds, a stare she directed at me. “Um, Hi?” I said. The little girl wiggled like a puppy and then ran and hid behind a huge display of bubble wrap.

At that moment, the line shifted, and both of the older women stepped up to the counter, each with a different clerk. The shearling-clad woman piled her unpacked box of gifts, a shopping bag of more gifts, and a third small unsealed box on the counter. “I need these sent to Baton Rouge,” she declared. The clerk smiled, wearily. Next to her, the red-wool coated woman set two cards on the counter. “I’d like some of them old-fashioned stamps if you got them.” The second clerk brought out a page of stamps. “These?” The woman nodded. “Yep,” she said, “those are them.”

Loud squeaking erupted from the bubble wrap display. The little girl, it seemed, had discovered that rolls of bubble wrap are a great deal of fun to pick up and carry around. And so she did, toting the bales of bubble wrap back and forth across the store like a tiny Longshoreman.

As though they timed it, the two older women finished their transactions at the same time and left. I stepped up to the clerk who had been waiting on Ms. Baton Rouge. She, the clerk, had the look of someone well trained in staying patient, customer after customer after customer. I wanted to tell her: I have been where you are, I know how tiring this is, all these people who want something and want it now, how much you want to sit down, how much you never want to smile again at another haughty old woman, a mother with a free-range child, even at me, benign, but sniffling and probably contagious.

I didn’t say that. We did the usual chat people do this time of year: “Are you done with Christmas?” she asked. A strange question, if you think about it. I chose to answer what she probably meant, nothing more. “Almost,” I said. “Almost.”

And then the package to my sister got measured and stamped and stickered and sent on its way.

My sister, channeling Oprah, recently posted a list of her own favorite things and issued the challenge for others to do the same. So, dear sister, herewith, my list:

Orville Redenbacher Movie Theater Butter popcorn
I love this stuff. I could eat it every day. Okay, sometimes I do eat it every day. It’s not diet food, not health food, but by golly it IS comfort food.

Flip Video camera
I had the use of this little guy through a grant I received, and fell in love with it. The Flip is simple to use, produces high quality video, and if you use the right software, can actually produce videos that look almost professional. And, the Flip is fairly inexpensive, and small enough to fit in your back pocket.

Jes MaHarry
I love the quirky jewelry made by this artist whose work is featured in the Sundance Catalog. I have one of her rings (no longer available which makes me happy too) and wear it all the time. There is something about her designs that is happy, not pretentious, and seems to be about the things I love most in life: horses, dogs, and the out of doors.

toe warmers
Yep, toe warmers. Can’t ride a horse in winter without them. Okay, you can, but riding with them is much, much more comfortable. And, you will be able to feel your toes even after several hours out of doors.

infinity scarves
I’ve made some of these myself, and love them. Kurt has one (and will soon have another). They are super warm, fun to wear, and you never have to wrestle with loose ends because the scarf is one unending loop.

Prada riding boot
I don’t know that I would actually ride in this, but it is a delicious thing, this boot. All Prada boots are delicious. And shoes. No, I don’t own any Prada anything, but whenever I am in a swanky store and see Prada? I try them on. Yum.

cheese cubes
I love these things. Yes, I know, I very well could make my own cheese cubes with a sharp knife, a little patience, good aim. You know what? Sometimes a girl just needs a bag of cheese cubes.

It’s cold. No bugs.
It’s cold. No mowing the grass.
It’s cold. No weeding, clipping, planting, harvesting, nipping, trimming, pruning. None.
It’s cold. More reason to snuggle.
It’s cold. Down comforters, wool socks, layers of clothes, hats, scarves. For snuggling comfort.
It’s cold. Layers of clothes conceal the pounds you just can’t seem to lose.
It’s cold. Snow, wind chill, sleet, ice all make you realize you are alive. I mean, you can’t just kind of walk out the door in a musing kind of fog, thinking about the next essay you are working on. You have to realize: hey, there’s a world out there and I’m in it. Because, yes, it is very cold out there.
It’s cold. Christmas lights! No matter how you feel about the holiday, a display of Christmas lights can really make your day. Except of course the garish blow up things that glow from within have whirring interior snowstorms and play very bad electronic carols. Those should be banned.
It’s cold. Horses are very fun to ride this time of year. Okay, fun and a little scary. But still. Fun.
It’s cold. The chill will burn off the pounds you can’t seem to lose.
And if it doesn’t? Wear more clothes. Because…hey…it’s cold.

The last couple of days I’ve been plagued by a stomach virus of some kind. A virulent kind, apparently, one that is — shall we say — rather draining. I’ve lost five pounds since Sunday without even trying. Needless to say, I’m fairly miserable. Better than I was 36 hours ago (today I can eat saltines, a little jello), but not yet even close to feeling like myself.

Yesterday was the worst of it I hope, and while I shuttled back and forth from bed to bathroom, little Owen stood guard. He barely left my side the entire day, except to eat and go out. Otherwise? Owen stayed curled up next to me while I tried to sleep. Owen stood outside the bathroom door while I wasn’t sleeping. Owen, who has more energy than he knows what to do with, channeled all that energy into being a sweet, present, very quiet companion yesterday.

Of all the animals we call “pets” dogs express empathy best. Cats come and go, checking in like preoccupied medical specialists, giving you a once over, then checking you off their lists; horses eyeball you with the look that says: I, my friend, have had it much worse than you ever will. Buck up, cowgirl, and hand over some hay. Hamsters, fish, birds, rabbits, ducks — cute maybe. Empathetic? Probably not.

It is a small mystery what dogs think or know inside their bony heads. The vastness of smells funneled through the nose, the sounds collected by the antenna dish ears, the black and white images of the world — they know things we don’t, and don’t have access to. I like to watch Owen watch the world and try to imagine what he thinks, and how. I have no real idea. I wonder: does Owen, do all dogs, have a capacity for love — real love: empathetic, selfless, patient, unbounded? I like to think so.

Owen likes to think so too.

10
I don’t like crowds.

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I really don’t like crowds of fervent shoppers.

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There is nothing worth buying, at any price, that will provoke me to get out of bed at 4 a.m. on a day off.

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If it’s cheaper on Friday, it will REALLY be cheaper after Christmas.

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Christmas, for this woman, is not about buying a lot of stuff, marked down or otherwise.

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This year, I am making most of my Christmas gifts. Scarves, hats, bread, stuffed bunnies, more bread, and I won’t tell you the rest, lest I ruin the suprises coming your way.

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What I can’t make, I’m buying locally at shops owned by people I know and like. The used book store, the yarn shop, the consignment store, the bead shop, the Italian deli, and Mel who makes nifty things and sells them on Etsy.

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I do not feel personally responsible for jump-starting the economy. I didn’t break it. I’m not fixing it. Take that, Wal-Mart.

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After a couple of weeks punctuated by trauma, what I want most is not to buy things, but to savor time with those I love. And Friday is a very good day to do just that.

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I am not headed out at any hour to buy things on so-called “black Friday,” that biggest shopping day of the year, in order by my absence to declare this:

The day after Thanksgiving is the beginning of the Christmas season which shall henceforth be marked not by profligate spending, but by generosity, kindness, good deeds, random acts of niceness, and — if you can work this in, because I know I can — a great deal of smooching.