Hello new week, and hello new MONTH! March used to be my least favorite month of the year – just a lot of mud, slush, and grim weather. But since 2015, March has been all about my sweet little guy and the joy and fun he brings to the family: happy birthday month, Nugget! He’s had a birthday countdown going since January and he’s very excited to be down to the final inning. My feelings are a little more mixed. How is he turning six already?
Anyway – it was a good, if not particularly restful, weekend. On Saturday, we were hoping to have a playdate with my law school friend, Carly, and her two munchkins. We’d tried to get together a few weeks ago, but the weather (ice storms) prevented. The forecast for this weekend was almost as bad, calling for rain, rain, and more rain. But mid-Saturday morning, Carly texted and said it had stopped raining near her and was supposed to stay dry, if cold and gloomy, for the rest of the day. Did I want to get together? I did. Carly and her kiddos drove out to my neck of the woods this time – her husband stayed home to supervise some renovations – and we passed a lovely afternoon first in my backyard, while the kids played, and then on a nearby playground. By around 3:00 even the clouds had burned off, and there were blue skies and warm sunshine, a welcome surprise. The kids ran around the playground while Carly and I chatted as hard as we could through our masks.
If Saturday was mostly given over to fun, Sunday was for productivity. The house had gotten pretty gross (#keepingitreal) between muddy boots, breakfast Cheerio casualties, scraps of art projects and just the detritus of four people living here 24-7. While the rest of the family was content with it, I couldn’t stand it anymore – the mess was stressing me out. I spent three hours cleaning like a maniac: folding and putting away multiple loads of laundry; sweeping and mopping the entire ground floor; deep-cleaning the kitchen and all three bathrooms. I was done by 2:00 p.m. and had the afternoon to relax in a (mostly) clean house. There really is nothing like that feeling, is there? The rest of the afternoon – quiet. I roasted a chicken and two sheet pans of veggies for dinner (+ leftovers), read Betsy and Tacy Go Over the Big Hill to Peanut, and sipped a Dogfish Head Namaste witbier. Finished the weekend curled up with my book; a good way to go into another hectic week.
Reading. Well! Some reading, all right. I closed out February with a banner week in books. The Woods in Winter, which I really enjoyed, occupied the beginning part of the week, followed by three more in quick succession – The Gardener’s Year, a slim but charming book; Terms and Conditions, which has been languishing on my TBR for far too long; and the very funny Pigeon Pie. I finished the weekend with Few Eggs and No Oranges, a World War II Blitz diary I’ve long been wanting to pick up. So far, it’s really wonderful.
Watching. I got the remote on Saturday, and thought it would be fun to watch The Durrells in Corfu, which I’ve been wanting to see. I figured the kids would enjoy Gerry and his menagerie. They did, but the older siblings made the show Not Appropriate For Children, and I had to turn it off – blah. Hopefully Steve and I can watch it together, but what with The Right Stuff, The Crown, and others that we are running behind on watching, it might be awhile. Other than my abandoned attempt to watch The Durrells, it was the usual Rick Steves all week. Can’t complain, although travel shows are not helping my extreme wanderlust.
Listening. I was on a bookish podcast bender and blew through several back episodes of Shedunnit this week, plus a Q&A episode of The Mother Runner Podcast while running (of course), a recent Sorta Awesome on morning routines for the Myers-Briggs types (fun, but not surprising – as an INFP, I like a slow morning with a book, big shock) and a couple of The Mom Hour episodes. The usual suspects.
Moving. Cleaning is my cardio! Or it felt that way this weekend. There was some running and some walking this week as well, but not enough strength training.
Making. A clean house (are you tired of reading about my clean house yet?) and a Sunday roast chicken, and I am feeling very pleasantly domestic about it.
Blogging. Recaps, recaps, get your recaps here! February’s reading round-up on Wednesday and outdoor report on Friday.
Loving. On a whim, I ordered this initial mug from Anthropologie, and I have been drinking my morning tea out of it all week. I know what you’re going to say: don’t you have enough tea mugs? (One can never have enough tea mugs.) My response to that is: (1) I have wanted an initial mug for years, but have always hated the design on every “J” mug I came across, until this one, finally, and (2) okay, fine, I don’t really need more mugs, but it’s a pandemic and this inexpensive little luxury is bringing me some joy right now, which I need. We all need.
I tell you, the sperm whale will stand no nonsense.
That’s a pretty good thesis statement and summing-up of Moby-Dick, right there. Kind of feel like I don’t need to say much more, right? After all, Moby-Dick is such an entrenched narrative in American literature; it has even transcended classic literature and entered the pop culture lexicon. Rory Gilmore reads Moby-Dick in the very first episode of Gilmore Girls. So does Matilda Wormwood – the movie version, that is. There’s even a car insurance commercial currently airing, featuring Captain Ahab (he peers through a spyglass and shouts Thar she blows! at parking spots).
If you need a plot summary, Moby-Dick features a young sailor named Ishmael. (“Call me Ishmael” might be the most iconic opening line in the American literary landscape.) Ishmael has been sailing with the Merchant Marine, but has recently decided to sign onto a whaling voyage, shipping out of Nantucket. The first part of the novel follows his journey to Nantucket to find a ship to sail with. In an inn catering to whalers, Ishmael is told that there are no sleeping quarters available and he’ll have to bunk – sharing a bed – with a sailor named Queequeg. Ishmael and Queequeg quickly bond and become trusted friends – or maybe something more; throughout the book I wondered if there was something going on between those two. (I am not the only one to pick up on those cues. Google “Ishmael and Queequeg.”)
Queequeg accompanies Ishmael to Nantucket, where Ishmael signs them both on to one of the ships getting ready to depart on a three to five year whaling mission – the Pequod. Right away, there are signs all is not quite right with the Pequod. For one thing, the captain is nowhere to be seen. Two retired whalers, Captain Peleg and Captain Bildad, are preparing the ship for departure and give Ishmael a line of vaguely unsatisfying explanations for Captain Ahab’s absence. Ishmael is uncomfortable with the idea of signing up for a multi-year whaling mission without meeting the Captain who will have ultimate authority over him and over Queequeg. The vague unease grows when Ishmael and Queequeg are confronted by a “prophet” – a local Nantucketer named Elijah, who warns them off the Pequod and Captain Ahab. Ishmael waves off Elijah, but has a harder time pushing down his own doubts. He does, though, and ultimately both Ishmael and Queequeg board the Pequod and set off to hunt sperm whales.
Busted, that’s a blue whale.
Captain Ahab does eventually show himself, although that’s not the end of the mysteries aboard the Pequod. But one thing, he reveals right away – his real intention for this voyage is to hunt down and kill a white sperm whale that had previously bitten off his leg. To motivate the crew, he nails a gold doubloon on the main-mast, telling the sailors that the coin will go as a prize to the first one of them to spot the white whale.
“Captain Ahab,” said Starbuck, who, with Stubb and Flask, had thus far been eyeing his superior with increasing surprise, but at least seemed struck with a thought which somewhat explained all the wonder. “Captain Ahab, I have heard of Moby Dick–but was it not Moby Dick that took off thy leg?”
“Who told thee that?” cried Ahab; then pausing. “Aye, Starbuck, aye, my hearties all round; it was Moby Dick that dismasted me; Moby Dick that brought me to this dead stump I stand on now. Aye, aye,” he shouted with a terrific, loud, animal sob, like that of a heart-stricken moose; “Aye, aye! it was that accursed white whale that razeed me; made a poor pegging lubber of me for ever and a day!” Then tossing both arms, with measureless imprecations he shouted out: “Aye, aye! and I’ll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition’s flames before I give him up. And this is what ye have shipped for, men! to chase that white whale on both sides of land, and over all sides of earth, till he spouts black blood and rolls fin out. What say ye, men, will yet splice hands on it, now? I think ye do look brave.”
Most of the crew gets on board with Ahab’s modified mission statement right away; the first mate, Starbuck, is really the only holdout, and he spends the rest of the book trying to convince Ahab to give up on this whole Moby-Dick suicide mission and just hunt regular sperm whales. Ahab, though, is described as “monomaniacal” – I believe the official legal term is kookoo bananapants. He’s singularly obsessed with getting revenge on the whale, even though the idea of revenge against an animal is… pretty ridiculous?
Most of the rest of the book is devoted to toggling back and forth between the Pequod‘s “adventures” (consisting of killing whales, which doesn’t seem to me like a good adventure) and delivering a treatise on whales, whaling, the whaling industry, and basically everything you would need to know if you wanted to become a whaler – which, thankfully, is now illegal under the International Whaling Convention (although there are loopholes that should be closed, and bad actors that violate the treaty). This was where Melville lost me. Having made it through hundreds of pages of Tolstoy on farming in both Anna Karenina and War and Peace, I figured Melville on whaling would be no big thing, but – it was simultaneously horrifying and a gigantic yawn. First of all, most of the “facts” about whales were just wrong. And the chapters upon chapters of Everything Ishmael Knows About The Whaling Industry were so boring that I lost interest in the plot (when there was a plot). Even when the book shifted back to the action – and there was always something exciting going on, storms! pirates! whales! – it didn’t hold my attention, because I was so worn down from the Endless Whaling Information Parade. At one point, after five chapters of the dullest typhoon ever, I looked up from my book, yawned, and remarked to Steve: “Wow, Melville can even make a typhoon boring.” Like a Goodreads reviewer I read, I started rooting for the whale to eat everyone, including Ishmael, just so it would end.
Which brings me to: reading Moby-Dick in 2021, we are all rooting for the whale, yes? If Melville hadn’t lost me with boredom, he would have lost me with his gleefully gory descriptions of hunting down and murdering whales. (Yes, I know whaling is part of our history. But thankfully we know better now – Marine Mammal Protection Act, ahoy.) Being a gigantic whale geek myself, I know that the “monsters” and “leviathans” that Ishamel and friends slaughtered were intelligent beings with a culture and a social structure and family bonds. History or no, I can’t enjoy reading about their murder, especially in the kind of detail Melville pours on the reader.
I recognize that this is a modern perspective that is particularly informed by scientific research in the conservation era, which has made clear that industrial whaling hundreds of years ago has directly, and substantially, contributed to the climate crisis we now face. Whales – particularly the big baleen and sperm whales, the same kinds of whales that Ishmael and his mates gleefully slaughter in Moby-Dick – are uniquely good at extracting carbon from the atmosphere, cooling the planet and counteracting climate change. Meaning that if our oceans teemed with whales the way they did before whaling ships rode the waves, we probably wouldn’t be in this mess now:
Humans have killed whales for centuries, their bodies providing us with everything from meat to oil to whalebone. The earliest record of commercial whaling was in 1000 CE. Since then, tens of millions of whales have been killed, and experts believe that populations may have declined from anywhere between 66% and 90%.
When whales die, they sink to the ocean floor – and all the carbon that is stored in their enormous bodies is transferred from surface waters to the deep sea, where it remains for centuries or more.
In the 2010 study, scientists found that before industrial whaling, populations of whales (excluding sperm whales) would have sunk between 190,000 to 1.9 million tonnes of carbon per year to the bottom of the ocean – that’s the equivalent of taking between 40,000 and 410,000 cars off the road each year. But when the carcass is prevented from sinking to the seabed – instead, the whale is killed and processed – that carbon is released into the atmosphere.
Sophie Yeo, “The world’s largest animals are unusually good at taking carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere,” BBC.com, 19 January 2021
It’s not just the carbon extraction from dead whales, either, the article goes on to explain. Whale excrement feeds armies of phytoplankton that mass on the surface of the water and capture 40% of all carbon dioxide, or four times the carbon dioxide captured by the entire Amazon rainforest. And the absence of big whales in their pre-whaling numbers has impacted other areas of the ecosystem, too, the article explains. For instance, orcas that once preyed on large whales have turned their attention to smaller prey, like sea otters, when whales became less abundant. The sea otter populations then declined, leading to an explosion in the sea urchin population (otters’ favorite food), and the resulting devastation of marine kelp forests – another carbon sink lost. Basically, the roles whales played in balancing the ecosystem were as colossal as they are. When the whaling industry decimated their populations, it placed humanity on a path to our current climate crisis.
All this to say: I have absolutely no sympathy for Ahab, Ishmael, Starbuck, Stubb, Queequeg (that’s right, even Starbuck and Queequeg!), or any of the rest of them. Whether or not they were enthusiastic about hunting Moby-Dick – by all reports a killing machine, GO MOBY GO – they signed on willingly to the idea of murdering (other) whales. And reading the (vivid!) descriptions of slaughtering and butchering whales made me ill.
Lest this review become as long as Moby-Dick itself, I’ll cut it off here. I didn’t care for the book – found it in equal parts boring and disgusting – and won’t read it again. That said, there were flashes of something wonderful; the comedic scene in which the second mate, Stubb, cheats another whaling ship out of their cargo – the beautiful and reverent description of a nursery pod of sperm whale mothers and calves – the poignant scene, just before the climactic chapters, between Ahab and the tragic Starbuck. And occasionally there will be a line or a paragraph that just stuns with its beauty. But that wasn’t enough to rescue the book for me; the combination of florid wordiness and reprehensible violence against cetaceans was too much. I’m glad I read it, because now I can say I have, but I don’t ever need to read it again.
I had a different theme in mind for this month – I was going to write about my favorite Jane Austen heroes in honor of Valentine’s Day. But then I read this article in the Washington Post – “Amanda Gorman clearly has talent. But there’s more to her meteoric rise.” And it got me thinking about contemporary Black voices, and Black History Month.
The article begins by discussing Ms. Gorman’s by now well-known and appreciated talent, poise and grace, and goes on to note that throughout history we have had megastar poets, and we’re actually long overdue for a celebrity bard of this generation.
But there’s a caveat. Gorman absolutely deserves her flowers, said [Salamishah] Tillet, who is also co-founder of A Long Walk Home Inc., a nonprofit that uses art to end violence against girls and women, but the reverence Gorman’s receiving doesn’t extend to those who resemble her.
Nneka McGuire, “Amanda Gorman clearly has talent. But there’s more to her meteoric rise,” The Washington Post, February 8, 2021
The article went on to note that while Ms. Gorman is being showered with completely deserved acclaim, a nine-year-old Black girl was pepper-sprayed by police in Rochester, New York. And other young Black girls, with dreams just as valid and beautiful as Ms. Gorman’s, are ignored and disregarded. “The admiration Gorman, poet par excellence, has garnered ‘doesn’t translate into nurturing and uplifting the Amanda Gormans everywhere,’ Tillet added.”
Wow – and so true. So in honor of Amanda Gorman and Black History Month, I thought I would suggest three other Black women writing today – probably not news to anyone, but here are three contemporary novels by Black women that I have loved. Let’s all read these women and then encourage and nurture the next Amanda Gorman.
Yaa Gyasi‘s debut novel, Homegoing, was a huge hit a few years ago, but if you missed it then, do check it out now. (She has a new book out – or relatively new – that I have not yet gotten to, but I plan to do so soon.) Homegoing is a kaleidoscopic journey through centuries and across continents. It starts with two sisters in west Africa several centuries ago; one is kidnapped and transported to the United States on a slave ship while the other sister remains in Africa. The narrative switches between branches of the family, profiling each sister’s descendants through the decades and centuries. I am not a huge fan of family sagas or of switching narratives, so it should say something that I absolutely loved this.
Another debut novel that had a huge moment a few years ago, Behold the Dreamers, by Imbolo Mbue, explored the immigrant experience in New York City through the eyes of one couple, Jende and Neni Jonga. The Jongas, recent immigrants from Cameroon who both work for an affluent Manhattan family, are swept up into the global financial crisis after the collapse of Lehman Brothers. Behold the Dreamers has been described by NPR as “compulsively readable” – and it is. If you haven’t picked this one up yet – do. Mbue has another novel out now, How Beautiful We Were, which sounds wonderful; another one for my TBR.
I think pretty much everyone who follows contemporary literary fiction already knows about Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and especially about her mega-hit novel Americanah. After loving Americanah, I started working my way through Adichie’s backlist – both her essays and other novels – and I found Half of a Yellow Sun, which explores the Nigerian Civil War from 1967 to 1970, largely from the Biafran perspective. I think I’ve written about it here before, and noted that it was a compelling look into a history that I knew next to nothing about. Purple Hibiscus is the next Adichie on my TBR and I plan to tackle it soon.
There are so many talented Black women writing today – it was so hard to choose only three books here. I could have included Jesmyn Ward; Helen Oyeyemi; N. K. Jemisin – so many others. How about you? What contemporary Black women writers have you read and loved lately?
I have a question for you guys: how do you fend off the dreaded Sunday Scaries? I mean that creeping sense of dread that the week is coming and there’s nothing you can do about it. It starts for me at around noon on Sunday. It’s definitely more intense when I have a task I am dreading, or a difficult person that I know I’m going to have to deal with at some point in the upcoming five days (thankfully, the difficult people are not my co-workers, who are wonderful!). And it can really eat up an afternoon. Know what I mean? Anyway. Sunday Scaries aside, we did have a relaxing weekend. It was Peanut’s half birthday, so we let her decide where we were hiking, and all she wanted to do was visit the park right in our neighborhood – nice and easy. It ended up that both Saturday and Sunday followed the same pattern: wake up slowly, straggle out the door to the neighborhood park, come home and be productive for a few hours, crash with book. On Saturday, the afternoon productivity took the form of a massive clean-out and organizing of Nugget’s bedroom, and a work call at the same time. On Sunday, I tornadoed through the ground floor, cleaned Nugget’s school station and my work area, did dishes, swept, ordered some new cleaning supplies (we were running low) and took Nugget out to the garden center for more birdseed. That was the big fun of the weekend; randomly, I had never brought him before – I usually just run in, pick up the birdseed I need, and rush on home – and every time I go I think about how much he would love it there. In addition to a bunch of stuff he likes (birdseed, bird feeders, gardening supplies) they have a little farm out front with pigs, chickens, bunnies, and goats. Dude went nuts – even stuck his finger in and petted the rooster before I realized what he was about – and I’m so glad I finally got around to bringing him.
And now, another week begins. Wish me luck…
Reading. So! Some reading week. I spent most of it with Moby-Dick. Full review coming on Friday, but, spoiler ahoy – not my cup of tea. Pages and pages and pages of how-to manual on whaling, interspersed with gory cetacean murder scenes… just not for me. The weekend was more promising. First of all, on Friday morning – prior to turning grimly back to Moby-Dick – Peanut and I finished our read-aloud of Betsy-Tacy and Tib. I don’t mention it every week, but we generally always have a book on the go, and if it’s a classic I’ll include it in my “read” totals for the year, because it’s just as much for me as it is for her. The rest of the weekend was devoted to pure fun. On Friday night, after finishing Moby-Dick, I turned to my library (!!!) book, That Can Be Arranged: A Muslim Love Story. I’ll write more about it next week, but for now: when a graphic novel memoir opens by paraphrasing Jane Austen, you just know it’s going to be wonderful. It was a quick read, and I finished it by 9:00 on Saturday morning – off to the races. Most of the rest of my weekend reading time was devoted to A Winter Away, from the Furrowed Middlebrow collection for Dean Street Press, which I LOVED. No predictions now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that one ends up on my top-ten list for the year. And finally, ended Sunday curled up with another Furrowed Middlebrow book – The Woods in Winter, by Stella Gibbons (yes, she of Cold Comfort Farm fame). Can you tell I’m on a winter books jag right now?
Watching. A little of this and a little of that – some Rick Steves, some Rock the Park, but the most exciting thing is: I introduced the kids (and poor Steve) to the 1996 Matilda movie. The kids love it and have insisted on watching it twice as a family this week. Steve is barely tolerating it. I am jubilant. I bought Peanut the book for a small half-birthday present, and she is devouring it, Matilda-like.
Listening. Still binging those bookish podcasts, yo. I finished my stash of back episodes of Tea or Books and The Slightly Foxed Podcast, and a few episodes of Shedunnit, just for good measure. (Where am I finding time to listen to all of these podcasts? I have no idea. I listen when I drive to the grocery story and when I do dishes, but that’s it?) As of blog post press time, I am midway through an episode of Shedunnit on vacation-themed murder mysteries – so good.
Making. A clean, tidy and organized little boy’s room – that’s my big achievement for the week. I spent Saturday afternoon putting together a closet organizer and then filling it up with Nugget’s toys. He loves his clean room, and being able to find his stuff. We’re working on paring down the toys to what both kids actually enjoy playing with; Nugget in particular seems to be much happier when he’s not surrounded by clutter.
Moving. Boring week to report. A couple of Peloton workouts, some walks, and maybe one run? I can’t even remember.
Blogging. Bookish week for ya! On Wednesday, I have February’s Themed Reads, and on Friday, that review of Moby-Dick. I am sorry to tell you, the gif website failed me this time, so it won’t be a very funny post. I would say there’s a cookie in it for you if you make it through the whole review, but hell, I had to read the whole book.
Loving. This one is kind of bittersweet. So, before I left my last job, my work wife Samantha gave me a gift set of three Beautycounter hand lotions. All three smell fabulous; all three are almost empty. They’ve literally been saving my life – or more specifically, my hands – in this winter season. I am prone to dry skin in general, especially on my hands and especially when I am stressed out. This busy pandemic winter has been a recipe for disastrously scaly skin; it’s actually painful. These days I am never without one of the Beautycounter hand lotions from my dear Sam; they’re the best hand creams I have ever used. (I am a big Beautycounter fan in general.) Sadly, it seems Beautycounter no longer carries them – maybe they’re a holiday thing? – but I have a big jar of their citrus mimosa hand cream on its way to me. I will report back.
We all knew this was going to happen, didn’t we? I mean, real talk. I got a library card in my new system. It was a total accident, I swear!
As I mentioned in this post, I have been sans library card for months now and, to be honest… kind of loving it. At the beginning of the pandemic, I had a stack of books checked out from the Alexandria library. I read through those, but figuring out the vagaries of curbside library pickup just felt too overwhelming with all of the other adjustments I was working through at the time – transitioning to working from home all the time, juggling a full-time job with homeschooling, searching for a new place to live after our lease expired. So I just didn’t deal with it. I read and returned the books I had checked out at the time, and then I read from my own shelves. Once I pushed through a pandemic-induced reading slump, I found myself really enjoying my own books. It turns out most of my book-purchasing decisions have been good decisions.
Then we moved from Alexandria to the exurbs – new county, new library system. And I decided to hold off – not forever, just temporarily – on getting a library card in the new system. Partly, that was due to a reluctance to go into any public buildings if I didn’t absolutely have to; partly, it was due to still really enjoying reading from my own shelves. So I set up my bookshelves and a cozy reading nook in the living room, and I kept on making my way through my own collection. I figured I’d probably get a library card in 2022, maybe?
It’s been a nice routine. Tuck kids into bed, light candle, toddle to bookshelf and choose whatever speaks to me, flop down on couch. Lather, rinse, repeat. I guess all good things have to come to an end?
Here’s what happened: I was killing time by scrolling through book recommendation lists online (tell me you do that, too), and I wanted to make note of some books to borrow when I did eventually pick up a library card in the exurbs. I like to keep my Goodreads to-read list limited to books I really want to get to sooner than later. And a lot of the books I wanted to get to, I didn’t necessarily want to buy. So I navigated over to the online catalog in my new county’s library system, just to look, y’all, I swear. And – oh, you can create custom lists and add books. What would be the harm of opening an online account? I can just use it as a running list of books to borrow when I do eventually get a library card. I opened an online account – which doesn’t get me a card; I would have to stop by the library for that, and the libraries are all closed, so I thought I was safe – and started adding books to my new online TBR. What fun!
I’m sure you can guess what happened next. I was doing really well, cruising through the catalog, adding books to the TBR list when… muscle memory kicked in, and instead of “Add to List” I accidentally clicked “Place Hold” for That Can Be Arranged: A Muslim Love Story. I really did want to borrow that one, and it probably would’ve been one of the first up when I got my card, but – I didn’t mean to reserve a copy. So I quickly clicked “cancel” and added the book to my library TBR instead. But I guess I messed that up, too, because a few days later I got a text message and an email. My hold was ready! Ummmmm…
I guess that’s that, then. I called the library and verified that I could get my permanent card at the same time I picked up the hold, and I drove over to the curbside pickup, snagged my book and my card, and I’m now a card-carrying (see what I did there?) member of my new library system. It really was only a matter of time.
HOWEVER. I still plan to do most of my reading from my own shelves for the foreseeable future. Somehow, I am going to resist the siren call of the library holds queue. I MEAN IT THIS TIME. There are so many books on my shelves that I am really eager to read, and I’m going to create some self-imposed rules (like, maybe only one book on hold/checked out at a time? if I can stick to that?) to keep to reading my own books as much as possible, at least for awhile. I’m just having too much fun with my shelves – but I know myself, it’s so hard to resist the siren call of the library. I swear I’m going to try though, and I want you guys to hold me accountable.
Have you ever accidentally gotten a library card? Maybe don’t answer that.
Every Black History Month, I try to make sure my reading agenda includes Black voices – whether contemporary Black voices writing about contemporary themes; historical fiction; art writing; or a classic work. This year, I chose to focus on Song of Solomon, by Toni Morrison.
Song of Solomon focuses on the lives, and obsessive loves, of an affluent Black family in Michigan in the middle of the twentieth century, and the people that come into their orbit. The main character, Macon “Milkman” Dead, is born into a family that presents a gilded image to the community but is at war with itself. Macon’s father is cold, disgusted by his wife, and largely oblivious to his children until the day that Milkman grows up enough to help out in the family business. Milkman’s mother, the elegant daughter of the town’s only Black doctor, is a needy, clinging woman, desperate for love and still mourning her father. And away at the edge of town live Milkman’s aunt Pilate, his father’s sister, with her daughter Reba and her granddaughter Hagar.
Into this world steps Milkman – favored son, spoiled and selfish. The book follows his journey – both growing up in the strange, not-quite-right world of his family’s elegant house on Not Doctor Street – and then traveling to first Pennsylvania and then the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia to seek answers about his family. Who was Milkman’s grandfather, the first Macon Dead, and his enigmatic wife? A “hero takes a journey” narrative with a healthy splash of magical realism, Song of Solomon is epic and gorgeous and weird.
Listen, baby, people do funny things. Specially us. The cards are stacked against us and just trying to stay in the game, stay alive and in the game, makes us do funny things. Things we can’t help. Things that make us hurt one another. We don’t even know why. But look here, don’t carry it inside and don’t give it to nobody else. Try to understand it, but if you can’t, just forget it and keep yourself strong, man.
The focus of the story is certainly on the men – Milkman, mainly, but also on his father Macon Dead II and his friend Guitar. But a Goodreads review that I read midway through oriented me to the stories of the women – Milkman’s mother Ruth; his sisters Magdalene called Lena and First Corinthians; Pilate, Reba and Hagar; and even the more “minor” – but still fully realized – characters like Circe, an old woman who shelters Macon II and Pilate after their father is murdered.
Of course, not all is as it seems – which is lucky, because it all seems super messed up. Milkman’s education in the extreme weirdness of the Dead family begins when his father hits his mother. Milkman, by then a strong man of 22 years old, punches his father in retaliation. Macon II regales his son with a long and extremely creepy story about just why it is that he is so revolted by his wife. The story does its job. Milkman, feeling the need to pick a side, pretty much chooses his father. But his mother won’t be silenced so easily; she shares her own side of the story – unsurprisingly, a little different from Macon II’s – on a late-night train ride. Milkman longs to escape the pressure of two warring factions in his family, his childhood friend Guitar’s tumble into a brigade of assassins, and his obsessive ex-girlfriend (and first cousin) Hagar. His opportunity comes when Macon II tasks him with tracking down a bag of gold that he believes Pilate stole. Milkman sets off on his journey in Part II of the novel, seeking gold, but also seeking even more valuable answers. And he finds answers.
It sounded old. Deserve. Old and tired and beaten to death. Deserve. Now it seemed to him that he was always saying or thinking that he didn’t deserve some bad luck, or some bad treatment from others. He’d told Guitar that he didn’t “deserve” his family’s dependence, hatred, or whatever. That he didn’t even “deserve” to hear all the misery and mutual accusations his parents unloaded on him. Nor did he “deserve” Hagar’s vengeance. But why shouldn’t his parents tell him their personal problems? If not him, then who? And if a stranger could try to kill him, surely Hagar, who knew him and whom he’d thrown away like a wad of chewing gum after the flavor was gone–surely she had a right to try to kill him too.
Apparently he thought he deserved only to be loved–from a distance though–and given what he wanted. And in return, he would be . . . what? Pleasant? Generous? Maybe all he was really saying was: I am not responsible for your pain; share your happiness with me but not your unhappiness.
It is not outlandish to say that the vast majority of the characters in Song of Solomon are struggling with private, obsessive love. There are a few who are not. Milkman is the prime example; with so much love pressing in on all sides, he mainly rejects anything that carries too much emotional weight. He’s as dismissive of Hagar as he is of his sisters and of his friend Guitar’s new consciousness. Indeed, I think the only other character in the book that is as emotionally removed as Milkman is Reba, who is repeatedly described as “simple.” Macon II; Ruth; Corinthians; Pilate; Hagar; Guitar; even Circe — all are driven by obsessive love of someone else, or of a concept. (I won’t say who or what these people and concepts are, because that would spoil the book. Suffice it to say: while the magical realism continues to the very last page, the threads that seemed so tangled at the beginning of the journey are neatly tied up by the end.)
Song of Solomon was an intense read, certainly, and I’m always a little skeptical of magical realism. But I did find it incredibly engaging, and a breathtaking panorama. This was the third Toni Morrison I have read — a collection of essays, and Sula, being the other two — and I think it’s my favorite so far. I suspect it would reward a close re-reading, and I do plan to revisit it.
Have you read any Toni Morrison? Which is your favorite?
Happy new week and happy day after Valentine’s Day to you, friends! I hope that you all had lovely weekends. Recently a friend of mine shared a meme on Facebook that lamented, in effect, that weekends are starting to feel more and more like thirty-minute lunch breaks. I feel that so hard. This was a relaxing weekend, even if it did go too fast as they all do. It was the rare weekend in which we didn’t hike or really go outside at all. We were expecting ice, and ice we received. I nipped out to pick up a grocery order on Saturday morning and saw multiple car accidents on my way to and from Wegmans – yikes. (The other drivers on the road may not have appreciated my slow speed, but I made it to Wegmans and back without a skid, so who’s laughing now?)
We spent the rest of the weekend hunkered down indoors – not even a walk outside; our hilly neighborhood is a skating rink right now. We’d had plans to get together for an outdoor, socially distanced playdate with my friend Carly and her munchkins, but ended up postponing – I wasn’t in the mood to drive into D.C. and she wasn’t in the mood to drive to the exurbs, and no one was in the mood for the playground in the freezing rain. Hopefully in a few weekends. The rest of the weekend, we all just kicked around the house. I finally rolled up my sleeves and organized the family/overflow bookshelves, which was long overdue. And that’s about it. Sunday Scaries hit hard, but I did get some good relaxation time in.
Reading. Whew! Some reading week, indeed. I have been really good about setting my phone down, and not doomscrolling, in the evenings – and this is the result. I finished up Winter: An Anthology for the Changing Seasons on Monday, and then whipped through Crossed Skis: An Alpine Mystery, which was one of my Christmas presents from Steve. Loved it – totally engrossing, and the scene-setting was fabulous. Next I wanted to get to an anti-racism book that has been on my list for ages now; I’ll say more in my monthly reading recap, but Me and White Supremacy was okay but not as informative as I was really looking for. Switched back to classics with some relief – The Diary of a Nobody over a few days (so funny!) and then spent the weekend over Moby-Dick. No ideas as to what’s next; I’m only about halfway through Moby-Dick as of this post going live, so I have a few days before I’ll need to consider what’s on deck.
Watching. This and that, and more of this and that. I spent part of Sunday catching up on some of the newer content on Miranda Mills’ BookTube channel that I hadn’t already watched – always a delight. We also watched a few episodes of Giada Entertains, as the kids are still on a major Food Network jag and I am loving that. And finally, I got the remote for family movie night on Saturday, and drunk on my own power, I subjected everyone to my favorite movie of all time, Bringing Up Baby. Steve and I cackled throughout; the kids laughed a lot, but I’m not sure how many of the jokes they got. They liked the leopard, though.
Listening. Just podcasts this week – mostly bookish ones. Several back episodes of Tea or Books? – a consistent winner.
Making. The usual – dinners, mostly, and work product, and more dinners and more work product. But also, some house progress! I’m almost done with moving-related organizing tasks at this point (only eight months after moving, which seems embarrassingly slow, but I never really got organized in our last house and we lived there four years). This weekend, as noted above, I finally found time to organize the family/overflow bookshelves; they were in a sorry state but they’re looking much better now, and more important, there’s space for me to buy more books, hurray! That’s the last real unpacking sort of task although I would like to get the playroom closets organized and tackle the chaos in the kids’ rooms. All in good time.
Moving. It wasn’t the best week for movement. Other than a 5K on the treadmill on Sunday, I didn’t do much – especially toward the end of the week, my work days were quite full and it was hard to carve out time for a workout. I know, I know. I’m feeling the lack of movement and fresh air.
Blogging. Bookish week ahead! On Wednesday, I have a Classics Club review of Song of Solomon, which (spoiler alert!) I loved. And on Friday, I had a little bookish accident and I’m telling you all about it. Check in with me then!
Loving. As I approach the close of my umpteenth (seriously, I’ve lost count) Whole30, I have been treating myself to overflowing berry bowls almost every day. It is a treat – berries in the dead of winter aren’t cheap, but I’ve had good luck in getting some really juicy and delicious ones, at least. I drizzle coconut milk or coconut cream (depending on how decadent I am feeling) over the berries, and it’s delightful and wonderful. Often, I avoid eating berries because I want to leave them for the kids. And then the kids end up chowing down on pretzels and ignoring the fruit, and it goes bad – sad, sad story. No more of that! Give me ALL the fruit.
These days, whenever we get even the tiniest dusting of snow, I can be found at my kitchen window, camera in hand, waiting to paparazzi the neighborhood birds.
We’re a busy way-station for songbirds and cardinals year-round, but they seem to go particularly bonkers when there’s snow on the ground. It’s like they think they’re never going to get fed again. (They cleared out half of the nutberry suet blend, and a third of the safflower, by lunchtime after our last snowfall.) I love watching their little squabbles and dramas around the feeders, but I think my favorite thing about these avian visits is snapping pictures of their beautiful colors against the muted, snowy backdrop.
Cardinals, for instance, look stunning and dramatic against the snow.
Lady cardinal!
This fella was palling around with a female eastern bluebird.
Speaking of whom…
It literally never gets old to see them in my yard. For years, I wanted to see a bluebird – and never did. Then this summer I finally spotted one while out on a walk, and the dam broke; I see them everywhere now. Lately they’ve been visiting my front yard feeders, which feels like a miracle. I hope they keep coming; as soon as the starlings give up on me I plan to get the bluebirds some mealworms.
How funny is this fluffernutter with his feathers all poofed out like that? It’s to stay warm; fluffed feathers are the bird equivalent of a puffer jacket.
Of course it doesn’t hurt that it makes them look like adorable fluffy tennis balls.
Hello, pretty lady.
The finches were out to play, too. American goldfinch:
And a sweet purple finch:
I never get tired of their sweet faces and elegant plumage. I’m glad I live in a region with year-round avian residents – and so many of them. They’re certainly brightening up this dark pandemic winter around here.
Are you a bird nerd? What sorts of visitors do you get at your feeders?
As part of my word of the year (breathe) and my goal to spend 1,000 hours outside in 2021, I’m planning to check in here with monthly outdoor reports. The idea is to consolidate notes about hiking, the garden, the bird feeders, and other outdoor time in one spot – at least until the garden wakes up enough from winter slumbers to need its own monthly posts. So here goes:
January wasn’t the best outdoor month. That’s largely because the first two weeks of the month were consumed by work – sixty-plus hours each week, oof. The workload is a tiny bit lighter these days, which does help, and I’m trying to keep it that way. And I did manage to get out on the trails and in the garden quite a bit, in the meantime.
Trail report. It was a good month for hiking – lots of good sunny days, and one lovely snowfall. It’s been a tradition of ours for a few years now to start off the year with a New Year’s Day hike. This year, both of the kids begged off, so my parents graciously babysat while Steve and I had a day date at the Pine Bush Preserve in Albany – one of our favorite New York hiking spots. Back home in Virginia, we hiked at our local favorite, Riverbend Park, several times, both upstream and down (including once in the snow; I used my snowshoes and it was glorious). We also hit up Great Falls Park (recap here) and checked out a new-to-us hiking spot at Beaverdam Reservoir. Although my ulterior motive for suggesting Beaverdam was to scope out the kayak and SUP launch spot for warmer days ahead, we really enjoyed the hike – I predict it’s going to become a favorite going forward.
In the garden. As I type this, the garden is sleeping under a blanket of snow; I haven’t done much this month, other than planning and dreaming. Still trying to decide what to do about the wild area between my house and patio; my current plan is to throw a handful of wildflower seeds at it and see what happens. What could go wrong? Other than plotting spring exploits, I haven’t done much. Tidied up the woodpile and burnt a stack of yard waste in my fire pit – that’s all. I’m getting itchy to rake up the leaves and straighten up, but I’m resisting the impulse for now; the birds and other little critters need the dead leaves and sticks for their cozy winter habitats.
At the feeders. Speaking of the birds – it’s been an active month at the feeders. Between our winter visitors (dark-eyed juncos and white-throated sparrows) and the year-round residents, our front yard is turning into an all-day-and-all-night bird buffet. Recently we’ve gotten some new birds stopping by; in some cases, welcome, and in other cases, not so much. The bluebirds that live in the neighborhood year round have been popping by to supplement their winter diets with some of my suet, and it’s always exciting to see them. On the other end of the spectrum, a gang of European starlings recently turned up. I could write an essay about why I don’t want these voracious, invasive bully birds at my feeder, but I will resist the impulse. To discourage them, I put in some time setting up a new feeder station – moving the expensive food the starlings love into a caged tube feeder they can’t access, and filling up the other feeders with safflower, which they won’t eat. I also hosed off the tray feeder and filled it with sunflower seeds and peanuts, both in shells, which the starlings’ wimpy beaks can’t handle. I put in an hour on the feeders the day before we were expecting a big snowstorm (that didn’t totally materialize, but we did get some snow) and the birds definitely appreciated it; they chowed down.
1000 hours outside. Slow start to the year – only logged 13.5 hours of outdoor time between hiking, gardening, and a little bit (a very little bit) of outdoor running. I’ll have to pick up the pace substantially over the rest of the year! I’m in a deep hole now. But once the weather improves I predict I’ll be spending more and more time outside, so I’m not worried about it.
That’s it for January – one of my favorite months of the year, actually, but a bit lame this time around thanks to a heavy work schedule, which happens. Hoping for more outdoor runs and walks in February, and of course some good trail time.
Goooooooood morning. Is anyone awake? Who made it to the end of the Superbowl? I never do.
We had a mostly restful weekend here, getting recharged for another week of working from home, virtual school – all that jazz. Two hikes, of course. On Saturday we were out the door and headed for Leesburg, to hike at Rust Nature Preserve – one of our favorite shorter hikes. It’s supposed to be a great birding spot, but I never seem to see much – wonder why? (Just kidding, I totally know why: it’s my two loud children.) The rest of Saturday, we intended to clean the house – but it didn’t happen. Instead, we all did our preferred lolling about activities. Steve killed Vikings on his xBox. Peanut watched cartoons. Nugget staged elaborate battles with his animal figurines. I read.
On Sunday, we woke up to a heavy wet snowfall. It seemed to be really coming down from the sky, but not sticking, so we decided to get out for an early hike and snowy playtime at Riverbend Park before the snow was gone, which – spoiler alert! – it was by mid-afternoon. The kids ran up and down the trail, glorying in the sloppy snow and mud mixture, and we all took big, cleansing breaths of fresh air. With their good behavior, the ankle-biters earned some more sloppy snow play back at the visitors’ center, before heading home for cocoa. And the rest of Sunday passed mostly like Saturday – with the exception of Superbowl prep. I did some reading, some cooking, and a lot of watching Nugget’s “ultimate aminal rumble” battles. Finished the day curled up with the rugrats tucked away in bed, the Superbowl on, homemade sweet potato chips and Paleo ranch dip, and some good nature writing. Not too shabby.
Reading. A very good reading week! I began the week soaking up the sun in Corfu with the Durrell family – enjoying Gerald Durrell’s beautiful nature writing and cackling at his family’s comedic antics. Moved on to Song of Solomon – in honor of Black History Month, reading one of the greatest writerswho ever lived – and was entranced. After blazing through Song of Solomon, I did need a readerly exhale in the form of some peaceful nature writing. Melissa Harrison’s beautiful anthology celebrating the winter season was just the ticket.
Watching. So the majority of my watching this week was watching Nugget’s toy animal figurines battle each other. It’s a remarkably interactive experience. I am required to pay close attention; to have a rooting interest; and to make a prediction about which animal will win each round and then support my prediction with logic. And more often than not, Nugget’s response is something along the lines of: “Well, Mom, I’m sorry to tell you, but… jaguar defeats tiger.” When not watching toy animal battles, we’ve fallen down a Food Network rabbit hole. Peanut recently discovered Giada de Laurentiis and is glorying in the hours and hours of Giada at Home content on Hulu. (The latest season, Giada at Home 2.0, shot on iPhones by Giada’s boyfriend Shane during COVID summer 2020, is great.) We’ve also introduced the kids to Iron Chef, because why not? Oh, and there was that football game. Whatever. But – Amanda Gorman! WOW, again.
Listening. Back to podcasts this week! Finished up the Mom Hour series on home organization (yes I’m a nerd, no I don’t care who knows it), then listened to a few episodes of Song Exploder featuring my two favorite bands – R.E.M. and The Decemberists. And then an episode of Overheard at National Geographic on humpback whale songs (it’s a back episode; go find it deep in the archives – wonderful) and finally some Tea or Books?, just to round things out.
Making. Not too much this week – not too much of anything. Plenty of dinners; that’s about the extent of my creativity. And homemade sweet potato chips and Paleo ranch dip for the Superbowl – yum.
Moving. Decent week! A couple of outdoor runs; a couple of Peloton workouts; a couple of hikes. Sunday’s snowy hike was the highlight. As I laughingly told Steve – I haven’t attempted to put on my Sorel winter boots since I was pregnant with Nugget; they were a leetle bit easier to get on this time.
Blogging. Outdoorsy week coming atcha! Trying out a new thing and compiling a monthly outdoors report; January’s will go live on Wednesday. And then on Friday, easing into the weekend with birds in the snow – all pictures snapped through my kitchen window during a recent winter storm. I can’t wait to share these with you, so do check in with me then.
Loving. I mentioned this up above, so I won’t say too many words, but it’s been so much fun to share cooking shows with the kids – especially Peanut. Steve and I used to love watching Food Network together and then recreating the chefs’ dishes in our condo kitchen and at our first house, but the arrival of kids threw a wrench into that hobby for awhile. Now the kids are getting interested in cooking and chefs, which I think is really cool. Peanut is especially into it – she’s always enjoyed baking, but I am more of a cook (blog handle notwithstanding) and I am so stoked that she is finally asking to help with dinner. Spending time with her in the kitchen is such a treat and the more skills she builds, the more fun she has with it.
covered in flour 