Drought

The weather and news people have informed us that we are not officially in a drought. The way I understand the explanation, it is somewhat like the way economists declared a recession. If you remember, it was not "officially" a recession until two straight quarters of negative numbers. The American population knew we were in recession long before we heard the official word. Well, with a drought, it takes two years of subnormal rainfall to be officially a drought. So far, that magic period has not yet occurred. However, it looks like a drought, and it feels like a drought, whether official or not. Central Texas really needs rain.

John Updike

It is hard to imagine a world without John Updike. His writing career spans my own life as a reader of significant fiction. He came to national attention at about the time that I began to take fiction seriously, and ever since there have been novels, short stories, book reviews in The New Yorker, and essays on art, arriving with alarming frequency by this prolific writer.

Updike has a mixed reputation among critics, some of whom dismiss him as a popular writer. He won almost every significant prize or recognition for his fiction, yet he was not always taken seriously. The lead book reviewer for The New York Times, Michiko Kakatuni, wrote an appreciation of Updike which the paper placed prominently on its first page today. These words seem especially to sum up what Updike did so well in his fiction:

“It is as a novelist who opened a big picture window on the American middle class in the second half of the 20th century, however, that he will be best remembered. In his most resonant work, Mr. Updike gave “the mundane its beautiful due,” as he once put it, memorializing the everyday mysteries of love and faith and domesticity with extraordinary nuance and precision. In Kodachrome-sharp snapshots, he gave us the 50’s and early 60’s of suburban adultery, big cars and wide lawns, radios and hi-fi sets, and he charted the changing landscape of the 70’s and 80’s, as malls and subdivisions swallowed up small towns and sexual and social mores underwent a bewildering metamorphosis.”

As the 21st century continues and the 20th century becomes more history than memory, I think people will perhaps read Updike to gain a sense of what the middle decades of the century were really like. In the meantime, I think we will miss him.

The Year of the Ox

HAPPY ASIAN NEW YEAR!

To all my Chinese readers and all those who observe the Chinese calendar, blessings for a wonderful new year. May the year of the ox be a time of peace and prosperity!

Robert Burns

Today is the 250th anniversary of the birth of the Scottish poet, Robert Burns. Happy birthday, Robby Burns!

Celebrations are being held across the globe tonight—Burns Night—to mark the occasion. And one such celebration will occur at our home as well.

Why celebrate the birth of Robert Burns? Though he is the author of immortal lyrics such as “Auld Lang Syne” and “O, My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose,” why the festivities? Presumably one does not need a special occasion to drink Scotch whisky or even eat haggis. Why in honor of Burns?

The Scottish nation was impotent and demoralized in the latter years of the 18th century and early 19th century. Scotland had freely joined in a union with England in 1707 to create Great Britain, and in fact a Scottish family—the Stuarts—had been monarchs of England through the 17th century and up until 1714. When the last Stuart, Queen Anne, died with no heir, Parliament following the rules of succession went as far afield as Hannover to find the next Protestant in line and chose the Elector of Hannover, George, as the next British monarch, beginning a line of German-English sovereigns that continues to the present day. Scots felt ignored and abandoned.

There were uprisings to return a Stuart to the throne in 1715 and again in 1745, encouraged and abetted by Scots, particularly the Highlanders. English armies reacted swiftly and brutally, especially in 1745. William, the Duke of Cumberland—still known in Scotland as “Bloody Billy”—decided once and for all to exterminate the pesky rebels. Today we would call his campaign genocide. Cumberland sought to exterminate every aspect of Highland culture, from the ancient language to the wearing of tartans. And he was quite successful. The English still remember Cumberland as a military hero. Handel’s stirring “Hail to the Conquering Hero” was penned in his honor, and the flower “sweet William” named for him. For Scots he represents all that is evil in their long complicated relationship with the English.

The pen is, indeed, mightier than the sword. The young, dashing Burns began his prodigious composition of lyric poems writing in Scots dialect about average Scots and slowly began to rebuild a sense of pride in all things Scot. His poems had the effect of rekindling pride in being Scot, whether Lowlander or Highlander. His contemporary, Sir Walter Scot, also celebrated Scottish history, language, and culture, but it is to the romantic, and often profane and ribald Burns that the credit is given for rescuing Scotland.

Tonight many glasses will be lifted and toasts pronounced to the one and only Robert Burns. Happy birthday, indeed, Robby Burns!

Weather Changes

I suppose in every part of the country people say, “well, you know how it is around here. If you don’t like the weather, stick around; it’ll change soon enough!”

The statement has been attributed to Mark Twain. Actually, according to legend, tradition, or oral history, what Twain said was, “if you don’t like the weather in New England, just wait a few minutes.”

Having grown up in Texas, I always thought that statement was articulated to characterize the weather of Texas. When I reached Connecticut, I was reminded of the “exact” Twain quotation mentioned above, and the irrefutable fact that Twain lived much of his adult life in Hartford, Connecticut. So I demurred.

New England does have dramatic weather, and a true nor’easter does inspire awe. But, once again ensconced in Texas, I would have to say for abrupt change, nothing quite equals Texas.

Yesterday it was 80° F, and I worked in the garden all day. During the night a cold front came in and today the temperature will not make it out of the lower 50s. There is a stiff north wind of 25-30 MPH and it is, indisputably, cold. Perhaps a reminder that it is, in fact, still January.

Rocks

I should have been a geologist. Sometimes I feel that my life revolves around rocks.

Everyone knows that New England is rocky soil. All those quaint stone walls along winding New England country roads? Made up of rocks uncovered when farmers were clearing the land and preparing it for cultivation. What do you do with all those rocks? Build a wall!

Thus, toiling in my garden in Connecticut was a constant experience of encountering rocks. I could have a bed clear of rocks as the season began, and the next spring would find a new “crop” of rocks. How is this possible? They are brought to the surface by rains over the course of several months. The physics of that phenomenon escapes me entirely, but I do know it is true. Of course the annual recurrence of a new crop of rocks is nothing compared with the “harvest” of rocks when a new bed is carved out. The number, volume, and size of the rocks in the first 12 inches of soil is truly impressive. Every time that I formed a new bed (usually only a few feet long by a few feet wide) I gave thanks that my livelihood did not depend on performing this function on a large field in preparation for planting.

I thought when I left New England I was leaving rocky soil behind. Oh, how wrong I was! The thin soil of Central Texas makes the earth of Connecticut seem rich in comparison. The stones of Connecticut were granite; the bedrock of Central Texas is limestone. Different chemistry; same challenge. Limestone is, of course, a “soft” rock, unlike granite which is a “hard” rock. Rocks are rocks, to be sure, and lifting a behemoth from the Texas soil is still a physical challenge. But, unlike granite, limestone does yield to mighty blows of the sledgehammer. Today in frustration at a particularly intractable boulder, I resorted to the sledgehammer (and suddenly felt like I was a prisoner in a chain gang). Eureka! The rock split! So I hit it again. And it split again. I will be sculpting a new body as I create a new flower bed!

These regional stones (called “honeycomb limestone” by the locals) are full of fossils from the time that this area was all under water. The report on fossils, however, will have to wait for another time. Now it is time for another Tylenol.

Inauguration: No Tears, Just Cheers

I really did not know how I would react to the inauguration—especially since I got weepy at the rehearsal. Well, in brief, there were no tears. What I seemed to feel most of all was a quiet satisfaction as I acknowledged that now the Obama presidency was a reality. I think it was all good. Well, maybe the Chief Justice of the United States misspeaking the oath of office kept this from being a perfect inauguration, but it was good in about every other way.

Some will complain that Elizabeth Alexander’s poem was not memorable and was prosaic. As someone who has taught poetry for 40 years, I can say that the single most difficult type of poetry to create is occasional poetry—that is, poetry written for a specific occasion. How many occasional poems come to mind? You know, the poems written for a coronation, or to celebrate a jubilee, or some other event in the life of a monarch or head of state? Alexander tried to create a poem that was as expansive as the vision of Obama for America and as eclectic as the varying groups of people who supported him so fervently.

Some will carp at the Rev. Lowry’s benediction. As a “white,” I can say with certainty that in fact whites have not always got it right. But some of us are trying. And he got 2 million people to shout “Amen!”

Some will say that Obama’s oratory was not soaring. I saw the President choosing each and every word as carefully as any poet. And the “fallen heroes who lie in Arlington” who “whisper through the ages” is as finely crafted as the image of any skilled poet.

As a sucker for children, I am delighted to have a young family in the White House again. I think that Sasha will give us plenty of smiles and chuckles over the next four years. She did not walk today so much as bounce, and, if I am not mistaken, the ever-present microphones picked up Sasha asking her father after the oath of office, “Now are you president, Daddy?”

Tomorrow I will take the 1.20.09 bumper sticker off my car. A new era has, in fact, begun.

Pre Inauguration

The American media reported that there had been a rehearsal for the inauguration, but it was not until I happened onto an internet link to the BBC that I was able to see the television story about the trial run. I got weepy watching the rehearsal, so I knew I was going to be in trouble on inauguration day itself--tomorrow.

We listened to the pre-inauguration concert live (thank you, NPR) and then watched it last night on television (thanks, HBO). Both times were emotional, especially hearing and then seeing Marian Anderson singing from the same spot in 1939 when she was barred from Constitution Hall.

I missed the opening of the concert both times, so I logged onto the internet to hear the invocation by the Rt. Rev. Gene Robinson, Bishop of New Hampshire. Imagine my surprise to learn that the invocation was not carried by HBO! If you missed the prayer and the ensuing flap, you can read about it here:
http://blogs.kansascity.com/tvbarn/2009/01/why-was-rev-gen.html
The Kansas City blogger says that NPR has some explaining to do. And HBO, and the Inaugural Committee!

For two years I have sported one bumper sticker on my car: 1.20.09--Bush's Last Day. I guess tomorrow, finally, I will be able to remove that bumper sticker. One (very unfortunate) era ends and another (hopefully, much better) begins. Let's hope the concert glitch is not an omen.

Two Little Boys at the Door

The doorbell rang and I answered it to find two little boys--about 8 years old--at the door, clipboard in hand. My assumption was that they were selling something--cookies, candy, magazine subscriptions--anything was possible. I was sure of one thing: they were neither Jehovah's Witnesses nor Mormons (too young). So I prepared myself to hand over $5 or $10 for something I neither wanted nor needed just because I was always so grateful when my own children years ago received a polite reception when they were going door to door. Imagine my surprise when I tuned in what they were saying.

It seems that their teacher had just lost a baby to a rare disease, and they had learned that if the appropriate screening had been done for the baby, death was by no means certain. The boys were gathering names for a petition to lobby legislators to institute mandatory testing of newborns for this rare and fatal disease. They did not ask for money, only for my signature.

I was surprised again to hear an extensive news story on San Antonio television about the family a few days later. The malady, I learned, is Krabbe's Disease, one of a rare group of genetic disorders called leukodystrophies. The boys had good information: in fact it does respond to an infusion of umbilical stem cells if treatment is started before the symptoms manifest themselves.

I do not know if the PKU screening require by law in Connecticut (which screens for a number of different diseases) includes this group of leukodystrophies, but I will be interested in seeing if there is any official response to this grassroots effort to implement testing in Austin. The San Antonio station forwarded the story on to area legislators and promised to report back to listeners any responses received.

While I grieved for the sadness of these parents, I marveled again at the two little boys who were inspired to do what they could in their own way for their teacher.

Bureaucracy

It's official: Texas is more bureaucratic than Connecticut. The acid test--registering your vehicle and getting a driving license. My technique is to try to do each of these tasks in one trip. Well, it took two trips to get the cars registered, but only one trip for a license. What was the problem with vehicle registration? Not the insurance, not the inspection, but the lack of a spousal signature. I explained that the cars were listed as John or Mary Doe. The reason for this, I always heard, was so that either spouse could act as an agent over either vehicle. Not in Texas! Both John and Mary have to sign.

As for the licenses, well, we did that in one trip, so success on that score. But the powers that be require not one, not two, but three forms of identification, including your social security card. Talk about overkill! Connecticut processes the license (picture included) on the spot. Texas gives a piece of cardboard and says that the license will arrive in several weeks. If the DPS employee had asked for some advice on how to improve the process, I would gladly have given it. Strangely enough, she did not seek my advice.

Book Review: The Inextinguishable Symphony

Martin Goldsmith, The Inextinguishable Symphony; a True Story of Music and Love in Nazi Germany. John Wiley and Sons, 2000.

Sometimes symphonies are given names (“The Eroica,” “The Unfinished”) and “the inextinguishable” is the name given to the Danish composer Carl Nielsen’s Symphony Number 4, completed in 1916. The Wikipedia citation for the work indicates that “the inextinguishable” applies not to the musical work itself but to that which is inextinguishable—the will to live. In that sense, the term is an apt choice for the musicologist Martin Goldsmith’s account of the lives of his parents in Germany through the 1930s.

While growing up in his parents’ home, Goldsmith knew he was Jewish, but his parents would not discuss their faith—or even own it. This book is the fascinating journey—both real and psychic—that Martin takes as he learns the story of his parents’ youth, their courtship and marriage, and finally their escape from National Socialism. In exploring the early lives of his parents, Goldsmith learns about the Judische Kulturbund created by the National Socialists as they first began to marginalize and then terrorize the Jewish community of Germany. Goldsmith’s parents emerge as heroic, though because of the family members left behind, they would never own up to any accomplishment on their part. In a sense the driving force in the their lives—as in the lives of their associates in various Kulturbund orchestras—is the power of music. His mother was compelled to play her viola and his father the flute. They were willing to take inordinate risks just to continue making music, even as the Nazi government made it less and less possible for any cultural life to remain among the nation’s Jews. Goldsmith’s book is not just a testament to the will to live but also a testament to the power of music.

This book tells a chapter in the sordid story of Nazi Germany that I had not been aware of previously. It is a story that will appeal to students of history and lovers of music. Most of all, just as was Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, it is a testimony to the “inextinguishable.”

Good News: More Are Reading!

The National Endowment for the Arts issued a report today that indicates a decline in reading literature has been reversed. The NEA began collecting data on the reading habits of Americans in 1982, and since that date the proportion of people who reported reading at least one work of literature has declined steadily—until 2008.

The proportion of adults reading some type of literary work is still not as high as it was in 1982, but the decline has, for now, been halted. Best of all, the biggest increase in reading occurred among young adults between the ages of 18 and 24, the group that had previously shown the steepest declines.

There is a certain irony that the NEA demonstrates that Americans are reading more fiction, as it was only this past fall that the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, the group that is responsible for the Nobel Prize in Literature, belittled American literature, saying our fiction was “too isolated, too insular” and, in short, too trendy. Can we connect the dots?

Has the official American “go it alone” foreign policy of the past eight years in fact had an impact on the reading habits of Americans? Have we turned inward because we have suffered international rebuffs? My own sense is that these dots cannot be connected—at least not yet. I am not convinced that the Swedish spokesman was correct and may even display an effete Eurocentrism that perhaps reflects politics more than literary value. Still, the indictment invites analysis and reflection.

As our nation turns the page on a sad chapter in our nation’s history next week with the inauguration of a new president, and as we begin to reconnect with the rest of the world, will we continue to read more? And will our literature reflect different ideals? And if the Swedish Academy then finds our literature less insular, will that conclusion reflect more on the academy or on our nation?

Snow's Barbecue

It would be an unfair generalization to say that no one had heard of Snow’s Barbecue before the article in Texas Monthly. We can assume that an article in The New Yorker would have little impact on business (or “bidness” as it is pronounced in Central Texas) since the circulation of the latter magazine is poor to none around Lexington, Texas. But the notice in the esteemed Texas Monthly created unparalleled interest in the small, local eatery, and the editors could sense what was to come. As Calvin Trillin reports, when the editor of Texas Monthly told the staff at Snow’s about their elevation into the pantheon of barbecue, he said, “Congratulations, and I’m sorry.” He knew what the result would be.

Snow’s is open one day each week. Actually, that is too generous. Snow’s is open Saturday mornings. The staff, led by pitmaster Tootsie Tomanetz (is there a word “pitmistress”?) work during the night each Friday for the opening of the joint each Saturday at 8:00 am. There is already a line of hungry customers when the doors are thrown open. The entire 800 lbs. of smoked meat is gone by 10:00 or 11:00, and the shop closes up for another week.

Obviously, I had to see (and taste) for myself. Our son assembled a group from his office for the pilgrimage to Lexington (just east of Elgin, in Lee County). We met in Austin at 7:30, which meant that we left home (for barbecue!) at 6:30 am. Sure enough, when we arrived, there was a line out the door, and the tables outside the store, nestled next to the still-operating smokers, were filled with happy eaters enjoying barbecue for breakfast.

I opted for beef brisket, for after reading one of the judges’ comments that the brisket was “soft and sweet as cookie dough,” I just had to give it the taste test. It was, in fact, excellent, though I don’t think memories of chocolate chip cookies came to mind as I made my sandwich (white bread is de rigeur) from the meat we had purchased. The smoky flavor permeates the meat, and to call it tender would be an understatement. One of our group asked me if I had sampled the chicken, and I owned that I had not (wondering if the question was an invitation to sample the spread of chicken in front of him). He then said, “you’ve got to try this” and I did. My, my, I can’t imagine why Calvin Trillin did not write about the chicken—moist, succulent, and smoked all the way to the bone. I’ve grilled chicken and smoked chicken, and I know that one of the big challenges is to get chicken done without allowing it to get tough. This chicken was—dare I say?—perfect.

Snow’s is definitely one-of-a-kind. If your mouth is watering, you might want to refer to the earlier post with the link to The New Yorker article and a link to Snow’s website. I think it is safe to say that this humble shop did not have a website prior to the designation of top barbecue joint in Texas for 2008 of the 341 reviewed.

Dandelion!

Dandelions are one of the first signs of spring. Imagine my surprise to find a dandelion happily growing, flowering, and even going to seed on 7 January! Signs of spring in January? This is a new experience indeed.

Dandelions are edible, though I think I will stick with lettuce and spinach. They can be eaten raw (best picked when very young) or boiled like other types of greens. If dandelions are to be consumed, it's advisable to harvest them from yards that have not been sprayed or subjected to weedkiller.

The name, of course, is from French: dent de lion (tooth of the lion) though I can't imagine that anyone ever got close enough to a lion to check the resemblance. Though the French derivation seems fated to endure in our language, I am fond of the older English term pissabeds. That's one of those words that looks impolite but actually is not. The term has not been used for some time now--except in classes on the English language--so I am waiting sometime, somewhere to hear a gardener actually curse the ubiquitous weed with this old term.

Barbecue

Barbecue is a serious subject for discussion, and not only in Texas. The decision of which wood to use, how long to smoke, which meat is best to barbecue, and whether or not to use sauce can evoke spirited responses if not downright hostility.

So what does Texas Monthly magazine do? This year, instead of listing the top five barbecue joints in Texas (as is their custom), the editors opted for naming the single best source for barbecue in 2008. The winner? Snow’s in Lexington, Texas http://www.snowsbbq.com/. Do you think that decision elicited any controversy?

I first heard of Snow’s in a rather unlikely place—not Texas Monthly but The New Yorker! Since the latter publication is not wont to publicize anything west of the Hudson (and certainly not eating establishments) there seemed to be a story just in the fact that The New Yorker thought that their readers would find the subject of interest.

And whom did the editors choose to investigate this eruption in the world of barbecue? None other than Calvin Trillin—and that decision was provocative as well. The New Yorker often turns to Trillin for food articles because he is witty and urbane, and because he writes well. He is also from Kansas City. And, from having lived in greater Kansas City myself for 22 years, I can tell you that people in Kansas City believe that even if they did not invent barbecue, they perfected it.

Of course the same can be said for Tennessee, North Carolina, Louisiana, and countless other places—all of whom think that their barbecue is the non plus ultra. The difference is, none of those locales have a Calvin Trillin to serve as their spokesman. You can imagine that Trillin came to Snow’s prepared to scoff, and his article—though up to his usual literary standards—does not disappoint. See for yourself:
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/11/24/081124fa_fact_trillin

Of course, I had to see for myself as well. My report on Snow’s will follow.

Internet Surprises

It’s hard to get used to the power, strength, and scope of the internet, though I have been using it daily—many times—ever since there first was a worldwideweb.

Tonight while skimming through a search engine I spotted something that really surprised me—one of my photos posted on the online Frommer’s Guide!

I love this shot and it brings back vivid memories of a wonderful day of driving through Vermont in the fall of 2008 accompanied by N and Sammy the dog. We happened onto the colorful scene as we were driving to the headquarters of the Vermont Country Store, and I snapped several shots that afternoon. I liked the picture so much that I posted it onto Flickr, and that must be how the Frommer’s Guide editors found my photo.

On the one hand, I am grateful that Frommer’s gives me credit for the picture, but perhaps it would be more accurate not to say I uploaded the picture but maybe give me credit for taking the picture!

Shopping

I am not sure when shopping became patriotic. It used to be that shopping was either 1) a necessity, or 2) a sign of self indulgence. After 9/11, of course, when Americans wanted to “do” something, we were advised to “go shopping.”

Now that the nation is in its worst economic crisis since the depression, once again, we are told to get out there and spend money.

We have been shopping—but not in that frantic, spend-all-the-money-you can-as-fast-as-you-can sort of way. The Macbook got sick so I hunted out the nearest Apple store. Two are in San Antonio, so I chose the one that looked closest and headed over to the “Genius Bar” at La Cantera (http://www.theshopsatlacantera.com/html/index7.asp). My, now this is some fancy shopping center. Definitely not your 20th-century mall. On the second trip (this time to replace the hard drive) I told N that I thought she might find the trip to La Cantera fun. That was an understatement.

While I waited for the new hard drive (under warranty, thank heavens) N strolled through the outdoor mall filled with streams, elaborate plantings, an outdoor food court, and high end shops (Neiman Marcus, and the like). The experience seemed more like California than Texas, and N said she felt like she was on vacation.

After Christmas we decided that we really needed to check out the outlets only 15 minutes from our house. There are the Tanger Outlets, similar to Tanger operations in CT and around the country. And then across the street there are the Prime Outlets—the stores for which one does not usually find outlets—Juicy, Fresh Produce (when did clothing stores start sounding like eating establishments?), Coach, St. John, Armani, Neiman Marcus. And the people are buying! I would say, patriotic Americans all, except the parking lots at both places—the upscale La Cantera and the outlets—were full of cars from Mexico. I spotted license plates from more Mexican states than I can remember.

What’s happening? Tell Bubba that NAFTA is indeed working. And, thanks, Dubya, the value of the dollar against international currencies has fallen so low that now Mexicans are flooding the shopping centers, malls, and outlets of the border states. When I was a kid, Texans went to Mexico for bargains. Now Mexicans are coming here for bargains. Is this a great country or what?