30 January 2009
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.
28 January 2009
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:
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.
26 January 2009
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!
25 January 2009
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!
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!
24 January 2009
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.
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.
21 January 2009
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.
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.
20 January 2009
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.
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.
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