I Meet Myself

Between my junior and senior years in high school I was fortunate to receive a scholarship to Interlochen’s Summer Camp for the Arts in Michigan. To give credit where it’s due, the high school band director, Ron Wells, recommended me for the scholarship, which was awfully nice of him. He and his wife, Dotty, were helpful and supportive during my teen years, with Dotty giving me flute lessons in exchange for babysitting, a plan of mutual benefit that lasted until their kids outgrew the need.

There were some gifted artists in the music program in our high school and, to be clear, I wasn’t one of them. I was merely good. Nevertheless, this escape from the panhandle came at a good time. During my junior year, things hadn’t been great at home. My parents didn’t get along. My older sister was moody and always at odds with our mother, and our father was bipolar and went weeks without speaking to any of us. In short, there was always tension. I lived in the basement, kept my head down, read and did homework, played my flute, and was grateful that my mother and father’s focus never drifted in my direction.

And because of this oppressive domestic stress, when the chance to spend a summer elsewhere came along, I was thrilled. Though the goal of the camp was to help the students become better at their chosen craft—and as six hours a day was spent in lessons and practicing, improvement was unavoidable—my personal goal was to enjoy the time away. Interlochen attracted smart and talented artists from all over the world, and I was so looking forward to meeting anyone not from Amarillo.

I expected the others in my cabin of twelve to be studious and dedicated. Some were, most weren’t. In the beginning, we explored our differences—our diverse colloquialisms, dietary preferences, and traditions made us fascinated with one another. The dancing, acting, and music-making only took a portion of our time, and we soon became a tight gang of geeks. When making our way to class, a meal, or back to the cabin, one of us would break into song or leap forward in graceful jetes; or a drama student would deliver a spontaneous Shakespearean soliloquy. I will always appreciate people who lack inhibition. As for me, within the first two days I had been named social director of our cabin.

In Texas, I was reserved and contemplative, and I kept my witty (some would say smartass) remarks tucked firmly inside my head. At Interlochen I put that person away. Maybe I went a little crazy. My new dedication was to my almost frantic pursuit of a good time, and I took my duties as the social leader of our crew seriously, so seriously in fact, that I was soon known as “The Instigator” among the cabin counselors. At my prompting, we snuck out most nights. We went skinny-dipping in the lake and, floating on our backs, spoke languidly of our dreams. We switched the names of the cabins around, dumped garbage on porches, tied doors closed, lifted small bits of furniture on to roofs, and went on forbidden excursions into the state park.

At one point, our counselor became so exasperated with our noncompliance that she threw her mattress on the floor beside my bed, effectively blocking me in my lower bunk.

“There will be no more night adventures,” she declared. She was a fun-loving grad student at U-Penn, and we took pride in having pushed her to take such an extreme step. She slept by my bed for four nights—and then, when she moved back to her cot, things went back to the way they’d been before.

Legendary singers, musicians, and comedians performed at Interlochen on a weekly basis. The cost of the tickets was prohibitive for the campers, but we were allowed to attend the rehearsals on the afternoons before the performances. Maynard Ferguson came, as did Bennie Goodman. And everybody was excited about Bob Hope. Though he was from our parents’ era, we’d been led to believe that he was funny and charming. Sad to say, this wasn’t the case. After he groused about the acoustics, the sound system, and the rainy weather, he insulted the accompanist (“I’ve known dogs who play better than you!”) when she began Buttons and Bows at too slow a tempo. This was a sweet-natured sixteen-year-old girl, nervous to be on the stage with him, and surely one of the most gifted of her age group at the camp; and his mean-spirited denigration caused a wave of aversion to pass through the airy theater.

At the end of the summer, my mother, my cousin Georgia, and my little sister came to drive me back to Texas. We stopped by Opryland on the way. After having been saturated in classical music for over two months, Nashville gave me an unprecedented love for country and blue grass music.

From my experiences at Interlochen, I learned that Amarillo was a miniscule pocket in a massive world. I returned home more confident and less cautious. And I realized that some people spend their whole lives in one place, knowing only one outlook, experiencing only one culture. That they would make this choice isn’t only their loss, it’s the world’s loss, because you can’t understand someone if you don’t take every opportunity to get to know them.

What does this picture have to do with anything? Absolutely nothing! I got the flowers and card from my sons on Mother’s Day and I didn’t have a picture to go with the blog.

Then and Now Romance

I recently read an article (NY Post, Lifestyle, by Jana Hocking) which tells of a situation wherein a woman knew that a man was interested in an exclusive relationship when he asked her to get tested for STDs so they could start having sex without condoms.  

The condom motive is obviously self-serving; and how appallingly unromantic. But Hocking analyzed further, presenting his request as a modern man’s way of stating that he wanted to be with her only, and for her to be with him only. I guess if you think of it in this way, it might be, at a stretch, considered romantic. But really, where’s the flair/flare?

In this scenario, the woman wasn’t into it; and in fact, at the time of his request, was also seeing someone else. Her response was that they should continue to have protected sex while she continued to look around.

As a mother of boys, I observed the girls they grew up with, and I loved what I saw—young women who supported one another instead of back biting, who built each other up rather than tear each other down, who innately understood that being imperfect didn’t mean they were called to conform to someone else’s ideal. They were a take-charge generation of women, independent, self-confident in a way I never was, and comfortable competing with men in the workplace.

And being asked to take an STD so the guy doesn’t have to use a condom is what they’ve paid for being the inheritors of feminism and part of a generation so lacking in romance.

Last week I felt burdened by the literary tomes I’ve been buried in for the last year or so, and I realized it’d been a long while since I looked in on romance. I chose a book called Variation by Rebecca Yorros. This author has recently had success in the fantasy arena with her book The Fourth Wing, which was a fun adventure with dragons; and who doesn’t love dragons? But for the most part, her work is rooted in love stories and Variation received good reviews.

The formulaic romances I devoured during my Harlequin/pulp stage were built on a few traditional plots—two people consumed by their passionate love, inadvertently finding themselves wrapped in one another’s arms during every encounter, yet bizarrely hanging on to their fury over a years-old groundless grudge. Or it might be that, upon a couple’s first meeting they feel inexplicable and intense antipathy toward one another, and are vexed by their instant dislike until realizing that what they’re really feeling is mad love. Another plot might be that the woman is independent and brilliant; enter the masterful man who is compelled to tame her.

Oh, the storylines I recall—a reticent, mysterious doctor (handsome) hires a pediatric nurse (beautiful) to care for his daughter; a secretly aristocratic pirate (handsome) kidnaps a haughty heiress (beautiful); a movie star (handsome) visits his mother in his hometown, runs into his high school girlfriend (beautiful), and suspects her son is his—and it is!

The beginning of Variation hints at a standard plot—an encounter years after a life-altering and hurtful misunderstanding. However, as demonstrated in this novel, the writing and characters have altered drastically since the days of Rosemary Rogers and Jude Devereaux. The absurd and sometimes vulgar euphemisms for genitals of the seventies and eighties—“engorged manhood” and “member” for the man parts; “intimate folds” and “love canal” for the woman parts—have been replaced, not because of an attempt to introduce more appealing language, because the new vocabulary certainly hasn’t achieved that, but in a questionable quest for blunt clarity—now a penis is called a penis and a vagina is called a vagina. Finding names for body parts has probably stymied romance writers for centuries, though some of the best romances in the history of romances haven’t had a single sex scene (think Gone with the Wind). Also, in Variation, the language of love, which used to be erotic and seductive and, at times, lyrical, has become crude and unimaginative. Though it seems to be accepted these days, the word fuck was used without reservation or trepidation in this book, and it’s a word I never say or even think; and indeed, I suffered a sensibility crisis in the typing of it.

One difference between the old romances and the new, as demonstrated in Variation, is that in the romances of forty years ago, the man and woman were at odds. There was heated conflict over who was in charge, or how they felt about one another; or there was jealousy or disapproval in some form. The testosterone-charged man always conquered, and the feisty woman came away purring with satisfaction. What drivel. These days I cringe when I think of all the women-driven chauvinistic crap I bought into back then.

But in Variation, rather than passion or lust, the impediments to the characters’ happily-ever-after were based on careers and logistics. While the man is undoubtedly manly, a decorated Coast Guard swimmer; and the woman is ultrafeminine, a prima ballerina, they were both sappily concerned that their partner would have to give up his or her career in order for them to be together. In the end, they discover a unique and wondrous technique for decision-making called compromise. However, though there was some tepid back-and-forthing over how they would move forward, there was no heat, which is what happens when no heat is expected and today’s social norm for taking the next step is your partner asking you to get tested for STDs so he won’t have to use a condom.

What a romantic pot-boiler this was!

Jen's Latest Reads

The Bee Sting by Paul Murray:

I was warned that the author did some crazy things with the punctuation, so I expected it. There are no quotation marks in some chapters, sometimes periods are the only punctuation, and sometimes there are no periods at all, causing the reader to rely on capitals to know where a sentence begins, which is confusing because names, too, are capitalized. After I got used to it, it didn’t detract from the story, which followed the ups and downs of a family of four for several years.

The characters: A father whose pride leads him to embezzle; a wife who sees her husband as a cash cow, then belittles him when he runs into financial difficulties; the teenaged daughter, a high achiever who strays into alcoholism; and the young son, bullied because of his father’s shady dealings, and ignored at home.

Reviewers refer to it as a tragicomedy, which is as it should be, because laughing while crying is the way of the Irish. And how does a writer combine tragedy and comedy when the story itself is distressing? By using unusual or funny descriptions and vocabulary, and by making the source of the misery absurd—like a bee string. But other than these nods to humor, this book broke my heart. One of my prime credos is “be kind to the people you love,” but those four characters were wretched islands in that house. There was no conversation, no approval, no encouragement, no honesty.

So why did I enjoy the book so much? Because of the compelling writing. Honestly, I couldn’t put it down. The story and characters will stay with me for years. Cited as one of the top ten novels of the year, it was, indeed, profound; and if you dip into only one piece of fiction this year, this is the one it should be.

 Mania by Lionel Shriver

I’ve read two other books by this author—The Motion of the Body Through Space, and We Need to Talk About Kevin—if you look her up, you’ll see that she’s prolific. As with the two I’ve previously read, Mania is rooted in societal issues. It’s set at the point of the pendulum’s journey where political correctness has gone too far.

When it’s decided by the PC police that referring to some people as “smart” hurts the feelings of those who aren’t smart, it becomes illegal to use any words that categorize someone as being outstanding or gifted in any sphere; and it soon follows that words that have anything to do with being “lesser” are banned; for instance, not only can you not call a person “slow,” you can’t say “this song is asinine,” or “this food tastes awful,” because denigration might stir up negative feelings. Tests are no longer allowed in schools because grades show that some students are smarter than others—and this leads to an uneducated society.

Mania is clever and dry. The snarky main character is ostracized because she can’t stop herself from declaring that political correctness is “dumb.” She loses her job, she loses her children, she must go on the run. On every page, another stratum of society falls victim to the trend, until there are no educated scientists, doctors, writers, or teachers. I enjoyed the concept. And don’t worry. It ends well.

 I Cheerfully Refuse by Lief Enger

This is a post apocalyptical odyssey; indeed, it is along the lines of Odysseus’s journey, so keep the reference in mind as you begin reading. Highly imaginative, it’s set in a world where no one knows where their next meal will come from, or where they’ll sleep when night arrives; and this universal desperation speaks to the truth that those who are unpleasant in ordinary circumstances become evil monsters when they’re backed into a corner; and that people with stalwart hearts become saints.

And yes, there’s a plot, though it pretty much involves rushing from one precarious predicament to another. A musician’s wife is found murdered; the grieving husband inadvertently possesses drugs belonging to a drug lord; a chase across Lake Superior in a dilapidated boat ensues; a little girl, fleeing from her abuser, becomes a stowaway. Threats are made, heroes are captured, borders are breached in the dark of the night; murders are witnessed. If you’d like to try something different and easily navigated, this is a rich and resonating read about resilience, persistence, and the triumph of the righteous.

 The Covenant of Water by Abraham Vergese:

Abraham Vergese authored Cutting for Stone several years ago—and I still recall the writing as being spiritual and lyrical—as is The Covenant of Water, which makes food preparation magical, lends holiness to farming, and understands the soul of the sunrise.

It is a lengthy multi-faceted saga which begins when a twelve-year old girl, Mariamma, is forced by her uncle to marry a forty-year-old man. As this occurs, the reader shudders; but the child’s husband turns out to be a kind and wise man, and she comes to love his son as her own; and she’s happy with her new neighbors and her house duties. And, as I said, this is only the beginning of a long, engaging, and complicated yarn .

This multi-generational tale is set in a Christian area of southwest India. The characters include not only Mariamma and her family, but every person she or her family members encounter during her long lifetime. In short, the reader comes to know many, many personalities, all unique, all substantial, some with fascinating and ambitious agendas, others who are simply happy to have enough to get by. Also, a mischievous elephant plays a part. Aspects explored: greed, envy, love, prejudice, disease, disappointment, communication, death, duplicity, aspiration, betrayal. Yep, it’s a box of chocolates.

Covenant, in the title, refers to an inherited weakness and disorientation when immersed in water. As bizarre as it sounds, drowning runs in the family. The solution has always been for the family to stay away from bodies of water, which is difficult to do, as they’re surrounded by it. See what happens to this fear of water when science and research are applied to this unusual condition. It was a splendid read. If you’d like to bask in the beauty of another culture for a few weeks, get started on this lovely book.

I’m currently reading A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. I’m about a third of the way through, and, so far, it’s a befuddling hodgepodge and a lot of work. It won the Pulitzer, so hopefully it’ll become more cohesive. David is reading Benjamin Franklin: An American Life by Walter Isaacson. He insists that I’d like it. He knows I prefer fiction, so when he rhapsodizes so enthusiastically about the written word, I take him seriously. And that’s why my next read will be the Benjamin Franklin bio.

My Kindle propped on our kitchen’s malevolent chicken. Why? For fun.

Word Problems

Our priest retired a couple of months ago and so it’s fallen to us, the vestry, to organize a search for a replacement. I’ve been helping to write the text of the profile that shares information about our church; and this profile will go online and, in that way, it’ll reach priests who might be interested in serving here in Marble Falls.

This hasn’t been a difficult job. In fact, because I love to write, I’ve enjoyed it. As I was raised methodist, I’m not versed in the traditions and vocabulary of the episcopal church, and the other members of the profile committee were helpful in advising me. As expected, my phrasing, word choice, and intentions were weighed and commented on. But one suggestion disturbed me on a visceral level: in reference to our fellowship meals, a woman thought I should reword with something along the line of—and then we fill our bellies with delicious food.

I took pause at “bellies,” which is a perfectly acceptable word, but its presence on my screen disturbed me. The woman used it naturally and comfortably; but it’s not a word I use and it’s not a word I like; and I don’t know why I would feel disdain toward those simple two syllables. Do I harbor a weird inhibition when it comes to naming body parts? The word brings to mind ticklish babies; or the unnaturally hard bellies of old men. Maybe the reason I wouldn’t consider using it in the profile is because its evocation, stemming from my specific personal experience, is alien to the context. It’s a puzzle.

My bizarre reaction to “bellies” started me thinking about how, at times, I’ve used a word, or heard a word used, that was completely inappropriate in one setting, but hey, move across the country, and its meaning is totally different.

In Scotland, I once lunched with a group of American women—five of us from Texas, the other from the east coast. When the easterner called one of the Texans a twat, the table went silent.

“What?” she asked as, horrified, she looked around the table. “What did I say?”

“What do you think twat means?” I asked.

“You know, a goofnut, a fool.”

“In Texas it’s indecent and insulting,” from another woman. “Polite people don’t use it.”

“What does it mean in Texas?”

The woman next to her leaned over and whispered the meaning into her ear.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Where I’m from it’s a family word. Growing up, we called each other that all the time.”

I imagine brothers and sisters playing tag in their yard, shouting “Twat!” at one another so loudly that they could be heard half a mile away. How delightfully funny!

Another time, at Mahjong, I called another woman a pill. She grew silent and a minute or so later I noticed that she was near tears. We others at the table gazed at one another in confusion.

“What’s the matter?” one of the women asked.

“Jenny called me a pill,” she said, giving me a mean squint.

“What does pill mean to you?” I asked her.

“My mother called me that when she was mad at me because I was being rude and embarrassing. It was always followed by a hard spanking.”

This woman was originally from New Jersey; and yes, she was always overly dramatic in her reactions. Nevertheless, the same situation—a word’s meaning depending on its time zone.

“My mother called me that when I was being mischievous and cute,” I told her.

How befuddling. Speaking of befuddled, here’s a word story with another slant:

Years ago a British friend told me she had found the perfect whore chair.

“Whore chair?” I asked, thinking I must’ve heard wrong.

“No, Jenny, a whore chair.”

“Whore chair? You found a whore chair? A chair for a whore to sit in?”

She figures it out and is irritated by my ignorance; also, it’s likely that this was the first time in her life someone hadn’t been able to understand her perfect Home Counties accent.

“A hall chair, Jenny, a hall chair,” she said, putting a mean-spirited accent on “hall” and exaggerating the Texas accent.

To this day, no matter how hard I try, and I have tried, I can’t make the word whore sound like hall.

As I have no pertinent picture, I thought I'd show this baby quilt I made for my nephew and his wife. I fear there was too much black--but babies like color, right?