Small Random Samplings

Don’t worry—I’m not going to try to put my life in a nutshell. Remember how well that went last time! Here are a couple of short posts combined into one long one. Because apparently I believe you have ample time on your hands. Or something.

Internet:

Harold and Maude have changed apartments. As a result, Harold has spent a couple of evening sitting with Donn on the couch while Donn helps with transferring electricity and internet and things like that. And as a result of that, we found out that we could get high-speed internet for less than we were paying before. Score, right?

Soon, our yard was criss-crossed with spray-painted lines and small flags. These appeared mysteriously while we were gone, and I thought it might be the squirrels planning a takeover, but Donn disagreed. And apparently he was right, because on Tuesday I was told to be home between 9 and 11 for our exciting modern high-speed connection to whiz in and take connection.

The guy showed up at 1:30, in the pouring rain. That’s all right—I didn’t really expect him before then. He left at 4. He attempted to explain things to me, although I pointed out that the squirrels might have at least as much chance as I of remembering GPI or GFI or whatever that new box in the garage is. He took the flags.

And I’m pleased to report that ever since, our internet is slower and also keeps just quitting. Which is why I’m typing off-line. It feels like I’m back in Morocco.

An Afternoon of Frustration:

Last Wednesday was the weirdest day. I knew Rita had the flu, as her husband called me Tuesday night to let me know she wouldn’t be in class next day. They’re an elderly couple who LOVE it here. “We should have come here long ago,” they keep telling us. They go shopping at the outlet stores and are collecting owls and stop at random farms to gather grape leaves and make friends with the farmers. I was worried when I heard she’d been violently ill. “Tomorrow I’ll bring her soup,” I said.

Donn came home from visiting another friend and told me his daughter was in hospital. She’d had the flu too, and she’s had a kidney replaced and has to take immune suppressants, so any illness is dangerous for her. We decided that after class on Wednesday, we’d drop off the soup for Rita and then go see Laila in hospital, taking Ilsa with us.

I was super-organized and even started the soup (chicken noodle) BEFORE class, which was very far-thinking for me. Afterwards I finished it, made cheese scones to go with it, and off we went to their apartment. Only they weren’t there. We knocked and knocked and knocked. Finally Donn called the husband. He was out getting his hearing-aid adjusted, he explained loudly to us over the phone. Rita was sleeping. (He didn’t know why we’d come) I had the bright idea of leaving the soup with another family who lives in the same complex, but they weren’t home either.

We stopped by our house to put the soup in the fridge, although I pointed out to Donn that it was probably cold enough that it would be fine in the car. He agreed but was more worried about it spilling on his pristine upholstery. We went to Safeway for flowers and chocolates, then headed downtown and up the hill to Doernbecher hospital.

Doernbecher is a great hospital, world-renowned (well I don’t know that, but it has a great reputation) and very nice. It is arranged so that if you only know her room number, you will be confused—is it north or south or where exactly? We managed to find her eventually. She was asleep, had been given an injection, and her room was closed. We left the plant and chocolates at the nurses’ station. Strike Two!

We stopped for Starbucks in the lobby—I know! Impressive—and admired the very cool décor. We couldn’t help comparing it to the Rabat Children’s Hospital, where each floor has a different coloured stripe painted on the wall, to help the illiterate figure out where to go, but things in general are just much more basic.

Then we went home, where I made dinner while Donn went and dropped off the soup. The other family from the complex called to see why I’d called them earlier, and told me they’d been there, just sleeping. I’m glad everyone had such a restful afternoon!

Books set in the NW:
I just read a YA book set in the NW, specifically Portland, which doesn’t once mention the rain. It kind of ruined it for me. The story takes place over several months, summer and fall, and there are several hot days, but not one where plans have to be changed because of torrential downpour. This just doesn’t feel realistic to me. Also, apparently (my word of the day. I’ve used it like 5 times already. Go check) the local school district, tired of being mocked, decided to get some snow standards. It used to be that even a sprinkling of snow, even a smell of snow, would shut down the schools. We had TWO mornings with snow and off they went, not even delayed. We were so disappointed. Sure we mocked before, but in our hearts we applauded. And yes, the snow was gone by 11 a.m., but still. This is an open call to the schools to go back to the typical Portland thinking on snow, which is to panic about it, rush to buy bread and milk (without which staples, life as we know it would cease to exist) and issue radio bulletins about the snow being an inch thick and only go anywhere if it’s an absolute emergency!

Phew! That was still a bit long, but better than last time, right? What’s been going on with you?

what’s on my nightstand NOW?

Apparently, this year that I made no resolutions (including no such resolve to cut down on coffee!), I also resolved to only blog in my head. Yes, I have written some scintillating posts, but they have not made it to my own version of the silver screen (in my case the finger-smudged screen–I share my computer with my children). Can’t believe I haven’t written all month.

I’ll try not to ramble too much now and will update the old blog soon, possibly even this week. (You never know. I might.) In the meantime, I read some amazing books this month.

WHAT I READ:

The Starlite Drive-In was awesome. I meant to give it 5 stars over at 5 minutes for books, and I forgot cuz I’m on top of things like that. Go read my review and enter to win a copy. It was excellent, detail-drenched and the kind of book where you feel you’ve actually visited the place and know the people. I can still see the characters in my head.

The Street Sweeper was unlike anything else I’ve ever read, but it was excellent too. It was half novel, half history book, the sort of work where fictional and historical characters are seamlessly blended together, yet the reader has no trouble sorting them out. It sort of follows two main characters, but there are scads of minor but important characters too. The first is a black man recently released from jail after no one believed his innocence, who has managed to score a job in janitorial at the Sloan-Kettering Memorial Cancer Center, where he strikes up an unlikely friendship with a Holocaust survivor who tells him his story. The second is a Jewish history teacher at Columbia, struggling with depression and a sense of failure, who stumbles across a trove of first-person interviews with Holocaust survivors conducted immediately after their release. The book deals with some of the worst parts of the first two-thirds of Western 20th-century history–the holocaust, civil rights struggles, race riots in Chicago. And yet, somehow, there is hope and redemption and connection there. In some ways, it’s not an easy book to read, but it is worth reading, and readable too.

Matched Young adult dystopian fiction. Need I say more? And why are the youth of today so very into dystopian romance? I wrote a blog post in my head about it. I’m not into scary futuristic dramas. I wasn’t when I was young either–I was scared of dystopian dreams. I think I am going to make Ilsa read 1984, which should disabuse her of this notion. Anyway, Matched was quite good and totally readable. I enjoyed it. Oh the plot? Cassia lives in a dreary futuristic time where The Society plans your life for you–who you’ll marry, when you’ll die, what you’ll wear and eat, where you’ll live, work, etc. She is “matched” to Xander, her best friend since childhood, but in a glitch of the system, also matched to Ky. In my favorite part, she finds a forbidden copy of Thomas’ poem Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night–forbidden because all but 100 “best” poems were destroyed by The Society–and it gives her courage to buck the system and figure out what she wants to do with her own life. I’m planning to read the sequel, which, given how low we are on the waiting list at the library, will probably be in some dreary futuristic time.

EDITED TO ADD: I forgot to mention how much The Society is like Camazotz, the evil scary place from A Wrinkle in Time. There are tons of similarities. This is a plus in my book–I love it when books call upon other books like that.

The Invisible Ones Also LOVED this one. It’s a really good mystery, but it’s also about class-ism in modern Great Britain and about the Romany and you will love the teenage narrator. Click the link to read my full review.

The Confession Another one I really enjoyed. Really, it’s been a great month for books. I’m hoping my trend continues. This was a very classic mystery, set in England in 1920, and dealing with a string of murders that seemed unconnected and were separated by years and miles. The author, Charles Todd, is a mother-son team, which I find totally intriguing and also a little strange. They’ve been quite prolific and I’m definitely planning to read more of their stuff!

Little Princes: One Man’s Promise to Bring Home the Lost Children of Nepal Really enjoyed this one too. Conor Grennan is planning a year-long trip around the world, and decides to start with a 3-month stint volunteering at an orphanage in Nepal, where’s there actually a civil war going on. He is overwhelmed when he enters the orphanage and 18 boys leap onto his back! But he gradually comes to really love them. So far so good–the experience of many volunteers. His life changes, however, when the mother of two of the “orphans” comes to visit them. He finds out that these boys, and 100s of other children, were trafficked. Their parents, living in poverty and fearing for their children’s futures in an area hard-hit by war, sold their meager farms to pay for their children to be taken to safety and given an education. Instead, they were dumped in the teeming streets of Kathmandu. Grennan vows to return them all to their families, and the story of how he achieves that is adventurous and inspirational. I don’t use this word lightly. I have lived overseas and have a decent idea of what this sort of thing looks like, and I’m all too aware of ways that stories can be spun to make realities sound better than they are. Grennan is an everyday guy who responds to a need before him, and his book has nothing of the hagiographical feeling of, well to name names, Three Cups of Tea. Little Princes is a great story, and the proceeds go to Grennan’s NGO, Next Generation Nepal. He achieved his initial goal of saving the children of his orphanage, but there are still more kids out there who deserve to grow up with their own families.

The Moment: Wild, Poignant, Life-Changing Stories from 125 Writers and Artists Famous & Obscure. This is a collection of short essays describing defining moments in the authors’ lives. Fascinating and honest. The moments range from heart-warming–births, first kisses–to heart-breaking–realization of racism towards oneself, the war reporter who struggles with the fact that he let an innocent person die rather than lose the story. It makes for great reading and is also the sort of book that would make a good present for someone else.

READING RIGHT NOW! AS YOU READ THIS! (not really. I’m probably out and about doing something):
Hope: A Tragedy This book is really really strange. In some ways, it’s a comedy about the holocaust, but don’t be offended because it doesn’t exactly make fun of it, more of the ways some people have reacted. Also it’s a very dark comedy. The writing style reminds me a lot of Woody Allen. Kugel and his family move to Stockton, New York, where nothing ever happens, and he finds Anne Frank living in his attic, working on her novel. She’s had to hide because after her diary sold so many copies, the publisher wasn’t thrilled to find out she’d survived, but she doesn’t want to be known as a one-hit wonder. He has to hide Anne from his mother, who feels she is a holocaust survivor even though she was born in New York several years after it happened. Still, every time she reads of a survivor’s habit, she adopts it–i.e. hiding bread in the couch cushions. It’s funny and stark and unlike anything else. I sort of like it but I’m also able to set it down for long stretches of time.

Restoring Harmony Part of the YA dystopian romance pack. It’s okay so far; I’ve just started it. I love that it’s set in the NW. She just took the MAX train from downtown Portland to Gresham. I love reading books set in my city.

The Old Romantic Also just started, but it’s funny. I’ll give you a quote from the back: “It’s been decades since Nick cast off his impossible, contentious, embarassingly working-class parents…after a divorce that both of them managed to blame on Nick.” Nick is driving to see them in the first chapter or so, which is as far as I’ve gotten.

Beauty: A Retelling of the Story of Beauty and the Beast Ilsa got this one from the library and I’m reading and enjoying it. I love a good retelling of a fairy tale, and I love McKinley’s work in general, so it’s no surprise.

TO READ:

A Good American A coming-to-America story.

The Demi-Monde: Winter(The Demi-Monde Saga) A blend of steampunk and sci-fi and alternative reality that reviewers say is also a fun, fast-paced read.

What a terribly long post this was! Took me ages too–good thing I’m stuck home this morning waiting for the internet people to come by and do…something? Our yard has been taken over by painted lines and little flags lately, and apparently it’s them, not the squirrels out doing some colonizing with a cunning use of flags, as I first suspected. So, assuming you’ve made it this far (and congrats to you if you have!), what have you been reading? Anything good? My list for next month looks short at this point. Let me know!

2012 already?

Happy New Year!

This year, I have resolved not to make any resolutions. So far I am doing well. I have been to the gym, once, and I have not said no to another mince pie, since they need eating up.

We welcomed in the New Year with a party. It’s sort of a tradition–more years than not, we have a party. We had parties in Mauritania, where guests came from Abu Dhabi, Sudan, Morocco and Switzerland. We had parties in Morocco where everyone was from America. This year, the bulk of the celebrants came from Iraq.

For some reason, I got a wee bit irrational about the food. I cooked for 2 days. I made 5 dozen coconut pies (tarts, really), and 3 dozen mini-quiches, 6 dozen chewy ginger cookies, and guacamole and chips. I made thousands, it felt like, of small pizzas, topped with mozzerella and hamburger cooked with onion and garlic and home-made sauce and crust. I gave myself a massive headache. At the last minute I made a batch of espresso/chocolate chip “muffins,” just in case. I made Donn and the kids do all the cleaning, including the last-minute frantic “Quick! Take that stack of books and stick them on the floor next to my bed! Close the door!” Luckily, none of the guests went anywhere near my room.

Everyone brought food. We had masses of food. Entire villages could have eaten their fill off that table. 5 days later, we are still eating food from the party, and everyone left with some to take home too.

This is only half the table…

The bright orange thing that looks like a dead muppet is called “kanarfa” or something like that. It is shredded pastry with food colouring, filled with cream cheese and pistachios, and it is delicious. Plus, you feel subversive, like you’re eating Snuffleupagus or Animal or…who’s bright orange?

Leslie made marionberry-filled mini chocolate cupcakes with marionberry-cream cheese frosting.

We had, in deference to the fact that my friends are Muslim, only sparkling cider. But it was very tasty!

We had some fun introducing these young arrivals, soon to be Americans, to an indispensable part of American life…Looney Tunes. First they watched some cartoons, then Looney Tunes – Back in Action, which has some very clever and funny parts but really, in my opinion, you only need to watch it once. My kids disagree.

It was a fun party that went until about 1:30. I think a good time was had by all. I know my headache lasted well into the new year, but it’s gone now, and so is the baklava, and the goulash (which isn’t soup–it’s this meat pastry thing that is delicious) and the qu’ba (deep fried meat and potato pastries…a big favorite round here). There are still a few coconut pies left though. Who wants to come over and help eat them up?

Happy 2012 to all! What did you do to celebrate?

Christmas in the Desert

Hemet is an interesting town. It feels caught in a time-warp, a slice of Americana vintage late 70s/early 80s. The signs, the people, all contribute to this impression. Let me put it this way: In Hemet, you can wear an ugly Christmas sweater without irony. In fact, a lot of people are, and they all want to hug you. Their earrings match their sweaters.

It’s a small town tucked into the hills and mountains that make up California’s eastern desert. It’s very hot and dry there–my skin is in recovery mode now that I’m back in Oregon. The days are very bright; the nights frigid, often below freezing. This results in you shivering in your cardigan because it was too silly to bring your big coat out earlier, when it was 70 degrees and hot in the sun.

People have decorated though. In yards filled with cacti and decorative white gravel, there are plastic trees and inflatable snowman. There was a deflated Santa nailed to a palm tree wound with bright lights; presumably he looked a bit less disturbing at night. The lights shine brightly in the desert night.

We spent Christmas Eve out and about. We went to a small Saturday market, where we sampled a local avocado/lime oil that was divine, and bought last-minute stocking stuffers for Donn’s mum and sister. (Cheap but cute earrings! Some for me too…it was cheaper to buy 3 pairs!) I took lots of pictures. Come with me, on a magical mystery tour…

We walked through the “Harvard district,” which is about a block long…

and is guarded by six skinny palms…

the only snow is painted on

but there are lots of decorations

Those are silk poinsettias. This does not make sense to me, since poinsettias grow out here.

one wonders how stiff the competition is…

We stopped by the theatre, which, sadly, is going out of business

and selling all their posters and old reels.

 

My Nightstand at the end of 2011

What have I been reading? Well it’s been a productive month. I don’t know about you, but when my husband travels I revert to my college-age self and pretty much stay up till 1 or 2 a.m. every night. So here’s a summation of some of what I enjoyed this month:

The Distant Hours:I read Jennifer’s review and thought this sounded good. It’s a great book, well worth being grumpy and sleepy for the next day if you find yourself staying up to finish it. She calls it “a book-lover’s book” and the description is apt. This is a novel of secrets kept hidden for a generation; of searching to find out origins of local stories that have become mythic; of unearthing a family’s past pain. I don’t know if I’m making it sound good but it really, really is. It starts with a letter posted in 1941 that is delivered in 1992. Intrigued? Yes?

The Flight of Gemma Hardy This one publishes next month, and I didn’t realize it and read it early in December (I sometimes get advance copies for 5MFB). I couldn’t put it down. It’s an homage to Jane Eyre; in other words, the same basic story, with all the main elements, set in Scotland and Iceland in the early 1960s. It’s very well-done and I really liked it. I don’t like fan fic usually–I don’t care what Darcy and Elizabeth did next. This is because I am secretly a terrible snob, and new authors rarely get the “voices” or characterization quite right, in my oh-so-humble opinion. But this one works, because it is different enough that it’s a new story, but you have fun identifying the familiar elements. My review comes out on Jan. 11th at Five Minutes for Books, and there will be a giveaway so you definitely want to enter! (My other exception is Wide Sargasso Sea, which is a telling of the story of Jane Eyre from the point of view of Bertha, the “mad-woman in the attic” and is excellent.)

Dark of the Moon I thoroughly enjoyed this new look at the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, told as historic fiction with a fresh look at how stories fade and change to become legend. It’s YA. Ilsa and I both really enjoyed it. Really well done.

Winter Town a YA novel about a boy and girl who’ve been friends since they were little but who are now facing a real challenge to their relationship, which is now conducted entirely during Winter breaks. He’s a straight-A student, highly motivated, highly-pressured by his dad to get into an Ivy League school and do well. She’s from a broken home, spends most of the year with her mother down south, and has suddenly appeared wearing only black, with extreme eye makeup and chopped hair. They still try to connect, and the story of them finding themselves and each other is rather heartwarming. Told partly in graphic form. (That is, graphic novel form; i.e. drawings)

The Time in Between: I ended up loving this one, but I will say that it could easily have lost about 100 pages without missing much. It’s worth a bit of extra verbiage though. A glimpse into a time and place mostly lost to history–Spanish Morocco during the Spanish Civil War and the first years of WW2.

Baking with the Cake Boss: a gorgeous book that’s basically like taking a course in patisserie. Yum!

No Graves As Yet I hadn’t read Anne Perry before but I enjoyed this suspense novel set during the build-up to WW1.

Currently Reading:

The Starlite Drive-in Callie Ann is only 10 and lives with a mother who won’t step outside (agoraphobia) and a father who runs a drive-in theatre and is verbally abusive to her mother. The novel opens when Callie Ann is 49 and they’re digging up the old location of the drive-in to put in a housing development, and they’ve found human remains. Hmmmm…. So far, very good.

The Invisible Ones Okay I’ve actually just finished this one and dang, it’s good. It looks at class system in Britain and the Romany in modern day and is a murder mystery to boot. I’ll be reviewing it at 5MFB soon.

The Night Sky: A Journey From Dachau to Denver and Back A Ukrainian immigrant searching for her real father, lost in Dachau, but not as a prisoner. Or was he? I’m not too far in but I have a feeling her father isn’t going to be admirable. Fascinating.

To Read:

The Street Sweeper

Hope: A Tragedy

The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition Got this one for Christmas! I lost my old copy in one of our many moves, and lately I’ve been in the mood to re-read some of the plays; in particular King Lear and The Tempest. Oh, and Hamlet of course. Always. And it’s years since I’ve read The Merchant of Venice.

Little Princes: One Man’s Promise to Bring Home the Lost Children of Nepal Doesn’t this one look good? What a heart-breaking situation, and one I hadn’t heard of before. Can’t wait to read it, and I’ll let you know how it is.

And you? Did you get books for Christmas? Did you read anything you’d recommend this month? Do tell!

A Plea for Some Dull Moments

Long-term readers with good memories may recall that last time we tried to visit Donn’s family in Southern California, in June, our car broke down. Since then, we have been experiencing the joy of one car with 2 adults who are often headed in different directions, and 3 teens to boot. And before you pull out your cracks about “would you like cheese with that whine?” and mutter about first-world problems, I will state that I agree—this is a first-world problem. However, the first world does not offer the transportation solutions that developing countries have. In a word, taxis.

I miss taxis, living in the suburbs like I do now. Oh how I miss them. As a rich American in Mauritania and Morocco, I had no problem affording first-class transportation. In Nouakchott, it costs me 80 cents to ride in solitary grandeur all the way across town. In Rabat, I would walk from my apartment door about a block down, where I would wait and flag a small blue taxi. I could get downtown for $1, across town for $2.50. Now, I have to walk a mile to the nearest bus, which is fine, except that the bus in question doesn’t actually go anywhere I need to go.

We needed a second car, and Donn found one on eBay that he really liked. I was skeptical. I mean, who buys a car on eBay? Apparently we do. He researched it and read all the seller’s reviews and bid and waited till the last minute and won. And so we became the proud owners of a brand spanking-new ’83 volvo. Er, not a typo. But this is not any ’83 Volvo—this one was owned by a little old lady in Pasadena who kept it in her garage and only drove in on Sundays. I’m not making this up. It only has 77,000 miles on it, and the inside is cleaner than most cars that are over a month old. Donn is in love. That first coffee spill is going to break his heart.

Since the LOL (little old lady. What did you think it meant?) was in, well not exactly Pasadena but near it, Donn used some miles we had from our globe-trotting days and flew down to pick it up. He broke the journey home by visiting a friend in Santa Cruz. And it was on a frigid morning in California when he flicked on the rear defroster, not knowing about the weird little electrical glitch that would cause it to not cycle off. Suddenly, the rear window exploded! It broke into thousands of tiny shards all of which were still attached. As Donn drove back to the friend’s house, every time he went over a little bump, a small section of the window would fall out. I know it is wrong to laugh, but the mental image this conveys cracks me up.

The complication was that, apparently they no longer make parts for ’83 Volvos. Who knew? I would have thought that would be a hot commodity, but no. He was able to get an after-market window that fit, but it meant he stayed in Santa Cruz an extra 5 days, thanks to this happening on a Friday. And by the way, our mechanic said that was a fluke and it’s an excellent car.

He got home late on Wednesday night after driving 14 hours that day, ready to relax and try to see all our Iraqi friends and do Christmas activities with them before we left again for California on Monday, so that we could spend Christmas with his parents.

Donn’s dad had already arranged to rent us a car, figuring our ’87 Volvo (keep track here—this is not the new one, but the old black one) might not be super-reliable on a journey of 1000 miles that would begin with a single breakdown (this is called foreshadowing and is the mark of a real writer. Hemingway did it all the time). So on Sunday night, we drove out to the airport rent-a-car location to pick it up. As we pulled into the parking lot, the black Volvo sputtered and died.

Could it be out of gas? It was low…could the gauge be off? The guy behind the counter offered to loan us his gas can and almost immediately, it seemed, regretted it. Honestly, we were dressed nicely and using correct grammar and he hadn’t seen our car, but he kept stressing that it was HIS PERSONAL can and if we didn’t come back with it, we’d be ripping him off and not the gigantic soulless rent-a-car corporation. Um? We already told you we’d bring it back? It was a little comic how worried he was about it. As soon as we pulled back into the parking lot, he ran from behind the counter to the parking lot and asked for the can back. We pointed out that we’d like to empty it first. He agreed reluctantly.

How many people does it take to figure out how to pour gas from a can? In my experience, 4. I filled the role of calling Heather on the phone and telling her what was going on, since we’d planned to leave the black Volvo at their place since they live much closer to the airport. Donn, the owner of the gas can, and another random man who drove the airport shuttle, spent a very very long time figuring out how to attach the little nozzle. We still leaked gas all down the side of the car.

Sadly, the car was not out of gas. We risked our nice coats leaning perilously near to the engine. Donn thought he’d figured out the problem. I suspect I’m getting into too much detail here, so I will cut to the moment, at 2 a.m., when Heather and I were sitting chatting in the lights of their Christmas tree when Donn and Paul walked in and announced they had managed to get the car to their house. Donn’s favorite part of the evening was when they got the car going, drove it a block, swerved to the side of the road just as it died again, and had a policeman stop to find out why they were hot-wiring a car (they weren’t really) in a sketchy neighbourhood at 1 a.m. Donn had fun explaining that it was his own car. Again, let me emphasize how nicely he was dressed; dress pants and shoes, wool coat. Apparently location is everything when it comes to being suspicious.

And yes, Heather and Paul are the best friends ever. And no, you can’t have them.

We went to bed at 2:45 a.m. We’d planned to get up at 6 and leave by 7, but when we got home we went into all the kids’ rooms, turned on the light, found their alarm clocks, turned them off, and hoped they’d think it was a weird dream.

We still left by 9. Drove uneventfully for 2 days in a brand new Kia Optima which is very fancy. It even has cupholders! Arrived at the in-laws a little earlier than they were expecting us, where we are now. Merry Christmas to all! I’m hoping for a downright boring 2012.

The Big Free Tree

Donn and I certainly don’t agree on everything—he likes Bob Dylan and I think Dylan sounds like an animated rusty tire chain, I love to read and relax and not go anywhere before 10 a.m by which point he feels half the day is gone. But one argument we’ve never had is over what sort of Christmas tree is best. We both feel, 100%, that the best tree is a large, full Noble fir, preferably cut down ourselves on a snowy day. (it could happen!) (for my non-Oregonian readers, it rarely snows in the Portland area). We felt this way even before we spent 6 Christmases in the Sahara Desert, where we forked over ridiculous amounts of money for tiny, 18-inch Norfolk Pines, from which I would hang 3-4 ornaments while watching the branches bend alarmingly. (Which, another aside, is why I’m so snarky when people post pictures of 6-foot trees on FB and call them “Charlie Brown” trees just because they’re a little sparse. I have lived the Charlie Brown tree. They didn’t need a little love; they needed several years and some goat fertilizer. We planted them in our yard on New Year’s and left a legacy of tall green trees in that tan and dusty land.)

But this year, we are actually spending Christmas Day with the in-laws in California. Additionally, we have friends who recently bought some acreage, part of which comprised an old tree farm, and they wanted to get rid of the few remaining trees this year. They offered us a free tree—any size from 11 to 20 feet. “You can just cut what you need,” they told us, but I didn’t want to ruin a gorgeous 20 foot tree that, hopefully, some business or hotel could use. We took the 11-footer and brought it home, cut off the top 2 feet which were a sort of stalk, and laid it in the back yard, because it was too big for our tree stand.
The tree dominates the room. It is not pretty. It swallows our ornaments. My poor angel, who for years in Mauritania had to be relegated to being hung on the wall, looks somewhat uncomfortable, perched on top of a too-thick trunk. It doesn’t look like a nice Christmas tree bought on a farm or at a stand; it looks like we went into the woods and cut down a tree. It is a feral tree. I think of it as very masculine. It’s a Noble, but the kind with lots of space between the branches. We need to get more lights, more ornaments, and if ever a tree needed ribbon or tinsel or something, it is this tree.

But it’s got character.

This gives you an idea of the size. Donn is standing on a chair.

sigh…it’s a long story

We had to put the poor angel on the end of a broom to help her wing her way to the top

and the angel finally at rest, looking slightly alarmed

the final effect.

My Life in a Nutshell; Part 3 Henna

I am wondering what on earth possessed me to call this “My Life in a Nutshell.” These are enormous nutshells! I have always been verbose.

See, what happened was that I had about a month of non-stop activity and some major event every single day, including weekends, so I took a day off. I didn’t get out of my pjs and I slept 12 hours and then took a nap. And the next day I decided that I would write one blog post with several events in short paragraphs called “My Life in a Nutshell” but then it got a bit long so I posted it. And here we are on part 3 now. All of them full-length at least. Sigh.

Why part 3? Because, in case you care, chronologically this happened just after Part 2 but before the normally-named blog post “Things to Carry.” And I do regret the nutshell theme. But, in case you care, parts 1 and 2 are there to be perused. Of course the only connection between these is in my own head.

Today’s (final) installment is:
Henna Party

The day after the Eid party, Ilsa and I and all of our friends are invited to Mona’s for a henna party. We went once before, in September, and everyone had such a lovely time that we decided to have another one. “Bring your friends,” Mona urges. She lives in a small apartment and I happen to know she has invited all her children’s teachers plus all her teachers at the community college, where she is taking writing, communications, and grammar classes. So I let Ilsa bring one friend and figure that’s good for numbers. Mona is a little surprised that I didn’t bring more people. I forget the plate of cookies I’ve made on my kitchen counter. This is fairly typical for me, I’m sad to say.

When we get there, only 2 extra women have come—her son’s 3^rd-grade teacher and one of hers from PCC—plus of course several other Iraqi women, all of whom I know from my class. The PCC teacher is French, so we talk a little in French, which reminds me of how quickly I’m forgetting it now that I’m not using it. Le sigh. I resolve to read some books in French and listen to French radio. So far, I haven’t done any of this. I call Ilsa in to chat in French with her lovely little accent.

First we dance. Then we eat. Then it’s time for henna. Mona and Sophie (Egyptian-American and bi-lingual) were very disappointed with the henna last time, and they have gone to great lengths to get good henna this time. They mixed it with lavender and tea-tree oil and it smells gorgeous. Again, we have bowls of glitter to sprinkle on. Mona starts with her son’s teacher, and we all stand around and admire, and eat too much, and the children (Ilsa and her friend, Mona’s twin daughters, Sophie’s daughter) grab their own henna packets and start decorating each other’s arms, legs, and necks.

refreshment table

It takes a while to do everyone. As before, some of us go a bit risque—I get Donn’s name written in Arabic on a part of me usually covered by my shirt. Last time Maude got an elaborate “necklace” on her decolletage but today there isn’t time. The other teachers leave; a 3^rd one comes late. Maude has offered to go last, and by the time it’s her turn, Mona’s husband and son have come home so she only has a small one on her hand. Mona never does get to have her own arms decorated, but she assures me she doesn’t mind at all and we’ll do it again soon.

adding glitter

ilsa got her name in arabic on her hand

The henna is excellent quality and leaves gorgeous, deep brown patterns that last a long time. I have more pics but I don’t like to post pics without checking with people, so that’s it for now.

 

Thankful

Bea climbs into my car and notices the foil-covered trays in the back seat. “What is this?” she asks. I smile. “Today we’re having a party during class for Thanksgiving,” I tell her. She is appalled. Why didn’t I tell her? She could have brought tabouli, quba, olives. “Please, Lisbeth, 5 minutes!” she pleads. “I bring quba.” I think she has it ready—wouldn’t you?–so I reluctantly turn around to her apartment. Class is already starting ½ an hour late because Maude’s kids have the day off school, and I am taking them over to my place to hang out with my kids, who don’t get off till noon. It’s been a complicated morning so far.

Bea returns, beaming, carrying 2 containers. She opens them to show me. One has the mushy rice and one has the spiced meat and raisin filling. I am mystified. Where and when is she going to put them together and cook them? The foil-covered trays contain simple foods like pumpkin bread, coconut tarts, tiny mince pies (I made some hallal mince this year—I didn’t put brandy in it).

We’re also in the middle of a 3-day storm and it’s pouring as we drive through sodden, still bright leaves to collect Maude and her 3 kids, along with Fiona and another woman. They are all appalled. WHY didn’t I tell them it was a party? They would have brought things. “This is a party for you; you’re not supposed to work,” I tell them, but they are not convinced.

My phone rings; it’s Amy, who isn’t supposed to be coming today. I answer it, and get Suzi’s husband, telling me that he’s bringing Amy and another woman and where is the class? Usually there’s at least one person absent, but today everyone is there.

I pop into the church kitchen and make Iraqi-style tea and we serve the goodies, with me trying to get everyone to chatter in English instead of Arabic. They exclaim over my baked goods and everyone likes them, especially the coconut pies.

Later, during class time, we do Thanksgiving stuff. I teach a simple history lesson, glossing over the parts I don’t remember. We’re doing countable and uncountable nouns so I make a thanksgiving meal shopping list and we practice. At the end, we go around and say what we’re thankful for.

“The party,” says one person. “Thank you for the party.” “Thank you for being our teacher,” adds another. This is nice, but I explain that it’s not just supposed to be thanking me. I give them some examples. “I know you’ve lost a lot,” I tell them, “but we still have so many things to be thankful for!”

Runi, 72, smiles. “I am thankful to be in America,” she says firmly. Everyone agrees. “Thankful for safe,” says another. Yes, they all say. They are thankful for homes even though their current apartments are much smaller than the big houses most had in Iraq. They are thankful for children, as they know all too many mothers who still grieve.

Maude grins slyly. “I am thankful for rain,” she announces. We all laugh, but it’s true. We have no water shortages here, and she tells us how much she enjoys long hot showers, and not having to worry about the electricity being cut.

Afterwards, I take everyone home. Bea, who’s a 20-minute drive each way, wants me to come back to get the quba, but I am already late to a going-away coffee for a friend who’s moving to Australia, and I have something else after that. “Next time,” I say firmly.

“Eid Mabrouk! Happy Thanksgiving!” they all tell me as they kiss me goodbye. Later, mystified by Black Friday, Harold calls Donn and basically reads him the entire Walmart ad. He can’t believe the prices. Sadly, he has to work. I suspect I will get a lot of phone calls the day before, asking for rides to the mall. I’m not going.

***

In honour of the holidays, please pop over and read my review of Hurry Less, Worry Less at Christmas and enter to win your own copy! I write about some memories of Christmases Past. Go on! It will only take a minute.

What’s on My Nightstand? And how can it be the end of November already?

This month I was both overly busy and lazy. I wore myself out by putting in a few 60 hour weeks (between teaching ESL and working with refugees) and then I crashed for a week. So my nightstand is a bit sparse. Never mind. I’m refreshed and excited to get reading again.

We Meant Well. It took me forever to write this review but go read it, if you haven’t already. A very important book.

Stasiland. Another review that took me forever to write. When I really like a book, it’s harder to review. I don’t know why. I loved this book, and gave it my first 5-star review. It combined fascinating subject matter with excellent writing. This is one you want to read. I admit I don’t actually know you, probably. But I still think you’ll like it.

Self-Portrait with 7 Fingers. This is a delightful book. It’s the sort of book you should buy if you have small children. If you don’t, you should buy it “for when friends when small children stop by” and keep on a high shelf, because children often have inexplicably sticky fingers and a propensity to tear pages. Basically, it’s a sampling of Marc Chagall’s paintings and original poems by Jane Yolen and J. Patrick Lewis about the paintings, along with some biographical information about the painter. And it’s just really fun and gorgeous.

The Last Dragon. Why yes, I have been cheating by reviewing books that can be read in 45 minutes. But this is another really fun one. It’s a graphic novel, a fairy tale about heroism and what makes a hero and how using even simple methods can have big dividends. The text is well written and the illustrations beautiful. All my teens liked this one and I did too.

Also, when I collapsed for a week and was sleeping ridiculous amounts of time like 14 hours a day, in between naps I read a lot of mindless library books. I read Wyndham Case and The Bad Quarto and Unnatural Causes. Enjoyed them all. Also some Agatha Christies. I like how her name has become a noun.

Currently Reading:
Amazing Adventures of a Nobody This is pretty fun. Leon Legothetis was bored with a safe life in which he earned lots of money and had little or no risk or personal interactions, so he swung the pendulum pretty hard and decided to travel America from New York to Los Angeles depending entirely on the kindness of strangers. He basically asks people to buy him train tickets, feed him meals and put him up for the night. I wouldn’t have thought it would work, but so far he’s gotten to Colorado and hasn’t slept on the streets yet. He’s attempted, and failed, to rap for his supper, and persuaded a frat house to put him up if he streaked to the center of campus and kissed a statue. He’s also met a woman who is convinced “they” are trying to kill her, but she buys him a hotel room, and had another woman hand him her keys and tell him if he can make it to Chicago, he can stay at her place. It’s quite the adventure.

The Time In Between. An epic novel dealing with the events in Spain and Morocco during the 30s through the eyes of one woman, a poor uneducated seamstress who catches the eye of an unscrupulous con-man and ends up being swept off her feet. She ends up in Spanish-controlled Morocco, penniless, in debt to a nice hotel, and threatened with jail. It’s a long book, and I’m quite sure she’ll land on her feet. I’m also enjoying the fact that I’ve been to the places she’s describing, although they are very different now.

Baking with the Cake Boss: 100 of Buddy’s Best Recipes and Decorating Secrets: Ilsa is very excited about this. From paging through it, I’d say it’s a great book. Lots of instructions, explanations, etc. But I think I need to go shopping before I can turn her loose on it.

And now I need to get going–Thanksgiving Party for my Iraqi ESL students today! Not to mention we are having a fine winter storm, lots of wind and rain and threatened flooding and all. What are you reading? Anything good?