The Lost Generation

Last weekend, I finished reading the marvellous autobiography of Gerald & Sara Murphy, Living Well is the Best Revenge, by Calvin Tomkins. It got me thinking about F. Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald, so I had to then go reread Hemingway's short & very readable A Moveable Feast.

The Roaring 20s have a fascinating hold on my imagination right now, as we slip away from our own gilded age. We'll survive, of course, but we'll be smarter, warier, thriftier, and more likely to save bits of twine & hoard old margarine containers.F.Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald via LifeGerald & Sara Murphy dancing on the beach at East Hampton via AT Ernest & Hadley Hemingway via the JFK Presidential Library

Fearless Flying

Browsing the bookshelves in R's parent's house, I stumbled across a book co-written by R's Uncle Fred. It's a guide to help people with airplane-o-phobia. I enjoyed looking at all the early '80s photographs of airports, airplanes & stewardesses and was surprised to find myself sucked in by the remarkably lively language. At the very end of the book, the authors conclude with this sentence:

"We leave you with the hope that [this will help] you achieve an orderly, meaningful & optimistic life."

That's it, isn't it?

(Photo of me & my Dad, neither of whom are afraid of flying)

OK, I already cracked...

OK. I cracked. Three days into my shopping freeze & I already made my first non-essential purchase. But! But! It's very special & I've been looking for a copy available for sale in the US for literally years. Not only did I find what I was looking for, but it's an original vintage copy. So, hmmm, vintage is used, is it not? Looks like I just squeezed it through one of my loopholes. Three cheers for loopholes!

Pluk van de Petteflet by Annie M.G. Schmidt & illustrated by Fiep Westendorp

I neither read nor speak Dutch, but I can sorta understand the international language of gorgeousness. Isn't Fiep Westendorp the most exquisite illustrator?

Der Struwwelpeter

Baby M is obsessed with this book and it's kinda making me worry. I know it's a classic, but dang. I don't know if it's a good idea for her to be looking at this. Every story ends with some naughty kid getting punished in some bizarre moralistic way. Death by fire anyone? Or drowning? Or how about that tailor who snips off the fingers of the bad children who won't let their parents trim their fingernails? I'm sure they had it coming.

Home From The Holidays

We came back last night from spending the Thanksgiving holidays at my parents' house. As usual, we left with our car loaded to bursting with all the stuff my parents sent home with us: leftovers, garage sale finds and my old books, toys & whatnot.

One of the treasures I took back this trip was a small cardboard box filled with vintage pocket-sized children's books. One of the books was Happiness Is A Warm Puppy by Charles Schulz. I opened it up & saw this page:


So true.

Favorite Book

I have an old copy of Rachel Carson's The Sense of Wonder I picked up at a garage sale with my mom when I was a kid. I loved this book then and fall in love with it anew each time I read it. Now that I'm a mom myself, the words have taken on an added sense of poetry and power for me. It's so nice to be reminded to slow down, to stop and listen to all the sounds that fill even the most silent night. To be reminded that it's okay to get your knees and hands dirty as you explore the natural mysteries of your backyard or park. To be reminded that a drizzly day is a fine time to take a walk, to watch the rippling circles of raindrops hitting puddles and see the amazing arrangements of dew drops on leaves.

Here is a favorite passage:

We have let Roger share our enjoyment of things people ordinarily deny children because they are inconvenient, interfering with bedtime, or involving wet clothing that has to be changed or mud that has to be cleaned off the rug. We have let him join us in the dark living room before the big picture window to watch the full moon riding lower and lower toward the far shore of the bay, setting all the water ablaze with silver flames and finding a thousand diamonds in the rocks on the shore as the light strikes the flakes of mica embedded in them. I think we have felt that the memory of such a scene, photographed year after year by his child's mind, would mean more to him in manhood than the sleep he was losing. He told me it would, in his own way, when we had a full moon the night after his arrival last summer. He sat quietly on my lap for some time, watching the moon and the water and all the night sky, and then he whispered, "I'm glad we came."

I'm glad too. Thank you, Ms. Carson.