My Ántonia

My Ántonia

One never experiences a book in a vacuum.  Every reader brings a context which informs her reading.  Life experiences, current conflicts, distant memories, hormonal fluctuations, previous reading: all these color the impressions and shape the contours of your interactions.  That’s why re-reading a book from your past can be a novel experience. 

My Ántonia is Jim Burden’s account of  his childhood friend, Ántonia Shimerda. They arrived on the plains of Nebraska on the same night, lived as neighbors on farmsteads and were each other’s only friends while they lived in the country; eventually, societal boundaries separated them.  

When I read Willa Cather’s classic this time, I saw shades of Wendell Berry in Ántonia’s exuberant work ethic and  love for the land, and shadows of The Kiterunner in the contrast between Jim Burden’s position of privilege and the ethnic bias against the immigrant families.  My Ántonia is poignant without pathos, nostalgic without melancholy; homesickness  infused with the passionate joy of Ántonia. 

Willa Cather is known as an author of place, a master of location.  It is true.  When Cather writes about the land, you can see the place, feel the wind, hear the sounds.  This is where her writing is luminous. 

My memory from previous readings was of a sad ending; oh how wrong I was.  The last section of the book, where Jim, now a New York City lawyer, visits Ántonia with her husband and ten children, a farm full of harmony, laughter and work, was my favorite. 

[Jim’s grandfather is asked to pray at an impromptu service for a man who committed suicide]
“Oh, great and just God, no man among us knows what the sleeper knows, nor is it for us to judge what lies between him and Thee.”  He prayed that if any man there had been remiss toward the stranger come to a far country, God would forgive him and soften his heart.  He recalled the promises to the widow and the fatherless, and asked God to smooth the way before this widow and her children, and to “incline the hearts of men to deal justly with her.”  In closing, he said we were leaving Mr. Shimerda at “Thy judgment seat, which is also Thy mercy seat.” p. 134

I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered–about her teeth, for instance.  I know so many women who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow had faded.  Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not lost the fire of life. p.379

…in farmhouses, somehow, life comes and goes by the back door. p.382

[Ántonia’s perceptive comment on depression (sadness) and hard work]
No, I never get down-hearted.  Anton’s a good man, and I love my children and always believed they would turn out well.  I belong on a farm.  I’m never lonesome here like I used to be in town.  You remember what sad spells I used to have, when I didn’t know what was the matter with me? I’ve never had them out here.  And I don’t mind work a bit, if I don’t have to put up with sadness.   p.387

[on Anton Cusak, Ántonia’s husband]
He looked like a humorous philosopher who had hitched up one shoulder under the burdens of life, and gone on his way having a good time when he could.  p.402

[Jim’s observation of Ántonia and Cuzak.  This is my marriage summed up in one sentence.]
Clearly, she was the impulse, and he the corrective.  p.403

Fishing on Boxing Day

Feather-weight snowflake-nuggets are slowing floating down from the sky.
Snow whitens.
Snow beautifies.
Snow covers.
Snow insulates.

Snow outside = cozy inside.

It would be a perfect day to snuggle up with a good book.
But I’m working on my fishing skills.
Specifically my casting.
As in, “Cast all your cares on Him for He careth for you.”

Because snow is a hazard maker.
There is much traveling for loved ones today and in the week to come.
The tally today: two flat tires, one flight caught at the last minute,
one son stranded in the snow *unstuck, hooray*, waiting for safe arrivals,
and planning for safe departures.

This adapted from the Sailor’s Prayer, LBP:

When dangerous storms arise,
hold Thy guarding hand
over our ship and its entire crew,

and dispel all fear and terror by the knowledge
that Thou art mightier than the mightiest snowstorm [waves],
and that Thou canst protect Thy children
in the raging wind and frozen ice [billows].

May Thy peace keep my whole spirit,
that my soul and body be preserved blameless
unto the great day of Thy coming,
my Redeemer and Lord.
Amen.

While casting is a good fishing skill, patience is a prerequisite.
Patience, perspective and proportion.
Snows, like fish, come and go.
The Word of the Lord remains sure and steady.

A Little Boy’s Calendar

A delightful Christmas project for my soon-to-be-three grandson.
Cowboys and horses get Gavin’s heart thumping.
This calendar came in the mail from one of my financial planners.

I decided to personalize it for Gavin.
It has his birthday, his folks’, his grandparents’, his ‘greats’,
and all ten aunts’ and uncle’s birthdays marked
with colorful stickers.

I put questions from a child’s catechism on the top of the page
and the answers on the bottom.
After a year, he’ll know the first 12 Q & As.

I thought a way to mark the completion of each day would be fun.
Immediately I discarded the thought of a Sharpie marker.
I don’t want his Mommy to hate me!
What about a water-color kid’s marker?
Still, the risk of a mess was huge.
Stickers!
They had to be big enough for his little fingers,
but not too big for the calendar box.
I found these primary colored dots.
They are attached to the back of the calendar
with a huge plastic paper clip (not shown).

(Daddy-Dad is Gavin’s best attempt at saying Granddad. It’s
now what his maternal grandfather is called.)

Small Children’s Catechism
Chris Schlect

1.  Who made you?
       God
2.  What else did God make?
       God made all things
3.  Why did God make all things?
       for His own glory
4.  Why do things work as they do?
       God has so decreed it.
5.  How do we learn about God?
       God reveals Himself.
6.  Where does God reveal himself?
       in His word and in nature
7.  What does God reveal in nature?
       His character, law, and wrath
8.  What more is revealed in His Word?
       God’s mercy towards His people
9.  Where is God’s Word today?
       The Bible is God’s Word.
10. How many Gods are there?
       There is one true God.
11.  How many persons are in the Godhead?
         three
12.   Who are these persons?
          Father, Son, and Holy Spirit

A Carol and a Poem


Adeste Fideles (O
Come All Ye Faithful) is a favorite carol.  It was the first carol we
learned in Latin.  A few years later I discovered Athanasius, who
fought valiantly for the deity of Christ.  Every time we sing
“Ver—–ry God, Begotten, not created” I get choked up and say a
prayer of thanks for Athanasius, God’s gift to the early church. 

 

In addition to Athanasius, I will think of translations when we sing that verse. 

This, from Mysteries of the Middle Ages by Thomas Cahill:

This early exaltation of Mother and Child already demonstrates the innovative Christian sense of grace, no longer something reserved for the fortunate few — the emperors and their retinues — but broadcast everywhere, bestowed on everyone, “heaped up, pressed down, and overflowing,” even on one as lowly and negligible as a nursing mother. In the words of a famous Latin hymn,

“God…is born from the guts of a girl.”

The hymn is “Adeste Fideles,” composed in the eighteenth centry (in a very medieval spirit) by John F. Wade. The full text of the cited quotation is

“Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine
Gestant puellae viscera”

The second line was unfortunately translated in the nineteenth century by Frederick Oakley as “Lo! he abhors not the Virgin’s womb.”

~     ~     ~    ~     ~

A Christmas poem by C.S. Lewis from A Widening Light

Among the oxen (like an ox I’m slow)
I see a glory in the stable grow
Which, with the ox’s dullness might at length
   Give me an ox’s strength.

Among the assess (stubborn I as they)
I see my Saviour where I looked for hay;
So may my beastlike folly learn at least
   The patience of a beast.

Among the sheep (I like a sheep have strayed)
I watch the manger where my Lord is laid;
Oh that my baa-ing nature would win thence
   Some wooly innocence!

Simple Pleasures in December

~ Good Words

The First Church’s Christmas Barrel  
by Caroline Abbott Stanley
People!!  Trust me on this one!
It. Is. Excellent.
Free. Download.
Do. It.

A favorite quote from this short story:
[missionary couple talking, husband to wife]

“There isn’t one woman in a hundred that could have managed so well.”

She snuggled up to him. “That pays me–if I needed pay, which I don’t.
It was a work of love and–well, maybe a little necessity.
You told me once that I had a genius for poverty.

And God knows it has had no chance to lie dormant,”
he said bitterly.

~ Good Smells

3 sticks cinnamon – broken, a handful of cloves, a few bay leaves,
sliced orange and sliced lemon
add water and simmer, replenishing water as needed
reheat the next day
and the next…

I have some lemons which are past their prime.
This puts them to perfect use.

~ Good Tastes

A simple, fast, delicious recipe:
Costco meatballs
one jar grape jelly
one bottle Chili sauce

Combine jelly and sauce, heat.
Pour over meatballs and warm them
in oven or crockpot.

I am aging prime rib roast in the fridge, per Cook’s Illustrated and brother Dan.
It dehydrates and forms a crust which I’ll shave off before I cook the meat.
Simple. Scrumptious.
Christmas is the only day of the year that I fix prime rib.
If you are interested, message me and I’ll send you the instructions.

When our hunters get an elk, we make hamburger jerky. Yum!

Have you ever used whole nutmeg?
Here are three whole and one partly-used nutmeg.

You run it across a Microplane Grater / Zester for fresh nutmeg.

Perfect on hot oatmeal, on hot chocolate, hot butternut squash soup,
beef stroganoff, or hot buttered rum!

Piled High and Running Over

(Adapted from the archives) Photo credit: Danny, my brother (DPH)
[Wait! I’ve never realized how close those initials are to PhD! – weird.]

Thankful

I’m thankful for the gloaming,

old hymns in minor keys,

Reuben sandwiches and Subaru
engines.

 

For continued forgiveness for
besetting sins;

wood heat, Bach’s Passacaglia

and lavender. 

 

For long-distance phone calls,

library cards,

Netflix,

and another leaf in our expanding
table. 

 

I’m grateful for a grandson and a
stack of books,

for garlic sizzling in olive oil,

for book-lined walls and long car
drives.

 

French Onion soup,

Sunday feasts,

John Donne’s poetry,

Two Buck Chuck Cabernet Sauvignon,

toddler laughter and uninterrupted
sleep.

 

Truth, beauty and goodness,

goodness and mercy,

mercy and grace. 
 

 

I’m grateful for Google,

down comforters and

freedom from
debt.

 

I praise God for King’s College Choir,

Vaughn Williams

and psalms from the
Vulgate;

 

For manly hugs and kisses,

hand-knit socks,

alliteration and Carl
Larsson.

 

Declared
righteousness,

promises kept and

the book of Ecclesiastes.

 

Extended family,

the piano,
lingering meals.


The scent of simmering spiced citrus,

speech, and
memories.


Billy Collin’s poems,

Wendell Berry’s short stories,

extra sharp cheddar cheese,

and
Amazon.com boxes.

 

Pesto, bubble wrap, smiles that
light up the whole face,

Naan, chai, and good drinking
water.

 

I wonder at the connections,

on the web and face to face,

for quotes, for thoughts, for book reviews,

for the shallows and the deeps,

PaperBackSwap, Anthony Trollope

Jacques Barzun, and Susan Allen Toth.

 

I’m thankful for the death of death,

for mingled tears,

For temporary sighs and sorrow

and
the hope of the future.

 

Cobb salad, Athanasius, rustic bread.

Independent sons, reading evenings,
growing families.

 

I give thanks for 100% cotton,
loving rebukes,

Laughter in the morning and southern
windows.

 

For nostrils, fingernails and belly
buttons,

for DSL, clematis, and airplane
travel,

different cultures and customs,

enduring
friendships.

and for the Lord God who made them all.


“Oh give thanks
unto the Lord, for He is good.  His mercy endures
forever.”


The Omnivore’s Dilemma


Opening sentence: “What should we have for dinner?”

To call Michael Pollan’s book provocative is an impoverished way to communicate the swirling dervishes which dance around your brain while you listen to this piece.  Yes, it is provocative.  Provocative in the sense that it calls forth many thoughts.  

Pollan, a journalist, wonders if he could trace the food we eat back to its source.  He studies four meals: a McDonald’s take out (capable of eating with only one hand); a Whole Foods microwavable organic TV dinner (four words he never thought would be strung together) which represents industrial organic; a meal made from ingredients grown on Joel Salatin’s Polyface Farms, which touts itself as “beyond organic”;  and finally a meal consisting of meat he hunted, mushrooms he foraged, and vegetables and fruit grown nearby. 

In the opening chapters Pollan does a thorough job of explaining how we arrived to the point of massive farm subsidies and how corn is present in most of the fast foods sold.  Pollan also investigates Industrial Organic and visits Earthbound Farm, which supplies Costco with organic food.  In between the narrative of his travels, Pollan inserts background material and philosophical essays about the consequences individually and culturally of the food choices described.

When I got to the section about Joel Salatin and Polyface Farm (the famous disc 7) I bolted upright in my red Subaru. I’ve heard this before!  A few friends have been discussing this kind of farming for years: growing cattle, chickens, pigs, rabbits, turkeys, rotating pastures and using all the animal byproducts efficiently.  It all made sense and the Salatin family was portrayed as principled, winsome people.  

Most entertaining for this city-girl who married into a hunting and gathering family in rural Oregon was Pollan’s tale of  learning how to hunt and gather mushrooms so he could make a meal free of bar codes, totally from scratch.   He is honest about both the exhilaration he feels after successfully shooting a feral pig, and the remorse he encounters later (remorse is not a factor with my hunters).  He flirts with vegetarianism, debating the reasons why it is acceptable or non-acceptable to eat other animals.   Pollan’s day of hunting morel mushrooms took me back to the day in May when we scored morels like nobody’s business.  The picture he paints of putting a feast together singlehandedly is priceless: plans, schedules, interruptions, arrivals, and finally the food.  He pronounces this meal that he’s prepared and shared with his hunting and gathering mentors “the perfect meal.”  I hope you can relate to the satisfaction that comes from eating something you have had an active part in, i.e. a homegrown tomato.

Pollan doesn’t draw tight conclusions from his journey.  His worldview won’t let him go where I’d like to see him go.  However, he cannot avoid biblical motifs: the garden, the table, providence, feasting, communing, life from death, sacrificial giving. He writes about grace around the table, that the table is grace, but it is a truncated view of grace.  Nevertheless his skill is making complex issues comprehensible is profound.  He writes with clarity, honesty and beauty.

We would love to share a meal (elk backstrap, duck, bass or steelhead, sautéed veggies with basil, garden salad, homemade bread,  fresh raspberries and strawberry rhubarb pie) with Michael Pollan and his family.  Talk food, talk books, talk ideas.  We are on opposite sides of the spectrum on many issues.  But we enjoy exploring the differences, listening, understanding, exchanging.  I think it would be delightful.

This is a book to share, to discuss, to thrash over, to ponder, to wonder, to evaluate, to think over for a long time.

Listening to Scout Finch

Sissy Spacek’s performance
is one of the very best I’ve ever heard,
of all the audio books I’ve enjoyed.
The southern lilt of her voice was
an impeccable match for Scout Finch’s narrative.

Our family sat in the living room and listened
to the final three discs last night.
Scout, Jem, Atticus Finch, Dill, Boo Radley…
these are characters which have
taken up residence with us.

Why not consider listening to a book together?

If your local library doesn’t have this, consider
asking them to purchase it.
Or add it to your personal library.
You’ll want to listen more than once.

Handcuffed to Characters

I used to think that if I were unencumbered by family ties (don’t mistake me: I love the cumbers), I would go to the pediatric ward of a large hospital and hold babies that needed to be held.  I pictured myself in a rocking chair, hair in a bun, humming and rocking, humming and rocking. I would sing hymns, I’d make up songs about their names, I’d tell these little ones about the God who made them, and gaze into the deep pools of their eyes. Of course, the babies would never scream; gurgling and cooing would be the only sounds they would make.  In my dreams.

Another dream is shoving its way to the head of the line. 

That dream is having reluctant readers over to my house and reading great books aloud together.

After some modern, easy-to-read books, I assigned The Diary of Anne Frank to my reluctant reader-niece.  She plowed (I so want to spell it ploughed like the English) through it because I dangled the carrot of watching The Freedom Writers in front of her.  I chose Willa Cather’s My Antonia for the next assignment.  Here was a book which combined her heritage from both sides of her family: one set of grandparents who grew up on the farm in the Midwest and the other set of grandparents who grew up in Eastern Europe and immigrated to America sixty years ago.  She even has an Aunt Yulka, the name of the younger sister in the book. Nonetheless, she could not get into it and read it with eyes which forgot the top of the page before the bottom of the page is finished. 

This morning we fixed large mugs of tea; sat down and read chapters aloud to each other, alternating paragraphs.  We stopped to discuss (or pronounce) new words, clues, foreshadowing, and cultural checkpoints.  Antonia wore cotton dresses in the winter.  “What kind of dresses would normal people in Nebraska wear in the winter?”  The Shimerda family lived in a dugout house.  “Why were wooden framed houses rare?” 

As we progressed I heard her read with more expression.  Comprehension began to drip off the ends of her words like honey that refuses to be confined to the piece of toast.  We got caught up in the story and began to anticipate events.  

Reading aloud together is not efficient; reading aloud together could never be termed convenient.  But it fits in with my stubborn insistence on slowing down at this time of year when we get sucked into hyperactivity.  We were warm, comfortable, engaged…together.  Reading together is a simple way to share the experience of being changed that comes from the powerful writing of a potent story. 

When I look back on our homeschool journey, my favorite memories are the times we shared after lunch with a book in my hand and a glass of water handy.  Those extra chapters read because none of us could bear to stop.  
The magic that took place when signs and symbols on a page were spoken into the air.  The exhilaration of being swept away, captured by a story, handcuffed to characters about whom we came to care deeply.  

Sandy’s daughter, Cassie’s essay articulates the joys of a reading life.  Reading: A Common Bond