I’m making a valiant effort to thin out my very thick personal library. Like any parting, there is grief, but I’m choosing instead to grip the joy and gratitude I’ve garnered from my books. When I picked up this 1232 page brick I faced the glacial reality that I would never read all the words again.
The next best thing was to read the bits I’d underlined in neat pencil.
Because I’m a wee bit obsessive about my books, I knew I had to copy those adored sentences into my commonplace book.
Two long road trips, several shorter drives, the odd minutes gleaned here and there… and I’ve added 30 pages to my journal of quotes from Les Misérables. All the joy, people. All the joy/grief/delight/disgust/admiration of this magnum opus comes flooding back.
It was the next best thing to reading every word. And so many quotes!
One thing remains. Giving this book a good home. A place where it can sit on a shelf, get a few loving glances with the whispered promise to read it sometime.
If my penciled copy of Hugo’s masterpiece sounds like something you want (free), leave a comment. In a week I’ll make a decision where it goes and mail/hand it to that person. Otherwise I’ll donate it.
They jostle each other, swinging hands in the air: choose me! choose me! Which salad will be crowned Salad of the Summer this year? They study winners of yore, searching for an edge to beat out the competition.
Pioneer Woman’s Asian Noodle Salad is the only entry in the storied history of Salad of the Summer to win two consecutive years. Cilantro must be the key. Black Bean and Corn was the inaugural winner. Color is vital. Spinach Salad sighs, recalling glory days. Broccoli Salad reminds her competitors that she won Miss Leftover seven years ago. Greek Salad pirouettes, posing, ignoring the sneers from the lettuce section. FourP Salad (pistachio, pear, pomegranate, and parmesan) receives a vigorous communal put-down: you’re a winter salad with pomegranates. Don’t even.
The judge is not unbiased. She determined, before the semi-finals even began that quinoa needed representation. Considered an ancient grain, it is high in protein. The runner-up was a Greek Quinoa with Kalamata olives (oh, yum) but the Persian flavors, especially cumin, in HJQS seduced the judge and jury.
Hannah Jane’s Quinoa Salad
2 cups uncooked quinoa
3 cups any combination of water / broth
1/4 teaspoon salt
Soak quinoa in water (not the water/broth above) 10-15 minutes; drain and rinse.
Mix quinoa, water/broth, and salt in pot; bring to boil, simmer 15 minutes.
Fluff and cool.
black beans (14 oz can–drained and rinsed, or 1 1/2 cups cooked beans)
tomatoes (3 Roma or /1 Beefsteak or / a small container of grape tomatoes)
bell pepper (1/2 large red or 6-9 mini peppers, what have you)
onion (4 green onions, sliced or / 1/2 red onion fine dice)
cilantro (a bunch, it’s a beautiful thing)
Add prepared veggies to cooled quinoa
The Dressing (doesn’t the dressing always make the salad?)
2 limes, juiced
olive oil, 1/4 – 1/3 cup, your preference
ground cumin, 1 teaspoon (<<<the magic ingredient)
black pepper, enough grinds to equal 1/2 teaspoon, or to taste
salt, enough grinds to equal 1 teaspoon, or to taste
Stir together, toss with salad.
It’s gluten-free, dairy-free, boring-free, bland-free, calorie-free. j/k on the last one.
Even better the next day.
I have all my life been considering distant effects and always sacrificing immediate success and applause to that of the future. In laying out Central Park we determined to think of no result to be realized in less than forty years. — Frederick Law Olmsted
So many surprises in A Clearing In the Distance. Olmsted was an autodidact. A slow starter, a dabbler in disparate enterprises, he kept afloat with his father’s loans. He himself was his father’s ‘Central Park’, the long investment whose glories would become apparent in the future. Fame first came as a journalist. He sailed to China; he bought a farm; he traveled to Europe; he started a magazine; he managed the largest gold mine in California.
It is the breadth of Olmsted’s curiosity that makes his writing compelling.
Other reading intersections: Erik Larson’s The Devil in White City made me thirsty to know more about FLO. Michael Pollan referenced Olmsted’s ideas in Second Nature. By chance, I’ve landed in books set in the late-19th century. The wider I read, the greater my familiarity grows and the joy of recognition sparks.
For those who like biographies, history, and books with an index and maps: 4 stars
The young girl sat up in her bed, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, threw her hair off her face in one easy motion, and scrambled out of bed. It was an early Saturday morning in May. The house was hushed. With the stealth of a burglar she tiptoed down the hallway and carefully descended the creaky stairs.
After some domestic disarray, the ten-year old clung to the solid comfort of this familiar routine. She turned on the stereo, adjusted the tuner, and turned the volume to its lowest setting. Grabbing some throw pillows, she dropped to the floor inches from the speaker, flat on her stomach, her elbows in the pillows and her hands cupped under her chin.
The next two hours brought radio programs for children. Thirsty for story, she drank in the drama while the rest of the house slept. Midway through the last show the jangle of the telephone pierced the quiet. Like quicksilver she jumped up and grabbed the receiver before the phone rang again.
“Hello,” her high childish voice could barely be heard.
“Hi! Is your mommy there?” the other voice trilled.
“Mmm…no,” she whispered tentatively.
“Would you leave her a message, please?”
“’kay…,” her voice wavered.
“The chair she had reupholstered is finished and is ready to be picked up at the shop.”
She replaced the receiver and returned to her position on the floor.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The next Saturday was the same. The family slept while the young girl listened to Aunt Bee, Ranger Bill, and Sailor Sam. She took every precaution to listen without waking them. Once again, the clatter of the telephone shattered the solitude. She darted to the dining room side table and grabbed the phone before the second ring.
“Hello! I’d like to speak to Nellie Harper!”
The girl paused; she finally said, “She’s not here.”
“Well, listen hon, this is the upholstery shop calling, and I called last week and left a message. I told her when she brought it in that it would be ready in two weeks, and this chair has been in the shop for a month now, and I really need your mom to pick up this chair. Would you puh-lease let her know?” Her voice was a mixture of artificial sweetener and ill-concealed irritation.
“Hmmm.” came out in hushed tones.
“Thanks, hon, I really appreciate it. You have a good day, now.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A week went by. The light was lasting longer, birds were chirping in the trees, and school was winding down. Summer had almost arrived, though the markers of seasonal change were little noted in that house. Again, the young girl woke up early Saturday morning, crept around the squeaky spots and kept her rendezvous with the radio.
She wasn’t surprised when the phone rang; she answered it as she had done before.
“Hello,” spoken softly, so softly.
“Hi!” spoken in the tone of one eager to check off items on her list.
They both recognized the other’s voice; they both had the script memorized.
“Honey, look, is your mommy home this morning?” came the coaxing plea.
“No.” The single syllable dangled in space with nothing to support it.
Exasperated, the woman on the other end of the line raised her voice.
“Well, where is she? I’ve called, I’ve left messages, and still Nellie has not picked up her chair.”
She clipped each word shorter than a buzz cut.
The moment of truth could be delayed no longer. The words that were stuck in the child’s throat, words that could not be spoken the previous Saturdays, words that were impossible to say, even today, were forcefully dislodged.
“Ummm………she………well……..ummmm. She died.”
“Ohmygosh, she died? She died? Your mommy died? What happened? Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Was she in an accident? She died? I had no idea. Oh, honey, I’m so very, very sorry. Oh dear. I–am–so–sorry.”
The silence was more uncomfortable for the girl than for the woman. She sensed the shock, the awkward drop, the conversational vertigo of the voice on the other end. The ten-year old knew she would have to bridge the gap and end this call. The girl found her voice and began to comfort the caller.
“It’s all right. You didn’t know. It’s okay. No one told you. I’ll tell my daddy about the chair when he wakes up, okay? He’ll come to your shop and get the chair. It’s okay. You didn’t know… Good-bye.”
She walked back to the stereo, turned the radio off, sat down on the floor and sobbed.
[Originally posted November 2006]
I’m back from the fourth reunion of childhood girlfriends since 2010. We were born in the same year; three resided in the same neighborhood; our parents were friends; we were raised in the same faith; we know each other’s siblings. We’ve been friends since kindergarten.
Along with all these similarities are differences. Geographic, to be sure. The closest link between any two of us is over 800 miles. We differ in economics, vocations, passions, politics, tastes, theology, and in all the other ways people change.
The thing is that we six were not bff’s growing up. I think the phrase friendship by proximity describes some of our early years. Sometimes we hung out together because that’s who was available. Now that our friendship has come of age, we are repeating stories! (We = me, sigh…)
This treasure, these friendships, are more precious to us than diamonds. Other than checking our phones and taking calls from husbands and children, our time is unplugged. We don’t watch movies; we don’t go shopping (except for groceries). It is time to attend, to be present, to listen, to share, to truly know each other. We laugh and guffaw, we cry (even the non-criers among us), we eat, we swim, we sing.
We established a protocol at our first reunion that we always follow. We could (and do) have a fabulous time cooking communally, grabbing a cuppa, letting the conversation meander like a river. But eventually we have a formal time of focus. One friend shares her heart: what’s good, what’s hard, what’s changed, what’s real. This is a time of transparency and trust. We take notes, ask questions. It can also be a time of discovery, when the perception of girlfriends translates truth we didn’t before see. Then we pray, asking God to help, to intervene, to strengthen, to bless our friend. Then we sing the songs we grew up singing that are imprinted on our souls. Rinse and repeat.
These friendships are for each of us a bonus. We all have sisters — not just sisters, but close sisters with whom we regularly share our lives and hearts.
Two stories. Meeting in the airport has always been an exciting moment. We’re giddy and goofy and garrulous. This year, however, Ruth’s father died the Monday before our gathering. She drove to Virginia on Tuesday, buried him on Thursday, and flew out to Phoenix on Saturday. My plane arrived five minutes before hers. I parked myself in front of the gate to welcome her. Sitting at the back of the plane, she was one of the last passengers to deplane. Seeing each other we burst into sobs, running into a hug. It was a spectacle, but we didn’t care. All our griefs to share.
Eileen’s plane came in later than the others. Nancy’s sister Kathy picked her up from the airport. Eileen didn’t want to inconvenience her. Are you kidding? Kathy replied. When we were first married, we flew to Chicago, but couldn’t rent a car because I was under 25. We called my mom in Phoenix and asked her what to do. She told us to call your (Eileen’s) dad. We called him, he dropped everything and drove to O’Hare to pay for our rental. I am only too happy to give you a ride. More tears, and the gift of an previously unknown story about her dad.
One evening the Gibson sisters joined us for an old-fashioned hymn sing. I guess reading the lyrics on your phone wasn’t old-fashioned! Those girls (ahem, women) can SING!! Lots of nostalgia and gorgeous harmonies and rejoicing in a heritage of music.
After four girlfriend gatherings, I remain astonished at the profound transforming power of this deep friendship. It has all the hallmarks of grace: unexpected, unearned, unsought, undeserved. Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.
Source: Thankful, Spring Edition