{"id":2761,"date":"2022-02-22T16:28:04","date_gmt":"2022-02-22T23:28:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/?p=2761"},"modified":"2022-02-23T19:48:16","modified_gmt":"2022-02-24T02:48:16","slug":"slogging-through-omicron","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/?p=2761","title":{"rendered":"SLOGGING THROUGH OMICRON"},"content":{"rendered":"

We’ve had the first ever cases of COVID in my building. Sigh.\u00a0 Cases still dribble and we have to be K95 masked, but the breakfast regulars who were or near the infected are back, enjoying treats and each other, and creating false rumors, as only the hard of hearing, sitting\u00a0 6′ apart in a noisy dining room can do.\u00a0 I love breakfast, even with the crankies.<\/p>\n

But with each COVID threat alert, Charlie worries about me and frets that I may die before preparing\u00a0 some kind of “clippings file” to ready him for memorial comments, as his dad did.\u00a0 I’m sure this current fret arises now also, because John Madden and Harry Reid and, earlier. his dad died at 82, which now I am also.\u00a0 So he asked me, again, to tell him “my stories.”\u00a0 I’ve explained that any story needs a reason and an audience because the particulars of the story may vary.\u00a0 It’s the Irish way.\u00a0 He humphed.\u00a0 He is a great humpher.<\/p>\n

Then, as I read Bob Moses’ NYT obituary, which included his work with teaching math to children, and Charlie taught math to often ill-prepared undergrads, I aha-ed and regaled Charlie with a story.<\/p>\n

When I was about 4 or 5, during the War, my dad took me with him to work.\u00a0 He owned the Coast to Coast hardware store in a building with a basement bar which dad tended, sometimes with me in tow.\u00a0 I still remember climbing up on the bar stool between two regulars who taught me numbers by pulling tabs or tickets from a jar.\u00a0 I had great fun.\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0“It was a speakeasy!” Charlie noted with unseemly glee.\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0“No, it was not.\u00a0 I’m not THAT old, for heaven’s sake.\u00a0 Prohibition was long over, and dad was the Mayor.”\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0“Yeah,\u00a0but the jar of tickets or tabs was clearly gambling and probably illegal!” he said with ever more glee.\u00a0 “And speakeasys were dens of illegal gambling.\u00a0 You grew up gambling in a speakeasy.\u00a0 You were an early criminal! ”\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I protested, but he was off to share the news.<\/p>\n

Clearly, retold stories are not the way, but his frets remain.\u00a0 Building on the criminality of my speakeasy days,\u00a0 I offered to tell him the stories behind the art on my walls.\u00a0 Charlie enthusiastically proclaimed “copyright violation!”\u00a0 I said it was a one time, personal use, which was allowed.\u00a0 He countered, “You only own the paper and paint, not the picture, and, also, you might make money!”\u00a0 I pointed out that my twelve blog readers, quadrupled from my pre -facebook three, were hardly a threat.\u00a0 And somewhat smugly, I noted that I was not misusing anything;\u00a0 I was creating a new experience of telling\u00a0 about storied art with a floppy pointer, which I call “Incorporation Art.”<\/p>\n

For example Nina Simone’s commissioned watercolor of the first home of Schaumburg Township Public Library is the background for stories of my time there, and, thus, my first foray into Incorporation Art.\u00a0 The stories ae many.\u00a0 I was 24 with a half-finished library science degree and ready to leave teaching high school English and math.\u00a0 I spotted the posted notice on a 3″x5″ library card: “Wanted: Someone with the pioneer spirit.\u00a0 Call 529-3373.”\u00a0 I did and, with no experience, sone imagination, and a lot of energy, the Board gambled, and we were off.\u00a0 During the next 4 years,\u00a0 The Township awarded us money to build, plus extra for air-conditioning, and I got to plan the new library building, walk possible sites, host a 6 a.m. groundbreaking to catch the commuters, design and furnish the interior, and have Charlie just in time for him in his playpen to be part of moving day with a book-chain and lots of volunteers.\u00a0 The Board commissioned 4 watercolors to celebrate and remember our founding home. Today’s Schaumburg Library<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0is bigger and in some ways better, and so is Charlie, but the founding years were keys, as the stories tell.<\/p>\n

Below the STPL, Charlie’s picture, backed by a very faded box of “Wheaties, Breakfast of Champions” is my second example of “Incorporation Art”.\u00a0 \u00a0Someday, maybe, they will have narration, too.\u00a0 I think Charlie’s is his college graduation picture.<\/p>\n

\"\"

I’m founding mother of Schaumburg Township PL ’63, and of \/ Charlie, number one, only, best son, ’65.<\/p><\/div>\n

On a different track, I considered using Nikki Giovanni’s poem, “My Favorite Teacher<\/em>,”<\/strong> as a story springboard, and substituting my similar early library adventures, after my mother called the librarian and told her to let me take out any books I wanted.\u00a0 But whereas Nikki Giovanni’s choices suggest a mind expanding onward and upward as she grew into a whole person of note, mine were, shall we say, generously,\u00a0 evolution of a core-less generalist.\u00a0 I’ve had, and till have, great fun seeing the world through the eyes of many others.<\/p>\n

This is Nikki Giovanni’s poem, “My Favorite Teacher<\/em>“<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

The reason Miss Delaney was my favorite teacher, not just my
\nfavorite English teacher, is that she would let me read any book I
\nwanted and would allow me to report on it. I had the pleasure of
\nreading The Scapegoat<\/em><\/strong> as well as We the Living<\/em> <\/strong>as well as Silver<\/em><\/strong>
\nSpoon<\/em> <\/strong>(which was about a whole bunch of rich folk who were
\nunhappy), and Defender of the Damned<\/em>,<\/strong> which was about
\nClarence Darrow, which led me into Native Son<\/em><\/strong> because the real
\ncase was defended by Darrow though in Native Son<\/em> he got the
\nchair despite the fact that Darrow never lost a client to the chair
\nincluding Leopold and Loeb who killed Bobby Frank. Native Son<\/em>
\nled me to Eight Men<\/em><\/strong> and all the rest of Richard Wright<\/strong>, but I
\npreferred Langston Hughes<\/strong> at that time and Gwendolyn Brooks<\/strong>
\nand I did reports on both of them. I always loved English because
\nwhatever human beings are, we are storytellers. It is our stories
\nthat give a light to the future. When I went to college I became a
\nhistory major because history is such a wonderful story of who we
\nthink we are; English is much more a story of who we really are.
\nIt was, after all, Miss Delaney who introduced the class to
\n\u201cMy candle burns at both ends; \/It will not last the night; \/But, ah, my
\nfoes, and, oh, my friends\u2014 \/It gives a lovely light.\u201d\u00a0 [Edna St. Vincent Millay poem]
\nAnd I thought YES. Poetry is the main line. English is the train.<\/p>\n

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm<\/p>\n

The library books I remember without really trying were, in no particular order, a biography of Hetty Green, my first miser,\u00a0Louis Auchincloss<\/strong>‘s books about NYC’s “upper crust”, Alan Paton’s Cry the Beloved Country <\/em><\/strong>and Too Late the Phalarope,<\/strong><\/em> about appalling apartheid in South Africa, Thomas B. Costain<\/strong>‘s English history, Nancy Drew, Erle Stanley Gardner<\/strong>, Agatha Christie<\/strong> began my lifetime of loving mysteries, Mikhail Sholokov’s\u00a0And Quiet Flows the Don<\/em><\/strong> and other fat Russian novels during one summer, Neville Shute’s\u00a0 On the Beach<\/em>,<\/em><\/strong> my only post-apocalyptic novel, and Cleveland Amory<\/strong>‘s books about Boston society.\u00a0 Freshman fall semester of 1957, the flu broke out and kept us infecting and healing in the dorm, where I read the only non-textbooks I could find, which were Peyton Place<\/em> by Grace Metaliou<\/strong>s and J.D. Salinger’s\u00a0Catcher in the Rye<\/em><\/strong>.\u00a0 As I compiled this, all I could think was “AARRGGHH!!!\u00a0 My mind has no there there!”<\/p>\n

So, to give Charlie something bookish, but more substantial, to remember me by, I made a list of my favorite memoirs, each of which twigged something of me as I read.\u00a0 Here it is.\u00a0 I love each one all over again in my thinking about them:<\/p>\n

Fourteen of my long time, most favored memoirs<\/b>, 2021 list:<\/span>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/strong><\/span>Fishing with John<\/strong>, by Edith Iglauer\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/span>Lab Girl<\/strong>, by Hope Jahren\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/strong><\/span>The Scotch, The story of a community where money was the root of much vir,<\/strong> by John Galbraith\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>Old Books,Rare Friends: Two literary sleuths and their shared passion<\/strong>,\u00a0<\/span>by Madeline B. Stern and Leona Rostenberg\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>Swimming Studies<\/strong>, by Leanne Shapton\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/span>Principles of Uncertainty<\/strong>, by Maira Kalman\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/span>Travels with Herodotus<\/strong>, by Ryzard Kapucinski\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/span>Caught in the Web of Words: James A.H. Murray and the OED<\/strong>, by K.M. Elizabeth Murray\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>The Snoring Bird: My family\u2019s journey through a century of biology<\/strong>,\u00a0 by Bernd Heinrich\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/strong><\/span>The Thread, A Mathematical Yarn<\/strong>, by Philip J. David\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>The D<\/strong>ouble Helix: A personal account of the Discovery of the DNA<\/strong>, by James Watson\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0So\u00a0<\/strong>Many Books, So Little Time,<\/strong> by Sara Nelson\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Fra<\/strong>nkie\u2019s Place: A love story<\/strong>, by Jim Sterba\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0A Place in Normandy<\/strong>, by Nicholas Kilmer<\/p>\n

I haven’t checked with Charlie yet, so so-far so-good. He hasn’t humphed.\u00a0 Asking “Who am I?” gets trickier when first trying to figure out “Who does he think I am?”.<\/p>\n

Coming soon:\u00a0 The Poetry Club’s\u00a0 most memorable recent moments, which include a new-ish poem form, and the question, “Does a joke require someone else laughing?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We’ve had the first ever cases of COVID in my building. Sigh.\u00a0 Cases still dribble and we have to be K95 masked, but the breakfast regulars who were or near the infected are back, enjoying treats and each other, and … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2761"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2761"}],"version-history":[{"count":15,"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2761\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2778,"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2761\/revisions\/2778"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2761"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2761"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/roseledgebooks.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2761"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}