The Gifts of a Garden

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley

Generosity of spirit

I recently published the paperback version of my book, A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, and have been trying to promote it, along with another book that I published last May (The Gifts of A Garden). Both books are available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop.org, among other online booksellers. 

Publishing a book is only the start of the huge job that looms ahead--marketing a book. Writing a book pales by comparison, although it is the most important job that the writer can do. But getting your book out there, getting it seen and read by others, that's important too. After all, writers write books that they hope people will read, even if the number of people who read them is small. What matters is that you've shared something you wanted to share, with others. There isn't always a huge audience for all books, nor should there be necessarily. But if no one sees your book at all, that can be frustrating and ultimately creates feelings of futility concerning writing. 

I've often written about the challenge of being creative and the internal tug-of-war between wanting to share the results and being afraid to do so. Sharing means exposing yourself not only to normal criticism (which is fine), but to destructive criticism on the part on internet trolls. There are so many of the latter whose sole aim is to tear down, not build up. But ultimately wanting to share wins out over the fear. Don't hide your light under a bushel basket, to paraphrase the biblical saying. I've interpreted this saying to mean that one should not hide one's creativity from others, if you truly have something to share. But goodness, kindness, and generosity can be substituted for creativity. If we are good people, we are asked to step up to the plate. And so it goes with talent as well. If God has given you a particular talent, make the most of it and share the results.

However, even if you haven't hidden your talent, even if you've spent a lot of time marketing your book on social media and personal websites, etc. it still isn't enough. You can't do the job completely alone. Authors need help from readers who liked an author's book and who post a positive comment about it on Amazon or Goodreads or social media. That happened to me recently--a rare and treasured experience of generosity of spirit on the part of a man I don't know who had read my book and who happens to be the moderator of a Facebook page about Tarrytown & Sleepy Hollow. I messaged him to ask if I could post a little notice on the page that I had published my book about Tarrytown, and he wrote back to say yes. So I posted it, and he followed up with a photo of the book's front cover and some amazing words about the book and about me. He wrote that 'Paula is too modest. She is a fabulous author and this book is great'. He also wrote 'Such great memories in your book'.

His generosity of spirit and his words made me happy. If only people truly understood how words can influence your feelings and thoughts, about yourself and others. I have some wonderful friends and loved ones who read my books; Jean, Trond, and Brendan (who passed away a few years ago) are/were my most faithful supporters and have read everything I've written. Knowing that they like my books has given me the motivation to keep writing over the past years. The praise from the Facebook moderator likewise gives me needed motivation to continue writing. 

I've often written about the world of academia and its lack of generosity of spirit. Very few people wish their colleagues well; that has been my experience at least. The competition for grant funding is fierce and those who 'win' are often ignored by those who 'lose'. I used to congratulate those who had gotten funding; after all, they did a good job and were recognized for it. In all my forty-odd years of research work, I've been congratulated perhaps twice when I got funding, once by someone who didn't think I was good enough to get funding, the other by a former boss. Among peers, almost never, and I have no idea why. I stopped caring after a while. It costs nothing to open your mouth to praise someone else and to wish him or her well. But that type of generosity of spirit is rare, at least in my experience.

More generally, how many times have you experienced wanting to share a small success or happiness, e.g. a particularly nice photo that you have taken, only to hear from the other person you showed it to that they have taken photos that are just as nice. They veer the conversation over to themselves or to something that they have done and for which they want praise. They don't want any attention focused on you. It's a spirit-crushing feeling when you realize that you are the recipient of envious and petty behavior. So I am grateful to those people in my life who have shown me that generosity of spirit when I have shared my creative pursuits with them. I am grateful for those who wish me well and who can celebrate the small successes that I occasionally experience without their feeling envious or resentful. I pay it forward and for the most part always have. I can say this much about myself; I am not afraid to let other people know that they've done a great job. So it's nice to hear from others when I've done a great job as well. 

The upsides and downsides of instant information

Another apt commentary on the state of the world and our addiction to cell phones from my favorite cartoonist--Stephan Pastis--and his menagerie of talking animals (and birds) in Pearls Before Swine. 

A Servant to Servants--a poem by Robert Frost

A Servant To Servants

I didn’t make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you’d find…. It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see how you might. But I don’t know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don’t count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks I’ll be all right
With doctoring. But it’s not medicine–
Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so–
It’s rest I want–there, I have said it out–
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them–from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through–
Leastways for me–and then they’ll be convinced.
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live–ten miles from anywhere.
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do–
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much.
He’s into everything in town. This year
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not
Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once–yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea–the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives–
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can’t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa’n’t kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father’s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,–
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm–all of his clothes.
Cruel–it sounds. I ‘spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. He’d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play–
The only fun he had. I’ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time–I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say–you know, half fooling–
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”–
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while–but I don’t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there’s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. I’m past such help–
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,
And I won’t ask him–it’s not sure enough.
I ‘spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground–
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There’s work enough to do–there’s always that;
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I shan’t catch up in this world, anyway.
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.

Some thoughts on life, roads, gratitude, and faith

I was reading through some old Time magazines, specifically one from 2019, and came across a short article--a Quick Talk with Deepak Chopra, who was promoting his book Metahuman, Unleashing Your Infinite Potential. He talked about the importance of becoming 'metahuman' in order to make the world around us a better place, and defined 'metahuman' as 'connecting with our innate beings'. He included four questions that people can ask themselves in order to get started on the path toward becoming metahuman. They are as follows: 

1. Who am I?
2. What do I want from my life?
3. What is my purpose?
4. What am I grateful for?

I don't read this genre of literature anymore, at least not like I did when I was younger and thought that such books were written by people much wiser than I was (am). It's always tempting to think that there is a guru out there who can answer all of the questions that one might have concerning life and how to live it, especially when one is younger and hits a wall of sorrows that threaten to destroy one. But there isn't a cure-all for anything in life, and there is no guru to set us on the path of enlightenment. It is the journey that matters, after all, and you find that out when you get older. The road of life is difficult and we can only navigate it by living life with all its joys and sorrows. 'The only way out is through', as one wise person once said; the quote is attributed to Robert Frost, from his poem 'A Servant to Servants'. 

The four questions are worth asking ourselves every now and then, especially if we feel we have strayed from the paths we intuitively know we'd like to be on. We have to take stock every now and then and ask ourselves if what we are doing in life is what we ought to be doing. Is it good for us? Are we wasting time on things that give us nothing or have no real meaning? For example, are we glued to our screens many hours during the day, wasting time on social media that really doesn't make us or the world a better place. Do we want to take risks or make changes that would be good for us, but are too fearful to do so? 

One of the simplest ways to find our true paths again is to start by being grateful for something in our lives. That has helped me in tough times. There is always something for which we can be grateful. Just the fact that we have been given another day is a gift. I find that gratitude comes easier to me now, perhaps because I am older, but also because I know how difficult life is for some people in my life. They have sorrows in abundance. Yet they plod on. They have faith in God and that seems to help them. I don't purport to understand faith and how it strengthens people. I have faith but I also have dark times where I question it. I do know that it is a solace, albeit a mysterious one. But life gets simpler with each passing year. It's getting easier to say yes, to accept, to let go, to not argue or want to dissect or overanalyze. Perhaps that's one path that will put us in touch with our innate selves and strengthen our faith. Your will, not mine. There is a lot of power in that. I just never knew how much before. 

On writing and why I write

I've been writing this blog since 2010, and every once in a while I stop to reflect on writing it and on why I continue to write it. Those thoughts lead me down the path toward writing in general--why do I write poetry, short stories, and novels (both fictional and non-fictional)? 

I've been writing since I was fourteen years old, inspired by my high school teacher Brendan who encouraged each of us in my sophomore year class to keep a creative writing journal. We did, and he was interested in reading what we wrote and critiquing it. That started the process for me, because prior to his class, the activity I hated the most was having to write short creative essays on exams, which was not uncommon practice in grammar school. Perhaps because we only had one hour to get it done. For the life of me I couldn't be creative on demand, nor could I write anything of interest in the space of one hour. Luckily the latter is no longer true; however, I find it impossible to be creative on demand, one of the reasons I have always hated brainstorming meetings of any kind together with colleagues. They became very popular during the last fifteen or so years. I'm simply not a team player in that respect, nor did I ever aspire to becoming one. I'd say one of the main reasons I enjoyed being a scientist was because I could retire to my office and think for myself. I could come up with experimental designs and plans on my own. At that point I could share them with others if I wanted to, but I had no desire to hash out experimental designs and plans at meetings. My brain simply could not tolerate the chaos associated with trying to take into account everyone's opinions. Some scientists enjoy that; I'm not one of them. That may have been detrimental to my scientific progression. No matter. 

Writing is a solitary activity, and I enjoy it for exactly that reason. Now that I'm retired, I awake each day and look forward to my writing time in solitude. It may be one or two hours each day, but whatever time I manage, I'm grateful for it. It's time well-spent for the most part, especially when I complete a blog post or a poem and am happy with the result. Writing novels is more difficult, but when the words 'flow', the process is rewarding. I love reading about the creative process as described by other writers; I like knowing that they struggled with many of the same thoughts and feelings as I do when it comes to being creative. 

Writing is a 'private room' that I choose to enter each day. There can be noise around me, people talking, or the tv, but I don't hear them in the same way when I am inside my room. It's about having a focus and staying focused. Do I get distracted? Yes, at times, especially if I end up on the internet for one thing and then lose track of time while I meander the internet universe. But as I write my blog posts, I'm grateful for what the internet has given me--information at my fingertips. If you use the internet wisely, you won't lose your focus. 

I write because I feel that I have something to say and writing is the best way I know how to express it. I've never been very good at verbally commanding attention from others in a roomful of people. I'm not an extrovert; I feel more comfortable away from the crowd. I find that creativity manifests itself best when I am alone, unencumbered by the demands of daily life. The latter will always be there, but they can be put on hold for a few hours. I write in order to learn about the world but mostly about myself. The unconscious is a large part of our brain, but mostly unreachable/untapped. I believe that writing allows me to access my unconscious mind, which houses forgotten memories and repressed feelings, among other things. Or perhaps better put, my unconscious mind sometimes provides my conscious mind with a thought or feeling that I end up writing about. The unconscious mind tosses up tidbits of interest that I can write about if I so choose. 

Interestingly, the existence of a  'collective unconscious' has also been postulated. The term was coined by Carl Gustav Jung, who theorized that the unconscious mind consists of two layers--the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. The latter according to Jung is 'the deepest level of our psyche', and is 'the whole spiritual heritage of mankind's evolution, born anew in the brain structure of every individual'. In other words, it is inherited through the generations (see Wikipedia for more complete information). I find this idea very appealing; it means that the collective unconscious can also influence us creatively. When I was younger I used to envision the collective unconscious as a 'ring' (not unlike the ring(s) around Saturn) swirling about above my head, containing the knowledge, thoughts and feelings of all of humanity. Sometimes I saw the faces of poets and literary figures swirling above me. I thought that if I reached my hand upward, I could pluck some of the knowledge from that ring. I knew the ring would go on forever and that it would grow ever larger the longer mankind lived. 

I've kept a dream journal for years. Some of my dreams have been quite startling and have become poems. I'd never really had what one could call nightmares until recently. I cannot shake some of the images from those dreams, so perhaps they will find their way into new poems or short stories. The following poem started life as a dream; when I remember writing this poem, I can see the images in the dream very clearly:

Confrontation            

Seated at a table on a grassy knoll
Odd people milling about me 
Talking frenetically the clocks toll

Standing then upon the table
Large coyotes all around me
Marvel at the deception they enable

He loves you he loves you she whispers in my ear
But he does not oh this I know
She may be sure of it but no

How many times I’ve wandered
From this battered table to the door
Of this old house abandoned

Once inside, light all around me, glass doors
Between the rooms, large windows
Unencumbered views of crocodile-infested shores

Turn to face the crocodiles and coyotes
Tracking me at all turns
Turn away unsure of what they want from me

Uncover what it is that must be faced
Appease the predators take them on
Make peace with treachery and move on

(from Quantum Bloom, published in 2014--Quantum Bloom: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781505211160: Amazon.com: Books) 

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Perhaps it isn't possible to fully know why a writer writes; the writer may not know either. That is part of the mystery of creativity. The results, when they are good, remain in the minds of the people who read the words that make up the fiction, non-fiction, dramas, and poetry collections that are cherished, often for generations. 

The film--The Farmer Takes A Wife, from 1935

The 1935 film The Farmer Takes A Wife was based on the popular 1934 Broadway play of the same name (see The Farmer Takes a Wife (1935) - IMDb). Sandy Schuman talked about this film in his presentation about the Erie Canal (see A New Yorker in Oslo: The Erie Canal: A Story of Building the Impossible--a New York Adventure Club webinar (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). Henry Fonda had a leading role as farmer Dan Harrow in the play, and reprised his role in the film. The film depicts life on the Erie Canal before the railroads were built; it was an important waterway that connected the mid-West with the Atlantic Ocean via the Hudson River in order to transport goods between Europe and America. There were many freight boats on the canal and a lot of life in the small towns along the canal. The active boat life on the canal was dominated by boat drivers who employed cooks, all of them loyal canal folk. They didn't want to hear any talk about railroads being built that would put them out of business. Few of them believed that railroads would replace their livelihood, and in the film, they were willing to fight anyone who supported the building of railroads and/or who believed that railroads were the future of freight transportation. Dan Harrow works on a canal boat in order to save up money for his life's dream--owning his own farm. He meets and falls in love with Molly Larkins (played by Janet Gaynor), a cook on one of the canal boats owned by Jotham Klore (played by Charles Bickford), a drunk and a bully. Molly can take care of herself; she's in love with canal life and has no intention of leaving it. Until circumstances change and she grudgingly has to realize that the time has come for her to leave it; she accepts Dan's proposal of marriage, but not without a few monkey wrenches thrown into the drama before it ends happily. The nice thing about the film was its depiction of canal life, the hustle and bustle of the small canal towns, the idyllic landscape along the canal, and the quaint characters that populated the canal towns. 

I recognized some of the songs from the film: Fifteen Miles on the Erie Canal (the Low Bridge, Everybody Down song); I've Been Working on the Railroad; Buffalo Gals Won't You Come Out Tonight. They're all songs that I remember from childhood from an LP that my parents had. I especially remember I've Been Working on the Railroad, especially the refrain Dinah blow your horn..... After watching The Farmer Takes A Wife, I understood more about life on the Erie Canal and how that came to an end once the railroads took over the same routes. 

What a rich and eclectic history America has. The more I learn about it, the more I want to learn. For example, DeWitt Clinton, who lived from 1769 until 1828, was a US senator, the mayor of New York City, and lastly the governor of New York State. As governor, he was responsible for construction of the Erie Canal, which was a big deal in the 1800s (construction started in 1817 and was finished in 1825). Think about this--the canal was 363 miles long and was finished in the course of eight years--very impressive. Clinton lived long enough to see it finished. 

There were thriving societies in America in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and a lot of progressive thinkers lived during those times, DeWitt Clinton was one of them. Those who built the railroads in the nineteenth century were also progressive thinkers. Compared to our current society, household activities back in the 1700s and 1800s took longer to get done, travel and transportation were slow, and there were no telephones (until 1876) and computers (not until the twentieth century, at least in the form we know them). My point is that there was no lack of visionaries in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Many of them achieved great things and pushed the society around them to evolve and change. 

The Erie Canal: A Story of Building the Impossible--a New York Adventure Club webinar

This New York Adventure Club webinar is now over, but it will probably reappear on their roster at some point. I'm including the link to it so that you have it for future reference. It is a top-notch webinar; I learned a lot about the history of the Erie Canal. What an impressive feat of engineering, begun in 1817 and finished in 1825! The webinar is led by author and storyteller Sandy Schuman--a wonderful presenter. 

Here is the link to the webinar: 'The Erie Canal: A Story of Building the Impossible' Webinar | New York Adventure Club (nyadventureclub.com)

Well-worth watching! And if you're wondering how Gordon Lightfoot's song The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald found its way into my consciousness, it's due to this webinar. When the politicians and experts were discussing where to situate the canal, they decided to avoid Lake Ontario because of the fierce storms that are known to blow up on the Great Lakes. One thing led to another (those wonderful connections) and I remembered the song. As I've written about before, I love when that happens......

Learning through humor (and thank God for it)

Apropos my previous post--

Hear me out

'Hear me out' is a good expression. It asks another person, persons, or an audience to listen to what the speaker has to say, without interrupting him or her, until the speaker has completed what he or she wanted to say. It asks listeners to 'let me finish what I'm saying, please'. It's a little plea for civility. 

The world needs more civil listeners who are willing to hear a speaker out, before they voice their own opinions. I'm all for a good civilized discussion between decent people. It can be an animated discussion; it can even get a bit testy on both sides. But it cannot descend into mayhem. It cannot become an attack on the speaker or an attack by the speaker on his or her listeners. It also cannot be a one-sided discussion, in the way that some discussions become, when the speaker (or the listeners) dominate the discussion. No one likes to be told that they have to think or act in a certain way, no one likes to be told that their opinion is the wrong one, with the implication that the other person's opinion is the only correct one. 

When I use internet, I read the user comments to the stories that are presented on different social media platforms. Some of the comments invite civil discussion; many do not. And I often wonder, when I sit in a room full of politically-correct (on the surface) people, how the same individuals let loose when they get the chance, often on social media. It's been written about many times before, but for some reason people feel freer to be rude and derogatory when they're on social media. Twitter is a good example. The limitations on how many words your tweet can be often generate rude and startling tweets. I rarely visit Twitter anymore exactly for that reason. No one hears the other person out. The platform is not set up that way. It does not invite real discussion. It does invite venting. Venting is fine, but it's probably best to do it in the privacy of your own home, preferably away from family members who have most likely grown tired of listening to the same rants and raves. Venting does not invite discussion; it destroys discussion, and it destroys the willingness on the part of listeners to hear the venter out. 

In normal conversation, it should be possible to listen to what another person has to say before answering. It should be possible to not interrupt, to not jump in with your opinion, to not destroy the focus and flow of another person's thoughts and feelings (if they are being expressed). As long as the speaker is civil, the responses should be civil. But we have come to a point in the world where even if the speaker is civil and asks an audience to let him or her finish, there is no guarantee that civil responses will be the outcome, even in family situations. And the latter are often the most insidious, especially if one person (male or female) dominates all discussions and the rest of the family end up being helpless listeners or cowed into listening. 

How did we get to this point? I don't know. I remember watching 'Meet the Press' with my father during the late 1970s. If there were people on the show with opposing ideas, they each got their say. There was a host/moderator who ensured that the tone stayed civil. Critics might say that this emphasis on civility limited real discussion; I disagree. Even talk show hosts listen to their guests. If a civil discussion degenerates into chaos, what does one learn then? Nothing. Chaos does not lead to real discussion, truthfulness, honesty or awareness. It destroys whatever decency exists. That's how I view Twitter. I don't learn anything useful on that platform, at least where politics are concerned. There are no 'take home messages' that help me in my daily life. 

My hope for today is that we try to be better listeners. Thank you for reading and for hearing me out. 

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot

I grew up listening to this heartbreaking (and fantastic) song and never knew at the time it came out that it was based on a true event. Or if I heard about it, it didn't make the same impression as it did now. On November 10, 1975 the SS Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior, and all 29 crew members died. Lake Superior is one of the Great Lakes, known for their storms. Lake Superior has been the site of many shipwrecks over the years; according to one website more than 550 ships lie on the bottom of this lake. Gordon Lightfoot released this incredible ballad in 1976 as a tribute to the shipwrecked crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald. It's a beautiful and haunting song. Here are the lyrics: 

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald · Gordon Lightfoot
℗ 1976 Reprise Records, a division of Warner Records Inc.
Writer: Gordon Lightfoot

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early

The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
T'was the witch of November come stealin'
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashin'
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'
"Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya"
At seven PM, a main hatchway caved in, he said
"Fellas, it's been good to know ya"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the maritime sailors' cathedral
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early

Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Gordon Lightfoot
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc.

Beth Rowley - I Walk Beside You (from the BBC series C.B. Strike)

The BBC detective series--C.B. Strike

Good detective tv series are hard to come by, but as luck would have it, I stumbled upon the BBC series C.B. Strike on HBO (C.B. Strike (TV Series 2017– ) - IMDb). I'm a Columbo and Mike Hammer fan from before, and the recent Sherlock series with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman caught my interest as well. My criteria for 'good' are several: I have to be drawn into the plot almost immediately; the detective(s) have to have some appealing qualities--they can be gruff or rude at times, but at heart be decent people; the story has to make sense and to have a reasonable conclusion. C.B. Strike fits the bill. Tom Burke plays private eye Strike with a certain gravitas; Strike doesn't laugh too much, he's not silly or a caricature of a private eye. He's served his country militarily and come back from the Afghanistan war as an amputee--missing part of his leg after an explosion. He worked as a military policeman in the British Special Investigation Branch until he left to become a private detective. He ends up taking on a parter, Robin Ellacott, played by Holliday Grainger. There is undeniable chemistry between Strike and Ellacott, but their personal lives are complicated and they don't pursue their attraction to each other. I find myself thinking about The X-Files and how the series kept us waiting for Fox Mulder and Dana Scully to get together; it was part of the attraction of the series for many years. Interestingly, once they did get together, some of the excitement of the series was diminished. Both Burke and Grainger are superb in their roles; at this point, Tom Burke is Strike because he plays him so well. It's like the character was written specifically for him. 

C.B. Strike is based on the novels by Robert Galbraith (the pseudonym for J.K. Rowling of Harry Potter fame). Rowling is a very good writer who knows how to invent good plots, weave excitement into them, and keep us on the edge of our seats waiting for resolution. I've read all the Harry Potter books; most of them are very long, but Rowling's dramatic pacing is such that the pages fly by. I haven't read the Strike books, but I imagine they are very much the same. So it's been enjoyable so far to watch the tv series--good entertainment, very good stories, and very good actors. You can't ask for much more. I should also add that the opening graphics and title song are also excellent; the song 'I Walk Beside You' is sung by Beth Rowley and was written by Adrian Johnston and Crispin Letts. As always, I like to include the lyrics to songs I like; here they are:

I Walk Beside You

You and me
Me and you
Somehow we made it through
I may be gone
I may be far away
But I walk beside you
Every step of the way
When you're used
Bruised
Black and blued
I'll think about it
Never doubt it
I'll walk beside you 

The miserable lives of the literati

I picked up Carmela Ciuraru's new book Lives of the Wives: Five Literary Marriages last week and finished it today. It details the real-life stories of five literary couples who tormented each other 'til divorce did them part' (at least in four of the marriages; one relationship was ended by death). The presentation of the couples is as follows: Radclyffe Hall and Una Troubridge (British writer and translator/sculptor respectively); Alberto Moravia and Elsa Morante (Italian writers); Kenneth Tynan (British theater critic) and Elaine Dundy (American writer); Kingsley Amis and Elizabeth Jane Howard (British writers); Roald Dahl (British writer) and Patricia Neal (American actress). I haven't read the works of any of these authors except for Roald Dahl's, nor was I aware of their chaotic and often miserable lives. All of these couples lived their adult lives before my time; Radclyffe Hall and Una Troubridge were born in 1880 and 1887 respectively; Alberto Moravia and Elena Morante were born in 1907 and 1912 respectively; Kenneth Tynan and Elaine Dundy were born in 1927 and 1921 respectively; Kingsley Amis and Elizabeth Jane Howard were born in 1922 and 1923 respectively; and Roald Dahl and Patricia Neal were born in 1916 and 1926 respectively. When I was a child, I vaguely remember hearing about Patricia Neal having had a major stroke and Roald Dahl's helping her back to a normal life. I've also read that the Italian writer Elena Ferrante (one of my favorite writers) lists Elena Morante as a major influence. So Ciuraru's book brought me up to speed on the bizarre doings of these literary elites.

The careers of these couples coincided with the advent of the women's movement and the societal changes of the 1950s, 60s and 70s. None of the couples' lives could in any way be described as conventional, as might be expected when the lives of writers/artists are in the spotlight. None of them were poor, once the early struggles for fame and fortune were won. They had money to travel, move around, and own several homes. They attended many parties and social gatherings, and took lovers when it suited them. Some were suicidal; others took abortions and regretted it later on. Their children were often raised by nannies. But the men especially were conventional (for that time) in terms of their expectations of women and wives. As husbands, they were not at all willing to put their wives and family first. Most of them could not cook, do laundry, pay bills or shop for groceries. Many of them considered that type of work to be servant's work. They could be rude and their rudeness went unchallenged; they were rude to their wives, children, servants--sometimes anyone with whom they came into contact. Some of the wives had first been mistresses to the men they married. But the mistress, once captured and made a wife, was no longer as exciting. So the men began to seek out new conquests; they felt that was their right. Many of the women at that time, brilliant in their own right, were far too willing to sacrifice their intelligence and independence on the altars/shrines of these 'brilliant literary men' they had married. At least at first. Once married and saddled with all of the responsibilities of running a household and raising a family, with no time to write or to pursue their talents, they understood that they had become imprisoned (by choice). But some of the women gave as good as they got; they had affairs, fell in love, separated from their husbands or made their husbands' lives hell, and generally took revenge where they could. Even Radclyffe Hall behaved abominably toward Una Troubridge; lesbians both, they were exclusive until Una became ill and Hall fell in love with the nurse hired to take care of Una. Then they became a threesome, despite Una's protests. Hall felt that she was entitled to pursue her new love, not unlike the behavior of some of the husbands in the other relationships. 

The wives who were good writers (or actresses in the case of Patricia Neal) in their own right found that their husbands resented their success. As long as they wrote/acted but didn't become more successful and/or make more money than their husbands, that was fine. When the balance of power shifted, all hell broke loose. I don't know how it is with modern couples where one or both are writers; I would imagine that one or the other experiences envy if one of them becomes more successful than the other, or if one of them becomes successful and the other does not. Bitterness, jealousy, resentment and envy are all human feelings, independent of any particular era in history.  

Ciuraru's book includes ample descriptions of spoiled, privileged, selfish, petulant, whiny, cruel, alcoholic, narcissistic, adulturous, abusive (physically and psychologically), childish, sexually-perverse and irresponsible spouses. It's hard to say which couple emerges as the worst, but Kenneth Tynan/Elaine Dundy and Kingsley Amis/Elizabeth Jane Howard are good contenders for that title. The hellish lives of the literati--that's putting it mildly. The literary world can be an elite and closed world where the inhabitants breathe rarefied air. In that way it is similar to the academic research world, an elite world if ever there was one. There are the top echelon players who make the rules that keep everyone else out (the riff-raff); in other words, the rules that exclude those people they deem inferior or for whom they have no use. This being British society for the most part, they had their old boys' clubs and social gatherings and parties, all conducted with the highest degree of decorum. But underneath they were rotten to the core. The lives of these writers seemed to be defined by excessive narcissism; writing came first and everything else a distant second. 

My overall reaction to most of what was presented in the book was how the the poor children of these couples must have suffered. It must have been a nightmare to have been the daughter of Kenneth Tynan/Elaine Dundy, for example. Ciuraru's book is good, gossipy and interesting by turns. I will check out Elena Morante's books after reading what Ciuraru wrote about her, also because Elena Ferrante recommends her. 

The Wolf's Call--movie from 2019

Antonin Baudry wrote and directed the French film The Wolf's Call (Le Chant du loup) from 2019, now streaming on Netflix. You might think from the movie's title that we're in animal/nature territory, or even in horror movie territory, but the plot of the film is about as far away as you can get from either genre. It's a thriller about two ballistic missile submarines, one of which (the Titane) has been commissioned to take out the other (the Effroyable) that has been commanded to launch one of its nuclear warhead ballistic missiles against Russia in response to a (presumably) Russian launch against France from a decommissioned Russian nuclear sub (the Timour III). Unfortunately, it was not the Russians who were responsible for the latter; it was a terrorist organization called Al-Jadida (who illegally bought the decommissioned Timour III) that launched a ballistic missile (without its nuclear warhead) against France so that France would think it was a Russian attack. The idea being to start a nuclear war between major world powers. 

The film's focus is on the sonar expert Chanteraide (very well-played by François Civil), whose excellent sense of hearing is crucial to tracking down the position of the Effroyable and ending the threat of nuclear war. I was previously unaware of the importance of sonar experts to submarine activities. I knew that subs rely on sonar to detect objects around them, but I didn't know about the importance of sonar experts to that onboard activity, but it makes sense that such experts are needed to interpret the sonar printouts and graphs. The "wolf's call' is an active sonar alarm that indicates that a submarine is detected and targeted; the term 'wolf's call' is navy slang for this event.

I found the film to be very good; it has action, suspense, and the plot complexities that characterize a good thriller. It gave me a new understanding of life onboard these types of submarines and a new appreciation of the men who risk their lives in the service of their countries. I have climbed down a steel ladder into a small submarine once in my life, and climbed right back up again; the claustrophobia was overwhelming. Kudos to the men (and women) who manage to live their lives at sea in this way. I could never do it. If something goes wrong, e.g. as in this film where one of the subs is hit by a missile, it's game over for all onboard. The dead are honored in a poignant scene at the end of the film; I found myself very moved by that, a good indication that the film managed to engage viewers' feelings in addition to being a good thriller. 

Virtual lectures offered by the New York Adventure Club

I started watching the virtual lectures (webinars) offered by the New York Adventure Club during the pandemic of 2020. They were a good way to pass the time, to learn something new, and to connect with others who were interested in the same topics. I've continued to watch a few of them since then and have been quite satisfied with the quality of both the lecturers and the material they present. Some of the outstanding talks have been about the Gilded Age of NYC and the mansions from that time, or about the famous parks and tourist attractions of NYC (the lecture about Fort Tryon Park and the Cloisters in upper Manhattan comes to mind--Fort Tryon Park, From The Cloisters to Former Gilded Age Estate). I've also watched a talk about the history of City Island (City Island: The "Cape Cod" of New York City) that was fascinating, as well as one about the history of Grand Central Station in Manhattan (Grand Central Terminal and the Secrets Within). Today I watched one of the best talks so far--Samuel Untermyer: Life, Legacy, and Famed Gilded Age Gardens--about the life of Samuel Untermyer, a prominent lawyer and civic leader who was responsible for the creation of magnificent gardens at his Greystone estate in Yonkers on the banks of the Hudson River. He willed it to the city of Yonkers after his death, but it fell into disrepair and was mostly abandoned for many years before the Untermyer Gardens Conservancy, in collaboration with the city of Yonkers, began to restore Untermyer Park and Gardens to its original splendor. The president of the Conservancy is Stephen F. Byrns, who founded the Conservancy in 2011; he is the one who held the talk today and he did an excellent job. I've visited Untermyer Park and Gardens several times since 2019, and it is being lovingly restored. It's a beautiful place, and my only hope is that it will tolerate the eventual increase in the numbers of tourists who will discover this pearl of a garden. At present admission is free; I can truthfully say that I wouldn't mind paying an entrance fee to cover maintenance costs. I've written a couple of posts about my visits to Untermyer Park and Gardens: A New Yorker in Oslo: Untermyer park and gardens (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com) and A New Yorker in Oslo: Two gardens worth visiting--Untermyer Gardens and the New York Botanical Garden (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). If you'd like to check out the garden website, here is the link: Untermyer Gardens Conservancy - Home

I recommend checking out the New York Adventure Club: Insider Access to NYC Events and Best-Kept Secrets | New York Adventure Club (nyadventureclub.com). Their virtual lectures are not expensive and are worth the money if you want to know more about New York City and New York State. I just registered for a new webinar: The Erie Canal: A Story of Building the Impossible, to which I am looking forward, as I have always wanted to visit it. I hope I get the chance to see it in person. 

The movie--The Banshees of Inisherin

You won't see a stranger film from 2022 than The Banshees of Inisherin (written and directed by Martin McDonagh). You also won't see a better one. My husband and I saw it today in a mostly-empty theater (the afternoon showing); one can hope that the evening showings are more packed, because it's definitely not a film to miss. It's been described as a comedy, albeit a dark one, but I would describe it as more of a drama with some comedic elements and some bizarre (almost horror) elements. It's the story of a friendship between two men; one older--Colm (well-played by Brendan Gleeson), and one younger, Pádraic (wonderfully acted by Colin Farrell)--that ends abruptly one fine day when Colm decides he no longer wants to be friends with Pádraic whom he describes as dull. His explanation for ending the friendship is that he simply got tired of listening to Pádraic's inane conversation. Colm seems to have become acutely aware of his mortality and the legacy he will leave behind; he wants to be remembered as a musician rather than as a nice man who did little with his life, something Pádraic does not understand or really care about. The severing of the friendship leads to all sorts of nastiness, mostly on the part of Colm who is not afraid to act on his threats of what he will do if Pádraic does not stop pestering him to remain friends. And Pádraic continues to visit Colm in the hope that somehow the friendship will right itself and everything will continue on just as before--going to the local pub at 2 pm for their beers and hanging out until it's time to go home. The year is 1923, Ireland is in the middle of a civil war, and the island on which they live, Inisherin, a fictional island off the coast of Galway, is as far removed culturally and politically from the mainland as it could possibly be. The people who live on Inisherin spend their entire lives there and die there as well. Few leave. They are churchgoers, farmers, shopkeepers--simple folk--but underneath their genial surfaces lie a fair amount of cruelty, pettiness, malicious gossip, and small-mindedness. These are not people with whom one becomes friends with overnight, if ever, since it's hard to envision their accepting any outsiders into their fold. It's not difficult to understand that Pádraic feels quite hurt by Colm's actions and refuses to accept that the friendship is over, until he does, and by that point, we have been witness to the conversion (evolution) of a simple nice man into one capable of cruelty himself, driven to it by the cruelty of Colm and the local policeman Peadar, the latter who baits him and threatens to kill him after Pádraic calls him out for sexually abusing his son Dominic. Dominic is a sweet simple teenage boy who takes a liking to Pádraic's sister Siobhán (also wonderfully-acted by Kerry Condon). Siobhán is unmarried and lives together with Pádraic in their family's home; she takes care of the house, reads books, and generally appears fairly well-educated. Her life changes when she gets a job offer from a library on the mainland, which she takes. She knows that she is far too smart to end up as the wife of any of the men on Inisherin, and she is not afraid to say so. At one point during the film she tells Colm that all of the men on Inisherin are boring when he tells her that Pádraic is boring. And she's right. She's smart enough to know that she needs to change her life, and she does. Pádraic does not have her intelligence or the skills necessary to change his life; he likes his routines and does not really embrace change. He is a simple farmer at heart and remains one, despite the tragedies that unfold around him. For anyone who has experienced the loss of a friendship as he did, it's not difficult to relate to his hurt and his feelings of grief at the loss of something he valued so highly. 

I wondered about the title of the film, The Banshees of Inisherin. The word banshee describes 'a female spirit in Gaelic folklore whose appearance or wailing warns a family that one of them will soon die' (Banshee Definition & Meaning - Merriam-Webster). There is an old woman in the film (Mrs. McCormick) who wears long black dresses and a black veil, whom some of the island residents refer to as 'the ghoul'. Several times she announces to some of the residents that one or two people are going to die, and there are in fact two deaths that occur. She qualifies as Inisherin's banshee. But Colm has written a song of the same name as the title of the movie, and he used the word 'banshee' because he liked how it sounded together with Inisherin; there is no logical reason for using the word other than that. 

Every time one is tempted to say that life away from civilization, from the mainstream, is idyllic, along comes a film (like this one) that demonstrates otherwise. There is nothing idyllic about Inisherin. Yes, the landscape is lovely, but the people are not. Many of them are strange, some mentally-ill, others quite superstitious. They go to church on Sunday, but you can wonder why, for all of the heartless behavior they exhibit toward their neighbors and fellow residents outside of church. Granted, the story took place in 1923 and times were different then, but people are people, and those who live an insular existence remain insular in many ways. They may prefer that way of life and think they are better than the city folk they often criticize, but that is not necessarily so, and that holds true for modern times as well. 

A glorious day

Today is one of those glorious rare winter days here in Oslo--the sun is shining full-force, the sky is blue, the temperature is hovering just around freezing, the streets are clear and the sidewalks likewise. In other words, an outdoor day! It doesn't take more than this to convince me. Whenever the sun shines, I feel my motivation and energy bubbling under the surface, pushing me this way and that. It's never a problem to fill these kinds of days, the question is rather, what do I do first? It's not a question of what I should do, rather, of what I want to do. It's a privilege to be able to decide that in the peace of my own home, without having to worry about running off to work. One of the nice perks of being retired. 

On these kinds of days, I look forward to getting back to work in my garden. I look at my houseplants, and they are basking in the sun, much like cats and dogs do when the sun is streaming through the windows. You can just tell that the plants are loving the sunshine as much as I am. That does my heart good, and God knows my heart, actually many hearts in the world, need a lot more sunshine to lift us all out of the winter darkness. Is it any wonder that most people love the spring and summer months? Even the autumn months have their charm despite being a prelude to winter. I think of New York State in the autumn; the temperatures are often quite mild until November, and the humidity is much less than it is during the summer months, which makes life very pleasant.

It's not that I dislike winter, it's just that it's such a long season (November until mid-March if we're lucky). It's also a dark season, and it doesn't help that most of the days are gray, cloudy, and sometimes rainy. I actually look forward to snow, because it 'lightens' the environment. If you look out the window on a snowy evening, you'll see how bright it is outside. That helps. I know that winter is a season of rest for plants, animals and humans alike. Gardens need a growth pause; they need to recoup their energy losses and start anew. A lot is going on underground in a winter garden. Microbes, bacteria, fungi and other organisms in the soil transform the soil and make nutrients during the winter months that will then be available to the plants that come back to life in the spring. 

But back to today's wonderful longed-for sunshine! It's a wonderful, glorious day. I wish you all a lovely day, wherever you are in the world. 

A beautiful poem--Safely Home

This poem is considered to be a funeral poem and is often used for prayer cards. Jean sent it to me today and I'm posting it here so that all those who have lost loved ones can find comfort in the words. I don't know who the poet is, but the poem is a poignant reminder that our loved ones who have passed on made the journey safely to heaven and that they will be waiting for us when our time comes.