The Perfect Song Blog

Kids should not be allowed in grocery stores. I have good reasons for saying this.

I’ve taken over the grocery shopping to give Leigh more time with her business. I don’t mind extra duty but I do shop like a male.

I have a list. I want to find an item as quickly as possible, cross it off and move on.

I don’t mind other shoppers who pull off to the side of the aisle and park as they study ingredients on a package or compare prices. I don’t mind the elderly who move at a slower pace. I can pass them, just as someday, a new generation will pass me.

What I absolutely can’t stand are shopping carts that have little kids attached to them – to the front, the sides, the back and to mom’s pants. One, two, sometimes three hyperactive, nose-picking rug rats all vying for attention while Mom is trying to find the best prices and make sure she remembers her husband’s favorite beer.

I don’t even like the ones who are trying to be good, standing still—in the middle of the aisle. The last thing I as a male am going to do is ask the child to get out of the way and trigger the terrifying ire of a mother whose child is being threatened by a male.

No, I am going to stand there politely, gritting my teeth and trying to maintain an expression of empathetic patience until the mom sees the traffic blockage and says: “Come over here, Megan. Stay out of the way.”

She then gives me a look that says: “Thanks for your patience. And polite as you are, please get lost and don’t interrupt us again.”

Grocery shopping is the one recurring life experience in which a woman has to question the practicality of motherhood. She’s looking for low sodium pickles while trying to watch the whirling, kicking kids and hoping they don’t pick up a jar and drop it. . .or throw it at a sibling.

If they’re not trying to get mom’s attention by asking questions, the kids are doing it by crying or pleading for some sugar-laden treat that’s making them hyper and fat. They’re wild cards, not staying on their side of the lane, darting in and out, bouncing , grabbing stuff off shelves, begging mom to buy something or (I’ve seen it), sneaking it into the cart.

Kids are shifty little buggers and we don’t give them enough credit.

They also do not belong here. Grocery stores should be for adults only.

Really.

And those damnable “grocery cars” are the worst thing to ever occupy into a grocery store. In the next post I’ll tell you why.

It’s a story you won’t believe, but it is, I swear, true.

My quest:  to make great barbecued spare ribs.

Not just great, but outstanding. Fall-off-the-bone. Melt-in-your-mouth.

The first couple tries were failures with dry, tough meat that left jaws aching from all the chewing. But last Sunday, I knew I had it down. I put the baby-back rack in the oven at 300 degrees. I would do them for six hours, checking every two hours to make sure there was water on them to keep them moist and tender.

At 5:30 I asked Leigh if she’d made the barbecue sauce. She hadn’t. I said I would. I knew where the recipe was. I was in a rush because all the side dishes were done. I tossed in a quarter cup of ketchup, measured out the mustard, crushed the garlic clove and added a dash of worchestershire sauce.

The last ingredient was ¼ cup of strong coffee. I measured it out and poured it in. I brought it to a slow, simmering boil.

Leigh came out to the kitchen. “What’s wrong with that sauce?”

I shrugged. “Nothing that I know of. I followed the recipe.”

“It looks dark.”

“I followed the recipe.”

It was a beautiful day so we ate on the deck. I brought out the ribs and as I dished them out I was quietly ecstatic that they did, indeed, fall off the bone. I picked off a test piece. Ahh, melt-in-the-mouth it did.

“I don’t understand why the barbecue sauce looks so dark,” Leigh said again.

We spooned some out and put it on the done-to-perfection ribs.

“Ooh,” Leigh said quietly. What’s that funny taste?”

I took a bite. Something wasn’t right.

“Why’s it crunchy?” She asked.

As soon as she asked that, I had a suspicion of some wrong doing.

“Are these crunchy things coffee grounds?”

Bingo!

“Mmm, yeah. It said ¼ cup strong coffee.”

“It’s supposed to be coffee! Boiled coffee. Not coffee grounds.

I had to admit that her observation made perfect sense. I tried another bite. The most tender baby back ribs in the world still tasted wretched in a sauce made of coffee grounds.

She ran into the kitchen and in five minutes made a barbecue sauce that did justice to the ribs.

Okay. I got the ribs down.

Now I work on the sauce.

Life can be complicated sometimes.

I interviewed Martha Horton upon the publication of her book, Faun, a 21st century retelling of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic, The Marble Faun. Here’s part two.  You can find her book on amazon.com

You tell the story from the viewpoint of the three main characters which gives more dimensions and substance to the work.

I really wanted to get inside the characters’ heads, something I don’t think Hawthorne was particularly successful at doing. My first draft had only Kendall’s narrative and Hannah’s journal. Then I really wanted to know more about Lili’s motivations and her true feelings about Donatello, so I added her commentary. (And yes, once I established my characters they sort of wrote themselves.)

Were you influenced by Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet?

I read it decades ago and was fascinated at the time; then I forgot about it. If it influenced me, it did so on a subconscious level. Of course, everything we read influences us in some way…

I have to ask if you’re a Hawthorne fan?

I’m neither a Hawthorne devotee nor a Hawthorne scholar. I did do a lot research on him (and presented a book review of The Marble Faun). I’ve read The Scarlet Letter and The House of Seven Gables and a few others, as well as sections of his Italian Notebooks. I’ve also read some biographies, including the newest, by Brenda Wineapple, a true Hawthorne scholar. No doubt Nathaniel was a singular character and great writer, but there any many authors I prefer to read.

What writers have influenced you?

I’m not sure I can name any specific influences, except Hawthorne. I tried to retain his magic, but because I was following the original Hawthorne so closely in laying out my scenes, I had to fight not to imitate his language and style. And I tried to convey the Italian experience and landscape without turning the book into a guide, as Hawthorne did unintentionally. Oh! There is another influence - Dick Francis, of all people. I tried to define my characters through their interaction with one another, something he does brilliantly. Also, Dick Francis always succeeds in making you like and care about his characters. If that doesn’t happen in the first chapters of a book, I don’t bother reading the rest of it.

What advice can you share with other writers hoping to publish?

God bless if you’re writing non-fiction and have a specific audience in mind; heaven help you if you’re doing fiction - particularly fiction like Faun, which doesn’t fit into a convenient marketing niche. Either way, just do it! Do your homework by reading the magazines for writers, talking with other writers, learning about the publishing business, seeing what’s being published in your field - there’s tons of advice out here, almost too much to sift through. Which brings us back to - just do it. You’ll make some mistakes, but they’re not fatal. Publishing your book with an online publisher will cost about as much as a root canal or two (and will be somewhat less painful) and you’ll have something to show for it when it’s over. You may well earn back your investment and even eke out a little profit.

My daughter in England read my book and loved it. Something she said made it all worthwhile: “Mom, fifty (!) years from now when you’re gone I can read this book and it will seem like you’re talking to me.”

In my last post I reviewed Martha Horton’s first novel The Faun. I’m always interested in the creative process so I interviewed Martha to get more insights into her intriguing novel. This is part 1.

How long did it take you to write The Faun?

About six months, while on unemployment and not doing the 9 to 5 thing. It was fun, quick, easy.

Where did idea come from?

I first read Hawthorne’s The Marble Faun when returning to the US after several years in Italy.  I was fascinated with the premise and the characters - and frustrated by the loose ends, the 19th century syntax, the ending.  (Readers in Hawthorne’s day also were frustrated - the book became a “hit” primarily as an early guide book to Rome).

How long did you live in Italy?

I was there 1962 - 1965.  I edited  a tourist magazine in Rome, then edited a journal of international affairs at Johns Hopkins School of international Studies in Bologna, and finally worked as a correspondent for McGraw-Hill World News in Milan. I returned to the States because I was expecting my second bambino and my Italian husband had been drafted into the Italian Air Force, which at that time basically paid enough for one good dinner per week.

You were married to actor Steve Reeves’s double.

My husband was “discovered” on the beach (somewhat like Donatello in the park).

He doubled Steve Reeves in the “Hercules” series and also was one of about 30 stuntmen who attended a special school where they learned gladiatorial combat (net and trident, etc.) He was in a number of the “myth and muscle” movies like “Barabus,” “Ben Hur” and “Cleopatra” as well as some pirate films. But he couldn’t handle dialogue.

From the book, it sounds like you really loved the Italian culture.

Yes, I love the usual things visitors enjoy - the history, scenery, food, wine, art,  architecture, opera, the vitality of the Italians.  Living there is different, because you come up against some of the less appealing aspects - provincialism, cynicism, official RED TAPE that is appalling. Of course, I was there in the Sixties - almost half a century ago!

On a recent visit, I found Rome much more tourist-friendly than before, much cleaner, and somehow “homogenized,” as is much of Europe.  But as you walk the streets of the city there is still the same sense of coexisting with antiquity, and the atmosphere of “golden gloom” that is so compelling. I feel strangely at home in Rome.

What are some of the differences between the Italian and US cultures?

These are fewer and less striking than they once were.  Anywhere in the world, not so many years ago, when you asked a US citizen “Where are you from?” the answer was almost always ”America” or “The United States.”  Ask an Italian, and the answer would be “Roma” or “Siena” or “Sicilia.”  There was not a strong national identity - Italians identified more closely with their football (soccer) teams.  I think, particularly in the Southern half of the Italy, one stills finds a greater appreciation for simply living life well as opposed to “making it.”  Expectations may not include the big house and fancy car but they do include good food and good friends and close family and time to enjoy them. Also important is the “bella figura” -  good appearance.  You may live in a closet but when you go out, you take pains to be well groomed and well dressed. No butt cracks, no hair curlers.

The government there is much more socially progressive, i.e. universal health care and long vacations and “the 13th month” Christmas bonus, etc. It’s also incredibly corrupt at all levels (I’m not sure that’s so different from the US, but here we at least make a pretense of abiding by the law). And because Italy is not a world power, the Italians are not so obsessed with the military.

Note: More in Part 2 next week.  You can find Martha Horton’s novel, The Faun, at www.amazon.com

I’ve never done a book review here, but longtime friend Martha Horton recently published her first novel. She sent it to me and I just need to share it with you. In the next post, I’ll include an interview I did with her about the book. Martha’s a fascinating woman. Faun’s an intriguing book.

*

Love, intrigue, murder and . . . Rome!

Martha Horton’s novel, Faun revolves around four characters: Nathan Kendall, a freelance writer; Dr. Hannah Ingram, a composer; Lilli Castelli, an art dealer with a gilded past and a shady present; and Donatello, a wine maker, who might be descended from the mythical creature. (Check the ears!)

The novel is loosely based on Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Marble Faun. It’s clear from the beginning that the author knows Rome as only a one-time resident can. (In fact she wrote for tourist magazines in Rome in the 1960s). Her descriptions of the cobblestone streets, the corner cafes, the ancient buildings, are beautiful word pictures that bring the city to life. I found myself re-reading passages, feeling as though I were in the city, sitting, walking, eating and sharing a glass of wine the main characters.

I was intrigued by the book’s construction. The story is told through Kendall’s narrative, Hannah’s journal and Lilli’s notes from the future, creating three different perspectives of the same events, and enough tension and suspense to push the reader to the next chapter.

While love develops between Hannah and Kendall, a relationship forms between the innocent “faun” Donatello and the worldly Lilli who is being threatened by a sinister character from her past. It leads to murder, a fall from grace and a slow healing.

Horton’s knowledge of the language, music, literature, myth and history make every page dance. She weaves the information into the narrative in a subtle, pleasurable way that adds dimensions to the book.

Beyond the adventure and intrigue, Faun is a sensuous work—food, wine, the arts, love for others and love of life.

I read a lot of novels.

This one I savored.

It’s available on Amazon.com

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Back home I put the tire on the tractor and take the weights off the back tires that I have to put on each winter for traction to use the plow. I then settle in to try to get the chains off. It’s usually a two-minute job but the guy who overhauled the tractor in the fall put the chains on as a favor and clamped them so tight I can’t remove them. I spend an hour, then finally give up and bend one of the links until I can slide it off, loosening t he rest of the chain and removing the master link.

I do this in between throwing the ball for Zeus, the German Shepherd. Every Shepherd should have his own flock of sheep or herd of cows so he can do what his genes tell him to and not reduce him to chasing a ball over and over. Although he seems to really enjoy it.

Then I start on the other tire. . .

I take a break and have a pipe and a coffee.

Leigh finds me and asks if we can put up the length of siding that blew off in a storm this winter. I haul out the ladder and climb to the top where the siding is missing just below the roof. A hornet swoops about, letting me know I’m precariously close to his nest.

After awhile he understands I’m not interested in it and goes away. I wonder if it’s part of local hornet lore that there’s this bearded guy who comes around every so often and sprays nests, killing all who are it in and anyone unfortunate to return and get their feet in the gunk.

I imagine they might talk about it. I mean, there are survivors in every genocide.

As I stand at the top of the ladder trying to get the siding to fit, the sky grows very dark and thunder cracks, echoing through the valley. The wind picks up. I don’t want to quit but it occurs to me that standing on a metal ladder with lightning just to the west and heading toward us is not very smart.

I ask Leigh to get me some white nails. She finds a few and I cheat. After I fit the siding in, I tack the nails into it so the wind won’t blow it down again.

I climb down the ladder just as the storm hits.

When it passes I go back out and spend a half hour putting the belts on the garden tractor mower.

Then it’s dogs in the Jeep and down to Miniers to find food for supper because we’ve both been outside working and I didn’t get groceries last week. I feel like a mountaineer going into town and bringing back grub.

I go for the quick stuff, things that we rarely ever eat – sausage and sauerkraut, barbecue flavored shredded beef. Pasta salad from the deli. Corn chips for the TGI Friday’s spinach cheese dip that I bought at Tops a month ago.

We have supper and another storm hits with a huge dark and greenish sky, meaning everything is right for a tornado formation somewhere. But that passes and we’re pelted with a good old-fashioned thunder storm.

We clean up. I fry the trout that my designer’s husband sent me because they know I love fresh fish. I cook it with Greek seasoning and will have it for lunch this week.

The dogs are beat from a day of frisking around, taking turns hanging with me and Leigh as we worked on separate projects.

I come up and write my thoughts here, and later we’ll watch a recorded TV program, probably Numbers or Without a Trace.

And that will be enough.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

After breakfast I gather up the garbage and the recyclable stuff. The three dogs jump in the Jeep. I toss in the garbage and my flat garden tractor tire. The first stop is the bank to cash a check. I don’t use cash much anymore but it’s good to have.

It’s a breezy sunny day in the 70s – not April weather. I pull into the transfer station. There’s a line of cars down the road though there are none up by the bins. Finally I see that there is one car at the top of the drive with two really slow middle aged people pulling out their recyclable stuff. They’ve parked right in the middle of the drive so no one can get around them.

No one honks. They’re too polite. . . When the car finally moves, we all pull up to the unloading area. Frank, the man in the trailer who sells the garbage bags, smiles, “How ya doin’?” I say fine, great weather. He nods. “My apple blossoms are out already. I hope we don’t get a frost.” I say we could. “Oh, yeah, about every two years that happens. “

I backtrack to Christianson Tire and leave my tire and inner tube. The nice young man at the desk says he’ll do it himself. Outside, I find myself thinking about the coming week. On Monday I attend to the burial of my younger brother, Rick. He was too young to die but did and left an empty space in a lot of hearts.

Someday, when I can, I’ll write more about him, his life.

I ‘m in Christianson’s parking lot looking across Rt. 86 at the complex composed of department stores, Circuit City, a pet store and a Wal-Mart super center. The land used to hold the world’s largest A&P plant but it went bust in the early ’80 and sat vacant for a quarter of a century.

I’m surveying the retail complex and realize I’m looking at exactly what’s wrong in the country. Places where we produced things then exported them are now gone and replaced with stores that sell things they’ve imported.

Wednesday I’m scheduled to have a broken molar capped. It will involve numbing and drilling with my head bent back for an hour. My dentist is involved in reviving a small, family amusement park and he’ll talk about the Coast Guard test he has to pass to navigate a dragon boat in the park pond.

I head over to Lowe’s where I pick up seed beds, garden gloves for Leigh, and poison to kill the tent caterpillars that ravage our weeping cherries each year.

I run into Audrey who used to work for me in the 1980s when we had word processing staff. She retired a long time ago but I was still surprised when she said she’d be 81 next week. “The thing that bothers me the most is being treated differently because I’m old,” she said. “Hey, I have a computer. I have a cell phone. I text message. . . .”

I go back to Christianson’s. The nice young man has my tire. “The other one was bad,” he said. “I put the new one in. I don’t know if it was defective or I punctured it so I put one of ours In and I ain’t gonna charge you for it.”

“Thanks. So you sell inner tubes here?”

“Yeah.”

I felt a little foolish for bringing in a tube from a farm supply store down the road.

So in the last post I was in Wal-Mart trying to buy my seed starter kids, seeds, storage crates and T-Gel shampoo. I was after the crates when this huge couple appeared in front of me. Aside from crying, spoiled kids with a helpless mother, nothing makes me more uptight than large people who take more than a fair allotment of space in the world.

This couple was composed of a 6-foot, 250-pound human in jeans so tight they had to have been put on by a construction crew.

Her boyfriend was even bigger, lumbering along in a daze that he had been born with.

I was directly behind them so I can tell you with authority that side-by-side they were wide enough for a truck license.

They held hands, meaty hands. While this was nice and loving in a big, meaty innocent way, all they were doing was staying in my way. They were slow. Of course they were slow. Part of me understood that.

When you’re forcing this much mass to move, your velocity never shifts out of first gear. I found an opening by a garden hose display and veered left.

An aisle later, closing in on my T- Gel , I ran into an old, bent lady plodding with a walker.

Don’t get me wrong. I love old, bent ladies with walkers. They are the white-haired salt-of-the-earth, still determined to be a part of society, which is to say, they’re damn well going to shop at Wal-Mart. The one downside of old ladies with walkers is they’re scary. I have this neurotic feeling that at any given moment their determination can turn into rage and the walker will become a weapon of destruction.

I can just see this lady – repressed and misunderstood all her life, finally rising in a burst of animal strength nurtured by decades of seething, silent anger, bringing the aluminum walker crashing down on my unsuspecting male head and smiling with a wild triumphant look in her pale eyes: “I’ve always wanted to do that. You didn’t think I had it in me, did you? You male chauvinist T-gel using pig. Pick up your seeds and get out of my way!”

I cautiously avoided the little old lady, grabbed my shampoo and rushed to the check-out where a cashier associate punched the numbers with skill created by practice, swung my bag around on the turnstile and said “Thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart.

“Have a nice day.”

I have mentioned in several posts that I hate “Have a nice day.” The vast majority of “nice day” users don’t mean it and if they thought about it at all would probably realize they want their day to be as rotten as theirs.

I took my bag and headed out as the wizened 75-year-old dude in his baggy blue vest at the exit door looked at my receipt , nodded and said, “Have a Good Day” in a way that said “My legs are killing me.”

I stepped out in the parking lot. Mission accomplished.

It’s a really big parking lot .

I know my car’s out there somewhere. . . .

When I go a store, I don’t go to shop. I’m a male. I’m going for things I need.

I am not shopping.

Having made that clear, I realize that when I go to a store, something changes in me. The day-to-day laid back, I-love-everybody Dennis Miller undergoes a change. It’s subtle and it’s massive.

I want what I’m going after and I want no one in my way. On my way to say, Wal-Mart, I watch the traffic and try to get the lane lead when the light turns green. If I’m coming up on a traffic light and it turns yellow, I bump the gas pedal and slide under it, hoping there’s not a cop around working toward a quota.

I arrive at Wal-Mart which I have a love-hate relationship with (as I do all stores, except the Apple Store, which I’ve never shopped in which explains why I love it). I find a parking spot with two goals:

1. To get as close as I can

2. To remember where I parked.

I go in, knowing what I want:

1. Seed starter kits.

2. Seeds

3. Storage crates

4. Shampoo –T-Gel, the only thing that controls my psoriasis

I know what I’m after. I know where they’re located. I move quickly, purposefully. An old man is shuffling in front of me. I tell myself I’ll be in his shoes one of these days but this isn’t the day and I let him eat my dust.

I round the corner of an aisle and nearly slam into a mother and three kids under the age of ten. This is the worst possible age combination group. Two kids are jumping, dancing and one is crying because the spoiled brat didn’t get the latest piece of red-painted poisonous toy from China.

I feel myself getting uptight because I have to slow down and put on a pasty fake smile of politeness masking my impatience and hopefully showing a cardboard façade of relating to the mother. (I do not relate because I am a male and the crying spoiled little barbarian should have been stored in his cave).
I scoop up the seed starter kits and head for the seed display. A Korean woman looking at the seeds asks if it’s too early to plant them. Yes, I say. It’s too early. She asks when a good time is and I want to say “go ask a Wal-Mart Associate, the vested experts making minimum wage and no benefits. They would love to expound on the best time to plant your seed.”

But I don’t.

I head down the aisle for the storage crates. A couple appears from behind a display in front of me and ambles. Do you have any idea what ambling is and what it does to me?

I’ll tell you in the next post

Okay, here’s the danger of being an ebayholic. A few weeks ago I came across a lot (collection) of vintage paperbacks. Popular Library. All published in the 1940s. I studied them. They were all in good shape. Two of them, I knew, were worth about $70 each.

I wanted them.

I put in a bid of $15. They just sat for a week with no activity. Then someone bid $17. So I immediately bid $20. No one else bid. We were down to three days, then two.

Then a dealer came in and outbid me. I let it sit until the night the bidding ended. I went in and bid $25. I was outbid. I went to $30.

Outbid again.

How much was I willing to pay? I figured I could go to $50, so I punched in the numbers. I had winning bid.

There was an hour left. I went on and did other things, forgetting the bid. At the last minute—literally– I remembered and rushed back to the site. The dealer had outbid me!

I threw in a new bid, putting me up to $60. I was outbid.

Now I was in a mode of combination panic and competiveness. With 33 seconds left I rushed to the keyboard and typed in $70. I hit the bid button, then the confirm, hoping I could get through with just the few seconds that were ticking away.

The moment I hit the confirm button I realized that after the$7 I hit the 0 button twice.

I had bid $700!

I broke into a cold sweat. $700 is like my life savings. Then I realized that eBay only takes your bid in 10% increments. But what if he had bid $200 or $300? Time moved so slow that if a hummingbird had passed in front of me I would have seen its wing movement.

Finally the sign came up that I had won the bid. Of course I had won. I’m an idiot who bid $700! I looked, cautiously (terrified, actually) to see what I’d actually paid.

I was relieved to find that I got out of it for a relatively low $97.

I walked away, lesson learned.

Actually, I’m not really sure what the lesson is except, if you’re an ebayholic, for God’s sakes, don’t panic.