Of Flying Peppermint Sticks

Mary Poppins Opens the Door by P.L. Travers

Grade: B

Mary Poppins Opens the Door feels a little too formulaic after the other Mary Poppins books, but it still retains some of the magic from the original idea. I love the character of Miss Calico, a pin-covered old lady who charges a mere pin for the delight of riding on a flying peppermint stick. Each peppermint stick is like an enchanted horse and she calls them back to her at night. Most of the other new characters and adventures seem a bit stale to me, but I would still recommend this book for fans of Mary Poppins.

Alas for the GLP, I could never get rid of this book, even though I only gave it a “B” grade. First, it’s an important part of a beloved series. Second, my copy is a lovely old edition from 1943 that gives a welcoming (though somewhat worrisome) crackle every time I open it, and the pages smell exactly the way pages of an old book are supposed to smell. There is also a gift inscription from Christmas 1943 (not to me, of course!), something which many book collectors would not like, but which I do. I love to see books given as gifts, though there is a touch of sadness in the thought that the original recipient of the book gave it away. Of course, if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t own it today. His loss. My gain.

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Say It Ain’t So!

I just don’t feel like I have much creativity these days. It makes me worry. And then I worry more when I read quotes like this one by Doris Lessing, recent winner of the Novel Prize in Literature.

I keep telling anyone younger than me, don’t imagine you’ll have it forever. . . . Use it while you’ve got it because it’ll go. It’s sliding away like water down a plughole.

Uh-oh.

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From Ordinary to Extraordinary

The Ordinary Princess by M.M. Kaye

Grade: A-

The Ordinary Princess is M.M. Kaye’s only children’s book. It is the story of a baby princess who is given the gift of ordinariness by a fairy. When she grows up, she is not as beautiful as her sisters and she is not courted by princes, but she is her own person. She bravely leaves the castle, and while living the life of an ordinary citizen, she finds true love.

The Ordinary Princess is a sweet story told in fairy-tale fashion. I really like it, but I have two minor complaints. First, though I applaud the message that it’s OK to be ordinary in appearance, the story is about finding love, and it implies a value being placed on the princess’s ability to make a good marriage match. It’s not that such an idea is unusual, but that I think Kaye missed an opportunity to demonstrate true female independence. I also have to reprimand the publishers for the front cover, because in this horrible illustration, the girl is not only way too young, but she’s beyond awkward. It is thoroughly unappealing. Had I depended solely on the cover as my guide in purchasing this book, there’s no way I would have bought it. Lucky for the publisher, I’m easily persuaded by online reviews.

While researching the author, I discovered another one of her books—The Sun in the Morning—which I borrowed from the library. It is the first book of her three-book autobiography.

The Sun in the Morning: My Early Years in India and England by M.M. Kaye

Grade: A

In The Sun in the Morning, the author tells the story of her early years in India at the beginning of the 20th century and a few years she spent in England after WWI. It is a fascinating read. From the foothills of the Himalayas to the plains where New Delhi had only just begun to be built, she weaves an amazing tale of parties, dances, secret hiding places, ghosts, the flu epidemic of 1918, crocodile hunts, and more. It took me a long time to get through it, but I was time well spent.

Kaye paints a very pretty picture of India under the rule of the British Empire. Some of her overwhelmingly positive view is probably due to her innocence (she was a child at the time), and some of it is probably intentionally glossed, but much of it strikes the tone of truth. Nothing is ever perfectly good or perfectly bad, and I’m inclined to believe her when she says there was a lot of good in that situation.

The only reason this book didn’t get an A+ is that it falters at the very beginning when she gives some (initially) boring family background, and again at the end when she moves to England. She was not nearly as happy in England, and it feels like she didn’t put as much effort into describing that part of her life. Still, the stories in-between more than make up for it.

I liked this book enough to order a used copy for my personal library. Someday I will read it again. I am also going to add The Far Pavilions (the author’s most famous novel), Death in the Andamans (one of her mysteries, which have been compared favorably to Christie’s), and Golden Afternoon (Part 2 of her autobiography) to my list of books to read someday.

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Strikerious!

Listening to the mourning doves singing in the rain this evening made me think of that famous song by Prince, “When Doves Cry.” As I mentally replayed the song in my head, I paused at this line from the lyrics:

And the most strikerious poses.

Hold on. What does “strikerious” mean? Surely that’s not a word?

I didn’t dare assume anything, because you just never know. Case in point: a recent study of the lyrics from Steve Miller’s “The Joker” proved that sometimes what sounds like nonsense really is. I always thought he sang “the pompatus of love,” which didn’t make the least bit of sense, and it turns out that’s exactly what he sang (and it still doesn’t make any sense).

But what Prince sang, according to Internet sources, was this:

Animals strike curious poses.

That makes sense, too much sense to be doubted, and so I strike “strikerious” from my mental database and say good-bye to a rather interesting word that wasn’t meant to be.

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The Very Last

It is with both sadness and relief that I write about the last book from the Vonnegut Marathon.

Timequake by Kurt Vonnegut

Grade: A-

In Timequake, a hiccup in the expansion of the universe sets time back by ten years. Everyone on Earth has to relive those ten years and they have to do it exactly the same way. When the time loop finally ends, people are caught off guard, not realizing that they are once again in control of their bodies. Mayhem ensues as drivers, unused to steering, crash their vehicles. Walkers, unused to controlling their feet, stumble and fall. The only person who knows what’s happening is science-fiction writer Kilgore Trout. Will he take this opportunity to be a hero?

Timequake is not as much a novel as it is a memoir and not as much a memoir as it is a set of interesting ideas. If you’re looking for a solid plot, you will not find it here. If you’re a fan of Vonnegut and you want to sit back and listen to the old man talk, then here is your chance.

You see, Vonnegut understood exactly why writing was so important.

Still and all, why bother? Here’s my answer: Many people need desperately to receive this message: “I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people don’t care about them. You are not alone.”

That message was ever present in Timequake, just not in form you’d expect for a novel, and that’s why Timequake is worth reading, even though it’s not a great story. Not many authors can write a bad novel that I’d willingly read more than once. I’m going to miss him!

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Remembering

I have been reading a memoir by M.M. Kaye called The Sun in the Morning. It’s a long book and it feels like it’s taking forever to finish, but I don’t mind. I wish it really could go on forever. It’s such a joy to read. Part of my fascination stems from the setting (India and England in the early part of the 1900s), and part of it is the author’s style, so pleasant and endearing. Yet another part is that I’m amazed she could remember so many pieces of her childhood and weave them together into a chronological, coherent, and interesting whole.

It made me think about my own past, so much of which lies in a thick fog. There are memories in there, I am sure, but they’re so difficult to find. If I cannot locate those memories today, while my mind is still relatively young, then what chance do I have of it when I grow older? It is terrifying, the thought of losing an entire lifetime’s worth of memories. I need to go back in time, pierce through the fog, find those precious memories now and drag them back into the light while I still have hope.

The easiest place to start is in the recent past and during my travels, since I have photographs to jog my memory. The biggest of my trips so far is the one I took with Faithful Reader to England, and to begin my own memoir there is fitting. Where my bookmark stands in The Sun in the Morning, the author has just arrived there herself. For her, it was 1918 or 1919, just after World War I, when families long stuck in India were finally able to head home. For me, it was May of 2002, shortly after one of America’s most devastating events—the September 11th terrorist attacks—at a time when travel by plane had only just become “routine” again.

This will be my task over the next few weeks—sorting out those memories, writing everything down, and matching up the photos to the stories.

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Watching Jane Eyre

A couple of days ago, I started watching Jane Eyre. I watched the first half alone, but Faithful Reader came in during the second half and insisted on watching it, so I caught him up on the story to that point and we watched the rest together.

I don’t know if I liked the movie or not. It didn’t seem very suspenseful to me, but Faithful Reader, who had not read the novel, assures me that it was. He actually seemed to like it, and I can’t resist telling you what he said about it, though I don’t remember his exact words. Here is the gist of it.

Jane Eyre is the best movie made from a girlie novel because it has fire and blindness. And pestilence. I didn’t see the pestilence, but I approve of it!

That’s what I remember him saying, but if he remembers it differently, he is welcome to set the record straight in the comments.

I watched the first half again with him later. This time through, one of the lines caught my attention. Mr. Rochester asked Jane if she was happy while she painted her pictures and she replied, “I was fully occupied. I was not unhappy.” Those words said a lot about Jane, of course, but they could also be taken as a lesson. If you cannot be happy (and let’s admit that it is sometimes hard to be happy) then at least keep yourself occupied. People who are busy don’t have time to think about how unhappy they are. I know that, and I ought to live that way, but I keep forgetting. Maybe this post will act as a reminder.

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Fear Factor

Things I don’t do because I’m afraid…

  • Ride rollercoasters
  • Donate blood
  • Quit my job

Are these things worth the effort of overcoming my fear?

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Trash Talk

My town had been tight-lipped about their “mandatory” recycling program, so it wasn’t until recently that we found out how the system works and how to get recycling bins. We learned that the bins are free to new residents. That meant they ought to be free to me, since I’m new and didn’t inherit any bins from the previous resident, right? Not according to the rulemongers at town hall. They wanted me to cough up $10.00. Hah! It seems that they only care about you if you have town trash pickup. If your landlord is forced by the town to pay for his own trash service, then they couldn’t care less whether you recycle or not.

Hey, it all goes to the same landfill, so just give me the bins, you stingy b@$#@%&$!

And so they did, and that’s one nice thing about my world this week.

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