Waiting for an Invitation

I’m not too old to jump fences, and I was sorely tempted to jump the one that stood between me and a long row of beautiful lilacs this afternoon. But the lilacs were in a cemetery and I have this superstition about not entering a graveyard “uninvited.” According to this superstition, one may enter a graveyard only through an opening in the fence, an opening being the equivalent of an invitation to enter.

My belief in this superstition is particularly stupid since I think I may have made it up myself when I was a teenager, back when I kept my brain brined in Southern Comfort. The entrance was all the way at the other end of the graveyard, too. Still, I didn’t want to dis the dead, so I behaved myself and walked the length of the cemetery two extra times.

Today I am grateful for stupid superstitions. Without them, I wouldn’t get so much exercise.

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Second-to-Last

Hocus Pocus by Kurt Vonnegut
Grade: B

Hocus Pocus is the story of a Vietnam War veteran who, after the war, becomes a physics teacher at a college for the rich but academically challenged. The school is invaded by an army of prisoners from across the lake and it’s like Vietnam all over again, except this time he’s not fighting.

I put off posting about this book because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. It was one of the hardest Vonnegut books to get through, but that may not be entirely the author’s fault. I started reading it during a very bad time, and because of that association, I felt like I never wanted to pick it up again. I only did for the sake of the marathon.

Hocus Pocus wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t great either, and I suspect that some people might find parts of it slightly offensive. I recommend it only for die-hard Vonnegut fans.

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Water, Water

I couldn’t have said it any better than this.

No matter where I am, and even if I have no clear idea where I am, and no matter how much trouble I may be in, I can achieve a blank and shining serenity if only I can reach the very edge of a natural body of water. The very edge of anything from a rivulet to an ocean says to me: “Now you know where you are. Now you know which way to go. You will soon be home now. “

Thanks, Kurt Vonnegut, for saying this and so many other things that help make sense of this wacky world.

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So Many Books, So Little Time

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m intimidated by the amount of reading that I have to do.

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Vacation Tale

The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy by Jeanne Birdsall

Grade: B-

The Penderwicks is, as the subtitle states, a book about 4 sisters, 2 rabbits, and a boy. For their summer vacation, Mr. Penderwick takes the girls to a cottage located on the estate of a mansion. There they meet Cagney, who takes care of the grounds, and his two rabbits, and also the owner of the estate, Mrs. Tifton, and her son, Jeffrey (the Very Interesting Boy, I guess).

After reading the description of this book, I expected it to be an old story, so I was surprised to see that it was published in 2005. It was written in imitation of the classics, but it is a pale imitation. Once again, I fell prey to the hype at the online bookstore. It’s a shame, but any book that’s tolerable gets rated highly. I don’t know if it’s because the reviewers don’t know good from bad or if it’s just because they’re afraid to say anything negative. As I’m sure you already know, I have no fear of pointing out the negative.

There were many things about the story that didn’t work. The father wasn’t just absent-minded, he was largely absent. The family had no center, so it wasn’t one of those warm, comfortable families that you wished you could join. I never got a real feel for the characters or even the ages of the sisters (the oldest and the youngest often did things that seemed wrong for their ages). Either of the two middle sisters (Jane and Skye) could have been eliminated without harming the story. The estate owner was so mean that it actually brought the story down. A fun location might have lifted it back up, but what’s so exciting about vacationing near a mansion?

I had to force myself to finish the book, but because it was somewhat fun at times, I kept it at the B level by giving it a B-.

P.S. One thing I did like about the book is that the author mentioned one of Edward Eager’s books, just as he mentioned the works of E. Nesbit in his books.

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Chick of the Black Thumbs

When I went to water my bonsai tree today, I found that the soil around the trunk was covered with a thin blanket of white mold. Can you believe it? I’ve had the tree for two days and already I’m killing it. Just call me Chick of the Black Thumbs.

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Mystery Flower #1

I love flowers of all kinds, even those traditionally considered to be weeds. I don’t know what they’re all called, though, and I feel like I should. That’s why we have Mystery Flowers. I’ll take a picture of the unknown flower, try to find out what it is, and then post the results here.

This is Mystery Flower #1.

Mystery Flower 1

My best guess at the answer to this mystery is in the comments.

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Bonsai!

Bonsai

Yesterday morning, we went to a beginner’s bonsai workshop, where we chose, trimmed, and potted our own bonsai trees. We took so long to choose our materials that the class was almost over by the time we started potting our trees, but I think our pickiness paid off. We ended up with beautiful trees. Mine has really pretty flowers.

Because part of the potting process involved cutting the roots of the plants, the trees need time to recover, so they’re resting in front of the window right now, soaking up the sun. We can’t trim them again for at least two weeks.

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What a Year

Back in April of 2007, I wrote a silly little post about Bathtub Hairballs and I haven’t stopped writing since. The goal for my blogiversary was to have written 365 posts, one for each day of a typical year. This is post #365, so I met my goal and to hell with the extra day in February (I figure everyone deserves a holiday). Yay!

Speaking of Bathtub Hairballs, it seems that they’re evolving.

ugh

Ugh!

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Thinking of Grampa

I invented the Vonnegut Marathon partly as a way of symbolically honoring my grandfather. Now that the race is over, I feel like I did them both justice. The irony is that my grandfather was nothing like Vonnegut. He probably wouldn’t have liked Vonnegut’s books or understood my desire to read them. But the thing about my grandfather is that he always seemed to be proud of me for anything that I did and even if I didn’t do anything, so I imagine that he would be proud of me for sticking to the marathon and to this blog.

While the Vonnegut posts remind me of Grampa, I wish I had more memories of him. I have a picture of him in my mind, but it is insubstantial. I want to add as much color to it as I can so that it will always be with me. I may have to ask some of my relatives to share their memories with me.

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