I was working quietly in my office yesterday afternoon when my husband shouted at me to look out the window. It seems we had some visitors. A whole rafter of them! They didn’t stay long, but we enjoyed watching their quick parade around the yard and listening to the lead bird bark commands at his followers.
On Friday I went for a walk, looking for spring. I knew it had to be out there somewhere. And I found it.
Dear Marshall,
Do you ever wonder how we chose your name? Like many parents-to-be, we purchased a book of names and spent a lot of time looking through page after page of choices. One of us would say, “How about this name?” Then the other would say, “Nah, I knew a guy with that name and he was a real jerk.” And so it went for months.
Meanwhile, people pestered us constantly. “Have you picked a name yet?” “What are you going to call the little guy?” “Aw, come on, you must have a few names in mind, huh?” They insisted that we share our short list, so we made a short list. A very short one.
Then one day, not long before you were born, the name “Marshall” just popped into my head. I mentioned it to your father and he said, “Maybe.” Maybe was certainly better than no, and so we stuck with the name and discussed everything that it brought to mind. First and foremost was the character on the television show, “How I Met Your Mother.” That Marshall was sweet and kind, had a loving wife, a great group of friends, and a professional career. He could also beat the smack out of anyone who messed with him. He had all of the things we would wish for you, and he made us laugh.
On the day you were born, we still hadn’t made our choice. Looking into your trusting newborn eyes, we knew you were not a Nathaniel or a Benjamin or a Roman. So we tried calling you Marshall, and it felt right.
So that’s the story of how you became a Marshall. Your middle name, and your family’s reaction to the name, is a story for another day.
Love,
Mom
How strange to be born into the world today, with its laptops, iPods, internets, wireless connections, and cell phones; and to grow up as if they were a normal and natural part of life! And how sad to be too old to understand them! I am a member of the luckiest generation. We are old enough to remember life without all these gadgets. It makes us appreciate them more. But we also know that sometimes they need to be turned off, because life isn’t just about being plugged in.
Dragondoom by Dennis L. McKiernan
Dragondoom is a strange book. It is simultaneously wonderful and awful. It is the ultimate example of all that is good and all that is bad in fantasy writing. My husband says I only like it because I first read it when I was a teenager, because I was a much more forgiving reader back then. He may be right. So how do I grade this book?
With a sense of humor.
Dragondoom is a story of love and sacrifice, daring and hubris, war and honor, evil and revenge. I give it a 100 for content.
Now I will subtract two points for each overtly ridiculous element.
The repeated phrase “Ye shall reap what ye have sewn” brings it down to a 98. One is far more likely to rip what one has sewn and reap what one has sown. The argument that the book is full of archaic and variant spellings is not going work with me. The author and his editor should have known better.
The overuse of uncommon words like “darkling,” “spume,” and “grume” brings it down to a 96.
The sometimes plodding dialogue and always silly vernacular bring it down to a 94.
“Speakin’ o’ Dwarf enemies, he wos. Said that he whot makes a enemy o’ a Dwarf has a enemy e’erlastin’. Said that Dwarves’ll seek revenge fore’er, ’tis their nature. And that sommun whot was named Sleeth wos still their foe, he wos, and would ha’e been till the stars theirselves died ded.”
Garn, but them Dwarves be a tireless foe!
Its similarities with Tolkien bring it down yet more. Minus 2 for the dragon called Sleeth the Orm who, like Smaug, attacked a dwarven hold and then used it for his lair. Minus another 2 points for having a female character from a horse-centered culture who, when told that no man’s hand can slay a dragon said, “This be not the hand of a Man.”
We now stand at 90 and I believe I have made my point. The book has many flaws, and they’re funny ones. But I am serious when I say the story is beautiful, so I will leave it with an A- rating. It will continue to live in my library and I will continue to love it, warts and all.
Final grade: A-
I spent several hours this morning reading through my past blog posts and very deliberately commenting on other peoples’ blogs and Facebook comments. I think I was seeking inspiration, some tiny bit of motivation to write. I just feel so blank today. I’d almost rather feel angry or sad or worried. Anything is better than nothing.
Maybe it’s the rainy weather. Or perhaps it’s the awful dream I had last night. I was surprised to find, when I looked in the mirror first thing this morning, that I did not have raccoon eyes. You see, in my dream I had forgotten to remove my eye makeup before going to sleep, and the dream felt so real that I believed in it when I woke up. The unhappiness of the dream and the effort required to bring myself back to reality somehow left me feeling tired and dazed. And blank.
Blank.
Blank.
Blank.
I hope I can find inspiration in something today.
The Marple books that I borrowed from the library had to go back to the library yesterday, so I do not have them for reference, but I will try to give you an idea of what they were about.
4:50 from Paddington by Agatha Christie
Grade: A
Mrs. Marple’s friend witnesses a murder on a train that’s going in the opposite direction of hers. As soon as she gets to the next station, she reports it but no body is discovered. She tells her story to Mrs. Marple, who believes her friend and suspects that murder has been committed. The only way to prove it, though, is to find the body. Mrs. Marple is too old and frail for such a task, so she hires someone to find it for her.
A Caribbean Mystery by Agatha Christie
Grade: A
Mrs. Marple goes to the tranquil island of St. Honoré for a vacation, but it is clearly her fate to always be surrounded by death. When one of the other guests at her hotel dies overnight, only Mrs. Marple suspects murder and she’s soon proven right, but can she discover the identity of the murderer before he or she strikes again?
Agatha Christie is in some ways the total opposite of M.M. Kaye. Christie’s settings are not, IMHO, as vividly described or as interesting and yet you always feel like you’re there with the characters in a far away place, and that’s good enough for me. Both stories are unique, fun, interesting—exactly what one wants and expects from a Marple mystery!
This February wasn’t the best month for my blog. It started out well, with lots of ocarina shots, but by the end of the month the posts had gotten sparse. February is a short month, and it was perhaps not the best choice for Ocarina Month. I had hoped to show you my whole collection, but I knew from the get-go that it would be hard, if not impossible. I don’t know if I’ll continue with the ocarina posts this year or wait until next year.
I also fell behind in my book posts during February. I have four books still to write about, including two from the Marplethon. I will try to get to them later this week. I’d like to have the books handy when I write the posts, but that may not be possible, since they are all overdue now and costing me money. It is definitely time to go to the library.
But getting to the library is just one small task on a very long to-do list, and with “American Idol” on three nights a week, I don’t know how I’ll get anything done! 😉
Dear Marshall,
Just a few days ago you learned how to pull yourself into a standing position. First you pulled yourself up on the bins of clothes we were using to block off a door. Next you pulled yourself up in your crib and scared us half to death because you were within maybe an inch of being able to throw yourself over the rail. Thank goodness we realized it in time to lower your mattress! Then you started using just about anything you could get your hands on, including your tired old parents, and now you stand, and fall, just about everywhere you are allowed to go. Your father and I chase after you with blankets and pillows. We arrange them around you, hoping they will keep you from knocking your head too hard. You have fallen many times, and I don’t know who is more traumatized, you or us.
Mind your head, Sweets. You only get one!
Love,
Mom
© 2007-2026 Author of Blue-Footed Musings All Rights Reserved
