Bookstores

Ever since I was a very little girl, I have had a love affair with books. One of the most memorable Christmases I had was when I was 5 and got a boxed set of the Little House on the Prairie books; if I'm remembering correctly, I took off the wrapping paper, got through the cellophane and immediately started reading the first book. This love is why I majored in English in college and why I've continued into grad school for literature. It is also why I boxed up all 200+ books that I own and moved them and two bookshelves down to South Carolina. Even though I have very little time to read for leisure, I like to know that I have all my books at hand because they may (and have) come in handy at unexpected times (so, Daddy, you didn't move them all down for nothing. Some of them, maybe, but not all :))

Since books are such a huge part of my life, it should come as no surprise that I love bookstores. Like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany's, going to a bookstore, even if I have no money, cheers me up when I've got the blues or the mean reds. But I'm a bit peculiar when it comes to bookstores. I prefer small used bookstores to the mega-stores like Barnes and Noble. I like other people's books because they sometimes have notes; I also feel like I'm rescuing books that were unloved and thus sold to a bookstore. This is not to say that I dislike big stores; they have their own special feeling, but it's different than the little places like, say, Reader's Corner back home. I suppose the small places also feed into my slightly hipster pretensions ;)

At big stores, I always look first at the bargain books because I feel like they're just a little less loved; clearly, somebody decided that the books should get a sticker proclaiming that, more or less, the store just wants to get rid of those volumes (Perhaps I'm projecting a bit? Probably just a tad). Sometimes the bargain racks and bins have real treasures, like the $7 copy of Yeats' Irish Fairy Tales that I picked up the other night with the gift card my sweet sister-to-be gave me for my birthday; sometimes books are in the bargain bin for a reason, like the $7 biography of Grace O'Malley, the Irish pirate queen, that I bought several months ago--it's full of shoddy scholarship and rampant misspellings, despite being in its second edition (and yes, I'm a little bitter about that purchase).

I also have a hard time buying magazines at bookstores. It somehow seems like a cop-out, to go to a building full of glorious (and not-so) volumes, in hardback and paperback, with pictures in black and white and color, without pictures, large and small: to take in all those options and decide instead to purchase a publication that the publisher knows will end up in next month's recycling just seems wrong. For the record, I like magazines too, but I prefer to buy them at the drugstore or where have you, not a bookstore. Back to bookstores.

Just for giggles, I'll walk you through a typical trip to a bookstore, whether large or small. When I walk through the doors of a bookstore, it's as if I've entered a trance. I scan the room, trying to decide where to start. Once I pick a row to start with, I slowly make my way up one side and down the other, picking one up, scanning the covers, then placing it back on the shelf where it goes (I can't stand people who don't follow alphabetical order when reshelving books. That's just rude). Sometimes I back up because I think I've missed something good. It literally takes me forever to get through the fiction section until I get to the horror/Western/romance shelves. Those I breeze through, since none of those topics interest me. I skip certain sections in non-fiction as well, but that depends on my mood; the sports section is the only one I shun consistently. Very rarely do I pick a book on my first trip around the store. I need to absorb the selection, to see what I'm in the mood for, and then make my choice. As you can imagine, bookstore visits are long, involved rituals that I can't perform too often, because I don't have time and for which rarely have the money, though looks, thankfully, are always free.

(the above post inspired by Tuesday night's trip to Barnes and Noble, where I bought Yeats while [inadvertently] dressed like Olive Oyl from Popeye. True story)

Thoughts on fostering and the ivory tower

I discovered this blog this morning via StumbleUpon and have been reading it off and on, with my heart breaking, all day. The blogger, Rebecca, makes her love for her foster child obvious, but so is her pain at losing the little girl, whom she calls "Jacket." I've gotten through about 50 pages now, and I'm almost overwhelmed at what this woman is doing: essentially single-parenting while working full-time, while also dealing with the emotional ups and downs of knowing that the child you have come to love will eventually leave you and probably go back to an unhealthy environment. It's definitely worth a read, though I will warn you about getting sucked in.

Reading and thinking about this corresponds rather nicely with a conversation Sam and I had this weekend about our chosen professions and, more specifically, perceptions of the "ivory tower." I told her that one of the things I struggle with as a training medievalist is the fact that what I'm learning to do doesn't directly help anyone. The conclusion that I've come to is two part. One, if I'm doing what I love, I'm a happy, productive member of society, which is better than me doing something I hate that I think I ought to do. Two, though my work with, say, Anglo-Saxon poetry may not be life-changing for any of my students, the way I teach can be. Everyone has had a teacher in the past (or perhaps has one now) that has changed them, even if they didn't like the subject that particular teacher was teaching. That's who and what I want to be when I grow up.

So while right now I may not be able to save the world one foster child at a time, there are people that I can impact by doing what I love and doing it well. I'm not entirely convinced that that's the answer to my ivory tower dilemma, but that's what I'm working with at this point. Any thoughts?

Spontaneous adventures with Sam

Anyone that has known me for any length of time knows that I am a person that loves order. I have a perpetual to-do list and I delight in checking off the items on it. I like schedules and knowing where I'm supposed to be and when. I love planning because it gives me something to look forward to. Margins, discipline, neatness: that's what makes me happy.

And yet, Thursday afternoon, I decided to throw all that to the wind. I knew I should spend the weekend reading criticism and starting to outline papers, but I just couldn't bear to. I texted Sam to see what she was doing this weekend; she responded that she had her play. My next question was "So if I were to show up in your part of the world could I see your play?" and with that, I had a new weekend plan. Well, sort of. I still didn't have a ticket, nor did I know when I was heading up to North Carolina; all I knew is that I was going. Let me reiterate here: I don't do this. Spontaneity is not really part of my vocabulary (although it might be working its way in!). Sam and I texted again later that night, so I knew at 11:45 pm that I needed to leave in time to be up there at 1:30--still no idea how long it would take me, which was easily found with Google Maps.

So yesterday morning, I got up, packed a small bag, filled up my car and plugged Sam's address into my GPS. And I just went. I called Mom from the road just so she'd know where I was; she told me to drive safe and have fun, which I knew I would. The drive up was pretty uneventful, other than a brief stop at a McDonald's in rural SC where some construction guys "helped" me back up with lots of hand signals (I told Sam I must give off the "helpless little girl" vibe because, really, it was just a normal parking space. Nothing weird about it at all. But the sentiment was kind and therefore appreciated, if still amusing).

Slightly less than 4 hours after leaving my apartment, I pulled up at Sam's. After lots of hugging, I brought my bag (note the singular. Sam was impressed) inside and we had lunch, then I went to work with her. We adventured around downtown Winston for a while and had coffee and sandwiches before her 6:30 call; I sat in her car like a creeper and read until the house opened at 7:30 :)

The play was Stephen Sondheim's musical Assassins, which was wickedly funny. I did forget at one point that I was watching a play, though. The theatre was small and I was in the second row, so when the actor who played Giuseppe Zangara (attempted assassin of FDR) looked out at the audience, he was able to make eye contact with me. He looked so convincingly evil that for several minutes, I couldn't break that eye contact because I thought he was an actual killer. In reality, Sam says the actor, Neil, is a really nice guy, so she found the story hilarious.

After the show, we went out for beer and food, then came back to Sam's house and went to bed. We slept late and had a lazy morning that turned into an afternoon. We talked about everything and nothing and, just like always, I remember how fortunate I am to have a friend like Sam. We've known each other now for 5 years; in some ways, it doesn't seem that long and in other ways, it seems longer. Our friendship is one of those beautiful, indescribable things that doesn't happen very often, but you know it's a good thing when you've got it.

Thank you, dear friend, for making my first spontaneous adventure successful! Can't wait to see you again soon!

Post-birthday thoughts

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred moments so dear.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.

How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets,

In midnights, in cups of coffee,

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife,

In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,

How do you measure a year in the life?

How about love?

How about love?

How about love?

Measure in love.

My 23rd birthday, which happened this past Thursday, can be summed up in one word: love. My family, who drove down for Corps Day an entire day early so that they could be with me on my birthday. My aunt and uncle, who came for dinner on my birthday and brought cupcakes so that I could have cake on my actual birthday (my real birthday celebration wasn't until Saturday night). My grandparents, who are two of the most generous people I know. My sweet friends, who called and texted and wrote on my Facebook wall. Everyone who made last Thursday such a wonderful day.

Yes, 23 is going to be the year measured in love. I can just tell :)

Review: The High Kings, Memory Lane

This morning, as an early birthday present to myself, I downloaded The High Kings' new CD, Memory Lane, which I've been wanting for months. I must say, it was an excellent purchase. Overall, it has a much more traditional Irish feel than their first CD, which was produced by the same man who put together the group Celtic Woman, David Downes. The album has some really fantastic tracks, some of which I'll talk about individually.

Step It Out Mary

I had never heard this song, so I looked it up; the chorus is actually the words to a children's skipping game, which was incorporated into a song by a folk songwriter in the 20th century. It's a sad story, but you can definitely hear the playfulness of the skipping game in the beat of the song.

The Fields of Athenry

This rendition of Pete St. John's ballad about the Potato Famine brought tears to my eyes; the simplicity of the guitar and the lovely harmonies did a beautiful job of conveying all the tragic emotion of this song.

Red is the Rose

This song is very similar to the Scottish song "Loch Lomond," all about lovers making promises. Beautiful, melancholy, very Irish.

Star of the County Down

This is the first song that I heard because iTunes shuffled the tracks; I was listening to the album on my way into work this morning and about 10 seconds into the song I said out loud "I LOVE this album!" Listening to the tracks in order wouldn't have changed my mind, but this was definitely a good hook for the rest of the album.

The Green Fields of France

Another tragic 20th century song, this one again receives a gentle but mournful treatment with wonderful harmonies and background guitar.

There are 14 tracks in all, all of them well done. Many of them are sad, but as G.K. Chesterton said:

The great Gaels of Ireland

Are the men that God made mad.

For all their wars are merry

And all their songs are sad.

In preparation for Lent

Lent starts tomorrow with Ash Wednesday and it's the season of the Church during which I struggle most with keeping it correctly. Feast days and seasons, as well as Ordinary Time, are easy enough, but Lent is hard for me. It's not hard because of what I give up, but rather because I'm working against my own attitudes for the season of penance. My problem is not that I see my Lenten sacrifices as too hard, but rather, not hard enough.

You see, I went to a Catholic high school and, as it was a small school, everything tended to be magnified. Lent was especially prone to displays of, shall we say, spiritual one-upsmanship. For instance, if I said I was giving up chocolate, the person next to me at lunch might respond that he or she was giving up chocolate and meat. And the person next to that person was only going to have a small loaf of bread that served as breakfast and lunch every day... on and on and on. It got to the point one year where a girl I knew gave up eating meat and taking hot showers and sleeping in her bed for Lent; it got to be ridiculous. When I got to college, I was no longer in that environment, but I still struggled to feel like my Lents were "good enough." We had had it drilled into our heads that we were supposed to "give God the maximum, not just minimal effort," so anything less than complete asceticism felt like it wasn't enough.

All the way through college, I struggled with this feeling of only doing Lent halfway; after all, I wasn't giving up all animal food-products or comforts like hot showers--wasn't I being a spiritual baby and taking the easy way out? But no more. This is the year that I deal with that attitude head on. Comparing myself with other people in this situation doesn't do anything but make me focus on the wrong things; it's not helpful for me to hear about what more Mary Sue is doing because then I start focusing on Mary Sue instead of on the cross.

So, this year, in addition to physical things I'm giving up, I'm giving up that attitude that says nothing I do is enough. My vocation is to be in the world, not to be totally ascetic, but I can offer up my little sacrifices with lots of love, following St. Therese of Lisieux's Little Way. Speaking of St. Therese, the following quote, from one of her letters, sums up my feelings perfectly:

"Sometimes, when I read spiritual treatises in which perfection is shown with a thousand obstacles, surrounded by a crowd of illusions, my poor little mind quickly tires. I close the learned book which is breaking my head and drying up my heart, and I take up Holy Scripture. Then all seems luminous to me; a single word uncovers for my soul infinite horizons; perfection seems simple; I see that it is enough to recognize one's nothingness and to abandon oneself, like a child, into God's arms. Leaving to great souls, to great minds, the beautiful books I cannot understand, I rejoice to be little because 'only children, and those who are like them, will be admitted to the heavenly banquet.'"