About that time my friend and I were victims of sexual assault

Let's see, I was 16. Teri was 15.
We had a club held over our heads.
We got back to Teri's house and called the police.
I was crying as i gave the info to the operator--we had car description, perpetrator description, etc.
We waited for many hours.
The police never showed up.

WE DID NOT TELL OUR PARENTS.

Massapequa NY circa 1970.

In Between: a Draft

When Tom and I first lived here, we met a very brainy couple. Cara was the daughter of a nurse and a radical lawyer. Cara and Kirk explained to us  a characteristic of Louisiana. They said that to understand Louisiana, we had to understand that there was a small upper class, a giant lower/poverty class, and a relatively small middle class. I don't know if this is statistically true, but it APPEARS to be true.

At the gallery opening, I talked to other people in the middle, teachers mostly. As I wandered around, I overheard bits of conversation. A tough looking guy in a motorcycle teeshirt with cut-off sleeves was talking about a property in Paris that he had looked at for 800,000 euros. Only 1800 square feet, he exclaimed. He must have been the owner of the Harley outside.

Most of the attendees were members of the upper classes: beautifully dressed women, preppily dressed men (except for Mr Harley), who bore themselves with aristocratic self-assurance. Everyone was white.

Earlier that day, I visited the Food Bank Thrift Store (which has recently rebranded as a RESALE store). There I mostly encounter members of the lower classes, some black, some white, and, since Hurricane Katrina, some Hispanic. I have quite a few buddies among the shoppers--we go way back! But their financial struggles are not mine. I try not to mention that I travel to Europe. I call myself a teacher, not a professor. I dress way down.

I do encounter some of the upper classes at the thrift store...erm RESALE store. Based on newspaper coverage, I can say that this is the high status place to volunteer, to serve on the board, and to donate. Recently, a whole fleet of black Mercedes were in the parking lot, including one with an Honorary Consul license plate!

My encounters with the upper classes are with their cast-offs. I have learned a lot from drycleaning tags!

To be continued....maybe

Just some notes

Tonight we went to an art opening downtown. Our dear real estate agent is the president of the Art Association. He asked us to come. He said there would be a nice set up of cheese and fruit (he knows me).

I always think we don't know anyone around here, having lost most of our friends from the school days of our children. And I feel extremely alienated among the upper-class Trump voters who are the culture vultures here. But in a small town, one knows many people. Even recluses like Tom and me. The artist for instance: he is excellent and I have long admired his work. But I have a little spot of resentment, from something almost 20 years ago. The artist is somehow affiliated with the Benedictine Monastery nearby. I was teaching a Shakespeare course  at the seminary college there. He and another older fellow sat in on the first two sessions--looking extremely bored and almost contemptuous. They threw me off my stride. Of course, they voted with their feet and never returned...

I saw two people we know from school. And a very good artist/teacher who retired some time ago. From afar, I saw a New Orleans cultural bigwig, who always surprises me--he remembers me from a brief period when he ran an Arts Administration program at our school. That memory for people must be why he is so good at his job--in the stratosphere of New Orleans musical culture.

Best of all, I ran into a former student--she is about my age. She must have been in my class more than 20 years ago. A few years ago, I saw one of her pieces in a gallery. It was outstanding! And then there she was. I was surprised that she remembered me. And she was surprised that I remembered her. I run into  her now and again.

Tonight she asked me when I planned to retire. I must have started stuttering...something or other. She told me I should rechannel my creativity and recommended a book called "The War of Art," which is about overcoming resistance to creativity. She suggested that I teach something at the Art Association in retirement. And recommended that I start journaling. Hence this little piece of writing.

I mentioned that idea to my pal the President of the Art Association. He said "Why not do something on poems that are about works of art, like "Ozymandias?" This guy is a fount of unexpected knowledge. We told him that such poems are called "ecphrastic." He is always happy to learn a new word (we had a little tiff recently about the meaning of "penurious"--we were both right.)

I remembered an essay that blew me away in college: "Ecphrasis and the Still Moment of Poetry, or Laocoon Revisited" by Murray Krieger. I found the article because it was mentioned in a footnote in a book by Rosalie Colie, a critic whose works taught me so much about how to read and set me on a path to studying the English Renaissance. Those kind of accidental discoveries--in footnotes, in a book NEXT TO the book you were seeking on a library shelf--were the hallmark of my studies in the days before the internet. And thank God for that, because my students tend to do internet searches for the EXACT thing they are writing on, and seldom if ever wander down the meandering paths of literature and essays on literature . . .  and on other things.

So Ozymandias, Ode on a Grecian Urn, the shield of Achilles, that poem by Auden about the Brueghel painting ("Musee des Beaux Arts")--I'm sure I'll think of some others.

Thanks to Maggie for setting me down this meandering path of memory.

Happy Birthday August 5 2018

August 5 2018: That would have been my father's 90th birthday. Surely, we thought, he would make it. How own father had lived to be almost 100.

Instead, he died suddenly a few months after his 80th birthday. We had a difficult, nay terrible, relationship. I had hoped to find a way to repair or forge a relationship with him that did not devolve into arguments (reading various books recommended--pop psychology), but such was not to be.

Two years ago, my mother, with whom my relationship has been in steady decline also (though once, I thought we were quite close) cornered me in Florida. She said "Your father cried because you didn't talk to him. How does it make you feel to know that you made an old man cry?" That is a very short version of a very long list of accusations.

I responded badly, only thinking of what I should have said later.

My family thinks I should get therapy or at least write things down instead of TALKING ALL THE TIME.  OK.

At his funeral, his cousin Ira spoke. He recited a parable about "the TALL Man." The family is proud of its height--though the gene missed me, it went to both my children.

But then he spoke about my father as "the angry man."

Thank you to my Grandmother for my Wedding Gift

A few summers ago, I remarked upon the enameled cast iron pots that were at the cottage (now sold, a daily source of pain that enters even my dreams). My mother is a committed non-cook and, indeed, they had never been used.

"Oh, Grandma bought them as your wedding gift, but she died before you got married."

I took them home, and now Emma is taking them to her new home in New Orleans. Her name, following religious tradition, even though my family was decidedly NOT observant, is the same as my grandmother's: Emma.

Thanks to my grandmother for a wonderful wedding gift (acknowledged more than 20 years after the event) and for giving my daughter such a beautiful name.

GTD: Haiku

Once I was at a conference with GTD in Asheville. We went to a hip restaurant with a verrrry long line. We were definitely the oldest people there. I struck up a conversation with the people in front of us. They were members of a rock band. They asked me about G. I said, "He looks like a regular middle-aged guy, but he's really neat. Kind of a Zen Catholic." So taken were they with my description that they invited us to share their table.

G's favorite writer Thomas Merton also had an interest in Buddhism and Japanese culture. It is perhaps no wonder then that G went to teach English in Japan. M was his student and he fell in love with her.

I once asked him how he wooed her. He said "I wrote her a haiku." He proceeded to recite the haiku. It was in JAPANESE. He then recited it in English; it was beautiful even in translation.

One Valentine's Day, G announced to the people in our hall that he wanted to show us the card he got from M. We huddled around. It was a regular looking Valentine's Day card. When he opened it, it played Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."

GTD: Making Do

At the service for G aka Merton, a colleague read a piece G had written in a meeting of The Writing Project called "Making Do." G loved the project because he loved writing in controlled, timed situations. He was otherwise a great procrastinator.

This piece--which I wish I had a copy of--was the essence of G. He was one of my few truly frugal friends--and the essence of frugality is "making do." He didn't write about frugality in his short piece--the only part I remember was about how God "made do" when he created Adam and Eve.

He was an excellent writer, with the extreme simplicity that seems easy, but is not.

His favorite piece was a five paragraph essay about how one should not write five paragraph essays! I remember hearing him in conference with students telling them that they were trying to fit their thoughts into 5 paragraphs and it wasn't working. He was proud of the fact that he had written a superb five paragraph essay.

In Memoriam: GTD aka Merton

GTD, colleague and frugal friend, died on July 13. We arrived back from our trip on the 17th and went to his funeral the morning of the 18th. I had planned to speak, but then decided not to. At the service, few people spoke. His widow, dear M,  said "I thought more people would speak." I remembered a little adventure G and I had had--one of many. So I got up and recounted it.

G and I were chatting late one afternoon. Tom probably had a night class and we had office hours, It was a happy day for me when I got to move into the office opposite G--and not just because I got a rare window.

We decided to get some coffee from the Writing Center. We walked into a meeting in progress. As we got our coffee, we were asked if we wanted some cake (!). So G and I decided to stay.

The little celebration was for a group of ESL students who had just completed a program. The instructor mentioned that funding for the program was cut...so she would be leaving. The program would end.  Students were invited to speak. Many had prepared pieces about what the program had meant to them. Others read poems they had written. Still others read pieces written by others.

G and I were asked if we wanted to present something. I said OK and read Shakespeare's sonnet 73 from the Norton Anthology. Of course, I added a short explanation--a teaching moment!

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Then G got up and read from Volume 2 of the Norton. He picked Gerard Manley Hopkins's "Spring and Fall." G was very brainy--a linguist--and wore his learning lightly. A rare thing. His choice was brilliant. First of all, it picked up on the themes and language of MY poem: leaves, leave-taking, mortality. Second of all, it reflected his deep love and practice of Catholicism.  Hopkins was a Jesuit priest. My name for G--Merton--is a tribute to his favorite writer: Thomas Merton. G was so taken by Merton's "Seven Storey Mountain," which recounts his journey to monasticism, that he went to Merton's Abbey at 17 and asked if he could be admitted. The monks told him to go to college, learn Latin, and then return. He did all but return. Because of G, I read a whole bunch of Merton too and we would discuss Merton and grocery bargains. Frugal friends are hard to find.

At the service, I did not read the sonnet by Shakespeare. Much to my amazement (since I've never taught it), the text of "Spring and Fall" jumped into my head. So I recited G's poem from memory. I only missed two lines.

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Second Hand Shopping in Paris

We did not try to check out the second hand market in Paris. In fact, other than groceries, we barely shop at all. The only reason I bought my tencel dresses is that we are at Monoprix, where Tom can look at the cheese and other goodies, while I can look at the clothes, play with the makeup, etc.

We were walking down a street in our favored neighborhood. I showed Emma the hotel we always passed and said "Look at the bird wallpaper." Really pretty. I then mentioned that three years ago, the hotel had had a vide-grenier in a small courtyard down the street.

We continued walking and happened upon their vide-grenier (empty-attic)! What a coincidence. They had various hotel fixtures, clothe, books--all sorts of stuff. i resisted, but Emma pulled out a Georges Rech linen twin set and bought it for 5 euros.

On another walk, we all happened upon an enormous street vide-grenier--stretching as far as the eyes could see. There was SO MUCH STUFF. A lot was nice too--not the usual junk one sees in thrift shops in my humble town. The sellers were a mix of people selling off their own stuff and professionals. Emma bought a Max Mara navy silk slip dress with a sheer overtop. That was 6 euros.

I saw a lot of Hermes ties. They were pristine and the standard price was 25 euros. I had a few Hermes ties back in the day and ended up selling them in a futile effort at decluttering. Now I know where to get more if I get the desire to provide the men in my family with ties. Imagine how many Hermes ties exist in Paris!

I just remembered another accidental second-hand encounter: at a St Vincent de Paul hospital compound now being used as a center for immigrants. Sam had been there a few years before and said that it had been a squatter abode; he saw it in early stages of renovation.  The Center had a thrift store and I ALMOST bought a long faux sheepskin vest for 3 euros. I resisted. Next year, I will return and see if I can help these people with their good work: https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/H%C3%B4pital_Saint-Vincent-de-Paul

In Memoriam: FJW

A few months ago, I had a dream about FJW. I was so happy to see him again. He died in 1988, when I was pregnant with my first child. He was hit by a car; he was younger than I am now, FJW was a famous (as such things go) literary scholar. I told Tom that I had dreamed about F. He said, "That's wonderful. I bet not too many people dream about him any more." It was a kind and understanding comment, attesting to the short (in so many ways) life of teachers and teaching. So I was happy to have this man of infinite kindness and humanity--along with intelligence--in my life once again, even in a dream.

I met Frank in an odd way. I was on an airplane going to Portland. The plane was filled with interior decorators who had attended a conference in New York City. A woman sat down in the seat next to me, exclaiming "Thank God, someone reading a book. Can I sit next to you?" J was a woman of incredible refinement and intellect. She said "My husband would love you! Come to Seattle and meet him."

I didn't think much of this. I told a few of my teachers about the encounter and they said "He's famous! Do it!" So I took the train to Seattle and spent an afternoon with them.

Of course, I lost touch. Then, when I was in grad school, I had to take a summer course on a particular topic. To my amazement, he was the teacher--brought in as a visiting eminence! He didn't remember me, though J did. He was so amiable and encouraging, not just to me, but to everyone in a large class. He wrote me a letter of recommendation.

F and I shared a love of seventeenth century prose. He told me that he had taught Sir Thomas Browne in a class on metaphysical poetry. I said, "But it's not poetry." He said that it was the only way he could get students to read Browne--through subterfuge.

I wrote a paper on Browne in graduate school. The course was team taught. One of the teachers was remote and somewhat forbidding. The other was a young fellow, who was verbally abusive to students. I reported his abuse to my (female) mentor. He ended up not getting tenure--probably because of lack of publication and not because of my report.

F remains for me a beacon--he was among the few truly supportive of women students in those days.

I was rereading Thomas Browne--marveling at my notes and annotations, my efforts at understanding a complex text.  My paper for F was on the subjunctive mood in lyric poetry (Ronsard, Spenser, Herrick and a few others...). Still I thought of him all the while I was reading Browne.

From Religio Medici, a favorite.

Now for my life.  It is a miracle of 30 years, which to relate were not a history, but a piece of poetry and would sound to common ears like a fable. 

For the world, I count it not an Inn, but an Hospital and a place not to live, but to die in. 

The world that I regard is myself.  It is the microcosm on my own frame that I cast mine eye on, for the other world, I use it like my Globe and turn it round sometimes for my recreation.

Men that look upon my outslde, perusing only my condition and fortunes, do err in my Altitude, for I am above Atlas his shoulders.  The earth is a point, not only in respect of the heavens above us, but of that Heavenly Celestial part within us.

That mass of flesh that circumscribes me, limits not my mind.  That surface that tells the Heavens it hath an end, cannot persuade me I have any.  I take my circle to be above 360, though the number of the arc do measure my body, it comprehendeth not my mind.

Whilst I study to find how I am a Microcosm, or little world, I find myself something more than the great.  There is surely a piece of Divinity in us, something that was before the Elements, and owes no homage to the Sun.

Nature tells me I am the image of God, as well as Scripture.  He that understands not thus much hath not his introduction or first lesson and is yet to begin the Alphabet of man.

I am the happiest man alive.  I have that in me that can convert poverty into riches, adversity into prosperity.

I am more invulnerable than Achilles.  Fortune hath not one place to hit me.

In brief, I am content, and what should Providence add more?  Surely this is it we call Happiness and this do I enjoy.  With this I am happy in a dream, and as contet to enjoy a happinesss in a fancy as others in a more apparent truth and reality.

For Me: Poem of the Day "The Waking"

Yesterday, Emma and I made a poshmark (love) sale to someone whose code name is "wake to sleep." This reminded me of the Theodore Roethke poem. I never teach this because in my department, courses in English lit (and that is where I'm at) can NOT include anything outside that category. No boundary violations!* No thematic courses! So I found my book, sat down, and read the poem over and over, as I used to do all the time, and still sometimes do. And should do more.

*All cultures have boundary conventions. In Paris, Tom and I wandered through Monoprix and a grocery store looking for aspirin. Non! Only available in pharmacies--behind the counter. 

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   

I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.   

I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?   

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.   

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?   

God bless the Ground!   I shall walk softly there,   

And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?   

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;   

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do   

To you and me; so take the lively air,   

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.   

What falls away is always. And is near.   

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   

I learn by going where I have to go.

   This is a villanelle. In a good one, the pattern of repeated lines always makes me teary-eyed (why, I do wonder). This is a good one. The last two lines come together with the beauty of inevitability, or perhaps, the inevitability of beauty.

Notes for Myself: What They Were Wearing in Paris summer 2018

No guarantee of complete sentences or thoughts--this is for me.

--Off shoulder dresses and tops on all ages
--Sneakers
--more yellow than usual, but not THAT much more

In my neighborhood (15eme): beautiful African fabric garb, long dresses and headpieces.

The ubiquitous Pliage bags of several years back are less in evidence. Main designer bags seen: Chanel, on tourists in the Louvre (perhaps a Paris purchase?)
Most beautiful bag: a malachite green Hermes kelly bag on a woman in headscarf and nondescript long clothing--at the Louvre.
Most chic women: Asian women with beige and black puzzle bags. The reason these looked so good--puzzle lines picked up black straight hair; beige picked up neutral architectural PLAIN clothing.
Best dressed--again in Louvre--couple with reverse tee shirts, positive and negative of same image.
Most powerful looking: a white couple in expensive attire surrounded by young black men in formal attire. Opposite the Presidential Palace. Tried to figure out  what was going on. No idea.
Runners up for most powerful: the men (all men) standing outside the Senate near the Luxembourg Gardens. The men (again, all men) standing outside the elite schools (esp Something Po) smoking.

My purchases: two identical tencel denim dresses at Monoprix, the first 25 euros and the second on further markdown our last morning at 15 euros. These loose dresses have saved me this hot summer,
--lightweight low quality viscose leggings @3 euros each. I returned to the market for a second pair. The seller--originally from Pakistan--remembered me. I practiced my French and he practiced his English. I said (in French/English) that we would perhaps see him next year.

He said, "If God gives us life."

I hope so.