Sorta Sorting Sinners

 If I'm being honest, the reason I drive the same way to work every day is because that's the way I drive to work. It's the same reason I make tuna salad the way I make tuna salad, why I put on my socks before I put on my trousers each morning. There was probably a learning curve to the way I drive to work back when I moved to Seattle and got the job, but twenty-some years in who remembers? Don't ask me how I came to this or why I do as I do — I just do, yes?

Part of my routine commute is that I take an exit downtown and then just follow the feeder lane back onto the freeway just before Cherry Street. I don't remember why. Something to do with traffic and a bottleneck. I don't remember. I just do. 

For years the three left lanes after the exit narrowed to two and then to one and then rejoined the freeway. For a couple of years recently, there was construction that forced everyone not exiting right to move to the left lane almost immediately. Bottleneck. Defeated my purpose (?) That may be the only time I changed my routine and believe me, I took some convincing. Eventually the construction, whatever it actually was, ended and I returned to my usual drive. However now, when one pulls up to the last light before returning to the freeway, there is not one light, there are not two, now there are three lanes and three traffic signals that go green one after another and feed all three lanes onto the Interstate. 

This is… better? I trust it is. I can’t say. I tried to read a whole book once about how parking defines American society. It’s an interesting idea but I couldn’t finish the book. The only thing that is more boring than cars is traffic. Turns out, parking is more boring than traffic.* Evidently I cannot be made to care about any of it even when I think I do. I can’t read maps well either. Don’t have that gene. Transportation generally? Yes, please! Glad to have it. Wouldn’t want to have to walk everywhere. Stopped taking buses when it became clear I’d never see my husband awake again if I didn’t drive to work. Three cheers then for the wheel.

Now, how does it all work? No idea. Cars? Just so much magic. I do what I'm told in terms of gasoline and oil changes and maintenance generally and hope I don't offend the engine faeries or the suspension gremlins. This is very much how I also take my pills in the morning, why I save my receipts with sales-tax, and what I actually understand of the bookstore’s hellish inventory system. I just try not to piss off the imps and the angels. 

And yet here I am about to talk about traffic again like I suddenly have something to say.

Here goes. Since I can’t listen to my radio in the car anymore — it’s not broken, our country is — I’ve been driving mostly in silence. Maybe that’s why I’ve noticed something mildly interesting about that additional traffic light and feeder lane. Mildly, mind.

As I’ve said, I’ve no idea what that third lane and light are meant to do and I genuinely don’t care. Trust it’s doing what it’s supposed to. What I see it do every morning though? It sorts out The Shits. 

You know those people who think changing lanes gets them somewhere sooner? Yeah, those. The right-hand lane, the one that has always eventually had to merge left before one gets onto the freeway, a car could just sort of end up there. Not always worth the effort of merging left until circumstances necessitate. But that second lane to the right of the right lane, that new third lane? That one has to be chosen. It doesn’t exist as such until after the last exit off to the right. To even go to that third light the driver has to get there. It’s a choice. 

That’s The Shits sorter.

From the lights to the freeway entrance is less than what? Five hundred feet? (Estimating distance in yards etc. isn’t really a thing of mine either. Let’s just call it “not far.”) So what possible advantage can there be in getting the whole way over to the far right to then have to inevitably merge left shortly thereafter?

The line is shorter, sorta. It moves sorta faster. 

But the real answer? Pretty sure the real answer is that it doesn’t do shit. It takes a few seconds off the drive maybe? A car-length or three if it’s busy? That’s nothing. That does nothing.

Years ago a very dear friend was staying at our house for a week and arranged to get his regular newspaper, to which we did not subscribe, temporarily diverted to our address. That’s how much he loved his hometown newspaper. In addition to being a devoted reader of the Los Angeles Times my friend happened also to be a devotee of lane-changing on the freeways. I was actually with him the morning his favorite paper published a scientific study proving that repeatedly changing lanes had no statistically significant effect on drive-times, fuel consumption, or anything else other than a greater propensity for what we used to call “fender benders” when there were still fenders to be bent. That’s right. Complete waste of time that accomplishes nothing, aggressive lane-changing. I suspect my friend almost lost faith in his favorite paper for printing such obvious and deliberate lies. 

I was easily persuaded myself, and not just for the pleasure I took in my friend being wrong.

So scuttling over to that third, supposedly faster feeder lane? I’d bet you a dollar today that it does nothing. And yet every morning they do it, The Shits, that mad dash out of the left lane. They scramble and scurry to the right and then the right again. They bolt and jockey and speed as best they can and they achieve what exactly? Break-lights. They get to jump a couple of car-lengths? Ahead of whom? Me? Is that a thing worth doing? Am I such an impediment? 

You should know I generally let The Shits in pretty much whenever they want. They always merge late. Always. Sure sign. I understand why you might hate me for doing this. I hate doing it. I get it. I wait my turn. I get over before I’m required. I observe the rules generally. Maybe I go a little fast sometimes, but that’s pretty much it. But yes, if some driver waits to merge until there’s really no excuse to have waited so long, I’m the person who lets them in rather than play bumper-chicken to try and block them from cheating. I agree this isn’t right. In a just world I wouldn’t do it. If this was a line at the movies (remember those?) or for the free government cheese, I would object loudly to someone cutting in. But in my car? A car I had to pay for? A car I have to insure? I’m not fighting The Shits. They're dangerous. They will hit you. They don't care.

You know how they are.

And we all assume we can anticipate who they are by what they drive as well as the way they drive. Not entirely false, I shouldn’t think. You drive a Tesla Truck or a giant pickup with tires higher than my car windows, I would guess you’re likelier to be one of The Shits. Stands to reason. Sort of a class thing: dudes in expensive douche-wagons. Likewise all the balding brats in Bugattis, the men with modified mufflers, feckless fucks with fancy rims. But The Shits come in un-moneyed versions as well, rednecks in those demolition-derby junkers they repair with tarps and tape and meth. No idea how they keep going, though obviously nothing’s going to stop them short of a major car fire. Pray note that the horn seems to work in everything driven by The Shits. Turn signals are less reliable. They must burn through break-lights, them boys. (There must be females or presumably the genus excrementis would die out. I would not know, but my guess is they all fuck like they drive; fast, haphazard, without a thought to anybody else on the road. Just sad to think on.)

Every morning I watch them. Far from a real majority, you understand, The Shits. But they are noticeable, yes? All I've ever wanted in a car was reliability and anonymity. Exact opposites then. Most of us just don’t want to die on our way to where we have to go. Simple rule. The Shits could not give a. That’s really why they stand out in so not a good way. Not just rude like the people who drift or wander or never signal (obviously a lot of crossover here though,) The Shits are all daredevils. The lot of ‘em, whatever sports car or shitbox they happen to be driving, whatever fancy corporate job or appointment with their drug clients to which they all are rushing, they all roll as if pursued by cops, bears, and the bad Transformers. 

That’s why there’s the last minute third light and lane then — to let them pass.

Seriously, I know it feels wrong. It feels like we’re letting them win somehow even though it’s really only a competition amongst themselves. And even if we are letting them get away with something, and even worse if somehow we’re wrong and they’re right and it is somehow a contest to see who can get wherever before whomever gets there first in the natural, logical, inexorable way of things, we have to let them. 

Just let them go. 

Let The Shits go, people. Let them pass. Better out than in-line behind you. Healthier for everyone to keep an eye.

Of course there are other sorters as well, other sorts of metaphorical third feeder lanes as it were; the ballot, most obviously, but that one can be tricky to trust — as we’ve learned to our collective horror yet again. But there are others, some more subtle, some not:

As a bookseller I’d say Bukowski, reading 48 Laws of Power or anything by Robert Greene, returning travel guides after thirty days with your paper airline ticket still in the book, asking for Gildersleeve’s Latin Grammar and being shocked it isn’t on the shelf — expressing shock generally at the absence of anything in a bookstore in 2025, frankly. Also asking for the book you wrote before saying you wrote it, buying golf books as gifts for non golfers, and just buying golf books come to that. Then there’s the existence of golf books — and golf.

There are things not specific to how I earn my living but I've learned to recognize from being in a retail service job, like people who eat while talking on the telephone, or go shopping when they have the flu, or stay in public with a noisy pet or a screaming baby. Also anyone who comes in or stays to browse five minutes before a posted closing time, or brings a full basket to register after closing has been announced.

Wider popular culture is a virtual labyrinth of third feeder lanes. Warhammer, professional gamers, professional poker players, owning a casino, owning a sports team and or moving a sports team to another city, Andy Cohen, “contemporary worship music,” twenty thousand dollar handbags, complaining about fake twenty thousand dollar hand bags, TikTok videos of “recipes” that involve crockpots or skillets and whole loaves of store-bought, pre sliced bread, etc., etc.

There must be lots of others. You decide. Make your own list. 

The great benefit of being aware of the ways life lets us sort out The Shits is that most can then be avoided, at at least let pass. DO. Honestly it will help. You know the signs. Ignore them at your own risk. Seriously, it's no good going to say a tailgate party and then complaining that there are exactly the people there that one would assume go to tailgate parties or worse, people who use "tailgating" as a verb. How could one not know? They went to a football game hours early because presumably football doesn't last long enough?! Admittedly there are not many of us who can give The Shits a hard pass altogether. They will come up. But at least we can stay out of their lane, yes? At least we can usually see them coming. 

They sorta sort themselves.

* * * 

A couple of days ago the family of Anita Bryant announced that she had actually died at 84 on December 16th, 2024. Presumably they delayed making her death public because it is pretty hard now, even in Oklahoma to find someone to drive the stake through her withered, black little heart and bury her anonymously at a crossroad at midnight.

For any not old enough to remember the lady, in 1958 Anita Jane was 2nd runner-up in a national beauty pageant. She went on to sing on USO tours and on the kind of records and television shows that old church women loved like striped candy. She made the kind of music shared with young people as a punishment for kids who liked to dance to  that colored Rock and Roll music. Eventually Anita became the television spokesperson for Florida orange juice, making seemingly endless commercials in which she grinned bug-eyed with delight over a pitcher of "sunshine."

And then in 1977 Anita Bryant became the face of homophobia, leading a campaign to repeal an LGBT anti-discrimination ordinance in Dade County, Florida. And she kept at it, eventually getting her pancaked mug on the cover of Newsweek, among other dubious accomplishments, as the Queen of the Righteous Lie. In fact she became more famous for the vicious bullshit she spewed at and about us than for anything she might have done in the way of art or motherhood or faith in the sweet baby Jesus. For a spell there, we were her lifestyle. 

In case I've been unclear, she was a complete cunt.

Though her supporters always blamed "the gays" for wrecking her entertainment career, she actually fucked it all up with the fundamentalists when in 1980 she finally divorced her piece of shit first husband. Back in the days before Trump, the Bible-thumpers really didn't cotton to divorced Jezebels. Thereafter she sank like a dunked witch. Had she just stayed hitched to that abusive dude, she would still have been the darling of dipshits, and a babe among the bigots. Titter.

The harm she did was no joke. Her campaign became the model for American religious fascism in the twentieth century and the effect across the planet was and continues to be devastating. LGTQIA people proved a perfect scapegoat for reaction and hate. For our every victory, major or minor there has been an opposite and equal backlash that invariably still uses the template Anita helped to invent with her "Save the Children" campaign in the 1970s. 

And no, she never really repented, never apologized, never accepted responsibility for the thousands of lives and careers she ruined, the children she encouraged to kill themselves or helped send to religious re-education camps. The old bag lived to a ripe age and long enough to see her granddaughter marry a woman -- though she presumably did not attend the wedding. 

The reason I mention her here is most obviously because blithe as I might be above about avoiding The Shits and just letting them pass, there are evils too great to let go by. Anita Bryant was one. 

When I added my voice to chorus crowing over her corpse on social media, a well-meaning friend, "for the sake of compassion for all" suggested that even a monster like Anita might by the end have had regrets, might have been embarrassed or even ashamed. No evidence to support that supposition. But even if there had been, even if in her obituaries anywhere there had been some appeal for reconciliation and forgiveness, I'm afraid I would still be joining the kick-line virtually dancing on her grave.

For all of my annoyance at the thoughtlessness and arrogance of the rude and the self-important goobers sorting themselves into that third lane, none of them to my knowledge has or may ever do the like harm individually of this lovely, usually soft-spoken, former Miss Oklahoma. Think of that. 

She is in rare company: Reagan, Schlafly, Falwell, Buckley, Murdoch, Jesse Helm, Limbaugh -- she is among the monsters and the murderers of my youth and young adulthood. Thousands upon thousands died unspeakable deaths, often alone, often without family, directly because of the lies she told and never bothered to correct.

For all my irritation with The Shits, that's usually all that is and all most of them are. Collectively, as they recently proved again, they contribute mightily to the general coarsening and peril to the Republic, but there are ill manners and bad people, and then there are monsters.

Nothing for it but to fight the monsters. Only so much can be let pass. 

Fuck forgiveness. I'm not a Christian and I am not obliged. She didn't ask and I'm not offering.  I'm glad she's dead. I hope her death was every bit as horrible as, say, the death of my friends who deserved none of it and who suffered and died young without their mothers to comfort them. 

And here we are again. The Triumph of The Shits is upon us. Here be monsters aplenty. One less in the world. 

Good. 

*Golf is more boring than anything other than the men who talk about golf, parking, and traffic, and anyone who dresses for golf anywhere but where golf is being played.

Ellipses (Intro for My Christmas Reading 2024)

So I still don’t know what to say or do about… that, you know... THAT. That thing that happened, this ongoing, seemingly unending... what? Revenge play? Fiasco? Triumph des Willens? It feels frankly like a terrifying reenactment of my worst nightmares from Junior High: Revenge of the Jerks? Anyway, I doubt you know quite what to do about this either. And even if you do, I'm sorry, I don't want to hear it just now. Nope. I don’t want to hear you out. You may be right. I may never know. Trust me, it's not you, it's me. I absolutely do not want to talk about any of this. I don't want to commiserate, or consider our options going forward. I do not need to process. Honestly, I don't want to hear about any of it. I don't want to read about it. I definitely do not want to even think about it. No. I don't want to watch it happen. I don't want to know if or how it does. 

Now, I don’t know about you, but for me that’s new. I've never felt quite this way before. 

Of course, this is not my first political or cultural setback, by no means my first ass-whuppin'. Unsurprisingly at my age, I have been disappointed before. I lived through being a little sissy in the sixties and then hair-styles and unbuttoned shirt-fronts of our fathers in the seventies, and then the Reagans and AIDS in the eighties! And how many Supreme Courts? And how many protests of how many wars? And, yes the first round of this thing and a pandemic! And yet this somehow feels almost worse, does it not? I've never been quite this brim full o' existential dread. I've never been this personally immobilized. 

It's not disinterest on my part, you understand. I didn't wake up the day after and not care.  And it's not that I'm defeated -- I mean  obviously we were, all of us and potentially our children's children and the planet, etc., etc. Nope. I just don't want to. Like Bartleby the Scrivener, "I would prefer not to." So this is just... What is this? This is the ellipses in which we find ourselves at the moment. The ellipses in which I've decided to rest awhile. Dot dot dot. Get it? What comes after? No idea. 

In his novel, Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence says, "That's the place to get to -- nowhere. One wants to wander away from the world's somewheres, into our own nowhere."

Well, yes.

So I decided for the time being to not even try to see past the end of my nose and so I haven’t, much. Decided to do... nothing. And still not doing anything much, roughly a month later. Now that’s new. That is not and has never been my M.O. So, if I'm not doing anything to counteract the horror, what on earth am I to do instead? I mean, if we are not going to address the elephant in the room -- or aaaaall the elephants soon to be stomping and trumpeting and shitting aaaaall over the place, well, what then?

And I thought, “Maybe just listen to music?”

So, on my commute I decided to listen to Bill Evans, not news. Do you know the great Bill Evans? Pianist. Jazz great. Love him. So Bill Evans, not news.

That phrase, "not news," now I come to say it aloud, that's rich. Obviously I meant I won’t listen to "The News" anymore, so I've stopped tuning the radio to NPR's Morning Edition et al. I’ve stopped reading most of the newspaper too. I can’t look at CNN or any of the morning shows or anything that might bring it all up again. For fear I'll hear him, you know? That voice. But not even that, just the mention of. I can't. Doesn't much matter the purveyor or the medium; print, digital, broadcast. Unbearable. Anything but that. So "not news." Anything but news. No news. 

And now I think about it, "not news" is also true in the sense that my confession is not exactly "news." I am evidently not alone in my paralytic incapacity, not the only one staying in the ellipses, now am I? Seems I'm actually on trend for once. 

And then there's yet another suggestion wedged into those two little words! If you know me, if you so much as look at me, it can't be unexpected that I would choose to listen to jazz rather than pop or country or sports radio. So that's "not news" either. I mean, I wear a beard and blocked hats and clogs. I still say things are “cool” and “not cool." I’m the gay who didn’t really care about Ga Ga until she sang with Tony Bennett. Come on. Jazz makes sense for me.

Though to be honest, I'm usually more of a "Basin Street East Proudly Presents Miss Peggy Lee" kind of jazz aficionado. You know, gay. I like a lady who sings with the band, preferably a cool chick in elbow-length gloves and a chignon. I like a chanteuse, a Miss Dakota Staton armed with a cigarette, and a sly wink, mic'd, minked, marvelous. I like a lady who knows her way around a double entendre and a double bass. I like sass and snap and swing, and if we're going to have two cigarettes in an ashtray, I like a vocalist who's heart may be broken but who's voice never breaks. Never really been a fan of ruins of Billy Holiday, I'm more a let's listen to Sassy swing some Gershwin, daddy. 

So when I went on my news hunger strike, I pulled out a whole raft of my favorite female vocalists. And that  -- was a mistake. Why? It was all those goddamned torch songs. In the car, driving to work on the freeway and Carol Sloane sings “For All We Know” and I’m in tears. Embarrassing -- and frankly a little dangerous. Try another record. Carmen McRae does "Please Be Kind", of all things, and I'm gone again. Floods, blinding floods. It was a problem.

In the end I couldn't even listen to cool, cheery June Christy or even dear, baby-voiced Blossom Deary for fear they'd do a slow ballad and sing about the one that got away, or their disappointed dreams, or go into I Guess I'll Hang My Tears Out To Dry. Can't. I was afraid I'd tear up and maybe smash into the divider or drive off the bridge.

So no singers. So instrumentals? So Bill Evans.

Not that Bill Evans couldn't make me cry, as it turns out. As I mentioned, great pianist/composer and fully capable of that tendresse douloureuse that catches the throat without so much as a word said. So his instrumental of “My Foolish Heart” shouldn’t but it did. Heartbreaking. Reminding me of other heartbreaking things, moments, results. Which is how I ruined even Bill Evans. (And by the way, Bill Evans playing with Tony Bennett on say, Some Other Time?! Definitely on my go-to-tears list.) 

Here I was thinking I was safe with Bill Evans at Town Hall, 1966, and Bill Evans at the Montreux Jazz Festival, 1968, that sort of thing. Swinging. Brilliant. Abstract enough to keep my mind off the other, but not so abstract as to prevent me following the tune, so Bill Evans. Maybe Stan Getz? Maybe Miles. Maybe even Monk (which is about as far as I go.)

Instrumental jazz, no later than Be Bop because I'm hip but not so hip as all that, I thought. Have you heard Miles Davis play “It Never Entered My Mind”?! Fuck. Gone.

So maybe not jazz. 

This may all make me sound cooler than I am, by the way, all this jazz talk. (Does it? No? Well, it used to when it wasn't age appropriate, when I was an unlikely eighties kid who preferred Dinah Washington to The Clash. That was charmingly eccentric. Now, as I said, I not only look like that guy, I am.) 

I am still not cool though. Never have been cool even when I briefly affected smoking jackets and a cigarette holder. I tried, but no. Too emotional, frankly. Highs, lows, no cool. Way too late now to take it up even if I could. So I am the uncool jazz fan; not quite a square, but not so hip as all that. I can’t read a note of music or talk intelligently about Evans’ chord structures or his use of “rhythmic displacement.” Just an enthusiast, just a listener. Obviously a sentimental listener. Though I hasten to add that I'm not one of those Glenn Miller reactionaries who only likes swing because bald guys slow dance to it and the girls still wear really red lipstick. Ick.

And before anyone suggests string quartets or heaven forbid Yo Yo Ma playing Bach cello suites, the classical catalogue proved me weirdly wet-eyed too. I'll spare you the details as I am even less qualified to talk about Debussy than Ellington, but it was rough. So... silence then, at least in car, for eleven miles each way. 

And at home? I believe this is called a helpless shrug?

What, for example am I reading?!

Well, Middlemarch. Not just Middlemarch though. Never just Middlemarch.

When it happened, I happened to have started reading a big new book about the Queen. Seriously, The Queen of Bloody England. Nothing so utterly remote from reality as a Windsor. Nothing less like current events than a Saxe-Coburg Gotha, baby! (That was their name you know, because of Albert, before his grandson with the pointy mustaches and the withered arm set the world ablaze in 1914 and changed the royal sauerkraut into victory cabbage and the Sax-Coburg and Gothas into those dear ol' tweedy Berkshire county folk, the Windsors. Hashtag TikTok history, hashtag fun facts about the dull rich.) 

The Windsors! If you don't know, they're just like Game of Thrones but without dragons, or ash-blondes, or sex, or engaging personalities, or magic, or looks — except by marriage and when those boys still had all their hair and weren't fight over their wives. Most importantly the current royal family is without politics or even any interest of themselves. That’s the job. I'll concede the occasional touching anecdote and gesture, the great writing and acting in The Crown, but the reality Elizabeth Windsor? Nothing further from strong emotion than Elizabeth II, Queen of New Zealand and the Cook Islands, Lord of the Isle of Mann, etc. She was in fact the studied, practiced, all but perfected embodiment of keeping well out of it, the serene, high muckety-muck of staying above the fray, sovereign of the static smile and the neutral chat, the matchy-matchy hat and purse lady, dear, only just dead Lilibet of the Coins, Stamps, and Pounds.  

So Q: A Voyage Around the Queen, by Craig Brown, author of the equally and unexpectedly delightful Ninety-Nine Glimpses of Princess Margaret. Excellent reading. Good distraction. Hardly a tear to be shed. Okay, maybe one or two for ol' Liz. (Margaret on the other hand was an absolute monster! Wonderfully rude, snobbish, stylish, thick, selfish. Ghastly woman.) 

So safe, neutral reading. 

And then something about ol' Lizzie, of all people, really piqued my interest. Are you familiar with The Queen's Christmas Message? I guess it's The King's now, but I'm not obligated as an American to think about the present monarch at all and I don’t. So, not to give the whole history of this very modern British tradition, but basically the late Queen's late Pa and even later Grandpap used to do this on "the wireless" and then she kept it going, on the television since 1957, and then on The Socials. That's where I watched a bunch of these things. And I read a bunch on the internet too, trying to crack the code.

Basically everything British stops cold at 3PM on Christmas Day and the monarch appears virtually 'round the isles and whatever's left of the Commonwealth (aka the former Empire) and there's a wee speech. It's a pretty unique speech even as monarchal speeches go. Basically, it is just Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the ol' Sax-Coburg Gotha Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Gluksburgs and it makes the Opening of Parliament sound like Valerie Solanas' Scum Manifesto. I mean. This thing is hypnotically predicable. Honest. Watch one. Watch her first one, Elizabeth, from 1957. 

It is odd. First there's that voice:  "It is inevitable that I should seem a rather remote figure to many of you."  

Indeed.

Everything about The Christmas Message is ever so slightly weird, at least to an American: the completely predictable repetition of festive cliche, the artificiality, the frank absence of any discernible talent for — I don’t know, public speaking? BUT (big but,) it is also kind of charming. It's sweet. It feels both harmless and heartfelt. From the obvious presence of a film crew to the set up in The Queen’s what? Living room, is it? Back parlor? Home office? From the setting then to the lady’s rather awkward but very real attempt at what I'm guessing is... warmth? Anyway, an argument could be made for The Queen’s Christmas Message being the first reality tv.

Watched her last one again. Opens with a band, closes with a choir. In between, there the old girl is, bless 'er, Christmas pin, same hair since  -- ever, same message, same monotone delivery. The Queen.

And it's perfect of it's kind. Don't ask me if I cried because that seems where this was heading, doesn't it? But no, I did not.

What did it make me think about? What did it change? What did she give me personally, by way of a message?

Christmas.

Shut up. It did not seem that obvious a month ago, even a week ago, at least to me.

I decided to think about Christmas, about tonight actually, about this part of my Christmas, my tradition, our thing we do together you and me and anybody else who might be watching or listening along. This is where we step back out of the ellipses.

Because, I probably will cry tonight. Almost always do, don't I? And so do some of you and nobody's died of it yet that I know of, and the world doesn't end. There are people who should be here and they aren't, and people I wish I was with and I'm not, but this will absolutely do. Every year I read a classic  American short story aloud and hopefully we are all of us moved at least a little and distracted from everything happening out there and we get to think instead about kindness, and childhood, and memory, and friendship. We get to remember and be if not in love, then again in communion, which for now is near enough.

I will not tell you that any of this; the cookies, the story, the company, my rather rickety voice, the bookstore itself as both an idea and an institution and my other home for better than two decades, I cannot tell you that any of this either answers... that or that any or all of whatever this is still constitutes a bulwark against the encroaching dark, the very real dark, out there. I don't know that that is true. I don't know if or how I might still believe that. 

But for tonight, I want to. So here is my small music. Here is our little joy. This is the gift. Hopefully nobody dies tonight that we don't already anticipate! We will instead think just about... this.

The View From Her Chair

My mother put buttons in her lamps. Lots of buttons. She and my late father used to go to auctions. All the auctions. They bought a lot of what Dad called, “junk”: dishes and cutlery and furniture, collectibles, antiques, linens, ceramics, picture frames and… stuff. And, yes whenever she saw them, my mother bought buttons. Dad sold the things they bought to supplement his limited retirement income, first at yard sales, then from the building he put up to sell the stuff. They cleaned and polished and painted and made everything nice and then they sold what they’d cleaned.

Mother sold buttons, but she kept more than she sold. She’d seen a picture in a magazine or on tv of a clear glass lamp with buttons in it. It looked pretty. So she filled her lamps with buttons. 

What she did not see was that first the people making these pretty button-lamps put Styrofoam in the center and then scattered the buttons around the all but weightless middle. Not Mum. My mother filled her lamps with buttons. Hundreds of buttons — maybe thousands. Very pretty, but her lamps are heavy. Big lamps to start, then filled with buttons. I mean really heavy. Hard to lift heavy. I’ve carried good sized dogs and toddlers that weigh less than my mother’s lamps.

At some point someone pointed out her mistake. Too late obviously. The buttons were already in there. So many buttons. No point complaining now. Besides, might be quite valuable some day, all those buttons.

“Your inheritance,” she called them.

Actually she has used that joke a lot. She bought new chair a year ago. It’s a really nice chair. Just her size; like doll furniture. Little gray chair. Put a throw-pillow on it — with a brightly colored rooster on it, naturally. Loves chickens. Can’t have too many roosters. Rule of thumb. (On entering her house for the first time the boyfriend of her devoted hairdresser was once heard to remark, “Somebody really loves cocks!”) Now, I’ve sat on the new chair and it is perfectly comfortable other than how close it sits to the floor. Also the arms only come up to my hip not my elbow. I’m short and it’s still too low. Nobody sits in that chair. Like new. Just say you like it. It’s yours.

If you like something in her house — if you like anything in her house — if you admire a vase or a picture (or a button lamp) she says she’ll put your name on it. Be careful though, she may just make you take it. The Nurse’s Aide commented on the antique spoon collection. Went into a bag. Big bag. Went. Don’t protest. Let it happen. Mum’s ninety-two. Just do what she tells you. Take the spoons.

I know what I’m taking when she dies. I want her Tupperware saltine cracker box. It is perfect. Keeps the crackers crisp. She won’t let me have it yet. She likes saltines.  But she’s put my name on it. She goes — I get the Tupperware saltines cracker box, but not before. My inheritance.

Years ago a friend told me that as we die our things are drawn closer, as if by the gravity of the situation. What to do with that bureau -- which we none of us noticed an hour ago? Who will have my china? May we donate shoes? That chair’s like new. Take this. Counterintuitive isn’t it? True though. One would think the end is about letting things go but that is a function of living, or living well, in community, with love. Dying is about what we can reach, see from here, note, fix. Dying is a test of strength, it’s agitation; the body reflexively grasping to slow the inevitable losses. Dying is holding on.

More, when one is ill the scope of things narrows and it matters what is on the nightstand, when the one thing needed isn’t by the chair, that the lamp seems to move further away each day and that the switch isn’t where it should be. The scissors need to be — so. My glasses go — here.

From her chair my mother can see a fragment of leaf or a knot of lint on the carpet a yard away. Usually she notices these things again mid-stride while being helped back and forth between rooms. “What is that?” — dead-stop. This is how heels get stepped on. This is home healthcare bumper cars.

These things matter nonetheless. It matters that the flowers on the cup face forward when it’s put back on the sink, that she reads her newspaper with a bandanna spread across her bosom so as not to get ink on her blouse. It matters that her things are clean and where she expects them to be. There’s a tiny porcelain dish for her pills because she can see them in it and fish them out with her fingers. The pillows on the porch-swing need straightened. That is not where her slippers go, and the left shoe, it just stands to reason, should be to the left of the right one.

It may seem so, but honestly she is not being fussy. She used to be, you understand, fussy. Not now. Back in the day when she was working two jobs and cleaning other people’s houses and dorm rooms and looking after old people and raising her kids and other people’s kids as well, she was fussy about whatever she had the time and energy to fuss about. Hated dirt and disorder unsurprisingly as her days were spent cleaning other people’s messes. She fussed about our appearance and our manners and our intentions as every day she saw other people behaving thoughtlessly, being slovenly, making more work for women like her, more mess to clean up. Makes sense doesn’t it?

Didn’t see it at the time, possibly couldn’t have, being kids and therefore thoughtless, messy, greedy, selfish. See it now though.

And then everything slowed down considerably and her kids were grown and gone and eventually all of her old people died and then she was old and so was he and then he died and she was alone. “ Now I just clean to keep busy,” she told me at the time. It didn’t matter in the same way. Now it mattered because time needed to be made to keep moving. Muscle and bone mattered more than the specific use made of them. Just move. Get on with it. Go on. (Nearer the end and my mother sounds like Beckett suddenly.)

Asked her opinion of what’s to be done “after,” which is the word one uses rather than death, my mother says the most extraordinary thing. There are just the two of us and it is late, already dark for hours. We’ve watched a movie and made popcorn which was probably not a good idea for either of us. Maybe that’s a different night altogether. Nights smear across months and days fall into the same spaces that repeat like pill-cases — and who remembers before this was true? But then we are talking about death and hers specifically and what needs to happen then.

“Do what you have to. You’ll know. It’ll be hard,” she says. She knows whereof she speaks. “You’ll be fine.”

That’s our inheritance.

Who knows how long those buttons will stay in the lamp? Who will want that little chair? Won’t matter. Really never did except, however briefly to her and so to me, to us.

My house is full of books. These are my books. For years now, decades, the assumption has been that should my considerably older husband somehow outlive me (look at me — it could happen) he will ask one of my friends in the used books business to come out to the house with a truck and all the books will go. I’m fine with this. My books matter to me because they are my books. I have excellent taste. Some of my books are valuable of themselves but not many. A number are rare but none belong in a museum. I own books because I read books. I read my books. When I die my books will find other readers or they won’t. I won’t be here. I will not care. I did think my friends might be invited to browse my shelves and take a book in memory of me but now I write that and I blush. What a grim sort of wake that sounds! You know someone’s taking a Quixote they’ll never read because it looked pretty and it was getting late and oh, hell, just pick something. Shiver. No. Sell the lot.

And then my husband takes an unexpected sentimental turn in this our forty-first year together and says no, he would want to keep my books. He says that he would want to come and sit with them and remember me by them and I am more touched than I can possibly explain — but no, right?

And then I remember that I will not be here in this scenario. Exit, stage left pursued by bear. Gone. My books will cease to be my books the minute I cease to be. Then they will be his books and he can do with them exactly as he pleases.

All of the things, our things that are drawn up after us, the things we drag in our wake, what becomes the debris of our passing, matters now not then. This penknife matters to me because it is beautiful and practical and belonged to my late uncle and was given to me by my brother. The object is useful and pleasing but its only meaning comes from having been given away and remembered.

Is this all too obvious? Have I not said something useful even if I’ve said nothing original? 

The nature of my inheritance is such that most of it need never be stated at all. My inheritance, ours, is understood already or it’s wasted. It is in and of us, gifts from our mothers, memories of all those that raised us, made us, loved us, left us. Mustn’t waste it.

And in the meanwhile I buy more books and covet a Tupperware saltine cracker box, and wonder just how many buttons can be in all those big lamps. And now my sister in law Kris puts my mother’s slippers just so and cleans her glasses and puts them where they belong and turns the handle on the mug the right way as, unlike her youngest son, my mother is right handed.

“Do what you have to. You’ll know. It’ll be hard.” I will see to it. We will. We’ll be fine. Take this. Call it a gift. Our inheritance.

Where Did The Day

 Maybe they’re right. I mean, what do I know? Twenty years ago we managed to re-elect a man of such singular stupidity that by the next day it had become a trend for the not so stupid people to apologize online to the rest of the world. Remember that? Eventually there was even a website and a book. I didn’t pose for an apology photo myself. I still remember having watched John Kerry at the convention and knowing we were absolutely going to lose. The podium was less wooden. We were doomed. (Absolutely no point now in reminding anyone, but just for fun, throw your mind back to those good old days and also remember just what a filthy, mendacious, grotesque campaign the other side ran in that one. Doesn’t matter anymore, but just in case one might feel forgiving of ol’ George Jr. or nostalgic for the 2000s.)

How smug I must have felt the day after! I wasn’t happy obviously, but I’d done my duty and voted without enthusiasm for the better man — yet again — and when we inevitably lost I do not doubt I told someone “I told you so,” if not in so many words. 

Imagine my blushes thinking about that now. Arrogant prick. If you will, please consider this my apology for being that guy. Back then I still subscribed to that business of “election cycles” and pendulum swings and the inevitable survival of American democracy. It was easy. We didn’t know any better really, did we? Feels comparatively innocent but maybe I’m wrong and the slope, she was already slippery. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I mean I wasn’t exactly young then, but I will say I am SO much older today.

Anyway as I’ve said probably none of that matters now, history I mean. Also embarrassment, apologies, slippery slopes and pendulum swings and Steve Kornacki’s khakis, also politics, elections, democracy, the Truth, not sure what to do with any of that this morning other than ignore it all. Maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe that’s the way. Seems to work for them. 

So I’m not going to read the newspapers on my phone anymore. Just delete those apps. I’m never reading The Atlantic Magazine again, or Huff Post, or Apple News, etc. None of it. No television news either. No CNN, no MSNBC, no PBS News Hour, or Frontline. Nothing like that. I’m changing my car radio pre-selections to those “oldies” stations that just play that one Bruno Mars song every hour. Maybe a country station or two. No more NPR ever. Done.

And no more nonfiction generally unless it’s something safe and apolitical like murdered women — excuse me, “true crime.” All media. New rule. NO podcasts. 

I should just stop reading altogether. If I were to really commit to living like them I should abandon my books if not burn them but I think we all know I can’t do that. Maybe just read dead white men? There are a lot of’em and a number are among my favorites. Fiction anyway, that would seem to be the safest bet if I can’t give up reading entirely. Maybe stick to genre. I can’t even pretend to read Romance without glowing like a hot kiln — embarrassment, not passion, mind. It is all (ALL) just so bad! So maybe more murdered women. Maybe a western now and then. Dickens won’t work. Too much conscience. Maybe try the Bible again. Such a bad book though. And it’s not like most of those people even own one and the ones that do still read with highlighters! Like children! How mortifying.

I’m really not sure how any of this is going to work. I’ve frankly no idea how they do it, how they live as they do. How does one vote for an actual pile of shit, easily the worst man to ever occupy the office, the worst man to be elected twice, and then justify voting for him by saying breakfast cereal costs too much? Eggs? Gasoline?

Doesn’t matter. They did it again, and by a much wider margin and without a doubt this time. Done. And they seem genuinely happy. I don’t just mean the crazies in the red hats, the cultists standing in empty stadiums for three hours in the freezing rain waiting for their messiah who like all messiahs is inevitably late. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. That doesn’t change. No. I mean all the rest, the ones who don’t talk to reporters or pollsters, the ones who pretended to be “undecided” even up to the day. The ones who never went to a rally in their lives. Those are the ones I’m thinking about. That’s the lifestyle I’m after now.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s better. How would I know? Instead of torturing ourselves with rationality and doubt, or for that matter with the true intent of The Gospels and the example of the Saints and so on, why not just ignore any and everything and everyone not, you know, me? Wait! Simpler even. Overthinking this because it’s pretty obvious that self awareness let alone self examination is not a part of what they do ever. See? It’s like I can’t let go even as I try seriously to let it all go.

Look. What I’m looking for is just a way personally to survive the next four hellish years — because who knows if even that rule will still apply? — and maybe not hate my country. They don’t. I doubt very much that they have any but the very vaguest notion of what this country is or was or was meant to be, but the point is that none of that matters to them. Get it? What matters is supposedly “biological men” in girls sports and unisex bathrooms and none of that actually matters to them either. It is really so much simpler than you can imagine. Of that I am finally convinced. Yes, it is a coalition of religious primitives, fascists, capitalists, racists, misogynists, and generic goons who control that party, but there will never be enough of them to win any national office. For that they need the people I’m determined to be like myself hereafter. Why not? Why not join the new majority?

No, I can no more say what they are than I can say who. That’s rather the point. They aren’t the enemy. We know the enemy. One can smell the enemy, see them everywhere. Eventually they will come looking for us. I don’t want to switch sides. I simply want to stop worrying about what’s going to happen now. That’s it. Hasn’t been doing me a bit of good anyway, bad actually for my heart. All I want is to learn to not look beyond the end of my nose except when I’m at the till. I can still be perfectly nice to strangers, have friends of a kind, go out or stay in just as I like. It seems one can have a family, like children, own pets. None of that seems to require even a thought beyond the immediate need, no sympathy beyond the people noted on a short form tax statement.

Defining anything by the negative is always a bad business. Yes, but what ARE you?! But what choice do we really have? They aren’t anyone in particular are they? The last time this happened I remember reading all sorts of statistical analysis and population studies and all that. This time I’ve read about disaffected X and indifferent Y and the loss of traditional coalition members Z. Not helpful. Women voted for the man (!) again. More men probably but doesn’t matter now anyway does it? How does that help? Who is that meant to help?

These people aren’t. That’s who they are. I know that rhetorically that is some lame shit, but here we are. They aren’t. They don’t read. Maybe they read something on their phones but nothing in paragraphs. They watch funny clips of people falling on the ice? Everybody does that though so that’s not probative. They don’t read newspapers or watch the news or read books with un-sunny covers. They evidently don’t do any of the things that have made me personally so well informed as to again be completely miserable this morning. To restate the obvious, they aren’t me or I ain’t them or we’re not better say because they are never going to read this. (“Too long” would be the nicest thing they’d say if they ever did which they never will.) 

What they do, what they did do again and in greater numbers this time, they voted. The argument Bill Clinton made over and over until even I believed him was that if we vote we win because our ideas are better but we just need to vote. So maybe yet again we didn’t. I won’t argue. In fact, I don’t really want to argue any of it anymore. Seems contrary to my whole resolution, argument. You’ll get none to speak of from them, let me tell you. Did you seen the person on the street interviews before the election? I don’t mean with the rally nuts. Those at least are entertaining in a sideshow way. “See a man pull a conspiracy out of his ass! Watch as a grandmother turns the air blue while mispronouncing the name of both the Vice President and the former Speaker of the House!” No, I’m talking local tv reporter, big clumsy mic, lady in a grocery store parking lot, rather shyly talking vaguely about inflation, a man in an old concert T-shirt complaining at a gas-pump. They don’t make arguments. They just state or more accurately misstate the obvious. That’s the ticket.

So let me just try to state the obvious then. Maybe they are right. Maybe don’t think this through. Maybe don’t try to reconcile this catastrophe to history or try to compensate for the staggering loss of all three branches of our government. Just… don’t. They clearly will not be thinking about consequences because they clearly could give a fuck so long as the price of eggs comes down and their gas bill comes down and maybe some “biological” boy who thinks he’s a girl gets kicked to death in a restroom — though honestly? That would just be sad but nothing really to do with anything anyway. I mean, these Trump voters, they’re not monsters you know, most of them. They’re just trying to get by like the rest of us, right? And besides, think about it. Think about that kid’s parents. Aren’t they really better off? I mean honestly, isn’t the kid come to that? So embarrassing. Don’t even like to think about it. 

Think about something else. Who has the time to think anyway? I WISH I could find the time to read! This is way too long. Have you seen the prices at the supermarket?! Somebody should do something. They’re all the same really though, aren’t they? They’re all crooks. No difference really. At least he tells it like it is! Can’t help but like him. At least he’s real, you know? And you don’t get to be that rich without doing something right! But don’t listen to me! What do I know?! Jeez Louise, look at the time. Where did the day do, am I right? 

Ooooowwww, I love this song!

“…there’s not a thing that I would change / ‘Cause your amazing / Just the way you are…”

Those people are so gifted, aren’t they? What is he anyway? He’s so little! Have you seen him dance?! They can all dance, I swear. Me I’ve got two left feet! 

Anyway.

Where did the day go?

A Caricature

 

Miss Hunty James poses for The Portrait of a Lady, honey.

A Caricature

 

The Flutter of Those Stainless Pinions

 By the time a word — any perfectly serviceable, common word like “gratitude” — ends up as calligraphy on scented candles and whitewashed barn slats, it is pretty much done. It’s like picking up a dull knife. Stale as old cake. It’s a shame. It’s a particular shame as it’s a particularly good word, gratitude. (I suppose that no one wants a candle called “shame,” though I rather like the idea as a hostess gift.) As it is, the word now makes one blush to see “gratitude” in the title of a serious book or even at the foot of a letter. All the Oprah of it has not so much dispersed since the 90s as it has soaked and spread into a generalized wet. Local morning show Barbies in minor markets punctuate cooking segments with it. It must be heard in mega church services nearly as often as “Lord” — a word otherwise so archaic as to be abandoned now everywhere but the upper house of Parliament and Bridgerton. It seems everyone is now so very grateful for everything — and to whom? — as to actually be indifferent to context. See? I’m grateful! It’s right there on my travel mug.

I blame Zen. More correctly, I blame all those little old monks and nuns and Tibetan by adoption students from Kansas or Brooklyn who turned us away from Ravi Shankar’s slappin’ sitar and convinced us to sit still. So much sitting still. Not their fault really, but when not suggesting detachment from all of our stuff, they did tend to ask everybody to just sit still and study a blade of grass. And not just study the blade of grass but to be grateful for, I don’t know, the green of it all? (Reminding me of another nearly ruined word when used now in any non-agricultural setting, “cultivate.”)

Pure speculation and probably not helpful because it doesn’t really matter how the word came to be code for sunshine and coffee and puppies and another day cancer-free. What matters more is that it is a necessary word still to understand specifically 19th Century novels, and particularly Henry James — not that he would recognize the word now that it’s been tattooed everywhere.

Not the first word to arise in The Portrait of a Lady. It’s a novel chuck full of good words, but this one didn’t occur to me until I was rereading my way through Isabel Archer’s beaus. So many eager suitors even before the girl comes into her luck, as it were. Every one a gentleman. Every one of them surprisingly responsive to the lady’s charms, including a pretty figure and face, but also a pretty quick wit, as well as character and more will than is usual in Victorian heroines generally. (James never stints on what we might now call “agency” when it comes to his women — even in the face of custom and the expectations of the day, even when they can’t quite do anything about it.) All of these men are attractive one way or another, all possess what James might call “points” to their advantage; money, position in society, refinement, even sensitivity after a distinctly masculine fashion. And yet each potential romance proved incredibly frustrating to read again as a very grown person.

What they all want from Isabel and don’t get is — you guessed it — gratitude. She’s engaging, responsive, kind. She says, “no.” Actually she says, “no, but thank you for asking,” but that is not enough. They are flummoxed because she didn’t say “yes.” They’re indignant moreover because she didn’t say, “YES! Thank you!” It finally occurred to me that all these men were waiting not for the acceptance but the requisite gratitude. I mean, how could she not?!

Kindness confuses. It’s expected. Demanded. But without consent, kindness might as well be a slap in their bewhiskered chops. These guys (a word, to my knowledge, James never used,) are all willing to wait — but only because they assume that “yes” is inevitable. When it doesn’t come, well, that’s just ungrateful. That’s just wrong. It’s stunning.

Not to spoil anything for the reader, but eventually the lady does consent to marry. Not a great choice, by the way, but what the author has rather slyly let us know well beforehand is that making the choice isn’t really where her Fate goes awry. Reading the novel this time, in my very late middle age, I’m pretty sure that for a woman when James was writing, marriage was Fate. The fact that his heroine here might escape it altogether is an anachronistic modern reading. James wrote more than a few unmarried women, but even at their best, this was if not tragic, then at least not devoutly to be wished. And money wasn’t enough to compensate. Spinsterhood was hard. (Widows might be luckier.) What’s wrong with Isabel Archer’s Fate is in the possessive. That this woman thinks it is hers is her mistake.

Though of course it isn’t because ultimately it is. The book famously ends without quite telling the reader what we want to hear. James did that more than once. One of his most modern habits. One of the reasons he’s never been more widely liked, and one of the reasons he’s still widely and closely read. Fate isn’t real. It’s not an actual thing. Maybe when the old Gods still had a dog in every fight and held beauty contests with tragic outcomes and the like, but James didn’t give a snap for classical mythology and he certainly wasn’t beholden to Arcadian plotting or ancient ideals. The only God in James is Henry, and his only religion is his art. Remember, Henry James is never not an American. Outside looking in (maybe through the keyhole.) I suspect that for him this means seeing through things as much as looking at them. Cathedrals are architecture. Gods are false. People are real, and really fascinating if you’re always other — and Henry is the definition of other — and he’s always looking really, really hard.

Among his most arduous tasks as a novelist was to make women real. There were already lots and lots and frankly wagon-loads of wonderful women in novels, and some of the best novels by then were written by women. He appreciated Austen. He loved George Eliot. He didn’t assume he had any special insight, only his art — and that was made from observation and composition. Those were his tools. So when he set to writing women specifically it was in part because he saw them. Think. Name another male novelist even today who spent more time in the company of and listening to women. Doesn’t mean he was by any stretch either a feminist or a sociologist. He was social. What he collected was conversation, confidences, appearances. I don’t know that it’s even fair to say that he liked women, not because he was gay, you understand. Lots of us do, though by no means all, sadly. Still men. He liked company, mixed company as they used to say. Often as not women were the better half of society as he understood it. He owed them his attention, and in his way, characters like Isabel Archer are an expression of — yes — his gratitude.

***

Gratitude isn’t really the stuff of novels though, really more of a poetic theme: Stanley Kunitz in the garden, Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry in the field, Jane Kenyon for Donald Hall, Donald Hall for Jane Kenyon and baseball and getting old. The getting older may be the key there. Thankfulness expands as the horizon narrows? The “To Whom?” question seems to trail off nearer the end and nearly every poet who gets to be old becomes a pantheist. (I used to explain late Mary Oliver to new readers as, “went to the mailbox this glorious morning” poems.)

Selling poetry is working at a fruit stand, if the reader will forgive the clumsy metaphor (not a poet, me.) There will always be a few people willing to try something exotic, something bitter or tart, but most people are looking for something ripe, something sweet. Not saccharine — though we have that in stock too (see Rupi Kaur.) 

“ The readiness is all” when it comes to emotion. Poetry gets right in there. “Gratitude — is not the mention/ Of a Tenderness / But its still appreciation / Out of plumb with speech.” See? Dickinson. 

Poetry is what’s wanted when I try to articulate this present moment, as I am at my mother’s house and I haven’t much time just now for novels.

I note that my mother has never been tall. Shorter now. She was plump most of my life. Now she’s as little and soft and vulnerable as a fawn. “I wish your Dad had lived to see me get small,” she tells me. He never did, but I can see it. Every day she seems smaller as I walk behind her as she can’t walk alone now. 

Every day she thanks me for this and that and every day I’m grateful to be here with her.

I’m grateful to be home and not home. I’m in the house I grew up in, doing my part as best I can to help care for the woman who raised me and I’m doing no better than one might expect. I’m not home with my husband in Seattle where I most want to be except here is where I want to be. (Henry James would not approve of the preceding sentences.) 

It’s hard to read in this house. Not a lot of down-time. Had to do my (virtual) monthly book club while I was here and that took some arranging, but it happened. I was grateful for all the help. Cousin Patty came and sat with Mum while I blathered away on my Zoom. My sister had to go back to Texas. First my sister-in-law then my brother got sick so it was a near run thing, getting those two hours to talk about Henry James.

“The debt immense of endless gratitude” as Milton called it, so perhaps that’s the measure of the thing. No matter how common the word now, there’s really no way to reduce the thing to less. 

So for Henry James and his Isabel and “the flutter of those stainless pinions,” for Dickinson and Milton and all the poets, for family and friends and the help of both, and of my fellow booksellers, and my employers for allowing me to be here, and most for the company of my mother nearer the end than the beginning, for being and not being home, I here express my gratitude.