West Coast - East Coast

Whenever I stood at the front entry of our lovely Spanish adobe home in southern California, as always, I admired the view. If the jacaranda trees were blossoming, their falling flowers created a lavender carpet along the sidewalk. Oleander trees stood sentry in a row along the driveway. Our neighbor’s bougainvillea ran riot along their entire wall. I never tired of the palm trees that would cause tourists, comically, to stand open mouthed and openly remark on as soon as they exited the airport’s gates: “wow, palm trees, wow”; so ordinary to the denizens but such a novelty to out of state visitors. 

Inside, the house’s thick walls kept the place cool in summer and warm in winter, albeit summer’s temperatures were a fairly constant 74 degrees while winter temperatures fell to 69 or 70 degrees. Except, of course, during the El Ninos, when it could rain for a solid month. And then there were those pesky earthquakes that could cause a person to dramatically jump out of bed at 2 am and then the fires, simultaneously terrifying and beautiful. 

I knew that I would miss southern California for so many reasons. It was impossible not to be athletic in those environs, possibly why Angelinos were thin. During the winter months it was a five hour drive to Mammoth Mountain, which provided the best skiing in the country; high mountains, long invigorating runs and, while waiting in line, the usual question to ask a stranger was “what part of LA are you from”. The mountain was our guilty secret. In summer, closer mountains and deserts provided opportunities for hikers and mountain bike races. Likewise, the coastline was readymade for summer movies: regattas galore for sailors, clean beaches for sunbathing or participating in volleyball tournaments, bicycle riding along the strand, extreme surfing, paddle boarding, or water skiing. The occasional shark or stingray provided extra interest and there were plenty of beachside cozy bars and trendy restaurants when the water activities were done for the day; a wonderful place to be young, healthy and competitive. 

Since mosquitoes or humidity were unheard of, breakfast oftentimes began on the patio. Outdoor dining was an ordinary event, whether on the ground or on rooftops. Music blasted everywhere, from surf songs on the beach to the Mariachi horns downtown. The abundant outdoor arenas, such as the Hollywood Bowl and the equally famous Greek Theater, allowed ticket holders to bring their picnics to enjoy before the entertainment. Chatting it up and sometimes exchanging food portions with the neighboring ticket holder could lead to a new friendship or, at the least, an encounter with a celebrity. Who would have guessed that Anne Hathaway was a fan of Rod Stewart’s music. Celebrities were ordinary folk in LA. They were “at home” so we left them alone. 

We would miss so much about this life, but southern California is a place for young people with an abundance of energy, single minded ambition, determination and driving enterprise. The hours long commute on bumper to bumper eight lane freeways were more harrowing with each passing year for us. Maybe our older age made movie-star-wanna-be waiters behave more testy when we asked one too many questions about the fusion menu or we were quite flummoxed by the half dozen languages on our local election ballots. It didn’t help that, almost daily, police sirens and screeching brakes, followed by “hands on the wall” were carried on the nearby wind. Someone wasn’t having a good day. This cacophony of noise and bad behavior was becoming too ordinary for us to endure. Like us back when, the Young Turks had arrived to make their bold mark in the big city. Now it was time for us to move over, leave town and immerse ourselves in our new world. It wasn’t “them”, it was us. 

It was time to find more pastoral surroundings and, since we had a posh wedding to attend in DC, we decided to take advantage of that opportunity to visit various places along the east coast. We understood that anywhere we went in this great country, there would be various natural climate disasters waiting, whether they be tornadoes, hurricanes or blizzards. I saw it as an enormous shopping opportunity for a completely new line of outdoor clothing while my husband saw it as a favorable time to indulge in his long held desire to own a John Deere tractor-mower. 

Our quest began in Maine. While we were enchanted with their historic harbors, we quickly realized that two months of summer and ten months of winter would not be to our liking. New Hampshire had its now somewhat amusing history of witches but likewise suffered through long harsh winters. Boston was just another big city and while Rhode Island and Connecticut were both lovely states, the property taxes were heart stopping, so we kept going further south. On we went, finally arriving in DC for our black tie three day wedding extravaganza. While we enjoyed the temporary, somewhat stiff elegance of the event, this town was way too buttoned up for the likes of us. We continued south. We were warming to the accents of the people in the Carolinas until, upon asking a waiter for non fat milk for my coffee and instead being served cream, then summarily told that “it won’t kill ya, honey”, I demanded that we head back north. You can take the girl out of California, etc. 

Further north, we settled on Maryland. Situated an equal train distance between NYC and DC, should big city withdrawal arise, we agreed that the eastern shore would suit. Winters were more temperate than the more northern states. People were patient and courteous, and there was plenty of colorful foliage. We expressed our parameters to a local realtor and, within a year, had found our new home. We had officially traded the Pacific for the Atlantic, gazpacho for chowder, Nordstroms for L.L. Bean, celebrities for politicians, palm trees for crape myrtle, no seasons for four seasons and sushi for BBQ.

We easily established ourselves in our new home. One of the first things we noticed was the quiet. No car horns blasting, no helicopters flying overhead while barking “pull over sir”. The only sounds were birdsong. If I stood outside to listen to the quiet, on  occasion, I heard the flapping of a bird’s wings as it flew overhead. This new sound of silence was heavenly. 

We were surrounded by fresh air and greenery. I could look out our window and see nothing but trees, bushes, lawn and sunshine dancing on the cove’s waters. Not a slab of concrete in sight. I learned the names of the new flora, never before having seen, or heard, of St. Johns Wort bushes. I learned when to plant tulip bulbs and why azaleas didn’t bloom at the same time as hibiscus. The great outdoors were a complete mystery, soon to be unlocked with long conversations at the local plant nursery.

We had fauna to contend with, which we thought was so charming for the first five minutes until I understood that those deer were eating the azaleas and tulips, unless the squirrels got to the bulbs first. We watched a murder of crows cautiously eyeing a meal of dead rabbit right until an eagle swooped in and carried it away. Who was more shocked, us or the crows, was too close to call. We gaped, they squawked. The combine harvesters sweeping up the corn fields announced the first wave of the true fall season, producing another engaging ‘close to the earth’ moment until we realized that the field mice were looking for a winter home and our attic was their first choice for their new accommodations. The favored brands of peanut butter and mouse traps became the source of earnest conversations by the pickle barrel at the local hardware store. 

It was another shock to learn that immediate crises were not so immediate around here. When I discovered that the kitchen sink had backed up, the local plumber replied that he could arrive on Tuesday to “take a look” at the problem. It was Friday. In southern California I could call the plumber at 7 am who would arrive 20 minutes later, repair the problem and I wouldn’t be late for work that morning. A Zen patience was required in our new environs, not to mention a glass of wine or a stiff scotch while reviewing our assorted Do-It-Yourself manuals. We learned the meaning of “hands on”. 

Life was slower, much slower. However, people were so much more kind. I could walk into the hardware store and not only would someone walk me to the product I needed but could also recommend a second approach or a better and cheaper option if there was one. In California, I would be lucky if the sales person spoke English and could point to an approximate aisle, with “maybe there”. Here, people knew what they were doing. Savvy knowledge was handed down from one generation to the next. Families had lived in the area for three or four generations, as was the case with most of the people we met. In California, meeting someone who had been born there was akin to meeting a unicorn. Everyone knew everyone, their strengths and weaknesses. We were told to see Mike for help with ‘this’ but to see George for help with ‘that’.

In California we were ordinary folk. Here, in Maryland, we were fancy outsiders. We had no roots here and were bringing no branches to leave behind. We quickly replaced our license plates. I put away all my beloved high heels that wouldn’t last for five minutes in the grass or gravel anyway. My silk dresses were replaced with corduroy pants and trench coats were replaced with barn jackets. We were very careful to be polite and accommodating, not wanting to be branded as the smug, entitled city slickers looking down their noses at the supposed country bumpkins. These people didn’t have razor cut hair styles; instead had razor cut minds, which they kept to themselves and only displayed when necessary. We wanted to belong, of course. We joined the local civic organizations, but were circumspect with our opinions, which would only make us look suspicious and untrustworthy. Instead, we learned to move slowly, donated small requested amounts and always agreed to help when asked. In turn, eventually we were looked at askance less often, the personal questions were less blunt and, occasionally, we were invited into people’s homes. Like intrepid pilgrims, 15 years ago we had arrived in our new land. We belong here now. As Kenny Loggins famously sang: “Celebrate me home”. 

Water Water Everywhere

 Statistics show that the people who have the most birthdays live the longest. More and more, I follow Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes’ mantra:  “Old age is always 15 years older than I am.”

Inside my head, I’m still 32 years old: vivacious, hilarious, gorgeous (she says modestly), so when no guests are around during the summer months, I like to jump into the pool and splash around stark naked, as if I was 32 again. My body craves vitamin D is what I tell myself. Scott believes that our nearest neighbor, one quarter of a mile away, could, ingeniously, watch me, if the neighbor or, more likely, the neighbor’s hormone infused teenage grandson, could see over the tall pines toward our home by climbing a tree or hopping onto the roof, carrying binoculars. I reply that even a high testosterone fueled teenager would be scarred for life after viewing a nude 78 year old woman. No man wants to see his mother’s birthday suit, never mind his grandmother’s scrawny naked body. 

Adding fuel to my senior siren song, I attempt to lure Scott into the pool by telling him how growing swarms of fireflies will soon appear, stay for a few weeks, as they do each year, to blink their butts in search of a mate. I do the same thing in the pool, waiting for Scott to join me which, being of sounder mind, he does not do. Heeding Scott’s second piece of advice, however, I’m careful to apply suntan lotion liberally wherever the sun shines.

Anyway, here I am, drifting around the clear blue pool waters on a couple of large pool noodles enjoying the sun on my face and on the rest of me. Once I’ve found my solar sweet spot, I close my eyes and allow my mind to wander back a few years; a lot of years actually. When I was young I had great dreams. Now I have great memories and for that I am truly grateful. These days I have plenty of time to revisit my past. 

While I’m laying on the pool waters, I remember back to other waters, some fifty odd years ago. I remember the time Cindy talked me into joining her on a rafting trip down the American River. “Everyone who has done it loved it. Besides, we’re not doing the whole river, only the south part, the easy part”. Small solace, but I’d always been an easy mark whenever she would approach me with one of her dubious schemes. Granted, I had heard about the great adventures that were to be had on American River rafting trips. I had also heard about the strong currents, the white water rapids. And while I liked to think of myself as adventurous as the next person, I had also heard that people died on those rafting trips. People actually died. I was very concerned that while maneuvering those rapids, my little 115 pound body would be bounced off the raft and snapped like a twig on the surrounding rocks. I had heard those stories too. I didn’t take up much space so, conceivably, no one on the raft would even notice that I was gone. I’d heard that the waters could be so swift they actually could tear off a bathing suit. That said, arguing with a lawyer was exhausting. In the end, I knew my whining would come to naught so I packed two bathing suits and a set of prayer beads. 

I let Cindy arrange the whole trip because, unlike the adage that fear belonged to the unknown, the more I knew about this trip the more fearful I would be, so best not to know. I followed the more common ‘ignorance is bliss’ route. 

The following weekend (no point in letting me stew long enough to change my mind), we found ourselves somewhere near Sacramento; some famous valley that belonged to the beginning of the California gold rush. It was very early in the morning. I was cold. There was no coffee. Cindy was impressed with the history of the area but since there was no residual gold around, I didn’t understand what there was to be impressed about. Pompeii was impressive; this was just a nice valley. And I was a city girl. All this greenery was making me itch. 

She found our group. We were in the beginner South Fork section; a silent ‘yea’ on my part followed. There were six of us plus the guide. The guide appeared very muscular and very confident while the others looked considerably less so. After looking them over, I was more trepidatious about how well one of them could rescue me if I fell into the waters; if any one of them would even try. Would I do the same for one of them? No, but I would point to their bodies as they floated by. I gave Cindy the side eye and became less convinced about my safe return. Yes, Ollie, here’s another fine mess, etc. 

We were fitted with life jackets and then the guide gave us the safety briefing which included how to paddle in sync. I fell into a Busby Berkeley Esther Williams singing and swimming fantasy, which no one appreciated. Actually, that paddling part didn’t sound too terrible, but nervous anticipation began when he was telling us how to ‘expertly’ pull ourselves back into the raft if we took an unexpected dip. I wanted one of those rescue whistles like the heroine in the Titanic movie wore. Again, my request went unappreciated. After hauling the raft down to the water, we pushed out into the surprisingly cold green current and jumped in. While I didn’t want to embarrass Cindy absolutely, I did push past someone to sit parallel to her. I had no doubt that she was my only chance to stay alive. 

All settled in, we calmly floated along, enjoying the now warming sunshine dancing on the water, admiring the verdant landscape and making inane remarks about man eating sharks swimming up the river. I was humming some tune from Deliverance, when the pleasant birdsong straight away changed to the sound of a rushing roar of water. “White water!”, someone yelled. We just as quickly catapulted into the rapids, completely soaked with river spray; very cold river spray. The guide sang at full volume: “Meatgrinder! Forward paddle! Paddle!!”. What the hell was a Meatgrinder I wondered, while I paddled paddled paddled. The raft bounced around and over the rocks like an out of control corkscrew roller coaster. Ah, like a meatgrinder. Looking around at the other members of our crew, they looked just as disoriented and skeptical of survival as I did. And just as suddenly, we shot out the other side of the chute into a small somewhat sedate eddy. We slowed the paddling and wiped the water out of our eyes. It was good to see straight again, now that my hysteria and heart rate had begun to subside. The river widened and we drifted down through calm waters once again; not that I trusted this river any longer, but I enjoyed the easy moments. We were alive, we all appeared to relax, taking in the canyon walls, the sunshine, the plants and surrounding leafage hanging into the water’s edge. The waters carried us along once again. A few people loosened up enough to actually speak complete sentences to each other. The guide warbled a few positive noises our way: “you guys did great”. I still didn’t trust him. 

Sure enough, in what seemed like no time at all, the guide explained that we were coming around to the grand finale; another rapid with a “ticklish” drop that would most likely cause one of us, or all of us, to flip over or out and land in the water. Did I remember what he had said about pulling myself back into the raft? No. I was terrified. I just stared at Cindy, who wasn’t looking too good herself at that moment. The guide started yelling instructions about paddling through the white foam. I did what he said while reciting the Hail Mary. We paddled, we screamed, we came through it and, finally, as we were heading toward the end of the journey, the guide blithely reminded us that this was the easy 20 mile stretch. He was confident that next time we could all navigate through the river’s north fork. At that point, I was damn sure that the only fork I would navigate in the future was through a plate of food. 

South of the Border

 Ever hear a song whose melody brings a nostalgic, knowing smile to your face? The last R. J. Decker show had him and his girl dancing to a lovely tune, Liquor and Love sung by Theo Lawrence. [The ‘official video’ on youtube is a bit creepy — a lady lip syncing the lyrics but the song is worth a listen, just watch something else while the video plays.]

Anyway, the elegant guitar riffs, the evocative melody and the absurd lyrics made me want to sing and dance like I was young again; back to fun times south of the border, at least what I can remember of them in my carefree and merry youth. Getting blackout drunk in Mexico was practically a rite of passage to young Californians, me included. I remember south of the border adventures with my husband and our friends gave way to ludicrous questions like “uh, what’s this stuff on my shirt”, “is that guy dead, no, good” or “does anyone remember what happened to my shoes?” I had quite the wardrobe of huarache sandals by the time we left California.

The usual MO was to drive our cars as far south as San Diego, then rent camper vans and drive them across the border. We always chose the optional extra insurance coverage since the chances were better than good that we would make highly questionable choices that could - would - possibly lead to somewhat bizarre misadventures during our stay. The extra coverage cost was cheaper than our cars disappearing in Mexico or worse, finding them stripped bare. 

We traveled in caravans for the simple reason that even we knew ourselves to be naive white gringos who might be able to skirt a minor offense with a cop who’d look the other way when a couple of twenties accidentally fell into his hands but if something worse should come about we could count on each other to find the nearest US embassy and to call a lawyer. Not that any of it was ever our fault.

We’d arrive at customs in our camper van. The ‘seen it all’ officers would look at our eager, starry eyed faces, ask the usual questions and wish us good day: “tengan un bien dia” then stoically, close their eyes and shake their heads as our camper caravan passed through. After customs, we powered through dilapidated Tijuana, long past its glory days as a party hub for thirsty Americans during prohibition and made our way further south, rolling through Rosarito Beach (those stories for another time) to Ensenada. 

And, of course, as any neophyte knows, or learns the hard way, don’t drink the water, don’t eat the lettuce and don’t put ice in your refreshments. Montezuma’s Revenge was not the road to a healthy bowel movement or a healthy blow out of anything from any part of the body. Ergo, our last stop before crossing the border was to purchase our own bottles of water, ice and lettuce. And this was why, we rationalized, we would only drink margaritas, tequila shots or mezcal while dining in cantinas. 

Tecate or Modelo beers were a nice alternative when relaxing on the beach and watching a sunset while listening to the ocean’s crash. Open containers were illegal so we oftentimes buried the bottles while drinking, in case the local cops snuck around or in case we passed out. And sometimes, when parking oneself on the beach, sitting on a hard spot due to some miscreant leaving an empty bottle buried in the sand confirmed that we weren’t the first to place our butts in that sandy spot.

Our first stop was the perennially popular Hussong’s Cantina. The story goes that Hussong created the first margarita. How Hussong came to own the bar was another one of those mythical tales, the true facts of which were lost in the mist of time— something to do with the original owner asking two complete strangers, who had randomly wandered into the place, to watch his bar for a couple of days while he went up to California to retrieve his errant wife. The guy was carrying an axe so the fellas said ‘sure’. Who knows what happened up north, since neither the man nor his wife ever returned. In the meantime, Hussong, a nice German lad, kept the shop going, candle in the window and all that; eventually renaming the place after himself. We all speculated, during highly intoxicated and highly absurd “what if” queries and debates, whether the original owner did leave town or was buried under the cantina. We further opined that certain events and facts may have become lost in translation with the passing years. Ultimately, what was a unanimous decision, what most mattered!!! was that the margaritas were stellar.

In any event, Hussong’s was an idyllic hole in the wall. It was dark and dank, the floor was covered with sawdust and other unidentifiable ‘stuff’; the bar maintained the underlying aroma of stale liquor and old cigarette smoke. We were very impressed with ourselves because we thought the place was so charmingly authentic. (We were young. We didn’t know any better.) One wall was covered with business cards from everywhere; some even looked reputable. I don’t recall that there were windows or maybe we were never there during daylight hours but the drinks were strong and generous and the mariachi band was outstanding. We sang loudly, we danced erratically, we laughed at each other’s singing and dancing and we were just so happy to be young and alive and having fun with each other. This was south of the border joie de vivre hospitality at its best. We felt like such international sophisticates: Scott and Zelda, Hemingway, Gerald and Sara Murphy had nothing on us. Of course, the people at the next table probably were from Pasadena but they looked mean in the dark. By the time we left the cantina at our evening’s end we were long past that nice middle lane of social inebriation between giddy and sloppy. We were blind drunk, teetering with raucous laughter and holding each other up as best we could, busting up at each other’s antics. In short, we were an embarrassment to ourselves, each other and our entire country.

Even drunk, we realized that we needed to be careful; different rules applied in a foreign country. A man getting drunk can do crazy things, a woman getting drunk can have crazy things done to her. The unsavory looking amigos loitering outside the doors of cantinas in the area might not have earned their Boy Scout badges by ‘helping’ the ‘amigos’ back to their van; yet another reason we never traveled alone. Occasionally, one of us tossing our cookies just outside the cantina’s doors may have kept a few more seedy types away from us, thereby allowing us to wend our way back to our campers in a perhaps unrefined but relatively linear line.

Mornings would arrive too soon and inevitably there would be senoras knocking on our door with the singsong “tamales”. For those of us who could keep food down these fresh hot tamales were manna from heaven; something to soak up the stomach corroding acids, while others of us continued to lay still, eyes closed to keep the sunlight and vertigo at bay; the very aroma of the corn tamales causing our bodies to convulse, while begging for water from anyone daring to stand upright. We understood the concept of our ‘body as a temple’. We also rationalized that temples appreciated offerings and each evening we did our best to lovingly offer ourselves up to the tequila gods but the mornings brought another, more certain, clarity. Tequila gods did not love us back.

Being exquisitely young and foolish, by early afternoon we were relatively sober and ready to spend the rest of the day enjoying the warm sunshine, buying ‘authentic’ clothes that we would never wear, lunching on chicken mole and bartering for genuine huaraches. By evening we were revived and ready to repeat the previous evening’s performance at another ‘original’ location to further our dining and dancing pleasures. 

Too, we learned that if we didn’t move our vans fast enough each morning, there would be another knock at the door by someone in a uniform advising us that we were parked illegally and would be required to visit the local “officio” to settle matters. We knew that this was no time to make up a wild excuse to the local cop (sign? there was no stinkin’ sign!), but was the time to pull out another twenty and then vamoose to another location. That was how things were settled, in true south of the border style. What followed each evening was, of course, another repeat of the previous evening. 

And the ride back to California after those glorious three day holidays ensured equally memorable moments. Camper vans had their own lane due to the various options for contraband delivery to the US. We would watch to determine which lane was moving the fastest. Of course this took time too. During one trip, I irritably opined that it might be easier and faster to just take our chances and let them take our van apart but someone said that that would still put our names “on the list”. The list? Besides, how many of us had brought papers to prove who we actually were and to which country we owed our loyalty. No list. My husband would admonish me to say nothing about my new huaraches and, in fact, to just say nothing at all. The police and the federales didn’t expect women to talk anyway so that worked out well. Once the local police entered the cabin, surreptitiously looking for all manner of forbidden exports, we merely had to give them our apologies - disculpas, give them the last of the Dos Equis beers that we didn’t mean to bring back with us and give them the last of our twenties. The police would then see to it that the federales need not search the premises. Again, south of the border hospitality. And I was getting away with sneaking my huaraches into the county. Those days are long gone, while  the memories remain but I still wonder what happened to all my shoes down there. 

Books

 As far back as One AD the Romans used the screw press, which allowed for direct pressure to be applied on a flat plane and was used for a wide range of agricultural tasks such as pressing grapes or olives for wine and oil; an integral part of the ever popular mediterranean diet. When not pressing food stuffs, the device also was used by the ladies during off hours as a cloth press for printing patterns. This explains all those Greek designs that appeared along the hems of gladiators’ mini-skirts.

An alternative to the ‘mechanical’ screw press were the monks who had worked as scribes for hundreds of years in cloistered basements, reproducing pretty scrolls and colorful scripts by hand. Elaborate calligraphy was job security for the monks. From time to time, depending on the colors used (red dye no. 3), some of those inks would be absorbed into the skin and poison the monks; such occasional deaths were considered an occupational hazard of the trade. Latin was lingua franca, the universal language by which all scholars communicated and how the Pope kept the serfs and vassals in line. No one could read so it was not possible, even unthinkable, to contradict the Holy Orders’ posted edicts.

Around 1440, Johannes Gutenberg, a German goldsmith, pondering the design of the existing screw presses, developed the movable type printing press. He very quickly realized that he was onto something. His printing press could produce up to 3,600 pages per workday, compared to forty by the screw press and only a paltry few by hand copy. He didn’t realize it at the time but ultimately he had started the printing revolution that would change the world.

Gutenberg was on a roll. He formulated an oil based ink that was more suited for high quality printing. This new ink overcame the problems with traditional water based inks that his wife was always complaining about; colors often ran when wet, thereby spoiling more than one of her outfits. For this alone (happy wife, happy life), he was a true Renaissance man; right inventions, at the right place, at the right time.

Not to be outdone, the medieval papermakers successfully mechanized paper manufacturing, replacing the laborious handcrafting of paper making and introducing a massive expansion in production. Previously constructed from mulberry bark and other like products, fibers were tediously soaked, boiled and then laboriously beaten into pulp. The pulp was mixed with water, then lifted and shaken to interlock fibers, after which water was pressed out and the sheets were hung to dry. Once the mechanization process came into play, the price of expensive parchment was reduced to a more consumer friendly product. Origami birds and animals abounded or would soon do so.

We now had the typewriter, paper, ink and the completion of this harmonic convergence was the codex, the ancestral format of the modern book; basically, a stack of pages bound at one edge. The codex replaced the ancient scrolls and, at the time, was considered the most important advance in the history of publishing prior to printing itself. The codex completely replaced the ancient scrolls. Imagine trying to read Ben Hur under the sheets using a scroll. The codex was/is a more practical, more convenient way to read. By turning pages, rather than unrolling scrolls, a book was more compact, less costly and both recto and verso sides could be used for printing, unlike the scroll. Sadly, monks hadn’t had the forethought to unionize so they were shortly put out of work. 

At the same time, Martin Luther was quite disgusted with the hypocritical teachings of the Catholic Church. Not to mention all that sitting, standing, kneeling during services, which was becoming quite difficult, especially for older folk with arthritis. Martin Luther created the Protestant Reformation, believing that ‘indulgences’ were promiscuous, along with a host of other 'forgivable' sins. Standing on a box and orating, however, was only getting him so far. Fortunately, in tandem, the Gutenberg press had unwittingly come to his aid. The common folk were learning to read. All manner of upheaval was taking place. Posters for performances, public notices and branded shop signs began appearing along every oxen and cart wheel route. The villagers were rebelling against Papal authority with all this new learning of their A-B-Cs. The Pope and the Church were losing their influence and control, all due to the peasants’ Bible and book reading. And our favorite fun loving monarch, King Henry VIII, was likewise kicking the Church to the curb. Nothing and no one was going to keep him from marrying Anne or, later, beheading her. Unfortunately for the Church, the toothpaste did not go back into the tube.

After the Great Reformation, life settled into a more peaceful and bucolic era. Books were published but were still very expensive and rare, although more common among the male elite, but even they found it somewhat worrisome that women were reading too. Women wanted to read books to widen their own education and to learn how others might handle a similar situation. It was the upper classes of women who knew how to read in the 18th century; who wanted documentation of their own experiences; never mind the Bible, Greek or Roman myths. Chick lit was abounding: Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Elizabeth Barrett Browning ruled. These babes had stories to tell and there were plenty of unoccupied women adorning settees and willing to read them. 

And travel. Women wanted to read foreign travel books after their own Grand Tours. Italy was the country even Shakespeare dreamt about. The Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet. Women wanted foreign romance, glamour, intrigue and it would only happen through books. They had read Tolstoy: Anna Karenina, War and Peace; all that cold white snow and warm dark fur. Then came George Eliot, who wrote about the intellectual exploration of social, moral, and political issues. And Elizabeth Gaskell. These authors demanded that women explore their own values, standards and rules of conduct, as did Thomas Hardy’s socially tragic novels, Charles Dickens’ indelible characters and sharp social commentary. Oh, mon dieu. Who knew what could come next. How soon would it be before women wanted to, dare it be said, vote. 

But enough about them. Let’s circle back to me. How did I get started down this book road, you ask. One late evening quite recently, I happened on this little ditty on a book marker: “If you must brave the moor as storm clouds rage, I’ll keep your spot on this cozy page.” Evidently it doesn’t take much more than a book marker to start me musing on books, albeit it was a dark and stormy night. (All right, not my line, but the much maligned opening line of Edward Bulwer-Lytton's 1830 novel, Paul Clifford. Still, I love that line.) 

I noticed that when I read the same book over again the book’s words hadn’t changed but I had. I remember reading D. H. Lawrence’s The Virgin and the Gypsy while in high school and thought it was so deep and rich and powerful. I read it again a few years ago and thought the plot was trite, while the characters were selfish and shallow. What a bunch of idiots. The book’s words hadn’t changed but I had. Lawrence is best left to the young, as are numerous authors, like Kerouac and Salinger. 

Somerset Maugham. There’s a name that sounds like a Napa valley vineyard, or a gated community near the Cotswolds. He wrote, among other books, The Razor’s Edge, which is still one of my favorite books. I’ve read it a few times over the years and each time I pick it up I seem to read a different book. The first time I read the book was through the eyes of the hero, Larry Darrell, who was so traumatized by WWI that he looked for life’s spiritual meaning by living in an Indian ashram, working in a Welsh coal mine, traveling around the world and eventually giving away his trust fund and happily driving a cab around NYC, much to his family and friends' chagrin. The second time I read the book it was through the eyes of the young debutante Isobel, who loved the pre-WWI Larry but wasn’t about to live his post WWI bohemian lifestyle so she married someone who could provide her with greater financial stability. I could see her point: as a woman in the early 1900s, she had few options; she was fragile, was raised to be dainty, ladylike and cared for, who needed security; wasn’t all that smart but was smart enough to realize that living hand to mouth above French bordellos was not going to be her idea of a good time, so she wished him farewell and went off to live her comfortable life. The last time I read the book, it was through the eyes of the author, who placed himself in the book, as both an acquaintance and as an observer of all the characters’ strengths and foibles as they made their way through life. He was in the book, but not of the book. His presence played no part in any of the character’s lives. It was brilliant writing. Again, the book’s words hadn’t changed but each time I read the book, my life vision had changed. 

Amor Towles’ A Gentleman in Moscow, whose words changed my interpretation of a dramatic and a comedic novel. The first time I read the book, it was filled with mystery and intrigue; the turmoil in the Russian empire, the protagonist’s permanent lockdown in the grand hotel, the young girl who, innocently, comes under his auspices and for whom he must now care. Life changing events, over which he had no control, but our hero maintained his dignity, equanimity, and moral compass throughout all these historic upheavals. What a man. But the second time I read the book I found it to be extremely amusing, recalling the one eyed cat, the nervous seamstress, the surly actress, the officious hotel official, and the ‘Kremlin Administrator’ who demanded that his men “round up the usual suspects” after our star escaped from the hotel. The words were the same, but my perspective was different. 

I was eight years old when the school librarian read a passage from The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley. Intrigued with the story, I checked the book and read it in its entirety. Even at that age, I came to appreciate that this school library held many different worlds for me to explore. In due course, I found the same printed version that still sits on my book shelf. The book that changed my life. A book is a personal experience. I’ve never felt bored or alone when I’ve had a book in my hands. I learned to knit by reading a book; granted, there were pictures. A book allows me to explore a new world; gives me a break from the current one. A book takes me to a time in the past or a time in the future and bridges a gap between different minds and very different perspectives. 

Books can be dangerous. The best ones should be labeled "This could change your life." ~Helen Exley

The Calendar

 It’s the new year, time for another round of resolutions that won’t last longer than Super Bowl Sunday; notice how the gyms clear out after that big day. This story isn’t about resolutions, it’s about the calendar. We all pay very close attention to the calendar, whether it be viewed with gratitude that it’s Friday, or viewed with fear because somebody’s period didn’t arrive, or viewed with relief because it did arrive. No, this is about something much more inscrutable. This is about the actual calendar. I’ve always wondered: How did the calendar and the names of its twelve months come about, especially when I’m pronouncing Feb-ru-ary. What’s with the extra r stuck in the middle of the word. I’ve been researching this conundrum for months and here’s what I’ve found. I’m not saying that it’s all titillating, some of it is fairly dry, but it’s interesting, especially if you want to sound like a wisenheimer to your bed companion just before falling asleep. 

The origins are forever rooted in Egyptian and Babylonian mythology but realistically, today’s Gregorian calendar evolved over long periods of time, beginning as far back as the Bronze Age. Noticing that the sun rose each morning no matter what else was going on, Egyptians introduced a solar calendar. “Let’s start the day with each sunrise”. Okay, but the calendar proved unreliable; falling back a quarter each day. Even the peasants noticed that days were uneven; steadily shorter, then longer, and eventually not corresponding to the agricultural seasons at all, so they gave it up and followed their own little growing cycles. 

On the other side of the Mediterranean, fast forward to the traditional Roman calendar, which was attributed to Romulus, the legendary founder of Rome, around 753 BC. Not being especially educated himself, having been raised by wolves, the story goes that Romulus, hanging out at the Baths with his buds, decided that the calendar ought to follow the lunar cycle, albeit the Egyptians originally had that idea locked down as the solar cycle; just hadn’t fine tuned it enough. The lunar cycle worked well enough for the peasants but, again, it fell out of sync and confusion ensued. 

Each time it fell out of sync, more adjustments were made. Romulus’ calendar better aligned with agricultural cycles, beginning in March and ending in December. However there were about 60 days in winter that were unaccounted for until Numa Pompilius, Rome's second mythological king, added January and February at year end to cover the winter gap but, once again, between mythology and real life the cycle still didn’t fully align.

It became apparent that further adjustments were required, not to mention the dwindling number of virgins willing to be sacrificed for the harvest. Various ideas and plans ran rampant. Romans had a superstition about even numbers in months, ergo days were added and subtracted here and there. Plus, the various popes would add days to extend political terms or to interfere with elections. It was all still somewhat hit and miss. Well, it wasn’t as if insurance companies were sending out free calendars with the annual purchase of chariot insurance.

And when things really fell out of whack,  Intercalaris was an extra hiccup month that would be inserted every few years to realign the seasons. Once it had served its purpose, it would be removed, like tonsils and training bras. 

Along came Julius Caesar, of ‘et tu Brute’ fame, who decided that, once and for all, serious redesigning was needed, not that the peasants could read, but for his own edification he wanted a more reliable method of calculating the passage of time, especially since, presciently, those famous Ides of March were just around the corner. Originally the year began in March, but Julius moved the beginning date up to, or down to, January, then added a day to every fourth year of February; still not quite right, but close enough for government work. He only lasted five years on the throne but that was long enough to establish the Julian Calendar.

This movement from March to January somewhat explains, to anyone who took Latin, why Octo, which means eight, is now the tenth month and Nove, which means nine, is now the eleventh month and Dece, which means ten, is now the twelfth month. Somewhere along the way, shouldn’t someone have cleaned that up, but nope, Julius was a big picture guy, so the calendar was still confusing Latin students, scholars and clerics everywhere.

Instead, after Julius was done away with in Act III, Scene I by the aforementioned Brutus, and succeeded by Augustus, who brought about the Pax Romana, Marc Anthony, feeling guilty about a few things, later changed Quintilis to Julius and Sextilis to Augustus. 

Finally getting to it, here’s how all the calendar names came about, mostly according to Julius:

January is named for Janus, the god with two faces, signifying beginnings and endings. 

February was named after the purification god Februus. Virgins and animals were sacrificed to promote fertility. 

Martius, aka March, named after Mars, the god of war and fertility, also symbolized the start of spring; plant growth and more fertility rituals.

Aprilis, from the Latin ‘to open’, and linked to the goddess Venus. The Church helped by loosely setting the pagan date near the ecclesiastical equinox, aka Easter.

Maius, the fertility goddess (notice a lot of fertility and begetting months).

June, for Juno, the queen of the goddesses; the goddess of marriage and a popular month for brides and more begetting.

Quintilis, remember Marc Antony suggested that the name be changed to July to honor Julius Caesar. After his “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” introduction, he went on to say: “My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar”. They were BFFs, even after that little kerfuffle about Cleopatra.

Sextilis was renamed August after Caesar Augustus by the Roman senate to honor him for his Pax Romana; peace in the kingdom. Augustus, in a somewhat picayune manner, then added a day to the month so that his month had the same number of days as July.

September marked the start of autumn with nearly equal days and nights. Summer cotton togas were exchanged for heavier linen or wool togas.

October  Winterfylleth "Winter full moon” refers to the first full moon of winter after the autumn equinox. In Anglo-Saxon tradition, Winterfylleth marked the start of a major seasonal shift, linking to themes of death. As an aside, but notable for the season, William Shakespeare's Sonnet 73 is an ode to aging, mortality and how the awareness of approaching death can deepen love, using metaphors of late autumn, twilight, and a dying fire to show the declining of life and urge his beloved to cherish their time together more intensely.

Novembris is just a cold month, marking the transition from fall to winter with shorter days, heavier coats and preparation for year end. Otherwise, nothing else is happening here; fewest number of recorded deaths or births occur during November (I'm not sure if that factoid is actually correct; the citation was somewhat suspicious, but it seems like it should be accurate).

Decembris's Roman significance centers on Saturnalia, a major winter solstice festival honoring the god Saturn, known for feasting, gift giving and temporary role reversals (later to become known as Boxing Day), heavily influencing later Christmas traditions; a period of festive license and communal joy before winter truly sets in.

So those were the twelve months that were ascribed to Julius and the Julian Calendar. Oh yes, and while I’m thinking of it, a month didn’t loosely correspond to today’s four weeks. Instead, it was broken into three categories starting with Nones on the 7th, then the very famous Ides on the 15th and ended with Kalends on the first. It was more of a three week month, which didn’t really comport with the average lunar cycle; the synodic month, is about 29.53 days, but its actual length varies slightly due to the moon's elliptical orbit and gravitational influences, causing slight shifts from month to month. 

On a somewhat related note, I’ve often wondered if this was how it came to be recorded in the Bible that people lived to be 180 years old. I understood that they lived more simply, ate more natural foods and wandered through deserts for exercise, but that couldn’t be why they lived so long. Now I realize that the months and years were shorter which gave us the illusion that people lived longer. Today a year consists of 12 months and 365 days, but in the mist of Biblical times, a year would last 150 days (15 days x 10 months). Using those calculations, I’d be about 210 years old. It pays to moisturize.

The Julian calendar was accepted until around the 15th century when Pope Gregory XIII noticed that the calendar was off by about ten days. Then again, the peasants still didn’t know how to read so there weren’t too many critics. Sun up, sun down, winter cold, summer hot; that was about it for the peasants. But wait, Luther had been printing up those ecclesiastic periodicals; peasants were learning to read. Who knew what could happen next. The Pope knew the calendar needed reform, even Dante mentioned it a few hundred years earlier so Gregory took up the cudgel and commissioned another astronomer, Aloysius “Luigi” Lilio, to come up with a new calendar. With the help of Christopher Clavius, by 1582, the Gregorian calendar, which we follow today, was instituted. 

One would think that Pope Gregory might honor these guys by suggesting that a month be named after them, but no. Parsimonious, I say, after he gets the entire calendar named after him. I feel bad for Lilio and Clavius. Perhaps they’ll get a new planet, or at least a new moon, named after them one day.