A Lifetime of Books

I would rather read than do almost anything else. Been that way since I was small.

I learned to read before I started kindergarten. I don't know how or why. Perhaps I was just ready for what my gut knew was going to be the best part of my life.

I have absolutely no way to estimate how many books I have read in my lifetime. I could guess, but I think I'd likely be way off. When I was in elementary school, and there was the summer reading program at the library, I was one of those kids that needed something like 8 sheets to keep track of them all. When going away for a week or more on vacation, my mother would take me to the library first so I could get 15 or so books to last me.

I read in trees. I read on the lawn. I read in bed. I read under the covers. I read in the middle of rooms with chaos ensuing, completely oblivious to it all. I read in the car. I read on planes. I still do all of these things. I can read while walking if necessary. I've even been known to read at red lights while driving if I'm at a particularly compelling part of a book.

I've read everything. I read fiction and nonfiction. I read stuff that was on the 10th grade curriculum list when I was in the 7th grade. I made time to read for pleasure all through college and grad school on top of my required reading. I have a penchant for disaster stories (floods, trepidatious adventures, natural disasters, man made disasters). I love sociology and anthropology - especially when it reads easily. I am on the constant hunt for the great contemporary novel, reading new stuff that comes out. I have a queue set up in my library account similar to my Netflix account. As soon as I read a review in Entertainment Weekly, The New Yorker, Time Magazine or the newspaper, I put it in my library queue, sometimes while the book is still marked "on order" by the library. Then I wait for it to get to my branch. I called once after not getting to the library quickly enough for a pick-up after getting my email notification and the librarian said "Oh, I know you're coming. No worries."

I love to learn from reading. If I can read a story or an account and really learn something new, I'm that much more pleased. I love good character development; I can do without a lot of scenery description (this is why I never finished Wicked although I loved the stage show - I don't care for that much description of the lands around Oz - get me to the story, Greg!). I love anything that makes me cry; tell a story to tug at my heartstrings and you've got me. I love (love, love!) a good children's book or young adult novel.

I am obsessive. If a book really matters to me, I will talk incessantly about it and badger others into reading it. Sometimes people are glad I've done this, other times they sort of cock their heads afterward and try to not be too mean about the fact that I've stolen time from their lives.

I write to (and now email) authors. The first I really remember was Nathan McCall about his book Makes Me Wanna Holler. It was a letter, since it was the early to mid-90s and I didn't have email. I write them mostly to say thank you. Once I wrote to Junot Diaz to find out about a reference he made to a short story in his book The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I once got in a fight with Jody Picoult about her reason for ending Handle With Care the way she did. Most of the time, authors respond back with lightening speed. It's pretty satisfying. I've gone to lots of readings, sometimes in intimate settings where I get to say hello afterward. I have a bit of hero worship for authors in general.

To go back to that guess, I'd venture to say this: I've been reading since I was 5. So that's 32 years. I think it might be safe to say I could average - over all those years - 40 books a year. So that's 1280 books to date. Is that a lot? A tiny little internet search just now found that there was an article in the late 80s that said the average American reads 1000 books in their lifetime. Then a dude responded to that and said that he keeps track and is at just under 4000 books read and he reads 2-3 a week and he's 49. So, I will use this (very scientific) information to say that my 1280 is pretty good. (I also think it might be conservative. It might be more accurate to estimate that I've read more like 45 or 48 a year.)

People often pose that question: would you rather be deaf or blind (if you had to pick one). I've always chosen deaf. People are always amazed. I always say that with deafness, independence is not a problem, but with being blind, it seems to me that one would really need to rely on others to live. I think though, the other reason is that if I were blind, reading would change so drastically, it would be hard for me to handle. That book in my hand, the words on the page, the speed with which I can get through the pages - to lose that would be real tragedy for me.

I have no interest in a Kindle. I love the heft of a book in my hands. I love the turning of a page. I love that books are company no matter what I'm doing. There's no line too long or wait to annoying as long as I've got my book in my bag - and I always do.

Gotta go now. Some more of Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell awaits!

Date Night

I went on a date last night. It was pretty spectacular. And it was pretty fancy. Involved dinner (it's Restaurant Week in Boston!) and then the theatre (the production of Stick Fly). No expense was spared. Dinner involved a cocktail and a coffee and dessert. Theatre ticket was bought late for one of the added shows for this sold out production and was not cheap. Treating like that feels great!

Who was this date with? Myself. Me. I.

I take myself on dates fairly often. They aren't always this swank, but they usually involve something really cool I read about or heard about. Sometimes I can't find someone else to care about whatever it is, but more often, it's just because I feel like doing something cool by myself. I've been doing this for a long time now.

I tried to remember this morning as I was thinking about this post if I did this in college. I can't remember. I don't think it was deliberate if I did. It was probably sad and pathetic when I couldn't find anyone to hang out with or when I was so tired out by the maintenance of friendship that I just needed a break. I know for sure it began when I left Boston for the first time to head to graduate school. I often spent time alone - at a coffee shop, out to dinner, at a movie - because I didn't have a lot of friends. I didn't know a lot of people when I first got anywhere and I've done that A LOT! I've arrived somewhere new without knowing anyone 6 times in my adult life. That's a lot of times to move somewhere and not know anyone. Sure, I had bosses and colleagues or what have you, but that's not the same.

As I've gotten older, I've chosen to do things alone more and more. I travel alone almost exclusively. I really love it. And usually, I'm alone for all of 42 seconds before I find people to spend time with wherever I am. I'm still in touch with a number of people I've met during trips (especially now because of Facebook).

My mother has often commented on this ability I have. She thought it was pretty weird for a while. Now she admires it, I think. She's often told other women she knows about how I do this (sometimes she has to -"Who is Karen going to Peru with?" must be answered with "Alone."). She had one woman tell her that she has to get food takeout and eat it at home because she could never eat alone in a restaurant. My brother once told me he feels so sorry for people eating alone in restaurants that it makes him want to cry.

I thought up a whole curriculum once for women specifically about how to enjoy yourself in a space alone and to gather power from it. It was going to be an 8 week class and participants would each week do something by themselves and then journal about it and talk about it in class. The "big" thing at the end was going to be individual for each person. For one it might be going out and sitting in a cafe alone for an hour or for another it might be going out to a nice dinner alone or the movies by herself. I never followed through. I should.

I LOVE doing stuff alone. LOVE it. I don't have to meet anyone or wonder where they are or worry about being late. I don't have to eat faster or slower. I don't have to worry about whether what I'm eating makes me look like a pig. (Not that I really care about that, anyway.) I don't have to make conversation or be entertaining. I can read a book or a magazine or look around wondering about the other people around me. I don't have to make decisions by group consensus. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. Set out to bike through the Emerald Necklace and end up in South Boston - great! No worries that someone else agreed to this under duress and is exhausted. It's only me!

Don't get me wrong. I also LOVE doing stuff with other people. I've got plenty of friends and they are of every variety. The ones who want to go dogsledding and winter camping and the ones who wouldn't dream of any such thing. The ones who are super low maintenance and the ones who need a little more planning. The ones who are single and can do whatever and the ones with kiddies who have to arrange stuff to find 2 hours. And I love them all and love being with them all.

And I really dig me. Last night's date was really wonderful. A three course meal, a few chapters of a new book, and an amazing theatre experience. I don't need more than that.

If the universe means for me to meet someone and finally have that partner who I long for, that'd be really great. And I'd love doing things with him. I'd revel in that, I'd think. But I know, beyond any shadow of any doubt that the man who chooses me will know that occasionally, I'll need to go on a date with myself. Because although I'll love him with all my heart, I will have to keep that other relationship going - that mistress on the side who needs attention and energy - me.

And if the universe means for me to not meet someone and to not have a regular partner to walk through the world with, it will've done its part making sure that I am equipped for that life. Because I am. I enjoy my own company enough to be forced into it for a long time to come.

I often end posts with a comment about how blessed I am. Don't you see why? Because here again I am. Blessed. I'll take it.

The Mayor's Hotline

I claim to be civically engaged. I vote. I volunteer. I read the community newspaper. I attend community events. I pay attention to the crime in my neighborhood. I give money when it's needed for causes I care about. Sometimes I wonder if I do enough.

Here's a story. You tell me, civic engagement or not?

I drive the same way every morning to work. It first involves getting out of my neighborhood, which is not readily accessible to a highway. (This, as a side note, is thanks to lots of other folks' own civic engagement in the 1980s to keep the Southwest Corridor Highway from running smack through the middle of some of the poorest and already marginalized neighborhoods in Boston.) So first it takes me 12 minutes to get from my house to the entrance to 93N. This entrance is at the intersection of Mass Ave and Melnea Cass Boulevard, a huge, very busy intersection near Boston City Hospital. Everyone trying to get on 93, North or South, ends up in a giant 4-lane road. Those going South peel off to the right about half way up this feeder road. Those going North stay on the road, going up a hill and around a very small bend in order to eventually take a hard left onto another feeder road that could take you to Downtown or South Boston, but has a left exit to gain entrance to 93N. At the top of this hill is a traffic light. This is because the crazy intersection where the traffic light is happens to also be where those coming off of 93N from the south must exit to get onto Mass Ave and Melnea Cass Boulevard (where I just came from). They have to exit, go straight and then take a hard left themselves to get where they are going. Sound confusing? That's because it is!

Although confusing, most morning commuters know what they are doing here and the light is timed well, and traffic keeps moving in both directions, rarely backing up very far.

Monday, March 15, day three of the crazy Nor'easter Monsoon. I arrive at the intersection of Melnea Cass Blvd and Mass Ave and see that the traffic going up the hill to the traffic light is worse than usual. This is weird, considering that there's been hardly any other traffic on my 12 minute commute from the 'hood to this point. I think a lot of people just stayed home that day because the flooding and storm were so bad. I slowly progress up the hill and then see the light is blinking red. In both directions.

And so now, folks, I enter the biggest game of chicken ever in traffic history. Those going straight have the advantage. They are coming straight and therefore it appears they have the right of way. But us left-takers, we have got to have a turn or eventually we will be backed up onto Mass Ave, and let me tell you, that would be none-too-pretty. The people who end up as the front cars on either side after a stream of the other lane has been going for a while must seriously have balls or grow some, because the fate of the rest of us lies upon their shoulders.

On Tuesday, when I arrived and the light was still flashing red in both directions I figured it must be broken because of some complication due to the storm. Makes sense, right?

Wednesday. Same deal. Okay. That's it. Time to do something. While I'm still half-way up the hill, I start trying to remember the Mayor's Hotline number. I know that the city offices exchange is 635 because of all my work with them during my Boston Cares days. So I try round numbers after that. 635-2000. 635-4000. Nothing. They just ring and ring. I remember that the Mayor doesn't let anyone have voicemail at City Hall (folks are supposed to answer their phones) and it's before 9. I try 635-4500. I get Massport. I tell him I'm trying to get the Mayor's Hotline. He says, "Oh, it's 635-3500." (He must get that a lot.)

So I call. And I get one Ms. Terri G, whose name I learned later. Also, at this point, I've completely forgotten that it is a city holiday in Boston. It's March 17. Most of the world knows this as St. Patrick's Day and nobody gets that off from work. But, it just so happens that on March 17, 1776, the British were driven from Boston following the Siege, so-called Evacuation Day. And city offices, schools, libraries, etc. in Boston are closed that day. Super convenient for a city full of Irish peeps. But I digress.

The woman who answers the Mayor's Hotline listens to my tale as I ask her who I need to talk to. She says she's not sure, so she patches me through on a three-way call to some department (I don't remember which) and I tell that dude my story while she stays on the line. When we determine it is the wrong place, she confirms with him what the right place is and then we hang up with him. She patches me through to the next place and waits while she listens to my story for a third time. Once we determine we've got the right people, she hangs up. I am assured by these people that my concern will be registered.

I call the Mayor's Hotline back again. I must get her name and thank her. This is the best customer service I've received practically ever. I thank her. I get her name. Now realizing it's a holiday, I thank her even more as she's clearly drawn the short straw at the Mayor's Office that day. (I refrain from making an ethnic joke since she tells me her name and I realize she's Italian - that's right, Irish peeps, stick the Italian with working on Evacuation Day. It was a coincidence, really!)

I got to work and went to the Mayor's Office page online and I emailed the Mayor a commendation for this woman as well as thank him in general for the Hotline. Super great idea. (I've used it before - got patched through to animal control one night at midnight when I drove into my street in the city and had to stop because there was a lurching, frothy-mouthed raccoon in the middle of the street.)

And today, folks? Today, Thursday, the light is fixed. No more blinking red. (The timing appears to be off, in favor of those going straight, but it could be that I was later driving to work today than usual.)

And so, is this civic engagement? Is my call to the Mayor's Hotline to change a problem in which I saw potential danger, definite annoyance and delay civic engagement?

I think so.

Vermont

I just finished up my requisite three weekends in Vermont for 2010. And as always, as I drove down the windy road through the woods headed for Route 30 and ultimately Route 91 in Brattleboro, I felt sad. I always feel sad when I leave Vermont. Been feeling it for about 25 years now.

I was raised by a village. Hillary knows what she's talking about, and my parents and their village made it work long before folks knew the phrase. My dad has a group of friends he first met at the pond house where he grew up with his grandparents, and they translated into ski friends. They began renting houses at Mount Snow, Vermont together in about 1965 or so. The mountain was still relatively new, and dad was one of the ones in college at the time. They kept renting together (different houses, always for the whole season) straight through till they got girlfriends, and wives, and the first round of children. I was in that first round, along with Tracy and Kristyn.

These same folks also continued to be pond people, too, so my exposure to them was year round. I know it was a conscious decision to choose to have us kids call the adults by their first names and to eliminate the formality that a Mr. or Mrs. or Dr. creates. They also decided the "Aunt" or "Uncle" that many kids grow up using for people not actually related to them was not what they wanted. And so I have a pseudo-parent I call Barbara, and one called Eddie and one called Charlie, and one called Renee, as well as some real Aunts and Uncles in the group - the list goes on - to go with my regular Mom and Dad.

And at some point, they decided they could all speak up and discipline us all. I posited to the group this past weekend that perhaps that was because Mom/Cheryl was one of the first to have kids and she was willing to discipline just about any child within a mile radius of her, and others followed suit. Nobody argued. However this got decided, it was a pretty great way to grow up.

And while I have only 2 siblings, I actually have about 15 people I would consider almost-siblings. Some of them I really like, others I have learned to stay an arm's length from - sort of like some real sibling relationships. We fought/fight, we cry and love and we talk to, annoy, yell at and bully each other with no holds barred. Just like real siblings.

At some point in the mid-70s, people started buying houses, having more kids, and slowly figuring out that skiing was expensive, especially with small kids, some of whom wanted no part of the whole thing. So they stopped renting a ski house. The pond continued, since all those houses were owned by grandparents or parents or aunts or uncles and were sort of free for the using. So I've never spent time in my 37 years out of touch with this group of people.

And then everyone got more stable financial lives, and taught their kids how to ski at Nashoba or somewhere else close to home. And we began renting again - in 1986. At the one of houses where they had rented before - the one where I had taken my first steps, in fact.

From 1986 through 1995, I participated. Every weekend through high school graduation; less frequently once I went to college. Then I moved to Maryland and LA, but they kept renting the same house together until 2000. (I'm the oldest kid with my sister being the next by a lot of years over the other kids.) I actually don't know why they stopped in 2000. There was a break for a few years. I think a number of the "First Generation" stopped skiing, and with fewer kids around, the novelty wore off.

For those 14 years, though, on any given weekend, there was between 8-10 adults and between 10-15 kids in that house. For a while when we were younger, each family had a room and we slept 5-up in a 12x12 room complete with Dad snoring like a buzzsaw. As the years progressed, we slowly migrated from our parents' rooms into the loft, a large furniture-less room at the top of the house. There were some fun nights in that loft. I distinctly remember one night when Dad, all 6'4" and 220 lbs of him, made his way up the stairs to the loft. We all had heard him coming and had lapsed into a stunned, breath-held silence. He was Dad to three of us, but he was Fred to the other 8 or 10 kids in that loft. I'm not sure who is scarier when he's annoyed, Dad or Fred, but we all knew the jig was up. When the curtains that acted as the door to the loft parted and my hulk of a bear of a Dad stood in the light coming through the plate glass windows behind him, it only took "BE QUIET!" for us to be all done. Dad/Fred doesn't get upset or involved in disciplining us all that often, but when he does, watch out. I think we were all asleep about 10 seconds after he left.

I spent two spring breaks during college in that house with friends. We stole more signs (from the mountain, homes around the valley, stores and restaurants) than we can count. People put cars in ditches on snowy nights, got stuck in the mud and rescued by the likes of Hans Mueller, and ate a lot of hot dogs. There were many hilarious drunken moments as well. Some by parents when they were quite young - before and after they were parents. Some by the "Second Generation" as we approached and passed legal age. Mom/Cheryl was Carol Bottom of the Barrel and I once had quite the evening involving Sunny Delight and vodka. One parent who shall remain nameless for the purposes of this post would climb up on a bar stool, plop a 30 pack next to him and make his way through it in a night. That same dude fell asleep once in his steak out to dinner and was mad the next day when we kids had eaten his doggie bag.

We learned to gamble. Skat, or 31 was always one game; for quarters at first and then dollars. Kids would arrive with cups full of change and be begging Butch before he had even finished unpacking the car for a game. I am a pretty good Blackjack player in Vegas because of my Vermont-based training. To this day, Skat is one of this group's favorite ways to pass 2 hours or so. And the last one standing walks with 30 or 36 or 14 dollars in ones, depending on how many people play. Great fun!

A word on money. The family we rented from all those years gave us some sort of deal, I've never known how much. And I know that one member of the group who shall remain nameless for the purposes of this post subsidized the rent for a number of years with help from his parents so we could all enjoy the house. And, one member of the group was able to secure drastically reduced ski passes for a number of years as well, so we could all ski for only $25 a pop. This, I know, is the main reason our family was able to participate. I owe a debt of gratitude to these folks for making this possible for me and my family. And I'm really glad my parents made sure we understood that we had guardian angels in the form of people who loved us enough to help out the group when needed.

When I returned to Boston in 2004, it was winter. I had been gone since 1995 and I had largely left skiing behind during those 9 years. I longed to ski again, with the folks I know best and associate with skiing. And so, that 4th of July, at the Pond, I said to the "Second Generation", "We should rent a house." And we took a pulse on who could afford such a thing. Kathleen wound up buying a house instead, and we all kicked in toward her mortgage. She only had that house for 2 seasons, but it was great while it lasted. After that, I did a season-long share with 19 strangers, and while it was a great winter, I missed my peeps.

The next year we did Killington for a change of pace and because my brother-in-law, who grew up skiing in Colorado, has a hard time enjoying the tiny Mount Snow. We had a great year that year too, but decided no Killington after that - it was a further drive and my sister and brother-in-law moved to Texas. We wanted others to join in; those who didn't want to do a season-long rental. And so, for the 2007-08 year, we gathered the same group back again and rented a place for 3 weekends. And this appears to be our new tradition, as we just finished up the third year of this.

I have to say, I love it. I get most weekends in the city in the winter, and everyone can afford to go in for one or two or three weekends. We've kept costs very low doing it this way. And when I announced my retirement last year as the house organizer, Fran stepped right up and took over.

I love Vermont. I relish every minute I get to spend there each year. And I love to ski. And now I love to snowshoe. I love when it snows, I don't mind when it doesn't. Even when it's -23 degrees and we can't go skiing, I still love being with that group of people in a house in Vermont. Oh, we have our ups and downs. We've had our bumps in the road. We've had to navigate unpleasant moments. But that's what families do.

Amazing thanks to the "First Generation" - the ones who started it. Who taught us how to ski, play pool, steal signs, drive in blizzards, skip lunch on the mountain in favor of the shorter lines when everyone else is in eating, drive in ski boots, play cards, drink, and make community dinners. Amazing thanks to the "Second Generation" of which I am the oldest regularly participating member. We've carried it on, brought our own traditions, and made time for each other and "the mountains" even when we didn't really have the money or the means. And here's to the "Third Generation" of which there are only two born so far (my counterpart, the oldest: Mia, and my niece Sonia). I hope that you too will be able to participate in something akin to what we have had.

It's not everyone who can tell their friends they were raised by a village. I get to tell people that. And I get to add that I still live and love in it every day. What a blessing.