I started this summer with great aspirations from a reading standpoint. Stonington has a fine public library, and I hoped to don my mask, browse through the nifty collection, and find some interesting stuff that I wouldn’t have read otherwise, but for a random examination of library shelves. And things started off strong when I finished the books I brought up from Columbus and found a library copy of Mary Beard’s SPQR, a 2015 history of ancient Rome. It was an ideal choice, because I love history and I’ve been wanting to brush up on my knowledge of the first great empire that has been the source of so many of our modern words and governmental concepts.
But life sometimes has a way of interfering with our lofty aspirations. It’s been a busy summer from a work standpoint and for me, at least, that often has an adverse effect on leisure reading. Although SPQR proved to be a very interesting read, by the time I was finished with squinting at the characters on my laptop screen and tapping away at my keyboard on weeknights, I often didn’t feel like picking up a book for yet more reading. With my leisure reading largely confined to weekends, and with SPQR tipping the literary scales at more than 500 pages, it took me a lot longer to get through the book than I expected.
But here’s the great thing about the Stonington Public Library: if you need more time to finish a book, it’s not a problem. The librarians aren’t there to crack your knuckles with a ruler and start assessing overdue fines. In fairness to big-city libraries, part of the challenge is managing the collection, and if you don’t keep track of your books you will soon find yourselves with empty shelves. But in a little town like Stonington, the library is decidedly a more relaxed affair. You give your name when you check out your selections, they enter the borrowing on the library computer, and they expect you to return the book once you’re finished, without imposing some arbitrary reading period before the renewals and fines start kicking in.
I enjoyed SPQR and would recommend it to anyone who’s interested in ancient Rome. But I also really appreciated having the freedom to take my time in reading it without trying to cram the reading into a mandatory period. Thanks to the Stonington Public Library for letting me borrow a good book that was a pleasant part of a busy summer!
It’s Independence Day. As we recognize our oldest national holiday, dating back to before the country was even formally founded, no doubt many people are thinking that these are strange, difficult times, and are wondering just what the future may bring. We’ve experienced significant protests across the country — with “Black Lives Matter” signs being seen even on a small road in this remote corner of Maine — and in this presidential election year political passions are running high.
The spirit of unbridled protest has always run deep in this land. We’ve fought two civil wars in an effort to define and structure concepts of liberty and freedom, and we’ve experienced other periods where the vein of protest pulsed strongly. The country has seen the mass civil rights marches and Vietnam War protests of the ’60s, the women’s suffrage movement, the Prohibition and anti-Prohibition movements, and the organized labor movements in the late 1800s — and that’s just scratching the surface. Each of these protests has changed the country in some meaningful way, and there is no doubt that the current protests will, too. The spirit of protest is so important to this country that we have codified our right to protest in the very first provision of the Bill of Rights and specifically stripped Congress of the ability to make any law “abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” People who wring their hands about protests simply don’t understand our history, or our institutions. In reality, protest is as American as apple pie.
We often think of the “Founding Fathers” as gentlemen with powdered hair in fancy dress who secured freedom just by signing the Declaration of Independence — the execution of which gives rise to the holiday that we celebrate today. From our vantage point, more than 240 years later, we tend to forget that country’s first civil war, which we now know as the Revolutionary War, was a harsh, bloody fight that occurred in a bitterly divided land — and the Founding Fathers in their silk stockings were the rebels.
Courtesy of a present from Richard, I’m reading an excellent book about the first part of the revolutionary period by Rick Atkinson, called The British Are Coming. One passage had particular resonance with me, in view of the period we are currently living through:
“John Adams, never taciturn, later would be quoted as saying, ‘I would have hanged my own brother had he taken part with our enemy in the contest.’
“Few were hanged, at least not yet; incivility rarely turned to bestiality. But no one could say how brutal the war would become. Conformity, censorship, and zealotry now flourished. Even small sins, such as ‘speaking diminutively of the country congress,’ might be punished with forced public apologies, boycotts, ostracism, or property confiscation. A mild word of praise for the British government–or simply being suspected of thinking loyal thoughts–could provoke a beating. Militias served as a political constabulary, bolstered by the Continental Army. When Queens County, a loyalist stronghold on Long Island, voted 788 to 221 against sending representatives to the provincial congress, the names of those in the majority were published in the newspaper; they were forbidden to travel, hire a lawyer, or practice a trade. More than a thousand militiamen and Continentals then swept through Queens, arresting opposition leaders, seizing weapons and extracting allegiance oaths–except from the 250 obdurate men who fled into the swamps to await General Howe’s arrival.
Such measures spread.”
In short, there is nothing new under the sun, and we’ve been through these kinds of challenging periods–in fact, much more challenging periods–before. Reading accurate histories of America would provide reassurance on that point. Unfortunately, airbrushing history has also been a tradition in this country. How many of us who went through the American school system were taught of the horrendous Tulsa, Oklahoma race massacre of 1921, or of lynchings, or the role of the Ku Klux Klan in subjugating African Americans — or for that matter the egregious history of lies, broken promises and mistreatment of indigenous Americans, Chinese immigrants, or other ethnic groups, or the Japanese internment camps that were created during World War II? Those terrible racist episodes are as much a part of American history, and our ability to gain a true and complete understanding of our country, as the lofty pronouncements in the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and the Emancipation Proclamation. Those of us who were taught that America’s history is an unbroken story of freedom, liberty, and fairness in service to the world were not told the whole story. We deserved the truth, but we didn’t get it.
I hope that that will be one of the positive impacts of these current protests. We can only fully grasp the meaning and complexity of American history, and the true importance of crucial historical figures, if we take an unvarnished view of their lives and understand their faults, flaws, and failings as well as their successes. I hope that the exercise of First Amendment freedoms that we are seeing in these protests ensures that American history is never sanitized again and the full story — good, bad, and ugly — is told from here on out.
The exercise of our freedoms is something worth celebrating. Happy Fourth of July, everyone!
Stephen Crane wrote The Red Badge Of Courage, a great story about a boy who comes of age and makes some discoveries about himself while serving in the Union Army during the Civil War. The “red badge” refers to a bullet wound received during a battle.
I’ve got a few red badges of my own — from gardening. Except my red badges don’t reflect bullet wounds, thank goodness! Instead, they spring from bug bites, nicks, rashes, scratches, welts, thorn punctures, and other minor wounds inflicted while digging in the dirt, pulling weeds, clipping off and carting off dead branches, levering out and lugging off rocks, roots, and tree stumps to clear the ground, and doing the other things that gardeners do. Oh, yeah . . . and a decent sunburn, too.
I think gardening is fun, but it isn’t the bucolic, pastoral experience you might suppose. Plants have defense mechanisms, and so do the insects that live on and around them. Pesky weeds and overgrown wild rose bushes and raspberry bushes are happy to give you a scratch or two while you are removing them from their patch of ground, and Maine is home to some ferocious biting insects. During this time of year, the biting insect brigade is led by the Maine black fly, as well as the mosquito and horse fly. The black flies apparently can bite through the hide of a moose, so I’m an easy target. And after suffering the indignity of a bite, you’ve got several days of itchiness to remind you that you’ve invaded the black fly’s territory.
I look at my arms and survey my backyard battle scars, and realize I’ve probably got more marks than I’ve had at any time since I was a kid and summertime was spent outside all day long. My red badges of gardening are just the price you pay for a little outdoor activity, but boy — I could do without those maddening black flies.
I walk around Schiller Park every day. I’ve gazed in appreciation at the heroic statue in the middle of the park, and know that Schiller was a poet who was so admired by the German immigrants who initially settled in the German Village section of Columbus that they chose to erect a statue to him in the park.
But that’s about the extent of my knowledge, regrettably. And since I think we should always be interested in broadening our horizons and learning a bit more about the places where we live and work, I set out to learn a bit more about Herr Schiller. And with the aid of Google, it wasn’t difficult.
You can read the entire, translated Ode to Joyhere. Here’s the first verse:
Joy! A spark of fire from heaven,
Daughter from Elysium,
Drunk with fire we dare to enter,
Holy One, inside your shrine.
Your magic power binds together,
What we by custom wrench apart,
All men will emerge as brothers,
Where you rest your gentle wings.
Today would have been Mom’s 90th birthday. She’s been gone for a number of years, now, but I still think of her from time to time — and I find that I recall her, and inwardly hear her distinctive voice, even more frequently during this curious period.
Like yesterday, when I made myself lunch on a weekday — which is highly unusual, of course. My meal was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and apple slices. That’s exactly the kind of lunch that Mom made for me back when I was in elementary school. Make the sandwich with Wonder Bread instead of whole wheat, add in a Twinkie — individually wrapped, of course — and give me a small carton of cold milk bought from the school cafeteria for 2 cents, and I could easily be an 8-year-old eagerly opening up my lunchbox at Rankin Elementary School.
Or washing your hands. Who doesn’t remember their Mom lecturing them on the importance of constant, rigorous handwashing? In Mom’s case, the lecture didn’t stipulate that 20 seconds of washing was required, but the lecture always involved the words “scrub” and “use some elbow grease” and frequently was followed by a post-washing spot check to make sure that hands and face were suitably clean before you could sit down for dinner.
Or being home because of illness. Sure, I’m not staying home because of my illness — knock wood! — but when you had to stay home from school was when Mom really shined. Campbell’s Chicken noodle soup and saltines, with jello for dessert, on a TV tray served to you in bed, Archie and Richie Rich and Scrooge McDuck comics to review, freshly laundered pajamas, and the scent of Vicks Vap-o-rub in the air — why, you almost looked forward to a little sick time R and R.
And finally, Mom was the queen of looking on the bright side — and there are always things to be thankful for, even during this time. So far, all of our family members, colleagues, and friends have remained blessedly virus-free, we’ve got food in the cupboards and the fridge, our toilet paper supplies are holding out, with every day that goes by I’m saving money on dry-cleaning expenses, and Kish and I have managed to deal with the work at home process without a hitch. Mom would say “count your blessings,” so in honor of her birthday I will.
This seems like a good time to use up stuff that has been taking up space in the cupboard, rather than going to already stressed grocery stores. So, tonight we’re experimenting with what we’ll call “all-in stew.” That’s where you take a look at what’s in the cupboard and pick something that’s been there for a while, add in some random flavors like mustard, horseradish, and sriracha, chop up some leftover chicken and sausage, throw in some spinach and onion, and toss it all into the crockpot to cook down for a few hours.
It’s like the plot of the classic children’s book Stone Soup. Savvy soldiers come into a town where the wary villagers have hidden all the food and, under the pretense of making “stone soup” with just water and a few rocks, ultimately convince everyone to contribute some of their hidden stores, and allowing the villagers — and the soldiers— to enjoy quite a feast.
So, we’ll use up the last of that bag of quinoa, and that can of garbanzo beans. Do they go together? Beats me! We won’t know until the crockpot works its magic.
In The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell wrote about how Hush Puppies became must-have footwear in the ’90s, and attributed it to the decisions of influential “mavens” and “connectors” whose involvement helped make Hush Puppies a fashion trend.
But, what if the reverse were true? What if there are people out there who have the opposite effect — whose tastes are so perverse, and whose decision-making is so out of line with the mainstream, that their decision to purchase a product almost guarantees that the product will crash and burn?
Researchers now think they have inadvertently found that such people exist. As the New York Times reports, the identification of these Typhoid Marys of consumerism came out of patterns shown by six years of purchases by loyalty card customers at a national convenience store chain. When analysts looked at the data, they found that about 25 percent of the people whose purchases were logged had a special affinity for buying products that ultimately turned out to be duds. And if those particular consumers bought a product more than once, the product’s chances of success grew even smaller. One of the researchers calls these people “harbingers of failure,” but that doesn’t seem strong enough to me: these are harbingers of doom, so powerful in their wrong-headed buying decisions that their simple attraction for a product heralds its demise.
What’s more, when researchers started looking at this phenomenon more closely, they found that these harbingers of doom tend to cluster together, and that there are entire zip codes that can reliably be expected to reveal ill-advised products through their purchases. The data also shows that harbingers who move also tend to move to other harbinger zip codes — where the property values tend to be lower, incidentally, than in neighboring zip codes. What’s more, the data indicated that the harbinger of doom effect isn’t limited to consumer products. When researchers tied the harbinger zip codes to political contributions, they also determined that the harbingers prefer to make campaign donations to failed congressional candidates.
And here’s the thing: I think I might be one of these Grim Reaper consumers. As a kid, I loved Quisp and Quake cereal, which were promptly pulled from the market. In the early ’80s, when confronted with a choice between a VHS and a Beta video player, I listened to the salesman’s explanation and bought the Beta — just before the Beta product failed, they stopped producing Beta versions of videos, and I was forced to go out and buy a VHS machine. I regularly like TV shows that are abruptly and mysteriously cancelled mid-stream, like Deadwood or The Borgias.
I’m a Harbinger of Doom, and I didn’t even know it!
Creative people who put their creativity out before the public have to deal with one thing that the rest of us don’t: reviews of their work. Whether it’s an artist overhearing comments about their paintings at a gallery, or a novelist, playwright, movie director, or musician reading newspaper reviews of their efforts, creative people have to get used to the idea that some people, at least, won’t like what they are doing. And if the creative people can’t get past that issue, they probably aren’t in the right line of work.
Part of developing an artistic thick skin about bad reviews is realizing that the opinions of a critic are just that — one person’s opinion — and that critics are often just wrong. In fact, sometimes a critic is so wrong about a particular piece of work that their opinions, read years later, seem comically and historically misguided.
I thought about this when I read about the New York Times review of the Beatles’ album Abbey Road, published right after it was released in 1969. To his credit, the reviewer, Nik Cohn, found that the nine-song medley on side two was the most impressive music the Beatles had recorded since Rubber Soul — even though he thought the individual songs within the medley were “nothing special” and, for the most part, “pretty average stuff.” In fact, he thought “some of the lyrics are quite painful,” and “most of the lines here are steals.”
Continuing his critique of the lyrics on side two, Cohn wrote:
“The great drawback is the words. There was a time when the Beatles’s lyrics were one of their greatest attractions. Not any more. On “Abbey Road,” you get only marshmallow. * * * On “Abbey Road” the words are limp-wristed, pompous and fake. Clearly, the Beatles have now heard so many tales of their own genius that they’ve come to believe them, and everything here is swamped in Instant Art. ”
And remember that side two of Abbey Road is the side Cohn sort of liked. The rest of the album, he wrote, was an “unmitigated disaster.” Come Together, he concluded, “is intriguing only as a sign of just how low Lennon can sink these days.” Cohn also got it wrong that John Lennon, and not Paul McCartney, sang Oh! Darling. Cohn thought the two songs by George Harrison — those would be Something and Here Comes the Sun — were “mediocrity incarnate.” Cohn opined that “[t]he badness ranges from mere gentle tedium to cringing embarrassment.”
I doubt that the Beatles, firmly atop the rock god firmament at the time, paid much attention to Nik Cohn’s views, and of course his opinions have been disproved by the test of time. Abbey Road is generally regarded as one of the greatest rock albums of all time, and songs like Something, Here Comes the Sun, and Come Together are viewed as all-time classics beloved by millions for more than 50 years.
I guess I would say that Nik Cohn got it wrong. When creative people are putting themselves out there for critics to chew on, it’s something they should keep in mind.
Fast radio bursts are not uncommon in the universe — observatories have recorded more than 100 in recent years — but repeating fast radio bursts are rare. And this particular radio burst, which was first recorded in 2017, is the only one that is sending out fast radio bursts in a regular repeating pattern. The bursts come in 16.35-day cycles, with 1-2 bursts per hour over a four- day period and then 12 days of silence before starting up again.
So, what’s causing this regular pattern of radio bursts? Scientists have come up with several hypotheses: it could be a natural radio signal-emitting object, like a neutron star or a binary system, where the frequency of the bursts is caused by the object’s wobbling or orbit or rotation.
Or, it could be aliens. There’s no way to know for sure.
It raises a serious question: if there are aliens out there, how do we know if they are trying to communicate with us, and what they are trying to say? The 16-day cycle of radio bursts could be sending a clear, friendly greeting, or an important warning, using the alien version of Morse code, with the initial bursts being the dot-dot-dashes and the 12-day interval the method of letting us know that the message is repeating. But without knowing the code, we can’t decipher the meaning — or even recognize the radio bursts as a message in the first place. It’s similar to the inability to decipher ancient hieroglyphics until the Rosetta Stone was discovered.
It reminds me of a passage from Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions:
“As for the story itself, it was entitled “The Dancing Fool.” Like so many Trout stories, it was about a tragic failure to communicate. Here was the plot: A flying saucer creature named Zog arrived on Earth to explain how wars could be prevented and how cancer could be cured. He brought the information from Margo, a planet where the natives conversed by means of farts and tap dancing. Zog landed at night in Connecticut. He had no sooner touched down than he saw a house on fire. He rushed into the house, farting and tap dancing, warning the people about the terrible danger they were in. The head of the house brained Zog with a golfclub.”
Unfortunately, a mysterious repeating radio signal is no more understandable than the farting, tap-dancing Zog.
There was some excitement on my flight to Houston last night, but it all ended well — thanks to Sherlock Holmes.
I was seated in the aisle seat in row 21. Next to me was a friendly young woman who was traveling through Houston to catch a flight to Orange County. As I did some work on the flight I heard a metallic clink, and then the young woman suddenly became frantic. It turns out that she had been fiddling with a ring on her finger, and the ring dropped off and fell into the area between the seat and the window and plane’s fuselage.
That area of the plane promptly went into full search mode. Led by the young woman and using our cellphone flashlights, we scoured the plane’s floor all the way back to the rear restrooms, looked under the seat cushions, and checked that the ring hadn’t gotten snagged on someone’s carry-on luggage. Everyone in that section of the plane was cooperative and helpful during the search — which tells you that there are still a lot of nice people out there. But after 15 minutes of fruitless searching, the ring was nowhere to be found. The flight attendant said they would do a search after the plane landed and everyone had cleared out, and the young woman could fill out a form so that she would get the ring if it was found.
That was small consolation for the distraught and tearful young woman, however. She explained that the ring that dropped was her sister’s wedding ring, and the young woman had been tasked with delivering the ring from a Columbus jeweler to her sister. She was supposed to be the trusted messenger, and she was dreading the prospect of confessing to her sister that the ring was lost.
I wasn’t ready to give up, however. “I don’t know if you’ve read any Sherlock Holmes,” I told her, “but in one of the original stories he explained that when you’re trying to solve a problem and you eliminate all of the possible outcomes, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the answer. Since the ring isn’t on the floor of the plane or in the other places we’ve looked, I think it’s got to be somewhere in the slot between your armrest and the outer wall of the plane, — probably near a piece of metal since we heard a metallic sound when the ring dropped. Let’s try again, just in that area.”
She looked dubious, but the logic of the suggestion seemed to persuade her. She used her hand to grope around carefully in the nook, and sure enough the ring was there in the depths, next to an orphaned Lego piece. She was overjoyed, and I was happy that I had helped her find her ring and avoid an unwelcome conversation with her sister.
“You know, you really should read the Sherlock Holmes stories,” I said. “I will,” she promised.
The Lego piece can be retrieved through an inquiry to United Air Lines.
Some Dum-Dums appeared by the fifth floor coffee station on Friday. I don’t like candy so I wasn’t tempted, but as I was waiting for my coffee I idly noted that some of the suckers were described as a “mystery flavor,” with a bunch of question marks on the wrapper.
That seemed weird to me. When I mentioned it to Kish that night, she patiently explained that Dum-Dums always have a mystery flavor, and that trying one is part of the fun.
Well, I guess you learn something every day. As for me, “mystery flavor” sounds uncomfortably close to the gray, formless “mystery meat” that we used to complain about at the high school cafeteria. I didn’t eat it because I didn’t know what it was. Similarly, not knowing what flavor you’re going to be tasting until you put a sucker in your mouth doesn’t seem very enticing to me.
Who knows? Maybe, like Dumbledore as he tried a Bertie Botts Every Flavor Bean, I might draw earwax.
Here’s something to remember the next time you are planning a vacation or an extended holiday: being near the water is good for you. In fact, it’s really good for you. Whether it’s ocean, lake, pond, river, or stream, proximity to water has measurable benefits for people — physically, mentally, and emotionally.
But there’s more to it. Water tends to have a curious effect on the human psyche — a kind of positive vibe that is mentally refreshing and restoring. Studies have consistently shown that people who are near water regularly maintain a better mood, feel less stress, and describe themselves as happier than inlanders. Maybe it’s the sights, maybe it’s the sounds, maybe it’s the smells . . . or maybe it’s that it all works in combination to make people near water a bit dreamier, a bit more contemplative, and a bit more reflective. Perhaps when you’re looking out over a vast ocean your problems just seem a lot smaller and therefore more manageable.
None of this is new — we’ve just forgotten it. In the first chapter of Moby Dick, published in 1851, Herman Melville’s character Ishmael writes: “If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.” But, as Melville notes, it’s not just the ocean that humans find attractive — it’s water, period. He writes:
“Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.”
So, you want to feel better? Get out your calendar and plan a trip that allows you to answer the call of the water.
One of the local shops in Stonington, The Dry Dock, always has a bookshelf in front of the store that offers free books. It’s impossible not to stop and take a gander at what’s available, and yesterday I noticed a book that brought back memories — a volume of Reader’s DigestCondensed Books.
I’m not sure whether Reader’s Digest still comes up with “condensed books” — or, for that matter, whether Reader’s Digest itself is still published — but there was a time in the ’60s and early ’70s when our family subscribed to the magazine and got the condensed books, too. I remember Mom reading the condensed books and remarking that you wouldn’t even have known that the books were condensed. Of course, unless you had done a side-by-side comparison of the actual novel and the condensed book, you wouldn’t know what had hit the cutting room floor in the “condensation” process. Significant subplots, back stories, ancillary characters, scenes that helped to fully flesh out the contours and personalities of the main characters — they all could be lopped out by the Reader’s Digest editors who wanted to shrink novels and non-fiction works down to a manageable size for the busy person who just didn’t have the time to read a full-blown book.
I don’t recall ever reading one of the condensed books that were delivered to our house, although I occasionally wished that Reader‘s Digest had done condensed versions of some of the ponderous tomes we had to read in high school. (This was before I discovered Cliff’s Notes.) I always wondered, though, how the authors involved reacted to the finished, condensed product. I’m sure they liked the payment they received for allowing their work to be condensed, but how did they feel about the liberal editing that occurred as part of the process? Did the authors actually read the condensed versions to see how their work was affected? Did they think that the condensation cut the heart out of their books, or changed their focus, or did they feel deep down that the editing process had actually improved their work? Given the amount of time and effort writers put into a novel, it would be tough to come to the conclusion that the book you labored over was better without some of the subplots and character-building scenes.
I’ve just finished David McCullough’s new book, The Pioneers. If you’re a native Ohioan, like me, it strikes home. If you’re not an Ohioan, but you like history, you’ll find it an interesting exploration of the early American pioneer experience.
The Pioneers tells the story of the settlement of the Ohio territory in the late 1700s and early 1800s, with a principal focus on the town of Marietta, on the Ohio River. The book sketches the history of the Northwest Territory and Marietta from the days when the Ohio lands were viewed as a tempting, but dangerous, far western wilderness and advocates of settlement were seeking congressional approval of the Northwest Ordinance and settlements, through early settlement days and the Burr conspiracy on Blennerhassett Island, to Ohio statehood and the development of the state school system and early state colleges, to the role of Ohio as a principal stop on the Underground Railroad. Along the way we meet many interesting characters, like Manasseh Cutler, a formidable preacher turned lobbyist who skillfully managed the interests of the advocates of settlement in Congress, his son Ephraim, a spelling-challenged champion of free public schools and opposition to slavery, Samuel Hildreth, a curious and inquisitive doctor, painter, scientist, and naturalist, and Rufus Putnam, the Revolutionary War veteran and common-sense general who held the Marietta settlement together during the early, difficult days.
If you’re an Ohioan of a certain age, like me, you’ll remember learning about some of this in your Ohio history classes in grade school. The Pioneers is a reminder of our state’s early history, when Ohio was an untamed wilderness with gigantic trees and forest prowled by panthers, bears, and wolves. And the story of Ohio is unsettling, as most pioneer stories are — unsettling because of the treatment of the native Americans who were forced from their ancestral lands by the flood of settlers and the massacres and battles that resulted from the inevitable clashes that occurred as the natives desperately tried to preserve their way of life. The book is also a useful reminder of how close Ohio came to being a state that allowed slavery, as opposed to a bulwark against the spread of slavery and, ultimately, one of the chief supporters of the Union cause in the Civil War.
Over the weekend, I finished Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield. Three month, and 882 pages — 882! — of tiny, eye-squinting type later, I completed “Mas’r Davy’s” journey from birth to a happy adult life.
I can’t say it was an easy read, because it really wasn’t, but I’m glad I did it. It’s pretty clear that reading for enjoyment back in Dickens’ era was a lot different from leisure reading in our modern world. Following the twists and turns of David Copperfield’s life — which apparently has a lot of autobiographical elements of Dicken’s own life in it — required a significant amount of focus and attention to detail to follow the different characters and the arc of the plots and subplots, and it wasn’t always easy to accept, or understand, the motivations of the characters living in a long-ago time. David Copperfield is definitely not a “beach read.”
I confess that there were times, especially during the middle part of the novel, when I came home after a long day at work and just couldn’t face another encounter with the execrable Uriah Heep or another exposure to the elaborate manners and curious conversational gambits of people in Victorian England — which is one reason why it took me more than two months to finish the book. (That tells you something, incidentally, about the demand for Dickens’ novels these days; I was able to renew the book multiple times without the library advising that I needed to return it because someone else wanted it.) And yet the story was interesting enough that I kept at it, and as the novel progressed I found that the momentum of my reading increased because I wanted to see whether the plot ended the way I thought it would. (It did.)
So now we’ve reached May, and I can check off one of my New Year’s resolutions. There’s some satisfaction in that, but my next bit of reading is going to be something a little less taxing. I’ve concluded that I’m not done with Dickens, however — his writing is intriguing, and after a detour into some recent fiction I’m going to tackle Great Expectations.