Thierry Sagnier's Blog, page 24
February 7, 2016
Toothlessness
Once or twice in a lifetime, you can become a totally different person. I seized this opportunity yesterday.
On Friday I had oral surgery. Two capped teeth that had gone bad had to be removed, a painful and expensive proposition I don’t wish on anyone. Apparently, some years ago, the capping procedure was done poorly and what should have lasted a very long time did not. X-rays showed massive decay going down to the roots of two front teeth, and this sealed their fates. By noon I had a massive gap in my upper jaw as two top incisors were gone, leaving a large black space remindful of a grotto’s entrance.
The dentist gave me a partial denture which apes amazingly well the real teeth and hooks into molars on either side of my mouth. But it was uncomfortable… I wore it for a few hours and then took it out. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw an amazing transformation. I had become a quintessential aging and toothless homeless man, the sort of person most of us prefer to avoid.
Hmmm. I needed a few things at the store and went there sans artificial teeth. The reaction from the people who saw me hardly varied.
The first was the lady behind the deli counter. I‘ve known her for years and we normally exchange silly pleasantries. Not this time. I ordered a quarter pound of prosciutto and her eyes slid to my mouth. I could read her mind, I swear! “Will this vagrant pay for this or try to steal it?” She kept a wary eye on me as she sliced the meat. I smiled at her, fully revealing the cavernous space in my mouth. She turned her head, perhaps fearing that bats might fly out of my mouth. She did not offer me the customary free slice of whatever food I order, nor did she ask if I wanted anything else.
The baker at the other end of the store looked at me and pasted on one of those silly fake grin that says, I have no idea what to do with my face during this stressful moment so I will pretend to smile and hope you go away. Just for the hell of it, I hung around the pastry counter for a minute or two and inspected the goods.
This was getting to be sort of fun. I shocked the pharmacist and the check-out lady. The cart-herder outside also stared, then let his gaze slither eastward. At the drug store I plunked down a small container of denture cleaner. “Gonna need this,” I told the cashier who looked up into the maw, and then down again at her shoes.
I’m not sure what to make of all this save to accept that we are generally uncomfortable with missing parts. I remember once going to a wedding reception and meeting several people, one of whom was missing three fingers. When I shook his hand, a tremor ran through me, so I’m not immune to the very same reaction I had been causing. My friend Raoul, with whom I had breakfast today, laughed when I told him of this small adventure, but then shuddered and added, “I have no wish to see you like that…”
My gums have to heal so I have three or four more weeks to go before new caps are put in. I plan to expand my toothlessness to other venues. Starbucks is next.
On Friday I had oral surgery. Two capped teeth that had gone bad had to be removed, a painful and expensive proposition I don’t wish on anyone. Apparently, some years ago, the capping procedure was done poorly and what should have lasted a very long time did not. X-rays showed massive decay going down to the roots of two front teeth, and this sealed their fates. By noon I had a massive gap in my upper jaw as two top incisors were gone, leaving a large black space remindful of a grotto’s entrance.
The dentist gave me a partial denture which apes amazingly well the real teeth and hooks into molars on either side of my mouth. But it was uncomfortable… I wore it for a few hours and then took it out. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw an amazing transformation. I had become a quintessential aging and toothless homeless man, the sort of person most of us prefer to avoid.
Hmmm. I needed a few things at the store and went there sans artificial teeth. The reaction from the people who saw me hardly varied.
The first was the lady behind the deli counter. I‘ve known her for years and we normally exchange silly pleasantries. Not this time. I ordered a quarter pound of prosciutto and her eyes slid to my mouth. I could read her mind, I swear! “Will this vagrant pay for this or try to steal it?” She kept a wary eye on me as she sliced the meat. I smiled at her, fully revealing the cavernous space in my mouth. She turned her head, perhaps fearing that bats might fly out of my mouth. She did not offer me the customary free slice of whatever food I order, nor did she ask if I wanted anything else.
The baker at the other end of the store looked at me and pasted on one of those silly fake grin that says, I have no idea what to do with my face during this stressful moment so I will pretend to smile and hope you go away. Just for the hell of it, I hung around the pastry counter for a minute or two and inspected the goods.
This was getting to be sort of fun. I shocked the pharmacist and the check-out lady. The cart-herder outside also stared, then let his gaze slither eastward. At the drug store I plunked down a small container of denture cleaner. “Gonna need this,” I told the cashier who looked up into the maw, and then down again at her shoes.
I’m not sure what to make of all this save to accept that we are generally uncomfortable with missing parts. I remember once going to a wedding reception and meeting several people, one of whom was missing three fingers. When I shook his hand, a tremor ran through me, so I’m not immune to the very same reaction I had been causing. My friend Raoul, with whom I had breakfast today, laughed when I told him of this small adventure, but then shuddered and added, “I have no wish to see you like that…”
My gums have to heal so I have three or four more weeks to go before new caps are put in. I plan to expand my toothlessness to other venues. Starbucks is next.
Toothlessness
Once or twice in a lifetime, you can become a totally different person. I seized this opportunity yesterday.
On Friday I had oral surgery. Two capped teeth that had gone bad had to be removed, a painful and expensive proposition I don’t wish on anyone. Apparently, some years ago, the capping procedure was done poorly and what should have lasted a very long time did not. X-rays showed massive decay going down to the roots of two front teeth, and this sealed their fates. By noon I had a massive gap in my upper jaw as two top incisors were gone, leaving a large black space remindful of a grotto’s entrance.
The dentist gave me a partial denture which apes amazingly well the real teeth and hooks into molars on either side of my mouth. But it was uncomfortable… I wore it for a few hours and then took it out. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw an amazing transformation. I had become a quintessential aging and toothless homeless man, the sort of person most of us prefer to avoid.
Hmmm. I needed a few things at the store and went there sans artificial teeth. The reaction from the people who saw me hardly varied.
The first was the lady behind the deli counter. I‘ve known her for years and we normally exchange silly pleasantries. Not this time. I ordered a quarter pound of prosciutto and her eyes slid to my mouth. I could read her mind, I swear! “Will this vagrant pay for this or try to steal it?” She kept a wary eye on me as she sliced the meat. I smiled at her, fully revealing the cavernous space in my mouth. She turned her head, perhaps fearing that bats might fly out of my mouth. She did not offer me the customary free slice of whatever food I order, nor did she ask if I wanted anything else.
The baker at the other end of the store looked at me and pasted on one of those silly fake grin that says, I have no idea what to do with my face during this stressful moment so I will pretend to smile and hope you go away. Just for the hell of it, I hung around the pastry counter for a minute or two and inspected the goods.
This was getting to be sort of fun. I shocked the pharmacist and the check-out lady. The cart-herder outside also stared, then let his gaze slither eastward. At the drug store I plunked down a small container of denture cleaner. “Gonna need this,” I told the cashier who looked up into the maw, and then down again at her shoes.
I’m not sure what to make of all this save to accept that we are generally uncomfortable with missing parts. I remember once going to a wedding reception and meeting several people, one of whom was missing three fingers. When I shook his hand, a tremor ran through me, so I’m not immune to the very same reaction I had been causing. My friend Raoul, with whom I had breakfast today, laughed when I told him of this small adventure, but then shuddered and added, “I have no wish to see you like that…”
My gums have to heal so I have three or four more weeks to go before new caps are put in. I plan to expand my toothlessness to other venues. Starbucks is next.
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 4, 2016
Maury, Revisited
My friend Maury sidled up to me this morning at the coffee shop and said, “Did you hear they have a new piccolo?”
I half-expected a doubtful joke, which would have been surprising. I’ve never known Maury to utter anything inappropriate. He didn’t. The local symphony has a new piccolo player. How Maury knew this I one of those mysteries best left unexamined.
Some months ago, Maury told me I should approach a certain woman of his acquaintance because her boyfriend had just died. A few weeks after that, he wore a large, gap-toothed smile as he mentioned we were all going to die one day, and restated his suggestion that I meet the woman. “She’s used to people dying,” he said with a knowing look. Three days later, he informed me that I hadn’t acted quickly enough. The woman had recently met someone. “But he’ll die too,” Maury said with neither sorrow nor concern.
Maury is a tall, ageless man with a round face and an expression that says the universe holds no ambiguities. He walks everywhere and lives in my small Northern Virginia town, and has the ability, as P.G. Wodehouse said of Jeeves the butler, to shimmer into a room. And shimmer out, too. There have been instances when we’re talking about something; I’ll turn my head, and he’ll have vanished. He moves with the quiet efficiency sometimes displayed by large men who have taken up ballroom dancing.
Not that he goes far. He reappears outside where he picks up sticks, gum wrappers, cigarette butts, newspaper pages that have gone astray, anything that is and shouldn’t be on the ground. As a result, the area around the coffee shop is spotless. His all-seasons uniform is a thick car coat, a knitted sweater, watch cap, baggy jeans and shoes from Payless. I know they’re from Payless because I have the same pair. His are brown, mine are grey. This has been the subject of many discussions. If I encounter Maury and I am not wearing the Payless shoes, he’ll want to know why and in the subtlest of way, make me feel like a turncoat.
Recently the coffee shop has become the hangout of another man, a disheveled gadfly with the sort of fidgety energy that makes everyone in the vicinity nervous. The newcomer speaks in bursts, and is an expert on everything. Yesterday he asked Maury if there was a girlfriend. Maury allowed that there was, maybe. The gadfly launched into a long, muttered rant on the evils of women in general, his own three marriages and subsequent divorces, and how to tune a Volkswagen Beetle. Maury shimmered out of the room and reappeared magically across the street.
It took the gadfly a few minutes to realize he’d lost his audience, and this left him momentarily nonplussed. Then he turned to me and started talking.
Across the street, Maury pointed at me and started laughing.
I half-expected a doubtful joke, which would have been surprising. I’ve never known Maury to utter anything inappropriate. He didn’t. The local symphony has a new piccolo player. How Maury knew this I one of those mysteries best left unexamined.
Some months ago, Maury told me I should approach a certain woman of his acquaintance because her boyfriend had just died. A few weeks after that, he wore a large, gap-toothed smile as he mentioned we were all going to die one day, and restated his suggestion that I meet the woman. “She’s used to people dying,” he said with a knowing look. Three days later, he informed me that I hadn’t acted quickly enough. The woman had recently met someone. “But he’ll die too,” Maury said with neither sorrow nor concern.
Maury is a tall, ageless man with a round face and an expression that says the universe holds no ambiguities. He walks everywhere and lives in my small Northern Virginia town, and has the ability, as P.G. Wodehouse said of Jeeves the butler, to shimmer into a room. And shimmer out, too. There have been instances when we’re talking about something; I’ll turn my head, and he’ll have vanished. He moves with the quiet efficiency sometimes displayed by large men who have taken up ballroom dancing.
Not that he goes far. He reappears outside where he picks up sticks, gum wrappers, cigarette butts, newspaper pages that have gone astray, anything that is and shouldn’t be on the ground. As a result, the area around the coffee shop is spotless. His all-seasons uniform is a thick car coat, a knitted sweater, watch cap, baggy jeans and shoes from Payless. I know they’re from Payless because I have the same pair. His are brown, mine are grey. This has been the subject of many discussions. If I encounter Maury and I am not wearing the Payless shoes, he’ll want to know why and in the subtlest of way, make me feel like a turncoat.
Recently the coffee shop has become the hangout of another man, a disheveled gadfly with the sort of fidgety energy that makes everyone in the vicinity nervous. The newcomer speaks in bursts, and is an expert on everything. Yesterday he asked Maury if there was a girlfriend. Maury allowed that there was, maybe. The gadfly launched into a long, muttered rant on the evils of women in general, his own three marriages and subsequent divorces, and how to tune a Volkswagen Beetle. Maury shimmered out of the room and reappeared magically across the street.
It took the gadfly a few minutes to realize he’d lost his audience, and this left him momentarily nonplussed. Then he turned to me and started talking.
Across the street, Maury pointed at me and started laughing.
Maury, Revisited
My friend Maury sidled up to me this morning at the coffee shop and said, “Did you hear they have a new piccolo?”
I half-expected a doubtful joke, which would have been surprising. I’ve never known Maury to utter anything inappropriate. He didn’t. The local symphony has a new piccolo player. How Maury knew this I one of those mysteries best left unexamined.
Some months ago, Maury told me I should approach a certain woman of his acquaintance because her boyfriend had just died. A few weeks after that, he wore a large, gap-toothed smile as he mentioned we were all going to die one day, and restated his suggestion that I meet the woman. “She’s used to people dying,” he said with a knowing look. Three days later, he informed me that I hadn’t acted quickly enough. The woman had recently met someone. “But he’ll die too,” Maury said with neither sorrow nor concern.
Maury is a tall, ageless man with a round face and an expression that says the universe holds no ambiguities. He walks everywhere and lives in my small Northern Virginia town, and has the ability, as P.G. Wodehouse said of Jeeves the butler, to shimmer into a room. And shimmer out, too. There have been instances when we’re talking about something; I’ll turn my head, and he’ll have vanished. He moves with the quiet efficiency sometimes displayed by large men who have taken up ballroom dancing.
Not that he goes far. He reappears outside where he picks up sticks, gum wrappers, cigarette butts, newspaper pages that have gone astray, anything that is and shouldn’t be on the ground. As a result, the area around the coffee shop is spotless. His all-seasons uniform is a thick car coat, a knitted sweater, watch cap, baggy jeans and shoes from Payless. I know they’re from Payless because I have the same pair. His are brown, mine are grey. This has been the subject of many discussions. If I encounter Maury and I am not wearing the Payless shoes, he’ll want to know why and in the subtlest of way, make me feel like a turncoat.
Recently the coffee shop has become the hangout of another man, a disheveled gadfly with the sort of fidgety energy that makes everyone in the vicinity nervous. The newcomer speaks in bursts, and is an expert on everything. Yesterday he asked Maury if there was a girlfriend. Maury allowed that there was, maybe. The gadfly launched into a long, muttered rant on the evils of women in general, his own three marriages and subsequent divorces, and how to tune a Volkswagen Beetle. Maury shimmered out of the room and reappeared magically across the street.
It took the gadfly a few minutes to realize he’d lost his audience, and this left him momentarily nonplussed. Then he turned to me and started talking.
Across the street, Maury pointed at me and started laughing. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 1, 2016
A New Project
Ah crap. Stuck again.
I was rowrbazzling (Walt Kelly’s great word) along on the latest novel when everything came to a dead stop a couple of weeks ago. I think it’s because I started writing about other stuff—my family, life in Paris as a kid, and the fairly strange yet fascinating people I grew up with. All of a sudden it was hard to get back to my characters, none of whom can hold candle to the extended family that raised me. I mean, my great aunt slept with her hat on and was in Africa when people were still throwing spears at each other. My dad held up a hospital cook shortly after my birth and forced him to whip up an omelet for my mom (she complained that it lacked salt.) Edith Piaf came to our apartment when I was a little kid. Both my parents were soldiers with the Free French in World War II.
My guys haven’t gone through anything like that. Urban warfare, maybe, and guns. But no spears. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was a guy killed with a spear in Thirst.
Actually, my imaginary people are engaging. I wouldn’t be able to do 90,000 words if they weren’t, and the plot wass moving along nicely until recently. The characters have developed their own legs, their own rhythms and habits. I’ve got most of the action where I want it to be, and pretty soon it’s going to be time to trip the switch that makes the dénouement, that launches the Rube Goldberg device, because really, isn’t that what novels are, intricate constructions with dropping balls, falling ladders, sleeping cats that wake to paw at running mice that jump on spring-loaded platforms that strike a match to light a cigar?
I write every day and can’t remember the last time I didn’t. I have little notebooks all over the house with stuff I think is worth remembering (last two entries: Those with scars must help the wounded and There’s a difference between helping and getting involved.) On my bedside table is a writing tablet with an attached pen. When I pick up the pen, the tablet lights up. We need more inventions like that.
Generally, I have a couple of book projects going on at the same time. Right now I’m finishing Dope, a sequel to Thirst. A few months ago I finished writing The Fortunate Few, IVS Volunteers from Asia to the Andes. The book was published in September. I’m wrapping up the second book of a trilogy on a Parisian family’s decision to move to America. I have three books with my agent and a few more ideas germinating.
In November, I started a new project with my friend Steve Head, a personal trainer I‘ve known since 1995 who is skilled in bringing out the best in his clients. A while back struck me that within the exploding industry of personal fitness, people in my age range—in their fifties and above—are considered, well, dead. Or maybe simply non-existent. We live in a youth-oriented culture and people born in the 40s, 50s and 60s, whether male or female, are largely invisible when it comes to exercise and diet.
It turns out that Steve has spent quite a bit of time working with clients in that age range to wondrous results. The people he trains often come to him with aches and pains and preconceived notions regarding their limitations. He gets them past that and they do amazing things, deadlifting their body weights, pushing sleds stacked with hundreds of pounds, and dropping years as they train.
Steve and I met a couple of times to hammer out some basic ideas, and a book idea was born. Steve will train me for about a year, and I’ll write about it. It won’t be just an exercise book, though. We plan to touch on a number of issues related to ageism, physical capacities, mindset, realistic expectations and other topics not dealt with often enough.
It’s going to be interesting.
So I shouldn’t complain. Writing-wise, life is very full. Temporarily running dry on a novel actually enables me to spend more time on the non-fiction project.
There’s never a dull moment; I just like to complain.
I was rowrbazzling (Walt Kelly’s great word) along on the latest novel when everything came to a dead stop a couple of weeks ago. I think it’s because I started writing about other stuff—my family, life in Paris as a kid, and the fairly strange yet fascinating people I grew up with. All of a sudden it was hard to get back to my characters, none of whom can hold candle to the extended family that raised me. I mean, my great aunt slept with her hat on and was in Africa when people were still throwing spears at each other. My dad held up a hospital cook shortly after my birth and forced him to whip up an omelet for my mom (she complained that it lacked salt.) Edith Piaf came to our apartment when I was a little kid. Both my parents were soldiers with the Free French in World War II.
My guys haven’t gone through anything like that. Urban warfare, maybe, and guns. But no spears. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was a guy killed with a spear in Thirst.
Actually, my imaginary people are engaging. I wouldn’t be able to do 90,000 words if they weren’t, and the plot wass moving along nicely until recently. The characters have developed their own legs, their own rhythms and habits. I’ve got most of the action where I want it to be, and pretty soon it’s going to be time to trip the switch that makes the dénouement, that launches the Rube Goldberg device, because really, isn’t that what novels are, intricate constructions with dropping balls, falling ladders, sleeping cats that wake to paw at running mice that jump on spring-loaded platforms that strike a match to light a cigar?
I write every day and can’t remember the last time I didn’t. I have little notebooks all over the house with stuff I think is worth remembering (last two entries: Those with scars must help the wounded and There’s a difference between helping and getting involved.) On my bedside table is a writing tablet with an attached pen. When I pick up the pen, the tablet lights up. We need more inventions like that.
Generally, I have a couple of book projects going on at the same time. Right now I’m finishing Dope, a sequel to Thirst. A few months ago I finished writing The Fortunate Few, IVS Volunteers from Asia to the Andes. The book was published in September. I’m wrapping up the second book of a trilogy on a Parisian family’s decision to move to America. I have three books with my agent and a few more ideas germinating.
In November, I started a new project with my friend Steve Head, a personal trainer I‘ve known since 1995 who is skilled in bringing out the best in his clients. A while back struck me that within the exploding industry of personal fitness, people in my age range—in their fifties and above—are considered, well, dead. Or maybe simply non-existent. We live in a youth-oriented culture and people born in the 40s, 50s and 60s, whether male or female, are largely invisible when it comes to exercise and diet.
It turns out that Steve has spent quite a bit of time working with clients in that age range to wondrous results. The people he trains often come to him with aches and pains and preconceived notions regarding their limitations. He gets them past that and they do amazing things, deadlifting their body weights, pushing sleds stacked with hundreds of pounds, and dropping years as they train.
Steve and I met a couple of times to hammer out some basic ideas, and a book idea was born. Steve will train me for about a year, and I’ll write about it. It won’t be just an exercise book, though. We plan to touch on a number of issues related to ageism, physical capacities, mindset, realistic expectations and other topics not dealt with often enough.
It’s going to be interesting.
So I shouldn’t complain. Writing-wise, life is very full. Temporarily running dry on a novel actually enables me to spend more time on the non-fiction project.
There’s never a dull moment; I just like to complain.
A New Project
Ah crap. Stuck again.
I was rowrbazzling (Walt Kelly’s great word) along on the latest novel when everything came to a dead stop a couple of weeks ago. I think it’s because I started writing about other stuff—my family, life in Paris as a kid, and the fairly strange yet fascinating people I grew up with. All of a sudden it was hard to get back to my characters, none of whom can hold candle to the extended family that raised me. I mean, my great aunt slept with her hat on and was in Africa when people were still throwing spears at each other. My dad held up a hospital cook shortly after my birth and forced him to whip up an omelet for my mom (she complained that it lacked salt.) Edith Piaf came to our apartment when I was a little kid. Both my parents were soldiers with the Free French in World War II.
My guys haven’t gone through anything like that. Urban warfare, maybe, and guns. But no spears. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was a guy killed with a spear in Thirst.
Actually, my imaginary people are engaging. I wouldn’t be able to do 90,000 words if they weren’t, and the plot wass moving along nicely until recently. The characters have developed their own legs, their own rhythms and habits. I’ve got most of the action where I want it to be, and pretty soon it’s going to be time to trip the switch that makes the dénouement, that launches the Rube Goldberg device, because really, isn’t that what novels are, intricate constructions with dropping balls, falling ladders, sleeping cats that wake to paw at running mice that jump on spring-loaded platforms that strike a match to light a cigar?
I write every day and can’t remember the last time I didn’t. I have little notebooks all over the house with stuff I think is worth remembering (last two entries: Those with scars must help the wounded and There’s a difference between helping and getting involved.) On my bedside table is a writing tablet with an attached pen. When I pick up the pen, the tablet lights up. We need more inventions like that.
Generally, I have a couple of book projects going on at the same time. Right now I’m finishing Dope, a sequel to Thirst. A few months ago I finished writing The Fortunate Few, IVS Volunteers from Asia to the Andes. The book was published in September. I’m wrapping up the second book of a trilogy on a Parisian family’s decision to move to America. I have three books with my agent and a few more ideas germinating.
In November, I started a new project with my friend Steve Head, a personal trainer I‘ve known since 1995 who is skilled in bringing out the best in his clients. A while back struck me that within the exploding industry of personal fitness, people in my age range—in their fifties and above—are considered, well, dead. Or maybe simply non-existent. We live in a youth-oriented culture and people born in the 40s, 50s and 60s, whether male or female, are largely invisible when it comes to exercise and diet.
It turns out that Steve has spent quite a bit of time working with clients in that age range to wondrous results. The people he trains often come to him with aches and pains and preconceived notions regarding their limitations. He gets them past that and they do amazing things, deadlifting their body weights, pushing sleds stacked with hundreds of pounds, and dropping years as they train.
Steve and I met a couple of times to hammer out some basic ideas, and a book idea was born. Steve will train me for about a year, and I’ll write about it. It won’t be just an exercise book, though. We plan to touch on a number of issues related to ageism, physical capacities, mindset, realistic expectations and other topics not dealt with often enough.
It’s going to be interesting.
So I shouldn’t complain. Writing-wise, life is very full. Temporarily running dry on a novel actually enables me to spend more time on the non-fiction project.
There’s never a dull moment; I just like to complain.I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
January 27, 2016
Snow Tales
The blizzard has passed, leaving in its wake waves of anger, frustration, poor behavior and outright lunacy.
I’m not much of a television watcher. Being in front of the set for more than an hour or two makes my eyes and brain glaze over, so like many, as soon as the storm was announced, I headed to the library to stock up on books. I checked out about a dozen graphic novels. I’m a huge fan of Alan Moore, writer of V For Vendetta, From Hell, Watchmen, and a host of other titles, and whose adaptation of Swamp Thing almost single-handedly created the ‘mature’ comic book.
I also got titles from lesser known authors, and here’s something I discovered: most of them weren’t worth reading. Some were poorly drawn, others poorly scripted, others still haphazardly laid out and laughingly inaccurate. I particularly enjoyed one volume set during World War Two were the heroine was called Ms throughout. Political correctness before its time. So now I wonder how, with the publishing industry in flux, do some of these lesser works ever see the light of day? They’re not cheap to buy; many cost upwards of $25, and I don’t imagine the majority of graphic novel readers have huge disposable incomes… Another publishing mystery, one of many.
Snow brings out interesting behavior. My friend Jane Feather, a writer extraordinaire and the author of several New York Times bestsellers, told of an encounter she had in downtown Washington where she and her husband Jim live. “This morning I had an errand to run, on foot. It seems easy as long as you're prepared only to walk in a square... Sidewalks are clear, roads are clear, but there's no comfortable or safe way to cross at a crosswalk. Either you climb over two foot piles of moldy snow or paddle through two feet of grimy slush. On my way from 24th and L streets, I waded, climbed, paddled through an impossible crosswalk in my trusty Uggs and met a most elegant young woman, well-groomed, and wearing a pair of four-inch stiletto-heeled suede boots approaching the quagmire. I don't normally address my fellow pedestrians, but I couldn't help myself as I felt cold water seep into my Uggs. I said, "You're wearing the wrong shoes." She gave me a bleak look and said simply, "I know." I did her the courtesy of moving along and not watching to see how she negotiated the crossing. Really makes you wonder what Land of Oz she thought she'd greeted that morning.”
I had an encounter with a snowplow. After spending a couple of hours clearing my driveway with a snowblower wielding friend, I watched as a county plow barreled down my road to deposit another eighteen inches of snow that re-blocked my driveway. I yelled. The driver, I’m pretty sure, gave me the bird. I shoveled again.
An hour later, the scene repeated itself, though I wasn’t there to watch it. I persisted in shoveling. As I was doing so, a snowplow—perhaps the same one, perhaps not—came growling down the street. This time, I stood my ground protecting my hard-earned excavation. The driver veered slightly and blasted past me, showering me with slush. I yelled an insult and gave him the flock—not one finger, but four. He stopped, and the door to his cab opened. He stepped out, looked down the street at me—a largish infuriated man wielding a red plastic snow shovel from CVS. We glared at each other for a moment. He climbed back into his truck. Later and quieter of mood and spirit, I guessed the man had probably been working twenty straight hours and was as short-tempered as I was.
Still, it made me wonder if there’s an evil genius coordinating the plowing. In my neighborhood, only one lane of most major thoroughfares was freed. This led to impossible traffic jams, overheated engines and tempers, and cars abandoned and blocking the way.
In downtown Falls Church, a suburb of Washington, DC, the main roads were cleared promptly, but the next morning, though it hadn’t snowed during the night, another two inches of freezing slush brought traffic to an almost standstill. The plows had come in the wee hours of the morning and somehow managed to spread the remaining snow across the width of the road, where it froze.
I saw a heated argument over a parking space. It involved a blond woman in a new Mercedes SUV and a small, bndled man in a dilapidated Toyota. The Toyota won because, I suspect, the man yelled an unending string of dark curses in an unrecognizable language. It made me proud to be bilingual. Later that day I watched my cat disappear in a snowbank and witnessed a first—feline embarrassment.
The morning paper was not delivered three days running. Neither was the mail, which made me wonder about the USPS unofficial creed: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Damn. Another axiom, victim of the blizzard.
I’m not much of a television watcher. Being in front of the set for more than an hour or two makes my eyes and brain glaze over, so like many, as soon as the storm was announced, I headed to the library to stock up on books. I checked out about a dozen graphic novels. I’m a huge fan of Alan Moore, writer of V For Vendetta, From Hell, Watchmen, and a host of other titles, and whose adaptation of Swamp Thing almost single-handedly created the ‘mature’ comic book.
I also got titles from lesser known authors, and here’s something I discovered: most of them weren’t worth reading. Some were poorly drawn, others poorly scripted, others still haphazardly laid out and laughingly inaccurate. I particularly enjoyed one volume set during World War Two were the heroine was called Ms throughout. Political correctness before its time. So now I wonder how, with the publishing industry in flux, do some of these lesser works ever see the light of day? They’re not cheap to buy; many cost upwards of $25, and I don’t imagine the majority of graphic novel readers have huge disposable incomes… Another publishing mystery, one of many.
Snow brings out interesting behavior. My friend Jane Feather, a writer extraordinaire and the author of several New York Times bestsellers, told of an encounter she had in downtown Washington where she and her husband Jim live. “This morning I had an errand to run, on foot. It seems easy as long as you're prepared only to walk in a square... Sidewalks are clear, roads are clear, but there's no comfortable or safe way to cross at a crosswalk. Either you climb over two foot piles of moldy snow or paddle through two feet of grimy slush. On my way from 24th and L streets, I waded, climbed, paddled through an impossible crosswalk in my trusty Uggs and met a most elegant young woman, well-groomed, and wearing a pair of four-inch stiletto-heeled suede boots approaching the quagmire. I don't normally address my fellow pedestrians, but I couldn't help myself as I felt cold water seep into my Uggs. I said, "You're wearing the wrong shoes." She gave me a bleak look and said simply, "I know." I did her the courtesy of moving along and not watching to see how she negotiated the crossing. Really makes you wonder what Land of Oz she thought she'd greeted that morning.”
I had an encounter with a snowplow. After spending a couple of hours clearing my driveway with a snowblower wielding friend, I watched as a county plow barreled down my road to deposit another eighteen inches of snow that re-blocked my driveway. I yelled. The driver, I’m pretty sure, gave me the bird. I shoveled again.
An hour later, the scene repeated itself, though I wasn’t there to watch it. I persisted in shoveling. As I was doing so, a snowplow—perhaps the same one, perhaps not—came growling down the street. This time, I stood my ground protecting my hard-earned excavation. The driver veered slightly and blasted past me, showering me with slush. I yelled an insult and gave him the flock—not one finger, but four. He stopped, and the door to his cab opened. He stepped out, looked down the street at me—a largish infuriated man wielding a red plastic snow shovel from CVS. We glared at each other for a moment. He climbed back into his truck. Later and quieter of mood and spirit, I guessed the man had probably been working twenty straight hours and was as short-tempered as I was.
Still, it made me wonder if there’s an evil genius coordinating the plowing. In my neighborhood, only one lane of most major thoroughfares was freed. This led to impossible traffic jams, overheated engines and tempers, and cars abandoned and blocking the way.
In downtown Falls Church, a suburb of Washington, DC, the main roads were cleared promptly, but the next morning, though it hadn’t snowed during the night, another two inches of freezing slush brought traffic to an almost standstill. The plows had come in the wee hours of the morning and somehow managed to spread the remaining snow across the width of the road, where it froze.
I saw a heated argument over a parking space. It involved a blond woman in a new Mercedes SUV and a small, bndled man in a dilapidated Toyota. The Toyota won because, I suspect, the man yelled an unending string of dark curses in an unrecognizable language. It made me proud to be bilingual. Later that day I watched my cat disappear in a snowbank and witnessed a first—feline embarrassment.
The morning paper was not delivered three days running. Neither was the mail, which made me wonder about the USPS unofficial creed: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Damn. Another axiom, victim of the blizzard.
Snow Tales
The blizzard has passed, leaving in its wake waves of anger, frustration, poor behavior and outright lunacy.
I’m not much of a television watcher. Being in front of the set for more than an hour or two makes my eyes and brain glaze over, so like many, as soon as the storm was announced, I headed to the library to stock up on books. I checked out about a dozen graphic novels. I’m a huge fan of Alan Moore, writer of V For Vendetta, From Hell, Watchmen, and a host of other titles, and whose adaptation of Swamp Thing almost single-handedly created the ‘mature’ comic book.
I also got titles from lesser known authors, and here’s something I discovered: most of them weren’t worth reading. Some were poorly drawn, others poorly scripted, others still haphazardly laid out and laughingly inaccurate. I particularly enjoyed one volume set during World War Two were the heroine was called Ms throughout. Political correctness before its time. So now I wonder how, with the publishing industry in flux, do some of these lesser works ever see the light of day? They’re not cheap to buy; many cost upwards of $25, and I don’t imagine the majority of graphic novel readers have huge disposable incomes… Another publishing mystery, one of many.
Snow brings out interesting behavior. My friend Jane Feather, a writer extraordinaire and the author of several New York Times bestsellers, told of an encounter she had in downtown Washington where she and her husband Jim live. “This morning I had an errand to run, on foot. It seems easy as long as you're prepared only to walk in a square... Sidewalks are clear, roads are clear, but there's no comfortable or safe way to cross at a crosswalk. Either you climb over two foot piles of moldy snow or paddle through two feet of grimy slush. On my way from 24th and L streets, I waded, climbed, paddled through an impossible crosswalk in my trusty Uggs and met a most elegant young woman, well-groomed, and wearing a pair of four-inch stiletto-heeled suede boots approaching the quagmire. I don't normally address my fellow pedestrians, but I couldn't help myself as I felt cold water seep into my Uggs. I said, "You're wearing the wrong shoes." She gave me a bleak look and said simply, "I know." I did her the courtesy of moving along and not watching to see how she negotiated the crossing. Really makes you wonder what Land of Oz she thought she'd greeted that morning.”
I had an encounter with a snowplow. After spending a couple of hours clearing my driveway with a snowblower wielding friend, I watched as a county plow barreled down my road to deposit another eighteen inches of snow that re-blocked my driveway. I yelled. The driver, I’m pretty sure, gave me the bird. I shoveled again.
An hour later, the scene repeated itself, though I wasn’t there to watch it. I persisted in shoveling. As I was doing so, a snowplow—perhaps the same one, perhaps not—came growling down the street. This time, I stood my ground protecting my hard-earned excavation. The driver veered slightly and blasted past me, showering me with slush. I yelled an insult and gave him the flock—not one finger, but four. He stopped, and the door to his cab opened. He stepped out, looked down the street at me—a largish infuriated man wielding a red plastic snow shovel from CVS. We glared at each other for a moment. He climbed back into his truck. Later and quieter of mood and spirit, I guessed the man had probably been working twenty straight hours and was as short-tempered as I was.
Still, it made me wonder if there’s an evil genius coordinating the plowing. In my neighborhood, only one lane of most major thoroughfares was freed. This led to impossible traffic jams, overheated engines and tempers, and cars abandoned and blocking the way.
In downtown Falls Church, a suburb of Washington, DC, the main roads were cleared promptly, but the next morning, though it hadn’t snowed during the night, another two inches of freezing slush brought traffic to an almost standstill. The plows had come in the wee hours of the morning and somehow managed to spread the remaining snow across the width of the road, where it froze.
I saw a heated argument over a parking space. It involved a blond woman in a new Mercedes SUV and a small, bndled man in a dilapidated Toyota. The Toyota won because, I suspect, the man yelled an unending string of dark curses in an unrecognizable language. It made me proud to be bilingual. Later that day I watched my cat disappear in a snowbank and witnessed a first—feline embarrassment.
The morning paper was not delivered three days running. Neither was the mail, which made me wonder about the USPS unofficial creed: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Damn. Another axiom, victim of the blizzard.
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
January 22, 2016
How My Mother Started the Winter Storm Toilet Paper Craze
There’s a strong possibility that my mother started the we-need-toilet-paper-because-it’s-going-to-snow mania.
Let me explain.
When we first came to the United States, we withstood tropical weather for the first few months (we arrived in late June) and it seemed inconceivable that a change of season could bring the weather from 100°F to below freezing. My mother’s knowledge of weather patterns was limited. She had lived in Paris and vacationed in the south of France. During World War II, she spent time in Algeria, and at war’s end had returned with my father to the French capital, where it rarely snowed.
Washington in the summer was an entirely different story. The city was sweltering, subtropical, swampy and mosquito-ridden—so much so that British diplomats considered serving in the District of Columbia a hardship post. It’s true, you can look it up.
We spent that first summer in a state of abject heat exhaustion. Large Sears & Roebuck upright fans moved the air around, a sad and sluggish attempt at comfort, and I remember that even the tap water was warm coming out of the faucet. On occasion, we would drive to Chevy Chase Lake, a large swimming pool a few miles away that, on summer days, was literally standing room only—a thousand sufferers shoulder to shoulder in tepid water, a sea of pink and light blue bathing caps, ruffled women’s bathing suits, and screaming children. This was a far cry from the beaches of Benodet in Brittany.
Four months later, six inches of snow fell on the Washington area. My mother, who still shopped daily à l’européenne armed with a five dollar bill and a string bag, was completely unprepared. We had no bread, no eggs or butter, no vegetables or meat. Worse, we had one roll of toilet paper that she hid for her personal use.
About a week later it snowed again. My mother hurried to the store slipping and sliding in her recently purchased 1951 Lincoln. She bought five pounds of hamburgers, a sack of potatoes, onions, three chickens, bouillon cubes, celery, and fifteen rolls of toilet paper. At the counter, the checkout lady smiled and pointed to the pile of rolls. She said, “You’re ready for the storm!”
Mt mother’s English was still rudimentary. She tried to explain that in post-war Paris, you stocked up in times of emergency, but the only word the checkout lady understood was ‘war.’ This was when the Cold War was raging and the Soviets were threatening to bury the US. War, many thought, was imminent.
A lady in line heard ‘war’ too. She rushed back to the toilet paper aisle and loaded up. So did another woman, and another. Word of war spread. Soon the store was cleaned out of toilet paper, detergent, RC Cola and chocolate bars. My mother drove home, unaware of the trend she’d started and that endures to this day.
This is a true story. I was there.
Let me explain.
When we first came to the United States, we withstood tropical weather for the first few months (we arrived in late June) and it seemed inconceivable that a change of season could bring the weather from 100°F to below freezing. My mother’s knowledge of weather patterns was limited. She had lived in Paris and vacationed in the south of France. During World War II, she spent time in Algeria, and at war’s end had returned with my father to the French capital, where it rarely snowed.
Washington in the summer was an entirely different story. The city was sweltering, subtropical, swampy and mosquito-ridden—so much so that British diplomats considered serving in the District of Columbia a hardship post. It’s true, you can look it up.
We spent that first summer in a state of abject heat exhaustion. Large Sears & Roebuck upright fans moved the air around, a sad and sluggish attempt at comfort, and I remember that even the tap water was warm coming out of the faucet. On occasion, we would drive to Chevy Chase Lake, a large swimming pool a few miles away that, on summer days, was literally standing room only—a thousand sufferers shoulder to shoulder in tepid water, a sea of pink and light blue bathing caps, ruffled women’s bathing suits, and screaming children. This was a far cry from the beaches of Benodet in Brittany.
Four months later, six inches of snow fell on the Washington area. My mother, who still shopped daily à l’européenne armed with a five dollar bill and a string bag, was completely unprepared. We had no bread, no eggs or butter, no vegetables or meat. Worse, we had one roll of toilet paper that she hid for her personal use.
About a week later it snowed again. My mother hurried to the store slipping and sliding in her recently purchased 1951 Lincoln. She bought five pounds of hamburgers, a sack of potatoes, onions, three chickens, bouillon cubes, celery, and fifteen rolls of toilet paper. At the counter, the checkout lady smiled and pointed to the pile of rolls. She said, “You’re ready for the storm!”
Mt mother’s English was still rudimentary. She tried to explain that in post-war Paris, you stocked up in times of emergency, but the only word the checkout lady understood was ‘war.’ This was when the Cold War was raging and the Soviets were threatening to bury the US. War, many thought, was imminent.
A lady in line heard ‘war’ too. She rushed back to the toilet paper aisle and loaded up. So did another woman, and another. Word of war spread. Soon the store was cleaned out of toilet paper, detergent, RC Cola and chocolate bars. My mother drove home, unaware of the trend she’d started and that endures to this day.
This is a true story. I was there.
How My Mother Started the Winter Storm Toilet Paper Craze
There’s a strong possibility that my mother started the we-need-toilet-paper-because-it’s-going-to-snow mania.
Let me explain.
When we first came to the United States, we withstood tropical weather for the first few months (we arrived in late June) and it seemed inconceivable that a change of season could bring the weather from 100°F to below freezing. My mother’s knowledge of weather patterns was limited. She had lived in Paris and vacationed in the south of France. During World War II, she spent time in Algeria, and at war’s end had returned with my father to the French capital, where it rarely snowed.
Washington in the summer was an entirely different story. The city was sweltering, subtropical, swampy and mosquito-ridden—so much so that British diplomats considered serving in the District of Columbia a hardship post. It’s true, you can look it up.
We spent that first summer in a state of abject heat exhaustion. Large Sears & Roebuck upright fans moved the air around, a sad and sluggish attempt at comfort, and I remember that even the tap water was warm coming out of the faucet. On occasion, we would drive to Chevy Chase Lake, a large swimming pool a few miles away that, on summer days, was literally standing room only—a thousand sufferers shoulder to shoulder in tepid water, a sea of pink and light blue bathing caps, ruffled women’s bathing suits, and screaming children. This was a far cry from the beaches of Benodet in Brittany.
Four months later, six inches of snow fell on the Washington area. My mother, who still shopped daily à l’européenne armed with a five dollar bill and a string bag, was completely unprepared. We had no bread, no eggs or butter, no vegetables or meat. Worse, we had one roll of toilet paper that she hid for her personal use.
About a week later it snowed again. My mother hurried to the store slipping and sliding in her recently purchased 1951 Lincoln. She bought five pounds of hamburgers, a sack of potatoes, onions, three chickens, bouillon cubes, celery, and fifteen rolls of toilet paper. At the counter, the checkout lady smiled and pointed to the pile of rolls. She said, “You’re ready for the storm!”
Mt mother’s English was still rudimentary. She tried to explain that in post-war Paris, you stocked up in times of emergency, but the only word the checkout lady understood was ‘war.’ This was when the Cold War was raging and the Soviets were threatening to bury the US. War, many thought, was imminent.
A lady in line heard ‘war’ too. She rushed back to the toilet paper aisle and loaded up. So did another woman, and another. Word of war spread. Soon the store was cleaned out of toilet paper, detergent, RC Cola and chocolate bars. My mother drove home, unaware of the trend she’d started and that endures to this day.
This is a true story. I was there. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
