2003

There were 68 posts published in 2003 (this is page 3 of 7).

Still the Best Salsa Ever

Happy Labor Day!

Today I’d like to re-post a very important bit of information that I originally shared last September. I am not joking when I say this is the best damn salsa I’ve ever had. Make a batch, and see if you don’t agree.

Two winters ago, Kris and Jenn bought me and Jeremy each a copy of the Cook’s Illustrated cookbook, The Best Recipe. Last year, Kris tried the book’s recipe for fresh salsa. It’s fantastic. Subtle, flavorful, delicious.

Here’s the recipe from the book, followed by our modifications:

Fresh Red Table Salsa

  • 3 large very ripe tomatoes (~2#), cored and diced small
  • 1/2 cup tomato juice
  • 1 small jalapeno or other fresh chile, minced (remove seeds for mild salsa)
  • 1 medium red onion, diced small
  • 1 medium garlic clove, minced
  • 1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro, minced
  • 1/2 cup juice from 4 medium limes
  • salt to taste

Blend every thing together in blender or food processor. Put the salsa in the fridge for 8+ hours (the longer the better). Enjoy!

Things we have learned with this recipe:

  • Be careful with the lime juice. Too much lime juice spoils the flavor.
  • If, like me, you’re not a fan of cilantro, be sure the leaves are chopped fine. You may want to reduce the cilantro to just 1/4 cup.
  • For optimum flavor, follow J.D.’s Rule of Garlic: “Always add five times the amount of garlic called for by the recipe.” In this case, use five cloves of garlic instead of one clove. You’ll thank me for it later.
  • To vary the heat of the salsa, alter the number of chiles (in particular, the quantity of seeds from the chiles). Kris doesn’t like hot salsa, so we don’t use any chile seeds. It tastes fantastic even without them.

Try this salsa. You’ll be glad you did.

I dreaded Labor Day as a kid. I felt as if Dad took the day’s name literally. It was always a day of huge yard projects, of working outside. It sucked.

As an adult, I’ve continued to labor most Labor Days. It’s more fun now, though. The day off gives me a chance to work on long-avoided projects.

This summer I’ve been especially negligent around the house. True, much of this is due to my knee surgery in May, but part of it is due to a natural laziness found in the Roth blood. As a result, things are in a shambles. The lawn has begun to die (and has remain unmowed much of the summer). The car hasn’t had its oil changed in nearly a year. (It hasn’t been washed or vacuumed in that period, either.) Piles of stuff have accumulated on the library table, next to this computer. I have a half dozen boxes filled with stuff that needs to be sorted and put away. Plus, there’s the usual chores that need to be done, all of which I’ve been avoiding.

Today I managed to make a dent in this list of projects. I didn’t accomplish everything, and I didn’t even do everything that Kris had on my “honey do” list, but I did finish several major tasks, and start on a few more. I wanted to be productive. It’s the first time that I’ve felt like that in months. It felt great.

There’s still much left to do before I go to bed. I have seven or eight boxes of stuff piled in the living room. I need to sort the CDs and books and notes. I need to purge much of the stuff in the boxes. I need to pay my bills.

Also of note: I played with the cats. I slept with the cats.

Life is good.

For dinner tonight I grilled steaks. I grilled a cheap-ass pepper steak (from Thriftway) for myself and a filet mignon for Kris. My dinner was okay — a lot of steak but not that flavorful, which is what I wanted — but Kris’ was great. She said it was the best steak that she’d ever had. A good filet mignon can be like that.

In an hour or so, I’ll make a batch of chocolate chip cookies. When they’re done, I’ll eat them while they’re warm, dunking them in cold milk.

Mmmmmmmm.

Comments


On 01 September 2003 (08:40 PM),
Ron Roth said:

Your dad must have been related to mine. After dreading the start of school, each year dad made us glad that school was starting and Labor Day was over by the large numbers of projects that he tried to finish on Labor Day so he would have them done before summer was over. I think Shanika is glad for school tomorrow also because I had her helping me stain the fence today so it would be done before summer is over.
In our freezer is some of the best steak I have ever eaten. Last year a friend that was a steak ‘connesuier’ (his words not mine) told me how to raise and feed out a cow to make great steaks, he used to have 50 acres just so he could raise his own beef and his family ate more than one cow per year so I figured he must know what he was talking about. Eileen’s brother tried it and then we dry aged it for 21 days before cutting it up. It is the tenderest beef I have ever eaten. Nothing I have ever had in a restaraunt compares with it not even beef I have had in the midwest. I did have a really great 1 1/2 inch thick pork chop at Mike Ditka’s restaraunt in downtown Chicago though and, even though I have never been a great fan of pork, I am wondering how you raise a great hog.



On 01 September 2003 (10:28 PM),
dowingba said:

Labor day = time and a half pay.



On 01 September 2003 (10:45 PM),
Virginia said:

Ron, when am I invited to your house for a steak dinner? Does the steak go well with Fresh Red Table Salsa? I am going to try the salsa recipe tomorrow. I’ll let you know if J.D. is telling the truth. Up till now the best salsa I ever ate was made by Judy Headings, (Steve Headings wife) She had learned how to make it in Mexico.



On 02 September 2003 (07:38 AM),
Aimee Miron said:

Regarding cilantro …

According to a famous Portland bistro chef, I have learned that the more you chop the leaves of cilantro, the stronger the smokey flavor of the herb. For a more subtle, less invasive addition, the chef recommends tearing (by hand) the leaves from the stems, and further tearing the leaves to the desired size. This results in a slight bruise which releases a different flavor than the flavor generated by the chemical reaction between steel knives and cilantro when a fine chopping is required.

Yours,



On 02 September 2003 (08:15 AM),
Tiffany said:

Well, you would have envied my Labor Day! After a lot of pre-Labor Day work, I have nothing to do on Labor Day. I read in bed until 1pm, getting up only to eat. My cats were confused about my behavior, but happy to join me. Rich worked in the garage most of the day. We saw �S.W.A.T.� after dinner, good but predictable.



On 04 September 2005 (11:33 PM),
Joe B said:

I make really good salsa too. email me for recipe.

Musical Interlude

Kris and I joined Jeremy and Jennifer and Harrison and Emma last night to hear the Oregon Symphony play at Tom McCall Waterfront Park. Thousands of people turned out to sit on blankets, lounging in the warmth of the late summer evening, eating picnic dinners as the symphony played Dvorak, Mozart, and Beethoven. The final number was Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, complete with cannons. After the concert, a barge on the Willamette River launched a marvelous fireworks show. It was a great evening.

The kids were fun. Emma spent much of the night coloring. She wanted help, though, and she kept handing me crayons and saying, “You’re missing all the fun. You’re gonna miss all the fun, J.D.” I didn’t want to miss all the fun, so I colored with her. It was fun.

Later, I ate a cookie. Or three. Emma wasn’t interested in sharing a cookie until she noticed the colored sugar on top. “Can I have a taste of that sugar?” she asked, her eyes filled with greed. I gave her a cookie of her own but she didn’t eat it; she just licked off the colored sugar in great swipes of her three-year-old-tongue. (Okay, technically she’s only two, but she’s getting close to three — here are stories about another girl who is two-and-three-quarters.)

Harrison was fun, too. He’s nearly five now, and he’s curious about the world around him: he was reading a children’s atlas when Jeremy and I reached the park. He asks lots of questions about trees and animals and people.

The orchestra’s first piece was Holst’s “Mars, Bringer of War” from The Planets. Hank had just seen Mars in the sky the night before (and how amazing was that? &mdsah; did you all see it?), and Jeremy tried to explain to him that the music was written about the planet. The “Bringer of War” thing confused Hank, though, so we tried to explain what that meant. It was difficult. Jeremy and Jennifer are trying to raise Harrison to worship the Christian god (a point on which I try to stay neutral with Hank when the issue arises, as it does from time-to-time; I don’t want to undermine what Jeremy and Jennifer are teaching, yet I’m not going to affirm something that I don’t believe, either — it’s a fine line to walk!). How does one explain to a five-year-old that Mars was the god of war for a group of people that lived thousands of years ago. That’s a bit abstract for a five-year-old, I think. Give him a couple of years.

Later, as the light was fading and the stars beginning to shine (and Mars was hanging low in the southeastern sky), Hank and I talked a bit about astronomy and atmospheric conditions.

“What causes a rainbow?” I asked him.

He knew, of course, because at this age he knows everything, and what he doesn’t know, he’s willing to make up on the spot. “Well, when the clouds come together and get really hard and fluffy after it rains, then it makes a rainbow.”

“And how big is a rainbow?” I asked.

“Forty-five miles up into the sky!” he shouted, jumping high to emphasize his point.

I love those kids.

The CD that Jesus gave me the other day is pretty damn good. It turns out it is from an Italian pop singer, a guy named Eros Ramazzotti. This particular album, Eros, has earned glowing reviews at Amazon (five stars in 41 reviews). Here’s an apt description of the album:

Eros marks a new chapter in the Italian singer and composer Eros Ramazzotti’s ever-growing international career. Offering a wider spectrum of Ramazzotti’s musicianship and the combination of well-crafted compositions and outstanding performances, the album is a great work of serious contemporary pop music. The CD covers different rhythmic feels, reaching its climax with “Le Cose Della Vita,” a song that perfectly suits Ramazzotti’s talent. His vocal style is one of the trademark qualities of the whole collection: a nasal, simply recognizable approach with a lot of intimacy and a great sense of expression that find its roots in the great tradition of the Italian bel canto. Eros offers the right balance between the important melodic Italian tradition and the complexity of today’s international pop music. Truly one of the most important releases on today’s European pop scene, ready to find its own place in the American market.

Last night as we were driving home Kris commented that one of the songs sounded like Tina Turner. I dismissed her remark out of hand. Tina Tuner? Ha! Oops. Turns out that one of the songs, “Cosas de la Vida/Can’t Stop Thinking About You”, does include a duet with Tina Turner. Another song, “Musica e”, a gorgeous theatrical piece ten-minutes long, features a duet with Andrea Bocelli.

My favorite song, though, is “L’Aurora”. I’ve been listening to it again and again. It features a perfect mid-1980s power pop song that I’ll be a sucker for all of my life. It could be a ballad by Heart or Boston or Jefferson Starship if it weren’t in Italian. I’ve uploaded a low-quality mp3 of the song (~1.3mb) for you to hear (though at this quality much of the song’s lushness has been lost).

Apparently, like many European pop singers, Eros records versions of his songs in different languages. Earlier I had the Italian lyrics of the song posted, but the version I have (and love) has Spanish lyrics:

La Aurora
by Eros Ramazzotti

Yo no se si me sucedera sue�os que se hagan realidad
como el que hoy tengo en mi corazon latente
desde que esta

Tal vez este permanecera sue�o que se haga realidad
como los que estoy dibujando entre mis canciones
y ya que estan mientras esten
no dejare de so�ar un poco mas

Sera, sera, la Aurora sera, sera, asi

como pasear como respirar un nuevo aroma
y mas aun

Y tu, y tu, mi vida
veras, que pronto volveras a estas manos que, seran

Y si ya que todo a cambiado
un cereno en torno se vera has oido bien
puede que haya nuevos horizontes
sabes por que, sabes por que, no dejare

de so�ar un poco mas una y otra vez
no muere nunca las cosas que estan en ti
si lo has creido una ves tu podras segir
si lo has creido en serio, como lo he creido yo, yo…

Sera, sera la Aurora sera, sera, asi
sera, la claridad que asoma una inmensa luz vendra

Sera, sera, la Aurora sera, sera, asi
sera la claridad que asoma una inmensa luz vendra

Sera la claridad que asoma una inmensa luz vendra
Una inmensa luz vendraI don’t know what that means, but I love the song!

Comments

On 29 August 2003 (12:28 PM),
dowingba said:

What Beethoven song(s) did they play?



On 29 August 2003 (12:32 PM),
J.D. said:

A description of the program can be found at the bottom of this page. They played the first movement of Beethoven’s fifth sympony.

When I was in college, the Oregon Symphony would play on campus several times a year. I loved to go. It was cheap then, though — maybe five bucks a performance. I’m not sure I could afford to drive to Portland to see the symphony on a regular basis now.



On 29 August 2003 (12:51 PM),
J.D. said:

Last night we discussed how much it cost to attend the symphony. None of us was really sure. Subscription information for the Oregon Symphony can be found here. Basically, to see them at the Schnitz costs between $15 and $30 per performance depending on your preferred times and seats. The symphony plays a reduced schedule at Willamette. I’m not sure how much the Salem concerts cost; that information doesn’t seem to be available online.

(Ah! I found another electronic device that allows communication: a telephone! Unfortunately the woman with whom I spoke seemed pre-occupied. She’s mailing me complete information. She was able to tell me that the minimum ticket price is $17 per concert. Since the Willamette concert halls are much smaller than the Schnitz, this is not a bad deal at all. Maybe I can convince Kris to join me for a couple of performances this year.)



On 30 August 2003 (07:12 AM),
dowingba said:

Symphony #5…phht, how predictable.


On 30 August 2003 (10:27 PM),
dowingba said:

That arnold schwarzennegger link up there, about gay marriage between a man and a woman: I guarantee that is doctored. That isn’t a normal mp3 burp there. It’s so obviously a cut and paste job…

Prove me wrong, JD, because you know how much I like to hate republicans…


On 30 August 2003 (11:25 PM),
J.D. said:

Well, I’m pretty sure it’s real. The stuff in the middle of Arnold’s sentence is just the interviewer trying to get a word in. More infor can be found here (including a link to the complete interview, I think).

I don’t hate Republicans any more than I hate Democrats. On average. They’re all a bunch of hoodlums, in my opinion. As I’ve mentioned before, I generally don’t pay much attention to national politics (though I really really hate the current President, and think he’s an incompetent moron), and most certainly don’t care about another state’s governor. If the Californians want to elect Arnold, that’s their business. I have nothing against him, and don’t want to take the time to be come informed enough to develop something against him (or for him), especially since his governorship won’t affect me.

There was a great piece from Garrison Keillor in a recent issue of Time Magazine in which he has fun with California over the whole Arnold thing.

Of course ignored amongst the hubbub is the question: why is the governor of California held to higher standards than the President of the United States?



On 31 August 2003 (05:45 AM),
dowingba said:

You’re right. I listened to it more closely.

The governor of California is more scrutinized than the President because even when Big Brother (bush) does something bad, he actually is doing something good. It’s doublethink.

J.D. in Slumberland

How often do you have nightmares? I don’t have them often.

Yet it’s 4:04 a.m. and I was just awakened by a dream in which I was screaming, screaming at a formless darkness in our television room, a shape that could only have been an intruder, a burglar, a possible murderer.

I’ve been reading classic comic strips lately:

Little Nemo was written and drawn by Winsor McKay from 1905 to 1914. Its premise is that each night Morpheus, the king of the Slumberland, sends one of his minions to summon a young boy (Little Nemo) to his realm. The minion leads Nemo through strange and wonderful landscapes — a forest of giant mushrooms, a land of walking beds, a garden filled with monstrous vegetables — until finally something terrible happens — the giant mushrooms collapse at the touch of a finger! &mdash and Nemo wakes and falls out of bed screaming.

The stories are macabre and fantastic, the art a beautiful blend of art nouveau and art deco (traditionally, the division between these two periods is considered to be the start of World War I).

I showed Harrison some Little Nemo strips last night, though I altered the stories a bit. The illustrations seemed fantastic enough to fill his brain with wonder; I was afraid that the actual text of the strip might push the wonder into horror. (Harrison is a sensitive child.) After the Gingeriches had gone home, I read more of the strips before bed.

Well.

I was worried that Little Nemo might give Harrison nightmares — and maybe it did — but I should have been worried about myself.

Last night I dreamt that we had returned home from an evening out. Kris went to let the cats out and said, “Huh. Well, I guess somebody stole your bike.” My heart sunk. I’d had my bike chained up in the backyard, but sure enough, somebody had cut the chain and taken the bike. They’d left the front wheel, though, as they’d apparently bent the rim during the theft.

Then I noticed that I’d left the shed door open. Again, my heart sunk. When I checked, the shed was nearly empty. The thieves had stolen almost everything: the camping equipment, the empty CD cases (our CDs reside in binders, so we keep the cases in the shed), my old computer gaming magazines, the Christmas supplies.

“What about the house?” I thought. I ran to the library. One of the computers was missing. I went to the back of the house to check on the larder and on the television room. But when I entered the television room, I was startled to find a formless black shape, a menacing presence: the thief! I screamed! The figure came toward me with a knife! I screamed!

And then I awoke. Fortunately, I wasn’t actually screaming.

I rarely have nightmares. Maybe Little Nemo is more potent than I had suspected.

Little Nemo is worthy of its own weblog entry. Many of these classic comic strips are wonderful, and I want to share them with my friends. Unfortunately, most of my friends would find them uninteresting. I think it’d be wonderful if one or more of these old strips were reprinted alongside the modern comic strips in today’s newspapers.

Comments

On 27 July 2003 (07:42 PM),
dowingba said:

Hopefully it’ll replace Cathy.

On 28 July 2003 (12:50 AM),
Dana said:

There is no Ming but Max, and Middleton is his prophet…

I mean, really. How can you not like this guy and this guy? Geez, but Sam Jones looks like a dope in comparison, doesn’t he? Max von Sydow was brilliant casting. But Sam Jones as Flash? And making him a Football Player? Groan.

On 28 July 2003 (12:42 PM),
Joel said:

I’ve never read Little Nemo, but the art really reminds me of the illustrations for the original editions of L. Frank Baum’s works. I suppose they would fit into that Art Deco/Nouveau period?

On 28 July 2003 (01:54 PM),
Dana said:

There’s an issue of Promethea that’s done in this style as a conscious throwback/homage to Little Nemo. Little Margie and Promethea visit the Sun King, who is going to be marrying the Moon soon. But he’s lost the ring, so Margie and Promethea go about looking for it, eventually discovering that the ring wasn’t lost at all, but…

Well, I don’t want to ruin it in the off chance someone out there is going to pick it up and read it.

On 16 May 2005 (01:30 PM),
Peter M said:

Little Nemo vs new, smaller comic strips

Nemo actually was reprinted in smaller form in the 1930s and 1940s, and again in the 1960s, very briefly alongside othe comics, but it can’t really be appreciated in abreviated form, and the full-page format is even less plausible in today’s comics sections then it was back in the 1960s.

The many fans of Little Nemo among modern strip creators are Patrick McDonnell, Gary Trudeau, and Bill Watterson.

A full-size reprint edition of the early strips is due out this fall.

Roadside Weeds of Canby, Oregon

Previously I lamented that, while strolling down country lanes, I could not identify the weeds and trees and flowers before me; they all had names, I was sure, but what those names might be remained a mystery.

Warren recommended I pick up a copy of Helen Gilkey’s Handbook of Northwestern Plants. Powell’s had several used copies for under $10, and the taxonomic classification system for identifying the weeds was keen, but Kris found a book better suited to our needs: Northwest Weeds: The Ugly and Beautiful Villains of Fields, Gardens, and Roadsides.

Northwest Weeds is not nearly as comprehensive as Gilkey’s textbook, but it has the distinct advantage of having many (~250) color photographs whereas Gilkey’s book has only line drawings. The color photographs are a tremendous aid in identifying weeds.

Armed with the new book and a digital camera, I set out to identify the roadside weeds within a quarter mile radius of Custom Box Service. After a week of exploration, I’d learned a number of weeds.

The following photographs are low-quality digital images (it’s difficult to get close using a camera without a macro lens — plus my digital camera doesn’t allow me to adjust the aperture, so depth-of-field is bothersome). The text description for each plant is taken directly from Northwest Weeds.

 
[photo of Queen Anne's Lace]		 Queen Anne’s Lace (Daucus carota), of the parsley family (aka umbels). Queen Anne’s Lace resembles the carrot, as well it should since it is the wild carrot. It is an erect biennial, up to four feet tall, with lace-like, multi-compound leaves. The plants are usually coarsely hairy. The carrot-like roots taste like their cultivated cousins but become woody, bitter and tough as the plant ages. The minute, white flowers grow in a flat-topped inflorescence, technically a compound umbel because it contains small umbels within a large umbel. The central flower is usually pinkish purple. Leaves immediately below the inflorescence are small but pinnately divided. Short bristles envelope the mature fruits. When it blooms in late summer, Queen Anne’s Lace is one of the most common and conspicuous weeds along roadsides in the Pacific Northwest. It thrives primarily in waste areas but invades meadows and pastures. It is native of Eurasia.
 
 
 
[photo of Himalayan Blackberry]		 Himalayan Blackberry (Rubus procerus), of the rose family. Himalayan blackberry is an introduced species that has become a weed of the worst kind. [Editor’s note: I disagree; I love blackberries! Look for a discussion of “what is a weed” at the end of this page. Update: Er, I forgot to add that section; I’ll add it later.] Himalayan blackberry is a weak-stemmed shrub that may grow erect, but more frequently clambers and spreads over other plants, crushing and smothering them. Its vicious, flattened spines hold tenaciously. The leaves are palmately compound, typically with five large, oval, toothed leaflets. Even the leaf and leaflet stalks have spines. The white to pale pink flowers, about one inch across, blossom throughout the season. This Eurasian blackberry is now widespread west of the Cascades, less common in northern Idaho and northwestern Montana.
 
 
 
[photo of Evergreen Blackberry]		 Evergreen Blackberry (Rubus laciniatus), of the rose family. Evergreen blackberry is less abundant and less aggressive than its somewhat larger cousin, but a noxious weed, nevertheless. It is distinguished from the Himalayan blackberry by the leaves, which also have five leaflets, but are sharply and irregularly incised and toothed. The fruits look much alike, but those of the evergreen blackberry are generally considered more desirable. This species is a European cultivated variety that ran wild. Its range is similar to that of the Himalayan blackberry.
 
 
 
[photo of Canada Thistle]		 Canada Thistle (Cirsium arvense), of the sunflower family. This aggressive perennial weed spreads from deep rhizomes to form dense and persistent populations. The rather thin stems are two to five feet tall and branch at the top to produce numerous inch wide heads with spiny involucral bracts. The leaves are pinnately lobed with weak spines along the margins and wooly hair on the lower surface. The plants are unisexual. Male heads produce pollen and female heads produce numerous seeds that drift on the wind. The flowers in both cases are pale lavender to deep purple, the male heads tending to be more showy. This noxious weed was introduced from Eurasia to the United States and southern Canada, where it invades fields, pastures, and various waste areas. It is difficult to eradicate, but will eventually die if kept cut back.
 
 
 
[photo of Bull Thistle]		 Bull Thistle (Cirsium vulgare), of the sunflower family. The bull thistle is a coarse, branched biennial, generally between two and three feet tall. The leaves are pinnately divided, the lobes spine-tipped. The spines extend downward from the leaves along prominent ridges of the stem. White woolly hair more or less covers the stems. Minute stiff hairs make the upper surface of the leaves rough to the touch. Heads are about two inches wide, and very showy with their numerous, enlarged, purple disc flowers. A vicious spine tips each overlapping, shingle-like, involucral bract. In spite of the spines, horses consider the heads a delicacy because the bases of the tubular disc flowers contain a large amount of sugary nectar. They nip the heads off, and chew them very carefully. The seeds are a choice food source for some birds, such as the goldfinch. This native of Eurasia has established itself throughout North America. Like most thistles, the seeds ride the wind beneath a parachute-like pappus, finding their way to waste areas, roadsides, fields, and pastures.
 
 
 
[photo of Hedge Bindweed]		 Hedge Bindweed (Convolvulus sepium), of the morning-glory family. This perennial grows from rhizomes into widely branched stems that twine and climb, forming hedge-like growths over various objects or other vegetation. [Editor’s note: around Canby, the stuff just spreads like groundcover in the gravel ditches at the side of the road.] The Latin name describes its growth habit: convolvere means to twine and sepi is a fence; it twines over fences forming hedges. The leaves are shaped like arrowheads, complete with a sharp point. The showy flowers are very large, up to three inches long. The white or, occasionally, pink petals are fused and resemble a trumpet. The sepals are hidden by two large leafy bracts growing from the base of the flower. This introduced species is a difficult weed, especially in moist, waste and unkempt areas in urban centers. It also infests waterfalls and marshes, where it often smothers other plants. [Editor’s note: Maybe it’s not hedge bindweed I’ve found; my weed grows in dry places, not in moist ones.]
 
 
 
[photo of Prickly Lettuce]		 Prickly Lettuce (Latuca serriola), of the sunflower family. [Editor’s note: This plant gave me fits! Dana suggested it might be a milkweed, for reasons that will become apparent, and I was stuck on that for a long time.] The bitter and abundant milky juice of this annual or biennial herb is responsible for the generic term Lactuca, Latin for milk. Not surprisingly, some people erroneously refer to this plant as milkweed. The plants are two to four feet tall, with leafy stems and a starchy taproot. The leaves are pinnately divided or sometimes only toothed. They calsp the stem and have ear-like lobes. Prickles cover the leaf teeth, the lower surface of the midvein, and the lower half of the stem, thus the common name. Numerous narrow heads grow on thin branches near the stem tip. The involucral bracts are very uneven in length and surround six to eighteen lemon-yellow ray flowers. The rays are about 1/3 inch long and finely toothed at the tip. The seeds are teardrop shaped but have a long thread-like crown which bears the parachute-like pappus. This European native now grows over much of North America. It is a common weed of waste places, roadsides, gardens, and cultivated fields, especially in stands of alfalfa. The parachute-like pappus enables the seeds to drift on the wind. Prickly lettuce varies toward cultivated lettuce (Lactuca sativa 
 
[photo of Red Clover] Red Clover (Trifolium pratense), of the pea family. This is a coarse, deep-rooted and very persistent perennial. It is regularly cultivated as a crop and often escapes into fields, pastures, and waste areas, and is common along roadsides. The rather large leaflets with pale chevrons and the large heads of red flowers identify this weed. It is a pleasant weed that was introduced from Europe for cultivation.
 
 
 
[photo of Crab Grass]		 Crab Grass (Digitaria sanguinalis), of the grass family. This annual weed spreads horizontally, crab-like, over the ground in a near circular pattern. Each spreading stem terminates in three to five finger-like branches. The spikelets are more or less pressed against these branches. The generic term is derived from the Latin digitus, relating to this digitate or finger-like appearance. Originally native of Europe, this grass has now become a cosmopolitan weed. A closely related species of crabgrass, Digitaria ischaemum, separable only by technical characteristics, is also an introduced wide-ranging weed in North America.
 
 
 
[photo of Cigarette box]		 Marlboro Cigarettes (Cancerus marlboros), of the cigarette family. This noxious weed can be found along the roadsides of every state in the Pacific Northwest. Though typically only butts can be found, whole cigarettes can sometimes be discovered. On rare occasions, a discarded box may be found. Though toxic when lit, cigarettes are harmless in their unlit state. Children may be allowed to collect butts from the side of the road and to emulate smoking by chomping them between their teeth. A box of collected butts can be traded for a comic book or for a particularly valuable trading card.
 
 
 
[photo of Wild Oats]		 Wild Oats (Avena fatua), of the grass family. This wild cereal closely resembles oats but has a long twisted, bristle-like appendage (awn) borne on the back of one of the bracts, the lemma, which encloses the grain. This awn can lodge in the mouth or throat of an animal and cause infection. The awn also assists in planting the seed (grain); when it absorbs moisture, it uncoils, screwing itself and the seed into soft soil of cultivated fields. It may then lie dormant for up to 75 years [emphasis added] before germinating. The seeds are also harvested and sown with domestic grains. Wild oats is a tall (two to four foot) annual with large, widely spaced, pendulous grains. Introduced from Europe, it is now widely established in North America and is very difficult to eradicate from cultivated fields.
 
 
 
[photo of Pigweed]		 Pigweed (aka Redroot) (Amaranthus retroflexus), of the amaranth family. Of the several species of Amaranthus that grow as weeds in the Northwest, the most widespread is pigweed. This is an erect annual, one to three feet tall, with long-stemmed, egg-shaped or lance-shaped leaves. The thick taproot is red, which the common name suggests. The minute flowers are individually surrounded by three spiny bracts and are densely clustered in several cone-shaped spikes. Thousands of flowers may grow on each plant, each producing a single seed. Pigweed is a pernicious weed of cultivated fields [Editor’s note: I’ll say! Oh, how I hated hoeing this stuff as a child], waste areas, and gardens. The spininess of the floral bracts makes it an extremely unpleasant plant to deal with, especially when the bracts are dry. The generic name, Amaranthus, refers to the rigid persistence of these bracts. Pigweed is a native of tropical America.
 
 
 
[photo of Jointed Charlock]		 Jointed Charlock (Raphanus raphanistrum), of the mutard family. The common name of this species means jointed graceful compartment, and describes the characteristic fruit. At maturity, the fruits are about two inches long, and strongly joined between several seeds. Eventually the fruit breaks crosswise into units, each containing a single seed. The showy flowers vary in color from yellow to white, often with purplish stripes. The petals are about an inch long, including the base. This native of Eurasia has been sparingly introduced into the Northwest. It grows most frequently in moist waste areas and in cultivated fields.
 
 
 
[photo of Hairy Vetch]		 Hairy Vetch (Vicia villosa), of the pea family. This typical vetch is a weak-stemmed annual or short-lived perennial that clambers over other vegetation, using tendrils to hold itself up. Soft hairs cover the stems, leaves, and sepals. The leaves are pinnately compound with numerous narrow leaflets about 3/4 inch long. The tendrils have several long branches. The reddish-purple flowers, each slightly more than 1/2 inch long, are crowded in narrow, elongate clusters. The inch long pods are reputed to be poisonous. This attractive European transplant provides a nearly continuous display of color, commonly growing along roadsides, fence rows, and other disturbed areas.
 
 
 
[photo of Oxeye Daisy]		 Oxeye Daisy (chrysanthemum leucanthemum), of the sunflower family. [Editor’s note: surprisingly, I could only locate this single sad flower to photograph. I don’t know where all of the daisies are hiding!] This perennial herb spreads by rhizomes. The stems are rather thing, one to two feet tall, and typically branch above to produce two or more attractive flower heads. The leaves are generally pinnately lobed or divided, the lower ones have rather long stalks, the upper ones are stalkless and clasp the stems. The heads are about two inches across have narrow bracts with brown, papery margins. The rays (fifteen to thirty per head) are pure white and the central disc flowers are yellow. This plant was probably introduced from Europe as an ornamental, then escaped cultivation to become on of our most common roadside weeds. It frequently invades fields and meadows where it competes aggressively, especially under grazing pressure, to form dense and expansive populations. The species is now widespread in the Northwest and continues to increase its range.
 
 

There are many more, of course, and I’ll add them to the list as I’m able to photograph and cross-reference them in Northwest Weeds.

Who knew weeds could be so fun?

Comments


On 27 July 2003 (08:42 AM),
Joel said:

Who hasn’t, on occasion, felt a bit like a Hairy Vetch? Weak-stemmed, short-lived, laboriously clambering over our fellow plants with limp trembling tendrils.
The preceding was written at work, shortly after I nearly destroyed a specimen.



On 27 July 2003 (09:03 AM),
Aimee said:

Side Note: JD! You’re reading Captain Blood: Bloody brilliant, arrrgh! I found that my understanding of Cromwellian and subsequent monarchies was full o’ holes at the onset of the novel. But, now as we’ve set sail on the Spanish Main, reading has been smooth waters … Let’s rap about this titan of Previously Unbeknownst to Me Literature …

The field guide to weeds – Now that’s a different story …



On 27 July 2003 (07:47 PM),
dowingba said:

We have those Cancerus Marlboros here too! Except they’re red. I looked it up, thinking it’d simply be called “red marlboros” or “poison marlboros”; but much to my dismay, they were called “Cancerus du Maurier”! There’s also a slightly rarer variety called “Cancerus Player’s Light”. Who comes up with these names?



On 28 July 2003 (05:36 AM),
Paul said:

JD,

Be careful with the blackberries! There be poison oak entwined within! I know all too well.

Paul



On 22 August 2004 (01:39 PM),
Karen said:

I have very tall, 10′-14′ weeds growing near my birdfeeder. Large leaves, 3-5 lobes each. The “flower” stems run out about 4 inches but never acutally flower. The little buds turn into stickers. Any idea what these are???

Famous First Lines

The following block of text contains twenty-four famous first lines from novels. Or, more precisely, first lines from famous (and semi-famous) novels, novels that I’ve read in the past decade.

Most of you have some idea of what I like to read. I’ve simply scanned my fiction section, have pulled down some of my favorites, and have reproduced their opening lines below. Some are well-known. Others are relatively obscure. How many of them can you name? (Please google only as a last resort.)

  1. This is not a conventional cookbook.
  2. I have never begun a novel with more misgiving.
  3. Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
  4. My father and mother should have stayed in New York where they met and married and I was born.
  5. Call me Ishmael.
  6. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
  7. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
  8. The idea of eternal return is a mysterious one, and Nietzsche has often perplexed other philosophers with it: to think that everything recurs as we once experienced it, and that the recurrence itself recurs ad infinitum!
  9. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
  10. She stands up in the garden where she has been working and looks into the distance.
  11. Jewel and I came up from the field, following the path in single file.
  12. It seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination for some days.
  13. The British are frequently criticized by other nations for their dislike of change, and indeed we love England for those aspects of nature and life which change the least.
  14. In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.
  15. Except for the Marabar Caves — and they are twenty miles off — the city of Chandrapore presents nothing extraordinary.
  16. The schoolmaster was leaving the village, and everybody seemed sorry.
  17. The primroses were over.
  18. The music-room in the Governor’s House at Port Mahon, a tall, handsome, pillared octagon, was filled with the triumphant first movement of Locatelli’s C-major quartet.
  19. For a long time I used to go to be early.
  20. Last night I dreamt I went to Manderlay again.
  21. At the first gesture of morning, flies began stirring.
  22. Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler’s pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die.
  23. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.
  24. “Sleep well, dear.”

Too difficult? If so, what are some of your favorite first lines?

Maybe in the future I’ll do this with my science fiction and fantasy novels. Somehow, I suspect their first lines are more revealing: “When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced�” — difficult, that.

Comments

On 12 July 2003 (12:28 PM),
Aimee said:

JD …

I was looking at your “like to read” link and noticed that you listed Nine Parts of Desire as a book group re-read … I was under the impression that at the time I chose the book it had just been published??? Did Powell’s play me false? Or, are you thinking of a different book? Clarify, please … Books are an obsession, aren’t they?

1. The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook?
4. Angle of Repose?
5. Duh.
6. P&P? Other Austen? Or perhaps Dickens?

That’s as far as I’ve gotten using memory and process of elimination. You must publish a key or offer a prize, my good man!

Yours,

On 12 July 2003 (12:37 PM),
J.D. said:

Now it’s a contest!

As per Aimee’s suggestion, I will offer a prize.

The first person to post, in the comments, the correct book and author for all twenty-four of these first lines will receive a lovely book of their own.

No guarantees as to the title (it’ll probably depend on the person; if Jeremy G. wins, he’s not going to want Proust, for example, and if Dana wins the book’s going to be some sort of speculative fiction), but it’ll likely be a book I hold in high esteem.

Post your guesses in the comments section. It’s a group-participation thing, where each guess builds on the ones before. Can you get all twenty-four?

On 12 July 2003 (01:16 PM),
Joel said:

How about we stipulate (honor code, of course) no Googling? Research to be done, at the most, in a library?

On 12 July 2003 (04:11 PM),
Joel said:

Okay, here goes.
1) Thai Food by David Thompson
2) No Fucking Clue by J. Gingerich
3) Anna Karenina by Tolstoy
4) Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt
5) Moby Dick (Or, “The Whiteness of the Whale and How it is Pale”) by Herman Melville
6) David Copperfield by Darle’s Chickens
7) The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
8) The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
9) Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
10) The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje
11) As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
12) The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishigiro
13) Mutiny on the Bounty by Charles Nordhoff and friends
14) A Farewell to Arms by Earnest Hemingway
15) Passage to India by E.M. Forster
16) Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
17) Watership Down by Richard Adams
18) Master and Commander by Patrick O’Brian
19) Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust
20) Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier
21) Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier
22) Fight Club by Chuck Pahlaniuk
23) Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
24) The Sailor Who Fell From Grace Into the Sea by Yukio Mishima

Congratulations, JD, this may be the first time in history that a weblog has made someone leave work early in order to go stalking around the library muttering “Tyler… Gun in my Face… FIGHT CLUB!”

On 12 July 2003 (04:38 PM),
Aimee said:

In three hours time, too … Your effort is utterly impressive, Love.

Yours,

On 13 July 2003 (10:56 AM),
Rich said:

Congrats, Joel. The real question is who many you answered off the top of your head.

My 3 favorite opening lines:

1. It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

2. Amerigo Bonasera sat in New York Criminal Court Number 3 and waited for justice; vengence on the men who had so cruelly hurt his daughter, who had tried to dishonor her.

3. If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all the David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like getting into it, if you want to know the truth.

On 13 July 2003 (03:52 PM),
J.D. said:

Sorry for the delay responding; I’ve been out clamdigging. More on that later.

Joel is close, but he hasn’t quite won the prize. The race is on!

I must say I’m impressed with how close Joel has come, though. I’ll bet his methodology consisted of the following: look at J.D.’s recently read list, and the list of book group books, and that should do the trick. For the most part, it did.

I’m particularly impressed that he managed the Kundera, the Ondaatje, the Hemingway, and the Mishima.

Which books are wrong? Only the first two. The first book isn’t a cookbook, it’s a novel. The second book is a potential book club selection in the future. It’s one of Nick’s favorite books. There have been two film versions, though the most recent movie has some gross miscalculations…

Rich, you’ve got some good choices there, too. Your first is 1984, and I suspect your third is Catcher in the Rye, but I’m not sure of that. I don’t know the second. Except for the New York bit, it sounds Kafka-esque. The quote sounds damn familiar, though.

Your choices remind me that I left one of my very favorite books:

“When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.”

The line isn’t really that great, the book is one of my favorites…

On 13 July 2003 (06:16 PM),
Rich said:

j.d. – you are right on the two you listed. as for the 2nd one, it’s from a book that was made into a movie, and in the movie, that same character (Amerigo Bonasera) speaks the opening line of the movie: “I believe in America…”

your quote is from one of my favorite lawyer books of all time.

On 14 July 2003 (08:22 AM),
joel said:

Rich- That’s “Godfather”, right?
JD- Aimee and I only knew eight of them right off. You’re right, most of the rest I got off this very blog. A few others I remember chatting with you recently. I long to break into the reading room and scurry about, ripping books off the shelves and glancing at the first page before tossing them aside (A vision that patrons of the Mult. Co. Pub. Lib. were recently treated to). But, then again, if someone else winds up the victor, I ‘spose I’ll just have to borrow the book in question, eh?

On 14 July 2003 (08:45 AM),
J. Gingerich said:

Joel,

Thanks for the credit, but as of yet I have not completed my first novel. However, I have a very good real life basis for one at my work.

-jeremy

On 14 July 2003 (10:30 AM),
Rich said:

Joel – yep, the Godfather it is.

let me explain why i like it so much.

“Amerigo Bonasera sat in New York Criminal Court Number 3 and waited for justice; vengence on the men who had so cruelly hurt his daughter, who had tried to dishonor her.”

“Amerigo Bonasera…”
The first word in the book is the same Italian name from which the word “America” derived. (Amerigo Vespucci), so you have the linking of Italian and American cultures foreshadowed.

“…sat in New York Criminal Court Number 3…”
I don’t know if this is a clunky plot device or an elegant way of demonstrating that this book will take place in the NYC area, the American cradle of the flood of Italian immigrants, but I like it however you think it. Mostly, I like the almost clinical way in which he describes the location of the court, which is very much the style of large portions of the novel. Mario Puzo spends a lot of time going over the real and fictional histories of the various Mafia families that have roles in the book, sometimes in meticulous detail. He also spends a lot of time describing the way all characters look physically, and he reiterates that description often in the book.

“…and waited for justice;…”
By saying that he was *waiting* for justice, it implies that he was not going to get it, but that instead he was just sitting and waiting within the government buraeucracy, and would have to go elsewhere to get it.

“…vengence on the men who had so cruelly hurt his daughter…”
The way that “justice” and “vengence” are arranged so that they butt up against each other is fantastic. To Amerigo, and many like him, justice and vengence are the same thing. That is why they turn to Don Corleone and his world, since the courts and the police do not dole out vengence that appeases that baser side of the heart, but instead a non-emotional and impassionate justice. But since he “believes in America,” he first tries this route, and when he doesn’t get vengence, he goes to the Godfather. And he gets it. Immediately, and fully.

“…who had tried to dishonor her.”
The concept of honor and old-fashioned values plays a large role in the Godfather series, but yet it is juxtaposed againt the fact that the main characters and criminals and murderers. Sex is a main element of the book, though downplayed in the movie. The movie producer who found a horse in his bed (Jack Woltz), the prodigal godson Hollywood entertainer (Johnny Fontaine), and the hothead emotional son (Santino Corleone) all have sex lives that are described in great detail in the book, all for a purpose.

that might be a bit too analytical for some people’s tastes, and for all I know Mario Puzo wrote that sentence in 3 seconds, but to me it is a classic.

On 14 July 2003 (10:44 PM),
Andrew Parker said:

I can’t believe that no one got Debt to Pleasure *or* The Razor’s Edge, which may just be numbers one and two in my own favorites list. Too bad that other Lanchester and Maugham works aren’t all as worthy.

On 14 July 2003 (10:51 PM),
Andrew Parker said:

And with that inspiration, my present numbers three and four:

Sauti the storyteller told this tale to his friend Saunaka in the Naimisha Forest.

Hughes got it wrong, in one important detail.

On 15 July 2003 (08:37 AM),
Joel said:

Hey, Andrew, I just finished reading Flashman a few days ago. Definitely a good time, and an interesting antidote to the Patrick O’Brian that I love so much. I wish I’d read it back when we were hammering the Taliban.

On 02 April 2005 (03:46 PM),
Jess said:

XCELLENT

On 02 April 2005 (03:46 PM),
Jess said:

XCELLENT

On the Naming of Things

I’m still not sleeping well. Kris thinks my sleep problems come from not following my friends’ advice. I think my sleep problems come from her waking me when I’m asleep.

Tuesday night I fell asleep at nine and was dozing contentedly when Kris woke me an hour later. Yesterday I came home from work and fell asleep, and I would have slept straight through until morning except that, when she got home at seven, Kris threw open the blinds and she opened the window, which let in both the noise from the street and the hotter outside air. Ugh. And then she wonders why I’m so groggy the rest of the evening.

I’m so tired that I’ve been falling asleep at work. That’s a feat. My office chair is hardly comfortable, and reclines maybe fifteen degrees. Try to sleep in that. It’s not easy.

This morning I felt myself falling asleep again, so, to thwart Somnus, I took a little walk (yes, without my knee brace).

Proust, in Swann’s Way (you knew I was going to tie this to Proust, didn’t you?), spends pages describing his daily walks through the French countryside. (The title of the book itself — Swann’s Way — refers to the most common walk he made.) With a typical eye for detail, he describes the wide plains through which he travels, the plants he passes (especially his beloved hawthorn), the people he sees, the steeples he can discern from churches of distant towns.

My walks, that autumn, were all the more delightful because I used to take them after long hours spent over a book. When I was tired of reading, after a whole morning in the house, I would throw my plaid across my shoulders and set out; my body, which in a long spell of enforced immobility had stored up an accumulation of vital energy, was now obliged, like a spinning-top wound and let go, to spend this in every direction. The walls of houses, the Tanonsville hedge, the trees of Roussainville wood, the bushes gainst which Montjouvain leaned its back, all must bear the blows of my walking-stick or umbrella, must hear my shouts of happiness!

Reading about all his walking has made me want to do some of my own.

I’ve been telling myself for a decade that I ought to take walks during the day, to amble down these country roads. I’ve never done it.

Even the short walk I made today was quite nice. The experience was sensual: the chirping of the birds, the whirring of the grasshoppers, the buzzing and thrumming of the power lines; the sweet smell of the tree for which I have no name (more on this in a moment), the dry, dusty odor of the wheat; the sharp heat of the mid-morning sun burning my skin, the crunch of the gravel beneath my feet; the tiny spots of color from blossoms amidst the dry, brown grass.

The field across from Custom Box, just last year filled with lush strawberries, has become a lake of yellow dandelions; it almost seems like some intelligence has planted them in uniform patterns. Down the road there is a twent-foot wide east-west corridor that is a sort of superhighway for insects. The air is thick with them, especially the honey bees, and they zip along wavering straight lines on their insect agendas.

Though I enjoyed my stroll, I found myself overwhelmed — as often happens when I’m in nature — by the fact that I did not have names for many of the things around me.

Those dandelions: are they really dandelions? And what of those flowers I call daisies? They’re not really daisies, are they? They’re weeds. And what about that low, delicate blossom on the ground cover beneath the neighbor’s mailbox? What is that called? And the purple, globular bloom on the tangly weed? The other purple flower?

What about the various weedy grasses? The tufty stuff, what is that? The tall, spike stuff: surely that has a name, too. Some of the grasses are still green. Some are quite brown. What are they called?

The neighbors have a tree — a cedar? — with a sweet, musky scent that cries FOREST. What is it? And what are the tall evergreens behind it?

Why don’t I know the names of the plants that grow just outside my back door?

Kris knows the names of all the flowers she plants in her garden at home, and I’ve learned a few — clematis, verbena, foxglove, alium, hydrangea — but what of the native plants, even the weeds, that are so profuse out here in the country? What are they called? Who would know? How would I learn? Did I know at one time? Did Mom and Dad teach me the name of the tall, rubbery weed with the lacy top, the weed we used to break in half and laugh at the white milky blood which oozed from its stalk?

How can I really say that I’m living in my environment if I cannot even name the things which surround me?

I’m lost.

Comments

On 10 July 2003 (11:37 AM),
J.D. said:

Nick, who is keen to walk to my office to comment on my entries, but will not post his wisdom for all to share, thought that this bit from “Romeo and Juliet” was apt (though it took me a while to find because I thought it was from “Hamlet”):

Juliet.
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;–
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title:–Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Nice, eh?

He also reminded me to enjoy the experience of walking despite the fact I lack the vocabulary to describe it.



On 10 July 2003 (11:54 AM),
Tiffany said:

http://oregonstate.edu/dept/ldplants/


On 10 July 2003 (12:43 PM),
Dana said:

If I had to guess from your description, I’d say the weed that you’d split open to expose it’s milky sap is probably a variety of Milkweed. :)



On 10 July 2003 (04:12 PM),
Kris said:

Dear Husband,

Darkness is for sleepin’; daylight is for fixin’ dinner, doin’ chores, snugglin’ with your sweetie, playin’ with the cats, watchin’ baseball and generally bein’ AWAKE! Naps are the devil’s spawn…. (evil laugh here…)



On 10 July 2003 (04:13 PM),
Mom said:

I’m not sure I know the names of a lot of the plants, especially weeds, that grow around here. When I was a kid in Utah, we had a lot of cat tails and snake grass, and they were fun to play with, but I don’t think we have either one around here. I know the names of a lot of flowers and a few of the plants that grow here in the Northwest but Steve knew a lot of the latin names from when he worked at Mitsch Nursery. He liked to impress me by reciting them while showing them to me when I first got to know him. I’m not sure that we ever really knew the names of local weeds — a weed was a weed was a weed. So your guess on that score is as good as mine, J.D.


On 11 July 2004 (11:35 AM),
Coleen said:

J.D., I think you’re ready to become a bit of a naturalist! It’s a wonderful thing to hike and know the mysteries that each plant provides. I would suggest that you take a class from Judy Siegel, an herbalist and educator, in Aurora.

Before kid number two, I went to a couple of Judy’s classes, offered in her home. There you learn about all the “weeds,” many of which are actually herbs used to treat a variety of ailments. (I remember having homemade Elderberry Wine after one class and learning how to make it!) I still have her booklet, “Dancing With the Weeds: A Guide to Using Wild Plants Respectfully for Food, Medicine, Tools and Ceremony.”

I just loved her classes but found that I had no time being a new teacher and a new mom. One of these days I am going to continue to learn from her. If her number still works and she’s still in Aurora, you might want to give her a call to find out more information: 503-981-4818.

125

Good news from the recovery front: yesterday I confessed to my physical therapist that I hadn’t worn the brace much for the past week. He sighed and scolded, but when Kevin had me walk around the office to observe my gait, he seemed impressed.

Apparently I’m only able to get by without my brace because my quad has recovered strength relatively quickly; I’ve been faithful about doing my exercises. I’m still at high risk for re-injury, and it’d be better if I wore my brace, especially during situations in which I have little control of my environment (around children, in crowds, etc.), but Kevin seems to think that, for the most part, I’ll do fine without it.

Kevin also introduced me to several new exercises yesterday which, when combined with the batch of new exercises he introduced last Thursday, means that I have an almost entirely new regimen compared to a week ago. Awesome! Unless one has been through this, one cannot realize how tedious the same exercises become when repeated day-in and day-out.

When we measured my range of motion at the beginning of the session, I was able to obtain 125 degrees of flexion without assistance. Rock on!

I started to read Swann’s Way yesterday. Perhaps not co-incidentally I managed to take in 125 pages.

I love it.

I love Proust’s long, convoluted sentences and paragraphs, his introspective nature, his obsession with details. I love his philosophy, his perception, his ability to capture the inner life and to put it into print.

Some favorite bits:

  • “The fault I find with our journalism is that it forces us to take an interest in some fresh triviality or other every day, whereas only three or four books in a lifetime give us anything that is of real importance.” Proust argues, in a pre-MTV world, that journalism leads to short attention spans, glosses over stories, attempts to pare the complex to just a few sentences. His method, obviously, is the reverse: he sometimes focuses on mere seconds, devoting eight pages to the moments during which one awakes, for example.
  • “Perhaps the immobility of the things that surround us is forced upon them by our conviction that they are themselves, and not anything else, and by the immobility of our conceptions of them.” How zen is that? This is similar to the social personality passage about which I raved previously.
  • “I became at once a man, and did what all we grown men do when face to face with suffering and injustice: I preferred not to see them.”
  • “The wall of the staircase, up which I had watched the light of his candle gradually climb, was long ago demolished. And in myself, too, many things have perished which, I imagined, would last for ever, and new structures have arisen, giving birth to new sorrows and new joys which in those days I could not have foreseen, just as now the old are difficult of comprehension.”
  • Young Marcel is fascinated by the theater, though he’s never seen a performance. He’s obsessed with the actors and actresses, and, with his friends, he rates them and ranks them according to their greatness. (A kindred spirit!)
  • “[I stood] still on that spot, before that steeple, for hours on end, motionless, trying to remember, feeling deep within myself a tract of soil reclaimed from the waters of Lethe slowly drying until the buildings rise on it again.”
  • There’s a portion of the novel—Proust’s thesis, really—which is very similar to my favorite segment from Amelie.

There are many other wonderful bits; I’ve marked up my book with heavy underlining, and I’ve scribbled notes throughout the margins.

I had started to worry that few people were going to complete Swann’s Way in time for book group, had become defensive because of the aspersions cast upon the book by my fellow readers, but now that I’ve actually begun to read it, I no longer care what the others think; if they are unable to appreciate the Swann’s Way, or are unwilling to even try to read it, it is their loss and not mine.

Perhaps, though, I could offer the other book group members some advice. First, remember that much of this is meant to be—and is— funny. It’s not all serious. Secondly, as I told Aimee, it helps to worry less about “getting” every little detail, helps to be unconcerned with the plot and the characters; one is better served by plowing headlong through the text, allowing oneself to be surrounded by Proust’s words, overwhelmed by mood and atmosphere.

From the introduction to the edition I’m reading (emphasis mine):

One of the publishers to whom Swann’s Way was submitted sent it back with the words: “I cannot understand why a gentleman would employ thirty pages to describe how he turns and returns on his bed before going to sleep.” Since that time many would-be readers have doubtless laid the volume down with a similar reflection but the loss has been theirs alone. Proust knew with uncommon exactness what it was he was about; he has a purpose in everything that he does, and even what appear to be digressions of inordinate length actually occupy a carefully proportioned and predetermined place in a structure whose architecture can only be understood when one stands off and regards it as a whole. The first rule for reading him is, therefore, complete submission…

Yes, this is a book I love. I’ve already decided that I will continue, read the second volume, Within a Budding Grove.

I wonder: what authors move others to this level of passion? What books inspire this degree of adoration in my friends? Is it common to find a writer whose internal monlogue so resembles one’s own?

Comments

On 09 July 2003 (09:35 AM),
Rich said:

From the Irony Department:

i love the fact that you believe that proust thinks the way you do, you discuss how proust advocates that “journalism leads to short attention spans, glosses over stories, attempts to pare the complex to just a few sentences,” and then one of the links on the side of your page is to “USA Today.” classic stuff.

i went to a lecture several years ago where the topic of media came up, and the moderator had a deep aversion to the USA Today. to this day, i remember a quote about those who read it: “If your idea of a newspaper is the USA Today, you’re not even trying.” it was such an elitist smackdown that i felt offended, yet i know he was right. that doesn’t stop me from buying it and reading it over lunch twice a week, but i rationalize it by saying i only read the Sports section, for which it is a good paper.

which reminds me of another quote from a journalism class i attended in college. a professor said that it was “America’s dirty little secret” that the very large majority of newspaper sales in this country, outside of the Sunday paper, are driven by the Sports section. for proof of this, he said that when you see a newspaper lying around in some public place (a mall food court, or on a bus, or a fast food place, etc.), odds are that when you pick it up and look through it, the Sports section is missing. what would Proust say about that?

On 09 July 2003 (09:54 AM),
J.D. said:

Rich, it’s even worse: I only read the headlines at the USA Today site. How’s that for the antithesis of Proust? :)

Of course I attempt to rationalize this by explaining that I read Harper’s, etc., and that I listen to NPR, and from these sources get longer, extended news coverage, and that USA Today is just a stopgap measure.

The truth is: I don’t pay much attention to news except in the broadest sense. I admire Pam’s intentional ignorance of current events, but am unable to allow myself to join her completely. So, I get my news from the USA Today web site headlines!

(It’s almost worse than news sometimes.)

On 09 July 2003 (11:13 AM),
Dana said:

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then
I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.” — Walt Whitman

A smattering of media outlets I peruse:

On 09 July 2003 (11:35 AM),
J.D. said:

Nice quote, Dana! :)

In siutations such as these (in which I aspire to a certain height but fall short), I console myself by responding:

  1. “You do the same thing.”
  2. “Just because it’s my ideal, doesn’t mean I’m able to live it.”
  3. “At least I’m not a hypocrite.” (i.e. claiming to be something which I am not — mostly I aspire to certain states rather than claiming to obtain them)
  4. And, my favorite: “I am complex.”

Actually, I think it’s a good thing to hold ideals to which they aspire but which they never attain. A striving for excellence is a good thing.

On 09 July 2003 (12:38 PM),
Rich said:

striving for excellence is a great thing, agreed. the problem comes when you stop actively striving and simply contemplate/dream of that ideal (as Perry Farrell said in “Jane Says” — “Jane says ‘I’m going away to spain when i get my money saved, I’m gonna start tomorrow'”).

the other problem comes when you are striving for someone else’s ideal. if i strived to stop reading the USA Today because some talking head told me that it’s non-intellectual and instead buy the Wall Street Journal simply to show off, and yet was really unhappy missing some pie chart about how many football fields it would take to get from the earth to the moon, i should just admit what i like and damn those who disagree.

On 09 July 2003 (01:07 PM),
Tammy said:

Ok this is going to sound very simplistic to most of you but I’m ready to make a confession. My favorite author of all time is L.M.Montgomery. I see all you intellectuals scaratching your heads and wondering who she is! Ok I’ll tell you. She is the author of the Anne of Green Gables series.
She is also the author of such books as “The Golden Girl”, “Kilmeny of the Orchard” and Tales of Avonlea”. You talk about a book that is all marked up it’s my copy of the first two books of Anne of Green Gables. Now if you only know the story through the movies then you really don’t know the story. Annes most profound thoughts are left in the book. In Montgomerys character, Anne Shirley, I find a person so similar to myself and my outlook on life that it’s rather frightening. I love and adore her writings. So there. I’ve confessed. It’s like Rich says above,“…I should just admit what i like and d*** those who disagree.”

On 09 July 2003 (01:19 PM),
J.D. said:

My favorite author of all time is L.M. Montgomery.

This is nothing to be ashamed of; I think most of us are familiar with Anne of Green Gables.

I’ve never read any of Montgomery’s books, but at least once a year I watch the film versions of Green Gables and Avonlea with Kris. They’re great fun.

The second paragraph alone is enough to make me want to read the Anne of Green Gables:

There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighbor’s business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she “ran” the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting “cotton warp” quilts–she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices–and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel’s all-seeing eye.

Don’t be ashamed, Tammy!

On 09 July 2003 (01:45 PM),
Tammy said:

Ahhhh! Just reading that excerpt makes me want to pull out my books and read them again! Um um um!!!

On 09 July 2003 (03:15 PM),
Tiffany said:

I am a fan of Anne also. I am just about always reading one of the series (since I read more then one book at a time). Anne is a cherished friend.

On 09 July 2003 (06:49 PM),
Tammy said:

Then, as Anne would say, we must be “kindred spirits”!

Independence Day

[photo of Dad's last Independence Day]

This photo seems like a run-of-the mill snapshot, doesn’t it?

Not to me.

To me, this photograph is loaded with meaning, so much meaning I don’t even know where to begin (though I know where to end).

This is a photograph, taken late in the afternoon of Independence Day 1995, showing Jeff and me playing croquet. Dad is walking over to sit on the porch. He has only seventeen more days to live.

Notable elements in this photograph:

The house
This is the house in which my father was raised (and Aunt Virginia, too). It is Grandma’s House (or, less often, Grandpa’s House). My grandparents moved here in the late 1940s, and every picture I have of my father as a child shows him someplace on this property. The house is just a quarter mile from Custom Box Service, which itself is housed in the trailer house where I was raised. This is the house where we’d meet all our cousins, ride on Grandpa’s tractor, tromp back to the woods, pick corn and blueberries and flowers. This is the house where I learned to play Scrabble, where I used Bible tracts to learn to read. This is the house with the big chest freezer on the back porch, stocked with Popsicles. This is the house where the pantry was filled with canned fruit, the pantry which smelled rich and thick and musty. This is the house where we gathered and sang as Grandma died. This is Grandma’s House. I grew up here.
The tree
Between the house and the croquet players stands a flowering plum. When I was a child, this was my favorite tree. Every other tree I knew had green leaves, but this tree’s leaves were red. It was also a relatively young tree, and though its branches were tightly bunched at the trunk, it was easy for me to climb. It’s the first tree I ever climbed. Later, when I was a bit taller, the oak tree in the back yard became my tree of choice. It was stouter, with more room to maneuver. In the uncropped version of this photo, the oak peers over the rooftop in the upper left corner.
The barn (and outbuildings)
Also in the ucropped version of this photo, one can see the barn looming in the upper right corner. In the photo as shown, only the woodshed is visible, behind me (and my lovely plaid Costco shirt), to the right of the house. I don’t know if Grandpa built these outbuildings (Virginia, do you know?). Regardless, they were the playhouses of my youth. In the barn, we’d torment the cows, play with the tools, or climb to the hay loft where we’d burrow in the bales or walk across the strange slatted floor. We’d help Grandpa split firewood from the woodshed or, across the wall, we’d watch the indicator for the electric fence buzz on and off. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. One of the outbuildings we actually called a playhouse, and it was furnished with a little table and chairs and plates and glasses, etc. (Only recently did I learn that it was a good thing we didn’t play with everything in the playhouse — Grandpa stored his blasting equipment there!)
The Geo Storm
Just to Jeff’s right my Geo Storm is visible. I had a love-hate relationship with that vehicle. It drove well, it’s true, and it took a tremendous amount of abuse. But the seat made my back sore, and the car was always dirty, no matter how hard I tried to clean it. The back seat was uncomfortable for passengers. When the Storm was totaled in December 2000, I wasn’t sad for long; the joy of my new Ford Focus masked any sorrow. Now, though, I miss the blue beast, especially its manual transmission. Oh, how I hate automatics…
Jeff and J.D.
There we are: playing croquet. I’m kicking Jeff’s ass! We both look rather chunky; we each weigh over two hundred pounds. Three years later I will have dropped forty pounds. Five years later, Jeff will have done the same. Today, in 2003, we’re both back up over two hundred pounds.
Snickers
Behind us, stretched on the lawn, is an orange and white cat named Snickers. Snickers and my cat, Toto, are littermates, though Snickers is possessed of a much sweeter temperament. Snickers is just over a year old in this photograph, and not yet Mom’s devoted baby. They’d bond later…
Dad
This was Dad’s last Independence Day. The last year of his life. The last month. This was one of his bad days. He didn’t feel well. He couldn’t eat much. The cancer inside of him had won the battle and was now overwhelming his last defenses. He’d once weighed 240, but when this photograph was taken he probably weighed 180. Maybe 160. (His weight-loss is due both to the cancer and to the macrobiotic diet.) Here he’s walked from the back of the house to sit on the front steps and watch us play croquet. He won’t say much. He’ll simply spend twenty minutes watching his sons hit balls with mallets. It’s the last time in his life he’ll do anything of that sort. Over the next seventeen days, he’ll spend a lot of time in the hospital, undergoing various cancer treatments. He’ll also sleep a lot. Two weeks from this day, on the eighteenth, he’ll sit with me in his office and without a hint of hope for the future he’ll outline those things that he absolutely wants me to know above all others about the business (he’s especially worried about collecting on past-due accounts, doesn’t think any of us are ready to do that). All animosity between us is gone. We’re free of it. Three days after that meeting, seventeen days after this photograph was taken, he’ll be dead. I’ll be making sales calls in Salem and Tash will call and tell me to come back to the shop immediately: Dad’s in trouble. I drive fast, but when I get to the office, things seem better. Mom and Dad are at the hospital and he’s under observation. Jeff and I get together with Joel and Sabino and Roger to play games, the first of a planned series of game nights. I make fajitas for dinner. The fajitas are sizzling on the stove when Mom calls, crying, and tells me that we’d better get to the hospital right now. It’s rush hour. Jeff drives from Canby to North Portland as quicky as possible, but when we get there, he’s gone. It’s 6:00 p.m. on 21 July 1995, just ten days before his fiftieth birthday.

This is the last photograph I have of Dad before his death. It may not look like much, but it’s packed with meaning.

Comments

On 03 July 2003 (01:02 PM),
Dana said:

The back seat was uncomfortable for passengers

That’s an understatement. But hey, if Harlan Ellison will pitch for a car company, they can’t be all bad, right? :)

On 03 July 2003 (03:56 PM),
Nikchick said:

Maybe it’s just the stress of the last couple of weeks catching up with me, but this entry made me cry.

I’m so sorry about your dad, J.D. We were out of touch for the entirety of his illness and he died years before we got back in contact. I’ve always been sentimental about your dad, I was star-struck as a kid: he was an *inventor* (which in my mind was a cool as if someone told me they’d taken the game Mouse Trap and made it their job for real).

I guess I’m not entirely used to the idea of him not being out there somewhere.

On 03 July 2003 (03:57 PM),
jeremyw said:

jd, thanks for explaining all the hidden meaning and memories. makes me want to dig out some of my old photos and explore the past.

On 03 July 2003 (04:12 PM),
Tiffany said:

Hi Jd,
That was wonderful.
I often wish that Kris and I had one house to grow up in so that we felt that connection to a place. I used to feel that way about my Grandparents� houses.
I made the mistake of driving past me Grandpa�s house (Mom�s Dad) when I learned to drive, some 4 years after his death. It ruined some of the memories, the house was no longer yellow and the morning glories had been removed from the front fence. Some of my best memories are watching Road Runner cartoon on Saturdays before anyone else woke up while smelling those flowers.
My dad and aunts are in the processes of cleaning out me Grandma�s house (Dad�s Mom). If I can avoid it I will never go back to her house, I do not want to see the changes. The giant cactus has been removed from the front because it was to close to the driveway. The downstairs bathroom has been repainted. This is the bathroom that had huge flowered wallpaper with gold foil my whole life. The front bedroom that was a bright Kelly green has also been repainted. I always thought both were ugly, but do not want to see it any other way.
If you or brothers can help it, never let go of that house.

On 03 July 2003 (09:24 PM),
Virginia said:

Sometime either the 2nd or 3rd of July, Stan and I were at Steve’s place for a back yard BBQ. I can still see him out under the oak tree in the back yard fixing sliced onions on the grill. AT dark we also watched a coon come out and eat dog food out of the wood shed. When we first got to his place that night there was a note on the door. He had gone to the hospital to get a IV of platelets. He would be home in a little while. I marvel at how brave he was.

The oak tree in the back yard was one mom had planted. She found it in a clump of flowers she had bought at a nursery. It was only about 3″ high. She planted it and watered it with loving care but us kids always new the secret of its fast and hardy growth. She planted it right on the spot where the out house had stood. The tree is about 43 years old.

The old play house and other buildings were on the place when Dad bought it. Dad bought 2 places together. The Riecer place and the Gates place.
Custom Box Service is on the Gates Place and Grandpa’s house is on the Riecer place. There used to be a house and barn where CBS is now but we burnt the house down a few years later, and years later the barn. It was years because Stan and I used to park in front of that barn.

I remember the night we burned the house Norm would have been about 11 or 12, old enough that he thought it was big stuff to be able to help light the house on fire and he wouldn’t get out of the house right away. He finally stepped out the front door and off the porch and just a few minutes later the porch roof collapsed.

I remember a little room off of the dinning room of the Gates house. There was an old man living there and he would sit at a writting desk in that little room. I often wished I had little room with a writting desk, I would sit and write lots of stories. (But I guess I’ll let Tammy be the story writer)

My brothers and I were close. I remember going with Norman on his first date with Janice. She was my very good friend and he was nervous, so he wanted me with him. He took her home from churh (Sweet Home) and we stopped at the Dairy Queen. She must have been nervous too, because she hung onto my hand very tightly on the way home.

I had the greatest brothers!!!!!!

On 03 July 2003 (10:46 PM),
Tammy said:

Oh my goodness JD. It’s enough to make one weep! I remember sitting in the hospital roon after your dad died but thats really all I remember. I remeber Nick being there but for some reason I don’t remember you boys.

And that smell in Grandmas fruit room. Who can forget it. Every once in a while I will get a smell of it in my shed in the fall when all the apples are ripe. And many times my front hall smells like the Zion church. I think it’s all the wood in there. It has to be because theres nothing else in there; wood closet doors, outside door, and pocket door.

And those Bible tracts grandma always had. How scarey were they? Everybody ended up going to hell in them, until you turned the last page and then someone had listened to the preachers revival sermon and made it to heaven. Maybe this helped foster your love of cartoons too. Remember how they were all written like cartoons?

And the zapping of those lights in Grandpas shop! how fascinating was that? I can’t tell you the times I got shocked on grandpas fences! You’d think I’d have learned from one time to the next!

But try as I will I do not remember pop cycles in the chest freezer. She must have saved all those for when you boys came to visit! I do remember the eclair cookies! Every time I spent the night she stocked up on those! I could eat the entire pack without blinking an eye. To this day I love htose cookies but you can hardly find them. The nearestthing to them are pinwheels and they’re not nearly as soft a marshmellow as the eclair ones were.

Your entry reminds me of part of a poem I memorized as a girl. It comes from a very old book calledThe Rosary. It goes like this:

“Oh memories that bless and burn; Oh barren gain and bitter loss! I count each bead until the end, and there – a cross!

On 04 July 2003 (12:30 PM),
tony said:

as sad as some of it was, that was really great. thanks for sharing all of that with us, because youre right, at first glance the average guy doesnt see anything in that picture but just a lush backyard.

On 04 July 2003 (06:51 PM),
Tammy said:

Actually thats the front yard. :) (Not that it matters)

On 05 July 2003 (12:31 PM),
Aimee said:

Perhaps it’s already been said: Beautiful, JD. Thank you.

On 06 July 2003 (07:18 PM),
Scott said:

I have always been a fan of your writing, from “California” (I still like the rooftop scene) to the poem about a sawbuck, ionesco and hemingway, and then today’s entry. I’d really like to see you create “your” novel. The one hidden deep. But then again, maybe your weblog is your novel.

Please Please Please

In so very many ways I was a typical angst-filled teenager of the mid-1980s. I sulked and pouted, pierced my ears, shaved my head (but only half of it), wrote black poetry, etc. The angst-rock of the era was the soundtrack of my life: New Order, The Cure (their 1985 album, The Head on the Door, was a fixture in my tape deck), Tears For Fears.

I never bought all the way in, though: I didn’t like The Smiths. I didn’t hate The Smiths, but I couldn’t understand why my fellow sulksters worshipped them. The Smiths took whininess and depression to depths that I couldn’t fathom.

I liked one song by The Smiths. One song. (Presented in lower-case as a tribute to those angst-filled years…)

how soon is now
by the smiths

i am the son and the heir

of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
i am the son and the heir
of nothing in particular

you shut your mouth
how can you say
i go about things the wrong way
i am human and i need to be loved
just like everybody else does

there’s a club if you’d like to go
you could meet somebody who really loves you
so you go, and you stand on your own
and you leave on your own
and you go home, and you cry
and you want to die

when you say it’s gonna happen “now”
well, when exactly do you mean?

see i’ve already waited too long
and all my hope is gone

you shut your mouth
how can you say
i go about things the wrong way
i am human and i need to be loved
just like everybody else doesAdmittedly, I liked the song a lot, but it was just one song.

During these adolescent years, there was only a portion of me which was riddled by angst. It was a large part of my personality, indeed, but the whole time that part of me stood permanently beneath a black cloud, other parts of me were loving live, building friendships that last til this day.

Gradually, the angst-rock which had been a central part of my life faded into something of an accent, something that I listened to only now and then.

For a time I was a DJ at KWU, the college radio station. I found one song in the heavy rotation bin that I loved to play: Morrisey’s Every Day is Like Sunday. It took me a while to recollect that he was the lead singer for The Smiths.

every day is like sunday
by morrisey

trudging slowly over wet sand

back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
this is the coastal town
that they forgot to close down
armageddon – come armageddon!
come, armageddon! come!

every day is like sunday
every day is silent and grey

hide on the promenade

etch a postcard :
“how i dearly wish i was not here”
in the seaside town
that they forgot to bomb
come, come, come nuclear bomb

every day is like sunday
every day is silent and grey

trudging back over pebbles and sand

and a strange dust lands on your hands
(and on your face…)
(on your face …)
(on your face …)
(on your face …)

every day is like Sunday
“win yourself a cheap tray”
share some greased tea with me

every day is silent and greyJust as dark and depressing as always, but I loved it. And, a few years later, Morrisey produced this absolute gem:

the more you ignore me, the closer i get
by morrisey

the more you ignore me, the closer i get
you’re wasting your time
the more you ignore me, the closer i get
you’re wasting your time

i will be the in the bar with my head on the bar
i am now a central part of your mind’s landscape
whether you care or do not
yeah, I’ve made up your mind

the more you ignore me, the closer i get
you’re wasting your time
the more you ignore me, the closer i get
you’re wasting your time

beware! i bear more grudges than lonely high court judges
when you sleep i will creep into your thoughts
like a bad debt that you can’t pay
take the easy way and give in

yeah, and let me in
oh, let me in

it’s war, it’s war, it’s war

it’s war, it’s war, war war war war

oh, let me in As much as I like these three songs from Morrisey, I find that I prefer his music when it’s covered by other artists. For example, both The Pretenders and 10,000 Maniacs have covered “Every Day is Like Sunday”, and I find their versions superior to the original. More recently, the Russian lesbian duo (how strange does that sound?) t.A.T.u. have produced an outstanding cover of “How Soon is Now”, a cover that even Morrisey likes. This version rocks. I love it. It’s the most-played track on my iPod right now. Here’s a funny snippet from an interview with Morrisey (pilfered from a great t.A.T.u. fan site:

Morissey, former singer of The Smiths, who originally wrote and performed the song “How Soon Is Now?” in 1984 had this to say about t.A.T.u. in the U.K.’s Word Magazine:

Word: Did you hear t.A.T.u.’s version of “How Soon Is Now?”
Morissey: Yes, it was magnificent. Absolutely. Again, I don’t know much about them.
Word: They are teenage Russian lesbians.
Morissey: Well, aren’t we all?

And a bit from The Beat magazine:

“Morrissey and myself were far more fanatical about the band than even the most fanatical Smiths’ obsessive.” says guitarist and founder of The Smiths, Johnny Marr with surprising enthusiasm of the finest British band of the past two decades. “We were our biggest fans and everything that the band was about we really loved. It was a really, really amazing time. It wasn’t just kind of a bunch of young guys goofing around and the stuff that happened to us didn’t happen by accident. It was borne out of complete passion and ridiculous intensity and that’s why we sounded the way we did.”

Unfortunately, I just couldn’t identify with their complete passion and ridiculous intensity. I just wasn’t that angst-filled.

Comments

On 19 June 2003 (08:32 AM),
J.D. said:

Okay. Four songs. (How could I have forgotten this one, since my entry’s title is taken from it?)

please please please let me get what i want
by the smiths

good times for a change
see, the luck i’ve had
can make a good man
turn bad

so please please please

let me, let me, let me
let me get what i want
this time

haven’t had a dream in a long time
see, the life i’ve had
can make a good man bad
so for once in my life
let me get what i want

lord knows, it would be the first time
lord knows, it would be the first time

Four songs.



On 19 June 2003 (10:02 AM),
Joelah said:

“Girlfriend in a coma” always gives me a chuckle.



On 19 June 2003 (12:15 PM),
Dave said:

As does Mojo Nixon’s cover of “Girlfriend in a Coma”



On 19 June 2003 (12:20 PM),
Paul said:

I appreciate the smiths arrangements. The guitar by Johnny Marr was up beat and fun while Morisseys sweet voice oozed the angst you highlighted here. The cure on the other hand used their arrangements many times to highlight the dark emotions they were protraying through their music. In the end, synthpop was fun regardless of the lyrics and continues to brighten my day when it comes on.


On 19 June 2003 (12:44 PM),
Dana said:

My favorite Cure song is one (if not the only) of their peppy songs, Friday I’m in Love. I’m generally not a fan of the angsty-er stuff from the 80s. I like quirky and upbeat more, like TMBG. Never really got into either the Smiths or Cure, although of course you couldn’t really get away from them, either. I didn’t really start being a consumer of music until College, though. Didn’t listen to (or own) records or listen to the radio much till then.


On 19 June 2003 (03:14 PM),
Rich said:

i know that it is physically possible to like both morrisey’s “Every Day is Like Sunday” and 10,000 maniacs’ cover of the song, but you have to admit it is difficult. natalie’s singing is so light and happy that it almost mocks morrisey’s angst, don’t you think? i never took that cover as sincere.

speaking of cover songs – my favorite cover song of all time is prince’s “raspberry beret” done by the hindu love gods (warren zevon singing with REM — minus michael stipe — playing the music). kicks ass.


On 19 June 2003 (03:21 PM),
Dana said:

My favorite cover of all time is probably an obscure acapella group, Four Shadow, doing an acapella version of DMB‘s “Ants Marching”. Very fun.


On 19 June 2003 (07:57 PM),
Eryk said:

You were a teenager JD? Get out. =]



On 19 June 2003 (08:10 PM),
dowingba said:

I’d like to know more about this half-shaven head phenomenon.



On 28 October 2003 (01:34 PM),
Silver said:

oh man do i love Morrissey, The Smiths, and The Cure… its crazy how i like the same music as some of my teachers (who were teenagers in the 80s) … i relate to the lyrics so much, and its crazy to know that morrissey old enough to be my father… haha. But its cool that their music is alive and well in todays teens



On 04 November 2003 (01:28 PM),
Chris said:

In the 80’s I preferred alternative rock because it was obviously more sincere than the manufactured pop listened to by my high school peers. I also loved the angst, the unexpected lyrics, the minor chords, and the unusual instrumental sounds (achieved electronically) and irregular rythmns with which these bands experimented. My ultimate favorites were the Smiths, New Order, Depeche Mode and the Cure. I also loved a number of songs by Erasure, the Psychedelic Furs, U2, INXS and, of course, REM. I’m almost embarressed to admit this, but I still listen almost exclusively to New Order and the Smiths when I’m in my car without the kids. My husband hates the alternative music I loved. (He’s a tad homophobic I’m afraid.) However, we both agree on Sting, Sarah McLaughlin, and Enya. This music takes me back to times when I felt I was on the cusp of greatness, when I thought I had so much potential. Perhaps I still listen to it because I cling to the idea that someday I’ll continue where I left off and finally acheive my dreams. I’d bet that many people stubbornly cling to the music they loved in their teens and early 20’s for similar reasons.



On 17 March 2004 (11:31 AM),
Ben said:

I noticed that you like Dave Matthews acapella. You should check out mine.

www.pezshow.com/music.html


On 17 March 2004 (11:31 AM),
Ben said:

I noticed that you like Dave Matthews acapella. You should check out mine.

www.pezshow.com/music.html

The Big Tree

When I was a kid, I lived for the hot days of summer.

After school (we had year-round school back then), Jeff and I would hop on our bikes and ride over to the housing development to play with the Lams, the Zimmers, the Piersons, and the other kids on the street.

We’d meet on our bikes, all of us oblivious to the sun. With our shirts off we’d race from the Barnhardts’ to the Big Tree. We’d play in the fields: dirt-clod wars that only ended when someone was hurt such that we had to seek medical attention from an adult (and, inevitably, endure the adult’s reprimands). Sometimes when Shawn Carlson was allowed to play, his father would let us go see the wrecking yard. We’d tell horrible stories about the neighbors. Somtimes we’d even talk about girls.

Once or twice each summer we’d venture all the way down to Gribble Creek where we’d look for bugs (plenty) and fish (none) or play with twigs and branches. One time we found an old rowboat, and I nearly drowned while trying to climb inside.

Other times we’d traipse back to Grandpa’s woods to play hide and seek, or to climb the trees, or to build forts, or to look at the pond. The Lams’ woods, too, were fun to play in, if the undergrowth less dense, less exciting. Torey and Brent had a genuine tree fort ideal for dirt-clod wars or, when we were older and stupider, BB-gun wars.

We’d pick blackberries from the ever-present vines. We’d pop tar bubbles on the pavement. We’d hunt for pop cans on the side of the road, hoping to find enough to buy a drink of our own at Charlie’s Grocery. When we’d find pop bottles, though, we’d break them, hold them over our heads and shatter them on the asphalt.

We’d play wiffle ball on our front lawn, and soccer, and football, all of them in the heat of summer. On the hottest days, we’d play inside at someone’s house: games on the Atari or the Commodore 64. We’d watch Pink Floyd’s The Wall, and when we were older, we’d listen to Led Zepplin and ELO and Styx.

When we’d had our fill of games and fun, we’d gather beneath the Big Tree, an oak at the bend in the road midway between our trailerhouse and the housing development. Its branches were huge and gnarled, its root structure contorted to create enticing nooks and crannies. We’d climb the tree, and hide in the root system, but mostly we’d just recline against the trunk, soaking in the coolness of the shade after our day of adventure. Often we’d each have a bottle of pop.

One summer we discovered a paper sack at the base of the tree. We couldn’t believe what the sack contained: girlie magazines and lots of them! Playboy! Hustler! Others we’d never heard of! Manna from heaven — we were ten, twelve, eight, six. To us, this stuff was gold.

That summer, the Big Tree was the most popular destination in the neighborhood. Those magazines were sacred; none of us took them home. They were safe where they were, a communal treasure, to be treated with respect and awe. From these magazines, I learned a lot about anatomy, about sex, but it’d be years before I could apply the knowledge. (Surprisingly, the magazines were still there the following summer, albeit much worse for wear after a winter of rain and wind.)

This summer, though, I’ve been enjoying the heat for the first time in many years.

Comments


On 17 June 2003 (05:06 PM),
Nikchick said:

My husband also tells a fond story of playing in the wild, undeveloped area around his house with the neigbor boys, and of occasionally finding girlie magazines out near the industrial park.

After I found my divorced 20-something dad’s girlie magazines, he switched to reading those all-story magazines (Penthouse Stories?). Like he thought I couldn’t read or something.



On 02 January 2005 (04:02 PM),
Torey Lam said:

Wow J.D…what a memory. There was a lot that was so thick with blackberries that someone cut a tunnel system through it. It was a cool hang out in the summer.