I hate coming to the end of a friendship, and that's the feeling I get when I come to the end of a good book. As I near the end, the sensation of loss hovers over the book as tangibly as the scent of nutmeg and cloves over a pumpkin pie.
I love reading, but the older I get, the harder it is to find books by those authors I have turned to all my life. Agatha Christie's Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, Margerie Allingham's Albert Campion, and Patricia Wentworth's Miss Silver are characters I've enjoyed since my kids were babies.
These authors kept me company when the colic wouldn't let a child sleep, or when my husband was in the hospital or away working out of town. They spoke, even then, of a world past, a world more orderly, and substantially more monied than mine.
They let me escape to a place where the charming young couple always got together in the end, and the murderer was always exposed and received his or her just desserts. At the end of the book, the world was restored to its calm, measured pace.
In my mind, Miss Marple and company were very astute detectives. Unlike the current gamut of mystery tales, their kind did not overload the reader with pages of technical information about forensic science or modern techno-gadgets or the history of crime families in New York or London.
This is an important aspect of my respect for the old school--just imagine Kay Scarpetta attempting to solve a mystery sans technology and her years of university training. That is not to say that I don't read Ms. Cornwall's books--I do: I just find them dark and unrelenting.
As for my friendly books, I usually find them on the crammed shelves of a thrift shop, or sometimes in reprints in the library. I always feel a little thrill of discovery when I see one.
It's like running into an old friend, and once home, I curl up and open the book, savouring the texture and colour of the worn pages even before I begin to read. I linger in the book, reading just a few pages a day, savouring every moment until, with the last page, the friendship ends.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Violence in My City
It was 11 o'clock in the morning and traffic was heavy as my husband and I approached the stoplight.
Suddenly, two Asian youths got out of the little black sportscar in front of us, and ran to the driver's side where the driver handed them a baseball bat.
Ahead of them, and to our left, a slightly worn, small green car tried to nose its way into the left lane.
One of the youths grabbed the baseball bat from the driver and ran to the side of the green car and started smashing the window. He struck the window again and again as his friend stood watching. It all happened in seconds.
Broken glass crunching underfoot, the two ran back to their car, leapt in and sped off, cutting into the right hand turn-off up 88th and westward. I got their plate number, and with trembling hands, dug in my purse for my cell phone. Dialed 911.
The attackers had no fear. Not only was it broad daylight in heavy traffic, but across the intersection on the left, a cop had pulled someone over, his lights flashing blue and red. There were vehicles behind us, vehicles in the lanes all around us and them.
They didn't care who saw them. Didn't care that their license plate was clearly visible. Didn't care that they had terrorized another human being (a confused looking young man emerged from the damaged vehicle) in plain sight of more than twenty people.
So it isn't just the ghettos in the big city. It isn't just New York or Los Angeles or Detroit.
It's Canada, it's my town and my neighborhood. It's on the corner by the art gallery, a Shell station and a big Spanish house nestled behind its hedges. It's right here, in the city where I live, where my grandkids go to school, and my children grew up and married. It's in my city in my face and the question is, how did we come to this?
The operator on the 911 line was asking me questions. A firetruck was slowly driving by going north. A distressed man in an SUV pulled them over. My husband kept shouting the license plate number over and over at them. Our dog barked. The fire man took the number down, told us he would turn around and come back to assist with the incident scene.
As clearly as possible in the midst of this uproar, I told the operator what had happened. By the time she finished interviewing me, my husband had driven through the intersection. The cop who had pulled over a speeder was still ticketing him, oblivious to the situation beyond the intersection.
"You will recieve a phone call from the investigating officer," she said, after taking my name and particulars. She verified that she could reach me on my cell phone and then hung up.
Later, as we pulled into the driveway, I realized that my perception of how safe I as in our city had changed completely. I kept thinking, broad daylight, so many people around. I realized if the kid in the green car had been the only other car at that intersection and it was late at night, they probably would have killed him.
I kept thinking about what it takes to do something like that to someone, about the self-righteous rage, the sense of superiority and the sense of being above the law, above the rules that ordinary citizens live by.
I thought about Jesus telling his disciples the key to a perfect life is simply to treat others the way you want them to treat you. Such a basic concept, such a clear path to creating change in the world.
And I think most people do, and if that's all we can do to make a difference, then let's make an all-out effort. Let's live the golden rule and quit making excuses for our occasional knee-jerk reactions.
It may not change things that happen around us, but it may change our responses.
I know that our stopping and reporting the incident made the victim aware that he had moral support, that people were outraged by what happened to him.
Somehow, the good guys have to take the world back.
Suddenly, two Asian youths got out of the little black sportscar in front of us, and ran to the driver's side where the driver handed them a baseball bat.
Ahead of them, and to our left, a slightly worn, small green car tried to nose its way into the left lane.
One of the youths grabbed the baseball bat from the driver and ran to the side of the green car and started smashing the window. He struck the window again and again as his friend stood watching. It all happened in seconds.
Broken glass crunching underfoot, the two ran back to their car, leapt in and sped off, cutting into the right hand turn-off up 88th and westward. I got their plate number, and with trembling hands, dug in my purse for my cell phone. Dialed 911.
The attackers had no fear. Not only was it broad daylight in heavy traffic, but across the intersection on the left, a cop had pulled someone over, his lights flashing blue and red. There were vehicles behind us, vehicles in the lanes all around us and them.
They didn't care who saw them. Didn't care that their license plate was clearly visible. Didn't care that they had terrorized another human being (a confused looking young man emerged from the damaged vehicle) in plain sight of more than twenty people.
So it isn't just the ghettos in the big city. It isn't just New York or Los Angeles or Detroit.
It's Canada, it's my town and my neighborhood. It's on the corner by the art gallery, a Shell station and a big Spanish house nestled behind its hedges. It's right here, in the city where I live, where my grandkids go to school, and my children grew up and married. It's in my city in my face and the question is, how did we come to this?
The operator on the 911 line was asking me questions. A firetruck was slowly driving by going north. A distressed man in an SUV pulled them over. My husband kept shouting the license plate number over and over at them. Our dog barked. The fire man took the number down, told us he would turn around and come back to assist with the incident scene.
As clearly as possible in the midst of this uproar, I told the operator what had happened. By the time she finished interviewing me, my husband had driven through the intersection. The cop who had pulled over a speeder was still ticketing him, oblivious to the situation beyond the intersection.
"You will recieve a phone call from the investigating officer," she said, after taking my name and particulars. She verified that she could reach me on my cell phone and then hung up.
Later, as we pulled into the driveway, I realized that my perception of how safe I as in our city had changed completely. I kept thinking, broad daylight, so many people around. I realized if the kid in the green car had been the only other car at that intersection and it was late at night, they probably would have killed him.
I kept thinking about what it takes to do something like that to someone, about the self-righteous rage, the sense of superiority and the sense of being above the law, above the rules that ordinary citizens live by.
I thought about Jesus telling his disciples the key to a perfect life is simply to treat others the way you want them to treat you. Such a basic concept, such a clear path to creating change in the world.
And I think most people do, and if that's all we can do to make a difference, then let's make an all-out effort. Let's live the golden rule and quit making excuses for our occasional knee-jerk reactions.
It may not change things that happen around us, but it may change our responses.
I know that our stopping and reporting the incident made the victim aware that he had moral support, that people were outraged by what happened to him.
Somehow, the good guys have to take the world back.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Loving through cancer
Sometimes I see people in very dark situations who still seem to shine with a light fired from within them. People who find an inner strength, that you can see in the way they keep moving forward, even when everything is collapsing around them.
For isntance, I know a young couple living through a tragic situation and I am impressed by the fortitude and courage of both the terminally ill husband, and the dedicated wife who remains steadfastly by his side. She's determined not to break down, not to show any but cheerful support.
I see the dark circles under her eyes, the anxiety behind her smile, but I also see her pride in her husband, in his quiet acceptance of the fact that at the age of 30, his life is far too rapidly approaching its end.
This is so unnecessary. Consider the millions of dollars directed annually toward cancer research. As my sister said, "If the same number of people who die from cancer were dying from H1N1 flu, the authorities would declare an epidemic."
For isntance, I know a young couple living through a tragic situation and I am impressed by the fortitude and courage of both the terminally ill husband, and the dedicated wife who remains steadfastly by his side. She's determined not to break down, not to show any but cheerful support.
I see the dark circles under her eyes, the anxiety behind her smile, but I also see her pride in her husband, in his quiet acceptance of the fact that at the age of 30, his life is far too rapidly approaching its end.
This is so unnecessary. Consider the millions of dollars directed annually toward cancer research. As my sister said, "If the same number of people who die from cancer were dying from H1N1 flu, the authorities would declare an epidemic."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)