On the Mortality of Writers, the Failure of a Reader, and Appropriate Egress from a Henhouse

Okay, so I didn't read a chapter of nonfiction every day in 2009. Maybe I didn't even manage to read a chapter of nonfiction for the first five consecutive days of 2009. I did, however, work my way through 12 nonfiction books in 12 months and that's no small feat for someone with a miserable self-mastery record like mine. I also re-learned, hopefully for the last time, that valuable lesson about putting all one's eggs in the same basket.

To put a positive spin on this whole failure thing, I'd like someone besides Mike to know I zipped, breezed, plowed, and sometimes slogged through 104 books total in 2009. That's a record for me, at least since 1998 when I started keeping a book log after Mom's first stroke. Notice I'm not calling this a "personal best". It's simply a record in terms of quantity which, as we all know, seldom equates to quality.

Those 104 books encompass 28 mysteries, 12 nonfictions, and 64 works I classify as general fiction. The numbers surprise me. Most years I tend to read more mysteries than anything else. My grandmother steered me to this genre when I was a fledgling reader and thus began a lifelong passion, an interest I've enjoyed sharing with my parents and some of my siblings.

It's easy to credit Mike's deployment for the sheer number of books I read last year but what could account for the decline in mysteries? Was this perhaps a semi-subconscious act of emotional self-protection?

Sadly, three of my very favorite mystery authors cannot by any stretch of my admittedly infamous imagination be considered "long for this world." Ruth Rendell will turn 80 in February, Martha Grimes will be 79 in May, and -- knock on wood -- P.D. James will celebrate her ninetieth birthday come August 3.

These distinguished women are the nearest to aunts I have left in this world. Frankly, I worry about their health the way other people seem to concern themselves with the extramarital shenanigans of professional golfers. Crazy? It is, as the expression goes, what it is.

Yet, even with this black cloud of impending doom hovering on the not-distant-enough horizon throughout 2009, I managed to pull myself away from the health reports long enough to read some memorable mysteries.


Nephew Pete, apparently a chip off his great-grandmother's block, introduced me to the delightful Scottish writer Denise Mina who penned a whopping five of my ten favorite mysteries in 2009. Two others were by the, alas, now-deceased (perhaps I'm a jinx) Swedish journalist Stieg Larsson. Amazon.com gets the nod for nudging me to try Larsson, the often hilarious young physician-in-training Josh Bazell, C. Alan Bradley, and C. J. Box (whose Blue Heaven earned the Edgar Award).

Amazon also suggested four of my ten favorite general fiction books last year: The Help, The Brothers K, Lark and Termite, and Whistling in the Dark. My sister-in-law Cathy recommended Still Alice and gets bonus points for being Pete's mother (they can take that any way they choose). Thanks to Kathleen Marra gifting me with The Sea, I am rather smitten with John Banville and slowly tackling his other books. Roberta from my original Tidewater book club tipped me off to The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox and Kate's Dead Authors Book Club in Northern Virginia forced me to re-read The Great Gatsby, a surprisingly enriching experience. (I am beginning to remind myself of Sally Fields accepting her first Oscar.)

The other authors who made my Top Ten (I'm sure it means the world to them) are repeat performers who have not (yet) failed to please, impress, and usually both. I am, if not a terribly discerning reader, a ridiculously loyal reader. If you don't believe me, just ask Martha Grimes, P.D. James, or Ruth Rendell.

Having re-learned that basket of eggs lesson the painful way, I've decided to double my reading resolutions for 2010. I am posting them here to shame myself into trying to stay focused on at least one of them. I don't imagine they would be of the slightest interest to most of you.

1. Read Ulysses (The "quality over quantity" resolution)
2. Read 12 nonfiction books (The "if you can't beat them, pat yourself on the back for playing well with others" resolution as my current book clubs have already assigned three nonfiction books for 2010 and any attempt on my part to halt this disturbing trend would surely result in shattered psyches the length of the Miura Peninsula)

Now excuse me while I snuggle up with a good book, the essential first step in creating new lists for 2010. Creating those lists will help me rationalize puttering around in Amazon, and maybe I'll accidentally wander into the recommendation section . . .

Someday She'll Remember This Christmas and Laugh

A doctor looked at Katie's throat yesterday by snaking a tiny camera through her nose. I regret I was not there to capture that memory for her (and you). She's been sick since Christmas Eve. Between Matt's wisdom teeth extraction last Monday and Kate's strep throat, we've managed to enjoy Total Family Health for roughly five hours this holiday season. Unfortunately, this five hours fell between midnight on December 23 and dawn on December 24 so Matt and I were the only family members awake to appreciate it.

Not that I'm complaining. While the rest of the family has been concentrating on recuperating, training for the Tokyo Marathon, and dashing off college essays on the global impact of on-line gaming, I've been exploring the "next blog" feature in the upper left corner of this page. Blogspot recently enhanced this feature to connect me with people who share my interests.

So far I've checked out a dozen or so blogs. The results have left me as horrified as Scrooge after his encounter with the Ghost of Christmas Future. According to Blogspot, my kindred spirits are apparently either crusty, cranky, obnoxious know-it-alls (gulp) obsessed with arcane hobbies like collecting toy soldiers or else they have military ties, primarily in the submarine community. Mike, meanwhile, is associated with sensitive, artsy gardeners who dabble in poetry and nature photography. How fair is that? (That was a rhetorical question, Jimmy/Jimmie.)

I sense the seed of a New Year's resolution lodging in my soul, the sort intended to transform me into a kinder gentler person (or at least one perceived as such by the Blogspot search engine). Before I add water and fertilizer to that seed, I'd like to reach closure on my 2009 resolution by finishing two more nonfiction books before the stroke of midnight on December 31. My sensitive, artsy mate is helping me meet this challenge by snoring softly in the background while I read about how sugar and caffeine contribute to sleep deprivation which, in turn, makes Kathy a crusty, cranky, and obnoxious person.

Fiction is so much more satisfying than the truth.

Zhongqiu: My New Favorite Holiday

The rain let up this evening after steady soaking showers most of the day, the kind of rainfall a gardener loves. Most of the lighter weight outdoor furniture is crammed in the shed and I'm staring out the window at the metal chairs and glider, calculating the odds of watching them sail through our neighbor's kitchen window. Not that I want it to happen, but I'd hate to miss seeing it if it does.

Let's talk about something more interesting than the weather. Pictured at left is a Mooncake, a Chinese pastry traditionally eaten during the Zhongqiu (Mid-Autumn) Festival.

This festival is one of the three most important Chinese holidays. I think the date fluctuates every year to correspond with the Autumn Equinox. This year it happened to fall on October 3 when I was sitting at Berkey Field gazing at the moon with the other football moms. My friend and neighbor Kathy Tai, who made this mooncake, says a billion or so Chinese people were all admiring the moon that very same evening. Kathy celebrates Chinese holidays because she was born in Taiwan. Not that she needs an excuse, of course. Lots of people celebrate Cinco de Mayo who weren't born in Mexico and don't get me started on St. Patrick's Day.

Kathy handed me what looked like three balls of raw dough and told me to bake them in a 300 degree oven. She was halfway down the sidewalk when she apparently remembered what a moron I am because she turned around and came back to the house to explain the importance of pre-heating the oven. Which I was quite happy to do since, frankly, I was in no rush to put something called a mooncake in my mouth.

While the oven was pre-heating, I did some research on mooncakes. They are to the Mid-Autumn Festival what turkey is to Thanksgiving: indispensable (unless, of course, you're my mother). Friends and relatives offer them to each other as they admire the harvest moon. They are about the size of a Burger King single hamburger and are usually eaten in small wedges accompanied by Chinese tea. A thin crust surrounds a thick filling -- traditionally made from lotus seed paste but Kathy made a lemon-colored yellow bean paste.

My salivary glands did not react positively to the expression "yellow bean paste" but the oven was still pre-heating so I read on. Mooncakes are considered a delicacy; production is labor-intensive and few people make them at home (emphasis mine). Most mooncakes are bought at Asian markets and bakeries. The price of mooncakes usually ranges from $10 to $50 (in US dollars) for a box of four although cheaper and more expensive mooncakes can also be found.

Since sweet Kathy had gone to all that trouble, of course I had to eat at least one of those mooncakes. The flaky crust melted in my mouth and that bean paste was pretty darn tasty. Matt had one for breakfast and eschewed the dainty wedge approach. We'll split the third one at the height of Super Typhoon Melor, but maybe you'd better not mention this to Matt in case it goes missing between now and then.

International Juggling Scene

We all have many balls in the air and I realize the ones I'm juggling aren't nearly as colorful, important, or interesting as yours. Reading, writing, puzzling, knitting, exploring, and unpacking are pedestrian pursuits at best and positively embarrassing when I think about all of you spending your days addressing our nation's transportation problems and discovering a cure for cancer while volunteering nights and weekends in aid of society's most helpless, hopeless, downtrodden members. I would salute you but I don't want to risk dropping any more balls than I already have. Simple tasks are no easier to juggle than complicated ones.

Your definition of "task" and mine are probably worlds apart but, after all, I'm the one writing this blog or, rather, not writing this blog, which is the point I was thinking of making when I got diverted by the juggling metaphor and hundreds of photographs of Japanese temari balls. In case you haven't noticed, the unpacking ball and the writing ball seem to be incompatible. Whenever I get a good grip on one, the other falls to the floor and rolls under my bed where it takes up long-term residence with all my other good intentions.

Today, because a man I have never met sent me an e-mail, I crawled under my bed to find my blogging notebook. This man found my first blog while searching for information about Kobo Cottage, the Japanese orphanage we supported during Mike's CO tour. Bill and his wife would like to visit the orphanage when they travel to Japan next March but he needs some help finding the place because his 1953 adoption papers are written in Japanese.

Now I know you're not supposed to open e-mails from strangers but I don't have any regrets about opening Bill's. Investing two minutes in connecting him with Kobo Cottage will put a spring in my step for at least a week, meaning I might actually meet my deadline for finishing this infernal unpacking.

Spinmomster

The Red Devils took a beating at home tonight from archrival Yokota (aka Air Force Pukes). The final score was a disheartening 49-6. On the plus side, #88 was on the field for seven kick returns and the camera battery waited until half-time to sputter out.


Remember that new hobby I mentioned the other day? It's already done wonders for my popularity. The phone rang just as I was racing out the door to the game. "It's Mi-Mi. Do you have any ice? There's none on the base and the Oakleaf picnic is tomorrow!" The Navy Exchange has pulled all the ice from its shelves on account of some sort of infestation (I'm picturing lots of frozen cockroaches, yuck). It's so great to feel needed. Maybe I can parlay the ice into my passing dish . . .

This Week at the 100 Yen Store

Matt's busy with football, Mike's bobbing around in the water somewhere off the coast of Mumble Grumble Mumble, and there are actually limits to the number of lunch outings I can rationalize. I stupidly forgot to put my sewing machine in the Unaccompanied Baggage. I don't remember how to cast yarn on a knitting needle. There are 30 books loaded on my Kindle but I'm trying to pace my reading just in case a maritime mishap sends all my other books to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. Since an idle mind is reportedly the devil's playground and mine can barely contain my thoughts let alone a slimy red creature, I've invented a new hobby. My dad would appreciate this one. I call it making ice.

It started when I had four minutes to kill waiting for the coffee in the French press to steep. I grabbed a ziploc bag, emptied four ice cube trays into it, then refilled the trays with water. With 10 more seconds to endure, I wandered over to the front refrigerator, opened the freezer door, and - Eureka! - found an automatic ice maker (Note to Chip: That scratchy noise in the middle of the night is not a rodent in the walls after all. Whew.) The automatic cubes went into the bag with their homespun cousins and the bag was stowed on a shelf in the empty freezer. Filling bags with ice soon became part of my daily routine, like brushing my teeth and taking a St. Joseph's aspirin.

While wandering around Daiso, a 100 Yen store, with Margaret the other day, I spotted these nifty Ice Block Bags. They come in 2 liter and 3 liter sizes. I bought both.



Between bagging cubes and filling bags with water, I am now too busy to go out to lunch most days. I'm thinking of expanding into crushed ice as soon as the blender catches up with us. With three varieties of ice on offer, I'm sure to be swamped with invitations from just about every hostess in Japan.

I feel a contest coming on . . .