Touching the Art

You are welcome to check out my latest essay at Curator Magazine, "A Record of Wearing and Worn." An excerpt:

The word is “worn.” As in well-worn, as in worn out, as in weary. Wear on, wear thin, wear off.

A thing can be worn in many ways. It may be that a thing is put on, a show, an adornment, a cover. A lady may wear her clothing or adversity well. Hearts may be worn on sleeves, worn out with tears or trying.

Read the rest here.

On reviewing

My first book review appeared on ERB this week. Here's an excerpt:

When I read a book, it’s as if I’m on a date. Some dates go well. We discover common ground, and the book and I stay together into the wee small hours of the morning. Other dates are like early scenes from a Hollywood romantic comedy, where the evening twists and turns and misunderstandings create distance.

Words to Eat By: Five Foods and the Culinary History of the English Language by Ina Lipkowitz made a great first impression. The book promised to explore our Jekyll and Hyde attitude about what is good to eat by examining the history of five types of food: fruit, vegetables, dairy, meat, and bread. It would explore human history, church history, the Bible, linguistics and modern examples to make its case.

Based on all this, I said yes to the date. The introductory pages reinforced my decision. The author revealed herself as witty, a little self-depreciating, self-aware, knowledgeable about history, food, and the culture at large. Then we got into her thesis.

(You can read the rest here.)

Writing a review was harder than I thought. A friend of mine who has reviewed Bible software in the past put it well when he said that you have to show why you hold your opinions. That's what I tried to do in the review of Words to Eat By: share a digested experience (ahem), not just (double ahem) spew opinion.

For more of my book-related writing, please check out To Tame a Friend at Curator Magazine.

Keep February Short

If you know me, or if you've read this post, you know how I feel about the coming month. I've come up with a new plan to deal with my hatred of February. You can read about it at Curator Magazine. Here's an excerpt:

I will go to great lengths to ward off the February blahs. In years past, I have decorated my home with tropical flourishes, distracted myself with games and group trips, tried to embrace winter with snowmobiling and “Doctor Zhivago” weekends. I have done all I can think to do, and February still comes… and stays. 

My pain is prolonged this year, as it is a Leap Election Year. This is when we make up for time unaccounted for in the solar calendar, and make it seem longer still by adding the torturous political primary season. It’s an extra day to campaign; I know the politicians will never give that up. They are too busy twisting truth. But perhaps we don’t need the politicians to help us Keep February Short (™). 

That’s right. I’m doing it. My New Year’s resolution: instigate calendar reform. ...

To whom do I address my plea? How will I respond to my critics? Will I use math? Discover the answers to these questions and more at the source:
http://www.curatormagazine.com/lauratokie/february-done-right/

Starting and Stopping

I am a wuss. Example: I claim that I like to have my errand-running all planned and efficient, but this somehow leads to a billion different reasons to delay the running of the errands:
Am I sure this is all the dry cleaning?
Surely there is a coupon somewhere for that.
It would be better if I waited until I was going out anyway, that way, I will waste less gas. Besides, it’s awfully unpleasant out there.
With these and other thoughts like them, I stay home for days. Stuff piles up at the door. The pantry contains only dried kidney beans I once used for pie weights and Jell-o.
That was 2011. This is 2012.
January 3rd, 2012, I am conquering you, I thought. I will go to the dry cleaners with the two items I want cleaned. I will fill up my tank with gas. I will relish the cold. I will pick up groceries at the most consistently inexpensive store and not worry about the coupons.
All this before 10 a.m.? Victory! I turned west toward home, the day’s battle against lethargy won. But a new war awaited.
A creature appeared in the distance, walking in the eastbound lane. A single car sat near it, then sped  from shoulder to shoulder, swerving around the animal.
I was a little miffed. Surely the dude (I assumed it was a dude) could have stopped to let the poor thing by.
As I drove closer, I realized the poor thing was a wild turkey. Unlike the dude, I, the conqueror of the errands, could offer a little benevolence. The turkey ran toward the ditch, so I stopped and gave him (I assumed it was a him) some room to be sensible.
The turkey froze. He turned and looked around. He looked at me. And then, he ran … directly at the grill of my car.
Now I looked around. I wasn't sure what to do, so I treated him like a distracted driver and honked my horn. The turkey turned out to have a case of road rage. He stopped momentarily, then charged my car and disappeared.
I honked again. A greyish-white head popped over the hood of my car, gave me the eye, and then vanished.
I imagined him pecking at my bumper with demented fervor, or reenacting that scene from Cape Fear. I checked the rearview mirror. The nearest vehicle was far enough away: I put my car in reverse and eased back a few yards. Retreat only angered him more. He charged me again. People were now coming eastbound, so I put the car in drive and tried to sneak by on the shoulder. He headed me off like a sheepdog.
I slowly returned to my lane and hit the brakes as the jake once again disappeared. Eastbound traffic paused. The turkey head shot up again. The driver opposite went wide-eyed. I was playing chicken with a turkey.
Now a line of cars formed behind me. I realized that from their point of view, I was merely a crazy woman impeding their progress for no obvious reason. So I honked again. The eastbound driver moved, and the westbound drivers took their turns staring at me, first in disgust, then with disbelieve.
Finally, all traffic cleared. I threw the car into reverse and aimed for the shoulder. As the turkey came my way, I threw the car back into drive and — like the dude five minutes before me — gunned it. I swerved and flew back into my own lane, leaving, I’m sure, a distant motorist with the same temptation as me.
To her (I assume it’s a her) I say, it’s easy to rush to judgment, but for 2012, I’m quitting that. Cold turkey.

Better living through facts

I've been gone a while. Lots of good things going on. I'm back because I have a problem. It's not a big problem, but I think it's a common one in this age.

I just read a post over at donmilleris.com ("Remembering Ludwig van Beethoven"), and it stirred a dilemma in me.

Miller's post includes a note from Beethoven to his brothers. Beethoven's note raises great questions about life and artists. His loss of hearing, so deeply felt. Would he have been a different artist if he had never experienced that loss? Is it really "less easy for the artist than anyone else?"

These are the questions raised, but my dilemma is this: I'm distracted. The post begins by pointing to today as the anniversary of Beethoven's death. In my mind, I hear a audio recording ("Beethoven Lives Upstairs" maybe?) purchased after taking one of my kids to the symphony as a birthday present. We listened to it on the way home. Bells rang out, and the narrator intoned, "March 26th ..." We looked at each other in disbelief. March 26th, my child's birthday, and the widely reported date of Beethoven's death.

The intent of "Remembering Ludwig van Beethoven" is not to proclaim fact, and I know it. I want to think about the broader truth, but I am weak. I do a little checking. Today is likely the anniversary of Beethoven's baptism. Perhaps I should let it go. Perhaps I should contact the author privately, but there's no way to do that. I don't want to be snarky, but I don't want to see someone's words discredited because of a simple mistake.

Miller says in his post that some believe that in this "age of television and consumer distractions, another Beethoven will not develop." But we will know the facts!

(I keep thinking about this issue. If you'd like to read more of my thoughts on facts and truth, and about the birth of a different child, please check out For Victoria Crawford, an essay I wrote for curatormagazine.com.)

On Football

My latest essay is now available at The Curator. Here's an excerpt:

We spend our autumn Sundays, each Thanksgiving, and the rare Monday, in the throws. We visit Ford Field; we stare at our televisions. Sixteen times every fall, we participate, identify, and scream — sometimes with joy, usually in pain. We are offsides; we are injured; we shake our heads and curse ourselves for wasting a perfectly good afternoon on this ridiculous team. Occasionally, we win, and we shake our heads just the same. We are being strung along. Stupid Lions.

Winter brings the playoffs, and we watch numbly, from afar. By the second round, we’re adopting a team. The Super Bowl is played. We don’t wonder when it will be our turn. We have no dreams for our future. It’s February, the mercifully shortest month, the worst month. Our hearts and road conditions unite: we are cold, iced over. We are sick of winter and done with football.

The rash among us disassociate and make vows: they will never watch another Lions game until that team proves their worth. These rash might get teased a little, about jumping off the bandwagon, but mostly, everyone nods.

How do Lions fans go from this to the unbridled optimism of August? Read the entire story here, at curatormargazine.com.

New personal essay

My latest, After the Fourth, is available starting today at Curator magazine. An excerpt:

The days surrounding July 4^th normally trumpet the ease of summer, but this year’s music is different. It was Tuesday, the fifth of July, when the horns gave way to the unrelenting beat of the future.

A careful listener would have heard the cues sooner. On Friday, my oldest went away with a buddy and his family. We packed my boy’s things and wrote down all the phone numbers. His dad and I spoke out of both sides of our mouths, reminding him to call if anything made him uncomfortable and assuring him that everything would be fine.

Thump, thump.

Saturday the wind and rain washed the rhythm away, but it returned on Sunday, pulsing as I came up the stairs and saw Connor in combat boots and camouflage...

Read the whole story here.