Shelf Unbound Notable Indie 2020

The day after Valentine’s Day

/ J. F. Riordan / 45 Comments

We woke to three inches of new snow, coating the branches in the magical way that reawakens childhood. There’s a fire in the fireplace, and a big snoring Eli on the couch. It feels very cozy and pleasant, and much more like February in Wisconsin.

I think the pandemic created a sense of the loss of time passing, and maybe that’s why I began assembling little Valentine gifts every year for my friends. They are never anything important, just a little token whose preparations feel festive. This year I read somewhere about a grandfather who always gave the writer candy tied up in a handkerchief, and the story was accompanied by an embroidered Valentine handkerchief that could be purchased for a ridiculous price. I wasn’t going to pay $40 for a handkerchief, but it gave me the idea.

So I began a hunt for vintage embroidered handkerchiefs. Soon they started arriving in little envelopes from all over the country, some with handwritten thanks. I paused over the note from one woman who wrote that she had been collecting handkerchiefs all her life, but now, as she was older, she wanted them to go to people who would enjoy them, rather than leaving them to her children who would just toss them out.

They were all white, with pink or red decorations. Some of the embroidery was by hand, and some was not, some were trimmed with lace. The combination of the different designs made a cheering jumble. They were all beautifully ironed, and some still had their original labels. I bought red and pink foil-wrapped chocolate hearts; foil-wrapped chocolate lips in pink, purple, and gold; a big spool of red satin ribbon; little white boxes; and heart stickers.

I suppose it’s all a little silly, but in the end, we are all children at heart. And who doesn’t miss the fun of valentines and a snack of Hawaiian Punch and cookies?

Incidentally, the grownup version of Hawaiian Punch is Ina Garten’s Cosmopolitan. Mix 2 cups vodka; 1 cup triple sec or Cointreau; 1 cup cranberry juice; 1/2 cup of fresh lime juice. Chill. Serve on the rocks in frozen glasses. No need to wait for next year’s Valentine’s Day. But be warned: too many Cosmopolitans can lead to the writing of terrible poetry.

A not-for-breakfast post

/ J. F. Riordan / 47 Comments

Last night, Auggie and Eli’s good friend, Scary Lisa1, and I went to a pet first aid class. It was something I’d been meaning to do for a very long time, but simultaneously dreaded. I am not squeamish as such, but I have too much imagination, and at some points in the class my eyes filled with tears thinking about my sweet boys being in the described situations.

I did learn important things, though, and although I have most emergency necessities available around the house, I am inspired to put together additional first aid kits for the cottage and both cars. In case you’re interested, the list is below. You should also add a mylar blanket and towels.

If you have big dogs like Auggie and Eli, in addition to the oral syringe, you should keep a turkey baster on hand to administer sufficient doses of Hydrogen peroxide in case you need to induce vomiting (which you should never do until a veterinarian who knows what has been ingested tells you to). I’ve had to do this twice, and it is heartbreaking, but lifesaving.

Speaking of poisoning, here is the ASPCA poison hotline (yes, I hate the ads, too). They will charge $75, but if your own vet is unavailable, they are a valid option, with veterinarians on hand.

Here are some important notes: Your pet can take Benedryl (diphenhydramine) if stung or having an allergic reaction, BUT only plain Benedryl—not Children’s Benedryl, which has the poisonous-to-animals artificial sweetener Xylitol, and not Benedryl with Tylenol (acetaminophen). Both ibuprofen and acetaminophen are poisonous to animals, too. The dosage is easy to remember: 1 mg of plain Benedryl per pound of animal.

We practiced CPR and artificial respiration on a canine version of Reusci Anne, and we all had large stuffed animals at our desks to practice muzzling and bandaging. These last were handy for hugging when a discussion of evisceration got stressful. It was not exactly a fun night, but I’m glad I attended.

My biggest dilemma is how I would get Eli into the car if I were alone and he were unconscious. I am thinking about asking our carpenter to modify a toboggan. Too weird?

Here are Eli and Scary Lisa once he’s reminded himself that he loves her.

  1. Scary Lisa has known Eli since the moment we brought him home, and they love one another. But, because Eli is a COVID puppy and was not properly socialized, sometimes he forgets who she is and runs from her. Once he remembers, he’s on her lap. Lisa is not otherwise scary. All our dogs have loved her. ↩︎

Would “dangling with a chain saw” make a good book title?

/ J. F. Riordan / 30 Comments

Our property is almost entirely wooded, and the trees have a way of creating their own little ecosystem. It can be warm and sunny elsewhere, but when you turn in our driveway the shade envelopes you, dropping the temperature, delaying the melting of ice and snow, and, in the summer, providing sanctuary to far too many flying insects.

The shade in our house is so ubiquitous that I have chosen the color schemes to maintain a warm coziness, lest the leaves turn everything inside green in summer. In winter, the bright sunlight is a welcome change.

Maintaining this property is a bit like managing a park, and sometimes it means making some hard decisions. This week we are having to take down a healthy sugar maple—which truly pains me—but it was leaning perilously over the house, and after our recent heavy snow and ice, it became clear that it was us or the tree.

Enter Johanna. She runs a small tree care company, and recently won a state championship for her climbing and cutting skills. She is not someone we call for the minor things, but I trust her implicitly with the big stuff. Her calm cheerfulness is warm and reassuring, even as she is dangling from a rope and holding a chain saw.

She has colleagues who manage the ropes, feed the chipper, and help to make sure she is safe, but she does the climbing. Her team will be here for at least three days, felling the tree, cleaning up the storm damage, and cabling another big sugar maple to ensure its stability.

Whenever she is here I am distracted by a compulsion to watch her work. It isn’t something you see every day, and, frankly, her courage dazzles me. So, today may not be a very productive day, but it will certainly be an entertaining one.

Remembering Abraham Lincoln

/ J. F. Riordan / 46 Comments

Today is Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. It bothers me that we have lumped Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthday’s into one generic Presidents’ Day. They were not generic men; each in their particular ways were fathers of new eras in the American experiment. It bothers me still further, that at a recent trip to an elementary school, even the third graders didn’t know who Lincoln was, or recognize that distinctive profile. It’s a subject simple enough for kindergarteners, but we seem to assume that children are incapable of learning things these days.

As a former teacher—and lifelong admirer of President Lincoln—I consider the abandonment of history a disgrace to our schools. Not to mention the abandonment of grammar, literature, and civics and…just reading. If you don’t believe me, look at the statistics. I’ll wait.

Children are sponges. They love knowing things, and their brains are programmed to memorize facts. It’s what human beings are meant to do. The education establishment dismisses memorization as mere rote learning—as if memorizing is somehow wrong. But I see memorization both as a gift and as the proper preparation for thinking. And at any rate, it would be a nice start.

I saw this close-up and personally when I was helping my grandson with his algebra this fall. How do you factor if you haven’t (in second grade) memorized the multiplication tables? It’s a form of rote learning that forms the facility for all the mathematics that follows.

Literature, too, is aided by youthful memorization. Children may not be ready to grasp the depths of meaning or the literary allusions in a memorized poem. But they internalize everything. Once memorized, the poem belongs to them in their own personal library to be recalled at will, or to arise unbidden at an apposite moment. And because it is theirs, their understanding gradually develops as they mature. They internalize the rhythms, too, and those old lines roll up like waves in the unconscious, building a sense for the language and its music. These things form good writers and appreciative readers, and create a common cultural underpinning that bonds us as human beings.

And history—that rhythm of ascent and failure that we repeat as civilizations and as individuals—begins with facts. Who did that? When was that? What happened first? What happened next? It’s only armed with these facts that we can form any opinions of what we think. You can’t think about history without knowing its essential details. And if we don’t know essential details, what do we have to remember?

The millennia-old tradition of education was that children go to grammar school to memorize—history, grammar, languages, literature, scientific and mathematical facts—until the age of twelve. At twelve, having reached the age of reason, they begin their true education. But that education is based upon the foundation of everything built before.

On this day in 1809, a great man of American history was born in a log cabin in Kentucky. He was a poor farmer’s son, and his life grew terribly hard when his beloved mother, Nancy Hanks, died at age 34 of poisoned milk. But his step-mother, the determined Sarah, encouraged him to read, and insisted that he educate himself. And read he did—whatever he could find—after a grueling day of manual labor, by the fire light. His speeches and letters reflect how deeply he internalized the great literature of his time, how influenced he was by the Psalms, by Shakespeare, by Milton, by the ancient Greeks. He walked miles to borrow—and return—books. He read widely and deeply, and he memorized. Today, if we have any sense, we look back and honor him for his righteousness, his valor, his humanity, and his martyrdom to the cause of freedom. He was an honorable man, worthy of being honored.

I didn’t use a book to look this up this morning. I learned it in elementary school.

It makes me sad that so many Americans did not.

North of the Tension Line

/ J. F. Riordan / 45 Comments

Welcome to my new followers from “Morning Shots”. Funny how one mention leads to so many new visitors. It’s been fun to watch.

This newsletter is not very much like that one. In contrast, this is a politics-free zone. It’s not because we don’t care or don’t have views, but because we all need a respite from the “hamster wheel of crazy”. I relish the civility and kindness of my readers, and I know they enjoy the calm.

I am a novelist and essayist, (you can find and order my books wherever you like to shop) but I use this newsletter to warm up for my day’s work. The topics are whatever catches my attention, and even I don’t always know what will happen when I sit down to write. Recent posts have been about day to day life: writing, friendship, making sauerbraten, animals—we have lots of turkeys—and the regular appearance of gratuitous dog photos.

I don’t write about the momentous. I write about the small beauties that enrich our days. In a world of celebrity culture, I turn away from red carpets and controversy, and focus on the richness of ordinary observations; the ephemeral moments of joy, love, and creativity. Daily life is filled with extraordinary gifts far surpassing the rush, flash and pop that are just distractions from what matters.

Those small things are the momentous ones.

I hope you will browse here and find something that interests you. I enjoy and look forward to your comments.

–JFR

***

And now for your gratuitous dog photos:

Eli is good company, and remarkably snuggly. He is also a fierce protector.
When I bore them, they amuse themselves. Auggie, left; Eli, right.

Who needs cake?

/ J. F. Riordan / 76 Comments

My friends, Evelyn and Rose, are twin sisters, age 93. I have known them all my life. They have their share of challenges, as do we all, but they are utterly undiminished by age in any meaningful sense, and carry on with rare gallantry.

Today, for my birthday, they sent me not one, but two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, all beautifully packaged in a big box with excelsior that feels like a beautiful and elegant difference from plastic bubble wrap.

I think it will be a a very happy night. Or possibly afternoon.

When I wrote to say thank you, Evelyn said, “We know what you like.”

It’s nice to have friends.

Paying attention

/ J. F. Riordan / 25 Comments

What would a year of your life be worth? Is there any amount of money you would accept to shorten your time on earth? What if the money offered would give you everything you dream of having? What if it would save the life of a child? When the payment came due, and your time was up, what would you pay to have it back?

This is a version of the Faustian bargain, although Faust wanted youth and love, not money, and the price he paid was eternal damnation. Most jobs are not the Inferno (although I bet we all have stories). But it is, in concentrated form, a question we all grapple with in one way or another when we work. It is the question I asked every single morning when I stood at my picture window, dressed for the office or the classroom, and looked out at the sun rising through the trees. My office was on the bluffs above Lake Michigan, and sometimes, before I pulled into the parking lot, I would stop to watch the sun and the mists rising over the water, hear the gulls crying, and feel what I now realize was a form of grief. But then I got out of the car and went into the building and went to work. And that was not a bad thing.

Most of us have to work for a living. If we are lucky we find work that is meaningful, that makes the world better in some way. But for most of us, even the best job takes time away from things we care about.

I have been very lucky these past few years, because now my work is my writing, and I can do it in my own house with my husband nearby and my dogs on my feet. I choose what and when to write, and sometimes I play hooky. But that’s because I have the freedom to make choices about my priorities.

It is a luxury I appreciate every single day. I do not look back on my years at a job as wasted. I do sometimes look back with regret, but I also know that each step I took was a step toward who I am. Besides, anyone with no regrets hasn’t been trying hard enough.

The theologian Frederick Buechner wrote something I try to think of every day:

One life on this earth is all we get, whether it is enough or not enough. And the obvious conclusion would seem to be that, at the very least, we are fools if we do not live it as fully, and bravely, and beautifully as we can.

No one has a perfect life. No one has a life without grief or loss. But I think happiness is about gathering in the small beauties all around us Right. Now. 

Today will not come again.

My Brother’s Keeper; Exhibit B

/ J. F. Riordan / 20 Comments

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a turkey I saw helping another turkey. Some readers were skeptical—which I might be, too, if I hadn’t seen it myself—about whether animals demonstrate altruism.

But increasingly, after centuries of human conceit about our moral superiority, science is being forced to acknowledge that animals do demonstrate care for their communities, sometimes even for other species. Today’s New York Times story about a male elephant seal rescuing a drowning pup is another example of an animal’s taking action that was not necessarily in its own interest.

This past fall I saw another incident of turkey community action. The turkeys were on their daily march back to our woods to roost. The big toms were in front, and there were several groups of hens, surrounded by eleven scrambling poults—I counted—following about forty feet behind. Herding cats has nothing on herding turkey poults.

Our ravine is a water conservancy, which means there are some fairly deep holes that are usually dry, but fill with leaves in autumn. They seem like solid ground, but you can sink pretty deeply (and turn your ankle) if you accidentally step in the wrong place.

As I watched—seeing the babies is rare— the poults, one by one, managed to just barely avoid the biggest hole, scattering around it. Holding my breath, I could see what was about to happen: one took the wrong line, and promptly disappeared deep into the leaves. Its frantic peeping was terrible to hear.

Instantly the line stopped, and the toms turned and raced back to the sound of the crying poult. Soon the whole flock was surrounding the area—not in an orderly way at all—but homing in on the baby. I turned my head at exactly the wrong moment—dogs, you know—but suddenly the peeping stopped, and when I looked back, the adults were reassembling into the line, and I counted: one, two, three…all eleven poults were there. Counting turkeys can be tricky, so I counted three times. Everyone moved back into line, and on to the assembly grounds to carry on with their evening routine.

I still don’t know how they got the poult out of the hole.

It’s completely normal for parents to risk all for their offspring, and in this case, the poult was likely genetically linked to the adults who sped to its rescue. But to see the entire flock work together like that was another lesson to me. We humans have to learn a thing or two, and meanwhile, maybe we should stop being so smug about ourselves.

The toms think they’re pretty important. They’re not wrong.

Book Club

/ J. F. Riordan / 48 Comments

I had a little meeting with a local book club yesterday. They are all old friends, and did more talking than I did, and mostly on topics unrelated, but I’m not in a position to criticize digressions.

I almost always enjoy meetings with my readers, because by definition we have something in common, and people who don’t like my books generally don’t come to hear me speak. There was one notable exception: a book club on Washington Island shortly after my first novel came out.

It was a luncheon meeting, just before Easter, and after a pleasant lunch we all sat down for the meeting. One woman spent the entire discussion rapidly paging through the book to find things she didn’t like. She found many. Another pointed out that the map in the front was inaccurate. Another remarked how unrealistic the book was, since in her thirty years of living on the Island, she had never been invited to sit in the ferry’s pilot house. I wish I had had the nerve to say I could see why. Nor did I point out that my book was a work of fiction, only loosely based on reality. Until then, I hadn’t imagined it would be necessary.

It was an excruciating hour, and I was longing for a stiff drink. As the ladies filed out, I sat, somewhat shell-shocked. One leaned over to whisper as she went out.

“I liked it.”

Afterward, in need of some fresh air, I headed down to the ferry office to pick up a package. As I was leaving, there were some guys down at the dock calling and waving at me. “He’s mad at you for not telling him you were here,” the crewman joked, pointing at the captain. I went over to chat with them, relieved to see some friendly faces. “We’re heading out. Want to come for the ride?”

So we did a little round trip on the ferry, while I sat in the pilot house with the crew, entertaining them with the story of the book club meeting. They were able to identify everyone who was there by my descriptions, laughed about the surliness of the book-paging woman, and told stories of her rudeness. The conversation progressed to some fascinating stories about life on the Island. By the time we returned, I was in a much better mood.

So, I did say I don’t mind digressions. But my actual point is: if you live within a reasonable drive of Milwaukee, and would like to host a book talk, you can contact me here.

But only if you like my books.