I do what I can do to write blog entries that aspire to a particular level of class. Really I do. As an educator, I believe that I owe it to my students and their parents to shoot for these lofty heights. With that said: look, I work in a middle school. This tends to cause me to remember, quite vividly, the way I thought when I was a middle school student. I'm afraid that even my peers found me immature, which gives you an idea of the kind of student I was. I say all this because I vividly remember how, when I started working as a middle school librarian, there was a three-day trip to Boston and Salem. This trip is now an overnight trip, and they mostly skip the Salem part. That's a shame, because Salem, I now know, has what would be the highlight of any immature middle school student's educational experience: the statue of Roger Conant. That's the statue above. Roger Conant, for those of you who don't know, was the first settler of Salem. I vaguely remember the guide telling us this. I also remember going to a witch museum with moldering exhibits and a dreary show about the witch trials. We also visited The House of the Seven Gables. This was a barnburner for the middle school kids. Yeah. Anyway. About Roger Conant. Specifically, about the statue: No, it's not that Roger Conant has any sort of story that would have made me sit up and take notice when I was in middle school. There is nothing particularly sordid in his life, at least nothing I know about. In fact, he was apparently a fine and decent man, and he died in 1679, long before the Salem Witch Trials of 1692. Instead, it's the statue itself, which is right in front of The Salem Witch Museum (this, by the way, is not the museum that has the really dreary presentation about the witch trials; actually, I've heard The Salem Witch Museum presentation is pretty good). There's really no way to get to this gracefully, so the best thing is to just show you. Okay, let's look at that Roger Conant statue again: Pay particular attention to Roger Conant's right hand, which is holding the knobbed end of a gnarled tree stump. He looks assertive and proud, a beacon welcoming all to Salem. Now look at that hand from the other side of the statue, when you're standing in front of the museum: And I admit: the immature middle school student in me says "awesome."
I'm sorry. In my defense, I offer that all of my friends from The University of Massachusetts who grew up in Salem told me that this statue has legendary status among the area's young adults. So there.
1 Comment
Dear Hugo,
In response to your letter concerning your taking over this blog: I more than understand your desire to take over the blog. It is yours. Nonetheless, I must insist on the following modification. I believe that if I begin my entries with “By Derek Leif Special Correspondent,” followed by a link to the entry in which you took over the blog (to explain this rather unusual byline), that some may find this a tad pretentious. There is, unfortunately, a tradition of people creating blogs in which they write things, and then pass them off as the writings of their animals. Some find this particular thing more than a bit precious, and I’m afraid that a number of people may very well read this and say “oh, I get it...he’s doing this really overly precious thing where he’s writing in the voice of his cat Hugo, and saying that Hugo is taking over the blog. Okay, got it...yeah, that’s really adorable. Yeah. Sure. I’m gonna be sick.” We both know who is in charge of the apartment. In fact, I would go further: as a cat person for over 40 years, I am more than aware of that fact that there is absolute truth to the adage that dogs have masters, while cats have staff. Therefore, I suggest that we leave it this: I will publish your letters, and simply post my entries in as low key a manner as possible. This will not, admittedly, broadcast the fact that the blog is really yours, but people will be well aware of this, anyway…in fact, most already are. To go even further: because a number of my friends have had cats for decades, they’ve actually already stopped thinking about it as my blog. It is yours, and always will be...I just leave a few words here every now and then. Trust me...if I just publish your letters and then put up my musings in the most unassuming manner possible, it will have far more of the effect that you seek. As it is now, people are far more interested in what you have to say. I mean, look at the postings of Facebook pictures...things that I post without you get, I don’t know, two or three likes (unless it’s a picture from high school, aparently), while pictures of you get several dozen. In short, people are well aware that this blog is your world, and I just live in it from time to time. Like Sherman and Mr. Peabody, they are well aware that you, sir, are the brains of this outfit, and that I merely walk in your shadow. I will always be at the ready to dictate your letters. They give our vast readership (at least three dozen, at last count) the kind of epistolary verve and snap that my prose will never offer. Finally: some may even find this particular entry pretentious and precious. I shall take your advice, and ignore them. Your Obedient Servant, Derek Dear Derek,
I read your blog—I use the computer frequently when you’re out of the apartment—and am glad that you have seen fit to publish my correspondence. Too many roommates of cats (we call them “subjects”) fail to recognize the vast intelligence we possess. Even fewer acknowledge that this intelligence is often superior, and again, I admire and respect your astuteness in this regard. It is, in fact, because of this wisdom on your part that I write to you at this juncture. Like you, I desire an expansion in our reading audience, and I therefore see a need to take a firm grasp of matters. I shall share my observations, and then my conclusions. (I also would like to explain, for those who may read this blog—and therefore my correspondence—the curious dichotomy between yesterday’s correspondence and today’s. Yesterday, I admit that my style slipped into a certain vernacular that may be described as “street.”) (Often, in my sincere affection for you, I tend to let myself slip back into my earlier, halcyon days of a vagabond life filled with assorted misadventures, some of which included epic fisticuffs. Though I have since attended finishing school and taken elocution, lessons, I nonetheless find myself slipping back to my “native tongue” when discussing matters of an emotional nature.) (I trust that the sincerity of my passion will outweigh the deficits in my writing and speaking polish during these times.) I call your attention to the statistics on your blog. You will notice that even in the earliest of the morning, you already had ten page views and seven readers. You will also notice that there have been noticeable general spikes in your readership of late. Though indeed coincidence is not causality, it is nonetheless worth noting that entries that feature my dispatches produce a noticeable uptick in readership. Furthermore, though the Facebook “like” is a questionable gauge of popularity, I nonetheless point out that your recent post of a picture of the two of us got you over twenty likes, while all other pictures that you post maybe get you four or five. Again, coincidence is not causality…but when one coincidence after another occurs, again and again, it is, perhaps, time to at least form a hypothesis. Being that I am in charge of this apartment, I prefer to jump straight from hypothesis to conclusion, and from conclusion to action. The conclusion, of course, is that I am the star of this blog. I am therefore taking it over immediately. Please be assured: you may continue to post to this blog. Just be sure to indicate, at the beginning of each post, that you are a guest writer, filling in for me during periods in which a constitutional nap is necessary. As you know, I need these so that I may rest my mind and find another subject about which to write. Being that you are occasionally out of town visiting your girlfriend, I shall require an automatic feeder. Simply leaving a bowl of dry food carries with it the risk that I may put on extra ounces as I thoughtlessly snack while looking for that particular turn of phrase. We both know my days of outdoor excursions—with the ensuing conflicts—are now behind me, and I require portion control in order to keep the svelte figure of my youth. Don’t worry. I’ve already ordered it, and charged it to your credit card. I shall also require a special weight control blend of nourishment. Again, though my days of mental activity are still very much in the present, my days of constant physical activity are very much in the past. I therefore seek not only to limit the sustenance that I take, but to insure that such sustenance is nourishing without being fattening. Again, to save you any undue effort, I have bought this, and put it on your credit card. I point out, at this juncture, that just because my activities are more limited than they used to be (as often is the case with a life lived indoors), be assured that I continue to look forward to our occasional recreational get togethers. To be blunt: I love the laser pointer. I also love that metal beaded chain that shimmers when you shake it, as if it’s a cybernetic snake. I cherish our times in which I pursue the light and the serpent. And to ensure that we still have these things in the event that one should vanish, I have bought some more chains and an additional laser pointer. Once again, not to worry...I put it on your credit card. Having said all this, I once again look to you to handling the more technical aspects of getting these assorted missives and bromides out into the digital world. I trust you will perform these duties admirably. I expect nothing less. I require a nap at this point, as creating these paragraphs is hard work. I bid you a heartfelt good night. Dear Derek,
We’ve been roommates for almost a year, and I notice things. I listen, too. So I can tell: you’re down. It’s a been a brutal year, I know. You went through a killer divorce, you left everything in the house to your wife and walked away with nothing. You’re paying alimony, and you live in an apartment that you can’t afford to furnish with much more than very little. Also, your apartment is dark. Hey, it’s a really nice apartment. But there are a lot of trees in front of it, and they block a lot of the sunlight, so it’s dark. Hey, I see you do things, so I’m not overly worried. You write, you read, and you play your ukulele. I know that you’re doing some stuff to make this school year good for the students who use the middle school library. These are all good things. Keep doing them. Still, I can tell you’re down. Yes, I hear you talk about having a girlfriend, but I also hear you talking about how she lives, like, 250 miles from you. That’s rough; that’s going to get anybody down. And more importantly: your whole life changed, okay? I mean, okay, you weren’t happy in your marriage, because (obviously) there were a lot of things wrong with it that you couldn’t fix. So yes, your life is on a far healthier course now than it was a while back. Still, though…the life you were leading was familiar. It had things that were comfortable, if unhealthy. You came home to someone, and the house you lived in had a cozy feel to it. And that’s gone now. William Faulkner once said that between familiarity and happiness, most people will choose the familiar. Personally, I prefer the lean, spare style of Hemingway, but it's a good observation. So when I see you munching on your Trader Joe’s dinner with CNN anchors keeping you company as they help you feel connected to the outside world (somehow, it would seem that, for you, live broadcasts do that sort of thing better than movies), I can tell: you look around your apartment, and you say “man…I feel pretty damn hollow and lonely.” Well, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a guy who didn’t have a home. He didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. He got into a whole bunch of fights, one of which tore up his ear. When fate found this guy, he was filthy. His hair was all matted and tangled. He was covered in fleas. Scratch my neck. Right there. Perfect. Awesome. Now then…where was I. Ah, yes…covered in fleas. And for a long while, this guy, I mean, okay…some good folks took him in, and yes, things were better. He was getting three squares a day. He had a room. It was a small room, though. Not a lot of space to move around in. And I tell you, this guy was lonely, okay? I mean, there were a whole lot of other folks around, but all of them talked about how they were lonely. And listening to those kids talk about being orphaned…it broke your heart. And I’ll never forget: they were all talking about how they wanted a home. Then, funny thing: one day, this guy came along, and I’ll never forget what he said: “I always get a cat. No one takes the cats. Everyone adopts the kittens.” And I tell you, I remember just thinking: this guy…this guy is my guy. So anyway, this guy does that thing that people do where they kind of stick their fingers in the cages to see how various folks respond. I never, ever understood why so many others just sort of look at the fingers and do nothing. This is possible freedom we’re talking about here. Well, none of that for me; I was going for it. As I said, I knew: this was the guy. I brushed against those fingers as if to say that that guy...well, as if to say: you’re the guy, okay? You. You’re the guy. And you know what? I was right. This guy…he was the guy. So whenever you’re feeling down, understand that I have to come over and remind you about this story. Because you’re not alone. You’re the guy. C’mon…get over here. Gimme a hug. Who’s your guy? I am, okay? Me. Friends to the end, buddy. Friends to the end. On a Moment, Today, That I Saw A Bit of Parenting So Awesome That I Must Share it With You All8/3/2016 The kid was freaking out.
I was in Coffeed (the local coffee place here in Port Washington), and a mom came into the place with her kid. The kid was, I don’t know, maybe four or five. He walked over to the table where I was writing, and started moving his toy car back and forth on the table. It did not bug me. Still, his mom wanted him to stop. He did not want to stop. His mom, who’d gotten her iced coffee by then, took him by the hand, and gently pulled the kid toward her. The kid did not like this. He really, really didn’t like this. It was one of those tantrums that makes me think of the chain reaction that leads to a nuclear explosion. One particle smashes into that bit of Uranium 235, and then the pieces of that smashed up atom careen into more Uranium 235. On it goes, and in an instant, there is enough heat to vaporize a city. I mean…wow. It was epic. It was one of those things where the kid starts screaming “no,” and it gets all distorted, so that it kind of becomes the word “now,” as uttered by Satan if he were about four. Because let’s face it: children are wonderful, adorable, and innocent. But when they tantrum, they become little Satans. They just do. Who knows why, at that moment, the kid lost it. Maybe there was something about that moment that made him see that there would other moments like that, moments where he wouldn’t always be able to do exactly what he wanted. Maybe at the moment, the kid saw his whole life, all those moments where it’s necessary to compromise, necessary to find our way between the things that we long for, and the things that we just have to do. Maybe it was that awful realization that every so often, the world just says “no, you can’t do that.” Maybe it was just too much to deal with all at once. Maybe that kid saw his entire future, something that’s such an epic thing for a child so small to see. Maybe the kid’s name was John Connor, and he was realizing, right at that moment, as he looked at my computer, that a storm was coming, and that a computer like mine would eventually become self aware, and that Skynet would bring about the end of the world. Maybe he realized, right at that moment, that it was going to be up to him, and him alone, to save the world, and that his mother would be played by Linda Hamilton when it became a film, which would eventually prompt Harlan Ellison to sue James Cameron for writing something way too similar to his Outer Limits episode “Soldier.” What I’m saying is, I’m sure this wasn’t a bad kid. It’s just that the kid was realizing a whole lot in such a short time, and it was just too much for him. So naturally, he just wanted to stay there, and move the car back and forth on the table. But it was time to go. And mom didn’t miss beat. With no anger, and no sudden, jerking motions, she expertly took the kid by the arm, and walked/dragged/carried him out. It was just…heroic. I can’t quite describe how smoothly this mother handled this kid. It was like watching a mother cat pick up a kitten by the scruff of the neck, and return the kitten to the basket. Midway to the car, the kid calmed down. It slowly morphed from the mom carrying/dragging him to a drag with a footstep or two. Then the kid was walking. And I tell you, but for the fact that I’m sure it would have weirded out the mother, I wanted to follow her, and tell her that this one of the most heroic acts of parenting I’d seen in a long, long time. I often tell parents during Back to School Night at the middle school that parenting is the most difficult job imaginable. When I get a great student, I marvel at the parenting that went into producing a kid like that. The kid I saw today is going to turn out great. I’m sure of it. And this mom is, for me, today’s hero. It is not easy writing a blog when you are not a somebody. I imagine it must be easier for someone who’s famous, because they look at their stats, see that legions of people are reading their stuff, and have a real sense of having had an impact on those lives, no matter how small. A fan base is a cool thing.
It’s nice when you have a fan base outside of your friends. I have no such thing. According to Weebly Stats, I get, like, forty to eighty views on my blog a day, but these figures are notoriously inaccurate, and the number of actual views is probably far lower. (Okay, admittedly, when I wrote about The Salem Willows Horribles Parade, I supposedly got, like, 300 views, because some folks who are far more popular than I am--and have far more friends--shared it. That was really nice. Of course, once again, that number is probably inflated, but it was still a lot more than I usually get...so it was still really nice.) I have probably not helped things along by unfriending virtually everyone even remotely associated with my childhood in Great Neck, New York. Some of these people were really, really not happy with this. It is amazing how hurt some people can be when you unfriend them. Look, let me put it this way: in Great Neck, a kid who was a peer counselor repeatedly asked me why I had not killed myself, and why I was not receiving hormone shots, as I looked a great deal younger than I was. I almost included a link to his page at the hospital where he works (he's a doctor), but then I figured, nah. I at least give him this: he did not try to friend me. There were many other incidents like this involving many other people. In most schools, it would seem, there are those handful of kids who everyone goes after. I was one of those kids, and did not have telekinetic powers, unfortunately. This can make you have problems with your hometown. It can also cause the slightest reminders of your hometown (read: people from high school who were Facebook friends) to bring on a great deal of bad memories. That’s just the way it is. But anyway...back to friends reading my blog (not Facebook friends, but real friends with whom I happen to be friends on Facebook). Right. That’s what I was writing about. Here’s the thing: I so wish that my friends blogged more. I also admit that I kind of wished that they blogged in the glib, lightweight style that I blog, where the paragraphs are short and the words are simple. It is a complicated world...I like some glibness from my friends every now and then. What I’m saying is that when you blog and know that you’re readership doesn’t go beyond your friends, it’s kind of like you’re writing this letter to yourself and a couple of other friends. It’s kind of like writing a newsletter for maybe ten people. I like learning about little things going on in the lives of my friends, so I guess this is a way for friends to find out about what's going on in my life. It’s amazing how much more stuff is newsworthy when you’re just writing for ten people. Two days ago, my dad and I went and saw “Jason Bourne.” There were many shots of computer screens with a lot of computer code on them, and large computer monitors with world maps indicating that large government agencies were spying on people. People hit a lot of computer keys. A lot of them. Matt Damon beat people up and drove cars really, really fast. Tommy Lee Jones looked ancient. Midway through, I turned to my dad and said “Dad...I have no idea what is going on this film. None. It’s kind of like a visual representation of a really paranoid person’s mind as they spend the entire weekend alone, doing crack.” He laughed. "I was going to say the same thing,” he said. See, if I didn’t know you, you wouldn’t care. But friends like this sort of thing. And it goes both ways: if you’re my friend, I find that a bit of news about taking in a film with your dad the kind of news I want to read about. Speaking of which, we checked out “Mr. Holmes” yesterday. When it was done, I turned to my dad and excitedly said “that film was perfect. I mean, plot, dialogue, theme, acting...that film was so good that it was life affirming to think that people can create something that satisfying.” “Yep,” Dad said, nodding. “This is really awesome,” I said. “I mean, here I am, getting over a divorce, and I’m here with my Dad, watching this awesome film after having seen a terrible film the night before. I mean, I love seeing any film with my Dad, but I tell you Dad, seeing a film like this, as opposed to ‘Jason Bourne’...life is good.” “Yep,” Dad said, smiling. That is what is new at the moment. Nothing dramatic. Just saw an awful film with my Dad, and then saw a great film with my Dad. And oh, yeah, came home from being out of town for a few days, and the person taking care of my cat--whose last visit was two days before I came back--closed the bathroom door, which is where the litter box is. My cat used the futon as a substitute for the litter box. I can laugh about it. I take this as a sign that I’m coping with post-divorce life pretty well. Besides, compared to having someone in high school repeatedly tell you to kill yourself? Small potatoes. So. Yeah, that’s my news for the moment. There will be more. Perhaps most people have no desire to read this. Friends, however, do. For giving my writing some sort of purpose, I thank them. |
|