I got to see the wonderful Ann and Kay of Mason Dixon Knitting  fame on Tuesday at Politics and Prose, and to hear their lovely voices and have them sign my copy of their awesome new book.   And I also learned to love my neighbors even more than I already did.  And I met a woman with my name, which almost made both of our heads explode even with the different spellings.  And I had cake and a latte almost as big as my head.  It was quite an adventure.  Lemme ‘splain.  Be prepared to sit a spell.

I’ve lived near D.C. for most of my life (call me a city goat and I may break your nose.  I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’).  My Mom worked at Children’s hospital when I was a kid, and she took us to the Smithsonian every month or so.  The museums are free, astronaut ice-cream is practically free, and cheap and free are each very important to single moms.  I think the Smithsonian also figured in my Mom’s diabolical plan to make us obsessed with reading and learning so that, one day, she could borrow books from us, and also maybe describe her progeny while using words and phrases like "cum laude" and "engineer" and "my daughter translated this."  I grew up in that golden age when children could clamber all over a steaming-hot fiberglass Triceratops sculpture in front of the Natural History Museum, picturing ourselves as dinosaur rustlers, or something.  We got to scale the Awakening too.    You don’t know victory until you’ve beaten your much-larger brother up the arm into that raised hand.  JOY!  I’m pretty sure lawyers ruined both of those treats for you whipper-snappers. (I get to call people youngsters now because I am an Aunt, and it is my prerogative to act old if and when I feel like it.)

But not everything was astronaut ice-cream and dino-rustling.  D.C. has had some really bad times.  My Mom’s years at Children’s coincided with that ugly time when both crack-cocaine and HIV/AIDS turned on D.C.’s babies.  The federal government unloaded St. Elizabeth’s on the city without also handing over a decent operating budget, and suddenly hundreds of mentally ill veterans were homeless in the capital, sleeping on heating grates, and then freezing to death when the grates were blocked off by some misguided federales who thought it looked bad to have homeless anywhere people near the Capitol.  And then the mayor had some legal problems.  Maybe D.C.’s designation as the "murder capital" of the U.S. in 1991 was the nadir. Who knows.   Anyway, things started to look up as crime rates began to fall across the country in the mid-90s, but even when I decided to transfer from AU to CUA during grad school things still looked bleak for D.C.  My folks worried about me walking around Brookland at the end of the millennium.  They worried a lot. 

Now I’m back in D.C. on a daily basis, and the change is astounding.  I was at CUA for a reading last week, and the campus is well lit, the Metro stop has an obvious but apparently friendly police presence.  The crime rate in the city has declined drastically. 

I’m coming to a point.  I promise. 

Politics and Prose is about an eight block walk uphill from the closest Metro stop.  Now, I love a good walk, and I love a good bookstore, and the weather was gorgeous, so I knew I was in for a great afternoon.  But eight blocks uphill at the very beginning of sandal season here-abouts leads to blisters on the little toes, you know, especially for we delicate flowers.  (Please scream "I AM A DELICATE FLOWER, DAMMMIT!" with me.  Thanks)  So there was some Newskin purchasing, and Newskin application thereafter, which required me to be messing with my feet while Ann and Kay were arriving, and my attempts to keep these lovely ladies from noticing me playing with my feet, cuz, you know, that’s no way to make a good first impression.  And maybe some clumsiness ensued, and somehow my wallet disappeared. 

)*&#&)%#Q#+)!()@&*$#_*&$_!#*V (And maybe some near-crying, and a little spontaneous prayer typical to we folks from Catholic families, no matter how far we’ve fallen, and then the fretting about losing my Metro pass and elevator card, not to mention cash and cards and ohgodohgodwe’regonnalosethehouseandstarveohgod.  Oh, the lamentations!)

And then it came back, entirely whole, not a dollar or a card missing.  Some nice man saw me drop my wallet on the sidewalk and raced across the street, followed me into the bookstore, and gave it to a clerk there when he couldn’t find me.  I had it back about 20 minutes after I noticed it was missing. 

Nice man, I owe you a beer.  And a big hug.  And maybe even some socks.  I wish you’d left your card or something. 

So after the drama there was the relaxing with the cake and latte, and the sock-knitting while listening to our wonderful knit-blogging stars.

And then, while waiting to have my book signed.  A woman ahead of me in the line instructed Ann and Kay to sign the book to ‘Nea, short for Linnea.  And Ann said, "Oh Lanea, wow, you comment."  And Linnea looked bemused, and I piped up and said "No, that’s me."  And then I found out that Linnea’s first name is Amy, just like mine.  And we compared notes, and tried to keep out heads from exploding with the coincidence of it all.

And then I walked back to the Metro stop, downhill this time, and in the dark, all the while safe and warm and with my wallet and books and everything.  Life is good, and our capital is healing.

And all of that storytelling should have distracted you enough that you didn’t notice my complete failure to take any pictures at the signing.  What can I say–the wallet incident made me forget that I had my camera.  But if you scroll down to the picture of the girl in the lovely lace shawl, you can see my orange-clad arm: http://www.masondixonknitting.com/   

I’m sprung, girls.  There are no two ways about it.  I am in love, and that means I am in trouble.  And this time, it’s trouble squared.

Yarrow is gorgeous, but evil. 

And Speedwell is gorgeous (this picture does not do him justice), but evil.

These two are hell on paws.  Fur bags full of trouble.  You can see it coming on when Yarrow becomes distracted and Speedwell starts looking like Elvis. 

Cats who can do impressions of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams Sr., or Liza Minnelli grow up to be cats who steal cars.  Don’t even get me started on the dangers of cats who can do a good Shane McGowan.  Just, er, call the vet now if you have one of those, and hide the children. 

These guys go from pretending to rest to attacking their house-mates:

And just like all the worst Kitty-gangs, they will never dime each other out.  Even as Speedwell was trying to eat him alive, Zen Master Yarrow was all "There’s nothing to see here, Lady.  Move along. Nothing to see."

Shortly after the incident above, there was some wanton destruction.  Yarrow has a taste for yarn.  Scott tried to laugh it off when Yarrow was attacking a sock as I was knitting on it.  But I knew trouble was brewing.  This is a wool house, after all. 

Well, Saturday Lisa and I went to spend a gift certificate to Aylin’s  Woolgatherer my old employer gave me.  We shopped for yarn, we came back to the house.  Lisa swore up and down the cats were sweet, innocent little guys and that I was paranoid.  She must be on the take.  We met up with the fellahs and went out for dinner.  When we got home, I found this:

That’s not so bad, you’re thinking, right?  Wrong.  This yarn was in a bag.  The bag is no more–shredded beyond recognition.  The red Megaboots Stretch skein?  It’s crunchy, there’s so much kitten spit on it.  The mussed-up Lorna’s too.  My friends, this was just a warning.  This is the wool-eating kitten’s equivalent of a horse-head in my bed.  They’re telling me to stay in line.  They’re going to eat my stash if I don’t handle things carefully. 

I can hear them plotting now. 

But the bad part is I’m making excuses for them.  I keep trying to convince Scott to let them sleep with us at night, even though they spend the night alternating between trying to eat each other and trying to crawl inside my nose.  I had both cats sleeping on my head for most of Friday night, becoming acquainted with my sinuses and tonsils. 

But really it’s ok, because they apologized.  Yarrow purred a lot, and Speedwell hugged me and apologized to the yarn.  That scratch on my thumb is nothing.  It was an accident.  You don’t know them like I do  . . .

And then yesterday, while I was trying to document a make-under I’m giving a would-be great skirt that was attacked by a Bedazzler in some foreign land, Yarrow offered to help.

Help the skirt into a coffin, that is.  They eat linen too.  Send help.  There are new socks that need protection.

No, wait, I was over-reacting before.  They don’t mean to be mean to the wool.  On the linen.  They were just stressed out.  It won’t happen again.  They love me.  Yeah.  They love me.

Help.

A Long Long Way by Sebastian Barry

I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Barry read from this recent novel on Thursday at Catholic University’s Irish Studies lecture series.  Barry is one of those rare writers who is equally skilled in poetry, drama, and fiction.  More importantly, Barry is one of those rare writers who reads his work exceptionally well.  He left his audience breathless, either with grief or laughter, time and again.  If you have a chance to see him read, don’t miss it.  I’ve seen a couple hundred readings in my life.  I think this was one of the best. 

The Booker-prize finalist of a book chronicles the last few years in the life of Willie Dunne, the child of a Dublin police officer.  Willie, whose father is a Catholic Unionist, volunteers to serve in the British Army in WWI.  While Willie is in the service of the Crown, the Irish Revolution gets underway with the Easter Rising, and the Irish reaction to Irish soldiers in the British Army changes dramatically.  Willie is forced to consider his feelings of Irishness, citizenship, loyalty to his father and ancestors, and the collapse of his engagement all while undergoing the terrors of  one of the bloodiest wars ever. 

Like most of Barry’s work, this book is a piece of family history.  It follows the same Dunne family that serves as the center of Annie Dunne (Willie’s sister) and  The Steward of Christendom (about Willie’s father).

Barry is reading again on Monday at Politics and Prose in DC.  Head there, whether you’ve read the book or not. 

Knitting and kitty pictures are coming soon, I promise.   Suffice it to say, kittens don’t think people should sleep when they’re used to sleeping, but in shorter, sporadic spells.  Yarrow is a Zen Master, and is also quite fond of disembowling fake mice.  Heavens forfend he ever gets a real one.  Speedwell wavers between being endearingly affectionate and downright possessive of me.  He may be jealous of Yarrow’s muttonchops and his athletic ability.  Kayo thinks both cats should move more slowly and accept his licks.  Water-guns are in my future.

I’m taking the Metro to and from my new job, which means I get a little bit of extra sock-knitting time in the morning, but lots of extra reading time.  Expect only small bits of knitting for a while, and lots of books.  Here are several book reviews, all thrown together.

If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor

I picked this book up because it is the author’s first novel and it was short-listed for the Booker Prize.  I love first novels, just like I love first albums.  That first fruit is packed full of energy and sweetness and light.  The words are generally chosen carefully, the images are beautiful.  If it’s successful, the artist may be able to make wonderful things in the future, but they’re likely to face the pressure of recording or publishing contracts, critics, bills, and all of the other things that get in the way of artistry.

One of the blurbs on the cover refers to this as a "prose poem of a novel."  I think that’s spot on, at least when referring to the opening pages.  The book is set on a working-class street in a British city.  We follow several of the folks who live there.  The narrative jumps from one point in time to another.  Something terrible happens, but we don’t know what until well into the book.    We have a great amount of insight into speech patterns, but the tone is familiar enough that we get very little exposition.  It turns the book into a mystery of sorts.  I loved it.  I wish I could read it for the first time all over again.

The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse by Louise Erdrich

I’m really falling in love with Erdrich’s writing.  This novel made Erdrich a finalist for the National Book Award.  I’m a bit surprised she didn’t win it.  Like many of Erdrich’s novels, this one is set on an Ojibwe reservation.  The main character is a priest with a mammoth of a secret, who is being interviewed about the possible canonization of a recently deceased nun who figures in other novels in the series.    The novel tracks the priest’s life, his role in the local community, his life before the priest-hood–it’s good stuff.  I’m hesitant to reveal much, of course, because I love the unfolding of a story I know nothing about, so I assume others do too.  Most reviews give the priest’s secret away, as does the back cover of the book.  But I think you should ignore all that, and just start at the start.  You can, however, consult some reviews here and here and here.

Tales of Burning Love by Louise Erdrich

I think this is the weakest Erdrich novel I’ve read so far.  In short, it’s the story of a man named Jack, who drives his businesses and marriages to fail, and of several women who marry him.  I love two of the characters, Dot and Eleanor, but I’m not sure why the others are appealing to anyone.  The prose is lovely in parts, a touch overdone in others, but very good as a whole.  The structure is intriguing, as are most of Erdrich’s books, because she reveals more about each character in little treasures hidden throughout the chapters.  She is an elegant writer, and I guess this is her most inelegant work because a few of her characters seem less appealing than I want them to.  It’s still worth reading, though.

You’ll have to excuse my lack of blogging recently.  I’ve been on vacation for the last week or so, burning through leave at my old job before I start my new job.  The Vernal Equinox was here a couple of days ago, and it really feels like I’m staring at tons of new beginnings, and lots of appropriately spring-y goings-on.  I’ll catch you up, visually. 

I’ve spent a lot of time reading, far too much time cleaning, a fair amount of time grocery shopping, cooking, and baking:

These are lemon berry muffins I’m working on . . . I think I have a really good new recipe in the works. 

I’ve spent some time knitting, though not as much as I wish:

These are some wool socks for my Mom, who is apparently overcoming her wool sensitivity.  These are the test.  They’re made of Wildfoote in the Elderberry colorway.  Chris gave me the yarn–thanks Chris!  I’ve got another pair of Trekking socks almost done, and I’ve made some headway on a cabled sweater I started a while back.

But mostly, I’ve been making some serious acquisition runs.

One acquisition run, which fell before I got the new job, let to many many stitch markers:

Bird and spiral bead variety (I had a serious weakness, here, and you’re seeing it.  Why would you need that many markers in one set?)

Glass cane flower bead variety.

Crackle-glass bead variety.

And agate leaf variety.  These are the only ones I’m likely to keep.  Sheesh.  See what happens when I abuse Joseph Campbell lectures on PBS?  I already had far more stitch markers than I really needed. 

Another acquisition run took me to the Scarlet Thread, a great local embroidery shop.  I found these:

Which are horn and antler floss cards and laying tools.  I bought every little bit of hubba-hubba goodness they had and begged them to order more.  There is a third laying tool, and it went to live with Olwyn and the girls. 

And then, of course, there is the mammal-acquisition project, which has led me to these guys. 

You can’t tell to look at it, but this bigger, older cutie above (who needs a new name) is playing with the same cord as this younger, much smaller cutie below (who needs a new name):


They should be moving in with us this weekend. 

Tuesday, my final planned excursion went awry.  My Mom and I forgot that most of the shops in Middleburg are closed on Tuesdays, so we had a great lunch and sighed over the locked doors to our favorite places.  I had to go back this morning to bring some donations to the Treasure Hound, which is the thrift shop owned by Friends of Homeless Animals.   I popped into Hunt Country Yarns first, of course, because I needed spinning fiber.  That wily Bob apparently hypnotized me into buying this haul:

of Tussah and Bombyx silk, gray carded Merino, Wensleydale, and a couple of skeins of Bearfoot.  Now, on a normal day, that would be a serious score, and I’d be done.  I mean, I have Wensleydale wool to match my Wensleydale cheese:


Who could ask for more?

But no.  See that black something in the top right corner in the upper picture?  That’s the first thing I saw when I went over to the thrift shop to make my donations.  If you’re not sitting . . . well . . . don’t fall down.  I almost did.  So sit. 

Are you sitting?

I now have a Singer Featherweight.  I bought it at the thrift store.  It doesn’t have a case or a manual or a box of accessories, but that’s all right with me.  I have a working Featherweight of my very own. 

And as if that weren’t enough, I went straight from the land of the Featherweight to collect my dog, take him for a trek at his favorite park,  and then bring him to the vet.  We had a scare this week after finding a strange new growth on our pup.  The Doc asperated the lump, and was pleased as punch to tell me that my Kayo doesn’t have cancer.  Knowing he’s healthy is even better than getting all sorts of great stuff.  I even let Kayo talk me into delaying his bath another day, since he’d been so great at the vet. 

So I try not to mention work too often, since I know many of us have more work stress than we need.  But I am blissfully between jobs at the moment, so I’ll give you a peek into the recent string of events.

Last several years: I worked at what should be a great job, but wasn’t, because I had a very unpleasant coworker and management repeatedly chose not to do much to help.  I had an Albatross hanging around my neck, you could say.  I do say it, in fact, rather frequently.   I warned my managers about a month ago that if something didn’t change I would quit.  Apparently they didn’t take me all that seriously.

Last two weeks:  I started job-hunting in earnest.

Last Thursday: I met with the VP of a federal contracting company and their client, a honcho at the Department of Education.  The VP called me right after I got home and made a very generous job offer.  To work for the Department of Education.  Instead of the War Machine DoD. 

Last Friday:  I started telling friends at work that I’d be leaving.  Then I got to see William Whitmore and the Pogues at the 9:30 club with my fine fellah.  Best.  Day.  Ever.

Saturday:  Breakfast, a wonderful walk in the woods with our dog Kayo, a visit to some possible future feline members of our household, and then dinner and drinks with friends.  Some chanting along the lines of "I’m gonna quit my jah-aaahb" broke out sporadically.

Sunday:  I took Scott to meet some cats we are considering fostering, and then went to celebrate our friend Morgan’s fantastic new job with a bunch of the gang.  It was ridiculously warm.  There were dogs and kids and delicious burgers.  Ahhhhhhh.

Monday: I submitted my resignation and expressed a desire to use up all of my vacation time between Monday and the Friday two weeks hence.  I bounced up and down a fair amount, left work early to interview with a communications company, and then decided against pursuing that opportunity because the interview had been moved so many times and the people attempting to hire me were perpetually late.  And then I got all giddy over the idea that I could just refuse job offers because it drives me nuts when people are late.  An embarrassment of riches, I tell you what.

Tuesday:   I started training my friend John to do my job, and left work early to visit the lovely yarn shop Uniquities and newly relocated Scarlet Thread.  I bought gorgeous bone and horn embroidery tools I maybe possibly don’t need.  We had dinner with Sean, Bodwin, and Lisa.  There was some minor fleece-aquisition plotting. 

Wednesday:  Another half-day at the office, some errands, and then I went to Wolf Trap to run the merchandise table with Dana for the Tinsmith/Niamh Parsons show, and hang out with Mary and plot new projects for Tuatha.  It was a wonderful thing to see Tinsmith playing Wolf Trap.  Wonderful.  And it was even better to talk to so many people who had specifically come to see Tinsmith.  Tinsmith sounded great.  Niamh sounded great.  We sold a fair number of CDs and heard from a lot of people who are looking forward to this year’s Potomac Celtic Festival.  And some of my favorite folks came out to the show, so we got to drink some lovely beer and crack some ridiculous jokes, and wallow in the bag of un-polished amber Mary brought.  Mmmmmm.

So I don’t have to go to my old job again until next Friday, when I’ll pack up my office and have an exit interview, and then go out to lunch with the folks I’m leaving behind.   I’m going to wallow in all of this vacation time.  And I’ll even take some pictures of the non-job stuff I’ve been working on.  I do still make stuff–I promise. 

Friday night, we got to do something we thought we would never have a chance to do.  Scott and I saw the Pogues play a live show with what was essentially their original line-up all together  (Cait wasn’t there).  As soon as the tickets went on sale a few months back, Scott bought some.  And then the show sold out and tickets started selling on E-Bay for hundreds of bucks.  And then I started to fret that the show would be terrible, and maybe we should sell our tickets.  Scott called me nuts and refused, thankfully.  Sometimes my impulsive streak runs away with me.

Let me explain:  By the time I was going to expensive (for a student, at least) shows far from home, Shane McGowan was passing out on stage so early in their act that the band couldn’t tolerate it anymore, so they booted him.  Friends of mine who had the chance to see the Pogues play during the collapse were disappointed and angry and worried for McGowan’s life, all with good reason.  I’m so glad the band worked up either the ability to forgive McGowan or the thirst to relive some of their old glory or large enough visa bills to schedule this tour.  I was prepared to be disappointed.  Instead, I was blown away.

William Whitmore opened the show: one man, his boot tapping, frailing on one of the best-sounding open-back banjos I’ve ever heard and singing with a voice that seems so wrong for his young, thin frame.  I had a chance to talk to him after the show, which was a hoot.  I know he is playing a Kay with a wooden tone ring, and I know the banjo is missing the drone string’s peg and Whitmore didn’t bother to put one back, so he’s playing an open-back as a sort of hacked tenor, but he’s changing tunings a fair bit.  I know I’m going to buy all of his albums now, and I hope to buy a Kay banjo one of these days.  And I always thought I’d only fall for Bacon and Days and Vegas–wacky.

Right–onto the Pogues.  Shane McGowan is one of the finest lyricists around, and it’s a miracle he hasn’t drunk himself to death yet.  He’s never been a talented singer, but he’s often a great singer.  Dylan fans know what I mean.  And the instrumentalists of the Pogues make up one of the best bands since, well, The Band.  They were so tight, and each is a showman in his own right. 

Terry Woods has the kind of cool ease of a virtuoso who knows his playing says whatever needs saying–he doesn’t bother with many stage antics.  He made my night, singing Young Ned of the Hill.  Thanks Terry. 
Phil Chevron is in complete contrast–he knows he’s so good that he spins and jumps and basically puts most rock stars to shame with his showmanship.  He took a turn at Thousands are Sailing, and I don’t think I want to hear anyone else sing it from here on out. 
James Fearnley, he may lead me to play air accordion one of these days, with his maniacal leaping about.   His box sounded great, and he clearly gave it and himself a work out.
Andrew Rankin’s drums sounded great, and he sang Star of the County Down as a reel (atta boy) and dedicated it to the "radical feminists lesbians" all the world over.  Those of us who are two out of three thank you, Rankin.  Great job, you David Johannsen sounding nut.  I never knew you had those pipes.
Shane looked better than he had in a while, slurred a lot, drank even more, but stayed standing throughout.  And he was hilarious.  I wish so many brilliant people weren’t stricken by addiction, but he is what he is.  He’s smarter and funnier than most even when he’s pissed.  He also dropped his lighter into his whiskey bottle, but kept drinking with gusto, thus inspiring Scott to invent "The McGowan," a drink I advise against ordering.  He sang almost everything I wanted him to.
Spider Stacy.  .  . I’ve never really been much of a fan.  His whistle sounded good, as usual.  He did a good job, truly, though it just drives me nuts to see him so antsy in Shane’s shadow.  BUT during the finale, Stacy redeemed himself by using his head to play a metal tray as a percussion instrument.  There’s the spirit, Spider.  Keep it up.  Soon, your penance will be over.
Darryl Hunt is, as always, Master of the Low End.  His bass lines were gorgeous.  And he was smirking all through the show.  I’m wondering if he doesn’t want to fuel the Shane/Spider animosity a bit. 
Jem Finer.  I command you all to love Jem Finer.  In fact, when you are here visiting in my home, I require you to love all my favorite banjo players.  Them’s the rules.  Jem is amazing.  He has always been amazing.  And while he and I can both claim to play the banjo and the sax . . . well . . . he’s the only one who is actually good at both.  Another essentially cool musician.  And another great writer in the band. 

I think this is what they played, though not in this order:
Fairy Tale of New York
The Irish Rover
Sayonara (oosh!)
Sick Bed of Cuchulainn
Dirty Old Town
The Broad Majestic Shannon
Young Ned of the Hill (Terry Woods Sang)
White City
Sally MacLennane
Rain Street
Star of the County Down (Andrew Rankin sang)
The Old Main Drag
Turkish Song of the Damned
Tuesday Morning (we must forgive them their transgressions–Spider would have popped if Shane had all the fun.  )
Thousands are Sailing (Phil Chevron sang)
The Sunny Side of the Street
If I Should Fall From Grace With God
Bottle of Smoke
A Rainy Day in Soho
A Pair of Brown Eyes
Fiesta: this is the best song for a finale ever written.  If I remember any bit of any concert I ever see from here out, it will be this number.  Fan-freaking-tastic. 

It was a great show.  I’m so glad we went, and that we had a  good balcony spot.  I think the techs at the 9:30 need to adjust the sound set up in the hanging stacks–the sound was really muddy up there.  But when that’s the worst thing I have to say about a show, it’s a great sign. 

Happy almost St. Paddy’s, folks.  Go see some live music.  And please don’t drink green beer–it’s bad for you, it’s bad for the beer, and it’s really bad for carpets.  I proclaim Fraoch Heather Ale the official beer of St. Paddy’s 2006.  Have one or two and some great food, see a good band with people you love, and be careful.  There are idiots on the roads, you know.  Sláinte. 

Now excuse me while I prepare to quit my job.

I learned on Saturday that my Great-uncle Joe died Friday.  Sad news on top of sad news.  Joe was 70, and had suffered from rheumatoid arthritis for years.  He was a champ throughout.  It was his heart that got him, though, not the rheumatiz.  I think it  had always been too big for his fragile body. 

Joe was the consummate pizza man.  He gave my mom one of her first jobs in his family pizza shop.  And then he fired her for putting far too many toppings on the pizzas.  According to my Mom, they were just a tiny bit decadent.  According to Joe, the pies she made were so overloaded that they would touch the burners on the salamander as they baked.  (Mom then got a job at Dairy Queen, and was fired for making the ice-cream cones too big–there’s a theme here, somewhere.)  When I asked Joe to teach me how to throw pizza dough, he happily taught me the bread side of the job, but insisted that my more reserved brother David be the sauce and cheese man, "just in case certain proclivities are genetic."  You haven’t heard the true music of American speech until you’ve heard an Italian-American Pizzaman say "just in case certain proclivities are genetic"  in a Pittsburgh accent.  I will hear it for the rest of my days.  Thank you for that, Joe.

Joe married my Grandpap’s youngest sister Sylvia after she divorced an abusive husband, way back in the day.  Grandpap taught the abuser about what it feels like to be bullied, and Joe taught Sylvia what it feels like to be worshiped.  Both lessons were priceless to Sylvia.  Joe never thought twice about treating Sylvia’s kids from her first marriage as his own.  Joe never thought twice about treating every kid in Pittsburgh as his own.  Joe’s Calzones were simultaneously as light as air and heavy as bricks.  Joe’s hands turned from supple, balletic tools to claws over the last 40 years.  But still he had the touch for delicacy. 

Even after decades of marriage to my Grandpap’s baby sister, Joe balked at the idea of taking a memento from Grandpap’s home after his death, saying that the choicest things should go to "Chuck’s real family." 

Joe, for once and for all, you were our real family.  I hope we convinced you of that when we sent you home with that box of Saints medals and trinkets you always loved. 
Joe–you were a great man.  I hope you remembered that even when your body turned against you. 
Joe–you were a great cook.  I know you always knew that.  We love you, Joe.  And we are legion. 

As I always do when something sad happens, I’m immersing myself in good books and films.  Expect a lot of reviews over the next few days.

My boy Martin McDonagh just won the Oscar for his first short film.  Bully for him!

The Cripple of Inishmaan by Martin McDonagh.   

Without Samuel Beckett, there would be no Martin McDonagh.  Well, maybe Pinter and Durang deserve some credit too.  Wait a minute . . . Pinter just got a Nobel Prize for Literature, and Beckett got his in 1969 . . .  does that mean Durang and McDonagh have some good news coming?  Congrats, you wacky playwrights!  Anyway, McDonagh has this amazingly Beckett-esque sense of comic timing and he uses it in plays that are much more accessible than most of Beckett’s work. 

In this play, news that Robert Flaherty is on Inis Mor (literally "Big Island"*) making the film Man of Aran reaches Inis Meain ("middle island"**) .  A trio of the local kids decide to convince a fisherman to row them over to Inis Mor so they can convince the Hollywood types to cast them in the fil-uhm ***.   Among them is Cripple Billy, a local fosterling with a withered leg and far too scholarly a mind to enjoy his compatriots any longer.  Hilarity ensues. 

But, because it’s an Irish play, most of the hilarity is really quite dark.  I haven’t had the chance to see this play live, yet, but I’m guessing it would make most American audiences supremely uncomfortable, what with all of the insults against Billy and the comments about priests who attempt to grope teen girls. 

* which is very funny to me
** creative, eh?  The third and south-most island is named Inis Oirr.  Who wants to guess what that means?  I’ll give you a clue–there’s a small island off the coast of Kerry called Beginis, which sounds like "begin-ish".  It means small island.  So that’s already taken.
***you must pronounce it that way

The Shadowy One has left us. 

When I got home from work last night, Scath was having serious difficulty breathing.  Between gasps, he meowed at me.  I’m pretty sure he was asking me to help him on his way.  We will miss him terribly. 

I hate cancer.

Edit: Thank you all for being so kind.  I know a lot of people think cats in particular and pets in general aren’t all that important .  I love knowing that I’m surrounded by folks who know better.  We’re going to start looking into adopting a pair of kittens sometime in the next month or two.  I know we won’t find another Scath, but we’ll certainly find wonderful cats who deserve safe, loving homes. 

In the meantime, I’m going to sponsor some cats at a local shelter.  Scath and his littermate were strays rescued by the Humane Society.  Our dog Kayo was abused by his first owners and rescued by Friends of Homeless Animals, one of our local no-kill shelters.   I know lots of you support animal rescue organizations.  Thank you for that.  Please keep it up–pets do us so much good, and we owe it to them to correct the wrongs done to them by others. 

Look Back All the Green Valley (1999) by Fred Chappell. 

This is the fourth novel in a semi-autobiographical series, which also includes four volumes of poetry: River (1975); Bloodfire (1978); Wind Mountain (1979); and Earthsleep (1980); all of which are available as a collection entitled Midquest (1981).  The previous novels are: I Am One of You Forever (1985); Brighten the Corner Where You Are (1989); and Farewell, I’m Bound to Leave You (1996).  The first and third are, hands down, two of the best books I’ve ever read.  The novels track the life of Jess Kirkman, who grows from a beloved teacher’s child into a writer and professor.  There’s been a fair amount of discussion in the Appalachian Lit community over the years about just how close to Chappell’s life these books cleave.  Chappell gets a well-placed jab in this time around:  In Look Back, our hero Jess Kirkman has a heated discussion with his ailing mother, who is offended both that he has a pen-name at all, and that he chose one as obnoxious as "Fred Chappell." 

This novel follows Kirkman as he plans for his mother’s death and copes with finding a new burial plot for his father, long dead.  Kirkman also frets over his translation of Dante’s Inferno, and over his family’s supposed lack of understanding for his poetic spirit.  I think Look Back is the weakest novel in the series, though that’s one of the limpest attacks I could make about a book, considering Chappell’s skill.  It falters when Jess broods over his mother’s disdain for his writing or his assumptions that his father never read his work.  We writers stew over such things constantly, but they don’t generally trump our need to learn more about our loved ones who have passed or make the heart-wrenching plans for our parents’ deaths.  Jess has always struck me as a loving man–this peek into his narcissism sours him a bit for me.  Chappell may have been running out of steam with this one, or he may have been so absorbed into working a bit of sci-fi into the novel (I won’t give away more than that) that he lost the thread on Jess a bit.  Or he may have been self-flagellating. 

Whatever the reason for that glimpse at Jess’s narcissism, it certainly isn’t enough to wreck this sweet little book.  We get more of Joe Robert, Jess’s wonderful, enigmatic father.  We get some lovely glimpses into mountain culture.  We get a few more words than we need, here and there.  Personally, I see the luxury of finding fault with a writer as fine as Fred Chappell proof of an embarrassment of riches.