Last Hurrah

Mary Ann and Nonie invite us for a boat ride to close out the summer. While there’s been rain all over the area for the last several weeks, Marble Falls has remained so dry that BURN BAN warnings have been posted at the entrance to every country road. Spending an afternoon surrounded by water sounds like a lovely relief. 

They live on the Austin side of the Mansfield Dam, which is part of a chain of dams that are under the auspices of the Lower Colorado River Authority, the LCRA, which I’d never heard of before moving to this part of the world. But believe me, the LCRA is a mighty entity, controlling every aspect associated with every resource and recreational activity produced by the dams and their resulting lakes on the Lower Colorado River—parks, boating rules, safety, environmental stability, water usage, and water level; and, essential to the whole of central Texas, hydroelectric power. You don’t water your tomatoes here without LCRA approval. 

Mary Ann’s house is located on a charming street that ends in a ramp from which they drop their boat right into Lake Austin. It’s worth a mention that the houses on the cul-de-sac are mostly older homes that are slowly being replaced by new-builds. Near to the water and near to Austin, the real estate prices are exorbitant. And, seen from the river, the grand mansions with walls of windows, rolling green lawns, and commissioned art works and follies are eye-catching; but also poignant in that you look at what is and you can’t help but see what once was. There is not a square foot of space along the waterfront that isn’t vulnerable to development. 

Mary Ann is a hero of mine. She works for the Office of the Attorney General for the State of Texas, in the child support services and enforcement division. In addition to the noble way she earns her paycheck is the even more amazing fact that she has no flab or cellulite on her butt and thighs. I know this because I watch her as, in her bathing suit, she moves around the boat doing ski-prep. How can this be?  

“Mary Ann, your butt and thighs look great,” I tell her. “How is that you have no flab or cellulite?”

She looks pleased and says thanks, but Nonie is the one who gives the answer: “It’s her squats. Oh, you ought to see her get after ’em. She squats when she’s putting the dog food down, when she brushes her teeth, when she’s working in the kitchen, when she’s gardening.” 

I laugh at his word picture. Squats. Years and years of them, from the look of it. But I suspect there’s more to it than squats. Good genes, for sure. Also, I doubt she’s spent her whole adult life going up and down forty pounds in both directions. And skin stretches a lot better than it shrinks. I admire her, and I accept myself; and I let it go.  

We all enjoy being on the water, which is smooth in some places and choppy in others. The reason Mary Ann owns and maintains a boat is because she loves to ski. She proudly shows us her new slalom, demonstrating how light and balanced it is. It’s a beauty. Because she’s been skiing for so very long, she’s comfortable with the equipment, and it’s no time before she’s rising from the froth and being pulled smoothly along. 

She bumps back and forth across the wake, from far on one side of the boat to far on the other. Effortlessly graceful, confident, serene. Her beam of pure joy radiates from beyond the rope and forms a soft cloud of bliss that wafts over the whole of the blue ribbon. 

A memory comes to mind. Just like this, we used to watch my mother ski. She wasn’t athletic. Watching the woman try to throw a ball was just embarrassing. But when she got up on that slalom, she was elegant and the elegance blossomed into a delight that infused every facet of her being. Her heart became weightless, her smile was huge, and for the period of time that she was skimming across the water, she was truly, deeply happy. Buoyant, she was lifted above life’s tensions; and there were always tensions—between her and us kids, between her and Daddy, between her and her co-workers; and ultimately the tensions she held within, her feeling of never being smart or productive enough, talented or strong enough. And because of her floating light heart, we in the boat, her appendages, were also lifted up, our spirits high above all the frictions and conflicts that she unknowingly scattered like small firecrackers in all directions and at all times. Except when she was skiing.

My mother at peace. A nostalgic tear. 

Thanks, Mary Ann, for letting me watch you ski. 

Mary Ann often steers with her foot! I’m sure this must be against all boating rules!

We docked at Ski Shores and enjoyed a meal and some good music. I had a great bloody Mary.

Mary Ann on her new slalom. The picture doesn’t do justice.

We just had our thirty-fifth anniversary. Yay us!

Tricky Communications

I call Kala to invite her and her husband for Thanksgiving. It’s just a formality. They come to us every year. But apparently not.

“Nice to be asked,” she says, “but we made plans with Edgar’s family up in Amarillo this year.”

I let David know.

“That leaves room for another couple at the table,” I tell him. “Whom shall we invite?” (I don’t actually say whom shall because it’s pretentious in a casual setting and I’m not the dowager countess of Downton Abbey; but the computer won’t leave me alone about it, so there it is, messing with my style.)

“How about Sally and Jerry?” he suggests. 

Sally and Jerry are Kala and Edgar’s neighbors. The couples are close. They take cruises together. We don’t know them that well, but if Kala and Edgar are leaving town, Sally and Jerry might be feeling lonely, especially since their daughter lives overseas. 

So I email Sally with an invitation. Her reply is vexing. 

“How thoughtful of you to think of us,” she writes. “But we’re going to spend the day with Kala and Edgar.”

The deceit intended to spare my feelings has had the opposite result. I wouldn’t have minded if Kala had simply said that they wanted to spend Thanksgiving with someone else. And now I’m lying to myself. Of course I would have minded. I would have run it through my head over and over, questioning whether they’d ever liked us, disbelieving their laughter and suspecting their sincerity, not even trusting that they were who I thought they were. Which is what I’m doing anyway, so the lie served no purpose. 

David doesn’t seem bothered by it. I ask him why.

“We have four other people coming, and we have plenty of friends who’ll be happy to fill our two remaining seats.”

This is true, but it isn’t the point. 

Considering the scope of human suffering, my angst due to the minor social fabrication is a mite in a moth’s ear. That Kala felt the need to make up an excuse shows that the last thing she wanted to do was cause me pain. And yet she did. 

The logical thing to do is turn the situation around. How would I have handled it if I’d been her? I wouldn’t have lied, I know that much; not because I’m so deeply dedicated to the truth, but because a lie has never slipped from my lips that hasn’t been found out. In the same way, I’ve never been mean-spirited or passed gossip without it coming back to sting me. 

So, I wouldn’t lie. Instead, I would decline the invitation in a thoughtful way. 

“Thanks for asking,” I would say. “But you know how busy David is, so we’ve decided to make it a quiet day.”

Standing behind the solid wall of David’s volunteerism is one of my tactics. Master Gardeners, church vestry, Habitat for Humanity; and he doesn’t just show up now and then to dig a hole or swing a hammer. He puts in hours of labor every day in addition to being on the boards. His involvement in good works covers all sorts of slothfulness on my part. Oh dear. Is this a form of duplicity? I fear it is! Like the stars, my infractions are too numerous to count.

Back to awkward situations, interaction, and hurt feelings: I admit that, inadvertently and in trying to be amusing when I’m not, I hurt others’ feelings on pretty much a daily basis. The only way I can avoid it is to never go anywhere and never speak. 

On the other hand, it seems that, in the name of being liked and presenting the world with a kind heart, we’re all so careful with one another that every instruction or diverse preference is couched and delivered so tactfully that often communication is blurred and progress is reversed. Rather than ideas and opinions being clearly stated, they’re packed in clouds, placed gently on calm seas, and set afloat in the hope that someone will see through the fluffiness. If you doubt this exaggerated sensitivity you need to come to our church when the congregation is decorating the Christmas tree. The sugary agreeability is so prevalent that gumdrops form in the air. 

It’s all very frustrating to a forthright woman with a sharp tongue.

David and the hummingbirds really like this firecracker plant.

Just another view of our back deck. David has a green thumb.

The ginger goes crazy every year. It’s been in the local gardening magazine!

Yay! A Book Club!

Everything a person or a society believes is shaped by the written word, yet there are people who don’t read. When one of these nonreaders hears that I’m a writer, they’re happy to let me know their truth. 

“I don’t read,” a person will tell me, the declaration delivered proudly and defiantly, as though I’m their pejorative seventh grade English teacher. 

“A lot of people don’t,” I say agreeably, though inside I’m appalled. 

If you don’t read, how do you write? How do you bring anything but ignorance to any discussion? How do you communicate if you have no vocabulary? Where do you obtain your concepts about human behavior, right and wrong, the world we live in? 

Some, upon finding that I prefer to read and write fiction, take on a superior tone when they tell me they’re only interested in nonfiction. I’m fine with that. Absorbing words and ideas, some concurrent with one’s beliefs, some contradictory, is what implements change, promotes broad-mindedness, and drives healthy relationships. Though in defense of fiction, I will point out that there are millions of situations presented in stories that a person will never confront. It’s through fiction that empathy comes to nestle in a person’s soul.  

I’m frequently invited to give talks about creativity and the mechanics of writing at libraries and to readers’ groups; and one of the questions I’m most often asked is, how can a parent get their kids interested in reading? This what I say:

“You tuck your babies close every day, and you read them a story. You point to the words on the page so your little ones will connect the dark lines and shapes with the sounds coming out of your mouth. You make it a love thing, not a struggle thing.” 

This is so idealized that it’s embarrassing. It’s what I did with my kids and, as adults, they’re both voracious readers. But during their period of development we were in an ex-pat situation where mommies stayed home and did nothing but nurture their children. In the real world mothers and fathers are out in the world working hard. They’re tired and they’re preoccupied. Where’s the time? Though I will posit that if you’re a parent who doesn’t read, your kids, also, will likely not be readers. 

I was raised in a reading household. My mother folded a trip to the library into our Saturday errands. For my whole childhood and into my teens, the family teased me because I kept an ongoing book on every surface in the house—the kitchen table, my nightstand, the couch, the piano. Wherever I found myself, there a book would be, waiting for me. 

When Fifty Shades of Gray came out a friend from my readers’ group in Singapore was shocked when she discovered that her thirteen-year-old daughter’s friends were passing a copy around, sneak-reading it. She, of course, would never allow her daughter to read such trash. (And my-my, it was trashy, so poorly written that I put it down after the first ten pages. But oh, how I do envy that subpar hack her publicist!)

But really, censorship? My mother would never have thought to tell me what I could or couldn’t read; though allowing me to read Sweet Savage Love at thirteen probably wasn’t the wisest way to go. Nothing plants fallacy in a teenaged girl’s head like abduction and sex on the high seas. Was it rape or was it seduction? Did she love him or did she hate him? How was I to know? After SSL our girl trips to the library were for the purpose of fetching potboilers with covers so risqué that my sister made us fabric book covers so we could carry them in public. Thanks, Resi. I have mine still!

And as I am inclined to do, I got off my intended topic, which is readers’ groups or, as they’re also called, book clubs. Everywhere we’ve lived I’ve joined a group that sits in a circle once a month and discusses a book. The chosen books have always been a mixture of classic and current. In most cases, a participant who has read it and thinks it will lead to a lively discussion suggests the book. 

To those who are indifferent to reading this sounds tedious. To people who love to read, talking about words and nuance, plots and social relevance is the most fun pastime in the world. 

I have yet to join a group in Marble Falls. There are several home groups in the area. I know many who belong to them; and though I’ve hinted that I’m looking for a readers’ group, I haven’t been invited to join. My feelings are kind of hurt by this, but I know myself well enough to realize that I can be annoying. 

Two groups meet at the library, one for classics that meets at an inconvenient time, and another for mysteries, which is meeting this afternoon. I’ll be going to this one. The selected book, She Rides Shotgun by Jordan Harper, is an Edgar Award Winner for Best Debut Novel for 2018, an impressive achievement. 

A brief review: The book opened with a prologue so wildly literary that it was as though James Joyce and Virginia Woolf decided to collaborate on a thriller. This would have worked had the author possessed the stamina to carry the style throughout, but the first chapter takes a dip into the clear modern narrative of a page-turner, rendering the prologue pretentious and inexplicable. After this baffling start, however, the book is an easy read; the characters are well defined, and the story is compelling. The multiple typos and overuse of certain words were a distraction, but most aren’t as persnickety as I am. So if you like a fast-paced book, you might enjoy this. 

And the many small errors served to prove what I already suspected, which is that the art of editing isn’t as valued in the US as it is in the UK; and for this I’m thankful to my British publishers who hired my British editors to help make my books as tight and clean as possible. Attention authors: In writing for the American market a writer must be dogged and meticulous when it comes to editing because no one’s going to do it for you, and no one will ever care about your work as much as you do.

So. A book club that reads only mysteries and thrillers. Here I go.

I thought this statue on Main Street was appropriate.

I was gratified to see my book arranged on the library shelf in prime viewing position.

The Library Thrift Store

I’ve heard positive comments about the Library Thrift Store. “They have treasures!” “Their prices are reasonable!” “They get new things in every week!”

At the corner of Third and Avenue J, the store does a booming business. In fact, at times it’s so crowded that cars are parked out by the curb and in the empty lot across the street.

I like resale shops and antique stores. If you’ve read Why Stuff Matters, you know that I wrote an entire farcical novel about people and their obsessive regard for stuff. I enjoy pondering provenance. I’m fascinated by the inflated prices stuck on chipped dishes and stained tablecloths. Every time I drove by there I thought—Quick, Jen, get in there before they sell all their stuff!

But before could I stop in for a browse, I became annoyed with the library’s head librarian and was therefore not of a mindset to spend money in their silly shop. Here’s what happened:

My author’s copies of Why Stuff Matters arrived from England. The first thing a writer does at this point is donate a signed copy to the local library. This is what David and I had done with Old Buildings in North Texas, but at that time the head librarian had been out. This time, however, she was there, perched behind the counter. When I explained who I was and offered her my lovely book, she held out a reluctant hand, accepting it as if it carried germs.  

“Thank you,” she said in a tone that lacked conviction. 

“I’m available to speak at one of your Meet the Author events,” I told her. 

I wasn’t comfortable putting myself forward, but in the name of publicity I was willing to climb the barrier. At that point I had prepared a talk that I’ve since given to readers’ groups and writers’ groups, and at several libraries across the state. Discussing inspiration, creativity, style, and editing decisions, it’s humorous and informative. I add readings of the opening chapters and take questions, which is always fun because I can be witty. It’s gone over well. 

“We’re booked up months in advance.” Her words are reasonable but the tone is glum and her eyes don’t meet mine. 

This unspoken negativity is one of my peeves. No without saying no. A slight so slight that only the most perceptive can perceive it. And why the attitude? At the very least a librarian should greet a writer with kindness and encouragement. 

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. 

 I tell her it was nice to meet her and David and I leave the library. 

“Why didn’t you ask her to put you on the schedule on her next open date?” he asks once we’re in the car. 

“If she wanted me she wouldn’t have right away offered an excuse.” 

“You’re too sensitive.”

“I’m just the right amount of sensitive.”

And that brief story is why I’ve been reluctant to support the Library Thrift Store. That was a year ago. That’s how long it’s taken me to get over the callousness of a stranger. 

Wednesday afternoon. Hot midsummer. As usual, the parking lot is full. The nearest space is half a block up the street. I park, get out, and, before entering, take a few photos. What is it about this place that draws such a crowd? I’m about to find out, though I’ve made a guess based on the local demographic. Retirees abound in this part of Texas, which means people are dying all the time. And what do their middle-aged children do with the stuff left behind? Why, they donate it to the local charity shop! Dead people’s stuff. How delightfully morbid. 

It’s not delightful. Out-of-style clothes. Costume jewelry, no gold or diamonds. Shelves of best sellers from the eighties and nineties. Sets of encyclopedias. The framed art is a letdown—prints bought at Kirkland’s, nothing of value, nothing unique. There is absolutely no item here that I haven’t seen a thousand times in similar places.

But I do have some positive things to say. The store is roomy and the overhead lights are bright, lending a sharp clean look. Also, jumble stores usually smell musty, but here someone has taken care that all the clothing is fresh and pressed. And though the framed work might not be quality, it has all been recently dusted. The few items I find that are of interest are priced fairly. So, as these places go, it rates highly on the Waldo resale scale. 

But wait a minute. There’s a slew of people working here. Five gray-haired women behind the long front counter. Three men busy with brooms. Two women wiping surfaces. 

There’s a door at the back that’s posted with a No Entry sign. I go on through to fine another large room. Seven long tables hold mixing bowls, wigs, cowboy boots, waffle irons, and pink flamingos. Stuff covers every surface and climbs up the walls. The room is so cluttered that it’s difficult to separate one item from another. A dozen gabbing people hang out around the tables. In a back corner a space has been cleared and three ironing boards are set up with three women ironing tops, pants, and linens. 

I’ve seen enough. On the way out I don’t come across a single other customer. 

And the mystery of why there are so many cars is solved. All these people who don’t have jobs anymore need something to do and an air-conditioned place to spend their time. Curiosity was eating at me and at least now I know. 

Always crowded, lots of stuff inside.

These canisters were in good shape and only fifteen dollars. I’ve seen them for three times as much at the antique mall in Burnet.

Whatever these cost, they’re not worth it.

The Marble Falls Public Library, where I’m not appreciated.