February 2005

Endless Winter
February is NOT my favorite month. I just finished a piece for the Washington Post (look for it in the Weekend section on Friday, February 18) expounding on my opinion on February.

On Friday (today is Sunday), I was in West Virginia, in the Canaan Valley, resesarching another story. The Canaan Valley is a high valley surrounded by mountains. In other words, you climb up to this valley--it's something like a bowl perched on a pedestal. West Virginia is all up-and-down anyway, winding roads and steep-sided mountains. In my youth, when we did a lot of cave-exploring (AKA "caving" or "spelunking) in West VA, we developed the theory that West Virginia sheep are bred with telescoping legs, such as you would find on a camera tripod, which enable the sheep to stand sideways on the hills.

Well, we thought it clever at the time.

On my trip to Wild, Wonderful West Virginia this week, I passed Seneca Rocks.

It's a favorite climbing destination, but we used to hike up the back of it when I was but a mere slip of a child. I remember the hike up the back being nearly vertical itself. I have a photo taken of me and my sister sitting happily at the top with the vast, yawning drop right behind us. The interesting thing about this photo is that it was taken when I was about 7, and then somehow the camera was misplaced. Nearly a decade later my father found the camera at the bottom of a closet, took the film in to be developed, and voila, time warp. (For you young people out there, that was in the days when cameras had something called "film" in them, and you had to drop them off at the photo developing center and wait a week to see what your photographs looked like, instead of Instant-Messaging them via your mobile phone the very nanosecond you take them.)

Near to Seneca Rocks is a cave called The Sinks of Gandy that, in my caving youth, someone (OK, me, but just my luck that it was the one time someone actually listened to me when I was 12 years old) had the brilliant idea that we should do in March. Or possibly even February. The Sinks of Gandy is a cave with a river running through it from end to end. Really, it's less a cave then a tunnel through the mountain, and in August, say, the Sinks of Gandy is a pleasant wade on hot day.

In March (or possibly February), it's a miracle we didn't all die. The water was probably no more than 50 degrees, if that. Dressed in my usual caving garb of the time--blue jeans, sweatshirt, and tennis shoes, which generally in fact served quite well--and wading sometimes up to my waist in the river, I got to the "I just want to lie down and go to sleep" stage of hypothermia before being carried the rest of the way out by a boy I had a raging crush on. It would have been terribly romantic (to me) if I hadn't been about 3 minutes from a coma.

So where was I before these fond reminiscences? Oh yes, on my way to the Canaan Valley, high under the sky. It was snowing in the Canaan Valley, but not outside the valley. Interesting meteorological phenomenon, that.

Canaan Valley is a big outdoorsy place for skiing (downhill and cross-country), mountain biking, hiking, etc. There's a lovely state park there, Blackwater Falls. The area seems to be steadily accumulating the outdoorsy/potting-and-crafts/bluegrass music/organic coffee crowd. Speaking of organic coffee, should you find yourself in the Canaan Valley, be sure to stop by The Purple Fiddle. (Now I want a cup of coffee.)

What I'm reading: Blue Latitudes by Tony Horwitz (inspired by my upcoming Washington Post story).
On my I-pod: I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith.
Neologism I coined today: "snarcasm," meaning "snarky" + "sarcasm." If it becomes a trend, remember you read it here first. Those of you who are faithful, devoted followers of this page (thanks for that continued support, Mom!) may recall my discussion in November of the sudden cropping up of the phrase "drink the Kool-Aid."

RESURFACING AFTER DEADLINES(a.k.a February 22)
I find that a review of various and sundry blogs (everyone's blogging! where's the hit theme song?) that some sort of evocative or descriptive title for each entry is the norm. Apparently "January 2005" don't cut it. And why should it? What does "January 2005" tell you? Not much.

Therefore, this entry is called "Resurfacing after Deadlines." Also, Resufacing After Plagues and Agues (well, all right, head colds, but plagues and agues sounds so much more like how it feels to have a house full of people hacking and wheezing and seeping phlegm. Aren't you sorry you asked now?)

My recent stories included one for the Post called "Heated Denial" (great cover illustration, no? The artist is Jean-Francois Martin.) As has been established previously in these pages, I am no big fan of winter. (I'm no big fan of global warming either, so you won't find me jubilant if winter disappears and we're all slow-roasted. I'm just saying that I look at winter as an ordeal to be labored through with jaw set and upper-lip stiff.) The idea of the story was that those of us who must, for one reason or another, soldier on through February with no hope of whisking off to tropical climes, can at least find some warm and summery respites closer to home (if, that is, you happen to live in the greater DC area).

I suggested the U.S. Botanical Garden conservatory ("where the thermostat's always set on steam"). If you're ever in DC in the winter, you should be sure to visit the conservatory, which is located on the National Mall at the foot of the Capitol building. Open every day until 5 PM.

This is the "jungle" room.

Very soothing, isn't it? All that green. Aaaahhhh.

Anyway, now I'm trying to recover from weeks of frenetic work. My office is a wreck, awash in the flotsam and jetsam of research materials and everything else that piled up while I ignored it. I dig through the layers. It's like archaeology.

Oh hooray, I just found my hands-free phone thingummy. Headset? It's more of an earset, and not a terribly good one at that, but it's better than having a hot telephone pinioned between one's shoulder and ear while one types.

MORE ARCHAEOLOGY
Later yesterday I found my library card, which also had gone missing. And a software CD that had been mysteriously missing for two months. Turned out THAT one was behind the radiator, no doubt knocked there by the cat, who likes to scatter things off my desk as a subtle way of getting my attention.

The helpful assistant>>>>>>>>>>

Among the various stories I was working on recently was a piece about the NEA's "Read Across America" Day. (That's National Education Association, not National Endowment for the Arts). The general idea of Read Across America day--officially March 2, Dr. Seuss's birthday--is to celebrate reading and encourage ye younger ones to pick up a book. I polled various friends by e-mail to ask them to recall their favorite books from childhood. Admittedly, "childhood" is a broad category. Did I mean age 5? Age ten? I did not specify.

Now, as it happens (and this no doubt will come as a shocking surprise to you), quite a few of the people I know are writerish sorts. And quite a few of us listed Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and (my vote) Trixie Belden mystery series among our top picks. I have no idea what this means sociologically. Anyone care to venture an opinion?

Let me add here that other nominees in the favorites category included the Narnia series, the Little House series, The Phantom Tollbooth, My Secret Garden, The Railway Children (that was mine), Harold and the Purple Crayon, Huck Finn, and E.B. White's books (did you read the E.B. White profile in recent New Yorker? Who knew he was an amiable hypochondriac?).

Here's a series I've never heard of, submitted by Margaret B. of Richmond, VA (don't I sound like Zoom?):

"We LOVE the Moomintrolls! Originally written in Swedish by a Finnish writer, Tove Jansson, they are actually back in print as paperbacks. Wonderful archtypes, amazing b&w illustrations.... Two faves among the series: Moominland Midwinter, Moominsummer Madness."

Send me your nominations and I'll add them to the list! (Every time I dare an exclamation point, I feel Elmore Leonard watching over my shoulder.)

Here's the piece for the Post on Read Across America day (got a nice note from NEA saying they liked it--thanks for the word on that): One for the Books.

Signs of spring! The ants are back in the kitchen.

YES, I KNOW IT'S MARCH
But it doesn't feel like it, not at all. Current temperature 45 degrees but it doesn't even feel that warm. I feel all icicle-boned. Current temp, Vancouver, BC: 46 degrees.

The ants, however, are hanging on in the kitchen, suggesting that they believe that spring is inevitable. So, I believe, are the ants, who are a better temperature indicator than any thermometer. It is as though they are poised, mid-stride, for the moment the temperature inches above 50, to meander forth.

And they are the most meandering sort of ants. But for the occasion when they invaded my coffee maker (not a pleasant thing to discover in your first, bleary morning cuppa, but on the other hand, probably not a pleasant way to go if you're an ant), they haven't ever seemed to be much interested in any particular item in the kitchen. They're more like little ant tourists, rambling hither and thither.

They're diminutive black ants, not carpenter ants (I know that at least) so neither are they chewing on my woodwork.

I just tried taking a photograph of one of the ants for illustrative purposes, but (1) it was too busy meandering (the ant, not the photograph) and (2) my camera wouldn't focus on an object quite so small. And there was three minutes productively spent.

Did I mention it's cold? Did I mention I don't like winter?

By the way, you might notice things looking a bit different around this site. Stasis is so dull.

ALL LION, NO LAMB
Stop me if you've heard this before, but about winter....

Oh, I'm sorry, have I already mentioned this topic?

Sheesh. Yesterday it was balmy and 70 degrees or so.

Today?

Need I say more?

Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Anyway, let us not dwell.

What I'm reading now: The Know-It-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World. I'm a fan of the "dumb quest" book; if it's a pointless, oddball quest, I'm all over it. Round Ireland with a Fridge, for example. (And now I see that Tony Hawks, author of Round Ireland.... has a new book ((OK, it came out in 2002 so it's not new, but it's new to me)) called Playing the Moldovans at Tennis. I'm sold from the title. I'll be reporting back to you soon on this one.

Tony and me, we share a publisher (St. Martin's Griffin--publishers of my first book). Us and half the known universe. I'm amazed at how many writers have a St. Martin's book; I'm developing a theory that all writers have a St. Martin's book at some point in their career. At parties we could say to each other, "So, you had your St. Martin's book yet?"

Back to The Know-It-All: the concept is that the author A.J. Jacobs (an editor at Esquire, formerly at Entertainment Weekly) sets himself the task of reading the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica. Most puzzling to me is that everyone treats his quest like a stupid idea and a waste of time. I guess not everyone is a fan of dumb quests. I, on the other hand, have more than once entertained the idea of reading the EB from end-to-end. Also a dictionary. I used to read snippets from the dictionary out loud to people in college. Yes, I was a whooping lot of fun in college.

But where was I? Oh yes. The Know-It-All is determinedly tongue-in-cheek. Jacobs has good fun at his own expense, putting his book-larnin' to test with unspectacular results against a debating team, on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire," and in conversation with his brother-in-law Eric, who is a know-it-all. This isn't a book that expects you to take it seriously.

Nevertheless, the book was savaged in a review by Joe Queenan in the New York Times Book Review. Queenan seemed to take personal offense at the book, at Jacobs, at the mere premise. And talk about your know-it-alls. In the review, Queenan comes across as the worst kind, sneering and smug and self-important. If it was meant to come across as post-modernisticly ironic (know-it-all review of know-it-all book), the attempt failed. On the other hand, A.J. Jacobs's response was a good read: "I am not a Jackass."

Update on I Capture the Castle. it was fun, but strained credulity. I wasn't convinced of Simon's passion for Rose. Nor of the final plot twist. But the book did diverge from the standard trajectory of such stories, so there's that.

However, Amazon recommends that it's "better together" with Cold Comfort Farm. CCF was among my favorite books at one time. In high school, I believe. I haven't read it in a number of years, so can't swear it would be still on my list, but it was wittily done.

Updated 03.09.05

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