“Yes, I too think there is lots to be said for being no longer young: and I do most heartily agree that it is just as well to be past the age when one expects or desires to attract the other sex. It’s natural enough in our species, as in others, that the young birds should show off their plumage—in the mating season. But the trouble in the modern world is that there’s a tendency to rush all the birds on to that age as soon as possible and then keep them there as late as possible, thus losing all the real value of the other parts of life in a senseless, pitiful attempt to prolong what, after all, is neither its wisest, its happiest, or most innocent period. I suspect merely commercial motives are behind it all: for it is at the showing-off age that birds of both sexes have least sales resistance!” The collected Letters of C.S. Lewis
“It’s too bad you suffered a headache,” Miss Peckham said as she slipped beneath the covers. “What do you suppose it was from, Thankful?”
“I guess with all the excitement today …”
Miss Peckham giggled. “You call today exciting? You really haven’t lived much have you?” Her back itched from the wool and she shifted around uncomfortably.
Thankful turned on her side. “It was foolish of you to force William to dance so much—he’ll be the laughingstock and be in pain when he sobers up.”
Miss Peckham laughed. “Is there a time when Mr. Weldon is sober? He chose for himself to dance.”
“To impress you. He doesn’t seem to have much luck with girls.”
“Well, if he kept his head out of the bottle and his, um, body out of whores, he’d present a better picture, but it’s his life. It’s not my problem,” Miss Peckham stated. “He’s a child.”
“That’s a very nice attitude.”
“Men are either children or brutes. Mr. Weldon has a few connections that will be helpful in my research. It’s in my best interest to remain on good terms with him—and truth be told, he’s not bad company for a drunk.”
“He’s more than that! Must I remind you he saved your life?” Thankful asked.
“Oh, I’m tired of hearing about that already. I gave him a thrill tonight on the dance floor so I say we’re even,” Miss Peckham replied and climbed out of bed again. “It’s so damned hot.” She pulled off the last of her clothes, the moonlight illuminating her. Thankful shut her eyes tight. “Miss Thankful, it’s curious how army women play a game of adopting all the men in camp. I don’t understand it yet, but it’s intriguing.”
“Everything you say seems so dirty and cynical,” Thankful grumbled.
“Well, Miss Thankful, I see through the false modesty and virtues of society. You just don’t enjoy feeling exposed.”
“No, I feel sorry that people like you exist,” Thankful said, turning away from her.
“The feeling is mutual,” Miss Peckham replied with a laugh.
PREVIOUS EPISODE: WEARY OF RUNNING
Excerpted from WEARY OF RUNNING. Read more about Buck Crenshaw, his sister Thankful and William Weldon’s misadventures when you buy the book today!
“The second installment in The Tenafly Road Series definitely did not disappoint. With the introduction of new characters and the return of familiar ones, Weary of Running made for an exciting read. The protagonist, Thankful, is the real highlight of the novel. She consistently makes very poor decisions but in the end, you can understand why she has made every last one of them. The story ranges from love and romance to questions of faith and morality. It does all this without being preachy and explores many angles of different aspects of life. This is one of the best books I have read in a long time.” Amazon Review
“Buck Crenshaw is my favorite dysfunctional lovable character.”
Doesn’t Chekhov look relaxed with his little friend?
“There are no green thumbs or black thumbs,” wrote horticulturalist Henry Mitchell. “There are only gardeners and non-gardeners. Gardeners are the ones who get on with the high defiance of nature herself, creating, in the very face of her chaos and tornado, the bower of roses and the pride of irises. It sounds very well to garden a ‘natural way.’ You may see the natural way in any desert, any swamp, any leech-filled laurel hell. Defiance, on the other hand, is what makes gardeners.”
Blogger CRISTIAN MIHAI recently wrote about the idea of truth being stranger than fiction. Many times I’ve found that lies I’ve told myself are easier to believe than truth and that stories I write about real events seem far more unbelievable than when I’m just coming up with stuff. Novelists take what is natural (chaos) and turn it into gardens.
In the natural world sheep throw their babies away if they’re weak or sick. Some people do the same. Most of us are okay with defying the natural on this.
I like wild places (this is a partial lie because I’m afraid of bears and parasites), but I love manicured places best: gardens, hay fields and beaches with boardwalks.
There is a sense that humans somehow invaded the planet and really should go back to where they came from. Humans write these things and talk about these things. I’ve done it myself (usually after oil spills), but there are valid reasons to stand in defiance against nature.
Back to the Land: I once was a proponent for this lifestyle choice. I went on guided walks in Brooklyn to learn how to scavenge food from Prospect Park. I learned that cattails taste like cucumber. I moved to a farm. I considered (briefly) making my own shoes. Yet every avenue I explored circled back around to leaving a footprint on something “pristine.” Without my help many an animal would have died of parasite overload or starvation after being caught in a bramble. Those natural potato beetles I squash everyday have taught me a lot.
Cave Drawings: Okay, I suppose primitive art is interesting in a way, but John Singer Sargent’s portraits prove to me that practice and defying our natural state can be a pretty great thing.
Plumbing: I know it’s cliche, but it has to be mentioned.
Leisure Time: A nomadic existence being one with nature (which again is sort of a lie) doesn’t leave much time to invent the washing machine. Or the novel.
Novels: I like novels–no, I love novels. When you’re doing whatever has to be done to make shoes and to fight off wilderness creatures, writing and reading novels kind of takes a back seat. (don’t forget paper! I refuse to feel guilty about loving the invention of paper).
Computers: How many back-to-the land bloggers are out there? Quite a few. How many times have I found great “natural” remedies for common insect problems online? Many times. Yet sometimes I’ve given myself and my animals modern meds. I want to live!
Garden of Eden: News flash: we don’t live there. We’re not perfect. The other day an old comment I made (2013) on someone’s blog came back to haunt me. I upset a reader by clumsily trying to make the point that in my opinion every race, color and creed have the seeds of evil and good in them. The person wanted me to think that only people with a European heritage were “evil.” I respectfully disagreed and wished her well, even after this person told me to take my bullshit else where and that I didn’t belong on a blog that wasn’t even her own. Can I help it if I see us as all one big, screwed-up family? Can I blind myself to the danger of silencing others by labeling entire groups as “evil” or “guilty”?
When I was young I liked to point the finger and to imagine that with home-made shoes and no novels life would be better. But it was a lie. People may have the seeds of evil, but their defiance of nature has, in so many complex ways, created a lot of beauty as well. I feel sad that human creativity has been channeled so often in ugly directions. Celebrating our degradation is not great art to me. Take me to a garden, however flawed, draw me a picture, write a novel about love. It’s an act of defiance–life-enhancing defiance.
Are you a gardener in life? Tell me all about it.
“Power is of two kinds. One is obtained by the fear of punishment and the other by acts of love. Power based on love is a thousand times more effective and permanent then the one derived from fear of punishment.” Gandhi
The Reading Mother
I had a mother who read to me
Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea,
Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth,
“Blackbirds” stowed in the hold beneath.
I had a Mother who read me lays
Of ancient and gallant and golden days;
Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,
Which every boy has a right to know.
I had a Mother who read me tales
Of Gelert the hound of the hills of Wales,
True to his trust till his tragic death,
Faithfulness blent with his final breath.
I had a Mother who read me the things
That wholesome life to the boy heart brings–
Stories that stir with an upward touch,
Oh, that each mother of boys were such!
You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be–
I had a Mother who read to me.
I’ve been moonlighting lately. After a month of blizzards, animal births and foster kid drama my mind is a bit fried. But I can still take pictures!
ENTER INSTAGRAM. It’s surprisingly fun. Photo shoots with goats are fun. HERE’S MY LINK:
I’m also on Twitter now but still haven’t figured out what it’s about. 🙂
“I do believe in an everyday sort of magic — the inexplicable connectedness we sometimes experience with places, people, works of art and the like; the eerie appropriateness of moments of synchronicity; the whispered voice, the hidden presence, when we think we’re alone.”Charles de Lint
LINK: WHY MAGIC MATTERS
“The family saga chronicles the lives and doings of a family or a number of related or interconnected families. The typical novel follows the generations of a family through a period of time to portray particular historical events, changes of social circumstances, or the ebb and flow of fortunes from a multiple of perspectives.” (Goodreads)