Wild Things Are Forever Happening

This book

When Maurice Sendak died on May 8, 2012, I posted about his death that very day. He was a giant, wild or otherwise, in the pantheon of children's literature. I read him to my children; I read him to Ramona. His lasting strength was that, when it came to children's picture books, he understood that even young children are far more aware of the world and the realities of life, both good and bad, than adults acknowledge.

A year ago, Warren and I took a day off and went to see "Wild Things Are Happening: The Art of Maurice Sendak," which was just about to close at the Columbus Museum of Art. CoMA had worked with the Sendak Foundation to create and curate that exhibit. There are not enough words in the dictionary (to borrow a phrase from an old friend, who would start an expression of gratitude or praise with that) to express the depth of that show and the impact it had on me. (This link will give you an overview of the show, which will be opening in the fall in Denver.) 

So even before this weekend, I already had a deep appreciation of Sendak and his creativity and artistry.

This weekend, my appreciation rose even higher when I began reading Caldecott & Co., Notes on Books & Pictures, a collection of his writings (about writers and illustrators who influenced him, among other things) and speeches (on winning the Caldecott for Where the Wild Things Are, among other things) that span from the early 1960s to the mid-1980s. 

A couple of observations. 

One, Sendak was a gifted writer: fluid, observant, poignant, critical, funny. He had no problem analyzing his own works, including some that did not meet his own expectations, and explain how he approached this or that piece. He wrote essays about important illustrators from the past, including Randolph Caldecott, and what he admired and learned from studying their works.

Sendak had no problem taking himself to task for failing to speak his convictions about children's literature. In a 1965 essay about being on a panel discussing children's literature, an audience member took issue with Peter Rabbit, finding it unrealistic for children. Sendak wrote: "Alas, I could not find the words to defend Peter to the gentleman in the audience...My only impulse was to smash him in the nose. That would be defending the honor of Beatrix Potter. Being aware, however, even from the platform, that his height and breadth were greater than my own, I quietly sulked instead."

My second observation is that Sendak was a man who absolutely loved books. LOVED books. This is Sendak at his finest: "As a child I felt that books were holy objects, to be caressed, rapturously sniffed, and devotedly provided for. I gave my life to them—I still do. I continue to do what I did as a child: dream of books, make books, and collect books."

Be still, my heart. That is how I feel about books. 

I have been reading this book in absolute quiet, deep in that world of just myself and the printed page. At times I am so moved that tears well up and roll down my cheeks. I have two pieces to go, which I will finish this evening, and then hold the book close to me before putting it in the return stack for the library.

There is more Sendak to come my way, in the form of a fairly recent biography and a book put together about the exhibit. I have them earmarked "For Later" on my library page and only the fact that I have a WHOLE bunch of books waiting to be picked up kept me from reserving them today. I read quickly, but not that quickly!

I only have one Sendak picture book left in the house, as the others migrated west some years ago. The remaining book is In the Night Kitchen. I will likely read it tonight, having read his explanations of the sources of that book. 

Maurice Sendak was an amazing artist in the fullest sense of the word. My life (and, I think I can safely say, the lives of my children and grandchildren) has been immeasurably enriched by having him, and all his Wild Things, here in my heart.

Greatly Exaggerated

Mark Twain very much alive

Mark Twain is credited with this quote: "The reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated." Apparently what he really said was, in response to a newspaper story that he had died, was that "the report of my death was exaggerated." 

Frankly, the first version is a little jazzier, but the end result is the same. Twain was very much alive. 

I just had my own Mark Twain moment tonight. My high school class is preparing for its 50th reunion this summer. One classmate has compiled a list of classmates who died, posted it on our class Facebook site, then asked if there were names not on the list that she had missed. A classmate I probably last talked to in grade school posted "I just found out that April Nelson passed."

Well, that was a bit of a shock. Two classmates soon contradicted him, while others asked whether it was really true, but the report of my demise was truly out there. When I saw the post, I quickly wrote "Trust me, Bob, I am very much alive." Warren and I both laughed over it, with Warren proposing ways I could "prove" I was still alive—pose with a newspaper (I would have to wait until Saturday morning as our local newspaper only publishes twice a week now), post that I knew how much the former President was fined in the civil fraud trial earlier today, make a comment about how much snow we got (3 inches and counting as of my writing this).

One of my oldest friends, Debra Jill (always, always just Jill to me) who I have known since first grade, sent me a private message expressing her relief that I was alive. She then quipped, "I think that the reports of your demise have been greatly exaggerated." I burst out laughing as I had already started this post. Great minds think alike and this is why Jill and I have been friends since first grade.

I think (trust, hope) that the temporary tempest in a teapot is out of steam. And the any reports of my demise have died a quick death!

Around the Kitchen Table

Note: I started this post several weeks ago. Before I got very far on it, life intervened in the form of my broken wrist. While I continue to figure out ways to incorporate more writing into my daily life (and that means dictation), I decided I would return to this post and finish it. My observation about the state of our living room is still true today.  Thanks to the wrist fracture, as well as some other recent issues involving my left knee, the living room still reflects a lot of medical trauma. It is what it is!

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I have never hidden or shied away from revealing my working class background. Or, to be more truthful, my working class poor background when I was a young child. And, as this is a divider, still, in this town, my hometown, I have never hidden the fact that I come from the East side of town, which still, all too often, immediately translates into poor, uneducated, and worse. We are "those people," as if those of us from that side of town are some strange aliens (in the extraterrestrial sense) who somehow were plunked into this community. 

And sometimes, even without anyone talking about origins, there are things that I do or say that immediately reveal my background and upbringing. 

Which brings us to the kitchen table. 

In my family when I was growing up, and in the families of friends in my youth, the kitchen table was a gathering point. (Oh, additional note: there was no dining room table in either of my childhood homes. Or dining room, for that matter.) The kitchen table was where my parents and their friends would socialize with pots of coffee and endless games of euchre. The kitchen table was where, if there was a serious discussion to be had, you sat and talked. 

That is where life happened.

I was a young adult before I learned that other people, and that includes "nicer" (more refined, more educated, more whatever) people, socialized and talked in the living room. Not around a kitchen table, but sitting on sofas and in upholstered chairs, with coffee tables on which to set down food and drink and such. 

Huh.

And that learning experience has stuck with me to this very day. Friends or family come over and we visit in the living room. Yes, we use the kitchen table for eating (I got rid of my dining room table years ago), including with others, but the talk, unless it is during or immediately after a meal, is almost always in the living room.

How other people live...okay.

So recently I had two friends, sisters in fact, come over for tea and talk. I made sure the living room was picked up (it is still showing signs of recovering from my lengthy medical catastrophe; even a little bit of picking up makes it look better) because I knew we would likely put some food on the kitchen table (to then put on a plate and carry into the living room), I made sure it was clean too.

Kell arrived first. She came to the door carrying a box of goodies, made a beeline for the kitchen (which you can see from our front door), and asked, without even a pause, "Does it make a difference where I sit?" 

I almost fell over.

Someone just automatically assumed we were going to sit at the kitchen table? Be still, my heart!

Kell’s sister, Shell, arrived soon after and didn’t even blink when she found herself sitting next to the City recycling tub tucked away on the back side of the table. 

“What a great idea! I am always wondering what to do with mine!”

For the next two hours, the three of us sat at the kitchen table and talked, laughed, cried, shared. It was a heartwarming visit with good friends. And it all took place around the kitchen table.

So here's to kitchen tables. Here's to life.

Where Things Stand

My right wrist repair

Let's just say it's been a wild ride at times.  

Yesterday marked two weeks since I had surgery to repair and reset my right wrist, which I fractured a few days earlier when I took a hard fall on the ice. My orthopedic doctor reset the fracture, pinning it and plating it as needed. When we saw him one week post-surgery, he said that the fracture was far more complicated than the ER x-rays revealed. 

Great.

Surgery brought a pretty stiff cast from my palm to just below my elbow. Its purpose was to keep my wrist totally immobilized for the first two weeks. Let's just say that it fulfilled its duty with flying colors.

Yesterday, I had a two-week check to take off the surgery cast, remove the staples, and recast my wrist.

14 staples marched in a very precise line down my inner arm, from wrist towards elbow.

14.

My doctor wasn't kidding about it being a complicated repair. That was a long incision.

The staples came out quickly and with little effort. The nurse said I could gently wash my fingers, palm, and wrist before the new cast went on.

Heaven is washing your right hand for the first time since the initial break some 17 days earlier.

After the doctor gave the go ahead, the same nurse who had un-stapled me came in to recast my wrist. What color did I want?

I laughed. When I broke my right arm at the age of 10, there was one choice: plaster cast white. Now you had a palette to choose from, although she recommended against choosing white. "It tends to look dirty pretty fast."

Blue. Give me blue. 

I was in a new, blue fiberglass cast in very little time. The new cast is lighter, shorter, and gives me more (a lot more) range of hand movement. While my fingers and thumb have a ways to go (especially my thumb, which is still in shock) before I can use them more easily, life is already opening up. Case in point: I brushed my teeth, albeit awkwardly, with the toothbrush in my right hand, last night. 

Think that is no big deal? You try putting toothpaste on your toothbrush and then brushing your teeth using only your non-dominant hand. No cheating! 

This new cast will be on until the end of March. After everything I have dealt with since the end of August (and still have to deal with on several medical fronts over the next few months), this one has gone well medically and for that I am truly grateful.

Having said that, don't think I am blithely skipping down a sunlit path. I am not a good invalid. I am frustrated by very real limitations on what I can do and sometimes burst into tears when I run into one of them. Warren is doing a magnificent job of taking care of me, but I am not always appreciative. (And I am also all too well aware of the huge stresses on his time right now and, although he truly does not feel this way, I feel I am in the way and adding to his overload.) At my lower moments, I take deep breaths to calm down. At my lowest moments, I restrain myself from throwing something across the room — a bowl of food, a glass. When the immediate reaction (throwing something) passes, I pick my emotions back up and try again. And remind myself that there really is a lot to be grateful.

I am creeping back into writing. I am dictating a lot, doing a little more typing now that I can use one (one) of my fingers — the middle finger — on my right hand to move the process along. (Hmmn. My middle finger. Wonder if that is a reflection of where I am emotionally sometimes or just the easiest and longest finger to use. Yeah, probably that...the easiest one to use.) Handwriting is still a distance away. But closer than it used to be! 

That's where I am at these days. I have lots of time to read. (When don't I have lots to time to read?) Dear friends in the area come over for tea and talk and chuck in where I need help. I follow the exploits of my grandchildren from afar: Ramona just finishing a run in the cast of Newsies through the theater group she is involved with and Orlando about to turn, wait for it, FIVE.  I dictate letters to my friends: not as satisfying as writing by hand (very different process mentally) but we keep the words going.

From friends to books to grandchildren to Warren, I am grateful and rich beyond compare.

My blue cast is just the icing on the cake!

Isn't it pretty?