Morning-After Thanks
Lately for me the day after Thanksgiving has been the time when I count my blessings. Some people spend that Friday plunging into their holiday shopping while others dig out their leftover turkey recipes, but I spend the day thankful that I’ve gotten through my yearly tradition of Thanksgiving dinner nutties. And I thank my family for putting up with their crazy wife and mother.
We don’t have a huge celebration that involves scores of far flung family members flying in from Outer Mongolia. It’s just the four of us, five if you count the dog. It may be a small celebration but it’s our own--fraying tempers, experimental recipes, unmet dinner deadlines and all. Ever since the girls have become old enough to cook and bake it’s become a yearly tradition for mom to grouchily declare that next year we will definitely be eating in a restaurant!
When the girls were little I did all the cooking. The day was hectic but manageable. I would choose a dinner time then work my way backwards preparation-wise and, voila! Turkey was on the table at 3:00. But mix together two cooks, one baker and a mom who is not good at sharing a kitchen and the pot and mom boils over.
The irony of this is that we have a huge kitchen. But we only have one stove, one oven, a small amount of counter space and one cook who likes to experiment, so it can get nuts. Two years ago Lisa entered Schottenfeld folk lore when she took three hours to prepare a soup recipe. I think we ate at 8:00. Needless to say I became a tad distraught. I declared that from then on we would enjoy our Thanksgiving dinner at a neighborhood restaurant.
But then last year Lisa was in India during the holiday and the three of us rattled around that big kitchen rather forlornly. I swore that from now on no matter happened I would not lose it on Thanksgiving. So this year I told everyone that maybe we should simplify matters and consider take-out food. I even semi-jokingly suggested a Chinese restaurant.
To my surprise Lisa and Steve were very amenable to my suggestion and at first Mariel seemed to be as well. I began to look forward to a Thanksgiving spent lounging on the couch with a glass of champagne while digesting my hot and sour soup. And then I got an e-mail from Mariel asking rather plaintively if it would be possible to do take-out and mashed potatoes. And perhaps stuffing. And cranberries. And maybe some corn bread and apple pie. And of course asparagus. And then Lisa mentioned that she had this incredible baked root- vegetable recipe that was out of this world—and then I put my head down on my computer keyboard and sighed. The moo-shi pancakes were out--an old fashioned Thanksgiving it would be once again.
“Fine”, I told everyone. “But we would not over do it—there would be no three-hour, twenty-vegetable soup, no fruit chutney, and no muffins.”
“What about chocolate chip cookies and biscotti?” Mariel countered.
.
As I rested my head on my computer board I concentrated on the bottle of champagne that I would imbibe. I was just grateful that the girls were vegetarians so there would be no worrying if the turkey would be ready on time. What I was not grateful for was Steve’s attitude toward Lisa’s vegetables.
“What in the heck are root-vegetables?” he kept asking. “I don’t think that I’ve ever eaten a root-vegetable and I’m not sure I want to start now.”
“You’ve eaten carrots and beets,” I countered, “And somehow you’re still alive!”
The week began on a high note since Mariel came home on Monday evening. She was working the Friday after Thanksgiving so she made up for it by coming home early. I had to work till Wednesday but coming home at night to find a smiling daughter and dinner on the table was lovely. Then Lisa came home early and my home and heart were full.
We decided on an early 2:00 pm Thanksgiving dinner so that we could spend the afternoon playing our favorite game, Trivial Pursuit. Everyone was assigned their specialty: Mariel--baking, Lisa --veggies, me--stuffing, potatoes and salad, Snoopy--begging and Steve the washing up. We were doing great until we hit a snag when the cookies ran into assigned root-vegetable time and I almost forgot the potatoes. But a little slippage was to be expected, so dinner would now be at 2:30.
And then we were in the home stretch with only asparagus and cornbread to go and I blew it. I had forgotten to set the timer and before I knew it the asparagus was limp and the corn bread was burnt and I lost it and went into my restaurant rant. But Mariel, who was having a much more mature moment than her mother, literally told me to cut it out. So I poured myself some champagne and lit the candles on the table while Lisa scraped off the burnt corn bread topping.
And despite the absence of egg drop soup and the fact that the only turkeys that we saw were the ones that wandered into our yard that day, we had a wonderful Thanksgiving, root-vegetables and all. And I hope you did too.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Undercover
Undercover
There was a time not so long ago when a woman could go out and buy plain underwear. Young women walked freely, smiling contentedly because they could slip into little nothings that fit under their clothes and not worry about “containment”. There was a time when women didn’t worry about, let alone use words like, enhancing-shaper or over-bra-bulge eraser.
Oh who am I kidding? Women have always worried about what is charmingly known as, unsightly bulges. From the moment they hit puberty they worry that some part of their body is hanging out where it should be hanging in. It usually begins in middle school gym class when everyone is changing in that communal hell known as a locker room. You’d be trying desperately to change into horrendous gym bloomers as quickly as possible without revealing anything while surreptitiously checking out if you were the first or last girl in the known middle school universe to be wearing a bra. Too early was awful, too late even worse, and somehow you always felt that you were one or the other.
I remember pleading with my mom to buy me a bra when I was in seventh grade. I had absolutely nothing to actually put into said bra but hopes and dreams, but no matter, I absolutely had to have one. Luckily my mom had a friend who owned a lingerie shop so off we went to get me fitted with a training bra. What exactly I was training I had no idea but I didn’t ask any questions.
I stood there uncomfortably while mom and her friend, Gertie discussed my endowments or rather the general lack of. Gertie sighed and pulled out what I believe was a triple A cup and told me to try it on. I took the precious article of clothing and disappeared into the dressing room so that no one could see me. Gertie, caring nothing for 12 year old angst, pushed the curtain aside, took one look at me and sighed again. I was definitely a challenge.
She told me to take the bra off then proceeded to sew two seams into the cups to make them even smaller. She gave it back to me with a third sigh. I tried it on and was ecstatic. Never mind that I and the bra were perfectly flat, the important thing was that underwear-wise I was a woman at last. I was beginning the long torturous road that all women tread in this crazy world where free women are considered dangerous.
Our grandmothers wore corsets to shape their figures, but somewhere along the way corsets took on a dissolute, sexual air since they pushed things up or down too suggestively. Girdles took over when it became unladylike to present too many curves to the world. Women had to be firmly locked into battle gear to be decent. Only “loose” women dared to walk around comfortably in their clothes. Everyone else wore industrial strength undergarments that left little room to breathe let alone wobble. I don’t think anyone has ever considered a girdle to be even remotely sexy.
And now after a blessedly free period in the sixties, we’re right back where we started only now we call it shape-wear and it’s no longer confined to our mothers. Now all of us feel that we have bulges that we have to straighten out. And since that means either punishing workouts outs, or starving, or going back in time to when we were kids, we’ve elected to hide them. And so shape-wear was born. I hold Oprah responsible. When this lady announces that something is good, her followers rush out to buy it at once, whether it’s a book or a washing machine. And so one day when she announced that the best thing to wear under your clothes was something called Spanx, this product became a girl’s best friend.
The inventor of Spanx underwear, Sara Blakely, says that it was the universal scourge of visible panty lines that inspired her to create her product. So it seems that in order to convince people that you are not wearing any underwear beneath your clothing you have to wear an incredibly constricting piece of underwear under your clothing. Is it me or is it raining oxymorons in here?
The internet is crawling with shape-wear. For a mere $31.00 there’s an arm slimmer that you wear under your blouse so that your triceps and biceps can go from flabby to tres chic in a flash. But then if you’re already wearing a long sleeved blouse who’s going to see the flab to begin with? You can also purchase something called an “over-bra” which cures underarm bulges, a power panty (don’t ask), a mid thigh smoother, (I keep thinking it comes with strawberries) a hide and sleek cami, hi-rise tights, and if you’re fed up with dealing with bits and pieces you can go for broke and order full fledged commando Kevlar armor—the body suit. This covers you from head to toe in spandex so that you’re essentially wearing a suit under your clothing ensuring that nothing will ever fall out and that you will never breathe again. Sort of like Scarlet O’Hara clinging to her bedpost for dear life as she’s being crammed into her corset by her maid, Mammie.
Iran does burquas we do shape-wear. Foot binding anyone?
There was a time not so long ago when a woman could go out and buy plain underwear. Young women walked freely, smiling contentedly because they could slip into little nothings that fit under their clothes and not worry about “containment”. There was a time when women didn’t worry about, let alone use words like, enhancing-shaper or over-bra-bulge eraser.
Oh who am I kidding? Women have always worried about what is charmingly known as, unsightly bulges. From the moment they hit puberty they worry that some part of their body is hanging out where it should be hanging in. It usually begins in middle school gym class when everyone is changing in that communal hell known as a locker room. You’d be trying desperately to change into horrendous gym bloomers as quickly as possible without revealing anything while surreptitiously checking out if you were the first or last girl in the known middle school universe to be wearing a bra. Too early was awful, too late even worse, and somehow you always felt that you were one or the other.
I remember pleading with my mom to buy me a bra when I was in seventh grade. I had absolutely nothing to actually put into said bra but hopes and dreams, but no matter, I absolutely had to have one. Luckily my mom had a friend who owned a lingerie shop so off we went to get me fitted with a training bra. What exactly I was training I had no idea but I didn’t ask any questions.
I stood there uncomfortably while mom and her friend, Gertie discussed my endowments or rather the general lack of. Gertie sighed and pulled out what I believe was a triple A cup and told me to try it on. I took the precious article of clothing and disappeared into the dressing room so that no one could see me. Gertie, caring nothing for 12 year old angst, pushed the curtain aside, took one look at me and sighed again. I was definitely a challenge.
She told me to take the bra off then proceeded to sew two seams into the cups to make them even smaller. She gave it back to me with a third sigh. I tried it on and was ecstatic. Never mind that I and the bra were perfectly flat, the important thing was that underwear-wise I was a woman at last. I was beginning the long torturous road that all women tread in this crazy world where free women are considered dangerous.
Our grandmothers wore corsets to shape their figures, but somewhere along the way corsets took on a dissolute, sexual air since they pushed things up or down too suggestively. Girdles took over when it became unladylike to present too many curves to the world. Women had to be firmly locked into battle gear to be decent. Only “loose” women dared to walk around comfortably in their clothes. Everyone else wore industrial strength undergarments that left little room to breathe let alone wobble. I don’t think anyone has ever considered a girdle to be even remotely sexy.
And now after a blessedly free period in the sixties, we’re right back where we started only now we call it shape-wear and it’s no longer confined to our mothers. Now all of us feel that we have bulges that we have to straighten out. And since that means either punishing workouts outs, or starving, or going back in time to when we were kids, we’ve elected to hide them. And so shape-wear was born. I hold Oprah responsible. When this lady announces that something is good, her followers rush out to buy it at once, whether it’s a book or a washing machine. And so one day when she announced that the best thing to wear under your clothes was something called Spanx, this product became a girl’s best friend.
The inventor of Spanx underwear, Sara Blakely, says that it was the universal scourge of visible panty lines that inspired her to create her product. So it seems that in order to convince people that you are not wearing any underwear beneath your clothing you have to wear an incredibly constricting piece of underwear under your clothing. Is it me or is it raining oxymorons in here?
The internet is crawling with shape-wear. For a mere $31.00 there’s an arm slimmer that you wear under your blouse so that your triceps and biceps can go from flabby to tres chic in a flash. But then if you’re already wearing a long sleeved blouse who’s going to see the flab to begin with? You can also purchase something called an “over-bra” which cures underarm bulges, a power panty (don’t ask), a mid thigh smoother, (I keep thinking it comes with strawberries) a hide and sleek cami, hi-rise tights, and if you’re fed up with dealing with bits and pieces you can go for broke and order full fledged commando Kevlar armor—the body suit. This covers you from head to toe in spandex so that you’re essentially wearing a suit under your clothing ensuring that nothing will ever fall out and that you will never breathe again. Sort of like Scarlet O’Hara clinging to her bedpost for dear life as she’s being crammed into her corset by her maid, Mammie.
Iran does burquas we do shape-wear. Foot binding anyone?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
On the Street Where We Lived
On the Street Where We Lived
For years our family lived in two neighborhoods, ours and Big Birds, and there were times when the bird’s seemed more real than ours. I remember someone asking Lisa where she lived and she answered, “Sesame Street.” I knew exactly how she felt because there were lots of times when Big Bird’s place was a lot more fun than ours. There were never any meals to cook, rooms to clean, diapers to change—just songs to sing, letters to learn, numbers to count, and friends, lots of friends. Many were the times when I was ready to go to the post office and fill out a change of address card.
Although the world is celebrating Sesame Street’s 40th anniversary I was too old to watch it when it first came out in the 1960’s. But once Lisa was born it wasn’t long before we were sitting in front of the TV singing along with C is for Cookie! They tell me that Cookie Monster eats vegetables now but I can’t believe it.
We used to watch Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood as well. We enjoyed seeing the places that he visited—the mushroom mine, the ballet studio, the trumpet factory—but it was missing a certain pizzazz that only Sesame Street could deliver. With Mr. Rogers there were no hidden meanings. What you saw was what you got. But with Kermit et al, the double entendres ricocheted off the TV set like bullets. Lisa would wonder why mommy was laughing so hard but there was no way that I could explain it to her. She quickly got used to the fact that mommy laughed at weird stuff and continued to enjoy the music, the colors, the action. She didn’t need me to explain any of that.
The show’s cleverness took my breath away. Where else could you see Smokey Robinson being chased by a huge letter U?” Or hear puppet Beatles croon Letter B or enjoy muppet Cyndi Lauper jiving to Cereal Girl? Kermit’s manic direction of Forgetful Jones doing Oklahoma was a vowel masterpiece. The songs could be simple as Rubber Duckie or as hilarious as Dancing Myself to Sleep where boogying sheep throw the long suffering Bert out the bedroom window.
Two sweet songs that still make me cry are Ernie’s, I Don’t Want to Live on the Moon which captures the delight of traveling to far off places and then coming safely home and Kermit’s, It’s Not Easy Being Green, a timeless tribute to being different. And what could be more joyously exuberant than Ernie, Hoots the Owl and a host of celebrities jazzing to Put Down the Duckie, while celebrating music, dancing and life.
I think what amazed me was how involved we became in the lives of the people who lived on Sesame Street. I might have enjoyed visiting Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood but once I turned off the set I could have cared less about what King Friday or Queen Saturday were doing. But everyone on Sesame Street became family, both humans and puppets. I still remember feeling incredibly frustrated when no one would believe Big Bird about his friend Mr. Snuffleupagus. I would scream at Bob or Susan or Maria, “Just turn around for heavens sake he’s right behind you!” When they finally decided to allow the rest of the neighborhood see Snuffy I heaved a huge sigh of relief.
Though I enjoyed keeping up with the lives of Susan, Gordon, Oscar and Grover my favorite couple was Maria and Luis. I set up my video recorder to record the biggest event of the season, their wedding. The rest of the world might have gone crazy over Princess Dianna and Prince Charles but in our house the royal couple was Luis and Maria. We had watched them meet and get to know each other so being invited to their TV wedding seemed perfectly natural. Later on when they had a baby girl we felt like godparents.
Even though Sesame Street was on all morning and then later in the afternoon, Lisa loved the program so much that even watching six times a day wasn’t enough for her. I had to tape weeks of episodes so that she could watch them whenever she wanted. And when there was a song that she really loved she would yell out, “Again!” which meant that I would have to rewind and rewind and rewind the tape till she had enough. Of course that also meant that I was in trouble when she was watching a broadcast and not a tape. No matter how I tried I couldn’t make her understand the difference between a tape and the TV.
Luckily for us Sesame Street followed us to Israel in the form of, Rehov Sumsum or the girls would never have left home. They would watch Bert, Ernie and Big Bird speak Hebrew and never question it. Seeing Oscar the Grouch as an Israeli grump was an unforgettable experience.
Now the years have passed and things have changed. I’ve heard that Cookie Monster now eats vegetables, Mr. Hooper’s store is a bodega and Bert and Ernie don’t share a bedroom anymore. But even though we no longer visit the place where the air is sweet it’s comforting to know that all over the world children are still asking, “Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?”
For years our family lived in two neighborhoods, ours and Big Birds, and there were times when the bird’s seemed more real than ours. I remember someone asking Lisa where she lived and she answered, “Sesame Street.” I knew exactly how she felt because there were lots of times when Big Bird’s place was a lot more fun than ours. There were never any meals to cook, rooms to clean, diapers to change—just songs to sing, letters to learn, numbers to count, and friends, lots of friends. Many were the times when I was ready to go to the post office and fill out a change of address card.
Although the world is celebrating Sesame Street’s 40th anniversary I was too old to watch it when it first came out in the 1960’s. But once Lisa was born it wasn’t long before we were sitting in front of the TV singing along with C is for Cookie! They tell me that Cookie Monster eats vegetables now but I can’t believe it.
We used to watch Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood as well. We enjoyed seeing the places that he visited—the mushroom mine, the ballet studio, the trumpet factory—but it was missing a certain pizzazz that only Sesame Street could deliver. With Mr. Rogers there were no hidden meanings. What you saw was what you got. But with Kermit et al, the double entendres ricocheted off the TV set like bullets. Lisa would wonder why mommy was laughing so hard but there was no way that I could explain it to her. She quickly got used to the fact that mommy laughed at weird stuff and continued to enjoy the music, the colors, the action. She didn’t need me to explain any of that.
The show’s cleverness took my breath away. Where else could you see Smokey Robinson being chased by a huge letter U?” Or hear puppet Beatles croon Letter B or enjoy muppet Cyndi Lauper jiving to Cereal Girl? Kermit’s manic direction of Forgetful Jones doing Oklahoma was a vowel masterpiece. The songs could be simple as Rubber Duckie or as hilarious as Dancing Myself to Sleep where boogying sheep throw the long suffering Bert out the bedroom window.
Two sweet songs that still make me cry are Ernie’s, I Don’t Want to Live on the Moon which captures the delight of traveling to far off places and then coming safely home and Kermit’s, It’s Not Easy Being Green, a timeless tribute to being different. And what could be more joyously exuberant than Ernie, Hoots the Owl and a host of celebrities jazzing to Put Down the Duckie, while celebrating music, dancing and life.
I think what amazed me was how involved we became in the lives of the people who lived on Sesame Street. I might have enjoyed visiting Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood but once I turned off the set I could have cared less about what King Friday or Queen Saturday were doing. But everyone on Sesame Street became family, both humans and puppets. I still remember feeling incredibly frustrated when no one would believe Big Bird about his friend Mr. Snuffleupagus. I would scream at Bob or Susan or Maria, “Just turn around for heavens sake he’s right behind you!” When they finally decided to allow the rest of the neighborhood see Snuffy I heaved a huge sigh of relief.
Though I enjoyed keeping up with the lives of Susan, Gordon, Oscar and Grover my favorite couple was Maria and Luis. I set up my video recorder to record the biggest event of the season, their wedding. The rest of the world might have gone crazy over Princess Dianna and Prince Charles but in our house the royal couple was Luis and Maria. We had watched them meet and get to know each other so being invited to their TV wedding seemed perfectly natural. Later on when they had a baby girl we felt like godparents.
Even though Sesame Street was on all morning and then later in the afternoon, Lisa loved the program so much that even watching six times a day wasn’t enough for her. I had to tape weeks of episodes so that she could watch them whenever she wanted. And when there was a song that she really loved she would yell out, “Again!” which meant that I would have to rewind and rewind and rewind the tape till she had enough. Of course that also meant that I was in trouble when she was watching a broadcast and not a tape. No matter how I tried I couldn’t make her understand the difference between a tape and the TV.
Luckily for us Sesame Street followed us to Israel in the form of, Rehov Sumsum or the girls would never have left home. They would watch Bert, Ernie and Big Bird speak Hebrew and never question it. Seeing Oscar the Grouch as an Israeli grump was an unforgettable experience.
Now the years have passed and things have changed. I’ve heard that Cookie Monster now eats vegetables, Mr. Hooper’s store is a bodega and Bert and Ernie don’t share a bedroom anymore. But even though we no longer visit the place where the air is sweet it’s comforting to know that all over the world children are still asking, “Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?”
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Book Is Not a Four Letter Word
Book is Not a Four Letter Word
I gasped. I held my breath. And then I cried. All this within the space of a minute, over my morning coffee, while reading the newspaper, because I had just read that the headmaster of Cushing Academy prep school, Mr. James Tracy, had decided that his school,
after having amassed a collection of more than 20,000 books, had decided that they no longer needed a traditional library. The academy had decided to discard all their books and had already given away what stocked their sprawling stacks - the classics, novels, poetry, biographies, tomes on every subject from the humanities to the sciences. The future, they believe, is digital.
“When I look at books, I see an outdated technology, like scrolls before books,’’ said Tracy. “We’re not discouraging students from reading. We see this as a natural way to shape emerging trends and optimize technology.’’
The academy is spending $500,000 to create a “learning center’’. They are spending $42,000 on three large flat-screen TVs that will project data from the Internet and $20,000 on special laptop-friendly study carrels. Where the reference desk was, they are building a $50,000 coffee shop that will include a $12,000 cappuccino machine.
Can you get anything more natural than a flat screen TV or a $12,000 cappuccino machine? Henry Thoreau would be proud. Can’t you see him lounging near Walden’s Pond twiddling with his electronic Kindle reader adjusting the font size? Tell me am I crazy or is it the rest of the world?
I’m not a Luddite. I welcome technology’s improvements. I would just prefer that they not be forcibly thrust upon me so that I feel like I’ve been electronically violated. I do not understand how completely destroying a way of life to replace it with something new is natural. That is more like an urban renewal of the soul. Natural means evolving, slowly replacing the old bit by bit till you are not even aware of the transformation.
Tracy believes that his virtual library will be a model for the 21st century school. I pray not. It is interesting that while he has given away all of the school’s books his “office shelves remain lined with books.” But then I suppose a plastic box doesn’t look or feel as wonderful as a book made of paper and glue. That is part of the literary experience.
To be able to walk into a library or a book store and be held by the sight of rich colors, caught by the sensuous feel of thick paper and the very smell of the ink. To be able to approach a shelf and browse, leaf through pages, scan worlds. To be able to actually see the millions of books that men and women spent their lives creating. This sensual experience is part of reading.
Tracy claims that the books took up too much space. Yes they do! People, their thoughts, dreams, their lives take up space. You cannot put us all on the head of a very efficient pin. Like the lives they describe, books are messy. The walls of my house are lined with books. I’ve kept them from childhood, high school, college, friends. I still read what I wrote in the margins when I was 18 years old. I find notes, papers, pieces of my past, myself.
Years ago Steve bought me a set of Shakespeare’s plays. They weren’t new but lovingly used. I found the name of the original owner written in elegant script on the flyleaf, Hester E. Young, 1912. I found another inscription, Ray A Eucdern, 1910 plus a Valentine he received from his girlfriend, Margaret who was from Tabor, Iowa. I found French conjugations that he had written out on papers tucked between the pages of King Lear. These bits of the paper whisper hints of the past. I have yet to find anything tucked into a computer.
Being a foolish romantic about books, I find it ironic that Alexander Coyle, the chair of the history department at Cushing Academy, echoes my thoughts when he says that he sees libraries and their hallowed contents as secular cathedrals. And if every cathedral has a spiritual leader, for me it is Canton’s library director, Mark Lague.
I know that libraries must change to stay alive, that they can no longer be solely about books. Canton’s library has changed but thanks to Mark it has evolved, is still evolving, so that each return trip is not a shock but a homecoming. Mark did not feel the need to rip out every last book to transform our library into a vital community gathering place. He has shepherded us all into a new world where paper co-exists with machines.
“We used to be the keepers of knowledge,” he said. “Now we’ve had to re-invent ourselves and the way we are helpful to people.” And re-invent he has, but gently, paying attention to the way people interact with each other, with books and computers. Twenty five years as a library director has taught him the best ways to lead patrons and staff into the next century without having to completely destroy their past. James Tracy should take a page from Mark Lague’s library. And this Sunday when the Trustees, staff and friends of the library honor Mark we will all toast a man who understands that knowledge comes in many forms and that a traditional library can embrace them all.
I gasped. I held my breath. And then I cried. All this within the space of a minute, over my morning coffee, while reading the newspaper, because I had just read that the headmaster of Cushing Academy prep school, Mr. James Tracy, had decided that his school,
after having amassed a collection of more than 20,000 books, had decided that they no longer needed a traditional library. The academy had decided to discard all their books and had already given away what stocked their sprawling stacks - the classics, novels, poetry, biographies, tomes on every subject from the humanities to the sciences. The future, they believe, is digital.
“When I look at books, I see an outdated technology, like scrolls before books,’’ said Tracy. “We’re not discouraging students from reading. We see this as a natural way to shape emerging trends and optimize technology.’’
The academy is spending $500,000 to create a “learning center’’. They are spending $42,000 on three large flat-screen TVs that will project data from the Internet and $20,000 on special laptop-friendly study carrels. Where the reference desk was, they are building a $50,000 coffee shop that will include a $12,000 cappuccino machine.
Can you get anything more natural than a flat screen TV or a $12,000 cappuccino machine? Henry Thoreau would be proud. Can’t you see him lounging near Walden’s Pond twiddling with his electronic Kindle reader adjusting the font size? Tell me am I crazy or is it the rest of the world?
I’m not a Luddite. I welcome technology’s improvements. I would just prefer that they not be forcibly thrust upon me so that I feel like I’ve been electronically violated. I do not understand how completely destroying a way of life to replace it with something new is natural. That is more like an urban renewal of the soul. Natural means evolving, slowly replacing the old bit by bit till you are not even aware of the transformation.
Tracy believes that his virtual library will be a model for the 21st century school. I pray not. It is interesting that while he has given away all of the school’s books his “office shelves remain lined with books.” But then I suppose a plastic box doesn’t look or feel as wonderful as a book made of paper and glue. That is part of the literary experience.
To be able to walk into a library or a book store and be held by the sight of rich colors, caught by the sensuous feel of thick paper and the very smell of the ink. To be able to approach a shelf and browse, leaf through pages, scan worlds. To be able to actually see the millions of books that men and women spent their lives creating. This sensual experience is part of reading.
Tracy claims that the books took up too much space. Yes they do! People, their thoughts, dreams, their lives take up space. You cannot put us all on the head of a very efficient pin. Like the lives they describe, books are messy. The walls of my house are lined with books. I’ve kept them from childhood, high school, college, friends. I still read what I wrote in the margins when I was 18 years old. I find notes, papers, pieces of my past, myself.
Years ago Steve bought me a set of Shakespeare’s plays. They weren’t new but lovingly used. I found the name of the original owner written in elegant script on the flyleaf, Hester E. Young, 1912. I found another inscription, Ray A Eucdern, 1910 plus a Valentine he received from his girlfriend, Margaret who was from Tabor, Iowa. I found French conjugations that he had written out on papers tucked between the pages of King Lear. These bits of the paper whisper hints of the past. I have yet to find anything tucked into a computer.
Being a foolish romantic about books, I find it ironic that Alexander Coyle, the chair of the history department at Cushing Academy, echoes my thoughts when he says that he sees libraries and their hallowed contents as secular cathedrals. And if every cathedral has a spiritual leader, for me it is Canton’s library director, Mark Lague.
I know that libraries must change to stay alive, that they can no longer be solely about books. Canton’s library has changed but thanks to Mark it has evolved, is still evolving, so that each return trip is not a shock but a homecoming. Mark did not feel the need to rip out every last book to transform our library into a vital community gathering place. He has shepherded us all into a new world where paper co-exists with machines.
“We used to be the keepers of knowledge,” he said. “Now we’ve had to re-invent ourselves and the way we are helpful to people.” And re-invent he has, but gently, paying attention to the way people interact with each other, with books and computers. Twenty five years as a library director has taught him the best ways to lead patrons and staff into the next century without having to completely destroy their past. James Tracy should take a page from Mark Lague’s library. And this Sunday when the Trustees, staff and friends of the library honor Mark we will all toast a man who understands that knowledge comes in many forms and that a traditional library can embrace them all.
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