Caro in Texas

So now I'm reading the first volume of Robert Caro's magnum opus on LBJ, The Path to Power.  And it has all the great qualities of his bio of Robert Moses, the same exhaustive attention to detail combined with the grand sweep of history, except for the fact that it's not on Caro's home turf.  Caro, born of the West Side, schooled at Horace Mann and then Princeton, writes of the frontier life of hill country Texas, and it's hard not to detect a note of grand mythification, of the exotic other.  I have already compared Caro to Whitman for their shared revelry in the sheer mass and breadth of America, but they view it from the perspective of The Empire State.

Judging from his Wikipedia bio, for instance, Whitman doesn't seem to have traveled broadly, seeming to have ranged no further than the DC area during the Civil War.  Caro, surely, has spent much time on site in Texas working on primary sources. Or at least his wife Ina -- his sole research assistant -- has.

But what drew him there in the first place?  It would seem he is driven by his man, whom he follows to the end of the earth.



In other news, I need to diversify away from reading books by white guys.  I mean, I know I am one, and we do write many great books, but other people do too.

More joy

Sometime before Sophie got sick, Lucy apparently settled on the theme of "more joy" as a guiding theme.  I think Mary reported it back to me, I'm not sure I ever heard her actually say it, or just got it second hand, but it stuck with me, obviously.  I think it's right on.

But somehow it is hard to get there, it is hard for me to focus on consistently counting my blessings when so many challenges abound on a day to day basis, even when it is blindingly obvious that they are many, perhaps too many to count.  And the point may be that counting them is the wrong strategy altogether, that learning to be confident in their presence is where it's at.

But on the night that Sophie lay dying, and people were over visiting, saying goodbye, and doing our best to fill the house with laughter, Lucy and Niklaus were telling tales of the incredible feats of spirit Sophie had accomplished in her last days and months, I knew they were pointed in the right direction.

And so, more joy! Time to focus on volume 3 of the CFP course of study, "Income Tax Aspects of Property Acquisitions and Introduction to Property Dispositions."  As Natalie would say, "Woot!"

Camry Wagon

Walking to meet Graham at the bus stop this afternoon  my keen eye espied a white, hubcap-less Camry wagon parked at the house next to ours.  This house has been a rental for some years, and had recently been occupied by some frat boys who had recently learned to shave, but they moved out after the hellacious rains of the summer kicked up a mold problem (developers looking for a tear down on an awesome lot, look no further).

Anyhoo, there have been signs of impending or actual reoccupancy in the last week or so, so when I saw that car in front of the house and it sounded like people were doing some work in there, I naturally assumed that the car belonged to some of our nation's newly welcomed hispanic population.  You see, over the years I have observed that Camry and Accord wagons, which are becoming ever scarcer as the years since Toyota and Honda discontinued them, are overwhelmingly owned by hispanics.  I attribute this to the natural thriftiness of this economically challenged population, recognizing that both of these awesome cars offer an excellent combo of good mileage, ample carrying capacity, and readiness of replacement parts owing to the ubiquity of their sedan counterparts.

But, as I came back from the bus stop with Graham's lunchbox (granny having ferried him off to Target to snap up some killer Ninjago Lego sets), I saw that it was a young Anglo couple in the car, thereby blowing my theory.

Graham turns 10

Every parent says this, but it is nonetheless true:  it's incredible how fast they age.

Today is Graham's 10th birthday.  I might here recount the day of his birth, but that would take to long.  A quick search of the blog seems to indicate that I haven't ever done so, so maybe I'll come back and do it some day.

In any case, as I was saying, Graham turns 10 today. In some ways, that makes sense. He shares much with his peers, Pokemon, a love of roughhousing, a fondness for war stuff (OK, a little overdeveloped in Graham's case). In other ways, he remains very different, most likely as a function of his position on the spectrum. He still likes to snuggle every night after reading in bed with me (or Mary, who is a decent substitute if I'm not available).

He even still likes to hold my hand when walking.  I know that I should be trying to wean him from this habit, probably more forcefully than I have been. When I meet him at the bus stop, I first put my arm around his shoulder, really as a way of deferring when he will reach for my hand until the bus pulls off.  I'm pretty sure this is not like most boys his age, and he's gonna get picked on if not beaten up at some point in time in his adolescence for being out of step with the other boys, and he's not gonna understand it.  The schools do a good job of suppressing bullying, but in the end, nature will have its way.  I don't have the heart to push on him a bunch of tough love:  "You gotta be a man" kind of stuff.

Natalie, by way of contrast, had stopped snuggling with me sometime around when she was 8, around the time her precocious puberty kicked in.  I'll never forget when she told me at bedtime that we were done.  I asked why, and she said "because I'm growing up."

Making it (not) happen

While I was cleaning some mold and dirt off of our doors and porch the other day, I found myself pondering a theme which recurs in my head pretty frequently:  the astonishing proportion of our time, effort, and $ that goes into trying to mitigate risk and make sure things don't happen. I kinda think this may be a book brewing.

Think about it, we're talking about:

1. Insurance
2. Health maintenance (exercise, fatty food avoidance, tooth brushing)
3. Paint and cleaning, to a point
4. Police
5. National defense
6. Regulation (seatbelts, airbags, lead paint
7. and so on, and so on

At a certain point in time and process, all of these things fold over on themselves and stop being exercises in keeping the negative at bay and all of a sudden become just flat out productive of value.

It doesn't sound sexy, but with enough Grousing (and copious editing), it could become Gladwell or, even better, Atul Gawande like. I think I've done my statutory 10,000 hours of writing.

There is so much nominal focus on Making Things Happen, but making them not happen is a big part of the game.

Good options

Of late, when I have been harried and pressed for time, I have been working to remind myself that what I perceive as a scarcity of time is actually more a reflection of an abundance of good options for what to do with myself. And that this is something for which I should be truly thankful. Lots of people don't have this "problem," therefore we get daytime television.

Weak post

I keep meaning to post and I keep getting maxed out and not getting to it.

I had a lot of deep thoughts leading up to the celebration of Sophie's life, and in the end it was a very moving day.  For periods of it I kind of broke open and was grieving for my dad in ways I hadn't since his own service, where I had to perform and therefore wasn't really able to process at as root a level as I might have liked.  But then we kept going, with hanging and dining over at Sarah and Randy's and then study study study to prep for my second CFP exam on Tuesday.  Which I slammed.

And I thought more about the old themes of entropy, contingency, and flux as I swept leaves off the deck and realized how much of that bad boy was covered with mold and how very badly indeed it is in need of a powerwash and then, sadly from the perspective of the ducats, a coat or two of something to seal it.

Today finally I had some time.  And I made good on a promise I had made to the old Volvo, a 2001 that was once the new car -- our automotive puppy -- and is now the elder statesman. So I went to the nearby auto parts store and had them read the code for the pesky check engine light and I bought some goo remover to help get off the legacy of one of those magnets that aren't supposed to stick to your car, but oh do they ever.  And some windshield wiper fluid, and a bulb for the front left light which is mysteriously not just not working but, when you get right up close to it..... MISSING.  Like however did that happen. And then I took her through the carwash and then when I got home I used the pants from one of those pairs of Hannah Andersen jammies that belonged first to Daniel, and then to Caroline, and then to Natalie, and finally to Graham, until at last the holes in the knees were pretty much bigger than the garment itself, and used those old jammies to wipe the brake dust off the rims of that car, so that she shines bright and happy in the driveway.

New pictures on my desk

The pictures of my kids that I've had on my desk have been pretty dated for a while, showing them while they were younger and, in some very textbook sense: "cuter."  The other night Natalie was up here scrounging around one of the many plastic bins in which Mary houses our enormous collection of photographs (what do you expect from a photographer, anyway), and she had unearthed a very recent school picture of herself for some purpose.  I realized that I didn't have one of those, so I cut one of them out and stuck in into the most awesome picture display pencil holder she had made for me as a craft project for Father's Day or something.

And so, now I have a 12-year old Natalie staring at me on my desk, and somehow it changes the mood, brings it up to date.  It shows quickly how deeply nostalgic the older pictures are, somehow out of touch with the reality that they are, in fact, growing up. This child here will be going off to college soon, perhaps getting in trouble, causing me great heartache, and potentially getting grounded much sooner (though there are no actual hints of that).  Certainly, it points up the financial timeline:  we gotta pay for college for this one pretty soon.  Better keep that in mind.

I guess I need to get more of these recent pictures.

Lonely battle

I am locked in a lonely battle right now.  It is just me, my desk, a bunch of books, and, on occasion, a trip out onto the so-called Interweb.  Studying for one of the many CFP subject-matter exams.  Not exciting, am not seeing much.

In the evenings, I exercise, and I also remember to eat food, lest I fade into nothingness, or, which is more likely, pass out.

But it ain't bad. Over the years, I have proven myself able in this kind of combat. Right now, the son is shining, and yesterday, when it was pouring down rain, it was even better. It was great to watch the butterflies who hang out in Mary's garden flying through the downpour. Not that I had ever thought about it much, but I didn't realize they did that. They seem to fragile, the little guys.

Web sites being nice

Was just over at Khan Academy seeing if that guy had done explications of some finance topics I'm currently grinding into my wee brain.  He has not.

But on the way in it half forced me to do a diagnostic test of my math skills, and then offers little tutorials/mini-quizzes to help freshen those skills up.  I could not resist.  Why am I such a sucker for being measured by computers?  It is my perverse, nerd idea of fun.

It will, in fact, also help me be able to help the kids with math homework, which is a fine thing.

Sins of the critic?

I've been digging through a pile of New Yorkers, looking for stuff worth reading, and I came across James Wood's review of memoirs by the kids of famous American white male authors which focus on their dads:  Susan Cheever, Janna Malamud Smith, Alexandra Styron, and Greg Bellow.

According to Wood, Cheever, Malamud Smith, and Styron all basically offer up exculpatory narratives:   dad was in one way or another caught up in his own greatness and a difficult person, but it's OK in the end because he was a great writer and that's what he was put on this earth for, that was his calling, and he preferred to live sub specie aeternitatis than to focus on his kids. Wood is down with that.

But he devotes most of his review to ragging on Bellow, who was really angry at his dad.  And I get that, several hundred pages of somebody excavating the grievous misdeeds of their parent for all kinds of perceived ills gets old.  But it also got old in the review, and I had to ask myself, why is Wood -- who has been called the greatest living literary critic and who basically lives the dream as Professor of the Practice of Literary Criticism at Harvard, contributor to the New Yorker, and who knows what other cool stuff -- so focused on this, and why does he need to defend Saul Bellow against his son with such gusto?  I kept reading, really, only to try to figure that out.

And I had to wonder, is Wood being defensive because someone has accused him of being a bad parent, or because of guilt in thinking that he might be?  Or has someone leveled the same charge at his wife, Claire Messud, who is herself an extremely and justifiably successful novelist and -- as someone who I went to college with and of whom I remain fond, though I haven't seen her for years -- is someone that I just can't see being a bad parent.  Don't get me wrong, I get the guilt part.  I feel a little guilty that I'm up here writing now and not down doing something with Graham or the rather reclusive Natalie.

Ultimately, we all have to make choices in how we allocate our time.  Do we strive to be "great" and see our names reflected in lights and in the broader swoop of history, or do we focus down on the young people we bring into the world, should we choose to breed?  It ain't an easy question.  And it's a loaded one for me, as someone who's dad drifted off when he was about my age and tried to carve out his own path as a poet and really craved the recognition of the value of his art from others, though he could never figure out or acquiesce to the stark realities of the blocking and tackling it would take to actually gain wider acceptance.

It's a tough one for me.  I think about focusing on my writing, now and again.  But the fact is, Natalie needs braces and we need to upgrade our HVAC ductwork in the basement, and I'm pretty much signed on for the parent thing.  Time to go shoot some hoops across the street with Graham. Maybe go buy some new sneakers.  And trim his hair around the ears.

Squirrels?

Was just reading the most excellent Squirrel Power article in the Sunday Times, when I heard a rustling above and behind me. Given that we've been battling some pesky microorganisms in the house this week (more on that later) I thought, "Oh great, this is just what we need, critters in the attic."  And then I realized it was our shy but sweet cat Leon, perched in the back of Mary's photo shelves, which are behind my reading chair.

People in my neighborhood, pt. 1

I often internally bemoan the fact that, spending lots of time at home, I don't have access to the great parade of humanity that I used to see when commuting in the New York metro area. While, in a strictly statistical sense, this is true, I think I may have perhaps been underutilizing the natural resource that, after all, our dearly departed Jesse Helms suggested would suffice as the North Carolina Zoo:  the people of Chapel Hill.

And so, a sketch, perhaps the first of many.

Guy on a scooter
There is a pretty new guy in the nabe who rides a little scooter. Not a Vespa, mind you, nothing that fashionable.  Some old thing like you might have seen in the 70s-80s with essentially no body, just a frame. Something like the one below, only with a seat.

The guy is oldish, maybe in his 60s, and he likes to wear a matching blue plaid shirt and short set.  Today when I saw him he was wearing a black shirt and pants with a red tie, with a Trader Joe's bag on the handlebars.

I have seen him ride it as far as Whole Foods, which is not far at all, so hopefully this is not his primary mode of transport.  I gotta talk to this guy and get a bit of his story.

Passing moments

Last night I had the honor to be called to the house of one of my closest friends, whose 15-year old daughter had just returned home from the hospital for the last time, after fighting a long and hard battle against cancer.  Most of you will know who I'm talking about.  For those that don't, it doesn't matter. She lay on her bed in her room, with oxygen and morphine, surrounded by her parents, those who loved her, pictures of her life, her stuffed animals, and an inspirational quote from Harry Potter on the wall next to her.

It was not easy for anyone, but it was particularly hard for me. Not five months ago I sat next to my dad in the hospital as he died, holding his hand in his hospital bed till it got sore from being in a wierd position, and I didn't really know if I was ready to go back to that situation again. I feel like a whiner for saying this, but it's true. I was at an emotional loss, and didn't know what to say to her when I went in to visit with her and her parents. Luckily, others did.  Anna, in particular, spoke to her beautifully.  The principal of her high school, knowing she was sad not to finish, had come by and brought her a printed and embossed diploma.

This has been a 9-month process and has been incredibly hard on her family, though they have come through it with a strength that has really astounded me.  Over the course of it, I had occasion to ponder what would be worse, watching your child die slowly of an insidious disease, or having one taken from you in an instantaneous accident. On the Pacific Coast Highway a month ago, Natalie almost gave me a test case when she stepped out onto the road without (most atypically for her) looking both ways, and almost got mowed down. Praise the lord the driver was paying attention and had decent brakes. It was the scariest thing that I've ever experienced. But my friend tells me the months his daughter has been fighting cancer have been a great gift, that he and his family have witnessed such growth and spirit in their daughter and that she has touched so many, so I now feel certain that, though they have been through hell, it has been the one that should be chosen, and that neither she, nor they, will spend much time there any longer.

Target, 1:45pm

Had the rare pleasure of a trip to Target this afternoon, to pick up various and sundry items. Picked up some laundry detergent, a rotisserie chicken, bananas, some veggie burgers, and a mirror with a suction cup for in the shower. Claims to not fog up, the mirror does.  We'll see about that in due time.

I wish I had some clever insight or something. Fact is, it was just nice to be in a store, not chained to my desk, stressing out about some bullshit.

My favorite spatula

On weekends I have pretty much the same lunch at least one day:  a salmon burger on a toasted whole wheat english muffin with mayo enhanced by hot sauce from the Thai restaurant down the way, accompanied by baby carrots and sweet potato chips.  There is something intensely comforting about the regularity of it.

And I cook it in the same stainless steel pan each week, which was a wedding present, using the same spatula, a very thin metal one.  Somehow the spatula is very important to the whole experience.  If it is dirty from, for instance, making pancakes or an omelette earlier in the day -- which it almost always is, then I wash it, though there are other spatulas that would probably work. The regularity of it all is part of the pleasure, the sameness of the tactile experience.

Today, I have some leftover slaw from stopping at Bullock's last night, which is a deal-sweetener, to be sure, but it also messes with the regularity of the whole thing.  I may save the slaw.

Leaving Larchmont

Natalie gave Sadie a long, earnest hug, and said how much she'd miss her.  So sweet.  Even though Sadie gets on her nerves sometimes.

I never spent as much time with my cousins as Natalie and Graham spend with Sadie, so I guess we never got to know one another that well, really, and I guess my mental model of what a cousin relationship is "kin, but not that close."  We were from Chapel Hill, our cousins were not, and somehow that just meant we were from fundamentally different cultural milieux, and I use the French advisedly here. We thought we were special.

But, basically, we didn't see them that much, so it didn't get that deep.

And I suppose I'm jealous of those for whom that isn't the case.

The Manor

Those who have never lived in the suburbs of New York City will have a hard time understanding how lovely they can be.  The old ones, with big old fancy houses in dense neighborhoods like what everybody is trying to replicate in neo-urbanist developments.  Intensely manicured, with gaggles of Mexicans seemingly hiding behind pushes to pounce on even half an inches growth in the deep green if small lawns.

And Larchmont, whence Mary hails, is amongst the primest of examples, though her father George always claimed that it was Westchester's answer to Greenwich Village, since there was at least one artist who lives here, and though there was a biker bar around the corner from the family manse when they bought it back in '72.

But there is a certain oppressive perfection to it all, at times. During the day, one sees many a comely female of various ages, with perfect outfits, toned calves, charming children in pricey strollers, if they are of that age. More often just pretending to be of that age.

So this trip I have been delighting in little breakdowns in the social order.  I often take off my shirt when running, because a). it's hot and b). I sense that it might scandalize a little.  But nobody else seems to do it, it is part of the unspoken code that it is not done, just as whites are still worn to play tennis at the Yacht Club.

But, in the evenings, there's been this skinny, tan guy in his 70s, with a beard, jetting around Larchmont Manor shirtless on an old mountain bike.  And yesterday I saw a woman in her 60s at least, "big boned", as we say, running in a jog bra on Larchmont Ave.  And there were some heavy set black women who came down to Manor Park power walking the other night.  I greeted them heartily as "yall."

Esso

Somewhere on my drive through NC and VA, I saw -- I swear to God -- an Esso station.  How many years after it rebranded as Exxon?  At least 30. I'm not sure it was actually selling gas, but the sign was up there.

Further north on Rte 15

As I drove North, and began to enter the gravitational field of DC, things started becoming less flat-out country, more "picturesque."  At one point in time I found myself sandwiched between a Subaru Outback and a Volvo Wagon, and I knew I was closer to home.  Signs advertised "folk art" and there were beautiful old houses converted into restaurants and inns.  I was glad I had gotten a chicken biscuit earlier.

So it felt less legit in certain ways -- which is to say less foreign and native at once -- and yet it was sadly more sustainable in a sense. Where money flows out from the major metro areas, there's work.  It might not be the best work in the world, but in a place where the cost of living is low, it's easier to piece together a living. The ersatz is the real, however Baudrillardian it may be to admit it.

In Gordonsville, VA, I stopped to -- as they say in Russian -- "go where the Tsar himself goes on foot", and then I went for a little walk.  Gordonsville is real cute, quaint.  There's a restaurant on the main street called "Pomme" and it's got lots of high end antiquery.  I walked along the street to stretch my legs for a bit, and passed a number of cute old historic homes in good condition that said "Perrigo PBM," obviously some corporate offices.  Perrigo PBM is a pharma company, and PBM is a unit that sells infant nutritional formula, not a Pharmaceutical Benefits Manager, as the acronym would suggest.

But it returned my thinking to something I'd pondered earlier, about Oxford, about how it would make sense to relo a whole business unit to a small town if the unit was big enough and the town small enough that moving a bunch of people could shift the culture of the town.  I'll bet something similar had happened in Gordonsville, which is a very small town but pretty close to Charlottesville (closer than I had realized, now that I look at a map, which actually explains a lot, where the money came from for the restaurants and antique stores).

In general, as I went north thru VA, I saw more and more familiar names of genteel educational establishments -- Hampden-Sydney, Woodberry Forest, Fork Union Military Academy -- places where Virginia's landed aristocracy has half-educated itself for centuries.

And then I drove into the outer tentacles of DC, and all was traffic, and I was more than ready to launch myself into the not-so-hyperloop of the 95s and get my white ass on up the road.