Think of all the life that goes flying past you on a daily basis, a lot of it funny, some of it painful, much of it slightly absurd. Lots of this stuff I want to remember. Like many people today, I want to write my life. Some capture these moments in diaries and journals. My essays are memory captures that dig down, exploring how these small details of everyday life resonate, how they trigger memories of other moments and events, how they relate to current events and literature, science, and history.
Pulling off on the side of the road, it could be argued, was a little dangerous. I was on a freeway just north of Detroit, in a lot of traffic. When I merged, I would have to merge fast. I didn’t care. The car I was driving was coming up on 100,000 miles. I wanted to see the odometer turn and stop at the exact moment when all the zeros aligned.Continue reading “The 00000 Club”
“You awake?” he says.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m thinking of buying a ukelele.”
“God’s green earth.”
“To take to the party Saturday. Something to do with my hands. And liven things up.”Continue reading “Favorite”
In “Tender Cuts,” the title story in Jayne Martin’s collection of flash fiction, a little girl dressed for her first beauty pageant awaits her moment to shine. It’s the Little Miss Soybean Pageant. Her mother is keen on her performance, more so than the daughter, Julie Sue, who feels the pressure to perform, knowing she will have to raise her skirt and show some flesh to win a little prize money the family needs. When the music starts, “Mama pushes her onto the stage.”
These thirty-eight short pieces find children and adults, both men and women, at precarious, resonant moments, on the threshold of pain or already deep in it. In “All Hallows’ Eve” a homeless girl makes rounds with all the begging children; it’s the one day when she’s like any other child. In “The New Kid” a bullied fifth grader who stutters puts his hand on a gun. In “Zero Tolerance” the reader is given a glimpse of a detention center, where a child’s flight and degradation are quickly captured: “His body is still not found by the time we must flee” (father), “Ramon gives himself up to the del Cartel de Juárez so that mama and me may pass (brother), and “at the border, they tell Mama they are taking me for a bath.” These are cuts, all right. Many of them not so tender.
In a few paragraphs Martin captures the exhaustion, hopelessness, and terror of ordinary life. There is mordant humor, titles that invite–”I Married a 1985 Buick LeSabre,” “A Lobster Walks into a Laundramatt,”–as these stories shift from first to third person point of view, from the lives of children to adults.
Framing the collection, in three pieces Julie Sue and her family grow older, and, of course, things fall apart. “Final Cut,” the last story, begins, “The odor of charred wood hangs in the air as I pick through the remains of the garage. Most of this stuff had been Julie Sue’s.” Told from the point of view of Julie Sue’s daughter, who is now an adult, the story takes us into her mother’s chaotic world, a woman suffocating in domestic life who would walk into the woods and disappear for hours. Part of Martin’s gift is the ability to transport the reader in a few carefully chosen details–these stories are brief and incredibly tight. Another part is her taking us to revelatory conclusion, which usually detonates, as is the case in this story.
I read and re-read these stories, loved them for their craft and for their life.
Tender Cuts is published by Vine Leaves Press
No one is neutral on peas.
In England for a conference a few decades ago I was taken to dinner by a local guy who ordered something the English like to eat. It came with a side of mushy peas (mushy rhymes with bushy). To the eye the peas looked like they had been cooked 2-3 hours, then stored away to languish in cans for 2-3 decades. They were the color of bile, more texture than taste.
Aside from a few summers I was sent out to the garden to pick peas, and unpodded them and ate them on the spot, I do not have warm memories of peas.Continue reading “You Gotta Have Peas”
And the winner is: 2017 La Focaie, Maremma Toscana.
Every summer I look for a budget red or white, the wine I’m going to open at home, enjoy while cooking lunch and with chocolate after lunch. A couple summers ago it was Cecchi, an Italian red. Last summer it was budget California chardonnay from Costco. These are not wines I take to someone’s house. Neither are they jug wines. These are everyday house wines that consistently satisfy, until I can’t get them anymore, or until they no longer satisfy consistently. Nothing lasts forever.Continue reading “Drink Up”
A poem by David James for my friend Mark Adler. I read this as a part of his Dad Poets Society project.
National Healthcare Is National Defense.
According to the Wall Street Journal, South Korea is capable of testing 20,000 people a day for coronavirus. Way more than the US. How much more? That’s a difficult question–because the number being tested in the US is uncertain. We can say with confidence, however, that the US is testing fewer than 20,000 people a day.
For the scale of this US failure, consider the numbers. Continue reading “An editorial”
Tizi says, Hey why don’t you Google the local stores and find out if they have special hours for senior citizens?
And I think, But why would I do that?
And then I remember.
I haven’t developed the habit of thinking of myself as a senior citizen. Then it hits you, like a pie in the face. A week ago, talking to my son in LA, I described our distancing regime during the pandemic. Good, he said. Just that morning it had occurred to him that we were in greater danger. He’d remembered: we’re old. Continue reading “What Comes Next”