Cleaning Out My Bookshelves

Yesterday, I began clearing out my bookshelves.

Cleaning out a small bookcase containing the remains of children's books, I discovered old favorites from my sons' early years:  The Giving Tree, The Big O, The Big O Meets the Missing Peace, Good Night Moon, The Runaway Bunny, Horton Hears a Who, Horton Hatches an Egg, In The Night Kitchen, The Real Story of The Three Little Pigs . . . 

Multiple copies of others: The Little Prince, The Cat in the Hat Comes Back, Five Minutes Peace, Are You My Mother, The Polar Express, A Wrinkle in Time . . . 

The loss of others, given away, rejected, neglected.  Destroyed by crayons & spills & lack of interest & time. 

Then I find a copy of The World of Pooh.   Only one & I cannot believe that no other Pooh stories remain on my shelves.

Of course, by the time my sons arrived on the scene, the entire world of Pooh was captured on film. 

I open The World of Pooh.   Copyright 1957. It is the complete Winnie-the-Pooh (copyright 1926, renewed 1954) & The House at Pooh Corner (copyright 1928, renewed 1954)

As I turn to the title page, I find a bookplate that reads From The Library of Robert Pulley.   "Robert Pulley" is written in a clear cursive.   At the bottom right of the title page is an embossed reminder of the owner of this particular volume, his initials RMP surrounded by Library of Robert M. Pulley. 

In case the bookplate dissolved, the embossed reminder of the owner would remain. 

For a moment, I weep.  Remembering Bob. 

Then I realize that although the nameplate & his corporal life dissolved, he is embossed, imprinted upon the souls & memories of all who knew & loved him. 

So I move The World of Pooh to another room, to a glass-enclosed bookcase. 

From the same bookcase, I retrieve an egg shaped treasure, half sheathed in something orange & crocheted to look like a hen, the exposed surface a picture of what might be Peter Rabbit. 

Not believing that I had not retrieved it sooner, as I do every year.   I position it on some limbs in the front of the Christmas tree. 

Knowing that someone, drawn by the tree, will see it & ask, as others have asked in the past: Why is there an Easter Egg on the Christmas Tree? 

And I will answer: Because it is an important gift. Jean Pulley & her son Bob found it important enough to entrust it to me for safe keeping. 

As they did other books & treasures & a set of cookie cutters. 

And their embossed imprint upon my soul & memory.

Today I am John Chambless

A ridiculous title, because, I am obviously not a male, nor a real estate appraiser & I have no idea how to make a plum pudding. 

But today, I have neglected many things to make food for Eli. 

Who is a geriatric wire haired Dachshund rescue from Citizens for Animal Protection. A sweet, kind dog who captured my son Sam's heart all those years & days ago. 

So today I cooked my variation of John Chambless's original recipe for geriatric dogs: ground turkey, vegetable broth, the peas & carrots Eli loves, dried cranberries, bits of apple without the peal, chopped spinach, a dash of orzo pasta & a dollop of olive oil. 

The recipe varies from time to time. Sometimes there are lentils & green beans or chicken broth or a bit of barley, a bit of rice. Always peas & carrots because Eli is crazy about peas & carrots. 

He also likes thin slices of cantaloupe. 

I remember standing near John Chambless's kitchen, watching someone sample a bit from a simmering pot of food designed for four legged creatures, including one named Frog.

And years later how I laughed when my brother Jason came home one evening to a simmering pot, helped himself to a bowl & said: That was yummy. 

I am not a male, I am not a real estate appraiser & I have no idea how to make a plum pudding. 

But today, I was John Chambless, making food for an old friend.

Cornstarch & Rachel's Mother

Memory is an elusive & lovely thing. A gift from the gods/goddesses.

And today after talking with my friend Rachel & learning that her mother was visiting, I remember a long day ago afternoon.

An afternoon when Rachel & I returned from wherever to find Rachel's mother (and a friend?) engrossed in the wonders of cornstarch. 

We fully participated in the exercise, letting our fingers draw down into the cornstarch, & then marveling when we could hit the surface. 

And find resistance. 

So, over the years, I have introduced people to the wonder of cornstarch. 

Dip you fingers in, let the mixture fall back & then try to abolish the surface. Or let the surface you disrupted by dipping in & letting it dribble back & finally dissolve into the whole of the original. 

This, my dearest Rachel, is one of the best memories I have.

Christmas Trees, Marguerite & Richard

As I put up the Christmas tree this year, hanging bits of pieces of my past, I think of Marguerite & Richard. 

I find a copy of The Night Before Christmas , given to my Alpha Son Nick by Richard's brother Bob that has hung some place on the tree since 1987.  Bob signed his mother Jean's name.  Jeano & Nick share the same birthday. 

And I long to hear someone's voice from the past. I call the number I find, thinking I might get Marguerite & I reach Richard.

I identify myself as Jaki Ettinger. Because I know that one might have many women & many friends with many variations of Jack, itself a derivation of John. 

And because one day, a long day ago, Richard told me that he had always thought I was unique, until he met someone, somewhere, who could be my twin. This removed all pretense I ever had that somehow in our old age, should Marguerite grow weary of Richard or predecease him, I could beat out their friend Janie for rights to succession. 

So I always identify myself when calling the Pulleys. 

Because apparently there are a lot of Jaki Jeans out there. 

Talking to Richard, and later Marguerite, was like coming home. They sound the same – so bright & witty & genuine. 

So much the friends who moved me from outside the Loop to Montrose, within walking distance of their home. 

I tried to explain to both of them why every year, as I put up the tree in which I place so much meaning, they are there, in my mind & in my heart. 

And in every explanation, I found myself inadequate. It is not about the fact that I have, over the years, collected ornaments by Gorham & Reed & Barton & Wedgewood & Waterford & Spode for my sons because I learned to recognize those brands with Marguerite or that I know how to identify an oyster fork because Marguerite showed me Jeano's silver or a really wonderful bargello needlepoint pattern because Richard created it to cover a chair. 

It is about memory & the love memory brings. 

About what my Christmas tree brings. Memories & love. 

Missing you, Maggie & Dick. Maybe next year I will invade your Christmas party.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the Houston Cougars & Seeing Red

As I watch this dance between the Houston Cougars & Southern Miss, knowing that the Cougars are the better team & do deserve this 13^th win, I am aware (without the omniscient diatribe of the sportscasters), that Southern Miss may be outplaying this very fine Cougar team.

And my heart breaks.  I pick up Marquez & read about a man who declares his love for a woman exactly "fifty one years, nine months & four days" after he first declared his devotion.

On the day of her husband's funeral.  And I think the same thing about Marquez's protagonist Florentino Ariza & the Houston Cougars:  Timing.  Timing is everything.

Coverage of the game annoys & infuriates me – even the local newscasters & sports enthusiasts seem to have forgotten that this team is not the first winning football team to come out of the University of Houston.  

 Like Florentino Ariza, the University of Houston has always been underestimated, its service to this community & its students never fully recognized.

Houston finally scores again & I think the Cougars are coming alive.  That the spirit of Bill Yeoman has left his body & invigorated them.  Yeoman, who broke a racial barrier in 1964 when he signed a black player on with a football scholarship; Yeoman, who led the Cougars to four Southwest Conference titles.

Southern Miss scores again & I think:  They want this more.  In a stadium built circa 1941, surrounded by enthusiastic fans outfitted in red & white.  Timing, I think, timing & wanting it more.

Again, Southern Miss scores & I can bear it no longer.  I return to Love in the Time of Cholera.

If I were there, in that stadium filled with red shirts, like Florentino Ariza, I would have stayed until the bitter end.  

But I am not there & I take up my book & look to Marquez to give me hope that love & wanting it more, can survive any time.

12 & 1 ain't bad.