Reading at bookstore is one week from today and I’m sick to death of promoting myself.
So while supposedly creating yet another post to promote my book, I ended up getting lost in some old pix from South Carolina.
Pictures include: Newtonville Books, bullrush and Sweetgrass baskets, Boone Hall, Magnolia Plantation, Drayton Hall, Aiken Rhett House, marsh where Wappoo was located, Cawcaw interpretive center marsh, bulletin boards (Sargent painting, Mahershala Ali, Chiwetel, Ejiofor) and a few collages (couple incorporating the Door of No Return, Ghana). Angel Oak.
You can walk into any independent bookstore and ask them to order my book, THE WEIGHT OF CLOTH, but I’m nevertheless approaching a few shops with gift copies and correspondence. I couldn’t make the local author spiel with Boulder Bookstore, but I did write this:
Born and (mostly) raised in Massachusetts, I have decades-long ties to Boulder. Currently, my younger son is attending CU. He’s lived in and around Boulder for over 10 years. My father-in-law attended CU on the G.I. bill and his sister got a degree from CU as well. My brother-in-law earned his PhD there and it was during his tenure that I began visiting Boulder Bookstore in the late 80’s with my husband. It’s a must-stop when we’re in town and one of my favorite bookstores, period.
If you haven’t see this photo from my local bookstore yet, then all three of you take note. These are two Newtonville Books employees revealing their top picks for 2024.
Last week, we visited Boulder Bookstore twice. The first time I asked for the name of the person in charge of adult acquisitions and before leaving I couldn’t help but notice a big empty space next to the new Elizabeth Strout novel.
I must’ve eaten my Wheaties the morning I wrote an email to the person in charge of adult acquisitions, because I included the split screen below, saying Just kidding. But not really.
On the second visit, I dropped off a copy of the book with a Promo Sheet. It was nice how much my son D wanted to be a part of this. As it turned out the guy in charge was on vacation, but I talked to a co-worker and watched as he put the book on the right desk.
Boulder is well-known for its pedestrian mall on Pearl Street. On our last visit, it was close to the time of lockdown. They’d extended the traffic-free area by several blocks and all the restaurants offered outdoor seating.
A much different scene this time. For the days on either side of New Year’s Eve, it was pretty deserted. But before we left, people returned and it got a little livelier.
We were very sorry, though, to see that the Artists Cooperative had disappeared.
Ken sits in the warm light of a floor lamp, reading. That’s my husband. Hair mussed. Intent. He brought slippers. I brought flip-flops.
The Airbnb checks the important boxes. Welcome snacks and coffee. A bouquet of red carnations. Extra towels. A drawer full of spices. Reading lights at every seat. Power strips, galore! Did I mention a drawer full of spices? Olive oil.
We wandered around CU campus one day. There are so many new buildings, I struggled to partner what I was seeing with memory.
As for geology, the Flatirons are one of Boulder’s most distinctive features. How they show up between buildings in the near distance, disappear, and then show up again is both surprising and wonderful. They’re an imposing reminder that we are, in fact, at the foothills of the Rockies.
There’s one of them below — woman in long white parka for scale.
Boulder is a dog town. Climbing the path at Chautauqua, were we the only ones without a one? Close. The climb was moderate but I was huffing and puffing. “It’s the altitude,” I asserted.
Ken scoffed, but I turned and waved at the view below us. “It’s at least 400 additional feet.”
The afternoon light at Chautauqua offered visual glory: slabs of shadow, illegible foregrounds, clouds trying to tell us something. I took a lot of pictures.
“I could die here and I wouldn’t mind.“
Husband: “Well, I’d mind. I’d have to carry you down.“
Dinner at The Boulderado. It’s an old place, a hotel. In all our years of visiting Boulder, we’d never set foot inside. From the Airbnb, it’s a 10 minute walk and in the crisp air of late December it feels good. I forgot my gloves.
I also forgot my Daily Pages, so I’m writing in an errand/reminder notebook — in between independent bookstore addresses, random passwords, instructions on how to sign in to cure ballots in Nevada. Sigh. I’m not over it. I’ll never be over it.
December 31 — breakfast at Foolish Craig’s. I ask our cute Gen Z waiter, “How are the grits here?”
“Well, my mother’s from Mississippi, so let’s just say they’re good-for-Colorado grits.”
But it turns out they’re awful with a gross tapioca-like consistency.
I’m honest with him. “I’ve been to Mississippi, Alabama, and South Carolina, and these are something, but they’re not grits.”
So now you know, I’m a grits snob. Honestly, the grits I make at home are better. A lot better.
Lest you think me unpleasant, I refused a swap out for home fries and said the delicious sandwich was gonna be enough (and it was — sausage and egg on brioche with pickled red onions — wow).
When asked what we were doing for New Year’s Eve, I tell him, “Snacks and Beyonce Bowl.”
“Nice!”
I feel seen. Partly because Ken has no idea what Beyonce Bowl is.
I’m wandering a little befuddled at times. I almost don’t recognize Boulder. Is it because we’re staying north of Pearl on 18th St. instead of on Arapahoe somewhere? Or maybe sleep deprivation is getting to me.
Or maybe it’s the overlay of an imagined city. For a couple of years, I wrote many fictional scenes set here. Contemporary scenes, set during lockdown. There’s a band of wild women who appear and disappear, all wearing orange linen tunics. They show up in the fields near Chautauqua or over by the library, and they dance. Wild ecstatic dancing. And then they melt back into the landscape. Nobody knows where they go. Nobody knows who they are, even. Maybe if we tool over to Boulder Creek and campus, the imaginal map and the real one will overlap? (Yes, they did — to my great relief).
Notes written on New Year’s Day 2025: Who goes there? What ghost? What friendly ancestor or malignant spy from the future? We have our work cut out for us. Number one, learn to run alongside the apathy and despair. Number two, stop telling yourself nothing you do matters. Number three, self-care. Number four, write.
For for instance, write about the Irish psychology of sabotage.
(Wait. Haven’t I already?)
I enter the New Year with some of the usual questions. What do we share online and why (like this endless post)? Do we spill? How much is revelation and how much curation? I’ve often thought over the years that absent social media I’d be more productive or maybe even, happier. More contained, certainly.
Hard to say. I value the visual record. I love my online friends.
Speaking of online friends, this is directed to you. Last night, I dreamt that Jude was highlighting Saskia. She’d figured out how to animate Saskia’s extraordinary inked creatures. I was amazed. “Saskia will be famous now,” I think and also feel a little jealous.
Note: Saskia tells me she has animated her work. So maybe in the dream, that’s what Jude is sharing? In any case, here’s the link:
The Boston skyline to our right, a smudge of grey Legos. We rise into the foggy sky. Nothing to see. The roar asserts itself. And my prayer: Hail Mary, full of grace, etc. The window brightens. The child near it speaks, the innocent pitch of three years old? Four?
I forgot to text the boys a photo of where our estate binder lives. Four plane crashes this week – or is it five? – make this thought less casual than usual.
My knee socks sag into my ankle and a cold air blows on my skin. I’d ask for a blanket, but these days an airline blanket is about as warming as a big Kleenex. Next to me: a story about Santa. The father‘s voice a cocoon. I remember cocooning. Entertaining. Teaching while at it because, you know, language. Our four-year-old would’ve carried a Pikachu, not whatever yellow stuffed critter this boy has.
I’m waiting for our ascent to yield a view of the blue sky. Cold air blowing. Full of grace. Hallowed be thy name. Four hours, says the pilot. When we see the Rockies, it’ll be time to land. My ears squeak and the noise increases. We climb.
More ear crackles.
Jimmy Carter died yesterday. He was my first vote for president. I’m sad – beyond sad – that he didn’t live to see Harris elected. There’s some small measure of relief in knowing that he will lie in state while Biden is still governing – not that vulgar, greasy, venal, egomaniacal dick we shall soon call president. Can they bar the pig’s attendance, I wonder (on behalf of 74 million people)? The Lord is with me. Jimmy and Rosalyn together again is a nice thought, one being shared online by plenty of non-believers, I suspect.
The window brightens. But no, the child pulls the shade down. His little checkered slide-on Vans break my heart just a little. How time flies and all that. My heart will break more fully later on.
For now I am distracted by the lug of a guy behind me who seems to be fishing rather frequently through the pouch attached to my chair. Wait, did he just lean his head into my chair? I’m reminded of the flying scene in LAST HOLIDAY when Queen Latifah faces a similar problem. “How much for the damn cocoon?”
It wasn’t a particularly festive holiday this time around. There was a kind of relief in the quiet, but also curiosity about the flat mood.
I’m not sure it would’ve been apparent to an onlooker — the tree lit up, cookies baked, a holiday meal. There was even, against recent years’ expectation, snow. But it all felt dull. It was as if I’d set a timer and was waiting for it to run out – not to get to that magical moment but rather to get on with whatever’s next.
Whatever’s next is where the Catholic prayers belong. Now and at the hour of our death.
Turning my head the other way, there it is at last – blue sky, white cotton balls below. We’re above the clouds! How the miracle of aviation never disappoints!
Hours later, closer by — window shade slid back open. The landscape below is patchworked brown, here and there a snaking curl of water catching the sun. We see roads, chips of cars, and now and then, buildings. The landscape is brown, brown, brown. I crane my neck. I can see the Rockies now. In the year 2024, almost 2025, they are snow-capped.
Peppa the Pig plays endlessly on a device on the boy’s lap. We are into hour four, remember. His father points out the window, but the kid could care less. His favorite episode ends. “Again!” he demands.
A corn maze appears, Mile High Farms carved into its gold crop — just for our viewing it would appear (well, and all the drones invading our airspace). “Again!” pipes the Vans-clad boy.
Denver shows up. More distant gray Legos. The ears begin to pop. “Again!” As a parent, I get it — keep them distracted, for everyone’s sake. But to have trained a little brain to crave a cartoon pig to the exclusion of looking out of an airplane window? I can’t stop thinking about it.
When the screen finally goes dark, my four year-old fellow traveler falls to pieces. Completely disregulated. Does the maelstrom of shrieks prove the wisdom of having Peppa the Pig on endless loop? I don’t think so. Over and over the boy screams: I peed my pants! I have to pee right now! I peed my pants! I have to pee right now!
