Words That Can Haunt Me: Opulence

opulence: wealth, riches, or affluence. 

Until looking up opulence in the dictionary, my brain had always associated the word with something far beyond what the average person - like me - might call wealth. In my head, opulence conjured mind-boggling riches, not just affluence.  

Such was my frame of mind back in March at the Royal Palace of Madrid. As our guide walked us through just a few of the 3,418 rooms, I flashed back to a tour I'd taken many years ago of the stables at Buckingham Palace. For me, these places of opulence can be awe-inspiring and distancing in nearly equal measure. On both occasions, I had to consciously remind myself that I was fortunate being able to visit and learn a little history. That conscious reminder was the counterpoint to the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach during both experiences. Where has your mind wandered when you've been exposed to this kind of unimaginable luxury?   

In the months since that tour of the Royal Palace, I've been reflecting on the discomfort in my gut and what it says about me. Is part of it perhaps connected to a wondering about how a life of staggering opulence might have shaped me? Would I have ever realized I'd been born on third base or would I have just reflexively assumed I'd hit a triple? Back to the Buckingham Palace stables for a moment. Was it churlish of me to wonder how anyone - monarch or otherwise - can think it's OK to have a stable for one horse that is both larger and more lavishly outfitted than the average home for six on London's east side? 

But wonder I did all those years ago. And so went my mind - and my stomach - back in March at the Royal Palace. I suppose that's a partial explanation why the word opulence can haunt me, despite my own relative affluence. I suspect at least a few folks reading this might be groaning at my existential angst by now. For those folks - and others inclined to be awestruck by manmade wonders (vs. this privileged blogger's overthinking) - directly below is the Wikipedia link for the Royal Palace. Enjoy.  

Royal Palace of Madrid - Wikipedia

Words for the Ages, Line Forty-One

"It's strange, what desire will make foolish people do." 

Can I hear an "Amen"?  Despite its simplicity, that terse phrase from Chris Isaak's Wicked Game (1989) captures a universal truth. And it stands on its own; no rhyming couplet is required. These are words for the ages, no matter how straightforward.

In fact, I would argue Isaak could have easily left out the word "foolish". Certainly, the things that desire drive us to do can be foolish. And the consequences of those things often make us look foolish indeed. But wouldn't you agree that even reasonable people do foolish things under desire's influence? How many people have you known who've had their life upended by desire? For just a minute, put aside the things those people did. What percentage of those people would you have described as foolish before their desire took over?

Perhaps Isaak's timeless lyric is directing us to chicken and egg land. That is, was the person who succumbed already foolish enough that desire was more easily able to do its work? Or was the desire a force so intense that even a reasonable person would succumb?

A Not-So-Simple Story of Simple Assault

Fifteen years ago today, I was arrested for the first - and I trust the last - time in my life. It was not the first time in my life I'd ever broken the law, the subject of perhaps another visit to the bell curve confessional booth in the future. But it was the first time I'd ever been caught. The charge? Simple assault. The story? Not as simple. 

My wife, our niece, and our niece's friend were sitting at the bagel shop located a block from our home, a place we'd patronized regularly since moving to our current home about eighteen months before. A man who we later learned was known to the local police approached the three of them and quietly but menacingly scolded the friend to "...get your filthy feet off the chair..." My wife was so astounded by this man's temerity and the racial animus she detected when he spoke to our niece's friend that all she could think to do was ask "What did you just say?" When he repeated himself with equal venom in his voice - but still so quietly that only the three of them could hear - my wife threw the little bit of coffee remaining in her cup at him. He said, "That's assault, I'm going to have you arrested!". She replied, "Go ahead and try!" then stormed out of the shop with our niece and her friend close behind.

Here's where hot-headed Pat takes the stage. I pull into the bagel shop parking lot and am not yet even in a space when I see my obviously frightened wife hurrying toward the sidewalk, our niece and friend on her heels, the sneaky coward right behind the three of them. My car still idling, I have barely a second to ask "What's going on?" before my wife has time through her fear and anger to say something to me like "That man just said something ugly and racial ..." I quickly reverted to a primal state. All I could think to say before shoving this bully to the ground was "How dare you!" or something equally innocuous. Would I have done the same had I known there were police officers sitting in the bagel shop witnessing my impulsive spectacle? Can't say for sure. But I do know a few things that happened next even if some details are fuzzy and it still remains unclear exactly when I realized that both my wife and I were being arrested.

Step one: Thrown to the ground and handcuffed. Read my rights? Don't recall. Step two: Taken in a squad car to the station. My wife was allowed to drive herself and be booked. Later: Fingerprinted and told the charges. Lots of unexposed film for much of the rest of this story. However, I'd been at this blogging thing for about six months when this all went down. Consequently, I do have one piece of irrefutable evidence about my state of mind the next day.  

As the first cryptic post below will show, on August 16, 2011, I was sure I was out of the blogging business. Given the disaster scenarios that had played out in my head over the previous twenty-four hours - following what I now call the $4,000 bagel fiasco - on August 16, continuing to blog seemed like a preposterously silly and frivolous pursuit. Obviously, my retirement from blogging ended up being as short-lived as the ones threatened many times by Ol' Blue Eyes, as the second post below (from September 1) will also show. Although it took me fifteen years to be ready to fully confess here that foolish act on August 15, I'm still uncertain what Pat - circa 2011 - thought he would prove pushing that cretin to the ground.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: That's All, Folks!

Reflections from the Bell Curve: He's Baaaack

Celebrate With Us

Early today, while preparing for tonight's discussion, I was temporarily sidetracked thinking about the celebration planned to mark the 100th book my club has read since our maiden voyage in January 2017. Tonight's book - #99 - was Tar Baby (1981) by Toni Morrison. As usual, it was a stimulating, enriching discussion. Book #100 - A Marriage at Sea (2024) by Sophie Elmhurst - will be discussed at our September meeting. Then, that celebration. 

Since realizing months ago that this milestone was approaching, I've been vibrating with excitement, thinking of ways to try to make the event memorable. But even if my planning goes awry, how bad can it be to commune for an evening with other bookworms about our shared adoration of literature? Five of the people who will be at the celebration - including my partner of 48+ years - have been in the club from its inception. (That book - in case you're keeping track - was Founding Brothers (2000) by Joseph Ellis.) The rest of the folks who may attend the event? Mostly hardcore bibliophiles. How cool will this be? 

Though I haven't kept close track (honest!) for the nine + years the club has overlapped with my blog, I'd estimate I've published at least twenty-five posts about books the club has either read or is about to read. After all, I only publish about books that have moved me, the same criteria used for putting a book in the queue for the club. Most recently? The two posts directly below highlight the selections for September & December. If reading these posts whets your appetite enough to read either or both of these winners - or even if you're just thinking about reading one or both - consider yourself an ex-officio member of the club. And celebrate with us from wherever you are.  

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Being Truly Tested

Reflections from the Bell Curve: The Bee Sting

My Rogue Scholar Tribe (Redux)

I didn't fully appreciate how much my fourteen Rogue Scholar travelling companions had brought to my life until early today as my wife and I finished a Shutterfly project commemorating our adventures together. Though mentioned on this blog several times since we all met in Alaska in 2015, considering the riches this community has bestowed on me, I cannot overdo the tributes paid to them here.

Soon after our 2024 reunion in Rocky Mountain National Park, the group decided a celebration of our years together was in order. Two of us worked on crafting several questions for everyone to respond to in writing. The responses were then compiled into a final document and distributed to all. (Sample question: How did our time together add value to your life?) It was in the re-reading of the responses to those questions - and deciding which select few to include as text in the Shutterfly project - that my appreciation for my soulmates grew even deeper. One celebration response included a mention of every person in the group - by name - and how that person had enriched the author during our years together. The time put into that one response alone reminded me - again - of how grateful I am to have made these Act Three friendships. As another person said in a different celebratory response - What a gift!

How do you celebrate the people in your life who have given gifts comparable to those my Rogue Scholar tribe has given me?

A Private Life

Although I didn't thoroughly scour my archives to be 100% certain, I'm reasonably sure the time between my last post about a movie and today is the longest gap of its kind since I began reflecting from the bell curve fifteen + years ago. My recent ten+ weeks of movie silence here is not connected to the number of films I've sat through since late May when a re-watch of Fargo inspired a post. But not a single film since then spoke to this unrepentant movie geek like A Private Life did. Cinephiles: Put this one in your queue. 

Aside from Jodie Foster's predictably excellent performance - speaking in French throughout - what sets this 2025 movie apart from some of mediocre fare I've endured these last few months is its incisive script. As the film opens, Foster is experiencing personal challenges as well as setbacks in her professional life as a slightly aloof psychiatrist. The director and screenwriters then imbue that straightforward premise with astute insights about the stories we often create in an attempt to make sense of the things that happen to us. 

"Irony can be an effective way to avoid dealing with fear." I'm accustomed to capturing sharp phrases in my journal while reading. But I cannot readily recall the last time a line of movie dialogue that did not come from a book hit me with as much force as the one directly above. I felt compelled to write it down, much like when I'm reading. When did a line of movie dialogue recently do the same for you? 

I recommend A Private Life without reservation.

p.s. How refreshing it is to see a sixty-three-year-old movie star who looks sixty-three. On a parallel plane, not long ago I read a NY Times article about Jodie Foster. In that article, I recall her comment that having a personal assistant struck her as "... like having someone else living your everyday life ..." or words to that effect. Is it possible she is carefully curating a down-to-earth public persona? The cynic in me would be inclined to believe that but those lines in her face tell a different story.

Native American Day

Cinco de Mayo, Christmas, Columbus Day, Juneteenth, Martin Luther King Day, St. Patrick's Day, Veteran's Day, Yom Kippur. How is it that a day acknowledging the native people of this land of ours - with or without closing schools and the post office - has yet to enter the public conversation in any meaningful fashion? In my view, having to share a day with Columbus - although well meaning - is not adequate in redressing the egregious way native people have been treated here in "America". 

I'm as clueless about this long-running oversight as anyone. After all, on every August 1 since 2012 I've used my tiny spot in the blogosphere to promote the idea of celebrating something on this date to mark the otherwise barren month of August. But until earlier today the idea of a Native American Day did not occur to me.    

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Still Closing the Gap

In my meager defense, I can only offer the gaps in my education. And though I've tried to surmount some of those gaps in recent years - the subject of the 2023 post above - doing so will remain a work in progress for all the time left to me. 

I've had fun dreaming up ideas for a national holiday on this date for fifteen years. National Book Day, National Gratitude Day, and last year's National Technology Turnoff Day are a few of my whimsical favorites from earlier iterations. Today's notion to mark August 1 as Native American Day is more earnest. I know I'm not alone in thinking an acknowledgment of this kind is long overdue. Join me.

A Pledge to Respond in Kind

Thinking back on your life, what have you accomplished that continues to give you significant satisfaction? For the purposes of today's thought experiment, I'm requesting parents put aside - just this time - the most obvious answer, i.e., your children. What might be the next thing that comes most readily to mind?

Although the years spent teaching guitar to my youngest nephew is not the next thing that comes most readily to my mind, the sense of accomplishment I get listening to him play is up there. I suspect the fact that he's getting married this coming weekend contributed to this Act Three-ish reflection popping up recently. I mean, it's difficult imagining someone still in Act Two - that is, someone not likely to have a twenty-something youngest nephew - spending much time on a thought experiment like this. After all, while in Act Two, most of us on the bell curve are still working at the big stuff, aren't we? But when we're in Act Three - or like me, quite a bit along into Act Three and watching the youngest members of our extended families starting adult life - isn't it predictive for us to be looking back at accomplishments, at least occasionally? 

So, when this reflection first began percolating weeks ago, the first thing I did was capture in my journal several things that came to mind, including that time spent teaching guitar to my nephew. Next, I did what I almost always do. I asked my ideal reader and partner of forty-eight + years to respond to today's thought experiment. Though unsurprised that her instinctive response was our daughter, I asked her to dig deeper, just as I'm asking you to do. Her "secondary" answers gratified her and reminded me of significant pieces of her legacy. I'm guessing the same could be true for some of you. I hope a few of you will share something here. To anyone who does, I pledge to respond by sharing a different accomplishment of mine, another from that same journal entry, the petri dish for this post. 

The Bee Sting

Over my reading life, I've enjoyed a fair number of novels that exceeded 500 pages. But I can readily recall only a handful that held me end-to-end like The Bee Sting (2023). Weeks later, I remain astonished that Paul Murray was able to sustain enough narrative momentum over 643 pages that I was never once out of his spell. His tragi-comic tale of a family trying to find its way is a literary marvel.

"...and she feels a kind of worn happiness like they are normal."

Given her dire upbringing, Imelda Barnes has always yearned for a normal life. Her husband Dickie has spent his life struggling trying to land on what is normal, a struggle that intensified the day he and Imelda were married, her face marred by a mysterious bee sting. Their teenage daughter Cassandra envisions normal life as something to be found in Dublin, living with her friend Elaine, far from the small town where both of them have lived since childhood. And twelve-year-old PJ's vision of normal toggles from the virtual world of video games to a texting bond he's formed with someone who wants to show him around Dublin to the bunker he and his father - along with a cranky survivalist - are building in a clearing on the Barnes's property. 

I offer that taste hoping it might tempt some reader(s) to try the full meal. If you do, please remember to check back in with me when you finish. I sincerely want to hear your thoughts about this book.

In the meanwhile, tell me this: What was the last novel of over 500 pages you finished that held you like The Bee Sting held me? 

p.s. Thank you to Ann Patchett - via her weekly podcast - for directing me to this winner. 

Another Skirmish with Technology

It's been a week since my latest skirmish with technology. Though I acknowledge the benefits modern technology can deliver, the snafus that routinely occur using it can be infuriating. What happened in your most recent skirmish? I hope you were alone when things went technologically awry. I was not.

 

The day before sound-check went smoothly. And looking around the auditorium before beginning my presentation entitled The Magical Musical Mystery Tour I felt prepared, comfortable in a nice space that I'd used previously, and pleased to see at least fifteen familiar faces scattered throughout the nice-sized audience. 

But as the first stanza of Please, Please Me played, I could hear something was off. I've listened to that jewel more times than I can count and immediately noticed that both the propulsive rhythm guitar interlude between the first two lines of the stanza and George Harrison's brief guitar obbligato preceding the first refrain were seriously muted over the house sound system. I said nothing to the audience and quickly discounted it as a fluke with the first song. Twenty-three more Beatles gems still to go - with plenty to point out to the audience about each - over the next ninety minutes. Things would work out.

If only. By the middle of the second song, it was clear to me - if not to most of the audience - that this glitch was going to be with me, in varying degrees, for the rest of the night. In several cases, I was unable to make the pertinent musical distinctions I wanted to make because those distinctions were lost somewhere in the technological void between the playlist on my phone and the house sound system. In Rain, Ringo's explosive drumming was nearly inaudible. In Fixing a Hole, the harpsichord accompanying Paul McCartney's vocal was totally inaudible. Piano for the entire length of While My Guitar Gently Weeps? Missing. As you can probably guess, I could go on. 

Though all of this was out of my control, I apologized several times and was later admonished for overdoing the apology bit. Most of the people who spoke with me afterwards - or since - were kind, saying they enjoyed the presentation despite my difficulties. Others assured me they might not have noticed the glaring sound gaps had I not drawn attention to them. Am I evolved enough to say those kindnesses and reassurances - true or not - have helped me extract a lasting lesson from this fiasco? I am not. Above all, what remains with me a week later is an abiding frustration with technology. 

Catnip

Had someone asked me weeks ago if any reader of this blog had ever noticed a thematic similarity between any two of my posts, I would've laughed. I was reasonably confident any redundancy of mine would bypass even faithfully attentive readers. After all, having published almost 2700 posts since March 2011, there have been several instances when I could not recall something I'd written about until some relic had somehow been disinterred from my archives. I suspect the same may be true for anyone who has been at this blogging gig as persistently as I have. Though I use the search engine diligently to help me avoid repeating myself, every tool has limits.  

So, when a recent comment pointed out overlap between two recent posts mentioning my current East vs. West Coast dilemma, what happened? In a span of minutes, I was chastened I'd covered similar territory in a matter of weeks, flabbergasted someone had actually picked up on it, and finally, thrilled that same someone was paying attention. Fragile ego? Guilty as charged. In my defense? Name a single writer - famous or not - who doesn't want their work to reach people, however marginally. Catnip.

Special thanks to that reader for the comment; made my month. 

Focusing on Hope

Although it can be easy to get demoralized about certain aspects of modern-day life - e.g., climate change denial, the mainstreaming of hate by divisive celebrity pundits, the disinformation assault of social media - in the end, doing so is a choice. Isn't it vital to continually remind ourselves that making a choice to focus on things that give us hope is much healthier - for us, for our loved ones, for the world? What did you most recently focus on that lifted you? 

No matter what kind of day or week I'm having, each time I see a streetside lemonade stand being run by a group of children, my heart fills with optimism. How can anyone resist being touched by those handmade signs? How about the way the kids beckon cars and cyclists for business by waving or sometimes even shouting? For me, this kind of innocence is infectious. Even when I'm running late or not thirsty, I try to pull over. Almost always, while doing business with them, I'm beguiled by these young entrepreneurs. And I drive or ride away smiling.

 

My sisters and I had more than one streetside lemonade stand when we were kids. My daughter set one up right in front of our first house when she was in third or fourth grade. Her business partners were some of the kids from the neighborhood. When some kids across the street from my current home began setting up their stand recently - with the same kind of folding table you see almost every time - I began re-living both my own experiences and my daughter's. It felt wonderfully familiar and reassuring. I purposefully avoided listening to the news that day.

It's Complicated (Even with Limited Rainy Days Left)

What word or expression would you say most closely describes your relationship with money? For me? It's complicated. 

My complicated relationship with money began, in part, thanks to an incessant parental refrain I heard from early childhood through adolescence - "Be sure to save for a rainy day!" There's no blame attached to this recollection. Given what my parents endured as teenagers at the height of the Great Depression - hardships I cannot begin to comprehend - their rainy-day mantra was understandable. But when combined with their oft-repeated claim that their biggest disagreements were about money - specifically how to stretch each paycheck while raising four children - the messaging I internalized was bound to complicate my attitude about money. I was also taught - as I'm confident many of you were - that talking about money, especially how much you make, was impolite. More complications. 

Inheriting the legacy of my parent's dire experiences living through an economic apocalypse was only the beginning. With that foundation, I moved into my undergraduate years in the late 60s and, for better or worse, embraced the ethos of anti-materialism that suffused much campus life at the time. Over those impressionable years, I found myself most drawn to folks who treated money as a means to an end, not as an end in itself. All my tribe knew we would eventually have to make a living but we spent more time, more energy, and had a lot more conversations about how to make a life and how to avoid having our things own us vs. the other way around. That idealism informed my decisions back then and continued doing so for the coming decades. A by-product of that? More complications, as mature adult life and the necessity for making enough money to support a child into her young adult years became my highest priority. Included in that equation? A pledge that she would finish college with no debt. More rainy day saving, minimal spending on self, complications.  

At 76+ years old, I want for nothing and can afford to do much of what I want.  And the number of potential rainy days left to me to save for is no longer a factor. Why then does my relationship with and attitude about money still bedevil me? What prevents me - aside from stubborn habit - from spending money on myself whenever the spirit moves me? It's complicated.

Challenging the Big Three, Work, & OPS

How many times have you found yourself in a conversation about food at the same time you were sharing a meal with somebody? I'm not necessarily talking about the food you were eating at the time, but just about food in general. Given the critical social role food plays in our lives, it's predictive for conversations to often go this way. Think about your last five conversations. How many - sharing a meal aside - have touched on food at some point? 

Soon after this exact thing happened recently while having dinner with new friends, I began reflecting on other predictive conversational topics. Asked to estimate, what percentage of the conversations in your life would you say have NOT involved either food, the weather, or family? Which topic would you say occupies the next highest spot after those big three? Work, perhaps? I suspect work could be up there, especially for those of you having a higher-than-average share of troublesome colleagues. I know during my full-time working years - particularly when I supervised people - talking about work happened more frequently than I wanted. 

With my full-time work years behind me and Act Three well on its way, I'm confident in asserting that ailments have taken the place of work as a reliable - if tiresome - conversational standby. Still, there's no question in my mind that ailments of every stripe - what my wife calls OPS (i.e., Old People Shit) - continue to lag behind the big three. How about some of you from my Act Three cohort? How regularly do your conversations travel mindlessly down OPS Road? Have your complaints approached or surpassed the big three for conversational airtime? 

Final questions. Which conversational topics would you welcome being more regularly introduced into your life? The topics you select don't necessarily have to supplant any or all of the big three - I'm guessing that scenario is highly unlikely - but wouldn't you welcome shifting that percentage around a bit? What prevents any of us from doing the introducing?  

A Perpetual Gift

Of the benefits connected to my reading life after retiring, being newly exposed to a large number of great authors clearly tops the list. I'm most indebted to one individual for this significant enhancement in my reading life - the moderator of the first book club I ever joined. Over the sixteen years I've known her, only a handful of authors she has introduced to me haven't earned a spot on my list of keepers. And I've returned to several from that list - William Boyd, Louise Erdrich, Colm Tóibín - multiple times, without being disappointed. Readers: Have you got someone like this in your life? If yes, when did you most recently acknowledge the perpetual gift that person gives to you?

Which brings me to Lauren Groff. Strictly speaking, it was a different reading soulmate who first pointed me toward this prodigiously talented young-ish (born 1978) author. But from there the story repeatedly circles back to my friend of sixteen years. When I mentioned to her my admiration for Groff's 2016 novel Fates and Furies, she suggested we immediately slot it in for our next 1x1 book discussion. Turns out she'd read several of Groff's short stories in The New Yorker and admired them, much as I'd admired Fates and Furies. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 21st Century Couples

Five years later, for the first time - at my friend's urging - we violated a norm we'd established at the inception of our book club of two. We picked a novel by an author we'd previously read - Matrix (2021) by Lauren Groff. Wow, what a ride that was. Since then, Groff's name has surfaced several times in our book-soaked interactions, including me attending a short story class my friend taught, extolling Groff as a modern-day master of the form. Did I mention my friend's evangelism compelled me to pick up Groff's collection of stories entitled Florida (2023)? Holy shit. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Delayed Empathy

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Darn Her, Anyway

At this point, I'm guessing you'll know who crossed my mind a few weeks back when still another bookworm offered to loan me Groff's latest collection of short stories - Brawler (2026). And as I was being pummeled by Groff's gift, again, who did I think of? If you've got a fellow bibliophile who has brought as much to your reading life as my friend has to mine, I sincerely hope you'll let them know. 

Upcoming Semi-Compulsory Viewing

If you're the kind of viewer who enjoys following a mini-series from its outset, be on the lookout for the debut episode of Ride or Die - starring Octavia Spencer and Hannah Waddingham - streaming on Amazon beginning Wednesday July 15. If you don't mind jumping into a series after it begins or you're not much of a TV person, I urge you to mark Wednesday August 19 on your calendar. That's the night episode #6 of this new series will be shown, if you decide not to binge beforehand.  

I'm drawing your attention to this in the hope you'll celebrate with me as the top name - of three - scrolls by in the opening writer's credit for this particular episode. Like most, my daughter's career has had its share of victories and defeats. And this series - her first experience working in a writer's room after her move to LA a few years back - was frustrating and satisfying in nearly equal measure.

But the sequel to this story is happy enough to make this crowing father even more obnoxiously proud. Today, my daughter and her writing/directing partner started work on season two of Ride or Die, already renewed before season one begins. Keep your fingers crossed for syndication, please. In the meanwhile, I'll keep you informed about which episodes in season two will have her name at the top of the writing credits. Count on it.   

     

Where My Heart Is

"LA's fine but it ain't home, New York's home but it ain't mine no more."

Early in my young adult years as an itinerant musician, I took up temporary residence in Los Angeles, the only extended period of my life when I've actually lived outside of New Jersey. For several reasons, LA and I were not a good fit, which made my return to my beloved home state quite welcome. My unease with LA life in the early 70s also helped to permanently cement Neil Diamond's clever phrase from I Am, I Said into my lyric-addled brain. 

More than a half-century later - with visits to my new grandson in Los Angeles a regular occurrence - that lyric now fits me even more snugly. I like it OK out here - that tired and anodyne adjective "fine" is perfect, actually - but I still have trouble picturing myself feeling settled in LA. Great weather, nice vibe, ocean nearby, what's not to love? And if that hoary cliche is at all accurate and home is where the heart is, at present, LA holds many of the winning cards. 

Still, hard to predict if the desirable elements and those winning cards will persuade us to re-locate. In the meanwhile, this week the little man and I are perfecting drum interludes from Wipeout, analyzing the cinematography of Citizen Kane, and translating The Odyssey from the ancient Greek. Stay tuned for regular updates. 

Dear Edward

It would be reassuring to know my circuitous journey with Ann Napolitano's 2020 novel Dear Edward sounds even marginally similar to a journey one or more of you have had in your life with a book. If that's the case, please make a comment here or otherwise reach out to me. The story of my journey with this book will make this post longer than my norm. I hope you'll indulge me. 

June 2: I'm drawn in immediately by the intriguing epigraph, then fully immersed for over 100 pages. I stop reading just before Act Two begins, although the book's three act structure is not clear to me until my subsequent sittings on June 3 -5. (Important: As has been my practice for over sixteen years, before starting, I'd read no reviews of the book and purposefully avoided even glancing at the book jacket or reading the blurbs on the front or back cover. My intent since beginning this new-to-me practice in 2010: To enter every reading experience as a tabula rasa so that my opinion of what I read is - as near as is possible - entirely my own.)

June 3-5: The masterful way Napolitano executes the central conceit of her book - toggling between a flight from Newark to LAX vs. Edward's life from twelve-sixteen - captivates and propels me through all three acts over four consecutive reading days. The author's muscular but unshowy prose prompts me to copy numerous passages. Particularly poignant are the "Dear Edward" letters that Edward's uncle had been hiding from him, letters that Edward discovers about halfway through the book, thanks to help he gets from his friend and next-door neighbor Shay. As I finish the book on June 5, I'm uncertain about the epilogue. I decide to postpone writing an entry in my book journal or publishing a blog post about the novel until I'm closer to deciding how the epilogue has landed with me. In the meanwhile, I give it the highest possible rating on Goodreads, i.e., five stars. 

Early a.m., June 12: Still unsure about the epilogue, I begin - but don't complete - my book journal entry. A few excerpts = "...a moving and straightforward novel; one of the best of its type I've finished in a while...", "...I was riveted without exception...", "...excellent...".

Later a.m., June 12: Book in hand, I attend a meeting and unexpectedly run into a friend whose taste in literature I hold in high esteem. I mention having recently finished Dear Edward and ask if she's read it; she says no. But her unfiltered flip dismissal catches me off guard. "A book club book, mainstream". The plot now thickens a little. Given my lingering uncertainty about the epilogue, I start questioning myself, wondering if five stars was premature. Did I perhaps miss some glaring author missteps or overlook some cliched bestseller/mainstream tropes?    

June 13: Book journal entry - part 2 - starts when I copy the jacket, adding my usual {bracketed} asides to help cement key plot points in my mind. And then a peculiar thing begins to happen. I start finding flaws in the novel, ones that did not occur to me as the propulsive page-turning story swept me along. There is little doubt that my conversation on June 12 is contributing to my shift. This troubles me. Am I that malleable? My book journal entry remans incomplete. Final sentence that day: "Unsure where I'll go next when I attempt to finish this (now) ambivalent entry."

June 24: It's now been almost three weeks since I finished Dear Edward, with my waffling continuing to block me from completing my book journal entry. But the story and Napolitano's delivery of it will not leave me alone. Each time I re-read a copied passage or sentence, I am moved anew.  

A.M. June 25: I meet that same friend and discerning reader for a discussion about a different book. When the notion of time as a construct arises in our discussion of that book, Dear Edward comes back to me full force. I vaguely recall the final sentences of Napolitano's novel - in the epilogue - which takes place when Edward is nineteen. Didn't this gifted author skillfully allude to that same construct in the closing? I re-borrow the book from the library just to be sure. And here it is; we're now approaching the end of my circuitous journey:

"Shay is the girl wearing pajamas with pink clouds on them the first time he entered her room, and she is the woman who will give birth to their daughter ten years from now, and she is the young woman, her face wide open, offering him everything. Edward hears his brother's voice inside him; Jordan tells him not to waste any time. Not to waste any love. He watches Shay lean in his direction, and when she kisses him, she blots out the entire sky."  There's much more where that came from; I plan to share more with you in a near-future (and shorter) blog post about this exceptional book, one I've now concluded is worthy of the exclamation accompanying a five-star Goodreads rating: "It was amazing!"    

P.M. June 25: Book journal entry completed. A book club book? I'm still unclear what that actually means. Mainstream? Perhaps, but who cares? Would this unapologetic snob - one who fancies himself a fan of literary fiction - recommend it? Without question. End of journey.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: A Hard Book Can Be Good To Find 

        

    

76 vs. 67

The last time I reversed the digits of my age to use in a post was early in my blog's lifespan when I published 61? or ... 16? in July 2011. Months ago, a faithful reader stumbled across that relic in my archive, prompting me to re-visit this particular thought experiment, especially because it will be easier to recall specifics of my life from a distance of just nine years vs. forty-five. I hope you'll join me today and have some fun with this, regardless of the way your reversed digits fall. 

(If you are someone who journals and you retain your old ones, why not take a peek and see what you were up to at that earlier point in your life? That is, provided the reversal sends you back in time. If the reversal instead sends you forward, why not conjecture what you'll be up to at the older age the reversal places you? For those in double digit territory - 33, 55, 77 - or those with a "0" as your second digit, use your imagination. You don't expect me to do all the work, do you?)

* At 67, I started my own book club. Next January, the club will celebrate its tenth anniversary. And in September of this year, the club will reach another milestone - our 100th book. 

* Over the span of my 67th year, with a good friend's help, the first critical phase of a long-postponed project - my daughter recording eight of my original songs - was finished. The completed CD with overdubs, mixed and mastered, was held off for release to coincide with my 70th birthday. Directly below is a link to Bandcamp, a music site you can visit if you'd care to listen to one or more of the tunes. Lyrics are included. 

Til There Were Two | Patrick Barton

* At 67, I met the young man who would become my son-in-law approximately five years later. He is a welcome addition to my family and now the father to my beloved grandson.

Please join me in this thought experiment. When I'm 78, I'll try to remember to repeat the experiment a third and final time; forces my hand to project forward to my 87th year. a more daunting prospect for sure.  

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 61? or...16?  

Words for the Ages, Line Forty

"The older I get, the less I need."

Since the 2017 inception of this series, I've been on the lookout for terse lyrical phrases like that, words that are able to stand on their own, i.e., they're not dependent on the rhymes accompanying them to complete the thought. The lyric above - from a 2025 Mary Chapin-Carpenter song entitled Girl and Her Dog - satisfies those simple requirements. I've never been overly concerned about selecting lyrics that might strike others as capital "P" profound. For me, the most critical element is how well a lyric succinctly captures an essential and timeless truth. That is, are these words for the ages? 

The essential truth of those eight words struck me almost from the moment I first heard Carpenter sing them. Then as weeks went by, a question - one even simpler than the lyric that prompted it - would not let me go. What do any of us really need? I decided then that any lyric reminding me of Abraham Maslow's groundbreaking work on the hierarchy of needs is clearly worth memorializing here, profound or not. 

And that brought me full circle back to a central motivation for starting my blog fifteen+ years ago. From the start, I've aimed these reflections at the 98% of us who do not reside on either far end of the bell curve. We are neither fabulously famous nor we will ever end up in jail. We have more in common than not. We want to love and be loved. We want to take care of our families. We want to make a small difference in the world. We enjoy many of the same things. Those are the things I try to write about here - most of the time - hoping to engage you in some fashion.    

Maslow's hierarchy of needs - Wikipedia