Literary Love Affairs, Part I: Or Why I Talk to Squirrels

San Diego Momma’s second PrompTuesday of 2009 is a doozy. She’s asking us what our favorite book is and why.

Book. Did you catch that? Singular.

I balked. I panicked. I told her it was like having a lifelong nymphomaniac choose her favorite lover. Completely, utterly, impossible. Then I closed my browser window and went about my business. But the question kept nagging. I thought about how seemingly insurmountable tasks can be made manageable when broken down into smaller tasks. It would be perfectly legitimate to break one’s life as a reader down into small pieces and select a favorite book for each phase of one’s life, wouldn't it? Yes. Hence this first installment of what may be a completely tedious exercise in literary navel-gazing. Let's call this:

Part One: The Dr. Seuss Years

My mother got me started early in my book addiction by signing me up for one of those children’s book-of-the-month clubs. I remember being so excited every time one of the flat cardboard boxes arrived. The very first one was Dr. Seuss’s One Fish, Two Fish. I liked Dr. Seuss well enough, but his books were never entirely satisfying to me. He may be a national institution, but let’s face it, there’s not a whole lot going on there in terms of story. I had pretty much outgrown the Dr. even before Kindergarten.

Ingeniously, these book clubs send out books of ever-increasing complexity to keep pace with a child’s anticipated reading level. When then the actual story books with plotlines and conflict and only one illustration for every two pages started arriving in the mailbox, they were a revelation. Now those were the books that hooked me. Those were the books that fired my imagination and fed my pretend games. Those were the books like Miss Suzy (Miriam Young and Arnold Lobel).

I know. You have probably never heard of it, and it’s a crying shame. It’s marvelous. You see, there’s this little squirrel. She wears an apron and lives in a tree. She is house-proud, very much like my mother, and keeps a tidy little home there. One day, some mean, nasty red squirrels invade her home and throw her out. She runs away into the attic of the house nearby. Stored in the attic, are a brigade of toy soldiers and a perfectly squirrel- sized doll house. She befriends the soldiers and takes up residence in the doll house. Finally, she tells the soldiers about her old home in the tree, which she misses terribly, and they decide to help her get it back.

I loved, loved, loved that book. It had everything my little 5 year old heart could want: a fluffy, anthropomorphic squirrel, a doll house, a mysterious attic, and the kind of righting of wrongs that my overdeveloped sense of justice often demands of literature even to this day. (More on that in subsequent installments.)

There came an afternoon, when I was in Junior High, when my mother suggested giving all of my “kid’s books” to my nephew. I thought about it for a few seconds, as shocked by the suggestion as by my own reaction to it -- books being so very precious, after all. It took a moment, but I decided that my little baby nephew was at least as precious and absolutely deserving of my beloved books. I answered that, yes, he could have everything EXCEPT a Child’s Garden of Verses, and Miss Suzy. Miss Suzy I was perfectly willing to read to him myself, but she would forever remain indisputably mine.

I have her still.

Mini-Vacation

Weekends.

I believe, that as much as circumstances allow, each and every weekend should be embraced as the mini-vacation it is. My husband, on the other hand is rather more industrious than I think one ought to be between 5pm Friday and 10pm on Sunday. I understand that there are always things that need doing for which our workaday lives often do not leave room. Typically such tasks involve pruning shears, paintbrushes, and. . . uh-oh! I do believe I just heard a saw outside.

I am afraid to check. I don't want to get involved.

After all, it's Saturday, it's very hot, and I'm on a mini-vacation.

At least for as long as I can get away with it.

If you need me, I'll be on the sofa with a pillow behind my back, an iced coffee and a good book. I say that, of course, hoping you won't need me.

Of Monsters and Very Large Feet

For as long as I can remember I have fallen in love with monsters.

Literary, rather than literal, of course.

I am sure it began with the fairy-tale variety; with beasts, frogs and bears who were really princes in disguise. Add to that a lifelong diet of classics in which nobles behave monstrously and presumed monsters are revealed as truly noble. Now, it is safe to say my girlish infatuation has deepened into a love for the ages.

So today it is reported that a mythical monster for our modern world may have been discovered in the Georgia woods. I am naturally skeptical, but oh my stars, I don’t want to be.

The story is that two men who lead bigfoot tracking expeditions, claim to have found the body of a hairy, 500 pound, 7 foot 7 inch man/ape. With very large feet. 16 3/4 inches long, to be exact. They also claim to have seen his “brethren” (their words from the press release at searchingforbigfoot.com) alive and well in the vicinity of the body. A press conference will be held on Friday, August 15th in Palo Alto at which the two men promise to provide photographic and DNA evidence of the find. Ah, for the luxury of being a press-credentialed master of my own schedule.

I must say, as much as the discovery fires my imagination, the romantic in me balks at the inelegant details as I imagine them unfolding: A monolithic yet lifeless carcass, abused by the elements, stretched on a stainless steel table. Harsh lights and sharp implements. Laboratory tests and sample collection.

Where I crave the Tarzan of Edgar Rice Burroughs or the Quasimodo of Victor Hugo, I find I may have to settle for Frankenstein’s monster, or rather, a poorly written, modern version in the vein of Clive Barker or Robin Cook.

Looks like I’ve been handed my Latest Obsession.

PROMPTuesday #10 - Dream Book

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #10:

You’re in a bookstore. You see stacks and stacks of books, but one in particular catches your eye. Something about the title. You’re intrigued. You pick the book up, open it, and read the first paragraph. Now you’re hooked. What is the title of the book and what did the first paragraph say?

THE CAVALIER OF KENSINGTON PARK

He pressed the tip of his rapier lightly into the back of the Ruffian’s neck. His stance was sure; his body perfectly balanced and each muscle was alert and ready to spring into action. There would be no mistakes tonight. The moon was full and he had no trouble sizing up his opponent and calculating the risks. The cavalier had carefully positioned himself between the moon and the struggling figures on the grass, knowing his elegant cape and plumed hat would cut quite the dashing . . . and intimidating . . . silhouette.

“I’d thank you to unhand the lady.”

PROMPTuesday #3 - The Door

San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday #3:

You’ve been taken from your home, blindfolded and put on an airplane. After what seems like forever, you’re led off the plane, and left to stand, alone. You take off the blindfold and see this:

What’s behind the door?

I knock. What else can I do? After a moment, the wood slides away from behind the tiny barred window, and two pale, rheumy eyes beneath maniacal eyebrows peer out at me. “She’s here”, he croaks, to someone other than me. The door swings back on creaking hinges and the rheumy-eyed old man guides me inside.

The room isn’t so much a room as a cavern, carved from the stone of the mountainside into which it is nestled. The stone floor is covered in oriental rugs, showing their age, but spotlessly clean. There is a pride of place here that is palpable. The only light in the cavern room collects in pools around scattered oil lamps atop myriad antique tables. Placed strategically near and around these tables so as to take advantage of the lamp glow, are beautifully crafted wingback chairs, perfect for reading.

The walls, floor to ceiling are covered with books.