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See amazon.com or Goodreads.
I loved this book from the title to the last page of author explanation! I really appreciated the way Affinito takes the well-known story of Job and gives it clarity and realism through the eyes and voice of his wife. It is the story of Job, yes, but it is also the story of growth of change, of commitment, and of love. This is a book I will return to again and again as the themes are important and universal, the characters alive and real, and the messages profound.
I can hardly wait to get back to “My Father’s House.” I have ‘til 1986 to go.
Since my accident, the process is a little different. Sitting at my computer eventually becomes too painful for my back, so I have to choose one of two ways to relieve it. I can lie down on my love seat with my feet elevated. That works very well, but it’s hard to stay awake. Or I can walk – these days outside in the lovely weather we’ve been having, or indoors on the treadmill. I suspect that’s the healthier method. Either way, it takes time away from writing.
So, why tell you this? It’s my excuse for being so remiss at caring for my blog.
Today, though, there’s something quick I want to tell you. Sometimes when I’m on my back I stay awake enough to read something. Right now it’s “The Compassionate Instinct: The Scientific Roots of Human Goodness” by Dacher Keltner, Jason Marsh, and Jeremy Adam Smith. It’s a collection of articles from the “Greater Good” magazine – the kind of thing I need to read to stay alive in this age of anger, cruelty, and violence.
I’m reading it on my Kindle which creates a bit of a problem, because I still haven’t learned how to cite a quote. But I think it’s OK here to include one short one. In pointing out the other way to understand human beings, not as competitive fighters or fearful victims, but as cooperators as well, they describe the other option as “…not to fight or flee, but to approach and soothe.” Then they go on to provide supportive scientific evidence.
I wish my colleague and friend, Barbara McEwen, were still with us to see this development. I learned from her many years ago that survival depends just as much on cooperation as on winning the battle. A physiological psychologist, her major interest was in oxytocin, a major player in the more positive side of our personalities. Don’t worry, that’s as far as I’m going with this little lecture. Just a chance to remember her.
This plays into the observation of “mirror neurons” which lead us to experience other’s emotions. Last night I took note of my doing just that while watching the end of “Wheel of Fortune.” The winner had solved a tough final puzzle with minimal cues and ended up with a big win, a huge smile, and a happy family hugging him on stage. And I noticed myself. I was feeling and looking as happy as a clam.
That’s the kind of thing we’re capable of. Let’s not forget it in the midst of all the negativity, and the assumption that the best thing to do to protect ourselves is to kill the other guy. I hope there are occasions for each of us when someone else’s joy gives us a happy jolt.
By the way, and totally off the subject. I was reminded again recently in conversation with a friend, of two important rules of therapy: (1) avoid triangles; (2) Use no more words than necessary.
I don’t think I have a triangle in this posting, but maybe I’ve used more words than necessary. I don’t want to spend a lot of time editing, though. While I am still sitting in comfort, I want to get my father through the entry of the United States into WWI.
At this point in writing my father’s story, I am deeply immersed in the years 1910 – 1912. Before my father went off to college supported by the money he had saved working for two years on a job he didn’t like. Before the first World War that killed his first – and maybe only—best friend and Best Man at my parent’s wedding (June 6, 1917.)
Some few people in Forestville/Bristol Connecticut were buying cars, enough so there were six automobile dealers and retailers listed in the city business directory. He walked to work past private homes whose green lawns were enhanced by gardens of asters and chrysanthemums. On Sundays he walked to Bethesda Lutheran Church to participate in the Swedish service, singing in the choir, having practiced there on Wednesday evenings.
I imagine peace, quiet, and hope when I spend time there. But on 9/30/1910, three days after my father arrived in the United states, the newspapers reported a terrorist bombing of the Los Angeles Times. Twenty people were killed. The source I read didn’t give any details about the bomber or motivation for the carnage. But it awakens me to the fact that we have never been without terrorism.
So what would my father have to say today if he were here about the most recent terrorist attack? Maybe that’s when he’d say of his life, “I’m glad I’m on my way out.” I know he’d feel sadness, dismay, and probably disgust that people or groups choose killing as a way of solving problems. I’m quite sure we would be discussing it at the dinner table, searching for possible answers.
I know he wouldn’t jump to conclusions about motive, while he would relate it to the spate of killings to which we have, sadly, become accustomed. I know he wouldn’t scapegoat.
Was the Orlando attack part of an organized plan by an organized enemy? Apparently not, according to FBI reports. Was it hatred of the LGBT community? Was it the perpetrator’s personal illness – bipolar disorder? Was it the killers confused battle with his own sexuality? Was it a combination of some or all of the above?
Whatever lay behind the horror, he’d know it can’t be explained by simplistic assumptions. He’d worry that some might not understand how complex the situation is and would choose to rush into inappropriate reactions. My father wasn’t opposed to emotions, but he did favor rational consideration when it comes to understanding and responding.
Looking over all the terrorist attacks, domestic or externally motivated, from Columbine to now, he’d see, as we can’t help but see, that the one common denominator is not only the use of guns, but more basically the choice of violence.
On today’s news I heard that investigators are suggesting a psychological factor uniting them all – that the killer(s) were trying to gain control. My father’s youngest daughter (me) finds that highly reasonable. Having control over one’s own life is basic to being fully human. To oversimplify, it comes from expressing one’s own individual abilities and strengths and feeling rewarded and respected for them. When one doesn’t receive that gift through life situations or genetic givens, then shame may encourage debilitating depression, or, with more energy, blaming and gaining control over others. Demagoguery is one control route, but not for all. Enslavement is another, as is killing, whether organized or individual.
I think my father would say we’d better be careful before rushing to violent conclusions of our own, and take a look at the complexity of life under any circumstances, but certainly in a democracy. It may not be immediately satisfying, but solutions that stick in the long run usually aren’t quick and easy.
Writing is a tough job, but even tougher when my topic is so personal. I’m working on “My Father’s House,” wanting from the bottom of my heart to convey the character of the man so many admired. To me he was my father – aren’t all father’s like that? But to my High School boyfriends, as they confessed to me later in life, he was the reason why they wanted to date me. “I wanted to take you out because I admired your father.” One of them who became an architect, added his admiration for our house.
I suppose I should wonder what that says about me. But I do know what it says about my father. He was a special man in the eyes of some who saw him from an outside-the-family perspective.
So why do I get discouraged? Because I want to convey his character and I’m having trouble doing that. Right now I want to help the potential reader know the hurt and challenge he felt when people laughed at him for his Swedish accent and ways. I want them to appreciate his determination to overcome that while improving his career position by saving income from less-than-desirable work to pay for college. I want them to understand his ultimate pride in his perfect English. Except for the Swedish lilt, his accent became perfectly American. I want people to rejoice with him in the small victory when he used the word “nuance,” and was laughed at for using a foreign word. Picture the satisfaction when he opened Webster’s Dictionary to point out the English word.
I want people to recognize and feel the presence of specific folks in their own lives as they read this phase of my father’s story. (My Italian father-in law’s story was of the same kind of courage – the kind of courage so many immigrants brought with them.)
There’s a whole lifetime I want to convey as the writing goes on, but this is what my heart and head are working on right now.
I get discouraged, but I’ll be digging in today to work on it. I guess I’ll have to invoke my father’s spirit and know that the thing to do with a problem is to do something about the problem.
So now, in my imagination, I’ve pulled in encouragement from many of you. Thank you.
Sorry, I’ve been away from here too long.
The cough hit again when I got home, and this time whatever the bug was hit my back too, so there were a few moan and groan days, such as drain one’s energy. These little nasties tend to seek out our most vulnerable parts.
Besides that, I found I can’t do anything with my travel photos until I get the new external drive I’ve ordered. Seems I’ve overwhelmed my little MacBook Air. I want to say I’ll have some photos for my blog after I get the chance to go through them to delete and edit. But I do hesitate, knowing that I never did deliver my Iceland photos as I had promised. (Have you noticed how time goes by faster every year?)
I do want to tell you, though, about our last day in Amsterdam. As I’m remembering the day, one thing that stands out is bicycles. Not only the fact that bicycles are a major mode of transportation, with their own broad lanes, but also that for some reason lots of them end up in the canals. We came by one boat dredging the waters, already loaded with recovered bicycles, and pulling up another whole bunch. I was too slow with the camera to catch them in the grasp of the claws, but I did get a shot of the piles already recovered. How it does inspire the imagination to make up a pretend backstory.
There are times in my travels when I arrive at a place where I’d like to stay a while. That’s how I felt at the Beguinage, a beautiful inner court of town homes rentable only to single women. Founded in the middle ages, it was once home, in the form of single rooms, to women who were one step away from being nuns, but never did take vows and were free to leave to get married. Now, in my daydreams, I could imagine spending the day working – teaching or whatever – and returning at night to the calm and beauty of the area. Maybe a quick pause in the lovely chapel would be in order.
At the other extreme of experience was the visit to the Anne Frank house. Doug – the world’s best personal travel agent – had discovered the option to buy a ticket on line for a half-hour lecture at 6:00 p.m. (as I recall) followed by a tour. Without that, we would have been in a huge line that stretched way around the block.
Anne’s father had certainly done his best to protect his family. For the situation, the structure was relatively roomy, like a small house, really. But imagine living there in silent darkness, with the windows covered. And ultimately being betrayed just a short time before the end of the war.
So here’s my true confession. I never could make myself read Anne’s diary. We assigned it in Developmental Psych classes; friends told me it was inspiring; but I was sure I would think only of the horror that Anne eventually suffered, and the senseless killing of her dreams. Having visited the spot, however, I think, for some reason I can’t really explain, that I can now read the book.
And I am more than happy to have experienced her hiding place. I like knowing that her thoughts and life have not only survived, but influenced people in many different languages and many parts of the world.
That was the end of our trip. The next day we flew from Amsterdam to Minneapolis/St. Paul. The process of making it through security and the subsequent check points was amazingly efficient. And it’s always good to get home.
Ignoring chronological order, I’m writing about the most exciting thing first. Many years ago, arriving for the first time in Europe, I was on a National Student Association tour spending eleven days on Holland America’s Line the s.s. Volendam, most recently having been used as a troop ship in WWII. Facilities were far from luxurious, but how perfect an eleven-day crossing for a bunch of ready and excited students. As it happened, we couldn’t disembark in Rotterdam until some paper work was finished, so my roommate and I volunteered to do some necessary typing. As we performed our clerical duties we pulled into the harbor, and the first thing I saw was “the clock.’ It is firmly fixed in my memory as my first and very exciting sight in Europe. I don’t know if that’s true of Harriet and Justine who shared the adventure with me, but for me it was a marker.
And two days ago I saw the clock again as we celebrated the naming of the new ship of the Holland America Line, the m.s. Koningsdam, complete with dedication by Queen Maxima, a special trip to the Rijk’s museum, and fireworks. That’s when I saw the clock again, as we pulled away from the dock. Now atop what has become the New York Hotel, it was the clock that marked my first visit to Rotterdam and Europe when it then crowned the Holland America Line building. I don’t know if Harriet and Justine would have shared my excitement, but I was thrilled with the full circle.
A special treat for those of us on board was an evening at the Rijk’s museum, with a fantastic guided tour in small groups. So much to learn, and so much that tied into the excursions we had enjoyed and the things we experienced on land today.
As for other neat things we’ve done, before leaving the Koningsdam, we enjoyed two more land excursions: One to Gouda of cheese fame (pronounced “Howda” with a guttural “H,”) and another to Edam. Both delightful small towns. I much prefer small towns to big cities.
But now that we are back on land, spending a couple of days in Amsterdam (where I am experiencing the “full circle sense” again) I am enjoying this city. The road: many widths. The bike lanes, the wait-for-the-trolley-and-bus lanes, the trolley and bus lanes, and the car lanes.
Quite a venture to cross the street.
I confess that yesterday I spent every spare moment dozing after starting another round of antibiotics with the return of “the cough!” and getting very little sleep before disembarking. But in between we enjoyed lunch at the music hall followed by a rousing concert (which did keep me pretty roused.). Handel’s “Water Music,” and Shostokovich.” A beautiful venue, and amazing how much difference the orchestra and the acoustics can make. The orchestra enjoyed a long and well deserved standing ovation.
Today, though, was blessed with the effects of a good, long sleep, and then off on our own expeditions – in the pouring rain: First Rembrandt’s House – a joy in itself and tying together so much of what we had been experiencing and learning. Then, followed by lunch in a nice dry spot, came the Jewish museum and then the Portuguese synagogue. So much visual pleasure. So much to learn. So much to think about.
And now, with a special Hello to Harriet and Jus, that brings us up to a rather hasty update.
Yesterday we had A lovely trip to a small down in Normandy –just amazingly beautiful. And today we had another wonderful excursion to another small town on the sea. Today it rained, poured actually, and I loved it. Yes, the wind blew our umbrellas inside out and our raincoats and cameras got wet, but we’d been told there is often rain and wind in the area, so I really enjoyed lapping it up.
Why a bonus? Because today we were supposed to be in La Havre, but the ship had to spend another night here in Cherbourg because of strikes that would tie up the roads in La Havre, preventing any excursions away from the ship. So, another day here in this lovely area.
Tomorrow we move on to Rotterdam. All kinds of celebrations are planned in honor of this new ship, including a dedication by the Queen.
We’re nearing the end of the trip, but we have three days to look forward to in Amsterdam after leaving the ship before flying home. The end of the cruise always makes me feel sad.
At any rate, I plan to keep you posted until my paid WiFi plan runs out.
That I haven’t written much here is a good sign – busy cruising and enjoying it,
Some days not so great, but others that are amazing.
Our visit to Civitavecchia (Rome) turned out to be not so great. I don’t like cities, and we’ve already been to Rome, so we didn’t bother to bus into the city. Doug did plan to visit Ostia Antica (sp?) on his own, — always an opportunity for photos. But it turned out the directions he received on how to get there had been correct two years ago, but not now. So he and his camera wandered on shore for a while. In the meantime, I got some work done on “My Father’s House,” (Writing, that is. Not carpentry.)
And Gibralter was no great shakes either. We had been to the top of the mountain on our previous visit, so this time we planned to walk into town on our own. I returned to the ship when I found nothing but high end jewelry stores with some equally high end leather for sale. Got a little more done on “My Father’s House.”
But then came our stop in Cadiz. What a joy! We visited beautiful white villages –“white” because the buildings are really white. Much to photograph partly on guided tour and partly free time. Now that’s the kind of pleasure that traveling is all about.
The next day in the town of Obidos, outside Lisbon, Portugal, we enjoyed equal beauty, though not with equal spirits of adventure. Doug climbed the ramparts etc., collecting photos. I stuck closer to the main route. I’ll just have to include some pictures when I get back home. Unfortunately, as I think I told you earlier, I forgot to bring the cable connector to my computer. Doug has been downloading them for me onto his PC, so, once I come into possession of a thumb drive, I’ll be able to get to work at editing. (“editing” = mostly deleting the disasters.)
I can’t share the same sense of excitement about our free time visit yesterday to Santiago de Compostelo outside Vigo Spain. It’s my own fault, I guess, but I got bored with the expensive and not so expensive shops of jewelry and religious souvenirs. And I must confess, I long ago reached the point where I feel that “I’ve seen one cathedral I’ve seen them all.” (See what I mean. My fault). It was fun, though, eating lunch at a restaurant there. Lovely food, beautifully served.
I loved what I saw of Spain – and it was really Spain. Like the early days of traveling where people felt no need to Kow-Tow to Americans’ limited ability to understand languages other than our own.
The best part of that day was a cappuccino at an outside café in the company of three lovely young Irish women.
And that, nutshell style, brings us up to date. This is our last full day at sea. I love it, though I wish there were more.
And I look forward to the rest of our days before winding up in Amsterdam for a three- day stay there before heading home.
A sea day yesterday. I love sea days. Another sea day tomorrow. I love sea days.
And today no scheduled excursion so I’m staying on board while Doug goes off to enjoy an independent journey here in Civitavecchia. He’ll bring back interesting photos. I chose to stay behind, I have a lot of years on him and can easily be a drag, though he won’t say so.
I’m lovin’ every minute – happy we still have more days ahead to enjoy.
e-mail access costs an arm and a leg, so I don’t do as much as I’d like to in the way of specific responses. Let me just say a big “Thank you” here to the folks on Twitter who have been tweeting and re-tweeting the stuff about my “Figs & Pomegranates & Special Cheeses.” And by the way, the Kindle price is now $0.99 – a great opportunity to enjoy a good read and, if so moved, write an honest review on amazon.com.
Happy to say I’m back to my traveling self and enjoying every minute.
First, thanks to all of you who left me such kind messages when I wasn’t doing so well. They all really helped.
Now I’m too busy having fun to write in much detail, but a quick run-through. 4/28/16 in Naples, not feeling so great, but still enjoyed the eight-hour drive along the Amalfi Coast. Silently, but still as loud as silence requires, I repeatedly sent out the message that Carol was sending enthusiastic greetings to her relatives in the area. I hope they caught the vibes.
Other standouts: the catacombs in Palermo on the 29th. Fascinating. And on the 30th the Phoenician/Roman ruins of Nora.
Then, whew!, a breather at sea on May 1 – a recuperation, get sort of settled-in day. I love days at sea, but still no time for gambling.
May 2 found us “strolling” on the upper rock – Gibralter. Other’s call it a “stroll.’ For me it’s hurry up to catch up with the crowd, but I didn’t get left behind, and I did enjoy the experience. And walking is so good for my back.
Then Oh My! What a beautiful city is Seville. I mean, really as stunning as advertised. Major beginnings of my musings about the way one culture gets built upon the fading, conquering, and/or destruction of the one before it. Such beautiful Moorish buildings which the conquering Christians re-utilized as their own. Starting with the Romans (or earlier), one can only be aware that each culture thinks it is the never-ending height of culture. The “living end,” until they learn they are not the ultimate. Can’t help but think of our own assumptions about the permanence of our current culture.
Than came the amazing visit to the Picasso museum in Malaga with a super knowledgeable guide. I even came away with an understanding and appreciation of Picasso – working right up to the last day of his life, with still so much left to do. How very short is our individual span.
May 5 made even more concrete the awareness of cultures building on cultures with the beautiful – and fairly recent –excavation of the Roman theater. So many lives; so many cultures; so much confidence in one’s own importance, built one level atop another. What’s next?
Yesterday and today we’ve been in Barcelona, with a city tour yesterday highlighting the fascinating and unusual architecture of the city’s hero, Gaudi, like structures I’ve never seen. Unfortunately, I wasn’t pushing the button hard enough on my camera, so I didn’t get lots of photos I thought I had. Doug has promised to gift me with a couple of his, though.
And today was a visit to the Black Madonna at Monserrat. Spectacular views at the top. Amazing bus drivers in whom we put our trust. ( I remember reading “The Black Madonna.” I can’t remember if Monserrat was one of the sites the author visited in her pilgrimage.)
And tomorrow, a day at sea. One of my favorite things, but a frustration for Doug who likes to be on the go.
Celebratory things are coming up as the maiden voyage of our ship the Koningsdam is recognized, with Christening activities toward the end. I’ll try to get better about reporting.
Once again, thanks for all the nice messages you sent. And believe me, it does feel good to be back to my self.
