Bad Memories

I finished reading Padma Venkatraman's Climbing the Stairs -- it was magnificent. I think it's an important book. And last night I completed The Life History of a Star by Kelly Easton. Also wonderful; I think both books and their protagonists will stay with me for a long time.

The twentieth marked the three-year anniversary of my first trip to camp. It was a camp for children with juvenile diabetes. Complete overkill on any treatment, whether you were hyperglycemic (sugar too high) or hypoglycemic (sugar too low). These three days were filled with kickball under the raging sun, watching chubby spiders dance mere inches over your head in the cabins, beetles swimming in the toilet bowls, plastic mattresses stained with something that looked like rejected stomach contents, and frozen graham cracker-chocolate pudding-marashmallow sandwiches. To top it off, the girls in my cabin hated me.





"You know everybody talks about you behind your back?" a girl two years younger than I was asked me.





"No," I said. "Why?"





"Well ... when you talk, it makes the rest of us sound kinda retahded," she admitted.





(The Rhode Island accent, for those who have never heard it, sounds rather like a thinner, less refined version of the Boston accent.)





"Oh," I said. "Because I use big words?"





"Yeah," she replied.





"Ah."





"I thought you were gonna cry," said the other girl, looking disappointed.





I have to admit that I was the Hermione Granger of the cabin -- insecure enough to flaunt a broad vocabulary and refined grammatical skills. (But I can't possibly be the only one who couldn't bear to listen to, "She don' wanna be a junia counsela" and "I ain't, you ain't, he/she/it ain't". Can I?) Anyway, I am never going back to camp. Ever. This experience turned me off for life.





The only good part of camp was listening to the storyteller. I love storytellers. (Although this was around the campfire, and all but yours truly, who had a mouthful of steel, were enjoying chubby white marshmallows.)

~Emily

Rescuing Seneca Crane

According to Ms. Susan Runholt's Mystery Blog (http://susanrunholt.com/blog), the title of the second novel in her Kari and Lucas series will be Rescuing Seneca Crane. I am marvelously excited to read it. Read the first book in the series, The Mystery of the Third Lucretia, and you'll definitely have something to look forward to. I find it pretty hard to find a really wonderful book series, the kind that makes you want to get to the library as fast as possible so that you can pick up the next one; the kind with characters that will bring you feelings you just don't get every day; the kind of characters you care about so much that when something important happens to them -- like if they have a mental breakdown or a baby or something -- you'll have them in your mind and in your heart for several days.

(Something tells me Kari and Lucas won't get pregnant any time soon, though. It was merely an example.)

~Emily

In Rememberance of Zachary Taylor, 1784-1850

Today we mourn the twelfth president of the United States of America, General Zachary Taylor.

Well, we don't really mourn him; we remember him. He was not the most kindred spirit. In fact, I feel inclined to confess that we includes primarily me and my brother Benjamin. We remember Zachary Taylor because he is a distant cousin of ours. We also remember Franklin Delano Roosevelt on the anniversary of his death but we actually mourn him. (He also is our cousin, via one of the Mayflower families.)

Well, keep General Taylor in your thoughts. He died of poisonous cherries and iced milk. I wonder what iced milk tastes like?

(The truth is that I actually hate milk on its own and I doubt that this iced milk would appeal to me.)

~Emily

Kind of Tying Things Up After a Long Break

Well, that was a long break from blogging. I don't really have any excuse except that I've been tired, because my biological clock nudges me into staying up past one in the morning and still getting up on time to greet the day. It makes no sense. (Does anything make sense when you're fifteen?)

Our Independence Day was quiet. I take odd pleasure in listening to other people celebrate, though, and found myself engrossed in the raucousness coming from next door.

I am currently reading Climbing the Stairs by Padma Venkatraman. I'll have more to say when I'm further in but it is certainly very wonderful.

I am also absored in The Handy Religion Answer Book by John Renard and Inside Out by Nadia Shivack.

I hope all my readers had a happy Fourth of July and that no one is suffering from too much heat (it's hot here in RI).

~Emily

Freakish Images

Today the air show is going on in Rhode Island. I've never been to it but take little fancy to the idea of standing around in the humidity plugging my ears. It's really quite loud enough without being directly under the show itself. I don't much like that the Air Show is still going on with the war in Iraq, but it is a benefit to Hasbro Children's Hospital, a place I appreciate very much.

It seems the Air Show always takes place on a hot or humid day. The weather today in RI is both. But I never ever complain about the summertime because I genuinely hate winter. I know people who like it, and I can never understand why (except in the case of children who like to play in snow).

Last night I started reading the graphic novel adaptation of Neil Gaiman's Coraline and found myself, for the first time, fully understanding his comment on how the story would likely give adults nightmares but be a great adventure for children. There is something markedly bizarre and slightly unpleasant for me in seeing the story this blatantly (although P. Craig Russel is one of my favorite artists). The author also once mentioned how it is so much easier for him to be sickened by descriptions because his mind can do so much, but actually seeing something up front didn't bother him nearly as much. Sometimes I feel the same way; sometimes, on the other hand, I cannot bear to look. (I remember beginning his Sandman series for the first time -- not so very long ago -- and having to take several weeks to adjust to the frequent ... Sandmanness of it.) After all, your mind can always tone things down, too.

I have to rush off to do something now.

~Emily

Banging My Head Against the Wall

Because six-year-old William threw up tonight.

http://emetophobia.bravepages.com

All I can say really, is crap.

~Emily

Old Things and Jitterbugs

Seventy-eight degrees today; utterly and gloriously perfect weather.

I'm helping out with a tour of antiques today -- furniture, paintings, and toys. I have a great fondness for very old dolls and books and treasure my German copy of a compilation of Hans Christian Andersens' fairy tales. It has the sweet old-book smell and I have found dry flower petals pressed in between the leaves.

Fortunately, much of the tour takes place outside.

Tomorrow two of my younger brothers (Jack and William) perform in their Wizard of Oz play. I am extremely excited to see nearly-seven-year-old William as a Tough Guy Munchkin (of the Lollipop Guild), Poppy, Winkie, and Twister. I really am. And ten-year-old Jack shall play Uncle Henry. Jack also has to be a Jitterbug (?) and claims to hate the costume with a passion. This makes me curious and very interested to see it.

I hope the weather is every bit as lovely in your area, but I hear it's dreadfully hot in Los Angeles. (Keep cool, Yoga Gal.)

~Emily