Snooping on Planes

I always like to know what other people are reading, and airports/airplanes are good places to observe readers. Of course, I have to be careful. People start to wonder about you when you stare at them or get in weird positions for a view of their lap.

I saw fewer people reading this trip than I usually do (trend? chance?), but here's what I saw people reading:

Wally Lamb's The Hour I First Believed

John Grisham's Ford County

Thomas Friedman's Hot, Flat, and Crowded

a Mitch Albom novel, couldn't read the title

a Robert B. Parker novel, couldn't read the title

one guy was reading a chemistry textbook

one girl was studying a sign-language text (and practicing)

one woman was reading a paperback that, I kid you not, looked six inches thick. I tried and tried to see what it was, but no luck

AND

a woman was reading a bodice ripper (couldn't read the title, but you know what kinds of pictures are on the cover; no mistaking them) and here's the kicker: SHE WAS HIGHLIGHTING TEXT. I am not making this up. Think of the possibilities . . .

Christmas Eve

We're going over the (Little Red) river and through some (patches of) woods to grandmother's house today, but not in a horse-drawn sleigh. We'll probably eat a little too much and laugh a lot today. I hope you do, too.

Bouncing off Bushes

This past Sunday was our anniversary, and to celebrate we went away for the weekend to Eureka Springs. We stayed in a small log cabin and watched the deer roaming all around the area. We walked the steep streets of the town, checking out quaint little shops and even quainter people. We walked through the supposedly-haunted Crescent Hotel on Saturday night, but we weren't accosted by any supernatural beings. We lingered over a wonderful anniversary meal, and strolled again, looking at the Christmas lights and the Living Windows displays in some of the shops downtown. It's nice to get away from the everyday, to relax, and to spend uninterrupted time together.

But we couldn't go to Eureka Springs without visiting the site of one of our funny family stories. We hadn't visited the town since our children were small. When we were there back then, we took the kids out to see Christ of the Ozarks, a seven-story-tall statue of Jesus, high up on a mountain. Our daughter was only four or five I guess, and she'd climbed up the hill, near the statue, and then had turned and started back down as I watched from below. Things went fine at first, but then, as she came downhill she began to pick up speed. I mean a lot of speed. Before she knew it, she was flying down the hill, totally out of control, her steps covering huge amounts of ground, her eyes big as saucers. She was terrified.

And I was laughing hysterically. I realize this is not a "good mom" kind of thing, but it's the truth. I laughed so hard I grew weak. I positioned myself to catch her, but at the last minute she somehow changed course, bounced off a bush and then into me, knocking us both down. My husband witnessed it all. In his defense, he was too far away to help us. In my defense, he was laughing too.

For some reason, this story amuses me a lot more than it does my daughter.

I Spy

I love to see what books other people are reading. I don't like to be rude, but it's not beyond me to crane my neck or squint a little to decipher the title of a stranger's book. A great time to spy on the reading habits of the general population is when you're flying somewhere. But, if my latest trip was any indicator, the NEA's right. Reading in America is in dramatic decline. Especially literary reading.

From Little Rock to Philadelphia and back, four different flights in all, plus the airport waiting time, these are the only books I saw being read:

Two people were reading Dan Brown's Lost Symbol (both women), one older woman was reading Nicholas Sparks' The Notebook, a twenty-something woman was reading Jodi Picoult's My Sister's Keeper, one man was reading Mitch Albom's latest book, Have a Little Faith, an older man was reading a Louis L'Amour novel, and one twenty-something guy was reading Dostoyevsky (I couldn't see the title). I think he gets the prize.

To be fair, plenty of people could have had a book in their carry-on that they didn't pull out until we were mid-flight, but I thought the numbers were disappointing.

Please, please, just be quiet!

We had a wonderful time in Philadelphia. We saw the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Ben Franklin's grave. We climbed the steps of the Museum of Art. We had dinner at City Tavern. We ate Philly Cheesesteak Sandwiches. We worshipped in historic Christ Church. We sat at street cafes and people-watched.

Oh, yeah, the conference was nice, too.

Even the flights weren't too bad. No late starts, no extended layovers, no missed flights, and I was able to finish reading my Toni Morrison novel. Very pleasant.

Except for the last flight home, from Atlanta to Little Rock. There was a woman on the plane (one row behind me on the other side of the aisle) that almost drove me crazy. Imagine a thirty-something woman with a Valley Girl accent and a voice that carries. Now, imagine her telling her life story to the woman sitting with her, with a special emphasis on the life and times of her daughter Natalieeeeeeeeee and her son Cooperrrrrrrrrr and how utterly special they are--so intelligent! so individualistic! I now know about their play groups, the first time she left them for any length of time, and how her in-laws try to manipulate them into staying at their home every time they visit. I know what magazines she reads (Town & Country's her favorite), where her best friend now lives (Denver), and that another friend recently had her mother cremated and is now struggling with that decision. I discovered that one friend just moved out into the country and she's worried about her with no support network, but she's been relieved to find out her friend has wonderful neighbors. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

The more I tried not to listen, the more she seemed to be all I could hear. The girl right across the aisle from me started the flight trying to study, slowly moved forward in her seat (to escape the offending voice, I'm certain), and finally surrendered and put away her note cards. She spent the rest of the flight hunkered over, elbows on knees, hands over her ears. Defeated.

I tried a time or two to just turn around and look at her, hoping she'd take it as a gentle hint. Nope. Never noticed. Just kept that storyline going.

Next flight, I'm taking ear plugs.

Say What?

I've never been to Philadelphia before. On the taxi ride from the airport to our hotel the other day, I asked the driver how far we were from the ocean. You may think I asked a dumb question, but wait until you hear his response: "Which ocean?"

I'm not making this up.

Sisters, Brothers, and Beauty

I'm presenting this afternoon at 4:30. If you happen to be in Philadelphia, stop by.

Here's the proposal for my presentation:
Beauty is a concept extensively explored during the Age of Reason. Shaftesbury, Hogarth, Burke, Reynolds, and others debated and discussed beauty throughout the century, and although their deliberations are diverse, many of their definitions are highly gendered and prescriptive of accepted social behavior. Beauty was often associated with the good, the pure, the noble, and the virtuous. Physical appearance, for women especially, became a form of competition in their rush to the marriage mart, a fact certainly explored by Austen in her novels.

But physical appearance does not only shape the relationships of unrelated women within a community, all vying for the most eligible young man. It also has a function within Austen’s families. This paper will explore the role of siblings’ physical appearance and how it shapes both the individual and intra-familial relationships. How do physical comparisons among siblings affect personality development and individual behavior? Do these identity struggles lead to growth or despair? Does appearance foster competition among siblings, or solidarity? Does the way children look affect how they are perceived or treated by their parents? By extended family? Does physical beauty or the lack thereof affect male siblings as well as female ones? If so, in what ways?

Bernard J. Paris, in his work Character and Conflict in Jane Austen’s Novels, calls Austen “a serious interpreter of life, and a creator of brilliant mimetic characterizations,” an author who struggles “to combine comic actions with realistic characterizations and serious moral concerns” (13-14). This claim is nowhere more true than in her exploration of physical appearance and its role in family dynamics.

More than Jane

According to the JASNA website, we'll have plenty to do besides listen to papers about Jane:


Philadelphia, though a major metropolitan city, is composed of small neighborhoods that make for a warm, welcoming town.

It is the perfect city for "very good walkers," as founder William Penn laid out the streets in a most rational manner – naming streets that form square blocks using numbers and the names of trees. It is possible, but difficult, to become lost while walking in our fair city.

What, then, shall you do in Philadelphia? Museums, shops, theaters, and restaurants will tempt you to spend time here before, and even after the JASNA conference. If, like Lady Catherine, your natural taste in music is unrivaled, attend a performance of The Opera Company of Philadelphia, The Academy of Vocal Arts, or the world-renowned Philadelphia Orchestra.

Philadelphia is home to many museums, large and small. Marianne Dashwood, who possesses the most artistic sensibilities, would certainly visit The Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Rodin Museum, The Rosenbach, and The Library Company of Philadelphia.

Perhaps you see harmony and repose in Nature as does Fanny Price. Then set aside time to see The Franklin Institute Science Museum or the Academy of Natural Sciences.

Jane Austen herself, student of history that she was, would tour The National Constitution Center, Betsy Ross's House, Elfreth's Alley, Independence Hall, or The Independence Seaport Museum, all within walking distance of the hotel.

Gourmand General Tilney would be well-satisfied with the city's restaurants: Le Bec-Fin, Buddakan, Alma de Cuba, Moshulu, Fork, and the city's newest, Parc.

In pursuit of satin and lace, Augusta Elton would shop at The Bourse and the many stores on Walnut Street; she would almost certainly pay a visit to Jewelers' Row.

What connects Philadelphia to Jane Austen besides the 2009 AGM? Emma was published here in 1816; the first North American city where an Austen novel was published during the author's lifetime.

Just Compensation

Today, after I do Good Morning Honors Symposium with Dr. Garner, I'm headed to Ole Miss. I've got paperwork to turn in and fees to pay at various offices around campus. Then, I'll turn right around and drive back to get ready to go to Nashville on Wednesday.

But, surprising at it may seem, I'm looking forward to the trip for two reasons. One is that I'll get to have one of my favorite Mediterranean Pizzas from Newk's for a late lunch. I can't tell you how much I've missed those. I'm seriously thinking of taking a cooler, buying several to bring home, and freezing them for future consumption.

And the other reason is that I'll get to listen to a book on tape during the trip. A totally escapist crime fiction novel with no redeeming literary value at all. One of the best things about the two years of driving back and forth from Searcy to Oxford was all the books on tape I enjoyed while driving.

It doesn't take much to make me happy.

Life, Interrupted

Friday, I finished revising my dissertation and hit the magic "Send" button. I knew I needed to start on my paper for the CSC, but I figured I'd wait 'til Monday and give myself the weekend off. Perfect time to head to Oxford for the weekend!! See some friends, hang out on the Square, eat a pizza from Newk's, go to a concert in the Grove.

No such luck. Friday afternoon about four o'clock the storm hit and our electricity went out. "It'll come back on soon," I thought. Wrong. Saturday morning, I called the electric company and they had no idea when they'd get to us. So, instead of heading to Mississippi, we hooked up the generator to our freezer and suffered through the heat and the dark. The power finally came on Sunday morning about 9:30, but of course we'd headed to church and left the windows wide open. So, when we got home the air conditioner was running full blast, trying to cool the whole world.

Alas, no trip to Oxford anytime soon. I've got a paper to write.

Remember the Alamo!

My husband, who believes he was born not only in the wrong geographical region but also the wrong century, loves all things western (as in Old West) and loves to vacation there. After seeing a Travel Channel feature about San Antonio’s River Walk, museums, and regional color, I was on board. (San Antonio is also the home of one of my favorite poets, Naomi Shihab Nye. If you haven’t yet experienced her poetry, I recommend starting with her collection Fuel.) And who doesn’t want to see the Alamo? So for about a year and a half, we’ve been planning and anticipating our getaway.

Between my work and his, though, we’ve had trouble actually taking the trip. Since he farms and does precision land forming, winter is usually a slow time for him. And, since I was defending my dissertation prospectus on the 4th, our anniversary was on the 6th, I hadn’t taken any time off from my studies in who can remember when, and I didn’t really want to jump into the dissertation proper until after the holidays—voila! The perfect time had come.

He accompanied me to Oxford for my defense, and the next morning we headed south, through Jackson, down into Louisiana, then over to Houston—a full day of driving. Then, back in the car the next morning and on down to San Antonio. We’d reserved a room in a downtown hotel, right on the Riverwalk, and we drove the car into their garage and did not get in it again for three whole days.



It was so relaxing. We could walk everywhere we wanted to go. Up and down the Riverwalk, to the Alamo, to the Spanish Governor’s Palace and San Fernando Cathedral, to the Farmer’s Market, through Hemisphere Park to the Tower of the Americas. The second day we were there, I’m sure we walked ten miles. I am not kidding. It was absolutely wonderful. And, as a side benefit, we didn’t have to feel guilty about indulging in a scoop of Ben & Jerry’s at the end of a long day.
And our anniversary? A delicious, leisurely dinner, followed by a boat ride to view the decorated-for-Christmas Riverwalk. Hard to top that in Searcy.

We had planned to return through Dallas because I wanted to go to the King Tut exhibit, which hadn’t been in the States since 1979. We drove back to Fort Worth, walked through the Stockyards District, tried on hats in the Western stores, peeked in the coliseum, and watched a (staged but fun) cattle drive on the old brick streets.

The next morning is when I began to truly appreciate our San Antonio walking experience. As we made our way downtown to the Dallas Museum of Art, him driving, me with the map, cars whizzing around us, missing roads on the map, confusing road signs, and generally high stress levels all around, I remembered how peaceful it was to just get up, have a cup of coffee, decide where we wanted to go, head out the door, and simply walk there.

Romans, Cowboys, and Rude People

After the Christianity and Literature Conference in Shawnee, Oklahoma, last weekend, my husband and I drove on to Oklahoma City to spend the night and see a few sights. (Terry’s not much interested in literature, but there was a huge horse sale going on in Shawnee that kept him entertained.) After checking into our hotel room, we headed straight for the Oklahoma City Museum of Art to view their current exhibit “Roman Art from the Louvre.” We saw full length marble statues—of Caligula and Trajan, busts of Marcus Aurelius and Tiberius, reliefs, mosaics, and lintels. We saw jewelry, funeral urns, and an intricately carved sarcophagus. I think the mosaics were my favorite. The colors are still so beautiful, and I can’t imagine the skill and patience it takes to turn all those little-bitty puzzle pieces into a huge work of art. The statues were really fascinating, the hair painstakingly detailed, the togas draping so fluidly I wanted to reach out and touch them. As beautiful as they were, though, after going to Italy a couple of years ago and seeing the work of Michelangelo, even I could tell these sculptures weren’t anywhere close. I admired these, but when I stood in front of Michelangelo’s David, I cried.

We left the museum and walked the few blocks to view the Oklahoma City National Memorial, a tribute to both the victims and survivors of the April 19, 1995 bombing. The memorial is beautiful and moving, with the Gates of Time at each end framing the moment of disaster, its empty chair for each victim facing the Reflecting Pool, an incongruously peaceful space to contemplate an act of terrorism. As I stood there, thinking about what had happened in this place, I found it almost impossible to believe that one human being could, with full intent, do this to another, and I thought of the lines from Robert Burns’ poem, “From Man was made to Mourn: A Dirge, 1785”:

“Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!”

The next day, we visited the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. I never imagined there were that many types of barbed wire! You think I’m kidding, but there was a whole room devoted to it—drawers and drawers of it, categorized by number of strands, size of strands, number of barbs, size of barbs, types of barbs. Who knew? There were firearms displays, rodeo exhibits, saddles and tack, a Western Frontier section with Native American artifacts, military paraphernalia, and the tools of hunters and trackers. There was a Cowgirl photo exhibit, a Western Performers gallery with dime novels, movie posters, and a larger-than-life statue of John Wayne. They had paintings and sculpture by Frederick Remington, Charles Russell, Albert Bierstadt, and William R. Leigh. And, right before we left, we walked through a reconstructed circa 1900 Western cattle town, complete with its own saloon, school, church, newspaper, and blacksmith’s shop. So in the space of twenty four hours, we toured ancient Rome and the Old West. Not bad for a mini-vacation.

Okay, I’ve talked about Romans and Cowboys. Now we get to rude people. To me, viewing a work of art is a lot like reading a great piece of literature. You have to be able to concentrate, to focus, to enter that world, to get the most out of the experience. I think most people would agree. The Museum of Art was quite crowded, but most people viewed a work, read the placard, and moved on as quickly as they could to let the next person also have the pleasure. If they talked at all, it was in a quiet whisper in the ear of the person next to them. But a few patrons just didn’t get it. One young man seemed to be delivering a lecture to his girlfriend in front of every statue or lintel. I couldn’t tell whether or not she was enjoying it, but it was clear that the rest of the people there were not.

At the Western Museum, one couple blithely viewed the exhibits while their children ran, whooped, and hollered in the next room. (I really appreciated it when the security guard tracked the parents down and told them to control their children.) This same family traipsed all over the grounds, perfectly assured that the “Keep off the Grass” signs were not intended for them. An older woman, convinced alike that the “Turn Off Cell Phones” sign didn’t apply to her, let hers ring repeatedly throughout the Museum, interminably fumbling in her purse to press a button to stop the ringing each time, but never actually TURNING THE PHONE OFF. One couple discussed everything they saw, loudly and at length, as if they had each gallery to themselves.

I simply cannot understand this type of behavior. If the sign asks me to turn off my phone, I do it right then. If it says to stay off the grass, I obey. I always try to be aware of others and make sure I don’t unnecessarily block something they are also trying to view. If my husband and I talk, we whisper quietly. When our children were young, we took them to museums and other arts events, but always with the admonitions: “Stay right here beside me!” and “Be very quiet. Other people do not want to hear you.” These warnings worked because our children knew the consequences of not heeding—and it wasn’t just an endlessly repeated refrain of “Now, Momma told you . . .” There were physical consequences for misbehavior, something which has amazing results: You can take your children out in public and they actually behave. What a radical idea.