Tag Archives: nostalgia

Gen X Vs. the World

I didn’t learn the term “latchkey” until I was much older and it no longer applied. As articles pop up around the Internet, all mentioning Gen X’s adaptability in the face of self-quarantining, they all also seem to think we had absent parents and more or less raised ourselves.

My parents worked, but they weren’t absent. As an only child, I spent a lot of time with my parents, especially on the weekends. Even if it was just going to the store or hitting up Burger King, we did a lot together. I never felt neglected. I was never sad to come home after school and have to let myself in (except on days when I’d forgotten my key). If anything, it was a relief to me to have the whole place to myself. After a day of social pressures at school, time without interaction was sacrosanct.

Maybe that’s just because I’m an introvert and need alone time to recharge my batteries. So, yeah, being asked to stay home now doesn’t feel like any massive hardship to me. We’ve got a house and yard and are making the most of them. (Thank goodness, though, that we moved into the bigger house last year, because if we were in the old house right now, we’d be strangling one another.)

I grew up able to entertain myself, both with and without a screen. Sure, I had Speak & Spell. But I also had books. Colorforms. I made up one-player versions of board games for myself. I had My Little Pony. I wrote stories. I went out and rode my bike or roller skated. Coloring books. I had learned to cross stitch. And if all else failed, I knew how to sit and think. I did not require constant input or attention.

Again, I don’t know if that’s a Gen X thing, or just a personal thing, or some blend of the two. I knew some kids who went home to empty houses and just as many that didn’t. I knew kids who seemed to need stimulation and an audience and just as many who were content to be overlooked. (I was somewhere in the middle, and still am—I like recognition, loved being acknowledged by my teachers, for instance, and now love the same from readers and peers, but I don’t need an unwavering spotlight.) We are, like any generation, or any large group of people, a mishmash of personalities. The things we experienced broadly were like the outer planets in an astrology chart—everyone shares those aspects because those planets move slowly. But our individual experiences were varied. For example, a favorite statistic for the Gen X kids is how many kids’ parents were divorced. And I knew a few people with divorced parents. But mine weren’t, and neither were many of my friends’. So… I was aware of single-parent households but had no real experience with them outside visiting friends who lived with only one parent. I don’t recall thinking it was weird or anything. It just was.

And maybe that’s Gen X in a nutshell. Things just are, and we accept those things and get on with life. “You do what you gotta do” is probably our motto. If I had to come home to an empty house, do my chores and homework, and get dinner started, that’s what I did. It never occurred to me to not do those things if they needed to be done. Rebel I was not, at least on that front. I picked my battles for the things that mattered most to me. Getting out of housework didn’t rank all that high, and I never minded contributing my time and effort to the family. I might not love chores, but they weren’t difficult, and I could entertain myself while doing them. I could think or sing or write stories in my head. No big deal.

Still, when it came time to choose whether my kids would come home to an empty house or not, I gave up working in publishing and stayed home. In part because publishing didn’t pay enough to cover child care costs, so I might as well stay home anyway. And in part because staying home gave me the chance not only to be there for my kids as they grow but to pursue my writing. So there are practical reasons and selfish reasons for the decision, as well as the desire to be the one to raise my kids and not miss out on those years. I like the idea I’m making memories for and with them.

Because, while I do have good memories of times with my parents, they are all a bit foggy and vague, too. Gen X tended to make memories with their peers more than parents or family. And sure, I want my kids to have fun with their friends. And I want them to be able to go to their rooms and entertain themselves (without the computer, iPad, or phone). I’m raising them with slightly less benign neglect as I was used to, but only slightly. Because I do want them to be independent and self-sufficient. I want them to figure things out on their own. But I also want them to know that coming to me in an emergency is an option. Which is maybe what Gen X couldn’t count on in our youth. Not necessarily because our parents didn’t care (I know some would say they didn’t, but I believe my parents did), but because I couldn’t just text them if something happened, and what could they do from across town anyway? Still, I lived in a neighborhood where I knew who was home and who I could count on if it came to that. That’s not so much a given anymore. And I always counted on myself first and foremost. Not out of pride. More out of an aversion to causing trouble for others. Out of the idea that figuring it out myself was a better option than going next door and bothering Mr. Kirkpatrick. I think I would have had to be close to dying before I’d have done that.

Where was I going with all this? I don’t know. After reading articles about how this is Gen X’s big moment, I just think: eh. Quarantine is maybe easier for us because we are so adaptable, and so many of us self-isolate anyway. But maybe that’s just true of introverts in general. Then again, being self-sufficient and figuring out how to do things when the usual ways don’t work seems to be in our nature. We’re problem solvers and innovators. And we know how to keep ourselves entertained, with or without technology. Damn, I wish I still had my roller skates…

Movies: All Things Must Pass

This is a documentary about Tower Records. Are you old enough to know what Tower Records was (and still is in Japan)? I didn’t really know what it was until I went to college at UT Austin; there was a big Tower Records on “The Drag.”

The documentary does a good job of organizing the information. It talks to all the key players, including the late Russ Solomon, founder of Tower. Former employees sing the praises of the Tower Records “lifestyle.” The film takes us through the expansion… And then kind of rushes the collapse. It hesitates to criticize Solomon, instead blaming digital media and someone they hired to help them who apparently made decisions they say tanked the company. Former employees talk about having to be laid off from their 30+ year careers… tears in their eyes… and yet they still consider Russ Solomon to be (present tense, since Solomon was alive at the time of filming) some kind of godlike king. Which is just kind of weird to me? Almost cultish? Or maybe they’re just reliving their glory days, what they consider to be the best days of their lives?

Look, I had a job at a small family-owned shop when I was in college. (In fact, it was on The Drag.) And it was the best job I’ve ever had and am ever likely to have. Yes, even as a writer, I can say that. Because going to that job every day was like going to hang out with friends and family. The work was incidental. I never had a dread of going to work. I never thought, I wish I didn’t have to. I looked forward to it! So I can totally understand where these Tower Records folks are coming from.

But though the employees were hurt by Tower’s fate, Solomon wasn’t much. He still had stores in Japan, was still making money. And this is more or less skated over by the film.

I just… I had mixed feelings about this film. It’s really designed to praise Russ Solomon and Tower Records and say very little contrary to, “Wasn’t it great?” It’s a lot of nostalgia but not much else. It’s really well made, but the content is flimsy.

About The Bay Chronicles

In the mid-1990s I wrote my first truly epic fan fiction, which collectively came to be known as The Bay Chronicles. This wasn’t particularly good fanfic, mind you. It was unnecessarily convoluted and heaped a ton of characters from various television shows, books, comic books into one bouillabaisse of near indecipherability. But it’s also the piece of work that, I believe, got me into grad school.

In order to explain that thesis, I have to first describe the work a little bit. The Bay Chronicles started with a collection of stories titled Rooms with a View. Those stories were told from Dana Scully’s point of view and detailed her partner Fox Mulder’s harassment by a vampire (Lestat, using a pseudonym). The Rooms with a View stories started out choppy, told in flash fiction snippets meant to convey Dana’s confusion as she pieces together what’s going on. In truth, though, the whole thing was confusing to read, and I’m truly sorry I inflicted it on my friends.

After that collection of stories came others, though the focus shifted away from Dana to Methos [Highlander] and Jarod [The Pretender]. Lestat continued to be obnoxious throughout, but I’d at this point also brought in some original characters and some Sandman comics stuff, just to make things ever more complicated and confusing. At the end of the day, The Bay Chronicles consisted of the following collections and stories:

Rooms with a View

  • “Home by the Sea”
  • “Return to the Home by the Sea”
  • “Second Home by the Sea”
  • “Home by the Bay”
  • “Another Home by the Bay”

Awake and Alive

  • “At Home by the Bay”
  • “Asleep by the Bay”
  • “Death by the Bay”

Promises to Keep

  • “Interlude”
  • “Miles to Go”
  • “Job 1:21”
  • “Round Trip”
  • “Forgive and Forget”

Experto Crede

  • “De Profundis”
  • “Abeunt Studia in Mores”
  • “Hetaera”
  • “Ab Ovo Usque ad Mala”

“Happily Ever After (Now and Then)”*

*which was a self-contained story that ended everything.

Okay, so how did this bizarre collection of works get me into grad school? I worked in a copy shop that also bound books, and so I printed out the entire work and gave a bound copy to one of my mentors, Dr. Douglass Parker. I’ll never know what he made of it all, but he wrote my recommendation letter, and I recall him telling me I had “a unique mind.” He smiled when he said it, so I always took it as a compliment.

In fact, Doc Parker often urged me to turn the original parts of my work into something I could publish. I did use some of it for my graduate thesis, and I continue to try to arrange it into something comprehensible for the wider world, but… It feels insurmountable to me.

Only a handful of copies of The Bay Chronicles are out there. Bound, complete copies? A half dozen maybe? Individual stories or parts? Ten to twelve, I’d guess. I still have the disks it was saved on, though I haven’t owned a computer with a disk drive in years. And they were all in Microsoft Works format, which… doesn’t exist anymore as far as I know.

I sometimes consider retyping the series from my hard copy, just so it can exist in Google docs or whatever. But I’m not sure what the point would be. Whenever I re-read any of it, I’m astounded by how awful it is. And grateful Dr. Parker saw past that to something in me worth recommending.

Mentors

I was helping host a Facebook cover reveal party, and it got me thinking about mentors and all the people who have supported me over the years. I’ve been really fortunate in that regard, and I wanted to write about a few of them.

Mrs. Truehardt was my first real mentor. She was our gifted & talented teacher, and we were in a pilot program where she followed us through several grades. (They call it “looping” now, and maybe they did then and I just never knew it.) She really encouraged us to develop our skills and interests, and she knew my strengths were in reading and writing. I remember once I forgot to write a paper, so I wrote a poem and handed that in instead. She loved it! We were all so sad when she retired after our fourth-grade year.

In high school I had Mrs. Bason, the journalism teacher, and Mr. Crivello, who taught honors and AP English Lit. Mrs. Bason was a fellow Trekkie, and we even once went to a Star Trek convention together. When I graduated, she gave me a book of poems inscribed with: “I know you’re going to be a great author someday.” Mr. C (as we called him) also encouraged my writing. He gave me a cassette tape of Jackson Browne music, too, which I still have, even though I’ve long since bought the albums in digital format. He’s the reason I got the highest possible score on the AP exam, too.

As an undergrad I was lucky enough to study with Dr. Douglass S. Parker (“Doc Parker”), the man who coined the term “parageography.” He had two offices on campus—one in the HRC and one in Waggener. Both were so crammed with stuff he couldn’t hold office hours in either. So he would send a note around to me and tell me to put on my one good suit—the one my parents had bought me for job interviews—and meet him at the faculty lounge. And he’d sneak me in and we’d have lunch and talk about his days in the war and in Memphis… He played in a band, if I remember right. Trombone? Doc Parker said I reminded him of his ex-daughter-in-law and wished I’d learned enough Greek to help him with his translations. He wrote the recommendation letter that got me into grad school, and he emailed me regularly to check on my writing and whether my world (AElit, which I had developed in his parageography course) was published yet. One of my biggest regrets is that he didn’t live to see my work in print. He was a wonderful champion.

And in grad school, one of my thesis advisors, Lisa Diercks, was the one to get me my first job by recommending me for an internship that eventually got me hired. I showed zero aptitude for book design, but she saw something in me anyway, for which I’m very grateful!

There are many more people in my life who have guided and supported me, but I can’t name everyone, else this list would be eternal. But I like to take moments now and then to remember that I didn’t get where I am all on my own—I’m not that good, nor quite as independent as I like to think. Good teachers make big differences in the lives of their students, and for that I’m forever thankful.

The Sorrow of What Remains

Yesterday I went down an Internet rabbit hole. An old friend from way back when posted something on Facebook about her son receiving school awards. Seems harmless enough for starters, doesn’t it? Now, this friend still lives in the town I grew up in, but I didn’t recognize the name of the school. Of course, I knew they’d renamed many schools, and that the town had grown and there were also new schools. So out of curiosity, I went Googling.

I’d walked to elementary school as a child, and my chief question was: What did they rename my old school? When I was young and the town was small, the school names were very simple: Westside, Eastside, Central . . . But friends who were still in the area had told me they’d renamed the schools after people like our old superintendent. Fair enough. I wondered which name my old school had received.

First I looked at the school district website for my old town. None of the schools listed looked familiar based on the pictures, but I reasoned that those old buildings had probably been given facelifts. So, remembering that I used to walk, I instead went to a Google map of the town and traced my old route.

No school.

???

I double checked the area, clicking on various things on the map to see if maybe I’d misremembered something. But no, there was no school anywhere in the vicinity.

Then I made the mistake of going to Street View.

Sometimes I still have dreams set on the street where I grew up. We lived in a cul-de-sac, at the U bend of it, in fact, and behind our house ran a quiet, relatively underutilized road. There was nothing but fields on the other side of that road, and we just called it “the back road.” A skunk had been run over there once, and no one had bothered to clean it up, so there was a spot—my friends and I always looked for it—where you could see its skeleton pressed into the asphalt by the cars that had flattened it into the summer-softened blacktop.

Oh, but that road was no longer a quiet road. The fields were long gone. The land appeared flattened and without shade, the grass all brown around the houses that had sprung up. They hadn’t bothered to save any trees, apparently. It was heart crushing to see.

And my school? It appears to have become a Boys and Girls Club. I guess there could be worse fates.

It’s true that you can never go home again. Because it will never be home again. Even if I moved back, it wouldn’t be the town I grew up in. We’ve all moved on.

There’s something sad about memories. How they only exist in our heads because there is nothing concrete to hold on to. Photographs, maybe, but the truth is: those places are lost to us now and will never exist again.

No to Everything

. . . We’ve decided the above will be the title of my autobiography.

There is a bit of contention about which was my first word: “no” or “hot.” They worked in tandem, so I can understand the uncertainty. You see, in order to keep me from touching things as a child, my parents would say, “No. It’s hot.”

This makes sense when talking about, say, a stove. Less sense when talking about the television set. And being somewhat clever, I figured this out. My dad would be watching the telly, and I would make a move toward it. For whatever reason, turning the dial was very satisfying for me. Probably a tactile/sensory thing. I can actually still remember this—the feel of it and the sound of it burring as it clicked. We didn’t have remote controls in those days. Ours was a wood-paneled thing from Montgomery Ward as I recall. I don’t know the make or model but it looked something like:

The point being that I liked to go turn the dial on the television, and my parents didn’t want me to. So Dad would say, “No. Hot.”

And I would smile and say, “Hot?” But I would draw the word out like, “Hooooooot?”

“Yes, Manda, it’s hot.”

So then I’d reach out and turn the dial, then laugh and run away, yelling, “No! Hot!”

I haven’t stopped saying “no” since, though I don’t say “hot” as often. And televisions don’t have dials anymore.

So I think, if I were ever to write an autobiography or memoir, I’d call it No to Everything. Because I’ve been told I do say no to everything. (I’m not convinced that’s entirely true, but apparently I’m somewhat forbidding.) Also, it’s a less off-putting title than I Hate Everyone.

Fiddling

I’m wandering into the weeds today and exploring some characters who are not my own.

Years ago, I began writing a fanfic that has since been lost to time. Basically it was a Tokyo Babylon / X / Cardcaptor Sakura crossover. Touya had a creature inside him similar to Yue—the opposite of Yue, really, as this alter ego was the power of the New Moon, the byproduct of Clow having created Yue. When you think about it, it kind of makes sense. Unlike the sun, the moon is inconstant [visually; obviously it’s always there regardless of our ability to see it]. Touya’s alter ego was named Xiwan (or Xi-Wan? something like that). I don’t remember where I got this name, but I do remember readers sending me fan art of the character. I still have it . . . somewhere . . .

I don’t remember much about the fic except that Seishiroh hits Touya with his car. This was the inciting incident, I think? And it was done on purpose as I recall because Sei needed Xiwan, or needed to eliminate Xiwan for some reason. Might have had to do with the Dragons of Heaven.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this here and now except that with the return of Cardcaptor Sakura I find myself thinking more and more about the dynamic between Yukito and Touya. I always want more of their story, really. Mulling it over, I think about how Yuki admits to Sakura that he has feelings for Touya but isn’t sure how Touya feels. How must Yuki have felt, then, when Kaho came back to Tomoeda? When I go back and re-read the scenes in which Yuki gently probes Touya about Kaho’s return, it feels different in light of knowing Yuki loves Touya but is uncertain if that love is reciprocated. Yuki wants Touya to be happy, of course, but part of him must be in knots over wondering whether Touya still has feelings for Kaho, what their relationship was like, etc. And Touya is not particularly forthcoming; he doesn’t do much to ease Yuki’s anxiety.

Not that Yuki ever shows it. He puts a smile on for everything and everyone. It’s easy to read or watch CCS and take Yukito at (no pun intended) face value. But I’m a character person, and I like depth. I like to think that Yuki, sitting home alone night after night, wrestles with these thoughts and feelings. Touya is friendly, yes, but in a somewhat unapproachable way. Even for his best friend.

When you toss Yue into this, Jesus . . . Here is a creature who is as aloof as Touya, but we also know he has deep feelings for his creator Clow Reed. Which means he’s capable of love. Kero gets to be himself all the time, whether in small form or large, but Yue must swap his personality out with this non-person . . . It’s so complicated it makes my head spin. Yue has a sense of duty to Sakura, though his heart appears to remain with Clow. He has very little agency in “life” (if that’s what you call it). He knows Yuki’s thoughts and feelings but doesn’t seem to share them; he’s merely required to carry the burden of them. If he’s lonely, he refuses to admit it. You get the sense he’d prefer to disappear entirely now that Clow is gone. But he feels chained by his loyalty to Clow to continue to care for his new master. All that lies before him is a long trudge without the one person who means the most to him. Think about that for a while.

Love triangles may be cliché but damn does this have the potential to be a fun one. In the fanfic I wrote, Touya is in the hospital and Yuki refuses to leave his bedside. At one point Sakura comes in and discovers Yue there instead. She is alarmed, of course—Yue shouldn’t be seen by anyone, and what if a nurse or doctor or even Mr. Kinomoto were to enter? Yue tells her that he could not bear Yuki’s broken heart and needed to put him out of his misery for a while.

When I look at my book Manifesting Destiny, I realize I probably subconsciously adopted some of the dynamics of the Touya/Yuki/Yue situation when I developed the Cee/Marcus/Diodoric triangle. After all, Diodoric is Marcus’ alter ego. Of course, there is a fourth player in my story: Cee’s alter ego Livian. Not that he’s romantically interested in anyone, but Cee still has to navigate life with him as part of her.

Again, I don’t have a particular reason for bringing this up at the moment. Just something I was thinking about. When, really, I should be worrying about my WIP! So off I go to do some “real” work . . .

17 Years

<— I haven’t seen my natural hair color in years!

Seventeen years ago today, in the garden of a little Victorian “mansion” (let’s face it, it was a house), we were married. It was Mother’s Day then, too. We hadn’t known when we picked the date that it would be Mother’s Day, but oh well. At least my best friend Tara was also our florist and got us the flowers at cost.

It was a small ceremony, not even 100 guests. We wanted to be able to talk to everyone at the reception. So many of our friends and family contributed in various ways—my dad’s best friend is a professional photographer, and he came and took all our photos as a gift to us; Scott’s cousin works in the film industry and was our videographer (using the camera we’d been given as a wedding gift). He did this amazing thing where he went around and spoke to people to ask them how they knew me and/or Scott and to give little memories about us.

We were married by a Reform rabbi who incorporated both religious backgrounds into the ceremony. (When people ask, “Oh, are you Jewish?” I answer, “Only by marriage.”) It was sweet and personal and unique and very us.

So here’s to 17 years of holding it together. And also a happy Mother’s Day, which we will spend at a haunted house. Should be fun?

90s Kid Book Tag

I wasn’t exactly a “kid” in the 90s. In 1990 I finished eighth grade and started high school. But I still want to try this 90s Kid Book Tag.

The Rules

  1. Please, please, please steal this tag and spread it around! I only ask that you link it back to The Literary Phoenix so that I can see everyone’s answers!
  2. Tag, you’re it! Even if you weren’t a kid in the 90s, so long as you’re old enough to remember the 90s, I want to hear about those memories! And if you do participate, don’t forget to tag someone.
  3. Have fun!

Gotta catch ’em all!

Pokemon was big in the 90s. But we’re here for books. So: Which author do you need every book from? For me it’s Tana French. I received a copy of In the Woods when I was a reviewer for Blogcritics and it hooked me. Even though it took me forever to read The Likeness because I couldn’t immediately forgive French for dumping Rob and going on to another character. Now, though, I understand that’s kind of the point of the series, and I’ve learned to love it.

Ready, AIM . . .

Remember AOL Instant Messenger? How great it was to chat online before mobile phones let us text? What book(s) connected you with your best friend? Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles. I can’t even begin to describe how those books affected us. I checked Interview with the Vampire out from the school library (it’s a wonder our school had it) and read it in secret. Guess it’s not a secret now! Sorry, Mom.

Monstrous!

Furbies were all the rage. Well, okay, I didn’t have one, nor did I want one. Bottom line, though, Furbies were demon-possessed robots of pure evil that would go off in the middle of the night at random and never shut up. (I only know this because my children now have them.) In the book world, what book seemed like a good idea but turned out to be, well, a bad one? I have to say, nothing immediately springs to mind. I’ve probably blocked it out. I’ve read plenty of disappointing books in my day. Recently I tried to read The Ghost Orchid by Carol Goodman. I’d enjoyed The Lake of Dead Languages, and the idea behind The Ghost Orchid sounded really intriguing, but I just couldn’t like the characters. I wouldn’t say the book itself was a bad idea, only that it didn’t work for me. I’ll add that I feel that way about pretty much anything written by Roald Dahl, too—his books are supposedly classics, but I’ve never liked any of them.

Bye, Bye, Bye

N’Sync was the big thing. And while we still have Justin Timberlake to entertain us, what book did you hate to say goodbye to? So many! Anything by Zilpha Keatley Snyder for starters, The Changeling in particular. I really identified with that book. Du Maurier’s Rebecca, too, which swept me away.

Barth Burgers

You Can’t Do That on Television ended in 1990, so I guess it still technically counts? On that show, Barth would serve up disgusting meals at a restaurant one had to wonder how it ever stayed open. What book did other people eat up that you just couldn’t stomach? I’ll admit I never tried to read them, but I remember my friends going on about Francesca Lia Block books . . . I also never read Goosebumps or Christopher Pike. I feel like I sort of skipped a layer of reading in my life; I went straight from Judy Blume to Dean Koontz and never looked back.

Kill Me Now

Oregon Trail is something I hear people talk about a lot, but for whatever reason we never played it where I lived. Still, I’m now very familiar with the idea behind the game. What book made you wish you’d died of dysentery? For me, The Scarlet Letter was a real trial. I also don’t at all enjoy Moby-Dick.

On Permanent Rotation

Mix tapes (or CDs) were all the rage. It was the biggest sign of affection to create one for someone. We didn’t have MP3s, after all, so making a tape or CD took real time. And it was a great way to introduce people to your favorite songs or bands. (My husband made me a mix tape when we first started dating, and Marillion’s “Kayleigh” remains one of my favorite songs.) Which three books would you put on your “playlist” by recommending them to anyone, anywhere, anytime? I often find myself recommending Rivers of London (aka Midnight Riot) by Ben Aaronovitch. Also, A Density of Souls by Christopher Rice and The Supernatural Enhancements by Edgar Cantero.

Dialing In

Who can forget the sound of the modem connecting? And how it took forever to connect, often only to be ruined by someone either picking up the phone or calling? What book took ages to read? For me it was Watchers by Dean [R.] Koontz. I loved that book, and I’m a quick reader, but I remember that one took time, maybe because I was savoring it.

Water, Water . . .

In the 90s you couldn’t escape things like Adam Sandler. What book do you feel like you see referenced everywhere and is in everything? The Harry Potter books, of course. Those books have entered the general lexicon. Also Shakespeare.

No Peeking!

Cover your eyes and count to ten. Did you look through your fingers to see which way everyone ran to hide? What book did you read the end of first because you just couldn’t stand the suspense? I’m proud to say I’ve never done this. In fact, I can’t stand the thought of doing it. For me, all the fun in reading a book is in getting to the end.

Red Slice Anyone?

We all have fond memories of old foods and drinks that are no longer with us. I remember drinking Red Slice in the UT cafeteria. What are some of your favorite bookish snacks? I find when I’m reading, weirdly enough I crave bread and butter or toast.

Spooky Mulder

Did you love The X-Files? Did Eugene Tooms or the Flukeman rob you of sleep? (For me it was Brad Dourif in “Beyond the Sea.” Something so much more creepy about a realistic killer.) Name a book that kept you up at night. ‘Salem’s Lot by Stephen King. Remains one of my favorites by him, too.

Mr. Wizard

Like You Can’t Do That on Television, Mr. Wizard’s World didn’t last much beyond the 80s. Still, I learned plenty from him, and from MacGyver, too. Name a book that taught you something new. Though fiction, King and Goddess by Judith Tarr taught me about the female pharaoh Hatshepsut and engendered my interest in ancient history in general. The Memoirs of Cleopatra likewise gave me a deeper vision of that queen’s life.

I hope you enjoyed this book tag. Pretty extensive! Try it yourself if you’re brave enough! Or just tell me about your favorite books in the comments.

A Memory

Almost twenty years ago, I made my first trip to London. My hotel was in Russell Square, and desperate to stay upright and not give in to jet lag, I walked myself over to the British Museum. Then I promptly got lost inside.

I had gone with the intent of seeing the Egyptian artifacts, which I did. But one room led to another and another—the Museum is very different now than it was then—and I couldn’t find my way out!

Then a gentleman—I want to say he was older, but at that time in my life, everyone was older—noticed my distress and asked if I needed help.

And—I kid you not—he was wearing a Derby. (Or, if you prefer, a bowler.)

I remember thinking: They really do exist!

Seriously, it was like seeing a unicorn. This British gentleman in his hat and suit. Or maybe that’s how guardian angels dress in London.

I laughed and blushed and said that I was lost, and this man put his hand on the small of my back (it seems forward now but felt reassuring at the time) and guided me to the exit.

Of course then I had to walk around and try to remember which direction my hotel was but, to paraphrase Dr. Grant, at least I was out of the museum. I spent some time in Russell Square . . . bought a soda from a stand there, as I recall . . . And eventually found my way back to my hotel and collapsed.

Not sure what made me think of that today.