Stray Cats and Suet Cakes

I’m still working on A Supremely Bad Idea, and if anything proves that I am not, and never will be, a birder, I think my slow progress with this book does. I’m also not having much success with my attempts to be an armchair birdwatcher: not a single bird has been seen nibbling at the new birdfeeder.

Now, although it’s possible that the birds don’t really like suet cakes, or that they’ve heard a rumor that my house is occupied by an Alfred Hitchcock devotee, I think there is another possible reason for both my lack of success with both the book and the birds: There’s a giant CAT in my backyard, yellow and Clifford-sized; much too big for my dog to chase off.

We live next door to the local vocational school. Our little street has eight houses on it, and it is surrounded by the college. A little suburban island in a sea of … well, not quite academia … more like motorcycle maintenance. But apart from the occasional late-night donut drivers in the parking lot, the school is generally a good, quiet neighbor.

Several weeks ago, we got a letter from the school, addressed to “Our Neighbor,” alerting us to the school's upcoming expansion: an 83,000 square foot building. I didn’t think too much of it until the giant yellow CAT earth-moving machines showed up outside my house. I had the idea that there would be noise, jackhammering like woodpeckers, off to the side of my house – in the background somewhere. Instead, my house began to shake like an earthquake, accompanied by a constant background screeching – not unlike the music in the shower scene in Psycho, or a very loud, angry mouse, or perhaps a large family of mice, being driven from their home by the giant yellow CAT.
 Now, I’m thinking maybe some WD40 is in order, but if you saw how big this CAT is, you’d understand: there’s not enough WD40 at Costco to take care of this squeaking.

It should come as no surprise then, that I’ve found it a wee bit hard to concentrate on reading … and that the birds have been scared off. Of course, they might have left simply because winter is approaching; in fact, there are icicles on the bottom of the birdfeeder. Granted, they formed from the melting suet cake, but still, they are icicles, and that means winter.

So, I’m trying not to worry too much about the implications of all this. After all, we like cats, and winter means Christmas. I’m just going to play some Christmas tunes on my iPod and hope the birds come back in the spring.

A heartbreaking post of staggering uniqueness

I got a little frustrated last night. I was reading a list of upcoming “hot” fall books on the Daily Beast site. It’s the usual stuff mostly: Dan Brown, Mitch Albom, and so on. I glance at the author’s name, and it says, “Sara Nelson, author of the bestselling So Many Books, So Little Time." Really? My ears perk up (or maybe my eyes, as I was reading). A check on Amazon reveals the book chronicles her effort to read a book per week for one year. Huh.

Not only that, but Anna Quindlen, whose books I’ve never read but evidently lots of other people have, has tackled the subject as well, in How Reading Changed My Life. You don’t say.

I knew when I started this project that it wasn’t an original idea; how could it be? I came up with it when I ran across a discussion group on goodreads full of people doing the exact same thing. Not only that, I ran across a couple of blogs (links at left <<) whose authors are doing the exact same thing.

I feel ordinary again.

Now it occurs to me, maybe I should start over. I could read something else, like the encyclopedia, but that’s already been covered quite engagingly by A.J. Jacobs in The Know It All. Actually, I didn’t even finish that, although I liked his other book, about the bible. Either way, scratch that.

Maybe I could read another list of books. Christopher Beha got pretty good reviews for doing just that in The Whole Five Feet, in which he spends a year reading the Harvard Classics.

I think if I keep looking, I will find myself completely discouraged and just give up. Goodbye, cruel blogosphere!

Maybe I could choose another list of books. My beloved Strand bookstore has a list called The Strand 80. This list is largely composed of classics and Important Books that already line my shelves; they fall into two categories: books I’ve never read, or books that I’ve read repeatedly (Jane Austen, F. Scott Fitzgerald). Many were read for school, inevitably. I’ve already seen the movie for some (Lord of the Rings); but for those I have read nor bothered with the movie, is there a point to forcing myself? Maybe there is but I’ve never been a huge believer in suffering for art, which is a conversation for another day.

I think this is where I get into trouble with reading. I buy things (or when I’m feeling budget-conscious or run out of shelf space, check out of the library) that everyone likes, or that I “should” read for some reason, but I’m not really interested so I don’t read them. Then the books sit there, staring at me from the shelves, making me feel guilty and worse, inadequate. They’re doing it right now.

I take my daughter and my dog for a walk (only the latter was on a leash) and on our usual route, we pass what is easily the most, well, festive house in the neighborhood. It’s painted like a gingerbread house: purple with colorful trim. But it’s, oh, so much more than that.

This house has a huge yard, and it’s filled not with grass, but with trees and assorted lawn sculptures, and it’s surrounded by a white picket fence. And every last thing on the property is covered with birdhouses. Birdhouses on the fenceposts. Birdhouses hanging from the trees. Birdhouses mounted on posts, scattered about the yard. It’s Hitchcock’s worst nightmare.

And these are not just any birdhouses, mind you: Every last one of them is painted colorfully, fancifully, like a miniature gingerbread house. An explosion of color. The owners never decorate for Halloween; they don’t have to – even as an adult, I’ve long been convinced that the house must be inhabited by the sort of person who keeps a kid-sized oven inside.

But here’s the thing: You remember that house. I get lost looking for other people’s houses, and if you ask me what color most of my friends’ houses are, I probably couldn’t tell you. Ummmm, beige? No, wait, brown. I don’t know. This house, though – I know exactly where it is. We look forward to passing by and debating whether or not they ever put birdseed in any of those houses.

For a long time I thought: those people are crazy (the house is rather small, so I assume they’re not rich enough to be “eccentric”). To me all those birdhouses were just a kind of giant EFF YOU to the neighborhood. But today it hits me: No, they just don’t care. It’s their house, their way. Isn’t that how it should be? Many people have houses, but only one family has THAT house. It’s not about the house, it’s about the personality.

I spend some more time with the Strand 80, and now I feel a bit differently about it. First of all, I realize I’ve easily read half of these books.

Yea! I’m well read! Gimme a Woo-Hoo!

Then I stumble across book #20, Ulysses. The book that I read four chapters of and then delivered a very persuasive oral presentation on, in college. One thing I remember about Ulysses is that it isn’t about plot: the story is about one ordinary man’s day. That’s it. All 800 or so pages.

But nobody else could have written it. Every chapter is different, an entirely different style to suit the subject of the chapter. For example, the chapter when he visits the news room is written like a newspaper article. It’s a work of genius. The absolute simplest thing – a man’s day – elevated to a work of art.

A work of art I’ve not ever finished reading.

Much like our birdhouse-loving neighbors’ house, I tend to recoil from things that are different. That’s not so unusual, I imagine. But that’s the stuff we remember, isn’t it? Those are the people that stick with us, and the books, and the places.

For the moment, I’m on page 140 of A Supremely Bad Idea, and plan to keep going. Hope you stay with me.

Have you ever seen so many birds?

We went out to buy a birdfeeder yesterday. (Also, school supplies – no time like the last minute.) I have a brilliant plan – why travel to see birds when you can bring the birds to you? I have a couple of hooks on my front porch, I can hang birdfeeders from them, and then watch them from my reading chair as I read A Supremely Bad Idea. The cat usually sits on the back of my chair, and it’s something we can enjoy together.

My husband points out that it’s September and although we may get birds now, we won’t for much longer. He also points out that what I’m proposing is an awful lot like bird watching … which it isn’t. It’s somewhat similar to birding, but just barely.

Okay, I admit he may have a minor point here – I do have a small fixation on birds, evidenced by odd bits of decorating here and there. Bird plates, bird bowls, bird tchotchkes … I used to have a bird coffee table, but my ex-husband took it in the divorce, just to be spiteful; and to be spiteful, I let him take it and took the 35mm camera instead. That worked out well: I’m sure his current wife appreciates having a unique bird-themed coffee table as much as my husband appreciates having another film camera taking up storage space in the garage.

But back to the birds. How did birdwatching get such a sorry rep? Seriously, Alfred Hitchcock had a total bird fixation. I took a class on it once, in college. Apart from the movie “The Birds,” which I’ve always found more comical than suspenseful, Norman Bates’ hobby was taxidermy – his house was full of stuffed birds. And mother, obviously.

Anyway, we bought a birdfeeder and some suet cakes. (I don’t know how the birds can eat that stuff, but maybe they think that about my food too so who am I to judge?) Then we had lunch at Red Robin – chicken, if you must know. If I see any birds, I’ll be sure to tell you. And of course, I’ll keep reading.