A World of Worrying

“Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation.” -- Chapter 15 Emma

There’s weather, then there’s worrying. And the world of Mr. Woodhouse is filled with worry.

In Austen’s Emma, the father is an elderly man reduced to his worries. Worrying about the weather. Worrying about health — his and everyone’s around him. And worrying about travel, both far and near.

In today’s world Mr. Woodhouse might be termed anxious. Indeed, his anxiety for everything and everyone around him reminds me of my late father, who worried about time — constantly checking his watch (even though he was chronically early for every appointment); the location of his wallet — patting his pants pocket multiple times after leaving the house; and, once he did, making sure he knew the whereabouts of his house keys. I cannot describe his consternation as we sat in a taxicab one winter’s day wondering whether we’d be late for a train from Penn Station.

One of the delightful features of listening to Austen on audio books is that you begin to feel the creeping claustrophobia of being in a room with an incessant worrier, such as Mr. Woodhouse. I walk while listening to Austen and whole city blocks can be measured by the amount of time taken to feel the fretting of Mr. Woodhouse on, say, a carriage ride in the snow, swimming in the sea, or the particular evil of eating cake.

The Return of Rain

Anyone who has spent any time in England knows about rain. And that particular damp chill that my late mother-in-law once referred to as “raw.”

In Austen, someone, always a female, sits inside looking out a window. At the rain, the clouds, the mud. The impossibility of going out.

We’ve experienced a drought – the first in a long time – and the days have been brilliantly sunny and mild. But this morning, as I walked the dog, it rained all day and it was raw. As well as grey.

Grey is very Austen – there is even a Miss Grey who mucks up the works for Marianne is Sense and Sensibility– and I once wrote an essay called “Getting Used to Grey,” about the seasonal shift in New York from the bright sun of the fall to the blanket of gloom that descends on the region around Thanksgiving, not to leave us until May.

This is the season of being inside, of tea and books, of distractions that take us away from the weather, which is certainly a character in much of Austen. An easy nemesis to many plans, it drives her heroines indoors, relegating them to endless games of whist or piquet or performances on the pianoforte. Indeed, there must be university shelves filled with weather as subject in the novels of Austen.

I am once more getting used to grey, battling my own tendency to stay indoors, and argue the impossibility of going out. Thank goodness dogs needs walking, errands need running, and bodies need exercise.

‘Tis the season of grey. And the return of rain.

Chaos and Comfort

It is always most evident that in times of great chaos a need arises for the utmost of comforts.

For some, it’s sports. For others, TV. For me, Austen suffices.

I have read most of her novels but am now listening to the most excellent Rosamund Pike on Audible. In order of publication, the glorious Sense and Sensibility, then the brilliant Pride and Prejudice.

I cannot describe how many hours my household spent watching the A&E P&P released in the 1990s, replete with the screeching Mrs. Bennett, and the ass-kissing Mr. Collins. But it is the extraordinary Anna Chancellor, who plays Caroline Bingley, that is most memorable, certainly for all the wonderful parts she has played over the years, but mostly for her “Duckface” moniker, aptly named by Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral.

Why Duckface now? Because there is a marvelous scene where Caroline critiques Darcy’s handwriting, as he attempts to write a letter to his sister. She is all desperation, for of course she dreams of Darcy for herself.

Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in union with her opinion of each.

"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"

He made no answer.

"You write uncommonly fast."

"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."

"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!"

"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours."

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."

"I have already told her so once, by your desire."

"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well."

"Thank you—but I always mend my own."

"How can you contrive to write so even?"

He was silent.

I’m reminded of the woman in my cursive handwriting seminar this summer, who spoke of her Mexican fathers and uncles and their extraordinary handwriting. “It was such a source of pride!” she said.

Indeed, in our time it is hard to picture how one would comment on the typing of another. What would one say?

“You type with such speed?”

An Embarrassment of Signatures

“Oh, what crueler irony could there be than for the gods to infuse a young man with dreams of literary fame and then provide him with no experiences?”

Handwriting makes an unexpected appearance in Amor Towles’ delightful “Ballad of Timothy Touchett.”

The short story, part of the collection Dinner for Two, tells the tale of Touchett, an aspiring New York writer who sits in the Main Reading Room of the 42nd Street Library, lamenting his lack of experience. How will he write when he has nothing to write about?

Enter Peter Pennybrook, a downtown used bookstore owner who happens to notice Touchett practicing the signature of one well-known 20th century author.

“As he sat in the library staring down at a facsimile of a letter from F. Scott Fitzgerald, rather than taking notes on elements of craft or branching off on some promising tasks of his own, Timothy found himself copying Fitzgerald’s signature over and over, even as the minute hand on the Reading Room’s clock advanced irreversibly toward eternity.”

Suddenly Touchett, with a premise from Pennybrook, has a “promising idea” to branch off on, all because he can emulate the flourishes, loop-de-loops, and downward slopes of the American avatar of the Roaring Twenties, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

These Letters

When he entered The White House, newly elected President Barak Obama asked for ten letters.

 At the time The White House received 65,000 paper and 100,000 email letters – to say nothing of phone calls and faxes – weekly. Obama asked his correspondence staff to sift through them and choose – daily – the ten most meaningful ones they felt the President should read, representing all different sides of the American experience.

“Lately I’ve been getting a lot of health care letters, and this one is a good example,” Obama said, reading one about a family whose retirement funds were being drained as they supported a son who could not afford the cost of his insurance premiums because of a preexisting condition.

Another letter contained a photograph of a vegetable garden that a woman had sent, showing the president how she had used her stimulus payment.

And then there was the letter written during World War II.

“My dearest daughter,” it began, as the father, newly deployed, described to his newborn daughter what he was doing and why it was so important to him. And to the country.

“These letters do more, I think, to keep me in touch with what’s happening around the country than just about anything else,” the president said.

The Power of a Postcard

In the Season Three finale of Madame Secretary, Elizabeth McCord travels to Brussels, asking NATO’s alliance for their support in preventing an incursion in Eastern Europe. In doing so she removes a postcard from her jacket pocket and reads it out loud, illustrating the power of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.   

“This is a postcard my uncle sent to his father when he arrived in Italy, William Adams. He was in the Third Infantry Division, the Battle of Anzio. ‘We landed safely yesterday, passed the ruins of a school today. Kids in grey rags scrambling over the heap. We got out some K Rations but no, they only wanted to shake our hands. Greatest feeling of my life.’ ”

She goes on.

“He died the next day, at the counterattack. But the thing that strikes me is this validation of purpose. The invigoration of fighting for something greater than himself. For a future that he believed in. This certainty that he was on the right side of history.”

All on a postcard.

The Letters of Miss A. G. Bushell

Mine is no mystery. And not nearly as elegant. However, I have every, single one.

My letter collection is still intact. From recent months, and years ago. Yes, indeed, even from childhood. The adult end met up with its former self when I cleaned out my dad’s apartment several years ago. There it was, untouched, in a childhood desk drawer, simply waiting to be seen. Letters from camp, letters from family, and, yes, letters from long-lost friends.

One is from high school and, just like that, I’m back, transported to the hallway, seeing the writer and how she dressed, her smile, as I now read her letter, pouring her heart out about – imagine – a boy.

Another is from middle school, a neighbor who moved away. How different her life was in sunny California, away from the grey of a New York winter, where we once made Lemon Squares together. She wrote out the recipe and my memory of her neat, manuscript printing matches the letter I now hold in my hands.

Then there are the ones unrecognized. I don’t know the writer. Were they friends not for long? Yet they took the time to sit down and write. I only hope I did the same for them.

As much as I adore the visual and tactile nature of my letter collection, what strikes at the heart is the sense of time, of its passage, of first loves and lost friendships, family that remains only in spirit, and memories that challenge us to think, reflect, and give context to a time gone by.

The Clippings of Mrs. H.R. Burdick

It’s a mystery, the contents of this box. Here’s what I know, so far.

Several years ago, I was cleaning out my aunt’s house. I found a box inside of a larger box, containing stamps from all over: Germany, Cuba, and the United States.

This box was nestled among clippings, hundreds of them, of letterhead(s) from mid-century American hotels, coast to coast: The Taft, the Biltmore, the Roosevelt. Beyond belief, though, were the train lines: the Los Angeles, and the Sunset Limited. The mind reels: there was a time when you could board an American train and write a letter on its personalized stationery.

The elegance of this speaks to an era when time spread out. I just started reading the letters of MFK Fisher and what is startling is simply the use of language for communication. This is no text speak time; this is when thoughts were developed, and full words were used. One pictures the writer, staring out the train window; locales pass by as thoughts come together.

To get back to Mrs. H.R. Burdick. It seems she collected both the stamps and the stationery, but not the letters. Luckily, there are many envelopes with multitudes of beautiful handwriting. Where does my aunt come in? Apparently, one of her many hobbies was stamp collecting, and she purchased these boxes from one David C. Burdick, of Sea Cliff, New York, the town in which she lived. One assumes David was the son of Mrs. H.R. Burdick.

There is no question that this treasure trove wants to become a book, or a museum exhibit. Or both. Stay tuned.

Austen, and Audrey, and Eric, as Well

They loved the letters, as did I.

At the second cursive handwriting workshop I taught this week, I showed the communications of Jane Austen, Audrey Hepburn, and Eric Clapton. Each had their own style. Yet there were similarities.

While Austen’s resembled the classic cursive of the 18th century – slanted and elegant – Hepburn’s was round and vertical, with no slant at all. Then there is Clapton’s, which is so distinctive it stopped me. It was the handwriting of a college friend, raised in England. Not quite cursive, but not just print. It’s a hybrid, and almost resembles calligraphy.

The reason for this? “In Britain, in the early 1890s, Professor John Jackson introduced vertical writing, which he felt had superior legibility, and was easier for students to learn.” (Lynn Diligent, Dilemmas of an Expat Tutor).

We spent most of the class writing letters to friends or family. Participants were so focused you could hear a pin drop.

The best part? One of the letters was addressed to me, thanking me for teaching the class.  

Jane Austen Letters

Audrey Hepburn Letters

Eric Clapton Letters

"You Write Like My Grandma!"

They came. They wrote. They conquered cursive.

This was the first of two workshops I am teaching at the New York Public Library. It was just delightful, connecting with participants ranging from 20- to 60-something, representing at least six nationalities. Only one student had not studied cursive as a child, so that made things easier. We spoke about our cursive experiences and then got hands-on practice, using blank or lined paper with soft lead pencils or Bic ball point pens.

There was lots of talk of which letters are hard to form, such as a lower-case R or V. I would add that long words, especially ones like constitution, declaration, and independence can be challenging when you try to keep all the letters connected. Even those of us who regularly write in cursive often lift our pen in the middle of a word to make things easier.

I briefly spoke about current research, which shows the importance of teaching cursive as well as typing: Efficiency (for notetaking and exams), developing signatures, reading historical documents, and cognitive brain function that is specific to cursive handwriting. Anecdotally, I told the story about my fourth-grade tutoring student who printed so slowly I had no idea how she would take the state exam at the end of the year. 

The two takeaways that fascinated me were the following:

One student spoke about learning cursive first in a French lycée and it seems that, although I have not delved into the research on this, other Western European and Latin American cultures teach cursive first. The U.S. started teaching print first, during the Progressive education era of the early 20th century, so that students would learn to read better.

The other was the kind of handwriting, whether in print or cursive, that seems to come out of adolescence, where letters are round, dots are circles, or perhaps hearts. I would venture a guess on this: if you got the cursive training for several years and did everything the teacher asked, perhaps you wanted to, in classic teenager style, do things your own way, imbue a little personality, stamp it with individuality.

Tomorrow I’ll share my favorite middle school story: a student watched me write on the board and yelled out, “Miss Bushell, you write like my grandma!”

A higher compliment I have never gotten.  

Reuters Article

Psychology Today

Scientific American

Pioneer Institute Article

A Ford and a Coke

An ordinary Wednesday. Walking the dog. Within one minute, I spy them: the Ford and Coca-Cola logos.

Normally, these sightings would mean nothing. But these days, they do. In honor of Constitution Day on the 17th, I’m doing a cursive crash course in preparation for teaching my first handwriting class next week at the New York Public Library.

As with everything else, there is so much information. And I have four hours, over two weeks, to whittle down, among others, the who, what, when, where, and why of cursive.

Here’s what’s important to know: cursive is on the comeback. Thanks to a teacher who sat in an assembly meeting with California Governor Gavin Newsom, the state has mandated the re-introduction of cursive instruction, beginning this fall. Other states, namely Idaho, Kansas, Massachusetts, North Carolina, South Carolina, New Jersey, and Tennessee, have followed, as well.

Here's another fun fact: The Ford and Coca-Cola logos are, according to The New York Times, “rendered in Spencerian script…Spencerian was a form of handwriting devised by Platt Rogers Spencer around 1840 as a modern, quickly written, clear script for business. It was widely taught in schools until being edged out by the faster Palmer method.”

Stay tuned for cursive notes from the field.

Transportation Time

Here’s the thing: objects transport.

First things first: I hate the word thing. Yet here I am using it. My excuse is it’s in a phrase. While I could write a whole paragraph about how unattractive a word it is, that it lacks lyricism, and has that short stop sound of words like pick, quick or rick, I will say I use it, like everyone else, in phrases. Somehow it turns itself on its side and becomes humorous in, let’s say, it’s a thing. Meaning, it – whatever it is -- matters.

Just like objects. The thing about them is that they usually don’t transport. They simply sit. On a shelf, in a drawer, around the house. Until they do. There is that moment when, for example, I am at a piano lesson – as I was, just a few weeks ago -- and I happen to look down. There on a shelf is a book, a large paperback, with a charming cover, called Heritage Songster.

Suddenly, I am a child, in Miss Bachleitner’s music class. She is using a book like this. We are learning American folk songs. I am surrounded by my friends. The room is filled with voices. Miss Bachleitner smiles as she guides us in song.

Perhaps this is my father’s day off. He will pick me up after school. We will go to the Viand Coffee Shop for French fries and hot chocolate. Later my mother will come home, and we will have dinner together.

“Anita?” the piano teacher asks. “Can you try it once more?”

I return. “What were you looking at?” she asks.

“This book.” I hold it up. “I was transported in time.”

I Saw It On TV

Special thanks to Christian for making this one happen.

I have a framed black-and-white photograph of two-year-old me. I am sitting in front of the massive Zenith TV. In terms of composition, is the photograph about me or the TV?

My late aunt took this picture and, while she was a good photographer, what is interesting is that she didn’t angle the snapshot to frame me. All she had to do was stand by the TV. Perhaps that would miss the point.

Mine was the TV generation. Wasn’t it on Mad Men that Don came home the day JFK was killed to find Sally abandoned to the boob tube, alone, while Betty lay in bed upstairs?

My mother might have looked at me and saw that TV had taken over, as well. Consider the Shake-and-Bake moment.

We were standing in a grocery store on Elmhurst’s Roosevelt Avenue. I wanted a box of Shake-and-Bake.

“Why?” my mother asked.

“Because I saw it on TV,” I said.

“But I can make this myself,” my mother answered, incredulous, as she examined the box.

She was a good cook who made simple nutritious meals. Why her silly child wanted bread crumbs in a box was beyond her. Oh, and the added price for the plastic bag to do the shaking in. By the way, this moment took place less than a decade after Desk Set’s Spencer Tracy showed Katherine Hepburn his version of Shake-and-Bake: flour, salt, and pepper in a brown paper bag.

My mother missed the part where the product, to say nothing of the red chicken image on the box, captivated me. Because I saw it on TV.

Has TV, like the image in the photograph taken over? At one time, it did. There’s no question I would have been a better student had I not done my high school homework to The Odd Couple. On the other hand, years later I watched my middle school students beg for music as they wrote their in-class assignments. The teenage brain may need more stimulation. These days, I can’t write unless in total silence. There’s too much surrounding stimulation.

What I love about the Shake-and-Bake moment is that my mother tried to reason with me, as if I understood that there was a connection between her lovely meals and a bag in a box.

She totally missed the point: I saw it on TV.

Carrot Cake

Last week I was in Boston. At a friend’s birthday dinner, we had carrot cake for desert.

Carrot cake. It comes in so many forms. There’s the way too sweet one found in diners, and the ten layer version — insert exclamation point here —  we had at dinner. At a Russian cafe in Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge I recently tasted one made with beets and a burnt meringue frosting. Lovely.

Then there is the Moosewood. Ah, the Moosewood. So many memories.  This iconic cookbook was given to me by a dear friend and college roommate alongside the Enchanted Broccoli Forest. One of the first recipes I made was carrot cake, only partly because my dad loved it. Almost as much as he adored cheesecake. 

The Moosewood was written in the era of processed sugar as mortal enemy and macrobiotic diets the choice of those who these days would most likely be vegan. 

The writing was comforting, and the visuals were charming. Indeed, founding member and chef Molly Katzen says, “The Moosewood Cookbook grew, in part, out of a looseleaf binder filled with random notes intended to help keep track of what we were cooking in the tiny kitchen of our modest 1970s restaurant.”

As a self-published author — should I be saying “independently published”? — I was thrilled to read Katzen’s introduction to the 40th Anniversary Addition -- wherein she discussed the Moosewood’s modest publishing history: “Our customers…also wanted to be able to replicate what we were making in their own kitchens. Requests for copies became routine…eventually I put together a series of pages…eight hundred copies of the resulting booklet sold out in a week.”

And here were are. Time to make carrot cake.

We Weren’t That Old

Eventually I pick them up. Sometimes it just takes awhile.

Michael, the owner of the Chinese hand laundry was climbing on the counter to reach my shirts from a higher shelf.

I looked at my ticket. Apricot. The ones on the shelf below mine were pale pink.

“Are the pink ones newer?” I asked, needing to solve a nagging lifelong mystery.

“Yes,” Michael responded.

If the apricot-colored tickets are newer, I thought, what about all the other pastel- colored tickets? The ones attached to the ubiquitous brown paper packages tied up with string which line all the walls in the place.

“We weren’t that old,” I said to my husband as I walked out, feeling just slightly less guilty than I normally do.

I’ve been dropping off our shirts at San Toy Laundry since 1988, when I moved to Park Slope, Michael once told The New York Times, “This is an old-fashioned kind of laundry — you don’t have them anymore…there used to be five Chinese laundries in Park Slope. Not anymore.”

I grew up with these laundries, where Chinese immigrants pressed the shirts by hand. They were once all over the city. I remember my dad dropping off his shirts at Yike Lee, in Yorkville, where I grew up, on 85th and Second. He would carry the brown package home and let me untie the string. Eh voila – I was greeted by a crisp, neatly pressed stack of folded patterned shirts bound by a pastel green strip of paper.

San Toy has not changed one bit since the first day I entered. It might have looked new in 1962. As it turns out this space has been occupied by a Chinese laundry for over a century, changing hands throughout the years.

The thing about San Toy is that it is cash only. Which brings me to why it sometimes takes me awhile. It’s a bad habit, and I have no excuse. I just sometimes drop shirts off then forget about them. Sadly, judging by the packages along the wall, I’m not the only one.

“These are all old — years ago,” Michael’s wife told The Times, “waving at most of the shirts and reaching up to pull down a random package. Never claimed. Its tag was from 2006.”

“People move away, they forget to pick them up,” she said of the packages. “But if we threw them away, the shelves would look empty, and we would not look busy.”

Indeed, they are faded -- even the pastel blues, greens, and yellows are washed out — compared to the fresher ones on the opposite shelves. Yet, even though, you need the ticket to retrieve your shirts – Michael gives you one that matches the one he pins to your bundle – he was kind enough to find our shirts when I once lost mine. It took a little time but his patience, and ever-present smile, reminded me why the neighborhood business, whether it’s the deli, bookshop, or dry cleaner, is so vital.

Several years ago, I dropped off a jacket at a dry cleaner after I wore it to an event at a school which closed at the end of that year. Not needing professional clothing for several months, I completely forgot about the jacket, having yet again misplaced the ticket. Several years went by. Then I remembered. Humbly, I walked in and asked the owner if she could help me. I described the jacket.

“When did you bring it in?” she asked.

 “Two years ago,” I answered.

 “Two years?!” she asked.

 She searched, she parted plastic bags, then she emerged, holding my jacket, perfectly pressed on its wire metal hanger.

At my regular dry cleaner, the old school ticket is no longer necessary. The computer knows where my clothing is, so not matter how many tickets I lose, the lovely woman behind the counter can always help.

Yet those pretty pastel tickets – what is it about them? As long as they exist, they remind me of the almost anachronistic analog world I grew up in, one that was not necessarily better, but that was somehow simpler, a bit more tactile, that gave you a certain satisfaction in clutching a pale colored laundry check, one that required you to also clutch something else: cold hard cash.

One beautiful bonus of walking into San Toy: “The rotary phone on the wall still works, and San Toy’s phone number — NEvins-8-3477 — has not changed since the 1930s.” – The New York Times.

The History of the Chinese Laundry in America

He Irons. She Stitches.

Calm and Centered

“For the first time in many years, a teacher was correcting my handwriting.” Jenny Gross, The New York Times

And here it is, yet again, another article about the benefits of handwriting. Although the article is focused on calligraphy, the principles of handwriting apply. “With so much digital fatigue, writing elegantly with pen and paper can be a joy.”

Recently, I’ve been drafting articles and blog posts initially in pen. It’s slower, movement based, and ultimately grounding. It leaves me feeling calm and centered.

Then, of course, there’s the research:

“Some preliminary studies suggest that working with your hands — whether by writing, knitting or drawing — can improve cognition and mood, and a study published in January by researchers in Norway found that writing by hand was beneficial for learning and engaged the brain more than typing on a keyboard. Some states, including California and New Hampshire, have begun reintroducing cursive (long regarded as obsolete in a digital age) into their curriculums, citing it as important for intellectual development.” – The New York Times

I briefly studied calligraphy as a child. Maybe it’s time to start again.

Countering Digital Fatigue, Calligraphy Is On the Upswing

“First-Come, First-Served, Cash Only”

These were the words heard at the Film Forum last Friday, when the software went down. “Like it was 1977,” someone said.

The medical office I was in that morning was in a tizzy. Everything was behind because there was no tech.

“ ‘Blue screen of death’ hits NYC gov computers; jail cameras, arrest software down in ‘unprecedented’ global tech outage,” said The New York Post.

Yet again, another reminder that computers will, from time to time, fail us. Of course, from a truly hypocritical standpoint, it’s easy for me to see this problem firsthand. After all, I wrote last week’s blog about my near miss when I misplaced my laptop.

I’ve been seeing more and more articles by professional writers, especially journalists, who are going back to pen and paper. While their reasons may not be directly related to tech meltdowns, they do speak to us about the need for another way, a tried-and-true method that rarely fails us. What’s the worst that can happen? Your pen runs out of ink?

The following is from a New York Times article from earlier this year, entitled, “Writers: Always Pack a Notebook”:

Pete Wells, the chief restaurant critic for The New York Times, was on vacation this month when he learned that the renowned chef David Bouley had died.

Mr. Wells felt a duty to write about Mr. Bouley’s legacy, but there was one problem: He hadn’t packed his laptop. He did, however, have a stenographer’s pad. So Mr. Wells reverted to the ways of old and wrote an appraisal of Mr. Bouley using pen and paper. For him, it was a refreshing exercise, and for readers, an intimate glimpse into the work of a journalist.

I took a trip to San Francisco last year and, like Wells, didn’t pack my laptop, instead bringing a small notebook and Bic ball point pen. While I’m not sure why Wells didn’t pack his, I can say for myself I was saving weight, both in luggage and my back. Because I write at home, I have the luxury of not having to carry my laptop with me. If I leave home to write, I often do so by hand.

Lightness, however, is not the only reason. The Internet is a major tool and a more-than-minor distraction. While I often use it for research as I write, I find that even the searches in the middle of sentences are interruptions which disrupt the free flow of thoughts. In another article from the Times, “The Case for Writing Longhand: ‘It’s About Trying to Create That Little Space of Freedom’ ”, journalist Sam Anderson says he “…likes that the process slows him down and puts him in touch with his thoughts.”

And, of course, there are the distractions -- the did-I-pay-that-bill, or why-don’t-I-look-at-some-cute-summer-dresses -- which the Internet is there for, simply luring you down the proverbial rabbit hole of industriousness or temptation.

Last week I discovered a new park in the neighborhood – well, actually, a little out of the way – which was precisely why it was so delightful. It was new to me, it was a different destination, and I simply sat with my pen and notebook and wrote for a half hour, completely uninterrupted. I need to be doing this more often. It gets me out of the house, out of my head, and out of the rut of doing the same thing in the same place every day.

There’s also something else: I’ve always felt better when part of my day is spent writing in cursive. There’s a lot of research out there that says we process information differently when we handwrite, possibly because we often type faster than we write. I also love to see other people’s handwriting and have lots of great samples I’ve collected over the years. Boy, would it be fun to see this journalist’s place:

“Sam Anderson’s home office in Beacon, N.Y., is a palace of longhand. There are paragraphs scrawled inside the covers of books. Words are wedged into the corners of ripped-open envelopes. His looping script snakes its way down notepads — and there are piles of filled ones.

On nearly every scrawlable surface, there’s Mr. Anderson’s handwriting. And often, those scraps are the start of a story.” – The New York Times

Searching for Rose

Last week I finished teaching a workshop at the New York Public Library, based on my recent publication, Object Essays. It was wonderful meeting new participants and greeting old friends. Above all, it was lovely, simply having fun talking about objects and how to write about them.

The following is an object essay I began at the start of the new year:

Someone once said, “Transitions are hard.” And the end-of-travel transition? The worst.

I spent the last morning of 2023 working on a novella in the back seat of a rental car home from Virginia. I was, on the one hand, feeling quite productive, and on the other, getting sleepier by the minute. I slipped my Rose, a compact gold Apple MacBook Air I’ve owned since 2018, into its black nylon case and placed it at my feet. After a nap I listened to a podcast, then I indulged in a movie on my phone, reasoning that this was a good way to kill the last two hours of a drive by bare trees and endless grey skies.

Rose and I have become quite close. It has been my trusted friend and daily confidant throughout sleepless nights, and productive days. Rose and I have paid bills, corresponded with corporations, managed family affairs, organized a whole world of post-modern communications, as well as catalogued my writing: articles, novels, short stories, and poems. Feeling that things had gotten a little out of control more recently, I decided it was time to clean the yard and start pruning away, deleting old files and saying goodbye to the clutter I no longer needed.

The end of any trip is the longing, the please-just-get-me-home transition of the plane landing but it’s another ten minutes before you can even get up, or the unloading of the car and the endless trips back for more luggage, or in our case food. Because after the “holiday extravaganza”, as a friend refers to it, or the “Christmas madness”, as I call it, there is always more food. And such food needs to be not only unloaded but immediately refrigerated. At the end of this trip, I found myself in the kitchen, making sure I got everything unpacked before it spoiled, which was perhaps the reason I did not go back for one more luggage-toting trip.

I needed to get outside and walk, so I ran some errands, feeling good about the coming new year, the fresh start, the wondering-if-I-could-do-anything-differently musings of a late day December walk. When I got home, my husband had already left, driving the rental car back to J.F.K. I ran a bath, climbing in with my new stack of Christmas books, thinking that life was, indeed, quite sweet. It was only when I got out and thought about working on a submission that was due on the third of the month, that I felt something was missing.

Rose’s power chord lay on my bed, looking lost and confused, wondering where its mate was. Surely it was nearby, ready to work, helping me finish a piece about the ubiquitous New York chestnut stand of yesteryear. I looked around at piled luggage, and strewn coats. I lifted cushions and investigated the hallway. And then it dawned on me: I hadn’t seen Rose since this morning, when I tucked it in at my feet before that nice long nap. Convinced that I was mistaken and that I’d surely find it within minutes, I consulted my husband, and spoke to my daughter, but multiple searches confirmed my new reality: Rose was gone. This, it seemed, was turning into my Hemingway moment.

The rest of the evening was a swirl of calls to National Car Rental, filing lost property reports, constantly checking such report status, battling my increasing anxiety, and the inevitable catastrophizing questions that come with it. Where was it, who had it, what files had been opened, what was on it, was there financial information, and the inevitable ask from my husband: “It’s locked, isn’t it?”

No, it wasn’t.

Yes, I had gotten a little cavalier about my tech tools. I’d never lost a phone and knew Rose’s whereabouts at all times. Yet recently my husband had reminded me to lock my phone, that my I’ll-never-lose-it-attitude was a dangerous game I was playing that I would eventually pay the price for. And here I was, knowing exactly where my phone was while feeling like I’d lost an arm without Rose. “It wasn’t locked?” my daughter asked.

Shutting down, I also tried to tell myself I had to be resilient, that on the one hand I didn’t know that anyone had gotten their hands on it, and on the other that it might be gone and that I would simply have to deal. What a test of the Buddhist idea on non-attachment this one was going to be. We watched hours of television to take my mind off, then, predictably, I slept terribly, waking every few hours to the nagging thoughts of my own stupidity, lack of awareness, and downright naivete: this kind of thing happened to other people. I was together, I didn’t lose things, I was always checking for my belongings.

But was I? What about the time I left a 35-millimeter Nikon FM on an airplane as a teenager, never to see it again? Or the multiple ten-speeds I’d parted with over the years, or the pockets I’d had picked in the bad old days in New York and on a Paris Metro in the ‘80s? Stop, I demanded of myself. It just happened, I argued. The Buddhists would say the problem is not the loss, but my attitude. That I was attached to my own anxiety instead of the reality that an object had simply gone missing.

Inevitably each recent project started haunting me; did I back everything up? What about all my bookmarked articles on writing, especially my favorite ones, like the piece about Graham Greene’s daily writing practice: 500 words each morning in a black leather notebook, written with a fountain pen, beforecoffee. Or the article that breaks down how The Wall Street Journal does their man-in-the street human interest features. What about all the travel articles, as well as the ones on film, and my short cuts to my own published pieces? It was a little world Rose and I had created, one where I knew the location of all my teammates, ready to comfort me and serve me both at night and during the day. I had even grown accustomed to how dinged up Rose, previously pristine, had become when dropped in the backyard last summer while chasing an errant dog, another test of my ability to accept imperfection. And no comfort was derived from the back-up laptop I received at the end of a recent teaching job. The keyboard was wonky, there was nothing on the desktop and it felt like a blank canvas while I had no idea what to put on it. It was no Rose.

After four hours of sleep, I gave up and went downstairs, making coffee at the ridiculous hour of 5 AM and thinking I would get some writing done. Only I couldn’t. Now the feelings of loss started to flood in; for the past 12 years, I’d had one laptop, then another, my Rose, with her smooth sleek metallic feel, that travelled all over the house with me, always at my side when I couldn’t sleep, helping me find solace in a way-too-early cup of coffee and an hour of writing before heading back to bed.

As I stared into the abyss of my coffee cup, wondering why, on this of all mornings, it wasn’t working its magic, I patiently waited for my husband to get up, so that he could accompany me to National Car Rental. This was not the way to start the new year, I thought, huddled on an A train bound for J.F.K. without any luggage.

I sat on the subway, trying to console myself. Rose was either there or it wasn’t. There was nothing I could do about it. I had done everything I could. When we switched to the AirTrain and pulled into the station, I was greeted by a sea of rental cars below. All I could think was that maybe, just maybe, my little Rose, slumbering away in its black case, was patiently waiting for me to find it and take it home so we could make more words together. On the other hand, what were the odds?

The place was busy. Lots of New Years’ travelers. We finally made it to the agent, and I explained my dilemma. She looked in the lost-and-found system, but no one had turned in a laptop. Beyond that, the issue came down to this: was our rental now rented out to someone else? In which case, there was no hope. The agent looked up our car, and it was miraculously on the lot. Pushing the envelope, something my husband is very good at doing, he kindly asked if someone could check the back of the car to see if the laptop was still there. The agent said she would try.

We sat. We waited. We watched lots of tourists come and go. Forty-five long tick-tock minutes went by. And then, a uniformed National Car Rental attendant approached the agent, carrying Rose, like a tray, just the way I had left it, in its black nylon case.

Back home, I lovingly connected Rose with its mate, the aforesaid power chord, and as it purred back to 100% battery capacity, I gave it a sigh. Relief didn’t cut it, although happiness came quite close. Dozens of thoughts flooded my brain, but the main one, a second chance, said it all.

Never again would I be so careless, so cavalier, and above all else, I would always check for my belongings.

Object Essay Writing

Last week I taught an Object Essays workshop, the first of its kind, at the newly renovated Mid-Manhattan Library, now known as the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library.

A gorgeous site, it was an absolute delight to bring the world of object essay writing to new participants, as well as some good friends, from previous Writer’s Circle workshops.

What a joy it was to be teaching at the library again.

Summer Stories

“The news has gotten grimmer, and the world has gotten grimmer. People need a break from the seriousness of global warming and war and political feuding. These kinds of stories give people that moment. – Steven Kurutz, The New York Times

 The girl was walking the dog. Mom was beside her.

I’d seen them before, going in this direction. My dog is large, her dog is small. Like most small children, though, she is in her world. She has her dog, and I have mine. She is focused on walking hers.

With the arrival of summer and the end of school, the neighborhood has, in places, settled into a summer slumber. The days are long, and time and the sun stretch out. The streets are quiet, there is less traffic, but the playgrounds are full. The neighborhood pool is open. The sprinkler is on; the ice cream truck is parked. A mother and two sons enjoy their cones.

My late mother-in-law once said she loved being with her children in the summer, stress free from schedules, homework, and math. The mother on the street seems to be enjoying her time with her little one, and the girl is taking her job quite seriously, walking the dog, a Fisher-Price beagle that thwacks on the ground as its owner pulls a long cotton string.

There are summer stories everywhere.