Mama Tuddi Done Over – Leon Rooke

Leon Rooke - September 11, 1934

I had a bit of trouble with this story. I believe that the problem existed with me and not with the story. In the end, it was a fine – wonderful story. I just couldn’t get my head wrapped around it. The problem is, that this is just the type of story that I enjoy.

Rooke is quite the author. I think this small paragraph below illustrates the story best. It’s from Contemporary Authors Online-

In the New York Times Book Review, Alberto Manguel finds Rooke hard to classify: "[Rooke's] style varies greatly not only from book to book but sometimes from page to page. It is impossible to speak of a typical Leon Rooke paragraph; each one sets out to explore different voices and textures."

Perhaps it was the voices and textures I was having trouble with. You see, if I were an author – I think I would lean towards writing stories that bent reality.

It took some time in this story, but something “strange” entered the scene and when it did, it was powerful. Perhaps this is one of those stories that won’t fully impact me for some time. I’ll be lost someplace, and then – BAM- the meaning will hit me. Won’t that be great?

There are instances in life, and I have had them quite a bit, and it seems with increasing regularity, where something happens – either by a force known or unknown that causes us to shift our perception of life.

Perhaps I’m just more attuned to these “happenings” or maybe I am just labeling them. Either way, I have committed myself to turning them into something positive.

Something that will propel me upwards in my life.

This is an interesting contradiction in my life as well because of my recent questioning of religion and/or the supernatural. I don’t think I’m fully resolved in that area either. Just when I think I have made my mind up, something happens to push me either towards or away from where I thought I would land in a final decision.

You know...all of this uncertainty is cool sometimes. Being comfortable with being uncomfortable is comforting.

Home - James Robison

James Robison – born October 11, 1946.

This was a nice clean story.

It was an assurance to the reader that we all have insecurities and doubts no matter what age, over a wide variety of reasons and situations.

We have people and family that enter and exist in our lives, and the influence that those people have over us, as well as their actions, often cause ripples which in turn, can develop into massive waves, disrupting our life and causing distress.

We can wish and hope that loved ones act a certain way but they are in the end their own person. We have to deal with their decisions. They are family.

Several days ago, as I eased into a corner kitchen table, mind cloudy from wine and brandy (tucia for you Romanians), I overheard my brother-in-law tell his father that he was going to Afghanistan with the Army (Romanian) on the 22^nd. Now, I don’t remember if I walked in mid conversation, or if he thought that my Romanian wasn’t good enough to understand or if he knew that my knowing would eventually happen.

But now it gets interesting. At that moment, the people that knew were his wife, his Dad and me. He wants to, and intends to keep his deployment, a secret from his mother. Before I could discuss the issue concerning my mother-in-law, I pressed him to tell M. I mean, I really pressed him.

In the drunken brother way – knowing full well that this decision to go was a decision he wanted...he petitioned to go. He is, in his heart, a soldier.

So, about ½ an hour later, he tells M.

M is of course not happy with his plan or the fact that he wants to go to Afghanistan.

The conversation develops into so many directions – as one would expect a conversation of this type to develop.

Not to get any deeper into this story, but, in the end, we left Romania last week knowing that he was off to Afghanistan in a couple of weeks. The entire family knows – minus his mother. He is an adult. He knows what could happen to him over there. He knows what could happen to his mother if she knows...or never knows.

My prediction –

This is not going to end well.

But, he is family, this is our family, and this is a small ripple that is going to turn into a massive wave.

Three that know.

(L-R, Me, M and her brother)

Please be safe.

Friends – Grace Paley

Grace Paley Dec. 11, 1922 – August 22 2007

To begin with, it was pleasant to see a story in this volume with the focus on a group of women. Elkin has done a nice job in stuffing this book with stories about men. Honestly, I don’t think that he did a fair job in this case. Hey – I’m a man, and I know men, I enjoy reading about women – gives me some more insight – after all, I am using these readings as an education.

Actually, learning about the author of this short was a bit more interesting than the story.

Here are a few lines about Paley from an article about her in the NYT announcing her death in 2007.

-In a sense, her work was about what happened to the women that Roth and Bellow and Malamud’s men had loved and left behind.

- Her stories, many of which are written in the first person and seem to start in mid-conversation, beg to be read aloud.

-Grace’s childhood was noisy and warm. There were stories and songs and glasses of good strong tea. Always, there was glorious argument. The communists hollered at the socialists, the socialists hollered at the Zionists, and everybody hollered at the anarchists.

-A self-described “somewhat combative pacifist and cooperative anarchist,” Ms. Paley was a lifelong advocate of liberal causes. During the Vietnam War, she was jailed several times for antiwar protests; in later years, she lobbied for women’s rights, against nuclear proliferation and, most recently, against the war in Iraq.

Good strong tea! My type of family.

So, the story.

I have wondered what sort of friends I will have left in my old age. Will they be the same friends I have today? With the pace of life and our abilities to relocate and my/our personal/joint desire to live our life someday elsewhere – it seems that say in 40 years, my friends will be different.

When I sit back an look at the circle of friends I have today, I could call it modest. Even that would be a stretch. Could I consider my co-workers “friends”? I suppose a couple could be considered the sort that I could keep in touch with over the years.

I don’t know though if I really have what could be called a true “friend”. I mean all the guys from school are there but as far as a day-to-day friend – that type...? I have a very close relationship with my brother-in-law, and I do call him a friend – but is he only my friend because he is married to my sister? He does so much for us, and provides a ton of support where needed, I can tell him secrets, and I can drink with him...but I think that he is considered family, kinda knocks him into a different category. I mean, there are certain things that I can’t tell him.

I don’t know, I don’t think I really have what I would call a true friend anymore.

Perhaps the person that I am, and the life that I have lived in the past as allowed me to be comfortable with this.

Yeah, it’s OK.

Breathe man...breathe.

Ups and downs - Anger and pleasure - Happiness and sadness - Hours without end. Confused sharpness with a blurry edge.

And all the while – I didn’t read. I didn’t use what I know comforts me.

The weight of these stories pressed themselves upon me daily.

I’m back now from a trip that’s been too long - but with a refocused energy.

It’s simple – it’s just time to read.