Hi, Birthday Girl….
Rosa has been burning the midnight pugetpower as if a Nancy
Bare special were to be on stage tomorrow, while I’ve been pondering the
possibilities for a paternal type present for an anti-materialist of
twenty-two. The result is refurbished teeth from me, a poncho from Rosa, and
we both hope they fit.
It will be great if you can make it up for Thanksgiving. The
beach last weekend was marvelous. Pete and Ellie were there; she was stringing
morels and russellas on fishline leader to dry over the big stove, and Pete,
whose handlebar has turned dark red in contrast to his pepper gray elsewhere,
was saying of the blustery day, “this kind of day is what this place is all
about.” Leslie was supposed to be about to tell her boyfriend that she wouldn’t
go steady but they didn’t look like it walking the beach. Otto was in S.F. to
see Johanna and the Wheelises and Fred Straus, and Phyllis stayed in Shelton,
but Mary had a beautiful specialist in lung diseases who is giving the Walker
Ames lectures and admired Skid Road. Dorothy was bemoaning the fact that her
biology teacher is an authority on the electricity of cells and specializes her
lectures in that direction. Gene was contemplating the impending special
session of the legislature with some equanimity: there’s nothing more they can
take away from the U., he thinks: over-optimistically, I suspect.
We woke up Wednesday morning with the power off. Rosa said
she’d been awake most of the night feeling something was odd but resisting the
urge to wake me up to help her worry. When I looked out the window: snow. Several inches of wet, heavy snow. It came
with the leaves still on the trees and two of the three Chinese elms by the
badminton area snapped off about half-way up, the poplars lost quite a few
branches, the tulip tree and the flowering plum some more, and one of the three
cottonwoods over by the old laundry tubs next to the paddock gate broke off. No
damage to the house, but the yard looked like a stump ranch. I’ve been busy
with the Swedish fiddle for the last couple days and most of the debris is
cleared away now and we’re over the shock, but it rekindles awareness of
impermanence. (I’ll think I’ll write a short story about a man who wants to
build an absolutely secure house, and see what it gets me.) [Murray is referring
to Allen Wheelis’s “The Illusionless Man and the Visionary Maid,” which is
online at http://vk.com/doc401440_3186463?dl=91d06c098f9a0998bd]
Otto and Phyllis and Lisa came by on Otto’s way home from
the airport on Wednesday afternoon and we had a fine report. Otto quotes
himself as turning to Fred, when they were all alone in a theater one afternoon
watching "Death in Venice" and saying, “You know, Visconti didn’t read the book
either.” I think I told you we saw Bergman’s "The Touch" while in Portland: it
was godawful. We didn’t like the Rep’s first play either, “Ring Round the Moon,”
but the UW students had a fine version of Albee’s “The American Dream,” and a
broad by pleasant comedy by Chekov, “The Marriage Proposal.” Next Wednesday, “The
Three Sisters” at the Showboat.
School rocks along, taking time but not much mental effort. I’ve
just graded the first set of book reports, 87 of them, mostly routine. There
was one unusual one from a Fox Island Bircher (who likes me, I think) and who
explained she finds in the class confirmation of her literal interpretation of
the Bible. Education is a many-splendored thing.
We received a fine letter from Howard Daniel during the
week. He retires in four weeks, and will stay in Geneva, and plans to write
more art books. The Encyclopedia of Themes and Subjects in Painting is out and
has been nicely reviewed…
 | |||||
| Jim Faber (right) and Ivar Haglund, via historylink and Paul Dorpat |
[Jim] Faber had his gall bladder out on Tuesday. We’re going
to present him a plastic box in which to preserve it in case he ever runs out
of gall and needs it.
Rosa and I trimmed Balzac [their standard poodle] on separate days and
got somewhat carried away with the effort. He’s still shaggy but looks as if he’d
stuck his head in a pencil sharpener.
The New Statesman’s current contest is: Write a letter from
any prominent person declining an invitation to the Last Supper. I can’t wait
for the answers.
 |
| Seattle icons: Skid Road guy, Murray, the stolen Tlingit totem (actually a recreation, which was paid for this time), and Chief Seattle, taken by equally iconic Mary Randlett in Pioneer Square |
It’s Hallowe’en and the first of the little monsters have
been here. I must go out and set the traps.
Have a good birthday, this year, every year,
Your doting father,
M
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