This was one of a series for my column at www.Rogerspark.com
Close your eyes. Listen to the palm fronds swishing in the gentle breeze, punctuated by the occasional call of a nearby seagull. Sink your toes into the toasty sand and taste the faint trace of salt dancing in the air over the turquoise waters. If you’re like me, dear neighbors, all you need is a sailboat to get to your happy place, but for now, we’re going to be perched on a Caribbean beach about to enjoy one the area’s signature delights. You may be surprised that we’re not being served rum punch, typically made with light rum and fruit juices, but today our focus is going to be on the golden and premium varieties, the less widely known but richly complex branch of the rum family.
Golden rums are medium bodied and are often aged in wooden barrels. They range from deep gold to burnt amber and will tempt you with their fruity, spicy and sometimes even floral aromas. Let’s try one! Mount Gay, traditionally known as the world’s oldest rum producer, has been mixing magic on Barbados since at least 1703. Today on our island, they’re serving Mount Gay’s Eclipse Rum. We’ll stir in some cola, but some people like soda water. Take a healthy sip, letting the liquid gold bathe your entire tongue before you swallow. What did you taste? I got a hint of vanilla and smoke and a zing of spice. This rum was aged in white oak barrels from Kentucky that had been used for aging bourbon, then charred. What I like best about golden rums are their full flavors, which cola brings out nicely, but avoid using the diet variety, I think they interfere with the taste. If you like Crown Royal and Coke, you’ll probably enjoy this cocktail as well.
Rums have no universal style classification, so they are usually broken down by color. You may be more familiar with light (white, silver) rums that are generally sweet and spiced rums like Captain Morgan’s that are used as a base for cocktails. Unlike other spirits such as Cognac or Scotch, rum has no standard production method; the countries that make it each have their own laws and traditions.
Columbus brought sugar cane to the Americas in the late 1400s and Europeans were eager to harvest this coveted good for trade. The cane juice was boiled to form crystals and after those were extracted, a thick black liquid, molasses, remained. It was discovered that when that liquid was left out in the sun and mixed with water that it morphed into a spirit. The spirit was then distilled and aged, most often in oak, though some light rums today spend time in stainless steel. (Most rums are made with molasses, but some manufacturers such as those in the French West Indies make it from straight sugar cane juice.)
The history of rum is as colorful as Chicago politics. The first rum distillery in the U.S. was built in 1664 on what is now Staten Island and rum manufacturing became a booming business for colonial New England. The beverage was so popular that George Washington was adamant that a barrel of Barbados rum be served at his 1789 inauguration! Speaking of politics, rum was often used as a way to get votes. The outcomes of many elections rested on how much rum the candidates provided to the constituency. Hmm. (Would we be better able to stomach this parking meter price increase if Mayor Daly had issued copious amounts of rum to each neighborhood before making that sale?) One more fun fact. The British Navy issued a daily ration or “tot” of rum to its sailors, a centuries old practice that lasted until 1970.
Okay, let’s get back to what’s in the glass. Another way to explore rum’s character is to unwind with a premium rum. Sipping rums can have aromas of caramel and toast and hints of mellow spices. These spirits are smooth and complex and should be served neat (my favorite way), over ice or with the tiniest splash of water. You don’t want to dilute these beauties. David Meihaus of the Morseland Café has been introducing his customers to premium rums for the past five years and told me that “ once a rum ages past 10 years it goes to that same place that Armagnacs and Bourbons do, they develop a nice round quality.”
So, now that we’ve brought the story closer to home, I have a suggestion. On the next warm, balmy day (it’s coming) take a stroll to the beach at Loyola Park and gaze out at the lake. Soften your eyes and see if the waters don’t take on a jewel-like hue. Cock your ear to the breeze and hear the faint tinkling of steel drums. Meander back home, pour your favorite rum cocktail and be happy that we have our own slice of paradise right here.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
Misunderstood Merlot
This was one of a series for my column at http://www.rogerspark.com/
She’s always been a beauty. Voluptuous with a juicy personality, yet approachable and warm. No hard edges here. It’s no wonder she was the most popular girl in her class for so many years. This also made her vulnerable. Ah yes, dear neighbors, she is a people pleaser and her willingness to produce big watered down her charm.
Lady Merlot has quite a noble pedigree. She is one of the classic Bordeaux blending grapes along with Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Malbec and Petit Verdot.
In fact, she and Cab have quite a symbiotic relationship - she softens him and smoothes out the rough spots in his lean and tannic personality and he provides her fleshiness with structure and backbone. I can almost hear them murmuring “you complete me.”
But she can create some pretty luscious wines all on her own, thank you very much. Easy to drink and appreciate, with a medium body and low levels of tannin, she offers ripe, juicy fruit that can taste like red berries, black cherry or plum and may leave you with a hint of chocolate, mint, vanilla or spice before she signs off with a silky finish. She’s also friendly with many of your favorite foods and pairs well with lamb, red meat, tomato–sauced pastas, or even chicken. (I enjoy her on her own as a cocktail.) Not bad for a wine that has suffered some unfortunate setbacks.
What do I mean by misunderstood? Well, it started before the main character in the movie Sideways nearly spit his disdain for Merlot. It was a cheap shot, but sadly, it rang true for some wine drinkers and sent up red flags for others. Why? Because Merlot’s popularity had turned against her. In the late 1980’s and 90’s, Americans, many new to drinking red wines, lapped up Merlot since it was palate friendly and didn’t barrage them with too much tannin before they were ready. This increase in demand drove an explosion of planting, even in areas that were not conducive to the grape. The central valley in California is a good example where the climate is too warm and the soils too fertile for Merlot. She can produce overly generous yields and that dilutes her flavor and quality.
Though there has always been top notch Merlot to be found, the good news is that the harsh beam of media attention forced growers to re-evaluate their product and today quality overall has improved. Domestically, Napa, Sonoma, Carneros and Santa Barbara are highly regarded Merlot producing regions in California and in Washington both the Yakima and Columbia valleys have crafted many winners. Of course, you can always enjoy a Merlot from Bordeaux, Italy, New Zealand, South Africa and a host of other countries.
I asked Jamie Evans, of Taste Food and Wine on Jarvis, how he thinks consumers should approach buying Merlot. He feels that it’s less about the area where the grapes were grown, but more about the characteristics that you’ like to find in your wine. That’s why it’s always good to ask questions when you shop. A couple of options he suggests trying are Rim Rock Merlot, 2005, from the Yakima Valley, which is a straight Merlot, and Chateau Crabitan- Bellevue, Premieres Cotes de Bordeaux, 2006, a Merlot blend. Both are reasonably priced.
So, if it’s been too long since you’ve enjoyed her company, make some plans to rekindle your relationship with Merlot. You know you’ve missed her. Remember? She had you at hello.
She’s always been a beauty. Voluptuous with a juicy personality, yet approachable and warm. No hard edges here. It’s no wonder she was the most popular girl in her class for so many years. This also made her vulnerable. Ah yes, dear neighbors, she is a people pleaser and her willingness to produce big watered down her charm.
Lady Merlot has quite a noble pedigree. She is one of the classic Bordeaux blending grapes along with Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Malbec and Petit Verdot.
In fact, she and Cab have quite a symbiotic relationship - she softens him and smoothes out the rough spots in his lean and tannic personality and he provides her fleshiness with structure and backbone. I can almost hear them murmuring “you complete me.”
But she can create some pretty luscious wines all on her own, thank you very much. Easy to drink and appreciate, with a medium body and low levels of tannin, she offers ripe, juicy fruit that can taste like red berries, black cherry or plum and may leave you with a hint of chocolate, mint, vanilla or spice before she signs off with a silky finish. She’s also friendly with many of your favorite foods and pairs well with lamb, red meat, tomato–sauced pastas, or even chicken. (I enjoy her on her own as a cocktail.) Not bad for a wine that has suffered some unfortunate setbacks.
What do I mean by misunderstood? Well, it started before the main character in the movie Sideways nearly spit his disdain for Merlot. It was a cheap shot, but sadly, it rang true for some wine drinkers and sent up red flags for others. Why? Because Merlot’s popularity had turned against her. In the late 1980’s and 90’s, Americans, many new to drinking red wines, lapped up Merlot since it was palate friendly and didn’t barrage them with too much tannin before they were ready. This increase in demand drove an explosion of planting, even in areas that were not conducive to the grape. The central valley in California is a good example where the climate is too warm and the soils too fertile for Merlot. She can produce overly generous yields and that dilutes her flavor and quality.
Though there has always been top notch Merlot to be found, the good news is that the harsh beam of media attention forced growers to re-evaluate their product and today quality overall has improved. Domestically, Napa, Sonoma, Carneros and Santa Barbara are highly regarded Merlot producing regions in California and in Washington both the Yakima and Columbia valleys have crafted many winners. Of course, you can always enjoy a Merlot from Bordeaux, Italy, New Zealand, South Africa and a host of other countries.
I asked Jamie Evans, of Taste Food and Wine on Jarvis, how he thinks consumers should approach buying Merlot. He feels that it’s less about the area where the grapes were grown, but more about the characteristics that you’ like to find in your wine. That’s why it’s always good to ask questions when you shop. A couple of options he suggests trying are Rim Rock Merlot, 2005, from the Yakima Valley, which is a straight Merlot, and Chateau Crabitan- Bellevue, Premieres Cotes de Bordeaux, 2006, a Merlot blend. Both are reasonably priced.
So, if it’s been too long since you’ve enjoyed her company, make some plans to rekindle your relationship with Merlot. You know you’ve missed her. Remember? She had you at hello.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
An interview with an animal rescue volunteer
He is naked, skinny and hairless.
A hard ball protrudes from the side of his neck where an abscess has formed in response to a puncture wound. Uncontrollable diarrhea racks his scab covered body and contributes to his putrid stench.
And yet, his tail is still wagging.
The mutt looks up gratefully into a pair of warm brown eyes and settles down under their gentle care. Brandi sighs. It’s going to be tough to forget about this one.
Brandi's been in Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans for three days now, having arrived with another volunteer from Chicago. She is working triage with a group from VMAT (Veterinary Medical Assistance Teams) a division of the American Veterinary Medical Association. They are paid vets, she is not. She is a trained vet tech, a volunteer whose sense of urgency led her to toss a water jug, a jar of peanut butter and some biodegradable soap into a newly purchased camping pack, spend $300 for personal vaccinations and plunge, heart first, into the animal rescue effort. Her supportive bosses at Shedd Aquarium let her have at it and off she went for Lord knew how long. This is a woman who keeps extra leashes in her glove department in the event that she comes across stray dogs.
When Katrina besieged the gulf coast, stories of human suffering were inescapable. Images of stranded people clinging to rooftops popped up on computers, shouted from newspaper stands and glowed from TV screens. What we didn’t see, however, was much evidence of the great tide of animal suffering.
Many evacuating residents, assuming they’d be back in a day or two, left their pets with bowls of food and water. Some refused to leave them at all and so, were left to fend for themselves. Others seemed to ignore their pet’s welfare altogether. “I hate to make this generalization,” Brandi says, “but it was obvious to me that they were not very well taken care of before the hurricane. I don’t doubt that a good percentage of pet owners didn’t think twice about leaving their animals behind.” She’ll see over 1,000 dogs on this trip and find that not one of them is neutered. Not one.
She bends over this scrawny, wriggling dog, the one with no fur, and surveys the vast number of scars criss-crossing his shivering body. This little guy dealt with more than neglect. After giving him the standard series of vaccines, flea killer, de-worming and a micro chip for identification, she reluctantly hands him over to the volunteer who will scan the info on petfinder.com and assign him a cage, but not before asking the woman to return and tell her where he ends up. She will later grab a Sharpie and add his barn, stall and cage numbers to the growing list on her slender arm. She can’t keep track of all of them, but there are a few she feels compelled to follow up with.
Tall and wiry like a greyhound, her motor runs on a potent mix of devotion, drive and pure energy. She’s never hungry, it’s just too hot, so the pounds are melting off her already spare frame. She is a hardened veteran now- you get that way quickly around here- but a just a few days ago, when she arrived, she felt assaulted by the heat and the deafening din of thousands of dogs clamoring for attention.
Five cavernous barns, each containing six aisles, with 25 horse stalls per aisle. Every stall packed with five to six wire crates and each holding a dog. A howling, frightened, traumatized dog. “They were sitting in these little cages with nothing,” Brandi recalls, “no blanket or towel, and they would bark, bark, bark, they were stressed out, they were bored, and it never stopped.”
She planned on going into the field, snatching trapped dogs out of abandoned houses or taping up wounds in the middle of the street. But then she heard from the rescuers. At the day’s end, when the vans were full, dogs would often run after the vehicles, only to be left behind. She knew she couldn’t deal with that. No way.
Instead she ministered to them when they arrived by the hundreds, systematically providing solid, fundamental care with as much tenderness as time allowed. The tempo revved up in the evenings. It felt surreal. “You’d start to see the headlights and there’d be a line of vehicles coming back from the city,” she recalls. “You’ve been busting your butt all day in the hot sun while these people were gone because you were so worried about the animals that were there. You’d look and there’d be hundreds more coming. We were running out of space, there was nowhere to put them. You’d hear rumors that there are 300 more coming and they should be here by 6. Oh my God, it never stopped, it just never stopped.”
Many who have made this journey form deep attachments with the victims they’ve come to help. Perhaps the punishing heat and lack of sound sleep contribute to the sense of desperation, but resolute volunteers, loath to say goodbye to their charges, barter and haggle to secure temporary shelter until they can claim them. A bargaining subculture develops. Brandi cannot forget the bald, oozing dog with the steadily wagging tail, the puppy who needs extensive, costly care. She knows he will be overlooked in favor of cuddlier, less needy dogs.
She meets another Chicagoan who has her own car and pleads with the woman to bring the puppy back. She hands her $100, hoping that will secure the agreement. But Brandi remains uneasy. “I kept thinking we’re going to leave and someone’s going to offer this girl a better deal and she’s not going to bring my puppy back.”
She continued to work 13-15 hours shifts daily, often by lantern light until 3:00AM. After 8 grueling days, Brandi had lost 10 pounds, but gained a keen awareness that this type of impactful work is something she needed more of. Her experience here led her to assume the unofficial role of vet coordinator at the shelter where she’s been volunteering.
But soon, it was time to go. The woman Brandi arrived with decided to head home with a van full of dogs to be sheltered in Chicago. To make room for the never-ending onslaught of rescuees, when the vehicles are full, the departing groups are urged to get out quickly. However, a problem develops while loading their van. The attending vet declares that the last dog is too big for the carrier so he will have to stay. There is now an empty cage. Brandi seizes the opportunity. She sprints back to the barn where she last saw the puppy, tearing up and down the aisles until she finds him. Breathless, she scoops him up, finds the woman she paid and tells her to forget it, keep the money, I’m taking him home.
As for the puppy, his name is now Mason, and he gets along just fine with her two other dogs. She proudly displays his grinning, picture on her cell phone screen. “The pup has really bonded to me and I swear it’s because of New Orleans,” she says, “at least that’s what I’d like to think.”
A hard ball protrudes from the side of his neck where an abscess has formed in response to a puncture wound. Uncontrollable diarrhea racks his scab covered body and contributes to his putrid stench.
And yet, his tail is still wagging.
The mutt looks up gratefully into a pair of warm brown eyes and settles down under their gentle care. Brandi sighs. It’s going to be tough to forget about this one.
Brandi's been in Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans for three days now, having arrived with another volunteer from Chicago. She is working triage with a group from VMAT (Veterinary Medical Assistance Teams) a division of the American Veterinary Medical Association. They are paid vets, she is not. She is a trained vet tech, a volunteer whose sense of urgency led her to toss a water jug, a jar of peanut butter and some biodegradable soap into a newly purchased camping pack, spend $300 for personal vaccinations and plunge, heart first, into the animal rescue effort. Her supportive bosses at Shedd Aquarium let her have at it and off she went for Lord knew how long. This is a woman who keeps extra leashes in her glove department in the event that she comes across stray dogs.
When Katrina besieged the gulf coast, stories of human suffering were inescapable. Images of stranded people clinging to rooftops popped up on computers, shouted from newspaper stands and glowed from TV screens. What we didn’t see, however, was much evidence of the great tide of animal suffering.
Many evacuating residents, assuming they’d be back in a day or two, left their pets with bowls of food and water. Some refused to leave them at all and so, were left to fend for themselves. Others seemed to ignore their pet’s welfare altogether. “I hate to make this generalization,” Brandi says, “but it was obvious to me that they were not very well taken care of before the hurricane. I don’t doubt that a good percentage of pet owners didn’t think twice about leaving their animals behind.” She’ll see over 1,000 dogs on this trip and find that not one of them is neutered. Not one.
She bends over this scrawny, wriggling dog, the one with no fur, and surveys the vast number of scars criss-crossing his shivering body. This little guy dealt with more than neglect. After giving him the standard series of vaccines, flea killer, de-worming and a micro chip for identification, she reluctantly hands him over to the volunteer who will scan the info on petfinder.com and assign him a cage, but not before asking the woman to return and tell her where he ends up. She will later grab a Sharpie and add his barn, stall and cage numbers to the growing list on her slender arm. She can’t keep track of all of them, but there are a few she feels compelled to follow up with.
Tall and wiry like a greyhound, her motor runs on a potent mix of devotion, drive and pure energy. She’s never hungry, it’s just too hot, so the pounds are melting off her already spare frame. She is a hardened veteran now- you get that way quickly around here- but a just a few days ago, when she arrived, she felt assaulted by the heat and the deafening din of thousands of dogs clamoring for attention.
Five cavernous barns, each containing six aisles, with 25 horse stalls per aisle. Every stall packed with five to six wire crates and each holding a dog. A howling, frightened, traumatized dog. “They were sitting in these little cages with nothing,” Brandi recalls, “no blanket or towel, and they would bark, bark, bark, they were stressed out, they were bored, and it never stopped.”
She planned on going into the field, snatching trapped dogs out of abandoned houses or taping up wounds in the middle of the street. But then she heard from the rescuers. At the day’s end, when the vans were full, dogs would often run after the vehicles, only to be left behind. She knew she couldn’t deal with that. No way.
Instead she ministered to them when they arrived by the hundreds, systematically providing solid, fundamental care with as much tenderness as time allowed. The tempo revved up in the evenings. It felt surreal. “You’d start to see the headlights and there’d be a line of vehicles coming back from the city,” she recalls. “You’ve been busting your butt all day in the hot sun while these people were gone because you were so worried about the animals that were there. You’d look and there’d be hundreds more coming. We were running out of space, there was nowhere to put them. You’d hear rumors that there are 300 more coming and they should be here by 6. Oh my God, it never stopped, it just never stopped.”
Many who have made this journey form deep attachments with the victims they’ve come to help. Perhaps the punishing heat and lack of sound sleep contribute to the sense of desperation, but resolute volunteers, loath to say goodbye to their charges, barter and haggle to secure temporary shelter until they can claim them. A bargaining subculture develops. Brandi cannot forget the bald, oozing dog with the steadily wagging tail, the puppy who needs extensive, costly care. She knows he will be overlooked in favor of cuddlier, less needy dogs.
She meets another Chicagoan who has her own car and pleads with the woman to bring the puppy back. She hands her $100, hoping that will secure the agreement. But Brandi remains uneasy. “I kept thinking we’re going to leave and someone’s going to offer this girl a better deal and she’s not going to bring my puppy back.”
She continued to work 13-15 hours shifts daily, often by lantern light until 3:00AM. After 8 grueling days, Brandi had lost 10 pounds, but gained a keen awareness that this type of impactful work is something she needed more of. Her experience here led her to assume the unofficial role of vet coordinator at the shelter where she’s been volunteering.
But soon, it was time to go. The woman Brandi arrived with decided to head home with a van full of dogs to be sheltered in Chicago. To make room for the never-ending onslaught of rescuees, when the vehicles are full, the departing groups are urged to get out quickly. However, a problem develops while loading their van. The attending vet declares that the last dog is too big for the carrier so he will have to stay. There is now an empty cage. Brandi seizes the opportunity. She sprints back to the barn where she last saw the puppy, tearing up and down the aisles until she finds him. Breathless, she scoops him up, finds the woman she paid and tells her to forget it, keep the money, I’m taking him home.
As for the puppy, his name is now Mason, and he gets along just fine with her two other dogs. She proudly displays his grinning, picture on her cell phone screen. “The pup has really bonded to me and I swear it’s because of New Orleans,” she says, “at least that’s what I’d like to think.”
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Welcome to the Neighborhood
I love the exploration of a new neighborhood, especially when it’s mine. I’ve always felt invested in the communities in which I’ve lived, but there is something about being a first time home owner that has made me feel even more connected.
Ego-centric, yes. But mapping out your corner of the world, delighting in what you find, and calling it your own is soul satisfying. As I headed out for a recent walk, I stopped to enjoy another great chat with my next-door neighbor Cos, who has lived here in East Rogers Park for 27 years and knows everyone in the vicinity. He’s got hard working broad shoulders and a quick smile that crinkles his eyes. He also has a riotous backyard garden bursting with 46 planters and a gurgling fountain.
Fortified with good neighborliness, I meandered down my street , past stately brick condos that mix elegance with quirky warmth, (think Queen Mum, not Queen), then ended up barely 10 minutes later at my new stretch of sandy beach, staring out at the several sailboats that were lufting along my favorite lake.
This walk wasn’t just about the lake, however, I was also doing a bit of writing spot recon. A fresh location always seems to fuel my sometimes sluggish writing motivation. I know I’m not alone here. The invigoration of new can breathe life into stale stories or tired essays. I’d heard a lot about Ennui, the coffee shop tucked into the corner of Sheridan and Lunt and, always on the lookout for a fun spot to sip something hot and be inspired, I wanted to check it out. As promised, it had just the right mix of inviting nooks, worn novels and broad tables for ample stretching out. The wide, covered outdoor patio wasn’t bad, either. Want to know more? : http://centerstagechicago.com/restaurants/cafeennui.html
Okay, I thought as I walked back toward the water, intent on seeing how far north I could wander until I got my fill, what was it exactly that made this last move feel so big? It wasn’t just that we now have a mortgage, though that’s no small point. It’s really about the joy of commitment. Indecision is laced with restlessness, that tiring but necessary state we all need to inhabit while we’re chewing on choices. Ah, but what a relief it is when we’ve reached a conclusion! That’s when the fun begins.
Ego-centric, yes. But mapping out your corner of the world, delighting in what you find, and calling it your own is soul satisfying. As I headed out for a recent walk, I stopped to enjoy another great chat with my next-door neighbor Cos, who has lived here in East Rogers Park for 27 years and knows everyone in the vicinity. He’s got hard working broad shoulders and a quick smile that crinkles his eyes. He also has a riotous backyard garden bursting with 46 planters and a gurgling fountain.
Fortified with good neighborliness, I meandered down my street , past stately brick condos that mix elegance with quirky warmth, (think Queen Mum, not Queen), then ended up barely 10 minutes later at my new stretch of sandy beach, staring out at the several sailboats that were lufting along my favorite lake.
This walk wasn’t just about the lake, however, I was also doing a bit of writing spot recon. A fresh location always seems to fuel my sometimes sluggish writing motivation. I know I’m not alone here. The invigoration of new can breathe life into stale stories or tired essays. I’d heard a lot about Ennui, the coffee shop tucked into the corner of Sheridan and Lunt and, always on the lookout for a fun spot to sip something hot and be inspired, I wanted to check it out. As promised, it had just the right mix of inviting nooks, worn novels and broad tables for ample stretching out. The wide, covered outdoor patio wasn’t bad, either. Want to know more? : http://centerstagechicago.com/restaurants/cafeennui.html
Okay, I thought as I walked back toward the water, intent on seeing how far north I could wander until I got my fill, what was it exactly that made this last move feel so big? It wasn’t just that we now have a mortgage, though that’s no small point. It’s really about the joy of commitment. Indecision is laced with restlessness, that tiring but necessary state we all need to inhabit while we’re chewing on choices. Ah, but what a relief it is when we’ve reached a conclusion! That’s when the fun begins.
Recovered Treasure
I recently unpacked a box of my father’s books that has been tucked away for 5 years. Its contents made me want sip a cup of freshly brewed tea, settle by a roaring fire, or at the very least, curl up in a comfy chair. However, it was 96 degrees outside and I was so thrilled by my find that I just devoured them on the spot.
In the first batch, many titles were barely discernable, with spines worn away from bindings, their loopy, calligraphic inscriptions softened by time. My parents got me hooked on signing my name and a note in books given as gifts. I had forgotten that the family tradition started long ago.
Each opened book, each freshly read inscription, revealed a delicious nugget about its owner; protestations of puppy love called out from my great grandfather’s McGuffy’s Reader, whimsical sketches inside a school primer sparkled with a youthful ease that my own grandfather rarely showed in his later years, his wife’s shaky script, penned inside a green velvet volume of Christmas poems, revealed that this was the first gift her husband had given her when they were both freshman in college. As I dug deeper I found a book about WWII veterans with my own earnest note dutifully dated, thanking my dad for his service to our country.
My father used to say that reading let you go on any adventure you wished, and in this case, it was an intriguing trip back in time. The Ladies and Gentlemens’ Complete Etiquette, by Mrs. E.B. Duffey set me down smack in the middle of Philadelphia in 1877 where I read that “ Some people never “go to bed” they “retire.” They never “read” a book or paper, but “peruse” it. They “purchase” instead of “buy”. They never wish, but “desire.” They are never guilty of commonplace “talking,” they always “converse.” The best talkers and writers express their ideas in the plainest and simplest language.” Hmm. A good topic for discussion, don’t you think?
If you enjoy leafing through old books as much as I do, or even if you’re just in the mood for a particularly lush bookstore to while away some hours, check out Bookman’s Alley in Evanston. http://centerstagechicago.com/literature/bookstores/bookmans.html
I’m still trying to figure out where each treasured volume will go. I know there isn’t room for all of them on our shelves at the same time, so I’ll rotate the display. What I do know is that as I read those sentiments penned so long ago, they were given a new life, a fresh appreciation. They brought the past right into my hands and let me linger in familial comfort. I won’t need more bookshelf space to hold onto that
In the first batch, many titles were barely discernable, with spines worn away from bindings, their loopy, calligraphic inscriptions softened by time. My parents got me hooked on signing my name and a note in books given as gifts. I had forgotten that the family tradition started long ago.
Each opened book, each freshly read inscription, revealed a delicious nugget about its owner; protestations of puppy love called out from my great grandfather’s McGuffy’s Reader, whimsical sketches inside a school primer sparkled with a youthful ease that my own grandfather rarely showed in his later years, his wife’s shaky script, penned inside a green velvet volume of Christmas poems, revealed that this was the first gift her husband had given her when they were both freshman in college. As I dug deeper I found a book about WWII veterans with my own earnest note dutifully dated, thanking my dad for his service to our country.
My father used to say that reading let you go on any adventure you wished, and in this case, it was an intriguing trip back in time. The Ladies and Gentlemens’ Complete Etiquette, by Mrs. E.B. Duffey set me down smack in the middle of Philadelphia in 1877 where I read that “ Some people never “go to bed” they “retire.” They never “read” a book or paper, but “peruse” it. They “purchase” instead of “buy”. They never wish, but “desire.” They are never guilty of commonplace “talking,” they always “converse.” The best talkers and writers express their ideas in the plainest and simplest language.” Hmm. A good topic for discussion, don’t you think?
If you enjoy leafing through old books as much as I do, or even if you’re just in the mood for a particularly lush bookstore to while away some hours, check out Bookman’s Alley in Evanston. http://centerstagechicago.com/literature/bookstores/bookmans.html
I’m still trying to figure out where each treasured volume will go. I know there isn’t room for all of them on our shelves at the same time, so I’ll rotate the display. What I do know is that as I read those sentiments penned so long ago, they were given a new life, a fresh appreciation. They brought the past right into my hands and let me linger in familial comfort. I won’t need more bookshelf space to hold onto that
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