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| Deland's study in Boston—note the daffodils |
This is the blessed time of year that I get to
keep daffodils on my desk. They’re angels is what they are. If there’s anything
on earth that makes me think that a deity might by some small stretch of the
imagination be possible, it’s the seemingly superfluous beauty of daffodils.
I’ve loved them since boyhood because I despised winter even then, and when
they appeared, I knew that the worst was over. The same is true now. It’s a
crappy gray day, but at least I have daffodils, and to tell you the truth, I
had just as soon have a gray day with daffodils than a sunny day without.
When they stop blooming, it’s as if my best friend died.
I had to take Brewsky back to the vet bright and
early this morning for his bladder problems. It was a sad occasion, my regret
being that I couldn’t tell him why I was causing him such misery, and my fear
being that he will have to have surgery after all. I’ve since gotten a call
from the vet saying his urinary tract isn’t blocked, but that further tests will be necessary.
I listened to the news as I drove and learned
that Sanders won Michigan, so I’m wondering if it’s time to give him some more
money. Like most people, I don’t want to donate to a candidate who can’t win,
but if thousands of optimists hadn’t given him money when it was widely believed
that he had no chance, he wouldn’t be where he is. If Clinton should beat Sanders,
I’ll vote Green because I so dislike and distrust Clinton that I can’t see
voting for her even if it means that an insane billionaire might
become president.
Brewsky’s vet trip was my first time to leave home in
days, so it felt strange to be out in the heavy morning traffic, driving all
the way to Santa Clara. I don’t remember why we chose an across-town vet all those 25-years ago, but it seems a bit late to change.
We’ve had two dogs euthanized in that clinic, and now our pets consist of two cats.
I just wish we had someone to euthanize us someday.
There was roadwork along the route making it
necessary for people to slow down to let other people merge. I never see such
an event without reflecting upon how helpful most people are, at least when it’s
cheap and easy. Fortunately, the cost of doing good is usually low in proportion to how much
encouragement it can bring. Imagine how you would feel if no one ever let
you merge. But why is it that some jerk always speeds ahead of everyone else to
the head of the merge line? I block such people religiously, but not everyone
is as hard as I, and it is true that the offender might really be in a desperate
hurry.
I spent yesterday in bed. I’ve gotten to where
every few weeks, I feel so low that I can’t seem to stay up. It’s hard getting
old, and it’s hard being in pain. My latest problem is that I ripped the nail
on my right thumb back while doing dishes (yes, I know that sounds strange) two nights ago.
This is the thumb that I crushed in a door a few weeks after breaking my back
in November, 2013. I was so loaded on Fentanyl when I crushed it that it took me a moment to register that I was standing there with my thumb in a shut door (good
stuff, Fentanyl—way stronger than morphine), and it has remained swollen ever
since (I narrowly missed having to have it amputated). The swelling keeps the
nail pushed up, so I’ve been anticipating tearing it off eventually, and
although it’s still there, I’m wearing a glove to protect it. I see a hand
surgeon tomorrow.
Last week, I bought my fifth Margaret Deland
letter. When I started collecting Deland, I was pleased to find that first
editions of her books were so cheap, but now that I have all but two of them, I want to upgrade to copies that are pristine, signed, and have dust
jackets, although such books are rare and expensive. I’m also looking into having a
book conservator repair any defects in the signed copies I already own—I own
many. My inventory of antique books is now 27-pages long, and I’ve filled nine
feet of shelf space, partly because I’ve started collecting another author—Lebbeus
Mitchell.
I feel a bit old to start seriously collecting
antique books, but if I had started when young, there would have been no
Internet to make it easy to find them, and I wouldn’t have wanted to spend the
money. As it is, Peggy and I live so cheaply that we’ve yet to dip into our
retirement savings (in other words, we live entirely on Social Security), so it
seems silly to deny myself something that, no matter how much I spend, isn’t
going to break the bank.
I also have the thought that my collection could
be somewhat of a blessing to scholarship if I leave it to a university, to
which end I’m already making plans. Even if my every book isn’t wanted, the
letters surely will be. I’ve thus far been able to buy every significant letter
that has come up, and the few that I passed on weren’t worthwhile
because of their brevity or, as in the case of one, because only a fragment remained. Why anyone would take scissors and cut away all but a
few lines of a letter is beyond me, but that’s what they did.
I find it exceedingly strange to have my life so
intimately linked with a person who died four years before I was born. Just by holding something that she touched, I feel connected, not just to
her, but to her era, her experiences, her point of view, and even to her
ancestor who was burned at the stake for taking a stand against organized
religion. I feel such intimacy with Deland that it’s as if she’s alive through me.
Surely, if I had my schooling to do over, I would major in history
because an era is like a life in that it’s best understood when it’s over.
While Deland could only observe her existence as it occurred, I can see its themes in their entirety.
Through her writings, she tried hard to tell people who she was, and I’m honored
to listen.
