A Familiar Voice--Yours or Mine?

Are you a writer? If so, does your own voice sound so-o-o familiar at times that you stop and wonder if you've heard those same words from, say, another writer? And if so, do you further ask what would happen if he or she found out?

With me it happens often. I'll write a paragraph and it will sound so familiar that I'm convinced the words aren't mine. And who knows? Maybe they aren't. If not, whose are they? Where did they come from? I have a theory about it:

For those of us who rely on strong memory and love of language to inform our writing, we risk copying somebody without meaning to. I think of historians Doris Kearns Goodwin and Stephen Ambrose, both of whom suffered lawsuits and near-disgrace for writing passages that sounded like other passages by other writers in earlier books. It is hard for me to believe either of the accused was a plagiarist. But I didn't follow the courtroom facts of either case, so I can't claim knowledge of them.

I do know this: the intentional lifting of others' work is real and occurs in dishonorable people. Ask Will, one of my former students. Nearly the entire manuscript of some brilliant historical research he did in high school was stolen and put between hard covers by a couple of pikers who sold the work as their own. The case was charitably settled, thanks to Will's charitable nature, but the lesson for me is this: pay attention or risk paying big bucks. I confess to running on "scared of it" at least half the time I'm writing.

The Currency of Othello

"Othello" is front and center lately. Friends and I saw a local college production of the play Friday night. When I got home, I found an email from pals in Portland, Oregon telling of plans for their annual trip to the Shakespeare Festival downstate in Ashland. "Othello" is one of this year's offerings.

So why is "Othello" coming up strong? Theory: the candidacy of Barack Obama. Every thoughtful person with whom I speak is considering Obama's run for the presidency and wondering what kind of leader he would be in the White House. Race invariably arises as a point in the discussion.

While I do not equate the fictional life of Othello to the real life of Obama, I do see why people are turning once again to Shakespeare in view of questions about race and its impact on people.

If you haven't read or seen the play about the Moor lately, you might give it another try. It's good for at least some familiar insights into race as a motivating factor in individuals, whether at home, at work or abroad in society.

P.S. Thanks to pal Ann in Arlington VA for catching the typo in "Barack." He now has his "c" back. Thanks, too, to former student Will in San Francisco for reminding me that Missoula is in MISSOULA Valley--not the Bitterroot Valley as misstated in an earlier blog entry/photo caption.

Wadsworth vs. Wordsworth

For the longest time in grade school, I confused William Wordsworth with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I could never remember which one was the Gitche Gumee guy who envisioned shining Big-Sea-Water and which one wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills. No amount of stern coaxing from my fourth-grade teacher, "Miss Glenn," would do the trick.

Then one day it hit me: one of these guys was British and loved flowers, the other was American and loved Indians. Why that helped, I'll never know. But it did. I have kept them separate and fairly in their own quarters ever since.

Thus, when Garrison Keillor told us yesterday in his Writer's Almanac that it was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's birthday, I instantly knew he was not British. I did not know which birthday it was for Henry until I looked it up (how quaint is this?)in my printed-paper, hardbound encyclopedia.

So Happy 201st, dear Henry. In my giddy celebration, I also looked up the birthdate and age of your pal Mr. Wordsworth. He will be 237 in April. I trust you both are enjoying the long rest, the peace and quiet of Poet's Corner at Westminster Abbey.

But now I have a new problem: which of you is which, now that I see from your pictures that you both were bald with white-tufted ears, had long skinny noses and wore bushy white beards??

The Wren in the Wreath

Should you stop by for a visit anytime soon, watch out for the wren in the wreath as you enter the front door. She and her nest are real, the wreath is artificial. But the wren doesn't seem to know--or to care that the circular bouquet is as fake as Hollywood eyelashes. It's all kosher as far as she's concerned. She gets flapped only if the two of you arrive at the same moment. In that case, she's likely to beat you through the front door, zoom around in a frenzy for a time, then figure her way back outside and fly the friendly skies until you're gone.

She's apparently good neighbors with the pair of nuzzlers I told you about--the birds that roost inside the eave of that same porch at dusk before a nighttime storm. Happy little community here. Birds of a feather, one supposes.

What a Dame!

Dame Joan Plowright is the dame of whom I speak. Or Plowwright, maybe. Both spellings appear in print. In any case, this graceful, aging actress and widow of Sir Laurence Olivier is vastly underappreciated here in the colonies, methinks. I was reminded last night when two women friends and I watched her in a touching, charming, funny film entitled "Mrs. Palfrey at The Claremont." If you haven't seen it, you can catch it now on DVD. I will save the details in case you want to see it, but the gist is this: an aging woman declines living with her daughter and determines to be independent to the end.

That said, I also associate Dame Plowright with a disappointing moment in one of the least disappointing days of my life. Here's THAT story...

The day before Thanksgiving 1989, I stood in a Jewish cemetery in Baltimore, dressed in 1950s black funeral attire, respectfully posing as a mourner at the casket and gravesite of a character played by Dame Plowright in Barry Levinson's "Avalon," one of three autobiographical films set in his native Baltimore. "I wish he'd called Dame Plowright to come and lie down in the casket," I thought. "At least I might have caught a glimpse of her that way."

Instead, the director had me stand behind and peer between the shoulders of actors Aidan Quinn and Armin Muehller-Stahl--no slouches themselves--who played Dame Plowright's son and husband, respectively. There we all stood, listening to the Rabbi, and mournfully staring at (of course) a closed and empty casket.

To my surprise, when the movie premiered, there I was on the Big Screen. With no less than my closeup, Mr. DeMille (Mr. Levinson). I won't ever forget it--or forgive Barry Levinson for denying me the glimpse of greatness when the Dame, independent to the end, didn't lie down in the casket.

The Peace Lily Prance

Every week to ten days, I trek to the living room, pull the pulchritudinous peace lily from its pedestal, and prance with it all the way to the backyard. There my graceful partner "takes the air," as we say down South, and gets a giant drink o' water. After last night's stormy deluge, it seems absurd to speak of watering, but there you have it: my indoor partner needs a shot. So she's out there today, taking her H20 and waiting for the sunshine. We're told it arrives again this Saturday.

Meanwhile...

My love affair with peace lillies was born at the death of my father in March 1990. Two close friends--Susan and Lynne in Missoula, MT--sent me a grand specimen as an act of condolence. It meant the world to me to see my father's death measured by my friends in such a life-affirming way. I have loved the variety ever since. I haven't gone so far as to give the current plant a name, but I do pet it often and think of it as a pal.

Do you name or favor YOUR plants? I have a notion you do. If you're willing, click on "comments" and tell us about it. We promise not to laugh!

Sweet, Sweet Strawberries

Louisiana and Florida strawberries are in. As a friend says, the sweetest, plumpest little things on strawberry feet you've ever seen!

Last night my bro, pal Ethel, friend Paul and I dined at a local eatery. On the way back, we stopped for strawberries at the supermarket nearest me. Florida berries this time. Two quarts for $6. Bought and fetched home. Three of us lightly gorged ourselves on berries, angel food cake and ice cream. "M-0-R-E, Sir...please...we want M-O-R-E," cried Oliver and me, at least, if not all three.

Come mid-April, we'll drive south a couple of hours to Ponchatoula, LA, the self-proclaimed Strawberry Capital of the World. Their 37th Annual Strawberry Festival will be in full swing. Parades, fair rides, crafts, food booths, downtown shop displays, deli/bakery treats--all with strawberries at the center. Sound delicious? You betcha. Count me in, please--if, that is, I have gas money left over after April 15!

(S)He Went Thataway

What causes siblings to be so different? One would think two sisters, two brothers, a brother and a sister--each pair from the same parents, same household, and same set of social, economic, religious and political influences would be more alike than different. Tain't necessarily so. One goes this way, the other thataway.

To readers who know my brother and I are temporarily sharing a household (we're a month from his moving into a nice home he and his carpenter pal have built from scratch), please note: I'm not speaking of my brother and me. God knows he and I are different enough, but not as markedly as the two siblings I learned about at my book group last night.

Let's call them Sue and Sally. Born two years apart. Sue is the big sister, Sally the little sister. Parents are poor mill workers in rural North Carolina. Family pressures are intense. The girls have the same angry parents, the same tattered wardrobe, the same crazy aunts and uncles, the same diet, the same schoolteachers. So what makes Sue turn to cocaine, prostitution and loss of her own children down the years, while Sally turns to creative writing, poetry and the life of academia?

Those are the facts as shared by last night's presenter. She would be the younger "Sally," her now-imprisoned sister the older "Sue." When I asked published poet/college professor Sally how she accounts for the differences between them, she said, "Sue was the risk-taker; I was the goody-two-shoes."

Granted. But whence came the larger differences? Will? Personality? Temperament? Genes? All the above? Yes. But I'm not sure it's the whole story. "Tis a puzzlement," as the King told Anna.

What say you? If so inclined, please click on "comments." That should open a space for you to leave an enlightening word or two. God knows we all could use it!

"Live from the Met"

Do you like opera? If you just shouted "No way!" then I have a suggestion: head to the nearest movieplex that carries big-screen, live simulcasts from onstage and backstage at the New York City Metropolitan Opera. You won't believe the fun you'll have.

Trust me: this is NOT your grandfather's boring extravaganza. This is 21st century aural and visual technology at its best. Here you are, all comfy in stadium seating, popcorn and cola in hand, watching world-class tenors, sopranos, basses, baritones and choruses perform under the baton of (yesterday) Maestro James Levine himself.

Half a dozen women friends and I bought tickets (and popcorn) and enjoyed the heck out of Puccini's "Manon Lescaut," an over-the-top melodrama that looked great in lavish costumes covering the amazing bodies and muscularity of the players. We caught the show in a suburban moviehouse near Jackson at a Saturday matinee.

So think about it:

Ever seen a 47-year-old opera star do a gymnastic split in a ton of tulle, net, wigs and pearls? We saw it yesterday! Lead actress/soprano Karita Mattila (Finnish sensation) prepped Met moviegoers during a live backstage interview between acts to watch for her maneuver. She even showed us how she'd practiced. That, mind you, between other live backstage interviews conducted by Met superstar Renee Fleming--in one case, with the married couple who own and train all the animals used onstage. Fascinating. This kind of opera is NOT boring. No way!

P.S. "Manon Lescaut," by Puccini, was first staged and a huge hit in Turin, Italy in 1893. Yesterday's version was faithful to the tale of the poor young girl (Manon Lescaut, she's named) who's headed to a convent and is drawn off-course by her scheming, gambler brother and a wealthy old geezer he encounters who takes her to his Paris salon, uses her and controls her with his wealth and flattery. She and the handsome young boyfriend she'd met along the way wind up in a "wasteland" called "New Orleans" in America. Was Puccini prescient---or what? In any case, it all ends--what else--melodramatically. But if you saw it on the big screen as we did, the real melodrama was in THAT! Super Bowl, move over; Super Opera is on its way.

"No Child Left Behind" Cartoons.....But Nothing To Joke Or Laugh About

Please read my post directly under this one.

What's in a Picture?

Today's local newspaper (Clarion-Ledger, Jackson, MS) carries a classic pair of photos in its Metro/State section. Anyone who has closely followed education politics in America for the past 25 years would quickly spot the relationship between the two pictures.

Page 1B features a handsome 8 x 6 color closeup of a well-coiffed, well-dressed US Secretary of Education Margaret Spelling as she gestures a point while seated before the Mississippi State Board of Education yesterday. The headline reads "Education secretary: Federal goals realistic."

Page 3B carries a dark 5 x 3 b/w photo of folks in the audience. Anyone who knows public school teachers and administrators would likely say that's who forms the group in the picture. Looks on their faces are the key. Smiling? Not one of them. Skeptical? Most of them, judging from facial expressions in the picture.

Unmasked, the struggle between powerful politicians and near-powerless professionals is a huge problem for American public schools and children who attend them. Under current federal law ("No Child Left Behind"), there are stringent goals, directives and timelines for testing students and tracking test scores, but the professional in the school has little or no time to focus on the child--rather on the teaching of testing skills and test content to children. That's not to say that school professionals don't care, but rather that the system in place won't permit child-centeredness.

The presidential election next November will tell us a lot about when or if the two sides in the two pictures will ever "morph" into the happy, smiling face of every child who WAS left behind in recent decades. When that happens, it will be a wonderful day--and way overdue.

That 'Wave Length' Thing

It happens to all of us: we'll encounter a word or a notion that seems new, only to find it again within a few hours, days, weeks. Or, in my case, mere minutes. Today's example still has me reeling.

To set the scene, here I was at the computer, checking out today's New York Times, which had a video showing the winner of last night's Best in Show at Westminster Kennel competition. "Uno," the adorable beagle, had made history by being the first in its breed to win the club's top distinction.

"Oooh! He's so cute!" I thought, sharply reminded that I'd vowed to get a dog once I retired, quit the city and moved to rural Mississippi. "Maybe a beagle would be the thing."

Within minutes, I was taking a call from a friend in nearby Jackson, asking if I'd like to have a beagle. "WHAT??" I said to myself, "Cosmic conspiracy!" As usual, I was stunned by the odds-off coincidence. To my friend, though, I merely said:

"Funny you should mention it...I just saw a video of 'Uno' strutting his stuff at last night's Westminster." My friend had liked Uno, too, and had sided with the judge's pick. But her reason for calling was not tied to Westminster. Rather, someone she knows has a friend who's ill and needs permanent care for his beloved beagle. Would I be interested, et cetera. "Hmm," I said. "Please find out and tell me more."

So does Beagle Coincidence = New Owner Me? We shall see. Waiting now for more about (I'm sure of it) Uno's prizewinning twin.

Honest Lynn, Honest Abe--Honestly!

Today is the birthday of two of my favorite heroes: one was a USA president, the other a USA queen. A beauty queen. If not in title, at least in character, spirit and glamour.

To Abe, forgive me for slighting your 199th as I honor my dear, deceased friend Lynn Pennebaker Birdsong Strate on what would have been her 67th birthday.

We in the South know a true Southerner when we see one. Lynn was a true Southerner: lovely, gracious, high-spirited and given to a wide streak of good ol' Mississippi rebelliousness. She was kind to strangers, loving toward the less fortunate and--when she felt the need for it--hard as hell on herself, her closest friends and her Mississippi family. No Nonsense, Please may as well have been her middle name.

In her last two decades, she enjoyed unending love and support from her husband David and their Mormon faith, as well as an unfailing inspiration from the beauty of place and character of people in the Big Sky Country of Montana.

Lynn died September 27, 2007 after six years of debilitating illness. But in that, as in all else, she was elegant, intense and demanding of the best for everyone she encountered. Fortunately, I was one of them. I love her to this day.

Were Lynn here, she would have received a big bouquet of the type she and I so faithfully exchanged over the years on our birthdays. Today, the bouquet is made of words rather than flowers.

To Lynn, my beloved Friend, on her 67th. Love now and always from "Naaaaaancee Rooooooth," as she would say. How I miss her honey-laden pronunciations and razor sharp insights in everything she ever said. Unforgettable.
Truly unforgettable.