Fine Print, Large Print
Tue., May 2, 11:21 AM
One of the best things about being retired is that, if your planned agenda for Monday gets screwed up, you can always do it Tuesday. When the newspaper didn’t come Monday morning, I figured I had a whole extra hour. I read a little computer, woke Husband, and sat down again, knowing he’d take half an hour before he was ready for me. And the phone rang.
It was the lady who is now working for Bosslawyer. I don’t know what his agenda is – not completely, anyhow – but he’s going to lose a good worker. He didn’t specifically request someone with legal background, but he expects her to learn it. She could pick up a lot of procedure by just sitting and reading what’s in my old computer files, but he won’t let her.
He doesn’t want her to be alone in the office, and you already know he doesn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary. It’s his new way of cutting the hours; I was a little surprised when he promised her twenty-five hours a week, but I thought he’d wait awhile and then plead poverty. Whatever. It’s not her fault she’s in the middle of this, and I commiserated for a long time. I couldn’t blame Husband for going back to bed.
By the time I got off the phone and gave Husband his meds and his oatmeal, the morning was shot. I decided to call my friend Gloria, who had left me a long, rambling message on Friday.
I have been having trouble reaching Gloria, whose line was constantly busy. It was busy again this morning (and my imagination was going into overdrive), but I finally got through. The reason she called was, so she said, to hear how I’d done at the radiologist last week. She’s very glad to hear that I’m okay – she’s sure someone else she knows is gonna die. (I’m sure too, at her age, but it’s not gonna be me.) But the real reason she called was to give me a shopping list, telling me what I should put in the next care package. From time to time I’m ready to yell, beggars can’t be choosers!
So where was I before this morning’s rant? Actually, I was glad there was no newspaper. The eye doctor has pointed out that the newspaper is the hardest thing to read, being both fine print and low contrast. Nevertheless, I’m compulsive about going through the newspaper each morning, even though it takes me twice as long as it used to. I decided to read a book instead.
As much as I love to read books, I’ve had trouble with them and assumed it was all because of my eyes. Now I’m not so sure. The last regular-type novel I read was the latest “Quilleran” story by Lillian Jackson Braun. With the help of magnifying glasses and bright lights, I actually finished it, but as far as I could tell, nothing happened. I lent it to M.D., and she didn’t see any point in it either. Even the corpse had died a natural death.
In any case, I decided to order some large-type books. I was really looking forward to reading mystery novels again, but now I don’t know. The first was Murder at the Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman, whose books I enjoyed for more than twenty years. This one took me a long time because I didn’t like it. As far as I was concerned, it just didn’t measure up to the ones I’d read before. I was beginning to doubt myself. Were the books really that bad, or have I lost my abilities to judge a book?
Then I slogged through Frank McCourt’s Teacher Man. “Slogged” is the word; it was really slow going. This was no Angela’s Ashes, and I didn’t care much for the subject; I don’t connect to teaching or high school students, and he wasn’t doing much to change my mind. He’s always talking about telling stories, but he didn’t actually tell many. Maybe he needs to publish a collection of short stories?
Somewhere near the end, he said something more engaging. He told his creative writing classes that, really, you’re always writing. The people you meet, and your reactions to them, your alternative actions – rehearsing, if you will – are all part of the creative process that you can put down on paper.
Yes, I agree with that. I’ve written it myself, in a post I called What If.
Frank McCourt, shame on you! You’re ten years older than I, and you’ve spent a lifetime studying and teaching English and literature. Yet the most riveting thing you can come up with is something I’ve already discovered for myself. I learned more from Blackboard Jungle and To Sir, With Love.
Maybe it’s not me. I’ve just started Sue Grafton’s newest, S is for Silence. I’ll let you know how that works out.
