J.D. Salinger

By most standards I’d be considered a pretty avid reader. On average I read a book about every two weeks or so with maybe a few weeks a year where I don’t read much at all. This, usually, because I can’t find anything that intrigues me. Compared to Linda, though, I’m a lightweight. She can burn through two books in a good weekend. My brother Trevor fits into this category as well.

Even as a young teen I read a fair amount. I come from a family of readers. It wasn’t until high school, though, that I remember really being significantly impacted by any one book. Caught of guard you might say which, I did, along with, “I’ve never read a book with the “F” word in it.” I was a freshman in high school at the time and had never been assigned to read a book I actually enjoyed prior to ‘The Catcher in The Rye.’ It was a real eye opener. I went on to read pretty much everything Salinger wrote, finding some of his works just as excellent and others just good. I don’t recall reading anything from him that I didn’t enjoy.

Later, while Linda and I were living in New York City and before we had any children, I decided to read the book again. You know, see if I could re-capture the same magic from the first time. That was about 14 years ago and it was still just as excellent.

Yesterday J.D. Salinger passed away which reminded me of that first time I read about Holden Caulfield.

What do you remember about the first time you read one of his magnificent works?

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Blacklisted

Yesterday Linda asked me to drop by Costco to pick up some plastic wrap. We like the kind they carry because it comes in a 3,000-foot roll and tends to cling better than some of the other brands we’ve tested. While there I decided to have a look around and shortly found myself in the tool aisle after a quick perusal of the book table. It was here, in the tool aisle where I recognized an older gentleman dressed in slacks and a pair of nice loafers. I had seen him on my way into the store and it seems he, like me, had been browsing a few different sections of Costco before arriving in front of the tools.

While I looked at the air compressors he looked at a set of screwdrivers, a set that claimed, “Over 150 different parts.” I’ve looked at this same set before but decided against so many bits and pieces. This man’s hair was a chalky grey and was parted severely down the side creating a very straight line of hair across his forehead. Later I would remember thinking he reminded me of the kind of men I’d seen while traveling to Germany for business but at the moment I was distracted by the most warbly fart I’ve ever heard, which, was produced without breaking stride. By this point we were both moving again, me behind him - and closing.

My wife Linda isn’t a fan of the word ‘moist’ and in fact has compiled quite a list of words she wishes had never been invented. At times, though, one of these blacklisted words fits perfectly and must be used. This was one of those times, I thought to myself, as I walked into a moist cloud of such nastiness that it literally brought tears to my eyes.

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Men, Tools, and Addictions

A couple months ago my friend Jeff and I were having this conversation when the topic of knife sharpeners came up. It seemed we’d both found the task of keeping a knife sharp untenable and spent a few minutes comparing notes. He has far more experience than I do, even complaining at one point he maintained a bone yard of ineffective knife sharpeners crowding the back of some closet. I only have three sharpeners none of which work very well. The conversation took a turn though and I forgot about my interest in sharp kitchen knives.

This past Sunday I threw a few hot dogs on the grill then began slicing up a dill pickle. Gretchen and I prefer ours with a couple slices of pickle, she with catsup and me with both catsup and spicy mustard. And I should say “attempted” to slice up a dill pickle because my knife was so dull it simply squashed it to the point of splitting rather than actually slicing. I tried a second knife with the same result and ended up finishing the job with a large bread knife which, did the trick but left me frustrated with the idea I owned the right tool for the job but said tool was in less than optimum shape.

I called Jeff.

He was at my house in 15 minutes flat bringing along the best of the bone yard and explaining, “This one will do the job but for me, it just takes too long to get there.” After about 10 minutes working on one of my knives I agreed and we spent the next few minutes talking knife sharpener shop. I showed him a few of my woodworking tools, which I keep razor sharp and we agreed it was what we’d expect out of a good kitchen knife. “The problem is,” I explained, “that I have a really nice jig for sharpening hand plane blades and chisels but it won’t work for a knife.” This led us to the internet where I showed him what most would consider the penultimate of tool sharpeners and happens to offer a knife sharpening attachment. This is a sharpener that also carries a price to match.

A couple of hours later I got an email from my friend Jeff explaining he was doing everything in his power to avoid what he termed, “A visa event.”

I responded with a video link and second review. Just to push him over the edge.

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He's Baaaack

On Sunday after church when Johnson grabbed my arm and said, “Hold on a minute young man,” then finished a conversation he’d begun earlier with some other unsuspecting bystander; I thought he was going to yell at me for last week’s blog post about his penchant for women’s perfume. Ordinarily I’m not afraid of adult males over the age of 70 but frankly, Johnson scares me. Maybe it’s the way his eyes look oversized and fish-like behind his 1/4” thick glasses or the way he quivers just before he shouts at me. Or maybe the way he clinches my arm just below the elbow every time he speaks to me. Either way, I’ve been avoiding him.

“I have something I want to talk t o you about,” he said and then he let me sweat for a second.

“OK.”

“I bought two new chairs and I have the old ones in the garage. They’re armchairs and they’re nice.” The implication was clear, ‘Yes, they’re old to me and I’ve replaced them with a much nicer set, but as far as you’re concerned, they’re better than anything you’ll find elsewhere. And don’t question me on that.’ He continued, “Why don’t you come by the house and take a look at them? They’d be perfect for a couple of your girls.”

Until a couple of weeks ago, I wasn’t sure Johnson even knew who I was. I now wondered if he knew who my daughters were. Each is quite small for her age and people often comment with things like, “Wow that little girl is 11?” or “Your children are all so tiny.” I’m not sure what they expect, neither Linda nor I are big, yet still, they go on and on as though two parents standing on the smaller side of the human growth chart should have given birth to a pack of giants.

Size aside and regardless of the chairs real condition, what do four little girls need with a couple of used armchairs?

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See This? It Hurts.

As a kid, maybe when I was six, I jumped off the stage at our church and sprained my ankle. It was in the evening, as I remember it, following our usual church services. My parents were visiting with friends in the lobby when the news arrived and their response was something I became quite used to hearing, “I’m sure you’re fine,” they said. My father is a doctor and after a closer examination of my swollen ankle added, “If you don’t slow down you’re going to really pay for it later, when you’re older.”

The weekend before beginning the fourth grade I shattered my upper jaw, broke my nose, and nearly lost my upper four front teeth. This particular injury introduced me to casts for teeth, which I wore for four months. It was putty colored and closely resembled the color of juicy fruit gum. For kicks I’d flash my toothy cast in class then wait for my teacher’s reprimand, “No gum chewing, Christian. Spit it out.” What I didn’t have to wait for was parents and the one about slowing down or paying for it later.

At twelve I broke my little toe and at fifteen I cracked my sternum; each bringing the same response, “You’ll be fine but you’d better slow down or you’re gonna pay.” When I was eighteen I broke my left foot while skateboarding. I cracked a bone my father the doctor referred to as the ‘cuboid’, which is cube shaped and apparently takes a lot to break. Then we consulted with a surgeon about putting a pin in place where I heard him say, “I can fix this but you’re gonna feel it later.”

This wasn’t the last bone I broke, in fact things got much worse in the injury department long before they improved. Each time, though, I effectively ignored the warning and continued merrily along.

Last night as I got up from the couch I let out a little whimper. When Linda asked if I was OK I responded that my entire body always hurts. “I mean what’s wrong with me?” I asked. “My hip hurts so bad I’ve been limping for 3 weeks. My left foot aches nearly constantly. I wake up in the night with so much pain in my shoulder and wrists I can’t go back to sleep.” And then I added, “What did I ever do to deserve this kind of constant pain?”

Hmmmm.

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Roses Are Red. . .

“You’re wrong,” one of the older men in my church said to me. And then he added, “You don’t know what you’re talking about either,” just in case he’d left any room for doubt with his first statement. I’d been attending this particular congregation for over 4 years when this occurred, yet this was our first conversation. He’s a tall man in his 80’s and I’ll call him Johnson. I see him from time to time driving around town but on Sundays he wears a brown suit along with coke bottle glasses trapped in oversized squarish frames. His shoes appear large for his frame and are slightly squared off at the ends reminding me of two loaves of bread.

We haven’t spoken since. He kind of scares me.

This past Sunday, though Johnson’s wife arrived late and sat in front of us. I wondered if maybe he was sick until a few minutes later he arrived. Even before he sat down I could smell him. This was not the smell of strong body odor nor the distinct scent of cologne rather it was the unmistakable smell of rose scented perfume, which is the kind I remember my grandma wearing only not so heavily. My daughter Margaret sitting at the far end of the pew leaned forward asking, “What’s that smell?” I pointed in front of me and she mimed, “Johnson’s wife?” then giggled when I clarified.

I’m not exactly sure what happened Sunday morning but like to think Johnson decided to brighten his grouchy personality with a bit of roses and spice and everything nice.

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Nail Biter

In college and even before that, I bit my nails. I’ve always been a nail biter. I prefer nipping at the corner of the nail then tearing the unwanted portion off rather than chewing them down to the quick. It just seems cleaner.

When I first met Linda and we were becoming friends, she noticed my habit and mentioned, “Um, you bite your nails.” It wasn’t the statement itself that conveyed her feelings but the body language that accompanied the moment, which suggested, “You’re gross.” As I remember it, she followed things up with the word “nasty.”

Because I liked her I stopped. Then, after she fell for me, I picked back up where I’d left off.

The other evening while watching a bit of TV, Linda looked over and said, “You know they make these things called nail clippers.”

Maybe I should consider stopping again, I still like Linda after all.

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Triple Threat

Yesterday Linda asked me to pick up some stamps at Costco. I wasn’t aware the Costco sold stamps but she assured me, “They sell a big package of those new forever stamps. And they’re the ones on strips rather than the roll,” she added.

It’s always odd waiting in the checkout line in Costco when you don’t have anything to put down on the big black conveyor belt. Most tend to have huge cartloads which makes those with one or two items stand out. Take the elderly couple behind me for example. They had a cart brimming with cuts of beef, canned vegetables, and the largest box of Depends I’ve ever seen. Noticing it made me a bit uncomfortable for them, but they seemed fine and focused their energy on pushing me forward so they could begin unloading their cart. Still, I directed my eyes forward out of respect for the elderly.

In front of me was a pudgy woman with a thick black braid that hung halfway down her back. She wore an acid washed denim jacket and a big pink bow tied at the end of the braid. I wondered if so much hair felt heavy, then noticed she had only two items on the belt, which made me completely forget her hair noose. Costco tends to sell things in value packs of two. This woman’s items consisted of a double pack of latex self-exam gloves and a double pack of aspirin. The packaging on the gloves read, “Now with textured finger tips!” Worried my mind would wander to places nobody should go; I looked to the man in front of her.

He was an odd looking Hispanic man with a sour face. Standing not much above four feet he was nearly as big around and teetered on top of spindly legs. His purchase was a single double pack item. I leaned forward just a bit to get a closer look and what I came away with was a real eye opener. A two pack of stool softener! I watched as he paid then went straight to the food counter and asked for a cup of water, which, at least might have explained the sour face.

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Tomorrow's Tomorrow and Beyond

I took a fairly long Christmas vacation this year making my return to work all that more difficult. I’m not generally know for tidy living so when things got hectic around the office leading up to my break my design space went way beyond slightly messy. I spent the morning yesterday cleaning and rearranging then took it a step further and cleaned up Ashmarlin.

You’ll notice I updated the logo and added a few features. First, down on your left I added a follower section. It’s pretty easy to sign up and follow and while I don’t think there is a maximum number of followers you may want to sign up soon. Then, on the right, I added a link button. This is for those really dedicated Ashmarlin readers who want to put a link on their own blog or website. It’s easy, just copy the code below the Ashmarlin button and paste it into an HTML page element on your blog or site.

Now, when it comes to the New Year, 2010, I feel like things are looking up. Like there’s a lot to look forward to. Around home, we’ve been discussing whether we’ll call it two thousand ten or twenty ten. I’m not sure about you but we’re leaning toward two thousand ten. We’ve also heard a couple other options, which we’re for sure not going to use. The other day I got a voice mail asking for some calendar info for twenty thousand and ten (20,010)? And then yesterday, while discussing the topic in class, one of Gretchen’s teachers actually threw out, “I personally like two hundred thousand ten rather than twenty ten.” Really? 200,010? You’re teaching the children of tomorrow and apparently hoping to teach the children of like, tomorrow’s, tomorrow’s, infinity tomorrow.

So while we’re all waiting for the 198,000 some odd years or so, take a minute and sign up to follow Ashmarlin. Then pass it on to a few friends, which is also easy, just click the little envelope at the bottom of any post and send away.

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Christmas is over, now what?

I tend to make huge plans for Christmas break. Small jobs and big projects make my list of hopes for the holidays. And then the vacation arrives and one thing leads to another and I find it over while still holding a long, unfinished list.

Two weeks ago the break started off great until it was interrupted by Gretchen screaming, “Get out of here. I’m working on Christmas presents.” She wasn’t shouting at me, rather one of her sisters, and who could blame her? She comes from an illustrious line of big project planners. We’re starters though, and not necessarily the best finishers. Take me, for example, I have at least 27 projects in various stages of completion as we speak, which is something that tends to drive Linda crazy. This is nothing though; my mother is probably juggling twice that number piled in her bedroom alone.

When I was younger we were encouraged to put our projects to some sort of good then offer them as gifts for Christmas. “Gifts are more meaningful when we make them at home,” my mother would say then disappear behind closed doors for a day or so. As procrastinators, though, it was our habit to wait till the Christmas vacation began before starting, and then worked furiously to finish. Boundaries would be set up and lines drawn then protected with our lives. The secret business of Christmas gift making was all that mattered come December 20th or so.

We tended to aim high figuring that when it came to making things it was better to take on more rather than less. Then, come Christmas morning, we offered these gifts in various stages of completion. “Thanks for this partially finished robe,” one might say as easily as, “I’m not sure what this is but I’m sure I’ll love it when it’s finished.” Back then it was understood that value was placed in the effort and not the completion of a gift. It also went without saying that anything not completed by Christmas ever would be.

I’ve tried not to pass this particular habit on to my family and am happy to say I finished all my Christmas projects this year. I do, however, have a bed I’ve been making for Linda and I that’s 75% finished.

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