A friend of mine from high school moved to Israel many years ago and married, had five children and spent his life as a professor at a university in Jerusalem. I asked him once to explain the Israel/Palestine conflict in a succinct way. He told me that it was impossible to do that. He did say that he had one child who built a house on the West Bank and he had refused to help pay for it. That was the extent of what clarity he could share with me.

I appreciated his candor when I read the book pictured above Can We Talk About Israel by Daniel Sokatch published in October of this year. He walks the reader through the whole history of the nation of Israel, the decisions that allowed its creation, the people who already lived there who weren’t consulted and the inevitable discord that has existed since then.

Jared Kushner, Trump’s son-in-law, promised to “solve” the conflict maintaining that it was “really just a real estate issue.” I knew at the time that his intervention was absurd, but the book clarifies just how much worse his involvement made the region, particularly promoting moving the American embassy.

Sokatch’s careful walk through all the Prime Ministers in Israel’s history was very clarifying. He is able to go beyond the “right wing” “left wing” labels so often used in the American press. I was able to see how radically differently the government at any one time attempted to work with or work against the Palestinians.

The book is easy to read, humorously illustrated and just detailed enough to allow any one of us to admit we know much less about Israel and Palestine than we thought we did. I welcomed the humbling and thought back to my friend’s true answer to my request for a simple explanation: “it is impossible to do that.”

In my professional life I had the joy of discussing literature three times a week with a class of eager and not so eager student readers. I appreciated hearing their different understandings of each writing, but too often was the designated “expert” supposed to tell them “what does it really mean?” No matter how many times I told them literature was not written for college professors but for general readers, they turned to me for the final opinion.

In retirement I have the pleasure of being one reader among others in several iterations of book groups. One group of five women formed after our gym shut down last year. It turns out we enjoy each other even more when we aren’t having to count repetitions! Here we meet once a month for about 90 minutes to talk over a selection made by one of us. We take turns suggesting and choosing the books. It is a time blessedly free of academic language. No “real meanings,” no “hidden symbols.” In fact it usually is a relaxed time to catch up and talk a bit about the books and a lot about our lives.

Once a week I talk to a friend across the country about a chapter of whatever book we have chosen. Again, we take turns picking the reading. We chat for 30 minutes about the reading and about our grown kids. Right now we are half through the tome by Jill Lepore “These Truths,” a history of the United States. Even though my friend majored in American history, it is especially fun to see what each of us never learned in college.

Every couple of months I have the joy of an international book group hosted by a Canadian. This introduces me to a myriad of books that I not only haven’t read but to authors I have never heard of. This humbling experience reminds me that I will never have to run out of good reading. I actually used to be afraid of that when I was younger!

Are any of you in book groups? How do they work for you?

The good news is that I had my hands in my pockets so I didn’t thrust my arms out thus breaking my wrists. The bad news is that 10 days ago I fell from a full upright position to a full lying down position after catching my toe on a sidewalk flaw such as the one pictured above. I was watching a hawk instead of my feet. I have tried to be careful to either walk or look, but I was totally captured by the hawk.

I am grateful that I suffered no serious, as in broken bones or ligaments serious, damage. However, I took a knee first and then an elbow before rolling over in astonishment asking Charlie what in the world had just happened. An x-ray revealed nothing broken. My kneecap did what it was supposed to do according to my doctor and protected my knee. My bruises are ugly and swollen and will take some time to reabsorb into my system. After reassuring me that the hematomas in question were not the kind of blood clots that travel to the lungs(I never miss an opportunity to catastrophize) my doctor told me to rest until I felt better, elevating my knee and icing it periodically.

Be careful out there. It turns out to not take too much to bring any one of us to our knees.

I had definitely forgotten how much time and attention a new puppy requires. Clearly I have abandoned my writing practice for the past while, neither posting nor reading others’ posts. I have missed it, but every time I start to gather my thoughts they are scattered. Rather like the toys, chewed up paper towel holders and chew sticks that currently litter my floor.

Yes I am very glad that we adopted our fourth Australian Shepherd puppy. I love the life that she has brought to our home. However, transitioning from a 14 year old dog who would rest peacefully at our feet while we ate to one who absolutely must chew our shoe laces during meal times has been a challenge. We are very grateful for the trainer that we hired in advance of bringing Emmy home with us. She has raised Border Collies, very similar to Aussies, and knows the joys and troubles of rearing very intelligent puppies.

She has been quite frank with us about the bad habits we managed to start in the first two weeks we had the puppy on our own. Emmy is so cute that it hadn’t bothered us that she jumps up. Casey(the trainer) appropriately pointed out that we didn’t want a full grown Aussie jumping up on us. Since we are in our 70’s, this was precisely our caution about getting another dog, so I really appreciate her knowledge.

In the years since we last had a puppy, the market has exploded with toys, chews, “enrichment activities,” and so on for dogs. You can buy old sorts of horrifying things for dogs to chew on including pigs’ noses, bull penis strips, duck heads and chicken crests. Having no wish to have any of these on our floor, I settled for quite innocuous turkey tendons. Since our dogs have been happy to eat them in the past on Thanksgiving(not the bones, just the gristle) I am content with them. Emmy loves them and they keep her away from our shoes at dinner. So does the gate between the dining room and kitchen!

Hello to all. I will try to catch up as I get some spare time!

Usually when I write about a book it is to unconditionally recommend it to my friends here. But in the case of one I recently finished, Hell of a Book by Jason Mott, copyright 2021, I want to be more cautious. I really appreciated the novel, but I suspect that many would not. Hence my “not exactly a recommendation” title.

I generally avoid books that have any quasi supernatural elements. I find that they add little to the plot and are often just flourishes to show off the skill of the writer. But in the case of this particular novel, Mott has found a way through a character The Kid, who may or may not be real, to serve a deeper purpose. The author of the story tours the United States to promote his book called, amusingly enough Hell of a Book. Not until the very end do we even learn the substance of the narrative.

The book manages to send up current book promotion madness and to simultaneously explore dynamics of race in the United States. The satire reminds me more of Jonathan Swift than any other writer, biting and insightful. Mott also riffs on Ralph Ellison’s title The Invisible Man, contending that it is impossible for a black man to be invisible no matter how hard he tries.

Sometimes the best way to tackle a notoriously difficult subject such as race and the murder of innocent black citizens is sideways instead of head on. Mott manages to do just that without my ever feeling that he was showing off. Rather he was using the best of fiction techniques to make several lasting points.

If you do read it, let me know what you think.

While it is possible to spend endless amounts of money on dog toys, it is just as easy to entertain Emmy with things we already have. Here she is content to pull against Charlie on a length of rope. It keeps them both amused and cost nothing.

I gifted her with a paper grocery bag which I opened and dropped near her. She has spent a lot of time making sure that the paper bag knows that it has met a fierce opponent. When she gets bored with it, I simply rearrange it and drop it again. For her it is a brand new adversary.

Sure she has the attention span of a rutabaga, but she is hilarious!

Years ago when my parents listened to the radio for election results, they would hear the announcer say “another county heard from.” This became an often heard comment in our family whether one of the younger kids woke from a nap or one of us chimed into a conversation not involving the kid speaking up. I heard the phrase long before I was told of its origin, and I thought for a long time that it was just a family line.

Now that Emmy, the Australian Shepherd puppy, has entered our life, I find myself saying “another county heard from” when she awakens in the middle of the night for her trip outside. We had been living with an elderly dog who was content to sleep, eat, wander from room to room and go out on our schedule. She had long ago outgrown “accidents.” The way to avoid puppies using the house instead of the yard is to take them out all the time when they are not in their crate. Emmy just sleeps overnight and at her afternoon nap in the crate. Otherwise Charlie and I rotate taking her out on the hour–even for him, odd for me. That MOSTLY works.

We are a little(or a lot)sleep deprived since neither of us can fall immediately back to sleep after going outside at 2am. Nonetheless she is a welcome addition to our family, another living creature sharing our home after too many quiet dog free months.

We met our dog trainer for a 90 minute Zoom meeting this morning in preparation for driving up to Vermont tomorrow to get our puppy. Her present name is Eleven since she was the 11th puppy in the litter, born after the breeder had gone to sleep rightfully assuming ten was sufficient. But then came Eleven. We are naming her Emmy after Emmy Lou Harris, well known to people our age I imagine. Our granddaughter also likes a pop singer named Emmy, so we all are happy with her name. I can’t see me standing outside yelling “Eleven, Eleven.” People would probably think it was a new QAnon password.

I got a little overwhelmed hearing about the needs of a new puppy since it had been 15 years since we had one. We learned about crate training, potty breaks, feeding, and initial socialization. I forgot for a short while that I really miss having a dog around and a dog starts out as a puppy! After we spoke with her this morning we remembered bringing home new babies and how disruptive they are for a while. Fortunately dogs mature much faster than little humans.

I will post a few pictures of Eleven/Emmy as soon as I take some. For a few days I will probably share the joys and travails of a new creature in the family.

We live in Connecticut, nicknamed “the land of steady habits.” Depending on your outlook on life this is either a compliment or a criticism. Over the years many residents have moved out of the state. In early days it was to seek new horizons in hope of a better life. Today it is to seek new horizons in hope of a better life. Years ago it meant moving West seeking more space. Today it means moving South with the promise of better weather and lower taxes. Some of us stay put.

Zorrie, a short novel by Laird Hunt, published in 2021, settles us down with a woman who pretty much stayed put. She lived in Indiana, but it really could have been in many overlooked places around the country.In Death of A Salesman, Arthur Miller’s 1949 play, Linda, Willie Loman’s wife, says “attention must be paid” to a man like her husband, working in obscurity, never leaving a huge mark on the world. Hunt seems to take the same approach with Zorrie, though in a less melancholy way. She is born, orphaned, married, widowed, employed, unemployed, a farmer, a neighbor, and a friend. Her obituary won’t be found in the New York Times or in the compilation of lives we have lost each year.

But what does it mean to live a “good life?” What does it mean to stay put? I found that after I finished my time with the main character Zorrie, I pondered these questions once again. The book won’t keep you up at night with its tension, but it may give you pause to reflect on who really matters in the world.