What I'm reading Wednesday

Last week the Snyder household turned into a step down surgical center with two out of the five members undergoing eye surgery! Paul had PRK surgery and Meg had her bilateral strabismus corrected. No, it wasn't planned (well, except by God) but we made it work.

Needless to say, I didn't get much reading done (other than perusing the sides of prescription bottles : ) But I'm doing better now! It is strange to me just how much the arrival of Alaskan darkness seems to negatively impact my reading and writing habits. In the summer I feel so much more creative and energetic, in the winter I just want to curl up and endlessly scroll through instagram. Does winter do this to you?

Anyway, here is my list of current books. I found a book of Stephen Vincent Benet poetry at a thrift store and thoroughly enjoyed reading it. We all need a little poetry in our lives sometime, even if it is an epic account of a civil war : )

"John Brown's Body" by Stephen Vincent Benet

I've performed a few sections of this book-length poem, but never read it in it's entirety. It's powerful. The changing meter breaks up the sections and helps the reader connect with each different character introduced in the story. I read the account of John Brown's attack on Harper's Ferry out loud and both Jack and Brenn listened with wide eyes (though, I had to stop often and explain the context and provide biography of people mentioned.) This one vignette, detailing the actions of a prisoner taken by John Brown during the raid, was a favorite of mine.

A Mr. Brua, one of Brown's prisoners,
Strolled out from the unguarded prison-room
Into the bullets, lifted Stevens up,
Carried him over to the old hotel
They called the Wager House, got a doctor for him,
And then strolled back to take his prisoner's place
With Colonel Washington and the scared rest.
I know no more than this of Mr. Brua
But he seems curiously American,
And I imagine him a tall, stooped man
A little yellow with the Southern sun,
With slow, brown eyes and a slow way of talking,
Shifting the quid of tobacco in his cheek
Mechanically, as he lifted up
The dirty, bloody body of the man
Who stood for everything he most detested
And slowly carrying him through casual wasps
Of death to the flyspecked but sunny room
In the old hotel, wiping the blood and grime
Mechanically from his Sunday coat,
Settling his black string-tie with big, tanned hands,
And, then, incredibly, going back to jail.
He did not think much about what he'd done
But sat himself as comfortably as might be
On the cold bricks of that dejected guard-room
And slowly started cutting another quid
With a worn knife that had a brown bone-handle.

He lived all through the war and died long after,
This Mr. Brua I see.  His last advice
To numerous nephews was "Keep out of trouble,
But if you're in it, chew and don't be hasty,
Just do whatever's likeliest at hand."

I like your way of talking, Mr. Brua,
And if there still are people interested
In cutting literary clothes for heroes
They might do worse than mention your string-tie.

And, having lived in the south for part of my life, I loved the descriptions of the Georgia found in the first section. I felt like I could smell the pine trees and hear the cicadas singing.

It is not lucky to dream such stuff--
     Dreaming men are haunted men.
     Though Wingate's face looked lucky enough
     To any eye that had seen him then,
     Riding back through the Georgia Fall
     To the white-pillared porch of Wingate Hall.
     Fall of the possum, fall of the 'coon,
     And the lop-eared hound-dog baying the moon.
     Fall that is neither bitter nor swift
     But a brown girl bearing an idle gift,
     A brown seed-kernel that splits apart
     And shows the Summer yet in its heart,
     A smokiness so vague in the air
     You feel it rather than see it there,
     A brief, white rime on the red clay road
     And slow mules creaking a lazy load
     Through endless acres of afternoon,
     A pine-cone fire and a banjo-tune,
     And a julep mixed with a silver spoon.
     
     Your noons are hot, your nights deep-starred,
     There is honeysuckle still in the yard,
     Fall of the quail and the firefly-glows
     And the pot-pourri of the rambler-rose,
     Fall that brings no promise of snows . . .
     
     Wingate checked on his horse's rein
     With a hand as light as a butterfly
     And drank content in body and brain
     As he gazed for a moment at the sky.
     
     This was his Georgia, this his share
     Of pine and river and sleepy air,
     Of summer thunder and winter rain
     That spills bright tears on the window-pane
     With the slight, fierce passion of young men's grief,
     Of the mockingbird and the mulberry-leaf.
     For, wherever the winds of Georgia run,
     It smells of peaches long in the sun,
     And the white wolf-winter, hungry and frore,
     Can prowl the North by a frozen door
     But here we have fed him on bacon-fat
     And he sleeps by the stove like a lazy cat.
     Here Christmas stops at everyone's house
     With a jug of molasses and green, young boughs,
     And the little New Year, the weakling one,
     Can lie outdoors in the noonday sun,
     Blowing the fluff from a turkey-wing
     At skies already haunted with Spring--
     
     Oh Georgia . . . Georgia . . . the careless yield!
     The watermelons ripe in the field!
     The mist in the bottoms that tastes of fever
     And the yellow river rolling forever. . . !
     
     So Wingate saw it, vision or truth,
     Through the colored window of his own youth,
     Building an image out of his mind
     To live or die for, as Fate inclined.
     
     He drank his fill of the air, and then,
     Was just about to ride on again
     When--what was that noise beyond the sky,
     That harry of unseen cavalry
     Riding the wind?

Anyway, it's very good. You should read it. The opening scene on the slave ship is chilling. The description of a New England summer is wistful and academic. As multiple storylines are woven together, the characters will tug at your heart. And, if you've ever watched it, you'll start hearing the battlefield portions spoken in your mind in the voice of the narrator of Ken Burn's equally excellent civil war documentary. Or maybe that was just me : )

"A History of Western Philosophy and Theology" by John M Frame

I love Frame's unpretentiousness (is that a word?) He just doesn't have any of the academic snobbery that some intelligent professors possess. Every once in a while he even pokes fun at himself! It's refreshing. Since his book mirrors his lectures, I listen to the later with the former in my lap, ready to scribble notes in the margin. I'm currently knee-deep in the lives and works of early church fathers. Frame is so measured when discussing their philosophical persuasions. He will point out what he believes to be theological error while also calling his students to show grace and remember the context of these early pioneers of the faith. I appreciate this.

"So Justin's apologetic and philosophy are of mixed value. ...His use of philosophy shows an impressive knowledge of the literature. But he is so eager to show that Christianity fulfills the philosophical tradition that he distorts the biblical message at points. ...Justin was, however, impressive in his personal faith and in his allegiance to Jesus. ...We should remind ourselves that in one sense, the 'church fathers' were, in the words of a friends of mine, 'church babies.' They were only beginning the long, hard task of understanding and applying God's revelation in Scripture."

"The Divine Hours: Prayers for Autumn and Wintertime" by Phyllis Tickle

The prayer appointed for the week

"Almighty and everlasting God, whose will it is to restore all things in your well-beloved Son, the King of kings and Lord of lords: Mercifully grant that the peoples of the earth, divided and enslaved by sin, may be freed and brought together under his most gracious rule; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen."

"Thanksgiving: How to Cook it Well" by Sam Sifton

This short little book is helpful while also somehow being humorous...in a dry, witty kind of way. A food blogger that I follow recommended it and, since it was only 4.99$ on Amazon, I bought it. It brightened my day and made me chuckle. It's also very useful when thinking through the various (but very traditional) things that I plan to cook tomorrow. Most notably, the turkey that is currently (STILL!) thawing in my refrigerator.

"You can go your whole life and then wake up one morning and look in the refrigerator at this animal carcass the size of toddler and think: I have to cook that today."

"Let us speak plainly: you are going to need a lot of butter."

“Thanksgiving is not easy. The holiday is for many of us a day of travel, of traffic and stress. It is a day of hot ovens, increasingly drunk uncles and crowded dinner tables, of people arriving late or needing to leave early, of burned yams and spouses who forgot to buy the one thing—the one thing!—you asked them not to forget to buy. Thanksgiving can be a hard day to manage. It takes strength. The cooking can be difficult. (That turkey is so big, and your oven so small.) The interpersonal dynamics are often harder. [Cue tears.] Either you are traveling somewhere to be fed, or opening your home to people in order to feed them. This is not easy, ever. You may be putting feuds on hold or building bridges between clans. You may be sharing family traditions or creating them or fighting against them or all three at once."

Finished Books:

"The Coddling of the American Mind: How Good Intentions and Bad Ideas Are Setting Up a Generation for Failure" by Jonathan Haidt and Greg Lukianoff

"Life in a Medieval Castle" by Frances Gies and Joseph Gies

"Knowing God" by J.I. Packer

"Food Fights and Culture Wars: A Secret History of Taste" by Tom Nealon