January 9: Pensive Disposition, Pensive Night, Pensive Fairy Tale

Even in his youth, [Ives] had a pensive disposition.  But he was not especially bright (or at least he never thought so), and though he was not a wildly funny young man, he loved people and things that were amusing:  humorous illustrations from old books, illustrators like Soglow of "Little King" fame and George "Krazy Kat" Herriman, satirical cartoons, newspaper comics, screwball comedies, animated cartoons, and, going back, certain silent-screen comedians like Laurel and Hardy, Chaplin, and Harold Lloyd (the latter to whom he thought he bore some kind of resemblance.)  Having to wear glasses as a teenager, Ives chose round tortoiseshell frames like Mr. Lloyd's and wore a black-ribboned straw boater, which gave him a jaunty air.

Edward Ives is not what you would call the life of the party.  He's an upstanding guy.  Loving husband and father.  Loyal friend.  Devoted employee.  But he's on the serious spectrum when it comes to his personality.  He appreciates a good joke or cartoon or comedy.  As Hijuelos writes, however, Ives is "pensive."  Introverted.


I understand Ives.  I'm probably more like him than I care to admit.  Yes, I appreciate the absurdities of life.  Can laugh with the best of 'em.  In my heart, though, I'm a pretty pensive person.  Serious.  I gravitate toward books and movies with darker subject matter.  I can get lost in my own head if something is troubling me.

I'm having a pensive night.  My wife is at work.  My kids are sleeping at grandma's house.  I'm home alone.  The TV is off.  The Christmas tree is blinking in the corner.  The only sounds are my fingers tapping on the keyboard and the clock ticking on the wall.  In this relative quiet, I can reflect on my sister's health (still in the hospital, but doing better), my upcoming week (first week of the winter semester), my chances of being named U. P. Poet Laureate (slim to none), and my aching muscles (went to the gym this morning, shoveled snow).  Being a pensive person can be a little exhausting at times.

Once upon a time, a painter named Peter Pentee lived by himself in a cabin in the middle of the woods.  This painter Peter Pentee was very pensive.  He worried day and night.  He worried whether he was going to lose his hair.  Whether he had enough bottled water in case of a ten-year drought.  Whether he would have enough salt for his baked potato at dinner.  Basically, Peter Pentee worried about everything.

One day, Peter Pentee's fairy godparent, Perry, paid him a visit.  Peter told Perry, "I'm very perturbed.  My pajamas need patching, and my pickled peppers have been purloined by my neighbor, Peter Piper."

Perry shook his head and said, "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, but your pickled peppers were not picked by Mr. Piper."

Peter Pentee frowned.  "Well then, Perry, who purloined the peppers from my patch of pickled peppers?"

Perry shrugged.  "Beats the shit out of me."

Moral of the story:  a lot of alliteration is a pain in the ass to write.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.