Yes, Annie Ives is a lover of books. It's one of the reasons Ives falls in love with her. Their apartment is filled with bookshelves of classic novels and collectible editions and encyclopedias. And after their son is killed, Annie returns to her books more and more to escape the limitless grief of her husband. Books are her solace in sorrow.
You will forgive me for not posting last night. I had to attend an awards ceremony for a nature writing contest I entered last May. I was named one of the honorable mentions, so I was invited to read my essay at the Falling Rock Cafe and Bookstore in Munising, right on the shores of Lake Superior.
Falling Rock is one of my favorite bookstores, a little independent business that sells new and used books, as well as ice cream and soups and sandwiches, among other things. There are not too many stores that have an entire shelf stocked with John O'Hara books. Falling Rock does.
The evening was lovely. We listened to nature essays and nature poetry, and then we were treated to a slide show by an award-winning nature photographer. I sat at a table, listened, and ate a bowl of cookies and cream ice cream. I reconnected with old friends and met a couple new ones.
By the time I got home last night, I was more than spent. I was a deflated balloon. I only had the brain power to brush my teeth and watch the late news. Then bed (like Aunt Rose in Laura Boss's poem, except I counted Nobel Prize-winning writers).
Saint Marty lived the life of a writer yesterday evening, and it was good.
Aunt Rose
by: Laura Boss
As a little girl, I modeled myself after my Aunt Rose, not my mother. My Aunt Rose with her bright green high heeled ankle-strapped shoes, her numerous bottles of perfumes, her dresser drawers filled with black silk lingerie. My mother wore sensible oxfords which she duplicates in child version for me; my mother teaches third graders, struggles with lesson plans and finances after suppers ending with canned fruit salad. My Aunt Rose is the hostess in a Manhattan theater district restaurant which her husband owns. (She met him when she was first working there.) She leads customers into a dining room with velvet chairs where they can have nesselrode pie for dessert. She smells of Tabu and wears a large topaz ring. She has bleached platinum blonde hair and is often mistaken for Ginger Rogers. She gives my photograph to a customer who is looking for a child actress; I lose to Margaret O'Brien. My aunt tells me I'm prettier. My aunt is charming and warm and diplomatic. My mother is critical--tells the truth though it hurts and you might not want to hear it. Years later, after my aunt's husband dies, she has a beau (a handsome lawyer) she travels to Europe with--at a time when such travels were considered avantgard by single women. Men are always calling her up. She marries again--and after he dies, she still has at least five marriage proposals a year when she is in her sixties. Last week, my mother tells me that to get to sleep my mother counts first, second, and third cousins. She tells me my Aunt Rose gets to sleep by counting the men she's known. I always knew I took after my Aunt Rose.
Adventures of STICKMAN
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