tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6049904656539255402024-03-13T04:14:31.990-04:00RomantoesRosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.comBlogger253125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-86412798542223601902019-01-19T20:08:00.002-05:002019-01-19T20:48:27.043-05:00The gifts of griefI hesitate to use that title for this post, because it sounds so...Pollyanna-ish. And trust me, anyone who's Pollyanna-ish about their grief isn't being honest with you, and certainly not with themselves. Sure, the process has its moments of grace, as I've written about before, but (as I'm learning) it's far more often about a dull numbness punctuated by searing moments of heartbreak.
Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-59087290780584365922018-09-29T12:17:00.001-04:002018-09-29T17:49:35.447-04:00Yes, it's another #MeToo post...because this week has broken me.
In the midst of the cretinous circus that's been playing out on Capitol Hill this week, the thing that has struck me most is the off-the-charts level of denial it takes for some people to think that a woman would make up a story like this to get attention. Christine Blasey Ford has gone public with her very private trauma only to be subjected to death threats.
Death threats.
Think about that Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-1895752270373677142018-06-08T11:23:00.000-04:002018-06-08T17:39:08.324-04:00Fragments and full stops
Hans Thoma, "Kinderreigen," 1872
For years, my mom had been talking about wanting to write something about the games she remembered playing as a child growing up in Mercer County, West Virginia. So many of them seemed very specific to that time and place: a game called "Pretty Girl Station," another played in the fall called "Dead Man" where kids formed a ring around a pile of raked leaves, Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-62424921930061736202018-05-30T12:03:00.000-04:002018-05-30T12:38:56.584-04:00GraceThis morning I was out in the front yard, once again weeding the bed along the sidewalk.
In the distance, I could hear a lawnmower running--the neighbor's yard-service guy was out early, too, to get his work done before the heat and humidity become unbearable. As I pulled mock strawberry and thistle, I vaguely registered the sound of the lawnmower stopping, being loaded into a truck, and an Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-69485824474633999302018-05-27T11:06:00.001-04:002018-05-27T13:47:55.606-04:00Beauty, decay, airMy mom died in the early morning hours on May 16, about ten weeks after she was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer.
"Breathe," "Take deep breaths," advised friends in the hard moments and days afterward.
How to do that when you watched your mother suffer from oxygen hunger in the last hours of her life, eyes half-closed, gasping for air, fingers turning blue? Breathing seems like a betrayal, a Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-8419740743538095432017-03-25T18:47:00.000-04:002017-03-30T16:52:01.893-04:00In memoriam: Toby, a magical catA friend of mine in Colorado once referred to a late feline of hers as a "magical cat." She didn't explain what she meant, but she didn't need to: I understood that she meant that it had been a once-in-a-lifetime cat, a cat with a personality so big that as its human companion, you understood that it owned you, and not the other way around.
Lucy was that kind of cat.
But so was Toby, the Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-55735905939416648932016-07-20T08:32:00.001-04:002016-07-21T09:21:30.635-04:00Black Volgas, White Vans, Donald Trump, and why legends matter
The sinister black Volga, now a "classic car"
A few weeks ago I was in Tallinn, Estonia, to attend the annual meeting of the International Society for Contemporary Legend Research. (The term "contemporary legend" is folklorist-speak for what most people call an "urban legend.")
It was my first time attending the ISCLR, though I've been a longtime fan of the work that legend scholars do. It Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-7242083059155605532015-03-01T17:21:00.002-05:002015-03-01T17:21:54.192-05:00All about the HatIt's a snowy day here in Bexley, Ohio, where we are visiting for a short weekend. Rose and I walked down to the local coffee shop (well, not really: it's a Starbucks, now that the Bexley Cup O'Joe has closed), First, though, I ducked into the new car to grab my hat.
I think I've mentioned the hat before: it's a black wool felt fedora with a wide-ish brim. Nothing special or expensive, Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11838296548128807890noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-73266081581004341872014-12-13T18:52:00.001-05:002014-12-13T18:57:10.130-05:00Recent auction purchases
Two auction lots, still in cardboard flats.
I buy a lot of stuff at auctions. Well, to tell the truth, I try to do my best to buy wisely: I really don’t want to fill the house up with junk just because it’s cheap. But antique auctions and eBay are two of my favorite places to buy, and it strikes me that, in some ways, they couldn’t be more different.
When you go
to a real, old fashionedTomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11838296548128807890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-89214927384871741402014-06-04T15:58:00.001-04:002014-06-04T19:06:38.948-04:00A bookseller's response to the MLA recommendations for doctoral programs, and some counter recommendationsI spent a good part of the last week “doing bibliography”
(which is sung, in my head, in Danny Kaye’s voice, to the tune of the White Christmas number, “Choreography”).
The specific issue I was trying to track down had to do with Kenneth Patchen’s An Astonished Eye Looks Out of the Air,
a book I’d never heard of until I acquired a copy in a recent batch of books I
bought.
 Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11838296548128807890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-1041498993768041622014-04-17T15:53:00.000-04:002014-04-17T16:46:46.085-04:00Spring fashions past: the budget, the high-end, and the surrealIn honor of Easter and the fashions it has always entailed--new dresses, hats, and bright colors--we thought we'd showcase some of the catalogs and magazine images from the trove of ephemera that Tom got at an auction last fall to help us get a sense of what the fashionable woman (or man) was wearing in the 1930s and early 1940s.
First, from 1935, a flier featuring a line of Del Ray dresses for Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-48028412904696516842014-03-30T15:52:00.000-04:002014-03-30T16:08:18.792-04:00Sunday brunch for fangirls: Eggs Benedict Cumberbatch
I'm in Colorado this weekend visiting my dear friend Christina and her housemate, Jenna. All three of us are members of the Cumbercollective (note: we are not "Cumberbitches," as some describe themselves...along with Benedict himself, we find that term misogynistic.)
But all three of us loved his work in Sherlock, and even more, we love his unselfconsciousness and the sheer goofy joy Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-12862785614783496052014-02-20T18:29:00.000-05:002014-02-20T18:29:45.778-05:00Old School, Tom-StyleLike most of the country, Morgantown has had its fair share of cold weather this winter, and more than its share of snow. It's been hat and gloves and scarf and boots weather for months on end, it seems.
Here I am in my Old School get-up.
And I'm out in it almost every day: I have a regular morning routine, in which I head into town across the High Street bridge, stop in at the post office Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11838296548128807890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-78467966509475106042014-01-10T14:58:00.000-05:002014-01-10T14:58:59.313-05:00Stewardship and Medieval Manuscripts
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{font-family:Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11838296548128807890noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-60776266755255461942014-01-01T20:17:00.001-05:002014-01-01T20:17:06.278-05:00A year of reading
Twenty years ago, in January 1994, I started keeping a record of every book I read. Only complete books, not articles or essays, not books I started but never finished. Only complete books. Most years, I've read 60 or 70; this year I seem to have finished 91: about one book every four days. I guess that tells you what life is like for a book and antique dealer. A lot of waiting around for Tomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11838296548128807890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-24971401371934549052013-12-24T12:12:00.001-05:002013-12-26T10:08:14.528-05:00Fifty ways to get home for Christmas, nos. 1 and 2: Just hop on the bus, Gus
Somehow, I suspect that riding a bus through heavy snow in a rural area during the holidays was never as romantic as these corporate holiday cards from General Motors' Truck & Coach division make it seem:
Are those buses actually on a designated road? If so, the local residents really need to get on the municipality's case about the plowing situation. This is Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-53943985092676257892013-12-16T19:56:00.003-05:002013-12-26T10:09:05.981-05:00More vintage holiday catalogsThis is our second post about the box of ephemera that Tom got at an auction last month. Previously, we focused on a couple of World War II-era Christmas catalogs from the lot. There was also a Marshall-Fields Christmas catalog in there, but it's a little unclear whether this one is from the war era or slightly later. Check out the rather unappetizing turkey on the cover!
Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-44489442192357932332013-12-08T20:10:00.004-05:002013-12-26T10:09:24.419-05:00The holiday catalogs of WWII
This time of year, mailboxes are inundated with catalogs urging us to do our holiday shopping quietly and conveniently from the comfort of home. And apparently, that was the case during WWII, as well, despite paper rationing (and no internet, either).
Tom came back from a recent auction with a box lot of various paper goods, which he bought primarily for a Rookwood Pottery pamphlet that Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-54785670808090917252013-09-27T18:50:00.000-04:002013-12-26T10:09:40.209-05:00Hangin' with Queen Ceres
West Virginia is the most festival-crazy place I have ever lived. It seems that every weekend, there's some kind of local event going on--especially this time of year, when many towns have harvest festivals celebrating whatever the local crop is.
But my favorite, hands down, is the Preston County Buckwheat Festival, which has taken place in Kingwood, the Preston County seat, every Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-33016034961232457722013-09-10T15:13:00.001-04:002013-12-26T10:09:59.597-05:00Skylark, have you anything to say to me?
One of my sabbatical goals was to start voice lessons again. I studied for about seven years in high school and college, and though it never "went" anywhere (obviously, I didn't become a professional singer), I enjoyed it immensely and have missed it ever since. There's something about singing that's very Zen-like for me: it's effort, but from a totally different part of my brain Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-53456841467245743732013-09-09T13:53:00.004-04:002013-09-10T15:13:57.489-04:00Miley, Robin, and the "Secret Keeper Girls"
Recently, a Facebook acquiantance posted that she was attending a "Secret Keeper Girls" concert with her tween daughter.
A few days earlier, she'd posted a link to an article about not being the kind of girl who wears clothing that encourages boys to look down your shirt. I almost posted a comment to the effect that while I was on board with that idea, we have to be careful not toRosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-27193297612491615072013-08-12T13:09:00.004-04:002013-08-12T14:12:29.040-04:00aaaaaaaaaand...GO!So, since I turned in my annual evaluation file on Friday, I'm counting today as the first true day of my year-long sabbatical.
You'd think this would fill me with joy and peace, but instead, I'm feeling anxious. Big surprise, eh?
Mostly, I'm worried that I won't get done what I want to get done, and paradoxically, that I'll be so caught up either in working or in worrying about Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-1138137422554378682013-06-20T11:56:00.001-04:002013-06-20T11:57:28.399-04:00Happy sesquicentennial, West VirginiaToday marks the 150th anniversary of West Virginia statehood. Its contentious history, past and present, makes it a place that's difficult to love at times. But there's no denying its incredible natural beauty. Emmylou Harris captures both sides of the coin in this song.
And should you need to know more, the Charleston Gazette has "Ten things to know about the West VirginiaRosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-43054587210694885252013-03-12T14:04:00.001-04:002013-03-12T16:44:55.683-04:00The art of deception and the deception of artIn the last few days, I've encountered two recent works of art that I ravenously consumed, with the emphasis on "rave," and then had second thoughts about: the Oscar-winning Argo, and Ian McEwan's latest novel, Sweet Tooth. By sheer coincidence, both are about covert government operations in the 1970s, and the plot of both turns on the idea of art as political tool and sham. And in the end, Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-604990465653925540.post-59814959342437452982013-02-02T13:48:00.000-05:002014-02-02T13:05:31.790-05:00The hog whispererI think it probably goes without saying that I was a weird kid. I was also a kid who was obsessed with cats. I hounded (no pun intended) my parents about getting a cat until they finally relented. When we went to Cat Welfare to pick out a kitten, we took along our family friend Dottie, who had three cats of her own and who had taught me very carefully how to properly pick up andRosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10223441754197927551noreply@blogger.com4