Le pire a été évité

Ballade pour prier Notre-Dame
Dame des cieulx, regente terrienne
Emperiere des infernaux paluz,
Recevez moy, vostre humble chrestienne,
Que comprinse soye entre vos esleuz,
Ce non obstant qu’oncques rien ne valuz.
Les biens de vous, ma Dame, ma Maistresse
Sont trop plus grans que ne suis pecheresse,
Sans lesquels biens ame ne peut merir
N’avoir les cieulx. Je n’en suis jengleresse.
En ceste foy je vueil vivre et mourir.

François Villon

Παρὰ το πατρὸς

τὸ ἥμερον καὶ μενετικὸν ἀσαλεύτως ἐπὶ τῶν ἐξητασμένως κριθέντων: καὶ τὸ ἀκενόδοξον περὶ τὰς δοκούσας τιμάς: καὶ τὸ φιλόπονον καὶ ἐνδελεχές.

ἔπιθι δὲ καὶ ὅσους ο δας, ἄλλον ἐπ̓ ἄλλῳ

 

(My adopted father: civilised, long-suffering, tranquil after long study and careful thought; never conceited about things considered to be honors, always diligent.

You will go like so many others you have known, another and another.)

Marcus Aurelius, 1.16 and 4.48; translations limping but my own.

Grumpy and grumpy, with a side order of grumpy

Could I have some with not so much grumpy in it?

I have lost a stripy scarf I’m fond of. There is a great deal of snow on the ground. The house has settled a bit more so there are more cracks in the ceiling (we were hoping to sell it before any more settling happened). Sir John has had an infection that could have been serious (fortunately he is responding to antibiotics and all is well, hence I am merely grumpy about this and not freaking out). We’re a little under-equipped for being snowed in, due to his illness and me not getting the right things at the store, which happened because I was distracted by the first week of classes and having to finish off final edits to the revised introduction to the Big Honking Translation (okay, yay that that’s done). Lady Maud’s father has entered hospice care, which is sad though he has had a good life and people are rallying around because he is a wonderful, loving and beloved man (a great contrast to my father, the old grouch). The son of a friend of Sir John’s has been diagnosed with cancer. This child is still in single digits. I feel guilty feeling grumpy about my scarf (let’s just say I’m displacing my distress) when 2019 is already sucking very hard for a couple of sets of friends.

The nicest thing this week was reading The Dalemark Quartet, which I got for Christmas and finally broke out. But the downside to that is that now there is no more Diana Wynne Jones that I have not read. I put off Dalemark for years, so that there would still be something. I’m trying to persuade myself to do some work rather than getting out Rotherweird, which I got in London, intending it for the plane, but then our over-seat lights didn’t work so I spent the flight working on my laptop (and got quite a bit of useful course prep done as well as saving the book, so ill winds etc).

Paul Sherwen

I’m late to the, uh . . . to the wake.

But I only found out today.

For something like two decades, I’ve spent several hours a day, in the height of summer, with Paul and Phil talking to me about cycling during the Tour de France; I’ve heard them commentate on various other shorter races around the year, together or with Bob Roll or, occasionally, someone else. As Sir John said to me when my voice broke, “There are probably people you count as close personal friends whom you’ve spent less time listening to.” It’s true: I never met Paul, but his face and voice spent a lot of time in my living room.

I guess I always hoped I would meet him, that some year, we’d make it to France for the Tour or one of the smaller races, and somehow we’d be at the right place at the right time and bump into him and Phil, share a laugh, maybe even a glass of wine. We’d be just another random contact with fans, to them, but it would have made my year.

I liked this tribute.

Remember, remember

Seventeen years ago, the weather was just like this.

I taught on Tuesdays, that term.

I usually listened to the news in the car, not before leaving my third-floor walkup.

My neighbor caught me in the hallway to tell me, as I was leaving. I didn’t understand. I thought, small plane.

When I tuned in to the news, the second tower had already come down.

Noah Adams’s voice broke. (Was it Noah? One of the NPR reporters.)

I called to find out if LRU was carrying on as normal. They were.

I carried on. I taught. Everyone was so shocked that all we could do was continue to do the things we always did, like shattered glass hanging together for a few seconds before it starts to fall out of a window.

I remember the morning. I don’t remember the end of the day.

For this fall’s freshmen, the world has always been this way. This is not their before and after.

900: Falling off the face of the Earth

In the middle of last month, I realized that my next post would be #900, which seemed to call for some special notice. I was mulling over a post about metaphors for writing and why I like to read blogs about restoring old houses in France (which is definitely one of those reading-not-doing items for me). I hoped to write the post before leaving for the Thanksgiving break, but figured after, or even during, would work just fine.

Then we went to visit my family for Thanksgiving, and all plans went to hell in a handbasket. My father, reportedly doing very well following a hospitalization at the end of October, was supposed to move from a rehabilitation facility to “independent living.” My soon-to-be-ex-niece-in-law (I had understood) had done a lot of the necessary organizing and everything was set for an orderly transition. There were just a few little loose ends that could be easily wrapped up.

Mmm-hmm. I’m not sure if I should say that the loose ends unraveled or that pulling on them led to a massive snarl of yarn. Either way, it was a mess, and I didn’t really work out how much of a mess until I had about 36 hours before I had to leave for the airport. I moved mountains, and was briefly proud of myself, and then the mountains collapsed, after all (volcanic eruption? I really should leave the metaphors alone). A week later, my father was in the hospital with pneumonia, all his work in rehab undone.

To make a long story short, he is now in a nursing home, where he seems likely to stay for the rest of his life. He is one of the highest-functioning patients there, both mentally and physically, but he’s still not in good enough shape to tackle even assisted living. He might get there, but at his age, just making the move from one situation to another would be enormously stressful and likely to lead to another setback.

At any rate, my life seems to be back on track now. Grades are in. One of my greatly-delayed sets of revisions, the easier one, is done and submitted, thanks to the editor leaning on me. And I really do mean thanks; I would not have got them done without the kick in the pants, but the work provided a useful counter-irritant to a whole lot of calls and anxiety about my father. The editor for the last chunk of the MMP has extended me mercy unhoped-for. I have to pound out a revised intro and conclusion, but I think I’ve fixed everything else, and if I can keep a clear head and finish off in the next ten days or so, the largest and most elaborate piece of the MMP will see daylight in 2018. God willing and the creek don’t rise, with the help of the Lord and a long-handled spoon, and any other such folk sayings we can come up with (please leave them in the comments).

One happy side-effect of living on adrenaline appears to be that I am not suffering from SAD this year, at least not so far, and so you are spared my usual grousings about winter and the holidays. I am actually looking forward to a sane and ordinary get-together with Sir John’s side of the family, and to a nice calm dose of ordinary work instead of having to apply my skills at gathering, organizing and communicating information to elder-care. I guess another happy side-effect is realizing how useful these skills actually are in real-life situations.

Roll on Christmas excess. Sir John impulse-bought a lovely bottle of lovely Spanish sherry last week, and I have been lapping it down at such a rate that I think I need to get him a new bottle for his stocking. Ding-dong, merrily get high!