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Archive for July, 2015

 

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When I ran into Roosevelt in the housewares aisle of Goodwill, he was grieving over a small box. “Why would someone get rid of this?” he asked, showing me the box, which held a pewter-colored cross with “On Your Graduation” engraved at the top and various other words following, which I was unable to read before he had pulled it back to gaze at it again, sadly. “It’s brand new!” he said, shaking his head. He pointed out that the cross was still fastened to the bottom of the box with its original plastic ties. “Now, you know that someone meant to give that to a graduate and for them to keep it, and here it is in the Goodwill. I imagine there’s a story behind that.”

Roosevelt introduced himself, and within seconds we were fast friends, imagining the stories behind some of the other offerings that cluttered the metal shelves of housewares. He showed me a gadget that puzzled him. It was a red and white plastic thing, with a mechanism that allowed it to be clamped to a table or countertop. While he and I were able to figure that much out, we were not able to understand what the gadget actually did. There was a crank, and when you turned it two spool-like pieces rotated and scratched each other’s backs, as it were. It was similar to an apple peeler, but with no place to put an apple and no blade.

“Could it be to make pasta?” Roosevelt wondered, and it was possible to imagine strips of dough curling gently through the spools. He urged me to buy it—at 99 cents, it was certainly affordable—but at that moment I didn’t have the good sense to snap it up, and when I returned to Goodwill the next week, after failing to get it out of my head, I couldn’t find it. I had tarried too long. Someone who knew what it was or who was quicker to grasp its possibilities had beaten me to it. Just as well—I only wanted it as a curiosity, and as a reminder of Roosevelt.

Not that I’m likely to forget him, because bumping into Roosevelt at the Goodwill was a rich experience. While he bemoaned the pitifulness of a discarded graduation gift, I picked up a set of four dessert plates, each with a different fruit in the center. He admired them, saying, “Wouldn’t those look pretty on a table? I love a nice table setting.” He told me that he does most of his family’s cooking, and that at Thanksgiving one of his sons had begged him to carve the turkey and serve the side dishes early, since he had to move on to a gathering at his in-laws’ house. This, to Roosevelt, was an outrage. “We had 12 more people coming!” he said. “I told him I wasn’t going to take spoonfuls out of the dressing, or the squash casserole, and then put the dishes on the table later with mouseholes in them!”

I interrupted him to dig a pen and pad of paper from the bottom of my purse and write “mouseholes in the dressing and squash casserole” so I wouldn’t forget it.

“Here’s something you won’t forget,” he said, and he pulled out his phone and thumbed through the photos it held. “That’s my granddaughter,” he said, pausing at a shot of a cute 16-year-old in a high school basketball jersey, “and here’s what I want you to see.” He held out the phone, and I saw a close-up of a bee stuck on a barbed-wire fence.

“Can you believe that?” Roosevelt asked. “He flew straight into that fence, head first, and impaled himself with his wings still spread!”

“He bumbled,” I said, mesmerized.

Lately I’ve been running into all sorts of interesting people and stories. I came across a post on Maria Popova’s amazing site, brainpickings.org, that mentioned Luke Howard, an amateur scientist (and Quaker!) who created the names of clouds. The true focus of the piece was Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, poet and lover of clouds who was thrilled almost beyond all reason at the cloud classification system Howard developed. It inspired Goethe to write poems about each type of cloud. My favorite of the poems is “Nimbus.”

Now downwards by the world’s attraction driven,
That tends to earth, which had upris’n to heaven;
Threatening in the mad thunder-cloud, as when
Fierce legions clash, and vanish from the plain;
Sad destiny of the troubled world! but see,
The mist is now dispersing gloriously:
And language fails us in its vain endeavour —
The spirit mounts above, and lives forever.

That would make an interesting hymn.

I had never heard of Luke Howard, so I went looking for more of his story. This led me, in turn, to the Cloudman. The Cloudman is (or was) the late Dr. John A. Day, a professor of meteorology and cloud-lover whose website includes information on Howard, photographs of clouds by classification, and tips on how to photograph the Near Sky. “Look up and see!” the Cloudman urged, and still urges through the power of the Internet, several years after his death at age 95.

While considering clouds, I came across a silly play by Aristophanes called The Clouds. The entire thing is online, but I refuse to link to it because I couldn’t believe what I was reading—surely it was a joke? Socrates is a main character, and he is treated with shabby disrespect. But no, the play is real: I looked it up on Wikipedia, and was glad to learn that it was unpopular when first performed. That was satisfying. I did like Wikipedia’s description of the play’s Chorus: “…a parade of the Clouds, the patron goddesses of thinkers and other layabouts.”

It is pleasant to layabout and look up at the clouds, watching them shift and change before our eyes, whether we’re doing any actual thinking or not. It is equally pleasant to layabout and remember folks like Roosevelt, Luke Howard, and the Cloudman, who drift into view and then drift out again. Sometimes it isn’t even a whole person who floats past; sometimes it’s the merest wisp of a personality. While shopping online recently, I read a review of a cotton matelassé coverlet. The reviewer gave the coverlet four stars, adding: The delivery was on time except for the shams; they came a few days later, due to the tornado.

I imagine there’s a story behind that.

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