Type, Type, Type

literati shelves

I can only imagine at Literati Bookstore in Anna Arbor, Michigan, the number of the books by authors such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Virginia Woolf who typed their work on manual typewriters. -tangledpasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi | @MaryAnnaVioli

This morning I read about the death of Mary Adelman. She and her husband Stanley Adelman owned and operated Osner Business Machines in New York, in Manhatten’s Upper West Side. While I never knew the good Adelmans, the photo in the New York Times of Mary Adelman sitting next to an old upright Underwood typewriter stirred memories.

Stanley maintained typewriters for the famous and for the unknown. Philip Roth, David Mamet, and Nora Ephron were among their famous clientele. Even when computers became the machine of choice for writers, quite a few clung to their manual typewriters, even eschewing the electric models, flying in the face of the evolving technology of typewriters.

My mother, Catherine “Kitty”, was one of those who refused our repeated offers to buy her a computer to ease her typing. While we toiled away on our Apple computers, my mother would have us pull out her gray hard case with the worn velvet lining that held her Remington typewriter, the gray one with the dark green keys. Periodically she had me drive her over to Bob’s, her former co-worker at Remington Rand. He was one of the last of the manual typewriter repairmen in the area. Bob cleaned, polished, replaced parts such as ribbons, all the while reminiscing with Mama about their halcyon workdays at Remington Rand.

In reading about Mary Adelman, and then reading about her husband Stanley, I understood their passionate affinity for manual typewriters. I even comprehended the famous writers, like Isaac Bashevis Singer who faithfully labored in their Osner Business Machines shop. There is an air of sadness for the bygone era of the manual typewriter. I use to derive comfort from the clackety-clack sound of my mother deftly typing correspondence for my father’s shoe business, and typing letters to her fellow board members for the now defunct little Saint Joseph Hospital’s Auxiliary, and for the Saint Monica Rosary Society, and for the Quester’s Antique Club, and for other organizations on which she served. I recall her copious typewritten lists and correspondence as she and Tony and Betty organized Saint Monica’s annual Spaghetti Suppers. Papers neatly organized with me as a child following her directives for placing the stamps on the envelopes. Later Mama drove us to the Post Office to mail the stacks of letters to the recipients.

While I would not relinquish my Mac computer, I honor those who write on with their machine of choice. Type on, fellow writers, I say, type on.

Ciao for now.

Thanksgiving Day

Imagine all the potential pumpkin pies! – tangledpasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi | @MaryAnnaVioli

As we near the end of November, we turn our attention to that laudable holiday: Thanksgiving. In the spirit of breaking bread, or Parker House Rolls, we sit down at the table laden with roasted turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, butternut squash, creamed corn, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, pumpkin, or pecan pie, or apple pie, or my homemade coconut cream pie. We toast with wine to get the family and friend meal underway. The eating then commences amid the clatter of plates and the cheerful chatter of goodwill.

Small wonder we reach for an anti-acid after pushing away our chairs from the table.

I have read several articles in the past week or so about how to avoid conflict over the Thanksgiving meal. This has to do with inquisitive relatives hitting upon flashpoints of personal matters such as Why aren’t you pregnant? You’ve been married nearly two years! Don’t you want to take off that extra weight? You’d look so much prettier! What made you retire at 64? You could go until 70 or at least 67! Why did you go back to work? You retired! You must have been bored! Don’t you want to get married again? You could have companionship and even sex [wink, wink]! Have you found a boyfriend yet? Childbearing years have an expiration, you know. Finally, there is the dreaded political and sexual harassment and/or rape discussion. I am not even going to dignify this blog post with the degenerative and outrageous behavior that is bringing this year to a close, God help us.

I have told myself that all those who make whatever inquiries mean well, that they are attempting conversation, and that they are trying to find some sort of common ground in which to engage in dialogue. In the end, I cannot fault them for their efforts.

Instead of Making Turkey, They Make Reservations, Pete Wells of the New York Times explores why families often opt to dine out on Thanksgiving Day. The reasons run the gamut from not having yet made friends in a new town, to avoiding explosive dinner conversation with families, to wanting to simplify Thanksgiving and letting chefs create the dinner and leave the staff to do the cleanup. My family once dined out on Thanksgiving. We had a delicious meal at a cozy corner table in a fine restaurant where my then-toddler daughter could play with her non-noisy toys without getting in the way of the servers or other patrons. While we pronounced it a success, we lamented the lack of leftovers. The following Thanksgiving saw us at home collaboratively preparing the feast, setting the table with one of my Italian linen tablecloths made by my aunts in Italy, using the “good china”, and wine glasses from the cabinet. All felt and tasted right again with the world.

My darling parents have since passed away, and close family member have either relocated to the coast, or share holidays with in-laws. We now dine with dear friends who honor their Italian and French heritages, as we do our Italian lineage. We have a common bond in that we are also rampant foodies, literary aficionados, and we relish conversation encompassing wit, humor, and insight. Thanksgiving is the holiday where we friends can come together. While we wish we could meet more often, our lives are filled with work, visiting our children in other cities, and attending to elderly family members. We are close friends who function like family, and we cherish this bond. My dear family extend heartfelt invitations for us to join them for Thanksgiving, and I am most grateful, while I hold dear sitting down with them in the past.

I take heart in the mirth and joy of Thanksgiving, whether we partake of the meal with family or with friends. Let us advocate to give thanks for family and friends, and let us raise our glasses to honor the blessings derived from delicious food and the company of those we love.

Ciao for now.

 

 

My Hero

It is official: Indiana has a new Lawyer admitted to the Indiana Bar -tangledpasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi |@MaryAnnaVioli

Have you ever wanted something so badly that it consumed you? Have you ever been willing to go the distance to obtain that dream? Have you ever passed restless nights and fearful days when you questioned whether or not you had what it takes to seize that dream? Have you ever squared your shoulders and said, “Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!” [Admiral David Glasgow Farragut, United States Navy, Civil War]?

I have the privilege of knowing such an individual: my daughter.

On Monday, October 16, 2017, I had the supreme pleasure of witnessing the Indiana Supreme Court Admission Ceremony as my daughter stood and was sworn in to “…support the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of Indiana.” Thus she became a practicing member of the Indiana State Bar.

It had been a long road. In her third year as an undergraduate at Indiana University Bloomington as both a Journalism Major and as a Classical Studies Major with an emphasis in Art History, I well recall the day she informed me she had decided to pursue a Juris Doctor degree in Law. My reaction was positive and supportive of her decision. Fully aware of the competitive nature of a Law Degree, I knew if she wanted it, she would give it her all. For when she set her sights on something, she pursued it until she held it in the palm of her hand. The first challenge was sitting for the LSAT Exam. As I thumbed through her LSAT prep books, I was taken aback. These prep questions abounded in logic and reasoning. She was a most logical and reasonable person, except for those times we held conflicting opinions, but that is the nature of a parent-child relationship. She hunkered down for hours in libraries and sometimes at home when visiting for a holiday, or the odd weekend.

After the LSAT results came the Law School applications, and the Law School visits. Since these visits included family, I tagged along to learn more about the Law Schools, meet faculty and knosh away at the receptions for accepted students. Finally, she narrowed her decision to two Law Schools she very much liked: The University of Dayton and The Valparaiso School of Law. Within months of her decision to attend Valparaiso, came the New Law Student Orientation, and two weeks later, Law classes began in earnest. The next three years consumed her with the vitality of the Law. Classes in Constitutional Law, Property Law, Cyber Law, Business Law, among the many, challenged and invigorated her. She joined organizations as an active member and officer in the Women Law Students Association, Valparaiso Amnesty International Chapter, Phi Alpha Delta, and the Valparaiso Law Blog. The lawyers she met through networking events further spurred her on, as did Law Internships over the course of several summers.

Graduation arrived, her J. D. Degree she held in her hands. Next came the Indiana Bar Exam. More studying, the Bar prep courses, and then the two-day Bar Exam itself [one day of six hours’ worth of multiple choice questions; the second day of seven hours of eight essays] stared her in the face. All of this amid anguish, grit, tears, followed by determination to succeed. I internalized her highs and lows all the while praying God smile upon her for her tenacity, her love of the Law, and her willingness to pursue her dream of becoming a Lawyer. In the end, it paid off: she passed the Indiana Bar Exam, she has been admitted to the Indiana Bar, and is now interviewing for Law positions so that she may begin working in her profession in earnest.

Anjelica strove against obstacles, and she emerged victorious. I am gratified for her. She is a testament to intelligence, tenacity, kindness, faith, and true grit. God lover her, she is indeed my hero.

Ciao for now.

 

Le George

wine

Inside our booth at Le George. – tangled pasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi |@MaryAnnaVioli

We traveled to north of the Detroit area to visit our 98-year-old aunt and members of her family. We celebrated a belated birthday with her, and reveled in the fact that she remains as vibrant and lovely as always. We toasted my aunt with champagne, always a festive drink, and then sat down to partake of the feast her daughter prepared: an onion tart, very French, an eclectic salad of mixed greens, a wonderful chocolate cake, and satisfying cups of coffee. We laughed and reminisced, told amusing stories, and simply had a fine time in every way. While my cousins and I do not see each other, but a handful of times during the year, conversation never flags with our family of talkers.

cheese cigarettes

The Pastry Cigarettes are a culinary delight. – tangled pasta.net

eggplant

Aubergine Canapes Eggplant Bruschetta are for those of us that love aubergine. – tangled pasta.net

Later that evening, we checked into our hotel in Northville. Realizing that our dinner reservations at our favorite restaurant, Le George were for 7:30 p.m., we freshened up, and beat a hasty retreat to dine on delicious Lebanese food. The weather proved to windy and chilly to eat on the tiny deck overlooking the pretty shops and art gallery on Northville’s main avenue. However, we were well compensated by the cozy, sophisticated interior of Le George. In fact, over our wine, George himself strolled over to our dark wood little booth for a chat. He is from Beirut, Lebanon and he reminds me of the marvelous conversations I used to have with my late uncle, who was also Lebanese. This in turn brought back happy memories of when I taught at the University of Houston. I had quite a few Lebanese students who were trilingual in Arabic, French, and English. Like George and my uncle, my students were witty, urbane, earthy, and possessed a great sense of humor.

grapeleaves

Grape Leaves with lamb, beef, and rice and Wheat A L’Huile D’Olive satisfied a hungry palate. – tangled pasta.net

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The stuffed Cabbage Rolls at Le George tasted like a symphony for the palate. – tangled pasta.net

Once again, we dined well at Le George. We began with hors d’oeuvre of Pastry Cigarettes, three with herbed cheese and three with spiced meat. The two Aubergine Canapes Eggplant Bruschetta were not on a toasted baguette, but were thick slices of eggplant topped with finely cut and diced fresh vegetables. These hors d’oeuvre were a delight for the palate. Next came the Crème de Lentilles Gazpacho Libanaise with its velvet smooth texture and subtle taste. For Entrees, we ordered Grape Leaves and Cabbage Leaves stuffed with lamb, beef, and rice that were simmered in a light lemon sauce. Instead of rice, we opted for the Wheat A L’Huile D’Olive. Superb all and wrapped up in the richness of fine dining ambiance that is Le George. While we cannot eat ambiance, we certainly feasted well within the world of Le George.

Ciao for now.

 

 

Literary Explorations

literati books

The Literati Bookstore has eye-catching displays of its books. – tangled pasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi |@MaryAnnaVioli

Some weeks ago we visited Ann Arbor, Michigan’s eclectic downtown area. The focus of this trip was several bookstores: Literati and Aunt Agatha’s New and Used Mysteries, Detection, and True Crime Books. Not only did we relish the vast array of books at these fine stores, we happened upon excellent eateries, and a most unexpected event.

Grappling with one-way streets and wayward pedestrian traffic while attempting to locate a parking space tested my patience, which is generally at an all-time low when it comes to parking the car in unchartered territory. Finally, I succumbed to placing my red chariot in a parking garage. Out of the car and walking revived my spirits. As it turned out, the parking garage was across the street from the Literati Bookstore. We were pleased to note that this area of Ann Arbor held stores and cafes within walking distance of where we wished to be.

literati outside

Literati Bookstore beckoned us hither to a treasure trove of books. – tangled pasta.net

literati shelves

It is most satisfying to spend time in a bookstore like Literati, lost among books.-tangledpasta.net

We wandered blissfully through Literati Bookstore, reading the employees reviews of books, and perusing through books that piqued our interest. Of these, there were many. Ultimately I decided to purchase Nora Ephron’s Crazy Salad and Scribble Scribble in one recently published volume. Years ago I bought these books individually from a vendor on Amazon. They smelled musty and were well-worn. I finally donated them because the aged scent and discolored pages distracted me from the texts! Anjelica was pleased to find the print version of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Ted Talk We Should All Be Feminists. After paying for our books, we climbed the stairs thinking we could imbibe an ice tea and read a bit of our new purchases. Alas, the third floor café of Literati reminded me of Starbucks: each table was occupied with someone using a laptop with ear buds.

auntagathas

The name of this bookstore brings to mind the inimitable Agatha Christie. -tangledpasta.net

Crossing the street, we entered Aunt Agatha’s New and Used Mysteries, Detection, and True Crime Books. The fragrance of used books about knocked me down. I have decided that my olfactory sense fails to appreciate the fragrance of very used books. My daughter invested in The Girl on the Train, by Paula Hawkins. My disappointment was in the area designated to Agatha Christie mysteries: the bottom shelf of tall bookshelf. I really thought a sterling location would befit such a master of mystery, not to mention that the name of the book emporium is called Aunt Agatha’s, though that my be the name of the owner’s aunt. That aside, we had a literary day in Ann Arbor.

auntagathas inside

The clutter and stacks of books at Aunt Agatha’s show a fond appreciation of novels and an appreciation of stacks of books. – tangled pasta.net

Ciao for now.

 

 

August 1983

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This is what the entrance to the River Oaks area of Houston looked like in mid-March 2017 when we visited my friend Juliet and her family. I hazard to guess some of those pretty palm trees were snapped in tow and that those flowers have been battered due to Hurricane Harvey. – http://www.tangledpasta.net

By Mary Anna Violi |@MaryAnnaVioli

Hurricane Alicia. Its name is emblazoned in my memory.

Never have I been more terrified, more at the mercy of Mother Nature than I was when Hurricane Alicia roared across the Gulf of Mexico and slammed into Galveston first, and then onto Houston. A child of the Midwest, I was accustomed to tornado season. I knew to retreat to the basement of my home with flashlights, canned goods, gallons of water, cat food, and the cat. However, tornados are one thing; hurricanes are something altogether different.

Houston is below sea-level, which means homes do not have basements.

My Houston native friend, Juliet, instructed me a week before Hurricane Alicia arrived, what preparations to make. Juliet came over to my apartment in Southwest Houston, in an area called Meyerland, to help me tape the windows. Armed with wide rolls of tape, we placed X’s from corner to corner in each window. We went to the grocery store and loaded up on gallons of water, loaves of bread, jars of peanut butter, bags of nuts and dried fruit. We made sure my hand held can opener operated easily, for I would be eating lots of canned tuna once the city shutdown for the hurricane. New batteries filled several flashlights. In a few days I would shower again, clean out my bathtub, and then fill it to the brim with water. Bruno the cat had ample food and would have access to water from the gallon containers. We would ride out the hurricane together.

When Alicia made landfall on August 18, I thought Bruno and I were goners. The sheer terror of the screaming sound of the hurricane made me dive under my bed covers with Bruno. My cat could not stop pacing around the perimeter of the bed. His paws were moist, always a bad sign with a cat. We had food and water in my bedroom, but I was too frozen with fear to get out of bed. Other sounds howled for hours. Among those sounds I later learned was the metal roofs over the carports in my apartment complex being torn off from the maniacal winds. Trees uprooted like sticks were hurled every which way, including across power lines. Nob Hill, my apartment complex consisted of a series of two-story brick buildings. It had looked sturdy to me the past months I had lived there. Now I prayed to God that my building on a knoll held together.

Around 7:30 a.m. the next morning, the phone rang; there were no cell phones in 1983! It was my mother telling me that on the Today Show or on Good Morning America, I do not recall which one, the weather announcer said the eye of Hurricane Alicia had settled over Houston. Yes, I said, I know. It’s the first time it’s been quiet in hours. I actually slept for two hours. My parents were scared to death for me. I assured my mother I was fine sleep deprived, but otherwise fine. The air-conditioning hasn’t stopped working, I said. This is important since the heat and humidity have intensified, thanks to the hurricane. Thanks to the knoll upon which my building was located, even my car survived the wrath of Alicia because the queue of carports for my building was also on a knoll. However, many other people lost not only power in their buildings, but also their cars from water damage.

    I had been teaching summer classes. Finals had been scheduled a few days after the hurricane. In the end, I simply calculated final grades, minus the final exam. Damage to homes and business in Houston was so extensive that it would have been inhumane to require students to try to get to the university for an exam. The health and well-being of my students was of tantamount importance in the aftermath of the hurricane. Besides, there was no running water, nor was there electricity in the building where the final exam was to have been.

Hurricane Alicia was a Category 3 hurricane. Hurricane Harvey that struck the Texas Gulf coast is a Category 4, even more powerful. My friend Juliet texted me at 5:38 a.m. this morning that she and her family have retreated to the second floor of their home in Clear Lake, near NASA. The first floor of their home was flooding. She is trying to conserve cell phone energy. Perhaps they have been rescued. All I can do is keep praying that they are.

Ciao for now.

 

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier

Maxim preferred his coffee and his tea with two lumps of sugar and cream. – http://www.tangledpasta.net

 

By Mary Anna Violi | @MaryAnnaVioli

Thus begins Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, with one of the most iconic openings in literature. The eeriness of the iambic hexameter structure of this first line of Rebecca underscores the hallucinatory sort of events the young second Mrs. de Winter attempts to unravel. While some readers swoon over the “romance” in Rebecca, the story is more Gothic suspense than it is romance. The character of Maxim de Winter, the wealthy, emotionally damaged widower who marries the 20-year-younger second Mrs. de Winter, barely functions as a fully engaged husband to his shy and naïve second wife. The second Mrs. de Winter’s attempts to better understand her husband’s erratic outbursts are thwarted either by Maxim himself, or by the malevolent housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers.

Rebecca’s narrator is the second Mrs. de Winter. How reliable a narrator we believe her to be is contingent on how much credibility the reader is willing to invest in her. We are more likely to believe the second Mrs. de Winter because she lacks previous experience with the Manderley estate and those in its orb. We might be willing to invest more in what she says because she views Manderley and Maxim de Winter without fully knowing what and who they are in the greater context of the narrative. Yet she on various occasions she plays fast and loose with the truth in order to deflect attention from herself. These lies continually make her appear an awkward juvenile. Maxim is inexorably linked to Manderley. He shares with his second wife that Manderley is his home; it is where he was born, where he grew up. Even though Maxim is wealthy enough to have remained either on the Cote d’Azur where they met, or in Italy where they honeymooned, he opts to take her to Manderley. He soon realizes it would have been better had they remained in Italy on a perennial honeymoon.

Throughout the course of their months at Manderley, it is evident that Maxim becomes more and more unhappy, likewise his young bride. He is haunted by events leading up to his first wife Rebecca’s death. The past continually rears its head at the most inopportune moments to send him either into a rage, like prior to the costume ball, or plunge him into despair, as when the young Mrs. de Winter insists on following Jasper the dog to the cottage by the sea. The reader fails to understand Maxim’s moody behavior, but inklings provide clues to dark secrets lurking within the man. While Maxim holds the key to aspects of the past, the dead Rebecca reveals herself to the reader as the narrative progresses. All is most certainly not what it appears or appeared to be in Rebecca. The shifting landscapes and slow unveiling of characters, coupled with plot twists keep generation after generation of readers enthralled in du Maurier’s classic story.

Ciao for now.