12 April, 2009

green in the mouth of spring

Gloriously pristine afternoon in Davidson. I am working at Main Street Books (they just got the Internets, it seems) and having a very quiet Sunday. I sold a John Grisham novel, counted mounds of bills and coins from the New York Times faithfuls, listened to NPR. I told a woman not to waste her time on "Twilight" and then I cut the bestseller lists out of the NYT Book Review and Stephanie Meyer's name was just grinning wryly back at me from the top. Did you know that 16 percent of ALL books sold in America last quarter were hers? 16 percent! That's obscene.

Teen vampire romances aside, I had a lovely weekend at home. On Friday, we had torrential downpours (it rained like it was trying to break through the roof) almost all day, but I almost liked it, because it gave us the excuse to sit on the couch, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea. Guion and I joined Kelsey and Grace and read for nearly two hours; he read a fourth of "The Road" and I finished "Nightwood" and "The Joke." I love days like that.

We celebrated Easter on Saturday at my grandparents' house. Guion helped Grace and I hide "2,000 eggs" in the backyard (my 5-year-old cousin's estimate) and didn't get to go skeet shooting in the field with Sarah Palin Jr. (Kelsey. Sigh. My sister). Guion was disappointed about this, largely because instead of playing with guns, he got to be a model for Grace's photo shoot.

My uncle, king of all gadgets, brought his Kindle to the family gathering. He was very excited to show it to me and let me fiddle with it. And even though I felt myself attracted to the idea of carrying 1,500 books with me at all times, there was a sick knot of dread in the bottom of my stomach as I held it in my hands. I can't imagine myself ever forsaking my library, my physical library, the pride and joy of my life, for a little device with a keypad. I still can't abide by this. I still can't help but see it as the omen that is heralding the death of my deepest loves. Authors, books, publishing houses, the verifiable, credible, excellent written word... these will be things I will have to explain to my children. "When I was a child, we read things called books. Yes, you had to actually turn the pages with your fingers. So archaic, I know ..."

I do not want to be a rich woman. This is a good thing, because at this rate, I never will be one. I do not want to drive an expensive car with my sunglasses and designer bag. I do not want a brood of blonde, entitled children with names extracted from New England townships. I do not want expertly highlighted hair or perpetually manicured nails. I do not want to pretend I have suffered. I do not want any of these things.

(A blonde kid hangs out the side of his father's sleek black BMV convertible, griping at his mother, because she, with her Gucci sunglasses on her head, is not holding the right flavor of ice cream cone in her tan hand. He sticks his tongue out at her. She turns her head, looks down at her magazine. He slumps down in the leather seats.)

The more I hear about Scandinavia, the more I am convinced that I MUST GO THERE.

For my public affairs reporting class, I am doing my final project, an enterprise piece, on the local foods movement in Carrboro, with a focus on farmers in Orange County. Between my hours of research and interviews with farmers and activists and academics, I feel my magnetic attraction to land, dirt and plants increasing exponentially. Sure, it's a romantic idea, but I want to be a farmer some day. The Pratts are already living the dream in their backyard in Southern Pines and my mom is preparing the soil for her own mini-farm. It can be done. One of the academics I spoke to last week, a woman in the folklore department, told me that she sees the urge to farm as something that skipped a generation. My grandparents were all about agriculture, but their children, my parents, showed less interest as a whole. Now, I know dozens and dozens of students whose primary goal is to farm. It's an interesting phenomenon. If anyone has an answer as to why this might be the case, I'd love to hear it.

I really wanted a puppy for Easter. I didn't get one.

Yesterday was Emily's 21st birthday! Happiest wishes to an unbelievably great roommate and friend. She is a beautiful woman and I hope I'll grow up to be more like her.

Everyone is having so much fun in Bollywood.

2 comments:

mike said...

Aoive wanted an Abby for Easter. Did some connection get missed? It's still Easter Day until midnight, and the Easter season is actually 50 days. We might be able to put something together!

lauren nicole said...

darling, i want your life. it's pouring rain today - come read and take pictures with me? i have tea! and a messy kitchen to go with it.