Mansfield Park

I read Mansfield Park for the first time this summer. I like Jane Austen as well as the next reader but I’m not a fanatic. I have never even read Pride and Prejudice, but I have read Emma, Persuasion (my favorite), and Sense and Sensibility. When it comes to Victorian fiction, I prefer Dickens and George Eliot. Jane Austen isn’t Victorian, of course, but she was a big influence on Dickens and Eliot and many other 19th century English writers. 

But back to our story. Mansfield Park’s protagonist Fanny Price arrives at the titular Mansfield Park as a young girl, adopted by her rich aunt and uncle as an act of charity. At first she is miserable, and completely overwhelmed by her wealthy relatives’ lavish lifestyle and their sophisticated manners. The oldest girl of a large and impoverished family, Fanny is shy and timid and sweet-natured and she misses her parents and her brothers and sisters. Her spoiled and privileged girl cousins Maria and Julia are disdainful toward poorly dressed and poorly educated Fanny. Their own beautiful clothes and accomplishments and horsemanship they believe to be the product of their natural superiority, and nothing to do with their wealth and privilege. 

Fast forward to a few years later: Fanny, of course, turns out to be the most beautiful of the girls and she ends up attracting the rich and handsome and high-born young man coveted by Maria and Julia. Does this sound familiar? Fanny isn’t exactly mistreated - not as a servant would have been - but as a young girl, she is kept firmly in her place. Her aunt and uncle Lady and Lord Bertram treat her with distant kindness, congratulating themselves on their generosity; but Fanny’s Aunt Norris never misses an opportunity to remind her that she’s not the equal of her privileged cousins, and that she must always remain humble and grateful. Fanny’s clothes are not quite as nice as her cousins’ and her room is without a fire. She is permitted to ride a family horse when it is available in contrast with her cousins who all have their own horses. The Wikipedia entry for Cinderella lists dozens of books, stories, plays, ballets, and other works of art inspired by the original Cinderella story, but it does not mention Mansfield Park. But I’m sure that Jane Austen was thinking about Cinderella or Rhodopis when she wrote the character of Fanny Price. There’s even a ball. 

*****

I liked Mansfield Park a lot. Fanny is a less-than-perfect heroine, which is kind of a nice change from Dickens, whose Agnes Wickfield and Amy Dorrit are such paragons of virtue that it’s hard to love them. I admire Agnes and Amy (especially Agnes) but I don’t think I could be friends with them. Fanny Price is also mostly a virtuous heroine, at least in some respects. She remains true to her principles, refusing to participate in the amateur theatricals, which she knows that her absent uncle would not approve of. She will not consider marrying her rich and handsome and accomplished suitor because she doesn’t love him and because she suspects (correctly) that he is morally corrupt. 

But Fanny also has some faults - some endearing and some considerably less so. Occasionally, she gives way to feelings of resentment against her spoiled cousins - quite understandable. She is jealous of Mary Crawford, another rich and beautiful girl (and the sister of Henry Crawford, the man who loves Fanny) - not because of Mary’s  wealth and beauty but because Fanny’s beloved cousin Edmund worships her. Later, Fanny realizes that Mary shares her brother’s squishy morals, and she tries to convince herself that she’d seen this flaw in Mary all along, but the reader knows better. When Fanny returns to Portsmouth to visit her parents and siblings, we see that Mansfield has spoiled her completely. The child Fanny had been terribly homesick for her family and her home in Portsmouth; but at 18, Fanny is ashamed of her parents’ poverty and lack of refinement, and she longs for the beauty and grandeur of Mansfield Park. This too is understandable, since Mansfield had become her home, but Fanny’s inner dialogue shows us that she believes that her childhood home is beneath her and that she belongs at Mansfield. Not only has she forgotten that she is a product of the humble house in Portsmouth, she is also blithely unconcerned about the source of her uncle’s great wealth, which is a sugar plantation in Trinidad. Lord Bertram is a slaveholder; and even Fanny and Edmund, the moral hearts of the story, don’t give a thought to the enslaved people who work to maintain the lifestyle of Mansfield Park. 

*****

I won’t give away the ending. There were just enough twists and turns that I wasn’t sure how everything would shake out until almost the very end. Jane Austen was a great storyteller, and I have to wonder what contemporary readers thought of her subtle commentary on wealth inequality and social hierarchies and privilege. She was way ahead of her time. Jane Austen was reminding rich people to check their privilege long before anyone knew that privilege was a thing that should be checked. 

Full House

My mom is here for the week. With my sons also at home for the summer, it’s a full house. I’m working from home for the entire week because I don’t like to leave my mom alone. She’s not too steady on her feet and when she gets stiff, she has a hard time getting up on her own. I fuss over her a lot when she’s here, and she doesn’t seem to mind. I think she likes it, really. 

We’ve been doing this - having her stay here for a week at a time -  for about two years now, and there’s a routine. My mom arrives on Sunday, late morning or early afternoon. My brother, who drives her here, stays for about five minutes and then he hits the road for the return trip. My mom stows all of her stuff, ⅔ of which she will not use, in the spare bedroom. I sit with her on the patio when it’s nice and in the family room when it’s not, and I keep her company while she watches her favorite TV shows. I make breakfast and lunch. Sometimes I make dinner and sometimes we go out and sometimes we pick up dinner to go. In the spring and fall and winter, I take about 45 minutes during the day to walk. In the summer, I run out to the pool to swim laps. We spend the evening together, and then I go to bed at about 11. My mom stays up late. I usually wake up at around 2, and find her sound asleep in a chair, and I make her go to bed. 

*****

I have a friend who asks me where my husband is every time I appear in public without him, which is to say all the time. My husband works a lot, and he often works at odd times so I often go places without him. Every time, my friend asks me where he is. 

With my mom here, not only am I constantly asked about my husband every time he’s not in the house; I am also expected to account for the whereabouts of the other members of the household at all hours of the day and night. My sons are 24 and almost 21. The older one has graduated from college, and still lives at home (and is welcome to continue living here for as long as he likes). The younger one is home for the summer, and is coaching two different swim teams while also doing a part-time internship with a minor league baseball team. Both of these boys - men - are employed and busy and free to come and go as they please. They tell me where they’re going and when they’ll be back and when they plan to be away all night, but I don’t give my mom the full report. I just tell her “Don’t worry about them, they’re fine,” and she says “I just like to make sure that everyone is safe.” 

You know all those stories that GenX people tell about running wild all day and night, and not being allowed in the house during the day, and drinking out of the neighbors’ hoses? Yeah, all of that is true, and it’s hilarious that my mother is more worried about the safety of my grown sons much more than she ever worried about me when I was still an actual child. 

*****

On Tuesday evening, I took my mom shopping at Kohl’s. She has mobility issues, and trudging around a department store is difficult for her but I know her tastes and her sizes very well, and we have had a great deal of shopping success when I act as her personal shopper. I find her a chair, she sits down, I ask what type of thing she’s looking for, and I run around and bring stuff back for her to look at. When she was here in May, she got a skirt, two t-shirts, two cardigans, and a rain jacket - all picked by me. Yesterday, she was looking for loungewear, undergarments, and socks. Kohl’s had a wheelchair available, so I put her in the wheelchair so that she could see the entire store. We found everything she wanted, and she had a good time except for my near collision with a clothing rack. You can’t look away to say hello to a neighbor while you’re pushing a wheelchair or it will veer off course. Lesson learned. 

*****

It was stormy on Wednesday night. It was stormy on Tuesday night, too, but those storms passed through quickly, and Wednesday’s storms lingered throughout the night. A great deal of rain has fallen here in the last few days, but it’s more humid now, not less. Maryland’s climate has already changed. It’s tropical here now. We’re like Florida with a little bit more winter and a lot less fascism. 

My mom kept looking out the windows on Wednesday night. “Are your cushions OK?” she’d ask. “Do you need to put your furniture away? Is stuff going to blow away?” A crash of thunder, and she’d say “Where are the boys? Are they out driving in this? They’re not out driving in this, are they?” It’s absolutely hilarious that I am the one out here saying “Don’t worry about it. Everything is fine. Everyone is fine.” “Don’t worry about it” is not my line. We’re in Opposite World. We’re in an alternate timeline. 

*****

Muriel Spark’s Memento Mori, one of my favorite novels, is about a group of very old people in postwar Britain who receive anonymous notes and phone calls from a series of mysterious strangers. The messengers and the medium vary but the message is always the same “Remember you must die.” I won’t give away the plot other than to say that there’s a murder, but the murder has nothing to do with the anonymous messages, which are reminders, not threats. We all must die, so the memento mori “Remember you must die” is just the plain truth. 

I don’t have the book in front of me so I’ll paraphrase except for the phrase “potent distillations” - the characters have all reached the age at which they no longer try to subdue their personalities. The filter is gone. They have become “potent distillations” of themselves, more intensified and concentrated versions of the people they have always been, for better or for worse. 

This is just a random literary observation, apropos of absolutely nothing. 

*****

It’s Saturday morning now. My mom is leaving tomorrow. I’m not sure what we’ll do today. With her limited mobility, my mom can’t walk long distances or really any distance at all. She’d like to go to a flea market and although I would not normally choose to visit a flea market, I certainly wouldn’t mind doing that. There are a few flea markets and farmers’ markets in the area but finding parking literally next to the venue with little or no walking required would be challenging. We’ll see. 

My mom is sitting next to me right now. She doesn’t know that I’m writing about her. LOL. My poor sister spent the entire week cleaning her hoarder house, and not only is my mother messaging a Facebook contact right now about purchasing even more Byers Choice carolers (IYKYK and if you don’t then count your fucking blessings) but she will spend the next week complaining about the house because she likes her clutter the way it is. And if she lived by herself and could take care of herself then it wouldn’t be any of our business. But my sister lives with her and takes care of her and the clutter and mess drive her insane. I don’t know how she does it. And now I’m thinking that a flea market is exactly where my mother doesn’t need to go because she doesn’t need to buy any more junk. We’ll find a farmer’s market instead. 

*****

It’s Sunday afternoon now. I took my mom home this morning; or rather, I took her to the Maryland House and handed her off to my brother, who took her home to Philadelphia. I’m always sad when she goes home, even though she drives me crazy and her visits leave me exhausted. But it will be nice to have my house in order again. She’s just as messy here as she is at home. I will not miss seeing mom stuff on every flat surface in the house. 

We did end up going to a farmer’s market yesterday, which was rather difficult given the heat and lack of shade and lack of close-by parking. But we managed. We took our time walking from my car to the market, and I was able to borrow a chair from a kind vendor so that she could sit for a few minutes, and she seemed to have a good time. We had lunch in one of our favorite neighborhood restaurants; and when we finally got home and out of the sun, my mom napped on the couch in the dark cool family room with “Father Brown” on TV in the background. She’s not low-maintenance but she doesn’t ask for much when it comes to entertainment, either - a farmer’s market and lunch and a couple of quick errands is a nice busy day for her. 

I’m hoping to swim today but the weather is unsettled. I experienced at least 10 weather events on my way to and from the Maryland House today; a total of about 3.5 hours round trip. Maybe things will settle down a bit. But meanwhile, I’m going to catch up on laundry and get my house back in order and get ready for a new week. My mom’s next visit will probably be in September. I’ll provide a full report. 

I think it was the Fourth of July

I was six years old when Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” was a top 40 radio hit. I loved that song. I still do. Eighties “Power of Love” Chicago is trash, but 70s “Saturday in the Park” Chicago is awesome. That’s a pop music hill that I will die on. 

When I was little, I always wondered about the “I think it was the Fourth of July” part. You think it was the Fourth of July? How would you not KNOW? How would you not remember that it was the Fourth of July? July 4th was a big deal in working class 1970s Philadelphia. Our street of tiny rowhouses got very little through traffic; and on the Fourth of July, my uncles set up the barbecue grill right on the sidewalk outside their side yard gate, and they strung a badminton net from their porch to the high stoop across the street. My dad and my uncles grilled hamburgers and hot dogs and my mom and my aunts made potato salad and macaroni salad and the freezer was full of red, white, and blue popsicles. There was a parade through the neighborhood. The parade ended around noon, and the party started soon after, and went well into the evening. We never had real fireworks but we did have sparklers and those little cracky things that you throw down onto the sidewalk. Everyone had flags and bunting on display. July 4th was an occasion. It was an event. It was a legitimate holiday. 

*****

My kids also grew up celebrating the Fourth. Our neighborhood has a little parade with kids on their decorated bikes and scooters; and the neighborhood civic association holds games and a magic show at the pool. The magician, who has been performing in our neighborhood for 20 years or more, used to look like a young Bill Murray. Now he just looks like Bill Murray. Members can bring guests to the pool for free, and it’s the most crazy crowded day of the year. You can’t even find a deck chair. It’s pretty great. 

I still went to the pool on Friday. There was still a parade. The kids still played games and watched the magic show. People still hung flags and bunting. I cut up a watermelon and made some hamburgers. I even made macaroni salad. But it was just July 4th, it wasn’t the Fourth of July. 

*****

I’m not surprised at all at how much damage the Trump regime has done in just six months. They told us what they were going to do and now they’re doing it. In 2020, I told everyone who would listen that the second Trump term would be far worse than the first. And then when he lost (and he did lose), I thought that January 6 would finally put an end to MAGA and that no matter what happened, at least we wouldn’t have another Trump presidency. Anyway, I was right about one thing - the second term is far worse than the first. Even Joe Rogan is starting to wonder aloud if Trump might - just might - be a fascist. Yeah, Joe, he is. Thanks for figuring that out about a year too late. 

*****

America has never been perfect (not even close) and spoiler alert, it never will be. But Trump and his gang are gleefully destroying everything that’s good and deliberately exacerbating everything that’s bad, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But I think it will get better. I’m not giving up. The Fourth of July will be back. 

Troubles and Calamities

I just finished reading Leslie Gray Streeter’s Family and Other Calamities, a very funny novel. The author is a Baltimore journalist whose work I follow on social media, and I pre-ordered the book. I like to pre-order books - I buy them and forget about them and then a month later, there’s a nice surprise in my Kindle queue. 

Right after I finished Family, I read Louise Kennedy’s Trespasses, a novel set in Belfast in 1975. Kennedy herself describes it as a story of “star-crossed lovers” during the Troubles, and that’s as good a description as any other. Trespasses is astonishingly good; and even though I guessed exactly what was going to happen and exactly who would be revealed as responsible about halfway through, it was still page-turningly suspenseful until the end. 

When I started reading Trespasses, I knew right away that I’d have to read more of Louise Kennedy’s work, and then I found that she has only published one other book, The End of the World is a Cul de Sac. Louise Kennedy is almost exactly my age, and she spent most of her life working as a chef, with side forays into writing. It’s rare for someone to publish a first novel when they’re in their mid 50s, but Penelope Fitzgerald didn’t publish a book until she was 58, and she was absolutely brilliant. 

****

Family and Other Calamities and Trespasses are two very different books, with a few things in common. Family is kind of a semi-serious comic novel, very funny, with underlying serious themes and a screwball comedy vibe. It’s a beach read with a brain. Trespasses is heavier - tragic and heartbreaking. But there’s a very strong connection between the two. Both novels feature women protagonists whose lives are completely altered by rash youthful decisions that open chasms between the before and the after. In Family, the protagonist runs away from her youthful mistake and only acknowledges many years later that running away might have been a mistake. But we know from the beginning that something happened in the past, and that we'll find out soon enough what it was. This is a comic novel, so the loose ends are tied up and the ending is happy and the people who deserve a comeuppance get it. Trespasses doesn’t really touch the chasm between youth and late middle age until the very end when we revisit Cushla, the young protagonist, who is now a middle-aged woman reckoning with the past, like the rest of 21st century Northern Ireland. And despite the tragedy, there’s also a happier-than-expected - or at least hopeful - ending. 

One more similarity - both of these authors have published two books, in two different genres. Kennedy’s earlier book is a volume of short stories, while Streeter’s is a memoir of the time following her husband’s untimely death, aptly titled Black Widow because she is a Black woman whose husband died. Both of these books are now in my Kindle queue. I will report back later. 

Cruel Summer

On Saturday morning, I was standing on a pool deck waiting for a race to begin as Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” blared from the announcing table’s sound system, and it felt like 2012 again. 

2012 was a nice summer. The company that I was working for at the time eliminated our entire division in the middle of June, leaving me unemployed; and if you have school age swim team kids, summer is a good time to be unemployed. My kids were 11 and almost 8. We went to swim practice twice a day, with meets on Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings. We went to the library every week, and we went to museums and the County airport, where we watched planes take off and land while eating grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries at the airport lunch counter. We did a lot of hanging around. Kids that age are great company and a lot of fun to hang around with. The hanging around part is what I remember best about that summer. 

My sons are 24 and almost 21 now, but now it’s their cousins’ turn to continue the summer swim team tradition, which means that I still get to go to summer swim meets, but I don’t have to show up early, nor stay late, nor judge stroke and turn infractions. My nephew is 12 and my niece is 8, and they are both very good swimmers. They’re also very good company. 

*****

Today is July 1. July is the real heart of summer, especially in Maryland and the rest of the Mid-Atlantic states. In Maryland, school ends in June, and it starts in August, making July the only month untouched by school unless you count the back-to-school advertising that begins on July 4. 

Last night, I left work at 5. It’s a holiday week, and traffic was blessedly light, and I resolved to go swimming the moment I got home so that I could avoid the threatened thunderstorm. I arrived home just before 5:30 and I was in the pool swimming laps by 5:45. The swim team was on its annual Hersheypark trip, and so the pool was not as crowded as it normally would have been at 5:45 PM, and the air was muggy and hot, and the water was just barely cool. The sun was shining brightly, but a few clouds looked threatening, and the atmosphere felt volatile, like a storm could break open at any minute. A little rain fell, even as the sun was still shining on the water - ideal swimming conditions. Then I came home and pulled some tomatoes off the plants in our garden and sliced them up for salad. The house was peaceful, and the cool of the water stayed with me for hours. It was as perfect a summer evening as I could have asked for. 

*****

Or it would have been. Today is July 2. The new budget bill, the one that’s going to take food away from hungry children, passed the Senate yesterday, right around the time that DHS and their henchmen in Florida cut the ribbon on a brand-new concentration camp in the Everglades. The place, which they’re gleefully calling “Alligator Alcatraz” but which I will only refer to as the Ochopee Concentration Camp, has already flooded on its second day of operation. So that’s fortunate, I suppose - the people imprisoned there will die of dysentery or typhoid or malaria rather than being eaten by alligators or strangled by pythons. A somewhat cruel fate instead of a hideously cruel fate.

And that’s the thing that’s bothering me - that's what's wrong. It’s the cruelty of right now, not the nostalgia for a relatively peaceful time over a decade ago. Even garden tomatoes can’t make this right. Even a swim can’t wash away the sadness. For the first time in my life, I have problems that summer cannot solve.