This is to....

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox…

William Carlos Williams


I want to say...”This is just to say…”

Today I read that only 15% of people under forty read the printed— hold in your hand get ink smudges on your finger’s newspaper. I assume the other 85% remain gloomed to some electronic device ranging from too large to move screen to a tiny handheld that also works as a telephone, music container, photo repository and game player. Or perhaps their newspapers appear on a Kindle where they can highlight, write notes and archive.

No stacks of unread or barely read sections, no rolled newspapers ready for use in the fireplace.

When I was in high school my ninth grade teacher, a woman who thrived on the Sunday New York Times regarding it as the secular Holy Scripture, taught the class how to properly fold the paper when riding the subway.

"You want to read the article in its entirety and not disturb your neighbor."
We all brought in a copy of the Times and learned how to fold correctly.

That same year I learned how to make my own serigraph silk screen frame. Now I can’t imagine stretching the silk correctly—taut and centered. Yet, I've never forgotten how to fold a large sized newspaper correctly, or lost the ability to follow a story from A 4 to A16—keeping the paper folded in its quarter size shape. Fold that in half and you are reading an eighth of the full page. A lifetime skill.

The newspapers in this country remain an endangered species. Zines replace periodicals and blogs proliferate. Someday the art of folding a newspaper will appear in a museum as a relic of a previous age.

This is just to say...

I passed on the list of 100 favorite mysteries of the twentieth century selected by the Independent Booksellers Association. Between indulging in other books I hope to work my way through these selections—especially the items listed as out of print. I feel a compulsion to read those books, but I've given up the idea of doing so alphabetically.

Once I thought that if I began a book I needed to continue on to the end, even if reaching the end meant trudging through weak writing, pasteboard characters, and conflicts no more engaging than the swatting of a barely aloft fly. Now I am the queen of the hatchet.

I equate the rereading of a book as a gift to myself. I linger with the words, the language, with characters I know. When I was below the age of double digits I read Nobody's Boy (Sans famille) by Malot. The long and convoluted plot offered hours of role-playing. Remi, the lead character, is catapulted from one heart-wrenching situation to another on his journey to find a place in the world. I visualized each chapter and, along with my friends Annie and Nina, role-played the scene. This scene called for real emoting.

Arthur's mother was English. Her name was Mrs. Milligan. She was a widow, and Arthur was her only son; at least, it was supposed that he was her only son living, for she had lost an elder child under mysterious
conditions. When the child was six months old it had been kidnaped, and they had never been able to find any trace of him. It is true that, at the time he was taken, Mrs. Milligan had not been able to make the necessary searches. Her husband was dying, and she herself was dangerously ill and knew nothing of what was going around her. When she regained consciousness her husband was dead and her baby had disappeared.

I want to say… “This is Just to Say”…