Are you looking for a fun paperback novel to cap off your summer? Please give Tom Perrotta's 'Mrs. Fletcher' your consideration. Mrs. Fletcher is divorced, 46, and now an empty-nester. Her son, Brendan, is a freshman at college who's not quite ready to give up his bro/jock reputation earned at high school. While he takes baby steps toward a more enlightened way of life, Mrs. Fletcher, or Eve, goes back to school herself in search of...life, or really anything to escape the drudgery of another Saturday night at home. Boy does she find it. Mrs. Fletcher is as fresh as today's 'me too' headlines. It's funny, touching, and something you'll remember this summer and beyond.
If you’re a history buff, or if you just need to brush up on what went down for the past 5,000 years or so, I highly recommend E.H. Gombrich’s ‘A Little History of the World.’ The author wrote the book in just six weeks using a conversational style that anyone can understand and enjoy. Refresh your memory about the birth of Christianity and Islam and the Jewish Diaspora. Learn about the unlikely invasion of Hannibal and the vast exploits of Alexander the Great. Delve into the greatness of the Roman Empire, how it rose and why it fell. The French Revolution? Yes, heads were severed. WWI? I really believe cooler heads should have prevailed. There is something for everyone in this little history that tells so much in just a few short pages.
Getting the Mail
At first he carried the small child on the short walk to their mail station at the end of the street. Soon enough she was able to walk on her own, holding his hand as they made small steps along the sidewalk. At that time she knew how to say probably 50 words, but mail was definitely one of them. He told her that the mail arrived every day except for Sundays and holidays, but she wasn’t quite ready to understand the days of the week just yet. Sometimes they spotted the moon peaking out between the clouds. Moon was another word she knew well. He let her hold the mail key though kept a wary eye lest she drop it on the ground.
At the mail station he helps her finagle the key into the lock and open the door. He helps her load her fist with assorted coupons and other junk mail. She turns to an approaching neighbor and shouts ‘Mail!’ as if she’s just won the lottery. He can’t help but laugh. In some ways they really have won the lottery.
One night he went out to get the mail on his own. It was just after dark and cars and trucks were lined up along the street leading up to the mail station. One of the trucks, he noticed, was rocking. This appeared more than just a timid rocking so he increased his speed so as not to intrude. But just as he approached an interior light flashed on, no doubt bumped into illumination by a flailing body part. Wow, a hot night in suburbia, he thought, making haste for the mailbox (because the mail must never be interrupted -- not even by coitus). He decided to take the long way home in order to avoid lovers’ lane. Looking back (Yes, he looked back but did not turn into a pillar of salt.), he saw that the light had been extinguished. A faint laughter could be heard.
He remembers when he himself was much younger and went on twilight walks with his father. They may have been walking their two dogs. There may have been cigar smoke in the air. He remembers being in his pajamas already. It was warm in Florida for much of the year and always good walking weather after the sun disappears. It was good to walk then and it’s still good to walk now -- even if it’s only to get the mail.
A few thought on the passing of Anthony Boudain...
Our family loved his show, Parts Unknown, and learned so much from his travels and cooking expertise. The way he could fit in with the locals no matter what part of the globe he was visiting was admirable. And he wasn't snooty at all, just an average guy learning about another culture. Here's someone anyone on the outside would think has it all put together. But that's the thing, we're on the outside. We only know the celebrity and not the man. I'm reminded of poem called 'Richard Cory' written way back in 1897 by Edwin Arlington Robinson (there's also a song on the same subject by Simon and Garfunkel). Anyway, Richard Cory is described in the poem as being a 'gentleman from sole to crown,' who 'fluttered pulses when he walked,' and was 'clean favored and imperiously slim.' He is described as being 'rich, richer than a king' and 'admired for his grace.' After extolling Richard Cory, we get the final haunting stanza:
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.
RIP Anthony Boudain.
