Where Are My Choices?

 

 

 

Sometimes capitalism is enough to inspire communists! We’ve been told since were little that, unlike “socialist” countries, our economic system provides choices. The myth of capitalist choice is all around us. Almost every town has a gasoline alley with numerous stations cheek by jowl that are theoretically in competition with each other. Yet each sells gasoline that's a mere penny or two from other stations. Does anyone ponder over whether to pay $3.01 versus $3.02? It hardly matters given that pennies are being pulled from distribution!

 

The lack of personal choice dictates what we wear. The hot colors for 2026 will be teal, green, and blue. What if those colors don't flatter you? Millions of people will wear those colors anyhow, even though they think they look like they were mugged by park rangers. How about skinny jeans? They were hot just a few years ago until someone said you were supposed to wear wide legs that make you look as though you needed extra space to tuck in your peers when you go out. Trash ‘em; skinny jeans are back! For the record, I wear skinny jeans. It’s not because I think people wish to gaze at my physique; it’s because I'm old and my arse has disappeared.

 

Capitalism is supposed to work on a supply and demand principle. In theory, consumers drive the demand bus and suppliers respond by meeting their demand. As supply goes up, price is supposed to drop. In reality, capitalists create their own demand. They make “hot” items hard to obtain so the price skyrockets. It doesn't matter if the item is shoddily made; next year they will create a new demand and the sheeple will dump skinny jeans and wear construction worker pants with a tape measure in the side pocket once they see Kendall Jenner wearing them. Think I’m crazy? Explain why anyone would pay $100 or more for ripped jeans that look as if the wearer was mauled by raccoons. (I'll be wearing my skinny jeans unless I magically grow an arse.)

 

My rave  du jour is the size of automobiles. I need to replace my Prius Prime because disc surgery made me shrink by more than two inches  and I have trouble seeing out of it. I'm now around 5 foot 3 inches height and apparently the only person that short in all of America. My Prius Prime is now called a “compact” car. Dave Berry once joked about the new Ford Land-Grant, the first car to come with its own zip code. Maybe he wasn’t joking!

 

You might think that the answer to my dilemma is to look at subcontract compact cars. What are those? Yeah, I could buy a Smart Car. It should be called an Idiot Car as it gets less than 40 mpg. Who determines what mileage small cars get? In Europe the same vehicle that gets 30 mpg in the U.S. gets 50 or more. Maybe I should buy either an electric car or another plug-in hybrid. Have you seen the design of the new Leaf? Don't call it a Leaf; it’s more of a mature maple. I’ve viewed cars so wide that I need my phone GPS to find the glove box.

 

It's not hard to figure out who is behind big vehicles and low mileage; it's the oil capitalists of course. I'd say they lobby politicians to protect their singular desire to pump petroleum until they sell the last thimbleful to some rich fool who can afford $1000 per half oz. The truth is there’s little need to lobby because much of Congress is made-up of oil investors. They are the ones who answer the question of an old documentary: who killed the electric car? Anyone with more than 17 brain cells knows that large petroleum-consuming vehicles are not sustainable. Who needs big cars in a culture where a swelling tide of the people are taking Ozempic or Wegovy? Never fear; car dealers will regroup to sell us sailboats once the polar ice caps collapse and everything east of the Appalachians is under water. (Big Sale on Sails!)

 

I haven't completely given up. I can still check out Toyotas, Honda, and Kei. If they come through, I’ll  wait for retailers to offer skinny jeans with arse inserts. I'm sure I’ll be tempted to buy those at any price. Who needs choices?

 

Rob Weir

 

PS: Next year’s “hot” auto color is powder blue, if you believe marketers.

 

The Bookshop by Evan Friss

 

  

 

 

The Bookshop: A History of the American Bookstore (2014)

By Evan Friss

Viking, 312 pages + Back Matter

★★★★

 

An unusual aspect of the town where I live is that we have two independent bookstores and a large used bookstore in a place with just 30,000 residents. That didn't used to be odd, but many towns these days have no bookstores beyond a rack of best sellers at Walmart.

 

Evan Friss, a history professor at James Madison University, traces American bookstore evolution, proliferation, and reinvention. His title is slightly deceptive as he devotes much of his study to New York City. Of course, New York City dominates the publishing world, though the first bookstore of note was that of Benjamin Franklin in Philadelphia. You wouldn’t recognize it; in 1742, it held but one novel, Pamela by Samuel Richardson. Franklin sold books at his printing shop, most of which were sermons, philosophical treatises, textbooks, religious tomes, self-help works, and political tracts such as Thomas Paine's Common Sense. But the scale was small; he once boasted of having sold 600 books in a year. As the American Revolution drew near, there were but two bookshops in the entire Chesapeake region.

 

Friss cleverly places interstitial asides between chapters that are devoted to such related topics as the smell of books, the role of buyers, eccentric shopkeepers, oddball customers, devotees, and “The Guy Who Never Buys Anything.”

 

Friss cites Boston as the prototype for modern bookselling, especially the Old Corner Bookshop (Washington and School streets), which opened in 1828. In less than 10 years Boston held 137 booksellers, the bulk situated on Washington Street. They catered to an increasingly literate post-Revolutionary War readership. William Ticknor and James Fields thrived by sprinkling notorious titles among its offerings such as Lydia Maria Child's defense of African Americans. (Racists smashed the window where it was displayed.) Hawthorne was a constant presence at the Corner Bookstore; Whittier, Longfellow, and Thoreau sold well. Still, there were just 1,553 American titles in the 1840s. By way of comparison, Penguin Random House alone publishes 15,000 new books a year.

 

As the 19^th century progressed, New York City passed Boston as the leader of the publishing business. No city does big scale as well as Gotham. D. Appleton had an elaborate 6,000 square foot shop in New York that combined publishing, wholesale, and retail. It anticipated a scaling up of the book business. Ironically, many future magnates began as peddlers: Roger Mifflin, Helen McGill, and Frank Collins. A post-Civil War observer could have predicted that department stores would become the future of book sales: Stewart, Wanamaker’s, Marshall Field…. They would be among the innovators for paperbacks, Pocket Books, and outrageous ballyhoo such as Julie the elephant flogging Rand McNally “slotties,” books that came with inserts like elephant puzzle pieces.

 

By the early 20th century, though, books were sold every conceivable way. Writers and readers crammed into the rooms of Gotham Book Mart owner Francis Steloff for fellowship, discussion, and new titles. Steloff introduced a Parisian touch, outdoor book stalls. This paved the way for a constant battle between vendors and NYC officials bent on getting rid of loiterers and unlicensed vendors. The streets and bookstore windows also became battlegrounds between moralists, surrealists, Beats, hippies, black nationalists, and gay activists. Friss also highlights famed and infamous bookstores such as the Oscar Wilde, the rightwing Aryan bookstore, and Drum & Spear.

 

Many will recall that the next stage was a surge of gigantism in the late 20th century. Elegant stores such as Scribner’s gave way to Walden, Barnes & Noble, and Borders. Then came Amazon, whose first venture was selling books and music from storefronts before it became the online retailer that swallowed Walmart.

 

Friss is not a pessimist. He shows us that bookselling has been an ever-changing pursuit. Of late, famous authors have bought bookstores. Ann Patchett started Parnassus in Nashville. Louise Erdrich followed with her own store in Minneapolis, Garrison Keeler in Saint Paul, Judy Blume in Key West, and Emma Straub in Brooklyn. These new ventures make venerable City Lights in San Francisco look like a grey beard, though it is still a vital concern.

 

To return to western Massachusetts, bookstores have reinvented themselves, some by going retro and selling everything from toys and cards to calendars and socks; others by sponsoring author readings and lectures. It is said that Americans don't read anymore. If you believe that, you're hanging around with the wrong people.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Etiquette: Don’t Be a Turkey

 

In movie terms, a “turkey” is a flop; in slang it means a foolish or obnoxious person. Thanksgiving is my favorite American holiday because it is the most democratic. It doesn’t overtly involve religion, gift-giving, commercialism, or anguish (beyond properly timing the bird). It’s devoted to food, friends, family, and thankfulness. Yet, a non-edible turkey can ruin the day. Here are some tips for hosts and guests, the common denominator being: Don’t be a turkey.

 

If you are hosting, advise guests in advance that politics are off the table for everyone. It’s not exactly breaking news that Americans are deeply divided, which is true even for those who think they’re on the same side. For instance, many liberals disagree vehemently about the Israel versus Palestine conflict. A metaphorical show of hands if an angry argument over politics ever made wish to emigrate to Mongolia. Hosts should remind everyone to avoid politics and shut down anyone who violates that wish. You don’t have to get huffy about it; just a friendly-but-firm reminder that everyone has agreed to leave political battles for another day.

 

If you’re a guest, remember that you are in someone else’s home and they get to set the house rules. Bringing up contentious topics when asked not to is just as rude as passing gas.

 

Guests should adopt a mind-your-own-business (MYOB) attitude for the day. Chances are good that someone will be gay, lesbian, transgender, an aluminum siding salesperson, have green hair, have ugly tattoos, or possess some other quality that makes you uncomfortable. It is hypercritical to MYOB if it’s a relative or friend of one. Poet Robert Frost once sagaciously observed, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Codicil: That doesn’t give you the right to be a jerk.

 

Whether you are host or guest, if you invite someone to dinner who might stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, stick close to them and sit with them. Every family has the equivalent of Oscar the Grouch, so don’t set up that person for a miserable experience unless that guest is comfortable dealing with cranks. Surprisingly, many people are, but let that be their choice not the product of some anal seating arrangement.

 

Never criticize the food– even if it sucks! If you’re vegetarian, vegan, or subsist on road kill, stay home. There was a recent Boston Globe article about a man who has hosted Thanksgiving for decades and has grown so sick of guests who announce their food preferences as they walk through the door that his invites come with the advice that if you are vegan or vegetarian, “Bring your own disgusting food with you.” That’s harsh, but we’ve all been there, yes?

 

Hosts, be chill; it’s a real bummer when the host collapses with a nervous breakdown. Get a large bunch of people in one room and chances are good something will go wrong–a spilled drink, a broken plate, a gravy spill…. These are trivial things. Don’t try to be Martha Stewart perfect. Even if you pulled it off you’d make your guests uptight. The point of the day is to be grateful for one another’s company.

 

It’s not necessary for a host to make so many dishes that a solid oak table bows in the middle. If you have enough food for all, it’s fine to make just a few side dishes instead of trying to replicate a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post Thanksgiving. For the record, the Saturday Evening Post ceased publication in 1969, about the time standards became less formal. It’s also not a good time to experiment with recipes you’ve never made before. Plus, inevitably numerous people will bring a favorite Aunt Edith recipe, even though you’ve said, “Just bring yourself.” Men will bring myrrh, which is actually a bottle of Johnny Walker.    

 

Guests, offer to help, be it carrying items to the groaning board or volunteering to wash the dishes. Chances are approximately 99.43 to 1 your offer will be politely refused, but it’s a nice gesture. 

 

Turn-offs for most: (1) Hogs at the trough. (2) Thinking your young kids are so wonderful that everyone will think so. (3) Young kids preparing food. (4) Discussing medical issues at the table. (5) Using cellphones at the table.

 

Guys, no football until the meal is done, the table cleared, and you are banished to the TV room. Rushing to the TV with your plate in hand makes you an inconsiderate gobbler and a sexist in the eyes of many women. You’re a double turkey if you see everything related to the feast as “women’s work.” 

 

Getting plastered or stoned is an absolute no-no. It’s not a bad idea for the host or a trusted friend to designate someone to deal with such an unfortunate event. Don’t let a loud-mouthed lush or rambling space cadet ruin everyone’s day. You can and should drive that person home, but first separate the person from others, perhaps a room where the turkey can return to the planet. 

 

Non-negotiable: You can have as many kinds of pie as you wish, but one of them must be pumpkin. Not squash. Not sweet potato. Not yam.  P-U-M-P-K-I-N. If you disagree, we can’t talk. Ditto if you think carob is “just as good” as chocolate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dream of the Middle Ages at Beynac

                                         

 

This might have been my favorite place that I visited. Like many places in the Périgord, it is rich with history but this one not only engages the imagination, it sends it into high gear.

 

The “et” alerts us that two small villages have been combined into a single administrative unit (commune), that collectively contain but 447 residents. When you are in the region through which the Dordogne River flows, wine, fois gras, truffles, walnuts, cheese, duck, goose, and pork roasted in duck fat are staples. To my taste buds, all but the fois gras (duck liver) are quite tasty.

 

The other unavoidable reality is that Eleanor of Aquitaine will be mentioned. When you hear that name, you know you are in an area that was contested during the Hundred Years War (1337-1453). Some quick arithmetic will tell you that the struggles between the French and English crowns is misnamed, as it actually took 116 years. Is that because the “116 Year War” doesn’t roll off the tongue. Not exactly. During the period known as feudalism, you can’t think of “France” or “England” as you would like today’s nation-states. Wealth was measured by land and it didn’t need to be contiguous. The Aquitaine region of modern France often saw the English nobles and kings own more land than the French, which was sort of what was behind the Hundred Years War. (A bigger reason was dispute over the rightful heirs to the thrones of each country.) Eleanor factors prominently into this, as she was married to Louis VII, King of France from 1137-1152. Louis had his marriage to Eleanor annulled on the grounds of consanguinity (being too closely related), but she subsequently married Henry II of England. Though she was 11 years older (30) than Henry, she bore eight children between 1152 and 1189, five of them sons. Three, Henry the Young, Richard, and John, were anointed as English kings whilst William and Goffrey became the dukes of  Poitiers and Brittany.  Matilda, Joan, and Eleanor Junior, married into royal families (Saxony, Castille, and Sicily).  

 

One historian aptly labeled Eleanor’s children a “den of vipers” that allied with or fought against their father depending on how the winds of ambition blew. When Henry died in 1189, Richard became King of England, though he spoke Occitan and Gascon, dialects related to French. He spent less than six months of his ten-year-reign in England and perhaps never spoke a word of English.

 

What’s this have to do with Beynac? The Beynac line died out in the 12^th century and guess who inherited the castle. A gold star if you guessed Eleanor of Aquitaine. She gave the castle to Richard (as the third son he never expected to be king, but his older brothers predeceased him). A lot of what most people think of as medieval times occurred during Richard’s reign. He spent four years of at the Third Crusade (1189-93), battled Saladin, and was seldom out of armor. By the time of his death in 1199, English vassals owned more land in France than the French king, hence his sobriquet Richard the Lionheart. 

 

 

Alas for England, when Richard died in 1199, the crown went to Eleanor’s youngest son, John, often considered the worst king in English history for losing much of the land Henry II and Richard gained (including Beynac), and so much control over the English aristocracy that was forced to sign the Magna Carta. He is the only King John of England and a future monarch wouldn’t dare assume his name!

 

Getting back to Beynac, the château and castle sit high above the Dordogne River, prone to being swallowed by morning fog. It’s relatively empty, as most castles were. Few kings had just one castle. Most shifted royal residences several times a year, moves that entailed moving wall hangings, kitchen utensils, beds, chairs, etc. from one place to another. Only things like feasting tables were left behind because they were too massive to move. Beynac’s sparse furnishings allows you to imagine the dampness, darkness, rush-covered floors, fireplaces whose heat seldom filled a room, austere furnishings, the bustle of the kitchen, courtiers in echoey chambers, and servants and plotters clattering on stone steps. Build your own mental castle!

 

The village below is the usual assortment of small shops, eateries, services, and stone blocks. The riverfront village is built for ambling. Beynac is also a place where the Dordogne is wide and deep enough for boat sightseeing, the subject of a future travelogue.     

 

Rob Weir

 

State of the Union Isn't About Today. It Just Feels That Way!

 

 

 

 

State of the Union (1948)

Directed by Frank Capra

MGM, 124 minutes, Not-rated.

★★★ ½

 

State of the Union feels strangely contemporary. More’s the pity. This Spencer Tracy-Katharine Hepburn vehicle is about a populist Republican presidential candidate who becomes a tool for a tawdry cabal bent upon self-enrichment. Relax, no one was anticipating the events of 2020s. First of all, this is a Frank Capra-directed film. Capra was a conservative and, for a time, sympathetic to both Franco and Mussolini. Most of his films champion the proverbial “little guy,” but what’s on the screen is more about fair play than partisanship. Within film history, Capra is the quintessential master of the screwball comedy (Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, It Happened One Night, It’s a Wonderful Life, etc.)

 

As if often the case, the bloodiest politics took place off the screen. It wasn’t supposed to be a Tracy/Hepburn movie. Capra originally wanted Claudine Colbert (It Happened One Night) as his female lead, but the two quarreled and Colbert walked away from the project. Hepburn, an ultra-liberal, took her place and couldn’t stomach Adolph Menjou, a right-winger who outed radicals during the post-World War II Red Scare assault on Hollywood. Hepburn was upper-crust Connecticut civil to Menjou, frosty but proper. Ultimately, the film was a satirical take on the politics of its day, not ours.

 

Capra’s film was based on a 1945 Pulitzer Prize-winning play of the same name written by Russel Crouse and Howard Lindsay. In 1945, Franklin Roosevelt began his fourth term as president–a subsequent Constitutional amendment limited presidents to two terms–but Roosevelt died in April 1945, with Vice President Harry Truman assuming the White House. By the time the movie was released, World War II had been won and smart money said Republican candidate Thomas Dewey would defeat Truman in the 1948 presidential release. It was such a given that several newspapers announced that Dewey won; Truman actually took the popular vote by 4% and the electoral vote by a 303 to 189 margin.

 

State of the Union begins with publisher Sam Thorndyke–modeled after William Randolph Hearst or Frank Gannett–about to die. His daughter Kay (Angela Lansbury) vows to take revenge on liberals (read Democrats) per her father’s wishes. She doesn’t bother to tell him that she’s having an affair with married aircraft manufacturer Grant Matthews (Tracy). Grant has folksy opinions galore. He utters nostrums with such conviction that they sound convincing even when they are short (or devoid) of detail. At times even his estranged wife Mary (Hepburn) is semi-convinced, though she doesn’t take it seriously when he considers running for president. Mary does not yet know that Kay Thorndyke is putting those ideas in his head. One wonders if Grant knows he’s being set up to become Kay’s puppet.

 

Grant comes off as for forgotten Americans and borrows other Roosevelt tactics such as fireside chats and appearing with his son Georgie, perhaps a substitute for FDR’s dog Fala. Kay uses her newspaper empire to sandbag GOP frontrunners such as Dewey, Robert Taft, Douglas MacArthur, and others. She also uses secret threats to align business interests with Grant’s burgeoning campaign.

 

The problem with the Matthews bandwagon is that Grant believes his own speeches about taking on both Big Labor and Big Business, bipartisanship, and his various promises to the proverbial “average” Americans (waiters, bellhops, his barber, and blue-collar workers). Kay’s next step is to manipulate Grant with campaign strategists such as Spike McManus (Van Johnson) and Jim Conover (Menjou). Kay even convinces Grant to go back to Mary and put their affair on hold until after the election. But when Mary gets wise, all strategy and counter-strategy passes to the women.

 

This being a Capra film in the era of the Hollywood Code, you can anticipate a “cat fight,” to use the sexist parlance of the day. Nor was Capra bashful about pouring on the schmaltz, and he simply didn’t do bleak endings. In other words, there’s little reason to think of State of the Union as serious political commentary. If there is a weightier moral to the film, it is that American politics have been an act of performed theatrics for a long time (as in, from the founding through 2025).

 

A final note, if one of the minor characters looks fainty “witchy,” it’s because she is Margaret Hamilton from The Wizard of Oz.

 

Rob Weir

 

What We Can Know

 

 

 

What We Can Know (2025)

By Ian McEwan

Alfred A. Knopf, 299 pages.

★★★★

 

I’ve heard people complain that the fiction market is saturated with lightweight junk. If you hunger for literary fiction, Ian McEwan might be your pheasant under glass, if you can stomach a bit of futurism. McEwan writes for a sophisticated audience that wants stylish and intelligent prose, not just a “good read.”

 

His latest, What We Can Know is set in both 2014 and 2119. The dual fulcrum in each time period is poet Francis Blundy and his wife Vivien. At a party not-so-modestly dubbed the “Second Immortal Party–the first in 1817 introduced John Keats to such luminaries as William Wordsworth, and Charles Lamb–Blundy reads his latest work. “A Corona for Vivien” is devilishly difficult poem. Coronas usually hail an honored person via a string of joined 14-line sonnets, 3 quatrains with alternating stressed and unstressed rhyme patterns followed by a rhyming couplet. In a typical corona, 7 sonnets are joined with the last line of the first sonnet becoming the first line of the second, etc. Blundy allegedly strung together 15 sonnets, a staggering 210 lines. One can only imagine that Blundy really loved Vivien. But according to records, Blundy presented Vivien with the original and then it disappeared. It was said to be brilliant and mentioned Francis in the same breath as T.S. Eliot. His corona became the most famous poem that nobody ever saw! For a literary scholar, locating it would be like finding the Holy Grail.

 

In 2119, British scholar Thomas Metcalfe teaches American history 1990-2030. The latter date is significant. A combination of climate collapse, dictatorial leaders, and nuclear blasts have altered the planet dramatically. Metcalfe and his on/off lover Rose seek to solve the problem of Blundy’s missing corona. Thomas thinks important clues are in the Bodleian Library where he and Rose teach. That would the Bodleian at Oxford University Snowdonia; the old Oxford campus is under water and the United Kingdom is an archipelago of disconnected slices of land. Most of the world’s digital archives are controlled by Nigeria, as are communications systems. Forget fancy dinners; the drastically reduced populace gets most of its nutrients from protein bars. The humanities are in crisis, though Thomas archly observes, “The humanities are always in crisis. I no longer believe this is an institutional matter–it’s the nature of intellectual life …. Thinking is always in crisis.” Ouch!

 

McEwan has written a mash up of Waterworld, a murder mystery, a (metaphorical) ghost story, and tales whose message is what goes around comes around. McEwan’s title encapsulates this. Can we know if there was there a corona in the first place? Metcalfe is a romantic who never considers the possibility that Blundy should have been named Bluffer. He romanticizes his area of study and imagines the 21^st century as inherently more creative and free than the 22^nd. At one point he enumerates the things that once existed that are now gone, a list that runs the gamut from music festivals and gardening to stupid sports (football comes to his mind), and tasty food. He is shocked by students who think he’s an old fogey who excused 21^st century people for screwing up the planet. Thomas and Rose find clues alright, but what really happened? What was Vivien like? Did she return Blundy’s affection? Are they replicating the lives of their quarry?

 

As a historian, it struck me that McEwan was writing about the dilemma of my profession. Consider Pompeii, which experienced what its citizens would have viewed a global catastrophe. If it is the nature of the humanities to be in crisis, is it not the nature of historical clues to lie hidden? Pompeii was lost until an accidental discovery in 1599 and wasn’t excavated until 1748. We didn’t even know the city’s name until 1763, and to this day new finds tell us more. What is lost in a disaster? We know precious little about social relations. What partners were faithful and which were libidinous? Who was gay? Who hated their neighbors? But the reason we write history is that not everything is lost. McEwan cleverly gives us an alt.version of Francis and Vivien to ponder.

 

McEwan may be guilty of being needlessly oblique. He definitely privileges style over narrative, a practice that will infuriate those who dislike ambiguity. What can we know? Like history, we sometimes paint with broad strokes to hide details that we don’t know.

 

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

History and Myth at Rocamadour

 

 

Rocamadour is a tiny place, but one full of wonder. It perennially shows up on lists of the most beautiful villages in France. It is indeed a village–just 604 residents–but it has a dramatic setting and a rich history. In some ways it’s more like a small Italian town in Tuscany in that part of it occupies a hilltop. Quite an imposing one. Tour buses wend their way to a small parking lot at the summit. From there you can walk through a parklet devoted to the 14 Stations of the Cross devoted to the life and passion of Christ. Even if you’re a scowling heathen you can appreciate the devotion and artwork of believers.

 

The view from the top is enough to inspire religious fervor. Rocamadour is crowned by a 12^th century château. That building isn’t open to view, but you can walk about the defensive ramparts. One wonders how often they needed to rely upon them as this part of Rocamadour is built into the cleft of a limestone cliff that sits nearly 500 feet above the Alzou, a tributary of the Dordogne River. If you time your trip correctly you can view the Alzou Valley cloaked in fog in the morning and appreciate the panorama when it burns off by the afternoon.

 

If you’re not a mountain goat you can take a lift to the bottom, but I recommend you strap on your knee braces and brave the 216 stairs of Le Grand Escalier as there are important things to see on the journey down. Plus, you can take solace the medieval pilgrims climbed up those stairs on their knees. Despite its small population Rocamadour holds an oversized importance in French medieval history. Its name derives from Saint Amadour–the name is linked linguistically to amor, French for love–who might or might not deserve sainthood depending on what variety of Catholic you ask. He was either a devout hermit from sometime in the first century AD, or a complete invention. What we know for sure is that in 1162 an unmarked grave was found near the entrance to the 12^th century Our Lady (Notre Dame) Chapel that looked quite old, though the body therein had not deteriorated. It was declared to be the body of Amadour who was venerated as a saint. (FYI, the 1969 Vatican II council removed some 200 saints’ feast days from the calendar as it could not be verified they actually existed. Try telling that to someone wearing a St. Christopher medal!)

 

Whether Amadour existed or not is just one of Rocamadour’s mysteries. Pilgrims have been coming there since the 10^th century because of miracles–I warned you in an earlier post it would come up again–associated with its version of the Black Madonna (above). In this case, it is a statue inside the church carved from walnut of Mary and the infant Jesus. Rocamadour was also on the road to Compostella and a veritable parade of medieval luminaries: kings, queens (including Eleanor of Aquitaine), and holy men.

 

Both St. Dominic and St. Bernard of Clairvaux visited and wasn’t often the founder of the Dominicans and reformer of the Benedictines and founder of the Knights Templar set up shop in the same place. The Black Virgin carving is said to be over a thousand years old. Who carved it? Some say Zacchaeus, a tax collector disciple of Jesus. His wife was Veronica who supposedly wiped Jesus’ face on his route to his crucifixion and left his facial imprint on the cloth. You might recognize that as the famed Veronica’s Veil. Still others claim the Black Madonna was carved by Amadour, whom Mary commanded to live as a hermit. Why a Black Virgin? No one is quite sure. Is it because Mary and Jesus were darker-skinned Semites, soot from candles, the age of the artifact, or…? Will someone please call Sherlock Holmes?

 

As if all of this weren’t enough, Rocamadour is also connected to Charlemagne (748-814 AD). There are few medieval literary works more famous than the epic poem La Chanson de Roland, which appeared in the 11^th century. It tells of a trap set by enemies at the Roncevaux Pass in 778 AD. An advance guard led by Roland held the pass long enough for Roland to blow a horn warning Charlemagne of danger. History or myth?  Were the attackers Basques, Saracen Muslims from Arabia, or from Spain? Who wrote the poem? Sense a theme here? To add another romantic flourish, visitors are shown cleft in the rock from which iron protrudes. It’s said that an angel gave Roland a sword called Durandal, said to be the sharpest blade in existence. Roland was able to hold off scores of Saracens until Charlemagne counterattacked. Imagine Western history had Charlemagne died at the age of 20.

 

Whew! If you make it down to the main street of the village after all that, it’s lined with small shops, artisan ware, restaurants, and places to sample fois de gras (non, merci), its famed goat cheese (oui, s’il vous plait), and wine (encore, encore!). Then it’s time to board the toy-like Quercy Rocamadour train, which just barely fits through the town gate to be shuttled back to the top.

 

Rob Weir

 

Southcentral Pennsylvania versus Western Massachusetts

Scrapple. 

 

The official bug of New England.

 

I will take a break from October’s trip to France for a digression to last week’s trip to Southcentral Pennsylvania. I’ll spare you the details, but circumstances led us to consider whether we’d ever move back to Pennsylvania. I didn’t think so, as we’ve spent the past 47 years as New Englanders. We’ve also spent a lot of time in Pennsylvania because we had many (and still have a few) relatives in the Keystone State. The semi-scientific way was to consider the two (sort of) objectively. For comparison’s sake, PA means Southcentral Pennsylvania from greater Harrisburg/Lancaster to the Maryland line and MA means Massachusetts west of Worcester to the Berkshires.

 

1. Scenery

 

Both states have beautiful areas and depressing spots. Although I am enamored of the Connecticut River Valley, PA has a lot of active farms that afford sweeping vistas. As a result it feels less cramped than Western MA towns that run into each other and close-to-the-road forests.

 

Winner: PA

 

2. Susquehanna or Connecticut River

 

At 444 miles the Susquehanna is the longest river east of the Mississippi; the Connecticut is the longest in New England at 407 miles. The Susquehanna dumps into Chesapeake Bay and the Connecticut into Long Island Sound. The Susquehanna is deeper as well (>200’ at its greatest depth vs. about 130’ for the Connecticut) but because the Susquehanna also has numerous shallow sections, most of it is not navigable. The Connecticut has been a working river for boats, water power, and fishing.

 

Winner: Toss-up. What’s your watery pleasure?

 

3.  Boston or Philadelphia

 

In Benjamin Franklin’s time Philly would have won by a landslide. I regret to inform you that Ben has been moldering in the ground since 1790. Boston has been called the American Athens for its vibrant intellectual life that includes more colleges than any other U.S. city. Western MA isn’t far behind. The Five Colleges (UMass, Amherst, Smith, Mt. Holyoke, Hampshire) have more than 30,000 students and adjacent Springfield 13,000 more. If you extend it to Hartford, CT (26 miles) it balloons to 170,000. Young people make the area more vibrant and (to some extent) recession-proof. Of course, all cities have urban challenges such as crime, but Boston is much safer than Philly and Springfield/Holyoke is safer than Harrisburg.

 

Winner: MA by a sizable margin.

 

 

4. Cultural Life:

 

Both Philly and Boston have cultural opportunities and, as a fan of art, their respective museums of fine arts are wonderful. However, Western MA has tons more art museums (the Clark, the Springfield Quadrangle, and the Norman Rockwell to mention just three). It is a center for independent music, folk and jazz clubs, theatre, classical music, and high-end galleries.

 

Winner: MA

 

5. Friendliness:

 

PA by a mile.  As an old joke goes, “It’s untrue that New Englanders aren’t friendly. We’d tell you if your feet were on fire. If’n you asked.” We make friends slowly and selectively. Once you are a friend, we are very loyal and go out of our way to make sure your tootsies aren’t aflame, but until then you’re on your own.

 

Winner: PA

 

6.  Tolerance and religion:

 

The corollary to #5 is that Pennsylvanians are much more likely to be judgmental. Folks in MA tend toward an MYOB (mind your own business) attitude. Gay, straight, trans, socialist, pro-choice …. Far fewer care in MA. I’ve interviewed conservatives up this way who have told me, “They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them.”

 

In MA, the first comment upon meeting someone is either, “Tell me about yourself,” or “What do you do?” In PA it’s “What church do you go to?” Not all of PA is like that, but there’s an old saw about PA that says it’s Philly in the east, Pittsburgh in the west, and Alabama in the middle. I grew up in the Alabama part, home of anti-choice activists. Heaven help you if try to proselytize in MA. At best you’ll get an “I’m not interested.” From there is goes downhill to “MYO F-in’ B,” or a door slammed in your face. Also, PA has tons of non-aligned churches; MA runs the gamut from Congregationalists and Quakers to Buddhists and Wiccans.

 

Winner: MA

 

7.  Politics and sports:  

 

That’s not to say MA citizens don’t get riled. In Western MA politics are as much a contact sport as ice hockey. MA is a deep blue state in which the GOP almost disappears. If we elect a GOP governor it’s because the occasional Democrat is so loathsome we hold our noses and vote against them. We also tend to follow politics as deeply as Pennsylvanians follow sports like football.

 

In Western MA we have a weird relationship to sports. UMass football is the worst program in America. The Patriots get some notice, but the Red Sox are a religion. It’s odd, though, because Western MA hates most things about Boston except the Sox, Pats, Bruins, and Celtics. I’m a Yankees fan, so I’ve learned to hold my tongue. That said, I’m a democratic socialist and the place in PA where I once lived is so Republican it went well over 80% for Trump.

 

Winner: MA.  

 

8.  Transportation:

 

MA has pretty decent public transport, whereas Southcentral PA has nearly none beyond Amtrak and you have to go to Harrisburg to get that. It’s a good thing we have public transport because there’s a reason why MA drivers are called “Massholes.” We are the worst! If you’re ever driving in MA and see a car or two or three to your left or right, don’t wonder if they are going to pull out in front of you. They will! Do not fall for the deception that stopped vehicles have yielded the right of way. They are merely doing Massmath and calculating how close you can get to them to generate the most anger before they pull out and you have to stand on the brakes to avoid a crash. If you have the temerity to blow your horn, they will flash the middle digit.

 

Winner: PA despite walls of trucks and slow traffic around Allentown, Easton, Harrisburg, Lancaster, Reading, and rinky-dink places you’ve never heard of.

 

9.  Beaches:

 

Winner: MA because a beach in PA is called New Jersey, whereas MA has the North Shore, the South Shore, and The Cape. (We never say, “Cape Cod;” it’s always “The Cape.”

 

10. Food and Beverages:

 

Call it MA gourmet vs. PA gourmand. PA food is heavy, starchy, and supersized. Many people in MA grow herb gardens; in PA the only spices are salt, pepper, and maybe cinnamon. They also eat things like scrapple, mincemeat, and hog maw. Don’t ask; you don’t want to know! New Englanders have fresh seafood; Pennsylvanians rubbery facsimiles from Red Lobster. (They don’t even have the grace to pronounce it properly. It's “lobstah.”)

 

PA coffee is an abomination to God and humankind. It resembles coffee only in that it’s brown. MA has cafes that grind freshly roasted beans and skillful baristas who serve works of art.

 

PA “beer” means Rolling Rock, Iron City, or Budweiser. MA mainstream beer is Sam Adams, but it seems as if every town and hamlet has at least one microbrewery. I enjoy trying stuff that doesn’t have to be chilled to Arctic levels to mask their lack of taste. 

 

MA has Herrell's ice cream; PA has Turkey Hill. What does a fowl know about ice cream?  

 

PA does have much better fresh fruit. I’m amused when people up here get excited about local peaches that are about the size of what is removed to create a steer. MA cherries aren’t much better. But MA veg is superior. Butter and sugar corn is delish; PA yellow corn is starch on a stick. Hadley asparagus is the best on the planet and we know that green vegetables should be, well… green, not pressure-cooked gray. We also love arugula, which some in PA think is a type of Chevrolet.

 

Winner: MA

 

11.  Taxes

 

MA has been nicknamed “Taxachusetts,” which isn’t actually true. PA residents also hate taxes. Show of hands for anyone who just loves to pay taxes.

 

Winner: Toss-up. If you want services and schools, ya’ gotta pay for ‘em. We just make ourselves feel better if we vent about them.

 

12. World views:

 

I’ll be partly charitable on this. In PA, folks  think the key to happiness is family and owning stuff. In MA we are happiest when we are with friends and are doing stuff. 

 

However, Pennsylvanians simply don’t get irony. Faced with irony the faces are either blank because they don’t get it, or because they confuse irony with sarcasm. Not so. Sarcasm is a reflexive act; irony is premeditated, conscious, and intellectual. It is intended to be humorous commentary on the gap between what is commonly believed and reality.

 

Winner: MA because I simply don’t know how one can live without irony!  

 

If you do the tally, you’ll know why I call myself a New Englander. No irony intended. Had I added a weather category, PA might have won, though with climate change that’s less true than it used to be. You can call that tragic irony.

 

Rob Weir

 

How to Break Bad Political Habits

 

By now you’ve probably digested the news that of the eight Democratic Senators who caved in to give Republicans the votes necessary to end the government shutdown. The enduring question is why? The eight– seven Democrats and one Independent who caucuses with the Democrats–can offer all of the disingenuous justifications they want, but the bottom line is that they have handed Trump a major political victory which he will use to blame the crisis on Democrats and liberals. The Disloyal Eight may have sandbagged next year’s midterm elections. The only partial victory the Democrats might have wrangled is a continuation of SNAP benefits. That is if:

 

·      The House agrees to those terms

·      Trump doesn’t throw another wobbly and refuse to sign the bill

 

What was surrendered was a guarantee that the Affordable Care Act would remain in place. Even SNAP could go away as its funding under the (ahem!) compromise bill covers only the period between November 2025 and the end of 2026.

 

I’ve watched the Democratic Party my entire life and it hasn’t inspired substantial confidence or hope since the end of Lydon Johnson’s administration. Oh sure, millions joyfully celebrated the kumbaya election of Barack Obama, the last morally upright president, a man too decent to do things he could’ve done, like make a recess appointment of a new Supreme Court justice when Anton Scalia died. He bet that Hillary Clinton would become president, but we know how that turned out. Instead of the moderate Merrick Garland we ended up with Neil Gorsuch, one of the SCOTUS “originalists” who see the Founders as infallible crystal ball gazers.

 

If you are a Democrat, it’s time to face the music; your party is as outdated as a 1967 Studebaker. As I frequently note, its singular talent is the ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Where’s the pulse? Well, there’s Bernie Sanders, a democratic socialist, his mentee AOC, and rising star Zohran Mamdani, also a democratic socialist. None of them are mainstream Democrats and Bernie is 81. In all candor, the Democrats are in serious need of a remake represented by 30-somethings like AOC and Mamdani.

 

Let’s look at Democrats who voted with the GOP. If you know this, skip to the end to see what I propose.

 

Angus King (78). He’s an indie but don’t think Bernie Sanders; Maine has odd electoral districting and often splits its electoral votes. King is a lawyer, a two-time governor, and a classic middle of the roader. He leans liberal, but just barely. He won’t be up for reelection until 2030, by which time he’ll be in his 80s.

 

Catherine Cortes Masto (58) and Jacky Rosen (65) are both from Nevada. Let’s call their votes what they are: Senators protecting Nevada tourism. Neither is up for reelection soon. They are concerned about airports shutting down. They’d rather deal with the potential collapse of the ACA than a decline in visitors to Vegas and Reno.

 

Jeanne Shaheen (75) and Maggie Hassan (64) are from New Hampshire, and you might think they’d favor a shutdown as the unofficial state motto is “We aren’t like Massachusetts.” Hassan says her vote was to save SNAP benefits, which would sound more principled were NH not a state currently funding SNAP. Shaheen has called for an extension of ACA. Good luck getting it. What she meant to say is that she’s up for reelection next year and will face John Sununu. For some reason people in NH love the Sununu family like little kids love monsters.

 

Speaking of reelection, Illinois Senator Dick Durbin (78) wants another term. You could look at the second most powerful Senate Democrat (after Chuck Schumer) and think “player.” Do Illini really want to give Durbin another term? He’d be pushing 85 at the end of it.

 

Tim Kaine (64) of Virginia is another self-interest vote. After all, Virginia has close to 400,000 federal workers once you count Department of Defense jobs, those on active military duty, and non-military support staff. He is on record of saying he “doesn’t care” if his colleagues are mad at him. This from the man who did Hillary Clinton zero good as her 2016 running mate.

 

John Fetterman (53) of Pennsylvania would normally be a strong presidential contender. Except many in his own party think he’s nuts. That not my slam on him; that’s what they really think. He has had widely reported mental health issues and a stroke. Fetterman is an enigma. At times he channels Bernie; at others he’s as inconsistent as a libertarian. At least he was upfront about his opposition to working without pay. 

 

BREAKING THE HABIT.

 

Republicanism has become the secular religion of conservatives and troglodytes. Democrats are the religion of dreamers without a clue. Party politics are dying and we would do well to pull the life support plug.

 

Here’s how to register your anger about the Great Sellout of 2025: Unenroll in the Democratic Party. Tell the courthouse clerk it’s a protest against machine politics. Most states allow you to request which primary ballot you want, so you can still vote D if you’d like, but “Independent” behind your name lets you avoid a lot of noise. I routinely unsubscribe to emails that try to pigeonhole me and never answer campaign phone calls. When I support someone financially I avoid all official party sites. Vote for younger candidates. A party relying on people my age or (gasp!) older has no future.

 

We Solve Murders: The Start of a New Series?

 

 

 

We Solve Murders (2024)

By Richard Osman

Viking, 381 pages.

★★★★

 

If you’ve been a fan of the Thursday Murder Club novels of Richard Osman, his We Solve Murders has all the earmarks of being the kickoff of a new series. If it is indeed the start—and let’s face it the Murder Club cast is aging out, as it were—you will need to adjust to the fact that thus far the new cast isn’t as adorable as the old one yet. But don’t despair, there’s still a lot of British eccentricity on the pages.

 

Steve Wheeler is a retired cop in Axley whose sole ambition is to wear his vintage rock shirts and loaf away his days. Axley is an invented English village that represents a safe retreat for Wheeler. Steve’s wife Debbie was killed in a train crash years ago, but he still “talks” to her every night. Axley also represents self-imposed isolation. Steve is still in his 50s, but his “activities” are limited to arguing with his pub mates over road routes and taking part in quiz games. His daughter-in-law Amy tries her best to persuade Steve to expand his interests, but he’s not buying it. She runs her own personal protection business to get out of the house because hubby Adam is away on business a lot. Don’t think desk job. Amy is a 5’6” dynamo and woe betide anyone who thinks she’s a pushover. They can contemplate what wrong from a hospital bed! As it happens, Amy and Steve are best buddies, even though she’s all action and he’s trying to be no-action. Amy loves her husband, but neither she nor Steve are cut out for Adam’s business world.

 

Enter Rosie D’Antonio, a famous author living off her reputation. She is classic fading diva who puts the moves on everyone she meets. She has the feeling she is being stalked and hires Amy to investigate and protect her. Amy is reluctant to take the job because she thinks Rosie is imagining things. Maybe. Maybe not. Osman brings us up to the moment with characters using ChatGPT for various reasons.

 

Francois Loubert uses ChatGPT to send impersonal emails because it is hard to trace his IP address and it leaves very few clues of his real identity. As a money smuggler, he has reasons to be incognito. ChatGPT is hard to crack, but not impossible. As Amy investigates, she gets close enough that Loubert or a mysterious “Joe Blow” hires assassins to eliminate her. That’s easier to imagine than to accomplish, but she takes enough lumps that Steve is convinced to join the investigation. After all, he’s much closer to her than he is to his son Adam.  The botched hits are amusing, even when they are gruesome failures.

 

It might be easier to crack were there but one ChatGPT trail and only one connected to Rosie. Osman constructs a convoluted plot. Jeff Nolan is the CEO of Maximum Import Solutions who’d like to know why three of his clients were killed. Is his former partner Henk involved? Is he Loubert? Who is writing emails “in the style of an English gentleman?” Who is “Joe Blow?” Amy and Steve find themselves on a round-the-world trip that begins in England and touches down in South Carolina, Dubai, St. Lucia, Ireland, Fiji, Hawaii, and back in the UK. Sometimes it’s a literal “touch” down.  Amy is as wily as she is wiry. She charms private airport passport control agent Carlos into helping her deceive one pursuer. Among the offbeat characters she and/or Steve meet include dumb-as-an-ox actor Max Highfield; Nolan’s steely secretary Susan Knox, the keeper of company contracts and history; Mickey, a loud-mouthed but laid-back Texan golfer; and Eddie, a fanboy.

 

Do Steve and Amy solve the various mysteries? Given that the two set up a new agency titled We Solve Mysteries, you can rest assured they save their own hides. That doesn’t mean they are always right; after all, Osman’s goal is to entertain, not be Sherlock Holmes. Given the number of loose threads in the plot, Osman wisely avoids any sort of all-roads-lead-to-Rome solution that ties everything together. Sigmund Freud likely never said “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” but that adage holds true. Osman gives us an unlikely pairing of a failed retiree and his daughter-in-law, and if that’s not a series setup, I’ll retire my deerstalker cap.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

Needle Lake: Who Are You?

 

 

Needle Lake  (2025)

By Justine Champine

Penguin Randow House, 256 pages.

★★★

 

I really liked Needle Lake, so why only three stars? Simply because I think a lot of readers will find it slow, despite its short length. You need to know that there is very little that happens in the novel and that the one tragic and terrible thing that does occur is revealed from the get-go. In my opinion, author Justine Champine would have gotten more bang for the proverbial buck had she cloaked that event in more ambiguity. It is the sort of thing that should come as a surprise, not something preordained.

 

If I might borrow from rocker Pete Townshend, Needle Lake is like the opening of one of Townshend’s songs: Who are you? Who? Who? Who? Who? Much of the novel is deeply interior. Mineral, Washington, is a West Coast logging town where there’s not much going on. Fourteen-year-old Ida was born with a heart defect that led her parents to (over) protect her. She is not allowed to run, exert herself, take gym classes, or fight back if bullied. As is often the case, this makes her a target, not a figure that evokes pity. It doesn’t help that Ida’s a map nerd who wins geography contests. Most kids her age don’t think about the bigger world, let alone treat maps as sacred documents or dream about dots on a map that Ida knows all about. As a result, Ida is a recluse who insulates herself from social isolation by leaning into the safety of her routines. She’d much rather study alone in the library than try to befriend her tormenters.

 

Ida’s routines are upended when her 16-year-old cousin Elna comes to stay for several weeks. All Ida is told is that Elna needs a short break from her mother in San Francisco. At first Ida is annoyed by her cousin’s constant chatter about how much better things are in San Francisco and how her mother lets her do as she wishes. Eventually, though, Ida comes to believe that Elna is everything Ida is not: brave, free, popular, glamourous… Of course, at 14, Ida doesn’t yet see that a lot of what she finds admirable can also manifest as recklessness, unrestrained, promiscuous, and faux painted dress-up. And that’s not to mention Elna’s thievery, selfishness, and lying.

 

When the horrible thing that happens finally takes place, Elna convinces Ida to run away with her. They are bound for Los Angeles, a place where Elna is convinced is her destiny. They are on the run for several days, though why police can’t trace a stolen vehicle is the novel’s McGuffin. Don’t despair, nothing awful happens to the girls. The true tragedy of Needle Lake is ineffectual parenting. Male role models are conspicuously absent for reasons that will be revealed, but neither mother/sister is adept at raising her daughter. To add a layer of poignancy, Ida admires Elna’s adaptability and poise, yet Elna is secretly envious of Ada’s protective bubble. Each will have to come to grips with the fact that wishes don’t help in the quest for self-identity.

 

Champine tells most of her tale through Ida’s eyes. She does such an excellent job of showing the world through 14-year-old eyes that it took me back to my own search for identity at the same age. More specifically, it reminded me of just how hard it was to answer the who-are-you question. But because Ida was used to being self-contained and imagined the world and her potential place in it, we get the sense that she will be all right. Elna? The best we can say is that it’s an open question. She certainly has more to reconcile than Ida. I don’t know if Champine meant for us to conclude that morality is the key to making dreams concrete, but it’s certainly a legitimate takeaway message. I wish Champine had developed intentionality more clearly. Alas, a weak ending leaves us wondering if the key to knowing who are you is linked to another question: What is the nature of your dreams?

 

Rob Weir

 

# Thanks to NetGalley and Random House for an advance copy of Needle Lake.