Tightwad tips: summer reads on the cheap

 

With one day of school left, I'm starting to think about what books I might want to pack along for trips, or for just laying out on a blanket in the back yard while the kids play in the wading pool. I've been curling up with the Kindle right before bed (still only part way through Death Comes to Pemberley, by P.D. James), but I'm looking forward to having more time to read for pleasure.

As stated in a previous post, the cheapest place to find a good read is the public library. Some libraries even offer books and magazines left to swap by other patrons. However, if you must purchase a book---because the library doesn't have what you want, or they are charging for inter-library loan (as ours just started to do), or you need to add a favorite to your personal library--used bookstores are an inexpensive alternative.

Our small town does have a couple used bookstores, but finding what I want is a hit-or-miss proposition. Sometimes I've been able to get store credit for my old books; the amount varies depending on the resale value of what I bring in.

That said, I buy most of my used books online, and most of those at Half.com. What I love about Half.com is anyone selling an item (they also sell movies and music) lists the condition and the price they are offering, and buyers can choose the price and/or condition that suits them. One of my favorite sellers is Green Earth Books, which carries a substantial catalog, many of them for 75¢.

Audrey recently discovered the Mr. Putter and Tabby series by Cynthia Rylant, and after multiple re-readings of the half-dozen on the shelves at the library, I bought her a bunch of the ones she hadn't read, all for 75¢ each plus shipping. 

Oh, and I picked up the third volume of The Tightwad Gazette (also for 75¢) to round out my collection--for research, you understand.

Tightwad tuesday: read up

A while ago, one of the children's librarians at our library (who happens to be a friend we got to know last year at the community garden) gifted me with a couple books the library was letting go: The Tightwad Gazette, volumes one and two. Since then, they've languished on a windowsill under a stack of library books (what can I say? I've been a bit preoccupied), but the other day I was looking for something to read while I camped with my swollen ankles propped up in front of the A/C, and they caught my eye.

Amy Dacyczyn, a self-proclaimed "Frugal Zealot", first published The Tightwad Gazette in newsletter form in 1990; later she compiled the newsletters into three volumes, organized seasonally. One of the things I really enjoyed about the books right away was Dacyczyn's notion that thrift gets an undeservedly bad rap, and we should promote "tightwaddery" by seeking out and sharing with other like-minded penny-pinchers.

As with all tightwad tips, her newsletters have some suggestions that won't work for every household, and some are even a bit dated. What I've found useful is that her ideas (and those of her readers) get me thinking about how I do things, where I could cut back, what I can tweak in how I'm doing things now. One of the best ideas that I'm itching to try--but it's going to take more work than I can do right now--is creating a price notebook of all the items our family purchases most frequently so I can compare how much different stores charge for that item, and know when I'm really getting a good deal. I plan on trying this later in the fall, and will report back on how it goes.

Meanwhile, if you're looking for some interesting reading, I highly recommend checking out The Tightwad Gazette--from your local library, of course.

Mr. Popper's Penguins

We just got back from the Bookworms Club, a chapter book reading club which meets every week at the public library. Last fall we, or rather Jimmy, attended the picture book club, which I thought was probably a bit below his reading level, but I wanted to start out easy getting him used to the norms of the group. When the schedule came out for the new session, I signed him up for the chapter book club, and his first meeting was this afternoon.

Sue, one of the children's librarians, reads to the kids and then leads an activity related to what they're reading. Today the kids came upstairs from the meeting doing a stiff, penguin-like march, and Sue told me she's reading "Mr. Popper's Penguins" to them.

According to Sue, this is her first time reading it, but I remember the book well from my childhood, when I received it as a Christmas gift one year from my grandparents. If you have or know kids, it's a great book to read and share with them--funny, imaginative, surprisingly tender--and apparently, soon to be a motion picture starring Jim Carrey in the titular role.

After what he did to the Grinch, I may not be able to watch it; some things are better left alone.

Enchanted april

A year ago at Christmas, a friend gave me a copy of The Enchanted April, one of her favorite books. Immediately I was drawn in by the Maxfield Parrish painting on the cover, and found it to be a refreshing read, especially in the cold desolation of mid-winter here in central Washington. Then a few months ago, I caught the 1992 film adaptation on television. It was faithful to the book, and stood on its own as a well-crafted period piece.

Last Saturday I picked the book up off the shelf and read it over the weekend. I get a lot of flack from Jim for reading the same books over and over again, but for me there's something reassuring about it, like visiting with old friends; I always know what to expect and yet occasionally I'm surprised by a new and thought-provoking insight I couldn't have anticipated.

I remember enjoying my first reading: the lush Italian scenery described in loving detail, gorgeous flowers, moonlight across the water, humorous characterizations, a comedy of errors, and unexpected friendship and reconciliation. It was all there this time, and more.

Maybe it's all the changes I've been making in my own life over the last year, because this time I had a much greater appreciation for the themes of forgiveness, letting go, love, beauty, serenity, and making time to just be. And I found unexpected inspiration for my upcoming poetic endeavor in the idea of making time for beauty and the transforming power doing so can have in my life. Dare I say it, I'm actually looking forward to NaPoWriMo, the opportunity to take a few moments each day to create, to express the beauty I see around me, the love I feel, and joy at just being alive, being me.

NaPoWriMo #10: mending

I'm playing catch-up because yesterday got away from me. The truth is, the time I should have been writing was spent immersed in reading. What can I say? It wasn't even poetry, but I'm a sucker for a good book. And I'll make up for it by writing two poems tomorrow, okay?

Earlier tonight I was down in the basement in my sewing/computer room mending a housecoat for an older friend of mine. I fixed a couple other things, too, from my big stack of "UFOs" (unfinished objects). This may reveal what a simple creature I really am, but I always feel a tremendous sense of relaxation and accomplishment when I do mending (which is not necessarily true about my other sewing projects). It's about the soothing rhythm of stitching, whether I use a machine or sew by hand, and also about being useful, extending the life of something just a little beyond what it might have otherwise been. Somehow that makes me feel as though I'm extended, too.


Mended

Green white black blue spools
carefully threaded through
hand wheel turned gently forward
catching bobbin thread
fabric laid flat lined up
against ruled throat plate
comforting pressure
of knee lever against my leg
soothing reverse forward reverse
sweet and steady hum
old Singer reverberating
seven stitches per inch
and
fleecy green pajamas
faded floral housecoat
cotton crib sheet worn soft
front pocket tee-shirt
wool skirt with ripped hem
satisfyingly
return to service.

Birds, bees and other creatures

During the past week I've been rereading Dandelion Wine, a novel by one of my favorite authors, Ray Bradbury. More on that some other post. In the preface, Bradbury discusses his creative process. He talks about going back to memories of childhood and picking a visual or a word or a smell and starting with that, then seeing what unfolds. I've been ruminating on his idea and this morning, my own inspiration hit me.

The "F" word. I know, I know—it's an unlikely muse for someone like me, but hear me out.

It was 1977, and I was in second grade at Fauntleroy Elementary School in West Seattle. Fauntleroy was down the hill from where we lived at a rental house on Donovan Street, the house with the lilacs.

The school closed in 1981. The last time I was there was for Ruth's wedding reception, five years ago. Behind the school, the playground was a ruin of twisted steel, patched here and there with decrepit rubber mats, like so many peeling bandaids vainly trying to hold together the hopelessly cracked asphalt. The still-handsome brick building space was rented out to a day care, a dance school and private events.

In 1977, though, Fauntleroy throbbed with life, the pulsing blood of school children pumping reckless through each arterial hall. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Crawford, was an awe-inspiring woman with silvery blond bobbed hair. More than once she chastized me for losing myself in a book at the beginning of class, only to surface, startled, in the middle of the Pledge of Allegiance.

One crisp morning as I was hanging my blue and yellow parka in the coatroom, I heard it whispered. Scandalized sniggers. Later, as I sank behind the wide wooden expanse of desk, exhausted by lunch recess, I heard it again, from the scalawag seated just to my left. I turned and whispered it back, but even then my voice had the (unhappy) ability to project, and I quickly found myself facing the stern visage of Mrs. Crawford. With a single look worth a hundred lectures, she dispatched me to the principal's office.

Mr. Richardson and I were already well acquainted, and he gestured for me to be seated on an uncomfortable wooden chair in front of his massive desk.

"So?"

I abjectly explained that I had said something bad, and told him what it was.

"Do you know what that word means?"

I shook my head no.

"I'm going to send you home, and when you get there, I'd like you to tell your mother what you said and ask her to explain to you exactly what it means." I was dismissed.

The quarter-mile walk home up the hill was especially long that afternoon. Mr. Richardson must have called my mother because she was forearmed with a pencil and notepad. She started with the obligatory brief remonstrance about the unsavory nature of the "F" word. Then my mother—the daughter of a nurse who would one day become one herself—segued perilously with "When a mommy and a daddy love each other," and launched into a detailed clinical description of human intimacy, complete with anatomically correct drawings, to scale.

Fascinated, terrified and disgusted all at once, my eight year-old eyes never looked at boys quite the same. Or my own parents, for that matter.

I'm thinking when the time comes to have The Talk with Audrey, I'll probably skip the pad and pencil.

Johnny tremain

It's a bit late in the game on Independence Day. Most of the day I've been working on projects for Jimmy's big boy bedroom. This morning Jim painted the dresser that I've been nagging him to do for the last week, and so I'm pushing to get all the necessary projects done for the room to be ready this Saturday. For the last little while I've been listening to the fireworks outside and trying to find relief from the heat (it's been 100 degrees here most of the afternoon) as I cut fabric for a bedskirt.

I was going to skip blogging today but then I got thinking about how much I love Independence Day. A lot of that love comes from being a history buff and being fascinated with the American Revolution, how an amalgamation of contradictory personalities came together and wrought such a remarkable chain of events. With a bit of embarassment, I have to admit that my favorite book about the Revolution is actually fictitious (oh, the shame)—but I've loved it since I was a kid and I just can't help myself. If you haven't, I highly recommend that you read Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes. It's a great story, imaginitively told, and is one of my all-time faves. That, and it's a much easier read than 1776 (which I also love and highly recommend, but which is hard-core history and not for the easily bored).

I had trouble in getting to solla sollew

As a child, I was fortunate to have a family that encouraged and supported my voracious love of reading. In particular, my Dad's father and his wife sent me books or magazine subscriptions for almost every Christmas and birthday present. I still have some of them, and they're among my most cherished possessions. One Christmas back in the 1970s they sent me a multi-volume anthology of Dr. Seuss stories. Of the dozens of tales included, one of my favorites was "I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew", in which the protagonist is on a difficult journey to the elusive Solla Sollew, "where they never have troubles, at least, very few."

Funny how when life gets crazy, you can be grounded and find comfort in what you learned as a child, even from the most unlikely sources. Over the last couple of days, I keep thinking back to that story, and how the hero learned that in the search for an easy life, it is actually our challenges that teach us and help us grow. Most of all, the clever rhymes that have stuck with me for decades remind me that keeping a sense of humor is paramount.

Forget kindergarten; all I ever needed to know I learned from Dr. Seuss!