"If you seek to understand nautical fiction, you must start with Frederick Marryat.
People the world over have thrilled to the fictional exploits of Horatio Hornblower, Jack Aubrey, Nicholas Ramage and others. But few know that these characters, along with the modern nautical fiction genre itself, can be traced in large part to the writings of one man—Frederick Marryat. Even fewer know that Marryat personally experienced many of the events he described..."
The above is quoted from a review of The Life of Captain Frederick Marryat, by David Hannay. I have recently discovered Marryat, and I am already totally in love with is adventurous sea stories. At present, I'm in the middle of listening to Percival Keene as narrated by William Sutherland. Let me tell you, this book is enthralling! It's the story of a boy who begins his naval career at the age of 13, as midshipman aboard a British naval ship. The vessel is captained by his biological father, a nobleman who has refused to acknowledge Percival, as he was born out of wedlock. Percival, a spirited boy with a penchant for playing pranks, gets into one scrape after another. I'm only sixteen chapters in (and it's quite a long book), but I've already laughed out loud more times that I can count. I can't help but root for Percival, and hope that he will end up winning his father's respect. According to the summary, this novel will include encounters with pirates and all sorts of derring-do, which I can't wait to get to. I am enjoying it more than I can say.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Busy Sunday
Yesterday was a looong day. Woke up, made oatmeal, studied my Watchtower. Zack was feeling down and depressed and wouldn't eat breakfast. We watched an episode of Top Gear on Netflix while I did the ironing. I have never, ever been a car person, but this show is fascinating and strangely addictive. It's got three presenters who are basically British teenagers trapped in old guys' bodies, doing goofy stuff and driving cars very fast. On yesterday's episode, they had to make limos out of ordinary cars, run the limos through a series of insane tests involving paintball guns and a water cannon, and then chauffeur celebrities to the Brit Awards in them. It cheered Zack up considerably. At one point he laughed so hard, he was close to crying.
At meeting we had a really lovely talk by Roy McOmber called Can You Live Forever? Will You? It was one of those ones full of really neat creation trivia type of stuff that gets you all excited for living in paradise and having the time to learn everything about everything.
After meeting it was just a bunch of random stuff. Then Zack had to go into work for a while. I hate going to sleep alone so I made myself stay up, just surfing around on the internet at first. Then I got on the phone with Abby and I got to drink a cup of tea while she read me two chapters of A Tale of Two Cities. That was really fun. I love being read to, and she is a great reader.
Today I have mountains of laundry to catch up on, bird cages to clean, meeting to study for, etc. etc. So I better get busy.
At meeting we had a really lovely talk by Roy McOmber called Can You Live Forever? Will You? It was one of those ones full of really neat creation trivia type of stuff that gets you all excited for living in paradise and having the time to learn everything about everything.
After meeting it was just a bunch of random stuff. Then Zack had to go into work for a while. I hate going to sleep alone so I made myself stay up, just surfing around on the internet at first. Then I got on the phone with Abby and I got to drink a cup of tea while she read me two chapters of A Tale of Two Cities. That was really fun. I love being read to, and she is a great reader.
Today I have mountains of laundry to catch up on, bird cages to clean, meeting to study for, etc. etc. So I better get busy.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
My New Mug
Today has been pretty good! Zack and I met with our new service group for the first time this morning. We're now at the Galloways' home, and Neisha and the McOmbers go there too, so that should be pretty fun. I went on a return visit in Fircrest and had a really awesome mini doorstep study out of the Truth tract with a 9th grader named Elizabeth who could not be sweeter. She said she would find her Bible and read the tract and highlight things for next Saturday when I come back. I was like, "That sounds excellent!" And then I went on another doorstep study with Neisha, and that lady said she would like to start coming to the meetings. So we were both pretty happy.
At Starbucks, I finally found the Perfect Mug. I have been on a quest ever since I broke the Hello Cupcake mug months and months ago. I have a really cool Eddie Bauer mug that's yellow with a butterfly on it, but it can't go in the microwave. And I have the one we bought in a gift shop at the Grand Canyon on our honeymoon, but it has a crack in it and I really really don't want it to break. So I try not to use it much. I knew I needed a replacement, but since we don't have a lot of room in our cupboards for a huge mug collection, I have to be discriminating. I didn't want to buy just any old mug; it had to be The One. So I've had my eye out whenever I go shopping.
Today, on service break at Starbucks, I found it! Here's a picture:
I really love the colors (it's a nice greeny-yellow inside), and because the design reminds me of picking blueberries. When my family first moved to this area from Spokane over ten years ago now, the apartment where we were living was right next to an ancient abandoned blueberry orchard. That fall, Tate and I went exploring down the tunnels between the bushes, which over the decades have grown up into trees. At one point, we got lost, and I remember running back and forth up and down the tunnels as the evening light faded, trying to find our way out. Over the next three weeks we picked buckets of blueberries which I made into pies, syrup, or jam, or sometimes we just ate them fresh. I remember Tate reading aloud to me one afternoon when he didn't feel like picking. The book was a biography of Louis Braille, and though I can remember very little of it now, I remember being fascinated by the story, and being glad that Tate wanted to read it to me, because it wasn't a book I'd likely have picked up on my own.
Over the years, I've missed a few blueberry seasons, but Tate and I have tried to go every September. I love the peacefulness of it down there in the shade, with the little birds rustling around and the wind blowing in the leaves. I know I'll think of it when I look at my new mug, and that makes me happy.
At Starbucks, I finally found the Perfect Mug. I have been on a quest ever since I broke the Hello Cupcake mug months and months ago. I have a really cool Eddie Bauer mug that's yellow with a butterfly on it, but it can't go in the microwave. And I have the one we bought in a gift shop at the Grand Canyon on our honeymoon, but it has a crack in it and I really really don't want it to break. So I try not to use it much. I knew I needed a replacement, but since we don't have a lot of room in our cupboards for a huge mug collection, I have to be discriminating. I didn't want to buy just any old mug; it had to be The One. So I've had my eye out whenever I go shopping.
Today, on service break at Starbucks, I found it! Here's a picture:
I really love the colors (it's a nice greeny-yellow inside), and because the design reminds me of picking blueberries. When my family first moved to this area from Spokane over ten years ago now, the apartment where we were living was right next to an ancient abandoned blueberry orchard. That fall, Tate and I went exploring down the tunnels between the bushes, which over the decades have grown up into trees. At one point, we got lost, and I remember running back and forth up and down the tunnels as the evening light faded, trying to find our way out. Over the next three weeks we picked buckets of blueberries which I made into pies, syrup, or jam, or sometimes we just ate them fresh. I remember Tate reading aloud to me one afternoon when he didn't feel like picking. The book was a biography of Louis Braille, and though I can remember very little of it now, I remember being fascinated by the story, and being glad that Tate wanted to read it to me, because it wasn't a book I'd likely have picked up on my own.
Over the years, I've missed a few blueberry seasons, but Tate and I have tried to go every September. I love the peacefulness of it down there in the shade, with the little birds rustling around and the wind blowing in the leaves. I know I'll think of it when I look at my new mug, and that makes me happy.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
I Go Back to the House for a Book
I turn around on the gravel and go back to the house for a book, something to read at the doctor's office, and while I am inside, running the finger of inquisition along a shelf, another me that did not bother to go back to the house for a book heads out on his own, rolls down the driveway, and swings left toward town, a ghost in his ghost car, another knot in the string of time, a good three minutes ahead of me — a spacing that will now continue for the rest of my life.
- Billy Collins
I was introduced to Billy Collins by this post on Ishi's blog. I looked for more of his poetry online, and found this one fascinating. I think about this sort of thing all the time - the tiny choices we make and the potential of vast, unimaginable repercussions.
I was thinking about it a few days ago, remembering a time out in service when i was walking door to door with a friend. We were giving out Memorial invitations, I think, covering territory after territory on a mild, sunny afternoon. This friend of mine, who has lived through tragedies I can't even imagine, was telling me her life story as we strolled along.
I noticed as we walked into a culdisac that an older gentleman on the other side of the street had come out of his house and was preparing to get into his truck and drive away. I thought about crossing the road and saying hello, and handing him an invitation. But the thought made me a little nervous, so I decided not to bother. I'd just wait till we got around to his house, and if his wife was home, I'd leave it with her. Otherwise, I'd tuck it under the mat.
When we eventually got around to his house, the front yard and patio were decorated with all sorts of little souvenirs from around the world. Little hanging signs and pieces of colorful outdoor art that told of trips to places like Germany, Portugal, and Argentina. Nobody was home, so my friend and I spent a couple of minutes looking at the souvenirs and talking about how we wished we could travel that much. I left an invitation under the mat, and wished I would have spoken to the man. He seemed like he was probably an interesting person.
A month or two later, I was back in that same cul-de-sac, this time on a return visit with another sister. She pulled into the driveway of that same house with something to leave with the woman who lived there. I immediately recognized the souvenirs on the patio. I must have said something about them, because the sister started telling me all about the couple, how they were in their 50s and loved to travel together. They had just taken their last vacation down to Mexico, and the husband had gone swimming in the ocean one afternoon, and had drowned.
I was stunned. I immediately flashed back to that afternoon when I saw him getting into his truck, and my decision not to walk across the road. I'd thought to myself that there would be other opportunities. I was reluctant to interrupt my friend and her story, and I was nervous about edging out of my comfort zone. So I let it go.
It's not like I think that If I'd handed him an invitation, things would have altered so much that he wouldn't have gone swimming that afternoon in dangerous water. But who knows? Who knows what else might have changed? That might have been the last time he had an opportunity to hear the good news.
I think about it sometimes, and I just feel terrible.
- Billy Collins
I was introduced to Billy Collins by this post on Ishi's blog. I looked for more of his poetry online, and found this one fascinating. I think about this sort of thing all the time - the tiny choices we make and the potential of vast, unimaginable repercussions.
I was thinking about it a few days ago, remembering a time out in service when i was walking door to door with a friend. We were giving out Memorial invitations, I think, covering territory after territory on a mild, sunny afternoon. This friend of mine, who has lived through tragedies I can't even imagine, was telling me her life story as we strolled along.
I noticed as we walked into a culdisac that an older gentleman on the other side of the street had come out of his house and was preparing to get into his truck and drive away. I thought about crossing the road and saying hello, and handing him an invitation. But the thought made me a little nervous, so I decided not to bother. I'd just wait till we got around to his house, and if his wife was home, I'd leave it with her. Otherwise, I'd tuck it under the mat.
When we eventually got around to his house, the front yard and patio were decorated with all sorts of little souvenirs from around the world. Little hanging signs and pieces of colorful outdoor art that told of trips to places like Germany, Portugal, and Argentina. Nobody was home, so my friend and I spent a couple of minutes looking at the souvenirs and talking about how we wished we could travel that much. I left an invitation under the mat, and wished I would have spoken to the man. He seemed like he was probably an interesting person.
A month or two later, I was back in that same cul-de-sac, this time on a return visit with another sister. She pulled into the driveway of that same house with something to leave with the woman who lived there. I immediately recognized the souvenirs on the patio. I must have said something about them, because the sister started telling me all about the couple, how they were in their 50s and loved to travel together. They had just taken their last vacation down to Mexico, and the husband had gone swimming in the ocean one afternoon, and had drowned.
I was stunned. I immediately flashed back to that afternoon when I saw him getting into his truck, and my decision not to walk across the road. I'd thought to myself that there would be other opportunities. I was reluctant to interrupt my friend and her story, and I was nervous about edging out of my comfort zone. So I let it go.
It's not like I think that If I'd handed him an invitation, things would have altered so much that he wouldn't have gone swimming that afternoon in dangerous water. But who knows? Who knows what else might have changed? That might have been the last time he had an opportunity to hear the good news.
I think about it sometimes, and I just feel terrible.
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