Tempestuousity (and Other Goodly Words)
Henry Fuseli, The Enchanted Island: Before the Cell of Prospero (1797)
Much more on account of my quirkiness than erudition I have long liked The Tempest, Shakespeare’s straightforward tale of Prospero, a bitter old wizard, and his grudge match against his brother and the clowns who betrayed him, stole his neglected dukedom, and stranded him with his young daughter on a romantic little hell of an island somewhere in the Mediterranean.
Thou Rambling Ill-Formed Child—Please Call Your Parents (Parenthood)
Anne: a softer portrait
It’s expected for a writer to dislike some or all of their published work on account on perfectionism, insecurity, self-deprecation—or overdue enlightenment. In The Author to Her Book, Anne Bradstreet used a child as a vivid metaphor for a disfavored book of her verse that she may have felt was prematurely published, and to such a degree you’d think the poem was about a real child if you neglected to read the title. Taking to task the “ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain” as “one unfit for light,” Bradstreet speaks with the hair-wilting harshness of a disappointed parent running out of ideas. In the end she softens, empathizes, and offers a bit of counsel on the rigors of the world (“‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam”). A good thing, because she evidently harbored enough venom to kill a Puritan village. Really, the affection seems to have been there all along, and part of her anger is with herself for … being angry.
The Day The Ceiling Fell
Mr. Malcolm, cleanup crew
Literally a third of the living room ceiling fell to the floor on Father’s Day (see picture). This was my fault. About 12 years ago there was a heavy rainfall while I had the roof open for the addition. The tarp didn’t do its job, or rather I didn’t do my job hanging the tarp, and many gallons of water filtered down into and through cracks in the ceiling. I patched the ceiling in a haphazard way, but the bandages held until new cracks appeared last week. Sunday morning I was idly talking to my son Julian about repair options. He kept asking, “Can’t we just call someone?” I assured him it was an aesthetic problem. (And I never “call someone.” I am the slow-but-free live-in contractor.) Wrong. We were nearby when it all let loose. The noise of three hundred pounds of plaster hitting the hardwood floor was impressive even from the curb. Think thunder. The violence was enough to shake things off the nearby walls and shelves (fortunately not my pictures!).
No one was hurt and surprisingly little was damaged, though the cat might take issue regarding her emotional well-being. I half expected to find her little tabby tail curling out from under a sheet of plaster, a notion I found amusing in the perverse way of A Fish Called Wanda—and yes I do love this cat. The formerly worn-out couch and carpet are now truly worn out. The venerable piano, once rescued from a synagogue dumpster, gained even more character. I learned the good way that closing your laptop when you’re not using it is a good idea.
Book found under the debris
The worst injury of all is to my faltering ego. I’m going to make some lemonade from the disaster and build a tray ceiling, improve the lighting, and rough in a ceiling fan; meager recompense for the room blowing up. So now I have a new medium-sized project added to a crowded list with more items delayed than the O’Hare departures in a blizzard. On the upside, school is ending and I can enlist the boys to learn some skills. I have already provided a generous lesson on the long-term price of hack repairs. (Julian just walked by and reminded me, “I was right and you were wrong.” Fine, his workload just doubled. I wonder how much drywall he can handle?)
On the constructive side, today we watched Malcolm graduate from the fifth grade.* It was a bittersweet thing. He’s growing up and, including his brother’s time there, we’ve been involved with that school for ten years. Now that door is closed, and however good or bad a job we did is behind us. In a sense we’re watching the boys build the houses where they’ll live after they leave us; houses that, I hope, will have better ceilings.
Maia—not squished
The more so because of the chaos I grew up in, I regret not providing a stout and orderly childhood home. It’s a rare kid who sees the skeleton of their home laid bare, especially by the folly of their father, and these guys are admirably stoic about it. As a corollary of feeling better, I dwell on this more and I am bringing it around, and with drywall and mud and paint will create the nice boxes I hear normal people like to live in. To be honest, I like problems like these. I understand them. I can fix them. Carpentry is wonderfully concrete. Meanwhile, how the kids will turn out—I don’t know. Raising them is such an inexact and humbling process. But as I described in the last post, I’m trying my best, a much better best than in many years yet maybe 30% of what I can really do. In the meantime I’d really appreciate it if the rest of the damn ceiling would stay where it belongs, securely over our heads.
* With honors, mind you, and just a year after he tried to break it to me gently that “I’m just not an ‘A’ student” in a walk through the park. I demurred … passionately. [Edit 5/2021: he will graduate from college next year. Most likely with honors. I’m enormously happy for him.]
Postscript—as of 6/2013: Dark green ceiling tray with fan, bullnosed soffits, recessed lighting, cherry-stained oak cove mouldings. Pretty easy. Kudos to son Julian for helping cut and frame the metal stud soffits. Turned out nice and concealed every fracture or hole in the ceiling.
Andrew Wells Douglass 