Jane Austen's sillier characters

When your wife is pregnant, movie date nights involves very mild films. This is because pregnancy tends to heighten a woman's emotions, and any film where anything truly bad happens to anyone, particularly if violence is involved, will cause your wife, your unborn child and you not to sleep through the night. This is especially true if, say, an innocent vegetable is hacked to pieces with a kitchen knife and thrown into a salad. A few weeks ago, deciding that HBO's John Adam's miniseries is too violent, we flipped through the channels in search of an alternative. Fortunately, the Disney Channel was showing Aladdin, and the giant-snake cartoon violence at the end was too unrealistic to be a threat.

Last night, instead of risking a non-family friendly rental, we broke out our copy of Sense and Sensibility, the most tolerable Jane Austen film for us men. In Jane Austen films (I'm using this for short-hand - I know Austen wrote the books and that directors and writers, in this case Ang Le and Emma Thompson, adapted it to the screen), the main characters are well developed and multifaceted, but many of the side characters, particularly the comically unpleasant ones, are very one dimmensional. I cannot speak for the books, have never read them (nor do I intend to), of course. The background characters are fools or gossips or greedy villains with no or few redeeming qualities to see, and watching Sense and Sensibility play off all of these familiar characteristics reminded me how easy it is to take the shallow view of someone in the real world.

One particularly despicable character reminded me of an acquaintance, and I was tempted to dismiss this person in my mind again due to the more awful characteristics. I know that there is more to this person, more than a cartoon sketch makes for comfortable categorization. Austen's work put to film would be too tedious if these characters were given more three-dimensional personalities. Of course, I can see myself in the cowardice and indecisiveness of many of Austen's men (though they are fleshed out in more redeeming ways). But it's good to be reminded that our loose characterizations of others - in our art, in our jokes, in our thoughts - don't show the full picture. How easy it would be for those who don't have the time or the space to get to know me assume my quirks, idiosyncrasies and, to put it bluntly, sins, paint the whole picture.

Pimp My Dad

What does the hip father look like?

I've seen him on Capitol Hill, Saturday morning in my favorite coffee shop, or strutting like a aged rooster over Washington's crooked sidewalks. He's over forty, and middle-age chub around the belly notwithstanding, he's a damned fine looking gentlemen. Well cropped hair (though he has a fairly normal haircut, you can tell he does a bit better than the local Hair-Cuttery), with a distinguished gray frost.

But what makes him stand out is his gear, something I would never have noticed before I shopped for baby gear myself. Baby gear reminds me of camping gear. When I spent my summer in Yellowstone telling hippies and foreigners about Jesus, everyone there was separated into the haves and the have-nots of camping gear. I had some modest hiking boots, a decent sleeping bag and a Jansport backpack. The "haves" had an impressive assortment of lightweight, expensive contraptions that made sure they would win any battle with whatever nature had to throw at them. Not only could they sleep in their sleeping bags and 20-below, but I suspect the material would have protected the sleeper through a buffalo-stampede. Grizzly bears couldn't bite through their fleeces.

The hip father wears similar gear, except it's all designed to somehow attached a baby to his person. His stroller would survive a monster-truck rally, and costs as much as a used Nissan. His baby carrier is bullet-proof, and can carry the baby front, back, sideways, up and down. Incidentally, with his smart phone attached to his face and his baby attached to his gut, his hands swing unfettered. The baby sucks on pacifiers and bottles custom-designed for his little mouth in lab somewhere in Nevada. The baby onesies are name-brand and designed in Milan.

My little girl will sleep, play, nap and be changed in her pack-in-play. Our baby-carriers will may give me a bad back, but I'll carry her around proud. Our stroller's just a frame where we can hook a fairly decent car-seat, which is a beautiful bright red. We've been blessed with all sorts of handmedowns for her to wear - and Lord willing we will bless others with our own hand-me-downs. For some reason, baby clothes seem better shared, and some of the stuff we have is cool. She's an infant, not a teenager. She won't care if her dad is not hip.

A Two-Part Blog on Buying a Book

Part I: The Bookshop

It's an intimidating thing, to talk about books with a stranger. At least, for me, it is. It's intimidating, because it is intimate.

This afternoon, my dad brought me, our bellies full of enchiladas from my birthday lunch, to a beautiful seaside bookstore. He would buy me a birthday book, in the middle of our seaside vacation for a little bit of birthday R&R. The bookshop was everything a bookshop should be. It shines like a star in a state where so much can seem inauthentic and plastic. It was tall and not wide, but the tall shelves were in reach of short arms. It was big enough to walk around with friends and strangers but small enough for the intimate exploration that is reading. When reading, you should have something close to you. It had an appropriate mix of popular and classics, old, new and things I had never seen before. I had a specific book in mind, but one that would be my little secret (ok, my dad knew too) until I met the cashier, where I could, afterwards, retreat to the parking lot and to my sister's friend's mother's beach house, which is also wonderfully tall and not wide.

If a stranger knows my book, he or she could know me or judge me. Sometimes, I don't know which is worse, but I fear them both. And, yet, I long for them both (hence, the blog). I wonder if I blushed, then, when a smart-looking woman with dark hair and a pointed expression asked if she could help me find what I was looking for. She was not overly friendly in a southern kind of way, but she was business-like and helpful in a way that I could not refuse. Like everyone else who worked there, I had the impression that she knew her books. These were not the bored teenagers at your local chain bookstore. They sell books, and then read them for fun. They sit on their second-story porch where they can see the sea from their hammock and read without inhibition, the wind lovingly combing their hair like a French servant. In fact, I found my dream job. Where else could I combine my passions for learning and leisure?

I told her I was looking for "The Man Who Was Thursday," by G.K. Chesterton. I enjoyed his short detective stories staring Father Brown, and I am always looking for cases when Christians write well. I did not tell her this because of restraints on time and context. She knew of the book but did not have it. What did she think of me? I wondered. Did she presume I was a Christian, and made the jump to talk-show religious politics? How she must have shuddered! Did she know that some of his statements, if taken the wrong way (and you know there must be all sorts of left-learning academics who take it the wrong way) could be seen as justifying evil acts of the Catholic Church? Ok, I admit, some of his phrases bother me too, the way Thomas Jefferson's racism bothers me. Jefferson and Chesterton are men of their times and should be read as such, but I digress. In any case, I told her my secret and found out it wasn't there. Did I mention the customer service at this place is great?

Part II: Choosing a Book

My Chesterton book was not there, but I am not one to let a birthday go to waste. I searched for another book. It's a task I can't take lightly. I once saw a quotation on a mug for sale at Barnes and Noble that admonished me to "choose your books like you choose your friends" or something like that. This is true. A book, a very good book, at least, is a commitment. It is a relationship, one that says, the mental energy spent on you is worth the time away from the television, the internet or the bar. Iron sharpens iron, and a well-written book can sharpen me. That is why I am such a slow reader. The first few chapters are an awkward courtship, testing the syntax, meeting the characters, feeling through the plot and, above all, wondering what the author believes and how much that will affect me. Furthermore, I had just ended my relationship with Anna Karenina. It was a violent and beautiful end, leaving me much to process and consider (times with journals and good friends, comfort food, warm cups of tea and the like). I admit it - I have some withdraw. But, for the sake of my own health, I cannot go back, and, for that matter, I need some time away from Tolstoy. I have read some of Chesterton's non-fiction and knew what to expect, so I decided he was a safer bet for another novel relationship. Whom to choose, with him, at the moment, spoken for?

At most book stores these days, the tables towards the front - tempting shoppers entrance and exit - are fling books. These books don't demand much from a relationship. The clever covers and entertaining authors promise a beach romp on your next vacation with no strings attached. They wave and wink from their low tables and store-front displays all the way to the shelves of novels from yesteryear. They require low commitment and have a high entertainment-to-challenge ratio. I'm not above slipping one in my carry-on for my next flight to Germany. Even respectable bookshops such as this one are not immune to such flirtatious marketing. It's where the money is.

But in my heart of heart, emotional scars and all, I need meat, not candy. Book flings are fun, but a deep challenging novel dares speak to me at a human level and somehow makes the rest of my life seem more complete. In a section exclusively for southern writers, I find "Jayber Crow," by Wendell Berry. I have only read Berry's essays and a smidgeon of his poetry. His prose alone is worth the price of the book, and his vision of community and local economy shake me. Expect me to throw out our computers and take up gardening if I prove malleable before his stern expression.

My dad bought the book from the woman with a pointed expression. She was not wearing trendy, bookish glasses, but part of me thought she should be. We stepped outside, tasted air brought in fresh from the Gulf Coast, and moved forward.

I stand corrected

It pains me to see them win, but congratulations Miami. I was complaining to my colleague as to how awful these Noles-Canes Labor Day games have been. This was an amazing game.

Embarrassing

I know she was on the swim-team in high school, but my 6-month pregnant wife swam faster than me yesterday. Maybe she was wearing one of those confounded new swimsuits the Germans wore at internationals...

Resurfacing

My work commute was temporarily changed so that I rode the Metro to Crystal City for a few mornings this week. While it is no fun changing trains at L'Enfant Plaza, which must be built close to one of the sweltering outer circles of hell, I got to make the trek with my wife, whose regular workstation is Crystal City. The morning commute is easier with a hand to hold.

The other nice thing about the trip is that, as any DC resident knows, the Yellow Line train goes over the Potomac instead under it (as the Blue and the Orange line do between Rosslyn and Foggy Bottom). We, the morning passengers, rise out of our darkened journey to be reminded of the world - a flowing river, greenery, DC's beautiful skyline and Arlington's less beautiful. We resurface from our newspapers, blackberries and blank stares to see sunlight, touching beauty, making it softer and more beautiful. It is a small but meaningful pleasure, before 8 AM, on our way into white walls, florescent lights, air conditioning and computer screens.

Scott's Voice

I will mostly remember Scott for his voice. He had many qualities worth remembering: He was a talented musician whose fingers would dance effortlessly around his six-string. He had a face that would light up with a disarming smile as he shared told a joke or led a congregation in worship. He had a love and passion for people - his family, his friend or the needy men and women who he would counsel in a school that would train the un- and under-employed in job skills. But when he sang, all of these noble qualities were a passionate platform off of which to launch his voice. His voice would soar over the congregation in an arch ever upward, leading us with him, to give glory to God.

I never saw him as he fought his cancer. It destroyed his body over the years since I moved away from Orlando. I read his email updates and learned more about him through my father. He refused to wallow in his sufferings, and allowed them to be a testimony to the Lord's love, the Lord's strength, that the end that awaits us all is not the end.

Scott is with the Lord, to whom he so passionately sung. The beauty of his voice was never in that he sang for others. When he sang in front of the church, there was only One to whom his passion, his energies and his voice were focused. Today his voice, unhindered by any sin or suffering this fallen world throws as us, is raised to Him. And like his Savior, Scott will rise again and sing His glory with his beautiful voice.