Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

Older Than Jane Austen

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On this day, 195 years ago, Jane Austen died. She was 41.

I don’t know how old I was the first time I read Pride and Prejudice, maybe twelve, thirteen at the most. Too young, I , gulped the book skimming for dialogue. When I tackled Emma I actually heard Jane Austen’s voice. I think it was a comment about Mrs. Elton and it made me sit up literally and literarily. Austen’s ability to say so much with such an economy of words and in direct contradiction to what her character was speaking astonished me and I’ve never fully recovered.

I do not call her Jane.

I consider all books which are sequels of sorts, abominations but enjoyed both Bridget Jones  and Clueless which were loosely based on Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion and Emma, respectively.

Ironically, reading Jane Austen’s novels nearly cost me my husband. Short story: Paul and I started dating when we were children and no man should be compared to Mr. Darcy, let alone a sixteen year old boy.

I almost didn’t name our older daughter, Lydia, for obvious reasons, but Lydia Hodgson is no Lydia Bennett. If you had to peg her for a Bennett sister, she’s probably a mashup of Elizabeth and Jane.

Mansfield Park is the only title I don’t read habitually, though I’ve read it several times.

My friend, Jamie Chavez recently blogged about the “controversy” over the extent of editing Austen received. She is a fine editor herself and considers it a tempest in a teapot. I agree.

 I’ve known since I first read Pride and Prejudice and the introduction by her nephew that she died young. Although 41 sounded pretty old to me then.

Last week I turned 42 and I remembered her age at death, not realizing the anniversary was so close to that of my birth.

There is no point in comparing oneself to Jane Austen although she could have made good work of my love story.

 I’m so thankful she “let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.” In the early days after someone burned my house down I turned to the Bible, P.G. Wodehouse and her.

I am glad she sat in her little chair and wrote and wrote until the very end of her days.

Bouquet of the Day: What makes a woman high maintenance?

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This was a bouquet from last month: five clovers with their own leaves.

The day she picked it,  Eden and I visited one of our favorite greenhouses, Ludema’s. It was a terrible day—rainy and cold— but we were in the neighborhood. Ludema’s also has a florist. When Eden and I reached the check out, a man was just approaching. He deferred to us but I told him to go ahead since we had a cart full of plants and he only had a bouquet of flowers. He was buying red roses cut short in a square glass vase, beautifully arranged.

Waiting my turn, I thought about this nice man who was willing to let me and my cart full of plants go before him, not to mention buying someone lovely roses and yet—if I was the recipient—I would be so disappointed. Red roses are pretty much the antithesis of who I am florally.

The cashier didn’t know the price and yelled across the room to the florist who said, “$45, but take off five because of the size of the vase.”

$40 for an arrangement I would hate.

Years ago—after “Harry Met Sally” came out—my sister and I were having a discussion with a group of guys. Torey’s and my assertion was that we were low maintenance. The men, who knew us well, scoffed. We were soooooooo high maintenance.

What!

I brought up how I would rather Paul picked me dandelions over buying red roses! If that wasn’t low maintenance, what was?  The guys just laughed at the idea of Torey or me even thinking we weren’t the highest of maintenance. Now I see that Torey and I were right and so were the guys.

Set aside the mysogynistic thinking behind the idea of maintaining a woman, for a moment please. I thought because I didn’t need to be taken to expensive restaurants and preferred weeds and wildflowers to roses from a florist that made me low maintenance. Now I see the tight perimeter around my approval. If you want to give me flowers you’re best bet is in a garden  unless you can find a good florist, because—if you do go to any old florist—forget about most roses absolutely NO red or white (which are usually more green and not in a good way) but if you must have roses they better be in an arrangement with flowers like stock and peonies…snapdragons are good…no chrysanthemums (unless they’re chartreuse) and please, for the love of all things, no baby’s breath! So you’re best bet is just picking a bouquet in a garden and I’d be happy with anything—just NO RED ROSES!

Paul was firmly in the “It’s the thought that counts!” camp and just kept bringing me daisy-like chrysanthemums from the grocery store and I felt unloved because he refused to know me.  I mixed up the lover’s gift with proof of the giver’s love and Paul felt unappreciated.

God bless Paul.

God bless me.

He has, obviously, with and through each other despite our selfishness and immaturity.

I would choose my girl’s bouquet of clovers over roses from the florist any day: I just prefer the latter and, even if I didn’t,  I love my girl.

I don’t need to be maintained. I know Paul loves me and I’m finally learning to love.

‘Cept Only One

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Years ago, a dear friend of mine, was a helping a refugee family from Africa. Soon after they moved here the father died leaving his wife and several small children. My friend, a kindly soul and social worker by profession, took them under her wing. On one occasion the mother became ill and my friend accompanied her to the hospital.

A pregnancy was suspected and the doctor asked my friend to ask the woman if she might be pregnant. The woman, a devout Christian and a widow for more than a year, took umbrage with the insinuation.

“I HAVE NOT LAIN WITH A MAN!” she said righteously, “-‘cept only one.”

That went right into the vernacular.

I’ve been thinking about this lately. Stay with me. As much as I’ve enjoyed announcing the first part of the statement, especially when Paul has been traveling over much, it’s the second half I’m talking about: “Cept only one.”

I live in the exceptions.

A couple months ago, at church, I asked a pastor to pray for me. We were up at the altar together. She put her hand on my back. I think I was already crying. Before she began she asked, “How is your marriage?”

I blinked, confused. I had asked her to pray for me about the rebuilding and the anxiety I felt waiting for insurance, making so many decisions and worrying that we were making irrevocable mistakes. I was talking about money!

“Good.” I said. “It’s good. Tender. Sweet.” She was looking at me intently. “We’re human, we still grate…but the marriage is sweet.”

And that’s true.

Before the fire Paul and I both could tend towards the belief that maybe the other didn’t have the best handle on HOW.MUCH.I.DO.FOR.THIS.FAMILY!

It didn’t come up a lot, it wasn’t a volatile grievance, more of a quiet frustration that would some times flare from either side.

The good thing about a near death experience wherein you lose all your possessions is that you get a shot of clarity and the scope widens. This year Paul and I have been stretched so thin, have run so long and hard that -even if I still cared to – I don’t have the time to keep score. Any thing he does, any call he makes, I’m just so thankful that I didn’t. My appreciation and gratitude for him has grown exponentially. Only the two of us know what this year has been. We’ve been surrounded by amazingly supportive people who have gone the distance but only Paul and I have been entirely inside it and there is intimacy and tenderness here.

A few months ago Paul needed to have something checked out. He had cancer (non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma) when he was a boy so he doesn’t mess around. It was one of those situations where it could be a virus or cancer which was not really an either/or I needed rattling around in the back of my head – ever – but especially when I was busy rebuilding a house that someone burned down. I really didn’t need that, but there it was…rattling.

In one way the timing was perfect. We were under a lot of stress, what with the kids, the house, Paul’s heavy workload, insurance and so forth, but far enough removed from the fire itself that we could have become complacent but cue Paul’s mortality stage left and wham! I’mjust.so.thankful.to.have.him.

Burn down the house.

Withhold all the money.

Just leave me my husband; please don’t make me live without Paul.

What has been coming to me over and over this past year is that I want to love him better. I want to love him the best that I can. I think I have and I do…except…

when he wakes me up out of a sound sleep listening to something on his laptop or drinks too loudly or won’t go outside to check on the kids or forgets to turn on the coffee or asks so many freaking questions about the house that he has already asked and FORGOTTEN!

So we’re still human and there are swaths in this strong and beautiful marriage that have not love.

If I want to love Paul fully I need to look at the exceptions, where I don’t choose, where I withhold, where I place conditions on, love.

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Kids, it’s getting ugly over here.  I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in at least two weeks.  Last night I got into bed at 7:30 to read to Eden and passed out a little after 8.  I awoke at 11:30 and snuggled next to Paul who obligingly lifted up his arm to give me passage.  
“Were you awake?”  I asked.
“I just went to the bathroom.”
So that was it.  He frequently wakes me up using the facilities despite every ninja like caution, but it gave me pause since I had come to at 9:30 when he had gotten into bed with his laptop and  I asked him time before drifting back to sleep.  This meant he needed up again less than two hours after going to bed.  He’s in his 40’s now, but I was hoping his prostate would make the long haul…or at least to 50.
“I think you need to see a urologist.”  I told him.
“What!”  He removed his arm and rolled over.
I told him my concern.
“What are you talking about!  I haven’t been to the bathroom since I went to bed!”
“You said you just went!”
And then I remembered that I married a madman who frequently talks in his sleep, sounding as lucid as I am until he becomes enraged, starts recanting things he said one minute previously and rolls over in a huff.  This is usually when my amnesia clears and I roll over too feeling maritally doomed.
I was still awake at 4:00 when he got up to use the facilities for real. When he returned I related our earlier exchange.  He laughed and went back to sleep.  I’m not sure when I passed out finally, but I awoke at 10:00 feeling like a brick wall had fallen on my head.    I still feel foggy and grey though the sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day.
On the up side I’m becoming an expert in Roman, early American and 20th century Chinese history, which would be great if I was a professor or something.  My occupation as human/wife/mother/homekeeper doesn’t really have much of a call for varied historical specialties.
“My kingdom (and by kingdom I mean anything I got left) for a horse (and by horse I mean a good night’s sleep)!”  That would be Richard the III on whose character historians sharply disagree…
I forgot I’ve got English history down pretty much cold, as well as the history of the English language and I’m starting to bone up on 16th century Holland…
This is probably a cry for help.

http://alisonhodgson.com/2009/03/315/

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Last Friday night my sister, Torey, took all three of my kids for a sleep over. It was, in a word, fantastic. Paul took me out for dinner to this place he has been wanting to take me for a long time. We raced over there as soon as Paul came home, like a couple of octogenarians headed for the early bird special, but it was still packed when we arrived. We were given the choice of sittting in the bar or waiting a bit for a table. Paul deferred to me, I thought for a second, and decided to wait for a table.

We chit chatted a little, but mostly sat quietly and began the shift from frenetic thought and movement to stillness and peace. It really wasn’t that long until we were seated. We immediately ordered a shrimp appetizer with, reportedly, ambrosial qualities and a little something to drink.

We hadn’t decided what we wanted for dinner when the shrimp came and, Baby, they were good. There was some sort of coating, frying was involved and then there was a creamy, spicy element. I took a bite and told Paul, who had eaten them before and had brought me here, mainly to try them, “This is what all food wants to taste like.” He popped another one in his mouth and smiled.

Nothing really sounded inviting for dinner, but the appetizers were all appealing. We decided to order several more and call it good, although we were open to dessert, but then I don’t think we have ever been accused of being closed to dessert.

It was great. We ordered more of the shrimp as well as several others and enjoyed them leisurely, though it wasn’t long before I laid my chopsticks down and left the field to Paul. He soldiered on, alone, but eventually surrendered with dignity. There was no question of dessert.

And yet, by the time we had paid the bill, walked to our car and driven a ways, something sweet sounded, not just palatable, but necessary. Paul pulled into a candy store and we made some careful selections. We had already decided to have dinner be our one outing of the night; we had several Netflix awaiting us and a quiet evening at home appealed us both.

It was great. We watched several shows curled up on the floor, with Jack either spooning, or draping himself over one of us and then we went to bed early, (earlier than two of our children, as it turned out) and had a long and peaceful sleep. I have rarely started a Saturday so rested and relaxed.

I would probably still be sleeping, if Paul hadn’t awakened at 7:00 and eventually slipped out of the room. Just a few years into the marriage he developed the stealth and silence of a Ninja trying to never, ever wake me, but he hasn’t figured out a way to simulate his presence. I perceived his absence and awoke soon after he left. I was still rubbing my eyes when he started bugging me to take Jack for his walk. I wanted to lie in bed and read without guilt but Paul was insistent. Reluctantly, I got up and dressed and we took Jack out.

We normally walk him every morning between 6:30 and 7:30 for a couple of miles or so, for 30 minutes or so. We leave the children, lock the house and carry a cell phone for them to call us, with any need. We leave lights on strategically so that if Eden wakes up first she can get to our siblings or to our bed without fear. Many mornings we return to her sitting on our pillows, her hair mussed, her eyes sleepy, but smiling and shouting a cheery, “Welcome home!” And we are welcomed.

This morning, as Paul grabbed the keys, he reached for his phone and hesitated, “Do I need to bring the phone?” We would only be gone for half an hour…The kids were safely at my sister’s…Carrying the phone seemed excessive and paranoid.

“Leave it. We’ll be back in 30 minutes.” I said.

The morning was really beautiful; cold but not bitter, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A trail is being built by our home and we decided to head North, a way we haven’t yet walked. Jack was eager and happy but docile. We walked along and talked about what we wanted to do, admired the scenery and encouraged the dog who was being so good. It was a great walk. However, it was not 30 minutes. All told we were gone almost an hour.

We had barely hung up our coats and still felt that rush of a cold face in a warm room, when the phone rang. I noted, curiously, that it was Torey. She ‘d told me to not even bother calling until 11:00. It was only a little after 9:00.

“Did you get my 18 messages!” Greetings were set aside.

“No, we were out walking. What’s wrong?”

“Your daughter fell down the stairs and knocked her tooth back. Dr. Devon is meeting us at the office. I tried your house, your phone, Paul’s!”

“I’m sorry! We figured we’d just be gone a little bit. Sorry! We’ll meet you there, OK?”

So we kennelled the dog, pulled on our coats and drove over to the dentist’s. We live quite close, so we were the first there. It was strange to be on the periphery of one of our chidren’s medical emergencies, so much that we weren’t sure whose it was.

“I assumed it was Eden, but she said, “Your daughter” so I don’t really know.” I told Paul.

After a few minutes our dentist pulled in and then Torey did. We hustled to the car. Both girls were in the backseat, but it was Eden, still in her pajamas, smelling faintly of sausages who was biting on a folded and wet paper towel. Her pink, winter hat framed her sweet face. The dentist took a quick look, told her to sit tight and then ran into his office. In a moment he was back, adjusted the tooth and said it was good.

“She didn’t, by any chance, knock the dead one?” I asked. A few months ago she had fallen and killed her front tooth, It’s hard to spot, but it’s slightly darker than the other.

“Let me see, ” he said, pulling open Eden’s jaw. “Nope. She got the other.” He smirked at us.

He gave us instructions and then was off. Torey whispered, “Do you want to ask her if she wants to come back to the sleepover?”

“You want her?”

“Well sure.”

My sister is a saint.

Eden wanted to return. At the closest party store Paul kitted her out with popsicles and ice cream per the dentist’s instructions and a danish just because. We stopped at the house to get her dosed with Tylenol and then they were on their way.

On our own Paul made a move to start cleaning up the mess from a window we just had installed. I looked at him. “Are you kidding me? I’m don’t want to spend our “sleepover” cleaning up the deck, AND I haven’t had any COFFEE.”

He saw my point.

We went out for breakfast instead.

http://alisonhodgson.com/2007/11/613/