Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

How to Give Your Children a Love of Reading

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About a month or so ago Eden came to me with a problem.

“Mom, I need your help.” Catching a whiff of tension, I set down whatever I was doing and looked up, all hands on deck.

“It’s Daddy,” This was a surprise since I couldn’t think of why she would be this tentative with Paul, “You know how we’re reading The Fellowship of the Rings? I want to stop but I don’t want to hurt Daddy’s feelings. Would you talk to him for me?”

My kid wanted me to break up with her dad and his book on her behalf. This was a new one.

“Why do you want to quit reading the book? I thought you liked it. You loved The Hobbit.”

To be honest, I had found this surprising. The only reason I read The Hobbit was because of her father’s love for it and my love for him. It took me another 20 years to read the The Lord of the Rings and I only did that when I knew the movies were being made. I far preferred the trilogy to The Hobbit and assumed if Eden liked the latter, she would definitely enjoy the former.

“I did love The Hobbit but The Fellowship goes on and on. They keep getting into trouble after trouble after trouble; it just gets to be too much.”

Eden and I are in a sweet spot with reading. She is a strong girl and can be resistant to things I suggest. Last summer I recommended she try, Caddie Woodlawn, an all time favorite of mine and my mother’s before me. Eden turned up her nose and I let it go until Christmas when I decided—that’s it—we’re reading it together. By Chapter Two she was hooked and we read it several nights over the holiday. It was wonderful.

Paul did the same thing with The Fellowship of the Ring: he just kept reading it and very soon they got to a better part and Eden was engaged in the story again  and they moved onto Two Towers without skipping a beat. Paul and I have jokingly fought over who gets to read to Eden and I think she loves all of it.

It’s my turn now and we’re reading The Great Brain, another favorite from my childhood.

What books did you love as a kid? What are some you’ve enjoyed reading with your own children?

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.

How Siri Can Help You Grieve

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I recently joined the 21st century and bought the iphone 4s. My kids were elated. Christopher immediately set up Siri  and had her address me as “Alpha Mama.” He thought that was hilarious. I made him change it to my first name.

I enjoy having a smart phone but I’ve only taken advantage of a few things. I rarely use Siri but I do like her measured, unflappable tone. Years ago, when I worshipped my idea of the perfect mother, I think she would have sounded a bit like Siri.

Eden was with me in the car a couple weeks ago when I asked Siri to look something up and she couldn’t.

“Ugh!” I said.

“Frankly, Alison, I feel the same way.”

Eden laughed.

“This is stupid!” I said. It was ridiculous that this program could respond with humor but couldn’t fulfill this simple request.

“You’re certainly entitled to that opinion.”  Siri said.

I put that phrase in my back pocket. With two teens, and an almost tween, that was gold.

The other day I said, “Call home.”                                                                                                              

“Which home?” Siri asked. ‘Home’ or ‘Harmon Home’?”

“Home.” I repeated.

“You have two phone numbers for contacts named ‘Home.’ Which one should I use?

I glanced down and saw the numbers to the two rental houses we lived in after the fire. I haven’t written about the first rental that we lived in for just three months. I’ll get there eventually, just know that things didn’t go well.

The numbers themselves are a bad memory. After the fire, we forwarded our calls to Paul’s sister’s house, where we stayed the first six weeks. When we moved to the first rental I tried to transfer the number. Our kids had lost everything and it became important to me to keep that number, to maintain one, literal line of consistency for them. I spent hours on the phone, I talked to so many people at Comcast, for nothing. They couldn’t or wouldn’t let us keep the number.

In protest I never used our landline. Up until the fire, I rarely gave out my cell number, it was for my use, but afterwards, I used it exclusively and gave it out freely. And yet I thought, once we moved back to the new house, I had entered our home number, but I clearly hadn’t and I’d never bothered to remove either of the rentals.

It is strange what triggers sorrow. Regardless of how far down the road we might be, how over something we think we are, there are still the small things that flare and, if for only a moment, flame and then burn out.

I saw these numbers and was surprised. I felt the visceral pain in my stomach and a lump formed in my throat.

“I couldn’t understand what you said, Alison.”

I swallowed.

“Call Paul.” I said.

And she did—without a question—as if she knew that Paul is, first and always, home for me.

Small Appliances

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The good thing about losing everything is that you get to buy all new stuff.

Surprisingly, this didn’t really excite me. I’ve never been much of a shopper and after the fire I was really clear on how little we needed.  I didn’t want to rush out and buy a bunch of things. And yet there were little pockets of interest where my mind would go and rub its hands together in gleeful anticipation.  One of these was small appliances.

In the kitchen of the house that burned I tried to keep the counters uncluttered.  As I planned the new kitchen I thought carefully about my counter real estate.  I loved my jadeite green Kitchen Aid stand mixer.  My old kitchen was all white and the pop of color was so pretty and cheerful, but I could not find a replacement for my Kitchen Aid.  Apparently it was a special Martha Stewart shade only offered through Williams Sonoma for a limited time.  If it wasn’t going to be a pretty green I decided I wanted the mixer in the pantry.
Waring had a blender in jadeite that was just beautiful but we don’t use a blender often, which brought me back to a toaster.  I did find a minty green one that was so pricey I would be embarrassed for you to know how much. 
I hadn’t completely ruled out the blender and there was still the dim hope of finding the stand mixer on ebay, so I just thought about it from time to time. But I was leaning towards the ridiculously expensive toaster.
One day a large box was delivered to our door.  It was addressed to Paul and I was so excited   I think I called him at work to ask if it was OK for me to open it. He said it was something that he had ordered.

I had an immediate sense of foreboding which was confirmed as soon as I pulled this bad boy out of the box.

Holy Cheese and Crackers, Batman!

It boggled the mind and the senses. You can see that it’s a black plastic, two slot toaster with a…is that a GOITER?

Yes, my friends it is.

OK, it’s merely a goiter-like plastic appendage and it serves a purpose. That’s an egg poacher perched on the right side.  See the steam gathering?
Back To Basics is the brand name however, as those illustrations on the side show, this toaster is anything but basic.  

Below is Paul with Christopher, last summer. Doesn’t he look like a nice man? 
He is a nice man. 
Doesn’t he look like someone who, if he wants to poach an egg in a plastic goiter whilst toasting his bread you should just let him? 
Thinking about it that way and looking at his kind and handsome face, I know we should. Especially when I remember that he ordered the toaster within months of someone burning down his house. 
This wasn’t so clear to me when that plastic monstrosity was taking up half the counter at the rental house and leering at anyone who made the mistake of glancing at it. I need to remind myself that it was my house that someone set on fire as well.
We had all been hurt and PTSD is real, people. And yet, even without PTSD, I think Paul would have been tempted to order that toaster and I, almost certainly, would have pitched a fit.
When Paul came home that night I ranted how I wanted a four slot toaster, maybe a pretty one not this hideous, black plastic, bulbous nosed, two slotted one. 
Paul told me I could buy the pretty one, still.
I complained about how much space it took up on our small counter. He said we could store it under the counter in one of the nearly empty cupboards and I realized I was being a jerk and apologized.  Paul forgave me, as he has on so many other occasions, bless him. At the new house I found the perfect spot for it in a drawer at the end of the island just above the drawer where the bread and peanut butter and Nutella live. It’s almost like it was meant to be.  
The kids loved it immediately.  Paul makes them egg sandwiches almost every morning before school.
I want to suspend my snap judgments. I need to hold back my visceral disgust with things that intrigue or interest my family.  I want to be more curious and open for all our sakes.
 Do you have any suggestions?