Journal of a Sabbatical

December 20, 1998

the post-impeachment, twelve menorah conflagration, surrealistic, winter solstice blues

Saturday morning started with a dream about Bob Livingston resigning. Drowsing in bed listening to NPR, I was sure I was dreaming that. Later on I heard some congressman or other say "this is surreal". It wasn't 'til I'd fed Wilbur and had my coffee that I realized the surreal and the real had changed places. Bombing Iraq, impeaching the president, just another day. Wilbur gave his Newt Gingrich catnip toy quite a workout. And the president was impeached and there was evening and morning in the post-impeachment USA.

Sunday morning Clinton's face is smiling from every newspaper vending box in town. Must be one of those paradoxical reactions like crying at weddings and laughing at funerals. Post-impeachment breakfast at Val's and a walk along the Merrimack in Haverhill constituted a feeble attempt to regain connection with reality. The trail we were walking on is preserved in honor of Hannah Duston.

Philosophy Larry claimed his holiday open house party just wouldn't be the same without us, so how could we refuse. Besides, I've never seen Larry's books. He's got more translations of The Confessions of St. Augustine than I have. His whole basement is lined with bookshelves and jam-packed with philosophy.

I was rhapsodizing about about bibliofind. Larry fetched one of the other guests who is a bookseller. He recommended abebooks and bookfinders. Book dealers and book collectors were over represented among the party guests. I was expecting to hear lots of talk about how "attacking the state colleges is class warfare" and laments of exploited faculty at unnamed state college, but instead I was eavesdropping on one of the coffee buddies' detailed description of a limited edition André Dubus manuscript. Books as objects instead of books as vessels for ideas is kind of surreal, especially in this age of transition to electronic media on the eve of the obsolescence of text. Would Michael's sensuous and loving description of the paper and binding be as meaningful if the text was a shopping list by an unknown housewife instead of a short story by André Dubus? Will CD-ROMs or electronic cards have the same collectible appeal?

The kids were all out in the backyard trying to eat donuts on strings without using their hands. One girl in blue sweats kept head butting the donut and never seemed to get a bite out of it. She looked like she thought it was a soccer ball. And how's her mother going to get the icing out of her hair? And aren't donut games usually associated with Halloween?

A good percentage of the adults were gathered in a small room off the dining room watching the Patriots game. The Patriots were down 21 to 14 at the half. Next thing I heard was a shout from the other room -- Patriots first down. San Francisco didn't score at all in the second half and the Patriots won on a field goal late in the final quarter. Talk about surreal - the Patriots are in the playoffs.

While the adults are watching endless replays of the winning field goal, one of the guests asks me to help clear the coffee table in front of the fireplace for the menorah lighting. I comply, figuring it will be fun to celebrate the final night of Hanukkah, especially when it turns out this woman knows the Adams Street shul - 2 doors down from my grandmother's house - where my uncle was the shabbas goy. So I'm helping her set up this little menorah when more menorahs and boxes and boxes of candles start appearing out of her plastic shopping bag. "How many menorahs have you got ?" I ask. "Twelve menorahs, one for each child." At first this sounds like a wonderful idea. Her face is glowing with excitement. The children assemble. Nancy, who is sitting right next to the coffee table, begins to get nervous. The living room is packed with 13 children, only one of whom has the slightest idea what's going on. Some of these kids are way too little to be lighting candles without individual adult supervision. The instigator tells an abbreviated version of the miracle story and sings the blessing. Nancy joins in. Kids are lighting candles willy-nilly. They're passing lighted candles around. One kid is picking up the whole menorah and tilting it sideways to light a candle on another kid's menorah. Nancy tries to stop a kid named Mikey from reaching his hand into the flames. Kids are blowing out each other's menorahs and relighting them. It's getting really hot. Somebody lights the advent wreath. Barbara, Larry's wife and our hostess, looks scared and gets up - I suspect to look for a fire extinguisher. I start figuring out how to get Nancy out of there if the Christmas tree catches fire. The wonder of the candlelight is eclipsed by fear.

The fireplace looks pretty tame compared to 12 x 9 candles, plus the 4 advent candles, burning really fast. Nobody is watching the field goal replays or talking about used books anymore. Somebody lets Britt, the spaniel, out of his kennel for a walk. This could be it. We could all be doomed. Fortunately, Britt's interest in getting outside overrides his interest in sniffing children and candles. The woman behind this all is transfixed by the glow of the candlelight and oblivious to the fact that kids are tilting menorahs this way and that and passing lighted candles around once again. The hosts look worried, but how exactly do you tell a guest that one menorah is a Hanukkah celebration and twelve menorahs is a conflagration?

On the way to the bus station, we decide the great miracle of Hanukkah is that she didn't burn down Larry's house.

Back at home there was another phone message from Joan-west, who's in New York this week. I succeeded in calling her back this time. Yesterday the line was busy every time I tried. It was great to catch up with her. She asked about the kids and I mentioned Andrea's request for a 500-page book. Joan-west suggested The Brothers Karamazov. I said I'd been thinking about Moby Dick. Maybe War and Peace would be a better choice.

The Newt Gingrich catnip toy is sitting bolt upright at the bottom of the stairs.