(Re)ading

The less young I get, the more I realize how many books I will never read, much less re-read.  However, from time to time, some impulse moves me to re-read a certain book.  Upon those occasions, I find it interesting how my reactions differ.  Usually, books that I first read in high school, I react to quite differently upon re-reading.  Of course, life experiences inform re-reading and form new reactions.  With books that I read in adulthood, the reaction usually does not differ much from the initial reading although the pleasure of finding new nuances grows.

For example, I first read A Separate Peace in high school and enjoyed it very much. When I began teacher certification work about 15 years ago, I re-read it.  Since I had enjoyed it in high school, I expected to enjoy it again as an adult. However, the fascination I originally felt for the book in high school eluded me.  Fortunately for me—and for the students—I rarely had to teach it.

I read Portnoy’s Complaint initially in 10^th or 11^th grade—1972-ish—and was absolutely horrified, much to my boyfriend’s amusement.  The book has received notice again of late, so I decided to re-read it.  I am about two-thirds of the way through and cannot stop laughing.

One of the joys of substitute teaching is perusing the bookshelves in the various rooms I pass through.  Last year, I ran across a book I read in high school, Mr. and Mrs. Bo Jo Jones by Ann Head, published in 1968.  I remembered reading it largely because of the unique name, Bo Jo Jones; but also I remembered vaguely that the book deals with a high school couple who end up in a shotgun marriage.  It was sobering to recall the attitudes towards teenage pregnancies in that time period and fascinating to compare the teens of the 1960’s with the teens of the early 21^st century.  The girl had to drop out of high school, while her football player husband was allowed to continue attending classes.

In this case, I found the re-reading absorbing and had the book open at every occasion.  I was re-reading one day in a faculty lounge while subbing.  A lone teacher’s aide was in the lounge, as well.  I had forgotten some events near the end of the book, and quite taken by surprise, I began softly weeping.  Embarrassed, I felt compelled to explain briefly to her the premise of the book and that certain events, which I had forgotten, moved me to tears.  We had a nice conversation about how attitudes towards unmarried pregnancies have changed and how unmarried pregnancies affected both of our lives.

Several years ago on Facebook, a challenge went around to list, on the spur of a moment, twenty books that you had found notable.  My list exists somewhere in that Cloudland.  I will close with two books that pop to mind immediately that I have re-read numerous time for pleasure: John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces and Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres.  Finally, I issue a challenge--in the face of impossibly long to-read lists, that you indulge in the pleasure of re-reading a book.

NOTE:  I considered writing about the etymology of the word “read,” but that discussion is not truly relevant to re-reading.  For those of you who care, or who want some obscure fact at hand for use at a boring party, the word “read” is a truly English word.  The English Language comes from Germanic origins, the invading Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Frisians, and other hangers-on.  “Read” comes from the language of those tribes.  (And to think that those invaders are blamed for the “Dark” Ages!)

Discombobulate--or where's Bob?

A recent blog post reflected upon two weeks of serenity recorded in a journal entry. At the end, my “serene” mood turned to “discombobulated.”  Long-time readers know I frequently muse upon prefixes and how they affect the meaning of words. Of course, I wondered if the prefix “dis-,“ meaning opposite of, was attached to the root “combobulate,” which would be a synonym of serene, to form discombobulated.  Also, I am curious as to who is Bob and why did he disturb my serenity?

Not surprisingly, I found that “combobulate” is not a word.  Chambers Slang Dictionary defines “discombobulated” as an adjective appearing in the 1950’s meaning “unsettled, out of sorts.” The word first appeared as “a nonsense word” combining “discomfit” or “discompose” with “bobbery.”  (The Oxford English Dictionary refers to “discombobulate” as “jocular,” another fun word.)  In the words “discomfit” and “discompose,” the prefix “dis-“ does come into play, so I can claim my prefix through a chain of linguistic stretching.  (Please don’t “diss” me for making that leap!)

Now it is time to look for that rogue “Bob.”  According to Chambers, “bobbery” means “an argument, a disturbance,” but also “a hoax or trick,” especially an illegal one.  (A “bobbery pack” is a mixed pack of hunting hounds, speaking of possible sources of disturbance.)

  

It makes “sound” sense that “combobulate” is not a word meaning “serene.”  The word “serene” sounds serene.  The soothing “s” calms.  One can imagine sleeping on a silent sea of serenity.  Conversely, “combobulate” provides calisthenics for the mouth, crashing and exploding around.  (See “thingamabob,” 16 June 2013.)  Somehow, I cannot imagine the “Combobulation Prayer” associated with any 12-step program.

I find it interesting that “Bob” keeps showing up in these informal, fun words.  As I was contemplating “discombobulate,” I imagined someone impatiently waiting for Bob to get ready to go to an appointment.  If the impatient person very quickly said, “justcomebobyou’relate,” it could sound a lot like “discombobulate.”  Sadly, “discombobulate” turned into an ear worm for me.  So Bob, wherever you are, get ready and go so I can stop thinking about your tardiness!

Be-Serene (or surrounded by serenity)

After I hit the “publish” button on the “serene” post, I sat on the porch swing at Schroon, contemplating the westerly view over the lake of the Adirondacks, specifically Sleeping Giant.  The lake is serene.  Salmon remnants of the sunset hovered over the mountain-tops.  The weather is serene.  As I listen to the creak of the swing chains, I am serene.

I will miss this serenity once our Schroon season ends for the summer.  Yet, serenity awaits in Delmar.  I imagine the silent serenity of falling snow in seasons future.

When we awoke Sunday morning, pea soup fog levitated over the lake, obscuring the westerly view.  By mid-morning, the magic fog rolled northward, revealing that it was no trick, that the western shore remained in place.  The lake belonged to us, as we paddled our kayaks for our benedictory paddle of the season.  In the deep parts of the lake, sunlight reflected the gentle waves into the depths, creating an illusion of translucent curtains fluttering.  Lake weeds waved at us as they rose and fell indecisively toward the surface.  A fall fire of changing leaves glowed on the rocky Adirondack slopes.  I returned to our shore with a tennis ball and seagull feather scooped from the lake.  Rich returned with a damp bottle of Aleve and a seagull feather.

To celebrate the autumnal equinox, we took the long way home, taking Route 8 around Brant Lake to Hague and then south on 9N along the less-traveled northern shore of Lake George, a route new to us.  We wended our way along the unfamiliar hills and curves, reveling in the magical serenity of seasons past, seasons present, and seasons future.