1. The Deke and I were up drinking coffee at 4:00 this morning, waking ourselves up to get ready to drive to the Spokane International Airport for the Deke's day of flying to Baltimore. Driving in the dark is incrementally more challenging for me year after year and today I was especially happy when we had finished our travels over the dark 4th of July Pass and around the sunless, inky Lake Coeur d'Alene. From that point on, the drive was much easier. After saying goodbye to the Deke, happy and a little jealous that she will see Molly, Hiram, Olivia, David, Ana, Adrienne, and Jack, as well as friends, and sad that we will be apart for a month, I went to Jenny's Cafe on East Sprague for breakfast.
It was kind of like going to Sam's in Kellogg, but Sam's doesn't have a counter! The morning server was familiar with all the other customers. She kept a running conversation about St. Patrick's Day in Butte going with the three people seated at the counter. Two guys who meet regularly with a group of men were waiting for their friends and sat side by side in one booth. They swapped jokes with our server about their political differences ("Can you believe this Democrat is going to buy this Republican breakfast?"). The Republican hadn't been to church on Sunday and looked for reassurance, and got it, from the Democrat that his absence wouldn't condemn him to hell. My breakfast was solid. Jenny's Cafe features all-you-can-eat hash browns, and when our server asked me if I wanted more, I declined. I was full.
2. I drove up to the Kellogg Public Library and checked out a book I put a hold on: Up in the Hotel, an anthology of stories by longtime New Yorker writer Joseph Mitchell. I've been through a long reading drought, especially since I retired from my work as an instructor. One of my first goals when I retired was to learn how to read all over again, to read for reasons other than a book might be a good one to include in a syllabus and to read without thinking about how I would treat the book in the classroom. I'm reading two books at once right now, the Mitchell anthology and Charles Dickens' Great Expectations. With my mind finally clear of the old habits that shaped how I read for years, both as a graduate student and as an instructor, I'm enjoying these books primarily for Dickens' and Mitchell's gifts of observation and bringing those observations alive with detailed descriptions of physical environments and in their profiles of the different characters they develop, their keen ear for characters' and people's ways of talking and their descriptions of their facial and physical appearance, especially how they dress and walk and move through their worlds. It's as if I'm reading less for "meaning" and more in support of my love of photography and theater. (By the way, I am reading for "meaning", too -- I am enjoying Dickens' exploration of how social mobility is affecting Pip's consciousness and his conscience.)
Joseph Mitchell's first piece in Up in the Hotel, entitled "The Old House at Home", held special significance for me. It's a history, published in 1940, of one of New York City's oldest bars, McSorley's Old Ale House, located in the East Village. Scott Shirk and I had a few beers at McSorley's back on October 30, 2016. It's a crowded, eccentric watering hole. Cash only. Only two beers, light or dark ale, served two mugs at a time. Sawdust on the floor. Walls crowded with photographs, posters, and other memboralia. We walked in and a guy immediately ushered us to a table of strangers that had two vacancies. Originally, John McSorley named his joint, when it opened in 1854, The Old House at Home, changing its name to McSorley's Old Ale House in 1908.
Mitchell's story profiles each of the owners over the years, up until 1940. It profiles the clientele, the neighborhood, and the ethos of this bar. It's fascinating and entertaining and led me to continue to read two more of Mitchell's stories, one of Mazie Gordon, a ticket seller at the Venice Theater, who, in a secular way, ministered to the poor and the down and out, especially on the Bowery and his profile of a dizzying talker and teller of tall tales named Captain Charley. He runs what he calls Captain Charley's Private Museum for Intelligent People, a pile of junk, in the basement of a brownstone tenement on 59th Street.
Joseph Mitchell is, to me, a non-fiction Charles Dickens, possessing a remarkable ability to observe and record vivid portraits of eccentric and fascinating people in musical, vigorous language while telling absorbing stories.
3. I've had a strong hankering for some kind of non-alcoholic, uncaffeinated warming drink to enjoy in the evening. Sitting here at home, I couldn't quite figure out exactly what I wanted. I needed to buy some dog food at Yoke's this evening. I also picked up some English Breakfast Tea and paused to peruse the tea shelves and suddenly I realized exactly what I wanted: Bengal Spice Tea. It's been years since I drank this tea, but, standing there in Yoke's, I suddenly realized that this tea, combined with milk, was exactly what I wanted. I came home and brewed a cup, poured milk in it, and I was right. It warmed me, relaxed me, and satisfied my yearning for a tasty evening hot drink.
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