Confessions of a Hopeless Geek

This morning my mother-in-law expressed concern that I would go hungry if I did not accompany the family to the Amish restaurant for lunch, but I assured her I would find food if I grew faint while spending the day writing in the Wooster Public Library. My mother-in-law gets anxious if she thinks someone isn’t being well-fed, and we are all the happier (if a bit plumper) for her exquisitely successful means of coping with her anxiety. Today she put her anxiety to rest by directing me to an American-style diner and a Greek pizza place, both directly across the street from the library.

I have just returned from the American-style diner, where I had two eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon, wheat toast and coffee at two o’clock in the afternoon, for five dollars ($7.50, including the fifty percent tip I left for the very lovely waitress who brought my food before I’d even stirred the cream and sugar into my coffee). While I ate, I read Julie and Julia, which I can’t decide if I like, but I most definitely love in that I’m-on-vacation-and-I-just-dripped-egg-yolks-on-my-book-because-I-don’t-want-to-put-it-down-even-for-food sort of way. (Book review to follow shortly, in which I promise to offer a more nuanced opinion.)

And now I’m back at my spot by the sky-filled cathedral windows in the library. In addition to lunch, I have taken a few breaks from writing the latest installment in my Welfare of the City series, in order to flirt on-line with a couple of men I’m particularly fond of (both pastors no less! One gay, one happily married – “non starters” as Julie likes to say about the hopeless innocence of my flirting). And here is my geeky confession: Is it possible that a day could be any better than this? With only the very fewest of exceptions, I’m pretty sure the answer is “No.” Shameless geek, that’s me.

But I do want to leave you with a passage from Julie and Julia just to spice things up a little. If you are a regular reader of mine, you may recall that to my mind, food and sex are really just two sides of the same coin. If you are a regular reader of mine, you may also recall that I love to write about sex, but in the interests of my very private wife, not to mention her father-who-reads-my-blog, I will only ever write about sex in mostly abstract ways which offer very, very little in the way of detail about my own actual sex life. Here I offer just the tiniest deviation from that rule, in an effort to allay any concerns the following excerpt might create; that deviation being an assurance that I am not, in fact, a practitioner of polyamory (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), but, in point of fact, I am quite the boring, geeky, middle-aged, blissfully married lady. Such assurances, however, are prelude to a further confession, which is that blissful monogamy notwithstanding, I find erotic energy in all sorts of experiences and relationships. My friend Gordon, founder of my book review group, recently reviewed a book by George Steiner called The Lessons of the Masters. In his review Gordon wrote, “The essence of the master-disciple relationship, according to GS, is loving trust, in which the entire soul of the student is opened to new knowledge. The mode of exchange is always speech (never writing), and it is somewhat erotic, though usually not actively so.” I replied to Gordon’s review with such enthusiastic virtual head-nodding that it occurred to me after impulsively hitting “send” that perhaps I had not been entirely demure and lady-like, as befits a middle-aged married lady such as myself. So be it. This middle-aged married lady loves her teachers, and totally gets what George Steiner was talking about. This middle-aged married lady also loves to feed people, and totally gets what Julie Powell is talking about in this passage from Julie and Julia (pp. 216-17 in the hardcover edition):

"Somewhere along the way, I discovered that in the physical act of cooking, especially something complex or plain old hard to handle, dwelled unsuspected reservoirs of arousal both gastronomic and sexual. If you are not one of us, the culinarily depraved, there is no way to explain what’s so darkly enticing about eviscerating beef marrowbones, chopping up lobster, baking a three-layer pecan cake, and doing it for someone else, offering someone hard-won gustatory delights in order to win pleasures of anther sort. Everyone knows there are foods that are sexy to eat. What they don’t talk about so much is foods that are sexy to make. But I’ll take a wrestling bout with recalcitrant brioche dough over being fed a perfect strawberry any day, foreplay-wise."

Indeed.

Scenes from a Friendship

September 1983

Against his better judgment, Gordon allowed us to talk him into having our Humanities I tutorial outside, rather than in one of the small conference rooms of Lilly Library, where it was usually held.

“No good work will happen if we take the tutorial outside,” he insisted to the five of us: Jennie, Bart, Tanya, Hector and me.

We assured him that nothing could be further from the truth. “It’s so beautiful today, Gordon!” And it was, one of those idyllic September afternoons, clear blue skies, crisp dry air, a hint of red and gold in the trees that surrounded the red-brick library. “We will be entirely focused, we promise. We will not be the least bit distracted by the beauty of the day! Pleeeaaasssee?” we pleaded, like children.

“What is the point then?” Gordon deadpanned. “Nothing good ever comes of taking class outside.” Nonetheless, we prevailed. As it turns out, Gordon was probably right, because I only recall two things after we went outside, and neither of them has anything to do with the Humanities papers we were supposed to be discussing.

The first thing I recall is what I was wearing: a blue and white striped Oxford button-down shirt with a white knit vest over it and jeans. I remember this very distinctly because just that day I had decided, for the first time since I was about thirteen, not to wear a bra, and I felt very daring, but also just a little bit self-conscious about whether it was too obvious that I did not have on a bra (hence the vest over the shirt). This memory is quite amusing to me, as very quickly – like probably the next day – I stopped caring entirely what anyone thought about whether or not I wore a bra, and I have only on very special occasions worn one since. I hate bras, and that was the momentous day that I realized that I could be liberated from such torture. Right there on the lawn outside of Lilly Library, in Gordon’s Humanities I tutorial.

The other distinct memory from that afternoon was that I asked Gordon how long he had been teaching at Earlham. “Seventeen years,” he responded, to which I not at all diplomatically noted that I was seventeen years old. Gordon looked startled, which I now understand perfectly, as I am now forty-four years old, the same age Gordon was that day.

May 1987

I was startled and honored and maybe just a little confused that Gordon invited me, along with Jennie and Anne and Ansley and … what was her name? I don’t even remember her name, but I’m pretty sure she was Jewish. Or an English major. Because everyone Gordon took out for lunch just before we graduated was either Jewish, like Gordon, or had majored in English, Gordon’s field. Everyone except me.

I had managed to take Humanities I with Gordon, because I was put in his class by some angel in the registrar’s office; and I apparently had a tiny bit of good sense myself, because I took Intro to Lit with him my sophomore year, and read Adam Bede by George Eliot, which in one fell swoop managed to change my life for the better by about a thousand percent, and which caused me in fairly rapid succession to read every other book George Eliot ever wrote. I continue to savor her books to this day. But that was the last of Gordon’s classes for me: despite some lobbying on the part of several professors, I ended up majoring in Peace and Global Studies, a decision I do not regret, although I wish I had combined it with a double major in English, since I was so close, and since I most likely would have taken more classes with Gordon if I had. I seem to recall that Gordon might even have made such a suggestion, but if he did, it was not with nearly enough force as it turns out. As I recall, in fact, Gordon was actually lobbying me on behalf of a colleague in the Political Science department, who may have thought “peace” was a nice extra-curricular activity, but not something serious students actually majored in.

“Bob Johnstone wants me to tell you that you should not major in Peace and Global Studies. He thinks you are being overly influenced by George Lopez’s charisma, and that you should major in Political Science instead. I promised him I would tell you that, and now I have. But I think you should major in whatever you want to major in, though of course, it would be best if you also majored in English.” And of course, he was right, but I didn’t. I didn’t even take Gordon’s Judaism class, which in retrospect is inexplicable and inexcusable, especially given that I pretty much only hung out with Jews back then, and went regularly to Shabbat at Jew House, or, in a pinch, said Sabbath prayers with Jennie over pizza and beer of a Friday night. I even courted Julie, the pastor’s daughter, with a picnic of matzo and cheese because I was keeping kosher for Passover with Jennie and Cassie.

But I was not a Jew; in fact, I was a Quaker. I had become a Quaker in my Junior year because I loved agitating about peace; and because I actually believed in the Inner Light (still do) and that Truth could be discerned through consensus (which I also still believe, though damn it’s hard, and I’m pretty sure that the best you get is still little “t” truth); and because I just gloried in silence -- gorgeous, lovely, deep, gathered silence. But truth be told, I was really a Quaker -- and a Peace Studies major, for that matter -- because I was being overly influenced, not by George Lopez’s charisma (though he WAS charismatic, it’s true), but rather by the sad eyes and quiet wisdom and wry wit of another professor, who shall remain unnamed. This other professor, I loved him so much. He meant the whole world to me.

Which meant, among other things, that I didn’t take any more classes with Gordon after Intro to Lit first term of my sophomore year. But he still invited me out to lunch with Anne and Jennie and Ansley…. and what WAS her name? Curly hair, maybe just the tiniest hint of a lisp? She wore flowy scarves draped artfully yet casually … It’s going to drive me crazy. Anyway, I was most certainly the lone Quaker PAGS major at that graduation lunch with Gordon, and the honor of that was not lost on me (especially because by then, that other professor had dumped me, being first quite annoyed when I offered a feminist critique of his syllabus, and then totally freaking out when I came out to him as a lesbian).

(Toby, that was her name.)

May 1997

At our tenth reunion, Cassie and I unexpectedly bumped into that other professor off campus after our class’s reunion dinner. Cassie and I had been roommates in college for three years. We were also both PAGS majors, and we were affectionately known by that other professor as “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” or, alternately, “The Gruesome Twosome.” We were pretty inseparable a lot of the time, especially in PAGS circles. Ten years after our graduation, Cassie had just finished a Ph.D. in sociology and was working as a research assistant for Jonathan Kozol, the renowned writer and education activist. I was about to graduate from law school, and Julie and I had just had a baby. As we stood on the sidewalk in downtown Richmond, that other professor turned his back to me – literally -- and gushed to Cassie: “Everyone in the department is just SO PROUD of you!” On and on. A doctorate from Boston College! Jonathan Kozol! What an honor! Cassie was mortified as he proceeded to ignore me, and failed to ask anything about my life.

The next day Jennie and I went to visit Gordon, and when he turned his attention to me, he pretty much only wanted to talk about Trixie, who was all of six weeks old. He was also very glad to hear that I had loved law school, but it was clear that Gordon thought being a parent was just the best thing in the whole world, and he was genuinely thrilled for us. His delight would have been touching under any circumstance, but given the context – entirely unknown to Gordon – his kindness moved me almost to tears.

October 2007

Jennie made a date for me and Julie and Ansley and Melissa to accompany her on a visit with Gordon, now retired, on the Saturday afternoon of our twentieth reunion. I needed a safety pin and Micah needed to work out some energy, so I offered to take him on his scooter up to the bookstore on campus, and meet them a little later at Gordon’s house. It was another perfect autumn day, and I was happy to have a few moments alone – or as alone as one can be with an energetic four year old – in the midst of so much talking and catching up. I was looking forward to seeing Gordon, but other than a few letters we had exchanged almost a decade ago, I hadn’t really stayed in touch.

When we arrived, Micah joined his cousin Gillie in the grandchild-friendly basement, and I jumped right into the conversation about, not surprisingly, books. Gordon loves books more than anyone I know. I recently saw a long-lost friend from college days, who never had a class with Gordon, but who still remembers a lecture he gave to the college in which he confessed his despair that he will never have enough time to read everything he wants to read. And everyone who went to Earlham College in the forty years that Gordon taught there remembers him as the guy who always had his nose in a book as he walked across campus.

“Do you ever miss teaching Gordon?” asked Ansley.

“You know, I had an almost perfect career, a career most professors can only dream of. I loved teaching very much,” said Gordon. “But I love reading even more.”

I wasn’t surprised that Gordon was talking with a bunch of now-middle-aged former students about books, but I was surprised that he hadn’t changed at all. He looked exactly the same as he does in my mind’s eye on that September morning outside Lilly Library in 1983. He had on jeans, and a polo shirt, and tennis shoes, just as he always does, and he was very fit, and prone to the same bouts of understated, wry laughter that interrupt his otherwise typical deadpan. It was very comforting.

The way Gordon loves books is infectious. Of course, I love books too, and upon joining the conversation, my desire to talk about books with Gordon suddenly felt insatiable. I regretted having delayed my arrival for a safety pin, of all things, and I jumped right in, quizzing Gordon about what he was reading, what would he recommend on this topic and that. Finally Gordon confessed that he writes a short review of everything he reads, and if I would like he could print out a copy of, say, the past year’s reviews.

“Yes please!” I said, and we all followed him into his study, a large, sunny room with built-in bookshelves on every wall except the one with large windows, under which is Gordon’s desk, covered with photos of his four children and eight grandchildren.

“So, you just write a review of everything you read?” I asked. “Just for the hell of it?”

“Well actually, I am part of a small group of readers who write such reviews. We email them to each other,” Gordon explained as he printed out pages and pages for me, over one hundred reviews already from 2007 alone.

“Can I join that group?” I blurted out.

In retrospect, I am a little mortified that I so impulsively invited myself into his book group. As it turns out, this group consists almost entirely of Gordon’s family, and for the most part only he and his wife write reviews. It was entirely possible – likely even – that such an impertinent request would not have been welcomed from a former student with whom Gordon had been out of touch for a decade. But Gordon is nothing if not gracious, and the next day, after reading all of Gordon’s reviews straight through, in one sitting, I sent off three reviews of my own.

October 2009

If I neglected Gordon for ten years between reunions, I have more than made up for it with my relentless pestering in the past two years. I review everything I read without fail, becoming the second most prolific reviewer in the group, right after Gordon. But even more satisfyingly, Gordon and I have struck up a correspondence via email – always starting with books, but continuing in free-ranging conversations about politics, family, religion, you name it. I sometimes find myself worried that I’m gushing, but I just can’t help it, I enjoy our conversations so much.

And now I am sitting on Gordon’s living room sofa, legs curled under me, a pile of knitting in my lap. Jennie and I are staying with Gordon and his wife for the weekend, to visit with them and one another, Richmond being almost halfway between Iowa and Philadelphia. We’ve made a dinner of quiche and roasted sweet potatoes, and have settled down with glasses of good beer and several hours of conversation ahead of us.

I have no idea where Bart, Tanya or Hector are, but Gordon, Jennie and I? Twenty-six years later, we’re still sitting around, talking about books.

The Cost and Joy of Discipleship: My Resurrection "Problem"

Is it just me, or do you have conversations in your head too? I do this all the time, “talk” to people in my head about all sorts of things. When I’m thinking something through, I guess I need an audience, even if it’s just an imaginary one. That’s the reason I started this blog, really: I love to write, I need to write, but I could never make myself do it just for me, in a journal. But I also have never felt that fire in my belly to get published. Oh, it would be nice, I’m sure, and if someone out of the blue asked me to submit something to a magazine, or offered me a book contract, I would surely say “Yes!” and be thrilled. But that’s not how it happens, and I have never had the stomach for the sort of self-promotion and marketing it takes to be a successful writer. Still, I need to write, and a blog seemed like a way to gather around me a little bit of an audience to make me actually get words on a page now and then. (And as it turns out you, my dear little group of readers, are everything I need and I totally adore you, by the way!)

My friend Gordon says that reading, like writing, is communal, that we always read with someone, even if they don’t know that we are reading with them. I never thought about it that way, but instantly I knew what he meant – I’m always reading with someone or other, a friend who loves this author, or someone who reminds me of a character in the book I’m reading, or a loved one who has sewn themes into my life related to the themes in the book I’m reading. Since I joined Gordon’s book review group, affectionately know as the “Booksters,” I now read just about everything with Gordon, in addition to the other folks I’m reading “with,” because I know at the end of my book I will write a review for him. I love that, having him and all those other folks with me as I read.

My solitude is much like that, very much animated by souls who don’t even know they are with me. As an introvert, I need solitude to stay healthy and whole, but I’m also really a relationship-hound. I love people. I just adore them. I treasure relationships and crave intimacy and am promiscuously affectionate. And though I need to be alone a lot, I find that even in my solitude, I gather my dear ones around me in the form of imaginary conversations. I carry on conversations in my head with just about anybody, whether I’ve met them or not. I can “talk” to my loved ones, of course, but also to authors of books I’m reading, famous people I admire, “friends” on Facebook whom I’ve never even met – it’s how I flesh out ideas, ideas that often make their way here in written form, ideas that are influenced along the way by books I’m reading – it’s all very dynamic, my reading, talking, and writing. (Of course in my imaginary conversations, I’m always incredibly articulate and wise and quite attractively clever and witty, so maybe they also serve a therapeutic purpose, to perk me up when I’m down!)

At any rate, what I realized recently is that I don’t “talk” to people who aren’t alive. My imaginary conversations are really rehearsals, fantasy conversations that I’m imagining, at least theoretically, could really happen. I realized this recently when I was thinking (having a conversation, actually, in my head with someone I don’t even really know) about why prayer is so hard for me. The prayer that works best for me is liturgical, praying the Psalms, even praying the Rosary (though I pray it in a very modified way that would probably horrify orthodox Catholics … though just the thought of me praying the Rosary in any way would probably horrify orthodox Catholics, now that I think about it, so what are you going to do?) But I’m terribly undisciplined about any of that, which, combined with my complete inability to pray meaningful in a “talking to God” sort of way, leaves me without the rich prayer life that I really crave. Okay, so yes, I could just get some discipline about the sort of prayer life that actually does work for me (why is it so hard to just pray the Psalms every freakin day, when I love them so much? Go figure.). But still, this “talking to God” sort of prayer is fascinating to me, but ultimately elusive. Entirely elusive. Which doesn’t really make sense, right, if I’m all about imaginary conversations with folks.

Yesterday after church a small group of us gathered over lunch (broccoli and cheddar quiche made by yours truly and a lovely fall salad from Jane) in the parsonage to brainstorm topics for the adult Sunday school series, and George suggested a series called something like, “What’s Jesus Got to Do With It?” He speculated that there are some folks outside the church who are maybe craving something we have, but can’t quite get themselves to join us because while they sort of get God, they’re just not sure what Jesus adds. What’s he got to do with it anyway? I thought that was interesting, because for me, it’s just the opposite: I’m all about Jesus. Truth be told, I’m kind of crazy about Jesus. But God? I really, honestly can’t wrap my mind around God. No, that’s not right -- I can wrap my mind around God, and I really do believe in and experience God, all the time. But the problem is, I can’t wrap my arms around God – I can’t animate God enough to give God personality and the sort of presence that I can be in relationship with, that I can talk to. So when people try to reassure me that really, prayer is easy! It’s just talking to God! That doesn’t help. Not even a little.

But if you have been reading me even for a little while, you know that Incarnation is central to my faith. I just really love the notion that in Jesus, God shares God’s Godness (I was going to say Self, but like I said, I can’t really imagine God as having a Self) with us all in such a physical, earthy, intimate, bodily way. If you’re a relationship-hound like me, who loves the way we can touch one another not just with our heads and our hearts but literally by touching each other, holding hands, kissing and laughing and laying our hands on one another in gestures of love and healing – if you love all that, well then, Jesus is your boy, right? And eating! Have you ever noticed how central eating is to our Incarnational faith? That’s because bodies need to eat, and it is sacred and good to eat together. It’s no accident that Jesus left us with a meal to recreate himself among us. It’s no accident that Jesus revealed himself in Emmaus through the breaking of bread. So, yeah, I’m all about the Incarnation. (I should note here that none of this about the centrality of bodies and food to faith – not one single bit of it – is unique to Christianity; I just happen to be Christian so that’s the tradition out of which I write.)

So the other day, as I was driving past the Art Museum on my way home from a meeting at church, I was thinking about prayer and why it is so hard for me (okay, again, I was actually having a conversation with one of you! In my head…. all the time, I’m telling you, these conversations are going on in my head). I thought, okay, it makes sense that I can’t “talk” to God, but why can’t I “talk” to Jesus? If Incarnation is really so central to my faith, and I’ve got this man, Jesus, whom I adore, and he’s perfectly embodying God, then why can’t I “talk” to him? At first I worried that I had an Incarnation problem, which would be a real crisis of faith, let me tell you. And then I realized what it was: I don’t talk to dead people. I don’t “talk” to my mom, much as I wish I could, and I don’t “talk” to Thomas Merton, even though I call him my patron saint. I don’t talk to historical figures, and, as I realized winding my way past boat house row, I don’t talk to Jesus. At least not unselfconsciously, not in the way that I can lose myself in imaginary conversations with people who are alive.

I realized then, on Kelly Drive, that my problem with prayer is not an Incarnation problem, but a Resurrection problem. And I will admit that I realized this with some relief. Not because Resurrection is not central to my faith: it is, actually. But, I will confess, I don’t “believe in the resurrection of the body,” much as I love to say the Apostles Creed, and I don’t “look for the resurrection of the dead” even though I love saying the Nicene Creed. I believe in, and experience, the Resurrection of Christ all the time, every day, but not in a way that manifests one body, in the person of Jesus, who is alive in a way that I can “talk” to.

Last night another group of folks from church met for dinner at Bob and Joanna’s house. (I brought salad this time, and there was also chili and baked lentils and awesome chocolate chip-raisin muffins for dessert; and always, with that bunch, good wine and beer). We were there as part of our covenant ministry with Michael, with whom we are embarking on a period of revitalization during which we hope to share our good news with others who need it and are seeking it, but aren’t sure where to find it. Michael asked us a series of questions and we shared around the living room, a wacky diverse group of folks. Among the questions Michael asked us was, What is a central way that we as a church experience Jesus? The discussion was thoughtful and moving and just lovely. Dorothy told the story of coming to the United States as a refugee from Liberia, and against all odds finding a church home with us. Laura told of how difficult for her is Jesus’ challenge that we must become like children to enter the Kingdom, yet when a pack of kids, led by Micah and Meg, randomly and very noisily flew through our discussion, there he was for her. Joe, a long-time UCC pastor, spoke of meeting Jesus in Buddhist practices such as meditation, and Bob spoke of meeting Jesus in the homeless men he works with at our food and clothing cupboard. Bobbie noted that because of her work in the HIV/AIDS community, she could only join her husband’s church after we became Open and Affirming, because acceptance of gay and lesbian people was so central to her experience of Christ. And on and on, one gorgeous story after another.

I was sitting in a chair, with Michael on the floor next to me on one side, and Dorothy in a chair on the other, and for a brief moment I had one of those “movie” experiences – you know, when there’s a sequence in a film where the music rises over the dialogue, and usually the camera does something clever, like zooms out or spins round the circle, and you are meant to experience with the character a transcendent moment? That’s what it was for a moment: pure transcendence. I resisted an urge to reach down and take Michael’s hand, to reach over and put my other hand on Dorothy’s back. And I looked around, as the camera would, not really hearing the sounds of voices for a moment, but seeing these faces of all these people that I just love so very much. And they were shining, I’m telling you. Transfigured. And I actually thought right then about all the petty ways that we can be annoying to one another, and let each other down, and be, well, human, you know? I was acutely aware of that, that these were human people, with very real human foibles, many of which I am well aware, having loved them and struggled in community with them now for over a decade. But in that moment they were all shining and perfect and utterly beautiful. And I thought this! This is it, this is the Body of Christ, this is the Resurrection: all these people I’m talking to all the time in my head.

And I realized then that maybe I don’t have a Resurrection problem at all. And maybe, just maybe, all those conversations I have in my head with all of you, my dearest ones, maybe those conversations are my prayer?

What Eliot Spitzer and I Have in Common: A Review of George Eliot's Adam Bede

Adam Bede, George Eliot (1859)[*****].  I have been unsuccessfully mulling for several days how to review in one paragraph Adam Bede -- one of my favorite books, and my introduction to George Eliot some twenty-five years ago in Gordon's* Intro to Lit.  Today I took a break in the middle of my day -- a day of feeding my family, pleasant housework, hiking in the woods along a burbling creek, preparing an asparagus bed in the garden, commiserating with a neighbor about "young people these days"  -- to read the feature story in the most recent Newsweek entitled "The Confessions of Eliot Spitzer."  The subtitle is "How Could I?" -- and of course, everyone has a theory, none of them particularly satisfying or believable.  This particular story is supposed to be sympathetic to Spitzer, who is apparently trying to make some sort of a come-back or something, but it doesn't succeed very well.  And then it came to me:  Eliot Spitzer needs George Eliot!  Only she could make us understand "how he could;" only she could unblinkingly yet sympathetically tell us the truth about "how he could," pulling no punches while at the same time refraining from judgement and righteousness.  Her treatment of Arthur Donnithorne was the thing that struck me most deeply the first time I read Adam Bede, and was the only thing I remembered -- the rest (thanks to my sieve-like memory) was all new.  But I feel both certain (and chagrined) that my earnest, feminist, nineteen year-old self was humorless and critical of the misogynist Bartle Massey, who only delighted me this time around (and who is most certainly gay, yes? And in love with Adam, right?) And I don't recall if I adored Mrs. Poyser so much the first time I read Adam Bede -- somehow I think I was probably not nearly as taken with her, and by her tidy home and sparkling, well-run dairy.  I doubt that I appreciated then how much Eliot makes of such a small, quiet world -- how rich and full and satisfying she paints the work and the friendship of the Poysers and the Bedes.  I feel quite certain that twenty-five years ago, I entirely missed the discussion in the Poyser kitchen "on the secrets of good brewing, the folly of stinginess in 'hopping,' and the doubtful economy of a farmer's making his own malt" -- but I had to read it out loud to Julie this time (who, by the way, was in the same Intro to Lit with Gordon, though we barely new each other yet), and we both smiled knowingly.  People often don't understand my life, but reading Adam Bede was like every pleasant, contented thing about it rolled into one gorgeous story.  I will admit, I don't think Eliot does drama as well as she does quotidian -- the thunderstorm raging when Dorothea and Will finally declare their love in Middlemarch inappropriately cracked me up, and a few of the Hetty Sorel scenes in Adam Bede felt a little over-wrought as well.  And the epilogue felt awfully neat, even if it made me cry (and help me forgive Jo Rawlings). But still and all ... big happy sigh.

*Gordon was my professor at Earlham College, and continues to be a mentor and friend.  I write all my reviews first for his email book review group, which he very graciously allowed me to crash about a year and a half ago.