Strange Things are Happening

I once sat for two hours in the living room of a friend without noticing that she'd changed all her furniture. For a writer, I'm remarkably unobservant. I would be a terrible witness should a crime happen in front of me, mixing up what I saw with the plot of my last novel. I tend to live in my head most of the time.

However, I was preparing to dab paint on a few worn spots on my house exterior when I happened to look up. The twenty foot long, seven foot wide overhang was covered in cobwebs and other unidentifiable things. Possibly small bits of human remains, judging by the size of the spiders. With some trepidation I realized I had landed in Stranger Things territory. I thought about borrowing my brother-in-law's power washer to clean the area, but given the fragility of my previous paint job, decided to just use the hose. As I sprayed fiercely, the webs and bits of human flesh (okay, probably not) clung to the roof and walls before falling on me. Even the ones ten feet away managed to reach me, as if I'm some kind of threat. These were old webs. The bugs were long dead. 

And by the way, dear spiders, I'm your friend. When you come into my house, I use my spider catcher to gently carry you out onto the deck and set you free. I do this for all bugs except mosquitoes. I'm not a Buddhist, so I don't feel compelled to keep them alive. On occasion, I might catch a bug's leg in the trap door, but overall, most insects traveling through my house go unharmed. I'm sending this message over the world wide web (it's crawling with informants) as a message regarding my compassion for all creatures. (Except mosquitoes, the vampires of the world. Vampire hunters, unite!)

This is not the only bit of weirdness going on in my area. I've never heard geese sound the way they have over the last few days when flying past my house--strange choking noises like they're being strangled. Is this a cry for help? If so, you ought to know that I can't fly. And I don't want you landing on my lawn with all your squawking and messy poop. I'll chase you, then run. There were repercussions from teasing the geese on my uncle's farm. and I'm still carrying the emotional scars. 

The squirrels and chipmunks have been weirdly aggressive lately. I don't have a bird feeder so they're not fighting me for territory, but they're very bold. They rush up to my swing (where I draw up my legs to avoid being bitten) and bark at me in their strange little voices. The squirrels, especially, never shut up. My yard, along with my neighbors, has become a kind of asylum for them. They sit brazenly on my deck furniture and run through my garden while jeering at me. How can I tell, you might be wondering? There's something in the way they cock their heads, their beady eyes bright with malice. I'm almost certain they're using the F word on me but I'm not leaving. This is my house. 

And yet, is it mine because the land titles office says so? Perhaps because the animal kingdom has no MLA or MP representing them, they have to stand their ground. For instance, a few minutes ago I was watering plants in the back yard when I noticed a plastic bag snagged on the canoe I store under my deck. I whipped the bag away and leapt backward, banging my head on a post. Two chipmunks, possibly teenagers, lay sprawled in a very compromising position. "It's not spring!" I hollered as they ran away. Perhaps they were inspired by the song I was playing on my phone at the time; Meghan Trainor's 'Let's Marvin Gaye and Get it On.' Since I'm not a chipmunk I won't bet on it. 

The world has certainly changed over the last number of years. Crazy winds, wild fires and animals behaving in uncharacteristic ways.  Then there's the Republicans. (I'm not American  but they seem to be everyone's problem. ) Perhaps this foreshadowing is the animal kingdom's way of telling us they know who to blame. So the sword hanging over my head might not be the world passing away in a nuclear blast, but in a series of small  bites delivered over many years. Robert Frost wrote,

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

And I say, as long as it's not death by mice.

60 Hours

 While preparing for my children's annual summer visit, I decided to revisit a novel I last read at the age of nineteen. War and Peace is not a page turner, and the war parts were especially boring to a young woman trying to figure out her own world. I picked the audio book this time, figuring I'd get some work done while listening. Undismayed by the sixty hour length of the novel, I was barely through the first week when the Libby app gleefully asked if I wanted to renew. Apparently there's not a long lineup of people waiting for it. 

As I worked in the garden, placed fresh sheets on the beds, made meals and tidied up the place, the British narrator droned on and on. I managed a few home repairs while listening; hanging by one arm from a sturdy spindle, replacing the missing  ones on my deck, drill in hand, toes reaching for the top of the ladder. I did not want to die while listening to War and Peace, but I felt the book slowly sapping my will to live.

Tolstoy deserves his reputation as an amazing writer. His character descriptions are detailed and his control of the unwieldy novel is impressive. But he could have learned a thing or two from Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, all of whom were dead by the time he was published. Jane's novels are magnificently descriptive. She satirizes her characters in such a way that you find yourself thinking, I know that person! Tolstoy does the same thing, but at a much...more...languorous...pace. 

The gothic air of the Bronte sister's work came from their circumstances. The average life expectancy in the village of Haworth, polluted by industry, was just 22, so a bit of gloom was called for and certainly delivered in both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. As much as I love them, I always pause in my reading of Jane Austen's novels to admire her rich, witty takes on society. Whereas I just want Leo to get on with it. 

It was difficult finding time to listen with my family visiting. Ten people packed the house for 11 days. Amidst the eating, drinking and traveling to and from the lakes to visit with other family members, there wasn't a lot of time for war or peace. Trying to keep track of the many characters with similar names meant I had to rack my brain while pulling dandelions and fertilizing the lawn. And my brain just doesn't need that. Also, I'm not good at multi-tasking. 

War and Peace was serialized before being published as a novel. It must have been as exciting back then as A Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings. I would have enjoyed this book back in 1867, but I can't say I'm loving it now. It's become a duty read, like one of those book club selections that elicit excitement but end up letting you down. We've had a few of those over the years in our Number One Ladies Book Club. (Please see our shelf in the local library. We're very proud of it.)

My family have returned to their own homes, now, so I'm listening whenever I can. Part of me is excited to revisit this novel. The rest of me wonders if I should be dedicating such a large portion of my life to it. I find myself falling into melancholia, whether from missing my children or from the cynicism/desperation/ennui of the characters. If you've read it, please let me know what you think. Don't worry about the fabulous reputation of the novel, just be honest. After all, I still have 40 listening hours left. Feel free to talk me out of it.