Earthquakes, Hurricanes and the Script for Disaster

Everyone was running away from Irene since she arrived in town with a bad reputation. Circumstances forced me to do the opposite and drive straight into the hurricane. There were very scary moments, but the script for this disaster movie wouldn't be authentic if it overlooked the great waves of kindness moving around the eye of the storm.

For weeks I'd been planning a nice evening in my old Philly neighborhood where I had to fix a roof leak before the start of the rainy season. Once Irene showed her teeth, there was no way I could cancel the trip. Although the new galleries and restaurants in Northern Liberties have made it a sexy destination for people in sharp clothes, I lived there when it was a haven for working and middle class people of all incomes, races, and jobs. On summer nights, neighbors hung out on the front steps and shared the Yuengling.

Yesterday I was reminded that no amount of hipster marketing has erased the heart of my neighborhood. it still beats to the rhythm of hammers and saws of hard core Phillydelphians. As the rain teemed down on all the old brick houses, one guy from our street became the most important fellow in town. He's the local roofer who had spent his morning saving a church roof that was about to collapse under three feet of water! The gutters were blocked and they needed someone to get up there and unclog them before doom set in. By the time I found him, he'd already been working nearly around the clock saving local buildings before the storm hit.

His wife and I sat talking while George the hero changed his shirt, dried his head, and grabbed his truck keys. In the pouring rain, he climbed out on my roof with another guy from the bar across the street. The bar's number is the one you call when there's a crime or crisis. Since the guys there can solve most problems faster than cops or firemen, it's smart to get them involved early. Twenty minutes after George arrived, my leak was fixed, my neighbors were drenched, and I was soggy but safe. It was a great moment for my community. Soaked and laughing, we remembered what the realtors tried to make us forget. Come quakes or high water, Philly is a heart and soul town.

It was a long, exhausting drive back to the mountains and I'm glad to be out of the of Schuylkill backwash now. Still, it's nice to remember how much kindness lies at the heart of what we call disaster.

Where are the butterflies?

Leaky roof, sticking door, stack of bills that need attention. Everything slits a hole in the balloon of inspiration. Trying to mend the tear just frays the edges. Clouds part, but it's still overcast. Where are the ideas that used to land here like butterflies? Cranky times need poetry and action. Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote: "I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, "Write!"

Every word feels like the product of arthritic effort. But with time, it starts to flow like yarn unraveled. Life isn't supposed to be easy, and writing is just an extension of life, so why should that be easy? Joseph Addison had it right when he said, "Our real blessings often appear to us in the shape of pains, losses, and disappointments."

Wallet empty? Spirit tired? Car out of gas? If your cup runneth over with "blessings" of that sort, shake off the mood of complaint and pick up a pen. Your swallowtails and monarchs may have arrived.

A Taste of the Hand-Made Life

Today's chefs and food writers have found a huge popular audience. But writers like Julia Child and M.F.K. Fisher delight me far more than their contemporary apprentices. That's mostly because, although they shared a fascination with food, Child and Fisher lived unique, hand-made lives built one original decision at a time.

Julia Child's biography is nicely detailed in her books and in the film "Julie and Julia". What enchants me about her life is the way she allowed a passion for French cooking to drive her other career decisions. By following her impulse to master French cuisine -- and share that expertise with an American audience -- she created a whole genre of culinary writing which has stood the test of time. Julia also lived an incredibly satisfying life without yielding to pressure to dilute her ideas on how to cook, write, or live. Even in TV shows made at the end of her life, Julia Child bubbled with enthusiasm and authentic charm.

M.F.K. Fisher also fashioned a writing career around the love of eating. But unlike Chef Child, she focused on the way food binds families and people together. Her writing reflects a glimmering literary sensibility that lures you into a meal by way of innuendo and luscious metaphor. Here is a paragraph Fisher wrote about her first childhood meal in a restaurant: "There was no mention of milk to drink but instead we lifted the tall goblets of forbidden ice water waveringly to our lips, and looked up over them at the pink rose nodding in a silver vase between us and the world. There may have been other things to eat, but the chafing-dish chicken is all my sister and I can remember now, and of course the wonderful waiter who kept on remembering us too, after that first hushed luncheon." By the end of this piece, you feel like you've not only eaten a lovely meal, but traveled back to misty, mythical meals from your own childhood.

Like Julia Child, MFK Fisher began to write about food in an era when expectations about women's lives did not include roaming the globe, eating odd foods, and writing about the experience. Fisher had several husbands. She left the first one and the second died of a rare disease. Even with two young daughters to raise, she continued to seek ways to keep travelling and maintain her unique career as a gastronomic writer. Today her essays on food set the gold standard by which we might judge all Cooking Channel poseurs.

Although I love to cook and sample great food, the food writing business is an extraordinarily difficult one to enter. At last year's conference of the American Society of Journalists and Authors, editors at a food writing workshop told writers that it is nearly impossible to get a cook book published if you don't already have a cooking show. Imagine how Julia Child or M.F.K. Fisher would have reacted to that message! Perhaps we'd never have learned how to make a proper Boeuf Bourguignon or savor Fisher-style meals of mussels steamed on fresh seaweed over hot coals. On second thought, considering the obstacles they faced in their day, maybe they would have gone ahead and self-published their writing, hoping a hungry audience would find them one day.

Nostalgia for Borders

It's not easy to confess, but I think I'm a book addict. It started pre-kinder, when my cousins taught me to read. By second grade, I was a library junkie, helplessly hooked. Borders fed my addiction in ways I couldn't have imagined until they opened their Philly store on Rittenhouse. It was just two blocks from my house and I could not stay away.

When that flagship site first opened, there were lots of independent bookstores in Philadelphia. Most seemed small and dim compared to the bright, expansive aesthetic promoted by Borders. The store had leather club chairs for browsing and cappuccino for those times when only caffeine could sustain a good book binge. Coffee and books, leather chairs, the occasional Wednesday night jazz combo playing on the second floor...the place offered stimulation and comfort to urban thinkers.

Poetry and performance groups convened there. I remember a guy pulling a flute out of his backpack one night, to accompany a poet. Jazz aficionados and world travelers converged in the cafe to drink espresso and critique the world. Borders was the only place in town with a good selection of literature in Spanish, French or Russian.

Economists say that Borders fell because the chain's prices were undercut by Amazon -- a global store with no chairs or coffee. They also say that Borders failed to embrace E-books early and lost out on that market. While these things are true, I also think Borders followed the irritating example set by banks. First these corporations put a sales outlet on every corner to try to stamp out competition. Then they end up with huge overhead costs that turn them into dinosaurs. Consumers lose out once more.

No matter why it happened, the death of Borders makes me sad. I'll miss my browsing marathons and spontaneous chats with other book fiends. But I'm keeping my favorite Borders memory:

One night I helped a friend from Spain edit a paper he'd written. It took hours to knock the warts off his grammar and smooth out his prose. By the time we finished, we were the only people left in the cafe. I went over to the cashier and, while waiting to get some change, I felt someone brush up behind me. I turned to find myself standing face to face with Bill Clinton, America's sexiest presidential candidate. Yes, he touched me right away and with both hands. I swear he could have been a faith healer if he hadn't gone into politics. With one palm on my shoulder and one on my hand, he sent a surge of electricity right through my body. I had him sign a Borders napkin which I gave to my Spanish friend. For myself, I kept nothing but memories of his blue eyes and the glare on Hilary's face as she looked on. It was before we knew what we know now -- about Bill and about Borders. Goodbye, old innocent days, goodbye.