Another Roadside Attraction

Tom Robbins opens this book with two quotes. The first is from the gospel of John, something about all that Jesus did could not be contained in all the books in the world. The second quote (from someone named Lowell Thomas) is about how the Marx Brothers films would be a big hit with the Dalai Lama. This kind of juxtaposition is signature Robbins: unexpected, iconoclastic, silly, with some meaty bones thrown in for gnawing on while you guffaw, gape and blush your way through his book, whose central question is: What if the Second Coming didn't quite come off as advertised?”

A band of gypsies and circus cast-offs create the ultimate roadside attraction. Along with the hot dog stand and flea circus, there is “the corpse,” which has been hidden in a Vatican basement for thousands of years and which may or may not be “you know who.” There are ex-CIA operatives, shamans, and magicians. There is rock-and-rock, mushrooms of all kinds, and a thread of coarse sexuality. And it is all very vivid, just as Robbins likes it. His language is insanely heaped with wild metaphors and similes; his teeming adjectives appear to simply breed more and more vibrant adjectives (take “mashed banana sunlight”). The air between the pages is fecund and flip. His characters are subversive and fringe, but kind and open-minded.

Robbins was a student of art and religion, and he relishes weaving both subjects into his work. But he weaves disrespectfully, against the warp and weft. If you hold organized religion in high regard, you will not enjoy this book or any of Robbins' subsequent novels—this one, written in 1971, was his first. In Another Roadside Attraction, Robbins puts the feet of “the church” to the fire:

“The history of the Catholic Church is written on charred pages splashed with gore.

It is a history of inquisitions and genocides, of purges and perversions, of ravings

and razzings. Yes, but through those same bloody pages walk parades of saints playing

their celestial radios and sowing their sparkles of love.”

He picks on the Catholics quite a bit, but his bias against any and all dictatorial, didactic, hell-threatening religious institutions is clear. I read this novel at the exact time I needed it. I was in my early twenties, in college, and newly emancipated from born-again Christianity. Robbins style was music to my ears--ears that still had patronizing, pat sayings ringing in them about “God's will” and “resisting the devil's temptations.” His style is rebellious, taboo-busting, free-thinking, silly yet not stupid. His handle of language demands attention. I respected his writing, and I drank in his religious lectures within the story: all the religions are really based on the same idea, searching for the same thing. If there is a God, there's very likely only one of them and all the zealots, priests, monks, pastors and Sunday churchies are all looking at different sides of the same God, and coming back down the mountain with a different description. But damn them if they're going to tell the rest of us that there's only one path up that mountain—or that we have to go up it at all. Now that's music to sermon-weary ears.

I was also knee-deep in philosophy classes at the time I read this book and he tweaked that interest quite a bit. Many of my friends were art majors and I envied their creative outlet and talent; through Robbins I could live in that bohemian artist's world for a while. Hell, I could contemplate the varieties and utility of art, sex, religion and philosophy all on one page of this novel—while characters like Amanda, Plucky Purcell and John Paul Ziller gave me explicit examples to boot.

Robbins appears to be entranced by nature in this book, and if I hadn't already been a budding nature lover when I first read it, it would have shoved me off the couch and into the wild. Take this bit about monarch butterflies: “Indeed, wherever there is access to milkweed....there you will find monarchs, for the larvae of this species is as addicted to milkweed juice as the most strung-out junky to smack. His appetite is awesome in its singularity for he would rather starve than switch.” Robbins goes on for another page and a half about the monarch and their inexplicable migratory journeys—but in language unlike any science text I had ever read.

This book, along with Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, played heavily in my decision to buy a motorcycle—against the advice of every adult over 40 that had ever heard me say that cycles were pretty cool. How's that for literal rebellion?

Somehow Tom Robbins manages to be a deft writer, while cramming in over-the-top descriptors. He is both highly silly and heavily sexy, and sexist. He is both intellectual and low-brow. His writing makes me feel alive.

One last quote:

“She carried her excitement lightly, the way a hunter carries a loaded gun over

a fence. Warm chemical yokes burst in their throats. Ziller had the stink of Pan

about him. Amanda heard the phone ring in her womb. In the magnetized space

between them they flew their thoughts like kites.”

If you haven't read this book yet, or any Tom Robbins, you're in for an exotic treat--and a wild ride.

She Would Be Proud

I have run a household since I was fifteen years old. As as a teenager I pulled through the death of my mother, then my father. Without parents, I survived the attentions of an over-opinionated, bossy aunt. At twenty I studied in London and traveled through Europe. I bought and learned to ride a motorcycle, and I didn't cry when I repeatedly burned my calves on the tailpipe. I put myself through college and then graduate school, through waitressing, scholarships and assistantships. I lived and worked in Japan as a newlywed. I have published a poem on living in Japan and a peer-reviewed academic paper on avian food-storing. I have worked at the University of Maine for the Vice President for Research, managing federal grants and research events with U.S. Senators in Washington D.C.. I can make mushroom risotto, bechamel sauce and a decent cheesecake. I know how not to overcook vegetables and I know the value of local food. I can change the oil in my own vehicle, fix an old toilet and install curtain rods—with a drill. And at any given moment, I can pretend I am calm and in charge when indeed I am ridden with anxiety, when all I want to do is to give up and call for my mother.

Losing a mother at any age is devastating. As a teenager, I kept my emotions at bay by burying myself in homework, books, and activities with friends. But I did feel sorry for myself when I stopped long enough to think about my situation: a mother who died a premature death at forty-six, an alcoholic father and my only sibling, my big brother, away at his first year in college. The self pity never lasted too long in one session, but it crept up regularly over the years.

Then sixteen years after my mom died, the grieving for myself was turned on its head by something I had always hoped for: the birth of my own daughter--my motherhood.

I was so used to thinking of my life story from my perspective—natural, perhaps--that I never really thought of how my mother must have felt before she died, knowing she was leaving two children behind—with a less than able father. When I became a mother to my first daughter Zoe, my grief perspective shifted. For the first time I was the protector, the mother. My god, I thought, how on earth did my mother leave? How excruciating the pain must have been for her, knowing how much I still, we all still, needed her. She was the center of the family, the magnet, the life-force.

I became a mother at thirty-one, barely. Coincidentally, this was the same age my mother was when she had me, and my daughter Zoe was born two days before my own birthday. I went through the seasons of my pregnancy thinking that my mom had felt the same pangs in the same months, and had to endure a heavy, hot summer before birthing an August baby. I held my daughter, and gaped at the improbable life of her, surely just as my mom gaped at me. Ah, but I would never leave Zoe too soon; that's where the similarities would end.

I was working at University of Maine when I became pregnant with Zoe. Not knowing what motherhood would demand of me, I boldly asked my supervisors if I could work from home while caring for my new baby. Amazingly, they agreed. After my six weeks of maternity leave were over, I reluctantly turned on the office computer. I knew in my gut even then that it was already too late. My world had utterly changed; my entire hierarchy of needs and ambitions had been rearranged by this baby. Caring for her eased my grief, it gave me joy like no other, it gave me more flesh and blood in my family—flesh and blood that came by way of my mother's DNA. It turned my focus from myself to someone else. And it was the hardest thing I had ever done.

When other parents heard we were expecting our first baby, they asked about names and joked about lack of sleep and our social life going down the drain. They kept it light and smiled saying our life would never be the same. The hubris I exhibited in thinking that we would be different, that life would pretty much carry on as usual, just with our baby tagging along. When all the baby accessories started cluttering up the house in preparation for the big arrival, I should have been tipped off. The high chair in the middle of the kitchen through-way, the wind-up swing squeezed in our small den, the playpen with the changing table on top, the musical bouncy seat, the baby bathtub behind the bathroom door. All the baby gear certainly messed with out usual orderly, attempt-at-zenful state of things. But then she came, and all the anonymous clunky gear was transformed into her things, and by association became beautiful.

Perhaps all of the worldly experiences, skills and jobs I engaged in up to age thirty-one helped prepare me for being a mother, perhaps only some of them did. Most of those experiences were all about satisfying my own needs and desires—but I did learn quite a few useful skills and gained confidence in myself. One would think that such world-tested self confidence would prove invaluable as a parent, but being in charge of keeping another person alive, helping that helpless being to thrive, tests confidence like nothing else. Zoe sometimes would cry for hours on end, and we could do nothing to calm her. I would nurse her for hours, nurse her while making work phone calls and answering work email. Then she would spit up what seemed like gallons.We called all our experienced friends for advice, I prodded my out-of-state mother-in-law for how she coped thirty years ago as a mother of newborns. I cried while singing lullabies, walking Zoe around and around the dining room table trying to get her to sleep, wishing my mother was there to take my baby in her arms. I made it through nearly nine months of working at home while caring for Zoe. Then her long daily naps became grew shorter as she began to crawl and sit up. I quit my paid job and breathed a hugh sigh of relief.

Those tough years of nursing and changing diapers in the middle of the night are over. Zoe is now seven, with a five-year-old little sister called Lilah. I have not gone back to a paid job. I am not working on a career, or building my resume. I mother, full-time. I do not neglect my own interests or needs. Time for those has slowly returned as my girls have gained independence. I exercise, I write, I read, I take classes and participate in groups who do these things. I make sure I have plenty of grown-up time. I put a lot of time and energy into getting healthy food for my family. I work hard at renovating and rescuing our old house. I have planted a lot of flowers and trees around this house. I take my girls to all kinds of places—forests, libraries, museums, farms, oceans, parks—and I truly enjoy spending time with them; they are thoughtful, fun people. I read, draw, play, joke, scream, sing, run, dance and snuggle with them. I tell them stories about the grandmother they will never meet. I breathe them in and let them see me cry.

I think my mother would be proud.

Random Opinions

Eggs should be cooked slow. When are we are all going to realize this? I am tired of gnawing on people's rubbery deviled eggs at Easter get-togethers, and hearing them say, “Oh, they're so easy to do. I just leave them boiling on the stove, for 20, 25 minutes, whatever. The shells come right off.” No. You bring them to a boil, then turn the heat off immediately and leave them for 12 minutes, 15 tops if they are large and grocery-store bought. The organic, rock hen eggs I get from Fisher Farm only need 12 minutes. They come out soft and velvety. Same with scrambled or fried. Cook on the lowest heat possible. Have patience with your eggs!

People need to stop being so chirpy in emails and written announcements. All those exclamation points make me feel like I'm being shouted at all the time. The head of a local school group I am a part of simply cannot go a full paragraph without a minimum of seven exclamation points. As I read her exuberant updates of how the book fair or teacher appreciation lunch went, all I picture is her face stricken with an ear-to-ear smile, eyebrows arched to her hairline, eyes wide with the unbelievable sunshine of our school family. Emoticons also get on my nerves—especially the ones used to ensure someone you're “just kidding.” If you can't express your meaning with words, then take responsibility for it—don't fall back on little smiley faces. I enjoy droll wit and sarcasm, and it's actually entertaining to leave people wondering. And since when did a little mysterious facetiousness hurt our relationships? It keep things interesting. Perhaps emoticons bother me because they are a descendant of the email itself. I don't think I would mind if someone doodled a face on a hand-written letter to me. But back when I exchanged snail-mail letters frequently, I don't remember a lot of little smiley faces in them. They just weren't necessary. It's the hurried pace of email exchange that seem to require them. I guess I'm still a luddite at heart, grudgingly toiling away at the screen every day, loving its convenience but missing the breather we used to get between communications. Time between letters gave us pause, and perhaps we chose our words more carefully too.

Can we please end the “adolescent jeans with the crotch hanging halfway down to the knees and the boxers showing” fad? Hasn't it been long enough? I am not a fashion policer, and I don't think it's an issue of modesty. It's just absurd and makes me seriously ponder the state of mind of some of our teenagers. But I'm sure that makes me sound rather ancient. Other teenagers probably don't have much of an opinion; those guys that shuffle around with jeans 3 sizes too big are just from another fashion, or social clique. They're harmless. And they are; but for some reason, I just want to move on. Skinny jeans are pretty ridiculous too, for that matter. Can't we settle on something in between? We can all pronounce our individuality with brand, or embellishments. I'm partial to Levis myself. My little girls love glittery things on their jeans; butterflies and flowers are big, and peace signs seem to be making a comeback.

Scent pollution is a serious problem. I applaud the doctor's offices that request that patients refrain from wearing perfume when they come to appointments. My husband's office has also banned heavy scent from the workplace. Can we ban it everywhere? The other day at the gym I was assaulted by the body spray from a fellow exerciser when she alighted on the machine next to mine. Instant headache for me and it ruined my whole workout. Another time, my husband and I took a cross-country flight that also carried the Don Juan of Drakkar Noir. We both had full-fledged sneezing attacks all the way to Anchorage. Fellow passengers were leaning away from us fearing we had the flu. If you shower pretty regularly, maybe use a little essential oil behind the ears, you should be all set. Let your natural scent waft out. It's amazing we as a species persist if pheromones are supposed to be major players in opposite sex attraction—how does anyone smell the love hormones under all those chemicals?

Excessive packaging is an even more serious problem. I can't stand the big plastic containers that house salad mix and strawberries. But those are the best deals and I grudgingly purchase them from time to time, wishing for less bulky alternatives. Yes, the plastic containers can be recycled in some places, but not all; it would be better not to use them in the first place. So many of our products come over-packaged. Laundry detergent and dish soap come in heavy plastic bottles when they could be sold in those plastic sleeves. Doggie bags from restaurants are handed to you not in simple foil and paper, but in a styrofoam clamshell often 3 sizes too big for your leftovers. Many children's toys are encased in shiny boxes and rendered immobile with metal and plastic ties, tape and glue. Does the Fisher Price Fun Castle really need to be packaged to sustain a space shuttle mission? Everything from batteries to grocery store sushi is encased in plastic tubs—are biodegradable paper containers really that much more expensive to produce? It's been a while since I read up on the cradle-to-grave environmental cost of various containers—the ecological cost of production, recycling or landfilling. But paper-made containers are for some reason less offensive to my senses. They just seem more natural, less processed. I'm sure it's mostly of matter of economic cost for most package manufacturers. Some companies are changing packaging, I know. It's just not happening fast enough for me.  I mean, am I truly expected to live a full life without those 3 pounds of strawberries and the Fun Castle?

People need to stop being so judgmental. A friend of mine told me this story the other day. My friend was at a her friend Claire's house, and they were talking about their kids. Claire's young daughter chimed in, “People that stop at two are just quitters,” referring to the number of kids people have. Claire just smiled at her daughter's clever parroting, and agreed. My friend was simply speechless; she is a mother of two shining young boys, and has had two miscarriages recently. Claire, a mother of three, knows every detail of the miscarriages. What are people thinking in moments like this? I have opinions about the number of children we have and the reasons why we have them, but this is an issue that should not be treated with casual judgmental barbs. It is thorny and fraught with personal and political issues. I have always loved that saying about honey going down better than vinegar. If you really want someone to listen to you, be kind. Talk less. Then when you do say something, people might just stop and listen. Regarding this matter of eggs—the number you choose or are able to fertilize (or the temperature you choose to boil at): all I have to say is: slow down, have patience, and go easy on your fellow beings.