Poke-Nook,  the Lost Glove,  and My Cousin Isly

Our late friend Arnie Reisman was a poet and filmmaker,  and also a regular panelist on Says You,  a witty NPR radio show about words.  Over the years I learned a lot from Arnie and his literate pals.  For example,  did you know that the dark,  cavernous inside of a woman’s handbag is called a poke-nook?   Remember that word while I tell you about my lost glove.

A few years ago I bought a lovely green winter coat and I found a pair of gloves just the right shade of green to go with it.  I was wearing my new green ensemble while walking downtown one day when my cell phone rang.

As you may know,  you can’t hit the talk button with a glove on,  apparently the human touch is needed which is actually rather sweet.  So I pulled off one glove,  answered the call,  and chatted away.  But when the call was over I couldn’t find the glove.

Thinking I may have dropped it,  I retraced my steps for several blocks – but no dice.  So over the next few days I searched the stores for another pair,  but it seems the fashionistas had decreed that green wasn’t “in” that year and many of the shops had no green gloves at all.

Then I tried Lord and Taylor,   and luckily found a pair in green that even had a tag attached that read,   “Keep your hands warm while you stay in touch!  Use with your Apple iPod and iPhone mobile digital devices and other touch sensitive accessories.”    How perfect!

A few days later I met my young cousin Isly for lunch.   Coming out of the restaurant afterwards I realized I was missing one of my brand new green gloves,  but this time I didn’t fret.  I knew the gloves could be replaced,  but the precious time I just had with my sweet cousin Isly was irreplaceable!

Postscript 

Later that night when I was cleaning out my handbag,  guess what –  I found the lost glove in my poke-nook!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

I would never have believed it -- and maybe I should have.
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This is more about books and reading and being a weird little kid than about any single book.

I was a nerd. A geek. A prototypical Poindexter (a nickname I was actually saddled with for a time). Books didn’t beat me up the way other kids did, so I loved them with all my heart and soul. I vaguely remember kiddie classics like “Dick and Jane” and “Curious George.” I recall reading “The Little Engine That Could” by flashlight up in my bunk bed. I think Tuggy the Tugboat put in an appearance as well. A bit later, the Hardy Boys and Tom Swift were buds; I spent a summer devouring the Swift books alone in a sweltering backyard tent that I had dubbed “The Lab.” But when I discovered the large collection of old science fiction anthologies (Asimov! Wyndham! Bradbury!) that hid in the back of the storefront branch library around the block….

After that it was third star to the left and straight on ’till morning!

But there was a problem. I was in third or fourth grade, and these were “adult” books. The librarian refused to let me check them out. She referred me instead to the children’s and YP (“young people’s”) sections. Most of these I had already read, or seen and rejected. But she was unmoved. I was supposed to be content with bland pablum suitable for easily upset post-toddlers when there were alien invasions to foil, post-apocalyptic wastelands to survive and galactic empires to conquer or save?

I left the library crying tears of anger, humiliation and frustration. Not unfamiliar emotions to me even then, but always unpleasant.

I don’t remember telling her, but Mom often asked me about what I was reading. She called me “Isaac” because of my love of Isaac Asimov. So I must have broken my personal code of silence and vented my frustration at being deprived of my chosen reads. All she said was “I’ll go and talk to her.” A few days later, she told me that it was all straightened out and that I could borrow any books that I wished.

I have never known what my Mom said to that librarian. Knowing Mom, it was said slowly, softly, with a slight smile and and laced with profanity. Mom was good at quiet intimidation. If that failed, it was undoubtedly repeated, but at a much greater volume.

I was a regular in the branch, and never had to be scolded or shushed (hell, I was in church!) so the librarian often chatted with me. But when I next approached the desk with my handful of forbidden books, she said nothing. Not a word. She inked her date stamp and checked me out in dead silence. I borrowed books from that branch until I went to high school and the Main library became convenient, but that librarian never spoke to me again.

A funny coda; years later, living at home on a summer break from college, I found myself in that library again. I went to the back, where my beloved science fiction anthologies had lived. They were there still. For some reason I took one down and checked the pocket in the back where the card that the librarian stamped was kept. I checked them all.

The last person to have read any of those books was me.

Don’t Know Much About History

I’m sure most of us with birthdays inching up to four score haven’t gotten this far in life without chalking up some regrets.

Did I pursue my early aspirations for an actor’s life?  I didn’t – a reget.  (See Theatre Dreams)

On our honeymoon we met a lovely couple from New Orleans who invited us to come stay with them for Mardi Gras.  We didn’t,  and over the years we lost touch – a regret.

And years ago other friends bought a plot of land in the Berkshires and urged us to buy the neighboring plot.   We didn’t,  another regret.

And when I finished grad school in the late 60s the Peace Corps was recruiting librarians to establish book collections in underdeveloped nations.  Why didn’t I go?  Big regret.  (See Good Girl)

And then there was that fabulous four-story uptown brownstone we were invited to share,  and regrettably said No.

And was I at Woodstock?  No.  (See What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?)

And the silent auction/fundraiser we went to with friends who won an all-expenses-paid trip to France and offered to share it with us,  and we said Non.  Mon Dieu,  what were we thinking!

And then all those “What ifs?”.  (See Cherry Coke and The One Who Got Away)

And back in college a big regret.  My American Literature  professor,  the renown Walt Whitman scholar Gay Wilson Allen,   urged me to declare myself an American civilization  rather than a lit major.   But I didn’t want to take all the history and political science courses required,  so I declined,  and of course later regretted the missed opportunity.  In fact,  as I remember,  other than one American history class and a Western civ survey,  I took no other college history courses and now have big gaps in my worldly knowledge.

Of course I have only myself to blame as since college I’ve taken many courses –  some as a matriculated student on several study sabbaticals,  and some adult ed courses,  and some university courses I audited for fun.

But did I fill my glaring gaps with history or poli sci or world events courses?   No.  Instead I opted for music surveys and art history;  cinema and poetry;  the art of the short story;  pottery;  Shakespeare’s early plays,  followed of course by Shakespeare’s later plays;  a few writing workshops;   feminist lit;  French;  a memoir writing class;  African American lit;  proofreading,  classical and modern drama;  and a few more literature courses.  (See My Love Affair with James Joyce)

So it seems it’s my karma to learn about the ancient world from the novels of Robert Graves;  and my Russian history from Tolstoy;  and English manners and society from Jane Austen and Charles Dickens.

But I guess there are worse teachers.

– Dana Susan Lehrman