Does the Dog Die? A Brief Review of The Hakawati, by Rabih Alameddine

This brilliant book, written in the spiralling framework we know from 1001 Arabian Nights, combines the story of a modern-day Lebanese family with classic Middle Eastern stories about the Crusades, evil genies, and Arab tribes. It’s also long, and I think it’s rather complex for a book group discussion, but I loved it and can’t recommend it highly enough.

Osama, the narrator of the contemporary story, has returned to Beirut from his high-tech job in California in order to be present at the death of his father. As he tells us about his complex family, he returns again and again to stories told first by his grandfather, who was a storyteller by profession, also known as a hakawati.

There are many threads, weaving in and out like a ball of yarn after a cat attack, or a pot of spaghetti fallen to the floor. Among the most outstanding were those of Majnoun, Layl, and a coterie of imps; the slave prince Baybars and his allies Layla and Othman; and Osama’s own family. Alameddine thoroughly covers the diversity of the Arab world, in religion, attitude, accomplishment, history, and culture. Especially at this time when the prevailing tendency is to pigeonhole people into tight little niches, Alameddine proves again and again that such attempts are not only wrong but also, for an honest person, impossible.

Animal lovers will find hero animals as well as disturbing scenes. A lamb is slaughtered rather graphically, trained pigeons battled each other to the death at the direction of their human masters, the genius horse Al-Awwar becomes a general and warrior who leads his fellow equines and their human cargo to victory in battle after battle, and a range of lesser situations are scattered throughout the book. Birds in general don’t fare well in Alameddine’s tale, so I am going to declare this book UNSAFE FOR BIRD LOVERS (you know who you are!) but MOSTLY SAFE for animal lovers who can get past that.

Does the Dog Die? A Brief Review of The Story of Forgetting, by Stefan Merrill Block

This is another cranky book review, second in a series of three. I have several really great books lined up for review, but I thought I’d get the stinkers out of the way all at once, going from worst to so-so.

The Story of Forgetting isn’t actively bad, it’s just not very good. Once again, I am reminded of the importance of subplots and the role they play in adding dimension to stories with straightforward, predictable plots. “Forgetting” has a straightforward, predictable plot and one subplot. That is not enough to keep it interesting.

In fact, my main complaint about this book is that it’s not very interesting. It’s extremely well-written, but strong writing alone isn’t enough to carry a book. Here’s the plot: people who have a form of early-onset Alzheimer’s disease in their families may or may not be trying to find each other. It needs to be fleshed out beyond that, and it isn’t.

Yet this book sold well, and I’m sure there are many readers who think the story is moving, etc., etc. Fine. I got about 2/3 of the way through it and couldn’t stand it anymore. I skimmed the rest of the book to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. I wasn’t.

I’m going to keep Block in mind, however. He’s young, and if the early success doesn’t go to his head and make him think he knows it all, he could be a very good writer some day. I just don’t think he’s there yet.

Also, he should do better research next time out. Yes, it’s apparent he studied Alzheimer’s disease like a true scholar. But there are some unintended bloopers in other areas. For example, a rather humble character who has a small farm confesses to killing a cow on his birthday, as if he’s going to have one steak, then eat lightly the rest of the year. That is unintentionally hilarious. I just Googled “how much meat comes from a heifer,” and the very first link that showed up indicates that a 1,200 pound heifer produces about 429 pounds of meat. That’s about 8 pounds a week, which is not “eating lightly” by any stretch of the imagination. It also requires butchering capacity and substantial cold storage. There were a few other inaccuracies that took my attention away from the story.

So I’m not recommending this book. It’s boring. If that doesn’t bother you and you just want to read beautiful writing, have at it.

As for animals, there’s a sad old horse named Iona who grows old and does what old horses do. But there’s nothing beyond that. So this book is SAFE for animal lovers.

“Air Travel Is So Glamorous” — Vacation Prelude and Part One

Prelude

Some of you have heard my explanation about the genesis of this vacation, and you probably want to skip this paragraph because it’s the same thing I’ve always said. And that is: After my dad died last year, my mother — a burnt-out caretaker 13 years his junior — was talking to her priest, who said to ”Pat, I want you to travel.” She replied, “I’m going to.” He then asked “Where are you going?” And she said “Wyoming — Yellowstone!” This is that trip.

We could not have done this trip without Dave, and we were fortunate that he wanted to join us. After much consultation, we agreed on a 3-part trip: short visit with relatives in Utah/Idaho, 2 days in Jackson WY and Grand Teton National Park, and Yellowstone National Park.

I carefully aligned our flights so that Dave and I were scheduled to arrive in Salt Lake City about 20 minutes before Mom, allowing us to meet her there. However, the morning we were to leave, as I was taking Eddie to the vet for boarding, I got an uneasy feeling that we had not made sufficient contingency plans. So I did something I rarely do — I called Mom while I was driving.

My car is manual transmission, aka stick shift. I need two hands to drive. There is no third hand available for the cell phone. So I called while sitting at what is normally a lengthy stop light.

“If something goes wrong, we’ll use Aunt Joyce as the switchboard,” I said.

“Why can’t I call you?” Mom asked.

“Because the voice mail on my cell phone doesn’t always work,” I said.

“Why?” Mom asked.

“Just trust me and don’t leave a message,” I said as the light turned and I had to make a left turn with a cellphone wedged between my ear and shoulder.

“But that’s not right,” Mom said.

HONK!!!! went the car behind me as I failed to put on my turn signal for the next sharp left I had to make.

“FUCK YOU!!” I yelled into the phone, meaning the driver, not Mom, which I had to explain once I was parked at the vet’s.

So we’re off to a good start already. I left my dubious Mom with instructions to call Aunt Joyce if there were a problem, and I said I would do the same.

Part One

Those carefully scheduled arrival times I mentioned above? They didn’t happen.

Dave and I were flying on Frontier, which is currently at the top of my list of Airlines I Don’t Hate Right Now. The day before, I did online check-in for the two of us because that’s the kind of thing I do.

Here is why online check-in is important: Say, hypothetically, you’ve booked a flight from Washington to Salt Lake City with a transfer to a connecting flight in Denver first. And say, hypothetically, that your flight to Denver is delayed 3 1/2 hours due to a mechanical problem. Under this hypothetical scenario, if you have checked in online, the airline may automatically rebook you on another connecting flight, maybe even on another airline, so that you do not have to stand in line with the teeming masses and figure this out at the airport. Which is what happened — we didn’t have to stand in line, because Frontier rebooked our second flight before we even arrived at the airport.

So thanks, Frontier Airlines and whoever came up with online check-in! Also, thanks for the two $50 vouchers, which are around here somewhere because I haven’t thrown out a single piece of paper since we left, although I will confess that I don’t actually know where the vouchers are. But I have them. Somewhere.

This begins a round of trying to contact Mom. As it will turn out, when we are on the ground, Mom will be in the air, and vice versa. All. Day. Long. So I call Aunt Joyce and tell her what’s happening. She wants to leave messages on my cell phone, however. I tell her no. Why is it that the 70-somethings don’t accept the notion of failed voice mail? Later that day, I spend the better part of an hour talking to my unhelpful carrier, and I still don’t have voice mail on my cell phone. This will be solved, but it wasn’t going to be solved while we were traveling.

Having nothing better to do, Dave and I go to the United counter, which is the airline that now has our second flight, from Denver to Salt Lake, and which is incredibly busy. The man who stands there directing people to his colleagues asks us what we want. Seat assignments, we tell him. He says his colleagues won’t be able to help. I look at them. They are under siege. But we decide to stick around and take our chances. Sure enough, when we do get to an agent, she gives us great seats in Economy Plus, for an extra charge. What do you get in Economy Plus? Nicer seats with extra leg room. I am 5′ 10″ and expecting to put in a 20+ hour day by time we land. Of course we’re going to pay the extra charge, which is only $39 each.

I then call Aunt Joyce, who volunteers to meet Mom at the airport since we won’t be there. It’s a 90-minute drive for her, but she and her husband will do that because otherwise my 76-year-old mother will be stranded.

Hours later, Mom calls my cell phone (and I have several voice messages from her and Joyce on my phone — too bad I can’t get at them) and actually reaches me.

“I’m in baggage claim, where are you?”

“Denver.”

“What?”

“Did you call Joyce?”

“No. Oh, wait, here she is.”

So that part works reasonably well. Dave and I then make reservations for a Hampton Inn near the Salt Lake City airport. Because our flight out of Denver is weathered in for a while, we arrive there just before 2 a.m. With the time change, this comes to a 22-hour day. We are not in the best shape at that point. The Hampton Inn is not all that easy to find, although the guy at the Hertz counter got us fairly close. But it is worth it. The clerk puts us in the quietest room he has open and, mercifully, we sleep. Sort of. If you don’t count Dave’s leg cramp in the middle of the night and my general inability to sleep from having been wired all day long. But eventually, we are something approximating rested, and get up in time for the free breakfast.

Hampton Inn gave us a great room, a better-than-decent free breakfast, and a few hours of sanity when we were desperate, all at a very reasonable price. Thanks, Hampton Inn!

Next up: Aunt Joyce, Sam, and the Idaho Cousins.

Thoughts After a Funeral

So I’m back home and back to normal and deep into processing all this. Someone said the good and bad moments will both come at random moments. So this will be a hodgepodge post of random thoughts about my dad, the funeral, and related topics.

Dad’s (Mom’s) bbq chicken recipe. Dad didn’t cook, except to grill chicken. Mom would marinate chicken pieces overnight in Italian dressing, and the next night Dad would smear them with bottled barbeque sauce and grill them. I’ve since been “educated” as to different styles of barbeque, but this was great stuff! And I don’t remember how on earth the subject came up last week, but it did.

That “quirky sense of humor” I mentioned. My dad has a wild sense of humor, which made it into the homily at his funeral Mass. As an example: A few years ago, Fr. Brian was buying groceries and in line at the checkout. Dad was right behind him. Now, at the time, Dad was taking coumadin, which leaves purple splotches on your skin. And this woman came up behind Dad and said words to the effect of “eww, what’s that?” Without missing a beat, Dad said “It’s leprosy! And it’s contagious!” and began rubbing his arm all over the woman. Fr. Brian was laughing his head off, which is how the woman figured out that Dad wasn’t serious. I’ve always envied how Dad was quick on his feet like that. I’d have said something like “oh, it’s coumadin, a blood thinner,” recited my medical history to the woman, and figured out the come-back several days later.

The “Canada group” The Canada group was a group of men 25-35 years younger than Dad; I went to school with several of them. Starting in the late 70s, this group of businessmen and professionals met for lunch every Friday, went up to Canada each summer to go fishing, and celebrated birthdays together along with their wives. They had the most, and the most outrageous, stories about Dad. They all teased each other pretty hard, and they took his death the hardest. A lot of the most important people in Dad’s life stopped by his hospital room on his last 2 days, and each member of the Canada group made that trip, including two for whom it was a long drive of an hour or more. Our friends enrich us, and I’m glad Dad had the Canada group in his life.

A 21 gun salute. It poured rain the day of Dad’s funeral, and yet at the cemetary a group of older veterans stood at attention in the rain, waiting for the signal to give Dad a 21-gun salute. He was proud of his military service, which included WWII and a few years afterwards, and the honor would have meant a lot to him. Also, the town mayor set aside the day in Dad’s honor and had all flags flown at half-staff.

Visitation. Dad ran a small-town weekly newspaper, and just about everyone who ever worked for him showed up to pay their respects. This included people who had had full careers and are now retired, and people who had to drive quite a distance. Some of them said he was the best boss they ever had.

A couple of days ago, one of my friends said that people who haven’t been through this don’t know what it’s like, and that the gulf between those who’ve lost a parent and those who haven’t is greater than the gulf between those who’ve had kids and those who haven’t. This is all still new to me, so I don’t yet know if I agree with her. But my entire family has had great support through all this, and for that I am grateful.