Here's a quote from an Alice Munro story called Meneseteung. It sums up rather nicely the enchanted effect my wife has had on my existence in the world of things:
A man may keep his house decent, but he will never—if he is a proper man—do much to decorate it. Marriage forces him to live with more ornament as well as sentiment, and it protects him, also, from the extremities of his own nature—from a frigid parsimony or a luxuriant sloth, from squalor, and from excessive sleeping or reading, drinking, smoking, or freethinking.
To set the record straight, I do not smoke, nor do I excessively sleep (would that I could). I am not consciously parsimonious. I drink hardly at all, read voraciously, and am most definitely susceptible to protracted bouts of freethinking. I find much to like, too, in the concept of luxuriant sloth.
Left to my own devices, as Ms. Munro notes, I will keep a place decent, but won't do much to decorate it. The dishes will get washed, the bed made, the toilet scrubbed, the socks picked up from the floor. But the walls and various horizontal surfaces will remain, for the most part, unadorned.
So, yes, for the 34 years I've been married to Susan I have indeed lived amidst "more ornament as well as sentiment" than would otherwise have been the case. But Susan in no wise has forced these conditions upon me. She has just gone about doing what she does, which is to say casually and instinctively shaping our surroundings into an ever more lovely home.
Everywhere I look I see and relish her graceful hand, feeling privileged to dwell in a world of her creation.
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Whenever I buy a used book from Amazon.com, I always choose, if possible, a copy once owned by a library. In fact, I'd much rather possess a retired library copy than a brand new copy of just about any book.
Why? Three words: fun discoveries.*
Example 1. My retired library copy of Alice Munro's Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage.
Formerly owned by the Salt Lake County Library System, my cello-wrapped hardbound copy of one of Alice Munro's uniformly marvelous short-story collections came with an equally delightful surprise inside: a computer-generated checkout receipt.
The receipt shows that on the twenty-seventh instant of December 2006, at one o’clock in the afternoon, a woman named, incredibly, "JAMES, JOYCE" checked out what is now my precious tome along with three other books: When I Loved Myself Enough; Finding Peace: Letting Go and Liking It; and Authentic Happiness: Using the New Positive Psychology to Realize Your Potential for Lasting Fulfillment.
Could the possibly unwary Ms. James have assumed that self-help would likewise be forthcoming from Alice Munro? I certainly hope not, because, while invariably brilliant, Alice Munro stories can be whopping downers.
Example 2. My retired library copy of Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge.
This sturdy little linen-bound gem came from the library of Cleveland High School, Portland, Ore. It was published by Harper & Row at some indeterminate point after 1950, as part of the Harper's Modern Classics series.
And here's the fun discovery: a pasted checkout label showing just two withdrawals—twelve years apart.
On September 30, 1964, my little red Hardy book was checked out by a Miss MaryAnn Hillstein. It then collected dust until September 8, 1976, when a Miss Vickie Peck, bless her heart, condescended to withdraw it too.
See what I mean?
* Intentional homage to American Idol.
And "Happy Birthday!" Kristin.
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