In the Language of Steinbeck

Last night, I started dreaming in Steinbeck. I have occasionally dreamt in German when I was younger, but never before in Steinbeck. John Steinbeck has a language all his own in the humble opinion of this devoted fan. His collections of words are piercingly true and imbued with a distant calm that simply sees life as it is.

I started reading "Tortilla Flat" a few days ago and I have already found myself narrating events around me in that unemotional third-person omniscience that makes Steinbeck so Steinbeckian. Or Steinbeckish. Or choose your own adjective. Last night, I was awakened from a dream and realized in shock that my dream was somehow colored through and through with the voice of John Steinbeck. Life was good.

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Yesterday was Mother's Day. Don't even ask unless you really want to know. I wrote a four-page, single-space diatribe against this semi-annual Day of Wasted Expectations but decided that it may not be fit for public consumption. Email me if you want to read it.

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Looks like I'll be headed to Deutschland in about a month. Wow! It has been a seriously long time since I have spoken any German, so I better start brushing up.

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I took two of my nephews to "Math Circle" at Brigham Young University last weekend. The professor who runs the group looked at my two kids who were tagging along, trying to decide if they were going to be a part of the group or if they were just there to tag along. He looked Joseph over and handed him a worksheet and pencil. Then he turned to Thomas. Little, blonde four-year-old Thomas. He hesitated. 

"Does he understand clockwise and counterclockwise?" he asked. 

"Uhhh... probably not," I replied.

"Can he read?"

"Yeah, he can read."

That was enough for this math devotee. He plopped a worksheet fit for teenagers down in front of my four-year-old and went about his business. I couldn't help smiling.