Happy 75th Anniversary, Mr. Boston!

I've written about my fondness for Mr. Boston before, and explained why this particular cocktail book is such a favorite.  Mainly, it's like a beer stein being offered by a St. Pauli girl of yore - overflowing with goodness.

Not until the Volstead Act - that idiocy, that scourge - had a stake driven through its heart by the 21st Amendment, not until then would we be graced with the first version of Mr. Boston.  So it's this year, 75 years from the grey days of Prohibition and Depression, that we see the publication of the Diamond Anniversary Edition of his Official Bartender's Guide.

With 200 brand new recipes - and 1500 total, this iteration is fatter than you're used to.  And that's why Mr. Boston should be in everyone's home - at least in the homes of you stumbling sots out there.  It covers everything.  You don't go to Mr. Boston for depth, but for breadth?  He's your man.  So get thee to a bookery and then put the Mr. in someone's stocking - or just keep it for yourself.

I was going to keep it for myself until I handed it to my brother over Thanksgiving - but not before I used it to find a suitable drink for the Fall.  I wanted a recipe that didn't require me to buy some esoteric ingredient that I'd use just the once.  My bar is well-stocked, but it's not by any means encyclopedic.  I've been trying to keep it under control by, say, finishing one bottle of gin before buying another.  The bourbon's out of control, though.

Come, please, come over and help me bring the bourbon and rye back down to manageable quantities.

So, after positively deciding that I'd only pick a drink for the Fall that I could make with fixins from my pantry, I of course selected a concoction called Autumn Leaves.  Did it require the purchase of some stupid ingredient that I might use only once?  Sure it did.  But what's the point of making a decision if you can't break it?  Besides, wait'll you take a sip.

AUTUMN LEAVES

3/4 oz. Straight Rye

3/4 oz. Apple Brandy

3/4 oz. Sweet Vermouth

1/4 oz. Strega

2 dashes Angostura Bitters

Stir with ice and strain into ice-filled old-fashioned glass.  Garnish with an orange twist.

I used Laird's Applejack.  We've used Applejack before, you and I, when we mixed Laura's November Manhattan.  A year ago?  How did a year pass?  Laura's married now, taking care of a baby.  It's been a year since we shared Applejack in that wonderful Manhattan?  Too long.  It's been too long.

The second time I unfurled Autumn Leaves - it was near midnight, and the drink banished some of the dark and cold as it accompanied this writing - I used a touch more Vermouth and a bit less Strega.  Just a touch more, a touch less - but it's the touch that counts, yes?  Also, I did the shaken-not-stirred thing.  It's the Bond in me.

The idiot ingredient for Autumn Leaves is the Strega, an Italian herbal liqueur.  Or I thought it was the idiot ingredient.  Turns out it's not.

Detour with me?

The Strega Prize is Italy's most prestigious literary award.  Guido Alberti, owner of Strega Liqueur, was part of a social group in Italy in the '40's that met on Sundays to eat, drink, and attend a literary salon hosted by Maria and Goffredo Bellonci.  They had hoped that by bringing the literati together, they could help to heal the wounds wrought by WWII.  These Sunday Friends then launched, with Alberti's backing, the Strega Prize.  The Sunday Friends - now a jury of 400 - still nominate and select the winner.

I think I'd like to drink with the Friends.

Anyway.  Strega the booze, as opposed to Strega the prize?  It's beautifully yellow, and its color, when combined with the rich brown hues of the Rye and the Applejack, with the rose-red of the Sweet Vermouth, its color and these colors give the drink a soft, autumn blush.  Strega's medley of herbs adds a wonderfully complex hint of flavor to the drink - I taste mint, for sure, but I'm terrible at breaking down taste notes.  I know if I like it, know if I don't.

Autumn Leaves?  I like.

So again - come.  Come and we'll pour some of my abundant Rye, mix it with the Strega, and watch the leaves turn.  Salute!

The Amazing Shoes of Brian Selznick

When last we met, I was telling you about the astounding night we had at the Alameda Theatre celebrating the release of Wonderstruck - the latest and most spectacular offering from Brian Selznick.  In my telling, I mentioned that Daughter Number One was miffed that I hadn't take a snap of Mr. Selznick's shoes.  And once I had described them fully - in all their spectacular, shiny silverness - Daughter Number Two was equally as miffed as Number One.

If the shoes were so splendorous, how could I not have memorialized them in film?  I had my camera, yes?  If it failed me, was my phone not in my pocket?  Could it not have been used - easily, with alacrity - to document the footwear's greatness?

I hesitate to say my girls doubted the truthfulness of their father, but perhaps they began to lean towards the camp of those who suggest I am prone to exaggeration.

Lies!  All lies!

Anyway - after recounting my daughter's disappointment in that earlier posting, I included a plea to Mr. Selznick.  Asking (beseeching?) that if he, you know, wasn't busy flying to Rome for the premier of the film adaptation of his Caldecott-winning Invention of Hugo Cabret, maybe he could, um, take a picture of his shoes.  If there wasn't anything else on his soon-to-be-spaghetti-filled plate.

When in Rome, and all that.

I was kidding, kind of.  But I did mention that Charisse, Scholastic's Executive Director of Publicity - who was good enough to join us in Alameda for our Wonderstruck night - I did perhaps hint that Ms. Charisse knew where to find me.

Wink wink.

I digress.  And for that - not for exaggeration, mind you, but for digression? - yes, I will admit that sometimes I digress.  Because all I wanted to say was this:  not 24 hours after my entreaty was thrown to the wind, I received a response from Ms. Charisse. 

So, yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.  And in my house, he goes by the name of jolly old Selznick.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you his Very Amazing Shoes:

I thank you, Ms. Charisse, and I thank you, Mr. Brian.  But more importantly, Daughter Number One and Daughter Number Two thank you both.  We all hope Rome was a holiday.

Wonderstruck

It's been so long since we talked!  There's so much I want to tell you - so much I want to share about the amazing evening I had on Wednesday with hundreds of others all packing the Alameda Theatre.  The latest Twilight release?  Nope, that's not for another 20 days and 7 hours.  And, I'm not counting.  And, I'm never going to write about that.

It's not even a movie that brought those hundreds out the other evening - it was a book.  I know, I know - who'd a thunk it?  Parents with their kids, kids flying solo, adults wondering what all the fuss was about.  Any time that much excitement is generated by a book, you should take notice.

The fuss?  The fuss was about Wonderstruck, written by Brian Selznick.  Mr. Selznick won the Caldecott Medal in 2008 for The Invention of Hugo Cabret.  You've read this magical book, yes?  Because if not - you go get the book, I'll mix you a drink, and we'll sit down and talk, okay?

Mr. Selznick is amazing - and yes, that's the second time I've used the word for those of you keeping track, but the night was (amazing) and Mr. Selznick is (amazing).  His black and white illustrations for those two books are stunning - each time I look at the works, I find some new detail I missed - a girl looking out a second-floor window; a stone that she'll stumble over, placed in her path pages before she'll trip over it, in the rain, as lightning flashes overhead.

So when we had the chance to bring Mr. Selznick to Alameda?  It was easy to decide to make the proposal - but many bookstores would be vying for his attentions, so we wanted to make our proposal stand out.  The new book, Wonderstruck, has an old-time Hollywood component - referencing back to an era when your local cineplex was instead a Movie Palace and not a warren of doors hiding smallish viewing areas - back when theaters were grand and opulent showcases of ridiculously beautiful architecture, all the better to show off the marvels that would grace their majestic screens.

Well, we have one of those Palaces in Alameda.  Designed by Timothy Pflueger - the same gent who created the Castro Theatre, the Grand Lake, the Top of the Mark - it was refurbished and now shines like it did in 1932 when it opened with a showing of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm with the governor of California as the guest of honor.

I want to tell you about the theater, about how Kyle and Allison there helped us put our proposal together.  But that's about the theater now, and there's so much I want to tell you about the theater then.  About how pieces of it disappeared over the years - the art deco chandeliers from the mezzanine, the doors with blades of glass, the doors flanking the lobby in a beautiful crescent.  But bit by bit, as the theater fell into disrepair, as the screen fell silent on July 31st, 1979, as that led to its reopening as the Yankee Doodle Roller Rink, as that turned into a dance hall, scavengers made off with little pieces of its glory.

I want to tell you about the morning when, during the refurbishment, the chandeliers were found outside the theater's doors, returned by who-knows-who in the dark of night.  Or about the antique dealer who called the city and told them that he had purchased the crescent of interior doors back in the '80's and that he still had them.  Still had the original bill of sale, and if the city wanted to pay him his purchase price, he'd be happy to sell them back.

I want to tell you about the magic inside the theater, and how we thought it would be the perfect complement to host Mr. Selznick since Wonderstruck had that old-Hollywood tie in.  Since he's related to David O. Selznick.  Since the movie of the earlier book, the Invention of Hugo Cabret, is being released this month.  Hugo has a few people you may have heard of - Martin Scorsese, Jude Law, Ben Kingsley.

So I want to tell you all that, but also about how Tracy and I were discussing the fact that we were going to have a special guest - Remy Charlip.

Who's Remy Charlip? I said.

Tracy looked at me the way you'd look at a baby sparrow that fell from its nest.  Concerned, yes, but with the sense that, alas, this was the way of things.  Poor, stupid, ignorant little bird.

Only one of the most influential author/artists ever, she said. 

I'd discover that The Invention of Hugo Cabret had been dedicated to Mr. Charlip and that he'd been used by Mr. Selznick as the model for one of the book's main characters, Georges Méliès.

Okay, okay, got it.  But how was I going to recognize Mr. Charlip when he arrived at the theater?  I wanted to make sure he was comfortably seated in the area we had set aside.

Oh ho, Tracy said.  You'll recognize, believe me.  Remy doesn't blend into crowds - maybe he'll have on a fabulous scarf, something from the Doctor Who collection.  You'll know him when you see him.

So yes, I want to tell you all of that, and about how that conversation led to shoes, and how Tracy said Selznick would arrive wearing something breathtaking on his feet.

How can you possibly know what kind of shoes he'll have on, I said.

Again with that bird look.  Just trust me, she said.

I want to let you know that indeed his shoes were marvelous - shiny and silver and pointy.  I want to let you know that when I told my oldest about the shoes, Elizabeth widened her seven-year-old eyes and said, Oh daddy, can you show me a picture?  And that when I looked at her blankly she said, You had your camera, didn't you?  You took pictures of his shoes because they were so special, right?

There I was, a baby sparrow, nestless again.  I want to let you know how disappointed Elizabeth was that her camera-toting daddy didn't think to snap the shoes.  Mr. Selznick, if you're out there, please?  A pic of your footwear?  Roz or Charisse from Scholastic know where to find me!

I want to tell you how Mr. Charlip was indeed easy to spot - he wore a rainbow.  So colorful, so charming.  I want to tell you about the mom who asked Mr. Charlip, as she approached the signing table, if it would be ok for her daughter to take a picture with him.  About how Mr. Charlip graciously assented.  About how as the mom took the pictures, Mr. Charlip leaned in, carefully, and whispered something to the eight-year-old.  About how later, that same girl, for the first time in her life, begged her mom to stay up late so she could finish Wonderstruck.  How this non-reader was turned into a reader over the course of Mr. Selznick's presentation.  About how when the mom asked the daughter what it was that Mr. Charlip had whispered, the daughter smiled.  He said, Thank you, child, and bless you.

I want to tell you about the other child in the signing line who noticed Mr. Selznick's shoes, about how the boy asked, How much do shoes like that cost?  And that Mr. Selznick replied, A billion dollars!  And how they all laughed.

I want to tell you about the journey Mr. Selznick took us on during his presentation, how he showed all of us his writing process - work, work, work!  About how people gasped when he showed clips from the upcoming movie.  About how when one youngster asked if Mr. Selznick considered himself an illustrator who wrote or a writer who illustrated, Mr. Selznick replied, with a smile, that we were all too focused on labels.  That he considered himself someone who made books.  And how this conversation echoed an exchange that happened years ago in the Herbst Theater at City Arts and Lectures when a young woman asked Gahan Wilson, the famous cartoonist, the same question.  And how Mr. Wilson - brusquely! not with the grace of Mr. Selznick - dismissed the question.  And how when pressed by the moderator, Mr. Wilson further intoned, I'm 75 years old and I'm at an age when I don't have to do things I don't want to and I don't want to answer that question!

And how we all erupted with laughter.

I want to tell you about the people who have posted about the event, blogged about the event, who have called or come into the bookstore to thank us for hosting the event.

People never call to thank us for hosting an event.

I want to tell you how those many hundreds in the theater lobby, snaking up the staircase, waited so patiently for their chance to say hello to Mr. Selznick, to thank him for what he does - telling stories with words and pictures.

I want to tell you about Mr. Selznick describing the year-and-a-half he used to sketch preliminary drawings for the book - and how he then went out to find people that looked like the characters he'd created.  About how he found the perfect stand-in for Rose, one of the main characters from Wonderstruck, at a movie theater.  About how after the show, he introduced himself and asked the girl's parents if he could take pictures of their daughter so he could draw her.

About how after an awkward silence he said he was Brian Selznick and that he was a maker of books and that before he could continue they all relaxed because the entire family had read The Invention of Hugo Cabret the week before and so they knew he wasn't a stalker and then everyone was delighted at the prospect.

I want to tell you about the smiles from everyone in the theater after Mr. Selznick finished, about seeing so many of my friends, neighbors, and customers - Sharon and Jay, Mary Grace and Edward, Jengiz and his daughters, Beth and Spencer - about how excited they all then were to buy more books and get in line to spend some precious moments with a book-maker.

But the really important part of the night for me isn't any of that.  The important part of the night was this:  Mr. Selznick took the time at the beginning of his remarks to talk about a book that had a huge impact on his life.  About how Remy Charlip's Fortunately was a book that opened up a whole new world, a new way of thinking.  How Mr. Selznick spoke of Mr. Charlip's other books.  And their further influence.  And that at about the time that people were wondering why he was taking so long talking about another's work, Mr. Selznick then said:

...and I'm excited to let you know that tonight, Remy Charlip is in the audience with us.

And that when the spotlight hit the rainbow sitting in the front row, stayed on Mr. Charlip while he slowly stood up - have I mentioned that Mr. Charlip looks a bit like how Obi Wan Kenobi would look if Darth Vader hadn't dispatched him back in 1977? - so Mr. Charlip moves with great care, the care of age, of a long life lived, but that when he did finally stand, we continued clapping, thanking him for the books?  For the inspiration?

And maybe we clapped because we were also acknowledging Mr. Selznick.  Too often we celebrate the passing of the torch, as if it can only go one way - from the old to the young.  And here was Mr. Selznick, passing the torch back, making us all recognize that although kindling is found in many places, sparks are more elusive.  And here was a spark, Remy Charlip, so why not gather round and warm our hands by the fire he'd created?

And then I want to tell you about the after.

About how during the book-signing Mr. Charlip, again with great care, took the elevator up to the mezzanine, approached Mr. Selznick in front of the art deco mural that had been painted over decades before, painted over but then painstakingly restored during the renovation.

Approached his friend to say thanks - and then of course Mr. Selznick said, No no, my thanks to you for coming.

And then Mr. Charlip's whispered aside to the eight-year-old Melanie.  And then the rainbow bid us adieu and he headed back for the elevator.

I want to tell you that a little bit later I was in the lobby, in front of our sales table, when Mr. Charlip made his way to those pretty glass doors saved by a San Francisco antique dealer.  The lobby was still full, bustling, those in the crowd deciding on which other book to purchase before joining the throng in front of the up-staircase.  That's when someone - maybe a kid, kids are more observant than the rest of us - noticed that Mr. Charlip was leaving, had paused briefly in front of one of the lobby doors as it was held open so he could navigate his walker through it and out into the night.

There are words above all those doors in the Alameda Theatre.  The words say:

TAKE THE MAGIC WITH YOU 

During his pause, that observant kid told his parent, Hey look!  He's leaving.  And that parent looked over, recognized the rainbow, and started to clap.  The clapping was heard by someone else, and they looked, recognized, and started clapping, too.  In an instant, the clapping turned into applause.  Mr. Charlip - we left him there at the door, remember? - he heard a commotion behind him, so he stopped, and maneuvered his walker so he could turn around.  When the crowd saw him turn, the applause grew instantly louder, louder.  And the look on Mr. Charlip's face?  As he raised a hand to acknowledge the applause, making the applause grow more?  His look was a little sight of heaven.  Thankful and appreciative and tender all at once.  If he could, he'd have probably said, Thank you all, and bless you.

But Mr. Charlip stayed quiet, nodded his head in thanks, and then the rainbow turned to the open door and shimmered out into an Alameda night.

And so that's what I wanted to tell you.  That, and I wanted to say thanks.  To Mr. Selznick, to Mr. Charlip, and to you for coming.  Thanks.

Did you hear the one about the Greek who was mistaken for an Irishman?

I left more than just the Island yesterday.  I left behind, if albeit briefly, stupid city politics.

Don’t ask.

I know, I know, that’s stupidly coy, kind of like saying – I heard some horrible news but I’d rather not discuss it.

Coy is usually dumb, n'est-ce pas?

I can't believe I just did that – here I am, doubling down. Not only am I being coy, I’m dropping French phrases to make myself sound smart when I have no real idea what n'est-ce pas means.  Could guess, but it’d be just that. Guessing.

Yesterday. Leaving Alameda in the midst of glorious September weather – clear and calm and almost hot. Earthquake weather, like we had on Sunday, when a trembler hit just after 8 in the evening, and the girls, home alone with Karen, felt the house pitch and shake before hearing a crash from upstairs. We hadn’t lost anything to an earthquake before, not even in the Loma Prieta, but the smashing crash let them know that this time was different.

Elizabeth and Kristina were sad to see that their respective Memory Blocks, the E and the K, were the only things that had plunged from the shelves upstairs.  Plunging and falling and scattering shards on the floor because the Blocks by Sid Dickens are made of plaster on wood and earthquakes and plaster don't mix.

The girls were worried that they’d somehow been selected for retribution since their Blocks – and nothing else – lay broken.

Big pieces, though. We’ll see if they can be glued.

Sorry, sidetracked. Earthquakes will do that.

So I’m heading to the Presidio yesterday, to the offices of the Northern California Independent Booksellers Association.  Sebastian Barry was in the house, a little meet-and-greet for booksellers.

Great being back in our old neighborhood, skirting through the Marina, passing by Lucas Arts just inside the cannon-flanked Lombard Gate, through all that Presidio green, sidestepping the Parade Grounds.  All in pursuit of the opportunity to hear a great writer talk about his books.

At the start of Sebastian Barry’s latest, On Canaan’s Side, his narrator says:

But books have saved me sometimes, that is the truth – my Samaritans.

I feel that, truly, and it’s led to complications. Too many books at the house, for one (seriously, though, do you believe in such a thing as too many books?)

But see, right there! Evidence of the problem – not admitting it exists.

Also – first editions.  Lord, first editions.  And signatures?  Signed first editions?  My heart races at the prospect.  So of course I went to the Presidio when Lindsay W. invited me.  Of course I brought my UK first edition of Barry's A Long Long Way.  Of course.

I used to have authors only sign their names.  The value of a book – for some – is diminished if it's inscribed to Joe Smith.  Presentation copies are different.  A presentation copy, generally meaning signed by an author to some other notable – think Charles Dickens to Hans Christian Andersen (and yes, such a lovely does exist) – something like that?  That would increase its value.  But bibliophiles aren't queuing up to purchase The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay warmly inscribed from Michael Chabon to Nick Petrulakis.

Pity.

Still, I've grown lax, and the value of my books is their value to me, so sometimes if the author asks my name, I'll give it and let him or her dedicate away.

Mr. Barry proved to be a talkative, wonderful chap.  One of the best Irish playwrights and novelists going.  Hut L., director of the NCIBA, finally had to intervene and cut Mr. Barry short.  We were having a grand time, we booksellers, listening to Mr. Barry do what he does best – tell stories.

But all good things must come to an end, and so it did, and then we waited for Mr. Barry to sign our books.  Fresh copies of his newest that I mentioned, On Canaan's Side.  I haha! also had my copy of A Long Long Way, and when Mr. Barry laid eyes on it he said, Well, well – that's the paperback version.  The true first edition, he said.  After it was nominated for the Booker the publisher came out with a hardcover, but this one, he said, as he held it in his hands, carefully, like a finch that might take flight.  But this one, he said again, as he opened the pages, turning back to the copyright page.  Hmm, he said, are there no numbers in it?

Because, see, Mr. Barry is like me – sniffing out the pedigree of a book, his book.  So I pointed down to the number line, under his hand, a small hand for a relatively tall man, the tall Mr. Barry sitting there in his red and white striped shirt.  And he saw the complete number line there, 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1, and his eyes sparkled, Why, he said, you have yourself a first edition first printing, don't you now?

Yes, yes, I wanted to say.  I have this little problem with books, with first editions.  First editions, first printings especially.  But I didn't want to waste his time on trifles.

I mean, I did, but there was a line forming.

Your name? he had inquired when I first sat down.  And I had said Nick.

Really, he said?  Are you Irish?

And I thought that was funny, that.  Me, Irish?  But maybe Mr. Barry was homesick.  Looking for an Irishman, hopeful for a little touch of home here in these bookish Presidio offices.  He was traveling with his son, his fourteen-year-old grumpy son.  But the son was off adventuring in the Exploratorium, and there were no Irishman in sight, so maybe he'd just hoped.

No, I said, I'm Greek.  And here Mr. Barry pulled another trick out of his bag and surprised me by speaking Greek, saying hello, wishing me well, and it was the first time I'd heard Greek spoken with an Irish accent.  Reminded me of my dad, hearing Greek spoken by southerners – reminded me of my dad telling me how he laughed when he heard Y'asou, y'all! for the first time.

Mr. Barry spoke of his year in Greece, living on Paros, recalling it fondly, and so here was another reason for me to appreciate this scribe from the emerald isle.

He signed my books, Mr. Barry did, and bade me farewell, and I took my two and the cases that had been ordered for our stores, and Hut helped me out to my car with that cache of signed first editions.

It wasn't until late last night, when I was redipping into A Long Long Way, when I approached On Canaan's Side for the first time, that I glanced at the inscriptions.

Glanced, then stared.  For there, in writer-messy black ink, was the dedication inside A Long Long Way:

To Mick

Sebastian Barry

2011

So I flipped open On Canaan's Side, and there, too, bold as brass, in his writer's scrawl:

To Mick

Sebastian Barry

And I suppose if I squinted, I could turn Mick into Nick.  His writing really was a little bit sloppy, wasn't it?  But no, the M was clear.  And now his question was clear, too.  Are you Irish? Mr. Barry had asked.  And he had wondered because when I said my name was Nick, he had heard Mick.  My fault, I'm sure.  Hadn't enunciated properly and the Irishman had heard perhaps what he had wanted to hear.  That one of the bookish admirers who had come out to hear him that sunny day had ties to the homeland.  His, though, not mine.

So I shall read On Canaan's Side, and reread A Long Long Way.  And if you ask to see the books, I'll take them down from the shelf – Julian Barnes on one side, Richard Bausch on the other.  And if you open either, note that they are inscribed, and then read what is written there, puzzling it out, looking at me and then the inscription – I may ask if you'd like to share a pint.  Share a pint and hear a tale of how the Greek was mistaken for an Irishman.  Guinness? I'll ask.  A Guinness would serve us well.

Bragging Rights

I like Mrs. T, lots.  A few weeks ago, at Back to School Night for Elizabeth's second grade class?  One of the first things Mrs. T said was:  Oh, and let's make a deal between me and all of you.  I won't believe everything your child tells me first thing in the morning if you don't believe everything they tell you at night.  Ok?

And there was a smidgen of silence from the gathered parents on that Thursday evening, and then, almost as one, we started nodding our heads, smiling, looking at each other and saying, Well, that's fair.  Can't argue with that.

I know my friend Nick would welcome this, Nick whose son - Elizabeth's age, seven-years-old - told his teacher that the reason he was moving a little slow that day was because he got drunk on jello shots the night before.

Needless to say, this was not true.

Another reason I like Mrs. T - she also said that maybe the most important thing we could do as parents was to encourage a love of reading in our children.  When Elizabeth expressed keen interest in Mrs. T's Magic Tree House Research Guide: Ghosts!, she was gobsmacked when Mrs. T said, Please, Elizabeth, take the book home with you - that's what books are for!  For taking and reading!

Still, given all this, morning Drop Off - especially when the kids hurry to get in the Line after the bell tolls - can be a little nerve-wracking.  Sometimes Mrs. T will zero in on a parent, take them gently aside, and confer with them about some little something that occurred the day before.  We'd had one of those huddles, early in the year, when Elizabeth was still shaking off the fun-dust of summer and hadn't, perhaps, wholeheartedly embraced 2nd Grade with the zeal of the converted.  That's different, now - now she's in school's great! mode, but then?  That first week?

Not so much.

So when Mrs. T made a beeline for me, gently motioning me to step away from the Line for a quick, hushed conference, I did think for just a moment, oh what fresh hell is this?

Nick, Mrs. T said, I just wanted to tell you what a joy it was to read Elizabeth's first writing assignment.  I had the kids write a paragraph imagining the likes and dislikes that an alien would have if it ever visited us.  Most of the responses were in the vein of:  I like butterflies.  I hate flowers.  Rainbows are pretty.  And that was just fine - it's exactly what I asked for.  But Elizabeth began her paragraph with the line:  I am an alien who has just arrived upon the earth.  And that's such a simple thing, a line like that.  But you know what it is?  It's voice.  I can teach grammar, and a certain amount of style, but what I can't teach is voice, and let me tell you, Elizabeth has it.


Try thinking of another thing, a different thing, that Elizabeth's teacher could have told me that would have excited me any more.  If you come up with one, I'd love to hear it - because I can't.  Sure, a cure for the common cold would be right up there, but Elizabeth is seven.

Is this just bragging?  The crowing bombast of a boastful windbag?  Yup.  You got it.  Guilty.  But I'm her dad, she's my kid, and I'm asking for a pass because - the kid's got voice.

Hey, don't go.  I'd love to show you these really cute pictures of the family that Karen just printed out - really, it'll only take a second...

Sarantismόs: Or, the Startle Reflex Explained

It’s called the Startle Reflex.  For some newborns, it's triggered when they hear a loud noise or have the sensation of falling – that makes them toss their head back and throw their arms out.  Elizabeth was a Startle Baby.  Even if I were holding her securely, any sudden movement would induce the reflex.  With her arms thrown out, she looked like a little baby Christ on the cross – it was kind of funny.

I know, I know, that’s sacrilegious, but true all the same.  And I’m not saying I’d feign a fall just to compel the reflex.  What kind of father would that make me?  But maybe, just maybe, it happened more on my watch than on Karen’s because Daddy thought it was funnier than Mommy did.

So the phone rings, causing the Startle Reflex in Elizabeth, and I stand there for a second thinking how darn cute she is before I answer.  It’s my mom.  She's wondering if we’ve set a date yet for the Forty Day Blessing.  In the Greek Church, the sarantismόs is the most important of all the traditions for a new baby and her mom.  It echoes Mary bringing the baby Jesus into the temple forty days after he was born.  And since tradition is everything if you’re Greek, this blessing wasn’t one to trifle with.

In Modesto, the blessing takes place following the regular service on Sunday.  After the congregation has left the Church, the priest comes to the back, takes the baby, and walks her to the altar, followed by Mom and Dad.  No problem, I’m thinking, and it just so happens that the closest Sunday to Elizabeth ’s forty days is Father’s Day.

We’ll be doing the blessing in Oakland, though, not Modesto.  Trying to start our own traditions.  I tell my mom June 20th, and that we’ll meet her in a back pew.  We prefer the right-hand side, the side we gravitate to in movie theaters.

Mom says okay, but she suggests we meet in the Cry Room.  In Modesto, it’s a little room just before the entrance into the nave of the church.  It’s got a big window, double-paned, so that parents and crying kids can see out – but can't be heard.  But I’m not sure if the Oakland Cathedral has a cry room, so I tell Mom, sure, but if we’re not there, just look for us in the back, on the right.

And Mom says, no no, let’s just plan on the Cry Room.  I’m looking at the phone, thinking that’s odd, it’s like she hadn’t heard me or something.  And then the penny drops.  Mom, I say, are you trying to tell me that Baby Elizabeth can’t enter the Church before she’s blessed?

There’s a pause.  Well, my Mom says, some Churches are more loose than other Churches.

But if this was Greece– I say.

Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to go in, Mom says.

So I’m looking at Elizabeth.  She’s distracted by the ficus tree in our front room.  Behind the tree, morning light pours through the window, and Elizabeth’s just into the contrast of the dark leaves against the lit panes of glass.  Then she feels me looking at her, and she jerks her little head my way, and her eyes are so blue, and her skin so fair, her hair soft brown with these ridiculous blond highlights, and she grins and blows spit bubbles and I can’t believe there’s a stricture against letting her enter anywhere, much less a holy place.

Mom, I say.

I know, Niko, I know, she says.  We’ll meet at the church, ok?

Ok, I say.

The Cathedral is in the Oakland hills overlooking the city, the bay, San Francisco.  Like most places of worship for the Greek Orthodox, it’s a dome, and since it’s a Cathedral, it’s bigger than most.  Elizabeth is dressed in white finery, and she’s wiggly.  But when we enter the doors, the warm, sweet smell of honey captures her, the scent rising from the rows of beeswax candles to the left and right of the doors leading into the cathedral.  The number of candles lets us know that there’s a big Father’s Day crowd inside.

Elizabeth is enchanted, both with the sweet smell and the flickers of light.

We enter the nave.  Outside, it was Sunday morning bright, but inside, it’s shadow within shadow.  Walking along the curving wall, Karen holding Elizabeth.  They’re bathed in the soft blue light coming through the walls of glass.  The dome of the church captures the light, makes it disappear.  The dome’s gentle curve is sheathed in panels of copper, and the panels glow faintly from the light of ten chandeliers, each a circle of black iron holding 36 votives.  The gold light of the votives plays on the smoke from incense, curling up, slow, then falling.

Incense mingles with the voice of Father Tom, and Elizabeth is transfixed by it all, especially the voices, the singing.  She likes music, this one, and it’s as if she understands the beauty in the words, Kyrie eléison, and we see my parents and brothers in a back pew, Kyrie eléison, there’s no Cry Room in the Cathedral, Kyrie eléison, this must be one of those loose churches.

Elizabeth doesn’t notice my family yet, she’s still all ears, but they notice Elizabeth.  There’s a lot of quiet cooing going on, and my brothers are making happy, exaggerated faces at her, and she’s happy, too, and we’re happy, everybody's happy and the service continues.  My brother George catches my eye and mouths the words Happy Father’s Day and that’s a first, and I look down at my daughter in white and I cry.

Suddenly, Father Tom is making his way down the center aisle, and he’s making eye contact with us.  He’s smiling and motioning us to meet him, and we finally realize that they do things differently in Oakland, Elizabeth's introduction to the church is going to take place during the service, not after.

After we enter the main aisle, Father Tom mainly talks to Karen – it’s really Karen’s gig, Karen and Elizabeth.  I’m there to carry Father’s hymnal – dark blue and worn – which he gives me before holding his hands out for our daughter.  She’s quiet now, almost asleep – lulled by the chants and the soft light – and her eyes slide open just a bit, but white-haired Father Tom looks safe, so she closes them again, and we walk.

Father Tom pauses in the aisle and intones that the Church welcomes the servant of God Elizabeth.  His voice fills the cathedral and he continues walking to the altar, Karen and I in tow.  I’m very aware that the eyes of the church are on our family, and I’m hoping that Elizabeth doesn’t burst into tears.

Father Tom pauses in the aisle, surrounded on both sides by the hundreds of congregants who have come to the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Ascension in celebration of faith, in celebration of Father’s Day.

Father Tom pauses, and raises our daughter high, Elizabeth all in white, and the light that the dome captures is right there above our heads and Elizabeth is raised into it, raised into that soft light.

It’s called the Startle Reflex.  If a newborn has the sensation of falling, she’ll throw her arms out and toss her head back.  And Elizabeth does just that, throwing herself into her Christ pose, eyes still closed but arms thrown wide, and then Father lowers her and she tucks back into her sleeping self.  A few more strides and Father pauses again, raises her again, and again Elizabeth becomes Christ in the hands of Father Tom.  And again, almost to the marble steps leading to the altar, the altar of earthy colored marble shot through with veins of white, and again she’s raised, and again I see Christ in my daughter, but I’m not thinking it’s funny now.  It’s beautiful now.

And Karen follows Father Tom, and she kisses the image on the iconostasis to the left of the altar, the one of Mary holding her child, and then Karen accepts Elizabeth back from Father Tom, another mother holding her child, her girl-child, and they join me, and we walk down the aisle together.

Ten Years Later

Because of the time difference, by 6 a.m. in San Francisco, September 11th 2001 was already over – even though, of course, the day hadn’t yet begun.

Karen heard about it before me – on the morning bus into San Francisco's Financial District. After she called, I called my boss - should we open the bookstore?  So many shops on Chestnut St. would stay shut that day.  Michael left it up to me.

We opened. Turned out, a lot of people - citizens, we were all US citizens, even the tourists from Germany, from France. Especially the tourists from Germany and France - a lot of us needed a place to go. To talk, to cry. To get angry, to mourn. To talk, cry, to get angry and mourn – over and over. Different people, but the same people. All day long. People we saw every day. People we’d never see again.

To talk.

People trying to make sense out of the senseless. Isn’t that the definition for crazy? But we were all a little crazy that day. All of us who came into the bookstore because we needed others.

To cry.

People like Paulina, Paulina letting me into Delaney’s early, to watch those images on the tv’s inside the bar. Those images on the tv. Smoke. Skyscrapers. Smoke. Plane. Smoke. Skyscrapers. Smoke. Plane.

Plane, then no plane. Fireball, fireball – a neverending fireball. Then smoke. More smoke. On the tv. Inside Delaney’s. All day.

To get angry.

New York was so far away. We felt so far away. But so close, because of the stupid tv. There in Delaney’s. There at the lunch-counter. There in your bedroom. New York was just right there. So close and so far.

On our way into Modesto - today, ten years later. Ten years later and now we have Elizabeth and Kristina. And now we live in Alameda, not San Francisco. Ten years later and we’re headed into Modesto for the 40 Day Blessing of our nephew, Andoni. Andoni - named after my father, Tony Petrulakis. My father who we don’t have, Andoni who we do. So much changes in ten years, so much.

And on our way to Modesto, speeding along 580, we approach an overpass at 1st Street and Springtown Boulevard. A Livermore overpass. And on that overpass this morning, at about 10:30 am, twelve hours ago, there stood a lone figure holding a flag. Just a man, holding an American flag. Knees locked, his body ramrod straight. Not responding to the honks from the cars rushing beneath him.

Just standing, holding a flag – the flag snapping in the wind.

And I know today there are commentators who say we haven’t done enough. Others who say we’ve done too much. And they’ll both use this day to get their warped little thoughts across. Because they won’t be satisfied just–

To mourn.

–they won’t be satisfied with anything other than not listening to anyone else. They won’t be satisfied until the shrill noise they’ve made today adds to the cacophony.

But when a figure holding a flag, a ramrod straight figure holding a flag, when that figure necessitates that you – makes a Mom and Dad explain to their seven-year-old and their four-year-old – when you are made to try and explain the senseless actions of lunatics to children, when you interrupt the children in the backseat who are singing silly songs, when you try and limn the ugly facts of that ten-year-old day to the singing children in the backseat.

When you do this because the day itself is so conspicuous.  When, as Elizabeth says, as your seven-year-old says, Mommy, Daddy, it's a special day, the day when part of America died. When flags are flying everywhere – not just from the overpass, not just held by a solitary man – when flags fly from front yards, from eighteen-wheelers, from the hillsides of the Altamont Pass.  When you and your wife are forced to explain all these flags, all the red, white and blue – to your silly, singing children?

You want the commentators to stop. You want the king to quiet. You want the pretenders to the throne to refrain – for one day.

And here I am, adding to the noise. Adding to the noise when all I wanted to do was – remember.