We are in the era of The Big Want. I think this was begun, and has been sustained by, advertisers which have fueled consumerism. They have become very clever at creating an emptiness in us, and then promising they can fill it with their products, their lifestyle, their plans.
Before the invention of moveable type, the poor crofter's wife cleaned with plain old lye. She didn't know about New and Improved Lye, and because the Old and Ordinary Lye worked just fine, thank you, she simply got on with the business of cleaning. She also didn't flip through magazines yearning for this season's belt which is thin, while all her belts were so obviously last season, being so wide and all. How did Lady Llwoddellyn of Wales know what was au courant in Milan in the Spring season of 976? She wore the same thing she wore two years ago, unless she was summoned to court, in which case she ordered up a new dress of the exact same pattern as all her others, except without the moth hole in the elbow, and the repaired hem where Lord Llowddellyn kept stepping on it.
Whenever I go online, I'm followed around by ads for secrets to having a slimmer stomach. If they (advertisers) knew me, they'd offer me sure-fire ways to wake up three inches taller; and if I could only find the perfect lip gloss, life would be pretty fine indeed.
What is it we really want? Because for sure we want something; I'm just not sure we know what it is, and we'll never be satisfied until we can figure it out. In the meantime, we think we want things we really don't, so that when we get them, we're still unsatisfied, so we go back to wanting more.
This realization hit me a few days ago as I was puttering around my room. I was in the process of deciding what to bring on my trip, and the thought of 'what do I want' was prominent in my mind. In the time honoured tradition of aha moments, I understood all at once that I have been asking for a particular something for such a long time now, but at the same time have been running away from actually getting it. I persist in asking, needling God and whining, pouting through prayer times, racking up the novenas and spending a great deal of time speculating about this thing. I've been so busy asking that I haven't taken the time to receive it.
I don't really know how that revelation ties into New and Improved Lye or toned tummies, but I know that my constant wanting has kept me empty for a long time. I think I need to take some time to reflect carefully on what it is I really want, and then in complete trust (and with a great deal of bravery, which is needed in order to accept a great gift) ask for it. No advertisement needed.
solitude + inspiration
14 May 2011
Life's a beach
How can I say this without sounding obnoxious?
I.... no, that won't work.
For the... no, still not right.
Here goes:
I spent the day at the beach. I'm house-sitting for two weeks, and the house being sat happens to be near one of the most beautiful sand beaches.
I know, right? You worked all day, or the sky was grey, or the children kept you up all night, and there I was, indolently splashing through the surf. I'm sorry, and I promise I didn't enjoy it very much at all.
Well, I did actually, until I got bitten by something on the tip of my nose. I can see the bite now, out of the corner of my eye as I look at the monitor while I'm typing. It's become almost a life form of its own, and I may have to register it for its own postal code before long. I'm sure the two men behind the butcher counter in the grocery store were chuckling up their sleeves after handing me three country sausages for $2. I know the lady in the canned fruit aisle kept looking at me, while the cashier did her very best not to. I get to the point where I've convinced myself it's like Cindy Crawford's mole only on my nose, until I look in the mirror to see Rudolf's red blinker that nobody is about to pay me $10,000 to get out of bed for a picture of. The man came today to mow the lawn, and I'm sure he thought I was a nut when I popped outside to wave at him, holding the other hand over my face.
I've heard that you can get away with wearing anything, so long as you wear it confidently - and my red nose is very, very confident.
I.... no, that won't work.
For the... no, still not right.
Here goes:
I spent the day at the beach. I'm house-sitting for two weeks, and the house being sat happens to be near one of the most beautiful sand beaches.
I know, right? You worked all day, or the sky was grey, or the children kept you up all night, and there I was, indolently splashing through the surf. I'm sorry, and I promise I didn't enjoy it very much at all.
Well, I did actually, until I got bitten by something on the tip of my nose. I can see the bite now, out of the corner of my eye as I look at the monitor while I'm typing. It's become almost a life form of its own, and I may have to register it for its own postal code before long. I'm sure the two men behind the butcher counter in the grocery store were chuckling up their sleeves after handing me three country sausages for $2. I know the lady in the canned fruit aisle kept looking at me, while the cashier did her very best not to. I get to the point where I've convinced myself it's like Cindy Crawford's mole only on my nose, until I look in the mirror to see Rudolf's red blinker that nobody is about to pay me $10,000 to get out of bed for a picture of. The man came today to mow the lawn, and I'm sure he thought I was a nut when I popped outside to wave at him, holding the other hand over my face.
I've heard that you can get away with wearing anything, so long as you wear it confidently - and my red nose is very, very confident.
13 May 2011
A book has pages!
I had to get that off my chest.
These new electronic book gizmos, will they seriously become the reading experience of the new generation? Will my nephews grow up reading Tolkien, Dickens, Hugo - good grief even Charles Schultz - on a screen?
I know I'm a pill about books. It's an occupational hazard: I hope to publish one someday, and currently I'm responsible for keeping the shelves in order at school libraries the length and breadth of Sohoe. But I know I can bring you over to my way of thinking, if only because I'm not going to let up about it.
First of all, I acknowledge the positives of electronic readers: volume. Imagine having the entire Austen opus at your fingertips when you've got a craving for dashing heroes, or Bridget Jone's Diary and the sequel when you're stuck in traffic.
The positives are experiential as well as practical: just think about the feel of a book in your hand; the way well-loved volumes open naturally to the best bits; the unique texture of one cover to another; how a brand new book resists being breached. You come to recognize publishers by the paper they use, how well their bindings hold up, the fonts they prefer. For a while I read fantasy novels of several different authors based on one cover artist whose work I really liked. I'm not a big fan of the paperback novel, especially if the story is long - the book tends to be hard to keep open once past the middle, and they fall apart quickly; but I do like the trade paperback format, even though it's more expensive. It's ssatisfyingly floppy.
I love the look of books, whether neat and tidy on their shelves, or piled on the floor beside the bed. How a book looks is important, never mind that business about books and covers. Each book sets the stage for what you can expect inside by the cover art, the publisher's blurb, the size, the binding and the edging, and no two books are the same. I know that on my shelves, the Jane Jacobs book about the importance of neighbourhoods is a small, greyish Everyman edition. The two volumes on water colour have bright covers that make me feel like I could be a painter too, every time I look at them. The best of the Winnie the Pooh is the hardcover, while the paperback is good in a pinch. The beautiful Lord of the Rings trilogy has pride of place, but for actual use I have old, beat up copies that can be thumbed through and carried in one bag or another without causing me palpatations.
Books add ambiance to a room, to a home, and not only that, they tell the story of a person more truly than a resume: how many, where they're kept, how they're organized, what titles/subjects/authors. Are they anonymously wrapped in velum covers? Shelved backwards? Arranged in the colour spectrum? Is the complete Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire suspiciously pristine?
When I read the brilliant Peter Wimsey mysteries, I like to have Donne open beside me, so I can read along with the poetical sleuth. In looking up the reference in the Catechism that I always forget but always refer to, I know it's the page with the orange high school year book bookmark. I know that the scene where Darcy first proposes to Lizzy has been dog-eared, and the scene where she finally accepts him is too close to the end. Scanning the pages of a dictionary, atlas, thesaurus, almanac often leads somewhere unexpected because another entry enticed me off my original path.
Try to convert all of that to an electronic reader, and you realize that the technology has stripped personality and sensuality out of the experience of reading. A book or magazine or newspaper becomes cold, colourless, indistinguishable. Bland, boring, blah. Three things books should never be.
These new electronic book gizmos, will they seriously become the reading experience of the new generation? Will my nephews grow up reading Tolkien, Dickens, Hugo - good grief even Charles Schultz - on a screen?
I know I'm a pill about books. It's an occupational hazard: I hope to publish one someday, and currently I'm responsible for keeping the shelves in order at school libraries the length and breadth of Sohoe. But I know I can bring you over to my way of thinking, if only because I'm not going to let up about it.
First of all, I acknowledge the positives of electronic readers: volume. Imagine having the entire Austen opus at your fingertips when you've got a craving for dashing heroes, or Bridget Jone's Diary and the sequel when you're stuck in traffic.
The positives are experiential as well as practical: just think about the feel of a book in your hand; the way well-loved volumes open naturally to the best bits; the unique texture of one cover to another; how a brand new book resists being breached. You come to recognize publishers by the paper they use, how well their bindings hold up, the fonts they prefer. For a while I read fantasy novels of several different authors based on one cover artist whose work I really liked. I'm not a big fan of the paperback novel, especially if the story is long - the book tends to be hard to keep open once past the middle, and they fall apart quickly; but I do like the trade paperback format, even though it's more expensive. It's ssatisfyingly floppy.
I love the look of books, whether neat and tidy on their shelves, or piled on the floor beside the bed. How a book looks is important, never mind that business about books and covers. Each book sets the stage for what you can expect inside by the cover art, the publisher's blurb, the size, the binding and the edging, and no two books are the same. I know that on my shelves, the Jane Jacobs book about the importance of neighbourhoods is a small, greyish Everyman edition. The two volumes on water colour have bright covers that make me feel like I could be a painter too, every time I look at them. The best of the Winnie the Pooh is the hardcover, while the paperback is good in a pinch. The beautiful Lord of the Rings trilogy has pride of place, but for actual use I have old, beat up copies that can be thumbed through and carried in one bag or another without causing me palpatations.
Books add ambiance to a room, to a home, and not only that, they tell the story of a person more truly than a resume: how many, where they're kept, how they're organized, what titles/subjects/authors. Are they anonymously wrapped in velum covers? Shelved backwards? Arranged in the colour spectrum? Is the complete Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire suspiciously pristine?
When I read the brilliant Peter Wimsey mysteries, I like to have Donne open beside me, so I can read along with the poetical sleuth. In looking up the reference in the Catechism that I always forget but always refer to, I know it's the page with the orange high school year book bookmark. I know that the scene where Darcy first proposes to Lizzy has been dog-eared, and the scene where she finally accepts him is too close to the end. Scanning the pages of a dictionary, atlas, thesaurus, almanac often leads somewhere unexpected because another entry enticed me off my original path.
Try to convert all of that to an electronic reader, and you realize that the technology has stripped personality and sensuality out of the experience of reading. A book or magazine or newspaper becomes cold, colourless, indistinguishable. Bland, boring, blah. Three things books should never be.
09 May 2011
The wearing of the white
Oma has been visiting for a few days, and while I was hard at work on Friday, she took her other daughter and two smallest grandsons (Four and Five) to a place I used to call Schmapters, but now just call Chapters. The great Canadian bookstore chain comes paired with Starbucks (which I used to call... oh never mind), a place of infinite coffee variety and little round tables at which you may not read any unpurchased reading material.
Four and Five have the routine down pat: sit at a little round table at Starbucks where they each drink a kid-sized hot chocolate, move their chair as often as possible, bumping into as many other tables as possible, also talking to as many strangers about Bat Man pyjamas as possible. By the time they're done, they've licked off the icing of their pumpkin scone, scattered crumbs everywhere, and caused the accompanying adult's coiffure to come undone with the added bonus of causing said adult to not be able to really enjoy their grande half-fat no-whip, decaf steamed caramel macchiato.
On this particular occasion, Five was sitting across the table from his mom, Mama Nut. Mama was wearing Daddy Nut's white shirt, and yes, that's an important detail.
All seemed to be going well, until out of the blue Five was stricken with a coughing attack. His mouth happened to be full of hot chocolate at the time. The flying beverage did not land anywhere on the table, thank goodness. Where it did land, however, was all over Mama's borrowed white sweater, which in three seconds looked as if she'd been sniped by the brown paint ball team.
Some days you just shouldn't wear white.
Four and Five have the routine down pat: sit at a little round table at Starbucks where they each drink a kid-sized hot chocolate, move their chair as often as possible, bumping into as many other tables as possible, also talking to as many strangers about Bat Man pyjamas as possible. By the time they're done, they've licked off the icing of their pumpkin scone, scattered crumbs everywhere, and caused the accompanying adult's coiffure to come undone with the added bonus of causing said adult to not be able to really enjoy their grande half-fat no-whip, decaf steamed caramel macchiato.
On this particular occasion, Five was sitting across the table from his mom, Mama Nut. Mama was wearing Daddy Nut's white shirt, and yes, that's an important detail.
All seemed to be going well, until out of the blue Five was stricken with a coughing attack. His mouth happened to be full of hot chocolate at the time. The flying beverage did not land anywhere on the table, thank goodness. Where it did land, however, was all over Mama's borrowed white sweater, which in three seconds looked as if she'd been sniped by the brown paint ball team.
Some days you just shouldn't wear white.
07 May 2011
A theory about memory
Right off the top I'll own up to the fact that this isn't going to be ground-breaking or earth-shaking. It wont be written up in JAMA or any of the other medical acronyms, and you've probably thought it yourself a few hundred times, especially if you've reached at least your third decade and even more so if there are little people running around your house.
My theory is this: the brain has only so much accessible space for memory. Not only that, but the bits of memory are actually categorized and sorted: multiplication tables, useless school stuff, names (subcategories: people, things), to-do (subcategories: short-term, long-term, don't bother), song lyrics from the 80s... and so on. You get the idea.
One of those categories is geography, which encompasses directions, place and street names, and Tim Hortons locations. Most people will probably never reach the maximum space set aside for geography, so they will always be able to retrieve the name of the street that Cousin Sue lives on, how to get to the dry cleaners, and the capital of Mozambique.
I've exceeded my allotted quota for geographical memory. It's not because I read the atlas from cover to cover, or watched every season of the Amazing Race. It's because I've lived in over 20 places and my brain is overflowing with street names, postal codes, travel routes, images of the houses I called home... argh! To further complicate matters, I've lived in one place twice, and another place three times, so chronology is becoming an issue as well. Can Alzheimer's be triggered by things like this, do you suppose? I try to do crosswords regularly to stave it off, but I worry.
This was prompted by my drive home this afternoon. I was on the highway (being pressed for time) and drove past an exit which drew a complete blank. I stared at the name of the road, and could not for all the tea in China place where that street was. At all. I scanned through three of the last places I've lived trying to imagine where that road lead, what was at the end of it, and which house was I going home to? I kept thinking the name was familiar, but I couldn't even think of the road I was to get off at.
That happened in a flash - by the time I could see that road sign in the rear view mirror I was properly situated on the right page of my mental map and got home in one piece. So far I'm not a threat to anyone on the streets, so you can all breath easy.
Is it possible to get a thumb drive for the brain?
My theory is this: the brain has only so much accessible space for memory. Not only that, but the bits of memory are actually categorized and sorted: multiplication tables, useless school stuff, names (subcategories: people, things), to-do (subcategories: short-term, long-term, don't bother), song lyrics from the 80s... and so on. You get the idea.
One of those categories is geography, which encompasses directions, place and street names, and Tim Hortons locations. Most people will probably never reach the maximum space set aside for geography, so they will always be able to retrieve the name of the street that Cousin Sue lives on, how to get to the dry cleaners, and the capital of Mozambique.
I've exceeded my allotted quota for geographical memory. It's not because I read the atlas from cover to cover, or watched every season of the Amazing Race. It's because I've lived in over 20 places and my brain is overflowing with street names, postal codes, travel routes, images of the houses I called home... argh! To further complicate matters, I've lived in one place twice, and another place three times, so chronology is becoming an issue as well. Can Alzheimer's be triggered by things like this, do you suppose? I try to do crosswords regularly to stave it off, but I worry.
This was prompted by my drive home this afternoon. I was on the highway (being pressed for time) and drove past an exit which drew a complete blank. I stared at the name of the road, and could not for all the tea in China place where that street was. At all. I scanned through three of the last places I've lived trying to imagine where that road lead, what was at the end of it, and which house was I going home to? I kept thinking the name was familiar, but I couldn't even think of the road I was to get off at.
That happened in a flash - by the time I could see that road sign in the rear view mirror I was properly situated on the right page of my mental map and got home in one piece. So far I'm not a threat to anyone on the streets, so you can all breath easy.
Is it possible to get a thumb drive for the brain?
05 May 2011
Where the world stops for a goose
Where, in all the world, would you go, if the wishing it could make it so?
It's getting harder to choose a place, what with the political overthrows, civil unrest, and protests and uprisings... not to mention freakish weather like tsunamis, floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, and floods. Sounds inviting, doesn't it? Would you like a little unseasonal heat with your Arab Awakening? Some flooding alongside your strike pickets? Open your atlas and we'll find the spot for you.
Not for the first time I'm glad to have my own little life, in my own little home. I've called this place we live Sohoe, which stands for Slice of Heaven on Earth. It's a simple place. Some might say too simple. But I like that on my way home from work, a traffic jam is three people waiting at the traffic light. I like that as I near home, there's a road where human activity comes to a halt while geese honk and waddle their leisurely way across from pond to creek.
It's getting harder to choose a place, what with the political overthrows, civil unrest, and protests and uprisings... not to mention freakish weather like tsunamis, floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, and floods. Sounds inviting, doesn't it? Would you like a little unseasonal heat with your Arab Awakening? Some flooding alongside your strike pickets? Open your atlas and we'll find the spot for you.
Not for the first time I'm glad to have my own little life, in my own little home. I've called this place we live Sohoe, which stands for Slice of Heaven on Earth. It's a simple place. Some might say too simple. But I like that on my way home from work, a traffic jam is three people waiting at the traffic light. I like that as I near home, there's a road where human activity comes to a halt while geese honk and waddle their leisurely way across from pond to creek.
01 May 2011
The Dress
On Thursday evening, I went to bed fully dressed in yoga pants, a t-shirt, and fuzzy socks. I asked my mobile phone to vibrate it's way across my night table at two and hoped that four hours of sleep would be sufficient for the arduous day ahead. The plan, you see, was to watch every second of royal wedding coverage available to me. And if you think I was a little crazy about it, let me tell you this: my sister slept in front of the tv that night. She wasn't taking any chances.
It's surprising how easy it is to get out of bed at a ridiculously early hour if the reason has nothing to do with work. I didn't use the snooze function a single time, managed to make it down the stairs in the dark without damage to the house or myself, and before I even realized my eyes were open. It didn't take so much as a whisper before my sister was wide awake - I think she detected moving air currents from me entering the room. There we both were, huddled under our blankies on our respective couches, giddy as school girls at the prospect of fairytale princes, beautiful princesses, and let's not forget: the dress.
Fortunately Canada still has fairly strong if ceremonial ties to Merrie Olde England, so that our national television broadcaster was providing juicy tidbits of information long before the other networks thought of abandoning their infomercials. Who is going to buy a juicer when you can learn about royal bacon sandwiches, see an interview with the butcher of Buckleberry, and speculate on what Becks will look like in his morning coat? (Who buys a juicer before the sun comes up, anyway?)
As interesting as all the preliminary speculation was, things got really exciting once the guests began arriving - dignitaries, heads of state, foreign monarchs, select celebrities (I see you, Becks!), and then, hilariously stepping out of mini-buses, the minor royals. (Don't feel sorry for them, though... the mini-buses were very nice, and they were very well dressed.) Weren't you fascinated by the fascinators? Didn't you just love the infinite variety of hats and head-toppers? Aren't you resolved to buy yourself a fabulous hat and set a new trend among your friends, and insist the men of your acquaintance become familiar with cut-away coats and tails?
Finally... finally the groom and best man (also known as the two princes) were on their way to the church - in this case a rather spectacular church known as Westminster Abbey. Then the families arrived - among them another prince, a duke/prince, and a queen. It was almost too much excitement to bear! How happy Prince Charles looked, more grey and worn-in than I think of him, but quite the father of the groom. There was grandmama the Queen shining brightly in the canary yellow version of her party frock, hand bag slung over her arm. (Just what does a queen carry in her purse?) The little children attendants were so cute and well behaved in dresses and dress uniforms; I wonder if it was carrots or sticks that induced such model deportment?
Could it get any better? Yes, it could, when the bride was spotted at last, and finally we saw that dress. How elegant, poised, and beautiful she was. The dress was stunning in its simplicity and tastefulness. As was the ceremony itself. Sure, they decorated the church with 20 foot trees, but wasn't it beautiful and perfectly perfect? There was no voluminous wrapping of the trunks, no illumination by fairy lights of the branches, no dangling ornaments. The only sparkle came from that lovely tiara and those beautiful earrings. There may have been 1,900 invited guests but it felt like a family wedding that we had the good fortune to witness. It was tasteful, befitting their rank and circumstance, with many thoughtful touches showing the young couple had given consideration to 'their people'. And their people responded with delight and joy, rallying around the couple with well wishes and applause.
What's the point of all this pomp and circumstance? It may be symbolic, but if it chooses, majesty may do a great deal of good, both directly and indirectly. It can inspire hope in troubled times; it can encourage service by example; it can lead the way in nobility of habits - good manners, etiquette, civility, kindness. We all know that the heads that wear the crowns are human heads, and capable of the same evils and debauchery any of us are, but on a day like this, let's see the bright side of life. Weddings are a spring time in our life story... a time of new beginning, a season of hope and promise.
I saw a lot of hope and promise in that wedding: refined beauty, understated elegance, regal poise. And all of that in a dress!
~~~
We went on to watch recaps and specials throughout that day and evening, wanting to really fill up on royal wedding goodness. Yes, it was pomp and circumstance, ceremony and pageantry, but I think we need that from time to time. Even with the fairytale aspect of the occasion, what has remained with me in the days since is the enjoyment to be had when people behave well, mind their manners, know what is expected of them, and dress appropriately.
It's surprising how easy it is to get out of bed at a ridiculously early hour if the reason has nothing to do with work. I didn't use the snooze function a single time, managed to make it down the stairs in the dark without damage to the house or myself, and before I even realized my eyes were open. It didn't take so much as a whisper before my sister was wide awake - I think she detected moving air currents from me entering the room. There we both were, huddled under our blankies on our respective couches, giddy as school girls at the prospect of fairytale princes, beautiful princesses, and let's not forget: the dress.
Fortunately Canada still has fairly strong if ceremonial ties to Merrie Olde England, so that our national television broadcaster was providing juicy tidbits of information long before the other networks thought of abandoning their infomercials. Who is going to buy a juicer when you can learn about royal bacon sandwiches, see an interview with the butcher of Buckleberry, and speculate on what Becks will look like in his morning coat? (Who buys a juicer before the sun comes up, anyway?)
As interesting as all the preliminary speculation was, things got really exciting once the guests began arriving - dignitaries, heads of state, foreign monarchs, select celebrities (I see you, Becks!), and then, hilariously stepping out of mini-buses, the minor royals. (Don't feel sorry for them, though... the mini-buses were very nice, and they were very well dressed.) Weren't you fascinated by the fascinators? Didn't you just love the infinite variety of hats and head-toppers? Aren't you resolved to buy yourself a fabulous hat and set a new trend among your friends, and insist the men of your acquaintance become familiar with cut-away coats and tails?
Finally... finally the groom and best man (also known as the two princes) were on their way to the church - in this case a rather spectacular church known as Westminster Abbey. Then the families arrived - among them another prince, a duke/prince, and a queen. It was almost too much excitement to bear! How happy Prince Charles looked, more grey and worn-in than I think of him, but quite the father of the groom. There was grandmama the Queen shining brightly in the canary yellow version of her party frock, hand bag slung over her arm. (Just what does a queen carry in her purse?) The little children attendants were so cute and well behaved in dresses and dress uniforms; I wonder if it was carrots or sticks that induced such model deportment?
Could it get any better? Yes, it could, when the bride was spotted at last, and finally we saw that dress. How elegant, poised, and beautiful she was. The dress was stunning in its simplicity and tastefulness. As was the ceremony itself. Sure, they decorated the church with 20 foot trees, but wasn't it beautiful and perfectly perfect? There was no voluminous wrapping of the trunks, no illumination by fairy lights of the branches, no dangling ornaments. The only sparkle came from that lovely tiara and those beautiful earrings. There may have been 1,900 invited guests but it felt like a family wedding that we had the good fortune to witness. It was tasteful, befitting their rank and circumstance, with many thoughtful touches showing the young couple had given consideration to 'their people'. And their people responded with delight and joy, rallying around the couple with well wishes and applause.
What's the point of all this pomp and circumstance? It may be symbolic, but if it chooses, majesty may do a great deal of good, both directly and indirectly. It can inspire hope in troubled times; it can encourage service by example; it can lead the way in nobility of habits - good manners, etiquette, civility, kindness. We all know that the heads that wear the crowns are human heads, and capable of the same evils and debauchery any of us are, but on a day like this, let's see the bright side of life. Weddings are a spring time in our life story... a time of new beginning, a season of hope and promise.
I saw a lot of hope and promise in that wedding: refined beauty, understated elegance, regal poise. And all of that in a dress!
~~~
We went on to watch recaps and specials throughout that day and evening, wanting to really fill up on royal wedding goodness. Yes, it was pomp and circumstance, ceremony and pageantry, but I think we need that from time to time. Even with the fairytale aspect of the occasion, what has remained with me in the days since is the enjoyment to be had when people behave well, mind their manners, know what is expected of them, and dress appropriately.
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