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Reflecting on the two lovely blue-covered books I just read, I’m struck by two things, one seemingly superficial, one psychological, both important to me. The first book is “Hour of the Beaver” by Hope Sawyer Buyukmihci, from the early 1970s. The other is from the early 1980s, “Tennis My Way” by Martina Navratilova. That decade span is a nice envelope around my childhood.

The first thing is just the sheer quality of the books from back then. There are many better examples, but the beauty and durability of the hardcovers from that era is comforting and speaks to a time when publishers could afford to “care.” The textures of the covers, the quality of the paper, the fonts, the white space on the pages, the generous illustrations, all speak to me and reflect the value of the book’s contents. (Dustjackets are shown in the second group of photos.)

The second thing is just how much we are made in our formative years. Luckily, in my case, the person who was developing in this time—and continues to develop, I hope—was influenced by enlightened people like these two authors. “Hour of the Beaver” is a passionate argument for conservation and seeing other creatures’ point of view, with simple, eloquent seeds of the arguments against hunting and converting wild lands into human ones. Martina’s book is a no-nonsense guide to tennis, shedding light on one of its greatest player’s opinions and mindsets, with lessons that can be applied by anyone who wants to apply themselves to any pursuit!

As much as we’ve learned and been tidal-waved by data and developments since these books were written, the fundamentals these authors share are touchingly written and are good reminders that there were indeed people in the past who had ideas that are point the forward to this day. In fact, Navratilova and Buyukmihci build upon foundations laid long before they took to the pen. They certainly seem to influence me more strongly than many a contemporary figure. Why is this? The aesthetic or style of their message? Their roles as “elders” in my formative years? It’s hard to say, but I’m happy they’re (still) around.

Incidentally, Martina’s autobiography (also written in the early ’80s) is also well worth reading, a real testament to her directness through her detailed story of emerging from the Iron Curtain and finding her way in the world.

You can find mini-reviews of these books, and many more, on my Amazon profile page. Here’s the link to them. Keep an eye on my conservation thoughts here, at squirreloftheweek.org.

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As a kid I played the standard football, baseball, and basketball with my friends on the block, and was in the local soccer league through the park district, complete with reversible shirt, allowing us to be the yellow or blue team as needed. Gym class, a tiny bit of track, tennis lessons, and then softball and misc in college and after. Most of what I played in did not attract a crowd.

My parents I am sure did a great job cheering me on, and my dad certainly ran to my rescue when I was kicked in the jaw by my own teammate, but I can only think of two occasions when I noticed being cheered for while playing.

The first was in junior high, a day when for some reason we had to run laps around the school—state fitness standards or track tryouts? A certain tall, curly-haired KJ made a point of yelling my name and encouraging me, something immensely more inspiring than the binomial equation she wrote when she signed my yearbook. It must have been our Project Idea ties and general camaraderie in sharing a bunch of classes throughout our careers. I hope I cheered her on when she was similary forced to lap the school.

The second, still more treasured, a certain blonde-haired and blue-eyed BD in college cheering me on by name from the sidelines in an intramural basketball game. (Not the greatest basketball player, but I had my strengths.) We were most likely playing the fraternity whose members she hung around with, so her mentioning me from the sidelines was especially exciting and inspiring for me. Thank you, B.

What effect it can have when someone on the sidelines is there for you, especially unexpectedly. BD also majored in English, but, not surprisingly, we didn’t see much of each other as I seldom saw much of English majors and there was no apparatus tying such majors together.

Such tiny slices of memory taking on such a relatively large shape. The mind and heart are amazing. I could catalogue moments like these.

* Musical Interlude *

Two trios of songs joined me yesterday.

The first started with me listeining to Document after ages away from it. R.E.M.’s “Central America Triptych” has some of their best music and more intriguing lyrics and concepts, all seemingly inspired by Noam Chomsky’s Turning The Tide and the general 1980s anti-Reagan vibe I remember fondly.

Document offered “Welcome To The Occupation,” with “The Flowers of Guatemala” and “Green Grow The Rushes” from their previous two albums. The third has quite possibly my favorite R.E.M. guitar hook, the second a rousing solo, and the “Welcome…” just an all-around vibe and melody that easily lands it on my best of R.E.M. which should one day exist. Until yesterday I’d barely connected any of them to 1980s U.S. intervention in Central America. Oh well. Layers of meaning?

In the evening I played Dionne Warwick and pleasantly remembered she had recorded the Bacharach-David “This Empty Place.” Is it somehow only my third favorite version of this excellent song? I think so. I first heard it by The Searchers as an extremely catchy album track, backed up with their smoothly great instrumentation. Then, it came again later as a highlight album track for Swingin’ Cilla Black who has a way with the drama and nearly veering out of control, and this song is no exception. Her version’s modeled on Dionne’s and I can only say, woo-weee!

Think pink cover from Cilla’s 1965 U.S. album. (from Discogs.com)

Some old Sandie Shaw stuff is next.
We’ll see how that goes!
Long long live love.

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