A Catcher's Companion

(Something New, My First Book Review)


It was during my middle ages that
I read A Catcher In The Rye for the
first time. I remember opening the
book with great curiosity and antici-
pation and some trepidation because
the book had been banned, its author
charged with writing pornography,
followed by an obscenity trial.

About midway through the book, I was
thinking, "Gee, for a nasty book this one
sure is mild." Then, I realized my error.

I was confusing Catcher with Cancer,
Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, that is.


However, rather than throw the book down and pout disappointedly, I continued
reading Salinger's book because my life was being altered and I had sense enough
to realize it. (Credit The Man for making me a thinking being.)

I remember exactly where I was sitting when I finished it: in Rome, our apartment,
on the divano under the window, early evening. I put the book down and yelled,
"WHY DIDN'T ANYONE MAKE ME READ THIS BOOK WHEN I WAS A 16 YEAR
OLD DORK!!!"

It was like waking up with an extra arm, or something. At first you find it merely
interesting and then useful, especially when you're carrying several heavy bags of
groceries up the stairs or when you want to hail a taxi, but then you have an
epiphany one day where you make the realization that if you'd only had the arm
earlier on your life would have been so much better.

(The old adage "better late than never" does apply in this case, but only in the
puniest, most conciliatory way.)

That first paperback copy of Catcher is long gone. The Man loaned it to a Roman
friend who was trying to perfect her grasp of the English language. She put the
book in her purse which she then slung on the back of her chair at an outdoor cafe
in Campo Dei Fiori, which is tantamount to putting up a sign that says, "STEAL
THIS PURSE." Everyone knows you chain your purse to your leg with an extra heavy,
polished, chrome-plated, steel chain dog leash, preferably one with a smooth
action, swivel-bolt snap release when seated for dining. Anyway, some gypsy
came along and swiped her bag containing our copy of A Catcher In The Rye.

I now own four copies of Catcher so don't feel sorry for me...but more about that later.

Journey with me now back to the present...well, the present minus five months or so.
I'm talking to mon oncle (that's French for "my uncle," but it's also the title of a great
French film made in the 50's or 60's which you definitely should see and which makes
me think I should review some films here as well...)(oh, and mon oncle is just like the
word "monocle," but I forget how one became the other...)

Anyway, I'm talking to mon oncle and he mentions that his son, my coz, Sean, has a
book out. What?! Why didn't I know about this? Why doesn't anyone ever tell me
anything? More importantly, why don't I have a copy? I always knew Sean was a
writer, but published? Wow. I was impressed and family-member-of-the-rock-star
proud. And, AND, IT'S A BOOK ABOUT A CATCHER IN THE RYE!!!

I'm motivated.

I go to Amazon and buy the book. I keep thinking I'm going to send it to Sean and
make him inscribe it to me, but I keep not doing it. But, what I do do is keep reading
the book and enjoying it.

It is designed to be read along with Catcher, corresponding chapter by chapter,
offering definitions and explanations about the life and times of Holden Caldwell
in post WWII New York City.

A Catcher's Companion can also be read on it's own, which is what I do. It is
interesting, humorous and full of information that is slowly being lost and
forgotten, or ignored. It's a fun way to review our society's past, our foibles and
our amazing innovations, linguistically and otherwise.

It's interesting to me, that today's young folks don't know what "galoshes" are...
or who Cary Grant or Gary Cooper were...what a "Gladstone" was used for, or a
"highball"...or that for entertainment people used to go see "burlesque" shows...
they haven't read authors like Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Somerset
Maugham and Ring Gardner... and that occupations like an "elevator guy" and a
"stenographer" along with "skate keys" and (OMG!) "phone booths" don't exist
anymore!

I've never thought much about what today's young readers go through when
confronted by literature from a past era. It's no fun reading something that
causes confusion. That leads to boredom. I'm thinking Beowulf here, which
may be an absurd comparison, but a dark cloud passes over my head every
time I hear that mournful name. I'll never forget the sense of bewildered hysteria
I felt trying to read it in my college lit class and dying because I was constantly
stressing out about things like, "What the heck are 'mead benches' and what
happened to the helmeted guy who was smitten in the breast with a bitter arrow?"

A Catcher's Companion enhances Salinger's work for today's generation of readers,
young or old.

So, if you haven't read A Catcher In The Rye, you definitely owe it to yourself to do so.
And, A Catcher's Companion is the perfect accoutrement to have with you on the journey
into Holden's world.

In fact, I'm thinking Christmas here. After all, Catcher is a Christmas story...sort of.
What a perfect gift for that special someone. Two brightly wrapped books, A Catcher
In The Rye and A Catcher's Companion, tied together with one perfectly curled ribbon.

As I mentioned above I already own four copies of A Catcher In The Rye. I have this
compulsion to grab and buy whenever I see one at a second-hand booksale. My four
have different book covers. I even have the plain ox-blood cover that Mr. Salinger
preferred above all the others. How do I know his preference? I've read about it in
A Catcher's Companion, where else?

Boy, you're gonna make someone so happy.

But, whatever happens, DON'T give Beowulf to anyone...EVER!!

Addendum: Beowulf is mentioned in A Catcher In The Rye. I forgot. How odd. But all
you need to EVER know about Beowulf is illustrated in A Catcher's Companion so you
can just scratch that worry off your list.

Tantamount To A Miracle

I was driving around grocery shopping the other evening and here are
a few things I noticed:

1. My local impersonal, grocery-store/warehouse is going downhill along
with the rest of society and I'm kinda sad about it because they really
have the best produce section in the greater Lime Plant City area. What
I noticed the other night is that they are selling fewer items in larger
quantities. For example, there aren't many small jars of mayonnaise
available. You have to buy the large jar which I don't want because my
cupboards are too small. And, I only wanted ONE roll of paper towels but
I had to buy two in a package and that made me start thinking about how
little storage space I have and how if I'd married a dentist I'd have a
big, walk-in pantry full of space for hundreds of rolls of paper towels
and this train of thought really got me down.

2. The cost of things is on the rise, which is understandable since we
import everything and the dollar is practically worthless. But, still,
$4.20 for two rolls of paper towels is ridiculous. In my world, paper
towels are "throw-away" items. But, now I'm going to have to wash them
out and hang them on the line to dry for reuse.

3. The music in the store was hideous. I just wanted to grocery shop,
not attend a Foo Fighters concert. The median age in the store on this
particular Wednesday evening was about 70 and all us geriatrics were
bumpin' and grindin' our way through the isles getting more and more
riled up and irritable with each passing decibel.

Note to Grocery Store Corporations: I shop less when I'm pissed off.

And, what were those parents with the obviously extremely-sick-and-
feverish-toddler-slumped-over-in-the-shopping-cart thinking?! Why would
they subject their red-faced, sniffling, hacking baby to such vile music?
However, if their goal was to infect half of northeast Ohio with the plague,
well then, they probably succeeded.

The final straw was that I noticed this store no longer stocks Lunds
Pancake Mix, which, as any serious pancake eater knows, is the best
pancake mix on the four innermost planets in this solar system! And,
they have great packaging. I guess Lunds wasn't corporate enough to
compete with, say, Bob's Mills...yuck!

I didn't actually want to buy any Lunds, but it just made me mad that it
had been removed from the shelves. So, I stomped off with what I had in
my grocery cart (which is bigger than my Geo), paid for everything, even
the over-priced paper towels, and got in my dinky car to go over to the
other major grocery store a few miles away.

Only a few miles away but in a different universe, this store was full
of young, old, happy, sad, thin, fat, smart, dumb, contemplative, head-
scratching, blabbing, silent, upright-walking, knuckle-dragging beings
that, if you could have dumped them all in a boiling hot cauldron and
cooked them, would have made up a human stew worthy of a Michelin star,
a stew that would turn the staunchest vegetarian into a cannibal eager
to lick the spoon.

And, they have a Starbucks!

It was wonderful! My journey to the center of the vortex of the human
race was complete. Satiating. Somewhat disorienting.

But, I had serious work to do. I needed to finish my shopping and get
home to The Man because I live in fear that some day he's going to come
out of his poetry-writing revelry, look up and realize that the crazy
woman who usually runs around yelling about stuff is gone and get it
into his head to go out looking for her and fall in the pond and get
eaten by Frank the bluegill.

But, then I experienced a miracle! I was driving home and it was now
just after dusk. I drove past brittle corn fields, the corn dry in the
husks. I passed a farmhouse complex with two barns and two silos, plus
other smaller outbuildings all whitewashed. Each of the tallest structures,
house, barns and silos, had small windows set right at the top near the
peak of the roof. In each of these high windows the farmer had placed a
lighted pumpkin (plastic, I assume) on the window ledge. As I gazed over,
my eyes were met with such a beautiful sight. The buildings were glowing
softly in the aftermath of the sunset and were just visible against a
darkened sky. The muted, orange balls of light from the pumpkins shown
like eerie beacons above a sea of dead corn.

It was the best autumnal effect I've seen in a long time, very subtle and
alluring and it single-handedly made me like it here in The Land of O and
think that maybe there is hope for America.

And, if you know me at all, you know that me thinking these kind of thoughts
is tantamount to a miracle.

I drove home and, happily, The Man was not yet out of his revelry and hadn't
been eaten by Frank, which, in my book, makes for a perfect day.