Skip to main content

On Beverly Cleary

 So much of my daily life is family time, and I'm always happy to find great writing that is specifically about the things that occur in one house.


My husband and I like the show "Catastrophe," in part because it feels like a documentary about our own marriage. For example, in one episode, the central couple fields a question from friends: Will you care for our son if we die? 

This would seem to be a no-brainer, but we follow the central couple back home, where a debate occurs. What's in this for us? Do we get the beach house if A and B both die? What if B doesn't die--but he is comatose for years? That means we're taking care of B *in addition to* his son? His son has this growing acting career....If we become his godparents, we might have an *in* with Daniel Radcliffe....and Susan Sarandon....

To me, this is all of marriage, in three or four minutes. Unforgettable.

The other domestic drama I love is "Ramona and Her Father," by Beverly Cleary. The detail is still astonishing. In the first chapter, Ramona is quietly saying, "Yeep! Yeep!" This is because her church encourages her to make a "joyful noise unto the Lord," but no instructions on the actual noise are provided. "Wow" would be too raucous. Beezus returns home, and soon, she is labeling her sister "a pest." Ramona calmly replies, "You are a rotten dinosaur egg." And when Ramona sees the exasperation on her sister's face, she understands that she has "won the contest."

Later, the two sisters struggle to spy on their parents. Ramona says, "Listen at the heating vent." Without missing a beat, Beezus says, "Too far from the living room. Believe me. I've tried."

Sharon Horgan and Beverly Cleary both remind me of all the comedy that occurs on a weekday, in a house. These two can see what others fail to see. I think they're both inspiring.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more