Book Report: The Portable Veblen

18. Elizabeth McKenzie, The Portable Veblen (2016) (11/1/26)

I picked this book up simply because of the V in the title—after nixing Garry Wills's Venice: Lion City—The Religion of Empire. I needed something light after my U book about invisible war. And yes, The Portable Veblen is certainly light—to a fault. I'm honestly surprised it received a National Book Award nomination. Not that it's bad. It's just so fluffy, what with conversations with squirrels and quirky characters, quirky families. Yes, there's a bit of industrial intrigue thrown in. But nothing goes anywhere—unless you count an appendix, where we learn how the girl (freelance translator Veblen, named for the anticapitalist economist who wrote The Theory of the Leisure Class) meets boy (medical inventor Paul) story works out. As the jacket explains the point of the book, it's "Where do our families end and we begin? How do we stay true to our ideals? And what is that animal really thinking?" The first two questions are addressed in the context of family dynamics—both Veblen and Paul have challenging families, to say the least—and business opportunities—Paul sees a chance at fame and fortune, but compromises must be made. As for the squirrel, no, we never learn what it is "really" thinking. 

I guess I'm glad I read this book. It was diverting, at least. And it ended with a letter in Norwegian that I understood! Next time I get to V, though, I think I'll plan accordingly and be prepared to tackle the Lion City.

Two poems: Ada Limón and Michael Garrigan

Two poems I encountered this morning in my Kitty Petruccelli workshop that I want to return to. Ada Limón is well known to me, but I had not heard of Michael Garrigan. And with no further ado:

Ancestors

Ada Limón

I’ve come here from the rocks, the bonelike chert,
            obsidian, lava rock. I’ve come here from the trees—

chestnut, bay laurel, toyon, acacia, redwood, cedar,

one thousand oaks
            that bend with moss and old man’s beard.
I was born on a green couch on Carriger Road between
            the vineyards and the horse pasture.

I don’t remember what I first saw, the brick of light
            that unhinged me from the beginning. I don’t remember

my brother’s face, my mother, my father.

            Later, I remember leaves, through car windows,
through bedroom windows, through the classroom window,

the way they shaded and patterned the ground, all that
            power from roots. Imagine you must survive

without running? I’ve come from the lacing patterns of leaves,

            I do not know where else I belong.

Ode to the Ailanthus Growing Out of a Pile of Rubble at the Edge of Pennsy’s Supply Depot on Paxton Street in Harrisburg

Michael Garrigan

The highway is your mother— 
seed spun off wheels or maybe a roof 
& you were born in this ragged rubble pile
growing and reaching towards the constant concrete 
thrumming above you; somehow you find nutrients in the slag
heap along the roadside ditch in this forgotten corner of a railyard
in a forgotten part of a city that people only ever drive through, not to; 
but here you are, shading the cracked macadam and iced tea cans and our 
everyday plastics and here I am complaining about this cornered ecosystem 
and overdevelopment and how this city pollutes the river with raw sewage 
each time it rains and the air quality that’s so bad because of the traffic I am 
driving in and how all the invasive species are taking over our riverlands 
growing in our slashing and forgotten selfishness and as the light turns 
green I remember that some call you the tree-of-heaven and wrap you 
with broad clear tape that catches the larvae of the spotted lantern fly
—two unwanted disparaged species that have found each other—
while others just cut each of you they find down, trying to rid
this landscape of your seed, but perhaps what’s been planted 
and spread and found rootholds in this land is never 
easily removed and perhaps it shouldn’t be perhaps
each of us has a right to be where we found
ourselves, just waking up suddenly in life
sharing the same sound we are all born int
—a watery silence and then our own voice.

As Kitty pointed out, this poem is in the shape of a pregnant belly, and it works here on a laptop (thanks to a reduction in type size), but maybe not on a phone. In any case, yeah: pregnant belly. Fitting.

Hunting Hollow

The other day David and I went on yet another geocaching excursion with our friend Alastair, to Henry Coe State Park, starting at the Hunting Hollow entrance, coming out at the Coyote Creek entrance. We found 43 caches, hiked 13-plus miles. It was a beautiful day, and I took some pictures.

Silly little coincidences

This isn't even worth mentioning, but I find it remarkable enough that... I will. I mean, "remarkable" it's not. Just, oh, curious, interesting to me. Cute. It's twofold: two minor coincidences from this week. Both involving reading and television.

First, the reading: I am working on a proofread of a fun little book comprising short essays about life on a farm in southwestern Washington. That's one. Then yesterday I picked up the next book in my alphabetical reading challenge—though I'm fudging a bit, because the next letter is V and, search though I did through my vast collection, I couldn't find a V book that I really felt like reading (Venice: Lion City—The Religion of Empire by Garry Wills felt too heavy after my last book about invisible war, though it gets very good reviews). So I picked up The Portable Veblen (see the V?), a novel that gets mixed ratings. So far I'm finding it airy and light (it often gets described as "quirky"), which is about my current speed. We'll see.

Which brings me to TV. Last night we watched the first episode of the most recent season of The Great British Baking Show. The subject was cakes. For one of the cakes, the contestant added herbal flavorings, to wit: sticky willy and stinging nettles. Now, until two days ago, I would have had no idea what sticky willy is, but because of the book of farming essays, I recognized it immediately: it's Galium aparine, also known as cleavers or goosegrass. I recognized it partly because I had to look it up for the farming book, since at that point I'd never heard of it. Now it pops up twice within just a few days? How funny!

And there things would have rested, if not for the second coincidence—which I found too humorous to leave go unnoted. This one involved the show Veronica Mars, about a girl detective. She was in high school when the show got going, but this season (which originally aired in 2006—we are rewatching, again) she's enrolled in college and works in the college library. I'm impressed with how she has the locations of quite obscure subject matter right there in her bright little noggin—like when a fellow student comes in and asks for a book on the economist and sociologist Thorstein Veblen. Wait, what? Veblen? Yes indeed, the author of The Theory of the Leisure Class himself, who coined the term "conspicuous consumption" and was a strong critic of capitalism. Given the class divide that Veronica Mars treats in its characters and situations, I enjoyed the wink.

Now I'm waiting for a third unlikely coincidence. If one arises, I'll be sure to add it here.

Next day:

Okay, this is an addendum rather than a new coincidence. Though it is inspired by the fact that while out hiking today—thirteen miles in Henry Coe State Park—while geocaching, my friend Alastair and I were relentlessly beset by sticky little seeds that glommed onto our pants. Stinking hedge parsley! David, in his brushed denim, was spared the aggravation, but A and I spent quite a lot of time picking the damn things off—only to be beset again! It was diabolical! In the midst of all this, I mentioned to Alastair—who's British—my cleavers/sticky willy story. And he knew exactly what I was talking about. Nothing new to him.

So I had to Google. And got this summary (which I just took a screenshot of, pardon my laziness).

Sticky willy isn't what we encountered at Henry Coe. But the coincidence of two plants (and probably more) that behave in the exact same manner? Diabolical! 

I'm still picking bits of hedge parsely off my pants and socks . . . 

Book Report: Uncertain Ground

17. Phil Klay, Uncertain Ground: Citizenship in an Age of Endless, Invisible War (2022) (10/21/26)

I have read and admired Phil Klay in the past: Redeployment (2014), a collection of short fiction about soldiers that won the National Book Award, and the sprawling novel of ideas Missionaries (2020), set in the chaos of drug cartel–riddled Colombia. So I was excited to stumble on this book, which is nonfiction: short op-eds and blog posts as well as longer essays. As he states in the introduction, “War remains a large part of who we are as Americans, with almost a sixth of our federal budget going to defense, keeping troops deployed in 800 military bases around the world and engaging in counterterror missions in 85 countries. And yet, thanks to a series of political and strategic choices, to the average American that’s mostly invisible.”

I trust Klay to try to make our wars, especially more recent ones, at least visible, if not completely understandable (which is surely not even possible), to us noncombatant Americans. As a former Marine himself, he doesn't go into policy and decisionmaking so much as he attempts to uncover the dilemmas and contradictions of actually serving in a war, or coming back home from a war, or losing comrades and living with their memory, or questioning the leadership or one's faith. I'm a little sorry this book is already four years old, so didn't get to cover Iran, or (ffs) Hegseth—about which I'm sure Klay has opinions. Though a quick search of the New York Times recently gets me what I want, to wit:

"Pete Hegseth's Bloodlust Doesn't Hide His Military Failures," from October 13, about Hegseth's desire for a livestream presentation of the Fort Hood shooter's execution (which now, thankfully—adultly—has been bagged)
"Trump Has Made a Fatal Miscalculation about Iran," from March 22
"What Trump Is Really Doing with His Boat Strikes," from December 5 of last year
"Security Breaches Can Be Fixed. People Without Honor Can't Be Trusted," from March 28, 2025
And more, which can be found on this page. 

So yes, Klay is our envoy from a place of sanity in an otherwise insane world. These 22 pieces, arranged under four headings—Soldiers, Citizens, Writing, and Faith—consist of very short takes (like the ones just listed, usually situation-specific) and—the ones I found most effective—longer musings about such topics as gun violence, starting with the evolution of such weaponry; the perspective-giving influence of religious faith (Klay is Catholic); and the invisibility of our "citizen soldiers," those Americans who have worn the uniform. In his fiction, Klay makes those individuals complexly real; in these essays, we get the moral bedrock of someone who takes their (and his own) service seriously. 

Now I'd like to do a more thorough Google search and see if Klay has posted any more of those longer essays. I appreciate knowing what, and how, he thinks.

A day in the life

As I do occasionally of a Friday, I thought I'd recap this day—which as usual got going with my English learner at the library. We hadn't seen each other in a few weeks, so we caught up. We'd both been traveling, she to a birthday party in Los Angeles, me north to Seattle. Then we spent some time perusing our local weekly throwaway, talking about what's going on locally, and finishing with the weekly Rob Brezsny horoscope (we're both Sag), which suggested "bring[ing] together qualities that seem at odds: fierceness and tenderness, a wild spirit and a protective instinct, boldness and love." I now know the Spanish terms for those qualities.

Back home, I did some work: proofreading a Getty Museum catalogue for an upcoming exhibition of Spanish drawings. The sun chased me across my desk—October light, so beautiful. I took my one picture of the day (for my Flickr project):

It's nothing, but I liked the lines and textures, the rounded edges, the negative spaces, and of course the light and shadows. Today was day 320 of my 365 project. Only 45 more days/pictures to go.

At 3:30 we went to our friend Lynn's house for an afternoon of game-playing. She'd bought a new game, meant to be played only once (it involves cutting some of the paper pieces up with scissors, plus there's only one solution). It's like an escape room, only done in the comfort of your own living room. We did not do very well, sadly. The puzzles very much required the "hints" provided, and then we messed up a key component toward the end. I mean, we finished the game, but only because it allowed us to cheat like crazy. Which y'know? Isn't so very satisfying. When I got home, I looked the game up, and it supposedly takes only 45–60 minutes. What??? It took us three and a half hours! But: we had a good time. Mostly because we got to laugh at our bumbling. (The puzzles were really hard. Honest!) And we got to drink gin & tonics. And visit and catch up. That's really what it's all about, no?

Dinner was defrosted pasta leftovers with leftover roasted root veggies—yay for leftovers! And then we watched The Lincoln Lawyer, Veronica Mars, and two episodes of Schitt's Creek. Ending up with our evening chat: David perhaps abandoning a Terry Pratchett book (too much fantasy); death and dying (we don't have enough time left to waste it on a book we don't enjoy); how reading about history makes me feel a little less awful about how awful this country's government is right now; and finally, Heather Cox Richardson on said government. 

I have a FB friend, Leslie, whom I originally met through Flickr—I've never met her in person—and every day she posts a (beautiful) photo and writes in detail about her day. I find her posts fascinating. It's just so interesting, and beautiful, to get a glimpse into the lived life of a kindred spirit. I hope my occasional "day in the life" posts provide that for you too. . . .

Thanks for reading. Whoever you are. (I mean, the real people out there. The bots, well, pffffttttt.)

Road trip!

We spent the last almost two weeks on a road trip: north along the California and Oregon coasts, then a swing inland and up to Edmonds, Washington (just north of Seattle), to visit David's sister. On the way back we took I-5, over a few days. All this included visits with our nephew and his wife, a great-nephew and his girlfriend, a writing friend, my niece's ex, an old singing and dancing friend, and another singing friend. And some exploring, though we also realized that we really need several months, not just two weeks, to really do a road trip justice. It was a lot of driving . . . I'd rather do more walking and poking around. Next time! But all in all, it was wonderful to do so much connecting over these few days. Worth all the miles, for sure.

On the first day, we headed north along US101, ending up in Eureka, 385 miles away.

Day 2 was more driving: another 340 miles, to Lincoln City, OR. 

On day 3 we finally slowed down, our goal for the night, Astoria, being but 120 miles, though we took a couple of detours. It ended up being a several-parter. Part one, morning.

Part two, the Tillamook cheese factory—well worth a visit.

Part three, onward to Astoria.

And part four, our evening in beautiful Astoria.

On day 4 we spent the morning in Astoria, hiking up to the Column—a great viewpoint, and fortunately the fog cleared by the time we got there—then headed north to Edmonds and David's delightful sister, Patty.

Day 5 was a stick-close-to-home day. I spent much of it bonding with Patty's 12yo poodle Maggie.

On day 6 we headed via lightrail into Seattle—Pike Place Market and an amazing art exhibit.

The art show got its own post.

On day 7 we headed to the University of Washington to meet up with our writing friend Andrea and for a stroll along the watery edge of the Arboretum.

Day 8 took us to downtown Edmonds, on the Puget Sound, and a stroll around to see some murals.

On day 9 we hung out with our niece's ex, took a nice walk.

Day 10 was the end of our Seattle stay—though we stopped to visit our friend Thelma, and go for a walk in the rain. Then: on to Salem, Oregon!

Day 11 included a stop in Corvallis to visit our friend Spencer, a walk in a wildlife refuge, then on down to Ashland, with its Shakespeare Festival.

And so we come to the end of the trip, day 12, in Ashland, where we went for a nice long walk, and finished things off with a magical production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." So good!

Day 13 (no pictures) was a remarkably easy six-and-a-half-hour trip from Ashland to home, with virtually no slowdowns whatsoever. We got home at two. And now, it's back to real life.