Me and Miss Austen

I could write about my reaction to the speeches at the Democratic National Convention. But I don't really feel like doing so. I was pleased, for the most part, with what I've heard, but enough ink is going to be spilled on that subject that I don't particularly feel like adding to the torrent tonight.

I could tell you about coaching the girls on the Genesis form, because they're going to test for their next belt tomorrow. Actually, I'm not entirely sure they are going to pass, because for some inexplicable reason, their classes didn't include the form instruction this past month until the very last lesson before the test this Friday, so we've tried to learn the form in one lesson and I've been drilling them on it since Tuesday. And it's tough: they obviously don't have all the moves down cold yet, despite our best efforts. My parents are coming to watch the test tomorrow, since they're in town, which is a cause of some excitement (my parents live in Georgia, and they've never seen the girls do karate before). But I'll give you a more complete report about all that after the test.

I was indulging in one of my habitual daydreams again today, and I realize that I've never told you about it. Once I realized that and thought about writing a post about it, I realized that this daydream is a bit odd, really, and I wondered whether you would think me really strange for indulging in it. But then I realized if you've been reading my journal for awhile, you already know that I'm rather strange.

I love to daydream about meeting Jane Austen.

For some reason, Jane Austen appears at my home, and it's my job to sort of shepherd her around for a day or two. Or if I'm lucky, for a week or more. I know who she is, of course, but she has no idea who I am. It's my job to introduce her to the life in the 21st century.

I've had more fun than you can imagine trying to picture her reactions to various things: microwave ovens. Riding in a car for the first time. Seeing an airplane. Computers. I imagine showing her the Internet, and clicking onto to www.pemberley.com and telling her, "This is a place where people from all over the world are discussing your books, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week." We could spend a weekend watching movies made from her books. ("That Mr. Colin Firth! Don't you think he is the handsomest man you've ever seen?") I want to give her a copy of Lord of the Rings and get her opinion after she's read it. I imagine her watching me exercise and gasping in horror at the shocking costumes worn by those brazen hussies on the FIRM DVD. Showing their legs! And their stomachs, and their -- no, she can't even say it. Where are her smelling salts?

I don't know why I keep embroidering on this daydream. I've thought of being Shakespeare's buddy for a day, but that doesn't have the same appeal. Perhaps because he's a guy, or an actor? As if once I showed him the Guthrie Theater, he'd disappear backstage and spend the rest of the visit ignoring me and talking shop with other actors. No, I keep returning to Miss Austen. (I can never imagine calling her "Jane." I want her to feel comfortable, so I address her as "Miss Austen." I imagine she would also be shocked because my children address my next door neighbor by her first name, or as Miss Austen would put it, her Christian name.)

I think I would prefer to spend the time with Miss Austen because I've always been fascinated by her observant eye and needle wit, and I can't help but wonder how they would manifest themselves if she turned her full attention to my life, to my foibles and my struggles (not that Shakespeare didn't have an observant eye and needle wit himself, but for some reason that I can't quite pin down, I've just always been more curious about her reaction). Would Miss Austen be kind? No, I rather think she would not. It pains me a little to say it, but as eager as I am to receive her good opinion, I fear she would be reluctant to give it to me. First of all, I work for a living, and am therefore not quite of her class. How to explain to her that in the time and place that I live, there are no servants for most people; we have all manner of labor saving devices, but that most people do work, and do not think any less of each other for doing so? I also have the bad taste to live in America, rather than dear old England.

I also fear my habit of wearing jeans would astonish and horrify her.

But what bothers me the most is the thought that I would not feel comfortable giving her my own books to read. Emerald House Rising--well, perhaps. She would perhaps be kind to someone else's first effort.

But I could never explain The Wild Swans to her. The relationship between Elias and Sean would, I think, be beyond what a 19th century clergyman's daughter would think proper to read about.

Could she be open to it? If I attempted to explain what the book was about before handing it to her to read, would she be brave enough to try it? What would she think about telemarketing calls and televangelists and light rail and skyscrapers? Would she think I was doing a good job raising my children?

I hope that there might be some small part of her that might learn to like me. Once she got over the shock of my short hair and my wardrobe, and the fact that I drove in a strange metal contraption every day and left my children with others so that I could earn my living. I would hope that if anyone could survive the jolt of being transported two centuries beyond her own time, it might be Miss Austen.

Who knows? Perhaps she might discover that she likes lifting weights or reading Tolkien herself, now that she's tried them.