Crenellated Flotsam

I read Catcher in the Rye a few times growing up and it makes me sad that it’s not as popular as it once was. Recent generations, jaded by more explicit depictions of life or just generally rebelling against earlier generations, remark that Holden is a jerk, which actually hurts me.

Still, ideas presented in a few of the scenes stick right in front of my mind and I use or remember them, if not daily, at once a week (and have since I first ran across them). They’re probably not crucial to the story and I’d doubt if they’re popular with anyone but me, but for some reason, I call on them whenever they seem to fit.

The first is what I call the Holden Caulfield theory of Catholicism. At some point in the book he remarks to the effect that you can always tell a Catholic person by how they try to find out if you share their faith. The example he gave that I remember is Catholics asking you for the location of the nearest church and how that showed the subtlety they employ in trying to discover if you, too, are Catholic.

I can’t say that anyone has ever asked me that, but I’ve expanded or adapted the idea to how women often use similar things to let you know about their availability. It’s rare for me to talk very long with any woman and not have her bring up her husband, lover, or boyfriend if she has one. It’s never in response to a direct question, something I don’t think I’ve ever asked of anyone, but she’ll usually work her relationship into the conversation.

One reason for that might be because her love and status is so important to her that it’s the focus of her life, and I can’t argue with that. Or, it may just be an efficient or safe way to let me know her boundaries, but whenever someone, however awkwardly, introduces their relationship into the conversation I grin and remember Holden and his Catholics.

The other thing Salinger brought to my attention through Holden is a question he wondered about when he spent some time with a prostitute. Instead of thinking about sex, which I would guess to be the extent of the matter, he wonders if the sales person who sold the girl her coat (or dress) knew that it was a prostitute that was buying it.

Again, I expand on this idea, not having a great deal of interactions with prostitutes, and frequently wonder about those who sold things to the people I talk with know that he or she is … whatever.

The things I learn about those in my life aren’t very often secrets only we share, but I do learn some things that I guess aren’t public knowledge. It’s sometimes a very minor thing, but I wonder about the grocery clerk or shop assistant not knowing that this person has a mole somewhere or that she went to Scotland or some such place when she turned twenty.

The closest I ever came to matching Holden’s experience was when I took a writing class and one of the other students was an exotic dancer. I couldn’t help but wonder if, when she bought the fishnet stockings she once wore to class, the sales person knew that this girl would be displaying them to anyone with a pocket full of singles.

Anyway, Salinger enriched my life, and I’m sorry that kids today don’t appreciate Holden. I haven’t read the work in decades, so maybe it didn’t hold up well, but I can’t help feeling a little bit sad that it’s cool to hate on him.

Although someone very clever (Mark Twain?) noted that, while everyone talks about the weather, no one does anything about it, I’m going against the grain here and doing much more than that. Me? I’m panicking.

Here in So Cal we’re at the beginning of a week of rain and storms and true to the quote, it’s pretty much what everyone here is talking about. Neighbors are covering things in their yards with tarps (the blue ones that grow on trees on that Lost island), everyone’s pretty much put their trash out a day early (to avoid getting unnecessarily wet), and there was a flurry of dog walking earlier this morning.

Right now, the drizzle has begun and I can imagine the ants don’t yet know that their homes will be flooded.

I like the rain, at least when I’m inside and don’t have to drive anywhere. I wouldn’t even mind that so much if it weren’t for my convertible top not fastening when it’s closed, which means I have to drive around with the top down and look like an idiot.

Or, to be generous, a devil-may-care sort of guy, enhanced by new goatee.

One nice thing about the rain is how well it soaks the ground, costing me nothing. The wet ground that will result is much easier for me to do the drastic weed pulling that I favor, ripping everything up by the roots, but it also encourages growth and that gives me more to do. Still, it will be easy enough next week, say, when the rain’s stopped, to go out and pick the largest growths, yank them from the ground, and safely sequester their carbon away from those who would wish to add it to the atmosphere.

In the meantime, I have (I hope!) everything I need to survive. Well, everything except the makings for chili.