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02.04.2003 Speaking of Cheap Moments of Glory... Dolled up in one of the outfits my husband, Gary, refers to as my "tour trousseau," tonight I piled my two clean children and sister-in-law Ramona into the car and arrived fashionably late to my book launch party thrown by the good women of Erica Tanov, an elegant clothing store in Berkeley. We had to drive the entire way across the Bay Bridge with the windows rolled down because our 3-month-old Field Spaniel puppy, Fan, barfed in the car a few days ago and I haven't had time to go to the car wash. In fact when I drove 14-year-old Zachary home from his basketball game yesterday, he put his head and shoulders out the window and gasped for air: "This car smells worse than I do!" Nonetheless we arrived at the party just slightly windblown and found a room warm with bodies familiar and not, magnolia blossoms scenting the air and delicious dainties on antique platters. An artist friend had made mementos of tiny packets of red Flanders poppy seeds --- those same "Poppies in October" that Sylvia Plath had seen all over her yard on her thirtieth birthday --- silk screened with an image of a poppy in bloom and a quotation from Wintering. I savored the good company and signed books, and when it was time for me to read I took a spot on the staircase above the crowd. My six-year-old Celeste, ever the diva, flitted up the stairs to join me and announced to the audience, "I have a speech, too, but I'll wait until my Mommy's done with her speech." So I started to read, but waiting was perhaps a greater challenge than Celeste had anticipated: she slid my pen out of my hand as I read and doodled on the stair, then dropped the pen...clack...clack...clack...clack down the staircase. She stomped down in her shiny Mary Janes and retrieved the pen, stomped back up the stairs, doodled some more. Dropped the pen again...clack...clack...clack...clack. And again. Without losing my place on the page I managed to gently retrieve the pen and put my arm around her since snarling at her "youcutthatoutsitdownandbequiet" would have made me seem nasty. Now in closer proximity to the spotlight, Celeste began to kiss me and sigh theatrically, cocking her head and mugging as she pointed at me. Then she stood on tiptoe and brayed in a stage whisper, "Mommy! I don't understand your book! Stop---right---now and tell me what all this means! Mommy!" Oh, the glory.
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Wintering: A Novel of Sylvia Plath
About Wintering
