I am a good winner unless we’re talking Jeopardy, which reduces me to insufferable. Last Friday’s Final Jeopardy was no exception, since it was category I knew I’d know: Female Authors.
At age 9 in 1883 she moved west, when she met Annie Pavelka, a young pioneer on whom she would later model a title character.
My biggest challenge was the clumsy wording. Were they asking for the name of the author or her book? Not that it even mattered. I knew both. Willa Cather, My Antonia.
The family rule is that after the iconic Final Jeopardy song is over, I get to shout out the answer if no one else has one. Such was the case on Friday. Fist pumping was involved. Obnoxious is not too strong a word.
On the heels of this pride display our houseguest Noah who is visiting from California asked if I knew someplace that sold wrapping paper and gift cards. “I do,” I told him. He pulled out his phone to map it.
The store is under a mile away and I go there often. They have a good selection of cards and unusual gifts and gently used books plus a cute little coffee shop at the back. Its name is…
The steel trap that retained Cather swiss-cheesed on the name of this store I have known for decades. It was only after Noah read off all the possibilities within a two-mile radius that I recognized it immediately.
To think my brain, a ruthless machine when it comes to literary trivia, summons crickets when asked for the simple name of a simple familiar gift shop/bookstore, seems nonsensical, as nonsensical as my body which successfully gestated and birthed six healthy humans yet gave up its gallbladder without a fight.
It took me a minute or two to get over my embarrassment, but then I was okay. I mean, each one of us is the gamut, and you gotta love it. We are mortals, and not merely, but spectacularly. For better, for worse, we are capable of every astonishing thing, including failure, and getting over it.