Read Online Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Safran Foer
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place in the country. Something dinky that could be re-imagined. Not even
talking about
, really, but allowing the joke to linger for long enough to become unfunny. It wasn’t news. It was process.
The morning after their night in the Pennsylvania inn, a decade and a half before, Julia and Jacob went on a hike through a nature preserve. An unusually chatty welcome sign at the entrance explained that the existing paths weren’t original but were “desire lines,” shortcuts people took that trampled the growth and over time appeared deliberate.
Julia and Jacob’s family life became characterized by process, endless negotiation, tiny adjustments. Maybe we should throw caution to the wind and take off the window screens this year. Maybe fencing is one activity too many for Max, and too conspicuously bourgeois for his parents. Maybe if we replaced the metal spatulas with rubber spatulas, we wouldn’t need to replace all the nonstick pans that are giving us cancer. Maybe we should get a car with a third row of seats. Maybe one of those projection things would be nice. Maybe Sam’s cello teacher was right and he should just be playing songs he loves, even if that means “Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae).” Maybe more nature is part of the answer. Maybe having groceries delivered would encourage better cooking, which would relieve the unnecessary but unshakable guilt of having groceries delivered.
Their family life was the sum of nudges and corrections. Infinite tiny increments. News happens in emergency rooms and lawyers’ offices and, apparently, the Alliance Française. It is to be sought and avoided with everything one has.
“Let’s look at hardware another day,” Julia said, slipping the knob into her handbag.
“We’re not going to do the renovation.”
“You’re not?”
“No one even lives there anymore.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry, Julia. Of course we’ll pay you for—”
“No, right. Of course. I’m just a little slow today.”
“You put in so much work.”
After a snowfall, there are only desire lines. But it always warms, and even if it takes longer than it should, the snow inevitably melts, revealing what was chosen.
i don’t care if you cum, but i’ll make you cum anyway
For their tenth anniversary, they went back to the Pennsylvania inn. They’d stumbled upon it the first time—before GPS, before TripAdvisor, before the rareness of freedom spoiled freedom.
The anniversary visit involved a week of preparations, which began with the most difficult task of locating the inn. (Somewhere in Amish country, quilts on the bedroom walls, red front door, rough-hewn banisters, wasn’t there a tree-lined drive?) They had to find a night when Irv and Deborah could stay over to watch the kids, when neither Jacob nor Julia had any pressing work obligations, when the boys didn’t have anything—teacher conference, doctor’s visit, performance—that would require parental presence, and when that specific room was available. The first night to thread all the needles in the pincushion was three weeks out. Julia didn’t know if that felt near or far.
Jacob made the reservation, and Julia made the itinerary. They wouldn’t arrive until sundown, but they would arrive
for
sundown. The following day, they would have breakfast at the inn (she called ahead to ask about the menu), repeat the first half of their hike through the nature preserve, visit the oldest barn and the third-oldest church in the northeast, check out a few antiques shops—who knows, maybe find something for the collection.
“Collection?”
“Things with insides larger than their outsides.”
“Great.”
“And then lunch at a small winery I read about on
Remodelista
. You’llnote I didn’t mention finding a place for tchotchkes to bring home for the boys.”
“Noted.”
“And we’ll make it back for a family dinner.”
“We’ll have time for all of that?”
“Better to have too many options,” Julia said.
(They
talking about
, really, but allowing the joke to linger for long enough to become unfunny. It wasn’t news. It was process.
The morning after their night in the Pennsylvania inn, a decade and a half before, Julia and Jacob went on a hike through a nature preserve. An unusually chatty welcome sign at the entrance explained that the existing paths weren’t original but were “desire lines,” shortcuts people took that trampled the growth and over time appeared deliberate.
Julia and Jacob’s family life became characterized by process, endless negotiation, tiny adjustments. Maybe we should throw caution to the wind and take off the window screens this year. Maybe fencing is one activity too many for Max, and too conspicuously bourgeois for his parents. Maybe if we replaced the metal spatulas with rubber spatulas, we wouldn’t need to replace all the nonstick pans that are giving us cancer. Maybe we should get a car with a third row of seats. Maybe one of those projection things would be nice. Maybe Sam’s cello teacher was right and he should just be playing songs he loves, even if that means “Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae).” Maybe more nature is part of the answer. Maybe having groceries delivered would encourage better cooking, which would relieve the unnecessary but unshakable guilt of having groceries delivered.
Their family life was the sum of nudges and corrections. Infinite tiny increments. News happens in emergency rooms and lawyers’ offices and, apparently, the Alliance Française. It is to be sought and avoided with everything one has.
“Let’s look at hardware another day,” Julia said, slipping the knob into her handbag.
“We’re not going to do the renovation.”
“You’re not?”
“No one even lives there anymore.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry, Julia. Of course we’ll pay you for—”
“No, right. Of course. I’m just a little slow today.”
“You put in so much work.”
After a snowfall, there are only desire lines. But it always warms, and even if it takes longer than it should, the snow inevitably melts, revealing what was chosen.
i don’t care if you cum, but i’ll make you cum anyway
For their tenth anniversary, they went back to the Pennsylvania inn. They’d stumbled upon it the first time—before GPS, before TripAdvisor, before the rareness of freedom spoiled freedom.
The anniversary visit involved a week of preparations, which began with the most difficult task of locating the inn. (Somewhere in Amish country, quilts on the bedroom walls, red front door, rough-hewn banisters, wasn’t there a tree-lined drive?) They had to find a night when Irv and Deborah could stay over to watch the kids, when neither Jacob nor Julia had any pressing work obligations, when the boys didn’t have anything—teacher conference, doctor’s visit, performance—that would require parental presence, and when that specific room was available. The first night to thread all the needles in the pincushion was three weeks out. Julia didn’t know if that felt near or far.
Jacob made the reservation, and Julia made the itinerary. They wouldn’t arrive until sundown, but they would arrive
for
sundown. The following day, they would have breakfast at the inn (she called ahead to ask about the menu), repeat the first half of their hike through the nature preserve, visit the oldest barn and the third-oldest church in the northeast, check out a few antiques shops—who knows, maybe find something for the collection.
“Collection?”
“Things with insides larger than their outsides.”
“Great.”
“And then lunch at a small winery I read about on
Remodelista
. You’llnote I didn’t mention finding a place for tchotchkes to bring home for the boys.”
“Noted.”
“And we’ll make it back for a family dinner.”
“We’ll have time for all of that?”
“Better to have too many options,” Julia said.
(They
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