musings no.6 [wedding registries and feelings of selfishness]

One of my favorite things about the wedding planning so far has been creating wedding gift registries.
It's fun to browse the internet and add all sorts of awesome home things to a list that people will pick from.
Honestly, it feels a little selfish.
I mean, really, how much is too much?
How expensive is too expensive?
Is registering for personal items allowed?
Hard to say.
In the end, though, as long as the necessary items are on the lists, I suppose anything else is fair game.

I certainly find it amusing how the ratio of items for each room/section of our new house differs.
The room that has the most items is obviously the kitchen.
Now's the time for me to get all those random kitchen gadgets that will be tons of fun to use!
Yeah...I'm a sucker for kitchen stuff.

But really, the idea of a gift registry for new couples makes so much sense.
It would be rather insane to expect a newly married couple to buy everything they need to start a life together.
And with a registry, then they're more likely to receive items they actually like.
It's fun, and kind of addicting, even.
I only wish it didn't feel like I'm being selfish by "wanting" all these things.
My conscience needs to take a break while I'm planning my wedding.

"By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water"

Does it make sense to have a deep longing for seeing a place again?

In the same way that one longs for the company of a close friend who they have not seen in many days?

I like to think it does make sense.

I have a deep longing for places I have never even set foot in, except possibly in my dreams.

I think I am meant to travel.

To new places.

But right now, I specifically want to return.

I want to feel the cool of Lake Superior on my skin.

I want to feast my eyes upon the glory that is the sunset God paints above the water.

I want to be there, among the splendor that God has created.

Obviously, the splendor that God has created is all around us, but there is something special about Gitche Gumee, the shining Big-Sea-Water.

I don't know what, exactly.

I also don't think it matters.

My heart just wants to be there.

The Thirty-Nine Steps

Most films and television shows are based on books. Everyone knows this.
When I watch a film or television show, especially a period drama (like Pride & Prejudice), and especially one I haven't heard of before, I want to discover where the story came from.
This past winter, I decided to watch Masterpiece Theatre on PBS. I hadn't watched it in a very long time.
And I mean a very long time. Try years.
Lucky for me, there was a single episode period drama/mystery being shown on that particular Sunday evening.
This drama was entitled The Thirty-Nine Steps.

I enjoyed the story, and soon afterwards learned from a friend that Alfred Hitchcock had filmed an adaptation of this same story in 1935. I then was lucky enough to find a DVD set of 20 early Hitchcock films for five dollars at Target and it had this film on it! So, I watched it. Black and white films are bloody brilliant! No, really. There is just something about old B/W films. They have a certain charm. But at the moment, that's not really the point of this story.

The best part about this story, however, is not the film versions. I had searched Amazon for an edition of the original book shortly after watching the BBC adaptation. I discovered that it was a very old story, almost one hundred years old. Naturally. There were a few editions of the book available online, but at the time I decided not to order one. I was finishing up college, after all. So, I forgot about the story for awhile.
Until yesterday. A friend and I were at Babbitt's Books, an awesome used bookshop in Normal, and we were just browsing. She shares my love (read: obsession) with books. While I was scanning the top shelves of the fiction section, I noticed a book that said The Thirty-Nine Steps, John Buchan. I was slightly unsure of the author's name right then, but I stood on my tiptoes and plucked the red volume carefully from the shelf.
I flipped through the pages, noting that the book was old and in good shape. The price was thirty dollars, which made me curious. Most books I buy at Babbitt's are between two and seven dollars, so there had to be something special about this one. Sure enough, it was a first edition. From 1915.
Naturally, I bought it. Now I just need to read it, but the discovery of the book itself was quite amazing.