On the skids
SKID, v., n. I originally looked up this word because after reading Aster Glenn Gray’s Tramps and Vagabonds (discussed in the reviews below), I was wondering about the expression “skid row.” But it turns out “skid” itself was more exciting than predicted. I primarily think of it as a verb meaning something like “to slip” with kind of an out-of-control dragging motion—the sort of thing that would leave a skid mark—but it turns out that its first OED definition is to do with fastening “a skid” or a brake to a wheel in order to lock it. You can see why the slip/drag meaning might arise from the wheel-locking one.
Even better, the noun “skid” is “of doubtful origin” etymologically, which I always love to see in the dictionary. It probably comes from Old English scíd or Old Norse skíð (this is the origin of our word “ski”), which mean something similar to “skid,” but don’t sound enough like it for there to be a definite connection.
Honestly I had not thought of “skid” as an object at all, probably because I don’t spend very much time thinking about logging or ships being repaired in dry dock. But a “skid” is indeed an object, or one of several objects—a beam or a plank, especially one you might use to support something else, like a ship in dry dock. It’s also a plank you could slide something along, and specifically, if you’re a lumberjack, it’s one of two timbers you sink into the ground to make a road to slide logs down, also called a skidway or a skid road.
A forest in Oregon, image courtesy of Unsplash.
“Skid road” is a North American expression, particularly a Pacific Northwestern expression, that went from meaning “timbers sunk into the ground that you slide logs along” to “a part of town where loggers hang out.” And then from there it became “skid row,” meaning a downtrodden part of town where you might find vagrants and drunks. This is pretty unflattering to loggers!
"Skid Row." Howard Street, the street of the unemployed in San Francisco, California 1937. Photographer Dorothea Lange. Courtesy of the New York Public Library on Unsplash.
North American English also has the expressions “hit the skids” and “on the skids,” meaning to enter or be in decline or in trouble—to go downhill, like a log sliding down a skidway.
For the first time in months, I actually have some Capital-R Romance literature to tell you all about: I started listening to an audiobook of Notre-Dame de Paris (The Hunchback of Notre Dame) by Victor Hugo. I was thinking about how fun it was to read Les Mis back in 2019. I think my graduate program didn’t assign Hugo novels for our masters’ exam because they’re so long, but I feel silly having a whole-ass doctorate in French literature and never having read this ultra-famous book. So I’m giving this one a try. It’s only about a third as long as Les Mis, but since having a baby I’m working with less than a third of my former attention span, so we’ll see if I make it through. I’ve been listening for more than an hour and only just met Quasimodo.
Here are some of the small-r romance novels I read:
Flowers from the Storm (m/f, both cis and het, historical) by Laura Kinsale. I always temper my expectations when I read older romances—this one was published in 1992—even when it’s an author I know I love, like Kinsale. You just never know what unfortunate prejudices or creepy absences of consent might be lying in wait to ruin your good time. (This is also true with new books, of course.) And while there were some word choices that made me flinch, the language in this book is by and large gorgeous and thoughtful. Mathematical genius—God I love a math genius romance character, perhaps because I married a real-life math genius—and pleasure-seeking rake the Duke of Jervaulx has a stroke that gives him aphasia, so he can’t understand or speak language. His conniving relatives consign him to an abusive, but allegedly modern and gentle, asylum. He suffers there until he encounters a woman from his former life, the daughter of a Quaker mathematician who co-authored papers with him, who feels called to work as his nurse. A devout Quaker who dislikes the Duke’s “creaturely,” passionate ways, Maddy nevertheless immediately perceives that he is still himself, still a mathematical genius and a proud, stubborn man, but that he cannot communicate. Slowly, she helps him recover, and eventually they escape the asylum. There is so much plot in this book, it’s delightful, but even better, the whole thing just aches with tenderness. In a genre that can be hyperfocused on new releases, I understand why we’re still reading this book thirty years later. Content notes: ableism, institutionalization, abuse, minor racist language in dialogue, minor gender essentialism in sex scenes, pregnancy, sex.
Tramps and Vagabonds (bi? m/gay m, both cis, historical) by Aster Glenn Gray. This romance is a picaresque wander through the American Midwest in the Depression, following two young men who set out to ride the rails after their stint in the Civilian Conservation Corps. James is experienced; Timothy is not. Aster Glenn Gray’s meticulous historical research is on display here in the details about how to survive as a tramp and in her chameleon-like ability to adapt her language to different moments and milieux. It had never occurred to me that hobos would be a sort of de facto queer community, that people who felt unable to fit in conventional society would be drawn to life on the road, but that really comes through here, as do the period-typical attitudes about queerness, which are at the heart of the emotional conflict—James has seen plenty of men in relationships on the road, but they’ve mostly been an older “wolf” and a younger “punk,” and they’ve often involved aggression and exploitation. He doesn’t want that for himself and Timothy, but he’s not sure what it would look like for them to be together otherwise. The journey involves a lot of angst, but they get there eventually. Content notes from the author.
A Lady for a Duke (cis m/trans f, both het, historical) by Alexis Hall. Unbelievably gorgeous. I took a long time to read this partly because that’s just my life now, reading in tiny increments when the baby seems at peace, but also partly because I was savoring every word. How is Alexis Hall so good at adapting his prose style to whatever romance subgenre he chooses, and yet always instantly recognizable as himself? The mechanism is beyond me, but the results are undeniable. This sweeping, emotional historical takes its inspiration from old-school historicals, with mistaken identities, lonely castles, sneering villains, passionate kisses, swordfights, and big, big feelings, but it’s so wonderfully queer. The heroine is a trans woman who fought at Waterloo and used the instance of her presumed death to start a new life, even though it meant she had to leave her best friend behind. She sees him again a few years later and is horrified to realize how his grief for her and his trauma from the war have ravaged him. They make amends to each other as they work out who they are to each other now and what kind of lives they can have. Also: it’s hot as hell and she tops. Content notes from the author.
In books that are neither Romance nor romance, I also listened to T. Kingfisher’s latest horror-inflected fairytale fantasy Nettle and Bone, which is about gathering a ragtag band of misfits and going on a whimsical journey to murder the fuck out of the prince who’s abusing your sister. There’s a whole lot of big, potentially triggering topics in this book (intimate partner violence, femicide, pregnancy, miscarriage, and child death) but it’s also very tender and funny and, best of all, features not one but two old crone witches (a grumpy one and a sunshine one!) who literally ride off into the sunset together. That’s what I like.
And I read 8,000 nonfiction books about how babies work, none of which contained the oracular answers I was seeking. I’m betting it all on that 8,001st book. I’ll be back in your inbox next month to let you know about that and anything else I’ve read.
This newsletter marks Year III of Word Suitcase, which I started writing in June 2019. On previous anniversaries I’ve rounded up some of my favorite newsletters of the year (Year I, Year II). I didn’t write as often this year because I was pregnant and exhausted and then a new parent and exhausted, but here are some I remember fondly:
Go ask a frog what day of the week it is — constructs, objects, Murderbot, frogs, romance novels (February 28, 2022)
“the obscenest picture the world possesses” — shame, modesty, naked ladies, and, of course, romance novels (December 5, 2021)
Muses and muzzles — most of us are just out here in the woods chirping (October 24, 2021)
False cities and restorations — suburbs, restaurants, romance novels (October 3, 2021)
Head first — chipmunks and romance novels (July 4, 2021)
Some of you all have been here since the beginning and some of you might be reading your first-ever newsletter, and I’m glad to have all of you as readers. See you in July!
