This morning I rearranged my reading table and surrounding book piles. Today's rearranging was needed to weed out those books due back at the library tomorrow, many of which will be returned partially or wholly unread. Sitting in the midst of book chaos, I realized that a sort of reading frenzy had overtaken me.
Overjoyed with the hours of reading spread out before me as I entered the retired phase of my life a couple of months ago, I went crazy on inter-library loan filling up my request list with all of the books due to come out in May, June, and July. With the proper nod to Murphy's Law, they have all be arriving in large clumps of four's and five's. So I've blown through many of them with the goal of finishing so I could get to the next one. This morning, the backlog burst through the dam. In the resulting flood, I realized that enjoying a book should be my goal, not finishing it on deadline. After all, the day I declared for Social Security, I left 45+ years of deadlines behind me!
So the list of books that tickle my fancy will continue to grow and change, but I will rely more on the serendipity of the books that reach out and grab me as I peruse the library shelves. Add to these unexpected gems my loaded Kindle and Nook together with the piles of books on my reading room floor that have been patiently awaiting my attention for some time, and I'm fixed for book elation until...well, until....
Every so often as you read your way through the year, one book just reaches out, grabs you, and doesn't let go until the last heart wrenching page has been turned. For me, State of Wonder by Ann Patchett was one of those books.
From Booklist (via amazon.com) Marina Singh gave up a career as a doctor after botching an emergency delivery as an intern, opting instead for the more orderly world of research for a pharmaceutical company. When office colleague Anders Eckman, sent to the Amazon to check on the work of a field team, is reported dead, Marina is asked by her company's CEO to complete Anders' task and to locate his body. What Marina finds in the sweltering, insect-infested jungles of the Amazon shakes her to her core. For the team is headed by esteemed scientist Annick Swenson, the woman who oversaw Marina's residency and who is now intent on keeping the team's progress on a miracle drug completely under wraps. Marina's jungle odyssey includes exotic encounters with cannibals and snakes, a knotty ethical dilemma about the basic tenets of scientific research, and joyous interactions with the exuberant people of the Lakashi tribe, who live on the compound. In fluid and remarkably atmospheric prose, Patchett captures not only the sights and sounds of the chaotic jungle environment but also the struggle and sacrifice of dedicated scientists.
Passages
Marina - her relationship with her father Marina did not forget her father in his absence, nor did she learn to accept the situation over time. She longed for him. Her mother often said that Marina was smart in just the way her father was smart, and that explained why he was so pround that she excelled in the very things that interested her the most: earth sciences and math when she was a little girl, calculus, statistics, inorganic chemistry when she was older. Her skin was all cream and light in comparison to her father's and very dark when she held her wrist against her mother's. She had her father's round, black eyes and heavy lashes, his black hair and angular frame. Seeing her father gave her the ability to see herself, the comfort of physical recognition after a life spent among her mother's people, all those translucent cousins who looked at her like she was a llama who had wantered into their holiday dinner.
Marina - her relationship with Dr. Swenson Marina waited for a moment, hoping for more than a one word affirmation. She was on an unnamed river in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night feeling very much the same way she always felt with Dr. Swenson, like Oliver Twist holding up his empty bowl.
Marina - her responsibility Marina looked at the crowd and then at the Indians and the message on every face was exactly the same: no choice. And so she took the chief's hand which he then held high above his head, about the level of Marina's cheekbone, and together they did the slow skip forward while the men beat their drums and the tourists took their pictures and the children followed with their dances, their snake and their sloth. In this group Marina danced with the people who were not white while the white people watched them. It would never have been her preference to be part of a tourist attraction. One of the children handed her the sloth and she took it. She hung it around her neck and continued her dance, feeling the soft, warm hair against her skin. Had anyone given her a choice, she would have chosen instead to be back on the porch behind the storage shed beneath her mosquito netting reading Little Dorrit. Still, she knew it was somehow less humiliating, less disrespectful, to dance with the natives than it was to simply stand there watching them.
Then there were those exquisitely written passages that just made me sit back and sigh.
Pickles [a Golden Retriever] leaned up against marina now and he batted her hand with his head until she reached down to rub the limp chamois of his ears.
From the grand exterior she entered a lobby of palm plants and tired brown sofas that slumped together as if they had come as far as they could and then given up.
Marina had been a very good student, but she only raised her hand when she was certain of the answer. She excelled not through bright bursts of inspiration but by the hard labor of a field horse pulling a plow.
There was no one clear point of loss. It happened over and over again in a thousand small ways and the only truth there was to learn was that there was not getting used to it.
As hard as some of this story was to read, there was no denying the joy of spending reading time with Drs. Singh and Swenson along with Milton, Easter, and the Bovenders. Each small event, nuance, or description drew me in like the constant churring of one of the unnamed, unseen insects of the Amazon.
There have been two books this year that took my reading breath away. The first was Clara and Mr. Tiffany by Susan Vreeland, and I will post separately about this. The second, and most recent, was The Paris Wife by Paula McClain.
From Booklist (via Amazon) History is sadly neglectful of the supporting players in the lives of great artists. Fortunately, fiction provides ample opportunity to bring these often fascinating personalities out into the limelight. Gaynor Arnold successfully resurrected the much-maligned Mrs. Charles Dickens in Girl in a Blue Dress (2009), now Paula McLain brings Hadley Richardson Hemingway out from the formidable shadow cast by her famous husband. Though doomed, the Hemingway marriage had its giddy high points, including a whirlwind courtship and a few fast and furious years of the expatriate lifestyle in 1920s Paris. Hadley and Ernest traveled in heady company during this gin-soaked and jazz-infused time, and readers are treated to intimate glimpses of many of the literary giants of the era, including Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, James Joyce, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. But the real star of the story is Hadley, as this time around, Ernest is firmly relegated to the background as he almost never was during their years together. Though eventually a woman scorned, Hadley is able to acknowledge without rancor or bitterness that "Hem" had "helped me to see what I really was and what I could do." Much more than a "woman-behind-the-man" homage, this beautifully crafted tale is an unsentimental tribute to a woman who acted with grace and strength as her marriage crumbled.
Passages Hadley viewing narcissus The Rhone Valley was in top form just then, with narcissus blooming in every bare patch of meadow and in the jagged crevices of rock. The first time I saw a narcissus pushing through ice and thriving, I thought it was perfect and wanted that kind of determination for myself.
On laughter Everyone laughed, and it was one of those domino moments. That laugh would eventually set off an entire series of events, but not yet. It just stood there in the room, tipping and tipping, but not falling. Not falling yet. Not quite.
Hadley on Ernest’s The Torrents of Spring It wasn't until that moment that I fully understood how hurt he'd been when everyone, including me, had disparaged the book and shut it down. He loved and needed praise. He loved and needed to be loved, and even adored.
On Ernest’s hubris I knew Ernest's bravado was almost entirely invented, but I hated to think of all the good friends we'd lost because of his pride and volatile temper, starting in Chicago with Kenley. Lewis Galantiere, our first friend in Paris, had stopped speaking to Ernest when he'd called Lewis's fiancee a despicable shrew. Bob McAlmon had finally had enough of Ernest's bragging and rudeness and now crossed the street to avoid us in Paris. Harold Loeb had never recovered from Pamplona, and Sherwood and Gertrude, two of Ernest's biggest champions, now topped the long and painful list.
Bicycles as metaphor On the crushed rock path along the windward side of the hotel, three bicycles stood on their stands. If you looked at the bicycles one way, they looked very solid, like sculpture, with afternoon light glinting cleanly off the chrome handlebars--one, two, three, all in a row. If you looked at them another way, you could see just how thin each kickstand was under the weight of the heavy frame, and how they were poised to fall like dominoes or the skeletons of elephants or like love itself.
On believing People belong to each other only as long as they both believe. He's stopped believing.
Hadley & Ernest
A summing up In the end, Ernest didn't have the luck I did in love. He had two more sons, both with Pauline, and then left her for another. And left that one for another, too. He had four wives altogether and many lovers as well. It was sometimes painful for me to think that to those who followed his life with interest, I was just the early wife, the Paris wife. But that was probably vanity, wanting to stand out in a long line of women. In truth it didn't matter what others saw. We knew what we had and what it meant, and though so much had happened since for both of us, there was nothing like those years in Paris, after the war. Life was painfully pure and simple and good, and I believe Ernest was his best self then. I got the very best of him. We got the best of each other.
There was always this picture of Ernest Hemingway in my mind—the older, bearded literary giant. Here in The Paris Wife, the picture sharpened with the details of the younger, insecure struggling author. This fictional rendering expanded and enhanced my mind picture of Hemingway and urged the taking up of The Moveable Feast as well as revisiting The Sun Also Rises and For Whom the Bell Tolls. Perhaps there are clues there that will add nuance to the picture of Papa Hemingway.
Several years ago I tried to read In Her Shoes by Jennifer Weiner. Perhaps being the mother of a single, out-on-her-own daughter colored my reaction, but I just couldn't bring myself to read past the opening sequence of events. So, I stayed away from Jennifer Weiner until I read the description of Fly Away Home. Granted, the pulled from the headlines plotline of the disgraced politician may have made this another pass; however, I put it on my library reserve list and did find the story good enough to keep me reading on a Saturday afternoon despite the less than enthusiastic editorial review from Publishers Weekly.
From Publishers Weekly (via bn.com) Weiner weaves a forgettable family drama with three weakly connected storylines: mother Sylvie Woodruff long ago sacrificed herself to become the perfect politician's wife, but the revelation of her husband's infidelity sends her off to reconnect with her old self. Her daughters aren't faring any better: recovering addict Lizzie is pursuing an interest in photography, but a childhood incident continues to trouble her; and dutiful older daughter Diana, an ER doctor, is escaping her blandly offensive husband via her own affair. The three women's crises function in parallel, and Weiner is unable to keep the narrative tension going when she hops from one character to another, largely because their issues are so tidily resolved and the women are never in real emotional danger--Sylvie's husband's affair is a "one-day story," Lizzie's narcotic slip is to take a couple of Advil PM (and an apology resolves the unresolved past), and the breakdown of Diana's marriage is dispatched as easily as Diana making a resolution to change her life. The lack of conflict and strong characters, and the heavy dose of brand names and ripped-from-the-headlines references, make this disappointingly disposable.
When all was said and read, it was wrapped a little too nicely. I'm much more intrigued with watching the tensions in The Good Wife. How will Alicia Florrick handle things this year?
Rating: 3/5 (Fiction Scale) Dedication: For Joanna Pulcini and Greer Hendricks First Line: Breakfast in five-star hotels was always the same.
Book Extras Visit the author's website here. Visit the publisher's page here.
Les at Lesley's Book Nook has written a review of Fly Away Home which pretty much echoes my experience. Please click here to read her review. While you're there, be sure to check out Les's new wheels!
The Search by Nora Roberts--classic NR romantic suspense.
From Publishers Weekly (via amazon) The serviceable latest from Roberts centers on Fiona Bristow, a professional canine search-and-rescue trainer, who moved to Orcas Island in Puget Sound eight years earlier, just after barely escaping from a serial killer. The story opens with Simon Doyle, an artisan cabinetmaker who arrives on the island with a puppy in tow. It's the puppy that brings Fiona and Simon together, and the romance gets off to a rocky start; he's grumpy and plainspoken; she doesn't scare easily. Then a serial killer begins operating within striking distance, and all Fiona's hard-won peace and equanimity begins to wobble: the man who almost killed her is in prison, but he's got a disciple on the outside. The serial killer plot is very familiar and without much to distinguish it, but the romance is finely done, with Roberts's trademark banter lighting up the page. Fiona and Simon are the main attraction, but the setting and the supporting characters—with paws and without—provide a vivid backdrop.
Passages For anyone who loves dogs, there are passages galore that will make you knowingly nod. This was the first of many for me: "Peck found him. He's the one. He'd be pleased if you shook his hand." "Oh." Devin scrubbed at his face, drew in a couple steadying breaths. "Thank you, Peck. Thank you." He crouched, offered his hand. Peck smiled as dogs do and placed his paw in Devin's hand.
Roberts has been hit or miss for me lately, but The Search was an absolutely perfect reading choice for a few hot, humid summer days. Looking back at my reading journal, I see that Nora Roberts turns up consistently in the summertime. One especially favorable entry was about a summer weekend a few years ago when I read the entire Gallaghers of Ardmore trilogy (Jewels of the Sun, Tears of the Moon, and Heart of the Sea).
Rating: 4/5 (Romance-Suspense) Dedication: To Homer and Pancho, and all who sweetened my life before them. First Line: On a chilly morning in February with a misty rain shuttering the windows, Devin and Rosie Cauldwell made low, sleepy love. Epigraph, Part 1: Properly trained, a man can be a dog's best friend. -Corey Ford Epigraph, Part 2: The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too. -Samuel Butler Epigraph, Part 3: Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing? -The Bible
Extras Click here to visit the author's website. Click here for information on Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands of Washington state. Click here or here for more information on search and rescue dogs.
New (to me) Word The copper would verdigris over time, he thought, and add to its appeal. verdigris: [vur-di-grees, -gris] a green or bluish patina formed on copper, brass, or bronze surfaces exposed to the atmosphere for long periods of time, consisting principally of basic copper sulfate.
In Lowcountry Summer by Dorothea Benton Frank we return to Tall Pines Plantation and revisit the Wimbleys and other characters introduced in the 2001 novel Plantation.
From Publishers Weekly (via amazon) Here's one for the Southern gals as well as Yankees who appreciate Frank's signature mix of sass, sex, and gargantuan personalities. In this long-time-coming sequel to Plantation, opinionated and family-centric Caroline Wimbly Levine has just turned 47, but she's less concerned with advancing middle age than she is with son Eric shacking up with an older single mom. She's also dealing with a drunk and disorderly sister-in-law, Frances Mae; four nieces from hell; grieving brother Trip; a pig-farmer boyfriend with a weak heart; and a serious crush on the local sheriff. Then there's Caroline's dead-but-not-forgotten mother, Miss Lavinia, whose presence both guides and troubles Caroline as she tries to keep her unruly family intact and out of jail. With a sizable cast of minor characters with major attitude, Frank lovingly mixes a brew of personalities who deliver nonstop clashes, mysteries, meltdowns, and commentaries; below the always funny theatrics, however, is a compelling saga of loss and acceptance.
Passages On a hurricane meal Orders were taken and eventually we sat down to what could be characterized as a hurricane meal, which would be one prepared with whatever could be found but with no electricity or water, having boiled the pasta in Evian on a charcoal grill or whatever we had on hand, although Trip would have been apoplectic if we had used bottled water to cook. The cost, you know.
On a new-to-me word (scrying) "Don't make me go scrying in my bowl this morning, you 'eah me? What's going on 'round 'eah?" (Millie) "Scrying?" Rusty said. "The art of predicting the future by staring into water. Nostradamus did it all the time. Very handy for predicting the end of time and all that I [Caroline] said.
On mother's sending children off to wherever ...I turned around one day and saw that he had grown peach fuzz above his lip and on the sides of his face. On and on it went until he towered over me and melted my heart every time I heard his man voice say, "I love you, Mom." "I just hate for you to leave, Eric." I couldn't help pouting. "Yeah, me, too. But you know I'll be back as soon as I run out of clean socks." "All over the world, mothers depend on that."
On another foodie description For dinner today, Millie had baked a fruited ham and made red rice, deviled eggs, green-bean salad, a zillion biscuits, and brownies that were so rich and chocolaty they made you literally drool for another cold glass of milk.
Revisiting and catching up with the Wimbley family and the goings-on at Tall Pines definitely fell into the category of a good summer read. Most everyone was still doing what they do best, whether that be Millie's holding everything together or Frances Mae's wreaking havoc. Add to that the less than genteel or appreciative daughters of said Frances Mae, and you have the makings of a good family-in-turmoil story.
My only real problem with Lowcountry Summer? Where was Dr. Jack Taylor? When last we left Caroline Wimbley Levine in Plantation, she seemed to be in a committed relationship with Jack. Fast forward to Lowcountry Summer, page 3, and we are introduced to her current beau, "a wonderful guy named Bobby Mack" without so much as a fleeting reference to the fate of Jack.
Rating: 3.5/5 (Fiction scale) Dedication: In loving memory of my sweet brother, Billy First sentence: It is a generally accepted fact that at some point during your birthday, you will reassess your life.
Extras Click here to visit the author's website. For more information on the Ashepoo, Combahee and South Edisto (ACE) Basin--the setting for Lowcountry Summer and Plantation--click here.
Are you keeping track of this series? We're now at Sizzling Sixteen by Janet Evanovich...wherein we learn why Ranger keeps giving cars to Stephanie. From Booklist (via amazon) Stephanie Plum, half-Italian, half-Hungarian, a shrewd mixture of smarts and dumb luck, works for her cousin Vinny as a bail bondswoman in Trenton, New Jersey. Vinnie, however, is in deep fecal matter, owing too much money to the very scary guys who have kidnapped him. Stephanie, office manager Connie, and Lula, plus-sized and focused (if not on the job at hand), manage to spring Vinnie (more than once) and find a lot of money to pay what he owes. Along the way, they facilitate a cow stampede and an alligator escape; are assisted by a bunch of Hobbit con-goers; and find their office going up quite thoroughly in flames. Stephanie wrecks the usual car and ping-pongs between the hot and dangerous Ranger and the hot and domestic Morelli. In the first few pages, Evanovich both catches readers up on the hilarious and cockeyed history of the preceding 15 books and gives fans a little more of everything they want, including the return of beloved stoner Mooner. Funny, scary, silly, and sweet.
Passages On Ranger Ranger was my mentor when I first went to work for my cousin Vinnie. I suppose he's still my mentor, but now he's also my friend, my propector, from time to time he's been my employer, and on one spectacularly memorable occasion, he was my lover.
On home (Stephanie reflects on her parent's house) The house hasn't changed much over the years. A new appliance when needed. New curtains. Mostly, it's overcrowded with comfortable nondescript furniture, cooking smells, and good memories.
On Lula's "one of" diet Minutes after Ranger left, Lula hauled herself up into the Jeep. "The best I could do was blueberry," Lula said. "They didn't have no vegetable doughnuts. And I got a strawberry jelly-filled, and a pumpkin spice, and a banana scone. Wait a minute. Is pumpkin a vegetable? Does that count?" "You must have eight hundred calories in that bag." (Stephanie) "Yeah, but the diet says I can have one of anything." "One doughnut! Not one of each kind." (Stephanie) "You don't know that for sure," Lula said.
On the kind of Italian restaurant we all know (even if we don't live in the Burg) Pino's serves Italian food Burg-style. Greasy pizza you have to fold to eat, meatball subs, sausage sandwiches, spaghetti with red sauce, worthless uninteresting salad with iceberg lettuce and pale tomatoes, Bud on tap, and red table wine. It has a dark, carved, mahogany bar and a side room with tables for families and couples who don't want to watch hockey on the television hanging over the liquor collection.
On relationships ...I was in a state because I had two men in my life, and I had no clue what to do with them. I loved them each in different ways, and I was too traditional and Catholic to just enjoy them. How sick is that? I wasn't a practicing Catholic, but I had guilt. And I was stuck with all these rules about relationships. And then there was my mother, who I suspect was mortally afraid I'd end up with Ranger. And my grandmother, who probably thought I was an idiot to to be sleeping with both of them. And my father, who didn't think there was a man alive who was worthy of me.
Team Joe vs. Team Ranger heats up. Lula's wardrobe gets more outrageous. Vinnie's in BIG trouble. Rex just keeps that wheel movin'. And then there's that lucky bottle inherited from Uncle Pip....
Rating: 3.5/5 (Mystery Scale) Dedication: Thanks to Laura A. Koppe for suggesting the title for this book. First Line: My Uncle Pip died and left me his lucky bottle.
From Publishers Weekly (via amazon) After a 10-year hiatus from blue-water fishing, Greenlaw went cautiously to sea, seeking apayday and perspective on her life. Thanks to The Perfect Storm phenomenon (both book and film), she was celebrated as America's only female swordfish boat captain. She was now also a mother and an author who relished a new challenge, traveling 1,000 miles from her Maine home with an eager crew of four guys—three of them experienced sailing buddies—looking for swordfish on the 63-foot, six-and-a-half–knot steel boat Seahawk on the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. It was a 52-day trip—and a sensational misadventure. Nearly everything that could go wrong, did, including her arrest for illegally fishing in Canadian waters. Greenlaw chronicles it all—a busted engine, a malfunctioning ice machine, squirrelly technology—with an absorbing mix of nautical expertise and self-deprecation. After inspecting the Seahawk, Greenlaw calls it rough, but stable and capable. Then she writes, "Although I was referring to the boat, I couldn't help thinking the same could be said of her captain." From mishaps to fish tales, Greenlaw keeps her narrative suspenseful. Between bad luck and self-doubt, she moves from experience to wisdom, guiding both crew and readers on a voyage of self-affirmation.
Passages On returning to the sea The obvious risks inherent in commercial fishing--like those to life, limb, and livelihood--are concerns of mere mortals. Real fishermen risk other things that are less easily explained. In my present situation, the risks involved in returning to something I'd once felt so passionate about were many and not as tangible as fears for personal safety or pocketbook. I risked falling out of love with fishing itself. I'm good at catching fish. Is this why I like to do it? What if I were to suddenly realize that I did not enjoy the hunt? What if I were absolutely turned off by blood and guts? What if my heart didn't race with the tugging of a fish on the line? And, God forbid, what if I'd lost the ability to catch fish? My entire identity and self-definition were at stake. Disillusionment, should it occur, would hit hard. The half-full glass was not my style. Perhaps the same scenario could be seen as enlightenment. Either way I spun it, learning the truth was worth the risk, I concluded.
On making decisions Maturity can't hold a candle to youthfulness. Unless, I considered, it's a mental/emotional thing. This endurance test would certainly go beyond physical. Mentally I needed to be stronger and wiser. Decisions were once based on gut reaction. I'd often made the right decision for the wrong reason. I'd done things purely from the strength of knowing that I could. Now maybe I would be more thoughtful with the realization of the possibility that perhaps I could not. I hoped that the past ten years had taught me something. I must be smarter now than I was when I'd last captained a swordboat. But what about quickness of mind? Would I react to emergencies fast enough? I had always prided myself on my mental reflexes in the face of danger or disaster. I had always been confident beyond reason. Maybe it was healthier to be wiser, more mature, and less confident.
On swordfish (vs. clams) When I say "I love swordfish," I am not necessarily commenting on them as a meal, although I surely do enjoy them in that capacity. Swordfish are the most interesting creatures! They are fascinating and intriguing in their unique combination of fish and sword--like a unicorn, but real. The facts and figures surrounding swordfish perhaps explain what makes them so worthy of my life-time pursuit of them. The speed at which they travel, the distances they cover in their migration, and their strength all contribute to the quality most frequently attributed to them, elusiveness. I can't imagine a life spent digging clams or trapping slime eels--they're just so...ordinary. What's to know about a clam? You traipse around the clam flats looking for holes in the surface of the mud. One hole, one clam, as my Aunt Gracie used to say. You see a hole, you dig, and you find a clam. Big deal. A clam does not possess the ability to dodge the digger. Swordfish, in contrast, are mysterious and challenging and sexy. You never hear stories about the giant clam that got away. Clams have no personality. You've seen one clam, you've seen them all.
On a relationship with fish This game is a dance of sorts, or a collaboration. We, the fish and I, both have our jobs to do. Any given day it's a toss-up which of us is doing our job better. Sometimes I feel like a gallant saltwater cowboy busting broncos. Other times I just wait for my horse to be shot out from under me. Damn fish. I laughed to myself. Our relationship is weirder than any I'd had with humans of the opposite sex. And I'd had some weird ones.
On a sunrise Darkness waded in cautiously and headed west. Hesitating waist-deep, then plunging into the murky chill, the diving night splashed light onto the opposite horizon, which swam like spawning salmon up the riverlike sky. The sun hatched as if it were a baby chick, pecking from within the shell until fully risen, yellow and warm, and as unsure as I was. Quite a grand entrance....
Ahhh phrases
Ripe and one sliver shy of full, the cantaloupe moon shone a flashlight beam along our path as we steamed east through the Gulf of Maine.
Far from worrying, I didn't have a care in the world as the Seahawk glided effortlessly along, bobbing slightly as if nodding her head or tapping a foot to some unheard music.
My mood wasn't made any lighter by the bickering that rose from below. The crew sounded like young brothers in the backseat on a long car ride.
When he sang a ballad about the hardships of life at sea and harsh treatment by superiors, I felt as transparent as the gal in "Killing Me Softly."
I am a fan of Linda Greenlaw's writing and have attended three of her book readings/signings. Each time as I sat in the audience, I marveled at the tenacity and strength of this seemingly slight woman standing in front of me. She fishes, hauls lobster traps, cooks, manages crews of salty fisherman (some loyal and hardworking; others, not so). And, she writes--from the most technical details on commercial fishing and seamanship, to the mysterious escapades of Jane Bunker, and finally to a turn of phrase about the moon or the ocean that causes you to stop reading and just be in the moment of that phrase.
Yes, if Linda Greenlaw writes it, I will read it.
Rating: 4/5 (Non-fiction Scale)
Dedication: This book is dedicated to the hardworking men of the Seahawk: Arthur Jost, Tim Palmer, Dave Hiltz, Mike Machado, and Nate Clark.
First line: The cell door closed with the mechanical, steely sound of permanence.
From Booklist (via amazon) When popular crooner Richie Rossiter dies, his longtime partner, Chrissie, is left bereft and angered that she never got Richie to divorce his first wife and marry her, providing security for her and their three daughters. In addition, money becomes a serious issue since she was his manager. Then she learns that Richie amended his will to leave a treasured piano and the rights to songs he wrote early in his career to his first wife, Margaret, and their son, Scott. Chrissie, who refused to ever fully acknowledge Richie’s first family, is left to wonder whether he actually loved her, while Margaret finds herself enormously relieved to discover that she was remembered. The prolific Trollope skillfully engineers a heartwarming story of renewal and hope as she brings the two families closer together. Scott reaches out to Chrissie’s youngest child, providing her with both comfort and a link to her dad’s childhood in Newcastle. Hurt feelings and issues of abandonment vie with the impulse to forge ahead and to heal in this intelligent and moving novel of modern family life.
Passages On a tea caddy Tamsin was taking tea bags out of a caddy their father had brought down from Newcastle, a battered tin caddy with a crude portrait of Earl Grey stamped on all four sides. The caddy had always been an object of mild family derision, being so cozy, so evidently much used, so sturdily unsleek. Richie had loved it. He said it was like one he had grown up with, in the terraced house of his childhood in North Shields. He said it was honest, and he liked it filled with Yorkshire tea bags. Earl Grey tea--no disrespect to His Lordship--was for toffs and for women.
On Dawson, the cat Today, he had ignored his breakfast. It was untouched and he had removed himself to his favorite daytime place, stretched along the back of the sofa in the bay window of the sitting room, to catch any eastern sun there might be, and also any passing incident. He would not, Margeret knew, involve himself in anything that required exertion, but equally, he liked to know what was going on.
On ablutions A bath, an application of this and that to her face, a prolonged session with the immense variety of toothbrushes the fierce young hygienist at her dentist now insisted on, a vigorous hairbrush, a well-laundered white cotton nightdress with picot edging--they all added up to something that, some days, Margaret looked forward to almost from the moment she woke in the morning.
My first experience with Joanna Trollope was in 1999 when she was writer-in-residence for Victoria magazine and her novella Daughter Number Three was serialized in that publication. Since then, I have been entertained by several of her domestic dramas, but alas, not so with The Other Family. The story dragged on and meandered, and I found some of the characters annoying. This was a story of a family's grief and their journey to reconciliation; unfortunately, I did not care enough about the characters to take comfort in the resolution of their story.
Rating: 2.5/5 (Fiction Scale) Source: Library Dedication: To Jason First Line: Looking back, it astonished her that none of them had broken down in the hospital.
Ann Hood has suffered the loss of a child and felt the happiness of adopting a child. Those personal experiences combine in her novel, The Red Thread.
From Booklist (via amazon) Hood’s latest engaging novel is a timely exploration of the adoption process, specifically the adoption of Chinese girls by five couples in Providence, Rhode Island, brought together by Maya and her Red Thread Adoption Agency. One by one, Hood introduces each couple: there’s a compulsive investment banker and her consultant husband; a social do-gooder and her immature husband who still pines for an ex-girlfriend; Maya’s friend Emily, who longs for her own daughter, tired of vying with her stepdaughter for her husband’s affection; an ex-baseball player who fears losing his wife’s love and attention to the new adoptee; and a mismatched couple with their own mentally challenged daughter whom the wife struggles to love. Maya is an upbeat ringleader who believes every child is connected by a red thread to those fated to play a part in his or her destiny. Hood intersperses the stories of these diverse couples with the sad stories of five Chinese babies slated for adoption, resulting in part soap opera, part enlightening look at contemporary adoptions, and an altogether entertaining read.
Passages On the red thread There exists a silken red thread of destiny. It is said that this magical cord may tangle or stretch but never break. When a child is born, that invisible red thread connects the child's soul to all the people--past, present, and future--who will play a part in that child's life. Over time, that thread shortens and tightens, bringing closer and closer those people who are fated to be together.
On learning to knit Susannah's grandmother had taught her to knit when she was ten years old. Susannah had sat on her lap, facing out, and her grandmother had placed the needles in her hands, wrapped her arms around her, and knit. Their hands, making the motion together, were like being on a sailboat, rhythmically rocking.
I wanted to love this book, but instead, I just liked it. While each family situation was unique, I never really got them straight in my mind and had to keep turning back to refresh myself on which family was which. When I was on page 235 of 302, I started thinking how will the details of these families come together, and then they did--bing, bam, boom, done, the end.
In her Acknowledgments, Ms. Hood references the adoption of her daughter through China Adoption with Love in Brookline, MA. Click here to read more about this organization.
Every year, the Concord Museum decorates and displays Christmas trees with bookish themes throughout the museum. Several years ago, I Love You Like Babycakes was one of the featured books. It is a wonderfully told and illustrated book about finding the child of your heart.
Rating: 3/5 (Fiction Scale) Dedication: For Annabelle First line: In her sleep, Maya dreamed of falling.
Passages On the turning point He turns slightly more toward me in the seat and I turn slightly more toward him. I tell him it seems strange that a person who can climb mountains is afraid to fly, and he shakes his head. It's a matter of control, he says, and he tells me about the scariest thing that's ever happened to him on a climb. Years ago, when he'd just begun the sport, he'd found himself linked to a guy who didn't fix the clips right and something broke loose and both of them slid. There's nothing worse, he says, than to be halfway up the face of the mountain, past the turnback point, and all of a sudden to realize you can't count on the other person. I ask him what the turnback point is and he says there's a place you get to in every climb where it's as dangerous to retreat as it is to advance. I nod. It seems I should have known this.
On Yankee and Southern women I think of the Yankee woman in the barbecue scene in Gone With the Wind and how she referred to the southerners as "puzzleling, stiff-necked strangers." I suspect that is now Nancy sees us, as puzzling and stiff-necked, as people who splash around a kind of surface friendliness but who are easily offended when she breaks rules she didn't know existed. Perhaps she views her time in North Carolina as some sort of extended anthropological study. She does look a bit like Margaret Mead, peering out from her oversized hats and gauzy scarves, taking mental notes about the incomprehensible rituals of the aboriginal people. Because there are a lot of rules and even though Kelly and I may not always follow them it's a bit shocking to come up against someone who doesn't even seem to know what they are. You don't put dark meat in your chicken salad. You write a thank-you note and send it through the U.S. Postal Service instead of relying on an Ecard. You don't correct anyone's pronunciation of anything. You call anyone over seventy "ma'am" and you call your friends "ma'am" if you're mad at them. You don't brag about how cheap you got something, or, even worse, how much you paid for it. Especially not real estate. Now, on the flip side, it's perfectly okay to drink like a fish, or curse, or flirt with someone else's husband. In fact it's a little insulting if you don't. To refuse to flirt with her husband implies your friend chose badly, and if you and she both damn well know she chose badly, you need to flirt a little bit more just to help her cover up the fact.
On a book club discussion "You can't expect everything to be some old-fashioned romance," says Kelly, picking up the plate of brownies and walking into the den. "It's supposed to be a realistic treatment of an affair." "What do you mean?" Belinda asks, following her. "That things have to be sad to be realistic?" "What she means," Nancy says, as patient as a saint, "is that in novels women run off with their lovers. In real life, women stay."
On the making of a happy night There are men everywhere here, all over the city, looking down from office windows or even higher, suspended in mid air, circling in planes, heading to the beds of women like me. Women who take off their wedding rings, women with bright red mouths who wait alone in darkening rooms, drinking Tanqueray. I lie down and pull the nubby gray comforter over me. I am drunk and alone in a rented bed. Nobody here knows me and nobody at home knows exactly where I am, and I think, somewhat illogically, that this is the happiest night of my life.
On the beginning Our actual affair began sometime back. Yesterday morning when I boarded the plane, or perhaps last Tuesday, when he e-mailed me the ticket information, or maybe it was even earlier, when I agreed to come to New York, when we set a date to meet. Or maybe the turnback point was the very first day he called me, when I was watching Tory on the ball field, or when I kissed him, in the chapel in Dallas. The idea that you can change your fate is illusory and I do not indulge it for long. This decision was made years ago. Before I ever met Gerry Kincaid.
On self discovery ...I'm smeared with potting soil so I go into the house to take a bath. At the last minute I squirt a dollop of bath gel into the water. This bottle of Vitabath has been in the bathroom cabinet for years but I can't remember who gave it to me or what I was saving it for. It falls from the bottle with a big gelatinous thud and makes the bottom of the tub so slick that when I step in I slide straight down and make a splash. The sound of my laughter surprises me and I look up, thinking maybe somebody else has come into the room.
On thoughts and potato chips Belinda says that maybe she should get a job, but she barely got through two years of college and the only job she'd be able to get would be a crap job. Nancy has started tutoring high school kids in math, and maybe Belinda could do something like that. Not math, of course, because Beinda stinks in math, but something like that, part-time. She doesn't want to end up like her mother. You know, bitter. Kelly says maybe we can list all the things Belinda is good at while we walk, but I suspect this will be no help at all. Women like Belinda never get jobs that have anything to do with what they're good at. Belinda is very close to that most dangerous of questions--"But what about me?"--and I dread this for her. It's the potato chip of thoughts. You're better off not opening the bag.
On the anonimity of terminals ...for airports are the great equalizers, aren't they? The beautiful and the strong, the discheveled and the frightened, they are all sitting with magazines and bottled water, waiting. You turn to the story of the rock star's daughter who drunkenly rode her motocycle onto the patio of a Santa Monica restaurant. She hit a women who later claimed to be her father's greatest fan, and finally, yes, it's starting at last, that sweet numbness that slips over you in airports, that sense of being neither here nor there. You need these pockets of time and you feel for Nicole and the woman who was hit in Santa Monica and even for the model who sources say got pregnant just to avoid doing jail time. She assaulted a photographer who snapped her in an airport. They say she kicked him, flew at him in a rage. She screamed profanities and the contents of her purse went flying. But you know how she felt. There are times when a women doesn't want to be seen.
Reading Love in Mid Air was like watching a car accident. You know you should look away, but you are compelled to stare, trying to absorb the details. Elyse and her friends border on giving us too many intimate details and you want to say, "Enough!" Then you realize that the details are necessary to knowing the whole story of these loves and lives in free fall. Publishers Weekly says the details are filled with "wit and insight." I'll give them insight, but not sure about wit.
Aside: The book being discussed at the book club is never named, and the man Elyse meets on the plane is named Gerry Kincaid. Those of you who have read that other book about a woman who stayed will recognize the reference.
From Publishers Weekly In Anthony-winner Hart's lively 20th Death on Demand mystery (after 2009's Dare to Die), more than one death in Broward's Rock, S.C., engages Annie Darling and her husband, Max. First, Click Silvester, a black teenager who hung out at the Haven, a teen activity center, apparently falls to his death from a wooden viewing platform in the woods. Later, someone shoots obnoxious Haven board member Booth Wagner on stage during an outdoor evening benefit for the center. Many had motives for killing Booth, including his stepson, Tim Talbot, who feared and hated him; his wife, Neva, who's curiously unmoved by his death; his former mistress, Jean Hughes, who was terrified of being fired as the Haven's director and becomes police chief Billy Cameron's prime suspect. A group of local ladies, led by mystery writer Emma Clyde, assist Annie and Max in the hunt for the real killer. Well-developed characters and a complex, fast-moving plot make for a satisfying read.
Passages On her bookstore Each book was utterly original. Annie loved recommending these authors and she was thankful for mysteries, old and new, that made her bookstore a magnet for mystery lovers. Annie was convinced her customers also came for the ambience, a molting raven perched above the children's section near a photograph of Edgar Allen Poe's tomb, comfortably cushioned wicker chairs and potted ferms a la the days of Mary Roberts Rinehart, and posters from famous mystery movies, including The Cat and the Canary, Charlie Chan Carries On, The Thin Man, Ellery Queen and the Murder Ring, and Murder by Death.
On letting the reader know that things are about to heat up She [Annie] hummed the melody and waltzed across the floor of the coffee bar and back. Sometimes, when she was happy, she had to dance. She was happy today, happy to be in her wonderful bookstore, happy to adore her demanding cat, happy that she and Max had planned a very special evening tonight....
On Agatha, Annie's store cat She [Annie] approached cautiously, a veteran of many losing skirmishes with her gorgeous but iron-willed cat. The choice of Agatha to honor Agatha Christie had perhaps been a mistake, since the celebrated Queen of Crime had been known as a kindly person. Maybe she should have named Agatha, gender aside, for Mickey Spillane.
Annie and Max Darling are quickly becoming a favorite mystery couple for me, and along with the cast of "regulars" who live in Broward's Rock, SC, promise hours of mysteriously happy reading as I catch up on 1-18 in this series. Then, there's all the titles and authors that Annie recommends....
Rating: 4/5 (Mystery Scale)
Dedication: To Dorothy Sayre, whose goodness shines like a beacon.
There was a lot of pre-release buzz about Making Toast by Roger Rosenblatt. I will readily admit, however, that this was a the-cover-got-me book (Still Life with Kettle, 1977, by Lennart Anderson).
From Publisher's Weekly Family tragedy is healed by domestic routine in this quiet, tender memoir. When his daughter Amy died suddenly at the age of 38 from an asymptomatic heart condition, journalist and novelist Rosen-blatt (Lapham Rising) and his wife moved into her house to help her husband care for their three young children. Not much happens except for the mundane, crucial duties of child care: reading stories, helping with schoolwork, chasing after an indefatigable toddler who is “the busiest person I have ever known,” making toast to order for finicky kids. Building on the small events of everyday life, Rosenblatt draws sharply etched portraits of his grandchildren; his stoic, gentle son-in-law; his wife, who feels slightly guilty that she is living her daughter's life; and Amy emerges as a smart, prickly, selfless figure whose significance the author never registered until her death. Rosenblatt avoids the sentimentality that might have weighed down the story; he writes with humor and an engagement with life that makes the occasional flashes of grief all the more telling. The result is a beautiful account of human loss, measured by the steady effort to fill in the void.
Passages On learning to speak (this theory fascintated me!) Bubbies has been attending to his own education, proceeding from one word, to several, to two-word sentences, to three and more. Some say that children learn to speak in order to tell the stories already in them.
On an IBM Selectric typewriter (I remember clearly the day in 1966 when the first IBM Selectrics were brought into Katharine Gibbs School in Boston to replace the Royal Standards) Jessie wants to know how my IBM Selectric typewriter works. It fascinates her to see me at it--one antique using another.
On reading In a rare tranquil moment on a March afternoon, I sit on the green couch in the lower-level play area, rereading Anne Tyler's The Accidental Tourist. It is around four-thirty, and the light has gone from the day. Jessie comes downstairs and asks why I am so quiet. "I'm reading," I tell her. She takes one of her own books from the coffee table and sits beside me, extending her long legs over the front of the couch. We sit in silence, reading, five feet from where Amy collapsed and died. I look up from time to time, then return to my book.
On Yeats She [Amy] had a gift for custom and ceremony--the qualities Yeats wished for in "A Prayer for My Daughter."
This narrative of the events following the sudden death of Ginny and Roger's daughter Amy is full of those peeking-through-windows moments for the reader. There's the expected sad, grieving and empty moments; but there's also the sweet and healing* moments that let you know that this family will be ok.
Les at Lesley's Book Nook has written a very touching review of Making Toast which you can read here.
Rating: 3.5/5 (Non-Fiction Scale)
*5/7/10 Update: If you read the comments for this post, you will see Nan's spot-on comment regarding "healing." I've been thinking about what she wrote for several days now, and I think the more correct word I should have used would be "mending"--mending in the sense of an attempt to hold things together. I'm still thinking about this; might have to return yet again with more thoughts on this.
From Library Journal After the death of her mother, Dulcie, Emily moves in with her grandfather in Mullaby, NC, and learns of her mother's part in the Coffey family tragedy. Fortunately, not everyone holds Dulcie's past against Emily—Julia welcomes Emily with a cake and offers a shoulder to lean on, but Julia has troubles, too. She's working off the debt on her father's restaurant so she can sell it and open a bakery far from the town that dismissed her so easily as a teen. Things may change if the romantic Sawyer can persuade Julia to trust him with her heart or if Win Coffey can help Emily expose the truth of her mother's deepest secret. Wallpaper that changes with mood, a sweet scent to call one home, and boys who glow in the moonlight will make readers jealous they can't live in a magical world like Allen's. VERDICT That it is never too late to change the future and that high school sins can be forgiven—these are wonderful messages, but Allen's warm characters and quirky setting are what will completely open readers' hearts to this story. Nothing in it disappoints.
Passages Nothing flagged.
I appreciated that there was just enough darkness in this story to keep it from slipping into syrupy sweetness. I also thought again about high school reunions, contrasting the more typical reunion depicted in Elizabeth Berg's The Last Time I Saw You with the reunion of sorts playing out in The Girl Who Chased the Moon.
Rating: 3.5/5 (Fiction Scale)
Dedication: To the memory of famous gentle giant Robert Pershing Wadlow (1918-1940). At the time of his death at age twenty-two, he was eight feet eleven inches tall--a world record that has never been broken.
From Publishers Weekly In Harris's cute second dirty business mystery (after 2008's Pushing Up Daisies), landscape designer Paula Holliday is thrilled when her TV producer friend, Lucy Cavanaugh, suggests an all-expenses-paid getaway for the two of them to the Titans Hotel in Connecticut wine country. Paula even wangles a Springfield Bulletin gig to write about the titan arum (aka the corpse flower) on display under glass in the hotel lobby because the bloom smells so bad. When Lucy fails to appear and the dead body of new acquaintance Nick Vigoriti turns up on the hotel's loading dock, Paula considers returning home. Det. Stacy Winters's investigation persuades a TV reporter that Paula is a person of interest in Nick's murder, but Paula is more worried she might become the killer's next victim. The nifty puzzle that unfolds involves Native American casinos, mysterious Russians and that stinky slow-blooming flower.
Well, "cute" isn't exactly an adjective I would use to describe this book. Paula Holliday falls into the Stephanie Plum wannabe category--smart, snarky dialogue, sharply drawn characters. My favorite of the supporting cast is Wanda "Babe" Chinnery, owner of the Paradise Diner.
I will probably put the third in the series, Dead Head, on my library reserve list but feel that I know enough about Paula that reading the first in the series, Pushing Up Daisies, won't be necessary.
