Amity & Sorrow by Peggy Riley

“Two sisters sit, side by side, in the backseat of an old car. Amity and Sorrow.

Their hands are hot and close together.  A strip of white fabric loops between them, tying them together, wrist to wrist.”

“Their mother, Amaranth, drives them. The car pushes forward, endlessly forward, but her eyes are always watching in the rear view mirror, scanning the road behind them for cars.”

What are they running from? Where are they headed?

Amaranth, the first of 50 wives, has taken her daughters and is running from her polygamist husband Zachariah. Certain that he will follow she has driven four days without stopping until she falls asleep at the wheel and finally crashes her car.  The girls know nothing about the outside world because they have lived their entire lives on the family compound.  Amaranth is wise to the outside world and has allowed herself to be lovingly sheltered in the arms of Zachariah, but has also found comfort and security in the friendship and familial ties of her sister wives.

As I read I was intrigued by the girls and their thoughts of where they came from and their reactions to the world at large, but what most puzzled me was Amaranth. Why would someone choose to enter into such a relationship and accept the concept of sharing ones husband with 49 other women?  The reality is that people have chosen, for one reason or another, to enter into cults, monastic life, religious life etc. for centuries.

FAIR WARNING THERE IS A RANT APPROACHING!

This book has truly hit a nerve with me.  There is a young girl I know that has decided to leave her family and enter a convent. A life that will take her away from her family for all intents and purposes forever (after 5 years she’ll be able to spend a week a year with her family, there will be very little communication allowed).  I understand her calling, but I understand her parents’ fear and grief.  From her perspective they are overreacting to her decision by deciding not to support the remainder of her college tuition.  From their perspective I’m sure it feels like the death of a child – she’s leaving her family, her home, her friends.  Someone said it sounds like a cult and this may not be very p.c. but I understand that.  We look at the cults of today and yesterday and point out how damaging to our society they are.  I reject the notion that in order to succeed at any calling one needs to cut ties with one’s family.  I’m angry at a community/cult that would require that.

END OF RANT!

Like the white strap tying the girls to one another we are tied to our families (genetic and chosen) forever. That invisible strap can mean safety and security or it can mean bondage and suffering.

Peggy Riley has done a glorious job of writing about cult/polygamy life. Recommended.

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Life After Life after Life After Life – AKA the Post That Never Was

I had the best intentions with this post.  Someone asked me toward the end of last year what book I’m most looking forward to in 2013.  My answer was “Life After Life” by Kate Atkinson.  I love her Jackson Brodie series.  I can’t get enough of her writing and have trouble waiting for the next book.

While waiting for the Atkinson book I was lucky enough to get an ARC of ”Life After Life” by Jill McCorkle. So I thought it might be fun to put them both in a post.  Well, it’s been over a month (yeah Ed I know I’ve been remiss – just let it go already) and I just couldn’t write it, and it got to the point that I couldn’t write anything.

Here are my ramblings. Make of them what you will!

Life after life, after life after life…

Confused yet?  Just wait.

I have read “Life After Life” by Kate Atkinson, followed directly by “Life After Life” by Jill McCorkle. Two books with the same title written by women and that’s where the similarities end.

I have to admit being swayed by some of the negative or wishy-washy reviews of Life After Life by McCorkle. I didn’t expect much (especially after having read “Life After Life” by Atkinson and being truly disappointed), but I really liked this book. McCorkles’ book is set in an assisted living home in the South and follows the residents and some of their caretakers through their journey toward the end of life.  Sounds depressing but it’s not. It was sweet, tender and loving. I thought the characters were interesting.  Yes, at times I did lose a connection because of the back and forth in time and the many characters, or I had to think back to where I had met that character before, but I don’t mind having to work a bit when I like a book.  As with some of the other reviews regarding the ending there was a bit of foreshadowing so I wasn’t shocked (too much anyway) but I do wish McCorkle hadn’t done that to this particular character.  I liked her (nope not telling who it was or what was done) and was rooting for her (OK this might have been a bit of a spoiler).  The book didn’t really need the jolt and was going its merry way lovingly treating all its residents.  Even with this unwanted jolt I do recommend “Life After Life.”

I must admit I’ve been struggling with this post for  weeks now.  I’ve wondered why and I think it truly comes down to disappointment.  Why?  I was chomping at the bit for the Atkinson book, and while it was well written I was disappointed.  Was it the build up of expectation on my part?  All the reviews were glowing and I do love her Jackson Brodie books.  I think what it comes down to and as I tell Ed every time he goes for a haircut “It could have been shorter!”  ”Life After Life” could have and should have been edited down to a more reasonable length. In my very humble opinion it would have been a much better and tighter story.  Don’t get me wrong I don’t regret reading the book. It just wasn’t as good as it should have been.  I got the sense that Atkinson just got carried away and didn’t know when to stop.  I did love the writing, but came away feeling as though I never got what she was trying to say to me. I also thought at times that her treatment of the main character bordered on cruel.  Ursula is born in 1910. Ursula dies in childbirth. Ursula is born in 1910. Ursula survives childbirth but dies as a child. Ursula is born, but again dies as a child. Ursula is born and dies young. Ursula is born with with an inkling of things to come and attempts to save herself, “and darkness falls.”

So in the end a book that I expected little of  surprised and delighted me, and one that I waited with bated breath for disappointed me. Isn’t that life (not life after life–ha ha ha ha).  I think I’ve had too much coffee today.

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La Traviata

I’ve been meaning to write this for quite a while so please excuse the fact that the performances are now over.

I am not an opera snob, buff, connoisseur, nor do I claim to be an expert of any sort when it comes to opera or classical music.  What I am is a lover of both.  I listen to what I like and what transports me, and treat myself once a year (when possible) to a trip to the Metropolitan Opera.  I began this “treat” two years ago. Ed and I had been talking about the things that we love to do and I had mentioned my desire to see a live performance of an opera.  Now I do realize that many of you out there hear the word opera and shudder.  I am not immune to that sensation in regard to some operas – I have tried to listen to some operas on CD and must admit that some of them are just not my cup of tea.  So when Ed offered to go with me I was skeptical, but he insisted. He said “Just tell me when and I’ll be there.”  I looked at the schedule and I wasn’t sure which opera to choose, but we ended up seeing La Boheme.  We were both blown away.  What a great experience.  I had never been to the Metropolitan Opera House.  It is truly a sight to behold and a feast for the senses.  As the visitor winds up the stairwells (if you can take the stairs I highly recommend them) the carpeting is lush and the stairwells are lined in soft crimson fabric.  Ushers greet and direct you to your seat.  I couldn’t help but marvel at the gold leafed ceilings (some repair needed but glorious none the less.) I can’t afford orchestra seating and have always been in the balcony, but the views are still magnificent.  Just before the performance begins the chandeliers are raised – another awe-inspiring aspect of the theater.  Once the lights go out  and the performance starts  it doesn’t matter where you are seated because you are transported from your seat into the world on stage.

Last year I saw Carmen – it was wonderful but didn’t compare to La Boheme (a must see spectacle and my favorite so far.)

For my birthday this year I treated myself to La Traviata.  I had never heard Placido Domingo perform live, so once I found out that he was in the cast  I just couldn’t miss the opportunity.  As he entered the stage for the first time the audience went wild.  Even at over 70 years his voice is still spectacular and German soprano Diana Damrau was exquisite.  The vocal performances just blew me away. Unfortunately I was not a fan of the staging or set design.  I do realize that the minimalist setting was intended to draw the audience deeper into the performances, but I felt oddly distracted.  Instead of marveling in regard to the orchestration or the vocal performances I found myself trying to figure out why it was staged in such an odd way or wondered how the stage would alter to allow for change of setting. Even with the distractions it was a great experience.  One that should be shared with children (if you can afford it) to offer the experience and hopefully foster an interest in the opera.

I consider myself lucky.  When I was growing up in Bayside, Queens I lived near Crocheron Park (some of my best childhood moments were in Crocheron with my 215th St. friends.)  Some of my fondest memories are of out-door performances from the Philharmonic.  My friends and I would watch the trucks as they passed on 35th Ave. heading into the park.  We would wait and watch as the stage was set, and were lucky enough to catch some glorious rehearsals  Later we would watch from the front steps as others wandered by with lawn chairs and coolers, and then before the park got too crowded we would find a hill or a tree and wait for dusk and the performance to begin. I truly credit those performances for my love of music and classical theater.  Such fond memories.

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Susan’s Musings/Ramblings

The book on the left is new. The book on the right is my childhood friend.

Books

In Ed’s post about Books of Wonder he mentioned that I found a book from my childhood.  It was truly  happenstance.  Ed and I had wandered the store and I had already purchased the book that I wanted to get signed. We were standing and chatting and I looked over and saw the cover.  I just couldn’t believe it.  I found my way across the aisle and picked it up, cliché here I know but my hands were shaking as I went to turn to the first page. Would it be the same? As I flipped pages memories flooded back.  I loved the stories, but it was the illustrations that enthralled me as a child. I would sit for hours reading the fairy tales and being transported into these magical places. My copy has all the signs of being well used – the cover fell off, the pages have my little fingerprints, I had even at some point doodled on the inside cover (shame on me I would never do that now, but it’s OK because it somehow makes the memories deeper.)  It truly is amazing how important books are and how deeply they can impact us as children and as adults.  I can’t go into a bookstore without looking for old friends from my youth or for books that are special to my children.  I am always on the hunt for Gone With the Wind and Elizabeth by Liesel Moak Skorpin for Kate, or Where the Wild Things Are for Stephen, or books about Band of Brothers for Kevin.

Manhattan

I had a day off not that long ago – when spring was new and the weather chilly so I took myself to Manhattan for a day of walking and the opportunity to visit the Frick.  I hadn’t been to this museum since my days at Hunter College but my memories of it had faded as they are apt to do.  The museum is an eclectic mix of American and European art – Goya in the same room as Turner. And a lovely place to sit and just contemplate.  If you’ve never been, it’s an intimate and approachable collection that I highly recommend.

On my way to the museum I took the subway up to Central Park (my foot was hurting otherwise I might have walked from Penn Station – oh how getting older can be a drag!). The trees hadn’t yet presented themselves for spring but along the way flowers brightened the path. I never tire of the happy yellows of daffodils.

Central Park smelled like rain.  

On the path from West Side to East side

as I walked my foot betrayed me,

drops of rain landed on my lashes

yet I couldn’t help but stop a moment to gander at the signs of spring.

 

 

 

I had a great day in the city but the rain followed me all day. After the museum and the park I had plans of meeting Kate for dinner, but I had a few hours to kill so I ducked into a coffee shop, Irving Farm Coffee Roasters,  to warm up, grab a cup, read a bit and people watch. Oddly enough Ed and I had stopped in a downtown location of the coffee shop on the day of the book signing. I thoroughly enjoyed the cappuccino and chocolate croissant, but I must admit it’s more fun to share.

As I sat by the window I watched people come and go – umbrellas up and down as the rain fell or the sky momentarily cleared.

 Parting

 

A private moment

A cup shared

Two friends a lifetime separated

Then a call?

Out of the blue, but only from one side

unrequited love or one that didn’t last

Now a chat and a cappuccino

Smiles then a brief hug

a wave

they turn

one walks east 

one walks west

 

It was a full day and it didn’t end there, but I won’t bore you any longer. Thanks for putting up with my musings and ramblings.

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The End of the Point by Elizabeth Graver

I have to begin this review by thanking Beth Kephart.  When we met her at the signing at Books of Wonder she mentioned that she was currently reading The End of the Point by Elizabeth Graver. She told me that she was loving it. Well that was enough for me because she has impeccable taste.

The End of the Point is a beautifully told family saga that follows the Porters of Ashaunt Point, Massachusetts from the tumultuous years during World War II up until 1999 (mentally insert Prince lyrics here – I know I have a warped mind – this book has nothing in common with the song except the year.)

When we first meet the Porters they are spending their summer in their second home on this tiny point of land that juts into Buzzards Bay.  Graver draws each family member from Bea the Scottish nurse to the Porter children, to Gaga the matriarch with a fine brush. Each member is integral part of the whole and truly human with desires, faults, and frailties.  What draws them together and keeps them whole is this ill-gotten parcel of land, bought from Native Americans before the Porter’s  ancestors came ashore by the first settlers for “thirty yards of cloth, eight moose skins, fifteen axes, fifteen hoes…” a true bargain. It’s the land that draws the family back year after year, summer after summer.  It’s the land that holds them together, shelters them, comforts and holds them.  A land that will change over time with hurricanes,  wars, and impending development – changes that take place outside of the Porter’s control.  The land  that is at once a  permanent member of Porter family, but their hold is tenuous at best.  A land that, like the Porter’s themselves,  is subjected to being disturbed and destroyed by the heavy hand of human intervention.

Graver gently reminds us that the earth doesn’t belong to us, we inhabit it and are entrusted with stewardship.  The house and the land that the Porters return to grounds them and sustains them, but in the end it will go on when they no longer exist.

There are books that as you read them you think “I could have written this.”  The End of the Point is a novel that reminds one that writing is a gift bestowed upon the few who are true artists.  Each word, each character, each event is deftly placed and beautifully done.  This is a book that is wholly human and elegant. Graver is a master and The End of the Point a masterpiece.

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Z A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald by Therese Anne Fowler

The wives of the rich, famous and literati have, of late, been fodder for novels (The Paris Wife – Hemingway’s, The Aviators Wife – Lindbergh’s).  Now we have a novel told from the perspective of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda, Z A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald.  The dysfunctional, hectic, alcohol infused, Jazz Age marriage has been chronicled in novels and biographies.  The first of these novels were actually written by either Scott or Zelda.  Z begins in Montgomery Alabama when Scott, a young army lieutenant, meets Zelda Sayer, a Southern Belle who balks at tradition and the social mores of the time.  Z ends just after the early death of Scott.  In between there are multiple trips abroad, introductions to the famous (Picasso and Hemingway among them), infidelity, psychosis, art, excess, and plenty of alcohol infused exploits.

Fowler has done an admirable job of painting a picture of the 20s both in the States and abroad, but I felt at times she tried too hard.

“At the Biltmore Hotel, I couldn’t resist petting every polished brass railing, every gilded table, every brocaded chair back along the way to our suite.  I twilled beneath the crystal chandeliers, posed in front of the clock.  I admired the brass buttons on the elevator operator’s uniform….”

Sometimes less is more.  I wanted to get a sense of Zelda’s awe as she left her small town, but I didn’t want a guided tour of every new city, building, carpet, cloud she encountered.

The book is nicely written, but I found it flat.  Events that should have stirred emotion just didn’t.   At the end of chapter 15 Zelda and Scott have a terrible fight and Zelda ends up with a black eye.

“He drank too much after dinner, and when my parents had gone to bed, we ended up in a truly ugly fight-and I ended up with a black eye.  I was of the mind that I deserved what I got…When my folks saw me in the morning, though, they were horrified.”

Zelda’s parents may have been horrified, but I felt no emotional pull at that point or at any other event.

I may not have enjoyed the novel has much as I had hoped, but it did intrigue me enough to want to read more about and by both the Fitzgerald’s.

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Sunrise

I don’t consider myself a poet ( Beth I know you’re out there please forgive me), but and I was walking today these thoughts wouldn’t let me go.

Sunrise

Chin on sill I struggled with the night

All summer the battle raged to remain awake until daylight

Determined to finally succeed

this night I would

Eyes forced open my mind played tricks on me

Was the horizon just that much brighter?

The birds inner clocks began to chime

the first  warbles began

As I lay upon my covers (to lie between them meant certain failure)

I enjoyed the song of morning

The sky went from black to grey, and then from gray to pink

Brighter than before the morning sky released the trees slowly block by block in the neighborhood

Until I was exposed and the day was upon me

Now, I lie in bed trapped in the night

Fighting with the covers sleep will not come

The night is my enemy

Tossing and turning

Arguing with the thoughts racing through my mind

Nightmares visit the sentient

Another night passes

Robbed of the rest of the unconscious

I face the day knowing that there will come a day

Where the sun will set or rise without me

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White Dog Fell From Sky by Eleanor Morse

Two men pull a hearse over to the side of the road, slide a coffin out and discharge the contents of a secret compartment onto the dusty shoulder.  Unsure as to whether their passenger has survived the journey they throw water upon his face.  Eyelids flutter, they repack the hearse and leave.  The contents?  Isaac Muhethe, fleeing apartheid South Africa after watching a friend pushed onto the tracks by two white members of the South African Defense Force.

Isaac wakes to find himself abandoned but not alone: sitting next to him “like a ghost” was a thin white dog.  As Isaac walks the road, followed closely and presently by White Dog, unsure of where he is or what the future holds for him he meets an old friend, Amen.  A member of the ANC (African National Congress), Amen offers to let Isaac stay with him and his family.  This fateful meeting will eventually have dire consequences for Isaac .

Because Isaac is in Botswana illegally, he must relinquish his medical school education and search instead for a job doing manual labor.   Going house to house he meets a young American, Alice Mendelssohn, living and working in Botswana.

 

Married to a fellow American, Alice is facing a crisis within her own life and must deal with personal betrayal and choose between returning to a family in America, or remaining in Africa and forging a new home and life.

Neither Isaac nor Alice’s paths are smooth or follow straight lines, but the reader much like White Dog willingly follow.  This is a rare and beautiful story, and one of the finest books I have read in quite a long time. Pick up this novel, and prepare to hold your breath.

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Happy Thanksgiving

From our families to yours, we wish you a very Happy Thanksgiving. Reflect on what this holiday means…family and friends, thanks for our bounty and concern for those who have less.

And I know I’m on soapbox here, but don’t patronize those establishments that have forgotten what a family dinner and a family holiday means and have opened their shopping doors on Thanksgiving. Whatever you can get on Thursday will be there on Friday. And if it isn’t, was it all that important?

Lastly, let’s give our independent shopkeepers some of our money as well. They work hard, against incredible pressure from the big box stores.

So, back to my original sentiment, have a wonderful holiday, everyone.

Ed and Susan

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Faceless Killers by Henning Mankell

I have to admit that I love the PBS Masterpiece Mysteries (even when they’re so complex I can’t really follow the mystery). I have watched the Kurt Wallander series, but always felt as though I was missing something about Wallender as a character.  I found him sullen, brooding and depressive but couldn’t understand the reasoning behind those characteristics. Determined to investigate his character more deeply than a two-hour television broadcast could hope to portray, I decided to give Mankell a try.  I found a copy of Faceless Killers on the shelf of the vacation house I stay in (they have a written policy that if you find a book and begin it, but can’t finish it during your stay, you can take it home – how great is that!).  I had seen the broadcast of the Faceless Killers on PBS, but truly couldn’t remember “who done it,” so I thought”why not?”

Set in the remote farmland of Sweden, the story follows Wallander as he tries to solve the brutal murders of an elderly couple, Maria and Johannes Lovgren.  According to their neighbors and closest friends the Nystroms (he was the unlucky person who found Johannes mutilated and murdered and Maria bound and near death), the Lovgrens were simple farmers struggling to make ends meet. There is little hope that Maria will survive but Wallander assigns an officer to watch over her and with her dying breath she manages to mumble “foreign.”  Sweden, like so many countries, has been dealing with an influx of immigrants (legal and illegal) and there is a growing resentment among the Swedish population. Fearing anti-immigrant violence, Wallander attempts to keep that bit of information from leaking out to the press but it does, causing the case to spiral out of control.

Wallander is a flawed human being in his work and his private life, but that is what makes him interesting.  He doesn’t have all the answers, he doesn’t always do the right thing, but he is passionate, driven, and is harder on himself than any superior officer could possibly be.  Will you love his character? Maybe not.  Will you find him interesting?  I believe so.

Reading a mystery is a  great way to kill time on a hot and muggy weekend. (I know that was awful but I just couldn’t resist.) If you’re not interested in Wallander here are authors of my favorite mysteries set in foreign countries:

Tana French – Ireland

Kate Atkinson – Scotland

Val McDermid – Scotland

Inger Ash Wolfe – Canada

Enjoy!

Susan (A.K.A – The Damn Librarian – it’s a story for another time.)

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