illustration by Jen Troyer @ Oprah.com
illustration by Jen Troyer @ Oprah.com
Leaving Time
Jodi Picoult
Ballantine Books
From the first page of Jodi Piccoult’s new novel, we’re drawn into the story of Jenna Metcalf and her mother, Alice, separated in a terrible accident years before. Each narrates her journey as she searches and longs for the One Missing and the love they have for each other is palpable. Alice’s life’s work is researching the emotional lives of elephants, both in Africa and at a sanctuary in New England run by her husband. Jenna, following in her mother’s footsteps, knew elephants before she 
knew playmates.
Jenna enlists the help of two unlikely characters in her search for Alice. Serenity Jones is a washed up psychic. Once a psychic to the stars, her fall from fame was fast and furious after she misread the fate of a missing boy on national TV. Reluctant at first to take on Jenna as a client, she can’t shake off the feeling that this is a case she must pursue. Virgil Stanhope was one of the detectives who first investigated the accident that separated Jenna and Alice. Jenna, winsome and all but orphaned, wins over this done-for detective just as she did Serenity. Together, they’re a rag tag bunch, each one trying to reclaim better days.
I could almost hear the voice of Wild America’s Marlin Perkins whenever Alice shares her elephant research. These are amazing creatures and Piccoult is clearly in love with them. I must admit I expected (and, being a believer, hoped) Serenity’s psychic gift would play a more important role—but, in true Piccoult fashion, we get a twist at the end that is so unexpected, I’m still thinking about it. Powerful stuff.
Before this, I had only read two of Jodi Piccoult’s twenty-three novels, but I’ve often seen her titles in the hands of my students. (In fact, I’ve promised a couple girls that I’d put House Rules on my reading list—and I did, of course!) Piccoult is chick lit with a message. (Piccoult, though, has some interesting things to say about her genre—or, should I say, the genre with which she’s been labeled. There’s enough fodder in that interview for another post, but you can read it here.)
If you want to explore the boundaries between this world and the next, or travel the length and breadth of timeless love, you must read Leaving Time.
The long and dreary days of winter are coming to a close. Doesn’t seem likely considering the sub-zero temperatures we’ve had here in the Great Lakes that even cancelled many schools last week. But, alas, all good bad things must come to an end and we’re almost (and, yes, in only two months we will be finished with April showers and on to May flowers) to the chapter that reads “Daffodils! Robin Redbreasts!” At last.
And it’s just about now that those of us who started the new year with impressive resolutions find them almost forgotten and certainly neglected. *heavy sigh* We want to change … but it’s hard work. I, for instance, am undertaking a 52 Weeks To An Organized Home challenge. (You can read about it here .) I loved the fact that the to-dos were manageable: 15 minutes every day. Except I front-loaded the list and accomplished what I could while I was on winter break, knowing life would get hectic once I was back to school. My kitchen counters, cupboards, and pantry are dreamy. Underneath the sink and my spice cupboard are another story.
We dream big, forgetting that resolutions take place in our head–actually carrying out our grand schemes requires we get down and dirty. In typical human fashion, we probably expect too much too soon.We want to re-title our book, when maybe all we need to do is turn the page and move on to the next chapter. So an organized home? Probably not. But the kitchen chapter of the challenge is just about finished, and when it is, I’ll push ahead–but meeting that challenge on my own terms.
So take a page out of Winter’s book and let yourself move on. When the time is right.
Uncommon Reader
Alan Bennett
Piqador
Mrs. Queen Takes the Train
William Kuhn
Harper Perennial
I’m one of those wackos who, on July 29, 1981, got up at 4:00 AM to catch the first network coverage of the wedding of Lady Diana Spencer to Charles, Prince of Wales. (I believe the winner was NBC which started coverage a half hour earlier than the other networks.) I stayed glued to the television well into the afternoon when the last carriage rolled into the sunset and I did the same for her son’s wedding thirty years later.
And it would not be an exaggeration to say that when rumors began to circulate about Charles and Diana’s “troubles” and the Queen’s reaction to their divorce, my blood began to simmer. Then, again, Elizabeth 
didn’t win many friends with her chilly demeanor in the days that followed Diana’s death, either, did she? We shirttail cousins and former colonists here in the U.S. probably don’t have a solid understanding of the Royals, but their lives do make for a sort of fairy tale gossip.
So is it any wonder I’ve loved two books that give us a more tender (and fictional, mind you) glimpse into the life of that stiff-upper-lipped Royal granny. Alan Bennett gives us Queen Elizabeth, Reader Gone Wild. Seems that the Queen chases one of her beloved corgis out a back entrance of Windsor Castle and follows them to a bookmobile parked outs
ide. A quick peek inside and a brief encounter with Windsor kitchen worker Norman compels Elizabeth to borrow a book out of politeness. And there begins her journey.
Reading has always been a way to embellish her role as queen—history, political treatise, classics only. But now Elizabeth reads out of curiosity. She reads the same books commoners do: Anita Brookner, Alice Munro, Sylvia Plath. Her conversation at official functions is no longer just small talk; she feels restricted by her office. Elizabeth awakens.
Mrs. Queen Takes the Train by William Kuhn is in the same vein, but with, perhaps, an even more tender view of the monarch. Elizabeth is having difficulty with her email—her IT man has tried to enlighten her to the wonders of “Miss Twitter” and “Mr. Google”, as she calls them, but her frustration is mounting. Add to that an unexplainable case of the blues that not even her usual yoga (!) or a visit to the Mews can shake off and the Queen pops out for a walk … which rather quickly turns into an unaccompanied train ride north to Edinburgh to visit the Britannia one last time.
Kuhn gives us a wider cast of characters than Bennett—a lady-in-waiting, her dresser, the stable girl, a young Muslim cheesemonger, an equerry, the senior butler—and their interactions with Elizabeth soften our view of her, as does Elizabeth’s own introspection and reverie. Will her staff catch up to Elizabeth before anything untoward happens to her? Will anyone prey upon this unassuming (but surprisingly assertive) elderly woman? Which of the staff’s love stories will have a happily ever after ending?
If you’d like a more private (and sometimes humorous) view of the Royals, both should be on your TBR stack. Long live the Queen.
I love Lucy.
No, I mean I really love Lucy. I’m not your run of the mill Vitameatavegamin-candy-factory-grape-stomping kind of fan. My fan creds? Well, I’ve been to Lucy’s hometown in Jamestown, 
New York where I toured the Lucy Desi Center for Comedy. My husband and I drove to nearby Celoron to get a peek (and a pic!) of her childhood home, which, by the way, is cute as a bug’s ear as Lucy might say. My small library of Lucy books runs from reference to coffee table. Of her early Metro Goldwyn Meyer girl films, Stage Door is my favorite and of course I have my very own copy of The Long Long Trailer. (Even my favicon on this blog is even a nod to her in the initial we share.) And on my Bucket List? The annual Lucille Ball Comedy Festival held in Jamestown, really as much to see all the Lucy impersonators as anything else.
When our TV situation allowed, I’d watch Lucy episodes with my reference books at the ready, waiting to pick out the gaffs and highlights. The Lucy Book by Geoffrey Fidelman is especially handy because the show’s directors, writers, and editors (as well as some of the actors) comment on each episode of her fifty years in television. It’s a trivia Lucy lover’s dream come true. But nothing can beat Lucy At the Movies for chronicling her fifty years in film and being just plain gorgeous, like Lucy herself.
Of course if you love Lucy and Desi, you also know the story of their personal lives—how they rose to great power in Hollywood, how Desi chaffed at being “Mr. Ball” then occupied himself with a series of dalliances, how they struggled to continue their legacy with the Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour even as their marriage crumbled. We wanted to believe, didn’t we? But love Lucy, Desi did, despite it all. Lucy called Desi on what would have been their 46th wedding anniversary, just days before he died. Their conversation, apparently, included I love yous.
Lucy was loud, she was pushy. She was naive and open-hearted. She loved her man and boy could she work those fifties fashions with cinched waists and crinolined skirts, or trousers with legs up to here. My own sweetheart knows just how to woo me—my Valentines gift this year were tickets to see the I Love Lucy Live On Stage show touring the U.S. It’s silly, but oh so fun. (Here is a montage of some of the scenes). The premise is that the theater audience is the studio audience for the filming of two I Love Lucy episodes, complete with commercials for Halo Shampoo, Chevrolet, and Brylcreem. Nothing too deep here. But I clapped. I laughed.I loved Lucy.
Spool of Blue Thread (Edelweiss DRC)
Anne Tyler
I started reading Anne Tyler about twenty-five years ago when I with Dinner At the Homesick Restaurant (which is still one of the few novels my husband has read at my prodding). From there I backpedaled and read some of her earlier novels (Morgan’s Passing, Searching for Caleb, Celestial Navigation) then, through the years, read on to Breathing Lessons, Saint Maybe, Ladder of Years, and, just a year and a half ago, The Beginner’s Goodbye. I never regretted a single one of those reads–which is unusual for me 1) because I’m picky and 2) because the quality of authors’ work does tend to fluctuate–and A Spool of Blue Thread is no different.
Red and Abby Whitshank frequently squabble, sometimes disconnect, often nag, but, in the end, settle back into their love story which Abby’s many retellings always begins the same way: “It was a beautiful, breezy, yellow-and-green afternoon …” Abby, a social worker, is a bona fide hippie turned grandma. She writes found poetry from scraps of magazines, newspaper, and letters. Her biscuits melt-in-your-mouth. And Thanksgiving dinner always includes “orphan” guests—immigrants, students, widows, and an odd assortment of down and outers. For his part, Red runs the family construction business along with two of the children. Red is busy, a bit gruff, a little stiff—especially next to Abby’s earth motherliness. But always, there is that love.
The Whitshank children—Denny, Amanda, Jeannie, and Stem—are in and out of Red and Abby’s lives and there’s a passel of grandchildren nowadays to keep track of. Only Denny gives them any cause for concern, really. He’s every family’s never-keeps-a-job-girl-home kind of guy. The kids jostle for attention, competing (most of the time) with good nature. Yes, Amanda is bossy and Stem is a goody two shoes—but always, there is that love.
And center to it all is the Whitshank home, built to perfection for another family by Red’s father Junior, (who probably had a plan all along for the home to return to him). It is Norman Rockwell picturesque, right down to the flagstone walk and the deep, wide porch.
But while it seems like a story book family, the Whitshanks hurt each other. There are secrets. Betrayal. And loss. Lots of loss.
What I like about Tyler’s novels is the fact that she takes some pretty dysfunctional families and endears them to us until we realize that there are more ways than one for families to live and love. If the characters were in therapy or marriage counseling, it would be a pretty messy business. But Tyler shows us that families come in all shapes and sizes, usually with a little wear and tear, a few frayed edges. But no matter—family is just that.
Here in the Great Lakes, our winter seems to drag on for half the year. This is a place where TV weather forecasters talk about Snowmageddon and Snowpocalypes, By February we are so over it, and by March, using the words “March” and “madness” together doesn’t always refer to your basketball bracket. Our winter began in November this year with a storm that dumped two feet of snow on the area. By Thanksgiving, schools had already used two of their six snow days.
So how do we deal with being stuck inside, endless gray days, and no fresh fruits and veggies? I’ve got friends who trail ride on fat tire bikes, friends who ice fish, friends who ski, and (always, right?) friends who run. Every day, blizzard or no.
Me? Not so much. I’m pretty averse to anything that might be called ‘exercise’. If I had to choose, I’d say walking was my go-to exercise. Summers will find me walking our riverside park for a nice 5k stroll—geese, ducks, squirrels, a canopy of trees, bikers, dog walkers. You can’t get much better than that. And I used to trudge out, no matter the winter conditions. (Yak tracks are an absolute requirement.) But wading through unshoveled walks and slip sliding away one too many times has dimmed even that pleasure for me. (It might very well be time for a treadmill, who knows?)
So what are my top choices for weathering winter?
Books, books, and more books: No surprise there, right?! I know I read more in the summer when I’m not in school, but there’s nothing like a blizzardy Sunday to make me stay curled on the sofa. This year I’ve kept up a pretty bris
k pace, which is probably a good indication of just how much snow we’ve had.
Coffee: My drug of choice; it’s warm, smooth, and creamily delicious.
Putzing: Winter is a great time to rearrange furniture, weed out crowded closets, and organize cupboards. For some reason, I am drawn to make my cave neat and tidy and efficient when I’m stuck inside. Then, when the sun shines brighter and the breezes blow warmer, I’m ready for spring cleaning.
Turn inward: It’s this time of year that I set goals and plan for not the distant, but the near future. Like spring and summer. In order to get a good site, we need to make camping reservations six months out, so my thoughts turn to campfires, hobo pies, and walks in the woods. I think about additions to our garden and yard, and otherwise transport my mind past the snow and into greener days.
In a word—hibernate. And even though that sleepy groundhog saw his shadow this year, I know that in a few short weeks (probably about four, by my count) the robins will be back. And when the robins arrive, I breathe a deep sigh of relief.
It won’t be long now.
The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry
by Gabrielle Zevin
Algonquin Books
What’s better than a book recommendation from a book-lovin’ friend? Nothing. So as soon as a friend wrote on my Facebook wall that The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry was fast and fun and right up my alley, I was on it. Plus I’m a sucker for any book set in a bookstore.
A.J. Fikry is rudderless. Wife Nic has just died in an auto accident, his bookstore Island Books is barely keeping its nose above water. Life is pretty grim when in walks his new Knightly Publishing rep Amelia Loman with the list of winter books. He’s not welcoming, to put it mildly (grief and social niceties are usually at odds); rebuffed, Amelia leaves assuming she won’t be calling on Island Books again any time soon.
But before things get better, they get worse when A.J.’s prized possession, a first edition of Poe’s Tamerlane, is stolen. Then—a toddler is left on his doorstep with a note from her mother: “I want Maya to grow up to be a reader … I love her very much but I can no longer take care of her … I am desperate …” and quick as you can say “Silas Marner” A.J. is a dad. A bumbling, curmudgeonly, single dad who despises Elmo and has never changed a diaper.
And, yes, readers all—The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry is a modern day Silas Marner. The references come fast and furious. Maya enters through an unlocked door. Both Marner and A.J. suffer from some sort of seizure disorder that leaves them, well, blank, for a few moments. Maya opens A.J. to the warm embrace of the Alice Island community and the love of a woman. While he lost his earthly treasure, he gained a more precious gift. Any more parallels and I’d need to insert [spoiler alert]—but then if you know Silas Marner, you know how the plot unfolds in A.J. Fikry.
Gabrielle Zevin’s novel is fast and fun and scattered with did-you-catch-‘em literary references. (A.J. goes on a date to a restaurant named Queequeg, for instance) Each chapter begins with a short book review written by the store owner. The trials and tribulations of life in an independent bookstore were spot on from what I remember about my own book selling days. And, yes, friend, it was right up my alley.
morning sunrise over the back field ♥ last flicker of a Christmas candle ♥ blue sky, say no more ♥ a room heater, toasty warm ♥ my lunch bunch ♥ I didn’t give up last summer ♥ girly girl makeup ♥ insight and intuition ♥ Mom’s pearl anniversary ring ♥ engagement diamond, reset and gifted ♥ St. Francis ♥ a listening ear and an open heart ♥ home, tether to hope ♥ Our Mother of Perpetual Help ♥ great grandma’s wedding band ♥ Avis’s scrapbook ♥ an exam answer key ♥ the power of sober change ♥ joys shared over coffee ♥ nose-to-nose baby boo’s ♥ a dollar for a sweet melody ♥ unasked help for a newbie ♥ the power of sacrament ♥ sing along gospel songs ♥ here I am ♥ miracle baby ♥ a welcomed hug in a strange place ♥ baby eyelashes ♥ gray hairs ♥ the excitement of starting life together ♥ avobath bombs ♥ the way it used to be ♥ laugh lines ♥ grownup student’s life unfolding ♥ blue mood ♥ jeans that fit ♥ security ♥ vaulted arches and blue constellations ♥ coffee ♥ wine in my sippy cup ♥ homemade granola on yogurt ♥ candle, candle burning bright ♥ books and broads ♥
I’ve had a quiet love affair with Ray Bradbury for some time now. I actually think I love the man more than his books—or is it that I love his books because I adore the man? What’s odd is the fa
ct that I don’t really like science fiction. I mean, Star Trek Next Generation is fine, but anything else … not so much. But Dandelion Wine and Martian Chronicles hooked me, and his short story “The Smile” reeled me in. I’m currently reading Zen in the Art of Writing which shines with typical Bradbury enthusiasm about his craft.
A few years ago I stumbled upon a few (surreptitious, I’m sure) cell phone videos of Bradbury on YouTube—he was a frequent speaker at Comic Con and on college campuses even in his last years–and I was over the moon all over again: a spunky, life-loving, sometimes profane old guy who was a champion of the power of the written word.
I show this National Endowment for the Arts video to my high school students every year, hoping against hope that they, too, will fall in love. And they do find him endearing–because who can’t resist a cute old man who says to the film crew, “I want a close up of the cat, now,” (did you also notice the canary yellow cat tie?) and (lover that he is) re-reads Tender is the Night every time he visits Paris?
Bradbury died in 2012; his last appearance at Comic Con was only two years before. By all accounts he was frail and tired—but he was with his people, passionate to the end. So “the things that you do should be things that you love–things that you love should be things that you do.” I’ll try, Mr. Bradbury. I’ll try.
This is my symphony 