book report VIII

Further series fiction. Recently completed: Perry Mason's The Case of the Buried Clock, The Case of the Drowning Duck, and The Case of the Gold-Digger's Purse. Also, James M. Cain's The Postman Only Rings Twice, and Louis L'Amour's The Empty Land.

Mason first. The Buried Clock was a bit too convoluted, hinging on some minor complications with time and various people's versions of what time it is. Some good characters, but most of them were left hanging and had no resolution. One particularly good one disappeared halfway into the book, never to be seen again. The Drowning Duck struck me on one particular point—the number of people who immediately scoffed or expressed wonder at the idea that a duck can drown. Now, once you think about it, I suppose that's obvious ... but I suspect today's audience wouldn't be that quick to remark on the idea. And The Gold-Digger's Purse struck me funny. I didn't think it rang true the way Mason got himself stuck with the case, and the defendant seemed to change personalities halfway through.

The Postman Always Rings Twice strikes me as a lesser work than Double Indemnity—less well crafted, less interesting in general, more broadly painted. It's definitely a classic, but not one that I have any great longing to read over and over again.

And, finally, Mr. L'Amour. Who hit another one out of the park. The Empty Land was unlike any other work of his that I've read. It reads as a "Who's Who" of Western characters (not actual people, but the types you would have found). There are dozens of named characters, and each is fully fleshed out with his own personality. Instead of being the story of a man, it is the story of a town, and each cog in the town's wheel is painted vividly. Quite a book!

10 years - a love story

Once upon a time, there was a girl who had just learned a big lesson—that it was more lonely to be with the wrong guy than to be with no guy at all. Armed with this knowledge, she went off on a trip, to the wedding of some friends.

She arrived at the church and found a group of fellow wedding guests gathered on the steps, waiting for the ceremony to start. Among them was a tall, dark, handsome guy who was just her type.

The ceremony was short, and afterward was the reception. Much fun was had—the girl danced with several friends, but never with the handsome guy, who was holed up with all his friends at their own table. Finally, the reception over, the girl was going back to the place she was staying to change clothes when she was waylaid by a friend. With him, the handsome guy. They were introduced by the friend. "Hi," said the girl. "I'm sorry, what was your name again?" said the guy.

And the girl turned and left. Life is too short to worry about guys who can't get your name right, don't you think?

But then, there was the post-reception reception. The party for all the 'younger' people. Changed and comfortable, the girl arrived, looking forward to chatting and having fun. And there he was. The handsome guy. Still handsome, by the way, even out of the formal attire. (Actually, somewhat better-looking out of the formal attire.) And they talked. And the girl made merciless fun of him for hours, much to the amusement of all his friends.

After a while, he decided to leave with a bunch of his less-entertained friends, to go and play games somewhere else. She waited for him at the door, wanting to make sure he didn't get away without a good-bye. (Contact information had already been exchanged.) As he was leaving, they said good-bye, and he gave her a nice hug. A nice, platonic, friendly hug. She was a mite disappointed in this.

So she did something about it. With her most winning smile, she convinced the same friend who had originally performed the introductions to take her to where the rest of the people were gaming. The handsome guy seemed happy to see her. And he began, one by one, to check off all the boxes on her 'list'. He wanted to learn dancing. He picked up and held (without being asked) the host's small child, and was natural and comfortable with her. He was employed and out of school. The list went on. Until finally she found herself saying good-bye again at the end of the night in an embrace that was not so platonic and friendly.

And then, as the couple's 4-year-old son was heard to say today, "they made a family."

That was 10 years ago today. 10 years; 3 moves; one college graduation and one MBA; one job change for him and 4 for her (5 if you count one day as a Merry Maid); 4 children; 1 dog; losses of 1 parent, 2 grandfathers, and 1 child; 3,653 consecutive days of talking to each other.

Thank you, honey! They've been the best 10 years a person could have asked for, and I look forward to many, many more. Happy anniversary.

book report VII, part 2

I've read a lot of books, fiction and nonfiction, set in and around the era of the Civil War. But none of them have carried as powerful an impact as the one I just finished: Our Army Nurses, collected and edited by Mary Gardner Holland.

Apparently, in the late 19th century, Holland sent out letters to every Civil War nurse she could find, asking them to write back and tell her about their experiences as nurses. Then she collected the entries and made them into a book. Some are as short as a paragraph, others up to 10 pages. Most end with some variation on "... and now I am old and my health has never been the same since." A remarkable number of the women were forced to leave their work due to 'broken health'. An equally remarkable number left small children at home with relatives to go with their husbands and 'do their duty'. It's easy to forget the sacrifices made by entire families in the prosecution of the war in the overwhelming tide of numbers, battles, men and their actions. This book was a poignant reminder.

book report VII

Subtopic for today is history. I've finished Everything in its Path, by Kai T. Erikson, on the Buffalo Creek flood in West Virginia in the early '70s; Captors and Captives, by Evan Haefeli and Kevin T. Sweeney, on the Deerfield raid in the early 1700s; and Battle Cry of Freedom, by James M. McPherson, a one-volume history of the Civil War.

Battle Cry of Freedom was quite an achievement. It's hard to imagine trying to get a single-volume overview of the Civil War that still reads well and doesn't seem too crammed and overly dry, but also doesn't have any obvious gaping holes. McPherson even found room to go into details. The volume was particularly good where it covered the events leading up to the war, which I find many histories tend to pass over quickly in order to get to the battles. An excellent addition to my reference library!

Everything in its Path had a lot of really interesting things to say about the mountain mentality. My mother's family is from West Virginia (not that far from where these events took place, I believe), and so it was interesting to get an insight into their lives. I also appear to be amassing quite a collection of disaster literature! Johnstown flood, circus fire, black death, influenza pandemic ... not to mention, of course, the Civil War. Apparently something about people's past suffering—and the ways they rose above it—resonates with me.

The one I'm not entirely sure about is Captors and Captives. Here again, disaster literature: the Deerfield raid was Native Americans and French attacking a small frontier English settlement, carrying off a number of the settlers to France and Indian village. I have another book on this event, The Unredeemed Captive, the story of minister's daughter Eunice Williams, who chose to remain a Native American rather than return to the family and culture of her birth. But I was
looking forward to C and C to help paint the picture of the event more clearly ... and I'm not sure but what there were too many details. It all sort of swam together in my mind—the French, the Indians, the English, the captives. And so I'm still not sure if it's a keeper or not. Do I really want to try and slog through it again? Will I really use it as research? Probably not, to both.

Tomorrow night, the next entry in history books: Our Army Nurses, by Mary Gardner Holland, which deserves an entire entry all to itself.

only children, take 2

A little background here first: hanging on the wall, I have a framed series of pictures of Greyson. He was small (maybe 6 months), and they're of him sitting up, smiling at me, and then falling over. With spit-up on his foot. They're not amazing pictures, but they're cute, and they're among the first cute pictures that I took, back when I was something of a stranger to the business end of a camera.

Yesterday in the mail, I received a package from a relative. Inside? A set of two framed "picture series." One featured Charles and the other Veronica. Now, the pictures weren't very good. The picture quality was awful (and I usually don't notice these things, so it must be pretty bad!) But the thing that bothered me most (well, really, besides the fact that said relative didn't ASK if I needed/wanted new pictures to hang on my wall), was this concept that because I had a framed series of Greyson pictures, I had to have same of the other two.

Now, maybe this is another only child thing—but I don't want to treat my kids "equally" like that. If I have good pictures of Greyson, I want to feel free to hang them up without having to hang inferior pictures of Charles and Veronica just to be alike. Because we take lots of pictures of all three kids, and someday there will be good pictures of the younger two. Maybe not a series, maybe just one. And shouldn't that be okay? Another relative used to send Charles and Greyson matching presents—so for Grey's second birthday, she sent him a toy cell phone. She also sent one for Charles. Of course, it was GREYSON's birthday, so I don't see why Charles needed a present. He has his own birthday. And, also? Charles was 8 months old. The toy cell phone was for 3-year-olds with teeny tiny parts. Neither of them would ever have noticed if the other one had something different ... or nothing at all, for that matter. (Especially since Charles didn't get that toy until his second birthday, since I put it away without him ever seeing it.)

It's not a huge problem for me, but it's one I genuinely don't understand. Each of my children has a different personality, so I treat them differently. And, if I ever stopped giving one of them a full share of my love and attention, all the exactly alike photos in the world couldn't make up for that. So, by the same standard, it shouldn't matter if Greyson is the only one with a framed photo series ... as long as each of them knows that he/she is loved for who they are.*

(*Not that I expect—or am even planning to try—to change the relatives' minds on this topic!)

only children

Long ago, while reading Cheaper by the Dozen (the book, written by Frank B. Gilbreth, Jr., and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey—well worth a read), I came across the comment (paraphrased): "Father only raised 12 children; Mother raised 12 only children." And it stayed with me, because that's what I would like to do. Raise three only children.

Now, I'm an only child. (Technically, I have a half-brother, but he's 21 years younger and I've seen him less often than he is years old.) And I don't like it. Because you can't replace that relationship, no matter how hard you try. A sibling is a special person in your life, and I am so glad that my children will grow up with that relationship. I'm not knocking it, at all. But.

Today I was reminded of that line from Cheaper by the Dozen—I spent the afternoon shopping with one boy, and the evening taking a walk with the other. And particularly the time I spent alone with Charles was a potent reminder of the way their personalities blossom when they have the parental spotlight to themselves. It's beautiful to listen to them play together when they don't know you're there ... but it's also really nice to spend some time one-on-one and to really hear what they have to say. They're calmer, more focused, and more there when it's just you and them. With three kids, I find the usual. The oldest one is easy because there are so many more things you can do. The youngest one, no worries, because there will be so much time while the others are in school. The middle one ... the opportunities must be made because they don't come as naturally. Simple things like taking a short walk together make such a difference in helping each child to feel, in turn, like your only child. Something to remember.

parenting with grace

Or, perhaps, acceptance. I was watching an episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (which I love because not only do the "straight guys" genuinely wind up looking and seeming better, but because the Fab Five seem so truly committed to making these other people's lives better—even if appearances are deceiving, it makes for some good TV) in which the guys were making over a transgendered young man, and was struck by the grace with which this young man's mother accepted her daughter's choice to become her son. And I thought how much I hope I, in my turn, have the kind of open mind and heart that takes. How much I hope that I am able to understand and really appreciate my children for who they are and who they become, rather than clinging to a vision of them (my vision) or losing track of their growth altogether. And that they grow into people I can respect and like.

I know that I never particularly felt free to be "myself", outside the constraints I felt were placed on me. Lots of emphasis on being an individual ... but always within a certain box. You know how it is—be unique, kid. Now let me tell you how to do it. With the result that in order to find myself, I had to break the box, and in the process my relationship with my parents. So they lost track of who I was, and didn't know enough about me to judge whether they could accept me or not. My father still doesn't know me. He sees what he thinks is there (and in many cases, I think, what he is afraid is there—too much like my mother, not enough like him, too eager to accept the first thing that comes along, too afraid to stick to something long enough to be successful), and in the process, loses the things that really make me who I am. And, of course, my mother thought of my only in terms of the new chance she had to be who she always wanted to be ... in my place. I felt, as she and I got older, that if the world of science fiction were real, I might very well wake up one morning finding that she had taken my body and my life. If the afterlife hasn't cured her of her constant dissatisfaction with her lot, she may be considering that wherever her spirit is lurking now.

I hope that with examples like that, and with what I like to think of as an open mind toward other people's choices (I do find I'm struggling with a certain degree of narrow-mindedness as I get more set in my own ways—hoping to nip that in the bud as much as possible!), that I can be accepting, open to, and supportive of my children's choices as they grow older.