December in Review

I don't know how I managed to read so much with all the holiday obligations. I can only ascribe my success to online shopping and minimal decorating. And sheer laziness.

A friend recommended This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War, saying it was the best academic work of the year, and she may be right. In an age where making your name as an intellectual seems to involve creating obscure and/or incredulous spins on the staples of history, Drew Gilpin Faust comes up with a really smart and obvious discussion AND a really accessible doorway for readers: death. The work is structured simply, each chapter devoted to different aspects of dealing with death on such a spectacular and national scale, and the reader learns about the process of dying, killing, burying, numbering, etc. It's not a "pick a side" approach, and Faust uses numerous examples from primary resources on both sides of the conflict. I honestly just wish it had been longer, because she presented a number of topics that I would have welcomed tangents with interesting tidbits. I got another Drew Gilpin Faust book for Christmas, Mothers of Invention: Women of the Slaveholding South in the American Civil War, and I'm hoping it's as good.

After Into the Wild, I decided I really should read Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer's account of the disastrous 1996 climbing season on Mount Everest. It was just as enjoyable as his other work, but with a personal story to tell, he didn't spend as much time delving into background material and logistics as he usually does, which is where I learn the most. In short, I wish there'd been more history on the attempts to climb Everest, more details on Sherpa culture, and more discussion of the logistics involved in making a climb possible. However, in all fairness, I have to acknowledge that wasn't the story he set out to tell.

A friend loaned us The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, a glorious story by Kate DiCamillo. As one of us was coming down with bronchitis and the other was recovering, I spent a rainy December Saturday on the living room futon reading it aloud. Edward Tulane is an elegant, but exceedingly pompous, china rabbit. He thinks very highly of himself, but devotes little of his cold china heart to thinking of others, until he is lost and separated from the little girl who adores him. Through a string of adventures, in the typical fashion of children's classics, Edward Tulane learns that love is not just about being loved, but also loving. My only wish was to know more about the lives that Edward passed through after he moved on, but I suppose that's also part of love - parting and perhaps never knowing the fate of someone you cared for or someone who cared for you.

I had a hard time polishing off Tasha Alexander's And Only to Deceive, but perhaps that's because I love Deanna Raybourn and her Lady Julia Grey series accomplishes everything Alexander attempts to do, only better. Victorian lady seeks solution to mysterious death of husband, etc., but Alexander's heroine was a bit stiff and self-righteous. The character postures too much, and the right had all the markings of a first novel that hasn't been scrubbed down - bits of it felt like writing workshop exercises. Meh....

Catherine O'Flynn's What Was Lost was a different story - a great first novel that won a Costa award. Still, I fear she may suffer from being stuffed into a genre cubbyhole, because it's not really a true mystery in some sense. Regardless, her writing was wonderful, her characters were colorful without being too quirky, and she created a fairly successful atmosphere and setting as well. I enjoyed the sarcastic and snippy tone of her writing - would compare it to Kate Atkinson actually. I'll be on the lookout for her next effort.

I can't say enough good things about The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (Mary Ann Barrows and Annie Shaffer) or enough bad things about the title - it's quirky, but just too darn cumbersome! The book was wonderful, one of those books that I keep picking up and putting down because some subconscious part of my mind wants to prevent me from gobbling the whole thing up. It's all the good things the reviews say - warm, friendly, funny, touching and just perfect. Most of all, it's a book for people who truly love books, who understand how books can lift and inspire and serve as lights in dark places. With such a gloomy outlook in the world these days, I was so happy to read about goodness, friendship, survival and all the things that really matter. I can only hope that there will be sequels and other adventures for this motley cast of folks brought together by their love of books.

And finally, in a little afterthought, I picked up one of my mother's books that I've been toting around for 20 years but never read - A Bit of Christmas Whimsy by David Edman. It's nice, a little O'Henry-ish, what with the city setting, the "common" people, etc., and although the twist ending isn't much of a twist in today's world, it was a nice story about how things tend to work themselves out, regardless of our mucking about in them. Just what you'd expect of a little holiday novella, but I'm glad it's stuck with me through various moves and book weeds.

And now, off to finish a January book!

Warmth Returneth!

Heat arrived in our house for New Year's, after having taken its leave around Christmas, and if the old adage of my surrogate grandmother that what you do on New Year's day, you'll do all year holds true, I'm in for a good time. Personally, I think this was meant to discourage post-holiday/pre-return to school squabbling in children and excessive drinking in adults. (Who wants to spend the whole year arguing over a supply of AA batteries or hungover?) Anyway, I hope she was right! I spent the morning fussing over the stove (and she was right, because that's normally how I seem to spend a good bit of my year), but I spent the afternoon wrapped in a quilt, toasting my feet in front of a sturdy little flame, reading quietly and steadily through a really good novel. So, here's to doing all year what you did on New Year's day!

Sock Paws

Do other people do odd things when they're by themselves? I sometimes wonder what strange things would show up if I were on camera during the day when I'm alone. Do other people dance while waiting for their bread to toast? Do other people walk up and down the stairs repeatedly while eating a banana? Do other people add sound effects to dishing up lunch?

I only ask this because it's very cold in our house today. (Day two with no heat. I don't want to talk about it.) Cold is just one of those things that you deal with in a patchy fashion - there's not normally a real plan to prevent being cold, so the end effect is usually something very uncoordinated. For instance, this morning, I realized that I was in green and blue plaid pants and a red, green and white plaid shirt with pink fuzzy slippers. That, in and of itself, is a bit odd although perhaps acceptable, but I also had mismatched brown trouser socks on my hands with my sleeves tucked into the cuffs. I will also confess that I didn't want the trouble of retucking them, so I just ate a few crackers out of the box with my sock paws. Reading was a bit tricky, until I figured out how to turn the pages with my bookmark. Clearly, one of the primary functions of society is to prevent exactly this sort of thing, but it's equally clear that inventiveness only happens when one is free from concern about what other people think. Is it just me, or is all of life contradictory? And even more important, is everyone as strange when left alone?

No Sleep Till ...?

I'm attempting to break a napping addiction. Between my medication, anxiety, the weather, the holidays, etc., I've become a nap junkie. In fact, I'm not sure that "nap" even covers it any longer. "Nap" is too polite a word for sleeping all night and then another four hours plus during the day.

It started off innocently enough - just take a little rest in the morning after a rough night of sleep. And the next thing I know, I'm going back to bed, sleeping until 10:30, working, taking another nap later in the day that's only as short as it is because Andrew comes home, working in the evening to catch up, staying up late because I can't sleep, and then starting the whole thing over again the next day. The insomnia at night has been useful. I read, I work, I wander around the house, but even when I do sleep at night, the next day I'm still exhausted.

So, operating on the theory that sleep begets more sleep, I'm attempting to break the habit. No caffeine after 8:00, and less of it during the day. A sleeping pill every night for one week to reestablish sleep patterns. Warm milk before bed, and bed at the same time every night. I've even gone so far as to create a success chart for myself and offer bribes for making it through January and February without sleeping. It's early days, so I'm still in that hopeful stage of withdrawal, the "this is going to be a breeze" stage. I feel like a Civil War soldier: I'll have this problem whipped and be home in time for dinner!

The reality, however, is that it's a little like not having electricity. You know how that goes when the power is out, and you think, "Well, I'll just fold this laundry, light a candle and make myself a mug of tea. Oh. Right. I can't boil water." or "It's a little cold in here. I'll get a blanket, put on a sweatshirt and turn on the space heater." I keep making these little plans for my day, doing this, then that, then taking a nap, then.... Oh. *sigh*

Monday

"Cross" is the only word for me today. And maybe "cranky." It's rainy, the temperature's dropped about 20 degrees in two hours, but I still don't get the benefit of at least having snow as the precipitation du jour. I'm behind on laundry and not interested in catching up. It took forever for me to fall asleep last night, just humming to myself in the dark, positive that the next gust of wind was going to remove a slate or the weathervane or one of those tentatively-attached limbs over the driveway. When I woke up this morning, it was from a dream of listing endless pages of auction consignments. Christmas shopping and wrapping is done, so I'm at the stage where I'm just worrying over money spent, which is compounded by the dread of estimated tax payments. I'd rather be reading the new novel I started last night or sitting around in my pajamas and watching Remember the Night, but here I am, neatly dressed so as not to scandalize any shipping agent who might be delivering package. And I'm stuck with the dull work of finishing up a newsletter, which mostly just feels like "blah, blah, blah" at this point, which my cynical self says won't even get read. And to top it all off, someone had the chance to throw shoes at the current president and they missed. AND this happened while The Daily Show was on hiatus. Tell me again why I got out of bed?

November in Review

My, but I was reading "smart" stuff last month! I polished off five books, including The Hemingses of Monticello, which was massive. I didn't finish it until November 16, and then after that it was like a dam broke, and the other four books quickly followed.

Annette Gordon-Reed's The Hemingses of Monticello was eye-opening, but I think in some ways, I came away with more questions about history than answers. If you asked me why we decided to cancel a trip to visit friends, there would be less likely to be one reason and more likely to be dozens of factors: the possibility of bad weather, the pile of laundry at home, a lingering cold, two extra-long days of work during the previous week, etc. For someone to assess that decision from the remote world of the future someday and to proclaim me a bad friend or in general poor health would be to leap a large chasm of my reasoning. I just came away by how tenuous history is, how fragile some of our assumptions and arguments are. That said, Gordon-Reed has written a fascinating biography of one of the most well-documented early African-Americana families, and she manages as best she can, considering how little we're able to know about their thoughts and motivations.

After that I chewed through Into the Wild, which I wrote about earlier, and was reminded again how much I enjoy Jon Krakauer's writing. It's a sad story, almost, oddly, like the story of the Hemingses - something that we can't explain and a position we find it difficult to put ourselves into as readers, but by the end, it's one that we can come a little closer to. It takes a great deal of compassion to make people capable of venturing closer to a position or act that they would reject completely upon initial examination.

Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates followed, and it was just what you'd expect - snarky, entertaining, filled with little oddments and insights. The Puritans were an odd bunch, and the discussion of their "city on a hill" and how we came to co-op that as an American vision, while neglecting the sense of responsibility they felt was fascinating. It's one of the basic elements of tragedy - good intentions that somehow result in abhorrent offshoots. I realize that history doesn't often come with nifty endings, tied up neatly in a timely fashion, but I did feel that things sort of fell of a cliff at the end. It was as if the contract was for 200 pages, and somewhere around page 197, there was a realization that things needed to be wrapped up. Leaping over three hundred years of history, the Puritans are linked to John F. Kennedy. I know 21st-century politics aren't really Vowell's bailiwick, but I still would have liked a little more analysis about how the path we set our feet on then got us to the path we're on now.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, we managed to sneak in listening to Kate DiCamillo's The Tale of Despereaux. I'm intrigued to see the movie, and all I can say is good for DiCamillo for avoid overly precious endings with everything too neatly tied up. (I know, I know - I'm nothing if not a walking contradiction.) Despereaux's big heart, bravery and commitment to doing the right thing were wonderful, and I look forward to seeing his big ears on the big screen.

Finally, I found Susan Fletcher's Eve Green. I made a note almost three years ago of the title after reading a pre-pub review in Library Journal, and it's stuck with me all this time. I was glad that it did. As someone who's so often homesick, not so much for family as just for a landscape and a way of life, Susan Fletcher nails down the desperate love of a place, and the beautiful part is that she doesn't even try to explain why she loves it. She just does. Love is like that. This was a gentle story that probably didn't fare well after being classified by many as a mystery. (Why, why, WHY do we have to overclassify everything?!) It's really the musings of a pregnant woman, looking back on her childhood, trying to make peace with the child she was before she brings her own child into the world. I loved it. Again, not a sledgehammer to the forehead, but a meandering story of memory and family and place. And confirmation that I really like Whitbread award winners, which I also made a note of. Let's hope it doesn't take me another three years to follow up on it!

Talpidae and Muridae

It might sound like a Shakespearean play, but it's actually the fuzzy infestation happening over here. One night this week, while reading in bed, I heard violent squeaking and rushed downstairs to discover that Charlie (aka Charles Manson) had discovered a mole.

What a mole was doing in the house, at night, I don't know. Running is certainly not the answer. Moles on a hardwood floor are less like pedestrians and more like curling stones, especially when an overzealous cat is involved. Fortunately, he found his way into the bottom of a milk crate of things set out for my brother, and I managed to carry him outside. Unlike mice, who are always looking for opportunities to escape, moles are actually very like Kenneth Graham's Mole: well-meaning, but not quick-witted. He stayed in the bottom of the milk crate, obligingly shifting out of my way as I removed every single object, and then he left by a hole in the side. I sort of liked thinking that after he hurried home, breathless and rattled, he slipped into a smoking jacket, propped his little webby feet on an ottoman, and had a cup of tea to soothe his nerves. He's rehomed now, snug under the brick walk, and probably working on his sequel to The Wind in the Willows as we speak. Written long hand on thick paper with a fountain pen, of course.

My husband actually asked me in all seriousness the next day if it could have been a vole. It was midnight, it was freezing, and I was standing on the porch in nothing but clogs and a fleece jacket, hoping no one was out and and about. I'm not sure whether I was more insulted that he'd think I wouldn't know the difference or that he actually expected me to have taken a closer look in that condition. While I always wanted to be as dignified and together as Badger, I'm afraid that I'm more like the washerwoman....

And today, after finishing my lunch, I noticed the cats starring at the bottom of my knitting basket. When cats stay awake long enough to do anything other than pester me, it's worth paying attention to. Anyway, they had cornered a mouse, who, when I moved the basket, darted around to the other side of the couch. While I went to empty my mouse-catching box (it's filled up after months of disuse), he managed to attempt an escape between the baseboards and the floor. I say attempt, because what he really ended up doing was getting his head quite firmly stuck. Panicked AND undignified, a combination I try to avoid, but then again, see previous mole-related exploits. He's taken up residence under the outhouse, hopefully consoling himself with some week-old asiago cheese bread that I put out as an apology for the rough treatment he received as our guest.

Honestly, I'm beginning to feel like a low-rent Marlin Perkins over here!