Read a book/give a book

If you read Ezra Jack Keats' The Snowy Day today to a small child today, Jumpstart's Read for the Record will donate a copy of that book to a child in need.  Register at http://www.wegivebooks.org/.  An easy way to share the joy of books!

My 4 yr brought home a copy of the book today because her teacher read the book to her class. Although my kids who lived through our North-of-Chicago years can picture what this kind of snow is like, my Southern Belle can only get a taste of the stuff from books like this, a gentle introduction to winter.

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

Inspired by beginning A Song for Nagasaki for Reading for Believers, I picked up Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, a true story retold by Eleanor Coerr, to read one night to the kids. My young listeners were too busy playing to pay attention to the first 30 pages of the story.  And since it is only about 50 pages long, that means they only listened for about a third of the book. But the second third is most moving. The kids couldn’t believe that Sadako actually died. (They were waiting (hoping?) for someone to die in Little House.) How could the author let the main character, a little girl die? Why does the Author of life let anyone young die?

The owners of our local donut shop recently lost their 9 year old daughter, who attended the neighboring Catholic school, to brain cancer. Our children had been praying for her every day at school. They also prayed for my friend, the mother of their friends in Illinois, every day, and she died of cancer recently, too.  Several years ago, we were able to be at the bedside of the kids' young aunt, who also succumbed to brain cancer.  Other friends and family members remain on our prayer list for the time being.


When I was the age of my oldest, the only people I knew who had died were a couple great-aunts and a friend's grandma.  So far these encounters with the deaths of young people haven’t scandalized my kids or given them nightmares about leukemia. No one has asked why our prayers haven’t been answered the way we want them to be answered - maybe because I’ve talked to them about this idea before, maybe because they just aren’t to that level of critical thinking. They’ve been the funerals of three great-grandparents, and even looked in and touched the body of my great-grandmother, the only one with an open casket, without qualms. But those funerals were peaceful events, celebrating long, well-lived lives.


The death of a young person is harder to comprehend. It was brave of the author to write about Sadako. She writes plainly, without sentimentality. The temptation is not to introduce to children the idea they could die any time (although I admit a perverse pleasure in telling my children the gruesome beginnings of some nursery rhymes). The book only hints at the devastation and despair that must have accompanied the deaths caused by the atom bomb – from the immensity of that tragedy the author spares her readers. Instead she directs their empathy toward a particular victim, Sadako, who becomes a face for all those who died.  It is much easier to comprehend, and mourn, an epic tragedy when we "know" one of the sufferers.


The book had several references to the family’s religious practices, but they were described in such a way that the kids didn’t discern anything in contradiction to Catholic practice, nor was the Shinto practice belittled. I appreciated being able to read without having to edit.


Below are photos of statues of Sadako from three different Peace Parks - in Seattle, two statues from the Children's Peace Park in Hiroshima, and the last from Santa Fe.

Historical fiction movies

I’ll continue with my theme lately of what we’ve been watching, because we had a quiet weekend, where mostly what we did was read books and watch movies. The kind of weekend I just love. We talked about going somewhere and doing something, but all we managed was a short trip to the beach to attempt kite flying, splashing in the waves, picking up tarballs, (even with the risk that we might gain powers like Chevy Chase in Modern Problems) and uncovering oddments on the beach: dead pufferfish, a chain of keys, lengths of rope. A massive, ominous, fast moving storm system chased us back home. And now much needed rain is turning the grass green again and delivering temps under 90 for the past week.*

To finish up our relaxed weekend, we dug into some of my finds from the latest trip to the library. In preparation for Decades Day during Homecoming week, I had picked up Forrest Gump for the kids to watch. I’ve had it on my list of things to rewatch ever since we first drove by the exit for Bayou La Baitre, home of the Bubba Gump Shrimp Corp, on the way to the next big town. But my husband warned me that I probably had forgotten most of the things that made it pg-13.

He was right. I was glad he and I previewed it before trying to watch it with the kids while fastforwarding the rough parts. I would have had to fastforward nearly every scene with Jenny. The movie still would have conveyed its memorable perspective on history being made, but I decided to offer something else for family movie time. In the meantime I enjoyed debating with my husby again whether destiny is something you make or if your destiny is mapped out for you. Forrest certainly seems to be blown about by his destiny, just by chance being in the right place at the right time, while Jenny tries to forge her own destiny and nearly dies in her attempt to become a musician.  I'm actually sorry we didn't let the older kids watch the movie because it provides fodder for a number of different conversations - talks about loyalty, drug use, how to live your life well, true love, ...


The movie the kids picked out was Gone with the Wind - yes, I had forgotten some of the parts that make it somewhat inappropriate for kids, but it was so oblique in its romantic references that the youngers didn’t catch that Scarlett was acting little better that Belle Whatley, and that at heart she was actually a darker character. How Scarlett remains such a memorable heroine while being such a despicable and pathetic person is proof to the power of charisma, or, as the back of the movie box puts it, her “passion for life.” She’s selfish, bossy, greedy, unprincipled, and blind to her faults, but she still has her audience rooting for her survival.
Ironically, the junior class at the older boys’ school chose “1870’s” as their decade for homecoming week. I wondered why a school in the deep south would chose Reconstruction as a period to relive, but instead of dressing like carpetbaggers and their victims, they dressed liked cowboys and Native Americans.


*I actually wrote this last week - now the temps are decidedly below 80 -- Welcome, Autumn!

A dissatisfying memoir

Did you know Julia Child learned to cook at age 37? I didn’t, until I finished the irritatingly likable Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen by Julie Powell. I wasn’t going to finish this book, because Julie, the author, seems to be just what Julia Child thought she was – a bit uppity. And because she begins the book by crying about getting ready to turn 30 and selling her eggs. And I’ll side with her blog reader who asks does she really have to use the f word so much?

But I kept reading, and when I neared the end I stayed up until 1:30 in the morning just to find out what she cooked next, and because every once in awhile I'd come across a little nugget of clarity to make the short night of sleep worthwhile. Like when she talks to the dungeon owner and realizes that world is so much bigger than she thought it was, full of possibilities and interesting people who go out on a limb to savor life.

But then I had to cry as I read the end of the book, the end that kept being followed by one more chapter. Here I sit almost 40, mother to six minions, still sort of floundering about. It’s easy to fall prey to a self-pitying belief that any savoring of life that was to be mine is already over. I’ve had a fair share of good times, a repertoire of happy memories, but I also have a stash of shelved plans and dreams, and a lack of confidence in my ability and desire to pursue them.  So why get so sentimental, so angsty, about getting older? Julie quotes what she wrote about Julia “I have no claim over the woman at all, unless it’s the claim one who has nearly drowned has over the person who pulled her out of the ocean.” Maybe because in this drowning season, I’m still waiting for someone to pull me up. Maybe I need to take a cooking class.

Probably the best solution is to learn to appreciate what I have, to relish the pleasures that my life affords, instead of hankering after someone else’s bliss.

Because really, what can be more satisfying than the warm body of a loving husband, or an afternoon at the beach jumping waves while clutching the hand of a small child? Julie reveals at the end of the book after Julia has died that she has no faith in the resurrection. So no wonder she put so much work into her project. What else had she to comfort her without the knowledge that the hard times and the humiliation, not mastering the art of French cooking, are what in the end redeem us.

Happy Birthday, William Faulkner

He would be 113 today.

Still on my list of things to see in Mississippi is his hometown in Oxford, which supposedly has a great bookstore.

And still on my list of books to finish is Soldiers' Pay, his first novel, from whence comes this first paragraph:

"Lowe, Julian, number ____, late a Flying Cadet, Umptieth Squadron, Air Service, known as "One Wing" by the other embryonic aces of his flight, regarded the world with a yellow and disgruntled eye. He suffered the same jaundice that many a more booted one than he did, from Flight Commanders through Generals to the ambrosial single-barred (not to mention that inexplicable beast of the field which the French so beautifully call an aspiring aviator); they had stopped the war on him."

Book and Poetry Notes - quick takes style

I’m starting to get back into a reading habit again, after a bit of a hiatus during which all I could manage were a couple crime thrillers, which are great for diversion but don't offer much meat for discussion. I’m not as discriminating a reader as perhaps I should be. I like sugary candy, too.

I have, however, started and left unfinished a number of interesting books I’d like to go back to. I went to the library about a month ago – shortly before my husband came home - and left with a big ambitious stack of books. A couple were about Afghanistan – Before the Prophet by Lesley Hazleton, which tells about the split between the Sunni and Shiite in the style of a storyteller. The other was In Afghanistan: Two Hundred Years of British, Russian, and American Occupation by David Loyn, a British journalist, which was about all these failed attempts to subdue the country. The first I’m intending to read eventually; the second had too many in-depth details about battles and politics for me to get my mind around at the moment. My husband’s marine friend read it and was convinced it held the key to the end of the American engagement in Afghanistan.

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Then there were novels I turned in but didn't read – The Children’s Book by A.S. Byatt. I loved Possession and liked Still Life and Angels and Insects, but the 500 pages of The Children’s Book was just too imposing. Maybe someday in a summer. Even The Red Pyramid – the new Rick Riordan middle grade book I meant to read but never got around to and couldn’t renew - was too much.The three older boys devoured it. I hope it wasn’t damaging to their psyches. Neither could I finish The Enchanted Castle by Edith Nesbit or get any of the kids to read it. I think I would’ve loved this book at age 10, but I just couldn’t get past the third chapter, and now with books like The Red Pyramid, The Enchanted Castle just seems quaint and not thrilling at all.

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Next up were a couple spiritual books: A Map of Life by F. J. Sheed and A Thomas Merton Reader, both of which I want to finish, but need to own. The second is a book for dipping into, not reading straight through, while the first I set down and just never picked back up. I’m way behind in spiritual reading, which I guess could explain the spinning wheels effect in my life. Prayer and lectio divina have suffered in these days of busyness. Usually when I make time for them, the rest of my time is used more wisely. I need a little Lent.

*****

Now I remember that is was a memoir to pick up that led to the trip to the library – Mary Karr’s Liar’s Club which I finished and commented a little on in Reading for Believers. Then I picked up Julia and Julie which I keep reading out of fascination (and wrote about, but haven't posted). Such a different life than mine. Not a life that I want. Not a book that I really wanted to spend time with but one I could put down because it diverted my attention by giving me things to complain about, ie: Look at the way she treats her husband! Listen to the bad advice she gives her friend! Read how many times she mentions she married young but she’s trying to convince everyone that she’s still cool!

But I have to admire her persistence in actually making these recipes. Did she actually make and then really eat calf foot gelee? Fascinating. Lately, I have been struggling with committing to projects that take passion and perseverance, so I’m envying those who witness those characteristics.
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Another memoir of a sort that I finally finished was our read aloud of Little House on the Prairie. We haven’t had a lot of read aloud time lately, and when I started this book I got a lot of flack from the older boys and from my 8 yr old daughter. In fact part of the reason I was reading it was because she refused to read it herself. Can this be my child?! So for the first few nights, no one wanted to listen. But I kept reading over their wrestling, and finally, about the time malaria struck the families in the creek bottom, I started to get some kids interested. And by the time the Indians came in the house, everyone was paying attention. And by the time the Ingalls were driving away from their snug little house I was in tears, still emotionally drained by the long trail of Indians heading west and the heartbreak of the family having to pull up their stakes again.

Poor Ma. I totally felt her pain when she lifts up her hands and sits down after Pa tells her they are leaving. But then to her sighing, “A whole year gone, Charles,” Pa answers cheerfully, “What’s a year amount to? We have all the time there is.” And he plays his fiddle and sings, and a year of hard work becomes a good memory and a great little book.

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Finally some poetry, little bites of beauty which I did manage to digest: Resurrection by Nicole Cooley was not what I thought it was going to be. A bit of a man-hater. Poems of the Vieux Carre by former New Orleans poet laureate Amy Boudreau was hugely entertaining. It was a tour guide to the city written in quatrains. Perfect for our 4 trips to NO over the last month.


When I picked up these two books and The Best American Poetry of 2008, I was looking for poetry by Mary Karr, and this book was the only one that came up on the card catalog. Although it only had one of her poems, focusing on the collection was an indulgence that pulled me back into reading something that required a little audience participation. I read a bit here and there while subbing last week, and then reread some of the poems after reading what the authors had said about them in the back of the book. I didn’t realize at first that the descriptions were back there, and found them entertaining and enlightening.  Is it a weaknes in the poem or in the reader if you appreciate a poem more after reading the notes? A couple I appreciated less after reading the bloated remarks of the poets.
A couple favorites: (does this count as a Poetry Friday post?)

Robert Bly’s “Wanting Sumptuous Heavens” (a ramage, I learned from the notes)


No one grumbles among the oyster clans,
And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer.
Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want
Heaven to be, and God to come, again.
There is no end to our grumbling; we want
Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven.
But the heron standing on one leg in the bog
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.


Nice read aloud for the contented um sounds.

And J.D. McClatchy’s “Resignation”

I like trees because they seem more resigned to
the way they have to live than other things do.
-Willa Cather

Here the oak and silver breasted birches
Stand in their sweet familiarity
While underground, as in a black mirror,
They have concealed their tangled grievances,
Identical to the branching calm above
But there ensnared, each with the others’ hold
On what gives life to which is brutal enough.
Still, in the air, none tries to keep company
Or change its fortune. They seem to lean
On the light, unconcerned with what the world
Makes of their decencies, and will not sow
A jealous purchase on their length of days,
To never having been loved as they wanted
Or deserved, to anyone’s sudden infatuation
Gouged into their sides, to all they are forced
To shelter and to hide, they have resigned themselves.


- both of these were from The New Yorker


A couple other lines I noted: from Kathryn Starbuck’s “The Shoe” a poem she said she forgot she wrote and submitted:

“… I made braids out of dead funeral
flowers to border the rooms where
once he breathed and took on the heavy
chores, gladly, of loving me. I sprinkled
one teaspoon of his ashes on our bereft bed
and slept with them. They scourged my body.


But when that single shoe, the mate I thought
had got sent off with its partner, showed up
today, alone, crouching behind the couch, alive
with Effie’s opulent Turkish angora fur, I knew
solace was something I could neither seek nor
find. Oh beloved! I know I am an old woman
But I cannot live in your shoe."
-from the Harvard Review


And from Lee Upton’s “Thomas Hardy”

“Too late, he says. But it’s never too late
for the poetry of regret.”

- first published in Barrow Street

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Finally a note I copied out of the forward to My Antonia by Kathleen Norris from an essay called “The Demands of Art” that Cather wrote in 1895, 17 yrs before she published her first novel:

“When one comes to write, all that you have been taught leaves you, all that you have stolen lies discovered. You are then a translator, without a lexicon, without notes…. You have then to give voice to the hearts of men, and you can do it only so far as you have known them, loved them. It is a solemn and terrible thing to write a novel.”

Blogs are much easier.  Go to Conversiondiary for more reads.

Movie review: Mozart and the Whale

Proof of a good movie/fiction: it makes you feel you are one of "them."

A list I made after watching Mozart and the Whale last weekend:

• Avoidance of looking into others’ eyes: check

• Difficulty reading body language and interpreting sarcasm or irony: check

• Self-destructive behaviors like nailbiting: check

• Loss of temper over insignificant events like the movement of a belonging: check

• Find comfort in routine and repetitive behaviors: check

• High-pitched, irrational laugh: when nervous, check


After watching the movie, about two young adults with Asperger’s syndrome and their group of fellows with autism, I felt like maybe I was on the autism spectrum myself. By the end of the movie, it is clear that there is no “typical” person with autism; each manifests his or her diagnosis in different ways. The great strength of this quirky, slow moving, affective film was showing the wide spectrum and deep humanity of the autistic adults, so that the viewers identify with the group of odd birds who form a strong bond of friendship. Most poignantly, the two main characters suffer the same conflicting pangs of desire and doubt, attraction and alienation, that “normal” people undergo when they fall in love.

When I was in college I spent a fair amount of time working with special needs kids and adults, although they were called disabled then, an upgrade from handicapped. One summer I was a camp counselor in the Upper Peninsula for kids whose syndromes ranged from spina bifida to severe ADD to Down’s. It was perhaps the hardest summer of my life, but by the end of it, I knew and loved each of the children by her name, not by her diagnosis.

Another year for my service work in college I went to feed lunch once a week at an adult day care. Nearly all of the clients were wheelchair bound with severe physical and mental disabilities. Feeding lunch wasn’t just serving a meal; it was sitting down and spooning food into someone’s mouth, scooping back in what drooled out, and if necessary, tipping his head back so the food would go down his throat. But perhaps more heartwrenching was meeting the parents. One couple I remember in particular was a couple at least in their seventies who came to the day care with their son, who was in a wheelchair. I cannot describe his disfigurements. But his parents were devoted to this disfigured person.  He was their son, not a person confined to a wheelchair for life, someone who would never feed himself. They necessarily worried about what would happen to their son after their death. I don’t know the end of the story.

But I know that I am extraordinarily blessed. My children have their issues, but I think they will be able to take care of themselves as adults (and maybe one/some of them will take care of me when I’m in a wheelchair…). But they will have to suffer when they fall in love, just like the Donald and Isabelle in Mozart and the Whale. I would spare them that pain if I could, but it is a pain that is redemptive, as they shed their own desires, modify their own routines, sacrifice their own comforts, in order to make space for their beloved’s.

An interesting link http://edwardbyrnepoetry.blogspot.com/ a booklength poem about autism by a poet in Indiana, Edward Byrne, found via the blog list of A Commonplace Blog.