Only they who have closely watched the natural uneasiness of human hens can understand how great was Lady Milborough’s anxiety on this occasion. Marriage to her was a thing always delightful to contemplate. Though she had never been sordidly a matchmaker, the course of the world around her had taught her to regard men as fish to be caught, and girls as the anglers who ought to catch them. Or, rather, could her mind have been accurately analysed, it would have been found that girl was regarded as half-angler and half-bait. Any girl that angled visibly with her own hook, with a manifestly expressed desire to catch a fish, was odious to her. And she was very gentle-hearted in regard to the fishes, thinking that every fish in the river should have the hook and bait presented to him in the mildest, pleasantest form. But still, when the trout was well in the basket, her joy was great; and then came across her unlaborious mind some half-formed idea that a great ordinance of nature was being accomplished in the teeth of difficulties. For — as she well knew — there is a difficulty in the catching of fish.

~ Anthony Trollope in He Knew He Was Right. 

 

Trollope can be depended on to make one chuckle and snort. And nod in appreciation. He describes a bachelor: There is nothing on earth against him, except that he does not set the Thames on fire.  He writes tasty phrases that make you repeat them aloud: …so flattered her and so fluttered her…  However, this book appears to chronicle the failure of a marriage. Not the happiest of topics.

my disheveled, dis-shelved nightstand

 

Today is January 24th and I have not finished reading one book in 2012. Life has a way of interfering with reading schedules, don’t you know. [wry grin] In December when my head was clear but my body was convulsing I read through a book a day.  After reviewing my 2011 list of books read, I decided to start each month with one weightier title, working towards my goal of deep reading. I’m in the middle of…

 

Practicing History, essays from Pulitzer Prize winner Barbara Tuchman, yields as much about the craft of writing as it does about history. I’m taking my time with this book, sniffing the words, swirling them around in my mouth, enjoying the flavors and textures.

Distillation is selection, and selection, as I am hardly the first to affirm,
is the essence of writing history. It is the cardinal process of composition,
the most difficult, the most delicate, the most fraught with error as well as art.
Ability to distinguish what is significant from what is insignificant is sine qua non.
Failure to do so means that the point of the story, not to mention the reader’s
interest, becomes lost in a morass of undifferentiated matter. What it
requires is simply the courage and self-confidence to make choices and,
above all, to leave things out. 62

 

 

Many named Eric Metaxas’ biography, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, the best book of 2011. I was delighted to discover that our library had the audio version of this available. I’ve been listening primarily while I cook and clean the kitchen. Most sections I listen to twice before advancing to the next chapter. I expect I will get the print version of this book and re-read it with pencil at hand.

 

 

 

Alan Jacobs came into clear focus this past year. I watched symposiums, read reviews by and about him, and decided he’s a current writer I need to explore. I haven’t started reading The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction in a systematic way, but I’ve been dipping into it. Funny thing: one of Jacob’s strong messages is to read at whim. At the moment, I’m taking a whimsical approach to the book. In, out, over, back, here, there.

 

I collect books on how to write. Shelves of them. My favorites are the ones who urge me to read and read and read some more, with an occasional bit about writing. In Wordsmithy: Hot Tips for the Writing Life, Douglas Wilson piles on, with not only advice to read, but lists of recommended titles at the end of each chapter. One might not expect a manual on writing to keep you grinning like an idiot, but the humor in this book makes it impossible to read with a serious face. Short enough to read in one sitting, I’ve strung it out, savoring the flavors on each page. 

Wilson is the father to three remarkably accomplished children. Son, N.D. Wilson, is a best-selling author. Youngest daughter, Rachel Jancovic’s book, Loving the Little Years: Motherhood in the Trenches is always in my basket of goodies for new moms. I yelped in delight to discover, tucked on page 48, that Wilson’s firstborn, Rebekah Merkle has a forthcoming book, England Swings. Here’s a hilarious sample of Bekah’s writing.

In the evenings, Nancy and I hang out with the kids and grandkids,
who come over frequently. I play the guitar, read, and so on.
It is a full and busy life, but we work hard at preventing it from
becoming frenetic. I hate frenetic, which returns us to the
previous point on the fruitfulness of plodding. Living this way,
we have found that it all adds up. 41

 

There are times when I just want to read a story, when I put my mind on cruise control—which, I feel compelled to point out, is not the same as turning it off—and pick up a novel. I am fully in the center of Trollope lovers; he’s one author whose complete works I would like to read.  To be honest, I’m still languishing in the introduction. Once I get to Chapter 1, this book will likely triumph on top of the pile of books.

 

Cindy at Ordo Amoris turned me on to Why We Get Fat: And What to Do About It .  Even if you don’t agree with the premise of the book, it is a fascinating view at independent thinking. I’m smack in the middle and willing to give this way of eating a try.

If your goal in reading this book is simply to be told the answer to the question
“What do I do to remain lean or lose the excess fat I have?”
then this is it: stay away from carbohydrate-rich foods, and the
sweeter the food or the easier it is to consume and digest…the
more likely it is to make you fat and the more you should avoid it. 11

 

 

In addition to WWGF, I’m re-reading Alicia Stanton’s book, Hormone Harmony: How to Balance Insulin, Cortisol, Thyroid, Estrogen, Progesterone and Testosterone To Live Your Best Life. Whew! The title alone is daunting. I work part-time for a compounding pharmacy; we have 15 copies of this book that we lend to customers. I find it interesting that the message of this book dovetails quite nicely with Taubes’ book.

Insulin resistance promotes weight gain because it prompts fuel to be
preferentially delivered to fat cells, and it leads to elevated levels of
glucose in the blood. Both excess body fat and elevated blood
glucose contribute to hormone imbalance. 17

 

I’m linking, for the first time, to the 5 Minutes for Books site. On the fourth Tuesday, you can share a What’s on Your Nightstand post. Join us!

 

What makes a man great?

A great man leaves an imprint on others’ lives so they are changed because of his input.

Three great people have made a huge impact on my life: my mom, my husband and my pastor. Impacted not only me, but many, many others. I’ve written about my mom; some day I’ll write about the man who is not only my pastor, but a pastor to pastors; but today is my husband’s birthday. It is he whom I honor with my words.

My brother calls Curt a funnel. I can see Dan’s hands angled inward—air funneling, if you will—as he describes Curt’s ability to take a lot of information (or a complex situation) and distill out of it the essence of a thing. 

Curt is a strong leader: a man men want to follow. He is kind, but candid. As a younger man, he tended towards candid, but kind. He is intense, faithful, hard-working, funny, generous, perceptive, honest, and handsome.

Happy Birthday, Curt!

To love one that is great, is almost to be great one’s self.
~ Samuel Johnson

I admired my husband yesterday. We were driving, and I noticed how effortlessly he converts potentially tense moments into laughter. How, when there is a short second to respond to another driver’s actions, he is relaxed and generous and calm. When a driver tailgates, then moves out to pass—crossing yellow lines on a curvy, two-lane mountain highway—Curt typically says, “You go, dude!” So not offended.

I actually thought about this for a few minutes, contrasting his lack of ridiculous emotion with my tendency towards pettiness. I had a wee little conversation with myself: Self, you need to take a tip from this man. Then I looked at the clouds and thought about Downton Abbey.

At lunch today, I got a pop-quiz in pettiness. I drove to the post office. There were two spaces to park in front of it. As I was about to turn left and take one of the spots, the driver opposite me turned right and parked. I pulled up behind her and waited for her to pull forward into the front spot. I assumed she’s been to gas stations and has experience pulling forward to the front pump. And right before my eyes, she got out, closed the car door, and walked into the post office.

For Pete’s Sake! I put the car into reverse, pulled around the Offender’s car, parallel parked into the middle space. And put my Sheriff’s Badge on. Squinting and spluttering with indignation, I hadn’t got a clear view of the woman. I knew she wore a black leather coat. When I got into the post office there were two women in black leather coats. I had a mind to tap one on the shoulder and remind her of the particulars of parking courtesy. But I refrained, not wanting to tap the wrong shoulder.

Not to sound dualistic or anything, but while I was fuming and debating with myself, another me was standing to the side watching myself, aghast. When did you become such a crotchety old lady? Good grief, she probably never saw you pull up behind her! Get a grip!

Getting to the counter was like receiving a phone call at home in the middle of the argument: that instant transformation from snippy to sweet! I like the kind employees of the U.S. Postal Service and they like me. We were friendly, happy, relaxed, calm, affable. And then I went out the door, as the Offender was getting into her car. I’ll show her! I started the engine, glared in my rear view mirror, and clenched my teeth. I should just sit here and make her have to pull around me. The other me was astonished at this vindictive streak. I pulled into the street. A horn blasted, a car swerved, and now I was on the receiving end of a glare. 

So caught up I was in petty “crime” that I didn’t check for traffic. I was the jerk who pulled out in front of a car. I braked, the car threaded around me, and I saw how stupid I was. I’d just been given a pop-quiz on pettiness and flunked. But the mercies of the Lord are new every hour, and I was spared injury. It was a moment to take stock. It was a moment to remember. It was a moment to give thanks.

Photo credit: Sidewalk outside La Grande post office, D. Harper

 

 

On the last day of the year, I played for a funeral for a dear woman whose Christmas present was waking up in heaven. She and her husband left a legacy of faith, family and service.

Though there were tears and hugs and sniffles, it was predominantly a joyful time admiring the imprint of her love on those she knew. The grief of the family and friends was clean grief, unsplattered by regrets, remorse, resentment or reproach. It’s fun to go to funerals and discover stuff you never knew. I didn’t know she was such a fisherwoman, so competitive in games and sports, and rode a zip-line not that long ago!

In my experience, In the Garden is the favorite hymn of her generation. My friend sang this solo beautifully. Can one of my readers explain the third verse? (I discovered the hymn is an Easter hymn written in from the perspective of Mary Magdalene. Still, it doesn’t make sense to me.)  Another favorite is How Great Thou Art, which the congregation sang along with What a Friend We Have in Jesus.

I retrieved the hymnal I grew up with, Choice Hymns of the Faith, and made a play list for the prelude and postlude.

When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder

Trust and Obey

Sweet By and By

Softly and Tenderly

Abide with Me

All the Way My Savior Leads Me

Beneath the Cross of Jesus

Great Is Thy Faithfulness

Come Thou Fount

He Leadeth Me

I Need Thee Every Hour

I Will Sing of My Redeemer

Praise Him! Praise Him!

Standing on the Promises

Amazing Grace

Glory to His Name

Are You Washed in the Blood?

Blessed Be the Name

Jesus, I Am Resting

Lord Jesus, I Love Thee

Make Me a Blessing

Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Me

My Faith Has Found a Resting Place

There Is a Name I Love to Hear

Immaneul’s Land

Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms

It Is Well with My Soul

Sweeter as the Years Go By

 

My favorite re-discovery is a hymn called God In Heaven Hath a Treasure. Here is the “long-play” version.

God in heaven hath a treasure,
Riches none may count or tell;
Hath a deep eternal pleasure,
Christ, the Son, He loveth well.
God hath here on earth a treasure,
None but He its price may know—
Deep, unfathomable pleasure,
Christ revealed in saints below.

Christ, the Light that fills the heavens,
Shining forth on earth beneath,
Through His Spirit freely given,
Light of life ’midst shades of death.
Down from heav’n’s unclouded glory
God Himself the treasure brought,
Closing thus His love’s sweet story
With His sweetest, deepest thought.

God in tongues of fire descending,
Chosen vessels thus to fill
With the treasure never ending,
Ever spent—unfailing still.
Still unwasted, undiminished,
Though the days of dearth wear on,
Store eternally unfinished,
Fresh, as if but now begun.

Earthen vessels, marred, unsightly,
But the treasure as of old,
Fresh from glory, gleaming brightly,
Heav’n’s undimmed, unchanging gold.
God’s own hand the vessel filling
From the glory far above,
Longing hearts forever stilling
With those riches of His love.

Thus, through earthen vessels only,
Shining forth in ceaseless grace,
Reaching weary hearts and lonely,
Beams the light in Jesus’ face.
Vessels worthless, broken, bearing
Through the hungry ages on,
Riches giv’n with hand unsparing,
God’s great gift, His precious Son.

Thus though worn, and tried, and tempted,
Glorious calling, saint, is thine;
Let the Lord but find thee emptied,
Living branch in Christ the Vine!
Vessels of the world’s despising,
Vessels weak, and poor, and base;
Bearing wealth God’s heart is prizing,
Glory from Christ’s blessed face.

Oh, to be but emptier, lowlier,
Mean, unnoticed, and unknown,
And to God a vessel holier,
Filled with Christ, and Christ alone!
Naught of earth to cloud the glory,
Naught of self the light to dim,
Telling forth His wondrous story,
Emptied—to be filled with Him.

There is a decent piano version here. I don’t care for (read: I’m unfamiliar with) the extra beat at the end of the bridge section.

If you were choosing funeral songs for a grandma, what would you pick?

 

 

Do you set goals to read the complete oeuvre of an author? Do you get a little buzz inside your cheek when you read “she’s read all of [fill in author's name]?

I do.

And I tell myself little fictions about what I’m going to do.

I’m thinking aloud, trying to articulate a reading plan for the year to come. The last plan I made, for 2010, was to read around the world. I read 18 of the 71 titles listed. And reviewing the list makes me want to renew that quest. But when I listed the books read in 2011, I was disappointed in the absence of authors dear to my heart. So, without a formal reading challenge I’m planning to be more intentional with my reading.

In my last post I asked why do you read?  Thank you for your answers, which evoked many happy sighs. Thank you!

My next question is how do you decide what to read next? In my case, it often depends on which bookshelf I browse. The entry-way shelf has an eclectic collection of books just received. Since they are new to me they are the equivalent of shiny objects. The hall shelf holds favorite authors, the Penguin collection, and books which look pretty on the shelf. The guest room shelf is an unorganized hodge-podge of books that no longer fit on the entry-way shelf. The living room bookshelf has the heavy hitters: history, biography, poetry.

I love all the reading challenges that blow by me this time of the year: Ireland, L.M. Montgomery, WWI, North Africa. Part of me wants to join a half a dozen. But I hold back.

I’d love to hear how you decide which book you’ll pick up to read.

And one more question: who are the authors whose entire works you would like to read?

Key phrase: would like to. If you had time to read, if you had access to every book, if, if, if…who would it be?

I made the Wordle above just playing with this idea. I look at it five minutes later and realize that the one author I’ve been thinking about the most in this context—David McCullough—is absent. There is a category of authors—Mark Helprin comes to mind—that I’m not convinced that I will want to read everything. And the thought of actually reading through and finishing Tolkien’s Silmarillion makes me want to shout “I take it back!”

I’ve been reading Barbara Tuchman’s book of essays, Practicing History; she also needs to be added to the list. Reading her is the equivalent of holding Coldstone ice cream on your tongue until it melts. Or perhaps a better analogy would be homemade bread hot from the oven: there is some effort involved, but the end result is nourishing. A sample quote:

When it comes to language, nothing is more satisfying than to write a good sentence. It is no fun to write lumpishly, dully, in prose the reader must plod through like wet sand. But it is a pleasure to achieve, if one can, a clear running prose that is simple yet full of surprises.

My simple plan is this: Read one book from my list of high priority authors a month, before other reading. Then fill in with other books. Though I don’t write much about Bible reading, that tops my list. I’ve bounced between fast and slow Bible reading. I consider reading through the Bible in a year fast reading. But sometimes I catch myself zipping through just to put a checkmark in that box. Then I slow down.

So if on December 31, 2012, when I review my reading, I hope I will see a Chesterton, a Spurgeon, a L.M. Montgomery, a Tuchman, a McCullough, a Dickens and a Trollope on the list.  Yes, that would be lovely.

Who is on your list: Jan Karon? P.D. James? Amy Carmichael? John Milton? J.K. Rowling? N.D. Wilson? Elisabeth Elliot? Agatha Christie? Anna Quindlen? Sigrid Undset?

 

 

 

I’m a schizophrenic.

And so am I.

No, really, I am.

When it comes to reading, different people inside me emerge. The stronger personalities throw an elbow at the weaker until there is a resurgence and the weaker fights back.

I am a reader.

I can’t “not read.” If there is nothing handy to read—a pathetic situation I strive constantly to avoid—I will sound out the ingredients of cereal: barley malt extract, trisodium phosphate, riboflavin, calcium carbonate…

The intersection of schizophrenia and reading is illustrated in the answer to the question “Why do you read?”

I read because I like to read.

I read to learn facts. What does the third verse of In the Garden mean?

I read to be entertained. Tell me a story!

I read as a way to love others. Nothing like a kid on a lap with a book…

I read to show love to others. You like Dick Francis? Then I will read him, too.

I read to fulfill obligations. Carol, please read this and let me know what you think.

I read some titles because one is supposed to read them.

I read some titles to say I have read them. Shameless of me to admit it, but true.

I read so I won’t be left behind. The buzz about Unbroken is one instance.

I read to nourish my soul.

I read because I’m bored.

I read because I’m tired.

I read some books to get them off my shelf. I could just remove them, but I want to read them!

I read because someone I admire recommended the book.

I read because someone I’ve never heard of recommended the book.

I read to escape unlovely tasks. A habit begun long ago when I had homework.

I read difficult books because they often reward the effort.  Vigorous reading gives me endorphins.

I read to quench my curiosity.

I read to kindle curiosity.

 

So, gentle reader, why do you read?

 

I read 87 books in 2011. I’ve arranged the titles I’ve read this year into genres. Yes, Alexander McCall Smith is a genre unto himself! Each list is presented in the order of my preference, the top being the favorite. I found it very difficult to rank disparate books. How does one compare Elisabeth Elliot’s novel with Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts? The omega icon (Ω) indicates an audio book. K = Free Kindle K$ = Kindle at a price. I only read a few of these on my Kindle, but I’m especially interested in free Kindle books, and think you might be too.

Last year I began noting the date of publication, which helps me see trends in my reading. I find it interesting/curious that as much as I think I love the classics, the only classics I read this year were children’s books. Unless you count Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, which I read to get a feel for Hemingway’s taut and sparse writing style. If I didn’t care for it, it doesn’t count as a classic, right? Seeing this list makes me determined to read Dickens, Trollope, Chesterton and Shakespeare in 2012.

All in all it was a satisfactory year of reading. I look over the list and sigh many happy sighs. My 2011 book of the year is Unbroken. My children’s book of the year is Auntie Robbo, which you are obliged, if you have a Kindle, to read for free. Why I’ve never heard of this book before this year perplexes me. I found it on a fluke: curious about a reference to the author, I Googled her name. That’s one Google I will never regret.

The quotes interspersed are from this year’s reading.

 

As the train drew out of town, Matthew looked out into the gathering darkness
of the late autumn evening. There were clusters of light here and there, and beyond
them the dark shape of the hills. That was what the world is like, he thought:
a dark place, with small clusters of light here and there, where there is
justice and concord between men.  ~ Alexander McCall Smith

Alexander McCall Smith                             

The World According to Bertie 2009 K$ review
Love Over Scotland 2006 K$ review
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones 2008 K$
The Charming Quirks of Others  2010 K$
La’s Orchestra Saves the World 2009 K$
The Double Comfort Safari Club 2010 K$

 

And when the fresh curling trout had been eaten, with a mound of scones and butter,
they lay late round the fire, swilling cocoa, arguing again about stags and cows,
telling stories, and looking back on yet another well-spent perfect day. ~ Ann Scott-Moncrieff

Children’s Fiction

Auntie Robbo Ann Scott-Moncrieff, 1941 K review
Moccasin Traill Elouise Jarvis McGraw, 1952
Tamar Mal Peet, 2007 K$ review
Hans Brinker Mary Mapes Dodge, 1865 K review
Escape from Warsaw Ian Serraillier, 1963
Tom Sawyer Abroad  Mark Twain, 1894 K review
A Wonder Book  Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1852 K review
Nothing to Fear Jackie French Koller, 1991
The Christmas Rat Avi, 2002
Tanglewood Tales Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1853 K
Onion John Joseph Krumgold, 1959
A Dog of Flanders Ouida de La Ramée, 1872 K review
Pinocchio Carlo Collodi, 1882 K
Tom Sawyer Detective Mark Twain, 1896 K
The Peterkin Papers Lucretia Peabody Hale, 1880 K review
The Little Lame Prince Dinah Mulock Craik, 1875 K review

 

I used to tell my children that learning was like building shelves for the mind,
some of which would come to bear much weight, some little,
but all useful for reasoning and classification. ~ Janie B. Cheaney

Children’s Non-Fiction

String, Straight-edge & Shadow Julie E. Diggins, 1965 review
Duel in the Wilderness Karin Clafford Farley, 1995 review
Meter Means Measure S. Carl Hirsch, 1973 review

 

Beauty is a key part to understanding God. ~ Brian Godowa

Christian

A Godward Life Book 2 John Piper, 1999 K$ review
One Thousand Gifts Ann Voskamp, 2011 K$
No Graven Image Elisabeth Elliot, 1966
Wind from the Stars George MacDonald, 1992
For Women Only Shaunti Feldhahn, 2004 K$
Passion and Purity Elisabeth Elliot, 1984
50 People Every Christian Should Know Warren Wiersbe, 1984 K$
The Wisdom of Tenderness Brennan Manning, 2002 K$
The Ragamuffin Gospel Brennan Manning, 1990 K$
Women of the New Testament Abraham Kuyper, 1934

 

On Thanksgiving Day, anyone who wants to wash dishes
is my friend for life.  ~ Rick Rodgers

Cooking

Thanksgiving 101 Rick Rodgers, 2007 K$ review

 

Despite its seeming mundanity, the ritual of flying remains indelibly linked,
even in secular times, to the momentous themes of existence—and their
refractions in the stories of the world’s religions. We have heard about too
many ascensions, too many voices from heaven, too many airborne angels
and saints to ever be able to regard the business of flight from an entirely
pedestrian perspective, as we might, say, the act of traveling by train.
~ Alain de Botton

Cultural Studies

A Week at the Airport Alain de Botton, 2009 K$ review
The Crisis of Civilization Hilaire Belloc, 1937 review
How Proust Can Change Your Life Alain de Botton, 1997
From Cottage to Work Station Allan C. Carlson, 1993

 

An essay is more than just a report; an essay takes a position or makes a point.
It requires higher-level thinking. ~ Janice Campbell (not exact quote; cobbled from my notes)

Essays

Heirloom: Notes from an Accidental Tomato Farmer Tim Stark, 2008 K$ review
Small Wonder Barbara Kingsolver, 2002 K$ review

 

I love fiction, strangely enough, for how true it is.
If it can tell me something I maybe suspected, but
never framed quite that way, or never before had
sock me so divinely in the solar plexus, that was a
story worth the read.   ~ Barbara Kingsolver

Fiction

Gilead Marilynne Robinson, 2004 Ω K$
Green Journey Jon Hassler, 1985 review
In the Company of Others Jan Karon, 2010 K$ review
Dear James Jon Hassler, 1993
Half Broke Horses Jeannette Walls, 2009 K$
The Marriage Bureau for Rich People Farahad Zama, 2009 K$
The Rector of Justin Louis Auchincloss, 1965
Up and Down in the Dales Gervase Phinn, 2004 K$
Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand Helen Simonson, 2010 K$
Staggerford Jon Hassler, 1977 K$
Small Island Andrea Levy, 2005 K$
Shanghai Girls Lisa See, 2009 K$
Olive Kitteridge Elizabeth Strout, 2008 K$
Amy Inspired Bethany Pierce, 2010 K$
News from Thrush Green Miss Read, 1970 K$
Miss Julia Strikes Back Ann B. Ross, 2008 Ω K$
No Dark Valley Jamie Langston Turner, 2004 review
The Sun Also Rises Ernest Hemingway, 1926 K$

 

Commit to one thing: You must change your life.
But if you don’t have fun doing this thing, my friend,
then it will be the dumbest damned thing you have
ever done. You won’t know if you enjoy it until you do it.
 ~ Richard Watson

Health

Hormone Harmony Alicia Stanton, 2009
The Philosopher’s Diet Richard Watson, 1985 K$

 

History lessons were my joy.  ~ P.D. James

History

Unbroken Laura Hillenbrand, 2010 K$ review
Truman David McCullough, 1992 K$
The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris David McCullough, 2011 K$
Eisenhower Stephen E. Ambrose, 1983 review
1,001 Things Everyone Should Know About American History John Garraty, 1989

 

The years are getting so they flash past me like pickets in a fence.
~ Dwight D. Eisenhower on 61st birthday

Memoir/Biography

West With the Night Beryl Markham, 1942 Ω
The Sword Of Imagination Russell Kirk, 1995 review
The Narnian: The Life and Imagination of C. S. Lewis Alan Jacobs, 2005 Ω K$
Time to Be in Earnest  P.D. James, 1999 K$ review
Blind Hope: An Unwanted Dog and the Woman She Rescued Laurie Sacher, 2010 K$
German Boy: A Refugee’s Story Wolfgang W.E. Samuel, 2000 K$ review
Heat Bill Buford, 2007 K$

 

It’s not the tragedies that kill us, it’s the messes. ~ Dorothy Parker

Mystery

Original Sin P.D. James, 1995
The Singing Sands Josephine Tey, 1952
Break In Dick Francis, 2007 Ω K$
Old House of Fear Russell Kirk, 1961 K$ review
Dead Heat Dick and Felix Francis, 2007 Ω K$
Crossfire Dick and Felix Francis, 2010 Ω K$
Poirot Investigates Agatha Christie, 1924 Ω K$

 

To be proud of knowledge is to be  blind with light. ~ Benjamin Franklin

Non-Fiction

In a Word Margaret Ernst, 1939 review
Poor Richard’s Almanac Benjamin Franklin, 1747 K$ review

 

We were as happy as people can possibly be in a malarious country. ~ Jessie Currie
I like roads. I live to move. ~ Harry S. Truman

Travel

A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains Isabella Bird, 1873 K
Unsuitable for Ladies: An Anthology of Women Travellers ed. Jane Robinson, 1994 K$ review
The Crofter and the Laird John McPhee, 1969 K$
Harry Truman’s Excellent Adventure Matthew Algeo, 2009 K$ review
The Guynd: A Scottish Journal Belinda Rathbone, 2007 review
Two Towns in Provence M.F.K. Fisher, 1964 K$ review
Palladian Days: Finding a New Life in a Venetian Country House Sally Gable, 2006 Ω K$
Wonderlust Vicki Kiyper, 2007 review

 

Happy Reading!

Lingering after a meal is an important part of our family’s culture. We love to exhale a contented sigh, pour another cuppa, perhaps clear a few dishes out of the way, talk, laugh, tell stories, and delay—as long as possible—the end of the meal. A friend told me years ago that the German language had a word for lingering at table for which there was no English equivalent.  If anyone knows that German word, please leave a comment. I’d love to have it in my possession.

As we lingered, we talked about Christmas memories. And it struck me that the Christmases where everything goes right, where good things abound, must be remembered through gauzy nostalgia instead of distinct memories. Because the stories we heard were the disasters, the years of want, when times were hard.  The Christmases where we got what we needed rather than what we wanted. (Aside: This year a friend’s child exclaimed: Wow, Mommy! New boots just like you needed me to want!) The year everyone was too sick to get out of bed. The year the family had just moved and were completely on their own. Moments of comfort and joy amidst misery and pain.

Does this resonate with you? When you think of Christmases past, what comes to mind?

In the spirit of providing stories for future Christmases, we made some memories this year. It was the year of the Great Yorkshire Pudding Overflow. My daughter-in-law and I thought it would be fun to make Yorkshire Pudding, something I’ve never before tried. We poured the batter into a tray of muffin cups and slid it in the 400° oven. Ten minutes later hot grease covered the bottom of the oven, the smoke alarm was going off (while the babies slept) and the kitchen filled with smoke. When guests arrived, my son Carson was holding a box fan in the window trying to exhaust the smoke.  The Yorkshire Pudding was delicious, but the residue was A Mess. 

While I’m bound to remember the Year of the Smoke—if only through my husband’s groans—, the kids surely won’t. If they remember anything, it will be the fun playing games and running around. It was a minor catastrophe, laughable even while it was happening. And we take pictures of the beautiful parts to keep the myth of perfect Christmases alive!

 

We’ve been shuffling the contents of our house around. That’s a pretty way of saying we’ve been moving books, bookcases, papers, desks, CDs, and games. I’ve been bravely culling our collection, mailing an average of five books a day. We got to the point in the process where the mess was overwhelming and I was approaching paralysis. My husband, seeing the situation—calculating the time before our house is full to the rafters with boys, toys, and thrills—pitched in, bringing order out of chaos.

I had boxes and boxes of binders: small, medium and extra-large three-ring binders. I’m embarrassed to admit the years of my life that I’ve spent putting paper in binders. I had at least eight thick binders, full of magazine articles I’d clipped, trimmed, indexed, paper-protected, and clicked into binders.  I had reams of notes from conferences, classes, seminars, forums, symposiums, and workshops, all three-hole punched. And a half dozen binders with full magazines slipped through those plastic-strip thingies you see in libraries.

All those years of organization sent to the recycle bin. The humiliating recognition that when I thought I was being so clever, so resourceful…um, I wasn’t.  

Finally, I worked through the residue of my homeschool life. Binders for every subject. Binders for sub-subjects. Samples of my sons’ work. I saved representative pages, but recycled dozens of three-point paragraphs.

Curt kept me focused. I felt the refreshing lightness that comes with relinquishment. This is good, I told myself. At the same time, it was sad. A huge part of my life—15 years—is done. I worked to keep up a disciplined view of what was happening. And then, I had an emotional hernia: my reasoning tore and my emotion bulged. I kept working through tears.

“I loved this. I loved learning so much. I loved teaching,” I sniffed. “Do you remember coming home and we couldn’t wait to tell you about Savonarola, Cortez, Romney, or Fibonacci numbers?”  Selective memory: I didn’t mention the anger, the failures, the frustrations. “It feels like I’m throwing away proof that I really did this.” 

“Our sons are the proof. And now you can pour yourself into our grandsons.”

I write this to encourage you who are in the trenches. Work hard and persevere. There will come a time when you look back on what you are doing now with a fierce fondness. You will say, “I loved this. I loved learning so much. I loved teaching my kids.”