Regular readers of this blog know how I feel about books and libraries and bookstores.  I love them all.

Weekly trips to the library were a big part of my childhood.  I’d stock up on picture books, then Dr. Seuss books, then chapter books, dragging home armloads or totebags full of hour upon hour of delicious reading.

That trend has continued in more recent years, with the addition of buying vintage books to resell online, which has led to stacks, boxes, and bins of books in various nooks, crannies, and bits of storage space.

Perhaps that is why Chris gave me a Kindle for Christmas.  I didn’t know I wanted one.  Even opening the box, I wasn’t sure I was buying in to this e-reader business.

But Chris explained gently that he was tired of watching me read on my iPhone, where – unable to wait to get my hands on a real copy – I had uploaded Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom.  And then Abraham Verghese’s Cutting for Stone.  I will admit that reading a book on an iPhone leaves a lot to be desired.  You’re constantly “turning the pages” by sliding your thumb, and while the exertion is minimal, it’s nonstop.  Only so many words can fit on that little screen.

I also had to agree with Chris that the thought of storing stacks and stacks of books inside one slim little gadget was very appealing.  And so I began reading on the Kindle, first the story of Henrietta Lacks, then Unbroken.  Here are my findings.

1.  The Kindle is nice for reading at bedtime.  There’s something calming and orderly about it.  You can underline parts if you want, and refer back to them, and also look up words instantly.  However, if I wake up at 3 AM and want to read, the illumination on the Kindle is insufficient.  I would have to turn on a bedside lamp, and that might wake up Chris, and therefore I move to another room.  As someone once said, the Kindle screen is like a wet newspaper – grey and glum.

2.  The Kindle allows you to go shopping, virtually, and haul home your new book loot within seconds.  No waiting for your name to come to the top of the list at the library reserve desk.  No searching for a parking spot at Borders or Barnes & Noble.  You can still browse, even try out a book without committing to buy, and then click on what you want to read next.  It’s gratification of the instant variety.  Patience may be a virtue, but when you’re dying to crack open a new book, patience can also be agony.  The word “patience” does not exist in a Kindle world.

3.  Great for the gym.  Before Kindle, I would go to the YMCA with my iPod and hope in my heart that I would find a decent magazine in the racks.  This hope was usually dashed upon the reality of Diabetes Today, Barnard Alumni Magazine (note to Barnard alums:  there aren’t that many of you at the YMCA, and your “donation’ is going over like a lead balloon), People Magazine, and Cosmo.  Given this choice, I would of course go with People magazine, which has the virtue of large type  and the vice of trashy topics.  Teen Moms!  Celebrities Taking Out Their Trash!  Look Who Has a Baby Bump!  Who Rocked The Dress Best!

Also, I don’t recognize any of the folks in People magazine are anymore.  As Chris said a few years ago, who ARE these people on the cover of grocery check-out magazines? 

Also, I don’t say “rocked” for “wore” or “baby bump” for pregnant.  

In short, I have no business reading People Magazine, but desperation would often drive me to it.  Then I’d be embarrassed to be seen with it.

Furthermore, the giant fan in the corner of the gym would ruffle the pages, meaning I had to either wedge the magazine between the ledges on the machine, or keep a tight hold on it.

The Kindle solves all of these problems.  It sits neatly and securely on the ledge of the exercise machines.  The fan doesn’t blow it over.  Nobody can see what I’m reading, so I’m not embarrassed to be caught looking at giant pictures of Tom Cruise’s demonic smile or Kesha’s trash bag dress.  Sadly, yes, I now know who Kesha is.

But now, with my Kindle at the gym, I can read about the incredible trials of Louis Zamperini or the family of Henrietta Lacks, and become lost in their fascinating stories.  I’m improving my mind AND my body. 

The only drawbacks are these:  I fear that I will absentmindedly leave the Kindle somewhere, and I regret that I can’t loan a friend a book I’ve just finished.

Other than that, I’m sold.

Here, we have Hugh reading The True Story of Hansel and Gretel.   He has already finished the other two requirements:  The Kite Runner and a book set in Africa whose title I forget and am too lazy to look up.   I stole Hansel and Gretel from him and nearly finished it, when he needed to start it, so neither of us have finished it yet.  As the title suggests, it’s about two children (Jewish) in Nazi Germany who are taken in by an old woman in the forest (Gypsy), and their struggles to survive.  Incredibly harrowing, yes, but gorgeously written.  Hugh and I are discussing it as we go along.

Malcolm is plowing through Code Talker, which is about how Native American servicemen working in WWII intelligence spoke in codes based upon the Navajo language – impossible for our enemies to crack.  Although written in an unfortunately plodding style, the book gets into the ironies beneath that story – how Indian children were taken from their homes, put ito  boarding schools to civilize them, and punished if they spoke anything but English.   I am thrilled that this book gets into the truth of that story – as contrasted with the heroic, whitewashed version of American history my generation was taught.  Anything shameful would not have been mentioned.

Meanwhile, my book club met last night to discuss Brave New World.  Astonishingly, not one of us had ever read it before.  The discussion was lively and went on for hours.  Sitting around Kathleen’s beautiful backyard pool, consuming fresh white peaches, tomato slices topped with basil and mozzarella, and all kinds of fabulous dips and wines did not hurt either.  If any of you have not read Aldous Huxley’s tome, I highly recommend it.  Because I could not find it in any nearby libraries, I ended up downloading it and reading it on my phone.  I know.  Very futuristic.

In our house, our final summer reading club of the summer involves the discovery of a new author (to us), Jennifer Egan.  The paperback The Keep was given to me by my friend Caroline, who casually said “I think you and Chris would really like this book.” 

Put off by the words “post-modern” which somehow entered my consciousness, I nevertheless opened The Keep, probably the same night Hugh stole Hansel and Gretel back, and was quickly hooked.  While Chris was reading it, I was checking out two more Egan books at our library:  The Invisible Circus and Look at Me.  Chris read the latter, not the former, which was a good decision on his part.  Then my friend Deirdre, without knowing about this Egan frenzy in our house, sent a message on Facebook saying “You have to read A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan – I think you would both really like it.” 

I’ve finished it, and now Chris is engrossed.  I can hardly remember the last time my husband and I were reading the same tome, let alone three of them in one short season.  It’s been great fun.  And if it’s not already obvious, I highly recommend you, regardless of your gender, give the smart/funny/observant Jennifer Egan a try.  As Caroline astutely said, “She’s a very ballsy writer.”

So there I was, stuck inside the house.  A blizzard fell around us.  The world outside was a magical, mystical scene, the snow transforming our usually dull state, with a flick of two letters in the final syllable,  into the sparkling land of Pennsylnavia.   A fire crackled in the grate.  A batch of sugar cookies awaited frosting and sprinkles. The Scrabble board was set.

We couldn’t go anywhere, nobody could come here, and all was covered  in a blanket of beautiful, pristine snow.

Sounds like a dream, right?  Wrong.  Because I was stuck with a book I was hating during the epic time the kids are calling The Six Day Weekend.   And the bookstores and libraries were 1) inaccessible and 2) closed.  All avid readers can sympathize with me.  I was in bibliophile hell.

This is the book I detested.  But I felt compelled to finish it, because I had nothing in my on-deck circle.  My side of the bed was bare.  That was my own irresponsible fault.  It’s like letting your car run out of gas.  Always keep your bedside reading stack topped up!  How could this have happened?

This Mennonite memoir has gotten a lot of buzz, and most reviews on amazon are, to my amazement, positive.  People actually compare the author to David Sedaris, favorably.  Are you kidding me?  Sedaris is a neurosurgeon of nuance, brilliant and precise.  Janzen is, at best, a chiropractor of comedy, searching fruitlessly for the funnybone.  She ham-handedly cracks a few lame jokes, makes endless mean observations about her loved ones, and repeats herself endlessly. 

Yes, Rhoda, we remember.  Your husband ran off with Bob from gay.com.  How many times do you have to remind us?  Your mom is a charming, no-nonsense nurse who is comfortable with body topics.  She sings gross songs and says crude things and does base things in public, and you completely out her for this.  Good thing moms love their children unconditionally. 

That doesn’t mean I have to love Rhoda, or her memoir.  But I’m stuck with her, on account of snow.

It’s enough to drive me to get a Kindle.  Then, at the touch of a button, I would have an entire world of brand new books at my fingertips.  All my problems would be solved!  Right?

Finally, please take a peek at the incredibly stylish bunkbeds offered by our newest advertiser.  Just click at top left.  I’m tempted to get one of these babies, and my babies are all teenagers.

Please weigh in.  How do you like your Kindle?  Is it a reader’s dream?  Would it solve my dilemma?  Or is it heresy to even consider such a thing?

Apparently, finding material is not a problem for this guy.  

BOOKS:  Casting back to this earlier post, I have read  Out Stealing Horses (almost dreamlike, brutal but beautiful), and am just finishing Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan (wonderful premise, great narrator, packed with funny and serious observations).  It was a treat to go from the ice and snow of Norway to the heat and jungles of Burma.  OSH was written in spare, stark prose - and then there’s Amy Tan, a wizard of wordiness.  I loved both of these, suggested by Melanie.  However, I could not get into her pick Ella Minnow Pea, even though the premise is clever and it’s all about words and language. Will try again.

Again, I’m so grateful for all the reading suggestions from you MOBsters.  It makes me feel snug and secure, knowing there’s a long list of good books in the pipeline.  On Thursday I’ll put up the entire list of recommendations.

COLLEGE:  This is crunch week - schools need to know on May 1 which kids have accepted their offers, and which kids are going elsewhere.  As a recent newspaper article said, ”A lot of families will be sitting around the table on Thursday night with a whiteboard.”  Memo to self:  get a whiteboard with magical decision-making abilities. 

 STINKBUGS:  And going back many months, I must re-visit the topic of hideous stinkbugs.  These god-awful things are everywhere, and they are driving me mad.  I can’t just shrug and co-exist with them, I must wage war upon each and every one.  As you can imagine, this doesn’t help my daily productivity quotient.  I describe my favorite waterboarding technique in the old post, and I continue to stand by this method.

But I’ve found an effective new technique of stinkbug torture as well.  This involves scooting said vermin onto a sheet of paper, then slapping a huge piece of strong tape down on top of them.  Don’t let any antennae or skinny arms and legs stick out – I’ve seen them escape through tiny gaps.  In a pinch, several criss-crossing bits of regular Scotch tape will do.  It’s kind of like home-made flypaper.

These scourges are the size of jellybeans.  When they make contact with solid objects, a small thud results.  They buzz, they swarm to lights by night and to windows by day.  No pesticide has been found to work against them.  Last night, Malcolm noticed the hall light was full of charred and dessicated stinkbug husks.  Today, I cleaned out the globes, chuckling grimly at the carnage – and the evidence that – haha – they can’t escape every danger, can they?

Please tell me Stinkbug Season will be over soon.

There is no good book by my bedside.  Normally I have one at bat, one in the on-deck circle, more in the dugout, extras in the bullpen, and others coming up through the minor league.  But my pipeline has run dry, and I need your help.

It all began in childhood, when my mom read to my big brothers and me every night.  The Blueberry Pie Elf.  The Borrowers.  Charlotte’s Web.  The Lonely Doll (a future blog post all by itself).  These night-time sessions are among my most cherished memories.

Elementary school teachers read aloud to us after lunch recess.  In sixth grade, we girls loved A Wrinkle in Time, but the boys rebelled and demanded a “boy book,”  so then Mrs. Vaught read 2001:  A Space Odyssey.  That was the book during which all the girls took up crocheting.

From the moment I learned to read, a good book has been my constant companion.  First I read the sweet innocent classics of my mom’s youth:  Anne of Green Gables.  The Boxcar Children.  Little House on the Big Prairie.  Hitty.

Comic books were a huge obsession.  Then I branched out and started reading more frightening or salacious fare from our local library and paperbacks handed over by friends.  Confessions of a Prom Queen.  Helter Skelter.  In Cold Blood.  The Boston Strangler.  The Diary of Anne Frank.

In recent weeks I’ve re-discovered A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and its touching, hilarious accounts of a Brooklyn girlhood.  On the heels of that, I read The Book Thief, which was dark but beautifully compelling.

Since then, I’ve been like Goldilocks in the Three Bears’ library.  Saints and Liars didn’t have enough detail.  The Executioner’s Song has too much detail.  A Mercy has just enough detail, and it’s beautiful, but it’s shrouded in fog.  I’m having to grope my way through.

And so I turn to you, MOB readers.  Please, I beg of you, send me your suggestions for a good book.   I don’t care if I’ve read it before, re-reading can be an excellent diversion.  Just tell me what you’ve loved.  Fiction, nonfiction, any genre goes. 

I look forward to compiling a list of your excellent adventures in reading.  And while we’re at it, let’s suggest that Emily pick up a new edition of What To Expect When You’re Expecting. 

I found this endearing 1931 book in a consignment shop back in the spring. Anything with anthro animals – preferably from the early 20th century – I love. And so I snapped it up. Being both a collector and a purveyor of antique books, I researched the title and found that it was quite rare. I listed Toby Chipmunk in my eBay store…where it sat and sat, seemingly unnoticed. Out of the blue last Saturday afternoon, up popped an email – Toby had sold – to someone with zero feedback, who had presumably set up an eBay account just for this purchase. Seconds later, it was paid for via paypal. Curious, I emailed the buyer to see why he had chosen this book.

His answer blew me away. He remembered the book from the library in his one-room school called Pleasant Hill, in the particularly barren NW corner of Kansas. Oak trees and acorns did not exist in this neck of the non-woods. He became a life-long tree lover – especially oaks – due to Toby.

The little boy grew up to be a teacher in Kansas and Colorado. In both states, he started a seed-saving and tree-planting program for his students. Throughout his life, he never forgot this beloved childhood book. Afer decades of searching, he cried when he found it at last. Toby is his early birthday present to himself. Normally, he told me, he is a careful shopper, not impulsive, but “this is a heart decision, not a head decision.”

I cannot imagine a better home for Toby than with this wonderful gentleman, who looks forward to reading the tale to his two little granddaughters. Amazing, the power of one little chipmunk.

Every time I connect with my friend Julie Mars, I want to write….all the time. I was lucky enough to see Julie on Friday in New York. Her novel, Anybody, Any Minute was recently published and she had a reading in The Village.

The book follows the life of a middle-aged woman who has what Julie refers to as a “nervous breakthrough” and purchases a house on a credit card advance in upstate New York. The characters are complex yet very lovable; the story comes full circle leaving you feel like you just ate a great meal but didn’t gorge yourself. It also sends the message that Anybody Any Minute (duh) can come into your life and change it. Julie in many ways has done that for me and I’m really proud to call her my friend.

I took my first writer’s workshop with Julie at the Taos Summer Writer’s conference almost exactly two years ago. It was a workshop in which you had to share your writing with the group and I was scared s*@tless that I wouldn’t measure up. I imagined a pretentious teacher and annoying workshop people and found just the opposite. It was back then that Julie told me that someday I would have a column of my own. She could see it. When someone who is not your mother tells you these things (and that person happens to be a published author), you can’t help but be inspired.

Since then, I’ve done writing work with Julie in Costa Rica and visited with her out in New Mexico. We talk several times a month about life and writing. She asks the best questions of me – and I always leave our conversations thoughtful and appropriately agitated about my life. It’s truly hard to be a writer – and trust that you are doing the art any justice at all. But when I heard her read the wonderful string of words from Anybody Any Minute on Friday, I was newly inspired to push my writing even further.

Julie has told me she hates getting her picture taken but this is one of my favorites of her so I hope she won’t mind if I POST IT IN CYBERSPACE FOR EVERYONE TO SEE. It was a beautiful sunset on Playa Grande in Costa Rica. No one wanted to swim but Julie. I personally was thinking of Jaws – so there was NFW I was getting in the water no matter how inviting it looked. But she just waded out and swam – totally free from the hang ups and fears that anchored the rest of us on the beach. A metaphor for writing. A metaphor for life.

Trust me, he’s more thrilled with it than he appears to be in this photo.

Especially when Mag Swag is involved. Sick.

Carrying on a family tradition that extends back to his maternal grandmother, he is also excited every month when the new MAD Magazine arrives. The trick is to find stuff he wants to read. And then he will.

You may have heard that last weekend we lost a really cool Mother of Brothers. “Mommy” from the Family Circus died of Alzheimer’s at the age of 82. In real life, she was Thelma, Bil Keane’s wife of 60 years. The Associated Press story reported Bil as saying:

“When the cartoon first appeared, she looked so much like Mommy that when she was in the supermarket pushing her cart around, people would come up to her and say

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]]> http://mothersofbrothers.com/joining-the-circus/feed/ 1 http://mothersofbrothers.com/what-is-the-what/ http://mothersofbrothers.com/what-is-the-what/#comments Mon, 19 May 2008 12:43:34 +0000 Jennifer http://mothersofbrothers.com/?p=24

A new kind of sharing has arisen in our house. Hugh asks, “Mom, where is What is the What?” I tell him it’s on my bedside table. He transports it into his room and reads avidly, and when my day is done, I tiptoe in and retrieve it from next to his bed.

Shortly after opening this book by Dave Eggers, the story of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan so captivated me that I mentioned it to Hugh. He became so intrigued that he started reading it whenever I put it down.

From the time they were babies, we read to the boys day and night. Board books, picture books, alphabet books, chapter books. I read Goodnight Moon so many thousands of times that, chanting the lovely hypnotic words by heart, I began searching the illustrations for decorating ideas. (Stylish curtains! Bold paint!)

As Dr. Seuss and Curious George gave way to the Berenstain Bears (not my choice, mind you, and a phase that couldn’t end quickly enough), we moved onto Charlotte’s Web and Harry Potter, and reading happened at bedtime. None of us took a shine to a Series of Unfortunate Events. Our family still uses phrases from otherwise forgotten books checked out of long-ago libraries: “Odd! Very odd!” or “It shall be done!”

One stormy summer Saturday afternoon a few years ago, we snuggled on the couch as I read chapter after chapter of Holes, until my voice was strained and we reached the end. The boys still talk about that day, when we did the crazy marathon reading session and the rain drummed down on the porch outside.

That was reading TO them. Reading TOGETHER means reading the same book on the same day at different times, then discussing it. It’s a whole new chapter in our literary lives.

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