Several weeks ago, Sammy used his time during Writer's Workshop (a center during class where his teacher leaves nice stationary on a table for children to write letters on) to write a letter to his dad. In his daily journal, he wrote about his experience. Due to it's extreme heartwarming quality, she copied it and sent a copy home for us.
(in translation) I gave my envelope. It said, "Dear Dad, You are the best dad I know. Do you love me?" Yes, I do. Then he gave me a hug. It felt warm and safe.
When I read this to Sam, he said, "I forgot to write, 'He said' before I wrote 'yes, I do.' Looks like they are teaching that sweet boy a thing or two in kindergarten.
Then, this weekend, he had a minor bike accident and our neighbor came to our front door to let us know that Sammy was hurt and crying down the street. Who do you think ran, and carried Sam and his bike home? His daddy. Who cleaned out his scrapes and cuts? His daddy. Who expertly put band-aids on every single ow-ie? You guessed it.
Nothing stops the tears quite like needing them to show you all their hurts for a picture. Try it next time.
He was quite accomodating when I wanted a follow-up picture. He made sure I could see ALL the band-aids. (The one on the chin is hard to see).
Even with that statuesque pose - I missed one.
Looks like Sam isn't the only one who feels warm and safe.
There's something about pinkeye that seems undignified. It's one of those ailments/diseases that hangs out with lice and ringworm. I mean, it doesn't - it's caused by a virus...not a parasite or fungus - but it's definitely got the gross factor.
When I received a call from Sam's school last Wednesday telling me to come pick him up because he had....ahem...pinkeye, I felt the negative stigma immediately. Get your kid out of here!
Knowing they'd only send him back home if I sent him to school, I kept the poor, bored child home with me on both Thursday and Friday. Saturday, the happy, blissful day that it was, ended with my own eye itching and filling with mucous and come Sunday morning, I had to get a washcloth wet and hot in order to pry my eyelid open.
Henry also woke up with both of his eyes gunky and if it hadn't been the Primary program, I would have kept both he and myself home. As it was, we went - red eyes and all, and watched the crowd part to let us through with our beastly germs.
I have it in both eyes now - making me look stressed and weepy. In fact, during Henry's speech therapy appointment today, his speech therapist asked me THREE times if I was o.k. It was always immediately after she finished explaining something that Henry needed work on and finally, after the third time, she said, "You look like you're on the brink of tears."
I do look a little sad, here, but I'm not. Life's still good. Except for the eye disease.
So - the big news is I've found myself a bookgroup! I rank finding a bookgroup I enjoy right up there with finding an OB/GYN, hair stylist, pediatrician, dentist, and babysitter after a move. I'm simply not settled until I have a group with whom I can meet and discuss things.
I was told the group planned on discussing Away by Amy Bloom, so I hoped beyond hope that I could find it at the library instead of buying the unproven book. I did and I'm lucky I did.
This is NOT a book I enjoyed. Apparently, Amy Bloom is a successful short story author and Away is her first attempt at a novel. Unfortunately for us readers, Away, while a novel's size in length, does not contain a novel's size plot. It has lots of side stories and a sort of light at the end of the tunnel to get you to keep reading, but a journey is not a plot and I found myself weary of the main character, Lillian Leyb, and her journey to find her possibly alive daughter, Sophie.
More than that, I found Lillian's character, the one and only consistant character from beginning to end, to be underdeveloped. I knew the kinds of shoes she wore, but I was given very little information about her personality. Did she enjoy being a mother? Did she love her husband? Does she want to be an American? The author writes her as extremely motivated without detailing her motivation. It's frustrating.
Her story begins as she looks for work and opportunity as a newly landed immigrant in New York City during the 1920s. Destitute and alone after the murder of her family in Russia, there is a coldness and lack of feelings to her actions. She seems to believe and act upon the philosophy that a desired end justifies any means.
Again, the story flounders because Bloom never really tells us what end Lillian wants. For the first 100 pages, she seems to merely want security but not necessarily happiness. When she receives news of her daughter who is possibly alive and possibly living in Siberia, the story suddenly changes and her sole desire is her daughter. The story's dramatic change from an immigrant's survival guide to a not-without-my-daughter drama doesn't work. The stories aren't really necessary tied together and the novel unravels into a series of short stories - none of which are particularly enjoyable as they each describe Lillian among the morally bankrupt as she impossibly attempts to find her daughter.
The delays and harships along the way (and along the way I mean from New York to Siberia via Alaska) have an almost circus-like horror to them. Any one of the situations Bloom puts Lillian in, starting with the massacre she witnesses while still in Russia) would be enough to defeat the strongest of women - if not kill them. Add to the implausibility of Lillian's survival the lack of background development to even care that mother and daughter are reunited and Away becomes a very fragmented and unfulfilling story.
I am particularly sunny today. Do you want to know why?
Because Seth woke up with Henry and got him milk - giving me (in theory. I still woke up because that's what mom's do) an extra hour in bed. I'd say sleep but I've already explained the difference.
Because Pamela's Gluten-Free Pancake and Baking Mix tastes so close to normal pancake mix that I actually look forward to pancakes again.
Because I have already finished creating, printing AND folding the primary programs for tomorrow's Sacrament Meeting presentation. I have no idea why I normally procrastinate things like this until late Saturday night because this feeling of already being ready is invigorating! Of course, I still have to think of something to do for singing time.
Because Jay bought me a treadmill. O.K. It's not really mine, but he knew I wanted one. However, they are expensive and we aren't in buying-big-ticket-items mode so I've done a lot more wishing for than looking for. Jay, on the other hand, did a whole bunch of research and bought a way nicer treadmill than I ever would have done. The fact that he did this makes me giddy.
Because my hair straightened really well today.
Because it's 70 degrees and beautiful outside.
Because I am going on a date with my handsome husband, something we have not done in a long time, and I already have a babysitter.
Because, even though we are planning on seeing Eagle Eye, which does not have very good reviews, we'll still get popcorn and a jumbo drink to share, which tastes better than microwave popcorn and canned soda.
Last night, while introducing myself to a group of women at a bookclub I've been invited to join, I answered a question about in which part of town I lived.
After hearing the name of my neighborhood, one of the women commented that I must know Melissa, who also happens to live in the same neighborhood.
Still unfamiliar with most names, I pursed my brow and asked, "Who is Melissa again?"
She pointed to a pretty woman in a black turtleneck sweater, currently hugging the hostess and talking to several other women surrounding her.
"No. I haven't had a chance to meet her yet. But, that's fun that someone else so close to me is in the same bookgroup!" I enthusiastically added.
Unfortunately for my reputation of having a good memory, Melissa walked over to me and said, "Hey, neighbor!"
Apparently we are neighbors.
Next door neighbors.
As in, our bedroom windows face each other and my kids have made all sorts of skid marks on her steep driveway as they've raced down.
It's bad, but it's not quite as bad as having no recollection of the first time I met Jay!
Guernsey is a small Island in the English Channel that was controlled for five years by German forces during World War II. After the war, a young female British author, Juliet Ashton, finds herself unwillingly on a book tour to promote her book, Izzy Bickerstaff Goes To War. She's tired of the war, tired of writing under a pseudonym and tired of trying to be funny and lighthearted about such a horrible topic. Unfortunately, her mind draws a blank when it comes to knowing what else to write about. All of this information is delightfully given through amusing letters to her editor, Sidney.
While on tour, she receives a letter written by Dawsey Adams, a native of Guernsey, who has stumbled across her name written in a book by Charles Lamb. Seeking more information on this author, Juliet and Dawsey begin a correspondence that soon involves a dozen or so members of what is known as the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.
The letters include informations about the conditions during the War, zany character sketches that Island life seems to be best at producing and an emerging story that Juliet eventually realizes is her next book topic. To gather more information for her book, she decides to travel to Guernsey to meet these people she has come to know through letters face-to-face.
I have to include one fabulous quote. It will put a smile on the face of any blogger that has risked a meeting with a fellow blogger for the first time:
As the mail boat lurched into the harbor, I saw St. Peter Port rising up from the sea on terraces, with a church on the top like a cake decoration, and I realized that my heart was galloping. As much as I tried to persuade myself it was the thrill of the scenery, I knew better. All those people I've come to know and even love a little, waiting to see -- me. And I, without any paper to hide behind. Sidney, in these past two or three years, I have become better at writing than living -- and think what you do to my writing. On the page, I'm perfectly charming, but that's just a trick I learned. It has nothing to do with me. At least, that's what I was thinking as the mail boat came toward the pier. I had a cowardly impulse to throw my red cape overboard and pretend I was someone else.
In spite of it's long and confusing title, this is a book I happily recommend to everyone. It's chaming, uplifting, well written, funny, clean, historical, romantic and, best of all...a very easy read. I've read a few disparaging reviews that attack the book for being World War II fluff or not an accurate representation of what a female author in 1946 would sound like in letters. To them I say...fiddlesticks. If you want the nitty gritty of World War II or a proper British tone, have at a long list of other books already available.
If, however, you want to jump into small-town life on Guernsey, remember the thrill of letter writing, and enjoy a collaborative "na-na-na-na-na-na!" at resident busy-body Adelaide Addison - read this book! I have a happy hunch you won't be disappointed.
I saw this on a few of my friends' blogs and loved the focused perspective it gives to a moment. I am going to try and type the first thing that comes to my head.
i am...overly sensitive. i think...all the time. i know...my limits. i want...to want less. i have...a dead tooth I need to fix. i dislike...exaggeration. i miss...dancing with abandon. i fear...overhearing someone making fun of me. i feel...hungry. i hear...Henry not falling asleep. i smell...the room warmed by sunshine. i crave...tootsie rolls. i cry...silently. i usually...keep up with what's going on in the world. i search...for truth. i wonder...if the Wiggles really enjoy singing for children. i regret...spending too much time waiting for tomorrow. i love...my family. i worry...that my children deserve better. i am not...easily persuaded. i remember...thinking I looked good in flannel. i believe...there is a Plan of Happiness. i dance...when I'm unloading the dishwasher. i don't...think the world is as bad as the news makes it out to be. i write...what I wish I could say. i win...quietly. i lose...my sunglasses. A lot. i wish...I were in the best shape of my life. i listen...for the garage door around dinner time. i don't understand...why people can't see both sides. i can usually be found...with several books checked out under my name. i am scared...of all sorts of bugs. i need to lose...my usual excuses. i forget...to do my visiting teaching WAY too often. i am happy...that I never legally changed my name to Diane in 7th grade.
I've already written about #21 (I didn't go to church my sophomore year of college), so thought I'd skip on down to #22 - I'm afraid of rejection.
Oh, the stories I could tell about this one. Boys to whom I never spoke. Auditions for which I never showed.
Words I've never written.
If you're a blogger or reader of blogs (which, with my keen logic I've proven you to be), you've probably thought about or discussed the authenticity of various blogs.
Sometimes I worry if I'm writing my reality or if I only write the part of my reality that I'm confident will be approved of by the public. The internet can be a cruel thing, and while I've never been left a nasty comment (on my own blog at least), I've seen truly mean-spirited things left on others. Horrible stuff. Personal stuff. Who wants their words, or themselves, to be attacked like that?
Not me.
That being said, I appreciate honesty. Candor. Sincerity. You can disagree with me (not that I'm a big provider of controversy) I'm not afraid of your opinions. Afraid of someone telling me I'm fat, stupid and shallow? Yes.
There are things I'd like to write about but I don't because of my fear. I fear that someone will read it and not understand my motives for sharing. I fear that someone will read it and not care. I suppose I also fear that no one will read it at all.
It's a precarious thing - writing a safe reality.
There are times I wonder if my blog merely gives others a better view in which to pass judgment. On my overuse of parenthetical comments (I can't help myself sometimes) , my priorities, my reading material. Honestly, if I really take the time to think about it, I begin to wonder why I take the risk at all.
A Town Like Alice reminds me so much of my favorite book, Mrs. Mike. Both catalog the difficulties and triumphs of living in remote areas. Both are historical. Both have a strong and engaging female protagonist who are in love with a man responsibly tied to a piece of land. Neither are fluffy Harlequins but make that pit in the bottom of your stomach churn with romance.
In short, I loved it. A Town Like Alice follows Jean Paget, a Scottish woman who was raised by her parents in Malay (now known as Malaysia), returns to work there as an adult and ultimately finds herself trapped there as a Prisoner of War when the Japanese invade the Island during World War II.
Her captivity is accurately described as horrible, with starvation and long marches from town to town killing many women and children. But, it also shows that unique ability of women to nurture, even in the most degrading situations. When she meets Joe Harman, an Australian ringger (cowboy) and fellow POW, he tells Jean about his home and work near Alice Springs, a bonza town in the heart of the Outback. The two extremely lonely and isolated characters become friends. Eventually, when Joe steals five chickens to feed the sick and hungry women and children, Jean is interrogated and punished until Joe confesses and is later crucified by a cruel Japanese leader.
The story's narration is directed by an elderly British attorney, Noel Strachan, who is put in charge of a trust Jean's uncle leaves her. Even with the narration in his control, most of the story is told through Jean sharing her memories to Noel. Eventually, I found Noel's involvement and third party perspective very satisfying, mostly because it allowed the author to cover a greater amount of time without seeming overly jumpy.
The book was written in 1950 and feels like it at times. The attitudes of segregation and thoughtless charactitures of minorities creates feelings of discomfort at times. It's not done with malice, and the story isn't about racial barriers at all, so I didn't find it offensive. If anything, it allows an unapologetic view that probably most white people had at the time - which is actually an interesting glimpse on its own.
I appreciated this book - for its less frequently told story of female prisoners of war and for its celebration of the human spirit.
There are several contributing factors for our recent social hiatus. Jay's health, the art of moving and plenty of family nearby all influenced the lack of invitations sent out from our home after leaving Spokane almost a year and a half ago. In other words, we didn't have non-bloods over very often. O.K. Ever.
Oh sure, I hosted book group twice which involved people not related to either Jay or myself coming over for food and fun, but it didn't involve Jay, and it didn't involve families.
I've felt bad that we've been here for four months now and still haven't hosted anyone but family as of yet. Jay's health makes it almost impossible for him to eat, drink AND be merry in front of people, so I try and respect that. But yesterday, I woke up feeling social.
After asking what he could do for me that day, I requested having friends over for dinner. Not only did he acquiesce, he offered up his rapidly-approaching-famous Chile Verde for the menu.
It may surprise most that I feel all fidgety and nervous when hostessing. Referring back to my lack of organizational skills, the day almost always finds me running around to find things I am suddenly convinced are absolutely essential. Add the element of food, which is always temperamental when aiming to impress, and my children, whose hyperactivity is always heightened around guests, and I fret.
Thankfully, the evening went off without a hitch, mostly due to our cool guests. John and Michelle and four of their children came, ate, played and generally solidified our good impressions of them.
One angle. The adults, Seth, Elise and Seth (I know! It was kind of confusing but also fun) played The Great Dalmuti. Guess who reigned almost the entire night? (Moi!)
A better angle of the good-looking crowd.
So, here's to being social. I really hope we don't wait a year and a half to do it again.
One of the perks of living in Jay's hometown is his knowledge of area trails. What might take months or years to discover for the typical newcomer, Jay has already tried, tested and organized into easy, medium or hard for the rest of us. No trail books for us!
He suggested a late-morning hike with the kids along an easy city trail. Eager for my own fund of knowledge, I happily agreed.
We all had a great time walking up the gentle slope to view the town below. Along the way, Sam collected leaves for an upcoming Kindergarten project, Seth talked non-stop about something (I forget) and Henry impressed me by walking the entire mile up just like his big brothers.
I really do love where we live. I love the access to the mountains, the opportunities for being outdoors and the variety of both to choose from. Mostly, I loved the time we spent together as a family doing something fun.
The beautiful hostess was interviewing a famous fitness celebrity whose face is a blur, but then she surprised me when she announced that Brandi would be giving the latest update about T-Tapp.
Brandi, who was wearing a purple leotard with a black belt and who also happened to have very big hair, talked about the new T-Tapp DVD and suddenly, Brandi was interviewing me via WebCam urging me to share my success story about perkier pecks. I was paralyzed with fear.
So, I sat there, in my chair, chin down, head out, afraid to stand up.
Thankfully, my stalling frustrated the interview and Brandi turned it over to Body By Jake.
I understand every part of my dream except who the fictional Brandi was.
West Jordan is annoyingly far away from the University of Utah (so, so sorry Jay)
Utahans LOVE (or might be slightly obsessed with) all things Halloween.
They might be equally obsessed with having no body hair.
There were so many billboards that I googled "Salt Lake Area Laser Hair Removal". This is only the first ten hits. It goes on and on and on from here.
Seeing so many temples within thirty minutes of each other makes my bosom burn.
David Archuletta has a hit song AND a corn maze in his image!
There are a lot less Subarus per family than where I live.
I am willing to drive to Utah in order for Sam's and Henry's eyes to be treated by the best.
After Sam and Henry's pediatric eye appointments at the Moran Eye Center at Primary Children's Hospital. Like Sam's fancy glasses? He had his eyes dilated and they bugged him the rest of the day.
Both pairs of Henry's glasses were broken and both were fixed (in Utah, where they were under warranty). Notice this pair is already crooked? He walked into something. Two year-olds are really hard on glasses.
Melanie B. is a superwoman (the woman just had a baby and is still leading Music Makers!).
I adore these women. Becky and Melanie are both incredible friends who I am fortunate to have crossed paths with. Little Aiden is beautiful.
You have to be an aggressive driver to survive on I-15.
Running yellow/red lights is equally important to survival (contrary to rational thought).
A late night chat with a girlfriend will give me a lift that lasts for days. As will a scrumptious cookie (Thanks Amy!)
I feel frumpy at the mall (seriously. Utah women are gorgeous!).
My sister-in-law, Kelly, is really fun.
Playing barbie go-fish (or princess or something that I don't understand in my boy-centered world).
Nothing like a cousin hug.
My sisters love me.
My sisters love my children.
My children equally love my sisters.
Playing football in their new coats behind Maureen's place where we stayed.
There is no such thing as too much Cafe Rio.
Other than that, eating in Utah is a competitive event.
Highway 6 is a death trap.
Seeing the Y on the mountain makes me smile. Especially all lit up.
I made some dang good friends in one short year.
Hannah and Amie came to meet me at a Carl's Jr. of all such places. They must really like me! (sorry we didn't do the picture before you left, Amie! Although, I am aware of your sneaky ways...)
While my #14 seems rather benign at first sight, believe me, it's caused all sorts of havoc in my heart this week.
I took my pictures on Tuesday - on time- peeling off the outermost layer of my less-than-organized onion...my home.
Shoes. Luckily, I am not a huge shoe buyer so I can usually find the pair I need.
Not bad. Except for the giant box of who-knows-what taking up most of the room.
The pantry. I have a general idea where things are, but no one else does.
Home organization is clearly something that I struggle with. I'm not a dirty person, just cluttered and ineffective. That's when the lightbulb went on and I realized my ineptitude concerning organization isn't confined to the boundaries of my closets, garage and refrigerator. I am HORRIBLE at life organization.
I don't organize my time well.
I don't organize my children's time well.
I don't organize my priorities.
I don't organize my responsibilities.
I don't organize my relationships.
My entire life is haphazardly arranged.
Suddenly, this tame SPT had me reeling with feelings of woulda-coulda-shoulda. After all, I am taught that my house (insert life) should be a house of order. So I really, really tried this week.
I attempted to revamp the chore chart. Marginal success. Why is it so hard to teach my children to work?
I attempted to re-prioritize exercise each day. Why do I lose my mojo at the start of each season? The mornings get soooo cold!
I attempted to have a healthy balanced meal for dinner each evening. So far, so good. But who am I kidding? Four nights in a row is about my limit.
I attempted to keep my house picked up, including laundry, beds made, bathrooms wiped, each and every day. I've done it. But today, I don't feel like it.
What I haven't done is spend very much time on the computer. Which is fine and lots of people would say is great, but it means I haven't blogged and I like blogging. It is one of my primary hobbies and we're supposed to have time for hobbies. Which means I'm not doing a very good job at being ORGANIZED!
I'm not giving up. I really don't want #14 to stay on my list anymore. It's not a part of my life I'm satisfied with. Someday, I hope to replace it with, "My life used to be unorganized." We'll see.
I re-organized the fridge as a show of good faith. And because it was gross.
This book will get me up to date and hopefully I'll lose that feeling of being behind and unorganized. Maybe. At least in this area of my life.
This was another book I saw on the most commonly banned book shelf at my library. I may have read it before, because I sort of knew the story already. Although if I did, it was when I was much too young to understand the depths of this novel.
I loved it. I really loved it. I even cried at the end, which is so, so rare these days (unless I read Nicholas Sparks who always seems to get me at the end. Blast him.).
Charlie Gordon is a thirty-two mentally retarded man with an IQ of 70. He works as a janitor and errand boy in a bakery and considers his life good and happy because he has lots and lots of friends. He is aware, however, of not being very smart. He thinks if he can learn to read and write properly, he'll be smart and able to understand and participate in what everyone else is talking about.
When an opportunity to undergo an experimental surgery as part of a neuro-psychological study to artificially increase intelligence arises, he happily signs on. He can't wait to become smart.
Algernon is the name of a mouse who has reached unprecedented levels of intelligence following the same surgical procedure. Charlie, the first human subject, mirrors Algernon's success and reaches levels of intelligence far beyond what the doctors behind the study are capable of understanding. Alongside his increased intelligence are emerging emotional capabilities, such as romantic feelings towards women, and troubling memories he was previously unable to remember or understand with his lower IQ, about his childhood and friends.
The entire story is important and poignant. The author, Daniel Keyes, includes part of Plato's, The Republic, to begin the story. Plato writes:
Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderment of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye; and he who remembers this when he sees any one whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of man has come out of the brighter life, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light. And he will count the one happy in his condition and state of being, and he will pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from below into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh which greets him who returns from above out of the light into the den.
I don't know if he read Plato's words and then wrote this story, or if he serendipitously found it afterward, but it is the perfect prologue. As Charlie adjusts his sight from living in the den of his limited mind to the brighter light of understanding, the growing pains the rest of us have had years to adjust and become accustomed to, are uncomfortable and awkward.
Likewise, at the peak of Charlie's intelligence, when he viewed the world around him in the brightest light possible, Charlie understands the flaws of the experiment that those who developed it were unable to see. With that understanding, the tragedy of watching him lose his grip on so much knowledge feels overwhelming.
As far as being commonly banned, I have no idea, at all, how this could be. The only thing even mildly questionable, to me, is Charlie's struggle to come to terms with the negative sexual conditioning he received from his mother as a boy. As he begins to express the feelings he has for women in general, and specifically towards Alice, a woman he loves, he struggles to understand, beyond theoretically, the complexities of the male-female relationship. While these situations are included, I actually think it's a critical part of the discussion of light and dark. Perhaps not for middle schoolers, but definitely for those of us who live with our own conditioning and judgment.
I highly recommend reading this. Even if you know you've read it long ago for school, read it again as an adult. And then test your own eyes.
I've never read Kurt Vonnegut, but have been told by enough readers that he's one of their favorite authors to pick up one of his books. When I passed by a shelf at my library that was full of the most commonly banned books in America, and found Slaughterhouse Five, with its distinctive "V" embellishing the front cover in plain view, I thought to my rebel self, "Perfect."
On any given day, I'm going to be an opponent of book banning. If any one person has a problem with a book, I fully embrace that person's agency to not read, never read, and with as much influence as they believe they have, persuade others to do the same.
to prohibit, forbid, or bar; interdict: to ban nuclear weapons; The dictator banned all newspapers and books that criticized his regime.
2.
Archaic.
a.
to pronounce an ecclesiastical curse upon.
b.
to curse; execrate.
Waaaaay too extreme an action for this book, and, really, for any book. Notice the sentence in italics used above. Notice it contained the word "dictator".
Banned or not, I found Vonnegut's part memoir/part novel about free will and war in general, but the bombing campaign against Dresden, Germany during World War II in particular, to be extremely provocative.
The plot is not your straightforward, everyday war novel plot. Rather, Vonnegut puts his character, Billy Pilgrim, an unambitious and fearful optometrist from New York, in the war and makes him the unwilling companion of a psychopath. As Billy becomes "unstuck in time" and later abducted by aliens from the planet Tralfamadore, the novel takes several unexpected twists.
It sounds weird, which it is, but not overly so. Somehow, even when describing the Tralfamadorian's ability to see in four dimensions, their ability to see everything that has ever happened at once but their choice to concentrate instead on any one moment of their lives, the hands that comes out of their bodies pointing straight up and their telepathic communication, it doesn't seem like a gimmick. Not only does it provide comic relief to a horrific subject matter, but it also allows Vonnegut to write a parallel perspective - perhaps his but probably more what he thinks the masses believe. As Billy Pilgrim narrates each scene, he does so with this Tralfamadorian understanding of time. The atrocities he faces in the rail car that takes him from France to Germany as a POW, the complete destruction and death of a once beautiful city and the execution of a good man are written with the matter-of factness and reality that would have been impossible for him to describe in detail otherwise.
I think part of the uproar, if there still is any, is over its age appropriateness. I know this is required reading for a lot of high school students, and while I think a mature and interested reader could appreciate the opinion Vonnegut attempts to give form to, the language, description and attitude of the book could easily offend many a student and parent.
It would be a hard thing to be an English teacher and give a "required reading list" to your class. You want to choose books that create discussion and trigger thought, which this book certainly does. However, just as I feel no book should truly be banned, I equally feel that every reader should have a choice as to what they read. But then, how do you have a class? I don't know.
I cannot remember who recommended this to me, but I'm fairly certain I was told to read it because it's not the kind of book I normally check out. Jay - yes. Me - no.
I knew right away that it might not be my kind of book after seeing the rave reviews by both Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity on the back cover. Hmmmm. In spite of their warning, I forged ahead.
The Last Jihad takes place in 2011 - ten years after the the World Trade Center attacks and enough time later for the current president to have persuaded the American people that he's just about vanquished every foe. With a 70% approval rating and the economy stronger than ever, the War on Terror is declared won.
During his victory tour in his hometown of Denver, Colorado (described with annoying detail. O.K. I believe you. You've been to Denver), his motorcade is attacked by a kamikaze pilot.
This attack is coordinated by none other than Saddam Hussein, who the author unfortunately didn't realize would be an obsolete bad guy when he wrote this in 2001. It was hard to muster up the anxiety about a nuclear attack on Israel, and the United State's own necessary response because the villains were who they were. I know I could have replaced Saddam with an actual living bad guy, but with its cheesy dialogue and a cast of confusing characters - it required too much effort.
I passed the book to Jay when I was done, thinking he might enjoy it and he returned it to the library after only a few short chapters. He told me, "If this is what you think the books I read are like, then you must think I'm some sort of idiot."
I stand corrected.
(I'm so not going to get away with this comment after describing his head as "not petite." I'm still digging myself out of that hole).
I think Nora Roberts is an almost David Sedaris. Not quite as funny, probably because her topics are safer and less random. She writes about female things, with great wit and perspective, and I enjoyed each chapter. However, it's been several weeks and now I find the entire book a bit unmemorable. Regardless, it was a nice lighthearted, pick-up-when-I-only-have-a-few-minutes-to-read kind of book.
Originally written in Spanish and a European best-seller after it was published in 2001, Carlos Ruiz Zafón's book, Shadow of the Wind, was translated into English in 2004 and has become a best-seller in the United States as well.
In addition to its commercial success, I have only heard good things about this book from readers I respect. With that kind of eager anticipation, I delved into this book, finishing it in two days.
Daniel Sempere and his father own a rare bookstore set in post Spanish Civil War Barcelona, where they have lived alone together after his mother died in his early youth. When Daniel is ten years-old, his father takes him to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, to choose a novel in its midst to take care of and insure against being lost forever. Daniel chooses a book entitled The Shadow of the Wind, written by Julian Carax. He begins reading his new treasure that very night and, completely engrossed, finishes it by the next day.
Determined to find more books written by Carax, Daniel soon learns that the book and its author are surrounded by shadows. For years, an unknown person identifying himself as a character in Carax's book, Lain Coubert, whose name means "The Devil", has been collecting all of Carax's books wherever they are and burning them. When he learns of Daniel's ownership and subsequent inquiries, he corners Daniel on the streets of Barcelona and warns him of what will happen if he doesn't hand over his copy of The Shadow of the Wind. To preserve the endangered book, he once again hides it in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books and continues his quest to find out what happened to Carax.
The language throughout the entire novel is truly beautiful. I remember at one point, early in the novel, the author casually using the word "nib" in place of pen and thinking, "This is a translation?" The prose can be really fancy at times, but as the characters' lives are surrounded by great books, it doesn't seem out of place or pompous to use these less familiar words.
The plot is complicated and well developed. I honestly didn't know who the bad guy burning all the books was until the guy I thought it was was killed. The pace fantastically pulsed and the mixture of romance, suspense and history were all tastefully woven together.
With that gushing aside, I found myself a little disappointed with this book. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting, but I know it was more than The Shadow of the Wind offered. I fear my disappointment is a result of the classic case of having too high of expectations.
My main disappointment involves the characters, their motivation and their perspectives. There are many characters throughout the book, past and present day, and there was one I absolutely fell in ove with, Fermin Romero de Torres - Daniel's hilarious, enthusiastic, and unbalanced sidekick. His humor and methods of getting things done gave the story a very necessary comedic lift. Besides Fermin and probably Daniel's father, however, who isn't even very well developed, the rest of the characters had me wondering at their extreme behavior.
It begins with Daniel, at age ten, when he becomes obsessed with beautiful, older and blind Clara, a woman who, thankfully, is not equally infatuated with Daniel. Clara never seems to possess any quality, other than being blind and requiring being read to, that warrants Daniel's unwavering love. I didn't understand his motivation to become so completely romantically devoted to a woman at such a young age and I don't feel like it was explained, either. He simply was. Until he caught her in flagrante delicato with her piano teacher. And then he wasn't.
Almost all of the supporting characters do extreme things or are punished extremely for doing normal things. Every woman who has sex the first time gets pregnant. Every father of said daughters tries to kill the impregnator. Every friend of a boy who falls in love ends up hating his friend. There is just a lot of insane people. It's all very dramatic. Which makes for an interesting story, but not altogether very likely.
There is also some perspective problems. Frequently throughout the story, Daniel unravels Carax's past by listening to Carax's peers recall their memories. Each time, the person remembers things that they could not have known. They weren't there. Looks or words between a couple. Promises made in secret. It happens with Carax's boyhood friend who becomes a priest. It happens again with Penelope's, Carax's love interest, nanny, and again with a woman who worked at the company where Carax's books were published. By the end, this flagrant abuse of recollection bothered me. As interesting as Daniel's first person narrative was, if more information was needed to fill in the holes, an omnipresent third person narrative seems more honest and appropriate.
Sadly, this is what I do when books fail to meet their expectations. The imperfections glare at me and I mention them - even when a book is really good. And this book is really good. It just fell short of its hype.
This is exactly like the parable of the virgins! It's been almost two years since I originally wrote "100 Things About Me" and I admit to feeling smugly accomplished in the past by my easily written list. I've seen many eloquent and more descriptive 100's lists but defended my own random thought process, thinking, "It's good enough. I mean, it's not like they are handing out grades for these!"
#7 - I wish my hair could be wet all of the time. It just feels better.
Straight into my soul, huh?
Because inquiring minds want to know - I'll explain why I prefer wet hair to dry hair.
I have very fine hair. I have never had a stylist touch my hair without first exclaiming, "You have very fine hair and a lot of it!" That very fine hair has a funky cowlick in front. That very fine hair curls up in most places, except right at my nape, and that very fine hair gets oily and stringy looking at the end of the day. If I straighten it, it's flat. If I don't, it's snarly. I don't love my hair.
However, if you simply wet it down and comb it out, none of those problems matter. It's just hair - with very low expectations placed upon it.
Besides, if I do happen to have wet hair, it means I have usually just finished an evening bath - which I adore, or a long shower - never short - because once I get in, I can never see the point of rushing. It's quiet time. I'm warm. And I usually smell good.
Especially my wet hair.
I took this last night after reading in the bath. However, I said nothing about preferring a pale, pasty face with dark circles under my eyes to wearing make-up. So....
I read your blogs. I do. You may not think I do. But I do.
I know that you just went on a trip, that you've had company, that your husband has a new job, that your kids are BUSY, that you are incredibly talented and have the cutest kids ever.
I know what you've been reading, you've been sick, you've had a haircut, and that you've had company.
I know all about you because I like you and I read your blog.
I just read them on Google Reader and tell myself I'll click on over to make a comment when I have more time.
Like this morning.
Only, my computer seems to think running on dial-up speed is a good idea. I try to be patient, to stick to the plan of leaving a comment, but if the page takes more than a minute to open, I just can't do it.
I don't know why my computer is running so slowly, lately. We have a wireless modem and recently moved our computer to the living room and hallway's length away from base camp, so perhaps that's the problem. In any case, because my hour is up and I need to get moving, let this tide you over until I can make it a bit more personal.
"Wow. Looks like you've been (busy, on the go, enjoying yourself, having a hard time, letting the creative juices flow). I think you're fantastic (I really do).
After several crushes in high school, a few of my close friends noticed that I seemed to always go for the same kind of guy.
It had nothing to do with how smart he was.
It had nothing to do with religion.
It had nothing to do with money or his groups of friends or even his particular talents.
Apparently, I tended to fall for guys that had long necks and small heads.
At least that is how they were described to me. I still don't acknowledge this particular preference as I married Jay based largely on attraction and he resembles neither a giraffe nor has a particularly petite noggin.
If I seem to prefer elongated necks and smaller heads on guys, based on who I am drawn to, then I must admit that it seems I have a type when it comes to girls as well.
During medical school, one of my dear friends was Christi. She is model tall. Long legs, super slim, and chalk full of talent (baking, quilting, typing).
During residency, one of my dear friends was KariAnn. She is model tall. Long legs, super slim and chalk full of talent (photography, furniture making, decorating).
During fellowship last year, I became great friends with Amy. She is model tall. Long legs, super slim and chalk full of talent (photography, art, scrapbooking, design).
I've met a lot of very awesome people here already, but ever since we have known that we were going to live here, I have wanted to become good friends with Michelle. Since Jay and I have been married and made trips here for Christmases and summer vacations etc., I have seen Michelle and her husband John at church and just knew that we'd be great friends if we ever had the chance to be.
A couple of weeks ago, Michelle invited us over to her home for Sunday dinner. It also happened to be her birthday, which made it a lot more festive, and we met several other families as well. Last night, she called and invited me over to make raspberry/peach jam with her today. When I got off the phone and told Jay what our plans were, he laughed and said, "You always seem to find friends with more domestic skills than you." Well...he didn't say that exactly, but that's what I heard.
Constantly stirring for fifteen minutes!
I spent the majority of the day over at Michelle's making jam, talking, thoroughly enjoying myself and realizing she's every bit as great as I imagined. I don't know why I need to have a model within my circle of friendship, but I'm glad each model I've known has also been genuinely kind, beautiful and happy to share their talents with me.
As for my non tall or non model-thin friends, I love you too. Remember the parable of Jay. And thank you for not describing my body type when describing our friendship. I appreciate that.
How cute are those little jars? Almost as cute as us. Thanks, Michelle!
Thanks to my previous post's foreshadowing, it's no surprise that my parents came to our home for a quick visit. Actually, they justified coming because they would be "passing through" on their way home from Nauvoo. I'm extremely grateful they didn't use MapQuest, because there is no way our little spot on the earth came anywhere close to being "on the way".
They arrived on Tuesday evening and I had a beef enchilada casserole waiting for them. Unfortunately, dinner was the only thing waiting for them as I had to run out the door to retrieve Jay from his parent's house where he was stuck due to car issues.
Wednesday, Henry had his first speech assessment here in the morning and I was glad to have my mother there listening to the comments and consensus from the team of therapists. Sometimes, it's hard to explain to people that Henry actually needs therapy and isn't merely "a little behind." He's made great progress since January since he started, but I was told again that he has a "significant delay" and qualifies for state aid. Something the therapist noticed right away that I don't think the therapist in Utah ever mentioned was that the muscles in his face that make a puckers or are used for blowing don't seem to be actively used. Everyone involved seemed very competent and I'm looking forward to his therapy beginning next week. He'll have in-home therapy once a week for an hour until he's three and then he'll begin some sort of speech therapy at one of the elementary schools.
None of that really had anything to do with my parents being here, but it started getting typed and I wasn't going to delete it all. I've written enough about Henry's speech that I want to document any progress or development. Tangent aside, Wednesday afternoon, Henry and I took my parents to lunch and for a walk downtown. As neither are super fond of wandering into shops that sell touristy t-shirts and ridiculous western wear, the downtown tour was rather brief.
After Seth and Sam came home from school, they all displayed their recently discovered passion of bike riding. We've been here most of the summer, and they never wanted to ride bikes. Now, it's their activity of choice almost every afternoon. Henry has given up on his little tricycle and has taken over the scooter. He's actually pretty good on it and I have to admit - it's pretty darn cute to watch. All three boys got plenty of "ooh"s and "ahh"s and I was pleased that they had admiring grandparents to show off for.
a dark picture but the only one I have with all three boys in it.
Sammy pumping his legs to get uphill on his circus bike. Grandma and Grandpa watching in the background.
Seth showing off his speed on the downhill. He needs a bigger bike too.
I said bigger...not smaller. Seth getting even after I made him lend his bike to Sammy to see if he could ride a bigger bike.
Henry wasn't about to be left out. He can get anywhere he needs to go on this scooter.
Look at me! I'm out in the middle of the street and having a great time!
Thursday, Jay had the day off so we all spent the day traveling on a famous narrow-gauge railway. The morning was chilly, but we had our jackets and sweatshirts, plus a lap blanket, and I thought the day absolutely perfect. The colors were just changing in the mountains and after twelve years of wanting to ride the train, I can finally say I've done it.
In front of the steam-powered engine before departure.
Both pairs of his glasses are currently broken so Henry gets to charm everyone au naturel.
The entire ride was gorgeous, but my camera ran out of batteries on the way. This is only one of several stunning stretches of rail travel.
The colors in high country
It takes three and a half hours to get to a small mining town above 9,000 ft and we spent a couple of hours there eating lunch, finding a place to buy diapers and reading about the bordellos that were in business until the 1950s. That, my friends (and I know I sound like John McCain right there), is a huge difference between men and women. In its heyday, this town grew to about 5,000 people, mostly men hoping to find their fortune mining. Those men supported 41 separate bordello businesses (and if you don't know what that means - bordellos hire ladies of easy virtue and if you don't know what that means - rent a Western). I get that they were lonely and isolated and that they have their "needs", but I'm pretty sure in a similar situation, with lonely and isolated women, you'd have at least 41, if not more, book groups or quilting parties. Wow - I'm really losing my focus here. Getting back to grandparents....
We watched the VP debates on Thursday night and I've realized that as much as I respect my parents, and learn from them, I am a different person. I think differently. And that's o.k. My views aren't opposite of theirs, they aren't even radically different, but we can watch the same thing, hear the same things, and not think the same things. No converting necessary - just appreciation for the agency we have been given.
Friday morning they left and the beautiful weather we had turned into a rain-filled, sock-wearing weekend. I've managed to watch most of conference but missed Saturday morning as I was volunteered my time and talents to dump pre-packaged popcorn into a popcorn maker at the soccer games. It's to support a Cub Scout service project that I wasn't all that enthusiastic about, but I was with Seth and it turned into a good time after all. This kid loves to make a sale. Buyers beware.
Our set-up. We were thankful for the canopy when the rain started.
I had to get a picture of the surroundings. Seth and Sam's school is in the background and I think it's in a spectacular spot.
Sammy calling out "Popcorn for sale!"
Seth taking care of a customer. He really could do it all without me - except for dumping the packages into the hot popper.
Conference was, of course, invigorating. I am so enormously grateful that I have this well nearby for refilling twice a year. I appreciated all of the talks and felt, more than once, that a particular one was meant for me. I think Elder Hales advice about being meek instead of "putting up your dukes" could be applied in a variety of situations, especially in regards to political differences. Wise counsel. President Monson - thank you. Your words came just in time to save me from shouting at the boys to "BE QUIET!" I suppose I'll miss these noisy conference sessions one day. I suppose.
Thank you for your visit, Mom and Dad. It was appreciated and you are welcome anytime. Even if it's only a stop along the way.
After a bustling week, the house is quiet again. The sky is dark and cloudy, the air cool and fall-like (which normally would please me but today it feels joyless) and my parents just left me with a very vexing comment.
"I don't know when we'll see each other next," they say. And they mean it.
I don't know either.
So I suffer.
I'm not in the habit of needing my mom and dad at my side, so this melancholy isn't strictly caused by their leaving. Rather, it seems to have settled in post move. I have realized that few things cause serious introspection as forcibly as relocating.
So, that's what I've been doing today. Pondering the answers to questions like:
"Am I a good friend?"
"Are my children happy?"
"Am I more concerned about Jay's well-being than my own?"
Following last Saturday's inspiring General Relief Society Broadcast, I desperately want to take President Uchtdorf's counsel to heart and apply his message of attaining God's happiness through creating and compassion. But, it takes some effort and is certainly not immediate....so, in the meantime, I blog. Or, create, as I like to call it:)
(in translation)
Nothing stops the tears quite like needing them to show you all their hurts for a picture. Try it next time.
Even with that statuesque pose - I missed one.
Looks like Sam isn't the only one who feels warm and safe.
