Curveball

“November resembles a curveball.  Just when you think you know where the ball will go over the plate it shifts on you and you’re swinging wind.”

~ Outfoxed by Rita Mae Brown

My First in Fethering

Murder in the Museum
by Simon Brett
Finished reading: October 22, 2008

Good read.  This was my first book from this author who has written several mystery series.  This one is from the Fethering Series, named for the English region where its two sleuths reside.  I haven’t really gotten to know them yet, but am eager to get more acquainted.  Carole, a retiree from the “Home Office” (must be an English thing I haven’t figured out just yet), seems to be the organized and analytical one–overly sensitive to order and the way she envisions her relationships should be.  She is also a staunch defender and practitioner of the traditional English middle class ways.  Jude is her free-spirited neighbor who delves into alternative therapies and seems to delight in occassionally thwarting Carole’s middle class morays.  I would still like to understand their relationship a little better, but the arrival of an old friend of Jude was more the focus for this story.  Regardless, these two make a great pair.

The story for this one centered around Chadleigh House, the family home (now a museum) of a well-known English writer who’s dark family secret begins unraveling with the discovery of a 40-year-old skull on the grounds.  Another murder later, and I was rushing through to find out what would happen next.  The characters and dialogue were interesting, not predictable.  Although Mr. Brett did not include the vivid descriptions of the story’s locale and surroundings that I enjoy with other writers, his descriptions of the house’s “priest hole” where the Catholic priests would hide to evade authorities in the Church of England’s heyday were great–particularly the mechanics of how the rooms were concealed and opened.  Of course, any mystery is made better by a secret room!  The search for the mystery’s solution kept me rushing through.  I’m excited to get another installment and get to know this place and this duo a little better.

I’m always interested in the new words that pop up in an English mystery–at least words that are new to me.  In this one:

THRENODY — a song or hymn of mourning, composed as a memorial to the dead (according to Wikipedia).  It was part of the title of the English author’s most famous poem.

“Cat Who” Bomb

The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell
Lilian Jackson Braun
Finished reading: October 17, 2008 

The “Cat Who” series is a favored treat for lovers of the mild-mannered, character-driven, amateur sleuthing mystery book sub-set.  That happens to be one of my favorite kind of mysteries–not much blood and guts, characters you can follow as the series develops (unless one becomes the unwitting murder victim,) good storytelling and an interesting plot.  Bombshell is #28 in this series, all showcasing two siamese cats with uncanny murder-solving sensibilities and the sleuthing, cat-loving millionaire and former newspaper man, James Qwilleran.  Set in a rural Northern town called “Pickax,” Mrs. Braun has created a great community of characters with just enough of the typical small town quirkiness to be realistic.  As with all good series, she not only creates characters and relationships, but a history with milestones, grand events, great rivalries and legends much like the real thing.  It’s why I like this series. 

Because I hadn’t read about Pickax in a while, this book was like a trip home for the weekend–getting reacquainted with friends and family, taking a walk around town and sampling favorite cuisine.  The continued development of a great fictional history and richly diverse relationships is where The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell succeeds.  The story is set during the Pickax sesquicentennial summer-long celebration, and included lots of the historical details and community events that give the series depth.  It’s the redeeming factor for this installment.

As for the murder, unfortunately I’d finished the book before I realized there was one.  There were three “mysterious” deaths–one hunting “accident,” and the passing of two elderly residents.  The hunting death was left unresolved and completely unexplored, almost as if it was an afterthought with absolutely no contribution to the story line.  The elderly deaths (predictably, inheritance motivated) were solved on practically the same page they were revealed.  For a mystery book-lover, it bombed.  There was no blow by blow of the police investigation, none of the sleuthing “Qwill” usually provides, and the few hardly recognizable twists and turns were forced and down-right predictable.

I’ve read quite a few of the “Cat Who” mysteries and have never been disappointed as the last page was turned–until now.  Installment #29 is out, and I’m hoping Cool Koko, the siamese crime solver, redeems himself!

Reading Ramble

I haven’t read anything in three years.  

Yeah, that “what I’m reading now” claim in my Amazon widget is a half-truth.  Actually, it’s more like a third- or fourth-truth.  I’m sure Making the Blue Plate Special is a great book.  At least I’ve imagined so for the past three years.  I finally read the first chapter in the waiting room of my obstetrician back in May or June.  And, yes, I gave it the obligatory toss into my bag each of the 35 times I went back during my pregnancy– only I ditched it for the quickie magazine read every time.  I’m a fairly intelligent girl, well-educated, well-versed with the world and sufficiently socially-aware (even though I’ve never actually seen an entire episode of Grey’s Anatomy.)  And yet, I’m willing to admit it…  I haven’t read anything in three years.

That’s not entirely true.  I’ve read other chapters here and there, the occasional article, quite a few websites, not to mention the 6000 times I’ve read Make Way for Ducklings and Harry the Dirty Dog.  But, those don’t count–I guess because I wasn’t reading in the curl up with it, “I love to read,” lose yourself, “I’m really enjoying this” sense.  I suppose I was reading out of wanting to want to read.  But, I just couldn’t muster it up.  It started when I got pregnant with my first child, and Drummer Boy, Squiggle Man and Baby Girl later, I got out of the habit and decided it was ok.

And it was.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been thinking about reading again and actually getting excited about it–hence, this reading ramble.  I think nursing Baby Girl has been the catalyst for my renewed reading interest.  With the desire to stay awake during our 2 or 3 or 4am feedings, there are only so many election debate or NLCS replays I can stomach without losing my mind.  Reading seems like a worthy alternative.

I’ve run this cycle several times in my life.  Maybe I got burned out with my current reading interest.  Maybe the pursuit of school studies or bible studies choked out the desire for frivolous words.  Maybe I just found other more important ways to occupy my “free” moments, like my pleasantly time-consuming bundles of joy.  I guess I’ve never really bought into the “make time for Mommy” mantra.  But, then, my family path gave me 35 years to make time for me before my children came along.  Then, I was so totally enamored by them, that Mommy time just seemed like a waste of time.  Regardless, over the years, reading and I have had a fairweather relationship.

As a child, I was an avid reader.  Not a voracious reader, grabbing up anything and everything I could get my hands on.  But, an avid one.  There’s a subtle difference.  I had a few chosen reading mainstays that I devoted myself to over and over again:  Little Women, the Little House on the Prairie series, anything Beverly Cleary (i.e. Beezus and Ramona.)  I immersed myself in those books so often that I can clearly remember walking down the hallway in my 4th grade elementary school wondering where Laura and Mary Ingalls were.  I threw in a love of biographies and several other series that required more than a few reminders from my Mother to turn out the light.  Oddly, I’ve always had a penchant for reading the same books over and over again.

Since I started EyeJunkie I’ve been curious about online reading opportunities.  I’ve explored news sites, public opinion, entertainment, other blogs and those curiosities you find in a largely unedited medium.  (My tiny disclaimer:  Oh be careful little eyes what you see)  I’ve even landed on a few “favorite” blogs that I read regularly, if for no other reason than to keep up with the thoughts of friends I admire.  I have to admit, however, that I really don’t consider it reading.  There’s something about seeing the words backlit and framed by logos and enticements to find your old high school classmates that pulls the “reading for pleasure” right out of the equation.  I love the internet because you can find at least a surface level of information on just about anything, generally for free.  Since I’m an information junkie, that’s quite intriguing.  But, it just screams “I’m temporary.  Speed through this and move on.” Reading on the computer doesn’t offer the same pull to sit down and take time to enjoy that an old-fashioned book does.  (Did I just refer to books as “old-fashioned”?)

There is something special about actually holding the book and turning the pages.  It fulfills my need for some tactile interaction with what I’m reading that can’t be satisfied with a wireless mouse.  Wrangling with the book jacket, slitting the occasional uncut page, bending the paperback spine — these experiences let me know I’m reading a BOOK, not the result of bytes reconfigured at the end of a cable somewhere.  The click of the bookmark button in my browser doesn’t compare to fiddling with my own placeholder while scanning the page–be it the cross-stitched version I made as a child with turtles and a green/white dotted border, my  photo of the boys at Squiggle Man’s birthday party, Maggie’s appointment card for her 8-week check-up, or the receipt from the library letting me know my return date.  

Within the realm of real BOOKS, my favorite vehicle for reading pleasure is the public library!  It sends a little flutter in my heart just thinking about it.  I love libraries in that nerdy sort of horn-rimmed glasses way that shatters any possibility of coolness.  

I don’t know if it is the discipline of sharing, the thrill of leafing where others in my community have leafed, or simply the lack of funds, but I love library books.  The faint musty smell of volumes squeezed in between movable wire brackets.  The library stamp on page 43 (at least that’s where my library stamps it.)  The smudged page that makes you wonder uneasily, “what is that?”  The corner crease marking some other reader’s stopping point.  The faint pencil correction of a publisher’s rare spelling error.  The serendipity of the new book shelf.  The realization that mine aren’t the first hands to turn these pages.  I love it all.  

In the days of signing circulation cards, you could judge your reading choice by those who checked out a book before you.  You could even remind yourself of whether you had read a particular book before.  The advent of politically correct privacy issues caused a switch to anonymous library card numbers on circulation cards in our library.  Now, the computer system eliminates any evidence of the one who read it last.  But, still I wonder and share a comradery with the patrons who got to this one first.

I have a long, loving history with public libraries.  

I remember Summer Reading Programs at the Tombigbee Regional Library where you could set a reading goal for the summer and earn rewards by completing it.  I knew right where the Mary Poppins books were, under J T for P.L. Travers and the Pippi Longstocking books, under J L for Astrid Lindgren.  I could find all the available biographies about Abraham Lincoln or Martha Washington, and I enjoyed the fun of the program’s occasional puppet show.  Later, I was privileged to be among the first to see many of the new books purchased by that library.  I worked in the office during my high school senior year creating their card catalog cards–author, title and subject cards filed in the main card catalog and a shelf list card filed in the library’s administrative master catalog.  Those cards are a forgotten library moment in this age of online cataloging.

I remember choosing The Bell Jar from the West Point High School Library because it’s cover was the most brilliant purple and the name was interesting.  I had no idea the book was a semi-autobiographical account of Sylvia Plath’s troubled mental state, nor of the author’s controversial feminist stance and experiences with questionable psychotherapy techniques.

In college, I worked at the university library branch in the School of Architecture.  It inspired me to pursue that degree for several years until I determined my talents were better focused in two dimensions.  There, I read countless issues of Architectural Digest and gained an introduction to Le Corbusier, the Ecole des Beaux Arts, and Faye Jones.

My on-again, off-again relationship with the Starkville Public Library has mirrored the stages of my adult life, and my choice of reading obsessions has mirrored the stages of my mind.  I even worked there one summer and made giant animal footprints to go on the Children’s Room ceiling for their Summer Reading Program.  So, with a renewed desire for reading just because, we got reacquainted again last Friday.  

My choices:

3 movies for my boys — The Great Muppet Caper, Bob the Builder We Can Build It, Flo the Lyin’ Fly

The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell by Lilian Jackson Braun — a new installment (new to me, at least) in a familiar mystery series

OutFoxed by Rita Mae Brown — I think I may have started this one before

Murder in the Museum by Simon Brett — haven’t read this author, but it looked interesting

When I brought my selections home, I got to tell Little Drummer Boy that Mommy had borrowed some new movies for Friday Movie Night.  After I explained the concept of borrowing and that although we would have to take them back to the library, we could borrow more, he was pumped up for Miss Piggie and the whole concept. 

“Will I be able to go to the library?”

Yep, I birthed that boy!

Time Out

It’s always funny and refreshing to see the world through the eyes of a 3-year-old.  Tonight at bedtime we were reading in our Rhyme Bible about Daniel and the lion’s den.  It’s one of Little Drummer Boy’s personal favorites, and therefore, I’ve pretty much committed the cadence to memory.

In case you’re not familiar with the story…  

Daniel was a Hebrew taken into captivity by the Babylonians.  He proved his character in such a way that King Darius, ruler of the Persian Empire later appointed him to supervise the governors of all his territorial provinces.  Obviously, that didn’t go over well with the actual Persians in King Darius’ court who were bumped over.  They knew of Daniel’s faith in God and commitment to daily prayer.  So, they tricked King Darius into making a law that would outlaw the prayer, knowing Daniel would not abide by the law.

That’s the point in the story where our story book includes a picture of several of the court officials spying on Daniel outside his window.  Little Drummer Boy leaned up from his pillow and pointed to one of the men.

“He’s about to be in trouble.  He’s probably going to be in time out.”

I’ll say.  As a result of the law he was tricked into signing, King Darius had to send Daniel to the lion’s den for the night, which greatly grieved him.  Our story stops the next day after the king saw that God had protected Daniel and announced that the kingdom should honor the God of Israel.  However, I have a feeling King Darius subjected the court officials that targeted Daniel to a time out of a more permanent kind that usually seen on Nanny 911.

Nevertheless, Little Drummer Boy’s take on the situation gave me an inner giggle and an appreciation of his keen sense of what was kind and unkind.  Sometimes I envy the clarity of the 3-year-old perspective.  If only we had the same understanding of kind and unkind as adults.  I don’t know about you, but I encounter people and situations every day that could benefit from a time out.  A pause.  A little separation from a volatile situation.  Time to consider our actions and their consequences.  Time to learn how to make a different choice.

By the way, I highly recommend the Rhyme Bible by Linda Sattgast. It offers stories in rhyme from both the Old and New Testaments along with great (and sometimes humorous) pen, ink and watercolor illustrations. lt communicates many Bible stories and concepts effectively in a way that has appealed to my Little Drummer Boy since he was probably no more than 18 months.  We haven’t quite started it with Squiggle Man yet–mainly because we can’t get him to sit still long enough–but I am sure he will be just as enamored by it at bedtime.  Get this one.  It’s well worth it!

Single Days

“Single days experienced fully add up to a lifetime lived deeply and well.  Today is your life–not yesterday and not tomorrow.  If we have tomorrow, it will be a gift, but what we do today, right now, will have an accumulated effect on all our tomorrows.”

~ Alexandra Stoddard
Living a Beautiful Life

Human Writes.

115 pages. That was the sum of Elie Wiesel’s Night, an account of the Nobel Laureate’s imprisonment in Nazi concentration camps.  I believe it was toward the end of page 7 that I got up from my chair, walked to my bedroom, and put the book behind several others in a basket under my bedside table.  I actually consciously thought, “I’ll just pretend I don’t have the book.”  I even thought of hiding it under the bed.

Page 7 was Mr. Wiesel’s account of how Moishe the Beadle (his Kabbalist tutor) miraculously survived his stay at an early Polish Gestapo work camp.  He returned to the village warning whoever would listen of the experiences in store for the Jews in hopes they could “ready” themselves while there was still time.  No one wanted to listen.  The poignant regret of that fact made me want to close the book, for it was inevitable foreshadowing of the rest of the story.

I know.  It was a strange reaction, but the memoir from the first sentence was so powerful, almost devastating, to me that I wanted to throw it away without reading any more.  But, I didn’t have the nerve.  Somehow I felt that I owed it to Mr. Wiesel to read his words.  If he had survived the horror described in that book and been bold enough to record it, how could I possibly NOT show him at least the courtesy of reading it, acknowledging it?

It was the first time I had read a personal account of a Holocaust survivor.  I think that is the reason why this book came to mind when I was contemplating an article on Human Rights.  I came across an initiative from Bloggers Unite encouraging writers to blog about Human Rights on May 15 as a way of bringing more awareness to the issues.

As I thought about my own perspective on human rights, it seemed that Human Writes was a more appropriate term.  You see, a major barrier to our engagement in these issues is that the statistics on the grossest forms of human rights violations are simply numbing.  Large numbers become impersonal and lose their meaning.  But, when one human writes of his own experiences, how can we dare to look away without asking questions? How do we summon that kind of boldness?

In Elie Wiesel’s speech accepting the 1986 Nobel Peace Prize (38 years to the day, ironically, after the United Nations adopted its Declaration of Human Rights), he said, “…I have tried to keep memory alive, I have tried to fight those who would forget.  Because if we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices.”

As I open the burden of Night again, I see that Mr. Wiesel does not share OUR luxury of forgetting.  For he writes of his first night at Birkenau:

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed.

Never shall I forget that smoke.

Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky.

Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith forever.

Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live.

Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.

Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God Himself.

Never.

The issue of human rights brings a new dimension to “paying attention,” the pursuit of this website.  It requires a harsh confrontation with the raw, cruel capabilities of human beings; the realization that the events of Elie Wiesel’s Night did not happen in the 12th century, but less than 70 years ago – one lifespan.  Yet, similar cruelties are occuring all over the world even as I write.  And if I am honest, I admit that the seeds of those mind-boggling statistics occur even in my own little hometown every day. Each time someone (even I) with words or looks or actions seeks to diminish the infinite worth of another human being created in God’s image, we have contributed to the cruelty, as if acknowledging the worth of another somehow diminishes my own.

Elie Wiesel once asked Moeshe the Beadle,  “why do you pray?”  The answer – “I pray to the God within me for the strength to ask Him the real questions.”

I pray for that same strength – to ask God the hard questions, to ask myself the hard questions, and to have the courage to face the answers.