Louis Lamour

My Grandfather was an avid fan of Louis Lamour. While sitting in his recliner, I remember seeing one of two books in his hands. If it wasn't His Bible, it was a worn Lamour paperback. It didn't seem to matter if it was his first reading of it or not.
On a whim, I picked up a copy of Lamour's Bendigo Shafter, and started to read it. It made me feel linked anew to Grandpa Harland as I took in, as if through his eyes, the settling of the frontier, the courageous encounters with Indians and mountain lions, and the way Bendigo made his mark on the west. I saw in it the character qualities Grandpa admired and possessed and the kinds of achievements he'd respect. It was quite different from "chic-lit", going less into dialogue, romance, and nuances and more into battle scenes, man vs. nature, and earning respect among friends and enemies alike.
I discovered that reading a favorite book of someone you love draws you into their world. My husband saw me reading it, and brought home another Lamour, one of the first novels he remembers reading. I wonder what I'll discover about him as I do.

Book Club Nite

I am excited to say, a group of gals and I have started a book club. We met for the first time at the end of January, on a Thursday night. Our first book to discuss was A Thousand Splendid Suns, by the author of Kite Runner. We dipped our multi grain chips into hummus, ate white chocolate macademia nut cookies and sipped wine. Reading the book and discussing it gave us a chance to immerse ourselves in the experience of women in another place, and to share our thoughts on what we had read.

The second book we chose is, The Help. I started it on Tuesday, and stayed up too late on Friday night, to finish it. It takes you back to the 1960's in Jackson, Mississippi, to the daily life of a household maid, Aibileen, as she cares for an overlooked child of an obsessive socialite. It pointed out the paradox that while many white children were closer to their maids than their own mothers, some were required to use a separate toilet to protect the white family from "colored diseases." It allowed me the sensation of walking in someone else's shoes, and has made me watchful for the insidious ways prejudice can still become normalized in our daily lives.
Have any of you been a part of a Book Club which you enjoyed?

Perspective

While on vacation, I finished reading, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, and listening to the book, Ann Frank Remembered: The Story of the Woman who Helped to Hide the Frank Family, on tape. Both have enlightened my understanding of what went on among civilians during World War II.

The Guernsey book was a work of fiction, crafted entirely of letters between a young, vivacious author, and eccentric members of the community from the island of Guernsey. The setting is the aftermath of World War II, in which everyone is in various stages of mourning and moving on despite tragedy and loss. The characters are fictional, but through them, the author gives insights into the historical realities that occupied territories faced under Nazi rule. It was beautifully written, amusing, challenging, and even held a love story.

One of the chapters which stood out starkly to me was the description of the days preceding the arrival of the German soldiers to the Isle of Guernsey. After realizing that the Allies would be unable to defend them against the Germans, the residents of the island had one day to decide the fate of their children: would they put them on the provided boat heading for England to have them housed with willing households, or would they be kept with their families to face an uncertain fate as a Nazi occupied territory. The families had no more than two days to decide, and many said goodbye to their little ones, not knowing their exact destination, but hoping and praying that they would be safer where they were going. Those families were not reunited with their youngsters until 5 years later. As a mom who struggles with releasing my youngest into Kindergarten, I simply cannot imagine the trauma of watching the boat carrying my children disappear into the mist, and of being separated during 5 years of war time.

Anne Frank Remembered, gave a keen picture of living in occupied Amsterdam, and of the Nazi's methods for turning against a whole race of people. They made benign changes at first, steadily instilled fear, and then removed all rights, power, and dignity from the people before viciously exterminating them. It spoke of the scarcity of food and basic necessities during the German occupation of Holland, and the bleak years of awaiting what seemed like an implausible liberation.

As they spoke of scrounging for rotten potatoes, and scavenging for food and fuel wherever it could be found, it struck me: My children have no idea of deprivation. "I'm starving" is their ardent plea when they are ready for a between meal cheese stick or granola bar, but they have no concept of true hunger. They have no idea of danger, or war, or anything not centering around their personal happiness (not quite that bad, but almost). Should a version of such times fall upon us, I wonder if we would possess the fortitude and resourcefulness required, having grown soft and spoiled by abundance.

Learning about history always lends perspective to what I consider to be the trials of today.

A Winter Read

Russian authors seem to call out to me during winter. I've just taken on The Brothers Karamazov, by Dostoyevsky. I'm only on page 53, but I hope to see it through. What I've read so far has been challenging and insightful. The names and their derivitives are difficult to sort out, but the characters are so rich, I know it will prove worth it.
Do you have any impressions to share of Russian literature?

The Loss of Genius

Each of us has a covert belief that somewhere within us lies a genius, waiting to be realized. This is doubly held with the addition of our children. Indeed we impress the belief upon our kids that, "You are truly special. You can do

anything

you want to do: Be anything you want to be." The other day, my daughter said she'd decided she wanted to be an ice skater. Precious. But come to think of it, we live in the subtropics, she bumps into things regularly on dry, level ground, and we don't have sizeable investments to fund such a venture. Now what? I think I smiled, and said, it'd be fun to ice skate some time as a family, and that roller-skating was great exercise too.
The question is, what do we do when our notions of genius evade us and reality smacks of anonymity, mediocrity, or just plain hard work? When the contribution we feel called upon to make ends up in the lengthy will-call list? How do we reorient ourselves to still apply what we've been given when our grandiosity has met reality, and it hardly seems worth the effort any more?
Blogging felt like my entry into the greater world of ideas and promised discovery. It doesn't take long to feel, "Why bother?" when you get an inkling of the amount of material out there. I felt rather sheepish for having joined the throng of self-publishers; eager for an audience, a following.
A friend's teen has a pursuit of the week, she absolutely pines to do. Take up guitar. Try out drums. But the father balks at purchasing the items, for he knows when it proves to be hard work and does not afford her instant celebrity status, the wonderlust will wear off, the practice hours hardly feel worth it, and the money will have been unwisely spent. A toy maker shared his frustration with kids today. They want to instantly learn and apply the tricks of the trade. They don't value the process of learning to carve, but want to know how long it will take and be speeded towards wowing their friends with what they can do.
We've lost touch with the joy within the work itself. The satisfaction of creating, for its own sake, whether or not it is a rarity or the only of its kind.
In Alcott's "Good Wives," both Amy and Laurie had to come to the realization that their inner genius of composer and music fell sadly short, and had a realignment of goals to make afterwards. They both still found pleasure and merit in their pursuits.
So, whether or not I am a born writer, I want to write. Whether or not I am the best cook out there, I want to try new recipes. If my drawing is stilted or mere copies of photos I like, I will still choose to create it. We are born to create, to apply, to labor and to love and not to be bound to perceived impact or where we rank in comparison with others.
"Each one should work heartily, as serving the Lord and not men."
We are to:
1. Work with and use the time and resources given: and to help our children discern and do the same:
2. Be released from the need for acclaim and notoriety
3. Let the process and the application of oneself and one's God-given inclinations be its own reward, even if it only seems to be for the way it transforms us.
4. Encourage others to do the same.

Crime and Punishment

I've just started the novel, Crime and Punishment. It is remarkably grim, yet absorbing. I am eager to discern the redemptive message I've heard is embedded in Dostoevsky's writing. If there isn't hope offered at the end of this one, I'll feel bereft. Fyodor Dostoevsky, according to the prologue, was no stranger to suffering and loss. He was falsely accused of conspiracy against the government, and condemned to imprisonment and death - only released the moment he and fellow prisoners had been bound together in the prison yard to be fired upon. If I am inspired with this one, I may try The Brothers Karamazov

Adam Bede on Sorrow

Last night a woman of God from India shared about suffering with a small group of women from our church. She spoke of God's ability to transform us in times of suffering, and His redemption of any scenario we encounter in life.
Here is a quote on suffering from the novel Adam Bede, by one of my favorite authors, George Eliot. Adam Bede had discovered that the woman he had given his heart to and hoped to marry had loved another man, been deserted by him, had his child and was condemned to die for abandoning the child. This passage speaks of how the tragedy transformed him, and how his anguish was unwasted.

For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard and
delighting in his work after his inborn inalienable nature, had not outlived his
sorrow - had not felt it slip from him as a temporary burden, and leave him the
same man again.

Do any of us? God forbid. It would be a poor result of all our anguish and
our wrestling, if we won nothing but our old selves at the end of it - if we
could return to the same blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the same
light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous gossip over blighted human
lives, the same feeble sense of the Unknown towards which we have sent forth
irrepressible cries in our loneliness.

Let us rather be thankful that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing its form, as forces do, and passing from
pain into sympathy - the one poor word which includes all our best insight and
our best love.

Mud and Rainbows

Most rainbows come with some form of mud. The pride and amazement of watching your youngest clamber up the steps of the school bus with his big brother and sister, coupled with a sense of loss of his daily presence and prattling and of his babyhood. Some would say, focus on the positive. Skirt the pain. I'd like to be present with both.
The following poem was shared with me by my counselor, and it epitomizes the apparent contradictions of life's mud and rainbows, and the place for each. I do not know the author.

I loved my uncle's ranch when I was a child.

There was space to run unhampered

and freedom to explore.

The dust lay inches think upon the trails

and running barefoot down a path of sifted powder

was a sumptuous sort of feel.

The barn was my playground full of animated toys,

The loft was full of hay and mice and fairly friendly spiders.

The mint grew wild and plush beside the creek.

My auntmade berry pies

and the smell would seek me out

anywhere I played around the house.

I rode my cousin's palomino horse

through fantasies that never seemed to end.

If I'm careful, Lord, I can edit these thoughts and forget

that I got a bee sting when I picked the mint

and burned my tongue time and again on the berry pies

because I never seemed to learn and couldn't wait

that the barn smelled just awful

and the horse made my bottom sore

and the dust that felt like sifted powder

made me sneeze all summer.

If I'm careful, I can forget these things.

But if I'm wise,

I can remember that all of life has both things in it

and I may choose which part to hold to me.