Miss Peregrine's School for Peculiar Children: It's All about Timing

Readers may be as tired of hearing about my move as I am of the process itself, but the ongoing experience of unpacking and the discovery that results has provided opportunity to muse on certain life concepts. The biggest challenge centers first on what to keep, what to give or throw away; now, though, I am making decisions about what to leave stored in boxes and what to place within reach. I came across a Pampered Chef ice shaver I've had for years and used just once--just in time to entertain my grandsons who are visiting for the week.

Now that I have a few sets of book shelves installed in what can still be called "the box room," I have made the hard decisions about which books earn a spot. Do I shelve the ones I have read and loved, the ones to which I return as references, or the ones I hope to read next? I did a little of all three.

As I finished one book and selected another, in this case for a trip to the beach, I came across Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, a book that I've owned since its publication. I came across it at the NCTE annual convention, where I often discovered good books. I'll confess, I judged the book by its cover. I was drawn to the old black and white photograph of the little girl who, on close observation, appears to be levitating.

The book starts far from the home mentioned in the title, as Jacob, sixteen-year-old boy, responds to a frantic call from his grandfather and finds him in the woods behind his house the victim of a deadly attack. In the aftermath, Jacob suffers from nightmares and spends time with a counselor.  Going through his grandfather's collection of letters and photographs, he is drawn to visit the English island where the man had been sent as a boy escaping the Nazis.

Once he and his father reach the isolated island, he finds himself moving back and forth in time, meeting all the "peculiar" children who lived in the home with his grandfather before the man chose to leave to fight against the German forces in WWII. At this point, author Ransom Riggs moves back and forth between realism and fantasy as Jacob is drawn into the challenge facing the children who have been living and reliving the same day the island was bombed by Nazi forces.

The conclusion begs for a sequel, and since I waited to read the book, I don't have to wait for the sequel to be written. I particularly look forward to the photographs, which I learned at the end of the book, are real photographs from several collections. My first instinct is to start looking for this kind of photos at antique stores. But then I'd have to find somewhere to store them.

Miss Peregrine's School for Peculiar Children: It's All about Timing

LaRose: Louise Erdrich's New Tale of Families Entwined.

Since it's already June, I plan to play catch up posting about my summer reading so far. I'm going in reverse (or random) order though because I can't wait to discuss Louise Erdrich's latest novel, LaRose.

I've read lots of Erdrich's writing--novels and short stories--over the years. Several of her stories were in literature anthologies I taught. She writes the kind of Native American literature, like Sherman Alexie, that remains true to the culture while touching such universal cords.

One of the benefits of living in Nashville is the frequency of author readings. The Nashville Public Library presents Salon@615 regularly, with special thanks to Parnassus Books, the wonderful store author Ann Patchett owns with partner Karen Hayes. In May Erdrich appeared with author Jane Hamilton, another favorite of mine. Their tag-team reading, discussion, and Q&A were such fun.

I had already started reading LaRose, and her reading from a later chapter made me eager to get back to the book. The book opens with a tragic hunting accident by Landreaux Iron, killing the five-year-old son of his neighbor Peter Ravich and his wife, sister to Landreaux's wife Emmaline. Following "the old ways," the Irons bring their own five-year-old son LaRose to the Raviches, a trade that separates the two couples but brings their children closer.

This book demands a slow thoughtful read, particularly by anyone interested in writing, because of the deft way Erdrich handles the chronology of the tale. She moves back and forth, bringing in the story of the first LaRose in the family, one of a long line of family members with special gifts. She also weaves in the many secondary characters--Romeo, a ne'er-do-well with a grudge against Landreaux from their childhood; Maggie, the surviving child of the Raviches, full of anger toward her parents mingled with a need to watch and protect; the children in the Iron household; the reservation's elderly, many cared for by Landreaux.

Throughout the novel, Erdrich gives an unblinking look at the best and worst of life on and around the Ojibwa reservation and even a shocking piece by Frank Baum (of Ox fame) calling for the annihilation of Native American tribes.

As Jane Hamilton noted, Erdrich can deal with such serious topics while using such lovely humor in her works. Even the story's antagonists had a redeeming side. Like the old Shakespearean comedies, I hoped they achieved repentance rather than destruction. (Hamilton also noted Erdrich's skillful sex scenes.)

Without over distilling, I have to say this is a story of redemption and family. Each character was so carefully drawn and revealed, their back stories making clear their present characters. What results is a haunting story worth reading--and reading again.

LaRose: Louise Erdrich's New Tale of Families Entwined.

Bookshelf Quandary

After two and a half months at our new home, I have bookshelves. I spent yesterday unpacking boxes and trying to decide which ones earned a space, since I have a limit. I feel as if I were being reunited with old friends. Best of all, I am reaping a small reward for the time I spent packing the books.

I went about the packing process methodically: Books I Want to Read Next, Good Books I Want to Keep, Shakespeare (2 boxes), music books, Southern authors, humor, art, photography, scrapbooking, books on the Holocaust and the Vietnam war, books of poetry (I won't say how many boxes).  I have several boxes of my signed first editions, some of which I'd love to sell, some with which I'd never part. Packed in their own boxes, I have so many paperbacks, especially classroom classics.

I was surprised at the number of duplications (in part because people who know me tend to buy me books for gifts). Most of them I have put aside for other book lovers to whom I will pass them along. I have several books from my high school days, with "Nancy Coats" written on the inside front cover.

Since I also have small bookshelves in the rooms I have outfitted for the grandkids, I move books in there for them too--The Borrowers, the Little House books, Where the Red Fern Grows, the Narnia series, many of them books I read with my own children when they were small.

The decision-making gets tough when I have the shelves filled but I don't have the boxes empty.  I had at least one full box of Shakespeare left over, for example. Do I put away the books I have already read (at least once) and keep the "To Read" stack? Already I find myself opening up old favorites. With Mother's Day a day or so away, I found John McPhee's lovely essay "Silk Parachutes." I first read it in the New Yorker, prompting me to write him (and to get a letter in return.) I also found a copy of Christian Hymns No. 2 (the one with "Trust and Obey" on page 1.)

I know so many people who read exclusively on eReaders now or depend completely on the public library. I do both, but I have an ongoing relationship with my books. It's nice to give them a little fresh air.

Bookshelf Quandary

Still Bookin' It!

I realize I've been missing in action here for several weeks. If you've wondered where I've been lately, I have a simple alibi: I moved mid-February.  I haven't quit reading. Of course not. But I've spent far too much time unpacking boxes, along with a great deal of pleasant time exploring all there is to do in Nashville.

Through my college roommate Susan, we were invited to join a supper club, and one of the members asked if I wanted to join her book club. (Picture me smiling.) During the time I was in Hickory, my book club was composed of people who had known me before joining the group. Some knew each other, but they all knew me. We made up our own rules (and very few of those) as we went along, so we were low on structure.

On my first meeting with my new group, I arrived at the hostess's home in Franklin in a beautiful area of this charming town. I knew only Gail, and I had met her only twice, but I liked her already.  The rest of the group was diverse. One former book club member returned after a long absence, so I didn't feel like the only newbie. A couple were from South Africa and have arranged a trip for some of the group to go there this summer.

The book they had chosen for March was When the Moon Is Low by Nadia Hashimi. The story begins in Kabul, Afghanistan, told from the perspective of Fereiba, who loses her mother at  birth and is raised by her rather disconnected father and a self-centered  stepmother, who attempts to arrange a marriage for Fereiba that will be in the stepmother's own best interest.  Nevertheless, Fereiba ends up in a happy marriage where she blossoms until the Taliban brings about changes that eventually shatter her happy home, leaving her no choice but to take her three children and to flee her home country.

From this point, Hashimi moves back and forth from the perspective of Fereiba and her son Salem, forced to grow up quickly in order to help the family slip across borders into Turkey then Greece, until they are separated and have to make their way separately to England, where they hope to rejoin family who left while the Taliban's threat level was still low.

This beautifully told story is a stark reminder of the dangers and challenges that so many refugees face while fleeing war-torn countries. As the daily news presents the current wave of Syrian refugees in terms of massive numbers, Hashimi reminds readers of their humanity.

Just a couple of evenings before the book club met, I attended a concert by Abigail Washburn and Wu Fei at a local coffee shop. The show was free, but donations to Nashville International Center for Empowerment (NICE) were encouraged.  This group helps refugees in the resettlement process, finding work and educations, as well as addressing health concerns. I was once again reminded of the power of literature to encourage empathy through individuals' stories.

Still Bookin' It!

I have found one or two people I consider friends who don't like the Beatles and about the same number who don't love To Kill a Mockingbird. I love them anyway, but I don't exactly understand. I got my first word of Harper Lee's death last week from a former student's text. Over the next day or two, I noticed how many other messages I heard from friends, former students, colleagues, and kin, all wanting to react to the news.

I couldn't help wondering if everyone's Facebook carried the same quantity of information on Lee's death or did the algorithms load other people's feed with sports, politics, or the Kardashians?

I read the book first in high school, maybe junior high.  I taught it for many years of my high school teaching career--before the ninth grade teachers claimed it as their own.  I remember hearing Kylene Beers telling that her daughter was assigned the book three years in a row, as a result of school changes, loving it each time.  The third year, she told her mom, "I think the version we're reading this year is better."

"No," Kylene said she told her. "The book is the same. You're a better version of yourself now."

One of the charms of this book is that it stands up to multiple reading. Even as it grows more familiar, it moves readers. Scout makes me laugh sometimes. She makes me cry. I love Atticus and respect him, while recognizing that he's not a perfect father. His own integrity puts his children in danger.

When the stage version of the novel was performed at the Zodiac Theatre in Florence, Alabama, my hometown, I remember hearing that Miss Lee--Nelle to her family and friends--had written part of the book in our town, where her college roommate lived.  Some said she might attend the play, but would keep a low profile.

Part of her charm was her avoidance of the spotlight. Had she been born later, I still doubt she would have tweeted. The stories about her, as a result, developed legendary status.

I never got to meet her. I covet a signed copy of the book, but I'm content with my paperback copy held together by rubber bands. From what I'm hearing from friends over the last several days, others still hold on to their own school copies.  I wonder how many other books from my required reading lists gain a permanent place on bookshelves instead of being traded to the used bookstore for soft drink money.

I might add, too, that while my mantra "The movie was better" holds true, the film of To Kill a Mockingbird is rightfully a classic itself, perfectly cast, perfectly executed. The pieces I would add to the collection are the documentary Hey Boo! and the companion volume Scout, Atticus, and Boo, both the result of a project by Mary McDonah Murphy.  I have my own collection. In my literature teaching files, I probably have as much material on Lee and her novel than any other work. I have a videotape made from a reel-to-reel tape from the thirties, made my a gentleman who moved to Monroeville from New Jersey, showing the downtown that served as the model for Maycomb. I have more activities to use with the novel in the classroom than time could every allow. All this for a book I haven't taught in more than 20 years.

But I've read it over and over, something I rarely do with so many books still unread. All that's left to do is to take a pilgrimage to Maycomb, to see the play performed in the former courthouse. I'll keep an ear perked for the footfalls of ghosts of Scout and Jem, Calpurnia, Dill. Maybe even Boo Radley will come out.

"I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves."
--Anna Quindlen

Sometimes my different blogging venues experience some crossover. Over at the Alabama Tar Heel, I'm "hosting" an online book club this year, reading through Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project, month by month.  This month she focuses on marriage, a Valentine's tribute I imagine.  But one thing struck me: she said that since she had started her research on happiness, she had accumulated lots of books on marriage and relationships. Her husband Jamie remarked that people who saw their bookshelves would think they were having marital trouble.

That made me wonder what anyone would gather by looking at my book collections.  As I shared over at that site, I have a disproportionate number of books on reducing clutter. And they haven't worked.  But since I love to organize my books--my own special blend of Dewey Decimal, Library of Congress method, and indie bookstore, I found I had pockets of related books too. Especially as I started packing up and trying to prioritize which books I'd keep within reach and which I'd want to unpack first, found interesting groupings. 

I have a huge number of poetry collections and chapbooks, particularly by North Carolina poets and my friends from my poetry network. I also have lots of books of Southern humor and lots of books on the Holocaust. Among my books of music and about music, I have so many different hymn books (including Christian Hymns No. 2, in which "Trust and Obey" was song no. 2. (You're much younger than me if you didn't know that but you know 728b.)

Tomorrow the moving van will pull into the driveway in our home in Nashville. I dread the unpacking, especially since I know the movers packed up our dirty bath towels when we weren't looking. The biggest challenge, though, will be what to do with my books--all those books--because this house doesn't have the walls of bookshelves--yet.

Emily St. John Mandel's Station 11: King Lear, Apocalypse, and the Georgia flu.

While I don't necessarily gravitate toward post-apocalyptic novels, they do show up on my radar frequently. At the end of the year, when I was asking other readers about their best books from 2015, Station Eleven  by Emily St. John Mandel kept coming up, so I couldn't resist.

The story opens on stage at a performance of King Lear as the lead actor Arthur Leander dies of a heart attack. A former member of the paparazzi, in training to be an EMT, tries unsuccessfully to perform CPR. When he leaves the theatre, he gets the unsettling news from a friend in a nearby hospital, that the flu reported in Russia has found its way via plane to Toronto. He stocks up on groceries and then heads to the high-rise apartment of his brother crippled during service in the Middle East.

Kirsten Raymond, a child actress playing one of Lear's daughter as a child who witnesses the death becomes a key character years later, as part of a traveling symphony going from town to town performing Shakespearean plays. The flu that wiped out over ninety percent of the world's population has left the survivors without electricity, once the power grid fails. Cars are abandoned after the gasoline supplies are exhausted, and planes  in the sky become just a distant memory.

The traveling performers find one of their regular stops  at St. Deborah-by-the-Woods, transformed eerily by the presence of a man calling himself The Prophet, spouting random verses from the book of Revelation, and seeking his next wife--usually a young girl. Escaping, the characters find themselves at an old airport where passengers on the last flight into the airport have set up camp and resumed their lives, including one survivor, a friend of the late Arthur Leander, who has set up a museum of artifacts of the former world.

Mandel moves the narrative back and forth between the past and present, revealing details of Leander's life, particularly of his failed marriages, and following his former wives and his only son, born to wife number 2, then returning to the post-disaster world.

Reading the account of the changed world, one can't help wondering if the existence of knowledge of a higher civilization wouldn't allow a more timely recovery of that lost world. That hope is reflected--just a glimmer--at the climax of the novel.

Some of the details of the flu outbreak remind me of my friend Alison Kemper's YA Zombie novel, Donna of the Dead--particularly the possibility of survivors, sailors at sea for instance, untouched by the disease. Having read plenty of accounts--both fiction and fact--about the Medieval plagues, I was intrigued too by the idea of people who are resistant to such disease and their potential for survivor's guilt.

The dramatic challenge of the characters as they learn to adapt to the post-flu world intrigued me--but I'm still not convinced to get my flu shot.

Emily St. John Mandel's Station 11: King Lear, Apocalypse, and the Georgia flu.