Wednesday, November 28, 2012

The Reading Life: How Can I Give Away These Books?

In a true effort to cut down on my huge collection of books, I lurk warily before the bookshelves in the hall. I guess this one can go. And this. And perhaps all the paperbacks that belonged to my mother. Or not all. Some. A few. Maybe. Because when I riffle the pages, I find her penciled notes in many of the margins and it would be like giving away a part of her. Despite the yellowed paper. And the pinched print. (How did it become so small?)

A peculiar, miscellaneous assortment of fiction and non-fiction stands on parade dress before me, from Stephen King to Malcolm Gladwell. Could never give away King’s The Green Mile. I’ve read it perhaps six times, annotated it, underlined, highlighted, all to study how King pulls readers in. How the whole plot of the book, everything, is revealed in the first few pages. As readers, we just didn’t know it yet. Genius.

The test is whether I could get the book now from the libe, even download from the libe to my eReader, or borrow it from a friend. Weed, weed, weed on down the line.

“And yet,” borrowing that fateful phrase from Nicole Krauss’s History of Love . . .

And yet. I could never give away these Nevil Shutes. Or Jessamyn Wests. Or Rumer Goddens. And here’s that lovely, remarkable My Family and Other Animals  by Gerald Durrell, brought to life so lovingly on PBS some years ago. I waltz it to the tipsy pile on the nightstand for re-reading.

And what about My Mother the Cheerleader by Robert Sharenow (is that a great surname or what?). Like the work of Christopher Paul Curtis, Pam Munoz Ryan, Bette Bao, and many other writers, this book layers fiction upon fact, upon history. One courageous, real-life six-year-old named Ruby Bridges is embedded in a plot that movingly introduces the twists and terrors of the Civil Rights era to young readers who weren’t alive, and whose parents weren’t alive, when she walked with four tall federal marshals into a school in New Orleans under court-ordered desegregation. How she didn’t eat her sandwiches for lunch for a month because a horrid protester, one of many lining the sidewalk to the school, hissed that she was going to poison Ruby’s food. The naiveté of the young narrator. The slow build-up of understanding. Nope. Can’t give that one away. But this book can move to the lending library in the living room for my critique groups, grands, and others.

I work on, walking my fingers over spines, remembering the feel of the pages, the inability to stop reading deep in the night due to cliff-hangar chapter endings . . . Uh-oh. Here’s Oldest Living Confederate Widow tells All by Allan Gurganus. I know before I open it that I’ll see the note I wrote myself after finishing its 900+ pages: “I will keep this book forever.”

That’s it for today. Bibliophilism wins over weeding. One and a half boxes for the Friends of the Library do count. But the BFFs stay put.

Monday, November 12, 2012

November 11, 2012
Thoughts from the Regular Life: Veterans’ Day

On this solemn day, I think about the men and women who have defended our country. Of the horrifying losses in the Civil War, the astounding numbers of dead and wounded in WWI. Of my friend whose uncle died in WWII and the many Veterans’ Day ceremonies we attended each year with her family on the shores of Lake St. Clair to honor an uncle she never knew.

In our living room is a small framed picture of my Uncle Norman in his Army uniform. Young, handsome, looking out as us as we look back at him each day. I think of him often now that he’s gone and consider how little I know of his service. WWII. France. He served with a tank unit, the obvious reason for his permanent hearing loss. But the experience itself? Details? Places? Feelings? Aftermath? In my memory, never talked about. What any of us today can gather from WWII is mainly secondhand, from diaries, documentaries, history books, family stories. Being human, we have the ability to mentally assess the destructive forces of war on mind and body. But as thoughtful and well-meaning as we may be, empathy and intellect are poor substitutes for the reality—the battlefields of that war and others—the direct effects of battle.

It is impossible to go to war and return unscathed. In the Civil War, what we now call PTSD was known as Soldiers’ Heart. Read Gary Paulsen’s book by that eponymous title, five years in the writing, about the wrenching changes that took place for the young men and the nurses and doctors who were part of that bloody endeavor. Consider the horrendous post-war treatment of our Vietnam fighters or the wide-ranging penetration of PTSD in the ranks of our Iraq and Afghanistan soldiers. And, at last, with civilians and those in the ranks and the medical profession is evolving a slowly changing attitude and understanding of toward reaching out and supporting the men and women who have served multiple tours of duty in faraway lands.

Living near Camp Pendleton, we hear heart-rending news of the injuries and deaths of young Marines and the effects on their families of long separations, terrible injuries, and, in many cases, loss of life. It’s remarkable how these brave returnees and other across the country do, in fact, soldier on. Witness the units on the east coast that have banded together, using their training, to help those hit hardest by Hurricane Sandy. One, working with his former comrades, said that banding together and reaching out has been more effective for returning vets as a way of handling what they have been through than other means have been. We honor our veterans all, the living and the dead.

Since 1987, this day has, for me, had an added layer. Twenty-five years ago my friend Frannie was on her way out to visit us on a business trip. Her cousin discovered her, lying on her couch with a tall stack of books beside her, no longer with us. She was only forty-four and her death was shocking, close to unbelievable. We’d been pals since second grade, and our houses were close, a hop of the fence away, so we could have Social Tea cookies at my house and then go to her house to do homework. Such memories really never fade away. A recent Ted Talk on memory noted that memory is not static, fixed. Our minds reinvent things each time we turn mentally to certain events, which explains why my mother and aunt would argue vociferously and with absolute certitude about specifics: “That’s not what happened, sister, dear.”
But I feel with vociferous certitude that some things I remember are true. That my mom and Fran’s were co-leaders of Girl Scout Troop 940, how we worked on badges, caroled in the old folks’ home, ate rattlesnake meat on St. Patrick’s day (okay, that was my mom, not Fran’s), went on field trips, planted seedlings on hillsides to prevent erosion, learned to leave a place better than we found it and, on a deeper level, learned about friendship and doing the right thing and listening and caring. And we joked that we were going to rock together on the porch of the old folks’ home while Girl Scouts sang to us.

Thus, as with many of you, Veterans’ Day for me is both broad and encompassing, narrow and deeply personal.