Tuesday, March 27, 2012
A Romance, A Decent Read: Sweet Nothings by Catherine Anderson
The setting, a ranch in Oregon was a catch for me. "Molly" has been hospitalized, by her exhusband, for mental problems. I hadn't realized how the law tied your hands when that happened, as much as the hospital might bind your arms. Lies, lies, lies. Lots of them. It was nice to read a romance in which the main love angle didn't result in jumping into bed in the first 1/4 of the book. Another key character, right to the end, is a horse that has been beaten and fears everyone. You will love to hate the "bad" character. Molly's mom's place in the plot still bothers me. The hero is someone we'd all like to know! Nice at the beach, on vacation, relaxing read.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Unbroken, by Laura Hillenbrand, Totally Not My Kind of Book, Totally Awesome
War story? Non-fiction? Centered on a soldier? Planes? How they fly? Billy Graham? In a hundred years, no one who knows me would guess I'd pick this book, actually finish it, and read many parts to my husband as I was too impressed to silently absorb the information and experiences and move on. I'm sure being written by a female author is the only thing that hinted to me that I might like this book. Louis Zamperini was an Olympic runner preparing for the Berlin Games. He was a scamp, a troubled youth, until competitive running grabbed his interest. Then the war took him on a path of trials I'd have never survived. As soon as non-fiction words about planes and their characteristics
float before my eyes I tune out, skip over them. Not this time. I actually could tell
by their names, what possibilities were ahead. If it came up in a
Trivia game, I would never have come close to guessing the combat to
non-combat ratio of plane losses in WWII.
On a raft in the ocean after his plane went down, surviving unimaginable ordeals, just to get "saved" by the Japanese. Then years in POW camps, picked for vicious and repeated beatings because he WAS a famous runner. Beaten unconscious, starved, ill...how could he survive and live a normal life? We hear so much about post stress syndromes from more recent wars, but I can't recall ever hearing about former soldiers suffering from it when I was growing up, post WWII. I had friends whose fathers served, but war-caused mental problems were NEVER mentioned. It was there. Overwhelmingly.
I rate this a 9+ out of 10. Get this one on your reading list, guy and gals. It is probably one of 5 books I've read, out of 1850+, that I would recommend highly for the guys! Those of you in book clubs, put it on your reading list.
On a raft in the ocean after his plane went down, surviving unimaginable ordeals, just to get "saved" by the Japanese. Then years in POW camps, picked for vicious and repeated beatings because he WAS a famous runner. Beaten unconscious, starved, ill...how could he survive and live a normal life? We hear so much about post stress syndromes from more recent wars, but I can't recall ever hearing about former soldiers suffering from it when I was growing up, post WWII. I had friends whose fathers served, but war-caused mental problems were NEVER mentioned. It was there. Overwhelmingly.
I rate this a 9+ out of 10. Get this one on your reading list, guy and gals. It is probably one of 5 books I've read, out of 1850+, that I would recommend highly for the guys! Those of you in book clubs, put it on your reading list.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Harvesting the Heart, by Jodi Picoult
The title baffles me. I know, it's related to the main guy, but I expected a literal heart transplant every minute and wondered who would bite the dust. I wanted to cry out to the main character, "TALK to this man." Perhaps that is what kept me reading, the characters just left the thoughts unspoken. Left their conversations hanging. A talker like me would never do that. Again, Picoult has labeled chapters by the characters' names, but I'd lose track and wonder who's turn it was because the plot was so intertwined. The flashback attack lost me and the beginning of it didn't seem to fall in line with the ending; idea wise, yes, but event wise, no. Climbing a tree to look in the window? Overboard idea. But it does illustrate the main character's desperation. The artwork idea grabbed my attention but is hard to imagine. Wish the cover had a picture illustrating that idea along with the two hands pictured. The ending? Am I blind or is it up to the reader? Is she going to let herself be stuck as an appendage to his life's trip? On my scale of 1-10, an 8 with flashes of 9. Maybe I need a rest from this author, though...with intentions of resuming reserving more of her books at another time.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Boring But Historical, Love In an Envelope
Love In An Envelope, A Courtship in the American West, Edited by Daniel Tyler with Betty Henshaw. Ever the romantic, I was drawn to the book by way of an article in our local QC Times newspaper some years ago. I was also interested in reading it because the main characters, Leroy Carpenter and Martha Bennett, came from my part of Iowa originally. The mention of DeWitt, Calamus, Clinton, Maquoketa, Low Moor, Tipton, and Davenport caught my eye as they are "home town areas" to me. In abut 1871, Leroy and Martha have met locally through relatives. But his family soon moves to Greeley, Colorado. They maintain and develop an ever closer relationship through their lengthy letters, written in what the authors say is a typical Victorian standard. Mostly, flowery, circuitous, lengthy and boring sentences, not unlike my own. Along the way however I did learn much about the difficult settling of the Greeley area. The importance of church, Sunday School, community groups and meetings in rural communities separated by only a few miles, but in lengthy walks or wagon rides, was repeatedly scored. Their relationship was building towards a marriage in April of 1872. They had recently met when he left. She was teaching in rural schools at about the age of 16! They got to know each other through their letters. Health concerns their own, their family's or their community's were paramount in every letter. All passion is deeply imbedded in Victorian rules of conduct and expressions. It is my opinion that they were taking a deep leap of faith in their devoted letters to know a suitable marriage relationship was forming. He hadn't even kissed her! For those interested in history, women's suffrage, temperance, the early settlement of Greeley, and eastern Iowa families I'd rate it a 8 on my 1 to 10 scale. For griping excitement "I can't put it down" interest, I rate it a 4 on a 1 to 10 scale. The most wonderful part is that the letters were kept, in good condition, found and published for posterity.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
It Was Nebraska
It Was Nebraska
via I-80
12/2011
White winter worms of bulky bales, for feeding bawling beeves.
Worms, plastic protected.
Sharp, stark black of angus against warm winter sun-glared gold of chopped corn stalks.
In a row, like circus elephants, the black cows parading away from the wind shelter of trees, a young calf four deep in the line with one more adult bringing up the rear.
Like pepper dotting the golden buttery top of a heap of potatoes, the black cattle are feeding in the short cropped stubble of corn fields. Some clustered, others scattered, but all in close proximity in acres and acres of fields that singly, are as large as the 240 acre farm I called home.
Even the cedar trees are rusty, drab, brownish dark, camouflaged; almost, not quite, green.
At the edges of the fields are miles long lines of crowded trees, the trunks a bleached gray white and their branches, ever smaller and smaller near the tree tops, form clouds almost of mist-like frosty fog, until they pale and along with wisps of storm clouds gone past, give way, upwards, to the pale, many washed blues of the sky.
It has snowed just a little overnight. Where the naked-branched trees are closer to the road, the snow lightly covers the grasses and weeds like a butterscotch pudding waiting to boil when a milky slurry swirls to the top of the pot, not quite covering it all.
The winter sun flows through the trees making spider webs of shadows darker than the tree trunks.
The unending monotony of wire fences with their sentinel posts guards against what?...intruders or escapees?
Some cedars, hiding amongst the larger trees have a flour dusting of snow.
The service roads are totally white as if the snow chose those long lines to heavily blanket the ground where trees’ dead summer growth didn’t interfere.
The bottom fourth of the fences hide in longer grasses and weeds. As if, could you cut out their growth, you could slip underneath where access is hidden.
And there, an intrusive, thin, brightly colored sign says, “Land for Sale.” Ending someone’s joy of ownership, coupled with struggle, hope and pride. Will the sale end in more “foreign” ownership of not unlimited land?
All along are long narrow rectangles of small ponds, gouged out, no doubt, to make the raised roadways.
Then a sprinkling of struggling homes. This one is long narrow metal box, with cold steps rising to a skinny metal door, sided by metal windows barely big enough to light the insides. An old boxy garage, with leaning walls. A line of smaller and smaller out-building sheds, small doors closed. Then as the unkept sheds thin out, the rusty remains of machinery crowd their walls until they too thin out and more trees and weeds take over.
A partially ice-coated pond with cajillions of ducks crowding the edges of the ice patches like thirsty bar patrons clamoring to place their orders, shoulder to shoulder and leaving no space for any line crashers.
And finally, at the end of the pond, around an outward curve of ice, they are bunched up deeply, like music lovers around an outdoor stage performance. All motionless, a still life.
There’s a huge, fat, leaning tree trunk, with a long branch-missing hole big enough to stand in. Rot will enter. Eventually only neighboring trees will hold it up and then not even they will have the stamina and position to maintain its proud stance.
And then the flat plains give way to the hint of hills to come. At first like bumps under a blanket. Bumps that a determined hand could smooth away. Bumps with dark dots of cedar, like stringy yarn knots tied to a quilt.
After hours like this the buildings thicken and the signs multiply and...viola! There is not just a town with implied two churches, fading main street and a convenience store, but a hub of box stores, motels, fast food joints, gas stations, hospitals and hustling. And then, three exits and two overpasses later, the open land has its turn again.
One cow raises its tail a bit ...I’m just glad I’m far enough away to miss the splatter and pungent smells. Corn should grow well in that small spot next season. Passing birds, not as fussy as us, will feed first and by spring the insects and maggots might set up a temporary camp. Some things I should think and not write. But if you don’t write them when they flit through your mind they are forever gone in the world like the farm I loved, giving up brief memories that barely flit through my mind now.
NO TRESPASSING! NO TRESPASSING! White lettering on black tires draped over fence-posts. I’d agree if the place was mine. It would be JUST MY place to wander and wonder about.
The windmills aren’t very tall. But they are in working order. Unlike their failing comrades back home. Unlike the new white stationary birds of power now, not just dotting Iowa farmland, but intruding and talking over calmer views. Powerful. Like the “Tripod” trilogy. Stalking. Taking over.
So, not every telling needs a plot, climax and ending.
via I-80
12/2011
White winter worms of bulky bales, for feeding bawling beeves.
Worms, plastic protected.
Sharp, stark black of angus against warm winter sun-glared gold of chopped corn stalks.
In a row, like circus elephants, the black cows parading away from the wind shelter of trees, a young calf four deep in the line with one more adult bringing up the rear.
Like pepper dotting the golden buttery top of a heap of potatoes, the black cattle are feeding in the short cropped stubble of corn fields. Some clustered, others scattered, but all in close proximity in acres and acres of fields that singly, are as large as the 240 acre farm I called home.
Even the cedar trees are rusty, drab, brownish dark, camouflaged; almost, not quite, green.
At the edges of the fields are miles long lines of crowded trees, the trunks a bleached gray white and their branches, ever smaller and smaller near the tree tops, form clouds almost of mist-like frosty fog, until they pale and along with wisps of storm clouds gone past, give way, upwards, to the pale, many washed blues of the sky.
It has snowed just a little overnight. Where the naked-branched trees are closer to the road, the snow lightly covers the grasses and weeds like a butterscotch pudding waiting to boil when a milky slurry swirls to the top of the pot, not quite covering it all.
The winter sun flows through the trees making spider webs of shadows darker than the tree trunks.
The unending monotony of wire fences with their sentinel posts guards against what?...intruders or escapees?
Some cedars, hiding amongst the larger trees have a flour dusting of snow.
The service roads are totally white as if the snow chose those long lines to heavily blanket the ground where trees’ dead summer growth didn’t interfere.
The bottom fourth of the fences hide in longer grasses and weeds. As if, could you cut out their growth, you could slip underneath where access is hidden.
And there, an intrusive, thin, brightly colored sign says, “Land for Sale.” Ending someone’s joy of ownership, coupled with struggle, hope and pride. Will the sale end in more “foreign” ownership of not unlimited land?
All along are long narrow rectangles of small ponds, gouged out, no doubt, to make the raised roadways.
Then a sprinkling of struggling homes. This one is long narrow metal box, with cold steps rising to a skinny metal door, sided by metal windows barely big enough to light the insides. An old boxy garage, with leaning walls. A line of smaller and smaller out-building sheds, small doors closed. Then as the unkept sheds thin out, the rusty remains of machinery crowd their walls until they too thin out and more trees and weeds take over.
A partially ice-coated pond with cajillions of ducks crowding the edges of the ice patches like thirsty bar patrons clamoring to place their orders, shoulder to shoulder and leaving no space for any line crashers.
And finally, at the end of the pond, around an outward curve of ice, they are bunched up deeply, like music lovers around an outdoor stage performance. All motionless, a still life.
There’s a huge, fat, leaning tree trunk, with a long branch-missing hole big enough to stand in. Rot will enter. Eventually only neighboring trees will hold it up and then not even they will have the stamina and position to maintain its proud stance.
And then the flat plains give way to the hint of hills to come. At first like bumps under a blanket. Bumps that a determined hand could smooth away. Bumps with dark dots of cedar, like stringy yarn knots tied to a quilt.
After hours like this the buildings thicken and the signs multiply and...viola! There is not just a town with implied two churches, fading main street and a convenience store, but a hub of box stores, motels, fast food joints, gas stations, hospitals and hustling. And then, three exits and two overpasses later, the open land has its turn again.
One cow raises its tail a bit ...I’m just glad I’m far enough away to miss the splatter and pungent smells. Corn should grow well in that small spot next season. Passing birds, not as fussy as us, will feed first and by spring the insects and maggots might set up a temporary camp. Some things I should think and not write. But if you don’t write them when they flit through your mind they are forever gone in the world like the farm I loved, giving up brief memories that barely flit through my mind now.
NO TRESPASSING! NO TRESPASSING! White lettering on black tires draped over fence-posts. I’d agree if the place was mine. It would be JUST MY place to wander and wonder about.
The windmills aren’t very tall. But they are in working order. Unlike their failing comrades back home. Unlike the new white stationary birds of power now, not just dotting Iowa farmland, but intruding and talking over calmer views. Powerful. Like the “Tripod” trilogy. Stalking. Taking over.
So, not every telling needs a plot, climax and ending.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Tears, But Not Sobs; Nicholas Sparks' Novel, The Best of Me
Another I can't put it down until I'm done story. I knew near the end where it was headed, but how would it be reconciled? My husband knows how sometimes I sob and sob when reading this author. So when I asked him at bed time if he wanted me to just stay on the couch and finish the book, then wake him when I came to bed, or should I just finish it there beside him, he was OK with me staying put and the light wouldn't bother him. Keep in mind it was already past midnight and he is an early riser...silly man. But he was concerned about the uncontrolled sobbing shaking the bed, not the light on VERY late! The story ended at 1:40 am, for me.
During the whole story I just couldn't see how it could be a "get what you want" story for the heroine. What a great love story. Sniff, sniff. Family dynamics, even from non-family. Wonderful twists and "No!" twists. Nicholas Sparks does not let me down when I want a good book. Read it. A 9 on my 1-10 scale.
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