tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14839339007658261862024-03-19T01:47:48.189-07:00Read. Write. Share.This blog is devoted to writing! Find short stories, essays, and book reviews.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.comBlogger123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-72483646208730721632021-06-20T12:57:00.001-07:002021-06-20T12:57:29.240-07:00They Called Us Enemy<p>On our family outings to Barnes and Noble, I used to get frustrated that Cole would route directly to the graphic novel section. Not only were they expensive, but I didn't really consider that "reading." So, I'd gently nudge back him toward books I thought he should read. </p><p>Last month, our youthful librarian chose "They Called Us Enemy" by George Takei–a memoir told in the form of a graphic novel. I'm sorry to say that it took someone completely different than my son to convince me to give it a try. But I'm so glad she did.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe52VFsscZwEwxyL5oHoUpfIAOR-qL7tAZC5sZZdegYVYNb7GzzJ_wlGRLV_4bGM6WMEt2BOBKfk68cNEE3pe1O6AUfZb_YVlMGunFg08eKO5lgl6K1EjCZQ39pAdkCRw9wW0HFdRa0Q80/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="346" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe52VFsscZwEwxyL5oHoUpfIAOR-qL7tAZC5sZZdegYVYNb7GzzJ_wlGRLV_4bGM6WMEt2BOBKfk68cNEE3pe1O6AUfZb_YVlMGunFg08eKO5lgl6K1EjCZQ39pAdkCRw9wW0HFdRa0Q80/" width="166" /></a></div><p></p><p>The story begins shortly before Pearl Harbor, with George recounting his family's American Dream with his father (an immigrant) and his mother (second generation immigrant) making a nice life for themselves and their children in California. As you can guess, all was lost when they were forced into Internment Camps, being labeled as the enemy.</p><p>George tells the story from his little boy perspective, with sprinklings of his adult observations. The technique is brilliant and it only seems right to be told in what we old-timers call "comic book" style. Through illustrations, sparse dialogue and brief descriptions, we see the situation through the innocent eyes of a child. We also capture the anguish of his parents, who quickly become the heroes of the story. I was completely struck by the resiliency of the Japanese-Americans who were unjustly ripped from their homes and robbed of their possessions. George's father became a leader of the group, serving as a voice for the imprisoned in an attempt to create a sense of community and normalcy for the families. George's mother never fashioned herself as a victim, throwing her efforts into making a home out of their tiny barracks. She even sneaks a heavy sewing machine into the compound to ensure she can make clothing. George and his brother, of course, are disappointed that she snuck in such a prosaic appliance. (Takei even manages to find a bit of humor in the dour circumstance.)</p><p>The memoir stretches into George's life beyond the camp, when he becomes a Star Trek star and an amazing social activist. His casting as a respectable, Japanese officer on a sci-fi ship was one of the first groundbreaking moves to dispel the racist and unsavory roles that minorities were typically cast in Hollywood. We eventually see a glimpse of reparation when Ronald Reagan acknowledges past wrongs.</p><p>All this, told as a graphic novel.</p><p>Cole, my son, the graphic novel aficionado, is now a history education major in college. The book, among many others,(including recently-read Caste by Isabelle Wilkerson), has me thinking much about how history is and will be taught in schools. Anyone who has read books that open our eyes to a completely different aspect of important historical events would not argue that we should revisit how we teach history. A sanitized version doesn't teach us of past mistakes. And it's not a matter of "vilifying" or "demonizing" anyone. It's a matter of telling the truth so that our society evolves more perfectly into the ideals we believe in.</p><p>One of the most profound moments in the story is when George's dad defends the United States. He, more than anyone, understood the wrongs of our country's past. But he believed in democracy, and he didn't give up hope.</p><p>Here's the thing about reading. Our concept of literature is always changing, evolving. I read a graphic novel and have an entirely new respect for the genre. It also made me realize that there are many ways to learn and enlighten, as long as our minds remain open.</p>Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-91735515469669802372020-09-03T18:10:00.000-07:002020-09-03T18:10:05.461-07:00Wearing Eyeliner at Parkers' Place<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm was recently notified that my short story received an Honorable Mention in the Writer's Digest Annual Short Story Competition. The winners and their stories will be published in December on <a href="http://writersdigest.com/">writersdigest.com</a>. I'm excited to share this piece with you.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wearing Eyeliner at Parkers’ Place</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We’re going to Las Vegas!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mom shrieked, her voice bouncing off the kitchen walls, her eyes glowing like the tip of her cigarette.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We are?” I asked, my heart caught between suspicion and excitement. We had never gone anywhere beyond Omaha or Des Moines for vacation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mom’s smile dropped. Her voice composed itself. “Oh, honey. Not the kids. Just me and your dad are going.” She took hold of my shoulder. “But, guess what! You and Joey get to stay with your cousins.” She paused, as if considering how to strengthen her argument. “You’ll have more fun with them anyway. Las Vegas is really for adults.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My shoulders sank with the weight of her arms and the weight of her message.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My cousins.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I grew up with compassionate, but fairly militant parents. Dad worked long hours as a supervisor at the plant. When we were in his presence, he demanded decorum and manners. Please. Thank you. No elbows on the table. Don’t interrupt adults. We never argued with him. It wasn’t allowed. Mom was more hands-on, since she stayed at home. She ensured we brushed our teeth for at least two minutes. She made us go to bed by 9:30 every night. (We could read until 10, but lights out after that.) Every morning our beds had to pass inspection before breakfast. We were required to eat every bite of our scrambled eggs before washing our plates. We took Flinstone vitamins. We weren’t allowed to argue with her either, but we could at least complain in her presence. And I would at times; but in truth, whenever our structure deviated even in the slightest, I felt out of sorts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Structure was a foreign concept to my cousins. Everything was a crapshoot there. Even sheets for beds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As far as I knew, my parents had never taken a vacation without me and my brother. I needed to feel happy for them. I imagined coolly telling my classmates, “Oh yeah. My parents are flying to Las Vegas. Just for the weekend.” If anyone would’ve happened to ask, that is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But I couldn’t deny the sliver of anxiety that always came with an overnight stay at the Parkers. Not that I wouldn’t have fun. There was no doubt. And not that I didn’t adore them. They were brash and popular. I was studious and blended in. They were the closest family we had living nearby. I was thankful to have built-in best friends: a necessary comfort in that competitive and hostile world of junior high.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But still.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Aunt Joy was my father’s sister and had married a lawyer who worked for a non-profit agency. We rarely saw my uncle, and when we did it was for no longer than thirty seconds before he blasted off to something important and mysterious like an “awareness meeting.” My aunt worked part-time for the fabric store and took long bubble baths. She also considered herself a movie critic, rarely missing any flick at our local one-screen theater. It wasn’t unusual for her to see the same movie five times. “It’s amazing how much you don’t catch the fourth or fifth time around,” she’d always say, as if it was her duty to be away from her kids. So when we stayed there, it was a camp without counselors. No parents. No supervision. No Flinstone vitamins.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Beatrice was the oldest cousin and found a great deal of oppression in her name. She refashioned herself as Treece – mainly a moniker from her cheerleading posse who all wore the same big hair and same dark eyeliner making them beautiful and scary. Her three younger sisters scoffed at their sister, refusing to honor her nickname. Beatrice (sometimes Beatrice Biddy) was preferred and mostly appropriate with her rail-thin features and dictatorial essence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The twins, Bella and Brooke, were closest to my age: two years younger than Treece. They were gut-wrenchingly pretty but didn’t particularly look alike nor act alike. Bella was born without a filter and was hardly ever admonished for her rudeness because of her catlike green eyes and sun-drenched hair. Brooke had no problem being the shadow of her twin. While she always seemed strangely embarrassed of her own auburn exterior which gave her the look of an Italian mafia queen, I suspected her mitigated audacity to be a result from her speech impediment. She always seemed content to allow Bella to be the voice for both of them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Breaking with the B-names, Crissy was the spoiled and chubby baby of the family. She was a year younger than my first-grade brother, Joe. The “kids” as we called them would typically escape to any available room for hours, playing whatever Crissy decided. Joe was a good soldier and always did what was asked of him whether this meant being the dragon, a dad, or an ugly step-sister. I appreciated this quality in Joe, as did Crissy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Rarely did we do the same thing twice at the Parker house. No matter what, we could depend on laughter, screaming, and a few angry tears. But fun made up for just about everything that happened there – including the fact we’d have to scrounge for necessities. Aunt Joy would leave a ten dollar bill on the table of crusted dishes smelling of something like fried onions. We were instructed to get food at the Arby’s a few blocks away. But by the time we were all hungry, the money would be missing. We’d eat stale cereal with or without milk. While my cousins contended dairy was still good a week after its expiration date, I insisted Joe and I liked our cereal dry. It was a texture thing, I’d say.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span>The weekend our parents went to Las Vegas didn’t seem much different than other times. Except for one thing. A thing that would leave a mark on us all. Especially Treece.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After playing Twister on the water bed and putting on a pageant where my brother was crowned queen, Treece announced it was time to hit the sack because she had a splitting headache. The twins didn’t argue, whispering how we’d think of something else to do after we pretended to go to sleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Rooms were never assigned to anyone in particular. But that night as we staked our sleeping spots, we found the “blue room” to be neatly cleaned, a bed made and all. Treece sat on the edge of a quilt-covered bed and ordered us out. Since Joe and Crissy had already crashed inside a tent in the pink room, the twins and I were left with the yellow room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sardined in our individual blankets on the small bed, we discussed our future mansion. (Even in junior high, my cousins and I dreamed of living in deep luxury together.) We were arguing about the shape of our indoor swimming pool when Brooke got stuck on a word. Jacuzzi. As we giggled at her pronunciation, we heard a foreign noise from next door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Shh,” Bella said.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We sat up in the room. The streetlamp outside casted navy shadows on the wall. Extending our ears, we heard skittering too thunderous to be mice – though we’d seen our fair share in that old Victorian house.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Then mumbling. Deep-timbre mumbling. A boy was with Beatrice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bella threw off her blanket and rushed out. Brooke and I stepped cautiously into the hallway as we watched Bella jiggling the door to Treece’s room. When it didn’t open, she pounded and shouted, “I know someone’s in there Beatrice! Let us in or I’m calling Dad!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Go away you rat!” Treece said from behind the door.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>More mumbling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bella kept hammering her fist on the door. Brooke and I stood like sentries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The door creaked open. “Shut up!” She whisper-shouted. She was wearing only a slip. Black satin. “You’re going to wake the kids.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What the hell?” asked Bella. “Is that Mom’s lingerie? Oh my god. You’re going to have sex with a boy. Who’s in there?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Another hand pushed the door open. There stood Sam Dugger with his shaggy hair, wearing no shirt and green sweat pants. Undeniably cute. A rumored druggie. His presence made my stomach drop. Like the rest of my classmates, I had staunchly pledged to say no to drugs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Get out of our house!” Bella shouted and waved her finger at Sam. “Or, I’m calling Dad!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I felt a splash of cool air sneaking in from an open window in the room. For a minute I wondered if Sam had come in that way. Then I smelled a sweet burning aroma I learned that night to be pot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Are you getting high?” Bella stomped in the room. “You’re so dead. Forget Dad. I’m calling the cops.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Bella,” Treece said calmly. “Don’t be a dumb ass. You wanna get Mom and Dad in trouble?” She stared at her sister fiercely. “Dad could lose his license.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Put it out now!” Bella was crying through her screams. “Right now!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sam dutifully went to the window and stubbed out the little cigarette. Treece put her arms around a flailing Bella. “Hey,” she said covering her sister’s mouth. “It’s okay. We’ll stop. Okay? Sam will leave. I promise.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bella’s screams simmered to a whimper. Then she ran back into the yellow room. Treece looked at Brooke. “Whatever you do, make sure she doesn’t call Dad. Sam will leave. Soon. I promise.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We nodded our heads and went back to find Bella curled on the bed. Brooke turned on music from the digital alarm clock and crawled next to her sister. I carefully laid myself on the edge of the bed, listening to the Go Go’s. Then Michael Jackson. Then J. Geils. I loved those songs. But that night, they had been tainted by what was happening in the other room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>None of us spoke anymore. I waited until Bella was no longer sniffing back tears and my cousins were whistling the deep rhythm of sleep. Hours later, I was completely alert, heart thumping through my chest, when Treece led Sam out through the hallway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next morning I awoke with a crook in the base of my skull. My eyes were heavy, but my mind began to jump with the memory of last night. The twins were still sleeping, twisted around each other like jungle vines. I got up and walked through stillness and mess. Clothes, shoes, dishes, magazines, bags of chips. The house was always so cluttered. It was like stumbling through the aftermath of a tornado. Once I made it to the kitchen, I had an idea. I would clean.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I began by tying up the overflowing garbage and dumping out the relics of fetid food. There were moments the gag reflex would tap at my throat, reminding me to breathe through my mouth. I piled dirty dish after dirty dish on the counter. The dishwashing soap hadn’t been opened, which was good. I used nearly all of it. As I was working on the last of the pots, Aunt Joy walked in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Casey,” she said with a yawn. “What are you doing?” She glanced around. “Oh my.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I shrugged and smiled at her, continuing to scrub a particularly stubborn spot of food. Kissing me on the head she whispered, “I’ll give you some money for this. It must’ve been quite a job.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No need, Aunt Joy. I’m glad to do it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Starting a pot of coffee, she began to tell me about the movie. As she was describing the subpar acting of a critically-acclaimed movie she stopped. “What do you say I make pancakes today?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That sounds good.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Joe and Crissy came in just as the pancake batter sizzled on the griddle. “Pancakes! Pancakes!” Crissy jumped up and down as if it were a holiday. "I love pancakes!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Their ignorance made me jealous. If only I could’ve erased thoughts of drugs and sex, I would’ve been just as excited about pancakes. There was a strange, unearned guilt covering me, as if I had been the one to smoke pot and have a boy in my room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The twins crept into the room, bleary-eyed and with curiosity.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What’s go-going on?” Brooke asked sniffing the air.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Casey cleaned the kitchen!” said Aunt Joy. “I thought it seemed like a pancake type of day.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As we bellied up to the table, my uncle marched into the kitchen wearing a a dark brown sweater and corduroy pants. He poured himself a cup of coffee and looked around the room. I thought he was observing the clean kitchen, but instead he said, “Beatrice still asleep? Or did she stay somewhere last night?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I caught a glimpse of the twins locking eyes. The little kids decided to make it their mission to wake her up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Joe and Crissy came sprinting back into the kitchen to the stacks of pancakes. Treece schlepped in looking haggard with her black hair snarled into nests.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Good morning, sunshine!” My uncle patted Treece on the shoulder. “Nice to see you joining the family for breakfast.” Then he looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, I need to scoot.” He glanced at Aunt Joy. “Lots of work to catch up on.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She nodded and continued to flip pancakes on the plates I had just washed. Some of the pancakes were burnt. Some weren’t quite done. But everyone raved anyway. As syrup was poured and juice was spilled, I looked askance at Treece who was only nibbling on the corner of a cake. Her typical resolve had not seemed to have awakened yet. Bella acted similarly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After we finished eating, Brooke asked Bella if we should go to the creek. She nodded. Aunt Joy said she was taking the kids to the matinee and would Beatrice like to come with her?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Treece had homework.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“On a Saturday?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Treece nodded and nothing else was said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The twins and I went to the muddy creek and spent the day ruining our shoes pulling wild flowers and picking tree leaves. I tried to talk about our mansion, but my cousins weren’t into that conversation. They hardly spoke about anything, except the flower arrangements we made and eventually tossed into the creek. After it grew cooler and began to sprinkle, we went home. The kitchen still presented remnants of our breakfast feast. Syrup bottles stuck to the table. Batter crusted the bowl. Plates diligently covered the table. I thought about filling the sink with dishwater again, but didn’t.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Treece was the only one home, affixed to the television wearing shorts and an oversized T-shirt. We sat down to watch sitcoms that didn’t seem funny.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Two months later, my father received a frantic call from Aunt Joy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Beatrice was pregnant. At the age of sixteen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My father slammed the phone down. “Fuck!” He kept his knuckles tight on the receiver. “I knew nothing good would come from letting those kids run wild.” He turned his gaze to me. “Wanna throw your life away? Get yourself knocked up at sixteen. Like your cousin.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My father was stern, but I rarely saw my father upset – even if his favorite team was getting beat. So his apoplectic response and attention on me was unnerving. It would be a long time before I wore a skirt above my knee. It would be a long time before I ever tried to have a conversation with a boy. It would be a long time before I consented to sex. Thanks to Dad and cousin Beatrice.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Our school was small enough to allow high school drama seep into the annals of junior high. For the first time ever, I was embarrassed of my connection to my cousins.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sam Dugger with his athletic build and rebellious long tresses seemed to be everywhere. He showed up in the gym during junior high P.E. He walked through the first floor halls as if he didn’t realize he was a sophomore. He made frequent appearances in the principal’s office with its fishbowl windows that publicized derelict students.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Within a few months my cousin had formed a bump on her little belly. The rumor mill didn’t whisper about Treece Parker. It shouted from a mountain top. Bella tried to squash the talk with a diversion tactic: a Sadie Hawkins dance. But that only worked for about thirty seconds.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I didn’t see Treece nearly as much as I saw Sam, since she understood that high schoolers belonged on the second and third floors. Occasionally, I’d run into her after school or at a ball game. It hurt me to see how she had fallen off that crest of confidence. She had been bold, beautiful, and like a tiger, a little fearsome. Then she had lost her stripes. She was still pretty. But her face was sallow and she no longer wore dark eyeliner. She was doing her best not to be noticed. But not everyone has the gift of fading into the woodwork, like me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She quit the cheerleading squad. Admittedly, this was one of the aspects that bothered me most. At games I loved to casually mention how the skinny brunette doing flips was my cousin. Everyone already knew this, of course. But I weaved it into conversation to prove my brush with popularity. Once Treece had been replaced by Nikki Holloway, my classmates took the opportunity to ask, “Is Nikki your cousin, too?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Once during study hall, I requested to be excused to the restroom. I happened to catch Beatrice there, rubbing her belly and staring in the mirror. My instinct was to step back out. But she looked up and trapped me with a pleading expression. “Wanna rub it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I absolutely did not want to feel it. But I set my pass down and carefully put my hands on her taut, warm skin. After a few minutes, I felt something. Bea and I snapped our heads up. Then we giggled. I wanted to hug her and say, “Maybe it won’t be the worst thing.” But I didn’t. Because I believed that to be a lie. Getting pregnant would’ve been the worst thing. I just smiled at her, then went to the bathroom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One month later, my cousin miscarried.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The following summer the twins asked if I could stay over for the weekend, just for fun. It was agreed that Crissy could stay at our house with Joe. A fair exchange.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I knew things would be different at their house this time. But as I walked into their house with my overnight bag, I was greeted by pizza boxes, soda cans, and a new cat licking a bowl on the counter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Parkers had themselves a cat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s B-Beatrice’s,” said Brooke as she picked up the black ball of fur. “Mainly.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We took the new pet into the living room, fencing her in our circle of three. After a few feisty scratches, someone reached over us to pick up the cat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Quit teasing her,” said Treece dressed in workout clothes. “She’ll turn mean.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“She’s already mean,” said Bella.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I could hear the cat purring like a tiny motor as she settled into my oldest cousin’s folded arms.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“She’s not,” argued Treece. “She’s misunderstood.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As she walked away with the cat, Brooke and Bella looked at each other. Bella rolled her eyes and said, “Such a bitch!” Then she turned to me. “We have new makeup. Let’s do each other up.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In their large bathroom, we dabbled in eye creams, braided and unbraided each other’s hair, and painted fake moles on our cheek to resemble Ginger on Gilligan’s Island. As Brooke was painting my mole, Treece poked her head in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Want me to french braid your hair? Since none of you losers obviously know how?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Her tone pelted us like drizzling ice. And felt strangely refreshing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Brooke can braid way better than you,” Bella snarled back. “She doesn’t try to pull our hair out.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Treece took a position in front of the mirror and studied herself for a few seconds. Then she twisted her hair up and penciled her eyes with green liner.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That looks pretty,” I said. Treece turned to me, her eyebrows raised. She turned back to the mirror.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What do you know about it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Probably not much,” I admitted. “Dad won’t let me wear make-up.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s no wonder then.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I didn’t ask what she meant by that, but I assumed she didn’t quite approve of my mediocre social standing among my peers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I caught her looking at me through the mirror. Without saying another work, she turned my face toward hers. Then she took the pencil and brushed it around my eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s jade,” she said. “The color is jade. Not green.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She finished and stepped back, holding my chin in her hand.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismwmlQAaHdg_y9Db02AFG3RMany4JDeoLii7rDPO9w3Lgp-oFf01o3JaS56-cHSwy96DqI0gtqRYQCwwgLnmmz95bU-MKd2v5FGy4vWq-oD56Ie7KWGjBfq3xZajeC4dXLqOVcaG1c8K-/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="125" data-original-width="222" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismwmlQAaHdg_y9Db02AFG3RMany4JDeoLii7rDPO9w3Lgp-oFf01o3JaS56-cHSwy96DqI0gtqRYQCwwgLnmmz95bU-MKd2v5FGy4vWq-oD56Ie7KWGjBfq3xZajeC4dXLqOVcaG1c8K-/s200/download.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“There. Just a little color. Not too much. Too much will make you look cheap.” She stared at me intently. “Got it?” I nodded. She curved her lips ever so slightly, as if she were giving me a small hug. She put the eyeliner in my hand. “You can keep it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I told her thanks and carefully put the eyeliner in my overnight bag. I never wore it, or any makeup, all through high school. But I kept it in my jewelry box, like a treasure.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It wasn’t until my first semester in college that I thought I’d try it out. The jade eyeliner. I had been asked to go to a party, and it seemed the thing to do. I took it out and tried to scrape the crusty pencil around my eyes. I laughed when I stepped back and saw the clown staring at me in the mirror. I washed it off my eyes and put the eyeliner back in my jewelry box, where it was meant to stay.</span></div>
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Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-13980464041660562562019-08-19T18:43:00.000-07:002019-08-19T18:43:27.989-07:00Beartown"The only thing the sport gives us are moments. But what the hell is life, Peter, apart from moments." –Ramona, the widowed bar lady, town psychologist, redeemer<br />
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I've read three different novels from Fredrik Backman and have loved them all. And just as we love our children in different ways, so is it true for each of his books. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Man-Called-Ove-Novel-ebook/dp/B00GEEB730/ref=sr_1_1?crid=890RJH7TZEOP&keywords=a+man+called+ove&qid=1566264499&s=digital-text&sprefix=a+man+cal%2Cdigital-text%2C176&sr=1-1" target="_blank">A Man Called Ove</a> introduced us to a widowed carmudgeon who finds meaning to his life after the love of his life dies. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Grandmother-Asked-Tell-Shes-Sorry-ebook/dp/B00Q102M5Y/ref=sr_1_3?crid=384B8RHHSZ1GO&keywords=my+grandmother+asked+me+to+tell+you+she%27s+sorry&qid=1566264532&s=digital-text&sprefix=my+gran%2Cdigital-text%2C197&sr=1-3" target="_blank">My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry</a> offered an intricate family saga strewn with remarkable characters who tended to surprise and enlighten. After reading these two books, I was delighted by Backman's ability to make me laugh and cry.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJIIzta6AVzY3aFgOpEclBeXDjn0_ppcUaLIU3W_HyKdCdDVYtoL83d0gFAgmCDUQgKJzmPm0B-ECAvLfa4Tkg13d5E4gx1T2chE5Cbd98gk1FVM1L8qKDbIKy-IVNIme7AZl9l_Xtfo-/s1600/510eFKVlbIL._SY346_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJIIzta6AVzY3aFgOpEclBeXDjn0_ppcUaLIU3W_HyKdCdDVYtoL83d0gFAgmCDUQgKJzmPm0B-ECAvLfa4Tkg13d5E4gx1T2chE5Cbd98gk1FVM1L8qKDbIKy-IVNIme7AZl9l_Xtfo-/s200/510eFKVlbIL._SY346_.jpg" width="129" /></a>Then came <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01KG5GQDS/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1" target="_blank">Beartown</a>.<br />
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My husband was looking for a change of pace from his Vince Flynn/David Baldacci action plots. We came across this one at B&N. It had a sports theme, after all, and I thought highly of the author. It's always a little nerve racking when you recommend a book to someone – especially if you haven't read it. So, I was pleased when Doug seemed attached to the story. He gave it <i>his</i> highest form of praise: "It was good." But I was surprised not to hear him giggling.<br />
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Then I read it. It didn't carry any of the lightness of the other two novels. But it was equally, if not more so, compelling.<br />
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Beartown is a small, wintry town which lives, breathes, and dreams hockey. I don't live in a hockey community. But I do come from a small town where youth sports rule. In other words, there are an abundance of relatable characters in the book. There's the old, lovable coach who has served as a mentor for the new leaders of the program. A good man. Doesn't like change. There's the new coach who knows how to motivate. He knows how to win. He's not a lovable character. But he is adored. There's the director who was once a star, loves hockey, and more than anything wants everyone to be happy. There's the townspeople, always ready to share a coffee or a whiskey. Always ready to share a strong opinion. There's the overly-involved parents. The mama bears, the ruthless dads. And finally, there are the kids. The players and the kids who don't play.<br />
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The story rolls along as the team prepares to win a championship. Then something happens. This something hits you like a punch to the gut. Just as you've become invested in the team and are rooting them on, the golden boy, the star hockey player, does something despicable. The town becomes divided in a hurry. What's more important than winning? To many people, nothing... as long as you can rationalize wrongdoing. The story is a great exercise in moral choices and having the courage to do the right thing.<br />
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It's easy to become wrapped up in a game. That "moment." We all want to identify with a winning team, and we become especially emotional when our kids are playing. We want to see our kids happy playing a sport they love. We might say it's not about winning, but our actions say otherwise with our hovering presences at games and the insistence of elite clubs. Beyond a doubt, winning is fun. But as this tale so poignantly tells, winning shouldn't be everything.<br />
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In the end, there are winners. There are losers. There can't be one without the other. And while the story navigates a difficult, tragic incident, there are many beautiful moments. Little girls are given a chance to play a sport that has been off limits. Underdogs are given the spotlight. And a small town redeems itself by doing the right thing.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-31224235142076369972019-02-27T19:29:00.000-08:002019-02-27T19:29:00.884-08:00Simonson's SummerTradition. Hypocrisy. Friendship. Love. Freedom.<br />
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I just finished reading <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0104EOGGK/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1" target="_blank">The Summer Before the War </a>by Helen Simonson which takes place in the small town of Rye in East Sussex, England just as World War I was beginning. The heaviness of war looms over the town so full of its own virtue that it fails to see its own hypocrisy. Sometimes it takes a stranger to uncover certain truths.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFgtTZzh_cim84zB5x2bdP8Sal9et3zlItlmWfmvL7D3hVZ-_RYMbdPwALUd7r2pIE-5uEhX5uDmPlje7iBFrLC47rPcVgKzwTqMDLIqXUahM6m_mM8U0tgagzU50wf3NdvLkiqMgV9lA/s1600/download-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFgtTZzh_cim84zB5x2bdP8Sal9et3zlItlmWfmvL7D3hVZ-_RYMbdPwALUd7r2pIE-5uEhX5uDmPlje7iBFrLC47rPcVgKzwTqMDLIqXUahM6m_mM8U0tgagzU50wf3NdvLkiqMgV9lA/s400/download-2.jpg" /></a>Enter Beatrice Nash. Beatrice is a young woman who moves in to start a new life as a Latin teacher after losing her beloved father. She is given a warm welcome by one of the town'a matriarchs: Agatha Kent, the wife of a government official and the aunt of two interesting young men: Hugh (an intelligent surgeon in training) and Daniel (an irreverent poet). Agatha immediately connects with Beatrice. Beyond their age difference, they are much alike: strong, smart women who respect tradition and social customs. But when tradition begins to conflict with social justice, this respect is tested at every corner.<br />
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Simonsen delicately paints a picture of a small town and all of its contradictions. Welcoming, quaint, and not as tolerant as it likes to believe. When Belgium refugees come to town, a wave of sympathy creates a swarm of hospitality for the desolate group. Language barriers are overcome with compassion. Beatrice points out that Celeste (a refuge under her care) probably doesn't understand English. The maid wisely responds that it doesn't matter. "Just a kind voice in the dark is all we want most times." But when an awful secret is discovered about the young Celeste, the town turns its back on the girl. Unfortunately, this won't be the only bias Beatrice will observe or experience. Issues such as proper behavior, the appropriate place of women, and lack of opportunity for certain social classes infiltrate the story until the war comes – when the small town conflicts are overshadowed. Doing the right thing becomes a matter of life and death.<br />
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There are many endearing characters in this story. Free-thinking writers. Ambitious students plagued by their social class. There is a clear division between the young and the old. And, of course, there are models of feminists in all classes who offer a quick wit and confidence. Often, these confidences are challenged in the name of tradition. Beatrice's spirits wanes when she discovers her father's follies and her dream of becoming a serious writer is undermined because of her gender. But her faith and determination lay the groundwork for good.<br />
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There are many beautifully-written passages throughout the story. This description of a schoolroom reflects how effortless Simonsen weaves imagery, characterization, and metaphor:<br />
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"The schoolroom called to her as if it were the sweet voice of civilization itself, summoning her to the white marble halls where poetry and mathematics, painting and song all echoed together in peaceful harmony."<br />
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Everything in the passage above juxtaposes the war.<br />
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Within the framework of all of war-borne incidents are love stories – the most evident between Beatrice and Hugh. Witty banter serves as a playful reprieve from the heavy issues surrounding the story. Simonson didn't need these love stories to make the novel compelling. But I, for one, love a romance. And nothing elevates the passion of a romance like war. And nothing elevates the cruelty of war like a romance as told here:<br />
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"That some should sit mourning in a drawing room, or smoothing the brow of a dying boy, while in a cottage on a cobbled street, two young lovers could only choose to stand against the shocking burden of death and loss with their love and their passion."<br />
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I picked up this book because I loved Major Pettigrew's Last Stand. Perhaps this author resonates with me because she so perfectly captures the idiosyncrasies of small town life. But Helen Simonson is also an intricate storyteller who can cleverly expound a moral tale without preaching. Don't think of this book as another war story. It's much more. It's a great tale of tolerance and freedom – freedom to create a life that matters even in the throes of war... or small-towns.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-52974639854186974562019-01-27T20:04:00.000-08:002019-01-28T18:56:05.526-08:00Rise of Hillbilly Literature <i>Hillbilly Elegy</i> by J.D. Vance was picked up by Netflix! I love, love, love to watch movies adapted by books. There are some of those who are purists who vow not to watch adaptations. Not me. I find character interpretations on screen an interesting aspect of the storytelling process.<br />
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I read <i>Hillbilly Elegy</i> a couple of years ago. Then I listened to it again last year during a car trip with my mother. Admittedly, I had looked over that title several times at Barnes and Nobles before finally giving in to curiosity. Was I really interested in a Hillbilly story? As it turned out, absolutely. As a matter of fact, I just finished another book which delves into that culture –<i>All the Pretty Things</i> by Edie Wadsworth. Both of these stories fascinated and even resonated with me. While I didn't exactly grow up in Hillbilly territory, I did grow in Kirkman, Iowa where there was plenty of boozing and blue collar mischief. There was even a murder. Beyond my Kirkman upbringing, I'd periodically venture to my grandmother's trailer in Missouri a few times.<br />
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In <i>Elegy</i>, Vance tells his story of his childhood which vacillated between Kentucky's Appalachia and the factory town of Middletown, Ohio. Because of his mother's addiction problems and a revolving door of father figures, J.D.'s life was no fairy tale. His grandparents were the only constant in his life – and not that they didn't have a few issues of their own. While there are heartbreaking stories of neglect, abuse, and addictions, J.D. is quick to recognize the love that surrounded him. Hillbilly clans might kick each other's teeth in, but they're fiercely loyal to each other.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNxFjfOkTnuTtq-_Zec4lKYDiIUIPshDBTo_X8NAMM5FSD8jkGNEbqFy9ByaojcVbke45UF_9jDTYu-r4HKmtKvalp1Z94aQtBAQF5nEDQlPnu7MEKhwjUkT7xC3xDd_owM37Mz9bsjQpu/s1600/download-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNxFjfOkTnuTtq-_Zec4lKYDiIUIPshDBTo_X8NAMM5FSD8jkGNEbqFy9ByaojcVbke45UF_9jDTYu-r4HKmtKvalp1Z94aQtBAQF5nEDQlPnu7MEKhwjUkT7xC3xDd_owM37Mz9bsjQpu/s200/download-3.jpg" width="129" /></a>J.D. Vance becomes his own hero by escaping his circumstances and becoming the first in his family to graduate from college and eventually Yale law school. But that's not the end of the story. J.D. has demons to cope with. I believe the purpose of this book isn't only to help explain the socio-economics of rural, white America, but to expose the impact of ACE's, or Adverse Childhood Experiences. Children who grow in highly stressful situations are much more likely to experience depression and suffer from nervous breakdowns. Developing healthy relationships can be devastatingly challenges.<br />
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This memoir seamlessly integrates demographical and economic statistics of depressed locales like the Rust Belt. Vance is clever in his story-telling. One moment, you're saddened by a poverty statistic. Then, your heart is racing because of a terrifying experience he had with his mother. Then, you're giggling because of something his grandmother said to him. Or, he's learning how things work in the world of the upper crust. I laughed out loud when he retells the story of ordering a sparkling water at a swanky recruiting function:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"<span style="font-family: inherit;">I took one sip and literally spit it out. It was the grossest thing I’d ever tasted. I remember once getting a Diet Coke at a Subway without realizing that the fountain machine didn’t have enough Diet Coke syrup. That’s exactly what this fancy place’s “sparkling” water tasted like. “Something’s wrong with that water,” I protested. The waitress apologized and told me she’d get me another Pellegrino. That was when I realized that “sparkling” water meant “carbonated” water. I was mortified, but luckily only one other person noticed what had happened, and she was a classmate."</span></i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHKAqwrD0XBrVB_IKQy05EVm6xda3QIKQcybXS9xjQILcIyi4BT2E26HCCU7bcx6EICQTn6hZTzSc1prCZZP3fr_acTr9l0BTD66qOLlEJ0lGPgOWqgzvamOQ0VK_7uAxQKRYRNNTBA4bm/s1600/download-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHKAqwrD0XBrVB_IKQy05EVm6xda3QIKQcybXS9xjQILcIyi4BT2E26HCCU7bcx6EICQTn6hZTzSc1prCZZP3fr_acTr9l0BTD66qOLlEJ0lGPgOWqgzvamOQ0VK_7uAxQKRYRNNTBA4bm/s200/download-2.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<i>All the Pretty Things</i> by Edie Wadsworth runs in a similar vein in terms of the storytelling memoir, but without the macro assumptions of the culture crisis. This is a granular story of a charming girl from the South who has had to grow up in poverty –her single mom working hard to feed her children without any help from her father. She copes with her father's absence and recklessness by having a need to prove her self-worth through achievement. She eventually becomes a medical doctor. But this doesn't banish the demons that niggle at her. While the book doesn't state it out right, but Edie seems to be another victim of Adverse Childhood Experiences. It takes counseling and deep soul searching for Edie to find peace.<br />
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While the story of Edie's life is very engaging, I was most struck by the soulfulness of her writing style, as in this passage:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818;"><i><span style="font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif;">"</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We all have wounds, we can either open them up to the light of day so they can heal or we can keep them buried, where they will fester and one day wreak havoc on us.” </span></i></span><br />
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Edie has a remarkable and compassionate spirit. During her residency she was admonished for getting too attached to her patients. There's one particularly touching scene when Edie rocks a dying baby until its last breath. She has attained the status of a doctor, but she is much, much more than that.<br />
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Despite the hardships and dire circumstances in both of these authors' stories, there seems to be an optimism that hovers. I get that. I'm not saying that my childhood was anything like Edie's or J.D.'s. I don't have the demons to deal with, for sure. I grew up with both of my parents in a stable household and never went hungry. But I understand wanting to prove my self worth. Here's the thing that I learned from reading these stories. Achieving goals can't define you or give you inner peace. It won't give you lasting happiness. Loving yourself is really the path to true happiness. And once you do that, you can love others. If we can instill this in our children as they grow up and protect them from some harsh realities, we stand a chance to create more peaceful and better communities.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-30309219239745994822018-08-18T20:14:00.000-07:002019-01-21T18:09:20.734-08:00Catching the End of InnocenceI read <i>The Catcher in the Rye</i> by J.D. Salinger many moons ago, either in junior high or high school. I remember liking it without totally understanding it. But there was something relatable about it, I remembered. A few weeks ago, I came across a copy on my mom's bookshelf and read it again. Of course, it was relatable! While my journey through adolescence was some time ago, I still remember the angst and the excitement. I also have a front row seat as my kids are growing up. This is why I have an entirely new appreciation for Holden Caulfield.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTgd1l4k-PVK9Z6pXgWgL273thzcPCgNuQH67oxcwTKvbHPCkug4x_Jyo2UfKFGjS64hGM7l461fgjyK-ONX8yVU9tr_m0H2_oeXVhHbjXXkDNNTvBKP39_ybYxYew_bLfi_D7si6uWVu/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTgd1l4k-PVK9Z6pXgWgL273thzcPCgNuQH67oxcwTKvbHPCkug4x_Jyo2UfKFGjS64hGM7l461fgjyK-ONX8yVU9tr_m0H2_oeXVhHbjXXkDNNTvBKP39_ybYxYew_bLfi_D7si6uWVu/s200/download.jpg" width="123" /></a>I didn't go to a private prep school. I have no sense of what it's like to grow up in the '50's. New York is almost a foreign country to me. But I still connected to this story – this strange, stream-of-conscience narrative about a boy who paints himself as an outsider and is disgusted with any bit of superficialness. Who doesn't relate to the angst of growing up, discovering others' imperfections, and trying to figure out who you really are? Not long ago, my daughter and I were having a conversation with someone who told us how difficult high school had been for their daughter – lots of pressure to fit in! Later, Alex said to me, "And she was one of the mean girls." Everyone struggles. Even the mean girls. Maybe, especially the mean girls.<br />
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Holden is a literary hero. He's so utterly self-aware, honest, tormented, and, yet, not without hope. I love that he understands how all mothers are insane (I agree), but he truly doesn't want his own mother to worry about him. It's almost a lesson in parenting. Salinger reminds us that kids do care about their parents, but they'd prefer them to back off a bit. Ageless wisdom in this era of the helicopter parent.<br />
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I'm also amused by Holden's obsession and confusion over women. He seems to be equally in love and annoyed by them. "... I didn't even like her much, and yet all of a sudden I felt like I was in love with her and wanted to marry her." Ahhh, the joy of young love. Or young lust. You decide.<br />
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Holden is most interesting because of his contradictions. He hates movies, but he seems to watch a lot of them. He worries desperately about an old crush, but he's not willing to reach out to her. His conversation with a cab driver captures this see-saw nature of Holden's sentiments:<br />
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<b>"I let it drop... Besides, he was such a touchy guy, it wasn't any pleasure discussing anything with him."</b><br />
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Then Holden asks the driver to go out for a drink.<br />
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<b>"He didn't answer me, though. I guess he was still thinking. I asked him again, though. He was a pretty good guy. Quite amusing and all."</b><br />
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The story takes place over a few short days, after Holden is kicked out of school, again. We don't know what lies ahead for him. But somehow we get the feeling he'll be okay – even if he isn't quite okay right now. After all, he's extremely self-aware.<br />
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<b>"I know. I've very hard to talk to. I realize that."</b> –Holden Caulfield<br />
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Holden doesn't seem to know what he wants to do with his life, but it's obvious he's clinging to the innocence and sense of wonder of childhood. This is most obvious when he relates a recurring dream to his beloved little sister. Holden stands in a field of rye and catches children as they fall off a cliff. Now that's a metaphor.<br />
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Salinger reminds us how intensely we felt in our youth. The extreme highs and the extreme lows. He reminds us that it's okay to be different and to be uncertain. It's challenging stuff, but it's what connects us all. And as a parent, it reminds me to be more tolerant when I wonder what in the heck is going through my kids' heads. So, yes. It's a great coming-of-age story. But it's not a bad parenting guide as well.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-57371534194266799432018-08-03T16:32:00.000-07:002024-02-06T16:40:41.208-08:00Homegoing and the Power of Family LoreIt's time to review some books! I've been reading aplenty, but I have this rule of only posting positive reviews. Don't worry. I have a few on my list to keep this blog from going dormant! But I'll start with one of my top reads from last year.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfs_ShDB9BxlKocokup1zmFYhBUZb-RbqNtTf7iriP1QQCV8IfUh3FPdxeD3i3DREJdoPnR4LKRFaux5PcUc9DDkf-I1IEP73nlyg4-Dxh5Pt-rHQzbL1em-oWQ1oAGtpu_WR7RnLmvk6n/s1600/27071490.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfs_ShDB9BxlKocokup1zmFYhBUZb-RbqNtTf7iriP1QQCV8IfUh3FPdxeD3i3DREJdoPnR4LKRFaux5PcUc9DDkf-I1IEP73nlyg4-Dxh5Pt-rHQzbL1em-oWQ1oAGtpu_WR7RnLmvk6n/s200/27071490.jpg" width="133" /></a><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27071490-homegoing" target="_blank">Homegoing</a> </i>by Yaa Gyasi is a stunning book by an up and coming author. She happens to be a graduate of the University of Iowa Writer's Workshop and came recommended by my smart and poignant daughter. I actually read this book twice in one year. And I'd read it again. It's just that good.</div>
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The story tracks the descendants of two half-sisters from a Ghanian matriarch during the height of tribal wars and slave trade. One sister, Effia, stays in Africa. The other, Esi, is sent to America on a slave ship. The novel cleverly weaves several short stories with unforgettable characters, African folklore, and history that would impact society for many decades. You'll definitely want to bookmark the family tree at the beginning of the novel since it begins in the mid 1700's and ends in current day.<br />
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Ms. Gyasi's writing style is effortless, lyrical, and chock full of symbolic imagery. Themes of water, earth and fire pervade the book in a way that masterfully avoids cliche. To read this novel fast would be a crime, as there are so many lovely and thought-provoking passages. I was actually somewhat reminded of Alan Paton's <i>Cry, the Beloved Country. (</i>In truth, my plan was to skim it the second time for book club. But I couldn't. The language and the stories were meant to be absorbed.)<br />
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As an author and avid book reader, I will admit bias. But I strongly believe storytelling to be a critical aspect of human development. I almost feel it's child abuse when parents don't read to their children! And for anyone who only reads "non-fiction," so as not to waste time with fluff, I ask them to reconsider. Don't get me wrong, I love my share of non-fiction. But when a well-written narrative places you in an unfamiliar world and stirs you to genuinely sympathize, you cannot possibly discount the power of a story.<br />
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Such is Homegoing.<br />
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Obviously, the book reveals the oppression of Africans and African-Americans which sickens and disturbs. But. Ms. Gyasi never fails to pepper her stories with a lesson in morality and the glimmer of hope.<br />
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<b>"You want to know what weakness is? Weakness is treating someone as thought they belong to you. Strength is knowing that everyone belongs to themselves."</b><br />
<b>–Yaa Gyasi, Homegoing</b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">I read this and think to myself, how does one summon strength and courage through tragedy and persecution? I think of my own cushy, little life. I'm ashamed to admit the things that cause me anxiety. One of my book club friends mentioned how they thought the book was depressing. I responded that I thought it was important for us to hear these stories, to give us perspective. She tilted her head and thought about my comment. Later, she said that perhaps I was right. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><b>"This is the problem of history. We cannot know that which we were not there to see and hear and experience for ourselves. We must rely upon the words of others. Those who were there in the olden days, they told stories to the children so that the children would know, so that the children could tell stories to their children. And so on, and so on."</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><b>–Yaa Gyasi, Homegoing</b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">I keep thinking about family stories – and all those that become lost through the years. I have always loved to listen to my parents and grandparents tell stories. As I grow older and as relatives pass away, I crave those stories even more, especially as the memories and details of those stories fade. For example, there's this story of an ancestor who left the Confederate Army and ended up fighting against his brothers. Who was he? What happened? I'd like to think his actions somehow formed my family's sense of justice. Of course, I have no idea what really happened. But neither did Yaa. And she created a masterpiece worth telling over and over again. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">There's lots of stories needing to be told. And as long as we have ears, we need to listen.</span></span></div>
Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-13864586463457455342017-01-12T19:56:00.001-08:002017-01-12T19:56:05.043-08:00The Maladroit and the MisanthropeForget fairy tales and princesses. Give me a misanthrope over Cinderella any day! I just read The Accidental Tourist and A Man Called Ove (back to back) and suddenly have a new appreciation for the skeptics in my life. I will mention no names.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTygn8B8AoLC-CwaDwFxjSvA2X9zuOdfC7YZPbDFmQPnN4iekFjsSmaTHOA8Y59VQgF53A4MbMNu9qqUAxuESqFC0cKW0_qaIpSHPpNr6SnXMciDo20AYOvvvwtzHHtLq7uQEYdtFyTL2p/s1600/60792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTygn8B8AoLC-CwaDwFxjSvA2X9zuOdfC7YZPbDFmQPnN4iekFjsSmaTHOA8Y59VQgF53A4MbMNu9qqUAxuESqFC0cKW0_qaIpSHPpNr6SnXMciDo20AYOvvvwtzHHtLq7uQEYdtFyTL2p/s200/60792.jpg" width="131" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60792.The_Accidental_Tourist" target="_blank">The Accidental Tourist </a>by Anne Tyler was written in 1985, but the story feels timeless. Macon Leary is a travel writer who doesn't particularly like travel writing. Beyond the burden of doing a job he doesn't like he has just experienced two heartbreaks: the senseless murder of his son and the subsequent departure of his wife. Macon is methodical, logical, and a bit of a maladroit. To cope with his loneliness he takes his dog and moves back to his childhood home with his sister and two brothers who also exude "Macon-like" characteristics. How many adults do you know would move back in with their siblings to find comfort? (Imagine a family who makes up an esoteric card game called Vaccination with such complex rules, no one outside of the family could possibly participate.) But it's this move that allows Macon to meet the vivacious Muriel when he takes his nasty dog to a training facility. Macon's life begins to transform in unpredictable ways.<br />
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When I began to read <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=a+man+called+ove&tag=mh0b-20&index=stripbooks&hvadid=4961109729&hvqmt=e&hvbmt=be&hvdev=c&ref=pd_sl_7vihfn8jqe_e" target="_blank">A Man Called Ove</a> by Fredric Backman, frankly I was a little bit disappointed. Was this just going to be a story about your typical curmudgeon? That old guy who's quick to judge the no-good youth and is disgruntled by everyone's incapability? But I kept reading. And I wasn't disappointed for long. As I observed Ove's quest to end his life because of his immense grief, I found myself either laughing or crying. Similar to Ms. Tyler, Mr. Backman, writes his stories with humor and tragedy with an authentic subtlety. In one chapter, Ove's new neighbors disrupt Ove as he's attempting to hang himself. Not funny, but the tale is told with a wit as Ove contrasts strikingly with an awkward young IT guy and his brash wife. Haven't we all experienced that annoying disruption of a neighbor when we're trying to accomplish something? Poor old Ove continues to experience this kind of "luck" as he explores other ways to commit suicide.<br />
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Both of these books could've fallen flat by painting Macon or Ove into cliche. But these authors aren't acclaimed for nothing. The heros' journeys in these stories have a eerily similar formula:<br />
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Loner has a tragic past.<br />
Loner is committed to a mangy pet.<br />
Loner meets a brash women who teaches him how to connect.<br />
Loner finds love and peace.<br />
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We begin to learn that Macon and Ove are much more than they appear–especially when we understand their love of others. This quote from Ove reflects this aspect perfectly:<br />
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<b>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">People said Ove saw the world in black and white. But she was color. All the color he had."</span></b><br />
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The stories have vastly different endings; however, the only disappointment I felt at the end of each of these books was only that I was done reading them. When characters become so real, you really don't want to leave them behind. Luckily, both Ove and Tourist have been made into movies that have been added to my Amazon watchlist. I'll see them both again soon.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-44745666127742214712016-11-16T19:18:00.004-08:002016-11-16T19:18:48.597-08:0027th Lucky Agent Contest<span style="font-size: large;">Listen up novelists!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Information on this great contest can be found here:</span><br />
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<a href="http://tinyurl.com/jje3qaw" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Lucky Agent Contest</span></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The contest will be judged by Irene Goodman through Chuck Sambuchino's Guide to Literary Agents blog.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Good luck!</span>Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-62296407429446918412016-10-03T20:19:00.000-07:002016-10-04T11:15:55.726-07:00A Tale of Two Books<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Two books. Vastly different flavors. </span><br />
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One book is light, refreshing, funny. The other is dark, disturbing, haunting. The books do happen to share this in common: both true stories, both take place in the Midwest.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwU0Z7pES4nlTm-Dm25gHg_jTM7CsWsIVX8zKeFkJru0DS5MwSqLi4Ln4MUJWfMmwK_765nPBO0sOkyynxTnSJQdhWOfSKdp1jRM2EpqLxAaLUSi-B6SND0HchnCUKrauTr3j8EHQkkupw/s1600/51eC0IHo3LL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwU0Z7pES4nlTm-Dm25gHg_jTM7CsWsIVX8zKeFkJru0DS5MwSqLi4Ln4MUJWfMmwK_765nPBO0sOkyynxTnSJQdhWOfSKdp1jRM2EpqLxAaLUSi-B6SND0HchnCUKrauTr3j8EHQkkupw/s200/51eC0IHo3LL.jpg" width="130" /></a>Sweetness, honesty, and self-deprecation: great characteristics for a lovable protagonist. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Were-Not-Sixteen-Anymore-Prune-ebook/dp/B016X19A3C" target="_blank">We’re Not Sixteen Anymore</a> by Becky Andersen is an amusing memoir of a widow’s calculated leap into online dating. Her conversational style and witty demeanor gives off a real gal-pal essence. Imagine sitting on a deck, drinking sangria with your girlfriends, and being heartily amused by a Becky Andersen story. (What beats an anecdote about a date who makes a sport out of fishing coin out of a public toilet?) She’s a funny girl with a flair for storytelling. When a friend haughtily says to Becky, "If something happened to <i>my</i> husband, I'd never date or marry again. I would never let anyone else see me naked!" Becky didn't hesitate to respond. "Oh, no! I'm all for beautifying America...That means no one sees me <i>au naturel</i>! Ever! I just want to find someone who can come over if I need my mousetrap emptied."<br />
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Touche.</div>
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Not only is this book funny, but it offers suspense! Does Becky meet "the one?" If so, who is it? The hip grandmother doesn't just dabble in online dating. She rallies to become an expert. The subtitle “A Baby Boomer's Adventures with Online Dating" could have been modified to "A Baby Boomer's Guide to Online Dating." But I think 'Adventure' is a more apt description. </div>
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As a member of Gen X, I didn't catch every Boomer reference. However, I was easily pulled into the author's nostalgia. Who can't love the spirit of the Baby Boomers? So youthful. Charismatic. Who can't love the generation that brought us The Beatles?</div>
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While the stories are entertaining and Becky writes with a particular flourish, the book isn’t just a fluff piece. She writes with purpose and by the end of the book you realize why you’re so drawn in. At some level, we all want to connect. This is a story about connecting. Connecting with each other. Connecting the past and the future. The story ends happily-ever-after. I'm looking forward to a sequel to find out how happily-ever-after is working out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the other side of lighthearted, is a book I read for book club: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gitchie-Girl-Survivors-Murders-Heartland/dp/1632132001" target="_blank">Gitchie Girl</a> by Phil Hamman and Sandy Hamman. My mother warned me about reading it before I went to bed. I didn’t heed her advice, but managed to stave off nightmares. The book is a horror story--a horror story about a true event.<br />
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In 1973 four teenage boys were murdered at a campsite by Sioux Falls at Gitchie Manitou State Park. Unbelievably, one girl survived. This is her insider's story. More than a factual chronology, the authors integrate the characters' histories with the events that occurred on that fateful night–making for an incredibly suspenseful read. We get to know a pretty, tender-hearted thirteen-year girl named Sandra Cheske, while reliving the details of the night, which are intricately painted with sensory detail and foreshadowing.<br />
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An excerpt:<br />
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<b>November 17, 1973 10:30 PM</b><br />
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<b><i>"Hey," Roger yelled. But there was no answer, and the sounds of cracking twigs ceased...Minutes passed before the soothing sounds of the flowing river and raccoons emerging from their daytime hideouts to scour for food fell into a peaceful rhythm.</i></b><br />
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The Hamman's take us back to the night. It's impossible not to read the story without developing a huge knot in your stomach. Powerful and engrossing writing.<br />
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Stuff like this can't happen in small town Iowa. But it did. It's what makes the story fascinating and immensely disturbing. While the book superbly depicts the evil act, more importantly it heralds the heros and the survivor. Sheriff Craig Vinson exudes patience, vision, and compassion. Thirteen-<br />
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year-old Sandra helps crack the case with maturity beyond her years. But a person can't live through something like that without scars. The story after her horrifying experience is as heartbreaking as the experience itself. The teenage girl who witnessed four gruesome deaths and was tortured herself didn't receive any counseling. And she was ostracized by a community who didn't want to be reminded of the terrible act.<br />
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Eventually, Sandra Cheske finds a way to make a purposeful and admiral life by raising a family and running an animal rescue organization–overcoming the evil she has witnessed. Gitchie Girl is an incredible story of survival which might leave you feeling wary of the world. But it will also leave you feeling inspired by courageous acts of tender souls.</div>
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Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-86166828142167410172016-08-31T18:36:00.004-07:002016-08-31T18:36:39.642-07:00My Blindish Date<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">I was happy to learn my short story submission "My Blindish Date" received an Honorable Mention in the 85th Annual Writer's Digest Competition. Here's the story which began as a writing assignment in my Gotham Writer's Workshop. Hope you enjoy.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>My Blindish Date</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Incurably prompt is how my mother always described me. And there I was, fifteen minutes early, sitting at a table for two at Lo Sole Mio. I had calculated my approach to conversation by combing through the paper that day. Conflict in the Middle East. The volatile stock market. The election. The World Series. Of all the articles I skimmed, the one on taxidermy is the one that lingered.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Arriving first to a blind date is undoubtedly uncool. I tried not to fidget with my phone which I was certain would offer me a text with an apologetic cancellation. As the seconds ticked, and no such text arrived, I nibbled on the warm, sourdough bread to alleviate my nerves. Just as a grabbed another piece, I realized something. I had nibbled through the entire loaf.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Once 7:00 hit, regret consumed me. It was my first date in three years. Allison, my best friend in the office, had been trying to set me up as soon as the signatures were dry on the divorce papers. For obvious reasons, such as my profound distrust in men, I had no interest. But one Monday morning, on a whim, and after a weekend of Nora Ephron flicks, I gave in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At one time in my life, I was confident. Maybe even indomitably. Isn’t it funny how shaky indomitably can be? I was climbing the corporate ladder at an alarming rate, lioning the ranks our social circle, vacationing in Spain with Dr. Romero. Then Dr. Romero, also known as my husband, made an ear-numbing confession.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The flirty nurse. The new one.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was zombied.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For three years, I’ve been a zombie. Still immersed in work, but only work. And romantic comedies on the weekend. I’m well aware watching such movies needle the wound. It’s like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, back to the story.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My impending date was precisely three minutes late when I began to panic over my apparel. I looked down at my bloated belly of bread and cursed the sales woman for convincing me of the clingy, rayon dress. Black wasn’t working its magic. As I adjusted the fabric and practiced sucking in my gut, a smooth, deep voice startled me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Alice?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I jumped out of my seat. And swallowed a chunk of bread whole. I stood to meet a specimen of man fitted in a steel-hued, shimmery suit. His dark eyes and tousled hair made him seem a beautiful fixture of the restaurant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No need to get up.” He coached me back into to my chair. Then introduced himself.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m Ben. So pleased to meet you here, Alice.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I nodded, now mute. Ben kept talking.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I love this restaurant. Delicious food and even better service. And this music!” Ben lifted his hands to Frank Sinatra crooning in the background. “Well. It’s romantic.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Romantic</i>. Within the first two minutes, the man was talking romance. Instead of responding, I picked up the menu. And was relieved when our server checked in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Give us a bottle of your best Merlot.” Ben smiled at the waitress in a charming sort of way. If she wouldn’t have been in her seventies, I might’ve thought he had designs on her. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He turned to me after she scooted off. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Red wine okay with you? I hear of its health benefits.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Again, a nod with no words. The cat had devoured my tongue.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You look really pretty. Nice dress.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thank you.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My words sounded meager. I tried to study the menu, but I wasn’t comprehending the words. No, it wasn’t written in Italian. You see, I had been ambushed. I let my eyes drift to the rippling fountain in the middle of the room. Ben took hold of my hand. I stiffened.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What are you trying to do?” I asked.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben released my hand, and let go of his dapper smile. Even in suddenly serious mode, he was incredibly attractive.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m trying to apologize. Again. And convince you to come back to me.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before I had a chance to respond, the server brought us the bottle of wine and poured it into our glasses. Ben went back to charming grandma waitress, and I slurped the largest drink I could manage. My mind took flight as Ben chatted with his new friend.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Suddenly vexed with my recurring thoughts of late, I wondered how many women he had been with. I wondered what movies he had seen without me. I wondered what books he had read and discussed with someone else. I wondered how many lives he had saved that I knew nothing about. Mostly, I wondered how many women he had been with.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Too difficult to choose!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>His voice interrupted my momentary splosh as I realized our server had been standing there, communicating the specials of the evening. When he recognized my bleary expression, he asked her if we could have a moment. Then he asked, “Have you been eating?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Obviously.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As Ben sipped his wine, he kept an unflinching gaze at me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I told him I wanted to leave. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do you remember when I said you would always be the love of my life?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Words I did not need to hear. I wanted to cover my ears, but instead I kept listening as he drew in closer to me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I fired her. The day after it happened.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I know. That’s why she told me all about it.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ashamed doesn’t come close to how I feel.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had heard him say this before. The words bounced off me when he said, “Did you hear my mother died?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That punch landed. I felt tears well up. Ben’s mother was a saint. An Hispanic Mother Teresa with seven kids. The opposite of my bulldog mother, who found her only child a burdensome distraction.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben took my hands again. His eyes, glossy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Before she died, she told me to fight for you.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What if I don’t want you to?” I asked with an embarrassing sort of sob.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben didn’t respond. I watched his face fall, his head drop.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I stonewalled the sobbed growing in me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I ached for him. His mother had died. I knew he adored her. I felt a crack in the wall between us. But I did not want to go there. I didn’t want to be on his side. Sort of. My mind rummaged through other topics. The highly charged air seemed to be clouding my brain. Then I spoke. Words from my subconscious invaded. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Did you know taxidermy is becoming a lost art form?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What else could Ben do but grimace?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I wasn’t sure how to retract. So I said the next thing on my mind. “How can I ever trust you again?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben’s posture lifted. “Maybe you never will. I can only tell you this, I won’t do it again.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The server stepped in to take our order. Thankfully, Ben pushed the task away. “A few more minutes sweetheart?” Grandma blushed as she backed away. The interruption revived my manners.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m really sorry about your mother. She was entirely lovely. How’d she pass?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Pancreatic cancer.” Ben was solemn again. “I keep blaming myself for not getting her into see a specialist sooner.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That’s tough.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben shrugged, as if he were unconvinced. “I should’ve told you.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“About your mom or the nurse?” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben responded by blinking. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m sorry,” I said with sincere regret. “That was mean.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Deserved.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, it’s not.” I sighed. “I wish I would’ve been with you at her funeral.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Me too.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I wish you wouldn’t have cheated on me.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Me too.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I wish I wasn’t so sad about it. Still.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben gently took my quivering hand. “My nature is to fix things. All this aching.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I let him squeeze my hand to stop the quivering. Then I whispered, “Okay.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Okay? Okay what?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m not really sure.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You still love me,” he said with an annoying stamp of confidence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had a notion to leave. I had a notion to stay.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I went to the ladies restroom. To pace. And splash water on my face. And decide how to proceed. After a few deep breaths, I stepped back out.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben was gone.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I stammered to the exit as my heart verged on exploding. As I opened the door, Ben met me on his phone, conferring over a patient. He touched my shoulder while continuing to give medical instruction. Compassionately. Instinctively. Expertly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I turned back inside and settled in at our table. Then waited for him to return. I anxiously waited for him to return.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He did. And we ate dinner together, as if it were our first, or possibly last date. I couldn’t decide. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Maybe I’ll know next week, if I take him up on his invitation. And bail on Nora Ephron.</span></span></div>
Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-13496924977554221922016-07-30T10:03:00.001-07:002016-07-30T10:03:28.104-07:00A Tree Grows in Brooklyn<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912...Prairie was lovely and Shenandoah had a beautiful sound, but you couldn't fit those words into Brooklyn. Serene was the only word for it; especially on a Saturday afternoon in late summer."</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These opening lines of Betty Smith's classic "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" immersed me from the start. Francie Nolan and I would be forever friends, souls linked by the nostalgia of our past and the steadfast determination to experience the world. So what if Francie is fictional. Or born in 1900. Or Irish-Catholic. Or a Brooklyn girl. I could've written a similar paragraph something like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Serene was a word you could put to Kirkman, Iowa. Especially in the summer of 1981. The countrysides were beautiful and a horse whinny was a beautiful sound, but that wasn't quite Kirkman. Serene was the only word for it; especially on a Saturday afternoon in late summer."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first time I read this book, I remember classifying it as a favorite. So when it came up for our lunch and library pick, I wondered if I'd feel the same way. I can staunchly proclaim, it remains a favorite. Maybe even the favorite.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is so much I love about this coming-of-age story. Relatable symbolism. Strong female characters. (Betty Smith was a solid feminist!) Punchy dialogue that somehow transcends the period of the novel. As I read this early 20th century piece, I realized how the challenge of growing up is a universal and timeless theme–whether you're growing in Brooklyn or Kirkman.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The story of Francie Nolan as a child in Williamsburg, Brooklyn offers a collection of stories featuring her dependable mother ("Mother never fumbles"), her lovable but alcoholic father, and her younger brother who seems to be Francie's only real friend. Francie is clever and as we watch her grow up, we witness her cleverness transform to wisdom. She is acutely aware of her dire circumstances, yet she lives with resolve.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I underlined almost a million passages.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On imagery and symbolism:</span></b><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"No matter where its seed fell, it made a tree which struggled to reach the sky. It grew in boarded-up lots and out of neglected rubbish heaps and it was the only tree that grew out of cement. It grew lushly, but only in the tenements district."</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A tree that grows out of cement. Haven't we all seen something like that, but not been particularly astonished by it? This is how a great writer transforms the power of observation.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On writing:</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As Francie discovered her knack for embellishing a story, an English teacher provides the following lesson:</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Tell the truth and write the story."</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is my new personal mantra.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On growing up:</span></b><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"It is a good thing to learn the truth one's self. To first believe with all your heart, and then not to believe, is good too. It fattens the emotions and makes them to stretch." </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Betty Smith manages to integrate lessons on life through the dialogue of interesting characters (like Grandma Rommely and Francie's colorful aunts). Smith is also crafty with bits of exposition:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnfmniS2pSnwuBt751IXvdk3ic6otOdORGysKeTMyLnyfXZnzH5z7zTuhZlO_uxKHlDpCqe6ix3k7PABfawdIRXm-Y69Gb1uSsIFT3NyNproZy1qJtMmhwNc17E22tYPDN0jsqKkrKf2t/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnfmniS2pSnwuBt751IXvdk3ic6otOdORGysKeTMyLnyfXZnzH5z7zTuhZlO_uxKHlDpCqe6ix3k7PABfawdIRXm-Y69Gb1uSsIFT3NyNproZy1qJtMmhwNc17E22tYPDN0jsqKkrKf2t/s400/imgres.jpg" /></span></a><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Education! That was it! It was education that made the difference. Education would pull them out of the grime and dirt."</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At one point of the book, after tragedy and heartbreak have befallen Francie, she prays, "L<i>et me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry...have too much to eat...Only let me be something every blessed minute..."</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This passage is written just before we learn that war is declared.This book is more than a coming of age narrative, it's a story about experiencing every moment of your life no matter what your circumstances or what happens around you. It's not a book about survival, it's a book of celebrating your survival.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the end of the novel, when Francie is getting ready to move from her childhood apartment, she notices the tree–the tree that men had tried to chop down and burn. It was still intact.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"It lived. And nothing could destroy it."</span></i></div>
Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-4428943967668379772016-07-14T19:14:00.001-07:002016-07-14T19:14:17.130-07:00An Emotional Experience with The Nightingale"He thinks one's life can be distilled to a narrative that has a beginning and an end."<br />
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We learn about war in our history classes. We read disturbing newspaper stories about violence in the world. We might say, "That's horrible. Incomprehensible." We may even have a pang in our gut for a little while. Then we get on with our life.</div>
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I recently listened to Steve Wozniak talk with enthusiasm about virtual reality. He explained how the technology will be a game changer. Not only will you be able to land yourself in another world, but the experience will become an emotional experience. It made me think about the book I just finished reading which took place in World War II.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDtBtX3aknAEGg83BlGxYN1nATo8MEy9rT4pTZda9UHYhbLdBmtR862xT6Ed57J1wSvB9tErnZcJfe7_woMKmO54M1jMX_A_EbFpTPune8Ml-KEbdlq0Ls_cmNjfgHHMR-jhA-xOH3gCA/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDtBtX3aknAEGg83BlGxYN1nATo8MEy9rT4pTZda9UHYhbLdBmtR862xT6Ed57J1wSvB9tErnZcJfe7_woMKmO54M1jMX_A_EbFpTPune8Ml-KEbdlq0Ls_cmNjfgHHMR-jhA-xOH3gCA/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a>With no disrespect to Mr. Wozniak, some books have the ability to transport us into another world and take us on an emotional journey. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nightingale-Kristin-Hannah/dp/0312577222" target="_blank">The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah </a>was one such book. Not only could I not quit thinking about the story, but I became astutely conscious of the ease and convenience of my life. The other day I grabbed three napkins nonchalantly. Then I thought to myself, "How wasteful. Vianne would've done better."<br />
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Vianne and Isabelle are sisters from a small town outside of Paris. Germans have just occupied the country. With a deceased mother and an absent father who came home damaged from World War I, the women had their share of tragedy even before the second war broke out. Vianne is now raising her daughter by herself while her husband has gone off to be a soldier. Isabelle escapes her boarding school to live with an apathetic father in Paris.<br />
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Vianne and Isabelle's responses to the French Occupation are revealed through their personalities which are written in intimate and nuanced detail. Vianne is a cautious mother, motivated by the fear she feels for her family. Isabelle is the brash younger sister who takes on an orphan's perspective, having been palpably ignored by both her sister and her father. When Germans infiltrate their lives, Isabelle becomes determined to find meaning in her life by taking part of the resistance.<br />
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Through the sisters, we live through the horrors of the war. Scarcity, fear, torture, pain, rape, and death. Author Kristin Hannah doesn't only create a compelling story in which both of the sisters make brave contributions in the war, but she creates scenes with such intricate descriptions and details, it's impossible not to have a visceral reaction. People starved with hardly any rations. People burned everything to keep warm. People froze crossing mountains to find free country. People, children were ruthlessly shot for no reason. And of course, millions of people were massacred.<br />
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Despite all of the ugliness of the war, goodness and love seep through the actions of the good and courageous people. A love story develops. A family becomes reunited. Lives are saved.<br />
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The end of the book takes place in 1995, when one of the sisters is being recognized at a reunion ceremony. Her son asks his mother why he had never known about her contributions to the war. She responds, "Men tell stories...Women get on with it."<br />
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We need both of these things to deal with the horrors of the past. We need the stories. And we need to get on with it.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-10722673495054099872016-04-26T18:35:00.000-07:002016-04-26T18:35:41.984-07:00A Lesson in What Alice ForgotMemory is a funny thing. As a child, I distinctly remember thinking how great my memory was. At some point that changed in a hurry. There are some things in my life I remember vividly–random moments, like arguing whether a dandelion was a weed or flower. Or how my mother sat at the kitchen table every morning with a vanity tray to apply her makeup. Then there are those disturbing times when I don't recognize a chummy acquaintance at the grocery store. Memory truly is a fickle device.<br />
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I recently finished a book which made me consider how we remember things, what we remember, and how it impacts our perspective on life. <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/What-Alice-Forgot-Liane-Moriarty/dp/0425247449" target="_blank">What Alice Forgot</a></i> by Liane Moriarty gives you some pause on the subject. The novel begins with Alice waking up at a gym, having suffered a head injury, to realize she has forgotten the last ten years of her life. A lot has taken place in ten years. Three children. Lost friendships. A marriage on the brink.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3v45CVh8iwhGn-v4I2FTV8V0BB_A7LlHz_CS83cVPd2KBUse-cfkE1-y6uo8eAMuxczs78ogIP7NX1grxhHdsrjB5MUQ-To8UFad0iIbo27MfkRlx9ndA8CDBW-hmMpystIafKJ5MED15/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3v45CVh8iwhGn-v4I2FTV8V0BB_A7LlHz_CS83cVPd2KBUse-cfkE1-y6uo8eAMuxczs78ogIP7NX1grxhHdsrjB5MUQ-To8UFad0iIbo27MfkRlx9ndA8CDBW-hmMpystIafKJ5MED15/s400/images-2.jpeg" style="cursor: move;" /></a>As Alice waits to reclaim her memory, she gains a somewhat objective opinion of who she has become. And she's not at all sure she likes herself anymore. While the story line is certainly compelling enough, Ms. Moriarty elevates this novel with flourish, punchy dialogue and thoughtful character development. Cleverness has a tendency to win me over, and the dialogue often left me smiling and, quite honestly, thinking.<br />
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Some of my favorites:<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">“How could she not be with someone forever when even their feet-his huge, not especially attractive feet, with their long hairy toes-felt like home?”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"> </span></span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></b></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">“Nick explained that an aperitif was an pre-dinner drink. Nick came from an aperitif-drinking family. Alice came from a family with one dusty bottle of Baileys sitting hopefully in the back of the pantry with the tins of spaghetti.” </span></b></span><br />
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Alice's plight isn't the only plot line. Her sister has been unsuccessful in her attempts to have a child–a heartbreaking issue. And her honorary grandmother has begrudgingly fallen in love after years of spinsterhood. All of these stories weave together to present an authentic tale of family dynamics through the passage of time. This novel could've easily turned sappy, but Moriarty chose the more interesting path which keeps the reader guessing while examining the depths of each character. The story is bound to strike nerves with a few readers and ask themselves, "What if that would've happened to me?" It was the question which kept me turning the pages. How would Alice respond?<br />
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While I'm a few years older than the Alice, I could relate to her in terms of the challenges of being a busy mother and wife. Once Alice lost the last ten years of her memory, she slipped into the optimism of her younger self: pre-kids, early marriage years. Anyone who reads this book can't help but contemplate the shift that occurs when life seems to take over your soul and threatens relationships. As it turns out, the novel is more than just a story. It's an exercise which asks, "How does the passage of time change you? For the good? For the worse?"<br />
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If I could go back ten years in time, I might tell myself a few things. Stop the wardrobe wars with my daughter. Read more comic books with my son. Find more common hobbies with my husband. Now here I am, looking ahead to the next ten years. With a deeper self-awareness, I'll do what I can to become more intimate and loving with my all my family and friends. I don't doubt a shift will occur. But my hope is the shift is for the better.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br /></span></span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">“Relationships don’t stay the same. There isn’t time.” </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> -Lianne Moriarty, What Alice Forgot</span></b></span></div>
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Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-90302700623467062922016-02-08T19:47:00.000-08:002016-02-08T19:47:28.092-08:00Mindy 2.0<br />
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Last year I read one of my daughter’s books: <i>Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?</i> by Mindy Kaling. Of course, I found it terribly amusing and giggled my way through the writer's clever observations and adoring self-awareness. (I still laugh when I think of certain excerpts, like how she boasts of her birth weight if the topic of weight enters the conversation. Only six pounds when I was born!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LnahLsUa3Hv4lGYEw_zjph6GHAqGkHlSVtOQBXx3_lxtE-dRWtFbVAAxxj9I2xOfUb9iu47DlWmOfU23BszXO3_u10_8GyFRvdHX3EpZoq6g_7ZC-qj9b6NeWIDUCqxZ7ltTvMzydPfj/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LnahLsUa3Hv4lGYEw_zjph6GHAqGkHlSVtOQBXx3_lxtE-dRWtFbVAAxxj9I2xOfUb9iu47DlWmOfU23BszXO3_u10_8GyFRvdHX3EpZoq6g_7ZC-qj9b6NeWIDUCqxZ7ltTvMzydPfj/s400/images-2.jpeg" /></a>When my coworker brought me her second book, “Why Not Me?”, I was eager to jump in her second query-titled book. I had just read two dramatic thrillers and was ready to laugh. And laugh I did.</div>
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Mindy, once again, entertains with her pithy observations that range from the privileges of Hollywood starlets, friendship crushes, and the fuss about weight. Mindy's authenticity enchants. She's acutely aware of superficiality, but doesn't remove herself from its trappings. <i>To look gorgeous in pictures, never sit up straight. Do not allow your arms to lie flat against your body–a tip from Kim Kardashian.</i> I must admit...brilliant. Sure shallow. But brilliant.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Don't think there isn't sustenance in this book. One of my favorite anecdotes is when Mindy is overlooked as an Emmy nominee, and must announce the nominations anyway. She candidly confesses her inner turmoil. As she articulated her anger, I had visions of Kelly Kapoor coming unglued. (I almost couldn't wait!) But Mindy was better than that. She didn't want to act civil, but she understood the power of acting gracious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The joy of reading comedy is how it can take you by surprise. In the middle of the book, we find a compelling love story. After I read the chapter, I realized how Mindy was showing off her writing chops. Suspense. Longing. Dynamic characters like the Obamas. Disillusionment. Unrequited love. Of course, I recognized this pattern from her TV resume. Nonetheless, the story had me captivated. I was only disappointed not to see a photo of “Will.” There were so many other great photos! Why not Will? Does it have anything to do with BJ Novak? And her confusing relationship with him? Maybe! (I can't wait to read Mindy's post wedding book.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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There were lots more hilarious and truly interesting parts. Her opinion of sex scenes. Her mother's influence. The diagram of her brain and the amount of it devoted to her phone charger. But I have to admit, my favorite part of the book is the ending. Not because I wanted it to end. It's because I found her thoughts profound.</div>
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Mindy Kaling addresses confidence after brushing through a young teenage girl's inquiry on the topic. She then philosophizes on her response and comes up with an important insight. Her confidence has been born from her sense of entitlement. Now, before you raise your eyebrow, keep reading. Entitlement has a bad rap right now–mostly because so many people feel entitled because they see other people have what they want. But Kaling makes a salient point: there's nothing wrong with feeling entitled as long as you deserve it. Mindy has worked extremely hard to achieve the success she's obtained. She tells a story about receiving a fIuff award for cutest clothes at a youth basketball camp. Her mother hid it, explaining that it wasn't a deserving award. It was a participation award. The formula is so simple, yet so great: Work hard. Achieve success. Confidence will certainly appear. I had my 14-year-old son read this section, because the advice is some of the best you can give your kid. Mindy probably didn't realize it, but the book is really a parenting manual.</div>
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I hesitated to write everything I just did, because I didn't want to spoil the book for you. But believe me, there's much more fodder to enjoy. You will undoubtedly fall in love with Mind. One chapter stars off with a Holden Caulfield quote from The Catcher in the Rye: </div>
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<i><b>"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you with the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him on the phone whenever you felt like it."</b></i></div>
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Talk about foreboding. Maybe I'll tweet her @mindykaling. I could use more parenting advice.</div>
Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-24983904641150299772015-12-14T18:32:00.000-08:002015-12-14T18:33:46.318-08:00I Am the Messenger<h2>
protect the <b>diamonds</b>+survive the <b>clubs</b>+dig deep through the <b>spades</b>+feel the <b>hearts</b></h2>
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When I read <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19063.The_Book_Thief?from_search=true&search_version=service" target="_blank">The Book Thief</a> by Markus Zusak a few years ago, it immediately found a comfy spot in my favorites list. So I when I picked up <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19057.I_Am_the_Messenger" target="_blank">I Am the Messenger</a> by Zusak, I was anxious to dive in, yet I was leery. Could the story and prose possibly compare? I had my doubts. The book lie dormant for many months. And the time I wasted!<br />
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I think most of us have a soft spot for the underdog, drifter guy who, of course, is funny, clever and sweet. Well, at least we women do. This novel's protagonist, Ed Kennedy, is a laid-back cab driver who somehow botches a bank robbery. The event sets Ed off on a series of strange and mysterious missions within his community.<br />
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Ed's life pulses with routine and a small sphere of card-playing friends: Marv, Ritchie, Audrey (whom he loves), and The Doorman his dog(whom he also loves). The novel captures Ed's reluctance to carry out these "missions." But he does. He must. It's as if his life depends on it. Maybe it does! The missions aren't clearly defined; each assignment is a puzzle for Ed to solve. (He is clever, even if not terribly ambitious.) One of the biggest puzzles is to determine who is setting the missions in motion. And it's kind of a shocker. I didn't guess. And I really thought I had.<br />
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The plot is engaging–a page turner for sure. But like all good books, the character transformation is what makes this story a charmer. One of the most profound elements of the story is how Ed deals with the death of his father. His mother is nothing short of a bitch (<i>"Believe it or not, it takes a lot of love to hate you like this."</i>), which makes his loneliness more intense. But it's through Ed's new experiences he begins to make sense of himself and these feelings of loss and loneliness.<br />
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If only he could get the the girl...<br />
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I adore the punchiness of Ed's narrative. How couldn't Ed get the girl! Well, it's complicated. Audrey's got issues. At one point, after being rejected by her, he says,<br />
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<i><b>"You can kill a man with those words. No gun. No bullet. Just words and a girl."</b></i><br />
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Just words. Powerful stuff. Lots of great words in this book. So read it already.<br />
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One quick note before signing off on this glowing review: I can find few similarities between this book and The Book Thief, except for perhaps the poignancy. So whether you liked The Book Thief or not, I'd give I Am the Messenger a read. It's a great tale, especially if you're into poignancy.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-1595026243468091892015-09-28T20:02:00.004-07:002015-09-28T20:07:40.133-07:00"Books are a uniquely portable magic." -Stephen KingMy inspiration to write comes from love of storytelling propagated from a lifetime in books. So when my story, <b><i>Phoenix Sun</i></b> was selected to be published in the 2014 Author's First Short Story Contest, I didn't realize how much of my reward would come from reading all of the winning stories in the published anthology.<br />
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Portable Magic is composed of seventeen broadly original pieces which dip into everything from mythology, dystopia, and tragic-comedy. While each writer certainly has his or her own distinct style, I feel the editors deserve high praise with the palpable synergy that exists between each tale. There's a particular cadence to the entire anthology with its mix of surreal and real, long and shorter stories. Perhaps it's the verbal felicity of each of the writers–the enjoyable prose. No matter where I happened to finish reading, I was always anxious to get back to the book–either to finish whatever short story I was reading or to start one anew.<br />
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Textures within Portable Magic abound! Many of the stories provide extraordinary sensory details. While there wasn't a read I didn't like, I was really struck by <b><i>I Fell Off My Name</i></b> by Micah Juliot. The story tells of a disenchanted hostel worker in Barcelona. As we learned of the the protagonist Kamal's daily rituals, we also sensed, equally the banality and profundity of his life...his name–and his ability to choose his destiny. I also became completely enraptured by <b><i>The New Fenian</i></b>. B. Lynch Black artfully combined folklore into a modern day scene to create a story of enriched characters and a page-turning plot. <b><i>The World was an Island</i></b> was penned by Abigail Andersen, a high school creative writing student who defied conventional storytelling and brought us a brilliant narrative of pain, love, and redemption about a girl who was stuck on an island with her "lifegiver."<br />
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I hope Portable Magic is the beginning of a trend to revive contemporary short stories in an art form as something more enriching than a high school or college assignment. (The style certainly works well with our busy lifestyles.) I, for one, was pleasantly surprised how much I enjoyed each and every one the stories...even though yes, I did write one of them!<br />
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Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-64532834495306564912015-08-20T20:01:00.000-07:002015-08-20T20:01:49.329-07:00Thrive!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2GaeqesfN4Odi213IjluhRDrbhyphenhyphenOsFBhYqhlhwxUOqUY9493AqstgoJypmeSXwaKqCf48rpJFRcXbAVi6Hryu4Wp0Bo-T5HkUak7cx0Z8-fVFc11B0igrW9m-7pDMKLqVaSxX8sGd61c/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2GaeqesfN4Odi213IjluhRDrbhyphenhyphenOsFBhYqhlhwxUOqUY9493AqstgoJypmeSXwaKqCf48rpJFRcXbAVi6Hryu4Wp0Bo-T5HkUak7cx0Z8-fVFc11B0igrW9m-7pDMKLqVaSxX8sGd61c/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a><br />
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Way back in 1993, when I finished grad school and set off to make a mark in the banking world, I was filled with oodles of energy, enthusiasm, and unbridled ambition. The job market wasn’t all that steamy, but I believe my optimism helped me land a management trainee job at a large, regional bank. I was on my way. </div>
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Way to what?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Twenty-some years later, now in the midst of a career as a CFO for a small, community bank, that question still niggles at me. Have I "made" it? Would my twenty-three-year-old self think I made it? Maybe. Maybe not. Financially stable. Check. Respectable position. Check. But there's also a palpable waning of energy from years of maintaining a hard-driving pace. With that in mind, what do I believe success looks like?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Aho. Along comes the estimable, prolific Arianna Huffington and her book <a href="http://thrive.huffingtonpost.com/" target="_blank">Thrive</a>.<br />
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I had the pleasure of hearing Ms. Huffington and her adorable accent at a conference a few years ago. She campaigned on the importance of sleep, which I already happen to be an expert on since my nightly routine consists of 7-8 hours of serious slumber, as confirmed by my Fitbit. Even though I don't suffer from sleep deprivation issues, I was impassioned by her cause. You would've been too. Arianna is so darn smart and funny and doesn't act like she’s one of the most influential women in America. She's relatable. Perhaps that’s her secret.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her book is written in her same, distinct voice, sans the European accent. Casual, conversational–peppered with anecdotes as if you’re having a latte at some cozy NY coffee shop. Yet, the insights and quotes drip on the pages with profundity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, Thrive is a book about the true meaning of success. Ms. Huffington is obviously fluent in the traditional notions of success: money and power. My twenty-something self would have been easily impressed with Huffington's achievements in those arenas. But then comes the emptiness. “Thrive” explores and debunks how working hard to achieve financial wealth and social stature doesn’t equate to happiness. We need more. Ms. Huffington introduces the “Third Metric”—a formula which lead to true fulfillment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The third metric explores four tenets: well-being, wisdom, wonder and compassion. She delves into each of these areas usually starting from a wide angle lens, then zooming into granular details to provide specific actions to improve your life. Some of the advice seems obvious, but Arianna more than proves her point by backing up her insights with real data. That's her genius. We become compelled to really consider departing from our devices. And sleeping better. And meditating. And absorbing the beauty of a goldfinch.</div>
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There’s much to take from this self-help book. It’s one of those books you read with a highlighter and a post-it, so you can refer back to those sections which speak to you. There's also a handy appendix to provide resources for some of the recommended actions that aren't so easily achieved–like meditating. (I don't know about you, but I pray Jesus forgives my ADHD during prayer time. I definitely need guidance when it comes to meditation.)<br />
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I planned on loaning this book out to a few of my friends and relatives—especially my daughter before she left for college. But selfishly, I couldn’t quite give the book up. I've held on to it, carrying it around and referring back to it. I'll often open it up to some random page and find a useful quote. For example, there's a section called "Go-Getters are Good; Go Givers are Better." I think this means I should give this book out as gifts. Perhaps the best compliment you can give an author is your desire to offer it to others. I’m sure Arianna would appreciate my glowing review.<br />
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I bought Thrive in search of rejuvenation. Not only did I find it, but I found something better: enlightenment.</div>
Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-47832641222518110902015-07-23T20:04:00.000-07:002015-07-30T19:07:35.474-07:00Broadened!"True, I have raped history, but it has produced some beautiful offspring." Alexandre Dumas<br />
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It appears this blog is now devoted to history! Certainly my spare time has found me immersed in a bit of time travel–leaving me no less richer for it. Disclaimer: my bookshelf has also punched in a few contemporaries to keep me grounded in the current century: Thrive, A Spool of Blue Thread, Flash and Dazzle and that great new release everyone's been waiting for: Portable Magic. These tomes will find a space on the blog soon, but today I salute my recent historical reads.<br />
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Historial Fiction #1:<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_2123447206"></span>My Name is Mary Sutter<span id="goog_2123447207"></span></a> by Robin Oliveira takes place during the Civil War era, offering a portrayal of a talented, smart midwife who is fiercely determined to become a doctor–an unthinkable path for a female at the time. A hero who can rise above social mores for a specific, burning cause is always a compelling theme. And while a book about a woman trying to make her mark in the midst of the Civil War may sound interesting, but not like a page-turner, it really is.<br />
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The Civil War was boggling on so many levels. This story recounts the medical progress and challenges during the bloodiest of battles. From battles to childbirthing, sensory details seep throughout the book. Oliveira draws us into scenes, creating gripping details with such perspicuity, it's impossible not to contemplate on the stench of war–literally and figuratively.<br />
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My Name is Mary Sutter selected as the All Iowa Read for our book club. And while I have often been disappointed with these picks, this year I was quite delighted. Gender discrimination within the context of the Civil War is not something anyone considers much. Equality for women was seen as selfish cause, compared to the plight of abolition. Apparently, those causes couldn't be sought in conjunction with each other. This book explores the issues with a wonderful and emotional story whose main character of Mary Sutter who not only defined courage, but embraced sacrifice for a cause that went beyond the Civil War.<br />
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Historial Fiction #2:<br />
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Speaking of feminism and abolition...<br />
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Quite a few years ago I read The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. It became an instant favorite. Now she has written <a href="http://suemonkkidd.com/books/the-invention-of-wings/overview/" target="_blank">The Invention of Wings</a>–a historical fiction based on the real abolitionist and feminist named Sarah Grimke who lived during the turn of the 19th Century.<br />
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Kidd became inspired to write about Sarah Grimke after learning the anti-slavery proponent originated from a wealthy slave-owning family in Charleston. I believe this is either irony, justice or redemption. No matter, it's a great story–fiction or not.<br />
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In the book, Sarah is given a slave at the age of eleven. She rejects the notion, but can not easily extricate herself from the awful institution of slavery. She begins by embarking on a friendship with her "given" slave, Handful.<br />
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The story alternates between the voice of the animated Handful and the more demure Sarah. The most palpable comparison of the characters is how each are tortured, albeit in different ways. Handful survives the awful physical and emotional consequences of slavery–which include beatings, deaths of friends, vanishment of loved ones, torture, condescension and more. Sarah suffers from the guilt of her involvement and powerlessness to change anything. But these juxtapositions aren't always wrapped up so tidily. While Sarah's moral compass becomes clear at an early age after she becomes sickened by the beating of a slave, her convictions are tested when she finds Handful using her bathtub. Her own indignant reaction catches herself off guard. Does she truly believe in equality? She does. And in that moment, she understands her environment and values don't reflect her beliefs. That's when a shift in her life begins–her path to becoming one of history's greatest essayist and speakers on abolition.<br />
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But there's more to the story–the fiction side of things anyway. Much is happening to the group of slaves Sarah has grown up with while she has moved North. Eventually, Handful is faced with a dangerous dilemma. And Sarah has drifted away from the family. Without the ability to chart their own destinations, for the slaves there comes heartache, as is expected in the Antebellum South. But because of Sarah and Handful's determination, there is hope as well.<br />
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I like Sue Monk Kidd's writing style. Her mastery of language, dialogue and syntax makes the story a joy to read. She creates just enough details to immerse us in the world, without bogging. I believe her talent lies in making characters come to life with their actions and punchy talk. An interview with Ms. Kidd indicated Sarah was a challenge because she wanted to keep her voice as authentic as possible, based on her research. While I'm no expert on Sarah Grimke, nor customs of the 1800s, I'd say she nailed it. Her cause and internal struggles felt authentic, making me very reflective of the themes. Okay. I'm often reflective of injustice anyway.<br />
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Sarah Grimke struggled with finding her purpose. Sue Monk Kidd brought her to life again in this book–bringing to light Sarah's challenges of the her voice being heard on issues that matter. Somehow, that theme is still very relevant today. I think Sarah Grimke would be very proud of this depiction.<br />
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Historical Book #3:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXf9m7j4vlM3MqfutzDb3M4BZjfJN_wmpDW2o85ht_aeYqs3c3a2cza14Ehj1qtpZBhBnnHleeRfRvANDCUeOk6ws4Q5fMfD00OZHzpBCnl9JcwA3-rx_zMct7hmsOlpJY1j0fIR58PN2/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXf9m7j4vlM3MqfutzDb3M4BZjfJN_wmpDW2o85ht_aeYqs3c3a2cza14Ehj1qtpZBhBnnHleeRfRvANDCUeOk6ws4Q5fMfD00OZHzpBCnl9JcwA3-rx_zMct7hmsOlpJY1j0fIR58PN2/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a>Since I'm writing a blog, and not a book, I'm going to only mention briefly how delightful Erik Larson is. I just finished <a href="http://eriklarsonbooks.com/the-books/" target="_blank">Dead Wake</a> which details the events leading up to the the sinking of the Lusitania. Mr. Larson can bring ANY major historical event to life in a way that will make you an insufferable know-it-all and requiring you to have a dinner party so you can discuss everything you learned. I will only say one thing that should compel you to read this book: while the Germans certainly caused the destruction, other parties weren't faultless in preventing the tragedy. And I'm not speaking of the ship's captain, although he certainly was made a scapegoat. That's all I have to say about that.<br />
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That's probably enough book reviewing for one post. Better get reading...<br />
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<br />Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-74096083900226413772015-06-17T20:06:00.001-07:002015-06-17T20:06:14.253-07:00Stirring History"It just goes to show you really can't judge a book by its cover."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CfaC5fpfnxLoXipRWSv-88qIY_YmkFKyGajNtx7w8shnU9GpT6V232wiPCcp2g7fIwy8t1iE5vgbyF-RglxLHkd815fBJ8QkzP3339mZNs0-4pxWYi6jkNiD3B5sEgiu7f06dOfwmXBk/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CfaC5fpfnxLoXipRWSv-88qIY_YmkFKyGajNtx7w8shnU9GpT6V232wiPCcp2g7fIwy8t1iE5vgbyF-RglxLHkd815fBJ8QkzP3339mZNs0-4pxWYi6jkNiD3B5sEgiu7f06dOfwmXBk/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a>One of my book club friends made this astute observation during our discussion of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Destiny-Republic-Madness-Medicine-President/dp/0767929713" target="_blank">Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President </a>by Candice Millard. I have to admit when I heard our book club pick was a non-fiction based on the assassination on President James Garfield, I was not terribly enthused. Maybe it was the book cover. Dark, somber hues. The presidential portrait. Courier font. My trepidation was quickly erased once I began to read.<br />
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Ms. Millard enlivens the facts surrounding the death of our 20th president by weaving themes of politics, medicine and technology. The book reads not only as a compelling historical narrative, but also as a social commentary of a time period which could and probably has slipped through the cracks of our collective memories.<br />
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I won't deny I knew almost nothing about Garfield before started reading this book. But now I know the man was a bit amazing. I'd put him up there with Lincoln. His modest upbringing, stemming from tragedy at an early age, gave rise to a brilliant man with a fervent work ethic and studious habits. Success came early. Who doesn't love that American story? Garfield was so respected for his mind and charisma, he practically fell into politics and wasn't even looking to become the leader of our country. And while his political career might've been somewhat accidental, he was ingenious in dealing with his political opponents of any ideology–of which there were a few.<br />
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The book details the assassination attempt, which did not kill Garfield immediately. We get a sense of the real tragedy of the event: Garfield's medical treatment and his suffering. Many interesting dynamics were taking place during this time. Alexander Graham Bell was busy inventing and had a machine which he was certain would help identify the bullet's presence in the President. Anti-sepsis theories were only accepted by a handful of doctors. So plenty of patients were dying from infections. This would eventually take Garfield, but not without him fighting.<br />
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Throughout the book, Garfield's character is depicted as jovial, compassionate, sharp-minded, and ambitious. (The book is careful to point out Garfield's imperfections as well–he was human.) We are privy to enjoy many of his profound quotes throughout the read, giving us even more insight into his state of mind. One of my favorites, which may explain his popularity: "The chief duty of the government is to keep the peace and stand out of the sunshine of the people." A few politicians might do good to read this book.<br />
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Upon his death, an entire nation mourned woefully–maybe more woefully than the death of Abe Lincoln which had just taken place less than twenty years prior with a nation very divided. Garfield always set out to do good–the right thing, but his career was cut short. And while we wonder what he might've accomplished if he would lived longer, maybe his unfortunate death had an important<br />
consequence : it brought together a grieving nation (Northerners and Southerners) as wounds from the Civil War were just beginning to heal.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-14552030501806095922015-03-13T20:47:00.001-07:002015-03-13T20:47:06.988-07:00Get Shorty"I try to leave out the parts readers skip." -<a href="http://elmoreleonard.com/index.php" target="_blank">Leonard Elmore</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.elmoreleonard.com/index.php?/novels/get_shorty" target="_blank"><i>Get Shorty</i></a> ain't no page skipping book.<br />
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Sometimes I feel I'm losing a race. So many authors. So many books. Too little time. When Leonard Elmore died a few years ago, I made a promise I would get something read by him. I'm sorry it has taken me so long.<br />
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I finished Get Shorty a couple of weeks ago. Admittedly, my choice of this particular Elmore was influenced by the fact a movie adaptation existed. I'm a sucker for those. Of course, I didn't watch the flick before I read the book, but I did allow John Travolta influence how I imagined the main character of Chili Palmer. Nothing wrong with that, is there?<br />
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<i>Get Shorty</i> is a story about a shylock. Actually, it's about a good shylock and a bad shylock. No, that's not right either. It's about a good shylock, a bad shylock and a really bad shylock. Oh! And an actor who wants to play a shylock. The plot twists are certainly engaging enough with the setting mainly in Hollywood. And despite Elmore's genius criss-crosses in the story, that's not what I loved most about this book.<br />
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Colorful characters and punchy dialogue. That's what loved. With gritty themes of greed, power, and violence, I found myself smiling through much of the text. Elmore was brilliant at depicting human foibles in the most comical of ways. Like when one loan shark is teaching another loan shark how to write a movie script. (How hard could it be?) They are both motivated to elbow their way into the movie business, but for different reasons. And both are very calculating men. You keep wondering if the scene is going to end with gunshots or a handshake. It doesn't end in either of those ways. But it wraps up with a funny piece of dialogue.<br />
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..."you come to the last page you write 'Fade out' and that's the end, you're done."<br />
Chili said, "That's all there is to it?"<br />
"That's all."<br />
Chili said, "Then what do I need you for?"<br />
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Chili Palmer makes the book sing. He's kind of like Bugs Bunny–not terribly congenial, but awfully magnetic. And you can't wait to see how he's gonna get himself out of any particular situation–and there are layers of situations in this book. It's not just about collecting money. It's about finding one's place in the world of actors–the people who have convinced themselves of their own importance. No wonder I found myself siding for the mob guy. He was the most sincere character in the book.<br />
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Endings are one of the best parts of a crime mystery. And it's not because I want the book to be over! It's because of the tightly wrapped-up resolution. No social issues hanging over me. Just a satisfied feeling from being engaged in a puzzle presented in the form of a great piece of writing. Thanks Mr. Elmore for that.<br />
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Note: I watched the movie a few days after reading the book. I liked it almost as well. It's always a rush to see how the characters are cast. I had casted a Tom Cruise-type person as the actor. Imagine my amusement when I saw that the actor was played by Danny DeVito. And while he wasn't the main character, DeVito perfectly depicted how self-aggrandizing any one person can be. Conversely, Travolta's character, Chili, reflected how a mobster who was at least genuine can actually be a hero.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-21366800391166467912015-02-21T13:39:00.002-08:002015-02-22T18:13:56.471-08:00Warmth of Other Suns<h1 class="quoteText" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I was leaving the South </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">to fling myself into the unknown . . .</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I was taking a part of the South</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">to transplant in alien soil,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">to see if it could grow differently,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">if it could drink of new and cool rains,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">bend in strange winds,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">respond to the warmth of other suns</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">and, perhaps, to bloom”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">―<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9657.Richard_Wright" style="text-decoration: none;">Richard Wright</a></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">February is Black History Month. Appropriately, I just finished one of the most profound non-fiction books I've ever read: <a href="http://isabelwilkerson.com/the-book/" target="_blank">The Warmth of Other Suns </a>by Isabel Wilkerson.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Pulitzer Prize winning author tracks three black Americans whose lives spanned during the Great Migration from the South–a time defined between early 1900s and the Civil Rights movement. We get to know energetic Ida from Mississippi, who makes her way with her husband to Chicago in the 30s, struggling to find fair wages and housing in the inner city. Then there's clever George who leaves the groves of Florida for New York to avoid unthinkable repercussions when he stands up for his own rights and the rights of others. And finally, we observe the life of Robert–a military doctor from Louisiana who eventually finds his way to the glamorous land of California, where it would seem tolerance would be pervasive.</span><br />
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Before I embarked upon this book, I thought I had an idea of what I was getting into. Despite America's founding principles of equal rights, our country has had a sketchy history. But I had not really understood the depth of that sketchiness.</span><br />
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<a href="http://isabelwilkerson.com/" target="_blank">Ms. Wilkerson </a>doesn't just depict narratives of injustice. Statistics and other historical events are peppered throughout the book presenting themes of utter cruelty and immense courage. If you don't find yourself with a tear in your eye, a lump in your throat, or pit in your stomach, you should question your humanity.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Be prepared to think about content for a while. How do you make sense of certain occurrences? Like when a group of white adults tortured a young, black boy to death, in front of his own father, for the mere act of sending a Christmas card to a white girl? Or, even events not quite as gruesome, but still ridiculous–like Jesse Owens, the infamous gold medal winner, being forced to use the freight elevator for his very own reception. It was always noted how Hitler wouldn't shake Owens hand. Well, neither would our president at the time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">As I read, and thought about the timeframe of the Great Migration, which overlapped with WWII, I wondered how a country could be so indignant about Hitler when genocide was occurring in our very own United States. Lynching was not even a federal crime. It's really quite chilling and shameful.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">The cruelty and the hate are difficult to understand. Wilkerson is articulate in revealing how economics fed into these issues–how fear of losing workers and sharecroppers in the South initiated despicable acts and how the flood of new workers in the North gave rise to unfair wages and housing arrangements. Certainly, I was shaking my head much of the time while reading.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">What I found most fascinating though, were the stories of courage. It wasn't easy to leave the South. It wasn't easy to become educated. It wasn't easy to earn money. It wasn't easy to walk across a street. There was a story in the book of a Southerner who had struggled to make her way out of her oppressive state and finally landed in Washington D.C. She felt so happy and proud to have made it to her nation's capital. I thought to myself, "Really? You're proud? You're not angry with your country?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">But anger is never the answer. And that's why our country has continued to socially evolve and become accepting and intolerant of intolerance. There are great stories of unsung heros in The Warmth of Other Suns. These are what inspire. This is what makes the book and the history truly unforgettable.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-29086119962523043732015-01-27T18:29:00.000-08:002015-01-27T18:29:17.733-08:00In Lieu of the Super Bowl...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A story leaves me staring straight ahead–speechless. Bewildered, yet enlightened. <a href="http://www.nationalbook.org/nba2012_f_fountain.html#.VMg8Zhw9UcM" target="_blank">Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk</a> by Ben Fountain is one of those books which could ruin me for awhile. In other words, no other fiction read will have near as much impact to my psyche. Fountain has written a profound narrative certainly with political implications that could easily have turned into a moral fable. But here's the thing. He's written the story so masterfully, I'm delighted not to have waded through any overt message of righteousness. The genius of Mr. Fountain is how he penned the paradox of doing good, performing cruelties for perceived good, and the all moral complexities that roll along during war–on and off the battlefield.<br />
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Billy Lynn, along with his squad called BRAVO, is on temporary leave, touring the US after performing heroics after an insurgent attack in Iraq. With the event caught on video by journalists, the squad finds themselves experiencing celebrity-like limelight. The story mostly takes place at a Dallas Cowboy's football game as BRAVO finds themselves being schmoozed by the owner and courted by a producer who wants to make their movie.<br />
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Our protagonist, Billy, is a nineteen-year-old who has been wizened by war, but is tortured by his sense of purpose. He's done great things for his country in the war. And every patriot on the street likes to tell him so, except for his self-absorbed handicapped father. But Billy is haunted by what he hasn't done and what he doesn't know. Like saving his friends. Or caring for his family. Or creating a life for himself after the war. One of Billy's finer moments of clarity comes when he narrows down what he doesn't want to become as he is barraged by questions from reporters at one of the Cowboy events.<br />
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.<i>..they manage to be incredibly annoying, a middle-aged bunch of mostly big-assed white guys dressed in boring-as-hell business casual, such a sad-fuck sampling of civilian bio-matter that for a moment Billy is actually glad for the war, hell yes, so much better to be out there shooting guns and blowing shit up than shuffling around like scenery on a bad sitcom. God knows the war sucks, but he sees no great appeal in these tepid peacetime lives... </i><br />
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Mortality is an obvious result of war. Billy's own mortality presses him to consider what he could miss–love being the obvious issue before him. On the surface, a binge romance with a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader draws out a comedic element of the story, with the predictable ooh-boy-ha-ha reactions of Billy's mates once they are on to the situation. But Billy experiences something deeper than an infatuation, reflecting the young man's search for something profound and eternal in his life not spoiled by violence and war. (I won't say much more about the romance to avoid any spoiler alerts.)<br />
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Fatherly themes prevail throughout the novel. One particular image in which Billy gives away his autographed football to a wayward kid struck me as a great symbol. What else conveys generosity of spirit than a kid receiving something so exquisite. Billy wasn't just being kind though. He was dutiful. In selecting a kid, he avoided the fancy Nike or Under Armour boy. Billy chose the kid who needed to be chosen–to be given a boost.<br />
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All throughout the book, we find paternalist themes and images that stir. In addition to good role models and not-so-good role models, the role of country as protector, mentor and savior even plays into this theme. While the story can't determine a conclusive ending as to how a country can fill these parts of our lives, it certainly explores the question.<br />
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I went to see American Sniper the same week I finished this novel. Certainly, I couldn't help but feel sad and troubled about war–nothing abnormal. But the one thing great books and movies do is help us relate and provide perspectives we might not otherwise ever have. And while I have always respected and felt grateful for our military, I know I have been changed. The next time I notice someone in the service, the pit in my stomach will reach a little deeper as I silently extend my newfound empathy.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-70528156542172326132014-12-29T17:57:00.001-08:002014-12-29T17:57:59.271-08:00A Summer with Bill Bryson"I come from Des Moines. Someone had to."<br />
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I was first introduced to Bill Bryson in his memoir <a href="http://www.billbryson.co.uk/index.php/the-life-and-times-of-the-thunderbolt-kid/#uk" target="_blank">The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid</a>. This quote from the book captures Bryson's voice and verve which I find to be completely endearing. Who doesn't love a guy who so unabashedly finds humor in the world...and himself as well? While I'm not a baby boomer, Bill Bryson spun his tale and drew me into his story in such a way I wondered if I hadn't been born in the wrong generation. Clearly, I related to him.<br />
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Since then, I've read <a href="http://www.billbryson.co.uk/index.php/a-walk-in-the-woods/#uk" target="_blank">A Walk in the Woods</a> which made me both inspired to take nature hikes (someday) and giggle at the gung-ho trekkers in the sporting good stores. I've also read <a href="http://www.billbryson.co.uk/index.php/a-walk-in-the-woods/#uk" target="_blank">At Home</a> which spooned me a plethora of domestic history. I now know things like how salt and pepper caused horrific wars. And that Thomas Jefferson wasn't only a founding father of our country, but he was a founding father of french fries. And that our ancestors used to make bathing an annual rite. (Italian bath houses initiated certain behaviors which provoked the movement to equate dirtiness to holiness.) But enough about those books. The purpose of this blog is to rave about <a href="http://www.billbryson.co.uk/index.php/one-summer-america-1927/#us" target="_blank">One Summer.</a> Not just any summer–the summer of 1927 in America.<br />
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Beyond his clever wit, Bill Bryson is a brilliant historian. I appreciate his punchy journalistic style as he conveys fascinating facts, layering gobs of information while painting the landscape of the era. Is it possible to become nostalgic about a time period in which you never lived?<br />
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Sure. I had heard of many of the people/issues written in the book, but I didn't really get it. I knew Charles Lindbergh flew across the Atlantic. But I had no idea he was THE HERO OF THE DAY. Not the mention the impetus to modern American aviation. And a Nazi...for a while anyway. There were so many more colorful characters in this book, I could hardly contain myself. My spouse really has no need to read this book. I pretty much read it aloud to him. How could I not? Babe Ruth. Jack Dempsey. Henry Ford. Clara Bow. Al Capone. Herbert Hoover. Yes, Herbert Hoover. Maybe I should say Warren Harding instead. He could be described as...colorful. Perhaps unscrupulous is a better word. (I should let Cal Coolidge slide off this list, but I won't. After all, it was Dorothy Parker who said after Silent Cal's death, "How do they know?") All kidding aside, even Cal Coolidge played a pretty interesting role in this book.<br />
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I became infatuated with some of the obsessions of the time. Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig were hitting more homeruns, as individuals, than other teams. I can't help but think Babe Ruth was our first true celebrity athlete. He was the first to negotiate a contract–when contracts weren't quite so ridiculous. Announcers actually made more than the best athletes–including Babe Ruth.<br />
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The Roaring 20's conjures images of fun. Excess. Great things were happening–like talking movies. But horrible and unsettling events were happening as well. The largest school killing in our nation's history. A raging Mississippi flood which devastated enormous areas of land. Highly publicized executions with racial themes and anarchy accusations.<br />
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As a book lover, I looked forward to Bryson's take on the modern writers: Hemmingway, Stein, Fitzgergald, so on. So, when Mr. Bryson informed me how the most popular writers of the day were the bad and trite ones, I was a bit shocked. The best authors didn't <i>become</i> until years later. Was this a reflection of the mood of the time? A particular, shallow, sentiment? Methinks Fitzgerld was saying something like that in Gatsby.<br />
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As a banker, I was also intrigued by an action that was taken by the newly formed Federal Reserve. Without going into great detail, the Fed had cut interest rates to spur investments in Europe. (Europe was still recovering from the war and economic woes–trying to repay war debts.) The grave miscalculation led to more borrowing the US. This behavior, combined with an over-valued stock market added to our woes after the Crash.<br />
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There's so much more to ravish through in this book. Knowing the 1929 Crash is about to erupt makes all of these events that more fascinating. Without realizing it, I was comparing our current situation to this particular past. And while many parts made me feel proud, I certainly did my share of head scratching. I do wonder, what can we learn from it? An era of excess. An overvalued stock market. Racial tension. Uneasy foreign policy.<br />
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Obviously, there are no easy answers. But because of Mr. Bryson's incredible talent, he's presented a piece of the United States' story which give us pause for reflection and more discourse. Much more discourse.Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1483933900765826186.post-53978034049984135142014-05-31T14:55:00.002-07:002014-05-31T14:57:52.267-07:00The Fault in our Stars<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves /That we are underlings." -Julius Caeser</span><br />
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I finally caught up to the rest of the world (including my daughter who officially regarded the book as her favorite last year), and read <a href="http://johngreenbooks.com/" target="_blank">The Fault in our Stars.</a> Okay, John Green. I can't decide if I love you or hate you for being such a talented author. Well, I'm no hater. So, there you go.<br />
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Unless you live inside a rock (or are forced to play XBox in a sealed and locked basement), you're probably somewhat familiar with the story of Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters. (Feel free to google the IMBD trailer, like the millions of others that have, including myself.) If you don't want to do that, here's the gist: two kids with cancer meet and fall in love. So, why read this book with such a grim prognosis? Who wants to read a story that's sure to evoke sadness and tears? (I remember having similar thoughts about The Hunger Games, not wanting to read about kids killing each other.) Well. All I can say that if you like clever dialogue with engaging characters, you might side with Alex and regard this as one of your favorite books as well.<br />
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As a writer, I dug into this book, studying it like a piece of art. Throw out all your preconceived ideas about YA fiction. John Green cannily nails the teenage voice of Hazel. (Who is this super-author?) The dialogue surprises and delights, without becoming overly sentimental–which could happen so easily given the subject matter. He seems to understand the hearts of the youth, making the subject matter NOT about the cancer, but about the kids and their ability to deal with their shitty cards dealt. One of my favorite parts is how Hazel and Gus linger on the phone, transforming the words "Ok" into some of the meatiest pieces of subtext in the novel.<br />
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Warning: You will cry and most likely sob. It's unavoidable. John Green is simply too crafty–Hazel and Gus will become real to you. When I finished the last sentence, I was torn about the idea that the book has been made into a movie. However, when I learned that Mr. Green was intricately involved (often crying on the set himself), I shifted my perspective. If JG blesses the film adaptation, I imagine it's pretty good. And with the faces and talent of these actors, I tend to think this story about living life to the fullest no matter what age you are, will be one of the brightest messages of hope we've heard in a long time.<br />
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Stef Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13602212863188597824noreply@blogger.com0