Happy Holidays

Happy Holidays.

The best of everything to you in the coming year.

2010 has been an exceptional year for us here at LaDeDa. We thank you for your continued support and hope that we have helped you in your search for the perfect book. I can't think of anyone with a better job...surrounded by books, unlimited access to coffee...and the opportunity to visit with friends, old and new, each day. Who else gets to do that?

Drink mead. Eat fudge. Laugh often.

FYI...we're closed the 25-27.

So Long Seville by guest blogger Steven Head

A number of years ago I recall being old enough that my parents left me alone while they went somewhere on a Sunday afternoon. I was at the age when excitement over Christmas presents was still real and curiosity strong enough that I wanted to find them. As you might guess, most were found before they appeared beneath the tree. Unwrapping presents was not very fun that year since there were no surprises.

I am experiencing a similar feeling to that memory of Christmas past having completed the first three books of the Seville Quartet by Robert Wilson. Last month I wrote a review of The Ignorance of Blood, the last in the series set in Seville, Spain with Javier Falcon as the main character. Since then I have read the first three but not in a fashion anyone would recommend.

I was halfway through book one, The Blind Man of Seville, and expected to finish it during the Thanksgiving holiday, so I picked up book two, The Vanished Hands. The only problem was I forgot to bring book one. It is bad enough to read the last book first, but to hopscotch through the initial books is almost unforgivable. But it can be done.

Blind Man is devoted to looking at the life and character of Chief Inspector Falcon, and his deceased artist father Francisco. Of course there is murder and mayhem and all sorts of family and interpersonal intrigue, but it is generally a character book. In Hands Falcon is investigating another murder which gets caught up in international politics, child pornography, and a brief affair with the widow book one. In the third book, The Hidden Assassins, a central focus is the June 6th bombing in Seville along with regional politics, spying, terrorism, and Falcon and the widow re-starting a romantic relationship.

I have to confess a diminished interest by Assassins. Perhaps it was Wilson's writing style which depends heavily on dialogue where characters rarely interrupt one another and go on and on. Or maybe it was the shift away from a character driven to a more action oriented plot. Although it could just be lack of interest since I knew where everything was going.

I want to say I've learned my lesson and will not read series books out of sequence, but that could be a lie. One unexpected result of this series is my new passion for olives and the kinds of snacks described throughout the series. I have resisted buying manzanilla, which I suspect is a kind of wine, and Spanish beers that are a standard ingredient for most Falcon out-of-the-office outings.

Falcon's Seville has been an enjoyable fiction adventure, much like the London of LeCarre's George Smiley and the Berlin of Len Deighton's Bernard Samson. I wonder what reading destination will be next.

*****

Once again, Steve felt my pain from afar and came through with a post. I wonder how he does that? Maybe in this case, he noted (and guffawed over) the weather reports from his former stomping grounds, and decided I would need a blog rescue.

No power for about 12 hours...which meant no TV! But, all is well today, except that I cannot find my copy of Pride and Prejudice, which is our discussion group's pick for next month. I settled in on Patricia Cornwell's new book Port Mortuary. I will continue to sear for dear ol' Jane Austen. I am also waiting for a copy of Cleopatra...can't wait to read that one. the excerpts are grand...and, in my humble opinion....this book will win something big.

Here's my poor little Santa on my deck!

Confessions and Courage

Last week, in a moment of bad judgement, I confessed my fear of watching Mickey Mouse Club on Fridays. I guess the bad judgement came in the promise to explain. Here you go. Monday through Thursdays were fine, but on Fridays, I would nose dive under my bed, locked myself in the bathroom, escaped to the library, or pretended to be overwhelmed with kindergarten homework...anything to avoid that show.

To fully understand, you need to know that before the advent of audience participation shows like "American Idol", I was an involved viewer. On "Sky King" days, I had my little walkie-talkie at hand in case Sky's daughter, Penny (and my idol) needed information on her dad's whereabouts. I knew all of Rootie Kazootie's "rootisisms", and shouted them out loudly...."yessirootie", "nosirootie", "goshorootie", "absoroootie"...well, you get the pattern.

My magic "Winkie Dink" screen was ready to press onto the TV and the crayons were handy in case Winkie got into a jam and needed me to draw an escape route on the screen. Sometimes Winkie needed my help quickly and there was no time to press on the magic screen. On those occassions, I drew directly on to the TV. I had my Dale Evans gun and holster, by Mr. bunny Rabbit puppet and my Howdy Doody bandanna.

But Mickey Mouse Club...that was different. No props. No costumes. Just me and my Mousketeers. I knew (and still know) the words to each day's specific theme song, and yes, I sang along in my pathetically off key way; but mostly I was mesmerized by the kids having fun and putting on shows every day. Those kids lookd just like my and my friends.

Friday was "Talent Round-Up Day." My Mouseketeer friends opened the show in their magnificent cowgirl and cowboy attire. They galloped around the stage on horses, the kind you step into, with the fake legs dangling at the sides. When they finished the song, one of the gang, usually Annette, or Karen or Cubby would say "And now, we proudly present our talent winner for the week...." and, as they shouted out a name, a little train would chug onto the stage, bringing in a special guest....an ordinary kid from somewhere far away. That kid would sing, tap dance, do magic tricks, tell a story...oh my, the talent oozed.

Why then, if "Talent Round-up Day" was filled with such excitement, would I seek refuge in far off places at exactly 4:30? I lived in fear that one Friday, Annette would look out at the world and say, "Today's special guest is Bev Denor from Manitowoc, Wisconsin." I lived if fear of that train showing up in front of our house to take me to the studio. I was unprepared. I had no talent. Nothing that I could possibly do as Jimmy, Roy and the Mouseketters surrounded me waiting for some display of life. I would be rendered mute. Perhaps I would giggle, turn my back to the camera, or worse, run off the stage in tears.

After a full season of Friday disappearences, mom asked what was up, and I laid my five year old fear on the line. In no time, she set me up with a confident, but off key, rendition of 'How Much is that Doggie in the Window?". I was good to go. From then on, I was free and clear to watch on Fridays. Never saw it on Fridays, though. Instead, I waited at the window for the little train...that never came!

Enough true confessions, but I have one more small MMC story to share. I have a friend who plays guitar, banjo and other string instruments professionally. He tried living a normal life in one place, Manitowoc, for a while, but soon found that life on the road worked better for him. A few years back, he landed a gig playing in a pit for a Broadway touring company. One Saturday morning the phone rang here at the store, and it was Bob with a huge surprise. He put Cubby O'Brien on the phone...Cubby, one of my Mouseketeers all grown up. He was drumming in the pit. Bob later sent me Cubby's autograph on the show's playbill, which I promptly, and accidentally recycled!

*****On a serious note, the images and reports from Marinette has surly been on many minds this week. What courage those students, teachers, administrators, and responders maintained in the face of fear.

Ironically, I was in the midst of reading Armstrong Sperry's Call It Courage, a Newberry winner. When he was a small boy, the ocean gods took Mafatu's mother, leaving him with a fear of being drowned. He is scorned by the other island boys, and eventually understands that he must face his enemy in order to survive. It is a powerful tale. Sperry artfully juxtaposed Mafatu's cat and mouse game of survival against a gentle Polynesian canvas. Eventually, the islanders learn they were wrong about Mafatu and welcome him home.

Maybe, in some situations, the most courageous thing we can do is not judge.