Short Stuff

Not much to say...full weekend...0 reading!

But...I watched a fascinating PBS show on the history of British crime novels ans writers.  Truth - I have never read an Agatha Christie mystery.  I will do so soon.

That's all I have for you today.
LaDeDa Bev out!

A Place of Thanks

Several years ago, this book was being read on NPR's "Chapter A Day" program.  I heard part of one episode before my radio began to crackle and pop, but I knew I wanted to read the book.  Of course, that day was the last chapter and the Internet lacked content in those olden days, so there seemed to be little chance of figuring out the title. When I spotted it recently at Goodwill, I just knew - this is it.  I grabbed it and ran - apologies to my more visual readers.

Lots of people trace their bloodlines and make fascinating, shocking, and heartwarming discovers along the way -but  the genealogy of a house? What a crazy idea.  The folks who owned James Morgan's house included a soft-drink bottler, VA loan officer, a secretary of a U.S. congressman, a civil engineer, a housewife, a theatre director, medical technologist, Medicare system analyst, teacher, entrepreneur gone bust, and two writers.  Morgan spends painstaking hours uncovering each story and recounts it with energetic detail and dignity.

Of course this got me thinking about my own house.  Three owners, a pair of sisters (I'm counting them as one), a hospital administrator and me.  That's about all I know.  Sure, there are things I want to know like why did the administrator dig up all the scrubs and cart them away when he moved, and who planned the beyond illogical kitchen layout?

Even more unexpectedly, my thoughts turned to my store, my funny looking, cobbled together building where so much has happened.  People often ask me how much longer I plan to stay in business.  Who knows?  The thought of not coming here every day saddens me.  Heck, how can I even think of closing when I have customers who worry about me when I am gone for more than two days in a row?  And what about my blogsters -Lauran who gets concerned when a post doesn't appear until Tuesday, or Pat, who advises that even when I have nothing to say, I should at least write one paragraph?  

 On days when bookish things are not happening, I sometimes think of this space as a giant office where I "twiddle and resolve" (to quote a line from one of my favorite musicals). Heart-A-Rama work gets done here, as well as other theatre and writing projects.  Other times LaDeDa a warm, funky drawing room where I greet guests.

This is the place where old friendships have been renewed and strengthened, and new friendships have evolved.  It is here where Colleen's five children would make their annual Christmas stop, lining up in age order to give me a holiday hug.  It is here where former students find me and we catch up; and yes, some have even apologized for creative challenges offered in my classes.  LaDeDa was Mimi's first stop on her way home from the hospital days after being born, and where her her cousin Walter sang a rousing version of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" in the middle of July.

Lovely Fran.  Puny James.  Exuberant Amelia. Steve the wordsmith.  World's best pasta sauce maker - Lisa...I've met them and so many more  because of this quirky building.  They entered as customers.  They became friends.  So many faces, so many families.  

I can't forget my dog pals who drop by and know exactly where the treats are stored.

Jose (accent over the e, please) , Trixie.  Bella. Charlie. Sydney. Ella.  

Employees.  There's not enough time or space to honor each by sharing what they have brought to my life. Some stay for a short time and move on.  Others stay forever - connecting when and how we can - always moving forward but not forgetting the times we shared here.

This store, the job earned me the first nickname I ever had...

LaDeDa Bev is thankful for this life.  

Eat turkey (except for Becky who will eat something foolish like tofu.)

Thanks for stopping by.

No Words

Here We Go Again

...another book discussion selection that will not have me gushing with enthusiasm.  I am nice and clean and fresh smelling from all the soapy suds offered up by the flatly sung opera.  If an author is going to rehash the forbidden love, and the broken hearts will wait forever to be reunited themes, she better add something fresh to the telling.  

My reaction to this novel is partially colored by my preference for novels that lead with style rather than plot.  Old plots are just that - old. Heck, even those silly toga wearing Greeks knew that. They were on the ground floor of storytelling, yet they knew enough to switch things up.  When everyone gathered for the yearly theatre festival, most in attendance already knew the stories being told.  They knew that Oedipus had killed his father, married his mother and (horrors) fathered three children by her.  What they didn't know was what approach Sophocles would take with the story.  Would he be sympathetic toward Oedipus or was Oed's hubris responsible for his downfall?  Would  the playwright blame Jocasta for not recognizing her prodigal son?  How about the gods and the path they pre-determined for Oedipus and his kin?  It's all about the spin.

In high school, I read Elizabeth's Kata's A Patch of Blue.  White girl.  African American man.  Then there's Miss Saigon- also a love destined for challenge.  Both stories were told with eloquence and honest emotion. At the very least, I was hoping for a tender, poetically written love scene for Isabelle and Robert.  Instead I got this: Small sounds  of pleasure and pain and pleasure again slipped unguarded from by throat when he entered the secret place of my body,  using the instrument I'd  scarcely dared imagine even in the darkened privacy of my old bedroom to create an eternal union between us." The instrument? Really?  This stuff is one keystroke away from the old "fruit of his loins" line.  Best to have left that scene out...along with the final scene.

If you're looking for an intense story of a lover who waits and suffers, go directly to Love in the Time of Cholera.  I'm not into pain as a recreational activity, but this book is painful.  It is a symphony, not a soap opera.  The rubato rhythms are accompanied by often dissonant harmonies, unpredictable and unwelcome, just like real life.  This book forces reality onto readers, daring individuals to see what is before them and to act upon it.  Granted, no one needs a steady diet of that type of literature, and that's where chick lit like Calling Me Home comes in handy.

The story takes us on a Driving Miss Daisy journey of an elderly woman being escorted to a funeral by her African American hair dresser.  Along the way, the two share interesting histories and lots of  stories oozing with social drama -  there's abuse, badly behaving children, out of wedlock  pregnancies, abortion....all the standards.  The author provides the mandatory writer's workshop reversals along the way, and upon reaching their destination, the story is done.  No one told the author that.  She had to write one more scene where sugar dripped, and the promise of reader tears lurked behind thinly veiled symbolism.    You know those final episode TV series scenes - like the one where Mary Tyler Moore leaves her newsroom for the last time, closes the door and then opens it once more  and scans the space lovingly before the final exit?  Yup, you know what I mean .  That's how this books ends.  Too, too much for me.

 But I will enjoy the discussion knowing there is the right book out there for everyone, and understanding that the group has suffered through some of my less than popular picks over the years.  We have different tastes and that's OK.  I will enjoy the discussion because I enjoy these friends - we have travelled far together for many years now, and the trips have been adventurous, rocky, silly, provocative and always rewarding and welcome.

Thanks for stopping by.

Halloween Madness

Cold, wet, rainy, angry Halloween.  Angry?  Oh yes.  Little did I know that kids who spend two hours going from house to house holding open bags to receive free sweet or sour what-nots, would not appreciate something different tossed into their bags. I thought for sure that giving them something other than a fun-sized, one bite and it's gone Snickers would be welcome.  Think about it.  Twixt.. M&M's...Milky Way....Nerds...Reeses Pieces....dropping into your bag over and over and over.  How about a nice, heavy duty glow stick?  I thought it was a great idea.  I love glow sticks.  But no.  I am the devil incarnate because of those very expensive glow sticks.  There were sad faces and there were angry faces.  There were even some angry words.  "But Bev, we wanted candy."  What they didn't know was that I had candy as well, but after the nasty glow stick reception, I got stubborn and didn't get the candy out.  Bottom line - I have a ton of candy and lots of glow sticks to share in the coming weeks.  

After the trick or treat debacle, I cracked open this book which I wanted to read before watching the movie.  I knew that the movie had not been a blockbuster hit, but figured the book had to be better. I was disappointed to learn that in this case, the movie came before the book.   Oh well.

The Astronaut's Wife comes off as a contrived combo of "Alien" and Rosemary's Baby.  Astronaut Spencer Armacost (played in the movie by Johnny Depp) experiences a two-minute communication loss with NASA while on a space-walking mission with another astronaut.   After returning to Earth, the second astronaut dies, his wife becomes pregnant with twins and commits suicide. Jillian Armacost also becomes pregnant with twins.  Shebegins to notice changes in her husband, subtle at first, but eventually growing more extreme.

Spencer appeares to be receiving messages in early morning hours through weird radio broadcasts.  Jillian presses him for answers about what happened during the missing two minutes but that continued line of questioning only aggravates him.  Eventually, Jillian makes contact with a former NASA agent who provides her with startling information proving that Spencer is dead and his body has been inhabited by aliens.  Oh my.  The strangeness continues though an obtuse scene with a toaster.  Then the book cuts to the first day of school for the twin boys and ......

both the book and the movie were OK - the book up until the last twenty pages, and the movie until the last twenty minutes.  Not sorry I read or watched.  

Now I'm going to crack some glow sticks and eat chocolate.