The Art of Fielding

The Art of Fielding

by Chad Harbach

Perhaps I should begin with a confession: I am not a big fan of baseball. I know that it is THE American pastime, and I did enjoy watching my little brother play Little League. Still, baseball always incorporated too much lag time for me to appreciate the thrill until my husband recently introduced me to Phillies baseball. (Much to the chagrin of my Braves-loving family.) As he and his family began to explain some of the strategy with coaching, signing, drafting, trading, batting orders, and even the statistics of the game, I realized the complexity and understood how people could become engrossed. Therefore, when a friend (who will soon be a guest contributor – Yay!) recommended that I pick up Chad Harbach’s award-winning novel, I decided to give it a try.

The author adeptly handles the viewpoints of at least four primary protagonists throughout the novel, shifting viewpoints of events with ease. Henry Skrimshander catches the eye of veteran baseball player, Mike Schwartz, as their teams play each other in one of the final games of the season. Henry fields the ball from the shortstop position with an effortlessness and ease that astounds Mike, prompting him to recruit Henry to play with him at Westish College in Wisconsin. From there, the novel traces the meteoric rise and just as devastating fall of Henry’s college career, coupled with Mike’s angst at being a senior and graduating. The president of Westish College, Guert Affenlight, discovers a new and dangerous love, and his estranged daughter, Pella, comes to the college to reconcile with her father.

Harbach deftly weaves a gripping tale through the laces of a baseball glove. The Westish baseball team is at the core of the novel. Henry’s record as an error-free shortstop garners the attention of recruiters and the press from across the nation. That is, until Henry throws one erratic ball to first base, and ends up hitting his best friend and roommate, Owen, injuring him badly. The game is called immediately, meaning that Henry’s error-free status remains intact, but he is not the same player. The remainder of the novel follows his futile, odd, and frankly stupid attempts to regain his focus and purpose in life. Mike Schwartz, as Henry’s recruiter and self-appointed coach, leaves him stranded and alone in this moment, for Mike is dealing with his own disappointment. He applied to five different Ivy League law schools, only to be rejected by all of them. What is he to do next year? Wallowing in self-pity and a sea of prescription drugs that he abuses, Mike is not the friend Henry needs.

And in the middle stands Pella, the president’s estranged daughter, who ran away with and married one of her guest lecturers at her private prep school. His squelching, quenching personality almost literally drove the life out of his young wife, so three years later, she flies home to her father to mend bridges. Except, when she arrives, she discovers that her father is preoccupied with a new, awful, dastardly love interest. Still seeking, she ends up dating, sleeping with, and really enjoying the company of Mike Schwartz. After Henry’s final mental breakdown, for reasons I cannot begin to comprehend, she sleeps with him too. Was she trying to help him? Thought it would make him “feel” better? Perhaps someone can help me out here… Of course, Mike finds out, Henry quits the team, and the deteriorating climax of the novel begins.

Guert Affenlight’s love interest is none other than Owen, Henry’s roommate, or “Buddha” as his teammates call him. Brilliant when it comes to all things academic or coercive, Owen exudes grace on the field and off. He is openly homosexual, though Guert has never recalled such feelings before. I’m not even going to deign to list all the issues apparent in this “relationship”. Guert is found out to be having a liaison with a student, and is going to be quietly forced to resign, then succumbs to a latent heart condition.

What saddened me most as I read this novel was the complete lack of trust or betrayal of trust evident in all of the relationships. Henry did trust Mike, then reneged on that trust when Mike became more distant. Pella and Mike didn’t even appear to bother with trust until they both became deeply injured by the others’ actions and words towards them. Guert and Owen danced around trust gracefully, but at the end Guert wasn’t really sure if Owen sacrificially loved him. Pella could never trust her father for anything, even something as simple as being on time for a dinner together. Are these broken trusts a commentary on our society and its “take what you can get, live for the moment” mentality?

The writing was concise and evocative, aptly depicting our rapidly shifting thoughts. Much of the development of the novel takes place inside one of the protagonists’ heads, showing the progression of thoughts and the utter damage of believing lies. Pella has to medicate herself to prevent lies from gripping her completely. I heartily applaud Mr. Harbach for spinning an engaging tale with winning characters using only baseball and a university campus as a background. The paucity of the setting actually lent itself to the author’s objective, which to me seemed to be delving into the minds and hearts of people. They all suffer trials, large and small, how do they handle them? What do they think? How do they treat others as a result?

I’ll admit, I was disappointed at the ending. And I was horrified (yes, that is the appropriate word) at the homosexual sex scenes, which I presume are graphic because I skipped over them. Because of the latter alone, I cannot endorse this novel, which saddens me, because it is a well-written piece depicting the lack of trust that leads to lack of hope. Therefore, a cutting depiction of our society today. The whole time, I kept thinking, “It is true, isn’t it – that true rest, peace, hope, and trust can only be found in You, Lord Jesus?”

Rating: Long novel – would take about a month of slow-paced reading. Well-written but containing a lot of homosexual romance. Prolific swearing. For someone so deft with words, I wish that Mr. Harbach had left those out, even if he felt like it was advancing his characters. He only seems to have demonstrated that college has not helped their vocabularies or anger-management skills.

To Marry An English Lord

To Marry An English Lord

by Gail MacColl and Carol Wallace

While still a young girl, yet perfectly positioned upon the precipice of adolescence to revel in the romantic, my generous grandparents took me to Savannah, Georgia and the outlying barrier islands. Jekyll Island was once a playground for the American aristocracy of the Gilded Age, covered in the shells of mansions, clubs, gardens, and bathing resorts. The story-teller in me was captivated by the wealth and grandeur that had once been on display there, but my secret desire to know more of the Astors, Vanderbilts, and Morgans was not quite satiated until this year…until a series of events led me to read this captivating account of the many American heiresses that accomplished the ultimate American dream – to marry a prince (or a lord). This sequence of events began in February when my younger sister was appalled to learn that I had never seen, nay, was completely oblivious to the show Downton Abbey. Downloading the complete first season on Netflix, my husband and I were both hooked. A period drama beginning in 1912 with the sinking of the Titanic, the show continues to track the lives of an aristocratic family and their servants through the tumultuous years of World War I and beyond. Being completely obsessed, I began to watch interviews with the show’s writer, Julian Fellowes, who referenced a book that he had been reading when asked to write Downton Abbey. The book, To Marry An English Lord, inspired his character, Countess Cora, and influenced some of the story elements.

I was elated to find that this book contained detail upon detail of the daily lives and choices of some of America’s wealthiest citizens in one of its wealthiest eras. While taking American history, I waited anxiously to find snippets of detail about America’s elite from 1870-1910, but was left disheartened by random facts, the anti-trust laws, and profiles of presidents and political figures who had little to do with the society about which I longed to read. This book actually hints at why that might be. Money and politics were quite divided in that era (is that still the case? Ha!), a fact which shocked many of the British nobles who came to the New World seeking money…and a bride.

Beginning in 1860, with Albert Edward, Crown Prince of Wales’, tour of the United States and Canada, the book describes Albert’s (later Edward VII) fascination with American women, which the authors argue began during this tour while he stayed in New York. The balls and festivities were lavish, the women stunning and charming, and Albert was a most impressionable nineteen years old. The premise of this book hinges on the argument that Albert’s preference and predilection for American beauties led to their acceptance and welcome into the upper echelons of British society, which precipitated their ability to marry dukes, earls, and barons. One wonders if so many of the British aristocracy would have gone money-hunting in New York society had they not felt sure of their monarch’s endorsement of the potential match.

Following the description of Albert Edward’s tour of New York, the book launches into a detailed description of the societies of both New York and London in 1870. The contrasts are remarkable. New York was very solemn, very sober, very staid. Rows upon rows of stately brownstone homes lined the streets. One did not flaunt one’s abundant riches – everyone who was anyone simply knew how wealthy you were. Mrs. Astor reigned supreme and she devised (with the assistance of a Mr. Ward McAllister) an elaborate scheme to prevent upstart “new money” from tainting the established pool of “acceptable” society. Twenty-five families, called the Patriarchs, were chosen to be the core group, who could then invite four to five ladies or gentlemen to balls with them, vouching for their character. In short, New York society was exclusive, limited, and boring for those not included in the set. By contrast, London society under the patronage of Albert Edward was lavish, extravagant, and welcoming to all those with obscene amounts of money, no matter how “new” or from where it came. Because society in Britain is based on the Peerage, no one could be threatened by the addition of “new money”. You either were or you were not a Duke, Marquess, Earl, Viscount, or Baron. The book does a remarkable job of detailing the British Peerage, the differences between a Duke and an Earl (Duke is highest, only 27 of them, followed by Marquess, Earl, Viscount, and Baron), the precedence assigned to each, the London “season”, and the impetus that drove the initial exodus of women from New York first to Paris and on to London.

The Jerome family, with three daughters, were prime candidates for leaving New York for calmer, more welcoming seas. Clara Jerome was rightfully concerned that her three daughters would never make advantageous marriages in New York society since her husband, Leonard Jerome, was known as a philanderer, garnering the stigma of Mrs. Astor “not knowing” the family. Ellen Yznaga also had three daughters, and fearing for their futures, took them abroad. Her daughter, Consuelo, married the Duke of Manchester; while Jennie Jerome, the middle of the three Jerome sisters, married Lord Randolph Churchill, second son of the Duke of Marlborough. You may know their second son – his name is Winston. These early American “invaders” found an effusive welcome in London society, with most of them marrying into the ranks of the British nobility. Shock waves hit both British and American shores. In America, Great Britain was still viewed with wariness and disdain, as a grasping empire waiting to enfold the United States. In England, America was viewed as a backwater full of savages, reprobates, and forests. Within decades, America and Britain were intimate allies, Anglomania had struck American upper-class society, and impoverished British nobles were wife-trolling in the ample waters of American dollars.

Following the “pushy mammas” who dragged their daughters into more accepting society came the “self-made girls,” beautiful women with large fortunes but no family background. Hearing of their predecessors’ successes, they high-tailed it to the Continent, often dragging Mama and Papa in tow, as chaperones and money to pay the bills. Their hey-day was the 1880′s, and both the “buccaneers” above and the “Self-Made Girls” became characitures in many works of fiction, including works by Mark Twain (Innocents Abroad), Henry James (Portrait of a Lady and others), and Oscar Wilde. Their achievements culminated in the marriage of Mary Leiter to the Honorable George Curzon, the eldest son of the 4th Baron Scarsdale. His political aspirations took the couple to India, where his political prowess and intelligence secured him the position of viceroy of India, making Mary the second most powerful woman in the British Empire, after Princess Alexandra herself! Mary was the daughter of a very wealthy man, who contributed many millions of dollars (times 33 for inflation = ~66 million) in real estate and cash to the marriage, but the family had no established name, even in America. She was the quintessential “self-made girl”. Her love and devotion to George, coupled with her intelligence and loyalty, won over her rather mercenary husband, and they were one of the few indubitably happily married couples.

Such a move by the handsome, socially prominent George Curzon precipitated a landslide of impoverished British nobility sweeping across the Atlantic to New York. The year 1895 was the culmination of the American heiress, with nine being married to British peers. The most famous of these was the wedding of Consuelo Vanderbilt to the 9th Duke of Marlborough, a position for which she had been groomed from infancy by her grasping mother, Alva Vanderbilt. Much is known of her upbringing, wedding, and marriage because she documented these events in her memoirs following her divorce from her husband “Sunny” and subsequent re-marriage. The splendor, pomp, and grandeur of these weddings makes the mind reel, even today.

Allow me to list many wonderful elements of this book: 1) it does not remain content with documenting the hundreds of ladies who moved abroad – it delves into the fashions of the time, detailing the work and craft of Mr. Worth, who outfitted almost all of these ladies in 80 dresses per woman per season. Again, the mind reels. This book discusses the work and influence of John Singer Sargent and Henry James, bosom friends and Americans who were also accepted into the inner circle of King Edward’s Marlborough House Set. 2) The layout is fascinating, with side-bars and intervening boxes filled with titles and information on such random things as “The Newport Schedule” (Newport Beach was the ultimate retreat of the ultra-wealthy), “Calling Card Protocol”, “The Louis Fixation”, profiles on various “Wall Street Fathers”, and much, much more. Indeed, all of these side-notes made it difficult to read with the Kindle version. I was quite confused about all of the jumping around until I purchased the print edition, and then I understood. 3) This book does not stop with the weddings, but continues on to the marriages, the children, the divorces, the re-marriages, the deaths. How the authors managed to pack so much interesting and diverse information into 320 pages is remarkable. 4) This book is brimming with photographs and maps, which make the stories come to life. It is fascinating to read about Mary Leiter Curzon and Consuelo Vanderbilt Marlborough while looking at their pictures, their husbands, and their homes.

While reading this, I was amazed time and again at the money spent by these people on parties, on clothes, on weddings, on marriages. It was not uncommon to drop $60 million (in today’s money) on a ball or $1-3 million twice a year on a winter and summer wardrobe. The judgmental nature within me struggled – “How could they throw so much money into such trivialities when labor wages were so awful, working conditions were atrocious, child labor was the norm? How could they care so little for others?” Then I checked mid-thought. How are they any different than we are today? Are we really child-labor and slave free? (To follow up on this, check out www.free2work.com and www.thea21campaign.org) Are we really more giving, more generous, less lavish, less selfish? No, when I know that human nature does not change – that we are messed up in our core, and only Jesus and His Holy Spirit can change that. No, when I know that corporations may spend millions to billions of dollars on P.R. campaigns or internal parties. No, when there are how many billionaires in the world?

Parting thrust – faced with the ultimate romance of all – marrying an English lord – I could not help but almost weep at the emptiness of these women’s (and men’s) lives. Their historical actions attest to this more loudly than ever their words could. More money, more lavishness, more grandeur, more novelty, greater titles, striving ever onward and “upward.” No contentment to be found anywhere within these covers. Very little love is displayed, no sacrifice, no honor or courage. Thus, the most valuable jewels in the world cannot be bought with worldly riches – love, contentment, wisdom, patience, selflessness. They only come from the bleeding hands of the Greatest Prince, Who gives them freely to His bride.

Rating: Fascinating read. Not fiction, but the true stories are almost stranger than fiction (cliche, I know). Excellent for those who only have snippets of time, as the book is divided into myriad little sections of information that you can read one page or 50 pages at a time.

White Dove

For those of my readers interested in something I’ve written…albeit not very recently. Those more recent vignettes I’m saving for a rainy day…

Rustling breezes dipped and swirled through the dense foliage of the ancient oaks towering over the downtown park. Glimmers of light danced upon the objects below, glints of flickering luminescence twirled along grass, paths, benches, people…her. She sat clutching a rumpled, crushed brown-paper bag in both hands, grasping it as if no other possession, no other material, mattered. Her frayed gray hair protruded in wisps from the edges of a dilapidated, Goodwill hat. Her eyes quivered excitedly as she scanned the nearly deserted park, searching for signs of doves, signs of hope.

Other men and women sat, reclined, relaxed upon the park benches, some casually tossing scraps of leftover meals to eager, anticipating birds. Others broke pieces of their sandwich bread to gently place in front of the fluttering fowls. Still others angrily drove the birds away with naught excepting curses, and perhaps a few well-thrown stones. Everywhere, pidgeons and doves flocked around benches, everywhere save where she sat. No bird came near, no birdsong whistled in the trees overhead.

She surveyed the contents of her cherished brown-paper bag. Filled to the brim. Dainty delicacies, which any bird would crave – soft bread, collected seeds, a bit of love. For she had always loved birds, the way their wings beat them aloft to soar far above her troubled world. As a girl, she had longed to be beautiful, windswept, tameless, as the birds she saw. She had shoved her food around and around on her plate, saving the choicest morsels for school the next day – for recess, when her birds would come. But none had come. Ever.

Everyday, she had clasped her bag, filled with what was supposed to be her lunch, and hurried to the playground. Everyday, she had seated herself on the one bench under a spreading sycamore, and waited…and waited. For birds that never appeared. Oh, they had skimmed in and out of her small world. Sometimes, they had even alighted near another small child and twitted happily. But on her bench, she was always alone. As the birds had avoided her, so too had her classmates.

She had never been pretty. Mousy, kinky, brown hair shoved hastily behind one ear, falling  over one eye sans barette. Small, squinty eyes hidden behind glasses thicker than marbles. No, she had never been pretty, and she had never been smart. She had only loved her birds. Not that she knew anything about love. Ashamed of her, her parents had mostly ignored her, leaving her with only dreams of birds and of the love, the peace, she believed they could bring her. Her mother had often berated her for her endless obsession, and had punished her cruelly for her daily kindness towards them – her unrequited kindness.

Time had flown on the wings of her birds. Everyday had been spent searching desperately for a glimpse of a bird – any bird. High school – depressing, work – thankless, life – hopeless. Finally, as she had rushed to her oppressive work, a shadow flitted across her face. A dove. Of all birds, this was her favorite – especially the white. She held a rather pagan reverence for them, believing them to be the omens of good things to come. That day, her bag of crumbs tucked into a lonely, forgotten corner of her purse, she had felt the feathery lightness of a white dove’s wings on her cheek. A fragment of heaven, she had breathed. ‘Twas on that day she had met him.

With his glistening yellow eyes – like a hawk’s, she had thought – and his handsome, demure manner. Him, the only creature save her birds that she had ever loved – truly, unguardedly loved. Others had scoffed, unbelieving when she announced their engagement. Her parents had flatly refused to attend a “charade” as they called it. She was deluding herself, her colleagues warned, what could possibly tempt him? Me, she had always whispered to herself, he’s found out about my birds, the window to my soul. She had seen more birds in those few blissful weeks, than ever before. They had floated like visions before her, weaving the first threads of peace and contentment her life had known. Her dress had been white – like a dove’s wing.

Then, he was gone. Gone like the shade he was, flitting in and out of her life, leaving behind the torture and pain – cutting, wrenching, agonizing pain.  Even her birds were no comfort. Now she saw neither white doves, nor any birds at all. They all left with him. She had lain on her bed and sobbed, until her tears had forever run dry. Never again did she see a white dove, never again did she love or hope, she was a husk – one of the soulless.

Now as she scanned the various people around her with hollow eyes, she identified the birds each was feeding. The old, homeless man who slept on the chair next to the statue of Jefferson humbly knelt before a red-breasted robin. This robin was his untiring companion, ceaselessly singing the old tramp to sleep, hospitably sharing his corner of the park, offering his unswerving loyalty. She breathed an enormous sigh. Here came that lady jogger who most certainly was CEO of whatever company she worked for. Her professional, hard demeanor spilled into the way she jogged, each leg pounding, punishing, and in the way she swept the park creatures casually aside. As her piston-legs pumped past, the old woman glared at the jogger – for she held no one in more contempt than this arrogant lady with her cool disregard. She does not deserve a bird. An elderly couple seated amongst the shady elms further down the sidewalk threw myriad crumbs to a host of gathered birds. Yet their smiles rested more upon each other than the flocking park sparrows. Perhaps they often see doves.

Again, she surveyed the contents of her rumpled bag. Years had weathered, faded the original brown to a dull, tanned, dun shade. As she stared at her meager offering for her idols, her thin lips began to quiver and her eyes filled with blank hopelessness. Rustling, the bag came close to ripping as she roughly forced it open. She dumped the collected seeds, bits of bread, shreds of love through her spread fingers, feeling the brushing softness of ungathered blessings. The bits and crumbs collected in a pitiful pile between her worn shoes and stuck to the moist warmth of her hand. She moved to wipe away the last trace of crumb, the last love of birds.

A flash, a flicker of white, settling, feeding, cooing. She gazed in profound wonder at the miracle before her. There, upon her ugly, wrinkled hand perched a perfect, flawless white dove. It surveyed her with deep, brown eyes – soulful eyes that penetrated and rejuvenated. She sat transfixed by its beauty, its sheer wonder, feeling a presence breathe into her, one long gone. She laughed.

© 2012 Heather C. Morris

No portion of this writing may be reproduced except with the express written consent of the author.

Up All Night

The Night Circus

by Erin Morgenstern

My family and friends will tell you that one of my favorite pastimes is leisurely browsing through a bookstore. While studying abroad in London, I made a habit of walking wherever I could, poking into side streets, marveling at abrupt changes in architecture, and stumbling across marvelous used bookstores. In one, I will never forget pulling a copy of Peter Pan off of a shelf, only to look at the fly-leaf, realize it was a first edition, and priced at 300 pounds! Breathing heavily and attempting to not drip sweat on the cover or leave finger oil on the pages, I hastily replaced that book. Not long ago, I was more safely ensconced in Barnes and Noble, strolling through the aisles, and I came across a novel with a fantastic cover. I know, I know, “never judge a book by its cover.” But, as with the adage, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” some words of wisdom are mere lies. Such with the cover of books. I have found, in my years of perusing, that novels with clean covers, simple lines, well planned graphics are often worth the read. Then I scanned the synopsis in the inner flap of The Night Circus, and I was beyond intrigued. I was gripped.

As an initial commendation, the novel is set in the time period my husband and I refer to as “the golden age” – 1880-1910. (For those Downton Abbey fans out there – this should pique your interest as it did mine). Secondly, the premise sounded like a unique hybrid of what I know of The Hunger Games and a movie that I enjoyed, The Prestige. The plot revolves around two young magicians trained in magical illusion by competing masters. Once both players are deemed ready, the masters contrive an elaborate stage for the ultimate duel between their students – a dual of endurance, sustaining more and more illusions, weaving ever greater enchantments until one or the other dies of the strain. Sinister, eh? In drops the first twist – the two students are Marco and Celia, and they do not actively compete, rather, they fall in love.

Their stage of performance is an “actual” (real in the sense of real in the time period world of the novel) circus, funded, backed, produced, and decorated by the greatest entertaining minds in Britain at the time. This cast of fictional engineers, decorators, and theatrical producers is an integral part of the plot, finding themselves caught in this web of illusion and the snare of the game which must be played out until the desperate end. The circus is comprised of the greatest feats and entertainments to be had at that time. Ms. Morgenstern stays very true to the plausible of what might have been possible during the late 1800′s, which is gratifying. Celia is the illusionist hired to entertain in the circus proper. She travels with the other circus members, interacting with the woman who adores Marco and met him first, Isabel, the fortune teller. Marco, meanwhile, is trapped at the home of the circus manager, Cristophe Lefevre, as his right-hand man, the coordinator and mastermind of the circus concept.

This novel haunts and engages a reader though so many diverse elements. First, the magical descriptions. Ms. Morgenstern is a master manipulator of the senses. She depicts scents, tastes, and textures as well as sights and sounds. All combine for some of the most complete descriptions I have read in modern literature. Second, the circus is only held at night after the sun has set. All the way until dawn. What a unique, novel idea and the ideal setting for a magical duel. Third, the duel involves no magical flashes of lightning or direct contest between the two opponents. For the majority of the book, Marco and Celia have no idea who their opponent is. They proceed to fall in love, and are devastated to discover that one or the other will perish at the conclusion. Their dual is rather adding tents and delights to the circus-goers. One is a Labyrinth, where both Marco and Celia add rooms. Celia adds a Wishing Tree, Marco adds an Ice Garden. Many are designed to delight and entrance the other, as declarations of their love.

The finale is compelling and worthy of the story crafted by Ms. Morgenstern. I repeatedly told friends that it was intoxicating to find a book so well told with a plot so engaging as to not be able to guess where it was tracking. Each character was well defined, each plot twist plausible and necessary. How rare, how savory! And some of the quotes from this novel – they are Truth and therefore, praise-worthy. Ultimately, this book is about self-sacrificial love, about dying to dreams and selfish hopes in order to preserve the best interests of others. Well done, Erin Morgenstern – I will devour your next book as well.

Rating: I am about ready to begin reading it right over again! In fact, I bought the Kindle edition, but now I think I’m going to buy a hard copy, since this is one I will return to over again. Note: Marco and Celia never officially marry – you’ll see why – and there is one sex scene (not descriptive). But for full disclosure, I should mention that. Looking for a book to keep you up all night and make you feel like you’re reading literature – The Night Circus is it!

P.S. – Erin Morgenstern has a website (see sidebar) where you can read eleven sentence vignettes which she writes to accompany pictures taken by an artist friend. She does these every Friday. Some are true gems.

Dewey

Dewey: The Small Town Library Cat Who Touched the World

by Vicki Myron and Bret Witter

True to my prediction in my last blog post (The Family Von Trapp), the next book that I reached for upon finishing the engaging story of the Von Trapp Family was yet another non fiction book about a relatively famous library cat named Dewey. I had heard of his story back when I was in college, but had never followed up on it until this book appeared in the recommended reading list on my Kindle. Again, I checked my local library, and, thank goodness, they had the book about one of the most famous felines every…who spent his entire life in a library. The irony of our library NOT carrying this book would have been too great!

Initially, I was impressed with the extensive descriptions Ms. Myron gives of the Iowa countryside, its people, and the history of the town of Spencer. She and Mr. Witter do an admirable job of demonstrating how integral Dewey’s story is to many facets of her own life, lives of the citizens of Spencer, and the morale of the small town and surrounding countryside. Her genuine love for the Iowa cornfields, the blue skies, the farm country evidences itself in almost every chapter, which is quite reminiscent of the novels of Willa Cather. Both Ms. Myron and Ms. Cather demonstrate the influence of Thomas Hardy, in whose novels the setting becomes a character, shaping decisions and lives. From Ms. Myron’s descriptions of Spencer, the reader easily sees how content she is, how integral the town is to her identity, and therefore, a steady bond that she and Dewey share.

Dewey appears in the cold, metal book dropbox on a Monday morning after one of the coldest nights of the year. He is only a kitten, small and completely helpless, and he proceeds to nestle into the hearts of the library staff as easily as he nestles into their arms. He is the rare combination of cat that is both independent yet overly friendly, not easily startled, playful, and dashingly handsome. After picking mats out of his tangled fur, Ms. Myron quickly sees the potential impact a cat could have on the patrons of the library. Especially one like Dewey. Her initial appeals to the library board are ignored, but Dewey wins them over easily as well.

What a full, lush tribute to an animal! Chapter after chapter details his habits, his humors, his haunts. Each chapter is a new delight, as the reader waits to see whom Dewey will charm next. He is gracious to children, gentle with special-needs patrons, playful with Ms. Myron and the staff, comforting to those whom he can tell are in distress. Amazing to me were the accounts, story upon story, of Dewey jumping into someone’s lap for the first time on a particularly bad day. “It’s like he knew I needed it,” the interviewed patron would recount.The Spencer library became a destination because of Dewey, who never missed out on an opportunity to perform.

Not only was Dewey beloved by library patrons, he also endeared himself to the world. Slowly, news of the Spencer Library cat spread – first in local periodicals, then through national magazines. Visitors began arriving from across the country, then from across the globe. People visiting Des Moines would divert hours out of their way just to see Dewey and take a picture. He would never disappoint. International visitors became common – British tourists to Japanese film crews. Dewey was featured in at least two documentaries, even performing on cue similar to a trained film animal! Letters poured in from around the globe – children wishing to be Dewey’s pen pal and older people who found his story heart-warming.

But not only was Dewey beloved by Spencer, by the nation, by the world, Dewey was the special animal in Ms. Myron’s life. This book alone stands as tribute to that statement. Then chapter upon chapter recount stories of his encouragement during dark times, his obsession with her daughter, his waving to her and her alone when she arrived at the library each morning. (Yes, he really did that – read the book!) The reader can feel the soul-wrenching ache after his death, the emptiness, and yet the reams of fond memories that she captures in this account. Ms. Myron makes each reader conjure up the image of THAT animal – the one who captured your heart as a child or adult and has never let it go.I often wonder if those deep bonds we feel to some animals in particular – dogs and cats – are remnants of the deep bonds God meant for us to have with every animal in creation, yet all was marred. What child is not interested in stuffed and live animals? What adult doesn’t think it would be wonderful to know what animals are thinking sometimes? We are fascinated with them, and their love is one that is unique, giving us another glimpse of the great God of love. In a vein similar to that of Marley and Me, yet less autobiographical and more biographical, she weaves humor and heartache deftly, resulting in a delightful book.

Rating: Must read for animal lovers. Even those who are not “cat people”. This cat will capture your heart and make you long for a good cuddle/wrestle/smooch-fest with your best furry friend.

The Family Von Trapp

The Von Trapp Family Singers

by Maria von Trapp

Yes, yes, I know, I know – this automatically sounds autobiographical, which is the correct conclusion, and therefore eliminates this book as a work of fiction. “This blog is entitled NOVEL notion,” you say, “and you keep reviewing non-fiction.” Until I began this not-completely-comprehensive summary of my readings last year, I truly believed I read exclusively fiction. In the ensuing fourteen months, I appear to have read at least four to five works of non-fiction, and my next post will be yet another. Sigh.

Still, while watching The Sound of Music over the Christmas holidays, I was intrigued by the actors playing the children, so I looked up what they had gone on to do. Most pursued careers other than the screen, and one of them mentioned the advice that the “real” Maria von Trapp had given while they were filming. Another mentioned reading Maria’s book to prepare for the movie. I had vaguely heard of Maria writing a book of the von Trapp family history upon which the film was based, but had never read it. So I opened a new browser tab and scanned the local library catalog. Bingo.

Perhaps you are now expecting me to say the hackneyed remark used by avid readers the world over, “the book was better than the movie.” That was true, but for very different reasons than one might think. First, a review I had read of the book remarked that the movie diverged from the story almost completely, that Captain von Trapp was played appallingly in the movie, that many of the plot devices in the movie were completely fictional. How could this be, you ask, if the movie was based upon the book. Apparently, Maria and family sold the complete rights to the book to a German film-making company who made an initial film version of the book, The Von Trapp Family Singers. Therefore, when Rodgers and Hammerstein came along, the existing von Trapp family, residing in Vermont, had no legal rights to the story. They did not receive one penny of the film’s profits. And yet, as I read Maria von Trapp’s account, I was startled to find that gross misrepresentation or fictionalization was not the case.

The film and the book begin identically, with Maria as a postulant in Nonnberg Abbey near Salzburg. She describes herself much as Rodgers and Hammerstein describe her character in their bouncy song, “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” She details her consternation at being sent away from the Abbey to serve as a governess and tutor to only one of the seven (current) von Trapp children. Her arrival at the von Trapp house is similar, though the children are perfectly charming and play no pranks. But the whistles are there, the uniforms are present, the excessively loving but distant father. The children’s names are completely different – Rupert and Werner were the boys. The girls were Agathe, Maria, Hedwig, Johanna, and Martina. The little girl she has come to tutor is the other Maria, who is very sickly and confined to bed. Maria and Maria hit it right off.

Maria’s relationship with the children is very much like that portrayed in the movie. She makes play clothes for them, leads them on romps through the countryside, and most importantly, she teaches them to sing and play instruments. Captain von Trapp is away from home frequently, courting not a Baroness but a PRINCESS! Sheesh! There is a confrontation between Maria and the Princess similar to that in the movie, she runs away to the Abbey, and is sent back. The Captain chooses Maria over a Princess! It’s the stuff of fairy tales. They live an idyllic life – vacations on Croatian islands, living a charmed life in their castle near Salzburg, until the first catastrophe hits. Captain von Trapp attempts to save his vast fortune by investing it with an Austrian bank instead of a British bank. He loses everything and the family is plunged into poverty. But no one is remotely distressed about this, save the Captain himself. The children blame no one, Maria encourages him, and they all find ways to begin making money.

Throughout the account, this is the pattern one finds – complete and utter faith in God’s provision for the family, trust and rest in His plan, love and compassion and security within their family. It is a beautiful picture of love and support. Georg (the Captain) and Maria have three children of their own – Rosmarie, Eleonore, and Johannes (who was born in America). Part of their attempts at making money involved touring as a family of singers. God brings along a talented conductor, the Rev. Franz Wasner (or Father Wasner), to direct and coach them. Their touring allows them to leave Austria for America a few years after the German Anschluss.

Maria’s account of America, from New York City to their tours of the West Coast, is charming, painting a view of our country that I would never have seen as a native. She tells of the unaffected graciousness of so many new friends that they make, who are so willing to help a struggling immigrant family used to wealth and European customs. She recounts their hiring and firing of managers, their fits and starts as an actual touring act, culminating in their purchase of a run-down Vermont farm. So, from palace in Salzburg to decrepit American farmhouse they go, not really caring too much about their surroundings, fixing their sights on Jesus and each other. They lovingly restore the farm to working order, make it fully functional (all without the boys who are fighting for America in World War II), and still tour four-five months out of the year.

At well over three hundred pages, it is a weighty account, but every page is necessary. Their lives are full of God’s provision, His over-arching plans and purposes, His grace and mercy. It jumps out of every page and every story. And finding these themes and direct credit given to our Great God is what makes this book greater than the movie. The movie has charm, has fairy tale wonder, has incredible music (befitting a story about great singers), but it completely removed this element – this family’s abiding, defining faith in God.

Rating: Must read for fans of the movie. Charming stories, wittily told. I truly wish I could meet some of the members of the von Trapp family before they are all gone to be with Jesus!

Sarah’s Key

Sarah’s Key

by Tatiana de Rosnay

Warning! Spoiler alert – for those who haven’t read the novel!

Upon asking for reading recommendations last fall, I was inundated by myriad excellent books, which I am continuing to work through. One was The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie (see older post), and another book recommended over and again was one called Sarah’s Key. Surprised of having never heard of it, I read a summary at once, and was gripped by the poignant premise of an older sister trying to hide and help her younger brother in the midst of a round-up of Jews. As I am fascinated by World War II, the events, leading up to it, and it’s aftermath, I was intrigued by this novel based upon an event of which I had never heard.

The novel follows two simultaneous plot lines set in the summer of 1942 and 2002. A modern day American journalist married to a Frenchman and a Paris resident for over twenty years is asked to write an expose on the Jewish round-ups that occurred in the summer of 1942. The sixtieth anniversary of these appalling days approached, and memorial services were going to be held throughout Paris. As she investigates what became known as the Vel’ d’Hiv roundups, the journalist uncovers some dark secrets in the past of her husband’s family and exposes some deep rifts in her own marriage.

From a writing perspective, this novel is masterful. The story of Sarah and her family in 1942 is told in third person with no names of anyone in the family being given – simply, “her mother”, “her father”, “her brother”, and “the girl”. Such anonymity gives us a feel for what she must have felt like as a Jew – nameless, faceless, storyless. The chapters alternate back and forth, with the second chapter picking up the story of our American journalist, writing in the first person. She describes her attractive, middle-aged French husband – chic and suave – her poised and lovely eleven-year-old daughter. Though written from two different perspectives in two different voices, the reader feels immediately engaged with both characters. Ms. de Rosnay gives the perfect amount of detail to fill out her characters, to give them a history, preferences, ideas, and feelings.

However, both stories are hard, so very hard. Almost immediately, the reader is thrust into the awful, sticky evening which brought the two French policemen to the girl (Sarah’s) door. They demand that she, her mother, and her brother follow them. All the Jews had not been expecting this. They knew that the men were being rounded up so her father had been hiding in the basement of the apartment building. Sarah’s little brother, Michael, refuses to come and asks Sarah to shut him in their favorite hiding spot, a little cupboard built into the wall, so cleverly sequestered that no policeman would find it. She agrees, and locks him inside with water, food, his bear, a flashlight, and some books. She promises to return for him that evening. After all, what will they want with women and children? He was only four years old. She is only eleven.

Sarah’s story of the horrors endured in the place called the Vel’ d’Hiv outside of Paris, unfold as our American journalist discovers them as well. The conditions were appalling, women and children were subjected to them, and the French were carrying out these orders from the Nazis. Sarah did not make it home that night, nor the next, nor the next. She and her mother and father were shipped to a French concentration camp the third day. She treks her way back to Paris, to the apartment, with the help of a gracious, loving older French couple who adopt her. Sarah’s parents are dead – sent to Auschwitz – and three months have gone by. Still, she and the reader hope that someone heard Michael and let him out. When Sarah arrives at her old home, it is occupied by a French family (our American journalist’s father-in-law and his parents). No one had heard Michael – no one had let him out.

This novel was very hard to read for multiple reasons – 1) my beloved little boy is Michael’s age and that image with haunt me forever; 2) our modern-day American journalist becomes pregnant after having multiple miscarriages and her husband wants her to abort – thankfully she doesn’t; 3) many, many selfish decisions are made by almost all of the characters involved. Two marriages end in divorce and separation; multiple children are devastated by this; at least two, if not four, adults have “mid-life crises” and move locations and jobs and partners to “find themselves”; as with many modern novels, the children are the voice of reason and sanity, directing their parents.

Still, it was worth reading because it illuminated a set of people whose stories were unknown. Sarah’s Key is a well-written homage to those thousands of men, women, and children who lost their lives during that war for no other reason than that they were “God’s people”. And He Who judges justly will one day judge justly.

Rating: Recommended, but reservedly. Be aware of the difficult passages regarding life in the camps and Sarah’s discovery upon returning to Paris.

Truth is more wonderful than fiction – the Berlin Air Lift

The Berlin Candy Bomber

by Gail S. Halvorsen

While visiting family after Christmas, I happened upon a book laying out on my uncle’s desk. As an Air Force pilot for many years, I was not surprised to discover a large C-54 cargo plane gracing the top half of the cover. However, the eager children with outstretched arms adorning the lower half and the title in the middle – The Berlin Candy Bomber – intrigued me. Having visited Berlin for a week while in graduate school, and immersing myself in the diverse history of that city, I was surprised that this story did not bring any museum entries or monuments to mind. Delighted to find a book about a city that I found so compelling, I picked it up and took it home (sending it back soon, Uncle Rob!).

Written as an autobiographical account by (then) Lieutenant Gail Halvorsen, the book spans the build-up to the Berlin Air Lift following World War II all the way to  some recently added thoughts by the author on the Afghanistan war in 2006. The author is now retired from the Air Force, but the book begins with his “quest for flight” growing up in Utah in the build-up to World War II. One chapter is spent describing his training and sincere love of flight, his service in the war, and some of his assignments following the war. Then Mr. Halvorsen launches into an excellent explanation of the posturing and politics that resulted in West Berlin (jointly controlled by England, France, and the U.S.) being completely isolated from all food and supplies by the Russians in the surrounding East German countryside. Rather like a medieval siege, the West Berliners who had narrowly survived massive Allied bombings on three years before were now being starved by the Communists in order to collapse the small foothold that capitalism had in East Germany.

What to do? the Western nations deliberated. Were those two million Berliners worth the massive time, money, and military might that must be expended to airlift supplies to them? Was East Berlin worth it? The Allies had already divided up West Germany, did they need to maintain a foothold in Berlin as well? Yes, yes, and again yes! Therefore, on June 26, 1948, President Truman directed that all necessary airmen, aircraft, and supplies be re-directed to feed the people of West Berlin. Back in America, Lieutenant Halvorsen had just been transferred to a unit flying C-74s when he found out that his best friend, just returned from one tour of duty, was to be sent out again to fly C-54s in the Berlin Air Lift. His best friend’s wife had just had a baby, whom he had not yet seen, so Gail offered to transfer units and go in his friend’s place. He thought he would be back so soon that he parked his recently purchased car under some trees on the airfield. He never saw that car again – he sold it long-distance from Germany.

So begins a gripping, engaging, well-told, true story of one man’s heart for a conquered people, whom he realizes are not foes, but truly friends. Lieutenant Halvorsen’s servant’s heart is readily apparent from his first story of switching with his friend, but it continues as he meets and interacts with the people of Berlin. They are not broken, beaten people, but those whom will not bend under the severe threat of starvation. They would rather starve and be free, than have temporary bread and fruit under the yoke of Communism. Those people heard from friends and relatives what life in East Berlin was really like. No freedom of speech, no freedom of occupation, no freedom of anything. Lieutenant Halvorsen remarks frequently that never had he seen a people to whom freedom was so precious, and it made him treasure it all the more.

He includes gripping accounts of flying over enemy territory (East Berlin) to do the air drops, with very minimal guidance equipment and in awful weather. His anecdotes regarding the French and British cooperation in the effort are inspiring. But most wonderful is the story regarding his name of “Uncle Wiggly Wings” and how became know as the “Berlin Candy Bomber”. While visiting Berlin on one of his off shifts (meaning that he would only get to sleep two hours that day – since each crew flew two to three flights into Berlin each DAY), he managed to speak with some children that he had seen standing at the end of the airstrip at Tegel Airport every day waving to the planes. He was struck by their grasp of the situation and their complete agreement with their parents – they wanted freedom as well. As he turned to leave, he thought of some gum (heavily rationed) that he had in his pocket, but only two sticks. He broke each pieces to have four pieces, and passed them out. Then he made a promise that changed his life. “When I come back tomorrow, I’ll drop a packet of gum and candy to you out of my plane as long as you promise to share it among yourselves.” Nodding furiously, they asked how they would know which plane was his. “I’ll wiggle my wings.” he replied and demonstrated, since they didn’t understand the word wiggle.

Thus began one of the most beautiful displays of fun mixed with compassion that I have ever read in military history. In the midst of their enemies trying to starve them and their former enemies trying to save them, one man (a Morman, incidentally, one who references Jesus often) does something so practical and caring, it takes the breath out of everyone. He dropped one package, fashioning his own “parachute” for the goodies, with the help of his crewmates. Then, they can’t stop there – they save up their candy and gum and drop more. Then, his superior officers and the press get wind of the story, and candy and gum donations start pouring in from America, France, and the U.K. They have full-time staff answering letters from West and East Berlin children, assembling packages, tying on parachutes, coordinating donations! It’s a beautiful story.

And it doesn’t end with the airlift. Lieutenant Halvorsen becomes Colonel Halvorsen as he works his was up in the Air Force and he returns to Berlin time and again, to meet the children he dropped goodies to, and to drop candy again – to their children. This book is delightful, and the whole time I was thinking of how it would be perfect for film. Another great aspect of this book is that you’ll learn so much about post-World War II history in Europe without even knowing it! Read it, and delight in how Jesus can use people in every situation to demonstrate his love and delight in all children. Read it, and delight in how Jesus can work reconciliation and forgiveness among all people, even the most bitter of enemies.

Rating: I know it’s not fiction, but in this case, a true story is more wonderful! Let me know when you’ve read it!

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

by Stieg Larsson

As a lover of fiction, specifically excellent fiction, I am always attempting novels heralded by modern critics, usually to be disappointed. Bel Canto by Ann Patchett was a notable exception, as were Life of Pi by Yann Martel, The Amazing Adventures of Cavalier and Klay by Michael Chabon, and Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell by Susannah Clarke. However, many more acclaimed modern novels had little depth of character (or overly dramaticized characters), undeveloped plots, or, more commonly, complete filth thrown into the story lines for shock value or who knows what.

I was unaware of Mr. Larsson’s explosion onto the world literature scene until I kept seeing novel upon novel of his in bookstores as I would browse. I picked up his first, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and was enthralled by the prose, the deft use of dialogue, the intriguing plot, and the dynamic characters. Then I happened upon an article questioning Mr. Larsson’s views on women. Was his view, as espoused by his main character, that of a brave, confident man protecting women’s rights or something a little more sinister. Upon reading this article, I put the book down for the time being, resolving to come back it at a later date. When Christmas time rolled around, I incorrectly figured that I’d have more time to read something interesting, so I reserved a copy of Dragon Tattoo from our local library. As before, I was completely hooked. The novel opens with the recounting of an older man receiving a pressed flower in a specially made frame, which may not be inherently odd, but he had received one each year for the last thirty plus years – ever since his grand-daughter had mysteriously disappeared. From whom could the flowers be coming, and how could they be encased in frames that only she had ever made? These small vignettes at the beginning of the novel set the tone of eloquent prose and adept character development that only increased as the novel unfolded.

Along I read, whizzing through each chapter, devouring the clever plot turns and the ingenious way in which the main character attempts to solve the mystery of the grand-daughter’s disappearance. The book tracks two main characters simultaneously – Mikael Blomkvist, disgraced journalist turned detective, and Lisbeth Salander, professional persons investigator. About halfway through the novel, a shock wave shakes the reader – the author recounts Lisbeth’s multiple rapes by her overseer (she is a ward of the state since they consider her mentally handicapped, though she is really just semi-autistic) in graphic, repulsive detail. Thinking that this was the worst, and what the article I mentioned above had been referring to, I ventured on. But that was not all. No, by far, no. I absolutely refuse to call up the stunning depictions of molestations, incest, and every other sexual perversion imaginable that are explored in the last quarter of this book. I was heartsick. And I stopped reading the book right then – probably the first time I have ever simply stopped reading a novel. The country (Sweden) that has provided such amazing writers as Astrid Lindgren and Thyra Ferre Bjorn (see Papa’s Wife post) has devolved into disseminating some of the most perverted scenes I have ever read in acclaimed literature.

The latter is what is particularly distressing to me. This book and its two sequels have become worldwide bestsellers, selling millions of copies many times over, being translated into almost every language. Critics rave about them, readers devour them. Most would probably say – “The writing is fantastic! The characters are so intriguing and developed! The plot is so engaging and twisted! The themes are nuanced and compelling.” I would say, “Yes, yes, yes, and again yes!” That is all true. BUT, BIIIIG BUT….does that give an author license to dredge up and explore the depraved machinations of sexual predators? And none of these people are ever brought to justice that I read about. One was blackmailed into silence, the other (super nasty) man committed suicide (maybe – the door is open for his re-appearance), and another is murdered by his own daughter. Is that actual justice or simply revenge? What happened to extolling love, kindness, forgiveness, courage, commitment, bravery, friendship, beauty, honesty, and true justice? The Truth that the Lord of the Universe tells us is that we are all perverted beyond our ability to imagine – that our hearts are full of darkness – but that we are so greatly, magnanimously, graciously, undeservedly loved by Him that He Himself came to take our punishment (no shirking justice – God doesn’t blackmail us, murder us, or even leave us to our own devices) to redeem us, to rescue us from the kingdom of darkness and transfer us to the His kingdom. Now THAT is a story, and that is what every truly epic tale, legend, novel, or story should echo if it is to win everlasting acclaim.

Rating: Please do not read. I know that everyone else is – but does that make it right? Wouldn’t it be better to think about things that are true, honest, just, pure, lovely, and of good report? This novel is none of those things.

“Pie” – Appropriate Sweetness

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

by Alan Bradley

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, no novel could have been more aptly titled in preparation for Thanksgiving than the one I present to you today, a few days after Thanksgiving. Prior to gorging ourselves on the pumpkin, pecan, apple, chocolate, and lemon varieties, I feasted on the witty, engaging prose found in this novel by 70-plus year old, first-time author, Alan Bradley. In the author’s comments at the end of the novel, I was struck by the similarities between Mr. Bradley’s sudden “finding” of his protagonist, Flavia de Luce, and the story told by Ms. Rowling about how she “met” Harry Potter while riding a bus. Again, like Harry, Miss de Luce is around eleven years of age in her debut novel – a fiery third-born obsessed with chemistry and poison.

Set in the 1950′s, at a country manor in Britain, Sweetness tells the story of Flavia through first-person narrative. She considers her life principally dull, delighting in small acts of vengeance against her two older sisters. Therefore, Flavia is very nearly elated when a complete stranger dies in their garden late on night. Having awoken in the middle of the night, she senses something is amiss, and being a precocious eleven-year-old, slips out into the garden. When she finds the stranger, he breathes his last word to her, sparking her budding detective powers and logical mind to try to solve the mystery.

Mr. Bradley has created not only a believable, engrossing mystery novel, but also unleashed a whimsical, likeable character in Flavia de Luce. His prose is conversational, capturing the machinations of the mind of an eleven-year-old girl, remarkable considering that he is over 70 and a man. Some of the logical deductions and adventures of Flavia seem slightly far-fetched – more possible for a fourteen year old – but most are dead-on, particularly the delightful scenes where we see the stream-of-consciousness thoughts chasing through her mind.

His cast of secondary characters are charming, and though Flavia is precocious and devious at times, she loves her family and friends fiercely. The reader can see why – they are a loveable bunch. This book also contains a fascinating (not sure if it is true) tale of two very rare and valuable stamps, which are the centerpiece of multiple crimes committed over hundreds of years. With its well-rounded cast of characters, fascinating motive, and quirky asides to chemistry and, yes, pie-making, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, is a charming novel certain to delight the most finicky “eaters” of modern literature. Thanks very much, Holly, for the recommendation!

Rating: Eat heartily! Can’t wait to enjoy another “portion” by reading the sequel!