Three good books 01/23/2012
This week’s Newfangled Gramma is my friend Nancy Solak, author of A Footpath in Umbria: Learning, Loving and Laughing in Italy. For details about Nancy and her book, visit her web site: A Reluctant Traveler, at: www.areluctanttraveler.com She not only travels and writes, she reads a lot – Kindled books, audio books and actual books. I imagine she also reads the backs of cereal boxes, directions that come with tech gadgets, trashy murder mysteries, Shakespeare’s sonnets and everything put on paper by the six people in our writing group. Nancy prefers nonfiction, but dabbles in fiction. She wants us to keep this in mind while reading her comments on novels. Here are her takes on three books she read last year: Cutting for Stone, a novel by Abraham Verghase “I read this nearly 500-page book in two parts – a four-month period in between. To the author’s credit, I did not need to review any of the beginning when I returned to it. All the characters and the story line were still embedded in my memory. That is not a tribute to my memory, but to Verghase’s story. Most of the book is set in Ethiopia where twins are born to a Caucasian surgeon (named Stone) and a nun from India. I know … you need to trust the author. The book takes place during the 1970s when Haile Selassie was emperor and then overthrown. The author is a surgeon himself and, therefore, there is a lot of medical description in the book. Somehow this did not slow the story – the poetry of his writing kept me fascinated. I think I loved the reading of this book so much that I subconsciously spread out the reading of it so as to “keep” it longer. Toward the end there are some implausible events, but it was easy to forgive them considering the absurdly wonderful read the author created prior. ★★★★ out of four stars.” A Singular Woman: The Untold Story of Barack Obama’s Mother by Janny Scott (nonfiction) “The criticism I’ve heard about this book is that it never would have been written had Stanley Ann Dunham not been Barack Obama’s mother. It’s true – I wouldn’t have read of such a person; however, her life was far more interesting and she was far more singular than I and most everyone I’ve ever met. As an anthropologist, Dunham’s work may not have been as fascinating as that of Margaret Mead’s, but still, it was definitely noteworthy. We learn of the trials and tribulations it takes to be a cutting-edge anthropologist in an age when people scarcely have the wherewithal to finish long, technical projects. I also understand more about why Barack Obama is how he is. His “No drama Obama” moniker probably came from spending his formative years in Indonesia. Calmness (and developing a thick skin) is a cultural feature particular to Indonesia. His mother helped foster those traits in him along with the importance of learning. There are also some wonderful black-and-white photos in the book. The picture of the President’s mother at high school graduation shows an uncanny resemblance. ★★★ out of four stars, only because I think the detailed description of her dissertation bogged the reading.” Little Bee, a novel by Chris Cleave “Sarah and her husband are trying to reconnect their relationship while vacationing on a Nigerian beach. I know. Who goes to a Nigerian beach for a vacation? Apparently the Brits do. A brief yet horrifying event occurs on the beach among the British couple, two young Nigerian girls (one of whom calls herself Little Bee) and ruthless soldiers. A moral dilemma ensues and Sarah steps up to the plate; but her husband doesn’t. This decision haunts him for the rest of his life. When Little Bee (who ended up in a British detention center after the beach incident) is released and has nowhere to go, she turns up on the couple’s steps. Although the story is somewhat implausible, I found it riveting. If they ever make a movie of it, though, I will not be among its audience for there is brutality and sadness beyond the pale. I listened to this book on CD and heartily recommend it for the voices of Sarah and Little Bee are rendered distinct and beautiful by the reader. Not only that, but the British couple has a preschool boy who not only insists he’s Batman but also is irresistibly cute. The narrator makes his voice indelible as well. Despite all the sad things that happen in this story, I fell in love with Sarah, Little Bee and Batman. ★★★★out of four stars.” Add Comment Sign here 01/10/2012
I read an article in Sunday’s Detroit Free Press about Chrysler CEO Sergio Marchionne, who I consider an exceptionally appealing and incredibly sexy-looking man. I like Italian men in general, but I especially like Marchionne’s pookie little pouchy cheeks and full, pursed lips; nice eyes; rumpled hair. I like how he dresses – casual, but impeccably crisp and tailored. The front-page article referred to Marchionne’s signature black crew neck sweater over tie-less oxford shirt with black pants. Signature? When I wear the same category of clothes nearly every day – as I am wont to do – I feel boring, predictable and uninspired. Lazy, even. Perhaps I’m not as dull as I think I am. Maybe it’s my signature look. I’m retired and don’t have to dress up and punch in at an office, so I invariably select a pair of jeans (I have more than a dozen pairs in dark blue, stone-washed light blue, black, tan, olive green, gray etc.) and a crew neck sweater or sweatshirt over a long-sleeved mock turtle neck shirt. If I’m going out to one of my two volunteer activities where jeans are not allowed, I upgrade to dressier pants with ironed creases and a knitted cotton turtle neck sweater under a jacket. As soon as I return home, it’s back to jeans and a sweatshirt. I almost never wear a skirt or a dress. Martha Stewart has a signature look – un-tucked big shirt over khakis or jeans. I wear those shirts, too, as an occasional variation of my signature look. The shirts hide a lot of lumps and bumps that, maddeningly, have encircled my midsection and settled in, apparently for the duration. I can’t remember the last time I wore my shirt tucked into pants. None of my belts fit. I am delusional, maybe, but I think the big jacket-shirts (a la Martha) hide the lumps. A friend of a friend who is in her 70s has only worn black and beige for the last 50 years of her life. No colors. It’s her signature look. Lady Gaga, I suppose, has a signature look – outrageous. Dolly Parton has a signature look. Cher, too. Steve Jobs always wore a black turtleneck and black pants. Novelist Tom Wolfe’s signature look is beautifully tailored white business suits. He reminds me of the Good Humor man. Another friend – a man in his 60s – always wears an oxford shirt, a blazer and a bow tie -- a real one that he has to tie himself, not one of those cheaters. His signature look takes him to work, to church, to the grocery store, to barbecues and pool parties and fundraisers and graduation parties and high- and low-brow live performances of all kinds -- probably on vacation, as well. I picture him walking on a beach in his blazer and bow tie, but perhaps barefoot, with his pants rolled up. In summer, I modify my signature. I have an array of long (formerly known as Bermuda) shorts and all kinds of T shirts – sloppy, holey, ragged, loose and stained as well as plain, dressier ones in every color imaginable. I like to arrange them in my closet according to color. At the far left are the stark whites, then eggshell and ecru, light beige, pale yellow, peach, various shades of pink and red, then the blues and greens and grays; finally, black. The sloppy T shirts have words on them – places I’ve been. When I’m on vacation, I can’t resist purchasing yet another T shirt or sweatshirt touting the local attractions: Cape Cod, Nantucket, Phoenix, Martinique, Italy, Martha’s Vineyard, Sanibel Island, San Francisco, etc. I think these T shirts are my veiled way of bragging. “Look at me!! Ta daaaaaa!! I’ve been to Martha’s Vineyard.” I love the sleek, classic, understated style of Ralph Lauren’s designs and I have a source for getting a lot of his stuff on sale. But I refuse to buy any of his shirts – or anybody else’s shirts with the designer’s name emblazoned on a pocket or a collar. I’m not comfortable with that kind of bragging, no matter how much I love the designer. But back to Sergio. I don’t own one of his cars. I drive a Ford. But I admire a man who downplays his own appearance without looking disheveled or unwashed. Sergio’s signature look says “I am more interested in what I’m doing than in how I look. I’m more into conversation and exchange of ideas than in what you think about my appearance.” I once asked my dad why men’s formal clothing was so restricted – black tuxedo jacket and pants, white pleated shirt, black tie, black shoes – whereas women’s formal gowns were so colorful, each one different and individually accessorized with jewelry and purse and shoes. He said tuxedos were meant to serve as a background. The women’s ensembles were the main event. Sergio may be emulating the tuxedo. I hope my signature look says the same thing. Post Title. 01/03/2012
 Hang on, loyal readers. I'll write a new essay. It has been a busy holiday season. I'm writing! I'm writing! Perplexions 12/12/2011
A perplexion is my made-up term for something I can’t figure out. Perplexions are personal and I’ve written about them before. I wondered what shoe salesmen do after they disappear into that shadowy back room to look for size 8 1/2s. They’re often gone for 15 or 20 minutes. I wondered why parking lot owners paint broad yellow parallel lines on the blacktop, then put up signs that say “Park between the lines” as if we drivers didn’t have a clue. And I’ve wondered for more than 50 years what the fluff cycle on my dryer is for. Here are three new perplexions: Women are familiar with those 4-inch foamy-spongy things that you put between your toes when you’re giving yourself a pedicure. They come in pairs. They’re supposed to keep the polish from smudging or traveling to another toe during the drying process. The handy devices are shaped like the letter E but they have five crosswise prongs instead of three. Has anyone in the foamy-sponge factory ever noticed that women have five toes? That works out to four between-toe spaces. Where are we supposed to put the fifth prong? I’ve never understood why some death notices are written as if the deceased person were curled up in comfy leather chair on a fluffy cloud in the heavenly library, reading the morning paper. “You will be missed,” the notices say. “We have all benefitted from your lifetime of kindness and the way you cared for your family and others.” “Ah,” the deceased person sighs, “They liked me. They really, really liked me.” In today’s movies and novels, hot romantic couplings are depicted in more vivid detail than when I was growing up. In the 50s, Doris Day and Rock Hudson realized they were meant for each other. They kissed, got married, then he carried her over the doorstep and headed for the bedroom as the screen went to black and the schmaltzy music crescendoed. Today, we still get the relationship epiphany – that is, the exact moment when, after all the conflicts and missed chances, the two lovers realize they were meant to be together. They race toward each other, embrace, kiss passionately and head for the bedroom as they tear at each others' clothing. He kicks off his shoes and drags one pantleg behind as the other scrunches down around the other ankle. She unzips her skirt and lets it slip seductively to the floor. She struggles to get her sweater over her head and shoulders while simultaneously unhooking her bra. Why does this scene never turn into this? When she's half undressed, she suddenly stops and claps palm to forehead. “Shoot,” she says.“Not a good day for this. Sorry. I just got The Curse (or whatever women call it these days.) Back in the 50s It was referred to as The Curse or That Time of the Month or other gross buzzwords that were more objectionable. In the 21st century, the heroine of the novel or movie is clearly more apt to jump in the sack with her lover the exact moment she gets the urge. The epiphany. Why does The Curse never pose a problem? Did you ever see a movie where the schmaltzy music stops, the woman slips her arms back into her sweater and says: “Put your pants back on honey. Let’s have a glass of wine instead. Come back on Thursday.” A perplexion, indeed. Does anybody have some solutions? Answers? Suggestions? More perplexions? Tell me about them. Go to the top of the page, click on “more,” then on “guest book.” Do it my way, or else! 11/28/2011
I have a friend who does lots of things better than I do. For starters, he repairs stuff. He can fix just about anything. He knows how motors and mechanical things work and when they break, he can figure out what’s wrong, which new parts to buy, and how to put all the parts back together so it works. He can also make stuff out of wood – cute bird feeders and bird houses for my grandchildren, sturdy Adirondack chairs, book shelves, tables, storage boxes, even candle holders. He can repair stuff that’s made of wood, too – vintage canoes from the 1920s, doors that won’t close, chairs with missing stretchers, louvered shutters, dresser drawers that won’t open or close. He can dismantle one of those yummy spit-roasted chickens I buy at the grocery store. I hate doing that. My hands get all gooey (and, of course, the phone always rings while I’m doing it) and I can’t seem to make nice clean, clear slices through the breast meat. The whole time I'm dismantling, all I can think is that I’m ripping an animal apart with my bare hands. He can cut up one of those suckers in 10 minutes flat, separate the dark and the white meat, stack up the sandwich-worthy slices and pack it all up in color-coded, Saran-wrapped packages. He also cuts up an avocado better than I can. I let him think he’s the master of this task, even though my method is far superior. He snatches the avocado from me and dismantles it according to his own rules. In return for allowing him to do this, I avoid getting all that green goo caked under my fingernails. He can fix anything electrical. He says he understands and respects electricity. I am scared witless by electricity. I remember being warned, as a child, not to touch sockets and electrical cords and various wires or – gasp --I’d be instantly fried to a blackened, frizzled crisp. Sometimes, my friend doesn’t even unplug a lamp while he’s fiddling with red and black wires. I am always thankful when he survives the chore and hasn’t been electrocuted on the spot. Some things I can do better than he can. I iron better, even though he will rant and rave and angrily deny this. He claims I iron shirts in the wrong sequence. I iron the cuffs first – underside, then topside; then the sleeves, both sides. Then I tackle the collar, underside first, then topside. Then the yoke. Finally, I spread the shirt around the small end of the ironing board and work around it, ending with the front. The most important part – the portion that should be the smoothest – is the collar, the front band where the buttons are and the front fabric from shoulder to waist. Those are the parts that show. Nobody notices sleeves, which get wrinkled immediately after you put the shirt on and bend your arms to button the buttons. I move around the ironing board and switch the iron from my right to my left hand when necessary. He thinks this is grossly inefficient. I don’t know how he irons shirts, nor do I care. He just does it wrong. Wrong. I also clean up after a meal better than he does, although I would never in a million years say, “Oh, please please, let me do the dishes because I do it better.” I actually finish the job. Not only do I put the leftover food away and scrape the dirty dishes before I put them in the dishwasher, I also clean the stove, the sink, the cutting board, the dining table and the countertops. He always leaves something undone – one or two dirty dishes are left on the table; gravy splashes decorate the stove; countertops are sticky; breadboards are crumby; wastebaskets are un-emptied; baking pans are left to soak in the sink overnight. I also pride myself in USING my dishwasher. My theory? If a dish or pan or spoon can’t be washed in the dishwasher, it doesn’t deserve to live in my kitchen. I pack that sucker as full as I can with dishes and bowls and saucepans and utensils and serving pieces -- any way they’ll fit. I can ALWAYS get one more item in the dishwasher before turning it on. If something doesn’t get clean the first time around, it gets to go through the wash cycle again with tomorrow’s dishes. It doesn't get out of the dishwasher until it's clean. If it doesn't get clean, out it goes. So there. Recent books by four of my favorite authors 11/14/2011
This week I’m offering reviews of four books by authors I know and love. Sometimes when I like an author’s work, I devour everything else he/she has written. Once in a while, I bump into a dud. At Home, by Bill Bryson. Bryson takes a rambling tour through his own house, a Victorian parsonage built in England in 1851. He wanders (literally and figuratively) through the rooms – the hall, the kitchen, the drawing room, the cellar, the stairs, the nursery, and so on. He ambles along, takes off on side topics and weird tangents. The house itself, I decided, was an excuse for writing about whatever struck his fancy because he often gets way, way off course. He delves into what life was like during medieval times, during the Victorian era and in the present. I love Bill Bryson’s view of the universe and I’ve read nearly every book he’s written. Always lots of facts. A 21-page bibliography is included for this tome. This guy likes doing research. He gets mired in detail sometimes, but I liked the book. ★★★ out of four stars. The Uncoupling by Meg Wolitzer. This was a strange book about a spell that invades the town of Stellar Plains, NJ, after a new high school drama teacher comes to town. She selects Lysistrata, a Greek play about a bunch of women who refuse to have sex with their men until they stop fighting a war. The women of Stellar Plains soon begin turning away from their husbands and boyfriends. The town changes. It all comes to a head when the play is performed by Dory and Robbie’s daughter, Willa, because the lead in the play has staged her own sex strike by remaining in bed until the Afghanistan War is over. The play is stopped and men take to the stage to plead with their wives and girlfriends to take them back. Very improbable; unrealistic. I guess it’s a fable or something. It was fine and I liked the way it was written, until I came upon the weird ending. ★★★out of four stars. The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides is gripping. It chronicles the post- graduation year of three brilliant University students: Madeleine Hanna, an English major; Mitchell Grammaticus, a religious studies major; and Leonard Bankhead, a biology major. Mitchell is determined to spend a year traveling and “finding” himself. He goes to India to work with Mother Teresa. He volunteers at the Home for Dying Destitutes in Calcutta, visits churches of various denominations, flirts with Christian mysticism, travels around Europe and ponders his future. Leonard has a paid fellowship at a biology lab on Cape Cod, but he has been hospitalized and diagnosed with manic depression. His medication fogs his brain and makes him feel stupid and slow. He plays around with his medication dose and begins to swing back and forth between mania and depression. The consequences are predictable. Madeleine is re-writing her senior thesis, an exploration of what she calls “The Marriage Plot,” a theme common to English Victorian novelists like Jane Austen and George Eliot. She plans to submit the paper to a literary magazine. Madeleine moves with Leonard to Cape Cod, ostensibly to take care of him. All three are intellectuals. All smart. All flawed. Leonard and Mitchell are rivals; both are in love with Madeleine. Madeleine is in love with Leonard. Some reviewers have said the novel is pretentious, with its long passages about philosophers and allusions to its super intelligent, well-read protagonists. Maybe it is. You don’t have to be familiar with it all – although I admit I Googled a few of the philosophies and authors mentioned, just to get a feel for where Eugenides was going. In the long run, however, it’s the characters who run the show. The whole year plays out in unusual ways that won’t let the reader quit. Eugenides takes an average of nine years to write his books. The Virgin Suicides was published in 1993; Middlesex, which won the Pulitzer Prize, came out in 2002; and now The Marriage Plot, 2011. He has perfected the art of writing a thoughtful page-turner with complicated, fascinating characters. My next author, Joyce Carol Oates, turns out a book every year. Eugenides takes his good old time, which is apparently a g★★★★out of four. A Widow's Story by Joyce Carol Oates. Oh, dear. Joyce Carol Oates is one of my favorites, but this was a drag. It’s a memoir. Her beloved husband, Ray Smith, died unexpectedly of pneumonia, after spending a week in a hospital. She is devastated, of course, and the whole thing is truly tragic. They had never been apart for more than one night in 46 years and had been devoted to each other, deeply in love. But Joyce! Get over it. I got tired of her sniveling and whining. She goes on for more than 400 pages, almost day by day, journaling her depression, her medications, her suicidal thoughts, her sleepless nights, her crying jags, her widow-duties, even some nasty stuff about people who tried to offer condolences and who sent well-meaning gifts and letters and notes. Sure, she’s depressed and distraught. But come on. 400 pages? ★★out of four stars. (Apparently, she has remarried since she wrote this, so the poor lady has probably perked up.) Hip Hip Away 10/23/2011
The Newfangled Gramma is mid-journey. The trek started a few years ago, with a little bit of pain in her left hip. Limping. More pain. Over the counter pain relievers. Diagnosis. Decision. Action. Now the NG is half way through an eight-week plan that included surgery, three days in a hospital, ten days at a sub acute rehabilitation facility, then home. At last, greener pastures beckon. The Newfangled Gramma had what has often been called a “bad hip,” as did both of her beloved oldfangled grammas. Back the 1950s, however, grammas with bad hips gritted their dentures and limped; they wobbled; they ached; they poked butts with their canes when people ignored them. The upside? They predicted weather: “It’s gonna rain. I can feel it in my hip.” They swallowed aspirin by the handful and toughed it out. On Oct. 5, this Newfangled Gramma allowed a well-respected, highly praised, experienced orthopedic surgeon to slice open her left butt from cheek to mid-thigh, saw off the top part of her femur with a power saw and (this is how she pictures the scene) toss that nasty, moth-eaten, eroded arthritic excuse for a bone over his shoulder. He replaced the worn out joint with a new ball and joint thingie made out of metal (which he showed her, in his office, a few weeks earlier), then stitched and glued the old muscles and tendons and fat and skin and assorted interior stuff back together. It sounds scary and the NG was worried. The first few post-op days were not as scary as feared. After the third day, once the anesthetic had drained off or trickled away, the future looked even more promising. Pain was much less than anticipated, considering the frightening details of the procedure. Hospital folk are demons about walking and exercising, beginning the day after surgery. Rightly so. By the third day the NG was cruising, albeit slowly, around the corridors with one of those two-wheeled walkers that really, really old people use. And loving it. Then came rehab. NG went to what is called a sub acute rehabilitation facility, which means it’s a place where you get care and therapy, but with the goal of going home as soon as possible. The first few days, NG thought it was Hell’s waiting room. It wasn’t. It got better and better, day by day, and so did she. Here are six things the NG learned about sub acute rehabilitation centers: 1. Sub acute rehab centers are not hospitals. Nor are they hotels. They are something in between and one has to take some of the responsibility for one’s own care and contentment. 2. When paired with the Roommate from Hell, speak up. Ask for a change. “Do you want to move?” the director asked. The NG (to her own amazement) said, “No. I want her to move. I like this room.” She was moved. Things perked up immediately. The NG's second roommate was a gem. 3. Requirements for respected nursing homes and rehab facilities are ridiculous when it comes to what passes for “restraining”patients. No, they can’t tie anyone to the bed. But they aren’t even allowed to put up those little side bars, like they do in hospitals. Oh, no. In a nursing home, that’s considered a restraint. Instead, they rig the beds of patients who cannot walk by themselves with a 100-decibel car alarms that go WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP if the patient’s hand droops over the edge of the bed or if she turns over or if she wiggles her foot the wrong way. This is supposed to alert someone who is expected to come and either help the patient -- or if it’s a false alarm – turn the damn thing off. The NG didn’t require a car alarm, but the Roommate from Hell did. It went off roughly 10 times every hour, all night long, for two nights. Try getting some much-needed rest with that! The R from H also watched TV all night long, on high volume. Family Feud, the most inane game show ever invented. She was moved to another room and the NG’s new roommate was a delightful lady. The new roommate was also fitted with a car alarm device, but hers rarely sounded. 4. Get off the freaking pain meds that make stomachs feel like rats are running a maze in there. The NG has been trying to lose 20 pounds for the last 20 years. For seven days after hip replacement surgery, she was able to choke down less than 100 calories of nutritious food a day. Those maze-running rats never settled down. No food looked or tasted palatable. For the first time in the NG’s life --it will never happen again, trust me -- somebody asked if she wanted an appetite STIMULANT.) Ha. The NG ditched the pain meds and started eating again. The pain wasn’t that bad. 5. The NG soon found out via rumor, reputation and personal experience, that this particular rehab facility had the best bunch of occupational therapists and physical therapists ever put together in one place. 6. The NG also learned, by experience, that the way to make the best of 10 days in rehab is to get the hell out of her freaking room! The place had lots of possibilities for distraction, education and more. There was a lovely patio and garden and this has been a particularly mild Michigan October. There was a large dining area, a small dining room and a TV room big enough for two daughters and four grandchildren to gather and be boisterous. There were games to use – the NG played Scrabble on the patio one sunny afternoon with a visitor. Now, almost three weeks after the surgery, the NG is getting around inside her own house with a cane and sometimes, an old-lady walker. The journey is nearly half over. Even though it was her left hip, the rule is no driving for eight weeks. Only five weeks to go. Three book reviews by Nancy Solak 10/03/2011
This week, my friend Nancy Solak (fellow writer and avid reader; author of a travel memoir about Italy!) is sitting in for The Newfangled Gramma. Here are three excellent book reviews by Nancy. The NG is taking a few weeks off to get a newfangled left hip. Take the Cannoli (nonfiction - 2000) by Sarah Vowell -- I borrowed this older book from outside our library district because I’d seen the author on TV and she was not only nerdy but funny. This particular book is a collection of personal stories intertwined with American history. (I barely noticed the history.) What was particularly interesting to me as a native Chicagoan was that even though she was born and raised in Montana, she spent a considerable amount of time living in Chicago. And she got it … she got Chicago! She fully expressed what I always felt (but could not articulate) whenever I stood on the bridge near the corner of Michigan and Wacker avenues. She explained the multitude of turning points in Chicago’s history that stem from that spot above the Chicago River. She’s quirky in a lovable way and if you listen to any of her books on tape, be prepared for a most unusual voice. Her book led me to download (for free) on my Kindle The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, a book about Chicago’s meatpacking industry (see below). 3 of 4 stars on Take the Cannoli, only because some of the topics were a bit dated (i.e., mixing tapes of songs for friends). The Jungle by Upton Sinclair (fiction 1906) – It’s good to visit the classics occasionally. The Jungle is one of those classics often assigned in school that somehow escaped my attention. Many people know the book is set in the stockyards on the south side of Chicago (which is where I grew up … not in the stockyards, but close enough to catch their odor if the wind blew from the north). And many people know that the author wrote it to expose the terrible working conditions, not only in the meat industry, but everywhere in the U.S. during the turn of the century. If its setting wasn’t enough to interest me, the family it focused on really piqued my interest ... they were newly arrived immigrants from Lithuania (I’m one-half Lithuanian). My grandparents arrived here in 1895 and settled on the south side of Chicago. My grandfather worked for the railroad, which I understand was no picnic either. While reading, I kept thinking thaat The Jungle is a good response to Ayan Rand's Atlas Shrugged. The latter continues to be an argument for laissez faire capitalism; the former an argument for the necessity of unions to protect workers from greedy capitalists. Of course a balance of both is what makes our society hum. Poor Upton Sinclair though – he wanted to expose the working conditions and get to the hearts of people reading about them. Instead, readers only focused on the unsanitary conditions of the meat and rose up against the food issue rather than the people issue. My stance on both the philosophies (capitalism and protection of the workers) is rooted in a phrase my mother often repeated – moderation in all things. We need both, but they must be in balance. 4 of 4 stars Major Pettigrew's Last Stand (fiction) by Helen Simonson -- The Major, a widower, leads a quiet life valuing the proper things that Englishmen have lived by for generations: honor, duty, decorum, and a properly brewed cup of tea. But then his brother’s death sparks an unexpected friendship with Mrs. Jasmina Ali, the Pakistani shop keeper in the village. Even though she’s lived in England nearly her entire life, she is still treated as though she’s a foreigner. What I really liked about reading their story was how respectful they were to each other and everyone they came in contact with. It reminded me of Mr. J.L.B. Matakoni and Mme. Rotswe of The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series by Alexander McCall Smith. The other fun part was the Major’s wry observations, not only about others but particularly about Americans. Yes, I laughed out loud many times during the read. I’m not much into fiction, but if they were all like this, I could change my mind. 4 out of 4. Nancy Solak is the author of A Footpath in Umbria: Learning, Loving and Laughing in Italy. For details about her and her book, visit her A Reluctant Traveler web site at: www.areluctanttraveler.com Rules 09/20/2011
Rules of Civility, a new novel by Amor Towles, was another of those page-turners I love so much. The Rules of Civility and Decent Behaviour in Company and Conversation – 110 of them! – were compiled by none other than George Washington when he was a teenager. They’re listed in the appendix of the book. I didn't read all 110. I got the gist of the list from the first 10 or 12. They could be applied to the upper levels of society, the well-heeled, the trust fund twentysomethings of the 18th, the 19th, the 20th or the 21st century. Back to the book: Scene One: October, 1966. A museum exhibit of photographs taken in the late 1930s in New York’s subways. A 50ish couple wander slowly from picture to picture. She spots a photo of someone she knows and begins recalling one year – 1938 – when she was a young career girl in New York City. Pre-war, post-Depression Manhattan was pulsing with bright colors and cool jazz and flirty fashions and hard liquor -- lots of hard liquor. Excitement. Sophistication. But New York society was layered. The layers intersected and overlapped. Katey Kontent’s layer is secretarial pools; six-story walk-up apartments; flapper jackets; Irish bars with “No Ladies” signs posted in the window; the smell of garlic in stairwells and hallways; Bergdorf’s fantastic seasonal window displays; and Agatha Christie’s newest Hercule Poirot mystery. Katey gets caught up – or deliberately steps up to – the next layer, which includes gin martinis in tall stemmed glasses; basement jazz clubs; slinky satin bias-cut dresses; cigarette smoke; and impromptu party games: “What were you afraid of when you were a kid?” “What did you always want that your parents never gave you?” “What is your favorite day of the year?” She is introduced to the uppermost layer, which is casually littered with Gatsbyesque flotsam and jetsam: cashmere coats; people with WASPy nicknames like Tinker and Bucky and Bitsy and Wellie; silver flasks in leather sheaths; emerald earrings the size of gumdrops; Mies van der Rohe chairs; black-tie dinners; Bentleys and Rolls-Royces with tinted windows and full-time chauffeurs; and expansive parties in the Hamptons. Katey climbs. She’s a native New Yorker, born in Brooklyn, but she’s drawn like a moth to the bright lights. She is intelligent and pretty and street-smart and extraordinarily well-read. She has mastered clever chatter and witty one-liners. Rules of Civility is the story of three ambitious twentysomethings – Katie, Eve and Tinker – who aspire to the upper levels of New York society. The plot involves how each climbed and what happens because of his or her ascent. The writing is snappy and crisp. The characters are well-conceived and multi-layered and New York City is a character, itself. The plot curls like smoke, catching the reader in surprising but well thought-out twists. The result is a delightful first novel. Amor Towles is a graduate of Yale University and he earned a master's degree in English from Stanford University. He’s a principal in an investment firm and a resident of Manhattan. I hope he’s taking a sabbatical and working on his next novel. Four and a half stars out of four. Labor Day Musings . . . 09/05/2011
Labor Day 2011, and I’m wondering how my great-great-grandparents earned their livings? What did they do all day? I have no solid information about any of my family farther back than the grandparents I knew personally. When I was a little kid, I cared more about whether Gramma was going to bake cookies with me or take me to the movies than I did about rambling reminiscences of her 12 brothers and sisters or of what it was like coming of age at the turn of the century in Cincinnati, Ohio. I remember nothing. My loss. All four of my great-grandparents were born in Germany and France. They lived in the fertile Alsace-Lorraine region, which apparently bounced back and forth between the two countries like a ping pong ball. My ancestors didn’t have money or titles or high positions. No Grand Dukes because surely, my grandmother would have mentioned them and surely, I would have remembered. They were probably peasants and their lives were probably hard. The phrase “sturdy peasant stock” harks back to my elementary school days. I’d get an assignment to write a report about a famous person or an inventor or a composer. The starting place for such assignments was a 10-pound volume in one of those imposing rows of matching books that took up a whole shelf in the library. The Encyclopedia. Look up Copernicus. “Copernicus was born in 1473, in Torum, Poland, to parents of sturdy peasant stock.” Look up Diesel. “Rudolf Diesel was born in Paris in 1858. His parents came from sturdy peasant stock and were immigrants from Germany. My mother was --- OK, let’s hear a big groan – a housewife. She took her job seriously. Her younger sister, who never married, was a secretary. She worked for more than 40 years. When she retired, she was a private secretary for a bank president. Sturdy stock, for sure. My maternal grandmother, in her mid-thirties suddenly found herself a widow with five young children. Lacking a college education or formal training for anything whatsoever, she became a cleaning lady. During the day, she took care of her own family. After school, my mother, the oldest child, was placed in charge of her siblings while my grandmother scrubbed floors in banks. On her hands and knees. Talk about sturdy. My grandmother cleaned other people’s houses until her “arther-it-is” and “rheu-ma-tiz” and her knees got the best of her. Then she worked as a housekeeper and companion for a wealthy woman doctor in Cincinnati. Women doctors were trailblazers in the 1920s. My grandmother wasn’t a trailblazer. She was a survivor, made of sturdy peasant stock. My father was an art director for an advertising agency in Detroit. He didn’t go to college because the cost was prohibitive, but he worked days while studying commercial art at night at the University of Cincinnati. He moved to Detroit in 1938 after landing his first advertising job and marrying my mother. He was offered a fancy schmantzy advertising job in New York City, he said, but he chose Detroit. He was a diligent, creative, resourceful, conscientious worker and he did well. Sturdy peasant stock personified. His father, also of peasant stock, came to the U.S. from Germany when he was 16. I’m not sure what he did to earn a living, but I know it didn’t pay well. My father, in his 80s, still talked about not being able to afford a sweater to display the letter he won playing high school basketball. His father said, “You already have a sweater.” (Tell that to one of today’s teenagers and see what happens!) His mother, the softie in the family, bought the sweater anyway and did without a new winter coat for herself. This story has become family legend. I have no idea what my mother’s father did to support his wife and five children. He was killed in an automobile accident when my mother was 12. But what about the people in Alsace Lorraine who lived before them? I often wonder if they were farmers. Maybe they worked in the coal mines or grew grapes or raised goats. They probably lived in those dreary wattle and daub huts and wore leather breeches and rough brown tunics made of coarse wool. I wonder if any of my ancestors were skilled craftsmen -- silversmiths or blacksmiths, weavers, woodworkers, brewmeisters. Did any of them make stained glass for gothic cathedrals or write music or paint pictures? They survived. Sturdy peasants are a good stock to have. | Margie Reins SmithI'm a retired journalist, a mother and a grandmother. Currently, I'm a freelance writer who is working on a novel and several plays. I can be reached at ms0006@comcast.net. 
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