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One of Lake Forest's great treasures is its wonderful "indie" bookstore. On the southeast corner of Market Square, Lake Forest Book Store (www.lakeforestbookstore.com) is within walking distance of my house, and Woki and I are there on a regular basis. (Yes, they allow him in the store, and I'm delighted to report he has been well-behaved. So far.)
Everyone on staff at L.F. Book Store is knowledgeable and friendly, and they have an amazing inventory. What they don't have on hand, they can usually get in a day or two. My family all know my fav gift is an L.F.B.S. gift certificate. I try (usually unsuccessfully) to save my certificates until this time of year, because once school is out, it is officially Summer Reading Time.
Of course, I read all year long, but there's something special about summer reading. It feels more indulgent, more escapist, more magical than any other reading. I have an enduring image of sitting on a white wicker swinging chair on the big, wrap-around veranda of a Victorian house, glass of lemonade within reach, lost in a great book. I don't know where this comes from; I've never lived in a Victorian house, never sat reading in a swinging chair. Perhaps I read that scene. Nevertheless, it is what I picture while I peruse the book reviews, browse the bookstore, and compile my summer reading lists.
I have two lists--middle level and upper level. The middle level is comprised of books I read ostensibly to advise my students about the best titles for 4th through 8th grade. The truth is, I enjoy many these books tremendously and recommend them to anyone who wants a good read. I think a lot of adults would be surprised that many of the stories deal with tough issues: death, divorce, abandonment, and abusive behaviors. Kids have never had it "easy" even in the most priviledged environments, and any adult who thinks childhood is all innocent sunshine should read the stuff our kids are reading. Four of the best that I have read recently include: Loser by Jerry Spinelli; The White Giraffe, by Lauren St. John; Alabama Moon, by Watt Key; and The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman.
There is also a genre known as "Young Adult" which puts the above issues in an even harsher light. These books, while often compelling, poignant, and beautifully written, are not for readers younger than high school. Violence, sex, drugs and alcohol, and the gritty realities of life are treated frankly. Foul language is prevalent. It is a sign of our times that many (not all) of these books, which would never have made it past censorship in another era, are indeed, literature depicting modern life. The best that I've read include: Looking for Alaska, by John Green; Every Visible Thing, by Lisa Carey; The Absolutely True Diary of a Pat-Time Indian, by Sherman Alexie, and Slam, by Nick Hornby.
As for upper level titles, the ones I've read and would recommend are too numerous to mention. Well, okay, here are just a few: Mudbound, by Hillary Jordan; The Hounds of Winter, by James Magnuson; Home Safe, by Elizabeth Berg; Off-Season, by Anne Rivers Siddons; The Condition, by Jennifer Haigh; The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society, by Shaffer & Barrows; and The Kindness of Strangers, by Katrina Kittle. These titles run the gamut from gentle (Geurnsey Literary) to vivid renderings of our worst nightmares (Kindness of Strangers), but each has that special quality of transporting the reader effortlessly to another world.
In my continuing quest for good stories well written, I have created my new list for this summer. Admittedly, it is a little ambitious, but there are so many choices. I've managed to narrow it down to 37. For now. I never recommend books that I haven't read, but with that caveat, I will mention a few of the titles that are on the list: Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon; The Gift of Rain, by Tan Eng; Galway Bay, by Mary Pat Kelly; The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak; and City of Thieves, by David Benioff.
I would welcome any comments and any further suggestions for great summer reading. In the meantime, I'm going to fetch a glass of lemonade, head for my deck chair, and get started on the first 37.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Street Dance
The enormous flatbed semi-trailer was pulled along the side of a quiet, tree-lined street in our neighborhood. The bed of the trailer, which I later learned was 45 feet long, was loaded with 14 concrete pipe sections, each of which looked to be about 3 feet in diameter and 4 feet long.
The driver got out of the cab, walked the length of his rig and released a fork-lift device at the back of the bed. This allowed the nearest pipe to be rolled off the bed, supported by the fork, and gently lowered to the ground. The driver then rolled the pipe a few feet before blocking it with a 2 x 4 chock. He casually rolled off the next two sections of pipe in the same manner, climbed back into the cab of the rig, moved it forward about fifteen feet, and repeated the entire process with the next three pipe sections.
I watched, fascinated by the control this man had over such large chunks of concrete. By the time he got to pipe number four, he had added a new step to the dance: another length of 2 x 4 was placed before the penultimate section of pipe to ensure that only one section rolled off the bed at a time. By section number seven, yet another step was necessary. The driver had to place a 2 x 4 across the width of the flatbed about half-way down its length so that the remaining sections of pipe wouldn't pick up too much speed as they rolled along the bed. He knew exactly where to place this barrier so that the momentum of the rolling pipe was slowed. A couple of times, one of the pipes would take off at a slight angle or look perilously close to steamrolling its way to freedom, but the driver had yet another 2 x 4 in his hand, which he used much like an elephant hook to correct the wayward object.
Finally, my curiosity overcame me. From the safety of the opposite side of the road, I opened conversation by yelling, "There's quite an art to this, isn't there?"
"Yeah, and today's my first day on the job," the driver replied.
Stunned, it took me longer than it should have to see his mischievous grin. "Nah," he admitted, "I've been doing this for a long time."
Indeed, his hair was gray and his skin leathery, but he moved with the grace of a man half his age.
"So what does one of those things weigh?" I asked.
"Twenty-five hundred pounds or so," he replied, casually correcting a pipe that had started rolling off-center.
I watched for a few more minutes, not wanting to be a nuisance or a distraction. Visions of runaway 2-ton pipes careening down Sheridan Road kept me quiet, and eventually, I resumed my walk. Later, when Woki and I were on our second stroll of the day, I noticed that another load of pipe had been deposited, bringing the total number of concrete sections to 28. This time, I ventured closer. I went up to a section, which on its side stood as high as my waist. I pushed just a little. Nothing. I pushed it a bit harder. Still not even the merest sense that it might move. I probably could have pushed with all my might (not that I would have dared) and never have budged any of those babies one inch. They sat inert. The magic was gone. It had only been the skill of that man whose name I never asked that made 2500 pound ballerinas out of concrete pipe.
The driver got out of the cab, walked the length of his rig and released a fork-lift device at the back of the bed. This allowed the nearest pipe to be rolled off the bed, supported by the fork, and gently lowered to the ground. The driver then rolled the pipe a few feet before blocking it with a 2 x 4 chock. He casually rolled off the next two sections of pipe in the same manner, climbed back into the cab of the rig, moved it forward about fifteen feet, and repeated the entire process with the next three pipe sections.
I watched, fascinated by the control this man had over such large chunks of concrete. By the time he got to pipe number four, he had added a new step to the dance: another length of 2 x 4 was placed before the penultimate section of pipe to ensure that only one section rolled off the bed at a time. By section number seven, yet another step was necessary. The driver had to place a 2 x 4 across the width of the flatbed about half-way down its length so that the remaining sections of pipe wouldn't pick up too much speed as they rolled along the bed. He knew exactly where to place this barrier so that the momentum of the rolling pipe was slowed. A couple of times, one of the pipes would take off at a slight angle or look perilously close to steamrolling its way to freedom, but the driver had yet another 2 x 4 in his hand, which he used much like an elephant hook to correct the wayward object.
Finally, my curiosity overcame me. From the safety of the opposite side of the road, I opened conversation by yelling, "There's quite an art to this, isn't there?"
"Yeah, and today's my first day on the job," the driver replied.
Stunned, it took me longer than it should have to see his mischievous grin. "Nah," he admitted, "I've been doing this for a long time."
Indeed, his hair was gray and his skin leathery, but he moved with the grace of a man half his age.
"So what does one of those things weigh?" I asked.
"Twenty-five hundred pounds or so," he replied, casually correcting a pipe that had started rolling off-center.
I watched for a few more minutes, not wanting to be a nuisance or a distraction. Visions of runaway 2-ton pipes careening down Sheridan Road kept me quiet, and eventually, I resumed my walk. Later, when Woki and I were on our second stroll of the day, I noticed that another load of pipe had been deposited, bringing the total number of concrete sections to 28. This time, I ventured closer. I went up to a section, which on its side stood as high as my waist. I pushed just a little. Nothing. I pushed it a bit harder. Still not even the merest sense that it might move. I probably could have pushed with all my might (not that I would have dared) and never have budged any of those babies one inch. They sat inert. The magic was gone. It had only been the skill of that man whose name I never asked that made 2500 pound ballerinas out of concrete pipe.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Two Ways to See It
In Lake Forest there is, natch, a Lake Forest Preservation Foundation "committed to preserving the historic visual character" of the town. There are, without doubt, some architecturally interesting buildings scattered around town as well as some elegant homes and beautiful mansions. In recent days, plastic placards have been placed in front of a number of these edifices declaring them to be "historic award recipients." While I think it is fine to acknowledge the architectural merits of these places, the placards themselves are tacky.
Contrary to some notions, Lake Forest is not comprised exclusively of impressive, stately homes. Although a few big estates do exist, and there are some "McMansions" in the newer developments, they are outnumbered by "ordinary" houses. There are even some very modest dwellings here, some of which are in poor repair. One such place is not far from my house, and Woki and I often pass it while on our walks. It sits low and squat on a tiny scrap of land. The paint is mildewed and peeling, the roof is half tarpaper, half corrugated metal, and there are only a couple of small windows. The scrubby yard is littered with plastic toys, bikes and an old snow shovel. Definitely not a realtor's dream.
The other day as we walked past, I saw that some wag had swiped an "award recipient" sign from a more prosperous neighbor and put it in the front yard of this place. Amusing, at first glance, especially as a flip-off to the self-congratulatory Preservation Foundation. But if it was meant as a slap at the less fortunate in a land of plenty, then it's another story entirely.
Contrary to some notions, Lake Forest is not comprised exclusively of impressive, stately homes. Although a few big estates do exist, and there are some "McMansions" in the newer developments, they are outnumbered by "ordinary" houses. There are even some very modest dwellings here, some of which are in poor repair. One such place is not far from my house, and Woki and I often pass it while on our walks. It sits low and squat on a tiny scrap of land. The paint is mildewed and peeling, the roof is half tarpaper, half corrugated metal, and there are only a couple of small windows. The scrubby yard is littered with plastic toys, bikes and an old snow shovel. Definitely not a realtor's dream.
The other day as we walked past, I saw that some wag had swiped an "award recipient" sign from a more prosperous neighbor and put it in the front yard of this place. Amusing, at first glance, especially as a flip-off to the self-congratulatory Preservation Foundation. But if it was meant as a slap at the less fortunate in a land of plenty, then it's another story entirely.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Lake Forest
I'm still trying to figure out this blog stuff. Last Thursday, I went to an excellent presentation on blogging given by Laura Hansen, Cindy Kurman, and Helen Gallagher. These people really know their stuff, and I learned a lot. One thing that became clear is that good blogs have a focal point.
I struggled to think of something that I could use as a springboard for all the things I want to write about: observations, opinions, anecdotes, and sometimes just plain fiction. Hmm. It was a tough puzzle. Whenever I am confronted with the various puzzles life has to offer, I walk. My dog, Woki, and I have covered many miles working through the tricky bits of life.
This time, however, we had gone only a couple of miles before those little synapses clicked into place and I realized the answer was beneath my feet. And all around me. Lake Forest. The place I live. The place I have had a love/hate relationship with my entire life. It is a place with a certain reputation thanks to history, gossip, and writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald and Judith Guest.
Lake Forest, however, is not easily defined when one knows it well. It is a complex place that, while it by no means reflects the rough and tumble of the "real world," has its own heady mix of glamor and ugliness, charm and dark behaviors. Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone lives in a mansion, drives a Rolls Royce, and has more money than God. But certainly that element is here, too. (Wouldn't they cringe to be referred to as "an element"?)
Like many others, I am definitely not in the RR category. Over the years, I have often asked myself, "What am I DOING here?" Perhaps the answer is: observing. There are so many interesting things that go on here beyond the stereotypes. I will have anecdotes and opinions, and much of what I observe I will spin into fiction for all sorts of reasons. In addition, I hope this blog will be a little window into the world of Lake Forest, at least as I see it, for those who are curious.
I struggled to think of something that I could use as a springboard for all the things I want to write about: observations, opinions, anecdotes, and sometimes just plain fiction. Hmm. It was a tough puzzle. Whenever I am confronted with the various puzzles life has to offer, I walk. My dog, Woki, and I have covered many miles working through the tricky bits of life.
This time, however, we had gone only a couple of miles before those little synapses clicked into place and I realized the answer was beneath my feet. And all around me. Lake Forest. The place I live. The place I have had a love/hate relationship with my entire life. It is a place with a certain reputation thanks to history, gossip, and writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald and Judith Guest.
Lake Forest, however, is not easily defined when one knows it well. It is a complex place that, while it by no means reflects the rough and tumble of the "real world," has its own heady mix of glamor and ugliness, charm and dark behaviors. Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone lives in a mansion, drives a Rolls Royce, and has more money than God. But certainly that element is here, too. (Wouldn't they cringe to be referred to as "an element"?)
Like many others, I am definitely not in the RR category. Over the years, I have often asked myself, "What am I DOING here?" Perhaps the answer is: observing. There are so many interesting things that go on here beyond the stereotypes. I will have anecdotes and opinions, and much of what I observe I will spin into fiction for all sorts of reasons. In addition, I hope this blog will be a little window into the world of Lake Forest, at least as I see it, for those who are curious.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Eighth Grade and Beyond
The season of graduation--that most cliched of all thresholds--is once more upon us. Whether or not the graduation is our own or that of a sibling, child, friend, or even parent, the event inevitably brings to mind the question, "What happens next?"
By one of those odd confluences that Fate is so good at creating, this past weekend held two back-to-back events for me that simultaneously raised and answered that question.
On Thursday evening, I was privileged to watch a particularly talented group of eighth graders from Oak Grove School perform the musical Bye Bye Birdie. These kids were amazing. They sang, danced and acted at a level far beyond their years.
The other event of my weekend happened to be the 41st reunion of my own eighth grade class. Jeez, where did that time go? As the teenagers in Birdie sang, we had "a lot of livin' to do."
We lived through Flower Power, Woodstock, Watergate, the BeeGees, Travolta and disco, Dynasty, detente, Clinton and Lewinski, Oklahoma City, two Bushes, and 9/11. Our personal histories are a panoply of travel, careers, marriages, and divorces. Our children reflect the complexity of our lives: some are beautiful and accomplished, some are severely troubled, some are all, or none, of the above. Most, but not all of us have survived to our mid-fifties in spite of stupid decisions, alcohol and fast cars, drugs, and our own genetic time bombs. We are, by our shared history, a group who love and quarrel and ignore each other by turns. Oddly, at least in my case, the bond seems to grow stronger with time so that I am compelled to write a blog perilously close to cheese level about people I consider as an extended and rather eccentric family. (Yes, even you Mary and Martha who were so mean to me in sixth grade.) (Penny, forget it. You can still go to hell.)
So what I would love to say to the eighth graders of 2009 is: remember, you do have a lot of living to do. Live wisely, live well. Because in a nanosecond or two, you will look around and say, "OMG, I can't believe our eighth grade play was 41 years ago!"
By one of those odd confluences that Fate is so good at creating, this past weekend held two back-to-back events for me that simultaneously raised and answered that question.
On Thursday evening, I was privileged to watch a particularly talented group of eighth graders from Oak Grove School perform the musical Bye Bye Birdie. These kids were amazing. They sang, danced and acted at a level far beyond their years.
The other event of my weekend happened to be the 41st reunion of my own eighth grade class. Jeez, where did that time go? As the teenagers in Birdie sang, we had "a lot of livin' to do."
We lived through Flower Power, Woodstock, Watergate, the BeeGees, Travolta and disco, Dynasty, detente, Clinton and Lewinski, Oklahoma City, two Bushes, and 9/11. Our personal histories are a panoply of travel, careers, marriages, and divorces. Our children reflect the complexity of our lives: some are beautiful and accomplished, some are severely troubled, some are all, or none, of the above. Most, but not all of us have survived to our mid-fifties in spite of stupid decisions, alcohol and fast cars, drugs, and our own genetic time bombs. We are, by our shared history, a group who love and quarrel and ignore each other by turns. Oddly, at least in my case, the bond seems to grow stronger with time so that I am compelled to write a blog perilously close to cheese level about people I consider as an extended and rather eccentric family. (Yes, even you Mary and Martha who were so mean to me in sixth grade.) (Penny, forget it. You can still go to hell.)
So what I would love to say to the eighth graders of 2009 is: remember, you do have a lot of living to do. Live wisely, live well. Because in a nanosecond or two, you will look around and say, "OMG, I can't believe our eighth grade play was 41 years ago!"
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Spring
This is actually being posted 48 hours after it was written, for those of you with total weather recall....
It's cold outside. 39 degrees and raining. Typical April weather in Chicago. But the snow has melted, a few brave flowers are blooming, Easter and the Cubs home opener are behind us. We have crossed the threshold into spring.
Celebrating the changing of seasons abounds in every land and culture, though particular rituals may vary widely. Whatever our beliefs may call us to, the message of spring is positive: we have made it through the dark of winter.
With the arrival of spring, even the most jaded among us feels a sense of renewal as we return to a gentler time of year. We are teased with delicious promises, and we respond. Long johns and flannel sheets go back to their cedar-scented boxes. Pink, turquoise, bright green and crisp white replace brown, gray, and olive drab. Garden centers and grocery stores brim with pansies and potting soil, and the sounds of leaf blowers and lawn mowers fill the weekend air.
For many of us, the rite of spring cleaning has begun, at least in mind if not in fact. How wonderful it is to open the windows, sweep out the cobwebs, and let in the light. There may be rainy days, even storms, ahead, but there will also be sun and warmth and new growth.
It's cold outside. 39 degrees and raining. Typical April weather in Chicago. But the snow has melted, a few brave flowers are blooming, Easter and the Cubs home opener are behind us. We have crossed the threshold into spring.
Celebrating the changing of seasons abounds in every land and culture, though particular rituals may vary widely. Whatever our beliefs may call us to, the message of spring is positive: we have made it through the dark of winter.
With the arrival of spring, even the most jaded among us feels a sense of renewal as we return to a gentler time of year. We are teased with delicious promises, and we respond. Long johns and flannel sheets go back to their cedar-scented boxes. Pink, turquoise, bright green and crisp white replace brown, gray, and olive drab. Garden centers and grocery stores brim with pansies and potting soil, and the sounds of leaf blowers and lawn mowers fill the weekend air.
For many of us, the rite of spring cleaning has begun, at least in mind if not in fact. How wonderful it is to open the windows, sweep out the cobwebs, and let in the light. There may be rainy days, even storms, ahead, but there will also be sun and warmth and new growth.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Crossing the Threshold
By rights, you (whoever you are) should not be reading this. I have tried to resist blogging, but alas, as the title "Liminalesque" implies, I am crossing the threshold into the blogosphere. Perhaps it's more accurate to say I have been dragged across said threshold by forces beyond my control: blogging, everyone tells me, is now essential to one's credentials as a writer. My best revenge is, therefore, to begin my postings with a list of reasons I believe blogging to be a treacherous activity for me.
The first of those reasons would be the time factor. Two unfinished novels and three dozens short stories are glaring at me malevolently from my desktop as I write this. They are beginning to doubt my sincere promises to actually finish them, polish them, and send them out into the world.
Then, there are also stacks of books--enough to rival our local indy bookshop--scattered about the house. Some of these, I've actually read.
What am I doing starting a blog?
In addition to my own time factor issues, there is the time factor that involves others. The first person on that list would be my wonderful and tolerant husband who waits patiently for me to clean up the aforementioned stacks of books, as well as all the other projects around the house which I tackle with a focus akin to that of a four-year-old on a steady diet of Snickers and Red Bull.
There is also a fear factor. Who exactly will read this? And why? The possibilities are alarming: friends and family are okay, but what about my students, former teachers, old flames, people from my dark and distant past.... Yikes!
Considering the above mentioned readers, I suppose I need to have content control. I'd better watch not only what I say, but how I say it. That'll be a pain in the ass.
I guess quality control should be considered, too. Last week, while tracking down a former classmate for a reunion, I found a couple of published essays that he and his wife had written. They used phrases like "Monet's...blurry bosks" and "ephebic young men in gossipy thrall."
OMG, that kind of writing is so poetic and precise that I am both inspired and intimidated. It makes me feel as though English is my second language and I have no business writing anything but a grocery list.
Finally, I learned a couple of years ago, after I hit the big 50, that I am genetically predisposed to dislike and distrust new-fangled stuff, especially stuff of a techno nature. Just like dear old Dad, I rail against all the gadgets that do everything but beam you to the Enterprise (and I'm sure that's on its way). In my heart of hearts, I'm a paper and pencil kind of gal, happy to scribble away on materials, which, if the writing is miserable, can be burned, and no one will be the wiser.
The first of those reasons would be the time factor. Two unfinished novels and three dozens short stories are glaring at me malevolently from my desktop as I write this. They are beginning to doubt my sincere promises to actually finish them, polish them, and send them out into the world.
Then, there are also stacks of books--enough to rival our local indy bookshop--scattered about the house. Some of these, I've actually read.
What am I doing starting a blog?
In addition to my own time factor issues, there is the time factor that involves others. The first person on that list would be my wonderful and tolerant husband who waits patiently for me to clean up the aforementioned stacks of books, as well as all the other projects around the house which I tackle with a focus akin to that of a four-year-old on a steady diet of Snickers and Red Bull.
There is also a fear factor. Who exactly will read this? And why? The possibilities are alarming: friends and family are okay, but what about my students, former teachers, old flames, people from my dark and distant past.... Yikes!
Considering the above mentioned readers, I suppose I need to have content control. I'd better watch not only what I say, but how I say it. That'll be a pain in the ass.
I guess quality control should be considered, too. Last week, while tracking down a former classmate for a reunion, I found a couple of published essays that he and his wife had written. They used phrases like "Monet's...blurry bosks" and "ephebic young men in gossipy thrall."
OMG, that kind of writing is so poetic and precise that I am both inspired and intimidated. It makes me feel as though English is my second language and I have no business writing anything but a grocery list.
Finally, I learned a couple of years ago, after I hit the big 50, that I am genetically predisposed to dislike and distrust new-fangled stuff, especially stuff of a techno nature. Just like dear old Dad, I rail against all the gadgets that do everything but beam you to the Enterprise (and I'm sure that's on its way). In my heart of hearts, I'm a paper and pencil kind of gal, happy to scribble away on materials, which, if the writing is miserable, can be burned, and no one will be the wiser.
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