Review: The Walking People by Mary Beth Keane

Opening in 2007 on Michael Ward's last day as a sandhog in NYC, this novel of the Irish immigrant experience is a story of family, of expectations, of place, of love, and lies. Michael and Greta have made a life for themselves in America, far from the drizzly Irish spit of land the Cahills inhabited forever. While they never lost their love of Ireland and an attachment to their roots, they never returned and they never told their children the full story of their lives. But with the advent of Michael's retirement, the two worlds they have kept compartmentalized are going to come crashing together, Ireland coming to life out of the stories they told their children for years. As the collision comes closer, the reader is taken back in time to the Ireland of Greta and Michael's childhoods.

Greta Cahill was the baby of the family, forgetful, and odd. She spent her early years always being labelled as the simple child, growing up in the shadow of her bolder, self-confident sister. And she trails Johanna as they meet a traveller family after Julia Ward, the mother in this traveller family, is thrown from a horse and killed practically on their doorstep. Michael Ward, Julia's son, will always hold this place and his mother's grave in his heart, coming back to the Cahill family when he commits the ultimate sin against the travellers, wanting to settle. And it is from this lonely place that Michael, Johanna, and Greta leave on a voyage to America that will leave none of them the same. Through Michael and Greta's life as young parents to their goal of buying a home in the suburbs, the reader follows along as they build a life in a new country that allows them to reinvent themselves.

Keane has written a captivating story, powerful in its themes of family and love. She has gracefully tackled the difficult task of creating characters who change significantly, believably, and yet remain true to their original personas. And while she starts with a larger cast, the winnowing down of characters to focus most strongly on Greta and Michael is achieved effortlessly. The scrimping and saving to make an easier life for their children and the intense desire to better themselves in ways closed to them in Ireland is very true to the immigrant experience as played out in so many newly Americanized families, certainly in the 1950's and 60's as well as today. And Keane has captured it incredibly well.

The only quibble I had with the storyline was the issue of the "big secret" and my feeling of letdown that this thing that seemed less than immense was something that they hid from their children, making it the driving force behind the stress at mixing Ireland and America. Of course, this quibble is coming squarely from my own perspective on how I would handle a situation like this and that is perhaps incredibly unfair given the religious and generational gap (although I was highly annoyed with the daughter--close to my own age--who pushed the confrontation) between the characters and me. And while so much hinged on this secret, I still enjoyed the book for its depth, its evocation of place (in Ireland and New York City), its complex and fully-rounded characters, and its insight into the immigrant experience (both for what drove them from their native land and what they experienced once they arrived in their new country).

Review: 44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith

Once The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency became popular, it seems like everyone raced out to read all the rest of what Alexander McCall Smith had written. So that probably means I am the last person on the planet to read this first book in the Scotland Street series. Interestingly though, I haven't heard much talk about this series and that's too bad. Because as charming as the Botswana books are, I liked this one even a shade more.

This novel has a varied, colorful, and extensive cast of characters populating its pages and the reader gets to know each and every one of them as individual characters. Most of the characters live at 44 Scotland Street in Edinburgh. Pat is having her second gap year because of vaguely alluded to circumstances. She moves into a flat with Bruce, a good looking but rather narcissistic, somewhat lazy young man. Neighbor Domenica, a widowed former academic becomes friends with Pat. Five year old genius Bertie lives with his domineering mother and father in the building as well. As the lives of these tenants, and a few outside characters, intertwine, the reader is treated to mundane lives and events written in a most delightful and engaging way. Unrequited love, failed set-ups, therapy, and misunderstandings abound in the daily lives of our characters. But far from being boringly domestic, this gives the book a comfortable and familiar and pleasing feel.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time at 44 Scotland Street and hopped right out to make sure I had all the subsequent books in the series because I am curious to see where the vagaries of fate will take our characters next. And I fully expect to be introduced to the people alluded to but missing from this installment. There is a serial feel to the book itself so there are natural stopping places throughout if you find yourself enchanted by this one too late at night as I did. The characters are all very complete in themselves, feeling as if they could be your very own next door neighbors. And the descriptions of Edinburgh are intriguing and wonderful. This book and the city it represents are both wonderful to visit (although I think I'd stay out of the old train tunnels given my slight claustrophobia, thanks) and I look forward to future visits to Scotland Street.

Run #2

So I went on my second run of the week and it was marginally better than Sunday's debacle. What made it marginally better? I actually ran the whole way. Of course, as is generally the case with me and my exercising, there were ridiculous incidents as well.

About 500 yards into the run, I found a hole. And promptly stepped in it. And turned my ankle. Given that the last time I stepped in a hole, I needed surgery for a badly broken foot, the luck of the Irish was with me tonight. Despite the ankle twinging (and probably swelling to frightening size even as I sit here and natter on) and a dodgy knee, I kept running.

And really, the old lady joints were the least of the pain tonight. The real pain came from the hideous chub rub. I knew it was humid. I knew I had rubbed my inner thighs to diaper rash ointment needing level on Sunday. And yet, do you think I remembered to use the ole Body Glide tonight? Nope. Instead, I am Desitin bound again. Love smelling like baby diapers when my youngest kid is 7. Eau de freshly wiped bottom. The scent all the cool kids are wearing this year. By the end of my shortened run, the rub was so bad, I had drawn blood. Too much further and I would have had blood running down the inside of my legs. That's just how you want to look: as if you got your period mid-run and didn't bother to stop for appropriate feminine hygiene products.

It didn't help the rubbing that it was thickly humid tonight and I am a total sweat hog. Even worse, my bladder decided to protest the running and remind me that having carried three hefty babies over top of it for nine months has left it rather weak and leaky and unimpressed with the jiggling it endures during runs. So in addition to sweat exacerbating the rubbing, I think I was slowly wetting myself as I ran too. Pee and sweat down my leg. Not that that burns or anything. Yipes! And really, why not wet yourself if you're going to be smelling as if you wear a diaper later anyway? Wonder if they make runner's diapers or if that would just add more areas to the potential chafing list.

I haven't run with my GPS watch for the last few runs I've done (and I do mean FEW). This is because I managed to lose the watch. I found it today in a crevice in my car (and yes, the car is that much of a disaster that something can be lost in it for months--I have kids, remember?!). And promptly didn't use it tonight. I didn't really want to know how slowly I was running (very) or how short a distance I went (very). But like I said, I did run the whole way and that's an improvement.

After the run, I was wiping the rivers of sweat from my forehead and noticed that my forehead is peeling already. Given that I burn like a lobster within 6 nanoseconds of sun exposure, this was not a huge surprise. However, I didn't think about the fact that wiping the sweat upwards into my hair with my forearm would carry all the soggy skin flakes into my hair, dotting it with yuck that made me look like a Head and Shoulders before ad. When I went to the store after the run, I wanted to tell people that I didn't really have dandruff, that it was my forehead shedding skin, not my scalp. But since I smelled like wee and massive sweat, I'm not sure anyone got close enough to actually see the faux dandruff. See, I can be a glass half full kind of person, now can't I?

I also noticed after the run how hideous my legs were. I long for the days of swimming when I had an excuse for not shaving because telling people I forgot this morning in the shower just sounds lame, no matter how true it is. And honestly, my legs only need a half a day to start looking like Sasquatch is a near relative on my family tree. Actually, I'm not convinced he's not closely related to me, but that's another shameless post for another time. How legs can be dry and sweaty at the same time, is totally beyond me. Add in spiky, black hairs bristling all up and down them and you now know why my mother has suggested that laser hair removal might be a good Christmas present for me sometime. And I don't disagree, but it's gonna cost the moon to take care of all my hair issues. No one has stepped forward to pay for that teensy, tiny bit of cosmetic improvement yet either.

So, in a recap of my evening: despite twisting ankle in a stupid hole, ran the whole way on a short, slow run, leaking sweat and urine, before heading into the grocery store in all my hairy, funky glory and grossing out the entire Harris Teeter population. Now aren't you sorry you read the long version first. ::snicker::

Looking ahead to June

I read 17 books in May. This put a decent-sized dent in my determination list fior the month but left me with 9 books from that list to carry over into June. Given the original length of my June list as composed several months ago, this makes the list all but impossible to accomplish but as I've mentioned before, I do love making the lists so no matter how unwieldy it gets, I will continue to put it out there. ::grin:: So without further ado, here's my June determination list, a mere 28 books strong:

With Violets by Elizabeth Robards
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon
Prague by Arthur Phillips
The Day My Butt Went Psycho by Andy Griffith
Instances of the Number Three by Salley Vickers
East of the Mountains by David Guterson
Divided Lives by Elsa Walsh
Polly by Freya North
The Golden Tulip by Rosalind Laker
Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland
A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains by Isabella Bird
The Cat Who Covered the World by Christopher Wren
The Mapmaker’s Wife by Robert Whitaker
Mr. Darcy’s Daughters by Elizabeth Aston
100 Shades of White by Preethi Nair
A Strong West Wind by Gail Caldwell
The Bloody War, Mate by John Mantle
Signora de Vinci by Robin Maxwell
The Dairy Queen by Alison Rushby
The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn by Robin Maxwell
*The Lady Flees Her Lord by Michele Ann Young
The Second Summer of the Sisterhood by Ann Brashares
Time Stops for No Mouse by Michael Hoeye
The Lace Makers of Glenmara by Heather Barbieri
Looking After Pigeon by Maud Carol Markson
Perfection by Julie Metz
The Zookeeper's Wife by Diane Ackerman
The Pig Did It by Joseph Caldwell

On the plus side, last month I did a decent job of reviewing. I'm still behind but not nearly as behind as I was when May started. I'll take my small triumphs as they come, thank-you! (Especially since completing a reading list isn't going to happen any time soon.)

Customer service isn't dead

I just have to say that in this dreadful economy, when more and more people are surly and grumpy about dealing with customers (and why is that anyway?), I have discovered a wonderful place that I wish I could patronize more often. Maybe if I ever work up to that triathlon I keep threatening, I can spend loads of money there. It's Bicycles East and I can't rave about them enough. First I dragged in T.'s little kid bike when the chain kept coming off. They fixed it for me free of charge. This was not a bike they sold me either. This was a hand-me-down from his brother bought years ago in Texas. I was impressed enough with that instance to go there to buy R. a bike when she asked for a new one for her birthday. They threw in a kickstand for her bike free and installed it free as well.

When W. wanted a new bike, I wanted to go there again but his little pea-pickin' heart was set on a certain brand of bike that they don't carry but is apparently the neighborhood bike to have. So off to Dick's we went. Fast forward to last week when, in typical 12 year old boy fashion, he broke the bike. The entire back wheel was barely hanging onto the bike. Did I get the extended warranty at Dick's? No siree bob, I did not. So off to Bicycles East I went, grumbling to myself all the way about the projected cost of repairing this rather newish bike.

I pushed the bike into the repair shop and stood by as the guys in there nodded knowledgeably at my response to what happened (said response was along the lines of: "My 12 year old son happened."). They fiddled with the gears, reattached the back wheel, and even showed me how to do it if it happened again. All this for no charge again. On yet another bike I didn't purchase there. Who says customer service is dead?

I fully plan to drag T.'s latest hand-me-down bike (also not purchased there--although as it was a hand-me-down from a friend to W. I have less than zero idea where it was originally purchased) in there tomorrow and pay these good men to replace the bald and scary tires ("What happened to these tires?" "A friend's son, then my two sons and the fun of braking hard and leaving streaks of black rubber behind you happened to them."). Maybe they'll even tighten the seat for T. while they're at it. And one day, when I'm ready to buy a good bike, I will heading right to them. Because they totally rock.

Review: Marriage: A Duet by Anne Taylor Fleming

Two novellas that explore the art of marriage, specifically after one partner has cheated, make up this slim volume. The first part, entitled A Married Woman, focuses on Caroline, who is sitting by her comatose husband William's side in the hospital. He has been in a persistent vegetative state for days as Caroline keeps vigil, reflecting on their long marriage and William's affair with a friend of their adult daughter. Caroline waded her way back into her marriage but it never had the same complete and overpowering sense of wholeness, oneness, that it had before William's affair. And as she sits at William's bedside waiting for him to die, she refects back on the pain and struggle of surviving betrayal and surviving the brutal reconciliation. In the second novella, entitled A Married Man, Fleming takes the flipside's view and presents the story of Marcia and David's struggle to maintain their marriage in view of Marcia's affair. Rather than facing the end of life, they are the parents of young children, trying to maintain a good face for the neighbors (all of whom know about the affair anyway), and to let go of the anger and bitterness and alienation each feels. They go to see a marital therapist who has become famous by counseling others after affairs, as he himself worked through an affair and reconciled with his wife. Much of the second novella is centered on David's feelings and the way that he cannot help the petty digs and snide comments that make him feel a small sense of control over his clearly guilty but slightly less than repentant wife and this marriage gone so off track.

Taylor has drawn characters who are clearly the wronged partners in their relationships but who aren't certain they can battle back to whatever intangible it is that makes maintaining a marriage worth the time and effort and emotional comnmitment. She has showcased the desire for revenge, the inability to forget even if forgiveness is offered, and the rupture that occurs in the case of infidelity. This is not an easy emotional read, with characters so raw and damaged. And her view of marriage, at least the marriages in these stories, is far from positive. But the complexity of each marriage and how infidelities changed the stories of the marriages is well drawn and cutting. Her writing highlights harsh truths and challenges the reader to delve deeper into the surface of conventional looking marriages, to see into the murky depths and to really experience the hard disconnects just under the surface.

This is a hard book to pin down with a tepid, I liked it or I didn't like it. It made me uncomfortable and certainly made me examine what I think are the truths of my own marriage, both the truths others see and the truths we live every day. I didn't love the characters, so wrapped up in their own senses of betrayal that they couldn't come across as terribly sympathetic but I understand why she's drawn them the way she has. I felt pity and scorn for them but never really connected with them or liked them, tiring of the all-consuming focus on their partners' affairs. But I think this is probably true to the interior lives of the wronged partner in a marriage so Fleming has created what she intended with these two well-written novellas. If you want to read about train wrecks, this tough little book will suit perfectly.

Monday Mailbox

It was a bit of an odd week around here mail-wise. I know that mail can get rather backed up after a national holiday and perhaps that accounts for it. But days went by after Memorial Day when all we got in the mailbox was the grocery store circular. Seriously! Not even bills arrived. So you know something dire was going on. My anniversary present didn't arrive (much to my husband's chagrin since he is teased annually about his ability to gift something to me without it ever appearing in my possession--although the deck furniture from two years ago did finally materialize a week ago). And certainly no books were forthcoming. I thought it would be a mopey, sad Monday mailbox. But finally the universe seems to have righted itself and real mail started coming again. Here's last week's few:

The Actor and the Housewife by Shannon Hale
I was thrilled when I received the e-mail saying that this one was coming since I bought and inhaled the lovely confection that was Hale's Austenland when it first came out. I'm hoping this one has the same fun, lightheartedness to it that that one did.

The Link by Colin Tudge
Oddly enough, this one came twice and I given that I keep pretty meticulous records to make sure I only request things once, I have no idea what sort of snafu occurred to have it arriving here twice. I am (apparently doubly) interested to read it especially given the media coverage of the find that almost wasn't revealed to the world.

As always, if you'd like to check out the goodies that other people found in their mailboxes, check out The Printed Page where Marcia kindly hosts this meme every week.