The Edge of Sadness

My second installment in this trilogy devoted to Books About Priests, is Edwin O'Connor's, The Edge of Sadness. Even the title should warn you that this book is not for everyone. But if you are the type of reader who enjoys psychological mysteries, then I think you will find this study of the priesthood fascinating.

The Edge of Sadness is 646 pages of mostly thought and dialogue which spans the relatively brief time span of six months, occasionally taking retrospective forays back into the lifetime friendship of two middle-aged priests who grew up together.

The main character, Father Hugh Kennedy, a recovering alcoholic, is the pastor of the down-and-out—and going nowhere—Old St. Paul's, a conglomerate parish which has seen better days and probably won't see them again. Father John Carmody, son of the infamous Charlie Carmody, one of the most hated Irish business shysters of his generation is the type-A pastor of a type-A parish, St. Raymond's, a place which functioned much like a hospital emergency room—as did many a big Eastern city Catholic parish of the 1960's era—that is, always running, often at top speed, and never closing its doors.

But the parishes only provide a backdrop for the story which really centers on Father Hugh and his relationship with the Carmody family: Charlie, the formidable patriarch; Hugh's best friend, John; Helen, his married sister and her family; Dan, the other brother who never could get his act together and Mary, Charlie’s caretaker and housekeeper.

The overarching mystery of the novel is why does Charlie—who never does anything to no avail—suddenly decide to start calling on Father Hugh, reminiscing about his so-called friendship with Hugh's long-dead father, who in fact knew Charlie for exactly what he was, a shrewd and self-motivated businessman who never did an unselfish act in his life? What is Charlie's game now? Even his own children are at a loss to explain his seemingly motiveless nostalgia. But as the story unfolds and we go deeper and deeper into the Carmody family, we sense the damage old Charlie has been wreaking, not only on his four adult children but on ‘friends’, clients, business associates and the city as a whole.

Not that I did it, but if you’re one of those who do, even reading the last page and/or chapter won’t ‘solve’ the mystery, although it is solved, I promise. For all its length and leisurely pace, The Edge of Sadness is one of the most satisfying books I have read in a long time, also one of the most insightful and thought-provoking. The vocation of the priesthood is viewed from the inside, without glamour or sentiment but as Real Life, sometimes happy and enjoyable, other times as living on ‘the edge of sadness’. But then what life isn’t?

Here are some additional links to book reviews I've written during this Year For Priests: The Diary of a Country Priest, Silence, Priestblock 25487: A Memoir of Dachau, and Love In A Fearful Land. They are all books about priests; the first two are fiction and the last two are biographies.

The Diary of a Country Priest

The Diary of a Country Priest by Georges Bernanos is a deceptively quiet book which starts off very slowly. Though I knew it had to be going somewhere, it is easy to see why some readers miss its depths—I stopped and started it several times myself. Lacking a clearly discernable plot, especially in the opening pages, I couldn't get into it.

I had even decided to put it on a backburner when a Goodreads friend, Fred, from Deep Furrows, commented on my update, 'Better to read sooner than later. Not a ponderous classic, but eavesdropping on great dialogue.' Well that was clear enough for me. I reopened 'Diary' and finished it in less than a week...with much appreciation.

The gist of the story is an inexperienced, young priest arrives at his first parish, a little place out in the country and begins to keep a diary. We also learn he is poor, devout, idealistic and ascetic. None of these traits particularly endear him to his parishioners. He seems to have but one fellow cleric friend, a worldly priest, de Torcy, who would have him ‘toughen up’ and stand up for himself. Sometimes, I confess I felt a little exasperated with our curé myself. Other times, his self-effacing meekness brought out my motherly instincts and I wanted to help this young clergyman—who so many seemed to despise or take advantage of. What makes the saga so compelling is the gentle, uncomplaining way the new priest tells about his many failures and humiliations. As his audience we see his kindnesses misunderstood and his simple mistakes turned against him. And yet he is determined to go out and visit all within his parish despite mounting health problems.

Most of the ‘action’ – if it can even be called that – in this novel occurs in the brilliantly constructed conversations between the curate and another character: a confused little girl, an atheist doctor, a long-grieving countess, her malicious teenage daughter, and a soldier of fortune to name a few. It is in these epic dialogues George Bernanos' reason for writing this testimony to faith is truly revealed.

It isn’t an action book. It’s much, much better than that! I can see why some – used to reading a different sort of literature – have discounted this book. It has to be read carefully, slowly and perceptively. Also, some background on the author, George Bernanos, and the French movement, positivism, would be extremely beneficial. The best review I've read on the book was this one written by Amy Welborn.

Highly recommended! One of the most faith-affirming books I’ve read this year! Thanks so much Fred for the gentle nudge.

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An Unlikely Missionary

Fans of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice rejoice! You are in for treat. As we all know, there are sequels and there are sequels. And Pride and Prejudice just may be the most popular book for budding authors to attempt to reproduce in sequence. However, getting the follow-on to read true to the original isn't something just anyone can achieve. Skylar Hamilton Burris succeeds brilliantly!

In An Unlikely Missionary, Burris takes a road less traveled, in that she steers clear of the Darcys and Bennets and focuses her attention on the intriguing Charlotte Collins, who comes out of the shadows of being a minor character and into the limelight.*

As the heroine of An Unlikely Missionary, Charlotte, doesn't suffer comparison with other younger, prettier women. We get to know her better because the story unfolds from her perspective and - to this reader at least - I came to like her even more through the closer acquaintance.

An Unlikely Missionary picks up the story with Charlotte married to the insufferable Mr. Collins which our author uses to great advantage for our ironic amusement, revealing her talents in the true Austen-style.

The story moves at a fast pace. From the very first pages poor Charlotte's pragmatic reasons for marrying Collins are whisked out from under her and she find herself nursing him on a boatload of strangers bound for India. Immediately I was reminded of the observation made in the The Jane Austen Book Club that in Austen's novels we never learn what happens after the "...and they lived happily ever after!" because what if they didn't? But here, finally, we get to see - or read - the `rest of the story'.

And yet, there is nothing melancholy about An Unlikely Missionary. It evoked in me the full range of emotions--I smiled, cried, sighed, and laughed out loud, sometimes almost at once. The historical and religious research was impeccable so far as I am able to discern, but it only serves as the backdrop for the novel. It is a romantic comedy and belongs in the same class and genre with the rest of Miss Austen's novels; the romantic parts were . . . ah! sublime! Mostly, I enjoyed envisioning it made into a lavish BBC production.

And I don't care what anyone says, Charlotte is beautiful.

Thoroughly delightful book! Treat yourself!

*If you recall from P&P, Charlotte is described as `a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven'; given the time period, this description being tantamount to a kiss-of-death, as there is no mention of her beauty, yet she is still single at the advanced (gasp!) age of twenty-seven. Horrors!

*****

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Things Fall Apart

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold” is from Yeats's poem "The Second Coming". Fifty years after Chinua Achebe wrote this deceptively simple Nigerian tragedy, Things Fall Apart has never been out of print. It's hailed as Africa's best known work of literature and I can easily see why.

At the heart of the story is a strong man, Okonkwo, with an overwhelming need to prove himself--to himself and his tribe; he must overcome the bad reputation of his drunkard ne'er-do-well father. Although Okonkwo can easily defeat enemies he can wrestle, chop or kill; his stubborn pride and anger collide with and fail to overcome those aspects of life which he cannot so readily tackle: providence, family and tribal laws.

So much of the appeal of Things -- for me at least -- is watching Okonkwo encounter a traditional village. I was fascinated (and repulsed) by its customs, mores, and overall precarious harmony. The appropriateness of the title is in the extreme delicacy of that tribal balance which is rocked to the core by the arrival of the English missionaries. All that was as Okonkwo understood the world to be, changes with the introduction of Christianity and Western civilization. It is both a clash of one individual against his own society and a foreign power, as well as the collision of two diametrically opposed cultures. You don't often find so much carefully-contained conflict in a book of this size. Truly incredible!

Chinua Achebe wrote this masterpiece before most of the African nations had declared their independence. Since that time, the Dark Continent has been washed in rivers of blood. One wonders when, and prays for an end to, all the suffering. Such a sacred place and beautiful people; in many ways so like the Garden of Eden. Long live Africa!

Thanks to Ginnie from Goodreads for this link from The Economist about A Golden Jubilee of Things Fall Apart.

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Twilight

This review of Twilight is written by a concerned mother of teenage daughters for all conscientious mothers of teenagers. Whenever a popular new book – or series of books – comes out the question always arises, do we allow our child(ren) to read this book(s)? When our child(ren) are little, the decision(s) are easier; as they enter adolescence, it becomes more complicated.

When my own two, now 17 and 16, were young I was the local rating authority: a book had to pass the mommy-booklady rating system or it didn’t come home from the library or bookstore. As a homeschool mom I read – or tried to read – everything my kids read. I still try to keep up with that goal, especially where new books are concerned.

Twilight is a fantasy romance novel which has captivated teenagers and adults alike. Since it came out in 2005, it’s been on the New York Times bestseller list, won A Publisher’s Weekly Best Book of the Year, An Amazon “Best Book of the Decade . . . So Far” and – most ominously – A Teen People “Hot List” pick. So what’s all the fuss? What is the story?

The book’s back dust jacket lets you know that Edward is a vampire, who thirsted for ‘her’ (the female protagonist, Bella's) blood and yet ‘she’ was also in love with him. Hmmmm... When I first read this in a book store, I can’t say I was overly impressed. I tried reading Dracula a few years back and scared myself silly. Vampires are about the most terrifying of the scary ‘monsters’ in my book, no pun intended. I’ve read and cried over Frankenstein which is only frightening in the sense that it’s about unrequited love; the ‘monster’ has the basic longing for love from his creator and/or desire for a mate, neither of which can be fulfilled. Dracula on the other hand is about ‘real’ vampires—the kind who only feed on human blood, turn into bats, must be killed by a dagger through the heart, etc.

The author of Twilight, Stephanie Meyers, a young, thirty-three year old mother of three, hasn’t read the classic horror novel and says she can’t read about ‘real’ vampires. According to her, her vampires aren’t ‘real’.

So what makes them ‘unreal’? What makes this fantasy story featuring those infamous creatures of the undead different? Or is it? It was questions such as these which prompted me to want to read and review Twilight; that and the fact my daughter handed me the book when she finished it. Since she is at that age where I have to begin to allow her to make choices about her own reading material, the best thing I can do is read – and discuss – her books along with her, hopefully guiding her and insuring she makes well-informed choices. That’s what I did and this review is the result.

When I began to read Twilight I was first struck by its ordinariness. It is set in modern day Arizona and Washington state and revolves around a teenager, Bella, who moves to the small town of Forks, WA, to live with her father upon the remarriage of her mother; once there she meets Edward Cullen and his unusual and exquisitely beautiful family. Meyers is a voracious reader and it shows in her writing; it flows. Twilight is light, readable and even though there is very little action in the first half of the book, I found myself pleasantly entertained. Up until about the middle of the book, I had no serious objections to the book. The language is clean, the situations are appropriate and compared to most books/movies today, I could easily give the book a solid “G” rating. All in all it reminded me of an up-to-date retelling of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ with a twist. Edward is good. He cares for Bella. He ‘saves’ her time after time: from himself, from her, from circumstances and even from other vampires. And best of all, Edward and his family are vampire vegetarians, i.e., they refrain from drinking human blood and live off of animals instead.

However. And yes, there is a however. And here it is. Call me an old fuddy-duddy but even on the inside of the front dust jacket, we read that the book is “deeply seductive” and it is. There is a day when Bella lies to everyone to sneak off to be alone with Edward. She knows what she is doing is both wrong and dangerous, yet she does it anyway. Okay. Lots of books contain situations where young people make similar poor choices; Twilight isn’t the first, nor will it be the last, book to offer such ideas to young people. And do they even need to get their ideas from books anyway? In this particular example, Bella is fortunate and nothing ‘bad’ happens. Meyer’s writing keeps the story on the knife-edge of suspense allowing Bella to safely enjoy her innocent tryst with Edward with no unfortunate consequences. Nevertheless, Bella is playing with fire. In the story, Bella is alone with a vampire who desires her very much. She has voluntarily walked into a dangerous situation which even Edward cautioned her against. In real life, young readers of Twilight walk into similar situations every day with young men far less honorable than Edward. As a hundred year old vampire who presumably really does love his beloved, he has lived long enough and seen enough to know what havoc his passions can unleash.

Can as much be said for most young seventeen year old males? Can as much be said for any of us?

Although Edward was born in 1901, as an immortal vampire, he looks like any other teenage boy, only incredibly more beautiful. Bella is captivated by him. Stephanie Meyers, the author, even admits that she was in love with her character as she wrote the book. Can any young, impressionable, hormonal, adolescent girl fail to be swept away by page after page of romantic descriptions of his overwhelming good looks?

I don’t even deny to falling ‘under the spell’ of Edward and Meyer’s writing a bit myself—and I usually tend to abhor the romance genre. It is seductive. I include this information because this is a review for parents and in particular parents of young teens.

My going-in concerns about Twilight were centered on vampires. I have deliberately stayed away from the issues of Holy Scripture and the forces of Evil – which I very much believe in – because other reviewers before me have already dealt with these issues and this review is turning into a book as it is. Instead, I would just like to point out the moral dangers of reading too many books of this sort. Young minds are incredibly vulnerable. As a responsible parent, I would exercise great caution where Twilight is concerned. Presumably you know your child better than anyone else. Unless your daughter (or son) is extremely mature, I would strongly discourage anyone under sixteen from reading this book. Whatever your decision, read Twilight for yourself first and then -- if you decide to let your child read it -- be sure to discuss it together.

The lack of a rating is deliberate. With the release of the movie, Twilight, two weeks ago a resurgence in popularity of the book can be expected.

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'Children and War' Books

When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. ~~African proverb

Children and war? Surely not?! Sadly, yes! When we think of war, we want to think of ‘over there’, men and machines, not children and certainly not our children. But the reality is just the opposite. Children are war’s first and most devastated victims. They are used as barter, soldiers, and human bombs. They are tortured, raped, killed, and left homeless, orphaned, and dead. Children are the greatest sufferers when adults ‘play’ war.

What can we do? Many things certainly, but most of them are beyond the scope of this blog article. Here I would just like to point out some excellent books I have recently run across which deal very sensitively and poignantly with the subject of children and war. By reading these books ourselves and to our children, we can raise the level of awareness of the destructiveness of war—what it does to individuals, families, communities and nations. We can educate our children about the seriousness and the reality of war. Wars are not just somewhere else, happening to people we don’t care about and will never meet. When people kill each other, it affects all of us. When whole cities are burned down and great works of art destroyed, all of humanity suffers the loss.

Also I would like to put out a call for others to let me know when they find other books about children dealing with the effects of war by posting comments here.

I will be listing the four books I have selected in age appropriate order.

The first book is The Librarian of Basra by Jeanette Winter. In this book – suitable for even the youngest child –a very enterprising librarian saved most of her city’s books from utter destruction when the invasion of Iraq reached Basra on April 6, 2003. This is a very gentle introduction to the realities of a current war which can be safely read to even toddlers without too much fear of nightmares. (Parental discretion still advised!) The pictures are bright and colorful and there is usually no more than a sentence or two per page. It teaches the lesson about respect for personal property, something every two year old is very interested in.



Silent Music, A story of Baghdad by James Rumford doesn’t seem at first glance to be a story about war and that may be the best approach to take in reading to our children about difficult subjects. In Silent Music, the little boy, Ali, who lives in Baghdad, loves to write his letters. He seems to love to write as much as yours truly likes to read. Perhaps my readers have some personal passion they can relate to? Ali describes the feel and beauty he experiences when he draws his Arabic script; sometimes the letters are flowing easily, other times they are stiff and awkward. But always, he has the sense that he is making ‘silent music’ with his letters. Then one night he uses his writing to get himself through the bombing of his city. He notes how easy it is to write the word ‘war’ and how difficult to write the word ‘peace’, shalom. How ironic.

The third book I chose, Aram’s Choice is a book for older children, due to its length and text; it is twelve chapters and sixty-nine pages. It deals with the aftermath of the World War I. Aram and his grandmother are the sole survivors from his family of the Armenian genocide by the Turks. The story begins in Corfu, Greece in 1923 and Aram is twelve; he and his grandmother have already fled Anatolia, Turkey and taken shelter here. Now Aram has been offered the opportunity for a new life in Canada, but he doesn’t want to leave his grandmother to go so far away. The book is about beginning again, but not forgetting, learning to let go, but to treasure what was good and is now good. It's a beautiful story—both in the text and the illustrations. Not many books that I'm familiar with have dealt with this first atrocity of the twentieth century and certainly there are few for children. Most highly recommended!

And now for my favorite! Even though I enjoyed the other three books very much, this last one touched me most deeply. Perhaps it is because it is set in my own country, I do not know. It could be that, but I think it is the book itself and the author’s mystical writing style. For one thing, the text is written as if it were verse, which gives it an almost poetical feel. You will see what I mean when you open the cover. And then there is Kek, himself, the little Sudanese refugee who has come to America on the ‘flying boat’ but finds living here ‘hard work’ due to cold ‘like claws on skin’, sun that ‘burns your eyes’, dead trees, and no cows. Poor Kek is a fish out of water in our technological civilization. He is used to green, warmth, livestock and free movement; he has come to white, cold, metal and confinement. But Kek is known as a boy who ‘finds sun when the sky is dark’ and indeed he does find and make his way in this strange new world. As the story progresses you see the beauty and perfection in Applegate’s title, Home of the Brave.

Please do check out these books. In the war for the safety of our children, these are winners. I owe thanks for finding all these marvelous books to my favorite librarian friend from goodreads, Krista the Krazy Kataloguer! Thanks a million, Krista—keep those recommendations coming!

P.S. It only just dawned on me that this might be taken as a 'political statement' rather than as a blog post offering excellent books which gently introduce and teach our children about a difficult and yet very important subject. I am not trying to say or even imply that wars are never necessary; I served in the United States Air Force from 1979-1991 achieving the rank of major before I took an early retirement to stay home with my children. I know the value of our military forces and that wars can be just, valid and essential to world stability and overall peace. But as a mother, I'm also mindful of what happens to children during wartime.

"A Mile in My Flip-Flops" by Melody Carlson

It is July FIRST, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and her latest book's FIRST chapter!

The feature author is:

Melody Carlson

and her book:

A Mile in My Flip-Flops

WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

In sixth grade, Melody Carlson helped start a school newspaper called The BuccaNews (her school’s mascot was a Buccaneer...arrr!). As editor of this paper, she wrote most of the material herself, creating goofy phony bylines to hide the fact that the school newspaper was mostly a "one man" show.

Visit Melody's website to see all of her wonderful and various book titles.

Don't miss her latest teen fiction, Stealing Bradford (Carter House Girls, Book 2).


Product Details:

List Price: $13.99

Paperback: 336 pages

Publisher: WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1400073146

ISBN-13: 978-1400073146

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

I’m not the kind of girl who wants anyone to feel sorry for her.

So after my fiancé jilted me less than four weeks before our wedding date, and since the invitations had already been sent, my only recourse was to lie low and wait for everyone to simply forget.

Consequently, I became a recluse. If I wasn’t at work, teaching a delightful class of five-year-olds, who couldn’t care less about my shattered love life, I could be found holed up in my apartment, escaping all unnecessary interaction with “sympathetic” friends.

And that is how I became addicted to HGTV and ice cream. Okay, that probably calls for some explanation. HGTV stands for Home and Garden TV, a network that runs 24/7 and is what I consider the highest form of comfort TV. It is habit forming, albeit slightly mind numbing. And ice cream obviously needs no explanation.

Other than the fact that my dad, bless his heart, had seven quart-sized cartons of Ben & Jerry’s delivered to my apartment the day after Collin dumped me. Appropriately enough, dear old Dad (who knows me better than anyone on the planet) selected a flavor called Chocolate Therapy, a product worthy of its name and just as addictive as HGTV.

But now, eighteen months and twenty-two pounds later, I seem to be in a rut. And apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so.

“Come on, Gretchen,” urges my best friend, Holly, from her end of the phone line. “Just come with us–please!”

“Right…,” I mutter as I lick my spoon and dip it back into a freshly opened carton of Chunky Monkey–also appropriately named, but let’s not go there. Anyway, not only had I moved on to new ice cream flavors, but I also had given up using bowls. “Like I want to tag along with the newlyweds. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Like I keep telling you, we’re not newlyweds anymore,” she insists. “We’ve been married three months now.”

“Yeah…well…”

“And it’s Cinco de Mayo,” she persists, using that little girl voice that I first heard when we became best friends back in third grade. “We always go together.”

I consider this. I want to point out that Holly and I used to always go to the Cinco de Mayo celebration together–as in past tense. And despite her pity for me, or perhaps it’s just some sort of misplaced guilt because she’s married and I am not, I think the days of hanging with my best friend are pretty much over now. The image of Holly and Justin, both good looking enough to be models, strolling around holding hands with frumpy, dumpy me tagging along behind them like their poor, single, reject friend just doesn’t work for me.

“Thanks anyway,” I tell her. “But I’m kind of busy today.”

“So what are you doing then?” I hear the challenge in her voice, like she thinks I don’t have anything to do on a Saturday.

I slump back into the sofa and look over to the muted TV, which is tuned, of course, to HGTV, where my favorite show, House Flippers, is about to begin, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it. “I’m, uh…I’ve got lesson plans to do,” I say quickly. This is actually true, although I don’t usually do them until Sunday evening.

She snickers. “Yeah, that’s a good one, Gretch. I’ll bet you’re vegging out in front of HGTV with a carton of Chocolate Fudge Brownie.”

“Wrong.” Okay, Holly is only partially wrong. Fortunately, I haven’t told her about my latest flavor.

“Come on,” she tries again. “It’ll be fun. You can bring Riley along. He’d probably like to stretch his legs.”

I glance over to where my usually hyper, chocolate Lab mixed breed is snoozing on his LL Bean doggy bed with a chewed-up and slightly soggy Cole Haan loafer tucked under his muzzle. “Riley’s napping,” I say. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Like he wouldn’t want to go out and get some fresh air and sunshine?”

“We already had our walk today."

Holly laughs. “You mean that little shuffle you do over to the itty bitty park across the street from your apartment complex? What’s that take? Like seven and a half minutes for the whole round trip? That’s not enough exercise for a growing dog like Riley.”

“I threw a ball for him to chase.”

“So there’s nothing I can do or say to change your mind?” House Flippers is just starting. “Nope,” I say, trying to end this conversation. “But thanks for thinking of me.”

“Want me to bring you back an empanada?”

“Sure,” I say quickly. “You guys have fun!” Then I hang up and, taking the TV off mute, I lean back into the soft chenille sofa and lose myself while watching a hapless couple from Florida renovate a seriously run-down split-level into something they hope to sell for a profit. Unfortunately, neither of them is terribly clever when it comes to remodeling basics. And their taste in interior design is sadly lacking too. The woman’s favorite color is rose, which she uses liberally throughout the house, and she actually thinks that buyers will appreciate the dated brown tiles and bathroom fixtures in the powder room. By the time the show ends, not only is the house still on the market despite the reduced price and open house, but the couple’s marriage seems to be in real trouble as well.

“Too bad,” I say out loud as I mute the TV for commercials. Riley’s head jerks up, and he looks at me with expectant eyes.

“You just keep being a good boy,” I tell him in a soothing tone. Hopefully, he’ll stretch out this midday nap a bit longer. Because once Riley starts moving, my tiny apartment seems to shrink, first by inches and then by feet.

My hope for an elongated nap crumbles when his tail begins to beat rhythmically on the floor, almost like a warning–thump, thump, thump–and the next thing I know, he’s up and prowling around the cluttered living room. Riley isn’t even full grown yet, and he’s already way too much dog for my apartment. Holly warned me that his breed needed room to romp and play. She tried to talk me into a little dog, like a Yorkie or Chihuahua, but I had fallen for those liquid amber eyes…and did I mention that he’s part chocolate Lab? Since when have I been able to resist chocolate? Besides, he reminded me of a cuddly brown teddy bear. But I hardly considered the fact that he would get bigger.

After he climbed into my lap that day, licking my face and smelling of puppy breath and other things that I knew could be shampooed away, there was no way I could leave him behind at the Humane Society. I already knew that he’d been rejected as a Christmas present. Some dimwitted father had gotten him for toddler twins without consulting Mommy first. Even so, Holly tried to convince me that a good-looking puppy like that would quickly find another home.

But it was too late. I knew Riley was meant for me, and that was that. And I had grandiose ideas of taking him for long walks on the beach. “He’ll help me get in shape,” I assured Holly. She’d long since given up on me going to the fitness club with her, so I think she bought into the whole exercise theory. She also bought Riley his LL Bean deluxe doggy bed, which I could barely wedge into my already crowded apartment and now takes up most of the dining area, even though it’s partially tucked beneath a gorgeous craftsman-style Ethan Allen dining room set. Although it’s hard to tell that it’s gorgeous since it’s pushed up against a wall and covered with boxes of Pottery Barn kitchen items that won’t fit into my limited cabinet space.

“This place is way too small for us,” I say to Riley as I shove the half-full ice cream carton back into the freezer. As if to confirm this, his wagging tail whacks an oversized dried arrangement in a large bronze vase, sending seedpods, leaves, and twigs flying across the carpet and adding to the general atmosphere of chaos and confusion.

My decorating style? Contemporary clutter with a little eclectic disorder thrown in for special effect. Although, to be fair, that’s not the real me. I’m sure the real me could make a real place look like a million bucks. That is, if I had a real place…or a million bucks.

I let out a long sigh as I stand amid my clutter and survey my crowded apartment. It’s been like this for almost two years now.

Overly filled with all the stuff I purchased shortly after Collin proposed to me more than two years ago. Using my meager teacher’s salary and skimpy savings, I started planning the interior décor for our new home. I couldn’t wait to put it all together after the wedding.

“Have you ever heard of wedding presents?” Holly asked me when she first realized what I was doing.

“Of course,” I assured her. “But I can’t expect the guests to provide everything for our home. I figured I might as well get started myself. Look at this great set of espresso cups that I got at Crate & Barrel last weekend for thirty percent off.”

“Well, at least you have good taste,” she admitted as she stooped to admire a hand-tied wool area rug I’d just gotten on sale. Of course, she gasped when she saw the price tag still on it. “Expensive taste too!”

“It’ll last a lifetime,” I assured her, just like the Karastan salesman had assured me. Of course, as it turned out, my entire relationship with Collin didn’t even last two years. Now I’m stuck with a rug that’s too big to fit in this crummy little one-bedroom apartment–the same apartment I’d given Mr. Yamamoto notice on two months before my wedding. It was so humiliating to have to beg to keep it after the wedding was cancelled, but I didn’t know what else to do.

And now, a year and a half later, I’m still here. Stuck. It’s like everyone else has moved on with their lives except me. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had enough room to make myself at home or enough room for Riley to wag his tail without causing mass destruction…or enough room to simply breathe. Maybe I should rent a storage unit for all this stuff. Or maybe I should move myself into a storage unit since it would probably be bigger than this apartment.

As I pick up Riley’s newest mess, I decide the bottom line is that I need to make a decision. Get rid of some things–whether by storage, a yard sale, or charity–or else get more space. I vote for more space. Not that I can afford more space. I’m already strapped as it is.

Kindergarten teachers don’t make a whole lot. I feel like I’ve created a prison for myself. What used to be a convenient hideout now feels like a trap, and these thin walls seem to be closing in on me daily. Feeling hopeless, I flop back onto the couch and ponder my limited options. Then I consider forgetting the whole thing and escaping back into HGTV, which might call for some more ice cream.

But that’s when I look down and notice my thighs spreading out like two very large slabs of ham. Very pale ham, I might add as I tug at my snug shorts to help cover what I don’t want to see, but it’s not working. I stare at my flabby legs in horror. When did this happen?

I stand up now, trying to erase that frightening image of enormous, white thunder thighs. I pace around my apartment a bit before I finally go and stand in front of an oversized mirror that’s leaning against the wall near the front door. This is a beautiful mirror I got half price at World Market, but it belongs in a large home, possibly over a fireplace or in a lovely foyer. And it will probably be broken by Riley’s antics if it remains against this wall much longer.

But instead of admiring the heavy bronze frame of the mirror like I usually do, I actually look into the mirror and am slightly stunned at what I see. Who is that frumpy girl? And who let her into my apartment? I actually used to think I was sort of good looking. Not a babe, mind you, but okay. Today I see a faded girl with disappointed eyes.

Some people, probably encouraged by Holly, a long-legged dazzling brunette, used to say I resembled Nicole Kidman. Although they probably were thinking of when Nicole was heavier and I was lighter. Now it’s a pretty big stretch to see any similarities. To add insult to injury, Nicole has already hit the big “four o,” whereas I am only thirty-two. Her forties might be yesterday’s twenties, but my thirties look more like someone else’s fifties. And I used to take better care of myself. Okay, I was never thin, but I did eat right and got exercise from jogging and rollerblading. Compared to now, I was in great shape. And my long strawberry blond hair, which I thought was my best asset, was usually wavy and fresh looking, although you wouldn’t know that now. It’s unwashed and pulled tightly into a shabby-looking ponytail, which accentuates my pudgy face and pale skin. Even my freckles have faded. It doesn’t help matters that my worn T-shirt (with a peeling logo that proclaims “My Teacher Gets an A+”) is saggy and baggy, and my Old Navy khaki shorts, as I’ve just observed, are too tight, and my rubber flip-flops look like they belong on a homeless person–although I could easily be mistaken for one if I was pushing a shopping cart down the street.

Then, in the midst of this pathetic personal inventory, my focus shifts to all the junk that’s piled behind me–the boxes, the myriad of stuff lining the short, narrow hallway and even spilling into the open door of my tiny bedroom, which can barely contain the queensize bed and bronze bedframe still in the packing box behind it. If it wasn’t so depressing, it would almost be funny. I just shake my head. And then I notice Riley standing strangely still behind me and looking almost as confused as I feel. With his head slightly cocked to one side, he watches me curiously, as if he, too, is afraid to move. This is nuts. Totally certifiable. A girl, or even a dog, could seriously lose it living like this. Or maybe I already have. They say you’re always the last to know that you’ve lost your marbles.

“It’s time for a change,” I announce to Riley. He wags his tail happily now, as if he wholeheartedly agrees. Or maybe he simply thinks I’m offering to take him on a nice, long walk. “We need a real house,” I continue, gathering steam now. “And we need a real yard for you to run and play in.” Of course, this only excites him more.

And that’s when he begins to run about the apartment like a possessed thing, bumping into boxes and furnishings until I finally open the sliding door and send him out to the tiny deck to calm himself.

After he settles down, I go and join him. It’s pretty hot out here, and I notice that the seedling sunflower plants, ones we’d started in the classroom and I’d brought home to nurture along, are now hanging limp and lifeless, tortured by the hot afternoon sun that bakes this little patio. Just one more thing I hate about this place.

So much for my attempt at terrace gardening. I’d seen a show on HGTV that inspired me to turn this little square of cement deck into a real oasis. But in reality it’s simply a barren desert that will only get worse as the summer gets hotter. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears now. It’s hopeless.

This is all wrong. On so many levels. This is not where I was supposed to be at this stage of the game. This is not the life I had planned. I feel like I’ve been robbed or tricked or like someone ripped the rug out from under me. And sometimes in moments like this, I even resent God and question my faith in him. I wonder why he allows things like this to happen. Why does he let innocent people get hurt by the selfishness of others? It just doesn’t make sense. And it’s not fair.

Oh, I’ve tried to convince myself I’m over the fact that my ex fiancé, Collin Fairfield, was a total jerk. And I try not to blame him for being swept away when his high school sweetheart decided, after fifteen years of being apart, that she was truly in love with him. I heard that the revelation came to Selena at the same time she received our engraved wedding invitation, which I did not send to her. She wasn’t even on my list.

And I actually believe that I’ve mostly forgiven Collin…and that sneaky Selena too. And I wish them well, although I didn’t attend their wedding last fall. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.

But all that aside, this is still so wrong. I do not belong in this stuffy little apartment that’s cluttered with my pretty household goods. I belong in a real house. A house with a white picket fence and a lawn and fruit trees in the backyard. And being single shouldn’t mean that I don’t get to have that. There must be some way I can afford a home.

Of course, I’m fully aware that real estate isn’t cheap in El Ocaso. It’s on the news regularly. Our town’s prices certainly aren’t as outrageous as some of the suburbs around San Diego, but they’re not exactly affordable on a teacher’s salary. I try not to remember how much I had in my savings account back before I got engaged and got carried away with spending on my wedding and my home. That pretty much depleted what might’ve gone toward a small down payment on what probably would’ve been a very small house. But, hey, even a small house would be better than this prison-cell apartment.

And that’s when it hits me. And it’s so totally obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I will become a house flipper! Just like the people on my favorite HGTV show, I will figure out a way to secure a short-term loan, purchase a fixer-upper house, and do the repairs and decorating myself–with my dad’s expert help, of course!

And then, maybe as early as midsummer, I will sell this beautifully renovated house for enough profit to make a good-sized down payment on another house just for me…and Riley. Even if the secondhouse is a fixer-upper too, I can take my time with it, making it just the way I want it. And it’ll be so much better than where I live now.

I’m surprised I didn’t come up with this idea months ago. It’s so totally simple. Totally perfect. And totally me!

“We are going house hunting,” I announce to Riley as I shove open the sliding door and march back inside the apartment. His whole body is wagging with doggy joy as I quickly exchange my too-tight shorts for jeans and then reach for his leather leash and my Dolce & Gabbana knockoff bag–the one I bought to carry on my honeymoon, the honeymoon that never was. I avoid looking at my image in the big mirror as we make a hasty exit.

“Come on, boy,” I say as I hook the leash to his collar at the top of the stairs. “This is going to be fun!” And since this outing is in the spirit of fun, I even put down the top on my VW Bug, something I haven’t done in ages. Riley looks like he’s died and gone to doggy heaven as he rides joyfully in the backseat, his ears flapping in the breeze. Who knows, maybe we’ll find a house for sale on the beach.

Okay, it’d have to be a run-down, ramshackle sort of place that no one but me can see the hidden value in, but it could happen. And while I renovate my soon-to-be wonder house, Riley can be king of the beach. The possibilities seem limitless. And when I stop at the grocery store to pick up real-estate papers, I am impressed with how many listings there are. But I can’t read and drive, so I decide to focus on driving. And since I know this town like the back of my hand, this should be easy.

But thanks to the Cinco de Mayo celebration, the downtown area is crowded, so I start my search on the south end of town, trying to avoid traffic jams. I’m aware that this area is a little pricey for me, but you never know. First, I pull over into a parking lot and read the fliers. I read about several houses for sale, but the prices are staggering.

Even more than I imagined. Also, based on the descriptions and photos, these houses already seem to be in great shape. No fixer-uppers here. Then I notice some condo units for sale, and I can imagine finding a run-down unit in need of a little TLC, but it’s the same situation. According to the fliers, they’re in tiptop, turnkey shape–recently remodeled with granite counters and cherry hardwood floors and new carpeting and prices so high I can’t imagine doing anything that could push them a penny higher. My profit margin and spirits are steadily sinking. Maybe my idea to flip a house has already flopped. Just like the rest of my life.


Excerpted from A Mile in My Flip-Flops by Melody Carlson Copyright © 2008 by Melody Carlson. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons

by Lorna Landvik

Started: 17 December 2007

Finished: 30 December 2007

It’s not a book I’d choose from the title, but titles can be deceptive. It’s the name of a book club, Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons. However, even that is somewhat misleading. Or do I mean a misnomer? But although the book purports to be about a group of ladies who meet monthly to discuss books, very little actual book discussion happens in this book.

This is a book about something much more important. It’s about five extraordinary women: Audrey, Faith, Kari, Merit and Slip. It tells the story of their intertwining lives, families, loves, pains, joys and discoveries spanning a period of thirty years. They are neighbors, friends, mentors, sisters and soul mates to each other.

The book opens with the knowledge that one of these five friends is in the hospital and her fellow Angry Housewives have gathered round in support. Their free and easy camaraderie as they banter back and forth sets the stage for the rest of the book—the birth and unfolding of their friendship. As the years go by, the books come and go and so do children, husbands, food, vacations, bad habits and many memories, but the friends stay true to each other through all their many varied experiences.

What I enjoyed most about the book was identifying with the different ladies at various times in their lives. My favorite of the five was Faith. She was the most developed character; the rest seemed one-dimensional—which is still quite an accomplishment given the time span and what the author was trying to accomplish. What can I say? I like my characters to have depth, be multi-faceted and to have to struggle with and within themselves.

I was disappointed that there wasn’t more about the books the ladies read. And I did find it highly unlikely many of those books actually were read given the usual level of conversations in the book. Face it—those were some tough books. Also, little to nothing was said about the dynamics of the how, when, and where of reading, finishing and comprehending in the days of pre-Internet. These ladies weren’t unintelligent, but I still have trouble visualizing them persisting with the books listed. So please forgive the booklady her technical observations; those minor criticisms aside, I loved Angry Housewives—the book, the club and especially the friends.

I do enjoy books—there is no denying it. Some people might think I even love books. But that would be a mistake. I love people and I like things. Even the booklady knows that one person –whoever it might be—is a million times more precious than all the books in the world.

And some people are very special. The person who recommended and loaned this book to me is one of those dear friends! Thanks for the tip, for the enjoyment of this book and the even greater blessing of knowing you!

***1/2

The Eyre Affair

by Jasper Fforde

Started: 30 August 2007
Finished: 13 September 2007

If I was to give out awards for 'Wackiest Book I've read This Year', The Eyre Affair would get it, hands down. It's the most hard-to-classify book I've read in a long time. 'If ever?' she asks with a puzzling look on her face.

Part time-travel, part literature-lover-lore, part mystery, part sci-fi and part something else--too nebulous to define.

Some folks on my British Classics Book Group were talking about the series and warned me it was 'different' but they also said if you like Brit Lit, then you're sure to love it. I do and I did!

Don't let my reading dates (above) fool you. This book can be read in far less time. I've just had too much on my plate recently and have put this down when I wanted to pick it up. I am sure when I treat myself to my next Fforde 'sweetie'--as the English like to call them--I'll probably devour it in a two- or at most three-day stretch. And yes, I would classify the book as a candy--no real nutritional value, morally speaking, but very, very enjoyable. On the other hand, nothing objectionable or offensive either--rather old-fashioned in that respect.

So, now that I've thoroughly confused you, what is The Eyre Affair about?

Thursday Next, a Literary Detective, is the main character; she's 36 years old and works solving crimes involving Literature in 1980's England--but it is a very different country than we know or remember because all sorts of things we thought happened either haven't yet or might not due to all sort of time-travel complications. Yes, well I did try to warn you--weird and wacky! A couple of examples: the Crimean War is still going on, which if you remember from your history books should have ended almost 130 years earlier and Winston Churchill seems to have died -- unknown -- as a young boy. Time travel apparently can have disastrous results.

Thursday's father has a face that can stop a clock; no, he isn't ugly; he can literally stop Time. And he frequently does--to drop in on his daughter for a chat, pass on info or ask questions--often with quite humorous consequences.

Now if all this sounds improbable, try to imagine a world where people actually care enough about Literature to even have Literary Detectives in the first place! But they do. And the theft of the original Jane Eyre manuscript is enough to send the entire world running to read their copies of this book, because in this world people can enter books and characters can leave manuscripts. Thursday has her work cut out for her. Her adversaries have no less interesting names than Acheron Hades and Jack Schitt, if you'll forgive my French. However, on the side of good, Thursday is helped by no less than the formidable Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester, Esq., himself, Jane's employer and, well, I should say no more, in case you have not read Jane Eyre.

But then if you haven't read Jane Eyre in the first place, much of the subtle humor and even a good deal of the plot will be lost. Indeed, Mr. Fforde's appeal will be to a rather limited audience. However to those who love British Literature as much as yours truly, this was truly a gem in the rough.

The best website about the book is the one by the author himself. If you're going to read even one in the series, check it out! http://www.jasperfforde.com/thursdayintro.html

Thanks folks at British Classics for the tip!

***1/2

Vanishing Acts

by Jodi Picoult

Started: 10 July 2007
Finished: 20 July 2007

Overall Assessment/Synopsis: Hardly Picoult's best. Interesting. Wouldn't read again or recommend. About a young woman who discovers her father kidnapped her as a four year old and brought her up under an alias in New Hampshire although her mother was alive and living in Arizona; plot covers her discovery of the crime, the trial and its impact on all involved.

Memorable quotes listed below:

How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering! -Charles Baudelaire, La Fanfarlo (p71)

Nothing stands out so conspicuously, or remains so firmly fixed in the memory, as something which you have blundered. -Cicero (p133)

Is it a crime when you love someone so much that you can't stand the thought of them changing? Is it a crime when you love someone so much that you can't see them clearly? (p154)

Marry a man who loves you more than you love him. Because I have done both now, and when it is the other way around, there is no spell in the world that can even out the balance. (p159)

I never stopped hoping that you'd come home, but I did stop expecting it. (p163)

Memories aren't stored in the heart or in the head or even in the soul, if you ask me, but in the spaces between any two given people. (p225)

It is also a terrifying prospect: that the relationships we use as the cornerstones of our personalities are not given by default but are a choice; that it's all right to feel closer to a friend than we do to a parent; that someone who betrayed us in the past might be the same person with whom we build a future. (p231)

...it's crazy, isn't it, the way we always say that children belong to their parents, when it's really the other way around? (p280)

Why do they call it a mobile home if it never goes anywhere? (p388)

**

the five people you meet in heaven

by Mitch Albom

Some of my favorite quotes:

-- It might seem strange to start a story with an ending. But all endings are also beginnings. We just don't know it at the time. (p1)

-- Every life has one true-love snapshot. (p9)

-- How do people choose their final words? Do they realize their gravity? Are they fated to be wise? (p13)

-- No life is a waste. The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we are alone. (p50)

-- Dying? Not the end of everything. We think it is. But what happens on earth is only the beginning. (p91)

-- Sacrifice is a part of life. It's supposed to be. It's not something to regret. It's something to aspire to. (p93)

-- Sometimes when you sacrifice something really precious, you're not really losing it. You're just passing it on to someone else. (p94)

-- All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair. (p104)

-- Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them-a mother's approval, a father's nod- are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, as the skin sags and the heart weakens, that children understand; their stories, and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the waters of love. (p126)

-- Holding anger is a poison. It eats you from inside. We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the person who harmed us. But hatred is a curved blade. And the harm we do, we do to ourselves. (p141)

-- People say they "find" love, as if it were an object hidden by a rock. But love takes many forms, and it is never the same for any man or woman. What people find then is a certain love. (p155)

-- Lost love is still love, Eddie. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it. (p173)

Highly Recommend! ****