We're in the midst of Texas tornado season. When it's tornado season in Texas, you've gotta be prepared, right?
I have this little O/C routine when the television radar says bad weather is approaching. You can't miss it--it's like a national crisis. All the tv stations go to special weather reports. Usually, the radio stations igore it, though. I haven't figured that out. Oh, and the sirens don't always sound, as I've mentioned. Perhaps the always elusive "they" figure the world is glued to American Idol, anyway, so other warning systems are irrelevant.
Wednesday night, we got the radar reports and I started my routine. I am convinced if I follow it to the letter, the bad weather will pass, leaving us unscathed. So far, it's worked, so I say it's a good routine, even if my husband thinks I'm a little off.
Here's how it works. I fill a small laundry basket with the things I would miss most if my house fell down around me. Into the basket goes my laptop computer and charger, my external hard drive with old files and photos, my purse with my i.d., cards, and cell phone, my old cell phone that functions like a tiny flashlight, and, of course, my wedding and honeymoon albums.
I place the basket in the floor of the laundry room. (The amount of faith I put in the laundry room is nothing to be sneezed at. If it's in the laundry room, it will be fine, okay?) I have an additional plastic tub full of other family pictures, and it slides in beside the laundry basket. If these things survive, along with my husband and children, all will be well. Nearly everything else can be replaced.
Well, this year, I've started adding additional items to the basket as time allows. I mean, if you've got 20 minutes until the storm arrives, why not add a pair of tennies? Socks? Favorite pillow. Water bottle. All practical stuff, right?
When the warnings pass, I unpack everything, and life goes on. If the weather is iffy for the next day or so, I'll sometimes leave the things I don't immediately need in the basket. Takes less energy to pack the next time.
So, we had that kind of night Wednesday. Todd was out of town, and we talked on the phone about how everything had calmed down again, but the rest of the week was sketchy. I went back to my regularly programmed computer surfing and eventually headed for bed. I usually read for a while before I go to sleep, but couldn't remember where I'd put my books.
I'd taken them along to the girls' piano lessons earlier that afternoon, and thought I remembered bringing them in the house along with the fast food we always get when Todd's out of town. Alas, they weren't in the usual spots I drop things.
Oh, well, I thought, I'll get them out of the car tomorrow.
I grabbed another book (after all, I'm reading about 30) and read it instead.
Yesterday, I never made it to my car. Didn't have carpool duty at any time of the day for a change, so never emerged from the house. Late last night, I wanted to read again, and was so frustrated with myself for waiting until it was too dark and creepy outside again to check the car.
Oh, well, I thought, I'll get them out of the car tomorrow.
A few minutes later, I was distracted by other things, but walked by my little emergency laundry basket. Huh, I thought. I had never unpacked the extras. Tennies ... socks ... hard drive ... bottle of water ... yep ... all there. And ...
Pat Conroy's Beach Music. Donald Maass's Writing the Breakout Novel.
I would like to flatter these two men by saying theirs are the two most important books in my life. Unfortunately, it would be a lie. What it boils down to is I get bored sitting anywhere with nothing to do. I always take a book. I guess in my reasoning the other night, I figured if the house fell down around us, I'd be happy to have the two books I was most engrossed in while we were sitting in a shelter.
Or maybe if the tornado was only an F1 or F2, I'd read until it was over.
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Friday, April 25, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Your Blues Ain't Like Mine
I have read more books this year that have really, really made me think. More than in who knows how long--maybe ever. I've double posted a few times lately on both my blogs,and I'm going to have to do it again tonight.
Over the weekend, I finished the latest--Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, by Bebe Moore Campbell. I happened to see this while browsing at the library a few weeks ago, and remembered a reference to the author in a blurb on Carleen's book, Orange Mint & Honey, of course! And I did not know until just this minute when I went searching for a book link that Campbell is deceased, having died of a brain tumor in 2006.
If you've known me very well in "real life" for long, you know racism (i.e., trying to eliminate it) is one of my soapboxes. And yet, my eyes were opened even a bit wider reading this book. I felt such a mixture of anger, shame, and hope while reading. I think the premise behind the book is that we all have our burdens to bear, and that it's far too easy to judge others, believing that our own burden is just a little bit heavier because of what or who we are. You might come away with something altogether different if you read it. And, of course, there are so many big ideas in the book, and that's just one.
But, I want to talk about those emotions a little more here.
Anger. If you can read this story without feeling anger, I am afraid for you. The fictional events are based on a true story, where a young African American man in the deep South, right at the beginning of the civil rights era, was lynched for allegedly speaking inappropriately to a white woman. Lip service was paid to justice, almost making it worse than if it had never been brought up at all. The rest of the story entails the unfolding of the lives of those surrounding the event over the next 30 years--African American, white, and mixed-race characters.
Shame. I had to ask my mom over dinner Saturday evening what happened in our own family to stall racism. I loved my maternal grandma--she was truly one of my favorite people when I was growing up--yet I cringed and felt physically ill every time I heard her or one of her generation in my family use that horrible word you can guess at here.
For some reason, though, my mother wasn't like that. Over dinner, she told me that when she was growing up in New Mexico, they were beginning to talk in the public schools about civil rights and putting a stop to racism, and she guesses she just took it to heart. This suprises me--it was in the 40s and 50s, and that seems pretty progressive to me! She remembers a time when her father was furious with her for accepting a ride home from camp from the family of an African American girl, and another when she went on a date with a Hispanic boy.
Unfortunately, others in my extended family of her same generation weren't influenced like she was, and I am sorry to say some are no different all the way down to my generation. You could say we are not close today. :-D
On the other hand, my father's family was a strange contrast. I was under the impression my paternal grandmother was racist, too, although I did not know her well, but it turns out she was selective--she was prejudiced against Hispanics, but not African Americans.
This could be because, as it turns out, she fell deeply in love with an African American boy when she was in her late teens, and her father forced an end to that relationship, sometime in the 1920s, I guess. Grandma was an unhappy person as long as I knew her, and that went a long way in explaining her personality to me. She also bore the stigma of being one quarter Cherokee. At least, we think it was Cherokee. The family never talked much about it back in those days. It was a stigma, after all, and the guy responsible for that quarter was never publicly in the picture. I think there is a great story idea in there somewhere, and in fact, did a character sketch for a writing class last year based on the few details I knew.
Anyway, all I knew was the story I heard for years--when my father called to tell her he was engaged to a girl at the university he attended in New Mexico, Grandma's first question was, "Is she a Mexican?" And yet, she also sponsored a Jewish family in the displacement camps after WWII to come to the United States--including their grandbaby who had been fathered by a Nazi soldier who was in love with the daughter.
So, shame because I hate the way people related to me acted sometimes, and how some probably act to this day. But also hope.
Hope because I saw how my parents were able to stop this cycle in one family, in one generation, simply by saying to themselves and to us, their children, "This is never, ever acceptable." My dad worked with international students at the University of Colorado when I was a kid, and we had visitors of every race and religion in our house from the earliest time I can remember. It was just the norm.
My brother's best friend called my mom "Mom," too, and frequently asked my mom to give him and his bike a ride home from our house when it got too dark. He said, "White people don't like to see me riding my bike in your neighborhood after dark, sometimes they shoot at my bike license with BB guns." He was my brother's best man in his wedding. I spent the day I came home from the hospital with my middle baby with a broken heart. Alan had tried really hard to build a good life for himself, serving in the military, and trying to raise his son right, eventually as a single parent. Yet, somehow things went seriously awry. We learned that day I came home with my new baby that Alan, a victim of severe poverty and a childhood home in Five Points filled with crime, drugs, and despair, had cracked--he had murdered his own 10-year-old son, whom we had held as a baby, because the little guy had become involved in a gang. At least that was his reasoning.
The story was more horrible than we ever could have imagined, and yet, he wasn't just another statistic to us, he was our big brother, our son, our best friend. And I don't mean that in the sense of those who say, "I love black people. Some of my best friends are black." I admire your intention, but really, are they your best friends? On the other hand, I am not tooting my own horn here. I am sometimes reminded of the instances where I am myself racist, in some form or another. You know how I know? That still, small voice in my heart that whispers to me.
It occurred to me as I wrote that paragraph that one of the overriding themes in the manuscript I'm currently revising comes directly from my experiences. Several of my characters have a big "difference"--they are deaf. In my story, my main protagonist is deaf, but some of the other deaf characters do bad things. It is impossible to identify the "good guys" or "bad guys" simply based on their physical characteristics. In one scene, my character's granddad reminds him that in the world, there are really only two types of people--those who really care and those who really don't. I know that's pretty broad, but it's also pretty true if you think about it.
Anyway, I encourage you to locate this book. I think this would be an excellent book for a mandatory high school reading list. It's quite graphic, but probably no more graphic than they see every day on television and in movies, if more disturbing.
Sorry for going on so long, but this was on my heart. And how appropriate, the following quote just showed up on an email digest I get.
"People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun's out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light within."
—Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
Over the weekend, I finished the latest--Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, by Bebe Moore Campbell. I happened to see this while browsing at the library a few weeks ago, and remembered a reference to the author in a blurb on Carleen's book, Orange Mint & Honey, of course! And I did not know until just this minute when I went searching for a book link that Campbell is deceased, having died of a brain tumor in 2006.
If you've known me very well in "real life" for long, you know racism (i.e., trying to eliminate it) is one of my soapboxes. And yet, my eyes were opened even a bit wider reading this book. I felt such a mixture of anger, shame, and hope while reading. I think the premise behind the book is that we all have our burdens to bear, and that it's far too easy to judge others, believing that our own burden is just a little bit heavier because of what or who we are. You might come away with something altogether different if you read it. And, of course, there are so many big ideas in the book, and that's just one.
But, I want to talk about those emotions a little more here.
Anger. If you can read this story without feeling anger, I am afraid for you. The fictional events are based on a true story, where a young African American man in the deep South, right at the beginning of the civil rights era, was lynched for allegedly speaking inappropriately to a white woman. Lip service was paid to justice, almost making it worse than if it had never been brought up at all. The rest of the story entails the unfolding of the lives of those surrounding the event over the next 30 years--African American, white, and mixed-race characters.
Shame. I had to ask my mom over dinner Saturday evening what happened in our own family to stall racism. I loved my maternal grandma--she was truly one of my favorite people when I was growing up--yet I cringed and felt physically ill every time I heard her or one of her generation in my family use that horrible word you can guess at here.
For some reason, though, my mother wasn't like that. Over dinner, she told me that when she was growing up in New Mexico, they were beginning to talk in the public schools about civil rights and putting a stop to racism, and she guesses she just took it to heart. This suprises me--it was in the 40s and 50s, and that seems pretty progressive to me! She remembers a time when her father was furious with her for accepting a ride home from camp from the family of an African American girl, and another when she went on a date with a Hispanic boy.
Unfortunately, others in my extended family of her same generation weren't influenced like she was, and I am sorry to say some are no different all the way down to my generation. You could say we are not close today. :-D
On the other hand, my father's family was a strange contrast. I was under the impression my paternal grandmother was racist, too, although I did not know her well, but it turns out she was selective--she was prejudiced against Hispanics, but not African Americans.
This could be because, as it turns out, she fell deeply in love with an African American boy when she was in her late teens, and her father forced an end to that relationship, sometime in the 1920s, I guess. Grandma was an unhappy person as long as I knew her, and that went a long way in explaining her personality to me. She also bore the stigma of being one quarter Cherokee. At least, we think it was Cherokee. The family never talked much about it back in those days. It was a stigma, after all, and the guy responsible for that quarter was never publicly in the picture. I think there is a great story idea in there somewhere, and in fact, did a character sketch for a writing class last year based on the few details I knew.
Anyway, all I knew was the story I heard for years--when my father called to tell her he was engaged to a girl at the university he attended in New Mexico, Grandma's first question was, "Is she a Mexican?" And yet, she also sponsored a Jewish family in the displacement camps after WWII to come to the United States--including their grandbaby who had been fathered by a Nazi soldier who was in love with the daughter.
So, shame because I hate the way people related to me acted sometimes, and how some probably act to this day. But also hope.
Hope because I saw how my parents were able to stop this cycle in one family, in one generation, simply by saying to themselves and to us, their children, "This is never, ever acceptable." My dad worked with international students at the University of Colorado when I was a kid, and we had visitors of every race and religion in our house from the earliest time I can remember. It was just the norm.
My brother's best friend called my mom "Mom," too, and frequently asked my mom to give him and his bike a ride home from our house when it got too dark. He said, "White people don't like to see me riding my bike in your neighborhood after dark, sometimes they shoot at my bike license with BB guns." He was my brother's best man in his wedding. I spent the day I came home from the hospital with my middle baby with a broken heart. Alan had tried really hard to build a good life for himself, serving in the military, and trying to raise his son right, eventually as a single parent. Yet, somehow things went seriously awry. We learned that day I came home with my new baby that Alan, a victim of severe poverty and a childhood home in Five Points filled with crime, drugs, and despair, had cracked--he had murdered his own 10-year-old son, whom we had held as a baby, because the little guy had become involved in a gang. At least that was his reasoning.
The story was more horrible than we ever could have imagined, and yet, he wasn't just another statistic to us, he was our big brother, our son, our best friend. And I don't mean that in the sense of those who say, "I love black people. Some of my best friends are black." I admire your intention, but really, are they your best friends? On the other hand, I am not tooting my own horn here. I am sometimes reminded of the instances where I am myself racist, in some form or another. You know how I know? That still, small voice in my heart that whispers to me.
It occurred to me as I wrote that paragraph that one of the overriding themes in the manuscript I'm currently revising comes directly from my experiences. Several of my characters have a big "difference"--they are deaf. In my story, my main protagonist is deaf, but some of the other deaf characters do bad things. It is impossible to identify the "good guys" or "bad guys" simply based on their physical characteristics. In one scene, my character's granddad reminds him that in the world, there are really only two types of people--those who really care and those who really don't. I know that's pretty broad, but it's also pretty true if you think about it.
Anyway, I encourage you to locate this book. I think this would be an excellent book for a mandatory high school reading list. It's quite graphic, but probably no more graphic than they see every day on television and in movies, if more disturbing.
Sorry for going on so long, but this was on my heart. And how appropriate, the following quote just showed up on an email digest I get.
"People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun's out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light within."
—Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Books and movies, movies and books
This afternoon I took my daughter plus one to the movie store so they wouldn't drive me nuts later tonight. We have two extras at the house for yesterday and today. They, as usual, found two movies they've already seen to rent. What is it with kids and doing that? I think it's very strange. I will buy movies I especially liked at the theater (eg., The Notebook, Pride & Prejudice) and on occasion, even watch them (eg., Love, Actually), but I would never rent a movie I saw at the theater unless I was dying to have someone else watch it with me who had never seen it and it was less expensive to buy it than rent it.
I convinced them that was kind of silly (score! that rarely happens) and instead, we spent the big bucks on buying eight movies. I know, I am a sucker for the 4 for $20 deal Blockbuster always has, and especially when all the movies I've been wanting to buy are finally $9.99 or less and I can get them for the deal price. So, the girls got two movies they have NOT seen (well, at least some of the four have not seen each of the two...I could draw a Venn diagram if it would make it easier for you), and I got six. Overall, it is less expensive for us to buy cheap movies than to rent them...what with the "no late fees" service charges and all. (And that's a whole 'nuther subject.)
The point of this post is that it's strange how things work out. I just finished reading Blue Diary by Alice Hoffman. (I know, it's not on my sidebar, but I can't keep up with myself and all the books I read, so I just post what I'm reading if I happen to think of it, or if I read something particularly meaningful.) I've read one other Alice Hoffman, and took a look at her list inside the book jacket. That's nothing new...I always read nearly every word that appears in or on every book I read, including the reviews and acknowledgements. Weird, I realize. I also read shampoo bottle ingredients on occasion when I'm bored in the shower.
One of her books is called The River King. Well, lo and behold, what did appear at the movie store in front of my eyes, but movie of same name, which I've never seen or heard of in my life. And, sure enough, it was the same story. I did not buy that movie, but I was tempted. I think I'll try to find the book first. BUT...the next movie that caught my eye was The Door in the Floor. Well, I just finished reading A Widow for One Year, as you can see by the books in my sidebar, because I did post that one. When I was reading it, my friend Gail mentioned this movie was based on part of that book, so I thought I'd have to keep an eye open for it. How con-ven-i-ent. (Doing Church Lady dance now.) I did buy that movie. It will probably be strange, as the book was strange. John Irving has the slightly annoying habit of using odd italics to emphasize as he writes, and a kind of "foretelling" style. I haven't picked up any of those habits at all...I swear I used the italics before I ever read the book.
So, yeah, I said all that to say that coicidence is a strange animal. Someone I won't name to avoid being hit with rotten fruit, in fact, often calls it the "coinci-dance." I like it when those weird coincidances happen in my life. They make me think. What about you?
I convinced them that was kind of silly (score! that rarely happens) and instead, we spent the big bucks on buying eight movies. I know, I am a sucker for the 4 for $20 deal Blockbuster always has, and especially when all the movies I've been wanting to buy are finally $9.99 or less and I can get them for the deal price. So, the girls got two movies they have NOT seen (well, at least some of the four have not seen each of the two...I could draw a Venn diagram if it would make it easier for you), and I got six. Overall, it is less expensive for us to buy cheap movies than to rent them...what with the "no late fees" service charges and all. (And that's a whole 'nuther subject.)
The point of this post is that it's strange how things work out. I just finished reading Blue Diary by Alice Hoffman. (I know, it's not on my sidebar, but I can't keep up with myself and all the books I read, so I just post what I'm reading if I happen to think of it, or if I read something particularly meaningful.) I've read one other Alice Hoffman, and took a look at her list inside the book jacket. That's nothing new...I always read nearly every word that appears in or on every book I read, including the reviews and acknowledgements. Weird, I realize. I also read shampoo bottle ingredients on occasion when I'm bored in the shower.
One of her books is called The River King. Well, lo and behold, what did appear at the movie store in front of my eyes, but movie of same name, which I've never seen or heard of in my life. And, sure enough, it was the same story. I did not buy that movie, but I was tempted. I think I'll try to find the book first. BUT...the next movie that caught my eye was The Door in the Floor. Well, I just finished reading A Widow for One Year, as you can see by the books in my sidebar, because I did post that one. When I was reading it, my friend Gail mentioned this movie was based on part of that book, so I thought I'd have to keep an eye open for it. How con-ven-i-ent. (Doing Church Lady dance now.) I did buy that movie. It will probably be strange, as the book was strange. John Irving has the slightly annoying habit of using odd italics to emphasize as he writes, and a kind of "foretelling" style. I haven't picked up any of those habits at all...I swear I used the italics before I ever read the book.
So, yeah, I said all that to say that coicidence is a strange animal. Someone I won't name to avoid being hit with rotten fruit, in fact, often calls it the "coinci-dance." I like it when those weird coincidances happen in my life. They make me think. What about you?
Friday, September 29, 2006
Oh, Dad...
So my Dad, whose nickname is Ollie, sends a note that says:
Subject: Sounds like me!
Ollie does not walk that professional.
He teeters and totters and weevils and wobbles.
He fell down on the floor.
Subject: Sounds like me!
Ollie does not walk that professional.
He teeters and totters and weevils and wobbles.
He fell down on the floor.
To which I say, MOO.
Great Halloween reading
I wonder if I should be worried. I could be going back to sleep for a while (3 hours short of my 8-hour quota)...I could be working...I could be writing...but, no.
I am reading Junie B., First Grader: BOO...and I MEAN IT!
Because I want to. I am not accompanied by my 9-year-old daughter who checked it out from the library. I am just reading it. I started out reading it as "research." Now, I am just reading it. This girl is hilarious! I wish I could find an excerpt from this particular Junie B. Jones book, but I can't.
So, I'll have to make my own. Thanks, author Barbara Park.
Grandma did a little smile. Then she finished buttoning Ollie's sweater. And she put him on the floor to walk to me.
Ollie does not walk that professional.
He teeters and totters and weevils and wobbles.
He fell down on the floor.
Then he patted my shoe very nice. And he said the word moo.
Moo is Ollie's favorite word.
He is not the sharpest tool in the barn.
Grandma bent down to pick him up.
I touched her softie white hair.
Bats would love that hair, I believe.
"I wouldn't go out on Halloween if I were you, Grandma," I said. "Not with that head of hair."
Grandma Miller did a little frown. Then she fluffed her hair very much.
I am reading Junie B., First Grader: BOO...and I MEAN IT!
Because I want to. I am not accompanied by my 9-year-old daughter who checked it out from the library. I am just reading it. I started out reading it as "research." Now, I am just reading it. This girl is hilarious! I wish I could find an excerpt from this particular Junie B. Jones book, but I can't.
So, I'll have to make my own. Thanks, author Barbara Park.
Grandma did a little smile. Then she finished buttoning Ollie's sweater. And she put him on the floor to walk to me.
Ollie does not walk that professional.
He teeters and totters and weevils and wobbles.
He fell down on the floor.
Then he patted my shoe very nice. And he said the word moo.
Moo is Ollie's favorite word.
He is not the sharpest tool in the barn.
Grandma bent down to pick him up.
I touched her softie white hair.
Bats would love that hair, I believe.
"I wouldn't go out on Halloween if I were you, Grandma," I said. "Not with that head of hair."
Grandma Miller did a little frown. Then she fluffed her hair very much.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Book report
(I'm double posting this on both blogs...because I can.)
Last night, I finished reading The Tenth Circle, Jodi Picoult's most recent novel.
While not my favorite Picoult story, the presentation itself was unique. She used a cartoonist to graphically illustrate the book between sections, portraying a superhero and his travels through the different levels of hell (a variation on Dante's Inferno). Each cartoon revealed the emotions of the main character--in fact it was written as if he were drawing the cartoons.
I was never a big comic book fan (except Archie and Jughead--I bought every one of those books for months and months when I was a kid--and The Family Circus--my eyes still naturally gravitate toward that circle when I randomly open the newspaper to the comics. I have piles of both of those comic books hidden away somewhere in a box in the attic). Superheroes especially bored me to tears, so I struggled to concentrate on these drawings in the book long enough to "get" them, but wow, what a creative idea!
A surprise awaits the reader at the end of the book. Kind of gimmicky, but fun...and dare I say, educational. :) Other than going back to study a writer's technique, this is the first time I've ever flipped back and forth through a book for an extended period of time after I finished reading.
Oh, that I (or my future publisher anyway) should have such a creative idea for a novel one of these days.
Last night, I finished reading The Tenth Circle, Jodi Picoult's most recent novel.
While not my favorite Picoult story, the presentation itself was unique. She used a cartoonist to graphically illustrate the book between sections, portraying a superhero and his travels through the different levels of hell (a variation on Dante's Inferno). Each cartoon revealed the emotions of the main character--in fact it was written as if he were drawing the cartoons.
I was never a big comic book fan (except Archie and Jughead--I bought every one of those books for months and months when I was a kid--and The Family Circus--my eyes still naturally gravitate toward that circle when I randomly open the newspaper to the comics. I have piles of both of those comic books hidden away somewhere in a box in the attic). Superheroes especially bored me to tears, so I struggled to concentrate on these drawings in the book long enough to "get" them, but wow, what a creative idea!
A surprise awaits the reader at the end of the book. Kind of gimmicky, but fun...and dare I say, educational. :) Other than going back to study a writer's technique, this is the first time I've ever flipped back and forth through a book for an extended period of time after I finished reading.
Oh, that I (or my future publisher anyway) should have such a creative idea for a novel one of these days.
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