Review of book EACH ANGEL BURNS by Kathleen Valentine

02/17/2012

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I recently reviewed Kathleen Valentine's book, Each Angel Burns.

It was a beautiful piece of literary fiction. The book had it all: Engrossing storyline with a bit of mystery; enchanting settings; well-developed; mature and real characters. And to top it all off, a charming love story. This is one book that I will remember for a long time. It would make a very compelling movie.

 I gave it 4 stars, a high rating for me, would have been 4 1/2 if halves were available on Amazon and Goodreads.  

A more detailed review is available at our group blog: Boomers and Books. 
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2012 - The End of the World or a New Era?

01/25/2012

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Much has been said about the year 2012. For several years around the turn of this century there were those who believed that the end of the Mayan and other Mesoamerican long count calendars, projected for December 21, 2012, must mark the end of humanity. Most of this doomsday conjecture has been put to rest as scholars studied the suppositions and found that there had been more than one long count calendar cycle, consisting of 5125 years, recorded in the past, and indeed that the Mayans themselves appear to have expected with great anticipation the coming of the new cycle. Many believe this new cycle heralds an evolvement in human consciousness and many of those are involved in a kind of spiritual activism. Perhaps the peaceful dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Almost certainly a shift of some sort in the way of being of humanity.

So as the year 2012 rolled over, I began thinking about where we are and if there were a ‘New Age’ coming, where we might be headed.

I thought a lot about the digital age and what that might mean for humanity. I contemplated my own experiences with new technology. For whatever reason, I embraced this new technology right from the beginning. I know nothing at all about the mechanics of it but each new discovery of faster/easier/more versatile seems magical to me.

It is difficult when a New Age is upon humanity to see the bigger picture through the pain and chaos of the present, but I believe we are in just such a transition. When I look at the big picture I envision that we are on the leading edge of a new era of Renaissance. And just as with any other renaissance, times are tumultuous as people cling to their old ways and fight for their beliefs. But for the first time in recorded history, we have the benefit of hindsight and are able to study and compare events leading up to a renaissance, and recognize we may be perched on the precipice of one.

A Renaissance by its very definition is a revival or rebirth, especially of culture, art, literature, learning and other intellectual pursuits. Right or wrong, the renaissance I see is allowing humanity to express ourselves in ways heretofore never seen, at least in recorded history – and without the gatekeepers of the past. Even in many countries which still control what their citizens are ‘allowed’ to do, we are able to use our creative juices to post videos to such places as YouTube which can be seen instantly around the world - videos as diverse as animated mini-movies, artists who become instant superstars, and pictures of brutality by authorities taken on smart phones. We are maintaining relationships with our friend and family however far removed they may be, through social media such as Facebook, with photos and discussions. We make new friends in far off places and discover that humans the world over are not so different from one other. We tweet and retweet our successes and our failures and perhaps most importantly, we gain knowledge we could never have learned in a lifetime, even a decade or two ago. This renaissance will be vastly different from those of the past. It will not be contained to a small area of the cultured world as others have. This renaissance, for the very first time in recorded history, will affect the entire planet. Though assuredly to different degrees, every human will have a chance to be involved in some way.

As mentioned, such a renaissance will not come without cost. 2011 saw several upheavals. The ‘Arab Spring’, sometimes called the ‘Arab Awakening’ brought a wave of revolutions that ousted such despots as the relatively benign Ben Ali of
Tunisia, Mubarek in Egypt and the brutal regime of Muammar Gaddafi. Several other Arab countries experienced uprisings and protests. In many cases, social media was used to get the word out. The hated terrorist Bin Laden was found and killed. Perhaps most significantly, the US officially ended the war in Iraq at the end of the year. Social media played a part in several of these upheavals as
more and more of humanity demanded freedoms long suppressed.

Though I would posit this to be a Renaissance of expansion of invention and creativity as all others have been, this one is different. Where in the past we had benefactors who would feed us while we struggled to express ourselves through art, music, or literature, we now have the freedom and tools to create and co-create ad infinitum. But with freedom comes responsibility. Though connected reasonably easily to the other seven billion or so individuals on the planet, we often feel we are on our own, adrift in a sea of change so profound no one seems able to lead the way. But through it all, we are inspired to create: storytelling, animated and ‘live’ video films, digital art, poetry, dance, literature, music, information, intellectual pursuits, all expressed easily and instantly through the power of the digital world. New and imaginative devices are created every day that illuminate this magic to us as if from thin air.

This will not come easily. We will need to have courage and faith – and perhaps a sense of wonder at Life itself.  We need the wonder and boldness of children and young adults, to be sure. But most of all we may need the kind of wonder and tenacity which makes more mature folks, with their acquired wisdom, poised to lead the way…

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Christmas Downunder...

12/31/2011

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 For the second time since my youngest daughter (hereinafter called dd2) moved to Australia a few years ago, my eldest daughter (dd1) and I made the trek downunder for a golden – as in bright sunshine and sandy beaches – rather than a white Christmas. Not a hardship really. Aside from the wonderful event of having the whole family together again, which in itself would negate any possible nostalgia, dd1 and I live in Canada, it is true, but we live in Vancouver, where precipitation is
ninety nine percent more likely to fall as bleak rain rather than the pristine
glittering white snow depicted on Christmas cards. 
 
So we set out with joy in our hearts and no regrets at all. Though there were reservations. Dd1 has kidney failure and is on dialysis which she does at home. This requires a machine personally programmed for her, which must be taken with her. Further, it must be allowed in the cabin area as one cannot take the chance of it being lost or damaged. When I planned this blog I had no intention of mentioning any of this. But it became integral to the story and a big part of the adventure. 
 
Before we left we had word that the supplies she would need were safely stored in dd2’s new home through the magic of delivery of same throughout the world. Dd1 was concerned that it might create a space problem, as there were something like forty boxes the size of a case of wine for her four week stay. We needn’t have worried, as we soon found out. The new home, which took dd2 and her dh several years to find in the seller’s market that is Ozz, has plenty enough space, with a separate wing for the two children as well as an in-law suite. 
 
We were well assured by the renal folks and flight center we would have no problem with any airline bringing the wheeled hard case with the machine (which weighs 20 lbs and is the size of a medium suitcase) on board. We had the necessary machine specs which showed there were no toxic chemicals or any other dangerous goods within, we had the letter from the Nephrologist which stated dd1 was in fine health to travel, and the airline had been duly advised of our ‘special need’.

However, we had booked the flight with China Eastern Air, as it offered one of the few flights which would not require a stop in the US. We knew from experience this was to be avoided at all costs. Checked baggage cannot be sent straight through if a stop is being made in the US. It must be picked up at the baggage area and gone
through customs as if one were actually entering the country for a visit. This is an experience beyond daunting. Once the baggage is picked up one must shuffle along in line for up to four or more hours pushing the luggage along without benefit of a cart. This would likely do dd1 in: it is barely tolerated by someone in perfect health without collapse.
 
We got through check-in with no problem at Vancouver Airport. The nice attendant, who spoke decent English, tagged the case with a bright yellow sticker marked ‘approved cabin baggage’ in English and Chinese. We had gone extra early because we were concerned we might have problems and because we could not check in on-line as their self-check system was down, so it would be first come first served for seats. We got a luggage cart and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and then made our way to the waiting area. Upon arrival there we made sure to check in with the staff. What a flurry that caused. ‘Too big’, a phrase we came to know all too well, was uttered by at least three staff. When we pointed out the sticker, too
big! was shouted. A very sweet, very gentle attendant explained to us that the case could not be taken aboard in the cabin but would be placed in the same plane‘right below’ it and ‘safe’. My limited knowledge of jets is that the luggage storage area is below, and never to be considered ‘safe’. We ‘discussed’ it for a few more minutes, and when they continued to dig their heels in, mom simply looked the attendant in the eye and said, in that tone that broached no argument, “The machine must go into the cabin with her and never leave her sight. If she does not have it she will die.” (this is not altogether true, there are alternatives such as her going to hospital and having dialysis there, but one uses the card when they need it). That got their attention and required another several minutes of assuring the poor sweet thing who was only spouting the company directives she’d been taught, that dd1 did not need to use the machine while on board, but would need it upon landing. Finally the original check-in attendant and a more senior attendant came to assist and it was agreed that the offending machine would be stowed in the cabin, and that we would be the first to board.   

The Airbus A340-300 jet turned out to be very small, very old, very rattly, and very slow. The flight started out promising. About an hour into it we were issued a hot wet finger cloth from silver tongs and served a meal (which thankfully came with wine or beer) after which the lights were darkened. We had left at one pm our time so we were not tired enough to sleep. The attendants disappeared and were quite cross when anyone hit the call button. There were no extra pillows or blankets, no drinks trays came around to quench our thirst, though occasionally an attendant came down the aisle with a large bottle of water and cups and one was allowed a sip or two. Hours went by, books were read, aisles were walked. About seven hours into the flight the guests were getting restless, eyes were met across aisles, shoulders were shrugged, hands were thrown in the air. Was that it? Only the one meal? That leg of our flight, which ended in Shanghai, was almost thirteen hours. Fortunately I had brought some cheese and crackers and other snackies as I run on protein and always have some with me. Others were not so fortunate. Questions of the attendants were met with glassy eyes. We hunkered down as best we could and napped for about twenty minutes. An hour or so later we were brought individually wrapped checkered sandwiches of the type served at weddings and funerals. Dd1 was still hungry and I asked the attendant if she could have another. She held her index finger in the air and mouthed, only one. We discussed the cultural differences and our wisdom in choosing this airline, chuckled, and dug into another snack. Later dd1 went for a loo break and discovered a tray of sandwiches sitting at the back with a different attendant. When she asked if she could have one she was told, of course!, was handed two, and offered a drink to boot. Imagine our surprise when the lights were turned back on and a hot meal was brought out shortly before hour twelve. We had a choice of omelet or fried rice, both adequate, and no alcohol was offered this
time.

We wondered what kind of gong show we were going to encounter for the next leg, Shanghai to Melbourne, which was to be about eleven hours. Many attendants stood in a row and waved us in the proper direction as we disembarked in Shanghai through immigration and customs toward the transfer area. For some reason we had to go down a floor and then up two floors with no stop in between, but like lemmings we followed the crowd. Then we suddenly hit a gate and many shouts of too big! rang out. Dd1 thought fast and showed the first couple of guards the yellow sticker which thankfully had remained intact, and after a few minutes of discussion we were let through, only to encounter ever more, even sterner looking guards and the ubiquitous too bigs! I came chest to belly with a tall, erect, immovable guard carrying a gun. Dd1 had simply had enough and taking a cue from the earlier
no-broach of her mom, simply kept pointing to the yellow sticker and marched
right on through, lugging the twenty pound case and her carry-on as if they all weighed nothing. I followed suit, in hot pursuit by the tall guard and his partner. We got through the turnstiles and laughed as the guards argued amongst themselves behind us. Though we did feel bad when we wondered later if any of them may have gotten in trouble. There was one more heart-stopping blip when a woman guard at customs took my passport and those of a few others, along with the forms we’d filled out, and trounced off with a ‘follow me’. With one eye on the woman and one on dd1, whose passport the woman also snatched as we passed, we arrived at a wicket where she gave the lot to the customs agent. The agent held the passports up at the photo page and one by one we were identified. Thankfully this agent was one of very few who had a smile for us as he checked our photos against the face in the monitor and stamped our customs slips and passports, accepting our silly attempts at humour when every second person made mention of the mug shot and how it did not look like us. Welcome to China! 

We’d been issued boarding passes straight through in Vancouver so luckily could bypass check-in. When we arrived at the proper departure gate, dd1 approached the first attendant to arrive for our flight. Well-seasoned now, we stood our ground whenever we heard any of the many more too-big! shouts. More attendants were called and finally it was agreed that we could go down the loading ramp, with the warning, delivered eye to eye with me, twice, that when we got there if the case was too big we could be turned away and the attendant was not to be held responsible. We laughed all the way down and were met with three or four attendants now insisting that if the case could not go into the overhead luggage bin we could not board. A male attendant looked at our boarding passes and said, follow me, a tiny woman took hold of the case and struggled with it through first class, the first person who actually acknowledged that perhaps the individual who required the case might need some assistance. This leg of the flight was a delight compared to the first. We were now on a Boeing 767-300, about the same size plane but with more spacious seating. Where the Airbus had two, four, and two seats across, the Boeing had three seats in the middle. The staff was friendly and well-trained, food was timely and we slept through five or so hours of it. Most importantly, the Boeing’s overhead storage was big enough to accommodate the machine and its case. Two beefy male attendants shoved it in, slammed down the door until its hinges bulged, and beamed at us.

Somewhat seasoned in Australian customs, we breezed through with a few leftover cheeses in my pack (individually wrapped but probably verboten), a second checked piece of luggage each full of goodies from Canada not available in their new country (including, and I kid you not,
packages of Kraft Dinner, which had never graced my table when my own kids had
been growing up and which I picked up with two fingers and an urggh every time I
had to handle them), and a sheepish smile accompanied by a statement of ‘lollies for the kiddies’.

Welcome to  Australia!

We left around noon the Tuesday before Christmas and arrived in Ozz on Thursday at ten am, after losing a day crossing the International Date Line somewhere near the Arctic Circle. I never think of Aussie time as seventeen or nineteen hours ahead of us, but rather five or seven hours behind us, plus one day. Since we were off daylight saving and they were on, the difference was only five hours, so we would normally just stay up until their bedtime, but as we had arrived so early, we reckoned a nap would not do us any harm. After a viewing of the house, which was delightfully decorated in every nook and cranny, a good visit and some pre-Christmas chores, dd1 and I slept for about two hours in the late afternoon and were still plenty tired enough in the evening to hit the sack at a normal
ten pm their time.

Dd2 has, as she has always done, formed a wide circle of friends in her new country, and Friday marked the beginning of a round of events which were hectic and wonderful – with the odd monkey wrench thrown into the mix. During the day dsil (darling son-in-law) and the kids put up a marquee on the bricked patio in preparation for the decorating that was to be done the next day, Christmas Eve. A marquee is what Aussie’s call the kind of tent often erected for weddings and such. This was no small affair, measuring about fifteen by twenty four feet; twenty two guests were expected for a traditional Christmas ‘lunch’. The rest of us continued with a flurry of chores enjoyed in the warmth and sunshine of the day. In the evening we all tripped over to a friend’s for a fondue/raclette party. The house was more formally decorated than dd2’s, and equally delightful. A raclette is a kind of double-decker grill with little flat metal pots with handles arranged on the first level and often a granite top. Special (and wonderful) cheeses and such are grilled in the pots while meats and vegetables sizzle on the top. It must be experienced to be appreciated, but suffice to say this party consisted of scallops fresh-caught that very morning in the bay by the host, meatballs, fresh kangaroo (very much like the dark bits of chicken), lamb chunks, giant prawns, cheeses, bread, and an assortment of vegetables, all cooked in broth in the fondue pots or grilled upon the raclette at the choice of the guest, of whom there were eight adults and about as many children. Much wine and other drinks were poured and there was laughter and joy aplenty. 

Though it pains me to do so, here I must mention the worst monkey-wrench thrown in by yours truly, as it is a big part of the adventure. We arrived home about eleven pm. I washed up and got ready for bed. As dd1 had missed a dialysis run entirely while travelling and had not had a good run the first night and it was much later than usual, I decided I would go downstairs to check and see how the run was going this time. She’d been ensconced in the in-law suite in order to give her the privacy to rest or give herself treatment at her own leisure. Everyone else was already in bed and the house was pitch black. I knew the light switch for the stairs was at the bottom, so I cautiously made my way through the kitchen and felt along the inner and outer walls for the light switch for the hall. Not finding any, I made my way by feel to the stair railing and stepped cautiously along to the top post, thinking to step sideways from there and to the wall I thought I remembered which would probably house a switch. 

I stepped down into thin air. It seemed to go on forever and I remember trying to recall the configuration and if there was perhaps an empty space beside the stairway into which I’d somehow stepped. Before I fully completed the thought I found myself tumbling down the flight of some fifteen stairs to the stone-tiled landing. That part went exceedingly fast with no memory of thought at all. When I reached the bottom, face-first, blood was spurting everywhere and I was sprawled on the tiles. I tried to move but somehow could not figure out a way to untangle myself. I called out to dd1, which was a silly thing to do as she was tethered to her machine and could not reach me, but I wanted to assure her I was okay and would make my way to her. Soon I heard thundering steps and my dsil was beside me, followed closely on his heels by dd2 at about the same time dd1 reached the end of her tether and was staring at me and the blood wide-eyed. Dsil and dd2 helped me off the tiles into the next room, asking over and over if I was okay. I was, but kept apologizing about the blood, which was also splattered on the last few treads, which were thankfully carpeted. Leaning on a counter with dd2’s help, and shaking with shock, I watched as dsil calmly got out a mop and mopped up the blood as best he could, then with help from both of them while dd1 returned to her bed terrified by what she’d seen but unable to do anything, we made our way upstairs to one of their many bathrooms where I looked in the mirror and saw a small vertical wound about an inch long beside my right eye and wondered how it could produce so much blood. I sat on the edge of the tub and, still violently trembling, washed off the blood that covered my arms, legs and chest and kept insisting I was fine. At this point I thought I had the one small wound, a very sore tailbone and no doubt dozens of other bruises, and a giant wound to the ego. However, as I was washing my neck, blood kept trickling down (well, perhaps it was more like streaming, but I’m a stubborn old coot), as dd2 (who has a medical background) washed and treated the right-eye wound with supplies from her handy first-aid kid. A very large cut was apparently found in the scalp. I kept insisting I was okay and did not need to go to the ER. It was now nearing midnight.

I resisted, they insisted it was an open wound and needed attention, so I was dressed into clean sweats and a t-shirt and trundled off to the nearest hospital triage. After a wait of about an hour I was seen by a triage nurse and told to go back to the waiting room. About a half hour later a second nurse came and asked the same
questions all over again. She then led me to a bed where a third, very busy nurse, asked the questions yet again. Had I fainted they kept asking, or blacked out, not believing for a moment anyone could be so stupid as to fall as I had. So, the nurse asked rhetorically for the final time, it was a mechanical fall. Yep, afraid so. Would have been much more glamourous to agree I had lost consciousness, rather than the silliness of losing my head and not going back to the other side of the kitchen to turn on some lights so I could see the hallway because I did not wish to disturb anyone. By this time all had agreed I would need stitches in the scalp. Even though during the five additional hours of
waiting (it was a Friday night, during the holiday season), I threatened to bolt several times, cooler heads (dd2 and the nurses) prevailed and truthfully I did wish to have a Doctor check out my spine and tailbone just to confirm I was unhurt there beyond the pain. The nurse gave me a pain pill and when I began to get restless legs, I eased my way off the gurney as dd2 closed her eyes, and began to walk the halls. That got their attention. It was now about six in the morning and the Doc had seen me two hours before that and stated he would come back and stitch me up but was nowhere to be seen, except for two times when he came into the room which happened to contain the materials with which to stitch, smiled a reassurance and walked out again to fix up someone else. That was beyond excruciating. The nurse said she thought I was next (I wasn’t, I went through the same optimistic expectation of being treated one additional time, like a dog who thinks his master is taking him for a walk when he pats his head on the way out the door only to be left behind dejectedly) and asked if she could bring me a cup of tea and a sandwich. That did the trick. When she got back with the goodies I let them help me back on the gurney and there I stayed until I got the seven stitches to the scalp required to fix me up, the new steri-strip plastered on the cut by the right eye with the observation that dd2 had done an admirable job with the one she put on, and a tetanus shot for good measure. 

I truly believe there was some kind of divine intervention throughout. I cannot properly describe the feeling of falling at the beginning. It felt as if I was going straight down and yet was light as a feather, and felt like minutes went by before I hit the stairs. There was no fear whatsoever, either while in the air, tumbling down the stairs, or when I reached the bottom. I simply knew I was okay.  

In the ensuing days at least fifty people, many of them complete strangers to me, have come up and asked if I am okay, admiring the black eye (oddly on the left side and deep
purple and red) that sprang up the next day and the various scratches, bruises
and abrasions that adorn my body. I always shoot my dd2 and dsil a black look,
as it now appears their friends consider me a silly LOL (Lee Sinclair’s ‘original’ edition: Little Old Lady), whereas – partly because I had my first dd at age nineteen and am mostly younger than their own parents – I like to think of myself as a cool mom.  

But what of Christmas Downunder - one might be wondering if they should happen to still be reading this long shaggy-dog story - the topic of which I was originally intending this blog to be.

Well, I wasn’t much use, crawling into bed in what was now Christmas Eve day and sleeping for about four hours and feeling jet-lagged all over again, along with some pain that I could never pinpoint as it seemed to move from hour to hour, and stiffness. I watched as dd1 and dd2, who had stayed with me throughout the seven or so hours against all protestations that she go home to her bed and come back when I was finally done and had even less sleep than I did, as well as her friend from the night before who happens to be a whiz at parties, decorated the new marquee. Dsil, a handy man if I’ve ever seen one, finished it off with blue fairy lights which twinkle spectacularly, and swept and generally did the tidy-up one does for such
affairs. I did, however, insist on making my famous rum cake with the assistance of my granddaughter as promised the day before. The rest of the food pre-preparation was left to dd1 and dd2.

Christmas morning I heard scurrying footsteps from the grandchildren, who had been admonished to not get up before six thirty. They are extraordinarily sweet and well-behaved (but then we grandparents all think that don’t we), and I knew it must be about that time. Sure enough 6:31 on the dot said the clock. Opening gifts is about the same in Ozz as at home. Though this family works admirably hard to keep things at a reasonable consumer level, it was wonderful to see their faces as each opened their presents. We had indeed brought many lollies, as claimed at
customs, most of which were given upon arrival and placed into a big bowl as compensation for the ‘pathetic’ Hallowe’en  they have downunder, but we’d saved a few extra special tidbits and their eyes still alighted when they pulled them out of their stockings. 

Christmas ‘lunch’ was quite the soiree. Though I’d been told by dsil that Christmas was a much more laid-back affair than in Canada, with a ‘barbie’ lunch and to the beach afterward, I knew by now he was remembering it from the eyes of a young person. Melbourne is perhaps the most Victorian city in the world outside the British Isles, and Christmas is a very proper, fairly formal affair (at least it is in his family) considering most of it was indeed cooked on the barbie and we ate it 
al fresco. The two ‘picnic’ tables which dsil had made by hand with stainless steel frames and beautifully stained and rubbed hardwood slat tops, were covered with commercial grade pristine white cloths and decorated with candles and other twinkling Christmas ornaments. Each table was perhaps ten feet long and the two laid end to end sat the twenty two guests most comfortably. The first course was a cocktail of shrimp individually served. After that the food was laid out buffet-style inside on the big wooden dining table brought from Canada and now used in the kitchen eating area leading to the veranda and patio. Two turkeys done on the barbie, a big ham, yams and other vegetables, mashed potatoes and gravy, all graced the table as they might do at home in Canada. We sat down around the tables about three pm and were still there past ten, now eating cheeses and tasting local fortified wines, enjoying a cool fragrant breeze under a panoply of sparkling stars and laughing and singing along to the two or three guitars being played.

On Boxing Day Monday several families gathered up their leftovers and headed to the beach club where dd2’s family has a membership. There we sat around a plastic picnic table and frolicked on the sand and in the bay for several hours. 

The rest of the week was spent in the same kind of social whirl, with people and children coming and going, trips to the shopping area so the children could spend their ‘Crissy’ money, a lovely lunch at a local winery with the extended family that segued into dinner at the house, another visit to the beach which ended in yet another family being invited back for a barbie, and so on and so forth...

As I write this it is New Year’s Day here in Australia. Last night we were invited to a New Year’s Eve party. The temperature had been in excess of 32 C (+/- 90 F) in the day as we sat around the pool and had some family time. The Eve party was held entirely outdoors in a lovely modern extended veranda with tile flooring and glass railings overlooking a big pool in which the kiddies frolicked while we adults
overindulged in food and drink and laughter, just as individuals will everywhere in the world tonight on the other side of the Date Line, in warmth or around a cozy fire.


Just before midnight an
entirely too handsome and sweet young man, the son of a guest from chilly
England, began bringing out glasses of champagne on a tray. As the kiddies sat
on chairs and watched a movie on a screen set up outdoors like a drive-in
theatre off the other end of the veranda, the adults kissed and toasted the New
Year and reflected upon the past and the
future.

Going to be a good one, methinks.

And yes, we have now determined that if the jet is a comfortable Boeing 737-300, we would fly China Eastern Air – and come fully prepared. In the meantime dd1 is flying home on Qantas and I am travelling a few weeks later on Cathay Pacific, which we pray will be the usual uneventful let’s-just- get- through-this flight and get home...
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Boomers and Books Facebook Page Launch!!

12/06/2011

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As many of you will know, I belong to a group blog called Boomers and Books. 
 
We have just launched a new Facebook Page: http://www.facebook.com/boomersandbooks    Have a look and if you like what you see, Like the page and c'mon and hang out with us. Hope to see you there!
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Review of book The Girl on the Swing by Ali Cooper

12/06/2011

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Though this book insinuated itself onto my Kindle – nudging aside a couple of others ahead of it on my to-be-read pile -  at a very busy time, it engaged me from the beginning and I could barely put it down. 

Largely narrative and written in first person present tense, the writing was beautiful, the settings well rendered and the protagonist believable and real.

While there is an underlying theme of reincarnation in the book, it is rather a story of one woman’s struggle to find meaning in life again after the tragic loss of her only child. She feels estranged from her husband and very alone in her
grief.

Julia is an obstetrician from a middle class background; her ambitious husband from a stiff-upper-lip aristocratic family. She is finally getting ready to return to work when a wrongful death lawsuit is brought against her and she is forced to take an extended leave from her profession. This sends her spiralling down again. She begins to have unsettling visions of a past life. She dares not mention these to her husband and when she does so to her psychologist friend, it is suggested she keep busy doing volunteer work. 
 
Julia decides to try it out and through a twist of fate ends up visiting a prisoner who is in jail for murder. There is an eerie connection with this man and the story begins to take some skillfully written, surprising twists and turns. 

There were a few loose threads around minor characters that could have been tidied up, but we come to know and like most of them well enough for the story. Near the ending there is an unexpected twist that stirs Julia out of her fog a bit and helps her face the uncertainty of her future, and a further lovely bittersweet turn that offers promise of resolution and hope.

The Girl on the Swing is literary fiction with a compelling storyline. A most enjoyable read with a touch of suspense and mystery, and one I will remember for a very long time...

4 stars out of 5!

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Review of The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak

10/11/2011

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This book came highly recommended to me and I resisted reading it for some time. After all who wants to read a book about Death – as in the ‘being’ Death, if such a thing exists, who narrates the story while collecting up bodies and assisting them to Heaven. On top of all that it is listed in the Young Adult category; a genre I seldom read.

Forget all that. The  Book Thief is purely and simply one of the most original, intelligent and  authentic books I have ever read. It is a book one wants to remember. Not just  the story, but the extraordinarily imagined characters and the beautiful  writing.

The hero, Liesel, does not know how to read when the story begins. Over the course of the book we watch with humour and poignancy, her discovery of words. It is the words and the writing of them that are so remarkable in this tale. There are only twenty six letters in the English language, twenty six characters  with which to make words, and Zusak fashions from those characters words that  sing. Sometimes he makes up words like a mature Dr. Suess. The author was not  afraid of going outside the conventions of novel writing, yet the story is so  lyrically written he pulls off an extraordinary feat, deftly managing to take a  dark subject and making it an enchanting read.

The Book Thief should be on the shelf of every young adult and those who are eighty.  Baby Boomers, a product of some of the events of the story, might particularly appreciate the book. Zusak does not dumb down words nor does he  use pretentious ones. He simply writes with the words that best fit – whether big, small, made up or profane.Though there was pathos galore, it was also laugh-out-loud funny at times. The story line was profound on more than one level. The narrator, as mentioned, was Death, albeit sometimes reluctantly so. Liesel was a nine year old uprooted from her Communist parents in Nazi Germany. There are tender moments and moments that are beastly. In the end it is a book  about the human spirit.

 Sometimes a book entertains, sometimes it edifies. The best books combine the two and this book presents a story which should be told to every generation, in a way that is most edifying without being preachy and entertaining without being frivolous.

Moving, profound, innovative, creative, refreshing, astounding. Brilliant!

And the thievery? Well, you’ll just have to find out for yourself.

Steal this book as fast as you can...

5 stars

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Book Reviewing...

09/23/2011

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I never intended on becoming a book reviewer. However, since publishing my own book I have on occasion felt inspired to write a review of a story I enjoyed in hopes it might help readers find the book. This seems to be happening more frequently as there are a plethora of new good books being written, both traditionally and indie
published. 

Recently I reviewed a book with an engaging story. The book was written by a UK author and made reference to many wild animals with which I am familiar. The problem was that the names of some of the animals are used differently in Europe from North America. I had not known this prior to reading the book but serendipitously learned of it when I was near the beginning. I felt it incumbent upon me to let readers know this to avoid any confusion. I posted a quick review but subsequently realized I could have written it better and revised it (a wonderful option in this digital age).

The whole thing got me thinking about reviewing. I don’t feel I am good at reviewing. I wondered if I should set upsome kind of criteria for the ‘star’ rating Goodreads and Amazon, the two places to which I most often post reviews, insist upon. 

In the end, I decided that might be prudent
for professionals but it would not work for me. I read broadly, almost never buying for genre. SomeSome books appeal for their characters, some for their captivating story, some for humor, others for their socially redeeming quality. For me to enjoy the book, one or two of those qualities need to be there but not necessarily all. I never begin a book with the intent to review anyway. So I will continue to just write from the heart and must-haves be damned. 

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Baby Boomers and Health...

08/18/2011

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We have a terrific doctor who is a daily contributor to our local news station. I don’t often catch him because I don’t often watch the news. But occasionally I do turn it on so I can see what the weather person has to say about whether I should bring an umbrella or perhaps a sweater when venturing into the great outdoors.    

If I do happen to stumble upon the doc I listen up. He’s quite a character, a baby boomer who has the chops and is very passionate about health. He more often  turns his nose up at a newly released study or survey, nicely edifying listeners  on the empirical data size and/or interpretation in a humorous and forthright  manner.

A while ago I caught him immediately upon hitting the ‘power’ button on the remote. He was wearing his usual grin. (And I suspect jeans and running shoes on his lower body hidden behind a desk). He began as he often does describing a new survey. As he went on with the statistics his voice rose and he became almost apoplectic.

Boomers it seems, are worrying about the wrong things in regards to their health. Or more succinctly they are addressing the wrong things. The survey suggested we worry most about cancer and dementia. Which brings us to the reason  for the rise in the doc’s blood pressure:  According to an article  in the Los Angeles Times, these are the top killing diseases in the US:

 -Heart disease (616,067 deaths)
 -Cancer (562,875 deaths)
 -Stroke (135,952 deaths)
 -Chronic lower respiratory diseases (127,924 deaths)
 -Unintentional injuries, Alzheimer’s disease, diabetes and influenza and pneumonia round out the list (the most recent data, which are still
preliminary,  show a smaller gap between heart disease and cancer deaths).

My youngest daughter, who is a project manager in clinical health, says cancer is a ‘designer’ disease. Please, neither she, I, the writer of the linked article nor the  doc is suggesting cancer is anything other than a horrible disease which we must  do everything we can to eradicate. My eldest daughter just turned three on just turned three on  Aug.12th. Yes, it is her third anniversary of a life-saving bone  marrow transplant, which she received after contracting Leukemia two years  before that and which re-occurred just shy of a year after the first rounds of  chemo treatment that all had thought to have ‘cured’ her. We thank God, research  and modern medicine for her life every day. It is just that cancer is where most  of our research money -and worry – is going, whereas other diseases are not  getting the attention they deserve. No one is suggesting taking from the cancer  fund and putting it elsewhere. We need to add funding for health issues,  period.

The LA Times article goes on to say this:
The advice to prevent heart disease hasn’t changed much. Eating healthy and exercising, not smoking and only drinking in moderation are still the go-to preventive measures—the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has more here.


And that’s what had the Doc’s plebian striped shirt in a knot. We know a little how to prevent heart disease and strokes (which he lumps together) but we  must make the effort ourselves. Folks, he said in a tight voice, (I am paraphrasing as I did not record and do not remember his exact words), get your mammograms and other tests, donate to research, but above all, walk or do other exercise, reduce stress, don’t smoke and drink only moderately. And who knows, he added, it just might prevent some cancers and dementia as well.

So if you worry at all about health issues (and this same doc as most doctors, rates worry as right up there in causes of ill health - being aware he says, and taking precautions would do us a lot more good), are you worrying about the right things?

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Review: Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne

07/29/2011

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I began this book not knowing what to expect. I’d been wanting to read it ever since being introduced to the story. Since reincarnation is a big theme in The
Storyteller I purchased the book because it was so highly regarded.
 
I needn’t have worried. One would have thought the book had been written by a much more seasoned writer than the author. It was beautifully done. The beginning of the book was a long narrative as Anne contemplated her life with Henry from her place in ‘the memories’.
 A couple of times it verged on being draggy as Anne played out her emotions, but the emotions and thoughts were so well imagined and wrought that the reader was always pulled back in. 

In her ruminations, Anne brings us some
colourful vignettes of other lives lived. Throughout there are woven in bits of philosophy so skilfully done one hardly notices. 
  
There were one or two concepts that I did
not share with the story, but beliefs are only that after all and Anne’s truths seemed very real in the telling. 

Threads is not a quick read. It is a work of literature whose threads are to be savoured
and pondered. I truly believe this story could become a classic. 

I am delighted to so quickly have found such a quality work on Kindle. Threads shall remain archived on my Kindle forever in my ‘Private Library’ collection.

I highly recommend all my readers buy this book. It is wonderfully written and is pretty close to how I believe reincarnation works.

Threads is available on Kindle or in paperback from Amazon.
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Piggy Weekend XVIII

06/27/2011

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Eighteen years ago our mutual friend gathered up six women she felt would make for a great women’s only weekend at her beach cabin on a British Columbia recreation lake. She sent an invitation to attend the first annual Ladies of the Lake (the original LOL), otherwise known as Womens’ Wellness Weekend (or WWWI). It was a command performance in the invitees minds; who would turn down such an opportunity from our beloved classy friend. Most stayed the weekend, a couple only a few hours or one day. I barely knew one, but the rest I’d known for years. Four were from the host’s hometown, three, including me, a two to five hour drive away.  

In her inimitable style, the choice of friends was a good one. We were business owners, stay-at-home-moms, a teacher, banker, accounts manager and realtor. That first weekend, yours truly brought out a pub game called Pass the Pigs. It was portable, easy to learn and a ton of fun. I suggested to the early arrivers that we play a round while waiting for the rest to arrive, and after some arm-twisting they agreed. As the others trickled in and got settled we insisted they join in the fun. Each looked at us as if we were crazy. You want us to play what? Pigs? But it was obvious we were having too much fun and everyone was eventually hooting and hollering. Then our friend the realtor arrived. This gal loves to play bridge and put up the most resistance. I think we compromised and said we would play later if she would just play one game. I will never forget how she went from grumble to the most boisterous player in a very short time. She got so into it we ended up having competitions for the title of Porcine Queen. I confess I deliberately lost so I wouldn’t have to wear the piggy noses and ears we made from pink Styrofoam egg cartons for the winners, but the others were all good sports. 

Alas, that set the tone for that weekend and all the upcoming ones. We kept the LOL and WWW designation for a few years, but try as we might we never returned to the elegance of that first invitation. It has become and I suppose will ever be the Piggy Weekend. 

Who knew how much pig paraphernalia was out there – and trust me if it could be found, we did. Over the years we added so much stuff it is now packed away into boxes each year and stuffed into a closet awaiting our next invasion. Upon our arrival our first order of business is to decorate every nook and cranny with pink piggies. Early on someone brought out a pig that oinks most annoyingly every time one walks by. That thing will not die! The fabulous wax candle chandelier is accessorized with all manner of little piggies sitting, hanging and hugging. Scattered about are piggy soap, candles and ornaments. On one chest sits a set of seven rather vulgar female pigs in various states of disarray, sunning themselves in tiny striped canvas lounge chairs. Inside and outdoors stand ceramic and bronze ornamental sculptures. A giant stuffed pig rests in a corner. Pig string lights adorn the tree that grows through the sundeck. We have pig gilded drinking glasses and serving dishes. A very cute tea kettle we found used in which our host arranges flowers. We have made piggy cupcakes and found pig truffle chocolates to die for. At various times members have brought for each member: pig socks, slippers (more than one variety) and seven uniquely individual sets of pig night attire from La Vie en Rose, a boutique lingerie store out of Montreal (I kid you not). Throughout the year we use pig animations to add to the elegance of our emails. Apparently, with pigs, more is more. 

We are still a core group of seven, though one member was unable to continue for personal reasons and we added a new friend several years ago who fits right in with our goofy group of ageing baby boomers. We always play at least a token game of Pigs. 
 
I was the only divorcee at the time of our first gathering, although I had a new significant other. There has been one other divorce, but yours truly is currently the only single one. 

The bond grows stronger as time passes. Most of us have lost parents in those eighteen years. Our children are now all grown, some are married and a few have given us grandchildren. We’ve had illnesses and tragedies. A few years ago, our host lost her husband and two years after that the unimaginable happened and her 24-year-old daughter passed away suddenly while overseas. Each time we circled the wagons and grieved along with her. We are now happy to see her in a committed relationship. Life goes on...

We have amongst us a celiac and one who is a vegetarian, plus a few with various food allergies. We do not make a big deal out of it, we just have fun with planning the menu around them. In the case of the celiac, of course, we must be very careful, so we pay attention to the hidden gluten in sauces and the  like. From the beginning she has brought her own rice bread for toast and over  the years we have discovered the most amazing desserts made with things like  quinoa and other alternative grains and flours. We are always delighted when we  find something delicious that is ‘legal’. For the friend who doesn't eat anything  that has a face, we have all become fairly adept at cooking tofu for her serving  of protein. We adapt and grow stronger.

This year our newest Piggy brought out the word game Quiddler. We loved playing it. We even used a couple of Kindles we’d brought and downloaded the English Oxford as our designated dictionary so we had one for each end of the table. One wonders what would have happened had we begun with that game? Would we be the Quidds? Would we have a bunch of little Quiddlets running around? 

Piggies notwithstanding, we are envied the
whole world over, especially by the young folk. We always tell them to assemble their own group. I highly recommend doing so. The opportunities are endless. A spa group, perhaps? Vegas, Sedona, a cruise, hiking, golf. Won’t matter, the end result will never be the same as envisioned. But as in our case, probably so much more...

As our fearless leader would sign off: Snork. 
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