by Frances Mayes
ages: adult
First sentence: “The silhouette of Alghero rises from the Mediterranean.”

At one point, while reading this collection of travel essays, I thought, “When Frances Mayes is lyrical in her writing, I feel lyrical.” Not a very lyrical sentiment, true, but an honest one. As I discovered before, when Mayes writes well, you feel like saving her words. Her books are not ones to be rushed through.

The problem with this book is that it’s really a series of disjointed essays, each on a different spot, and while some of them are wonderful, others are well, banal. (That and I have issues with the title. It’s not a “year in the world”, more like “several years bopping around southern Europe, Morocco, and Great Britain.”)

As Mayes is a lover of all things Italy, those chapters are by far the best. I want to visit Naples, Sicily, Mantova and wander the streets, shop in the markets, taste the food. Lay on the sun-kissed beaches, swim in the sparkling ocean. (Her work also brings out the adjectives in me.) She makes Italy so accessible, luxiurious, desireable.

When reading books I am often reminded of people. This one — the Italy and England/Wales chapters especially — made me think of my mom. I can understand her long-held desire to go to Italy now: it is a marvelous place.

But, aside from her love-affair with Italy, the places Mayes visits have their ups and downs. She gushes about Andalucia in Spain, but is underwhelmed by Portugal. She stays in a crummy house in Wales, but has a good old time with friends in Scotland (which is by far her most indulgent, and my least favorite chapter). Her husband gets food poisining in Morocco, they go on a cruise around the Greek Islands (she alternates between gushing about the ocean, making fun of the passengers, and lamenting that they can’t spend much time anywhere. Sounds like my cruise experience), but have a much better experience with a guided boat tour around ancient ruins in Turkey.

Even with its many imperfections, it’s a book worth reading. I vascillated between jealousy and what she was able to do (and afford!), and soaking the words in and feeling like I was there myself. There were times when it read like a guidebook (a very good guidebook, but one nonetheless), but I can’t complain, coming away with garden and food suggestions, book recommendations, and CDs to listen to.

And still, I may be sad to see it go back to the library. I did enjoy my travels; Mayes is an impeccible traveling guide and companion.

I have mixed feelings about this one. A collection of stories and letters about the women behind (beside?) the men that were instrumental in founding the United States, it’s a work that could be seen as enlightening and entertaining. In fact, there were many times when I was enlightened and entertained. I did learn about some women that I hadn’t heard of before — my favorite was Eliza Pickney, a South Carolina woman who basically managed things on her own for most of her life. She was also a bit of an entrepreneur, coming up with the idea and the means to make indigo a cash crop. There were also the usual players: Abigail Adams, Martha Washington, Dolley Madison, and it was interesting to see the way that Cokie Roberts portrayed each of those women.

However, it was a hard book to get through. I think that the book had simultaneously a too broad and too narrow of focus. Too broad, because of all the people she tried to squeeze into 277 pages. Roberts organized her book chronologically, which was probably inevitable considering that it was the time period that drove all the people, but it also made it hard to keep everyone straight. She started Abigail Adams’s story in one chapter, dropped it after a few pages and didn’t pick it up again for another couple of chapters. There were also so many women — I couldn’t keep the Kittys straight to save my life — that Roberts focused on, however briefly, that I felt like I needed a flow chart to figure out who was who (and who was related to whom!).

It was too narrow because I felt that Roberts slighted the men. Sure, it’s a book on the women during the late 1700s, and yes, we want to give them the credit the history books have denied them all these years, but I felt that Roberts did it at the expense of the men. She poked fun at John Adams (I was not happy with that… especially after reading David McCullough’s biography!); portrayed George Washington as a competent leader, but an incompetent in his personal life… (I agreed with her assessment of Alexander Hamilton and Ben Franklin, though…) Perhaps it’s just personal biases getting in the way here, but I felt like she could have portrayed these women as working in partnership with their partners, rather than at odds with them.

And then there was Cokie Roberts herself. She peppered the book with asides, snide remarks, opinionated comments. Which is all fine and good; she’s the author, she can interpret the letters however she wants. But it drove me nuts. After a while, the extreme annoyance (I shouted at the book a couple of times!) I had at the beginning boiled down to a mild irritation, but it never left. There was a (very large) part of me that wished she’d just shut up and leave the letters and stories to speak for themselves.

That said, the letters and stories are fascinating to read. And I do appreciate that Roberts took the time to focus on these amazing women. Even with its faults, its a book worth reading.

I read a lot on our little jaunt to Portland… but to be fair, they were short, little books…

I picked this one up yesterday morning at the bed and breakfast we were staying in and read it while I was waiting for the proprietor to get breakfast ready. That’s how quick a read it is. It’s a series of letters between Helen Hanff, a New York writer, and a rare/used/antique bookshop in London, England. Their correspondence starts in 1949, and the letters go on for 25 years (or more; I can’t remember and I left the book at the bed and breakfast) until the death of her main corespondent, Frank Doel.

It’s a lovely little book; the letters are funny and sweet, and Helene, Frank and the rest of the “inmates” at the store are just wonderful. I loved the way Helene would talk about the books as if they were real people. There were so many little quotes about books and reading that I wanted to write down. As for the book itself, I couldn’t put it down. I finished it quickly not just because it’s a slim little thing, but also because it’s a captivating book. You come to care about the people — not just Helene and Frank, but Frank’s family, and the other people at the book store — and root for Helene to actually make it to England to meet them. It has a bittersweet ending, but I still loved it immensely.

Now to go find me a copy for my very own.

Memoirs, for me, usually fall into two categories: those I think I could have written, and those whose lives are unique, unusual and fascinating. I prefer the latter, obviously, and this one by Jeannette Walls, falls solidly into the that category. She had a whopper of a childhood: fascinating and horrible at the same time. Basically, it’s the story of her childhood, and what a childhood. Her father was an alcoholic, her mother an “excitement addict”, and her sisters and brother and her were left to fend for themselves. In practically every way. Literally. When she was little, and they were living in the desert — in Nevada, Arizona and California — it wasn’t so bad. But, eventually her father’s drinking got really bad and her mother thought that moving back to his hometown would help (why she thought that was beyond me), and so they moved to West Virginia. From there, Walls’s life became particularly hard. Her parents wouldn’t take welfare or charity, so the kids took to fending for themselves. Digging lunch out of the garbage, getting work where ever they could. The house had no indoor plumbing, and was falling apart. The grandparents — especially Erma — were a real piece of work. It’s a wonder Walls survived at all.

I was caught between admiration for her parent’s fierce sense of independence and lack of judgement of others (and statements that no one should judge them) and horror at the good values gone wrong. They were parents, for God’s sake. They should act like parents. My great-great grandfather was a drunk — he’d go off to work in the morning, earn the money, and then spend it all on booze and come home to beat his wife and kids — but at least my great-great grandmother had the wits and the resources to earn money and raise her children. Neither one of Walls’s parents had that. Her mother spent her days painting and reading and eating chocolate, rather than buying food for her kids. Her father spent his days dreaming about striking it rich and drinking the income away. I felt bad for Walls, even though I don’t think she wanted us to feel bad. This was who she is, and I don’t think she wanted our charity or pity. She survived, she managed to find her way in life. And she did it basically on her own. She’s very independent, she had some wonderful experiences as a child — ones that our kids, as scheduled and structured as they are could never have — and she loves her family, crazy as they are. I think that’s what she was trying to get across — that even though it was horrible, she survived, thrived, and managed not to get stuck in that trap.

There is much to discuss about this book — poverty, and escaping poverty (I’m finding in my reading that one of the best ways to escape is through some sort of brilliance; if you’re smart, you can find a way out.); parenting; structuring of children; judgements; the 50s and 60s… it goes on and on. And it’s a fascinating, well-written, engrossing read. Just not a comfortable one.

I was really glad when I saw that this one came in (Eventually I’ll read Rascal.) at the library. I’ve wanted to read this ever since I saw a bit about it at someone’s roundup of some publishing conference (how’s that for specific) primarily because I’m a fan of Steve Martin. Not a big fan — I don’t love everything he’s done — but I generally enjoy his humor, and I’ve enjoyed his writing in the past. A memoir by him sounded both funny and intriguing.

Martin insists that this book isn’t an autobiography, but rather a biography, because, he writes, “I am writing about someone I used to know.” I enjoyed getting to know that person. While it wasn’t always funny (though there were some great funny bits), it was an insightful, gentle trip into how Steve Martin became the Steve Martin of the late-70s and early-80s. (He’s no longer that Steve Martin. One of my favorite lines was: “At first I was not famous enough, then I was too famous, now I am famous just right.”) I learned that being a comic is work (probably should have figured that), that when people stand up to entertain us, it doesn’t just happen spontaneously. One of the more interesting aspects of the book was the evolution of Martin’s comedy. From magician-banjo-everyguy to hippie-cuttingedge-philosophical guy (get the book just to see photos of Martin’s hippie days… they’re hilarious) to finally what he ended up as: manic-physical-crazy guy. Fascinating stuff. I also learned that his rise to fame was not just a product of hard work (he’d tape his shows and make corrections/adjustments based on what he heard), but also a bit of luck (he got on as a writer on the Smothers Brothers show because an ex-girlfriend’s current boyfriend was a writer), and because he’s basically a decent guy. He was willing to be polite and willing to be humble and willing to make the effort to make it all happen. And it was interesting watching the evolution of it all and finding out why he gave up the life of a stand up comic for movies and writing (well, who wouldn’t?).

The weirdest thing about it all was the writing style. I don’t know what I was expecting and I can’t quite put my finger on it. But there was something about the way it was written that kept nagging at me. Perhaps because he got a bit overly sentimental at times? Or maybe because he kept flipping back between past and future and the foreshadowing just didn’t fit? Or maybe because it wasn’t as funny as I was expecting it to be?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to keep me from really enjoying this trip down Martin’s memory lane. I’m glad he invited us along for the ride.

My friend Sarah recommended this one for our in-person book group; we’ve been passing her two copies around since the library doesn’t have one. And it was my turn to have the great pleasure of reading Tetsuko Kuroyangai’s wonderful little memoir.

It’s the most unusual memoir I’ve read recently. It’s in the third person and reads more like a work of fiction than a collection of personal recollections. That, and it’s so simply, so cheerfully written that it’s not just an easy read, but an entertaining one as well.

The story is about Totto-Chan, Kuroyanagi’s childhood name, and her experiences at the Tomoe (to-mo-e) Gakuen school, an alternative elementary school outside of Tokyo designed and run by Sosaku Kobayashi from 1937 to 1945. He believed in a whole education — and this book is as much a portrait of an ideal school as it is a memoir — and letting the child determine his or her place in school. He taught music, believed in exploring nature, used everyday experiences (like lunch) as teaching tool, and created a wholesome environment so that the children attending developed confidence and self-esteem. It was truly remarkable to read about.

I’m sure much could be said about the educational value of the book, and the critique it indirectly gives of modern education. I, however, preferred enjoying it on a simpler level: as a series of sweet reflections of a woman about her idyllic childhood. Either way, it’s a wonderful little book.

This little book, by puppeteer Kevin Clash (with Gary Brozek, in very small print), is one-part memoir, one-part glimpse into the world of Sesame Street and one-part life-affirming-self-help-ish-type book. I liked two-thirds of it.

The memoir part was fascinating. Have you ever wondered how a 45-year-old, tall black guy ends up playing a 3 1/2-year-old furry red monster? I have. Ever since I found out that the same guy played both Hoots the Owl and Elmo (as well as Natasha the baby monster), I’ve wondered about him. How did he get into puppetry? How did he end up being Elmo, of all muppets… This book answers some of those questions. He had a poor, but loving, and nearly idyllic (if you believe everything he writes) childhood. His parents were awesome — how many parents would take their child’s love of puppets and wholeheartedly support it? And his evolution as a puppeteer and a performer is fascinating, too.

I loved the parts about Sesame Street, too. Jim Henson was probably the world’s best boss, and Clash gives you a little insight into that world. I appreciated the logic and the insider dope on some of the global spin-offs, as well as the Sesame Street’s evolution here. (Especially since I stopped watching the show with my kids sometime in 2002. C was the last one who really watched it. A didn’t have much interest in it, and since we don’t have cable now and the local PBS station’s signal is weak, we don’t even get it anymore.) I haven’t always liked what they’ve done with the show, but I understand the reasoning behind it. Clash took us through the whole process from curriculum design through to rehearsals and test audiences. It was pretty interesting, too.

But when he tried to sum the whole thing up into little bits of advice (good advice: love, joy, creativity, tolerance courage, friendship, cooperation, learning, optimism), it just felt forced. I would have rather read a book about Clash’s life, his experiences with being a master puppeteer, and left the whole life affirming stuff off. Even so, it wasn’t too obnoxious and overbearing. And it was worth it to read about his life and work.

I’ve had my eye on this for a little while; I know it’s been making the blog rounds where it’s been getting overwhelmingly positive reviews. So, when Hubby’s colleague loaned it to us a month ago, I jumped at the chance to skip the hold line at the library and actually read the book.

A. J. Jacobs is a man with a mission, crazy though it might be (especially for an agnostic, secular Jew): to live the teachings of the Bible — all of them — as literally as possible for an entire year. He grows a huge beard, he wears white, he dances with joy, he sacrifices an animal (well, pays to have one sacrificed), he prays… the list goes on.

It’s an ambitious project, as Jacobs soon finds out; he’s attempting to do in one year what most people don’t accomplish in a lifetime. But he’s game, almost naively so, to give it a try. And the result is a funny, fascinating, enlightening book.

Jacobs spends eight months of the year exploring the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible, partially because he’s Jewish (at least by heritage) and partially because so much of the Bible (comparatively speaking) is made up of the Old Testament. It’s an interesting journey, full of bumps and starts and failures and revelations. I thoroughly enjoyed his journey with prayer; being reminded, in the process, of things that I could be doing better. I enjoyed his experiences with the weirder aspects of the Bible (like not wearing mixed fibers), and his
ultimate realization that sometimes you do things just because God asked you. I liked the New Testament part less, mostly because — and Jacobs admits that this is a problem — without believing in Jesus as the Savior, the New Testament isn’t as easy to follow. Still, he makes a go at it, exploring many facets of Christianity (including snake handlers… go figure) with an open mind.

It helps that Jacobs is a witty, engaging writer, as well as an honest and forthright one (well that is one of the commandments, after all). It’s an excellent read.