Corresponding

What's in your USPS mailbox? 

I am willing to bet it's mostly advertisements. 

Do personal letters/cards ever appear in that mailbox? 

I am also willing to bet the answer is - rarely. 

Handwritten correspondence began to fade when emails roared on the scene in the late 20th century.

And, in what felt like the blink of an eye, email began to morph from chatty personal letters into a who's who of businesses carping for more of your business.

Blink once more, and texting quickly became the #1 way of corresponding, offering more efficiency in this time-challenged world. 

Handwritten notes were, at best, on life support. 

Is letter writing now dead?

A novel published last year by author Virginia Evans offers a refreshing and apparently unintentional return to writing letters. (See the link at the end of this post to Katie Couric's interview with Ms. Evans)

Evans' novel, The Correspondent, celebrates long-form communication, both in emails and letters. We learn about its diverse collection of characters solely from their correspondence with the main character, Sybil Van Antwerp.

The epistolary format is as intriguing as the array of characters.

The novel's letters, initiated by Sybil, celebrate the romance of writing on a sheet of paper, which, until the last several decades, was a staple around the world. I wish the novel's typeface choice included a cursive font for Sybil's letters. 

When necessary, Sybil composes emails instead of letters. While her crisp yet heartfelt manner is showcased in either form, it is the letters that keep my attention. 

I remember a time when I regularly took pen to paper and now wonder why I allowed that practice to wither.   

My written correspondence memories began in grade school when I had a pen pal who lived in England. Her name was Julie. We wrote of our little-girl lives and even swapped comic books. Sadly, those letters and comics have long been tossed. 

It felt incredibly exotic to page through those young girl materials from overseas. The tissue-thin airmail writing paper added to the faraway glamour. My box of blank Eaton's Berkshire airmail stationery was a prized possession because it was filled with possibilities. 

Another airmail-themed memory is with my friend Joyce, a high school and college pal, whom I continue to see regularly. Joyce did something tres exotic in 1973. She studied abroad in Paris at the Sorbonne for a semester. 

We telephoned only once, but we wrote, and wrote, and wrote letters on the translucent airmail paper, squeezing in every drop of news possible. We filled each precious page because adding another meant more weight and serious cost to those international missives. 

We howled when reading those letters aloud in recent years, remembering what our teenage minds wrestled with decades ago. They are inky time capsules.

Corresponding did not always require thousands of miles for permission to write. The senders and receivers could live relatively nearby.

My maternal grandparents, Elizabeth and Vincent, split their time living six months in Atlantic City, NJ, and six months around the corner from us in Lansdowne, PA. Just 66 miles separated us in the warmer months, and letters, more than phone calls, connected us.

Elizabeth was a reliable correspondent from South Jersey, making sure one of her newsy notes would arrive weekly at our home. My mom returned the favor religiously. Elizabeth impressively upped her correspondence when I went to college, always reminding me that I was missed and loved. 

Here is one of her notes congratulating me upon entering college. 

Letter from my Grandmom Elizabeth

At college, my mailbox buddy jokingly told me that while I received lots of letters and care package notices, he received dust. In four years, I rarely saw a letter for him in Box 524. He would marvel at my correspondence volume thanks to my dedicated pen pals - my mom and grandmom! After hearing of his plight, my mom even offered to write him! 😊

Mom usually wrote brief one-page letters before she went to work. They were succinct and loving. This brevity resulted in the arrival of two to three letters a week. The combined quantity and quality created the perfect formula for this homesick college coed. 

Below is one of my mom's letters. A red arrow by the 'PS' is particularly noteworthy as it is a reminder of her upcoming phone call on Thursday after 11 PM. 

In the seventies and eighties, long-distance weekday phone calls with my family were ALWAYS relegated to 11:00 PM and later because the phone company rates were lowest then. No exceptions!

Letter from my mom when I was a college coed.

Seeing her sign off - Love from all, Love always, Mom - with her trademark wispy swoosh underneath feels as comforting today as it did in the seventies. Her love always came with flair.

My older brother attended the same college before me. He wrote often, always placing two, $1.00 bills in each letter to me for no particular reason. I still feel the warmth of that older sibling attention from far away. 

In The Correspondent, the character of Sybil, a retired law clerk now in her seventies and living a quiet life in Maryland, corresponds with a Texas suitor who questions her dedication to her writing practice. Sybil's response honors the power and possibility of letter writing when she explains:

.... even if they (letters) remain for the rest of time dispersed across the earth like the fragile blown seeds of a dying dandelion, isn't there something wonderful in that, to think that a story of one's life is preserved in some way, that this very letter may one day mean something, even if it is a very small thing, to someone? 

Letters preserve pieces of lives lived. 

My mother-in-law, Dorothy, who lived in Florida, was a platinum-level correspondent. She would first write a draft of her letters and then commit them to gorgeous note paper in a final version. Her penmanship rivaled any Palmer method devotee. 

The letters were precious in their content with immaculate cursive writing. Here is a sample:

During the summer between my eighth-grade and freshman year of high school, I corresponded with my beloved eighth-grade teacher, Sister Kathleen Thomas. As expected, her penmanship ranked in the stratosphere of beautiful handwriting. More importantly, she always cared deeply about her students, encouraging us to make the most of our expanding lives, as evidenced in the note below:

Letters can bring good news.

My first job in high school was at the J.C. Penney department store, located in Upper Darby's retail-heavy 69th Street. While the offer letter below is a one-way correspondence, it marks my entry into the part-time employment world.

Sentimentality is a core value of mine, so I was not surprised that my almost 16-year-old self was very proud of this particular "first." 

Penney's employed me throughout high school and on breaks from college. They were reliable to me, and I to them. 

My husband's maternal grandmother, Odie, also wrote to me starting while he and I dated. She was a retired school teacher and understood the value of written communication. She loved to share stories, especially from her years of living overseas in the 1960s. I am glad to have kept one of her letters.

Letters are sometimes the writer's final words. 

My mother had two older brothers who served as US Army soldiers in Europe during WWII. Pete, the middle child, died in Germany and is buried in a US cemetery in the Netherlands. 

Letters from Pete detail his soldier's story from basic training in 1943 to fighting facism on the front lines in Germany in 1944. He writes with optimism and reassurance. Pete reliably asks the family in every single letter without fail not to worry and to look after his beloved girlfriend, Gilda.

My grandmother saved over 50 letters from this soldier son.

Below are two particularly precious examples: Pete's last letter home and Elizabeth and Vincent's Christmas card to him. 

They crossed in the mail in October/November 1944. The parents and son had no idea they would be the final written words between them.

First is Pete's last letter, written 10/31/1944. He consoles his mother in what appears to be criticism she received from a friend for not crying or worrying in front of others about her son fighting overseas. 

Pete writes with tender understanding and, as always, a reminder to "keep up your courage and never worry." 

Pete's last letter home written 10/31/1944
(1 week after his 21st birthday & 1 week before he died in combat)

Next is the Christmas card sent from Elizabeth and Vincent, mailed in October, 1944. It expresses hope that this will be their son's last holiday overseas. It includes Vincent's signature. He never learned to read or write, but he could, with Elizabeth's encouragement and guidance, sign his name. 

(Every card my siblings and I received from Elizabeth and Vincent that celebrated a holiday, birthday, graduation, etc. included Vincent's signature emphasizing the moment's importance.) 

I can't imagine the searing emotion my mom and grandparents felt seeing this Christmas card returned to them during the seven months Pete was MIA. 

Note inside the Christmas card from Elizabeth & Vincent to my Uncle Pete postmarked 10/18/1944

  

Christmas card - Elizabeth & Vincent's signatures    postmarked 10/18/1944

Softly moving my index finger across the words stills me. These fragments are emotional portals, and I am a willing traveler. I honor this uncle whom I would never meet. I honor his parents' unsinkable love, which I luckily had for 21 years.

Such is the pulse of written correspondence.  

We not only hold something the writer once held, but we see something of their personality in their unique script, whether it is chicken scratch or elegant. They are embedded within each pen stroke. 

I remember touring Boston University with my eldest daughter and stopping in the school's library. There, protected in a glass case, were letters written by Dr. Martin Luther King in the 1950s when he was a BU student earning his PhD. 

Seeing his longhand felt so personal. It was visual oxygen breathing life back into this martyred leader. The handwriting brought him closer. 

History is saturated with letters penned by notable and mundane figures. They are treasures because they capture a moment in time, in the voice of the time, as experienced by the author. No filters. No AI. Just thoughts. 

From hieroglyphs to early alphabets, to modern languages, the urge to communicate affirms the essential human desire to be seen/heard. 

Letters freeze time.

A friend's daughter chose a love letter as a wedding ceremony reading. It was from her grandfather, who was serving as a US soldier during the Korean conflict, to her grandmother. Hearing those loving contents not only moved those of us who were guests; they landed powerfully for their recipient, the bride's grandmother, who was also in attendance without her deceased spouse. 

However, in a Cyrano de Bergerac twist, it was discovered that the grandfather deputized a fellow soldier all those years ago to use his eloquent writing skills to pen the love letter. He would then copy it onto his own notepaper and mail it to his stateside sweetheart.  

Authorship aside, the loving intention won the day, and they married shortly after he returned home from duty. 

Inspired by The Correspondent, a friend has initiated a pen pal effort with me, even though we live relatively near each other. I even have a few sheets of my mother-in-law's pretty writing paper to use.

Sitting in a quiet space, holding a particular pen, and writing one's thoughts in that moment feels different from a phone conversation or a text. It fuels contemplation.

Taking time to write forces my mind to slow down and think about the next word, which cannot be easily deleted by a quick tap of a keyboard key.  

It is emancipating and painstaking. 

It is art. 

Author Virginia Evans summons our inner correspondent. 

Let's heed the call.

 

*QUESTION: What handwritten letters have you saved from your past? Why have you kept them? 

*VIRGINIA EVANS INTERVIEW: Katie Couric interviews the author re: The Correspondent. 

 https://katiecouric.substack.com/p/my-first-kcbc-talk

*SUGGESTED READING: Want to read some letters written by notable historical figures? Click the link below. The website, The Marginalian, has been produced solely by Maria Popova since 2006, and offers insights via literature, science, philosophy, and human behavior themes. 

"Letters from The Greats"

https://www.themarginalian.org/2012/01/16/famous-correspondence/ 

*SOME ADDITIONAL WWII ERA CORRESPONDENCE

Letter to Elizabeth and Vincent identifying their son's gravesite in the Netherlands

Letter to Elizabeth and Vincent that accompanied their son's Purple Heart medal.

November 1944 telegram confirming Elizabeth and Vincent's son is missing in action.

June 1945 telegram confirming Elizabeth and Vincent's son was killed in action.

 

Corporal Peter J. Labate, US Army
112th Infantry Regiment
28th Division
October 21, 1923-November 7,1944

Roadrunner

This blog post mentions suicide.  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 800-273-8255 available 24 hours in English and Spanish. 

Well, of course, I loved him. 

I loved him along with all others who followed his travels around the world and virtually placed themselves in the seat across from him, watching and listening as he flicked on the light of his curiosity.  

Anthony Bourdain shared his worldview as a storyteller.  He loved the strength of well-honed phrases  His rat-a-tat-tat verbal delivery sated the moment. He could have been writing songs he was so lyrical.

This oral finesse along with his bass timbre, lanky gate, commanding height created a navigation system that seemed unbeatable.

But, as we all know, that is the lie. No one is unbeatable.  We all need serious scaffolding to hold us up.

I recently watched this summer's release of Roadrunner, A Film About Anthony Bourdain, and Bourdain's suicide hurts my heart as much today as when he died in 2018.  

The film left me feeling surprisingly untethered; a reminder that the bruises of suicide don't necessarily heal for the living - even those of us watching from the very, very cheap seats.  

Bourdain first popped up on my radar during his No Reservations show on the Travel Channel followed by CNN's Parts Unknown. His appeal was as the cool kid who could lure the viewer into his shenanigans.  We were invited to be his co-conspirators and we could almost hear him utter, "Psssst....come see this!"

A favorite Parts Unknown episode for me aired three months following Bourdain's death.  W. Kamau Bell (I am a big fan of his United Shades of America show) and Bourdain traveled to Kenya - a country neither man had ever visited. Bell's middle  name - Kamau - is Kenyan meaning 'quiet warrior.'

Bourdain savored Bell's discomfort watching goat's head soup being prepared for him. Bell knew the time and space shared was precious and noted this arc while the two sat perched before the golden vista in the Lewa Wildlife Conservancy. It cemented a connection to each other, to Kenya, to Nature, to Life, to feeling small in the raw, wide world. 

I saw it as another perfect example of how Bourdain drew in his guests, his guides, and his viewers determined that they experience the marrow of the moment.

As someone who loves to cook and bake, who delights in reading about food, who pours over recipes, and follows chefs, cooks etc. on social media, I was naturally intrigued by Bourdain's iterations of travel/food television shows. I watched and listened intently always appreciating his ability to straddle being relaxed and edgy as he sought to unspool the essence of location - always appreciating it with a touch of humility. 

I had never read Bourdain's insider Kitchen Confidential until after he died. While I prefer to read the print version of books, I deferred to the audio version listening to it each night as I prepared dinner at home. I chopped, seared, blended, and mashed paying a small homage to this cook turned chef turned author turned TV host turned famous man of the world.  I reveled in the many faces of Bourdain.

My choice of an audiobook had a singular motivation: I hungered to hear him spin tales.

It was excruciatingly clear while watching Roadrunner how Bourdain's many friends and co-workers who appeared in the film did so because of their shared craving to reminisce, to wonder, to search for answers.  Not one of them had yet to find someplace to rest their grief.  

The film's power for me came from this repeated universal need to experience their compadre; to talk of him in shared pain and joy; to utter their loss and struggle as they felt impotent in knowing he slipped through the bonds of their friendship.  

Bourdain insisted he was not a good friend ("I'm not going to remember your birthday") and yet many lined up to be his. He was the guy they all wanted to be around.  And now they couldn't. 

In the 2017 Tony award winner for Best Musical The Band's Visit, the final song's lyrics titled Answer Me bubbled up as I watched Roadrunner.

All alone,

In the quiet,

Ah, my ears are thirsty

For your voice,

For your voice,

Can you answer me?

Criticism of the film's intent noted it as "a snippy tell-all" pointing to heavy focus on Bourdain's TV shows and too little focus on his hefty career in restaurant kitchens and heroin addiction as a young man. I did not see it this way but I understand how the author arrived here. All loss leaves a mark.    https://www.wbur.org/news/2021/07/15/roadrunner-anthony-bourdain-documentary-review  

The article's critic included a spot-on bit from comedian Dave Chappelle's 2019 show Sticks and Stones that referenced a sort of celebrity sleight-of-hand when we think we know how good life must be for famous, rich folk. Chappelle reminded us that Bourdain's death telegraphs one truth: "No matter what it might look like from the outside, you don't know what the f--- is going on inside." 

In 1980, I visited my brother Vincent in Maui for three weeks. His newly claimed home blew open my worldview.  We saw the island from the sea, air, and land and the boxes of slides that resulted in my unquenchable thirst to capture it all numbered in the "way too many" range.  I wanted to share all of it upon returning home and did so to a very patient group of co-workers held hostage by my "you gotta see this" slide show. I easily fell into the 'vacation slides sharing' trap.  (I again apologize to those lovely co-workers.)

I offer this only to say it's easy to overshare.  Bourdain did the opposite of this. He managed to lure us in as travel companions even in this world where any internet search will provide easy context for all things exotic.  We wanted him and his point of view to guide us. 

He managed to deftly describe important moments, making them important to those of us who loved his work. 

Morgan Neville, Roadrunner Director created a 100-song playlist of favorite titles randomly mentioned by Bourdain with some added by the chef's friends.  

https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/anthony-bourdain-roadrunner-playlist-1200455/

Listening to it while I meandered through this post I was unsurprised by the 

beat-thumping, electric guitar-laden push of Patti Smith's High on Rebellion, Elvis Costello's Lipstick Vogue, or New Order's Blue Monday.  

These seemed to represent Bourdain's velocity.

Also notable were unexpected softer choices such as the Beach Boys' God Only Knows, The Velvet Underground's Sweet Jane, Earth, Wind, and Fire's That's The Way of the World, and Kevin Morby's Beautiful Stranger. 

I think these, like much of his offerings, pulsed from his soul.   

Roadrunner isn't perfect and neither was Bourdain. We are all just fragile humans. 

Two more links to Roadrunner reviews:

https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/anthony-bourdain-movie-roadrunner-doesn-t-allow-life-s-loose-ncna1274895

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/07/15/movies/roadrunner-a-film-about-anthony-bourdain-review.html

Article on the use of artificial intelligence technology to replicate Bourdain's voice in the film:

https://www.npr.org/2021/07/16/1016838440/ai-brought-anthony-bourdains-voice-back-to-life-should-it-have

Between the Lines

I lock the bedroom door behind me and perch at the end of my bed as I am filled with tingly expectation.  I have invested in this moment for the last month. The well timed payoff is tonight.  I feel more and more like myself as I watch the clock inch closer to the prearranged start time.  This will have been worth all the effort- I know it!

It is the early 1990s.  In those years I have changed employers, been promoted, moved twice, married, bought my first (and only) home, and given birth to a sweet baby girl.  In hindsight, this whirlwind of change seems less like who I know myself to be. Yet, Life's goal lines move fast as a thirty-something woman and I'm determined to meet every single one. 

In those days, an hour-long daily rail commute into the city usually finds me doing work reviewing resumes of potential job candidates. (This is way before algorithms usurped the task.)  The quiet, uninterrupted block of train time is perfect for this effort.  It is a better choice than using the gorgeous exhale of eventide after I put my infant daughter to bed.  

Yet, I yearn to read something more for myself - the Me who is not someone's wife, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, employee.  I rediscover my love for reading books. 

Reading has, for as along as I can remember, been pure pleasure.  Summer days in the late sixties, early seventies were spent reclined on the hard plastic cushions of my parent's front porch iron glider as I gently rocked to and fro, a book resting on my tanned stomach.  Our restless little street of compressed row homes bursting with kids and pets faded away on this screened-in roost once I cracked open those blessed pages. 

Whether I was transfixed by Mario Puzo's The Godfather (before the film release) or entertained by the mindless fluff of Coffee, Tea or Me? (and its sequel) I did what most readers do - willingly offered myself over to an author's invented or real world. 

(Fun fact: I seriously considered becoming an airline stewardess (not yet called flight attendants) because of the fictional hijinks of characters Trudy Baker and Rachel Jones and completed applications to a few airlines in my senior year of high school.  Airlines could incredibly still ask for such personal data as birth date, height, weight, hair color, eye color.  My work as a corporate recruiter years later would see this type of job application as folly (and discriminatory) but at the time, I was all in and, sadly, rejected due to my age.)

Back in my adult bedroom, filled with anticipation, I turn on the radio to my local NPR station - 90.9FM WHYY - and its inaugural book club radio show.  This predates Oprah's infamous book club.  Amy Tan's The Kitchen God's Wife is on the docket. I have gleefully devoured its rich story and am poised to hear what others think as well as listen to Ms. Tan field questions, share her writing experience, and inhale the intimacy of her responses.  I stare at the radio during the hour long show trying to conjure an image of the author as she describes her story's intention and her complex relationship with her mother.  

Fellow listeners/readers call in with questions.  I comment aloud to them.  It is more interactive than I could have imagined and ends much too swiftly.  This, I murmur, this is what I have been missing! This radio book club becomes my literary life raft as I navigate the world of adulting. 

Several years later a friend kindly invites me to join her book club.  Two decades after this sweet solicitation, this precious book club sustains the reader, writer, inquisitor alive within.  While we fellow readers navigate Life's relentless drumbeat of births, miscarriages, divorces, raising kids, jobs, second marriages, and the crushing death of a beloved friend/member, we hunker down for the essential purpose of gathering - to discuss the book.  

This is no wine club posing as a book club. We enthusiastically do a deep dive into the authors' efforts, parsing themes, imagery, plot, symbolism and character development as well as criticizing what failed to resonate.  We read passages aloud that have touched or deepened our understanding.    

Biographies, autobiographies, poetry, short stories collections, science, fantasy, classics;  all genres come calling each third Thursday as the host chooses that month's literary selection.  My preference for fiction has been forcibly pried open as some books take me to uncharted territory.  

I have learned to trust the diverse process because whether or not a book fully satisfies is secondary to what I will learn in conversation with my fellow Book Babes.  Discussion always ignites something my reading failed to consider. It is sweet reward, a jackpot moment where context broadens and interpretation sparkles. 

Visitors from the Netherlands, Poland, and Australia have enjoyed membership to our group adding rich worldviews.  Our Aussie friend, Vicki, travels to our town several times a year for work. She stays up to date on what we are reading so she can literally jump in on the discussion.  It is magnificent. 

We have met in the Poconos, at the shore, and on several patios by candlelight during  dreamy, warm summer nights.  We've enjoyed a poetry evening where everyone arrives with a memorized poem because, as our then 90 year old guest host, Mrs. Van Pelt, noted, "Everyone must have at least one poem ready to recite from memory in their lifetime!" She would regale us with her favorites: The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere and The Walrus and The Carpenter.  

Every so often a member hosts a couples night where our 'special someones' join in the conversation.  This gender mixed gathering consistently produces some of the richest discussions.  Even food sometimes plays a silent role in our discussion when we nosh on meals or morsels contained in that month's narrative. 

As a bonus to all this goodness, Joanie, an original member, consistently emails a discussion recap to the group so those who missed the evening can still share in the conversation. I am grateful for all of it! 

In the Fall, one of our members will see her original work published! This feat amazes. We will enjoy another first - the member/author of our monthly selection will be at the table to take questions and share her process.  Look for A Time Traveler's Theory of Relativity by the talented Nicole Valentine later this year! (published by Lerner/Carolrhoda Books)

Let me close this love letter to reading with conversation openers I've used for all these years. They are questions I love to ask and be asked.  I hope you'll reply: 

 "What have you read lately and what did you think?"  

Note: In 2014, we were featured in an on-air book club discussion of Karen Russell's Sleep Donation. Here is the link to the post I wrote about that experience: https://asubjectforconsideration.blogspot.com/2014/07/on-radio-whoaohhhhhoh.html

                                

                  Some recent book club selections

 

“Some books are tool kits you take up to fix things, from the most practical to the most mysterious, from your house to your heart, or to make things, from cakes to ships. Some books are wings… Some books are medicine, bitter but clarifying.”  Rebecca Solnit

Read more about Rebecca Solnit and how books saved her life on the always interesting brain pickings website:  “https://www.brainpickings.org/

The Book Lady

The front license plate on my car reads "Peace  Love  Books."  The order of importance often changes but the trilogy's intrinsic value remains steady:  I wish for peace, I insist on love, and I cherish books.

License plate

When I read that Dolly Parton was recently at the Library of Congress to celebrate the delivery of her Imagination Library's 100th million book, I felt all three of these imperatives. Her program has put children ages birth to 5 and books together since 1995. This amazing milestone shows how Dolly leads with love.  

Dolly's impact was minimal in my world until a few years ago when my friend Susan asked if I would join her to see a concert at the Mann Center in Philadelphia.  Such an invitation would usually have a 99% acceptance rate by me.  But, I had to pause when she noted who was performing: Dolly Parton.  

Hmmmm.  Country music was not atop my list of preferred music genres.  I knew only two of Dolly's songs:  "Jolene" and "9 to 5." (And yes, I knew she wrote/sang "I Will Always Love You" but it is the more infamous Whitney Houston version I kept on my playlist.) I tried to let Susan down gently.  

As a lifelong Dolly fan, Susan would not back down.  She grew up in Missouri listening to Dolly's albums at home.  The music not only helped her navigate the pain of a challenging childhood, its message offered motivation for what one can achieve through persistence regardless of your life's circumstances.  She was not going to be pushed aside by my glib indifference. 

Susan persisted.  I am forever grateful that she did.

The evening held so many satisfying moments:  Dolly's pitch perfect voice, her self-aware humor, her musicianship (she played at least 8 different instruments) her deep catalog of songs, her homespun sincerity, her laughter  - oh the list is long.  The wide age range of her audience also reinforced her vast, enduring appeal.  

Scenes from Dolly Parton in concert at the Mann Center
.Philadelphia, PA June 2016

But what slowly, endearingly drew me in was the overwhelming warmth and kindness this petite bedazzled country girl sent out across the audience from the  moment her stiletto heels walked into the spotlight until she waved her final goodnight y'all.  

Dolly's glamorous exterior makes it hard turn away. I realized it is an intentional ploy to catch our attention.  Once she has it, she is masterful in keeping it with her profound talent and unbridled love.  In that large concert venue, she managed to spread her love to each of us (even skeptical me.)  I cried at the sheer tonnage of its impact. 

This month, Dolly did it again when she sat in front of pre-schoolers and read to them in our nation's library.  She made headlines for her impressive non-musical efforts to ensure young children have consistent access to books.  She continues to lead with love. 

What began as a county wide effort in her rural Tennessee home has grown into this magnificent national outreach where she is called The Book Lady.  Dolly affirms her role by working with local libraries, government agencies, and other non-profits to put the world into children's hands to help set them up to become lifelong readers.  "I think that if you read it can give you wings to fly,"  Dolly noted to reporters at the DC event.    

It was much too easy for me to dismiss Dolly as some glittery country singer before I saw her in concert.   I sadly believed her overdone look made her unimportant. Her Imagination Library's amazing multi-million book moment reinforced what a fool my pre-concert self had been to judge this amazing book by her cover. 

On this International Women's Day, it is a joy to celebrate Dolly.  

Link to the 100th million book event at the Library of Congress:
https://www.npr.org/sections/ed/2018/03/01/589912466/dolly-parton-gives-the-gift-of-literacy-a-library-of-100-million-books

On The Radio ~ Whoa~ohhhhh~oh~

We said it really loud, we said it on the air, on the radio....

 

The only thing this post has in common with Donna Summer is that the topic takes place in the summer ...on the radio.  I just could not resist her lyrics because my book club has gone audio!

We've been chosen to discuss Karen Russell's latest effort, "Sleep Donation," on WNYC's radio program The Takeaway. The discussion airs noon, Wednesday, July 9 on your local NPR station.  In Philly, it is WHYY 90.9 FM.

Through some website scrutiny and quick action (not to mention salesmanship, Joanie!) by a couple of book club members, show producers chose our group as the second this season to chat with host John Hockenberry about one of their summer picks.

L to R:  Me, Lou, Joanie

Sadly, logistics  allowed for only three of the nine  members to tape the segment, so tough choices (members voting by 'secret ballot') were made and Joanie Badyna, Lou Elder and I recently headed to WHYY studios in Philadelphia to tape the session.   

Electric may best describe our energy level as our trio drove to the radio station; it was powered by robust virtual support from fellow bookworms: Karen Albaugh, Lynne Dore, Leslie Dudt, Karen Fleming, Laura Smith, and Nicole Valentine.    

Our book club, informally called by some (as in me)  Book Babes, has been 'on the books' for 17 years! We have over 190 novels checked off in the Read and Discussed column.  Classics, current fiction and non-fiction, young adult fiction, poetry, song lyrics, and even children's books are represented among our diverse picks.  Whether or not a book resonates becomes secondary once we dig into themes, characters, and relatability.  The discussion trumps taste each month. 


At WHYY studios, Philadelphia, PA

Once the radio taping date was secured, the Babes met a few days earlier to talk about the novella for June.  As usual, everyone came armed for discussion.

Questions about why we grieve and how  it can deny its own purpose, the consequences of lying for a common good, the power of  blind devotion, and the blurred lines of technology overuse peppered the conversation as we wrestled with the author's ability to prick at our fears.

"Sleep Donation" introduces a world where unexplained, deadly insomnia spreads rapidly. Citizens who can sleep are urged to offer up the treasured commodity to help the sleepless.

The non-profit Sleep Corps hungrily recruits sleep donors. Its most effective recruiter, Trish Edgewater, uses the awful story of her sister Dori's death as the tool to gain precious donations. Her potent tale brings in a sole universal donor - the holy grail in the fight against the epidemic.  This pure provider is a powerless six month old baby.

Issues with grief, technology, parenting, non-profit entities, trust, greed, and human connection swirl around this believable world. 

Russell's brief tale echoes the early paranoia that surrounded the start of the AIDS epidemic as fear and misinformation rattled lives. Sleep (just like blood) is a universal need now tainted, and the author describes Trish's sorrow in sanguine terms as a "grief hemophiliac."

While a specific cause for the epidemic is never noted, possible reasons include the abuse of sleep aids, a 24/7 news cycle, and "glowing device" overuse. Ironically, the fiction is only available as an e-book, so the author simultaneously warns us and baits us as we turn on our luminous devices to read.

Show producers conducted phone pre-interviews with each of us.  They were interested in the book's impact and themes that triggered something within us.  And they encouraged us to be lively (ha! no trouble there) and conversational, commenting on each other's remarks (again, no issue there!)  

Taping the segment at WHYY was an utterly satisfying experience from start to finish. 
 (Once our head phones were on, Lou and Joanie worked out some nervous energy before taping began and broke into song.  Microphones are powerful teases.)   From his perch in New York City, John Hockenberry seamlessly posed questions and invited our impressions about the book for 30 minutes.  Half of that time will be used for the July 16th airing.  I hope you'll be listening!

To steal the sign-off from CBS Sunday Morning's Charles Osgood, we'll "see you on the radio."  Oh, and sleep tight!

Here is the link to our book club discussion on The Takeaway:  http://www.thetakeaway.org/story/takeaway-book-club-sleep-donation/

Here's the link to WNYC's The Takeway book club page: http://www.thetakeaway.org/bookclub/  Check out all the books for summer reading!   

The Signature of All Things

I am a barefaced Elizabeth Gilbert fan.

Her writing pleases me.  However, it is her articulate, endearing, and engaging manner that pulls me in close and keeps me interested.  She is an unvarnished connector.  When I recently explained to someone the basis for her appeal, I stated plainly, "I just really like her way."

She became wildly famous for her 2006 memoir, "Eat, Pray, Love."  That work was my introduction to this funny, searching, facile writer even though she had authored three novels and multiple magazine articles prior to EPL.  


Elizabeth Gilbert taking questions at St. Joseph's
College in Brooklyn, NY

Understandably, the non-fiction work provided a exhaustive dose of oversharing for some readers (followed by the film version starring Julia Roberts in August, 2010.) I nonetheless became an admirer as she unraveled her early adult life in humorous, metaphorical prose. 

Appropriately, her command of analogies was one of many questions tossed her way at a book signing event in Brooklyn this week. The author unblinkingly answered the query with a metaphor and then burst out laughing at her own unintended joke.  This undisguised manner placed us at her conversational table.  

For 90 minutes, Liz candidly answered questions from moderator/author Rebecca Mead of New Yorker Magazine as well as from the intimate audience.  She also read an excerpt from her latest novel, "The Signature of All Things," marking its paperback publication debut on that first night of a mini-book tour.  

When asked about a statement Liz has repeatedly made about how fiction writing reveals more about the author than non-fiction writing, her reply rustled with truth, and, of course, an analogy.  "Non-fiction writing is still very curated," she explained.  "There is nothing in "Eat, Pray, Love" that I didn't want revealed; it's like a crime scene with everything swabbed and wiped clean so you receive only what I want to send out."  In her current 19th century fiction, Liz said with hand motions, "my hair and fingerprints are all over it!"  

One question about story ideas triggered Liz to take a quick breath and lean into her thoughts. She queried, "we're all friends here, right?"  before launching into firmly rooted belief.  Liz sees ideas as things that float around all of us all the time, somewhat like the innumerable stars in space. Ideas present themselves and challenge us to take them on. 

 If we don't take them on, they move on to other possible takers, always making themselves available to a willing receptor.  If we accept and begin to formulate too many ideas, we are left with may starts and few finishes.  Her choice is to take on one or two ideas, deeply attend to them, and let all others float away. 

This "magical thinking" (her words) theory is one she is pursuing for a future novel, along with another story idea about Broadway showgirls from the 1940s.

The mostly female, multi-generational audience well represented the author's readership demographic.  My twenty-something year old daughter (and transplanted Brooklyn-ite) joined me at the event making for a rich conversation afterward.  I loved hearing what did and did not resonate over the ages, but most especially appreciated how it triggered thoughtful connection. 

The same was true last Fall when the author kicked off her novel's hardcover publication at the Philadelphia Library.  My friend Rosalie and I attended that event, appreciating Liz's candor, love of language, and dedication to research. 

She is also a generous Facebook and Twitter participant with posts/tweets that entertain and challenge readers.  My favorite, so far, is about her love of bawdy language and a well chosen expletive.

In the ever changing game of musical chairs at my fantasy dinner table of past/present guests, there's a place card with Liz Gilbert's name on it. 

Here is the link to the NYTimes review of "The Signature of All Things" in September, 2013.  http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/30/books/elizabeth-gilberts-novel-the-signature-of-all-things.html?module=Search&mabReward=relbias%3Ar%2C%5B%22RI%3A5%22%2C%22RI%3A17%22%5D

Greenlight Bookstore (http://greenlightbookstore.com/) partnered with St. Joseph's College (http://www.sjcny.edu/Giving/Press-Release/520) to bring in authors as part of the school's Brooklyn Voices series.