Sweetsmoke

I came home from my vacation in Canada to find my Advanced Reader Copy from Hyperion of David Fuller's debut novel, Sweetsmoke. Ooo, a new book to read! I settled into reading this story of Cassius, a slave cum detective, on Hoke Howard's tobacco plantation, Sweetsmoke, in Civil War Virginia. I love historical fiction and a story told from a slave's POV intrigued me, add a detective story and, boy, I was looking forward to this book.

Cassius is a well-drawn, multi-dimensional character and I immediately felt drawn into his world. However, if I hadn't known I was going to review the book, I may have set it back on the shelf for another look-see another time after the first 10 pages or so. We are completely in Cassius' head for the beginning of the book. Very little happens but description and backstory. Beautiful, minute attention is given to setting detail, but after awhile I began to get annoyed and was ready to flip past another 20 pages of the stuff to get to the action. I stuck with it and was ultimately glad I did. Once we move into dialogue and the story unfolds, Sweetsmoke becomes a more engaging book.

Perhaps if I wasn't a writer and have beaten myself over the head about "show, don't tell," I wouldn't be quite as critical about this. However, if you have a good story, which Fuller definitely does have, it is worth doing well.

I also found Fuller's device of using quotation marks for only the white folks dialogue confusing. I recently read Those Who Save Us by Jenna Blum. Blum used no quotation marks at all, and while that was an initial jolt, it later felt more comfortable and I could understand her reasoning in doing so. It depersonalized or distanced some very difficult material. If Fuller's reasoning was to emphasize the boundaries between whites and blacks through culture and language, I can understand. However, it became a distraction rather than an addition to the flow of the novel. Perhaps it would have been enough to have no quotation marks in black-only dialogue. I don't know. A device like this should add something that the story may not directly imply. Fuller, however, shows us the boundaries quite well through his narrative and dialogue. It's like he felt his writing wasn't enough to make the distinctions.

Cassius caught in the middle of battle was riveting! I was right there with him, heart pounding, eager and, yet, paralyzed with fear for what might come next.

I would recommend Sweetsmoke to a friend with the caveat that it will get better after the first 30 or so pages.

Fish Dreams

That's me last year - the one with the hat and the sunglasses. On August 1st the Old Goober and I will be heading on up north to Keystone Lodge once again. One week of the freshest air, cleanest water, peaceful evenings, friendliest people and FISH! Throw in eagles and osprey soaring overhead, the eerily vocal loons on the water, beaver slapping their tales in the water across the bay from the camp, and the camp dogs nudging a knee for an ear scratch now and then and, well, we won't want to go home. A bottle of Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale in the evening ain't bad either.

And I swear the sky is even bluer up there.

This year I will have my very own camera! Woohoo! So, I'm hoping for some really good pics. Hoping. Hoping that it will be good weather. There's been quite a bit of rain up there this last month.

I've been checking my clothing and food lists and the Old Goober is going over all the fishing gear to see what's needed.

Our one week of heaven for the year. *sigh*

I can't wait.

Sunday Morning Bumming

Bummer. The used book store is only open 8-5, M-Sat. No evenings, no Sundays. Rats. Phooey, even. And no website either. What are they thinking??? I am utterly bummed.

We did, however, stroll over to Petersen Park and take a gander at the car show they are holding there for Fiesta Days. I didn't see a 1970 Mercury Montego. I keep looking. That muscle car was my dad's baby. He called it his "Isotta Fraschini," his bow to luxury. I remember the ride of that car. It was indeed luxurious - quiet, smooth and the leather interior was sumptuous. We drove to Long Lac, ON, Canada in that car and loved every minute of the ride.

It also had the longest nose believable. Really. People would laugh today and call it ugly, but it wasn't then. Not at all. And who cared with such a ride?

I also keep looking for a 1959 Ford Galaxie, four door - another family car. You see mostly Fairlanes. The Old Goober looks for a 1964. That was his first car. He says he'd buy it on the spot. Hah! What the heck would he do with it, I wonder. Certainly not drive it with gas at $4.25 a gallon. I just enjoy looking and reminiscing - owning is definitely not an option.

So it turned out to be a lovely morning stroll amid automotive memories.

But I'm still bummed about the bookstore. Really. Bummed.

My Wordle

So. Betty scrunches up her face and squints sideways
at the Wordle.

What's that do for ya?

**click on the thumbnail to enlarge.

I am delightfully Booked!

I've loved books ever since I can remember. I love the smell of them, the weight in my hand, the touch of the cover. Books have always meant excitement, something new, mysteries revealed.

My Aunt Elsie worked at Scott, Foresman Publishing for 48 years. She started out in the typing pool, became secretary to Mr. Scott somewhere down the line, and later became a Special Editor in the Math department. That's how she retired.

Aunt Elsie would bring books to her obnoxious niece often, and each time, whether it was a copy of the newest Dick and Jane, Numbers Are Fun, or 1001 Arabian Nights, I was delighted. I considered myself an extremely lucky kid back then. We lived on the southwest outskirts of Chicago at the time and the closest branch library was quite a few bus rides away into the city. The parents on our block, mine included, didn't think it was worth the money spent on the ride. So, my books got passed around. In fact, I started my own lending library. (Huh, I'd actually forgotten about that until I wrote this!) I pasted little pockets made from index cards on the inside of each book with another index card labeled with book title and author on it tucked inside the pocket. The kids would write their name and date borrowed on the card which I then kept in a green metal file card box on the top of my dresser alongside my prized fantail guppies and mollies swimming about in their 5 gallon fish tank.

I also cajoled and blackmailed the neighborhood kids into taking parts in my "theatrical" productions of fairy tales. I had the complete sets of both the Brothers Grimm and Anderson's fairy tales, don't you know.

Yes, books have been a huge part of my life. Always will be.

And now I have discovered Library Thing! Ooooo...I'm so thrilled. If you love books, have books spilling out of your shelves and onto the floor like I do, and enjoy connecting with other bibliophiles then take a gander.

I've also just discovered that there is a used book store in town (McHenry IL) called Wrinkled Pages. Fiesta Days where McHenry merchants have sidewalk sales starts today. Sunday, I believe, the Old Goober and I will head to town for a look-see.

Oh, the lure, the scent of the printed page!

Why that's just Infrasonic!

Researchers make noises of pre-Columbian society
“"We've been looking at our ancient culture as if they were deaf and mute," he said. "But I think all of this is tied closely to what they did, how they thought."

Velazquez is part of a growing field of study that includes archaeologists, musicians and historians. Medical doctors are interested too, believing the Aztecs may have used sound to treat illnesses.

Noisemakers made of clay, turkey feathers, sugar cane, frog skins and other natural materials were an integral part of pre-Columbian life, found at nearly every Mayan site.

The Aztecs sounded the low, foghorn hum of conch shells at the start of ceremonies and possibly during wars to communicate strategies. Hunters likely used animal-shaped ocarinas to produce throaty grunts that lured deer.

The modern-day archaeologists who came up with the term Whistles of Death believe they were meant to help the deceased journey into the underworld, while tribes are said to have emitted terrifying sounds to fend off enemies, much like high-tech crowd-control devices available today.

Experts also believe pre-Columbian tribes used some of the instruments to send the human brain into a dream state and treat certain illnesses. The ancient whistles could guide research into how rhythmic sounds alter heart rates and states of consciousness.”

Now this fascinates me on several levels. Of course, a lot of things endlessly fascinate me, that this article does is nothing unusual. I mean, how do holes appear in relatively new screening? Without any encouragement from our cat and dog residents, that is. Bud’s computer room ceiling was covered in those voracious little mosquito beasts last evening. Yeeechhh! And how much hair can one Black Labrador Retriever shed in one day? I swear there’s enough Black Lab hair on the bathroom floor alone to fully fur a standard-sized Dachshund, and I just vacuumed the house on Saturday.

The above article fascinates me, of course, on an historical level. History is an ever unraveling mystery. The facts are never as interesting as the stories behind them; truth is always stranger than fiction. I envy archeologists, paleontologists, anthropologists, etc., etc. I envy their passion and tenacity for unraveling the mysteries of our past that help us understand our present. I wish I’d been gifted like that – a gift of focus and determination. Ah, well.

Anyhow, sound that heals? How riveting is that?! We know about the soothing qualities of some music and the irritating qualities of others – Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons as opposed to fingernails on the blackboard, Tibetan Singing Bowls as opposed to a pile driver outside our office building. So, this should not be too much of a surprise. Yet, a doctor prescribing sound to aid healing? Yes, that would be surprise.

I was just watching a Discovery Channel show yesterday about how animals “hear” the Earth. Through infrasound, a frequency too low for humans to hear, animals communicate with the Earth – at least, they are on the receiving end of Earth’s communication. The narrator implied that humans are not capable of receiving that communication from Earth. I found that interesting. It seems a vast assumption to me.

Sound is vibration, yes? Those who are deaf are able to dance through feeling the vibrations of the music. Wasn’t Marlee Matlin recently a competitor on Dancing with the Stars? Heck, I can feel my cat Fox’s purring when he lays on my chest while I’m reading in bed (between my nose and the book, of course!) before I even hear it. Why would folks put cell phones on vibrate during meetings, unless they don’t want the “ring” to be heard?

I think we are likely fully capable of receiving communications from Earth, we just aren’t trained to be aware of them. We’re too plugged into our Ipods, the boss droning on at our meeting, keeping an ear glued to the baby intercom that we don't "hear" infrasounds. Actually, we are too attuned to our own voices, self-centered species that we are.

I imagine once upon a time, a long, long time ago, we homo sapiens were quite aware of infrasounds. I can imagine that awareness might often have meant life or death for them. Perhaps our pre-columbian ancestors were so aware that they knew how to use sound for healing.

So, just thoughts for today. I believe I’ve seen one of those pre-columbian ocarinas somewhere - someone I knew had one - but for the life of me I can’t remember who or where.

Figures.

The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I would read a book that was written from the POV of a dog. I am a dog person. Always have been. My first true friend was an imaginary collie named Poojie. Yes, I am a dog person. I loved Marley & Me. I currently am allowed to reside with two Labrador Retrievers. I raised Shetland Sheepdogs in my former married lifetime. Yes, I am a dog person.

So, I wept at the end of this book, even though we readers were put on alert as to how Enzo's own story would end.

Enzo travels from puppyhood, when Denny is an aspiring racecar driver, through Denny's marriage to Eve, the birth of Zoe, Eve's battle with brain cancer and her death, Denny's battle with in-laws for custody of Zoe, to Enzo's last days when Denny reaches the pinnacle of what Enzo has dreamed for him.

Enzo is the quintessential loyal Dog archetype. He's the ultimate companion in service to his master. He is Denny's amanuensis. (And Stein, his.) He serves as the mirror for Denny's fears of "not belonging or of not being approved of," as Jamie Sams puts Dog Medicine in her Medicine Cards. Enzo believes in Denny, even when Denny does not. He is Dog.

But Enzo longs to be a human. He envies our opposable thumbs and flexible tongues.
He has, as he often says, only gestures. Oh, but he does use those gestures well! i.e. when he tears custody papers from Denny's hands and ultimately lifts a leg on them. Ah, yes, he uses gestures very well!

I remember when our 7 year old Black Lab, Dusty, was just a pup. Dusty terrorized the house with his chewing. Everything went into his mouth. He chewed a hole in the wall, razor blades, underwear, jewelry and - horrors! - books! The Old Goober and I would holler at him and, eventually, when Dusty realized the hollering was directed at him, he would settle down with a look of guilt in those large brown eyes.

One particularly bright and shiny autumn afternoon Dusty leapt onto the couch, tipping it towards the window and began his "Squirrel, get off the Boss's property!" bark. I thought he and the couch were going straight through the window after our resident pesky tree rodent. It was then I also saw the masticated end of a throw pillow, it's guts spilling out onto the couch.

I instantly had a flash of Dusty in a straight-jacket and I heard in my head, "But I don't have any hands! And there is so much out there to experience! All I have is my mouth!"

Indeed. All a dog has is gestures.

This, fortunately for us, makes Enzo a keen observer of his human family and he shares their story with us.

However, I've been arguing with myself whether Enzo's dog-sight keeps him from seeing anyone but Denny as no more than a two-dimensional character. Denny's in-laws, the Twins as Enzo dubs them, certainly suffer from being the stereotypical evil in-laws out to control the life of their progeny. Perhaps it's that Enzo watches too much television? I don't know. I can't help but feel as if there was much more to this story that got edited out somewhere along the line. I would have loved more of Eve in particular. Why did she succumb to her parents' manipulation so easily? More depth would have made this a truly remarkable book. As it is, it is a pleasant read.