The Cellist of Sarajevo

The Cellist of Sarajevo
Steven Galloway
Published by Riverhead Books of
The Penguin Group

The Cellist of Sarajevo is a very personal and condensed account of the Seige of Sarajevo (1992-1996) during the Bosnian War through the stories of three individuals - four, if you count the cellist himself. The cellist, however, is more a focus point around which this riveting story is told. Everyday for 22 days the cellist played the same tune at the same site where a mortar attack killed his friends and neighbors. This was a true event.
See photo here.

I vaguely remember those years, ’92-’96. I was a busy working mother at the time. The Bosnian War played like Muzak through the days of my life. I was aware, but hardly conscious of what was going on. Reading Arrow’s, Dragan’s and Kenan’s stories of daily living with sniper fire, no water or electricity, the fear of what the next day might bring, I felt and saw an almost contrapuntal weaving of events during those years - their lives and mine playing totally different and dissonant tunes and yet weaving around one another.

It is a lovely book, a lyrical book. I was drawn into the characters’ lives, walked the sniper-infested streets with them, hid in the shadows of their bombed out buildings and homes with them, heard hope in the notes of Albinoni’s Adagio with them.

My only argument would be with the last three chapters where Galloway gets a little preachy and tells us what we already really know. Arrow, Dragan and Kenan told us. We didn’t need a summation.

But I definitely recommend this book. Read it. Please.

December Wordle

My latest Wordle:

Hmmm...not too much different.

Confession...

I have a confession to make. I am now a Romance reader. Perhaps I'm just getting sentimental in my old age, I don't know. When I was younger I wouldn't touch a Romance novel with the proverbial ten-foot pole. I was above that sort of thing, don't ya know. But now an entire, very diverse, genre has opened up to me that I had dismissed outright. And I have discovered some damn fine writers to boot!

It started with Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series. Now that series is not solely Romance. Diana's writing touches so many levels and crosses over other genres that it gets shelved in bookstores not only as Historical fiction or Romance, but Sci-fi, Paranormal and Horror. (Though the Horror categorization totally defies understanding!) But the relationship between Jamie and Claire galvanizes the novels and keeps us coming back for more, hence the tendency to call it Romance.

Diana's books led me to the Compuserve Books and Writers Community. And there I was introduced to some excellent writers of Romance. I eagerly await Joanne Bourne's next Spymaster novel and Darlene Marshall's next Pirate adventure. Who'd a thunk it?

I've even stretched myself into Romantic Comedy, aka Rosina Lippi's Pajama Girls of Lambert Square.

I've gone through many different genre stages as I've plodded through my almost 60 years. I read Mystery novels by the boatload when I was pregnant and had toddlers running around. Then I discovered Sci-fi and Fantasy. Ursula LeGuin remains my favorite and most admired writer and Jack McDevitt still gets my imagination traveling into other worlds.

I've recently delightfully discovered Neil Gaiman's American Gods, and found Michael Chabon's Yiddish Policeman's Union one of my all-time favorites. Urban Fantasy, here I come!

I guess the draw is just plain good writing. It doesn't serve for me to be a genre snob. If it's well-written, I want to read it!

Swimming in the 19th Century

Once again, I’ve been remiss in posting anything here. It’s been an odd month. Many things have been happening - the election here in the US for one, a new pastor at the church where I work, the change of seasons, the illness of friends. Tension and anxiety have been rampant in the people around me, and, while I have not felt anxious directly in myself about any one thing, I’ve been hard put to not take on the anxiety of others. I’m weary and have not been able to put a decent sentence together to save my soul.

So, I’ve lost myself in reading. Thing is, I usually find myself in what I read, and so it has been this last month.

The beginning of October I was reading Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White.
“Watch your step. Keep your wits about you; you will need them. This city I am bringing you to is vast and intricate, and you have not been here before.”

Faber follows the life of a young prostitute in Victorian England – her rise from the streets to mistress of a wealthy perfume manufacturer. It is a fascinating, powerful, explicit, gritty and depressing book. When I finished it, I felt the need to immerse myself in the laughter and innocence of the preschool children at the church. There aren’t many books that have affected me so.

I’ve read many books dealing with the struggle for women’s rights in the 19th century. In fact, the books I read after this one dealt with that theme, as well. But the sheer hopelessness of a London street prostitute to rise above, let alone stay alive… This book made me count my blessings I was born mid 20th century.

The next book I picked up was Geraldine Brooks’ Pulitzer Prize winning March. I do love Brooks’ writing. Earlier this year I read People of the Book that told the stories of both a young woman who restored manuscripts and the book that was her project to restore – the fictional Sarajevo Haggadah. It is an exquisite intertwining of her story and the history of a Jewish text.

March was a surprise. If you’re a reader, I’m sure you have wondered and “what-iffed” about what happened to a character after the story that was told. Brooks takes the character of Mr. March, the father in Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women who was pretty much a behind the scenes character until the end of that book, and tells his story during the year he was away from his family serving as a chaplain to Union soldiers in the Civil War.

While in Little Women we see him as the returning hero, loved by wife and family. March shows us the struggle, the doubts, the anguish of an idealistic, abolitionist, dreamer amid the horrors of an incredibly brutal war. No hero is without his weaknesses, and Mr. March is drawn in Technicolor in that regard. We also see Marmee, his wife, in more dimension than Little Women’s perfect mother picture. There are times in the book when I would have liked to give each of them a good shaking, but I realized that was my 21st century morals and attitudes judging characters in the 19th century. This is what makes Brooks’ writing in March so remarkable to me. She unapologetically and skillfully does not judge her characters or manipulate them beyond the culture of their era.

For some reason only the gods know, I seem to be stuck in the 19th century. I had no idea when I ordered my copies of Wild Swan, Swan’s Chance, and Season of the Swans by Celeste Deblasis that they would take me through that century with the Carrington-Falconer family. Someone had recommended Wild Swan on a forum I frequent and, well, I have a thing for swans, so I ordered them. Silly reason, but there you are.

These books were published in the 1980s and 90s. Celeste Deblasis passed away from cancer in 2001. I suppose they are categorized as historical romantic fiction. The emphasis is indeed on the relationships of the main characters, many main characters. This is a sweeping history of a prolific family from the early part of the century to the end. Alexandra Thaine Carrington Falconer is the driving force of the family and the focus of the books. Wild Swan moves with her from childhood in England to her immigration to Maryland where, with her first husband, St. John Carrington, she builds a farm for the raising of Thoroughbred racing horses. I will not give you much of the story here, as I don’t want to spoil it for anyone who decides to read the books.

At first I was annoyed at how much exposition there was in these books. We get history lessons through them all. But these were written in a different style, a different decade, when exposition was not as frowned upon as it is today. 23 years does make a difference. And the characters are very much a part of the history that surrounds them, so it felt more natural as I continued through the trilogy.

Swans. During a difficult time in my life I lived for a month at my cousin’s summer lake cottage. It was my grandparents’ cottage when I was a child and I spent idyllic, sun-warmed summers with them there. Now it is a run-down sort of place, kept together with love and Mr. Fix-it efforts by my cousin. By all rights it should be torn down and replaced, but my cousin just can’t bring himself to let go of it. It is a magic place, not just because it holds the loving spirits of our grandparents and memories of our youth, but it is an untouched oasis amid busy suburban rush. There are deer, fox, ducks, birds of all kinds, squirrels, ground hogs, frogs, turtles, fish….and swans. My cousin tells me there are three species of swans on the lake. I don’t know about that, but I will forever remember the family of mute swans that frequented the channel in front of the cottage every morning I was there – a male, female and three fuzzy, dustmop cygnets. Watching them feed on the duckweed in the channel every morning, parents herding and directing their young ones, brought me a peace and confidence that all was as it should be.

Alex Falconer finds the same peace and solidity in the migration of swans first in England’s west country and then the Chesapeake Bay. Swans are fiercely dedicated to and protective of mate and family. They mate for life, unless their partner dies, of course. Alex is a swan.

I don’t know what century I will venture into next. I’m not sure I’m done with the 19th yet. We’ll see what comes.

Just a LOL Cat day....

My Self-Directed Search

Well. According to my results on the Self-Directed Search Interpretive Report (http://www.self-directed-search.com/) my most suitable careers would be a Philologist (I had to look it up to make sure I knew what that was. I did. Phew! I first got it confused with a Philatelist!) and a Restorer of Paper and Print. Runners up were an Exhibit Artist, Copy Writer, Dance Therapist, Laserist (?), Painter, Reporter and a Restorer of Ceramics. Others came down the line like Dictionary Editor, Art Appraiser and Economist (Yikes! Not now!).

So, here I am - a Church Administrative Assistant. Who'd a thunk it?

A Philologist?? Really???

At long last....Canada!

(Written after our first trip to Keystone during the first week of August)

While in one of our more successful fishing spots from last year (Not nearly as successful this year. Fish are fickle buggers!) we were kept company by one of the many Bald-headed Eagles in the area. They often hang around the spots where the most fish are schooling. On one weedy, reedy area a family were having a squabble. I think mom and dad were urging a youngster on to get his own fish, but he wasn't buying it. The youngsters can be distinguished by their still darkly feathered heads.

I never knew Eagles could make such a clacking racket. It was kind of like that which a Dolphin makes and resonates in the same way. I could feel it going right through me at times.

We also saw Otter and Beaver, but they dived back into the water before I could point and focus my camera. Rats! I did manage to finally get a pic of a Loon before he dived yet again. We played peek-a-boo for about 15 minutes before I got this pic and it isn't very good. But I felt triumphant! Hah! Got ya, ya wee bugger!



There weren't as many Loons on the lake this year as last. We were told by the Frostiaks (owners and proprietors of Keystone Lodge) that the Eagles have been making meals of the baby Loons. They snatch them right out from under the parent Loon's beaks. Because they still have their down and can't dive, the babies are left above like dainty, fuzzy appetizers for the Eagles while mom and dad head for the depths. Nature seems cruel at times, but that's the way of it.

Bass! Cedar Lake has been designated by the Canadian Powers-that-Be as a Bass lake. Indeed. We pulled in 2-4 pound Bass with annoying regularity. While I love to fight a good-sized Bass-- it's a real thrill--it can be a pain when you've already made your limit and are fishing for Walleye or Perch. I got the biggest one for the trip-- a really nice 15 incher. *Betty is smiling to herself, reliving the feel of that baby on the other end of the line*



On Tuesdays the Frostiaks hold a "Camp Fry" under the Tent. It used to be a fish fry, but it required such a great number of Walleye and, well, being proprietors doesn't allow that much time for fishing. Leanne gets out there and sometimes the boys, but they leave the fishing to the clients and do hamburgers and Nana's fantastic potato salad on Tuesdays now. Dave and Leanne, Mike, Doug and Heather (their kids) and Leanne's mum, Nana, make being at Keystone like being on a family outing - without all the family fracas that often ensues at those. They are wonders and some of the best folks I've known. Keeping up a resort is hard work - kind of like being mom to 30-50 people each week for 4 months, 24/7. They do it all with smiles, laughs, hugs and an occasional free beer! Amazing.

We did have showers off and on for the first few days and we did get caught out on the lake a couple times. (We fished 4-5 hours each morning and evening.) I got soaked through once and the temps were in the 60s. I shivered my way back to camp, but there were no repercussions. I'm no foreigner to fishing in the rain. Did it when I was a kid most summers at my grandparents cottage on Fourth Lake. I did remember to tote along rain gear in the boat after that, though!

It was beautiful watching the clouds, both puffy white and looming gray, chase over the lake while we sat, often in silence, in the boat. Light and shadow were mesmerizing. We were rewarded twice with rainbows after showers.



My visits to Cedar Lake have not just been relaxing, fun and stunningly beautiful, they have been a chance to re-connect spiritually. I have always found mySelf and my Creator much closer when I am out in Nature. With Mother Earth under my feet and the broad expanse of sky, cloud and stars above me I find my roots and return more clear-headed and knowing who I am.

And the water -- in a boat on water I can dive through the ins and outs, ups and downs of my life and find a peaceful center, even on rough waters and shivering when soaked through.



It's magic. Pure magic.


***********
We went back for another week last week. This was the first time Bud had been there in September. It was a totally different story weather-wise.

We settled into our cabin Sunday afternoon which was the other half of the duplex cabin we stayed in last year. The view from the balcony was gorgeous. The sunny was shining, blue sky, but the wind was almost a gale. The lake had whitecaps. We bumped and rolled to our favorite fishing spots. It was so bad Monday night that everyone came in early. It was just too dangerous to be out there.



It stayed like that until Tuesday when a storm came through at night and the temp dropped into the 40s F. Wednesday there were a few showers, but mostly sunny, so we braved them with the help of sweatshirts and a couple of Keystone fleece jackets we purchased and our wind/rain gear. (We old dodos forgot our jackets in the dryer at home! Ugh!)

It became Autumn in that one night. The lake turned over, green algae from the lake bottom formed a scum over large parts of the lake. Sensitive characters like Walleye and Perch are not so active and picky about biting under those conditions. The aggressive Bass and Northern don't give a fig and kept on coming at us. We, however, had already landed a couple of 16" Bass and plenty of smaller ones. I got surprised by a 26" Northern! I haven't caught a Northern that big in many a year. But we were almost stymied in finding Walleye and Perch for a couple of days - with the exception of my 18" Walleye caught where we saw the Eagle in the tree last time. And, by gum, there he was again!

I'm quite used to waiting for fish to bite. Bud, however, was dismal. He wanted to hit the Walleye like he was used to doing. They just didn't cooperate like that. The last day, though, we managed to exceed our limit. Walleyeman still pouted.

But it was grand and beautiful out on the lake, if a bit nippier than we had anticipated. The Frostiak family were their usual friendly, helpful selves and because there was only one other couple in camp we got to spend more time with them. It was a cozy bunch.



So that's all until next year. *sigh*