Eat, Read, and Be Mommy

On Veterans Day, formerly Armistice Day, I usually post “In Flanders Fields” as my FB status; in the past I’ve also blogged about it, one way or another.  Today, however, seems like the right day to write a hard review.  I received an ARE of The Girl Who Smiled Beads from Penguin Random House almost two years ago; I finished it last week (because, again, life).  I’ve been hoping that a few extra days of distance would help me organize my thoughts for this post, but–how do you review a memoir like this?  How do you pass judgement on someone’s experiences and how she chooses to recount them?  What, really, am I to say?

I suppose I start by saying that this is the second memoir of a Rwandan genocide survivor that I’ve experienced.  (Read seems such a blah word under the circumstances.)  I was in a book club that picked Left to Tell:  Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust more than a decade ago, and it was painful and powerful and (ultimately) hopeful in a way that affected me deeply.  1994 was middle high school for me, and current events were not so much my thing; Left to Tell was my introduction to an event that my parents almost certainly mentioned but that I was oblivious to.  The Girl Who Smiled Beads, however, is told from an entirely different perspective.  In many ways, Clemantine’s story is as much a refugee’s story as a survivor’s story; she and her older sister were sent to their grandmother’s for safety, and then–one night–their grandmother told them to run.  They escaped Rwanda with a mass of others and spent the next 6 years in refugee camps and cheap apartments, suffering, travelling–and surviving.  Their journey to America was convoluted, and so are their experiences there.

So is life, when that is your childhood.

Ultimately, I view the world differently from Clemantine; how could I not?  Her memoir, however, is exactly what it says it is–A Story of War and What Comes After.  She is scarred in ways that I cannot comprehend, and she understands that scarring, understands that she is a person in emotional turmoil.  I cannot pass judgement on the decisions she has made, the conclusions she has drawn, and the life she now lives, because I cannot imagine what such experiences would do to my own inner self, how they would scar my outer world.  I can say that I was expecting a more straightforward memoir of her experiences during the crisis; instead, I found an introspective journey that felt almost uncomfortably intimate at times.  (I can also say that I hope she finds more and more peace as time goes by.)  Clemantine’s book is an experience that will touch you–and not an experience you can easily forget.

This fall, Ben Hatke combined two of his graphic novel heroes in Mighty Jack and Zita the Spacegirl–and it was fun.  There were shifting group dynamics to resolve, artifacts to find, and earth to save (from giants and monsters, no less!).  I sort of wish I’d read the other books more recently–the details of all of the robot and creature friends were awfully hazy in my head–but the story still came through.  (Jack and Maddy’s mom also had a slightly bigger role, which was nice.)  Overall, this is a satisfying graphic novel in its own right and a success at uniting two different stories into one big adventure.

And my kiddos are going to love it.

I received a complimentary copy of Paula Knight’s The Facts of Life well over two years ago.  The thing is, I read it then, too–in March of 2017.  I’d gone to Idaho for a week because my kids and my brother’s kids (who live there) shared the same week of spring break that year, and I finished it while I was there.  Instead of bringing it home and reviewing it, however, I lent it to my sister, who moved shortly thereafter; that complimentary copy is at her new house, somewhere, and I’ve been putting off reviewing it ever since, because I don’t love doing it without a copy of the book at hand.

Today, however, is the day (and please forgive me for the lack of detail, given the lapse in time involved).  I so appreciated Penn State University Press for the chance to read Knight’s memoir; I’m actually a big fan of the whole idea of the Graphic Medicine Series.  What better way to make stories accessible to readers who aren’t feeling 250 pages of text but need to know they aren’t alone, or want to learn more about the struggles others are facing?  I’ve never struggled with true infertility, but I spent a few years of my life desperately wanting to begin our family while knowing that we weren’t in a stable enough place to do so.  My sister and sisters-in-law were having children all around me–I once called my 50+ widowed aunt and told her that I needed to talk to someone that I knew wasn’t pregnant–and I watched them and listened to them and ached.  (And occasionally cried.)

Paula Knight’s experiences, however, didn’t mirror mine.  Her youth in the 1970s gave her a different kind of curiosity.  As for her attempts at motherhood, well–miscarriage is its own kind of pain, and (unlike my mother) I don’t have a great deal of experience with it; I just hurt for her.  Most significantly, her post-miscarriage conclusions and decisions were wholly different than anything I’ve ever spent time thinking about.  All in all, it was an interesting memoir–and a poignant one–but not one I related to as much as I thought I might.  (It’s also quite graphic–appropriately so, given the subject, but I felt like I needed to be careful with it around my young children.)  This is an empathy building, worthwhile reading experience, though.  If you try it, let me know what you think!

I finished Curse of the Harvester (Dream Jumper, Book #2) tonight, partly so that I could review it and pass it off into my children’s hot little hands tomorrow; I imagine they’re going to love it.  As for me?

Ehh.

I’m not the intended audience, you know?  The flatulence gag did absolutely nothing for me, and a bunch of dream-jumping-action-sequences linked by random “tests” and villains that are abruptly introduced and barely explained does not actually constitute a plot.  The ending didn’t help, either; it implied more books to come, and yet it’s been a couple of years and nothing else appears to be coming.  (Honestly, the ending-with-no-subsequent-books might also annoy my children.)  On the other hand, they’ve already read the first book, so whatever, right?  It’s not like graphic novels are a significant time investment.  I probably would have chosen to read it anyway, because SEQUEL, but you’ll have to make that call for yourself.

I read quite a lot of older books as a child.  L. M. Montgomery, Louisa May Alcott, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Gene Stratton Porter–their writing styles were as comfortable and familiar to me as anything written during my lifetime, and reading books written in the late 19th and early 20th centuries is still a beautifully nostalgic thing for me.  (Provided, of course, that they’re written by the above sorts of authors rather than by, say, Thomas Hardy.)  Jean Webster’s Dear Enemy was just such a delightful trip back to the literary worlds of my childhood.  It’s more of a companion novel to her Daddy-Long-Legs than a true sequel, as it follows Judy’s college friend, Sallie MacBride, as she takes over the running of the John Grier Home; in between discharging the gardener, placing out children for fostering or adoption, and convincing anyone with the means to contribute to the JGH to do so, she works and spars with the young Scotch doctor who sees to the orphans, laughingly addressing him as ‘Dear Enemy’ in their professional correspondence.  (My apologies.  That was quite long enough for a sentence!)  The ending surprised me not one whit, but I so enjoyed the journey–Sallie as a narrator is a lovely combination of idealistic, determined, frustrated, and hilarious, and the world of her orphan home completely engrossed me.  If you have fond memories of reading those authors I listed above but haven’t read Jean Webster, you’re in for a treat.  And who doesn’t need a treat this time of year?

Is anyone really surprised that I ended up missing Halloween?  Because really, I’m not.  At least it’s a 31st/1st, so I won’t get as far behind!

Anyway.  Britt and I started listening to I’m Sorry…Love, Your Husband:  Honest, Hilarious Stories From a Father of Three Who Made All the Mistakes (and Made up for Them) while driving from RI to VT; we got through maybe 2/3 of it on our trip, and I just finished listening to the rest of it a day or two ago.  Parts of it were laugh-out-loud funny, parts of it weren’t as relatable to me personally, and parts of it left me shaking my head a bit.  And that’s expected, right?  Any sort of book of personal experiences is bound to have parts in each of those categories.  Clint Edwards’ book focused more on marriage learning experiences than parenting ones–although there were some of both–and I think I actually preferred Jim Gaffigan’s Dad is Fat because it focused on the parenting stories.  To me, every marriage is different, but kids–in so MANY respects–are universal.  That said, however, Edwards’ book was certainly entertaining.  I would have preferred less crudity of language from someone who specifically mentions his religious beliefs (he shares mine, and I know for a fact that language is something talked about), but the bits he mentioned about his childhood suggested possible reasons for those particular tendencies.  All in all, if the topic sounds decently interesting to you–as it did me–you’ll likely enjoy the book, like I did.*

*You’ll also enjoy Gaffigan’s book, so read that, too!

After the kiddos were in bed last night, I took the time to finish Surfside Girls:  The Secret of Danger Point, so I could review it today.  (Remember my graphic novel obsessed 10-year-old?  I can only hold her off for so long!)  It’s got stretches that are pretty light on text and a fluffier storyline, so it wasn’t a hardship; it was a fun, summer-themed mystery, with ghosts and a mysterious, dastardly land developer as well as an animal conservation angle.  This isn’t a Telgemeier or Jamieson–or a Shannon Hale–as far as depth goes, but the Nancy-Drew-meets-beach-story feel is going to appeal to its audience.  My only real complaint is the two girls’ swimsuits.  Maybe they’re realistic, yes, but MUST we put 12-year-olds into skimpy string bikini tops?  Could we please try NOT to sexualize our children?

Sigh.

At any rate, that detail aside, my older girls are going to enjoy this one–but it’s not what I’d call a must-read for adults.

It’s been several years since I read Kimberly Brubaker Bradley’s The War That Saved My Life; it was a Newbery Honor book in 2016, and I was apparently keeping up with Newberys better then than I am now.  (Life happens.)  I flipped through it last year, however, when my oldest needed a novel about WWII, and I was wowed by it all over again.  I must have been in a critical state of mind when I reviewed it, because its writing style struck me as perfect for it this time around, and I was quite excited to read its sequel, The War I Finally Won.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Pardon me for the overused, modern adverb, but The War I Finally Won grows from its predecessor in an incredibly organic way.  (There’s just no way NOT to sound pretentious there.  Sorry!)  Ada’s continuing story makes perfect sense, as do her changing struggles and the varied hardships that life in wartime Britain brings.  Deaths, war work, illness, and new concepts and ideas assail her from all sides, but as a hard-won sense of self begins to emerge for her, Ada triumphs in ways that brought tears to my eyes.  If you haven’t read the beginning of Ada’s story, do it now–and then read her sequel as well.  Both books are incredibly worth it.

As in, drove in from Idaho (via Clearfield, where we ate and got a bit of energy out) at a quarter to 8.  It’s now 9:30, and I’ve unloaded what was left of the clean dishes in the dishwasher, loaded it up and started it, managed 20 minutes on the elliptical, and tucked in various children.  Not bad, right?

Really, I wasn’t going to post tonight, but we listened to Elana K. Arnold’s A Boy Called Bat on the way home today, and I decided it deserved a brief review before I returned the eaudiobook and then forgot about it as Halloween approaches at lightning speed.  It really was a nice little book about an autistic boy, his veterinarian mother, and his frequently frustrated sister, as they react to the entrance into their lives of a newborn skunk kit that needs the kind of care every newborn needs (read:  nigh constant).  Bat loves the skunk and hatches a plot to convince his mother to let him keep it; while that doesn’t pan out quite the way he hopes it will, it helps trigger a series of encounters that culminates in a social first for him–a good one.  I didn’t realize until I sat down to review it that it’s the start of a series, but as that knowledge cannot now be un-known, I imagine Arnold’s subsequent Bat books will be making an appearance on our library shelves…

In the meantime–long weekends tend to be short on sleep for everyone.  Goodnight!

I can still think of at least 3 books that I’ve finished but not reviewed; on the other hand, I’m planning on a family-oriented weekend and since it starts tomorrow (no school for end-of-term on Friday), I’ve got to get more sleep tonight than I’ve BEEN getting.  To that end–goodnight, folks.  I’ll do some extra reviews starting Monday, when our long weekend is over!