Louisa: The Extraordinary Life of Mrs. Adams

If you ever watched the HBO mini-series, John Adams, you probably developed a healthy appreciation for his wife, Abigail. Laura Linney’s portrayal of Abigail Adams was phenomenal: she was gritty, intelligent, hard working, independent, and most impressive of all, John Adams’ intellectual equal. She was the “ever guiding planet around which all evolved” (265). Abigail was the kind of woman you can’t help but admire and that you hope to emulate.

I suppose I expected the same character traits in John Quincy Adams’ wife, Louisa Adams, née Johnson. However, Louisa was not a stalwart farmwoman, nor was she interested in the staid and serious intellectual grind that was so valued by the Adams clan. Because of this, it took me a while to really come to see her strengths and appreciate her good qualities (ironically, it took a while for her mother-in-law as well).

Louisa was born in London and educated like your typical Jane Austen heroine. Her upbringing focused on entertaining, music, social skills, and speaking French. In short, she was raised for the marriage market. John Quincy and Louisa’s attraction to one another was complicated from the beginning. Both of them had strong reservations about each other. John Quincy was unsure she was serious and practical enough to be an American politician’s wife, and Louisa was unsure if he truly loved her. They both had strong tempers. As is often the case when a strong-minded man and an impetuous woman are thrown together, Louisa comes off looking the worst. In the beginning, she seems petty, immature, and lacking intellectual curiosity. She likes to dress up and be admired, she wants to wear rouge; she complains a lot and she’s unable to do anything even as practical as balancing their home account books.

However, as the years passed, a number of severe trials caused her to develop into a complex and sympathetic woman. She experienced numerous and often very painful miscarriages. She longed to be settled with her family, but she was forced to lead a nomadic lifestyle as a diplomat’s wife. And while she wasn’t interested in John Quincy’s Tacitus and Cicero, she set out on her own rather unpredictable, but no less valuable, course of study and reading. She was infinitely more interesting at 40 than she was at 20.

The most compelling chapter in Louisa’s life was when she and her youngest son, Charles, accompanied John Quincy on a diplomatic mission to St. Petersburg. Pressure from Abigail Adams forced her to leave her two older sons behind in America, something she always regretted. For six years she had to live in frozen, desolate Russia, while navigating the gaudy and extravagant aristocratic society of St. Petersburg royalty and politics. She experienced bitter loneliness and indescribable pain at the loss of a baby daughter while there. And when John Quincy was called away to Paris she was forced to live alone for nearly a year and then to make the dangerous journey from St. Petersburg to Paris on her own.

One of the most intriguing things about Louisa is that she was one of those women who is incredibly strong when they have to be, but who immediately crumples under male protection.

The author notes, “In times of adversity, forced to rise to the occasion, she often thrived. She had crossed thousands of miles from St. Petersburg to Paris, fording half-frozen rivers and meeting with unruly soldiers. She had made difficult decisions quickly and well. She had taken care of her small and terrified son. She had traveled through the night, slept very little, dealt with deserting servants, crossed battlefields, and ravaged villages, and faced the approach of a dictator. She had shown courage and self-command. She had not been overcome by fatigue. She had in fact completed the journey from St. Petersburg with such strength that her husband concluded the arduous trip had been crucial to her health. This same woman, once relieved from all responsibility and returned to the protection of her husband, after a much shorter and easier journey, was now helplessly tired and overwhelmed” (233 – 34).

John Quincy wasn’t the type of husband who was sympathetic to female weaknesses either. Much like his father, he was argumentative, bullish, and had an “I don’t give a damn what you think of me” attitude. He would shut himself up in his study, grumble and growl at visitors, and was often noted for being taciturn during important social occasions. I think Thomas makes a convincing case that without Louisa’s ability to navigate the social side of politics, there is a good chance John Quincy would have completely ostracized himself from politics through his reclusive tendencies. Louisa was charming and sociable and very aware that being able to make friends with people in high places could get you further than a well-constructed argument or strong political conventions.

A misanthrope and a social butterfly, they were an unlikely match and their relationship was often explosive and studded with anger and misunderstandings. Yet, however ill-suited their personalities were, their love became strong and true through a lifetime of shared struggles and tragedies.

A study of Louisa Adams’ life may not prompt the same respect and adoration as a study of Abigail’s would. However, her failings make her very human and approachable. Louisa truly led an “extraordinary life” because she became an extraordinary person. You will come away from this biography with not only an appreciation for her endurance and courage, but for her weaknesses as well.

A Man Called Ove

A Man Called Ove is the humorous and heartrending story of the curmudgeon next door. Ove is the kind of man who, on first making his acquaintance, you would probably shake your head, wonder what could make a man so spiteful, and then do your best to try and avoid him in the future. Ove’s approach to life is black and white. He is an obsessive rule follower and a crank. He works with his hands, follows an outdated code of masculinity, and he doesn’t understand why the world is changing around him.

Ove’s life gets turned upside down when a new family moves next door. A series of hilarious accidents follows in their wake and even while Ove shakes his head in bewilderment and his fist in rage, he can’t help but be drawn in by them.

I think everyone has or has had someone in their life who is a lot like Ove – the grandfather who rails against the price of pretty much everything, the taciturn old Uncle who sits unsociably at holiday dinners, the curmudgeonly neighbor who refuses to wave or smile when you pass by. The magic of this story is that it reveals the deep humanity that can be found underneath a harsh exterior. It is a reminder that even the most cantankerous and hard to understand people will flourish when they are loved and needed.

Behind Closed Doors: At Home in Georgian England

Behind Closed Doors is a study of Georgian interiors, the importance and purpose of home, emerging commercialism and desire for home goods, the domestic spheres in which men and women moved, and the social hierarchy and expectations in the home. It is also an analysis of Georgian home decorating, which includes such things as the popularization of wallpaper, the development of “taste,” and the simultaneous celebration and marginalization of women’s handicrafts.

What I found most enjoyable in Vickery’s book wasn’t the academic analysis of wallpaper or the analysis of male/female roles, but the case studies of the lives of individuals, as revealed through their letters and journals.

My favorite was the depressive spinster, Gertrude Savile, whose luckless love life was further compounded by having no money of her own. With no income, she was completely reliant on her brother, a rich baronet, and she keenly felt the humiliation of having to beg him for “every gown, sute of ribbins, pair of gloves, every pin and needle” (188). Her cheerless journal entries give vivid insight into her personal melodrama. Speaking of her brother’s house she says, “I was mightily estrang’d to it. It used to have a more friendly home air, but now I thought myself a stranger . . . I fancy’s the very walls look’d inhospitably upon me and that everything frown’d upon me for being an Intruder” (189). Bitter and feeling unwelcome, Gertrude would confine herself to her room, where handcrafts and her cat were her only pleasure. Luckily, for Gertrude, she was eventually liberated from this arrangement by a legacy, which allowed her to move into her own lodgings and experience the independence she always longed for.

There are dozens more stories of personal intrigue and tragedy, including that of the dissipated bachelor, George Hilton, whose diaries reveal an addiction to drinking, gambling, and whores. Filled with remorse, Hilton would resolve “to have soe punctuall a guard over my inclynacions as never to lose my reason my imooderate drinking” (71) and that “never will I knowe a woman carnaly except in a lawfull state.” (71). Of course, he broke these resolutions quite speedily, which he candidly recorded in his journal.

These stories are what made Vickery’s book come alive for me.

While Vickery writes with a liveliness and wit that may surprise you, considering much of her source documents were account books and ledgers, there was some unavoidable monotony, often coming in the form of the repetition of lists found in her research These are quick to skim over though and the majority of this book was filled with fascinating facts and pithy observations.

One of the benefits of reading this book is that there is an accompanying 3-disc series, At Home with the Georgians, which is narrated by Vickery and wonderfully entertaining. If the book sounds like a bit of an academic stretch for your reading tastes, just watching this series will give you the highlights of the book without any of the cumbersome academic discourse. ;)

The Thirteenth Tale

Several years ago I took a graduate class in Gothic fiction. I remember a handout I was given that contained a list of commonly found elements in the gothic novel. This list included everything from dark omens and disturbing visions to women threatened by powerful and tyrannical males. The atmosphere of the gothic novel is filled with spine-tingling gloom and horror – buildings decay and crumble into ruins, eerie sounds come from dark rooms, and inexplicable presences abound.

Diana Setterfield must have had the same list because The Thirteenth Tale is gothic perfection. The main story unfolds as Vida Winter, a famous and reclusive writer, reveals her tragic and mysterious past. From her silent and forbidding mansion that sits on a cold and misty moor, Vida shares her story with her young biographer, Margaret Lea. Margaret, as we quickly learn, has a few issues of her own when it comes to ghosts and family drama.

Reading this book was like watching a dense fog slowly dissipate. At first, there is nothing but dim oppressiveness, but gradually the light filters through, the mist thins, and objects come into focus again. In-fact, it felt a lot like reading Wuthering Heights, with odd and awful characters, forbidden relationships, and that certain feeling that you don’t really like it, but it’s too thrilling to leave.

I think what surprised me most about this novel is that despite a large measure of tragedy and horror, Setterfield manages to give her readers a happy ending. She ties up the loose ends so neatly that it was the verbal equivalent of Martha Stewart wrapping a Christmas present, complete with perfect creases, hidden tape, and a handmade bow. While I usually appreciate a tidy and happy ending, it was hard to adjust to such an obvious change in tone after nearly 400 pages of exhilarating gloom.

The Historian

Elizabeth Kostova’s The Historian is a modern retelling of the Dracula tale. It is also a travelogue through Eastern Europe, a journey through Medieval European history, and a love story.

I don’t go in for horror and maybe that’s why I like Dracula tales. Most of the fear in Dracula comes from what could happen, not from what actually happens. His evil is real and his past atrocities are detailed, but in Kostovo’s story he becomes something of a sinister historian/librarian, rather than a widespread threat to humanity.

There are a lot of narrative devices used in this novel – letters, manuscripts, journals, and first person narrative. It gets a little overwhelming at times, but it also keeps the story from descending into the mundane. It’s important to have some variety in a 676-page novel.

I think what I liked most about this story was its academic wish fulfillment. Let’s face it, most academic research is about exciting as the main characters original research for his dissertation: Dutch merchants in the 17th century. However, in Kostova’s story, old books and ancient manuscripts are sought after and discovered with spine-tingling fervor, scholars receive mysterious books which awaken their desire to research and learn more, and for each character, what starts as a morbid interest in Dracula, becomes an elaborate academic game with life and death consequences.

My Autumn Reading List

A few weeks ago I decided to make an autumn bucket list. I came up with the usual things: bake a pumpkin pie, go to a pumpkin patch, pick apples, make butternut squash soup, etc. Apparently, fall makes me want to eat … Anyway, before I knew it my list had morphed into an autumn reading list. #bookwormproblems

A seasonal reading list might sound a little strange, but I’ve noticed that what I’m in the mood to read varies by season. I struggled to concentrate on anything more substantial than Nancy Drew and Young Adult fiction this past summer, but now as the year wanes, evenings come earlier, and a slight (ever so slight) chill is in the air, I eagerly anticipate wrapping myself in a cozy sweater and immersing myself in a good story. I want mystery, suspense, adventure, and some gothic thrills that include crumbling castles, desolate moors, mysterious men, and brooding Victorian heroines. I want a little magic and fun too.

So, without further ado, here is my autumn reading list:

The Historian – A modern retelling of the Dracula legend, the Historian weaves a tale that spans generations and takes its readers on a journey through some unpleasant medieval history, while also reveling in the beauty of Eastern Europe. The reader gets a spine-tingling opportunity to traverse countries such as Romania, Bulgaria, and Turkey, all while searching for the infamous Dracula and worrying about who might be his next victim. Even though I’m reading this right now, The Historian has Halloween written all over it.

The Thirteenth Tale – the synopsis of this book makes this one sound like a perfect gothic adventure: a reclusive writer with a painful past, feral twins, a governess, a ghost, a topiary garden and a devastating fire. Yes, please!

Emily of New Moon – I feel like Anne of Green Gables is for spring, but Emily of New Moon, with her thoughtful and introverted ways, is for fall. I’ve read this series once before, but I’m eager to read it again. As I recall, it’s a little darker and more serious than the Anne of Green Gables series, but still very enjoyable.

Harry Potter – wizards, witches, Hogwarts, Butterbeer, Pumpkin Pasties, magic wands, owls … need I say more? I’ve been working my way back through this series. I previously finished the first three books and now I have the last four to look forward to.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall – because anything by a Bronte is bound to be dark and thrilling. I’m eager to read this work by the “forgotten” Bronte sister.

The Haunting of Hill House – According to Amazon, this book “has been hailed a perfect work of unnerving terror.” The author, Shirley Jackson, is probably best known for her short story, “The Lottery,” which certainly contained its own horror. I’m not usually into terror (you’ll probably never find me reading Stephan King), but this does sound like the perfect haunted house tale, so I’m going to give it a try.

The Shadow of the Wind – I think I’ve had this book on my shelf for almost ten years. I started reading it twice, liked it, but for some reason never got through it. I’m determined to read it this season! The Amazon synopsis makes it sound so appealing that I’m just going to cut and paste it here. I know this is going to be a good read! “Barcelona, 1945: A city slowly heals in the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War, and Daniel, an antiquarian book dealer’s son who mourns the loss of his mother, finds solace in a mysterious book entitled The Shadow of the Wind, by one Julián Carax. But when he sets out to find the author’s other works, he makes a shocking discovery: someone has been systematically destroying every copy of every book Carax has written. In fact, Daniel may have the last of Carax’s books in existence. Soon Daniel’s seemingly innocent quest opens a door into one of Barcelona’s darkest secrets--an epic story of murder, madness, and doomed love.”

Charlotte Bronte: A Fiery Heart– because a reader can’t live by fiction alone. The cover of this book assures me that Charlotte is as mysterious and melancholy as the heroines of her stories, and I’m eager to know more about the author of two of my favorite novels.

The Cider House Rules – I’ve been meaning to read this sense I saw the movie. I suppose there’s no other reason it’s on this list than that the title contains the word “cider,” which makes me think of autumn (insert eye roll).

Jane Eyre – a desolate moor, a crazy first wife locked away in a tower, a man so ruggedly ugly he’s almost handsome, and the lonely and willful woman he falls in love with is the epitome of the what I’m looking for in my autumn reading this year. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve read this book, I will always come back to it. And yes, I will be watching the movie too!

What’s on your autumn reading list? Is there a certain book or books that you like to read this time of year?

Year of Wonders

It seems slightly wrong to enjoy a novel about the plague, but I certainly enjoyed this story. Year of Wonders: A Novel of the Plague, is based on the true story of a village in Derbyshire England which was struck by the Black Death in 1665 and whose occupants made the choice to quarantine themselves in their village, rather than risk spreading the plague to others.

In the hands of a less competent writer, a novel centered on the plague could have easily gone asunder, but I have nothing but praise for Geraldine Brooks’ handling of the subject. There’s a care in her writing, a purpose to every word, which is probably the product of her experience as a correspondent for The Wall Street Journal.

From what previous knowledge I have about the plague, I would say that Brooks did a good job of demonstrating how the plague was key in the shifting and leveling of social classes and how individuals might struggle between faith and superstition in a time where no one knew the cause of the plague or how it spread. Where could people turn for comfort when their religious worldview was shaped by the harsh and puritanical beliefs of a wrathful God who is quick to punish the wicked?

I think Brooks’ genius comes from her ability to isolate. She chooses a sweeping historical event and then uses it as a backdrop, telling the story through marginal and seemingly insignificant characters. For instance, in March, we experience the Civil War through the eyes of the father from Little Women and in Year of Wonders she shows us how it might have been to experience life in the 17th Century and the horrors of the Black Death through a singular and courageous servant woman in a remote village in Derbyshire, England.

Villette

The protagonist of Villette, Lucy Snowe, is like that friend you have whom you know needs Prozac, but you can’t think of a polite way to tell her. Lucy is the embodiment of an introvert and would probably be diagnosed with social anxiety disorder today. She is depressed and depressive; often acerbically witty in thought, but rarely able to transform this wit into action. When it comes to social interactions she freezes like a bucket of water in a January snowstorm.

She sounds dreary, doesn’t she? The truth is, all of the Bronte’s were dreary women and you either love them for it or run as fast as you can to the Austen section and pick out a book that doesn’t make you want to hurl yourself onto the desolate moor and bemoan the wicked unfairness of life and the inconsistency of men.

So, why should you read this novel? Because even though Lucy may need anti-depressants, the portrait Bronte writes of her is one of intense believability. Her feelings are real. When she talks about being forgotten or being alone or what it feels like to love someone and know that they would never even think twice about you in the same way – you get it. You understand her when she describes what it feels like to know that you aren’t impressive, that you don’t fit in, and that you will never be like the popular girls. Despite herself, Lucy Snowe is likable - she just doesn’t know it.

And the prose … wow! Bronte’s genius drips from her pen in a series of similes and metaphors that will transform the way you see the world. One of my favorite passages was this description of the moon:

“Where, indeed, does the moon not look well? What is the scene, confined or expansive, which her orb does not hallow? Rosy or fiery, she mounted now above a not distant bank; even while we watched her flushed ascent, she cleared to gold, and in a very brief space, floated up stainless into a now calm sky” (208).

If that doesn’t give you goose bumps, you probably don’t want to attempt the 555 pages of this novel.

The Kitchen House

Vivid and fast paced, The Kitchen House transports readers to antebellum Virginia, where the good and evil of humanity plays out in epic style on a sprawling tobacco plantation.

The story mainly focuses on the Irish orphan, Lavinia, who for much of the book exists in a no-man’s land of race and class. An indentured servant on the plantation, she lives, works, and loves the slaves whom she resides with, yet her skin color means that she can’t fully assimilate into their world. As we follow Lavinia’s story, we witness the intricacies of friendship, familial bonds, and, of course, racial prejudice.

Overall, I really liked this book and would recommend it; however, I don’t think it touched on any issues involving slavery, race, or the politics of plantation life that haven’t already been gone over in other books and movies. For the most part, the author wrote her characters into comfortable stereotypes: the steadfast black matriarch who calls almost everyone her “child,” the nutty plantation owner’s wife who goes crazy from grief and lack of society, the naïve woman turned victim wife who stupidly marries a monster and then can’t figure out how her life went so wrong, and, of course, the evil slave master and drunken, sadistic slave owner who impregnates nearly every woman who happens to be within a ten-foot radius of his unquenchable predatory ways.

Wait … now I sound like I didn’t like the book. I did. It’s just that the last third of the book was like a tragedy on steroids. While the conclusion was mostly satisfactory, I would have liked to see a little less melodrama and a lot more character development.

The Summer Before the War

This story had so much potential –an unexpectedly pretty Latin teacher is cast out upon the world after her father’s death and meets a young, dashing, too serious doctor. Their story begins in the lazy Edwardian “summer before the war” and despite differences in rank and privilege, they are intellectually suited for each other. I was really into it for the first 150 pages or so. Then, like a literary titanic, the next 350 pages slowly sunk under the weight of a swarm of Belgian refugees, a pouty poet, an aging nudist, and page upon page of please-poke-my-eyes-out dialogue.

I feel as though Helen Simonson experienced an identity crisis in this novel. Her first novel, Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, was cute, verging on the ridiculous, and while I don’t fault her for wanting to write something more serious, the problem in this novel was that she couldn’t decide whose story she wanted to write. In the end, she tried to give too many characters space, which resulted in everyone falling flat. I expected something light, but ended up reading a heavy-handed, unoriginal elegy about the travails of war. Simonson needs to decide whether she wants to write Chick-Lit, thinly disguised as quality literature, or whether she wants to be the next Ernest Hemingway.

The Gathering of Zion: The Story of the Mormon Trail

It is rare for a writer to obtain greatness in two genres, but as an author of history and as a novelist, Stegner demonstrates the depth of his talent in The Gathering of Zion: The Story of the Mormon Trail (1964). In recounting the mass exodus of the Mormons from Nauvoo, Illinois to the Salt Lake valley, Stegner writes with the liveliness of a novelist, but with the integrity of a historian.

Much of what Stegner wrote made me laugh (a rare occurrence when I read a history book, I assure you). For instance, in writing about one optimistic pioneer woman, Ursulia, he says that she “had a knack for making the best of things. If it had hailed stones as big as baseballs she would have come out from shelter wondering if it wasn’t a good time to make up a nice freezer of ice cream” (72). And in describing the ordeal of 20 men who stayed behind during a bleak winter to guard cached freight at Devil’s Gate, where they nearly perished from an inadequate food supply, he states, “One kind of script, at this point, calls for them to draw straws to see which should first be killed and eaten, but the Mormons, whatever their other capabilities, never showed any talent for cannibalism” (263).

As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, I imagine that Stegner’s tone and views could prove to be offensive to some members, especially when he talks about Joseph Smith or Brigham Young, both of whom get slightly roasted on the spit of his acerbic wit. Yet, I think Stegner’s position as a non-Mormon enabled him to write with a perspective that at its worst distorts, but at its best allows Stegner to inject a humor and honesty into his writing that those carried away by the sincerity of their faith may not be able to do. Oftentimes, members of the church get caught up in a certain rhetoric concerning the pioneers, which reduces them to convenient object lessons, rather than complex people.

Whatever his prejudices may be against the leaders of the church, Stegner does not have a hidden agenda. He states that, “I write as a non-Mormon but not a Mormon-hater. Except as it affected the actions of the people I write of, I do not deal with the Mormon faith: I do not believe it, but I do not quarrel with it either” (314).

I came away from this book with a better appreciation not just for the Mormons who traveled the hard trail west, but also for pioneers in general. There was something incalculably different about the Mormons who traveled this trail though, about these people who were willing to leave everything behind, who fled persecution, and who were asked to sacrifice so much, yet who remained faithful to their beliefs.

In a recent General Conference talk, Refuge from the Storm, Elder Patrick Kearon drew a moving parallel between the worldwide refugee crisis and the persecution of the early Church members. He said, “As members of the Church, as a people, we don’t have to look back far in our history to reflect on times when we were refugees, violently driven from homes and farms over and over again. Last weekend in speaking of refugees, Sister Linda Burton asked the women of the Church to consider, “What if their story were my story?” Their story is our story, not that many years ago.”

Kearon’s talk, as well as the recent call from the LDS church for its members to aid in the refugee crises added another dimension to my reading of this book. To reflect on the story of the Mormon trail is to reflect not just on what is past, but what is taking place in our world right now.

Blackmoore

Sometimes, I feel like delving into a great work of Literature. I want to take my time as I turn the page of a George Eliot novel, for example, so I can really understand the intricate workings of her characters’ minds, appreciate her clever aphorisms, and contemplate the social and historical backdrop of the story.

And then, there are times I feel so checked out from reading that I would rather binge watch a whole season of Fuller House than crack open a book (I’m still reeling from that decision). There are times when I can't get a moment to myself, when the thought of trying to read Proust or Dickens while listening to Frozen for the five billionth time is beyond my mortal strength. When one of these black moods of intellectual indolence and despair befalls me, I look for a book that will keep me interested enough to look forward to reading it, but one that isn’t going to require me to keep track of too many characters, figure out complicated motives, or plow through pages of antiquated language. Julianne Donaldson’s, Blackmoore, is just that sort of book.

Blackmoore would probably be categorized as a “beach read” – it’s fun, light, and you can finish it in a weekend of dedicated reading. Donaldson freely borrows relationship motifs from Jane Austen novels (the embarrassing mother, the checked out father, the out-of-control hussy of a sister, and the imperiously disapproving potential family-to-be). She also works in a good portion of teen angst and “proper” romantic fantasies, which usually involve a lot of blushing, heart pounding, and standing too close to one another. What do most teenage girls want? Freedom from their tyrannical parents so they can make their own decisions and to be noticed, admired, nay, worshiped, by the man of their dreams. Oh, and to triumph over the more beautiful, but obviously less substantial, romantic adversary. Donaldson delivers.

Now, let’s talk about what this book is not. This is not literature with a capital “L.” There is every possibility you will grow tired of the caged bird symbolism. It is unlikely that any of the characters will surprise you. Most likely you will predict the ending. Still, if you’re not feeling stodgy and pedantic, there is every possibility that you will enjoy a trip across the moors to a grand manor, complete with secret passageways, where your most ardent and long-treasured teenage romantic fantasies will finally be fulfilled in the most proper way.

Gift from the Sea

Gift from the Sea is not the sort of book I would have picked up on my own. My book club is reading it this year though and it is a brief 138 pages, so I initially decided to “just get through it” and be done with it. Imagine my surprise when I began reading and found that much of what Anne Lindbergh wrote over 60 years ago still rings true.

I must admit that I hadn’t realized Anne was Charles Lindbergh’s wife until I looked her up after reading this book. I’m glad I didn’t know as I was reading though because instead of placing Anne on a pedestal of preconceived notions – famous aviator’s wife, famous aviator herself, daughter of a foreign diplomat, rich, privileged, etc – I was able to read her words as though she were just an average 1950’s housewife who happened to have a writing career.

Much of what Lindbergh wrote in the beginning of Gift from the Sea resonated with me as both a woman and a writer. Like Virginia Woolf, Morrow advocates that women need to find a way to detach themselves from daily distractions so that they can have a space of their own to create and be. “Women’s normal occupations run counter to creative life, or contemplative life, or saintly life” (29). How true this is! Morrow touches on the fact that women are by nature givers and nurturers and that they don’t resent the giving, so much as the feeling that they often give to no purpose. She writes, “no longer fed by a feeling of indispensability or purposefulness, we are hungry, and not knowing what we are hungry for, we fill up the void with endless distractions, always at hand – unnecessary errands, compulsive duties, social niceties. And for the most part, to little purpose.”
I can’t tell you how often I’ve made a mile long “To Do” list and driven myself nearly mad to get it done, only to find as I put the last checkmark in the last checkbox that many of the items weren’t really important at all – they were merely filler for my day, items to conquer in my quest for purposefulness.

What is Lindbergh’s answer to this search for purpose? It is two-fold: eliminate the unnecessary and seek solitude. When we do that, she believes we will find our “center” and begin filling it up with activities and relationships that sustain and renew us.

In what she calls, “the art of shedding” she states that we need to learn “how little, not how much can I get along with. To say – is it necessary? – when I am tempted to add one more accumulation to my life, when I am pushed toward one more centrifugal activity” (35). I was struck at how closely her thoughts resonate with the modern minimalist movement, which isn’t just about cleaning out your closet, but about eliminating internal clutter as well.

If we succeed in eliminating physical, internal, and emotional clutter we will be able to seek solitude in order to feed the “inner-life.”

Over sixty years ago Lindbergh wrote that the world does not understand people’s need for solitude and that is probably truer today. You run the risk of being labeled antisocial if you don’t have a Facebook page or Instagram account. Tell your children to turn off the TV because the noise is bothering you and they’ll probably think you’re in a bad mood. Imagine telling a friend that you can’t attend their party because it conflicts with your alone time! Most likely they would think you were not only rude, but in need of anti-depressants. In our society, one’s desire to be alone has been relegated to the status of a mental health issue. If only they understood what Lindbergh, and most introverts, understand: that “there is a quality to being alone that is incredibly precious. Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before. It is as if in parting one did actually lose an arm. And then, like the star-fish, one grows it anew; one is whole again, complete and round- more whole, even than before, when the other people had pieces of one” (42).

I can see why women were drawn to this book 60 years ago when the cult of domesticity raged and the idea that women deserved lives of their own was probably a bit foreign. Now, we live in an age when it’s not uncommon to go to a restaurant with music so loud you can hardly speak to the person across the table, which perhaps makes little difference when most everyone is on their iPhone texting, Facebooking, or playing a game. In this age of distraction, social isolation, and personal fragmentation, Lindbergh’s profoundly simple reflections from the sea still have the capacity to make us stop, think, and reevaluate our lives.

The House at Riverton

It almost seems unfair to say that I was disappointed in this book because it was Morton’s first novel and I still thought it was a fairly good story, but I did have a hard time getting through it the first time and it was even more difficult the second time (I reread it for book club).

The descriptions in this story were rich and textured, like a delicious piece of chocolate cake. The characters and plot, on the other hand, were more like vanilla pudding: sweet and edible, but unsubstantial.

The main character and narrator, Grace Bradley, whose job as a servant is unarguably dull, lacked the rich inner life to counter her profession. The other characters were similarly flat or became so within the course of the story. The descriptions of Grace in her old age reached a melodramatic pitch on her deathbed, “Finally, after ninety-nine years my end has come for me. The final thread that tethered me has released and the north wind blows me away. I am fading at last to nothing.” I could almost hear fake gasping noises and violin music swelling in the background as I read this.

I think the character that disappointed me the most was that of Hannah, whose rebellious and adventurous nature seemed so provocative at the beginning. I expected great things from her, but she became more and more spineless as the story went on.

I’m used to Morton’s explosive and unexpected endings, but this ending was more like a 4th of July firework that fizzles in the night sky. I got a few sparks and a poof of smoke when I expected a showy and colorful display.

The more interesting aspects of the novel were left unexplored. For instance, what exactly is “The Game” that is played between the Hartford siblings? What about the whole affair between Grace’s mother and her employer? Why is Grace’s daughter so bitter?

My other issue with this novel cannot really be blamed on Morton. Because of the time period and upstairs/downstairs drama, I kept picturing the Downton Abbey characters. This book was published in 2006 and Downton Abbey didn’t come out until 2010, so I know Morton wasn’t trying to copy the show, but because her characters were lacking in intensity, it was hard to give them a space and identity of their own.

Despite my complaints, I think this novel will be interesting to Morton fans, if only to see how well she has honed her craft within the past ten years.

Reflections on Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House series and Anne of Green Gables

Several years ago, I decided to read my way through Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books. It has been a lovely journey, full of cherished memories from my childhood and new discoveries. Wilder’s peculiar ability to make me want to run off to the Midwest and live on a claim shanty on the plains has not diminished as I grow older. There is something beautiful about the simplicity of living that resonates with my minimalistic tendencies. For instance, the scene where Laura tidies her marriage home is one of my favorites. She goes about putting everything in order and it is described as a “bright and shining little house.” She spreads “a bright red tablecloth” over her table and “the cloth had a beautiful border and made the table an ornament fit for anyone’s front room. In the corner between the window to the east and the window to the south was a small stand-table with an easy armchair at one side and a small rocker at the other. Above it suspended from the ceiling was a glass lamp with glittering pendants. That was the parlor part of the room, and when the copies of Scott’s and Tennyson’s poems were on the stand it would be complete. She would have some geraniums growing in cans on the windows soon and then it would be simply beautiful.”

That single red tablecloth, the hope of bright geraniums in the windows, and the certainty that two volumes of poetry will be just the thing to make your home complete – it really is perfect. There’s no clutter. No stacks of junk. When you have few things to treasure, everything you own is of great worth. I’m sure as a child this wasn’t the reason I was drawn to these books, but as an adult, I continually come back to it. When Laura declares to Manly that, “I have always lived in little houses. I like them,” it resonates with me.

As I finished reading the last three books in the series this month – Little Town on the Prairie, These Happy Golden Years, and The First Four Years, I found that though these books are good, they are not nearly as enchanting as the first six books in the series.

As the spirited little girl grows into a teenager and adult, it’s as though bits of Laura become erased until there’s nothing but a faint outline of her. Some of this is the result of what happens when characters grow up, but the genre doesn’t. Veiled in Victorian modesty, Laura’s courtship with Manly was almost comically unromantic. The most passion to be found in their engagement is when Laura returns home with a ring on her finger and Ma says,” Sometimes I think it is the horses you care for, more than their master.” To which Laura replies, “I couldn’t have one without the other” and “Laura knew they understood what she was too shy to say.”

As I was reading, I was struck by the many similarities between these books and Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne books. Montgomery has Tennyson, Wilder her folk songs, but they tell pretty much the same story of growth from girlhood to adulthood. While Montgomery writes with a humor that is utterly lacking in Wilder’s prose, Wilder takes the prize for realism. Want to know what happens when a twister hits your house or a freak snowstorm occurs when you’re out walking? It’s not pretty.

Though the writer’s methods vary, Anne and Laura essentially share the same fate as adult characters. Anne recedes into the background as the Anne series progresses and anecdotes of her plentiful offspring take center stage. Wilder tries to keep Laura at the forefront of the story, with rather disastrous results. The First Four Years was a bit of a shock. I kept asking myself, “what happened here?!” It wasn’t until I had finished reading it that I discovered that it was an unfinished draft, published long after Laura Ingalls Wilder’s death. Much like Harper Lee’s, Go Set a Watchman, one wonders if the publishing of this manuscript was a disservice to the legacy of the author.

What’s done is done though and the magic is almost quite gone in The First Four Years, which chronicles, at a rather brisk pace, Laura and Almanzo’s first four years of marriage. Strange incidents, like Mr. Boast offering to trade a horse for Laura and Almanzo’s baby, because they could have more children and his wife could have none, occur. Tragedy strikes over and over again - a burned down house, the loss of a baby, a crop that has failed three years in a row, and crushing debt. Gone are the days of music, laughter, star shine and violets. It’s as though Wilder is trying to prove that no matter how bright the flame of girlhood burns, there is nothing adulthood won’t bring your way that won’t attempt to extinguish it.

Both Montgomery and Wilder illustrate that when faced with the practicalities of married life, homes of their own, and babies, the dowdy, overworked housewife is waiting, just around the corner, to invade the optimistic girl of yore. Who has time to dream when there is a farm to take care of and children to bring up?

And, yet, I can’t see the adult Anne and Laura as failures of their childhood selves. I believe their success as characters rests not so much in what they became, as what they didn’t become. It is the absence of poor qualities that continues to distinguish them as valuable characters. For Anne, success meant not becoming a small-minded gossip and busybody. For Laura, success is avoiding mental breakdown and not becoming a wild, knife-wielding plainswoman (see book seven) that threatens to murder her husband in the night because he won’t take her back to civilization. Victory is not only being able to survive in a harsh environment, but also being able to see the beauty and poetry in it. Oh, and not killing your husband when he doggedly tells you there’s nowhere else for you to go. That is an accomplishment.

Anne retains her ability to dream and Laura retains her work ethic and pioneer spirit. These qualities enable Laura to not only survive, but also thrive in a harsh and unforgiving environment. In reading her story, I have felt my own “spirit rising for the struggle.”

It Was Me All Along

The New Year seemed like a good time to read a book about how one woman lost over 130 pounds.

I have never read a weight loss memoir, but Andie Mitchell’s story is just what I expected from the genre: pages of contemplations as to why one overeats; long, tedious descriptions of once loved fatty foods; a stint in counseling; self-obsession, over exercising, and the realization that there is more to life than a treadmill and calorie counting. It’s all here.

While I don’t think this was the author’s intent, I came away from this reading experience with a sense of just how selfish eating disorders can be. Like any addiction, an eating disorder means that someone is completely focused on himself or herself. They may not be happy, they may not be able to control it, but the world revolves around them and the foods they eat or don’t eat. It is sad not just for the person with the disorder, but for their friends and family.

Weight loss aside, the author’s journey embodies the self-absorption, lack of substance and direction that typifies her entire generation. She partied through high school and college, went to Europe for a semester to study film, graduated with no real plan, collected a bunch of student loan debt, has a hard-working mother (who no doubt has never had the luxury of going to Europe) that is willing to pay for her plastic surgery, and after a seven year relationship she decides she has outgrown her significant other and “fallen out of love” (big eye roll for that one). They break up, she moves away, and four years later they are engaged (that part is not in the book, but on her blog).

Her life isn’t about what she can give back to people or how she can do something important that will contribute to the well being of others. No, she is troubled by the need to “find” herself, express her creativity, and grow. To read her story is to read the egocentric motivations of an entire generation.

So, I didn’t love this memoir. I didn’t hate it either. I respect the author’s weight loss journey, even if I do find her to be lacking in substance. To endure the loss of a parent at such a young age and to be left alone so often would lead some people down far darker paths than obsessively eating cake, cereal, and donuts.