relationships

One Book a Week-48: “The Buried Giant”, Kazuo Ishiguro

/ Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

This is not the easiest book to read in many ways. Its setting is not long after the death of mythical King Arthur. Main characters include an elderly couple who have left their home to search for their long lost son, an aged knight supposedly Sir Gawain, a dragon monster, a “gifted” older child, and a Saxon warrior. Some of them are Britons and some are Saxons, and in some cases they view each other as arch enemies. There is a monastery with both good and evil monks, a tunnel, lots of forests and mountains, rivers, and a lake where a boatman ferries people to an island–perhaps the residence of the afterlife. The potential symbolism is endless if the reader is into symbolism. The dragon monster has created an endless fog which dulls the long term memory of the humans. The elderly couple want to get rid of the monster so they can repair their memories, but will this really be a good thing. That is one of the main questions in the book. Most analyses of the symbolism say the buried giant is the dragon, but I think it is the buried memories of everyone, but especially the elderly couple, who are desperate to recover their memories.

One Book a Week-45: “The Bluest Eye”, Toni Morrison

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“The Bluest Eye” is one of the most banned books in the US. Even here in California, some in my local school district tried to get it removed from the high school library. One school board member told me it had been on the shelves since it was first published and no one cared until this year. Why the controversy about this book?

Yes, there is incest and sexual assault, but this occurs near the end. My guess is that what really disturbs some is the stark details and honesty about how people treat each other, the brutality of racism and poverty, and even among people of the same race, the cruelty of discrimination based on how people look, their level of education, their origins. The main character is poor, unattractive, and unpopular. She comes to believe that if she just had blue eyes, all her problems would disappear. She even goes to a charlatan preacher whom she believes can make her eyes blue because others have told her he creates miracles.

The relentless truths detailed in this novel create a hard look at the effects of poverty and racism.

One Book a Week-41: “Woman of Light”, Kali Fajardo-Anstine

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This historical novel lead me to learn a lot about the history of the Denver area and nearby indigenous areas with regard to both Hispanic and other immigrants, e.g. Greek. I had no idea Denver was once such a racist place with the KKK marching in the streets and white men killing men of color over women and land.

The title comes from the nickname of the main character, Luz Lopez, luz being the Spanish word for light. The novel traces her family’s sad and unjust history from the indigenous areas of CO and NM where her family originated to their migration to Denver in search of work. Luz has special powers, reads tea leaves, initially works as a laundress, and lives with her aunt because her parents were both killed. Her brother, a snake charmer, has to leave town to save his life after white men beat him nearly to death because he dares to love a white woman. This is a book about survival, love, jealousy, hatred, joy, and the history of various indigenous and immigrant people in Colorado and New Mexico.

The author’s earlier book, “Sabrina and Corina”, a collection of stories, was a finalist for the National Book Award and won a number of other prizes.

One Book A Week-27: “Lucy By The Sea”, Elizabeth Strout

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A short, honest, realistic view of life, this book by Strout, written from the viewpoint of Lucy
Barton, continues the story started in her book, “Oh, William”, where Lucy and her ex, William, go to Maine to seek out his long lost sister whom he did not know existed until he took a DNA test. Once again they head to Maine, but for a much more stressful reason, the Covid pandemic. They both live separately in NYC where Covid hit early and hard. After accurately assessing the danger, William finds a large, old house to rent on the Maine coast and convinces Lucy to go with him there to save their lives. He convinces one daughter to leave NYC but the other insists on staying.

The book addresses the issues of isolation brought on by the pandemic and how people deal with stress and isolation differently and with the difficulties which arise when once close families can no longer see each other. It also shows that isolation can bring the positives that can be found in a more quiet life. Strout’s uniquely simple style emphasizes the emotions and stresses as well as the joys life can bring to all of us.

A Book a Week-24: “The Water Museum”, Luis Alberto Urrea

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What an amazing story collection!! As I read these incredibly diverse stories featuring so many different types of people, I kept wondering how does he know so much about different sorts of individuals:

-An older white lady in a tiny town in Idaho who runs a little restaurant.

-Chicanos in San Diego–this one I “get”; he grew up near there in Tijuana.

-A divorced white guy, wandering aimlessly cross country.

-A teen in Arizona who loves a nice girl from a dangerous family.

-A “weird” old man in a Mexican village.

-A young man trying to save his dead dad’s possessions from questionable friends.

-A strange magical realism Mexican story. I love magical realism so if I think it strange…

-A kids’ trip to a water museum ( the title) in the drought ridden plains.

-A sad South Dakota story of a white man married to an woman from Pine Ridge.

-In Iowa a widowed farmer trying his best to befriend and understand his Mexican neighbors.

One Book a Week-15: “Oh, William”, Elizabeth Strout

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Told from the point of view of the main character, Lucy, in first person, the simple language the author uses as Lucy tells her story, reflections, and anecdotes belies the deep knowledge of marriage, parenthood, the entire human condition underlying this novel. Two once married individuals go on a trip to Maine to learn about a relative one did not even know he had until he received the results of a casual DNA test, a gift he did not originally take all that seriously. They’ve been married and then divorced for years and have two daughters together. In spite of their best efforts to the contrary, they remain connected even when they find each other a mystery.

A rather simple story, written in plain language, holds the following piece of wisdom–Lucy’s words which end the novel:

“Everybody in this whole wide world, we do not know anybody, not even ourselves!

Except a little tiny bit we do. But we are all mythologies, mysterious. We are all mysteries, is what I mean.

This may be the only thing in the world I know to be true.”

One Book a Week-13: Blue Desert, Celia Jeffries

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As an ardent reader who prefers what are usually referred to as literary novels and serious non-fiction, few books impact me deeply and emotionally like this one has. As soon as I finished it, I reread parts of it several times, then sat silently stunned.

After her family moves to North Africa for her father’s work, an 18 year old British girl, rescued by a Taureg leader, is believed dead by her family until she resurfaces years later at a Catholic “home” run by nuns in North Africa. She re-enters British society, marries, leads a relatively “normal” life while keeping a secret for decades. When she receives a telegram, “Abu is dead”, everything changes. Her past comes rushing back in unexpected ways.

Missouri Roadtrip-the Home Place

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6CC097FA-6B1F-4C37-8170-6026A42B8C30This is he house where I grew up north of Fillmore, Missouri.  My dad lived here in this house from 10 year old to 90. He died in the month after his 90th birthday.  The house stands on the land my great grandfather established after he arrived from Switzerland in the mid 1800s.

3A97C88F-30A5-4A32-99E3-5E4D8E1172F5This is the only building left at the site of my grandparents original house and barns.  It is an old carriage house.  In this photo my daughter and grandson are taking a look.  One of the original stained glass transome windows from the house hangs in my own house. My grandparents were Lilliebelle Werth and Pleasant Lightle.

 

D44A6726-4FF1-4FB0-9F89-47F7E7C98391When I was a child, this was once a chicken house but mostly the farrowing house for our registered Hampshire hogs.  Later I learned that when first built during Prohibition, Dad held dances here which the sheriff checked to make sure there was no alcohol.

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This is corn and soybean country. The view reaches across the land from the back of the home place.  We met the young couple who own the house now. They keep everything spic and span just like my parents did.  I am grateful.

 

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Antioch Christian Church where we attended church when I was a child.  My mom’s fruit pies were famous here.

A Letter to the Man I Loved the Most

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Today is your birthday, June 6.  I cannot wish you Happy Birthday because you fell into a coma a year and 1/2 ago and died several months later.  Our daughter came over and over to see you, unconscious, eyes staring into empty space.  She drove the five hours back and forth repeatedly.  Sometimes I came with her.

What happened to you?  Your mahogany hands and arms looked as they did when I first met you decades ago.  I looked at the signs of aging on my own; yours seemed so young, ageless.  But not your face.  I wonder if I would have recognized you on the street.  I remember the first time I saw you, sitting on a sofa–fancy, engraved silver tipped cowboy boots, shirt open half way down your chest, and your smile radiating across the room.  I knew immediately I had to have you.

What happened to you?  How could I have guessed I could be so wrong, decades of believing you just left, no explanation, nothing.  Then after you are comatose and I cannot talk to you, I learn a far different truth, a truth that never leaves me, a truth from which I will never totally recover.

What happened to you?  Charming, laughing, the man so many loved.  That you.  Did the other you finally dominate–the sad, disappointed, angry you?  The you few knew, the hidden you, the one I often held, tried to protect. Now I talk to your cousin, the one you forbade to tell me the truth I never knew, the friend I thought I had lost forever.  Yesterday we talked.  Today she left me a message.  She and I will never be the same, she filled with irreparable loss, your company, your mutual love, and I with a hole in my heart that can never be filled because I cannot talk to you.

What happened to you?  A decade ago when you came to see our daughter, it was like I had seen you only yesterday, in so many ways as if we had never been apart.  It haunted me.  You could have told me then, the truth.  But no, I had to learn it by accident from our daughter.  She thought I knew, that you had told me.

What happened to you?  I look at photos of us, young, filled with hope and love and promise, smiling brightly toward a camera.  I wonder how different my life might have been.  I will never know.

 

 

 

Grandmother

/ Juliana Lightle / 1 Comment

We sit on the wooden swing suspended by silver chains

hanging from the bungalow front porch ceiling.

She, elderly beyond her years, grey hair piled atop her head,

thin and wrinkled.

She stays with us sometimes when Aunt Julia goes off

on one of her adventures.

Cattle graze across the road in front of the house.

It is summer.

A bull mounts a cow.

Suddenly, out of the silence, Grandmother speaks,

“Men and bulls are just alike;

they are only interested in one thing.

A bunch of good for nothings!”

Her voice is vitriolic.

And I, a child, maybe twelve, innocent and ignorant,

sit there shocked,

amazed,

embarrassed,

astonished

to hear my grandmother talk that way.

Now, nearly fifty years later,

I wonder about her life,

what in it caused this secret bitterness

she spilled just once on that idyllic summer day.

I look at her wedding photo.

She has a steady, unsmiling, pretty face,

marrying a handsome man twenty two years her senior.

Were they happy, sad, or probably a bit of both?

I remember what my mother, her youngest daughter, told me

snippets here and there.

A hard life, endless guests

never a break from gardening, cooking, canning, cleaning.

I look at other photos of my grandmother

taken before I was born,

older, nearly as wide as she is tall, never smiling.

I remember her in an old lady’s flowery, lavender dress,

thin from years of undulate fever.

I remember her feeding me bread, butter, and sugar sandwiches,

Easter egg hunts at her house,

and later, at another house, walking with her to the corner store.

I never remember her smiling.