by jphilo | Feb 9, 2011 | Reviews
Without the suggestion from a book club buddy, The Irresistible Henry House probably wouldn’t have found a spot on my personal book list. But now I’m grateful to have read it.
Lisa Grunwald’s book isn’t great literature. But, it is an intriguing novel about a phenomenon that lasted from the 1920s until the 1960s on many college campuses. Orphanages “loaned” babies to home economic departments so young women could gain practical experience caring for infants. The young women would rotate week by week, caring for the child over the course of the year. Then the college would return the toddler to the orphanage for adoption, and a younger infant would be put in place.
Grunwald tells the fictitious tale of one such baby, Henry House. But in the story, instead of returning him to the orphanage, the home economics instructor (a widowed, unbending woman) adopts and raises Henry. He becomes a charming child who can copy any artwork, though he can’t come up with original, creative ideas. He’s irresistible to women, able to manipulate them as he wishes. You can guess where that trait leads him.
The story has it’s Forrest Gump elements, as Henry comes of age in the early 1960s. He becomes an animator, works on Mary Poppins and meets Walt Disney. Then he goes to London and meets the Beatles during his stint as an animator for Yellow Submarine. Sometimes, it felt like Grunwald forced the symbolic elements of the story when she didn’t need to. The premise of the story was intriguing enough.
But, a personal connection kept me reading The Irresistible Henry House: post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The more I read of Henry, the more his behavior resembled adults who experienced childhood trauma that resulted in PTSD. It made me think about infants who spend weeks and months in neonatal or pediatric intensive care units, being cared for by a constant rotation of nurses.
SInce finishing The Irresistible Henry House, thoughts of those children have consumed me. And I know it’s time to get serious about developing a proposal for a book about PTSD in kids.
So thanks, book club buddy, for putting The Irresistible Henry House on the reading list. And thanks, Lisa Grunwald, for moving the PTSD book proposal to the top of my to do list.
Anybody volunteers to clean my house so I can actually work on it?
by jphilo | Jan 27, 2011 | Reviews
The remake of True Grit has been in my thoughts daily since I saw it almost a week ago. Though the performances of Hailee Steinfeld as Mattie Ross, Jeff Bridges as Rooster Cogburn, and Matt Damon as LaBoeuf were top notch, they aren’t the source of the disturbance. Neither is the absence of Hailee Steinfeld’s name on the movie poster, though the omission is beyond explanation.
Contrary to logical thought, the violent story line that left a trail of dead bodies in the wake of the main characters hasn’t been bothering me either. After all, the remake is a Cohen brothers movie, and violence is to be expected. My preoccupation has nothing to do with how Ross, Cogburn, and LaBoeuf demonstrated their true grit in the face of danger, either.
No, what disturbed me was the plethora of bad guys and lack of good guys in the movie. Rooster Cogburn, the man who saves the day was a drunk, a former outlaw, and disloyal. In short, he was not a good guy. LaBoeuf, who helped Cogburn save the day, was an egotistical, selfish man who hightailed it when things didn’t go his way.
Mattie Ross, the fifteen-year-old determined to avenge her father’s senseless death, came closest to achieving good guy, or in this case, good gal status. She was, after all, an innocent victim with no hidden agenda, only a burning desire to mete out justice. At least, her desire appeared to be for justice, but by the end of the movie, it looked more like revenge. Though she accomplished her goal, Mattie’s own actions scarred her for life, both physically and mentally, by her. The horrible price revenge exacted upon this young, vibrant, innocent girl is disturbing and unforgettable.
Good movies are the ones a person can’t stop thinking about. In that case, the remake of True Grit is very, very good. I just wish I could stop thinking about it.
by jphilo | Jan 19, 2011 | Reviews
I usually don’t cry when nearing the end of a biography. After all, biographies are about famous people, and we already know how the story ends. But in rare cases, a life story is gripping enough and the writing brings the subject alive. In those cases, the biography’s subject becomes a beloved friend, so the reader is moved to tears when it’s time to say good-bye.
At the end of Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption, I didn’t want to say good-bye to Louis Zamperini. I’d come to love the man who’d once been an incorrigible youth, well-known to the local police department. I raced beside him when he qualified for the 1936 Berlin Olympics and rubbed my eyes when he shook hands with Hitler. I started with recognition upon hearing of his early bomber training in Sioux City, Iowa. I barely endured the pages recounting his 42 days on a life raft in the Pacific after a B-24 Bomber crash. I cringed at horrific descriptions of his treatment in a World War II vet who suffered indescribable horrors in a series of Japanese POW camps. After the war, when he became an alcoholic to blot out the POW memories, my heart ached for him. When his life changed after hearing the gospel at a Billy Graham Crusade, I rejoiced.
And when author Laura Hillenbrand (she also wrote Seabiscuit) described the optimistic ninety-two-year-old Louis Zamperini when the book was released in 2010, I began to cry. I didn’t want to leave this man, this unbroken man who forgave the Japanese prison guards who tortured him and took away his dignity.
I cried to think of all he’d suffered, all he’d taught me, and all the lives his story will change. I cried because Louis chose the better part and by his choice, has changed many lives for good. I cried to think of how this story would have been lost had not Hillenbrand begun her research while Louis, his siblings, and several of his war buddies were still alive.
If you read Unbroken, you may cry, too, when it’s time to say good-bye to a man whose true story reads like an implausible Hollywood movie script. But a good friend is worth a few tears, don’t you agree?
Go ahead.
Read the book.
Cry a little.
Be inspired.
Meet Louis Zamperini.
By the time you finish the book, I hope agree he’s worth a few of your tears.
by jphilo | Dec 10, 2010 | Reviews
Since Thanksgiving, I’ve become reacquainted with an old friend. We first met when I was a chubby, awkward sixth grader. As was her custom Miss Keagan, our battle-axe of a teacher no one ever messed with, handed out book orders and gave her recommendations. I listened carefully.
“She said A Wrinkle in Time is really good,” I reported to Mom, who taught with and respected Miss Keagan, and usually let me order a few of her co-worker’s favorites.
Mom filled out the order and put fifty cents in my hand. A few weeks later, the book arrived, and began one of the grand adventures of my young life. With Meg and Calvin and Charles Wallace, Mrs. Whatsit and Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which – I traveled the universe by means of tesseract. Through the characters, I met their creator, author Madeleine L’Engle. Her books – and she wrote many – were about misfit children, who liked thinking and reading more than sports, and coped with unpopularity by clinging power of family love and standing firm on truth. Her writings were a crutch during my excruciatingly painful junior high years. I read and reread them until I found my feet in high school. Ever after, whenever my direction faltered in this world, I visited her universe to reset my compass.
So at Thanksgiving, when I saw a book by Madeleine L’Engle in my daughter and new son’s small library, I pulled Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art off the shelf and started reading. Once again, I connected with L’Engle, this time woman to woman, writer to writer. Reading her observations about writing and art, visualizing the stories she told, I found myself. Almost, it seemed, her thoughts were mine, her conclusions about what it means to be a Christian doing art so similar to mine that our beliefs were a shared existence.
I can’t cite pages and quotations, because I couldn’t underline and put exclamation marks in the margins of a book that isn’t mine. (Which means I must order my own copy soon, along with new copies of A Wrinkle in Time and the other books in the series so I can write in them.) But here is one quote that struck such a strong chord the day I read it, after a long and hard struggle with the Different Dream Parenting manuscript, I marked it with a Post-It flag:
So we must daily keep things wound:that is, we must pray when prayer seems dry as dust; we must write when we are physically tired, when our hearts are heavy, when our bodies are in pain.
If you are an artist of any sort – writer, musician, painter, sculptor, or actor – this book will speak to you. It will encourage you, challenge your thinking, and energize your work. It needs to be on your bookshelf, in the gap between your books on craft and your books on faith. Because in Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art, the two meet in strength and power and truth. It’s one of the few books I will read more than once because it’s worth a double portion of my remaining time on earth.
It’s that good. Don’t miss out!
by jphilo | Nov 5, 2010 | Reviews
Sandra Dallas, author of Alice’s Tulips, is becoming one of my favorite authors for a variety of reasons. First, her books well-researched on two levels, relating both the familiar history of the times and the lesser known history of women’s life within those times. Second, quilting is an integral part to her books, whatever their time period in American history. Sometimes it pays a minor role, sometimes a major one. But quilting always puts in an appearance. Third, many of her books are set, at least partially, in Iowa. Or they’re set in Colorado, but make references to Iowa. For all those reasons, I find Dallas’s books satisfying.
So when our book club picked Alice’s Tulips for November, I read it eagerly and came away satisfied as always. Set in southeastern Iowa in the Civil War, it tells the story of Alice, the young bride of a Union soldier. She runs the family farm, under the sharp eye of her grim and prim mother-in-law. The story is told through the letters Alice writes to her older sister, Lizzie. Through the letters, readers see Alice face wartime challenges and suffering. As events unfold, she changes from a headstrong, selfish and judgmental girl into a wise, compassionate woman.
At her website, Dallas explains the origins of the book:
Poking through a consignment shop in Denver in the mid-1990s, I found a wonderful Civil War-era Friendship Quilt with names so wonderful that I wanted to use them for characters in a novel. Shortly afterward, I came across the mention of a quilt pattern for Alice’s Tulips, which I thought would make a fine title. I knew I wanted to write a book that included quilt lore, and Diane Mott Davidson, the best-selling culinary mystery writer, suggested I write a book of letters. With all those elements, I went in search of a plot and came up with Alice’s Tulips. At first, I wasn’t sure I had the background to write a book set during the Civil War. Then I realized that Alice’s Tulips is not about battles and troop movements but about women left behind during wartime and the bonds they forge with each other.
Alice’s Tulips (St. Martin’s Press, 2000) is not too long and not too short. Not too dark, but not too fluffy. Not overflowing with historical trivia but containing enough so you’ll learn something about Civil War women.
If you’re looking for a good read as winter closes in, Alice’s Tulips could be just what you want. A good book to make the long nights pass quickly and to make you thankful to be a woman in the 2010 instead of the 1860s.
by jphilo | Oct 15, 2010 | Reviews
For the past three years, my chemistry professor friend has been raving about the TV comedy, Big Bang Theory. The show sounded great, but I couldn’t check it out because we live in the black hole of digital television reception. (Yes, we have a converter box and no, we can’t get cable so we’re stuck.)
A few weeks ago, she lent me the DVD of the first season, and I haven’t quit laughing since. The acting, the characters, the writing, the plots, and the attention to nerdy details without going over the top make the show a gem. You probably already know that, since most of you don’t live in a digital black hole and watch the show regularly, so I won’t cite specifics. Except to say that Jim Parsons as the brilliant, narcissistic and OCD is fantastic and earned his Emmy. And maybe that some of the content isn’t appropriate for kids in case you’re thinking of watching with the fam.
The show has been an eye opener. Because the four nerdy main characters remind me of people in my high school crowd. Which means we were nerds. Which those of you who observed us have known for 30+ years. But we were clueless, as nerds lacking in social intuitiveness usually are. (If you’re a former classmate, stop sniggering at this insight leave a comment confirming the belated revelation.)
Big Bang Theory also explained a comment my daughter made shortly after she met the man who is now her husband. “He knows he’s a nerd and doesn’t care,” she said in a tone of voice that implied she considered herself a nerd, too. Which I never did until my eyes were opened. It’s obvious that our kids suffer from congenital nerd syndrome exacerbated by excessive environmental factors including the following:
- The making & wearing of costumes was encouraged. Their aunt even sewed and gave them costume boxes for Christmas.
- Hiram & the kids were obsessed with all things Star Trek, Star Wars, and time travellish.
- Super hero discussions were serious business at supper.
- Both kids spent Saturdays at academic team competitions. Give ‘em buzzers and a punny tee shirt, and they were happy.
Furthermore, both kids, with their spouses not just looking on tolerantly but participating willingly, still like to dress outlandishly. They still are obsessed with books and movies in the time travel, science fiction, and fantasy genres. They prefer board games of the Trivial Pursuit variety over action sports. And super heros are still serious discussion topics.
Apparently we raised them in Nerd-vana. So I’m thinking of writing the show’s creators to see if they need any creative consultants. My chemistry professor friend can handle the science stuff. And I can be the nerd nurturer.
Goodness knows, we’ve both got plenty of experience! We might as well put it to good use.
