So, I know I haven't been back here since I totally rocked NaBloPoMo with my awesome daily posting. I've been working on a book that is interesting, but not compelling: the sort you enjoy while you're reading but won't move heaven and earth to spend time with. Then I realized that if I didn't post soon and innovate on my blog, I would've failed NaBloPoMo in the larger sense. Like the kid with the ability to memorize all the facts out of a history book but without the ability to analyze, extrapolate and make comparisons, I would've rocked the test only to fail the subject. Plus...I missed you, and missed my blog!
So, the idea behind this feature is simple. On my sidebar is a massive list of "Authors I love, guilty pleasures included." So, from time to time, I'm going to pick one and say...you guessed it..."Why I love him (or her)".
Today, I pick V.C. Andrews. When I was in grade school, I was scared shitless of her books. I think it's because the movie version of Flowers in the Attic was marketed as a horror movie. (I finally saw it when I was in college. It's scary, all right, but not in the way the producers intended). I remember there was a girl in my math class, Melanie Tobias, who was working on If There Be Thorns (the second-to-last book in the FITA series). I used to look at her book all the time (it was more entertaining than math) and it made me feel afraid: the hints of mind control and evil possession freaked me out. I think I approached the series differently than most, though. By the time I'd gotten around to reading them, she'd gone back and written Garden of Shadows, a prequel to the series. Most prequels to anything are blatant money grabs and add little to the saga. This one actually made you empathize with someone who was portrayed thereafter as thoroughly evil and twisted. You understood what made the grandmother the way she was, and what fears and disappointments drove her. Would any reasonable person act the way she did over the course of the next two books? Probably not. But still, it lent humanity to her bizarre behavior.
After I finished the FITA series, I read the Dawn books, the Heaven books and her stand-alone novel My Sweet Audrina. They started to seem horribly derivative. Every girl had a dark secret and an evil relative (who usually knocks her up and then blames her for it). Every girl wound up a captive of some sort for a brief period of time. The girls generally started off with nothing and wound up rich through various quirks of fate, rarely through hard work and effort. There was always incest, often consensual. Blah blah blah.
I know that the V.C. Andrews books aren't particularly good. Although I re-read the FITA series from time to time, I haven't touched most of the rest since the first time I read them. So why does she have a place on my favorites list? I guess it's because of the way the books made me feel. Not only did they make me feel grown up, but they made me feel part of a community of readers. Most of the other stuff I gravitated towards, I couldn't really share with anyone except my best friend growing up. When I checked out a V.C Andrews book from the library, the library volunteer would often say "Oooohh, that's a really good one", or someone in line behind me would say "After you finish this series, you've gotta read the Dawn ones, they're even better." I knew they were trashy at the time, but they were totally absorbing. And that's "Why I Love V.C. Andrews."
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
We Made It!
One full month of posting every day. I didn't think I'd be able to do it, frankly. I knew I'd have a lot going on this month, and I also figured that there was a strong possibility that I'd just forget about this. But I didn't -- yay!
Doing NaBloPoMo was a bigger experience than I thought. I made a few great new blogger friends, like Stella Devine and Momof3gr8kids that I'll continue to visit, and hope they continue to visit me too. I wasn't really expecting to meet anyone through this. It also helped me break out of my self-made mold for this blog, which was basically that I'd read a book, then blog on it, read a book, then blog on it, rinse and repeat, with occasional interruptions apologizing to anyone out there who may be a fan for not posting for a while. I shared more of myself than I usually do, which was nice. I did some memes, which I haven't done much of before. Above all, I gained a new respect for those people who do post every day. My friend Hedwig, for example, can come up with three or four worthwhile posts virtually every day, and I don't know how she does it, after trying it myself.
Will I post more now than before? We'll see. In some ways I'm relieved this is over. I hated the days where I felt forced into posting some bullshit just to keep on my pace, so it'll be nice not to have to post. But I think I will probably wind up posting somewhat more frequently. And I'll definitely be back to do Nablo next year. Who knows, I may even try NaNoWriMo!
Congrats again to all the other NaBlo peeps. Even those who didn't make it, it's good to have something to strive for, even when you don't succeed.
Victimized
Being a curator is generally not considered a dangerous occupation. Sure, I heard some grim stories in graduate school about textiles experts who spent their careers working in unventilated rooms with things that had used arsenic and lead in the dyeing process, and the bizarre brain cancers that cut their lives short. But by and large, the worst hazards a curator faces in the course of her work are overwork, exhaustion and that terrible coffee the volunteers insist on brewing in the breakroom. Imagine my surprise to find myself a crime victim not once, but twice this week. The first time was bad enough, when robbers entered our office overnight and stole our digital camera and all of our money. The second time felt more personal, as they took my computer.
The museum is located in a fairly sleepy little town, so not surprisingly, this has received a lot of media attention. People keep asking me if insurance will cover it, but that's not the point. I said that I feel unsafe at work, and although two board members have reassured me that it's probably just teenagers who wouldn't mean me any harm, that's not the point either. Being a victim of a robbery like that makes you feel violated in some intangible way. They touched the photo of my sister and I dressed up for Halloween when I was a kid. They dumped out one of the boxes a friend made for me by hand, looking to see if I had any money in it. In my desk drawer was a leatherbound planner my boyfriend gave me for my birthday, which they didn't get, but still. I took all of my personal stuff home with me. I don't want the robbers touching it if they come back.
I can't help but wonder, who would do something like this to a museum? Of all the places to attack. Not that it's OK to hit a for-profit business or a private home, but the museum exists solely to do good things for the community, without ever demanding anything in return. It's supposed to be an egalitarian place, where everyone from the well-to-do to the welfare recipients can come and enjoy an afternoon with their families. It preserves the history of us all, including the robbers. Seriously, what a shitty thing to do. I felt very discouraged, but I think the community is going to step up and help, which makes me feel much better. But not safe, still.
The museum is located in a fairly sleepy little town, so not surprisingly, this has received a lot of media attention. People keep asking me if insurance will cover it, but that's not the point. I said that I feel unsafe at work, and although two board members have reassured me that it's probably just teenagers who wouldn't mean me any harm, that's not the point either. Being a victim of a robbery like that makes you feel violated in some intangible way. They touched the photo of my sister and I dressed up for Halloween when I was a kid. They dumped out one of the boxes a friend made for me by hand, looking to see if I had any money in it. In my desk drawer was a leatherbound planner my boyfriend gave me for my birthday, which they didn't get, but still. I took all of my personal stuff home with me. I don't want the robbers touching it if they come back.
I can't help but wonder, who would do something like this to a museum? Of all the places to attack. Not that it's OK to hit a for-profit business or a private home, but the museum exists solely to do good things for the community, without ever demanding anything in return. It's supposed to be an egalitarian place, where everyone from the well-to-do to the welfare recipients can come and enjoy an afternoon with their families. It preserves the history of us all, including the robbers. Seriously, what a shitty thing to do. I felt very discouraged, but I think the community is going to step up and help, which makes me feel much better. But not safe, still.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Childhood Favorites
My old description used to say that this was "A Blog About Books, From a Lifelong Fan of Them." It's true. Ever since I can remember, I've been a reader. When I was 13, I went to a school dance and slept over at a friend's house, and my dad said that he was pretty sure it was the first time I'd gone anywhere for an extended period of time without a book. Even now, I'll often carry an "emergency book": for example, you never know when you might be waiting on the side of the road for Triple A with nothing to do.
As a kid, one of my favorite authors was Zilpha Keatley Snyder, who wrote a lot about children who had encounters with the supernatural or imaginary worlds. My favorite by her was The Changeling, about Martha and Ivy's friendship. Martha came from a socially prominent family. Even her older siblings were popular, but Martha didn't fit in. She never had a friend until she became acquainted with Ivy Carson. Ivy, too, was a misfit in her family: the only one without any criminal aspirations. Ivy was into magic, and showed Martha a whole new way of looking at things. They talked to horses and trees. They spent a lot of time babysitting Ivy's sister, who had past-life experiences. They had a magic place where they hung out. It was totally my kind of story.
I talked a few days ago about how much time we spent searching for the gateway to Narnia; obviously that series was another favorite. I also loved the Prydain chronicles by Lloyd Alexander, which I wrote about in detail when he died.
L.M. Montgomery was another favorite author of mine. I got to know Anne of Green Gables through the made-for-TV version with Colleen Dewhurst as Marilla and Richard Farnsworth as Matthew. I went on to read all eight of the Anne books. I grew up near the Canadian border, and went to Toronto regularly. There was a large bookstore there, in the days before Barnes & Nobles and Borders inhabited every strip mall. Not only was it huge, but they had books that Waldenbooks didn't. I read several more of L.M Montgomery's books this way. My favorite was the romantic The Blue Castle. The heroine, Valancy, awakes on her 29th birthday deeply depressed. She is unmarried and lives with her overbearing mother and aunt. She has never done anything her whole life: she's never had a close friend, or a suitor, or any memorable experiences at all. She sees a doctor -- secretly -- about some pains she'd been having and learns that she has a serious heart condition and only a year left to live. This book is the tale of what happens to her in that year. For some reason, I identified strongly with Valancy. I re-read this one regularly at one point in my life, and have read it so often, in fact, that I probably really don't need the book anymore.
Lest anyone think I was a pure child, I'll point out that I also loved things I knew I wasn't supposed to read. I'd often make an incursion into the young adult section, and my parents didn't censor my choices much (although I thought they might start when I told my mom about the book About David, which is about a teenaged girl whose best friend David murders his parents and shoots himself. I think I was 9 at the time.) The "problem novels", with all the sex, were always enjoyable. I'm pretty sure that I learned where babies came from in one of these books. I also liked Erma Bombeck's Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession, although I wondered what the first oldest profession was until I was in middle school. Judith Viorst's Yes, Married was probably dated by the time I got my hands on it, but there was a lot about sex in that book too. I'm sure it was mostly in a context like: "It's hard to have energy for sex after spending the day washing dirty socks and cleaning up after the kids" but still, it fascinated me, probably more for the glimpses of adult life than anything else.
And like any good child of the eighties, my friends and I were all titillated by Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean Auel. We never read the whole book, just this one particular part. I'm not even sure who turned me on to it, but there's apparently a pretty graphic sex scene in there somewhere (well, graphic if you're ten, anyway). The only phrase I remember is "thick and throbbing." It's never been enough to induce me to attempt them as an adult (although maybe it'll go on my list...) but was a surefire giggle inducer growing up.
What were some of your favorite books growing up?
As a kid, one of my favorite authors was Zilpha Keatley Snyder, who wrote a lot about children who had encounters with the supernatural or imaginary worlds. My favorite by her was The Changeling, about Martha and Ivy's friendship. Martha came from a socially prominent family. Even her older siblings were popular, but Martha didn't fit in. She never had a friend until she became acquainted with Ivy Carson. Ivy, too, was a misfit in her family: the only one without any criminal aspirations. Ivy was into magic, and showed Martha a whole new way of looking at things. They talked to horses and trees. They spent a lot of time babysitting Ivy's sister, who had past-life experiences. They had a magic place where they hung out. It was totally my kind of story.
I talked a few days ago about how much time we spent searching for the gateway to Narnia; obviously that series was another favorite. I also loved the Prydain chronicles by Lloyd Alexander, which I wrote about in detail when he died.
L.M. Montgomery was another favorite author of mine. I got to know Anne of Green Gables through the made-for-TV version with Colleen Dewhurst as Marilla and Richard Farnsworth as Matthew. I went on to read all eight of the Anne books. I grew up near the Canadian border, and went to Toronto regularly. There was a large bookstore there, in the days before Barnes & Nobles and Borders inhabited every strip mall. Not only was it huge, but they had books that Waldenbooks didn't. I read several more of L.M Montgomery's books this way. My favorite was the romantic The Blue Castle. The heroine, Valancy, awakes on her 29th birthday deeply depressed. She is unmarried and lives with her overbearing mother and aunt. She has never done anything her whole life: she's never had a close friend, or a suitor, or any memorable experiences at all. She sees a doctor -- secretly -- about some pains she'd been having and learns that she has a serious heart condition and only a year left to live. This book is the tale of what happens to her in that year. For some reason, I identified strongly with Valancy. I re-read this one regularly at one point in my life, and have read it so often, in fact, that I probably really don't need the book anymore.
Lest anyone think I was a pure child, I'll point out that I also loved things I knew I wasn't supposed to read. I'd often make an incursion into the young adult section, and my parents didn't censor my choices much (although I thought they might start when I told my mom about the book About David, which is about a teenaged girl whose best friend David murders his parents and shoots himself. I think I was 9 at the time.) The "problem novels", with all the sex, were always enjoyable. I'm pretty sure that I learned where babies came from in one of these books. I also liked Erma Bombeck's Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession, although I wondered what the first oldest profession was until I was in middle school. Judith Viorst's Yes, Married was probably dated by the time I got my hands on it, but there was a lot about sex in that book too. I'm sure it was mostly in a context like: "It's hard to have energy for sex after spending the day washing dirty socks and cleaning up after the kids" but still, it fascinated me, probably more for the glimpses of adult life than anything else.
And like any good child of the eighties, my friends and I were all titillated by Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean Auel. We never read the whole book, just this one particular part. I'm not even sure who turned me on to it, but there's apparently a pretty graphic sex scene in there somewhere (well, graphic if you're ten, anyway). The only phrase I remember is "thick and throbbing." It's never been enough to induce me to attempt them as an adult (although maybe it'll go on my list...) but was a surefire giggle inducer growing up.
What were some of your favorite books growing up?
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Short Takes
Over at NaBloPoMo, Elizabeth Coplan asked me about short fiction. As I've been running out of gas a bit the past few days, her comment was like manna from heaven for me: here was a topic I hadn't thought of, that was actually related to my theme, unlike the random memes (which are fun, but I think the fact that EVERYBODY does them dilutes the effect somewhat. I mean, how excited do you still get to find out which Hogwarts house your friends are in?)
I love short fiction. I started my New Yorker subscription especially because of their excellent short fiction. I'll give almost anything a try. Anyone who's looking for good short fiction has an excellent annual one-stop shop in the Best American Short Stories anthologies. Each anthology has a different guest editor (Barbara Kingsolver, Michael Chabon, Stephen King and Ann Patchett are some recent ones). I was introduced to the wonderful George Saunders through that series, and it's also a good way to "save" some of the ones you especially like. I read part of a Richard Russo short story in this year's anthology at the Barnes and Noble opening I went to last month, and it was very good.
Welcome to the Monkey House, by Kurt Vonnegut, is still a favorite collection of mine. Not everything in it is pure gold; there were plenty that escaped me altogether. "All the King's Men" was one of the most suspenseful things I've ever read, and the last sentence of "Report on the Barnhouse Effect" still reverberates in my head ("...with that last, terrible sentence flitting through my head, I rolled fifty consecutive sevens. Good-bye.") George Saunders also writes great fiction, especially his premise fiction.
In a completely different vein, almost all of the Alice Munro collections are good too. Munro is good at establishing the texture and feel of a particular time and place. There's also a wide variety in her stories. Many writers basically write about themselves over and over again, and while you can see a lot of common threads in her stories, she's not afraid to try something different.
E. Annie Proulx's stories are very enjoyable. Everyone knows how terrific "Brokeback Mountain" was, but she's got a couple of collections out that really establish the modern American West, and touch on themes I don't believe anyone else is writing about. She can make you care passionately about things like the disappearance of the small ranch, things you normally don't even think of and wouldn't give a shit if you did. I believe that Bad Dirt is her most recent collection of short fiction.
Some other stories that stand out in my mind are "Haunting Olivia" by Karen Russell, "Brownies" by ZZ Packer, "The Alpine Slide" by Rebecca Curtis (don't you just ADORE the online archives of the New Yorker?), "First, Body" by Melanie Rae Thon, and "Early Music" by Jeffery Eugenides (I know it was in The New Yorker, too, but can't turn it up in the archives). Enjoy!
I love short fiction. I started my New Yorker subscription especially because of their excellent short fiction. I'll give almost anything a try. Anyone who's looking for good short fiction has an excellent annual one-stop shop in the Best American Short Stories anthologies. Each anthology has a different guest editor (Barbara Kingsolver, Michael Chabon, Stephen King and Ann Patchett are some recent ones). I was introduced to the wonderful George Saunders through that series, and it's also a good way to "save" some of the ones you especially like. I read part of a Richard Russo short story in this year's anthology at the Barnes and Noble opening I went to last month, and it was very good.
Welcome to the Monkey House, by Kurt Vonnegut, is still a favorite collection of mine. Not everything in it is pure gold; there were plenty that escaped me altogether. "All the King's Men" was one of the most suspenseful things I've ever read, and the last sentence of "Report on the Barnhouse Effect" still reverberates in my head ("...with that last, terrible sentence flitting through my head, I rolled fifty consecutive sevens. Good-bye.") George Saunders also writes great fiction, especially his premise fiction.
In a completely different vein, almost all of the Alice Munro collections are good too. Munro is good at establishing the texture and feel of a particular time and place. There's also a wide variety in her stories. Many writers basically write about themselves over and over again, and while you can see a lot of common threads in her stories, she's not afraid to try something different.
E. Annie Proulx's stories are very enjoyable. Everyone knows how terrific "Brokeback Mountain" was, but she's got a couple of collections out that really establish the modern American West, and touch on themes I don't believe anyone else is writing about. She can make you care passionately about things like the disappearance of the small ranch, things you normally don't even think of and wouldn't give a shit if you did. I believe that Bad Dirt is her most recent collection of short fiction.
Some other stories that stand out in my mind are "Haunting Olivia" by Karen Russell, "Brownies" by ZZ Packer, "The Alpine Slide" by Rebecca Curtis (don't you just ADORE the online archives of the New Yorker?), "First, Body" by Melanie Rae Thon, and "Early Music" by Jeffery Eugenides (I know it was in The New Yorker, too, but can't turn it up in the archives). Enjoy!
Monday, November 26, 2007
One from the archives
Well, I've mentioned before my love for Motley Crue's autobiography, The Dirt. It's time to finally post about it!
I am not a big fan of The Gilmore Girls, but I have watched it from time to time. Lorelei had a fine explanation of this book: "It's like, just when you think you've read the most disgusting thing, they come up with something else." That's a pretty fair explanation. If they were to film this book as written, it'd get an NC-17 for sure, for large amounts of sex scenes, heavy drug use, snorting of ants, drug-fueled violence, depiction of a telephone inserted into a girl's vagina while another girl talked on it, depictions of urination in a bar, multiple drug overdoses, and other things I won't mention since I don't want this blog to be NC-17.
The book is told in all four of their voices. Each of the bandmates (Tommy Lee, Mick Mars, Nikki Sixx, and Vince Neil) take turns narrating their tale from their own perspective. Sometimes, other guys (like their producer, their manager, and the guy they hired to replace Vince Neil when he quit) get to talk. But mostly, it's the band. The bones of it are the traditional Hollywood story: the early years, when they all share a shithole apartment and play every gig that comes their way; the big success where they get record deals, women, private jets and everything; the personal descent into drugs and alcohol; hitting bottom; then clawing their way back.
Motley Crue is a little different in that they've done this cycle a couple of times.
One thing about this book, and probably the reason I like it so much, is that it's honest. They say, straight up: "The reason we drank and drugged so much is that we thought it was fun." They don't try too much to rationalize their mistakes. They talk about cheating on their wives and girlfriends, fighting with each other, destroying property at hotels, the whole nine yards. They're also honest about other, harder things. Mick Mars has suffered from a rare degenerative disease called ankylosing spondylitis since he was in his twenties. The disease limits his motion and has condemned him to live in crippling pain. He never revealed it until this book. Vince Neil talked about two deaths that hit him hard: that of a friend of his in the 1980s, which he himself caused by driving drunk; and the cancer death of his three-year old daughter. Tommy Lee described his version of what happened between him and Pamela Anderson that caused him to go to jail for spousal abuse. And Nikki Sixx opened up about his painful upbringing and its influence on the rest of his life.
I don't want you to think that these guys wind up looking good. With the exception of Mick Mars, they really don't, and I would say Mick Mars looks more like a tragic figure than "good". But with the heavy population of drug dealers, strippers, groupies, mud wrestlers (yes, Vince Neil's ex-wife), drug addicts, sleazy record business types, cops, judges, rehab counselors, and loudmouthed fellow musicians in this book, and with the four larger-than-life narrators, it's a good time. Motley Crue, as they themselves would admit, have always been about fun, cheap entertainment. I don't think they're doing too much of that with their music anymore, but the book provides quite a bit of that.
I am not a big fan of The Gilmore Girls, but I have watched it from time to time. Lorelei had a fine explanation of this book: "It's like, just when you think you've read the most disgusting thing, they come up with something else." That's a pretty fair explanation. If they were to film this book as written, it'd get an NC-17 for sure, for large amounts of sex scenes, heavy drug use, snorting of ants, drug-fueled violence, depiction of a telephone inserted into a girl's vagina while another girl talked on it, depictions of urination in a bar, multiple drug overdoses, and other things I won't mention since I don't want this blog to be NC-17.
The book is told in all four of their voices. Each of the bandmates (Tommy Lee, Mick Mars, Nikki Sixx, and Vince Neil) take turns narrating their tale from their own perspective. Sometimes, other guys (like their producer, their manager, and the guy they hired to replace Vince Neil when he quit) get to talk. But mostly, it's the band. The bones of it are the traditional Hollywood story: the early years, when they all share a shithole apartment and play every gig that comes their way; the big success where they get record deals, women, private jets and everything; the personal descent into drugs and alcohol; hitting bottom; then clawing their way back.
Motley Crue is a little different in that they've done this cycle a couple of times.
One thing about this book, and probably the reason I like it so much, is that it's honest. They say, straight up: "The reason we drank and drugged so much is that we thought it was fun." They don't try too much to rationalize their mistakes. They talk about cheating on their wives and girlfriends, fighting with each other, destroying property at hotels, the whole nine yards. They're also honest about other, harder things. Mick Mars has suffered from a rare degenerative disease called ankylosing spondylitis since he was in his twenties. The disease limits his motion and has condemned him to live in crippling pain. He never revealed it until this book. Vince Neil talked about two deaths that hit him hard: that of a friend of his in the 1980s, which he himself caused by driving drunk; and the cancer death of his three-year old daughter. Tommy Lee described his version of what happened between him and Pamela Anderson that caused him to go to jail for spousal abuse. And Nikki Sixx opened up about his painful upbringing and its influence on the rest of his life.
I don't want you to think that these guys wind up looking good. With the exception of Mick Mars, they really don't, and I would say Mick Mars looks more like a tragic figure than "good". But with the heavy population of drug dealers, strippers, groupies, mud wrestlers (yes, Vince Neil's ex-wife), drug addicts, sleazy record business types, cops, judges, rehab counselors, and loudmouthed fellow musicians in this book, and with the four larger-than-life narrators, it's a good time. Motley Crue, as they themselves would admit, have always been about fun, cheap entertainment. I don't think they're doing too much of that with their music anymore, but the book provides quite a bit of that.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Summer of Good Books
The year was 2005. I'd just finished graduate school, and took an internship in Western Massachusetts to fil the gap between college and gainful, full-time employment. A few days before I left, I learned (much to my displeasure) that I'd have to share the intern housing with another woman, and that we had no cable TV or internet. The horrors of it all! Without any real way to back out, I headed out into the wilderness.
I had the time of my life. My roommate turned out to be a lovely Australian woman named Sophie, the housing and grounds were absolutely beautiful (my NaBloPoMo photo was taken on the grounds that summer), and my internship was fabulous. But best of all were the books. Sophie is one of the very few bookfriends I've had in my life. I can think of maybe two other people I've met IRL that enjoyed reading and talking about books as much as I do. And I'm counting my ENTIRE life, since elementary school. The library in Stockbridge was surprisingly wonderful, well-stocked, with late hours that allowed us to go after work. Friday nights would find us down there, taking advantage of the internet and stocking up for the weekends. On a saturday, I would be frantic: the library closed at 2 and didn't reopen until Monday. The thought of having no book for that day and a half was horrifying, worse than having no food.
At nights, Sophie and I would have the run of the 50-some acre estate. Sometimes we would take our books and our tea up to the temple in the Chinese garden, or lie in the grass under the oak tree that overlooked the whole valley, where the family who built the estate picnicked over 100 years ago and decided they HAD to have their summer home there. Sophie had another weekend job with the agency at a property nearby, and one Saturday I went up there with her to see the place, keep her company between tours, and read my book in the grass near the house. Another time, for my 29th birthday, I took my book to Edith Wharton's summer home and treated myself to a dessert from the cafe (Sophie was working that day). But mostly we'd just stay on our own second-floor screened-in porch, listening to the crickets and the bluegrass on NPR, swatting away the mosquitos, and enjoying the summer nights.
I read a lot that summer: the first three Traveling Pants books, Life of Pi, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,Al Capone Does My Shirts,The House of Mirth (a direct result of my visit to The Mount, and in fact, what I read when I was there), Into the Wild, Assasination Vacation,Clockwork,Blue Latitudes,Jack the Ripper:Case Closed,Cloudsplitter,Seventeen Against the Dealer,In Cold Blood,Lost in a Good Book,The Inner Circle (a novel about Kinsey) and several others that I have no memory of but just see here on the list I was keeping that summer. We did a lot, too: I took a trip to the North Shore by myself, we went on hikes, visited all of the historic sites in the area, became well-acquainted with the Red Lion Inn and the Great Barrington Brew Pub, fell in love with the SoCo Creamery (I can still taste their Brownie Batter ice cream!!!!), swam in Stockbridge Bowl, and attended a concert at Tanglewood.
Sadly, all good things must come to an end. I got a job in Central New York. Sophie stayed until the end of the summer and spent the next year in London. She went back to Stockbridge the summer after that, and I visited her several times. She took a job in the West for a brief time before returning home to Australia. I haven't heard from her in a while, and miss her a lot. It's funny: in the movies, the main character's Last Free Summer usually involves lots of drinking, sex and wild escapades. Mine involved lots of friendship, books and nature, but it was the best.
I had the time of my life. My roommate turned out to be a lovely Australian woman named Sophie, the housing and grounds were absolutely beautiful (my NaBloPoMo photo was taken on the grounds that summer), and my internship was fabulous. But best of all were the books. Sophie is one of the very few bookfriends I've had in my life. I can think of maybe two other people I've met IRL that enjoyed reading and talking about books as much as I do. And I'm counting my ENTIRE life, since elementary school. The library in Stockbridge was surprisingly wonderful, well-stocked, with late hours that allowed us to go after work. Friday nights would find us down there, taking advantage of the internet and stocking up for the weekends. On a saturday, I would be frantic: the library closed at 2 and didn't reopen until Monday. The thought of having no book for that day and a half was horrifying, worse than having no food.
At nights, Sophie and I would have the run of the 50-some acre estate. Sometimes we would take our books and our tea up to the temple in the Chinese garden, or lie in the grass under the oak tree that overlooked the whole valley, where the family who built the estate picnicked over 100 years ago and decided they HAD to have their summer home there. Sophie had another weekend job with the agency at a property nearby, and one Saturday I went up there with her to see the place, keep her company between tours, and read my book in the grass near the house. Another time, for my 29th birthday, I took my book to Edith Wharton's summer home and treated myself to a dessert from the cafe (Sophie was working that day). But mostly we'd just stay on our own second-floor screened-in porch, listening to the crickets and the bluegrass on NPR, swatting away the mosquitos, and enjoying the summer nights.
I read a lot that summer: the first three Traveling Pants books, Life of Pi, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,Al Capone Does My Shirts,The House of Mirth (a direct result of my visit to The Mount, and in fact, what I read when I was there), Into the Wild, Assasination Vacation,Clockwork,Blue Latitudes,Jack the Ripper:Case Closed,Cloudsplitter,Seventeen Against the Dealer,In Cold Blood,Lost in a Good Book,The Inner Circle (a novel about Kinsey) and several others that I have no memory of but just see here on the list I was keeping that summer. We did a lot, too: I took a trip to the North Shore by myself, we went on hikes, visited all of the historic sites in the area, became well-acquainted with the Red Lion Inn and the Great Barrington Brew Pub, fell in love with the SoCo Creamery (I can still taste their Brownie Batter ice cream!!!!), swam in Stockbridge Bowl, and attended a concert at Tanglewood.
Sadly, all good things must come to an end. I got a job in Central New York. Sophie stayed until the end of the summer and spent the next year in London. She went back to Stockbridge the summer after that, and I visited her several times. She took a job in the West for a brief time before returning home to Australia. I haven't heard from her in a while, and miss her a lot. It's funny: in the movies, the main character's Last Free Summer usually involves lots of drinking, sex and wild escapades. Mine involved lots of friendship, books and nature, but it was the best.
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