Don't judge a book by its cover

I joined some girlfriends in a book club several months ago. I've read a few of the books, but unfortunately have only been able to attend discussion for the one I hosted due to scheduling conflicts. The gal who selected our options for this month recently ran into a local author at the park. Apparently this author, Christina Berry, had attended one of the group's gatherings a couple of years ago as a guest, and offered to attend our book club gathering again to discuss her brand new debut novel if we were interested.

All of my friend's suggestions for this month's read were appealing, but the description of Ms. Berry's book (from Amazon.com) definitely intrigued me:

Craig Littleton's decision to end his marriage would shock his wife, Denise . . . if she knew what he was up to. When an accident lands Craig in the ICU, with fuzzy memories of his own life and plans, Denise rushes to his side, ready to care for him.

They embark on a quest to help Craig remember who he is and, in the process, they discover dark secrets. An affair? An emptied bank account? A hidden identity? An illegitimate child?

But what will she do when she realizes he's not the man she thought he was? Is this trauma a blessing in disguise, a chance for a fresh start? Or will his secrets destroy the life they built together?

I love the mysterious concept, and the opportunity to have an author speak with us about her work provided an exciting prospect. I think most of the active participants in our group agreed, and I ordered my copy of The Familiar Stranger by Christina Berry.

Since I had a deadline to finish this one, I set aside the other novel I had started and dove in. The story captivated me right from the beginning, Chapter One being divided into a His and Hers narrative of the same scene from the husband and then the wife's perspective. The entire novel then follows this scheme of alternating point of view, but since the man suffers from amnesia after the accident, the truth is always just out of the reader's reach. The action proceeds swiftly, so I had a hard time closing the book that first night.

The next day, I arrived early to pick up my daughter from school and decided to sneak in a few pages on a nearby bench. One of my friends who is also in the book club noticed me and asked how I was liking the book so far. I answered honestly that I found the story rather absorbing.

Her response went something like this: "Yeah...it's okay. I've only read a couple of chapters, but all the God stuff bugs me."

Huh? I sifted through my recollection of the seven or eight chapters I had read to look for any weird religious significance or hidden messages. I knew that the central characters were church-goin' folk, as the initial conflict arises from the husband's confession that he will be skipping church to go hiking in the Gorge (although we are privy to enough of his thoughts to know that is not his actual plan). I vaguely recalled italicized phrases meant to convey the female character's internal prayers to God, but I was sure those didn't start until later in the book. Based on previous hints and discussions with this particular friend, I think my notions of spirituality are quite similar to hers. But any religious implications encountered so far I had only attributed to situational relevance or character development.

Hesitantly, I explained my perspective, wondering if my acuity had failed amidst the gripping storyline. My friend announced that the novel was written by a Christian author, and felt that her intended audience was obvious.

I personally reflected on the Twilight series, a well-known collection of vampire romance fiction written by a Mormon. My husband (who read the entire series before I even started it--and I love that) sometimes tried to draw associations between Stephenie Meyer's plot choices and her religious affiliation. But I personally consider his accusations (for lack of a better word) to be a stretch. I found the Twilight series dark and sexy and gritty, and while yes, the author deliberately created a scenario in which the primary duo resisted their very apparent sexual urges until after marriage, I did not find her means to that end unnatural for the story or morally condemning.

So I think it is possible to read the words on the page with a bias strong enough to assume a hidden meaning. Looking back over the first two chapters, I don't see any prayers or overtly Christian messages. The family is getting ready for church, but again, I didn't think twice about that being any major influence in the story beyond setting the scene of the action. Nothing in any descriptions I read, or anywhere on the cover indicated that this book was written for Christian readers specifically.

After the conversation with my friend, these glimpses of spiritual significance appeared on the pages in what seemed to be increasing frequency. At first I was annoyed that I had talked with her about it, believing that if I hadn't been aware of the implied religious affiliation, I could have continued blissfully engrossed in the story without a second thought to any hidden messages. But the little italic prayers and allusions to churchly goodness began to gradually saturate the text. My assumption that a heightened awareness falsely generated that impression began to lack sustainment and I realized that I certainly would have figured it out on my own.

I can imagine reading along in this adulterous tale of betrayal, coming to this passage:

"Jesus is with me...all this time." Samantha wove the tissue through her fingers. "When Dad would have to leave...when he couldn't be with me...he'd pray and ask Jesus to hold my hand."

How could a teenager possess such great faith? I had my health, my husband was recovering his, we had a home and family and friends...and still I questioned whether the Lord was with me or not. Still, I felt alone. Still, I felt the need to misrepresent myself to Samantha, to lie, to manipulate the situation so I could feel in control of my fate.

Lord, give me faith like a child. Let me reach out and trust You to hold my hand.

And it goes ON like this. I would shut the book on my lap. Stare at the ceiling. And think to myself, "What the hell is this?" But I would keep reading because the plot was just thickening then. And because although I don't necessarily subscribe to precisely the same beliefs as these characters or this author, I choose to respect them as I hope they would me. All over the world there are different words for and images of "God" and "prayer" and "church." Sure, if I had known this book was a piece of Christian fiction, as freshly confirmed by other friends in the know, I might not have picked it up on my own. But it was a fun book to read in spite of a few eye-rolling moments of pious virtue.

I also want to add that Portland-area landmarks make heavy appearances in the novel, and it was really fun to read a story with authentic images of the Multnomah Falls bridge and I-5 traffic to form the backdrop of many scenes.

I will go to this book discussion, and might respectfully ask how she thinks secular readers would respond to the evident religious nature of the book, or if marketing to that segment of the population is even of any concern. But I promise to zip my lips about the rest.

Flashback Friday: I could have been popular

Lines between the Popular and Unpopular kids are drawn early, and mostly in permanent marker. The determining factors, then, are anybody's guess, since in second and third grade the idea of beauty is a non-concept, and the seeds of personality traits, senses of humor, and intelligence are only beginning to germinate.

But in third grade at Phil Lewis elementary school, I was somehow fortunate enough to be included on the Popular side of the line. I know this because it was abundantly clear that Makai, Jeffrey, and to a lesser degree, Brandon were the popular boys, and they would always chase me at recess. The ultimate goal of the chase was to plant a scandalous kiss, usually on the top of a girl's head, as odd as that might sound. In addition, when we all shuffled into the next-door classroom for joint movie-viewing, the three of them fought over who would get to occupy the seat on either side of mine. I held these clues in high esteem.

Various Rules of the Playground apply at every school I suppose. Some are the unwritten, naturally occurring type, while others are enforced by the almighty Recess Duty teacher. At our school the swings must have been a highly coveted commodity, because a rule was created which allowed a student awaiting his turn to stand by a swing in use and count to a specified number, at which time his turn would commence.

On this fateful day, the three Popular Boys were swinging, and I wanted to join them. There must have been more than three swings, but I made the lamentable choice to "count on" Brandon, which effectively forced him to alight and allow me to have a turn alongside the other two boys. There was no question that I preferred the suave Hawaiian and funny red-head over their more stout and spiky-haired friend. But what I failed to realize was that their friendship did not take kindly to my preference. Bros before Hos, dude.

So in one fell swoop my status as their friend and object of pursuit was shattered. Of course in third grade, alliances are made and broken and repaired over the course of a few days. Seemingly life-altering quarrels are magically resolved before the weekend. So this altercation and resulting hurt feelings could have easily been patched given time and carefully spoken apologies.

That afternoon, however, my parents made the staggering announcement that we would be moving away. For the few remaining weeks of school, things were never quite the same between me and those boys.

I have a very distinct memory of a discussion in the car with my parents several months after the move. They were wondering how I was doing in fourth grade at my new school. I was the 'new girl,' and those hideous LINES had already been drawn before my arrival. I wasn't being invited to cross over to the Popular side of the line. And my nine-year-old self cried miserably as I explained that if I could have stayed at my old school I would have been a Popular Kid, but now I was nothing.

My parents gave me the usual rhetoric about how unimportant being Popular is, and that it is more important to be nice to everyone. They proceeded to ask me what "being popular" even means, and I didn't want to admit that I couldn't conjure up a good definition. I just knew who was and who was not. And I was not. But at my new home I made good friends with whom I still remain close. Thankfully I grew out of that irrational desire for Popularity, but there was one other time that I watched the opportunity to be one of the Cool Kids slip through my grasp. I'll tell you about it next week.

Not worth the risk

I don't consider myself an overprotective parent, I really don't. But maybe all parents feel that way, even the ones I might want to encourage to take the proverbial Chill Pill. I feel that the precautionary measures I take to keep Madelyn safe stem only from common sense. Crazy things happen in this world, like car accidents, kidnappings, and child abuse. Maybe the chances of tragedies the likes of these befalling our family are slim, but I would bet that every last victim of such events felt that the odds were in their favor too. So I don't see any reason to invite greater risk by doing (or not doing) things that only increase our odds of being that unsuspecting family crying on the 10 o'clock news.

Therefore, when I noticed after a 30-minute drive over winding roads in the dark that an acquaintance chose not to buckle the belt latch on Baby's carseat harness in order to avoid disturbing her swaddling blanket, my eyes grew wide with fearful incredulity. Does he realize that the plastic chest clip alone is not designed to save an infant's life in a crash?

And when a toddler I know is allowed to play alone outside on the street, my muscles tense to consider the neighborhood visitor glancing down at the address of his destination scrawled on a scrap on the passenger side just as the little one steps off the sidewalk to retrieve his errant toy fire truck.

Why take these risks?

The other day at a beautiful park on the east side of Portland, I witnessed another situation that left me similarly dumbfounded. Madelyn was sweet enough to pose for my camera while I nonchalantly photographed the curly-headed tot beside her. I realize it isn't clear in the photo, but the girl is not in fact swinging. She is waiting motionless in the seat for her mother to return from getting a drink of water from their bike trailer. Their bike trailer which was located around the opposite side of the bluish building in the background, completely out of sight. I was shocked that she left her little girl--age 4 is my guess--alone this way at the park.

Now. Is my disbelief misguided? Do you think I am overreacting to say that I would never willfully allow my child out of my sight in a crowded place? Even for two minutes?

Child abductions may be rare in the grand scheme of things, but again, why make it so easy? I hear too many scary-but-true stories to feel comfortable with the above scenario. Jaycee Dugard, recently discovered 18 years after being kidnapped, was scooped up into a car at her bus stop while her father watched helplessly from two blocks away. Another report that I don't like yet don't want to forget involves an older child wandering away from her mother to the next aisle of a retail store and being coerced into a dark hallway by a trustworthy-looking store employee. My husband shares news stories like these with me as a reminder to be vigilantly aware of our surroundings and our daughter's whereabouts.

And then there is the possibility that the child might try to clamber out of the swing on her own and end up flipping over onto her head, severing her spine.

The mother at this park may have felt comfortable knowing there was another mom nearby (me). Maybe she thought crowded surroundings offer protection. Maybe this lady was actually the child's babysitter, not mother, and lacked the instinct to protect. All dumb excuses. But of course nothing happened to the child. And if a dozen parents left their child alone on that swing every day for a year, they would very possibly all be safe. I am grateful for that. But still.

The other issue here is that the reason Mother left Daughter alone relates to a parenting struggle. A few minutes before snapping the picture above, I was silently amused at the scene: two moms halfheartedly pushing these swings, over and over and over ad nauseum. Two girls enjoying the wind on their faces in the shade. Two moms suppressing yawns and intermittently flipping open the cell phone clock. The swings are Madelyn's favorite! And they will be mine as well, as soon as her enjoyment of them is not entirely dependent on my unyielding assistance. It just gets a little old after 20 minutes.

Anyway, this other mom gets "thirsty" (bored, is what I figured, and could relate to). She casually asks Girl to come with her to get a drink. Girl refuses, not very casually. Mom tells Girl that she will push her five more times and then they will go get a drink. After what seemed like more than five pushes (but I was trying not to eavesdrop more than was impossible to avoid due to our proximity), Mom stopped the swing but Girl whined and refused to dismount. The next thing I noticed was Mom walking away. And away. And then disappear behind the building. Girl dangled in the breeze having gotten her precious way.

There are times when I might be tempted to do what this woman did. I hate causing a scene, and I know when one is gathering. Rather than resort to yanking my daughter from her stronghold on the swing and dragging her screaming to my water bottle (which might be appealing when I'm frustrated), I would talk to her until we reached an equitable agreement such as, "We need to take a break now and get a drink. And then we will both come back and swing some more!" If you think that sounds too good to be true, then I feel proud of the positive communication I can achieve with my 2.75-year-old, because we have talks like that all the time, and they are most often successful. But there is no way I'd leave her there, no matter how parched I might be.

So I've got to know what you think. Am I a paranoid lunatic? Ludicrously judgmental? Or reasonably cautious? Please tell me.

Declaration of intention

I have blogs in my head. Some seeds of ideas, some partially written out in my mind. Most bloggers have this, I'm sure. I need motivation to get these ideas from my cerebellum through the keyboard and into the universe.

The idea that somebody out there might enjoy the writing doesn't motivate me. Probably because there are too few people who read my blog and too many people whose writing far surpasses mine in abilities to entertain and engage. It's discouraging.

I'm not motivated by the personal satisfaction that I do often gain after completing a decent blog post, since I know self-criticism and doubt will be more immediate.

What does motivate me is deadlines and purpose. I am a task-oriented individual, and so when faced with opportunities to choose the next activity to fill the moments in my day, I always go straight to my to-do list. I find it quite difficult to sit on the couch and read--even if I am engrossed in a great story--when necessary responsibilities are hanging over my head. I use the personally fulfilling activities like reading, and even some of my more enjoyable work tasks, as "rewards" for accomplishing the less-appealing "have-to-do's." And making the representative check mark next to a task on my list fills me with joy.

Because I don't always feel a genuine or significant benefit from writing on my blog, it is not usually the activity of choice when I do find free time.

But by giving my blog deadlines and purpose, I am more motivated and find the writing more enjoyable as well. The more I write, the more people read, which feeds the entertainment value, which is all it's about, really. I did glean a "lousy sense of accomplishment" (see sidebar) after completing NaBloPoMo last November, and even kept up with frequent posting for quite a while after that. Challenging myself to blog every day really did motivate me, and the positive feedback from my enthusiastic reader kept the excitement alive (okay, there might be enough to make it plural).

So, as I learned last year that National Blog Posting Month does not occur during any one month in particular, I've chosen to take my 2009 NaBloPoMo Challenge in October. It wouldn't be as much fun to blog daily in the same month each year; a new month provides new topics. Plus I'll be out of town during November. Here is my October NaBloPoMo badge, but don't expect too much related to the suggested theme for this month:

To my blogging friends and family, I issue an invitation to join the endeavor: 31 posts in 31 days! Come on, don't let me go it alone. And keep the comments coming, or I just might pout myself out of contention.

Generations

My grandmother knows her way around a computer. She is comfortable with email and organizes her vast files of digital photos like nobody's business. I respectfully celebrate the folks of advanced age who appreciate and assimilate with the wondrous technologies our lives are blessed with these days.

Recently Gram has been scanning old photos into the safety of jpeg backups. You know, just like those boxes and boxes (and boxes!) of film prints in your closet/attic/basement containing all of your precious moments which occurred pre-digital? I am so pleased that she is taking on such a big yet immensely important project, and envy her those enchanted hours revisiting cherished memories from a well-lived life.

One daughter of this technologically savvy grandma emailed a few of the recently digitized pictures to all of her siblings, including my mother, who described it to me. Mom and her six siblings lined up in the family backyard with their parents, taken sometime in the late seventies. She explained that she distinctly remembers posing for that picture. At the time she had a couple kids of her own, and some of her sisters were also married and had started families.

My mother then proceeded to share the oddly poignant experience of realizing she is now the grandmother in our photos just like this one. Her family circa 1979 is not very different from ours in 2009, only she has graduated to the next generation. She is now about the age her mother was then, her kids are now the young parents, and she now has the slew of grandkids running around the backyard. Thankfully, this awareness doesn't make my mother sad or regretful in any way. In fact, I know she is proud of her family and I don't think she would trade being a grandma to go back to her days as Homecoming Queen at SHS. But she gained a strange, new perspective on the progression of life from exposure to this photographic recollection.

I listened politely to her explanation and even offered a supportive "uh-huh" where appropriate. Her feelings seemed logical to me, but not the foundation of any kind of epiphany. I mean, we all get older; I was a kid, now I'm a mom, one day I hope I'll be a grandma too. It's just the way it is.

And then Gram emailed more pictures. These featured her lot of young grandchildren on a trip to the zoo. At the time only 11 grandkids had graced the family scene; eventually there would be 32 (I come in at number 17--top of the second half!). One of the photos I had seen before. It had been in frames or passed around at gatherings on occasion. Here it is, showing all the kids lined up in chronological order:

My older brothers are numbers 5 and 7 from the left, and my older sister is second-from-last, in the stroller. I've always thought it's a cute picture, and especially enjoy a glimpse at the current fashions, including my oldest cousin sporting a (gasp!) bared midriff, and the utilitarian strollers.

But this next photo is the one that affected me.

In the summer of 1978 my mother (left) was 27 years old. In this photo she is just a few months younger than I am right now.

This is nearly the same scenario as what my mother described: I see that I am now the woman in that photo, pushing a stroller at the very same zoo. Except for me the poignant discovery is not so much in the realization that I have moved up a generation, as the recognition--more palpable than ever before--that my mother was once me.

She changed diapers, kissed boo-boos, and sang stupid nursery rhymes. Of course I knew she did these things; I witnessed some myself. But my mother has always seemed "older" than me. Even in this photograph where I could be a comrade standing to next to her with my own stroller, I struggle to see us as equals. This may partly be due to those waist-hugging pants that have a tendency to make anybody look 50 (no offense mom, you're gorgeous!), but even without them, my mom always looks to me like my mom. Clearly this has nothing to do with aging.

Now I am a mom, but I still feel like a kid. Well, it's not that I feel childlike, it's just that the essence of who I am and what it essentially feels like to be me has not altered much since I was literally a child. I've always been intrigued by this indescribable concept. I remember being 7 or 8 years old and feeling smart and tall. Yet I had so much to learn and so many inches to grow. And as I learned and grew, the substance of "me" expanded but I never felt taller or smarter. This is an abstract idea that is difficult to put into words. Has anybody else pondered what I am trying to convey?

So my big epiphany, gleaned from the way my reaction to this photo built upon my mother's anecdote about the other, is that she once felt like a 20-something-year-old woman with babies too. Not just did the same things that I do, but actually was the same in so many ways. Felt the same--possibly kind of like a kid herself. And now that she is older, she doesn't feel any different. And when I step into the role of grandma within my family, I will probably still feel like a kid. And I will look around and know that I am old only because of the evidence surrounding me.

.......................................................................................

A few more notes about the photo:

I left the image un-cropped because I enjoy the background setting. It's pretty special to see this crossroads near the tiger exhibit where I now take my own child, but occupied with folks sporting bell-bottoms and big plaid pants--and not because they're retro chic. I need to remember this when I'm editing my own photos: that sometimes leaving the background details visible will make a picture more precious in the future.

The other woman in the photo is my mom's older sister, heightening its similarity to dozens of pictures I have of me and my own older sister with our own babies. This adds another layer of intrigue considering how my mother and my aunt probably related in much the same way that I do to Diana. If I think about all this too long it starts to make my head spin.

The first day

I've known this day was coming for a long, long time. I didn't think I would be the crying type. I am thrilled for Madelyn to go to school not only for the valuable experiences she will draw, but also for the break it provides for myself!

For several weeks we have been preparing Madelyn with the concept that she will have to go to school all by herself. We practiced giving hugs and saying, "Bye-bye Mommy and Daddy!" I predicted that it wouldn't be quite that simple, but I wasn't entirely ready for her to lock her arms around my neck when she realized we were abandoning her at the doorway of a strange room full of strange people. Her cries of despair made me weep in empathy.

I appreciate the Montessori School's administrator, Kathi, for having the calm ability to firmly but tenderly pick Madelyn up and carry her into the classroom so she wouldn't witness my lapse in composure.

I know that Madelyn is ready to experience learning in a whole new way. She is ready to interact with friends and have the opportunity to respect caregivers other than her parents. I know that it will not be long before she truly loves going to school.

Walking back to the car, wiping tears, I realized I still had Madelyn's jacket in my hand. I wanted to give it to someone so that we wouldn't be judged for sending our child to school without a coat. The classroom door was closed and I could hear Mr. Tarnowski already addressing the children, only two of whom were crying. One was undeniably Madelyn.

"Our classroom is a happy place." A gentle, caring voice.

Today was an emotional day. A brand new world for Madelyn's inexperienced little self. For me, the transition from baby to child became very poignant, as I realized that Madelyn's journey into her education has now officially and irreversibly begun. It's just primary school, but from now on we will be at the mercy of school schedules and backpacks and eventually homework and grades. It is a pretty big milestone, and I guess I hadn't fully recognized all of its implications.

How embarrassing

Is this the automotive equivalent of having TP stuck to your shoe?

I wonder if this transporter had the common decency to rip off the tissue exposed to who-knows-how-many miles of smog and bugs, or if he (/she? Doubt it.) rolled it back up and had himself a good chuckle at the expense of the next unfortunately oblivious bum.