Jay Gilbertson's Blog, page 5
March 24, 2016
Review: This is Only a Test
This is Only a Test by B.J. Hollars
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This Is Only A Test
By B.J. Hollars
Reviewed by Jay Gilbertson
Eau Claire English Professor (Garrison Keillor must love this man) B.J. Hollars has put together a collection of essays that will sizzle your brain, make you really fear those old refrigerators lurking in basements everywhere and wonder about stuff like tornadoes and nuclear bombs and ultrasounds.
Yet honestly, it’s the story about Bobby Watson that has stuck with me. That I carry around in my head like a bee that won’t land, won’t sting, just keeps buzzing around.
“Nobody knows what Bobby thought as that fridge bobbed twice in the lake. We can imagine, of course. How the water wiggled through the seams like eels. And how it began filling that fridge within seconds, drenching Bobby’s shoes, Bobby’s socks, Bobby’s shorts. Meanwhile, on the other side of that refrigerator door, the maintenance man wiped his hands on his sleeves and headed toward the barn. There was a lawnmower in need of tuning…”
Author Hollars makes no beans about his goal in writing these essays, he rips into his subjects with bent head and I know his keyboard smokes now and again. Maybe a puff shoots out his ears when he’s really rolling along with facts and figures lined up and ready to blast off onto the page and into your head. Though small in stature, his delivery is huge and open and honest, filled to the brim with a fascination for life. Life makes him squirm.
This type of collection is best served live. Honestly. So, here’s more of author Hollar’s word-magic:
“So, what is it, I ask. He says that’s a little less clear. When I ask what to make of the continual low-grade fever, he reminds me that temperatures fluctuate, that some children just run warm. The easiest fix, we’re told, is simply to lay off the thermometer for a while. My jaw drops, though I soon admit this seems like sound advice…Of all my parental trespasses, the one I’ll never forget is how I place my faith in numbers and not our son. How many afternoons has he hugged pylons in the stream to assure me he was fine? And how many times had I ignored him? Why was it easier for me to trust a beep and a screen than the person I loved most?”
Not being a parent myself, I can only imagine what goes through the fried brain of an exhausted parental unit. Yet I did train two parents along my life-journey and have heard the stories, seen the pictures and—heard the stories. Some, like the underwear one, many times. Many.
The stories.
It’s what brings us together, what gathers us and astounds, reminds us to look around, take a hand, offer one. Life is right here and it’s all that counts. This is not a test people.
• You will love this book
• What are you waiting for?
• Go!
February 18, 2016
Review: Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End
Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End by Atul Gawande
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Being Mortal
Medicine and What Matters in the End
By Atul Gawande
Reviewed by Jay Gilbertson
This is one of those books that will change you. Wake you up. Throw you off balance and give you something to chew on. A whole lot. Everyone should read this and pass it around and book clubs should talk it over and kids should give it to parents. Schools should teach it. Are you getting my point here? Good. C’mon, let me tell you about it. Or better yet, let the doctor. Atul Gawande is a surgeon as well as a bestselling author.
“Maslow argued that safety and survival remain our primary and foundational goals in life, not least when our options and capacities become limited. If true, the fact that public policy and concern about old age homes focus on health and safety is just a recognition and manifestation of those goals. They are assumed to be everyone’s first priorities.”
Through interviews and actual patient cases Gawande experienced, he shares his insight into a new and surprising venue—end of life wishes. What are yours? Have you shared them? One of the many things author Gawande examines is how we as a society are set up to put our elders in nursing homes. To ensure their safety, to make sure their meds and dietary needs and all are met, followed and that’s that. Right?
What about the life part? Where’s the quality of life factor in all those nursing homes. Sure, there has been a huge push to re-name a great many of them. Senior Centers, Assisted Living, Retirement Retreat. And one of my favorites when referring to Florida—God’s Waiting Room. Good grief.
“We want autonomy for ourselves and safety for those we love. That remains the main problem and paradox for the frail. Many of the things that we want for those we care about are the things that we would adamantly oppose for ourselves because they would infringe upon our sense of self.”
Trying to make old age more meaningful seems to be a relatively new concept. Sure, we want to be safe, not fall and bust our hips, but have you been to a nursing home? Line up the beds, feed everyone at the same time and keep those meds coming! That isn’t living people, that’s storage until the expiration date hits.
No thank you.
Now that I have your attention, there are some basic things to keep in mind as you plan out your end of life scenario. There is getting old and staying in your own home, works for a time, but what is plan B? Where will you go and how will you pay for it? Get busy and find out! Then there is the possibility that you may hit a snag and be facing end of life issues. Guess what? We all die, so why not make some plans? If you are suddenly in need of palliative care, what do you want? If you don’t talk about this stuff, get it on paper and tell your friends and family, the medical community is designed to keep you alive no matter what.
No matter what.
“A few conclusions become clear when we understand this: that our most cruel failure in how we treat the sick and the aged is the failure to recognize that they have priorities beyond merely being safe and living longer; that the chance to shape one’s story is essential to sustaining meaning in life; that we have the opportunity to refashion our institutions, our culture, and our conversations in ways that transform the possibilities for the last chapters of everyone’s life.”
Yours.
• Living Wills are just that
• Talk is cheap—write it down
• We’re in this together
February 5, 2016
Month—O—LOVE
The number uno-selling genre in the entire universe, no lie, is ROMANCE. Well, and a rather new one often referred to as ‘Mom Porn’. That would mainly be the hugely popular Fifty Shades of—S & M. I have to admit, I have yet to read it, or them as there are three and now a movie. Good for the author and she certainly put a face on the self-publishing world.
Then we have this month of February and the 14th in particular and all the Hallmark cards and candy and roses and dinners out.
Why? Why do we go bonkers for the 14th? Is it romance or the love part or what?
Let’s delve a little deeper and simply do some wondering and along the way I think we’ll find our answer.
C’mon!
So, you’ve read author Nicholas Spark’s ‘The Notebook’, seen the movie (more than once, maybe) and who in the world hasn’t daydreamed of being ‘rescued’ from this thing called life? Strife, more like. For some it seems logging onto Zoosk (weird name people) or eHarmony or Rural-Singles-Look-Here is the answer to love. Or not.
Sure, folks want to read about love, but the actual doing love part? Not so much. So let’s give ‘em more romance. Write on!
More than half of us are now living alone. Tons and tons of people watching Netflix solo. And guess what, they’re loving it! What does it all mean? Maybe the reason romance is this huge genre is that it’s so much easier (less mess, let’s be honest here) living alone.
So—if you are single and as the 14th rolls around, give yourself a Valentine. Take yourself out for a really nice dinner, buy you some roses and a big box of chocolates and leave a lipstick smack on your own mirror!
Think of all the money/time/heartache you’ll save yourself (and your family) from.
Because, after all, YOU are never alone…sorry Mister Sparks.
December 22, 2015
Review: The Jesus Cow: A Novel
The Jesus Cow: A Novel by Michael Perry
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
The Jesus Cow
By Michael Perry
Reviewed by Jay Gilbertson
“On Christmas Eve itself, the bachelor Harley Jackson stepped into his barn and beheld there illuminated in the straw a smallish newborn calf upon whose flank was borne the very image of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
“Well,” said Harley, “that’s trouble.”
So begins the New York Times bestselling Wisconsin author’s novel (Population 485) about a cow and a man and a town and a whole heckuva lot more. Oh, and in case you didn’t know Perry doesn’t just write books, he also sings and is on the radio and is hilarious in front of large crowds when asked about his pigs.
Back to the novel and Harley. Though Jesus Cow does indeed play a pretty major role in this story, the bigger themes are far more intriguing. First and foremost there is much about the inter-twined relationships of life in a small mid-western town that certainly could be down the road from here and how your history will always be right there for everyone to remind you of. The friendship that Harley has with his best-foamy-beer-slugging-buddy-Billy is golden and true.
And then there is Mindy, Meg and Carolyn, the trio of ladies that bring love and humor and kindness and, of course, heartache in all the right measures to the little town of Swivel. Though Jesus Cow (his mother’s name is Tina Turner, no lie) brings buckets of cash that spill over with trouble, there is a lot of meat to consider as well. I don’t mean just the kind you have on the grill…
“Those people care more about fireworks, softball, and beer then a vision of Christ they claim to follow. Take a poll and they’ll rate themselves 97 percent Christian. But how many of them actually show up for church on Sunday? And of those that do, how many of them really mean it? How many trouble themselves with any thought of why they’re even in the pews? Jesus Cow? For most a’ them, it ain’t nothin’ but Harley Jackson’s weird damn steer.”
More than anything, Perry has a marvelous way of turning a phrase into a lesson. Though a weakness in the prose is he tells far more than he shows, some of his lines are worthy of reading twice. Several words (I am not embarrassed to admit) I had to ask Mister Google. I like that.
“Pareidolia. A psychological phenomenon. Where your brain fills in the gaps left by your eyes. It’s why you can see a man on the moon, or a rabbit in the clouds. It’s why people see Jesus in their fish sticks…And when faith is in play, the inclination kicks into overdrive.”
The epilogue could have been re-named Resolutions with all the pat story-line tie-ups, there were a few surprises and one clever twist. Billy, the voice of reason throughout, has a wise and timeless observation everyone will find worthwhile.
“Life is a rough approximation of things hoped for. You need to revel in the misfires. In the scars and dings. You need to develop a taste for regret. It’s the malt vinegar of emotions—drink it straight from the bottle and it’ll eat yer guts. Add a sprinkle here and there and it puts a living edge on things.”
Happy New Year!
December 3, 2015
Review: Secret Santa: The Mystery of the Stereoscope
Secret Santa: The Mystery of the Stereoscope by David Tank
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Secret Santa
The Mystery of the Stereoscope
By David Tank
Reviewed by Jay Gilbertson
It takes guts to bring out a new children’s Christmas tale, but local Wisconsin author and Professor at UW-Stout has done just that. Author Tank has a keen interest in vintage 3-D technology and after doing a great deal of research about the stereoscope, combined with his love of story, he created Secret Santa.
Though this book is geared toward the younger reader (ages 6-10) it certainly would make a great read-aloud for the Christmas Eve countdown. The story is told through the eyes of Sam, almost 12, who along with his sister, Abby, 7, receive an old stereoscope from their grandpa. And of course it came with picture cards, several had mysterious images and one was of a rather curious skinny Santa and off the story zoomed!
“What does this picture say?” asked Abby.
“It says Santa Claus looking up those who are good.” read Sam. “I know it says it’s Santa, but I think it’s a guy dressed up like Santa.”
“I wonder who he is?” said Abby.
“Me, too,” said Sam, switching into his scary voice. “It’s veery mys—teer—ious.”
And on blasts this history-filled mystery; from getting sent back in time (1893, no less) to meeting Nellie Bly and Nikola Tesla and actually walking through the famous Chicago World’s Fair grounds to learning the true meaning of Santa. All this and more in no time at all!
In the end, this clever tale reminds us that the true meaning of Christmas is not the gifts we get, but the belief in love we give.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, there really is a Santa Claus…
December 1, 2015
Place=Inspiration=Writing/Baking
Ever wonder where authors get their mojo? The magic powder that they sprinkle over their keyboards filled with secret codes only they can decipher? Well, you may be in for a surprise. That muse you see them welcome every morning along with picking out their lucky cap is all rolled into one truth.
It’s all fiction folks!
There is no magic to what we do. Only hard work with a hefty dose of inspiration and that can come from any number of sources. For me, it seems, to mostly come from a physical place. Setting is so important to my writing life. Once I have my setting figured out, I can usually roll out the story.
Recently we were with friends in Ripon, Wisconsin and they showed us an old building they are considering buying. The top floor had been boarded up since the forties. It felt haunted to me. Lonely and forlorn, creepy. Filled with possibility. It was once a grand space. There was a small stage in one area, another room had a huge covered-over rectangle that could have been a skylight and the possibilities started stacking up.
My imagination bounced off those peeling walls and I could see and hear and imagine. I was filled with story.
And yes, the characters that bring life to a novel, for me, are based on real people. Any author who says otherwise is making it up. Honestly.
When I teach writing, or even offer up my two-cents of how to get your novel going, I use baking as an analogy to creating story. You need a bowl (setting) and the ingredients (characters) to add in just the right measure. Then it has to rise and become something else (conflicts) and be punched down (more conflicts) and then baked and sliced and enjoyed (resolution).
With a whole, hell-ova lot of cool shit to keep things interesting!
There. Now you know how it’s done. Any questions?
November 30, 2015
Review: Stars Go Blue
Stars Go Blue by Laura Pritchett
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Stars Go Blue
By Laura Pritchett
Reviewed by Jay Gilbertson
Webster’s defines Alzheimer’s as a degenerative brain disease, the most common form of dementia, which results in progressive memory loss, impaired thinking, disorientation, and changes in personality and mood. It’s everywhere, this rotten disease, and the main theme running through this short, but powerful novel.
Every other chapter unfolds the thorny relationship of Renny and Ben. An old married couple living out their lives on an isolated ranch in Colorado. Early on you learn of the tragic murder of one of their daughters. This is the wedge, coated with Ben’s slow demise into dementia, which tests their love.
Nearly destroys it.
“She can see him pause, see him register the fact that he’s is without his jeans. Sees his indecision…Sees him, thank god, turn around. She hates him. She pities him. She’s sorry. She’s angry…”
All relationships evolve over time. They shift and change, often becoming more, sometimes less. There is a fierce love that lashes Renny to Ben, Ben to Renny and both of them to Ray. Ray, who shot and killed their beloved daughter Rachel right in front of them. This is the nail, the banging shutter, the unbearable loss that turns them inside out.
Time passes and Ray is released from prison and living in a town nearby. He sends Renny letters begging her forgiveness. Filled with blame and ego, these notes burn her broken heart. Before Ben’s mind has completely gone dark, he too finds out where Ray is living. Revenge consumes him.
“The thing is, Ben thinks, is that Ray’s existence on the planet was always going to haunt. Always going to hurt. Some gut instinct that he trusts. Ray has never really been sorry. Always selfish in the fundamental way. He will take more than he will give.”
Water.
As much as I love water and using it as a metaphor can be clever and effective and really cool, you can overdue it. Author Pritchett went bananas. She did. Yet her knowledge of the human heart and of love and regret and all the moments of joy that keep us moving forward rang true. Loud and clear. The ending will surprise you. And give you hope.
“How our own brains do that, pinging with life when each new memory hits, a river of channels sparking into movement. Melting and freezing and flowing. I know that Ben used to sit here, in the same spot, and I understand that he would sometimes watch these first aspen leaves and spring rain, and that he would consider how the universe itself holds all this motion inside the stars, even as they are turning blue.”
October 29, 2015
Review: A Sudden Light
A Sudden Light by Garth Stein
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
a sudden light
By Garth Stein
Reviewed by Jay Gilbertson
Set west of Puget Sound in Seattle, outside a small town and among towering Madrone, Red Cedar and Spruce trees hundreds of years old, loomed Riddell House. In dark and dilapidated rooms filled with lumber baron history and secrets and ghosts and lies—it waited.
“…a massive structure made of logs and bricks and stones, crowned with a roof of heavy cedar shakes accented by green copper downspouts and flashing. The house was circumscribed by a veranda on both the first and the second of the three floors…I quickly counted a dozen chimneys…I estimated at least a hundred windows.”
There, within the rambling old mansion, Trevor Riddell’s story unfolds. Told from the perspective of 14 year old Trevor, albeit a rather mature and unusually confident young man, you are drawn into the drama of his summertime adventure. Basically, Trevor’s dad, Jones, drags his son to Riddell House in order to face his father and a dark past that won’t let him go.
Caring for his ailing old dad, Grandpa Samuel, on his slow journey to dementia, is younger sister Serena. A shockingly beautiful woman (to hormonally challenged Trevor) full of her own mysteries and a complicated pile of guilt she wields like a weapon whenever it strikes her fancy. Together the three living characters are only the beginning to the intricate cast of characters brought into this who-did-what-to-who ghost story historical mystery.
Author Stein is no stranger to story-telling. A New York Times bestselling author, this is his fourth novel and it screams Hollywood. Not only does Trevor discover many secret rooms and passageways and even befriends a gay ghost, he also finds an old journal. It is through reading the history of Riddell House and how the original lumber tycoon Elijah Riddell’s many and interestingly varied offspring haunt the rooms and forge a curse that ultimately bring the story to a surprising end.
And a new beginning too.
This novel is nearly 400 pages long and yet I read it in just a few days. It has all the elements of a great coming-of-age-mystery with a few minor setbacks. My biggest beef with Stein is he packed so many characters into the middle of the story it got a little overwhelming. Yet in the end, things pretty much came together—and apart. Honestly, sometimes I really want to spill the proverbial beans and give the ending away.
My lips are sealed.
Along the way, through Trevor’s many discoveries, we are reminded of the huge scar that many of the original wealthy land owners left us with, and all that was taken away. In this case, trees, which Stein uses as the perfect metaphor. Riddell House sat on over 200 acres of wooded land once covered with tall and majestic and really sought after trees. Much like Wisconsin, they were all cleared away, sold into lumber and crafted into our history.
In the end, this is a love story.
October 8, 2015
Review: Jack of Spades
Jack of Spades by Joyce Carol Oates
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Jack of Spades
By Joyce Carol Oates
Reviewed by Jay Gilbertson
“Out of the air, the ax. Somehow there was an ax and it rose and fell in a wild swath aimed at my head even as I tried to rise from my squatting position and lost my balance desperate to escape as my legs faltered beneath me and there came a hoarse pleading voice—No! No please! No—(was this my own choked voice, unrecognizable?)—as the ax-blade crashed and sank into the splintering desk beside my head missing my head by inches; by which time I’d fallen heavily onto the floor, a hard unyielding floor beneath the frayed Oriental carpet.”
There, how’s that for an opening sentence? Author Oates has done it again. Written a creepy mystery with a few twists and one major revelation that spins the tale into a really nice, satisfying, splashy ending. There will be no sequel.
Meet famous suspense author Andrew J. Rush. A self-made writer dude with an ego as big as, well Stephen King! Only the latter is real. This is one of those stories that had me burning the midnight oil, not only because I had a deadline, but also because Oates creation, famous-author-Rush was busy getting into so much trouble that I honestly had my doubts how in the world he was going to survive.
Without spilling the beans too too much, here’s the deal. So Rush has this alter ego, this voice that bursts into his head and forces him to write a separate, more sinister series in total secret. Rush is publicly famous for his King-like novels of high-brow suspense that have tidy endings, but this other series, this totally badass secret one is slowly swallowing up his sanity. It’s an interesting concept and has been woven into novels about a million times before. The only difference this go around is that Andrew Rush thinks that this alter ego is like, not him.
Are you with me so far? Good. Throw into this rather tense-insane situation a crazy-rich eccentric woman who accuses Rush of plagiarizing her work and you have a total whack-job of a murder mystery and boy does it get bloody and messy and edgy and you pretty much want this Andrew dude to jump off a cliff toward the end.
You really do.
Well, that is good writing. And Author Oates does a pretty slam-dunk good job of it. My only complaint is I wanted a tad more background on his wimpy, boring-as-watching-paint-dry wife. She really was a flat character and I constantly wanted to give her some decent come-back lines.
This novel (or novella as it’s really a fast read) was a total cake-walk in that it all winds up to a tidy finale and you smack the cover closed and sigh and maybe have one more bite of cake. Here, this won’t give anything away, the last sentence;
“I do not turn, and I do not flinch, as the fingers gently touch me and urge me out into the air.”
Bring Back The Sun—Please!
This time of year always throws me, not only do I fight the notion of what’s coming (the white stuff) but also am grateful for the break. I will be. Maybe.
Picking flowers dipped in frost, V’s of geese squawking orders above, the sun taking its dear old time climbing over our hill, slipping into ice-cold garden gloves and planting garlic cloves full of hope. It’s all wrapped together into this fall crunchy leaves time thing. And the colors. Amazing colors are popping into the picture. Crazy reds and yellows and oranges that dazzle. I bring selected maple leaves in and arrange them on tables and countertops.
I have a love-hate relationship with fall. I do. The crispy air is great, it really is. I love the amount of energy I have and how the humidity has left town. But the light, it’s different and telling and it always gets me. Especially late afternoon, how the day up and leaves the area in one big sun-drop. BAM!
“We’re out of time people!” I hear the group that tosses the sun up there in the morning, yelling as they zip up their coats and cart away the orb.
I’m standing in the driveway, wanting a few more hours of light. Just a couple of rays to pull a few more weeds, wrestle that Morning Glory vine down now that it’s kaput and maybe I should unscrew the hose from the house. Again.
You’d think I would get used to this, right? That I’d be all amped and ready with cords of cut firewood stacked and eager to warm the house. But I’m so not there, so not ready for this. Give me some days (in a row please) of summer sun, you know the one, windows open warm breezes and all that noise of life around me. C’mon, who is in charge here? I head in to where it’s warm.
Fall.
