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Reading Sundays: A SURPRISING CURE (Part 4) a short story by Cynthia Sally Haggard

“Ah! Here it is!” She picked up Walter Pater’s Renaissance.[image error]

“Miriam, dear,” I interposed. “Why don’t you sit down and take off your hat? I haven’t heard anything about your journey, or your stay in Edinburgh.”

“Of course, my dear.” She seated herself beside me, and sipped her tea.

Mr. Nicol fished around in his pockets and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Miriam, and glanced at me, one eyebrow raised.

I shook my head. I regarded smoking as a dirty habit, it was the sort of thing office boys would do. To my dismay, I had noticed young women beginning to take up the habit. I really must remember to mention to Miriam that this new enthusiasm she was acquiring was unladylike.

He lit up and they puffed away.

There was an awkward silence.  Finally I put my cup down. “It is growing late,” I remarked. “No doubt you would like me to see you to your lodgings.”

“Robert’s staying here!” exclaimed Miriam, putting her hand on his arm.

“Indeed. And may I enquire, young man, how long you intend to stay?”

He half-closed his eyes. “As yet, that remains to be determined.” Again he let his tongue linger over each word, giving his remark a sarcastic edge.

“And may I enquire what that determination is?”

“Och. Ye may enquire.” He kept his lids half lowered and smiled slowly.”

Miriam exploded into a peal of laughter. “Robert!” She nudged him with her elbow, then turned to me. “We haven’t made plans yet.”

“We?” My eyebrows rose. But Miriam ignored me.

“I’m going to show Robert around. I want him to meet all of our friends and acquaintances.” [To be continued next week.]

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Susan Holloway Scott’s THE SECRET WIFE OF AARON BURR, narrated by Kirsten Potter

[image error]All I knew about Aaron Burr, before I picked up this novel, was that he was the person who shot Alexander Hamilton. Imagine my astonishment to be taken to Pondicherry, India in 1768 to meet 8-year-old Veena, who is sold into the Beauharnais family, given the name Eugenie and taken as a slave to Saint Domingue, where she is rescued by John Prevost, given the name Mary and given as a “present” to his wife Theodosia. By such roundabout means, Veena/Eugenie/Mary meets Aaron Burr, Theodosia’s second husband and becomes his mistress/secret wife.

This is a fascinating look at the complexities of life in the colonies, told through the eyes of a woman of color. Susan Holloway Scott displays great empathy for her character, and I loved her vivid characterizations of Burr, his wife and daughter (both called Theodosia) his servants, slaves and friends. Highly recommended. 5 stars.

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MY DEAR HAMILTON: A Novel of Eliza Schuyler Hamilton by Stephanie Dray & Laura Kamoie, narrated by Cassandra Campbell

[image error]This was such an interesting novel about a forgotten founding mother. I had no idea that Eliza Schuyler Hamilton was the daughter of a well-respected general, or that she spent her girlhood living on the frontier dealing with Native Americans (and speaking their languages) or that she had two vivacious sisters.

Enter Hamilton, and of course (and unfortunately) she is swept away by his charm and charisma.

I loved the pitch-perfect voice of Eliza Hamilton, conveyed so adroitly by narrator Cassandra Campbell. It blended the perfect combination of love and exasperation as Eliza narrated the activities of her mercurial and brilliant husband, leading to many funny and enjoyable moments.

What was NOT funny was that Hamilton’s activities led to his wife having to endure the very public humiliation of a sex scandal. How she managed to hang onto her dignity, mother her children and deal with the everydayness that life brings, I do not know. Just as she had picked up the pieces, her husband was killed…by a stupid accident.

I highly recommend this novel. It sheds glorious light on the colonial period of this country’s history, as well as the story of a highly unusual woman. Five stars.

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I thought I was reading historical fiction about an Anglo-Saxon’s journey in the afterlife…(THE SUMMER COUNTRY by Lauren Willig, narrated by Nicola Barber)

[image error]I have never heard of Lauren Willig before, so when I picked up THE SUMMER COUNTRY, I honestly thought I was reading a tale about an Anglo-Saxon person’s journey to the afterlife. (The Anglo-Saxon’s referred to life after death as “the summer country.”)

If you have read this tale of intrigue, lies, desperation, greed and a bold bid for freedom in 19th-century Barbados, you can imagine how surprised I was. However, Lauren Willig’s sensitive tale of slavery, and the way she immerses you in the sticky heat of the Caribbean drew me in.

I listened to this novel, and at first it was a little difficult to keep track of the parallel stories of Charles & Robert Davenant from 1812 to 1816 and the story of Emily Dawson and her search for her mother in 1854. As usual, the background tale of the rising of 1816, and Charles Davenant’s complex relationship with his brother and sister-in-law proved to be more gripping than the more “modern” tale set in 1854. However, the 1854 narrative braid was saved by the character of Emily herself, as she dealt with the men fawning over her, no doubt because she was the unexpected heiress to Peverills, a famous estate on Barbados.

Lauren Willig is the author of several novels, and her experience shows in the telling of this one. I loved the way this novel ended. Five stars.

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Readings Sundays: A SURPRISING CURE (Part 3) a short story by Cynthia Sally Haggard

“Edward, I want you to meet my new friend.”

I looked up. A tall youth with dark auburn hair and fierce blue eyes stood beside her.

[image error]“Robert Allan Nicol at your service, sir.”

His words were servile, his manner was not. As he pronounced them his eyelids half-lowered so that his smile, when it came, conveyed an attitude of arrogant disdain. He glanced at Miriam.

“You’ll be wanting to spend some time with your husband.” His soft Scotch burr lingered over each word, slowly and insolently.

My wife flapped a hand at him. “Don’t be silly, Robert dear. I want to show you around.” And taking his arm, she steered him firmly into the middle of the Drawing Room, pointing out our paintings, our photographs, our books, indeed enumerating everything we owned.

I trailed behind, cracking my knuckles. Then I rang the bell and ordered tea, sitting in my high-backed chair as I invited my wife and her new friend to join me.

Mr. Nicol flung himself onto the sofa and sprawled there with his knees apart, his hands in his pocket. I expected my wife to take her place next to mine and pour the tea. Instead, she rang the bell and summoned the maid to do it. While Daisy fussed over the tea cups and saucers, the cutting of the cake and the pouring of the tea, Miriam wandered over to our well-stocked bookshelves, running her fingers along the spines.

“Ah! Here it is!” She picked up Walter Pater’s Renaissance.

“Miriam, dear,” I interposed. “Why don’t you sit down and take off your hat? I haven’t heard anything about your journey, or your stay in Edinburgh.”

“Of course, my dear.” She seated herself beside me, and sipped her tea. [To be continued next week.]

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Barbara Ehrenreich’s DANCING IN THE STREETS

[image error]Barbara Ehrenreich’s DANCING IN THE STREETS is both a celebration of dancing and a condemnation of the authorities who are trying to prevent large groups of people from running amok in the interests of law and order.

This wonderful book is a potted history of dance, from its roots back in the misty past, through various ancient civilizations and up through the present day. Ms. Ehrenreich conveys how natural it was to dance and how this is a knack that many of us have lost today. People who either live in Northern Europe or can trace their ancestry from that part of the world have difficulty loosening up enough to dance even for a few minutes, let alone for hours or days. And since this somewhat Puritanical attitude has pervaded the world, all of us suffer from a lack of dancing in our lives.

I am in awe of how much research Ms. Ehrenreich has done for this book. Of course, dancing is not just about dancing. In the ancient past, it was used to cure people of sadness. Since the early Middle Ages, it seems to have taken on more political overtones, and people who danced often did so for reasons of social justice. In fact dancing impinged on so many aspects of people’s lives from religion (where people danced to their prayers) to the military, to sports. And what is fascinating is how Ms. Ehrenreich argues that relatively recently the young men and women of the 50s and 60s who would not sit down in their seats during a rock concert, were merely reaching back (albeit unconsciously) into a Dionysian past.

For those of you who have often wondered about dancing, and its various social incarnations, this book is for you. Five stars.

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A Provocative Account of the Origins of War (BLOOD RITES)

[image error]Barbara Ehrenreich’s BLOOD RITES is an investigation into the origins of war. Drawing parallels between ancient religions with their blood-soaked rituals, and the fact that for thousands of years a small band of humans had to ward off predators in the shape of tigers, lions and wolves, all without the arsenal of weapons that we have today, Ms. Ehrenreich tries to fill in a picture of the psychology of war. She makes the radical proposal that those ancient deities that demanded their blood-soaked sacrifices could be equated with predatory mammals looking to snack on human flesh.

The only effective weapon that ancient men and women had to fight with was fire. We know that the use of fire is very ancient because hearths dating back 750,000 years have been found in Israel. But the use of fire may have had less to do with keeping warm, than with keeping predators at bay. Images of rings of fire that abound in stories and operas (I’m thinking here of the ring of fire that Wotan uses to protect his sleeping daughter Brunnhilde), may have originated in the use of fire as a kind of fence around an encampment to protect the humans within.

Eventually, humans acquired better equipment in the shape of horses and arrows that meant that they could protect themselves far more efficiently from the big cats. Ms. Ehrenreich’s basic argument is that when humans made the gigantic leap from prey to predator, the “underemployed” males of the tribe, whose job it had been to fight off the predators, needed something new to do in order to channel their energies. That new something turned out to be war.

I do not know if Ms. Ehrenreich is right about this. But I think she is right to point out that there is much more to war than killing people, even though that is its salient feature. Now that I think about it, there is a religious quality about war, that is unexpected. After all, you do not expect sanctioned murder to be religious in nature. But it is striking that down through the ages, masses, sacrifices, libations and other religious acts have been performed before a battle has started.

If you are interested in a provocative discussion about war, read this book. Four stars.

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THE HUNGER GAMES TRILOGY by Suzanne Collins

[image error]Author Suzanne Collins mentions that the idea for THE HUNGER GAMES came from channel surfing between reality TV games and the Iraq war. While the reality game show element is really obvious, it seems to me that this whole series is a metaphor for the wars of the recent decade, with each volume of the trilogy serving as a metaphor of those hellish places. No wonder Katniss behaves so badly and in such extreme and violent ways. No wonder this book is so dark. No-one is ever quite the same again. And that is where the power of this work lies, in it’s linking of dystopian fantasy with unpleasant realities of the present day.

This is a strong work that doesn’t sag and will keep you glued to the page. What makes it so outstanding is the way the trilogy ends. Ms. Collins provides a satisfying ending that ties up a lot of loose threads and make the reader feel that there was no other way this story could have ended. It is not a happy-ever-after ending, which would not have been appropriate for such a dark story. But it is the kind of ending that throws everything into relief and makes you realize what the emotional heart of the story is.

For those of you who haven’t yet read or viewed HUNGER GAMES, you might want to stop reading at this point, as what I have to say contains spoilers.

What the ending meant for me was that the emotional heart of this story is with Katniss’ relationship with her sister. Which is surprising, as this is a book for teens. Authors who write for this audience are almost obliged to have the romance-between-good-looking members-of-the-opposite-sex-which-involves-love-triangle, and I must say I found this aspect of the trilogy the least interesting. Mainly because Katniss (not surprisingly) is so unsure of where she is, being spoiled for choice. But the suspense just stretches out and out and out, and I felt the work would have been stronger without so much emphasis on the romance element.

However, the ending suggests that we are being encouraged to look at the wrong relationship. Because the person whom Katniss really and truly loves is her sister. And when Prim dies, we feel Katniss’ terrible pain. Especially as she had to see it happen. I thought the scene with Prim’s cat was just wrenching, and it is a mark of the quality of this work that it is hard for me to get those scenes out of my head. Five stars.

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Reading Sundays: A SURPRISING CURE (Part 2) a short story by Cynthia Sally Haggard

[image error]But Miriam’s condition persisted. When I pressed her, she reluctantly complained of burning sensations down there. Every summer she visited Edinburgh to “take the air,” as we told all of our acquaintances. No-one knew what was wrong with her except myself, my consulting physician, Miriam, and her lady doctor. Unless, of course, Miriam chose to confide in Helena Born, her bosom friend. But surely, even she wouldn’t do such a thing.

I picked up a Dresden Shepherdess. Her tiny waist and diminutive grace reminded me of my wife. She had been only nineteen when we married eight years ago. Her family, the Wheelers, were solidly respectable, with enough money to acquire a governess from Zurich, to bring up their four daughters in an atmosphere of continental refinement. My lovely Miriam could speak French, play the pianoforte, and paint with glowing colors. To-day, she was returning home from Edinburgh.

A rumble of wheels alerted me to her arrival. Straightening my cravat I hurried forward. She ran into the house in a swirl of sky blue silk, her skirts drawn back into a fashionably large bustle, which was without the usual adornments of tassels or flounces. On her head perched a plain straw hat decorated with a bow in matching sky-blue silk. She rose on the tips of her toes, and gave me a peck on the cheek.

I studied my wife in silence. Miriam looked healthy, her cheeks showing a faint pink, her dark blue eyes clear. I caught my breath. Was she cured? Something surged forth. I had not known the meaning of the word ‘hunger’ until now. I crushed Miriam to my chest, my lips seeking hers. But she pushed me away gently.

“Edward, I want you to meet my new friend.”

I looked up. A tall youth with dark auburn hair and fierce blue eyes stood beside her.

“Robert Allan Nicol at your service, sir.” [To be continued next week.]

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Frank McCourt’s ANGELA’S ASHES

[image error]I don’t think anyone would describe Frank McCourt’s ANGELA’S ASHES, his account of growing up poor and starving in Ireland, as funny. Nevertheless, the many tragedies in his story are leavened by glimpses of humor. Near the beginning of his memoir, McCourt sets the scene in the following way:

Out in the Atlantic Ocean great sheets of rain gathered to drift slowly up the River Shannon and settle forever in Limerick. The rain dampened the city from the Feast of Circumcision to New Year’s Eve. It created a cacophony of hacking coughs, bronchial rattles, asthmatic wheezes, consumptive croaks. It turned noses into fountains, lungs into bacterial sponges…

The rain drove us into the church–our refuge, our strength, our only dry place. At Mass, Benediction, novenas, we huddled in great damp clumps, dozing through priest drone, while steam rose again from our clothes to mingle with the sweetness of incense, flower and candles.

Limerick gained a reputation for piety, but we knew it was only the rain. (1-2)

We learn that it rains in Limerick[image error], but Limerick is not just wet, it stays wet for eternity. The great sheets of rain drift slowly up the River Shannon and settle forever in Limerick (emphasis added). We learned that the rain dampened the city from the Feast of Circumcision to New Year’s Eve. Not only does the detail of the ‘Feast of Circumcision’ sound humorous, but that sentence actually means that it stayed wet from January 1 to December 31. In the next sentence, McCourt takes things up a notch by providing us with a marvelous list of alliteration and onomatopoeia. Again, the details are compelling. We don’t just have a cacophony of coughs, which sounds clichéd, but a cacophony of hacking coughs. Just when you think this can’t possibly get any worse, McCourt tops that sentence with the next one: “It turned noses into fountains, lungs into bacterial sponges.” After a few more sentences (omitted for brevity), we learn that the rain drove everyone into church, it was “our refuge, our strength, our only dry place.” In this sentence, McCourt gives us a list which acts like a garden path sentence. It implies that it’s talking about one thing (the piety of the people of Limerick), when it’s actually talking about something else (their wish to get out of the rain). The next sentence gives us a marvelous image of all those people crowded into church in “great damp clumps, dozing through priest drone,” and this sets us up for the punch line at the end, that Limerick gained a reputation for piety, but “we knew it was only the rain.”

And so the story begins with some humor, to ease the way for the tragedies that follow. I highly recommend this memoir. Five Stars.

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