"He wrote of his joys and sorrows, of all that he knew and everything that he hoped for."
I can't even remember what I was looking for, but I saw this book online. And dashed out the bookstore that day in hopes of finding it. Failing that, I looked at the library...failing that I put it on hold at the library. I got it last week. And read it to myself as a bedtime story. Then I ordered my own copy. It should be overheating in my mailbox at home right now. Yea!
The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore by William Joyce is a must-read. Beautiful pictures, wonderful story - the world I want to live in, the library my heart desires. So rush out right now and find it. Failing that, put it on hold at your library. And once you have it, snuggle up in bed and read it as a bedtime story...maybe more than once.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Monday, July 23, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Hot and Miserable
This weekend I've heard that temperatures will sore as high as 109. I'd bet my life savings it will be warmer than that. I got into a rental car to return it today and the temperature gauge read 112...but not to worry, it was down to 108 by the time I dropped it off. As if Texas isn't always miserable, the next few days are going to be AWFUL. That's why I'm not planning on doing anything.
Perhaps it's also why my blog of late seems to focus on books and movies. Because when it's so hot outside you're too exhausted to move or think, those are the two things I do. I even stayed up late the other night to finish a mystery that was simply too good to put down. I did try. I put it down, turned off my lights and laid there telling myself I had only two chapters left, it wouldn't take that long, I'd still force myself to get up in five hours to run... I couldn't resist. On went the lights, out came the book - and I did still woke up at five to go running. But I went to bed last night at nine and didn't run this morning.
Haley told me this week of a discussion on Facebook about your favorite black and white movie. That made me think. Lots came to mind: The Thin Man, Holiday, Mr. Smith goes to Washington, You Can't Take it with You... There are a lot of good black and whites. But I guess my favorite is It Started with Eve. In fact, it's been a long time since I've seen it. Maybe this weekend will be a good time to correct that.
I've been writing this week - if you count rewriting chapter two two times. And I still don't like it. Fell asleep thinking about it last night, so it will get it's third re-write tomorrow (hopefully). Then I'm going to stop and move on. It's already been beaten within an inch of it's life. I'll limp on to chapter three.
Yes, I'm going to see Batman tonight. Meeting up with Haley and two boys I used to babysit. Of course, they're both college graduates now (one with a Master's). Makes me wonder exactly how old that makes me... And then I'm in the middle of another mystery that finally got good last night. I'll try not to stay up too late tonight, though. I have tennis in the morning, before it reaches 109. You know, when it's only 90 out. Nothing like a Texas cold front.
Perhaps it's also why my blog of late seems to focus on books and movies. Because when it's so hot outside you're too exhausted to move or think, those are the two things I do. I even stayed up late the other night to finish a mystery that was simply too good to put down. I did try. I put it down, turned off my lights and laid there telling myself I had only two chapters left, it wouldn't take that long, I'd still force myself to get up in five hours to run... I couldn't resist. On went the lights, out came the book - and I did still woke up at five to go running. But I went to bed last night at nine and didn't run this morning.
Haley told me this week of a discussion on Facebook about your favorite black and white movie. That made me think. Lots came to mind: The Thin Man, Holiday, Mr. Smith goes to Washington, You Can't Take it with You... There are a lot of good black and whites. But I guess my favorite is It Started with Eve. In fact, it's been a long time since I've seen it. Maybe this weekend will be a good time to correct that.
I've been writing this week - if you count rewriting chapter two two times. And I still don't like it. Fell asleep thinking about it last night, so it will get it's third re-write tomorrow (hopefully). Then I'm going to stop and move on. It's already been beaten within an inch of it's life. I'll limp on to chapter three.
Yes, I'm going to see Batman tonight. Meeting up with Haley and two boys I used to babysit. Of course, they're both college graduates now (one with a Master's). Makes me wonder exactly how old that makes me... And then I'm in the middle of another mystery that finally got good last night. I'll try not to stay up too late tonight, though. I have tennis in the morning, before it reaches 109. You know, when it's only 90 out. Nothing like a Texas cold front.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Book Review
When I was about thirteen years old, I got into reading private detective books and decided that was just the life for me. That lasted for about a year, but in some ways I got my wish. Almost every day I have to do some form of detective work. I mean, how am I supposed to know the height of a patient I've never seen? Not sure, but I snooped around and found the answer. Because, for some reason I can't explain, that's my job.
Detective work is intriguing, although I'm sure it's not as exciting as Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie or the other great detectives of the novels. Like Ellie Moore. But Ellie Moore just needed a job. And the Pinkertons needed an older woman to snoop around a silver mining town in Arizona. With some touches of make-up and other accruments she picked up in the theatre, Ellie Moore turned herself into the perfect old lady. What she didn't bargain for was also having to be the perfect young lady. But that's what happens when your experienced partner bows out: you get to be two detectives rolled up in one.
Love in Disguise by Carol Cox is the story of inexperienced Ellie Moore, thrown into playing two parts in an investigation of silver mining thefts. Having never been a detective before, she finds herself trying to sniff out information while balancing the act of being two different people. It's the role of a lifetime, but will the outcome be applause or a final curtain?
A little predictable, Love in Disguise isn't written to be so much a mystery as a light romance in the wild west. For there are few clues to follow to the conclusion, so the ending was a bit of a surprise but also left me wondering how I was supposed to come to that answer. So, if you're looking for a good mystery curl up with Sherlock Holmes. If you're looking for simply an easy read, Love in Disguise is a pretty good choice.
http://www.bethanyhouse.com/ME2/Audiences/dirmod.asp?sid=0477683E4046471488BD7BAC8DCFB004&nm=&type=PubCom&mod=PubComProductCatalog&mid=BF1316AF9E334B7BA1C33CB61CF48A4E&AudId=205F4A61B07648D98551934CA40DE116&tier=2
This book was provided by Bethany House Publishers by review purposes only.
Detective work is intriguing, although I'm sure it's not as exciting as Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie or the other great detectives of the novels. Like Ellie Moore. But Ellie Moore just needed a job. And the Pinkertons needed an older woman to snoop around a silver mining town in Arizona. With some touches of make-up and other accruments she picked up in the theatre, Ellie Moore turned herself into the perfect old lady. What she didn't bargain for was also having to be the perfect young lady. But that's what happens when your experienced partner bows out: you get to be two detectives rolled up in one.
Love in Disguise by Carol Cox is the story of inexperienced Ellie Moore, thrown into playing two parts in an investigation of silver mining thefts. Having never been a detective before, she finds herself trying to sniff out information while balancing the act of being two different people. It's the role of a lifetime, but will the outcome be applause or a final curtain?
A little predictable, Love in Disguise isn't written to be so much a mystery as a light romance in the wild west. For there are few clues to follow to the conclusion, so the ending was a bit of a surprise but also left me wondering how I was supposed to come to that answer. So, if you're looking for a good mystery curl up with Sherlock Holmes. If you're looking for simply an easy read, Love in Disguise is a pretty good choice.
http://www.bethanyhouse.com/ME2/Audiences/dirmod.asp?sid=0477683E4046471488BD7BAC8DCFB004&nm=&type=PubCom&mod=PubComProductCatalog&mid=BF1316AF9E334B7BA1C33CB61CF48A4E&AudId=205F4A61B07648D98551934CA40DE116&tier=2
This book was provided by Bethany House Publishers by review purposes only.
Friday, July 13, 2012
My Help
When I was younger, you didn't see me very often without a book. Come to think of it, you don't see me very often without a book now. There are several stacked next to my bed (yes, I confess, I read two or three books at a time), some in one of the drawers of my nightstand, a couple stacked on the desk in my closet, and almost always one on my desk at work. The only difference between now and ten or twenty years ago is I don't have as much time to read and I don't read as quickly as I used to. But it's been a long time since I've carried a book around with me like it's a vital organ and cracked it open every spare moment I had. But that's what I did with The Help.
I'm not sure why. There's some language in it. And there's a few things I wouldn't write. But it was so easy to read, and fascinating, and the characters were so real, and maybe it was a touch of home. I haven't lived in the South but about four years of my life (Texas doesn't count), but my mom's family has lived in the Carolinas and Tennessee since they came to America in the 1600s. So I guess the blood is my veins. Of course I wasn't around in the 1960s when The Help takes place, but I've heard stories from my parents who remember the era of integration as kids growing up in Tennessee. (My dad was a correctly-placed Yankee.) And even though my mom was from a long line of Southern plantation owners with slaves and stills in their backyards, she wasn't raised by a black woman. However, Miss Sally came to help clean, polish the silver (Miss Sally loved to polish the silver) and showed up at the house the morning of my mother's wedding to do what she could to help, although she refused to attend. I remember Miss Sally at Grandma's daycare helping in the kitchen, and I think I remember her at Grandma's house once or twice. Miss Sally was old then. When I saw her briefly twenty years later, she was still old. It's the way I will always remember her.
I think I knew at a young age that segregation in the South remained, and not just in the minds of those my Grandma's age. As I grew up, I learned more and more about it, and it's always intrigued me. It's not just the way my grandmother treats those of black skin. I find it equally fascinating that the black women my grandmother's age behave towards her as if sixty years haven't gone by and they still come polish the silver. My most vivid memory of this was after my great aunt Ruby Jean had a stroke and a black woman would come help her at the old farmhouse where she lived. I visited the summer after that, sat in the living room and tried not to gawk as the older black woman spoke in a tongue right out of the days of slavery. She wasn't going to say anything that wasn't in answer to my grandmother's polite questions, but I wish she had talked more. I felt like I was living history.
For history is a little more complicated than classroom history books. It's not the rote schools teach you: slavery is bad, slave owners are evil, Abraham Lincoln was a savior, and while integration was rough, everyone was better for it. I'm not being racial. I'm just saying that history isn't cardboard. The people were real flesh and blood with real fear, and real emotions, and real problems they couldn't see how to resolve. Slavery is bad but most slave owners were not Simon Legree and both the owners and the slaves felt real attachment to one another despite the walls between them. And integration? Everyone likes their comfort zones and change is hard, no matter what color your skin is. Perhaps that is why The Help is so interesting. It isn't cardboard - it's complicated. Just like life.
I'm not sure why. There's some language in it. And there's a few things I wouldn't write. But it was so easy to read, and fascinating, and the characters were so real, and maybe it was a touch of home. I haven't lived in the South but about four years of my life (Texas doesn't count), but my mom's family has lived in the Carolinas and Tennessee since they came to America in the 1600s. So I guess the blood is my veins. Of course I wasn't around in the 1960s when The Help takes place, but I've heard stories from my parents who remember the era of integration as kids growing up in Tennessee. (My dad was a correctly-placed Yankee.) And even though my mom was from a long line of Southern plantation owners with slaves and stills in their backyards, she wasn't raised by a black woman. However, Miss Sally came to help clean, polish the silver (Miss Sally loved to polish the silver) and showed up at the house the morning of my mother's wedding to do what she could to help, although she refused to attend. I remember Miss Sally at Grandma's daycare helping in the kitchen, and I think I remember her at Grandma's house once or twice. Miss Sally was old then. When I saw her briefly twenty years later, she was still old. It's the way I will always remember her.
I think I knew at a young age that segregation in the South remained, and not just in the minds of those my Grandma's age. As I grew up, I learned more and more about it, and it's always intrigued me. It's not just the way my grandmother treats those of black skin. I find it equally fascinating that the black women my grandmother's age behave towards her as if sixty years haven't gone by and they still come polish the silver. My most vivid memory of this was after my great aunt Ruby Jean had a stroke and a black woman would come help her at the old farmhouse where she lived. I visited the summer after that, sat in the living room and tried not to gawk as the older black woman spoke in a tongue right out of the days of slavery. She wasn't going to say anything that wasn't in answer to my grandmother's polite questions, but I wish she had talked more. I felt like I was living history.
For history is a little more complicated than classroom history books. It's not the rote schools teach you: slavery is bad, slave owners are evil, Abraham Lincoln was a savior, and while integration was rough, everyone was better for it. I'm not being racial. I'm just saying that history isn't cardboard. The people were real flesh and blood with real fear, and real emotions, and real problems they couldn't see how to resolve. Slavery is bad but most slave owners were not Simon Legree and both the owners and the slaves felt real attachment to one another despite the walls between them. And integration? Everyone likes their comfort zones and change is hard, no matter what color your skin is. Perhaps that is why The Help is so interesting. It isn't cardboard - it's complicated. Just like life.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
When I was a little girl...
...I wanted to grow up. I'm not sure why.
This week I've been reminded a lot about when I was a little girl. For in my bedroom sits a beautiful dollhouse. Every time I enter my room, I smile. It's what I always wanted. And I'm sorely tempted to play with it - only, I don't have any dolls for it yet. But I will. Then I can sit them in the dining room, and have them cooking in the kitchen, and let the children play in their nursery upstairs. Even at 32 years old, I look forward to playing with my dollhouse...and wonder if I shall ever have a little girl of my own to enjoy it with me. But I usually think that's too much to hope for.
There's this tree in our yard that just this year sprouted fruit. I don't ever remember it doing that before, but as I don't usually pay attention to plants maybe I just missed it last year. Have no clue what kind of fruits it's giving us. I think they might be some kind of pear, but in bite-sized. Which means you probably don't want to eat them. However, I was thinking if I were a little girl again I would pull my plastic dishes out and cook with them. Pies, stews, casseroles, cookies...little girls can cook any dish with anything that closely resembles something edible. Then I'd dress up my dolls and we'd eat together: Amy, Katy, Kate, Ruth Ann, Chris Ann, Rainbow Bright...some of them have passed into doll heaven and the rest are in my parent's attic but who can forget their first family?
I was one of those kids that spent much of her time wanting to grow up. I was tired of practicing. I wanted to be a real librarian, and a real teacher, and a real wife, and a real mommy. As half the people are earth can contest, being grown up doesn't look anything like I practiced for. My only library is my personal one, 90% of which is in Indiana and half of which is in boxes in the attic. I've never taught in a real school, although I love my kids at church and my years of tutoring. Obviously the wife and mommy is not quite clear on the radar. I certainly don't live in my beautiful Victorian dollhouse (such a thing doesn't exist in Texas anyhow), and I don't cook much because I don't have a family to share it with (although Haley and I help each other eat - for days! - when we do cook).
Still, it's fun to have a dollhouse in my bedroom...and it's fun to imagine what I would cook with my orange plastic dishes if I had them anymore. Because even though I am grown up, at heart I'm still a little girl sometimes. :)
This week I've been reminded a lot about when I was a little girl. For in my bedroom sits a beautiful dollhouse. Every time I enter my room, I smile. It's what I always wanted. And I'm sorely tempted to play with it - only, I don't have any dolls for it yet. But I will. Then I can sit them in the dining room, and have them cooking in the kitchen, and let the children play in their nursery upstairs. Even at 32 years old, I look forward to playing with my dollhouse...and wonder if I shall ever have a little girl of my own to enjoy it with me. But I usually think that's too much to hope for.
There's this tree in our yard that just this year sprouted fruit. I don't ever remember it doing that before, but as I don't usually pay attention to plants maybe I just missed it last year. Have no clue what kind of fruits it's giving us. I think they might be some kind of pear, but in bite-sized. Which means you probably don't want to eat them. However, I was thinking if I were a little girl again I would pull my plastic dishes out and cook with them. Pies, stews, casseroles, cookies...little girls can cook any dish with anything that closely resembles something edible. Then I'd dress up my dolls and we'd eat together: Amy, Katy, Kate, Ruth Ann, Chris Ann, Rainbow Bright...some of them have passed into doll heaven and the rest are in my parent's attic but who can forget their first family?
I was one of those kids that spent much of her time wanting to grow up. I was tired of practicing. I wanted to be a real librarian, and a real teacher, and a real wife, and a real mommy. As half the people are earth can contest, being grown up doesn't look anything like I practiced for. My only library is my personal one, 90% of which is in Indiana and half of which is in boxes in the attic. I've never taught in a real school, although I love my kids at church and my years of tutoring. Obviously the wife and mommy is not quite clear on the radar. I certainly don't live in my beautiful Victorian dollhouse (such a thing doesn't exist in Texas anyhow), and I don't cook much because I don't have a family to share it with (although Haley and I help each other eat - for days! - when we do cook).
Still, it's fun to have a dollhouse in my bedroom...and it's fun to imagine what I would cook with my orange plastic dishes if I had them anymore. Because even though I am grown up, at heart I'm still a little girl sometimes. :)
Friday, July 6, 2012
My Dollhouse: the Final Update
I don't mean by that title that my dollhouse is complete. By no means! I have a feeling it will be a work in progress for years...like moving into a house you can't quite afford to finish but is livable. I mean, one can walk on "plywood" for a while and do without baseboards. And in the world of dolls, there doesn't have to be any lights or curtains. But I will put the last touches on tonight and it will officially move out the living room and into my rooms. I have a feeling the living room is going to seem a bit empty after it has made it's home there for the past year.
I put window seats in over the weekend: one of those dreams I have for a house of my own. These I cut from the scraps I had left over from punching out all the pieces. The fact that I don't have any fancy equipment to do this (Xacto knives are wonderful), I'm rather impressed with myself. Of course, the location of them covers up a lot of mistakes...but I think I need to stop taking pictures. Every time I do I see something I can't see with my naked eye. Thankfully my perfectionist tendencies don't tend that way - otherwise, I would be nick-picking at this dollhouse for the rest of my life!
I put window seats in over the weekend: one of those dreams I have for a house of my own. These I cut from the scraps I had left over from punching out all the pieces. The fact that I don't have any fancy equipment to do this (Xacto knives are wonderful), I'm rather impressed with myself. Of course, the location of them covers up a lot of mistakes...but I think I need to stop taking pictures. Every time I do I see something I can't see with my naked eye. Thankfully my perfectionist tendencies don't tend that way - otherwise, I would be nick-picking at this dollhouse for the rest of my life!
The side window...
The front window...don't worry, I do have trim work to do.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Pride and Prejudice Reborn
Okay, I'm guilty of watching Pride and Prejudice say, I don't know...more times than I can count on two hands. And we're talking the five-hour version. Colin Firth, Jennifer Ehle...I've seen the other versions, too, but if you're going to watch Pride and Prejudice then you may as well spend five hours doing it. After all, the longer you can watch Mr. Darcy the better, right? Right.
I've read Pride and Prejudice a half dozen times as well. Which, actually, takes less time than watching it for five hours - go figure that. But for the most part I've stayed away from the hundreds of sequels, revamps, modernizations and just plain ridiculousness. I've read some mysteries not based on Pride and Prejudice but on Jane Austen herself, and while they were entertaining, I didn't leap for joy. One modern twist I read didn't at all impress me. But several months ago I saw a mystery based on Pride and Prejudice that looked like it could be worthwhile. So, I checked it out at the library. Let's just say it's taken me longer than five hours to get through it...
I'm not at all impressed. Every character in the book is flat. I think I'm suppose to sympathize with Wickham, but he's too much a rascal to ever conjure up sympathy. I detest Colonel Fitzwilliam who I have always admired from the books. I didn't get any of the motives the author did from the original. Only Jane and Bingley remotely resemble the characters Jane Austen created. Of course, this is all in my personal opinion. But maybe it's the whole mystery genre. If I tried Darcy as a werewolf or Elizabeth as a zombie maybe I'd come out better. And if that doesn't work, there's hundreds of erotic versions...and I might even track down one in sci-fi: Pride and Prejudice: The Next Generation.
The truth is, I was burned on Pride and Prejudice remakes with movies before I ever picked up a book. The Indian musical version was interesting but different enough that I didn't mount a public protest. The one I hated was Lost in Austen. I'm sorry, but Darcy is supposed to marry Elizabeth. If he doesn't, everything is wrong and it's time to go into deep mourning. I almost did.
I was telling a friend all this whose response was, "Well, you should write a sequel." Not happening. For I have come to a final conclusion on the subject: Pride and Prejudice is a classic. A masterpiece. And it should be left alone.
I've read Pride and Prejudice a half dozen times as well. Which, actually, takes less time than watching it for five hours - go figure that. But for the most part I've stayed away from the hundreds of sequels, revamps, modernizations and just plain ridiculousness. I've read some mysteries not based on Pride and Prejudice but on Jane Austen herself, and while they were entertaining, I didn't leap for joy. One modern twist I read didn't at all impress me. But several months ago I saw a mystery based on Pride and Prejudice that looked like it could be worthwhile. So, I checked it out at the library. Let's just say it's taken me longer than five hours to get through it...
I'm not at all impressed. Every character in the book is flat. I think I'm suppose to sympathize with Wickham, but he's too much a rascal to ever conjure up sympathy. I detest Colonel Fitzwilliam who I have always admired from the books. I didn't get any of the motives the author did from the original. Only Jane and Bingley remotely resemble the characters Jane Austen created. Of course, this is all in my personal opinion. But maybe it's the whole mystery genre. If I tried Darcy as a werewolf or Elizabeth as a zombie maybe I'd come out better. And if that doesn't work, there's hundreds of erotic versions...and I might even track down one in sci-fi: Pride and Prejudice: The Next Generation.
The truth is, I was burned on Pride and Prejudice remakes with movies before I ever picked up a book. The Indian musical version was interesting but different enough that I didn't mount a public protest. The one I hated was Lost in Austen. I'm sorry, but Darcy is supposed to marry Elizabeth. If he doesn't, everything is wrong and it's time to go into deep mourning. I almost did.
I was telling a friend all this whose response was, "Well, you should write a sequel." Not happening. For I have come to a final conclusion on the subject: Pride and Prejudice is a classic. A masterpiece. And it should be left alone.
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