Epitaph for a Peach: Four Seasons on My Family Farm by David M. Masumoto

Brilliant.

So much comes down to choosing this path or that, and the selection we make disturbs or gratifies people whose decisions are already made because they would have us tamp down the dirt behind them, because they don't want to be swallowed up.
~~Prescription for a Superior Existence by Josh Emmons

Prescription for a Superior Existence is a sci-fi type novel about a gluttonous, addictive, power hungry man named Jack Smith who gets abducted by and sucked into a cult like group named PASE, or Prescription for A Superior Existence. I don't have much to say about the book, but the above quote, found on the last page of the novel, gave me much to think about. Why is it that the choices the people in our lives make, even the ones that do not effect us in the slightest, have such weight on our psyches? Really, why should it matter what school my neighbor chooses for her child or if my friend from the gym chooses Mac or PC? Do we care because we want our own decisions to be validated or are we that self-involved to think that we should have influence over the decisions made by those around us?

From bookmobiles on camels to bookmobiles at Buckingham Palace, it's amazing the places books can take you. My latest suggestion is a lovely little book called An Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett. This novella is the story of what happens when a British queen (never identified) stumbles upon a bookmobile on the grounds of her palace whilst walking her corgi dogs. She happens inside, meets a kitchen page who is an avid reader of novels by gay authors and has her entire world turned upside down. Really, this is a delightful book about the transformative power of the written word, both as it is read and as it is written. Funny, in a BBC drama sort of way, I highly recommend this book.

Funny how everything is connected, isn't it? I posted yesterday about Anne Rice and her vampire novels and, more recently, her historical fiction works about the life of Jesus the Christ. In the USA TODAY magazine that comes with my sunday paper, there was a little blurb about Rice in the "Who's News" section. It was posed as a sort of "Where are they now?" piece. Rice's vampire novels were discussed briefly, then her conversion to Christianity was mentioned and here is what Rice had to say about her conversion from atheist to Christ follower and it's impact on her literary work: "My present focus has to be on my novels about the life of Jesus Christ, and I do not want to revisit the realm of my earlier books". I just thought it was funny to blog about something a bit out of the current trend and then to have the same subject show up in mainstream media the next day. Fun!

When I was in high school, I loved Anne Rice's novels. All the gothic vampires and thinly veiled erotica was so much out of my everyday existence that I felt so dangerous, so exotic reading her words. I read as many of the books as I could find in the Cambrian branch of the San Jose Public Library and then forgot about them. Fast forward twenty-ish years and I find new Anne Rice novels on the shelves of the library, this time the Willow Glen branch (I moved). Imagine my surprise when I started reading the first one, Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, and found that Rice had chosen to follow Jesus and was now dedicating this stage of her writing career to researching and writing historical fiction about Jesus the Christ. Huh. I read "Out of Egypt" which followed Jesus as a young child, leaving his Egyptian refuge and moving back to Nazareth. Not a bad piece of fiction, engaging and made me think for a bit about the humanness of Jesus of Nazareth. I'm pretty comfortable with the whole fully God thing, but the fully man part is something we don't cover so much in the Bible. I've always wondered what Jesus was like as a person. Who the funniest disciple was and if Mary every lost her temper with him when he reached that sassy 5 year old stage. The second book, Christ the Lord: Road to Cana, finds Jesus as an adult man who is under immense pressure from his family and village to get married. It's unseemly for a man his age to remain single. The narrative follows Jesus to the Jordan River, where he is baptized by his cousin John, into the wilderness for an amazing take on what the times of temptation could have looked like and finally, onto Cana where he performs his first miracle and thus begins his public ministry. Again, I say this is an interesting piece of fiction and is worth the read, no matter your stand on Jesus as Son of God, because Rice makes Jesus the main character, pretty darn interesting.

I've done it. I've found the missing link, the holy grail, area 51. I have found a book by Chris Bohjolian that has a male protagonist! Over and over in book club and in conversations with reading friends, we marvel over how Bohjolian writes so seamlessly in the female voice and how, very rarely, uses characters masculine as his protagonists. Enter The Law of Similars and it's main voice, Leland. Granted, Leland is a single dad, a prosecutor for the state attorney's office in Vermont (suprise! another novel set in Vermont!) who wears suspenders that button onto his slacks, but still it's a male voice!

This book is another alternative medicine vs. western medicine story that Bohjolian seems to be drawn to, this time focusing on homeopathy. There are accidents and questionable behaviors. There are secrets and sex. There are copious descriptions of small town Vermont. It's not a bad read. I would certainly recommend it.

The Girl With No Shadow by Joanne Harris is the sequel to her novel, Chocolat, which was a lovely tale of fear, love, identity and chocolate. The movie version also starred the delicious Johnny Depp. Chocolate and Johnny Depp, a lovely combination. The sequel was a good story too. Harris continues on with the theme of identity, delving into the world of identity theft, while weaving in still more love and more chocolate. Unlike the first novel, in which the magic is largely divined through chocolate, in this story it is much more out in the open with spells cast and secret symbols drawn. Harris introduces Aztec and Mayan mythology, both of which have strong ties to chocolate, to her domestic magic. Clever. Worth a read if you enjoyed the first novel.

My favorite dialogue from The Camel Bookmobile by Masha Hamilton is this speech by Mr. Abasi, a Kenyan librarian who is charged with helping an American librarian, Fi Sweeny, administrate the camel bookmobile project. This is Abasi's response to the project:

"The facts you have in front of you --- the number of patrons reached, the titles of the most popular books, the cost per patron--- do very little to reflect the human costs of bringing a library on the backs of camels to people like this. These people live hard lives by ancient values, and they're proud of htat. They've developed a philosophy to deal with drought and death. When we arrive from the outside and insist that they learn to read --- books that, as it turns out, are mostly about very different places and concerns --- we confuse them. Possibly even undermine them. I think Miss Sweeny will tell you that their young are as sharp as any. And their elders may be wiser. Compared with them, after all, we of the settled, literate society have a kind of inflexibility. So your project raises question. Do they want to be part of what you call the 'larger world'? And whom should be teaching whom?" (Hamilton, 294-95)

I've been thinking a lot about arrogance these days. I wonder if we've become so arrrogant that we've lost the ability to honor and learn from other cultures, even those we perceive as backward or behind, for fear of falling behind ourselves. Whom should be teaching whom? I suppose the answer is everyone.

This week's speed read selection is Moose: A Memoir of Fat Camp by Stephanie Klein. In this effort, Klein chronicles her experience as an overweight child and teenager. Klein is brutally frank about the way her family, friends and peers treat her. It was a heartbreaking book to read and made me think twice about how quick I am to judge those whose appearance is counter to what I consider healthy or beautiful or appropriate. This book is a quick read that will not be quick to leave your memory.

I have always enjoyed lace. The Gunne Sax dresses that were popular when I was in jr. high always had more lace trim than was probably tasteful around the cuffs and necklines and bodices and that made me love them all the more. My dream wedding gowns, whose pictures I cut out of bridal magazines and pasted into "When I Get Married" scrapbooks inevitably had full skirts made entirely of lace. I loved ballet costumes and christening gowns, purely on lace value alone. The only major problem I have with lace is that I am a complete klutz and no matter how careful I am, I will step on a hem or put my finger through some trim and put a hole right through the most fragile part of the fabric. Drats. Then what usually happens is that the lace slowly starts to fray. First, the threads are slow in loosening and coming out of their carefully constructed patterns, but they pick up speed and soon I am left with a partial design surrounded by jagged edges and loose threads. What started out as something beautiful or interesting becomes a big old mess.

That is sort of how I felt about the book The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry. It's the story of Towner Whitney and her family of Salem women who can read the future in the patterns in lace. This story is filled with twists and turns as complicated as the lace that serves as its motif. It has family secrets, romance, violence, witchcraft, religious zealots, mental illness and a garden. The whole time reading it I kept thinking "Oh, I'm sure this event will lead to something. I should remember it." By the end of the novel, I had all these threads I was hanging onto, trying to weave them all into a picture or pattern. The problem I found was that many of the threads had no place in the finished product and left me with a tangley mess. It was a nice effort and I could see where Barry wanted to go with it, but I think that maybe, like the Gunne Sax dresses of my youth, she put on a little too much trim.

It seems as if I have hit a dry spell, folks. I wander up and down the aisles of the library and nothing jumps off the shelf at me, begging to be read. I found out this week that one of my favorite independent bookstores is closing in June. The idea of spending money at a big box bookstore makes me feel more than a little sad. What's going on? How can I not have anything to read?

My Latest Checkout List from the Library

No real thoughts on any of these. None of them were amazing and none of the stunk. I may change my mind later, after letting them sit for a while. If that changes, I'll be sure to let you know. Any one of these books is worth reading:

1. The James Boys: A Novel Account of Four Desperate Brothers by Richard Liebmann-Smith
2. Rosewater and Soda Bread: A Novel by Marsha Mehran
3. Lord, Save Us From Your Followers: Why is the Gospel of Love Dividing America? by Dan Merchant
4. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrow


If I had to choose one to suggest, I would say that The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society would have to be my pick. It's a novel in the form of letters set in Post World War II England. A sweet novel for certain. This book made me a bit wistful for the days of real written correspondence. I am not so sure I dig the whole e-mail, texting, Facebook status thing, even though I am an active participant. A nicely worded note still holds a lot of weight with me. Back to the library tomorrow. I am seriously jonesing for some good reads.

Lita gets the thanks for this one and a hearty, vodka soaked thanks at that! On the decidedly utilitarian, often unshaded playground of our elementary school, Lita handed me "Mother On Fire: A True Motherf%#$@ Story About Parenting" and am I ever glad she did. Sandra Tsing Loh, author and performance artist (as well as NPR commentator) wrote this book as a shout against the insanity of her own search for a school for the elder of her two daughters. She calls this "the year I exploded into flames." This book is hysterical and convicting without being preachy or elitist. I was worried about reading this book, as every time I read a book about parenting, I inevitably feel guilty that I am not doing enough or have done something wrong or just don't care enough. Parenting books usually suck if you have a low self-esteem to start with. I'm sure there are some of you who love them. If you are that person, we probably should not hang out. Sandra Tsing Loh, however, is invited.

I often have guilt,especially in the circles I tend to unintentionally end up in, because my children attend public school. The guilt is self-induced I am sure, but the "pity eyebrows" (oh you know the ones, where the well meaning parochial school mother raises her eyebrows and wrinkles her nose in an "Oh dear, it's so nice that your son goes to the local high school. Do they give him his own 'will work for food' sign with his diploma?") certainly don't help. It gets on my nerves from time to time. I love my public schools. No, they aren't as shiny as some of the private schools. No, our football field isn't maintained by an army of NFL retirees who just want to give back. No, we don't have field trips to the Great Wall of China or Science Camp on the Space Station. But what I do have is a great school filled with great people and great teachers who love children. I have a school where my kids can be a part of their local community and of their world, learning that making a difference doesn't mean having the most money to throw at what ever needs fixing. I have a community of parents who love their children, just like I do, and want what every caring parent wants: for their children, and for everyone else's, to grow up healthy, safe and happy. All kids deserve that.

I really like kaleidoscopes. I love the "oh" moment when I am looking through the viewer and the combination of color and light and pattern are just right and my heart is filled with a tiny jump of joy. Then, inevitably, my hand shakes and then colors are mixed up again and I know that I will never have that same moment ever again. Sometimes I pick up a cheaply made kaleidoscope and take a peak through the viewer and find that the colors are muddy. Whether this is because the colored pebbles are too dark, not enough light is able to enter the chamber or the quality of the mirrors inside are poor, it doesn't really matter. What matters is that what I see isn't that great to look at. Every once in a while, though, even with the poorest of kaleidoscopes, I get an "oh" moment.

That's how I felt while reading "The Maytree's" by Annie Dillard. I felt as though there were so many words, so densely packed onto each page, that no light could shine through. The plot and character development felt thick and muddy. It was like looking through a poorly made kaleidoscope. That is not to say that I felt that "The Maytrees" was poorly crafted, quite the opposite in fact. It is obvious that Dillard spent a great deal of time and effort choosing each word she used in this novel. It is extraordinarily crafted. And every once in a while, I would catch a combination of words so lovely, so beautifully chosen, that I would have that "oh" moment that I do so love.

I have spent most of the day at Kaiser with my dad, going from appointment to appointment. As ever, I had a book with me, "The Maytrees" by Annie Dillard. Halfway through, this is what I think:

SO . . . MANY . . . WORDS . . .

Sounds a lot like yours truly. I'll let you know soon what I think of the book. It's not looking good folks.

Let’s just get it out of the way: I eat meat. I eat chicken, fish, pork, shellfish, buffalo, ostrich and even (gasp) red meat. I do not eat veal, but that’s neither here nor there. My family has strong vegetarian leanings going back many generations. My brother is an “omnivore who chooses not to eat meat” and I am married to a man who was raised on a dairy farm. I am not amused (and am often annoyed) by people who use their food consumption choices as a way of bullying others who may not make the same choices they do. Smug “we don’t eat (insert food choice)" comments make me want to eat whatever it is they don’t. Seriously, I have had enough of this self righteous food snobbery that grass fed, organic, free range, locally grown, soy based goop might spurt out of my eyes if I have one more raised eyebrow pointed in the direction of my grocery cart. Don’t get me wrong, I read labels and avoid high fructose corn syrup as much as possible. I buy the bulk of my produce from local farmers. I love food, but I don’t hold it up as an idol to be worshipped or as a weapon to be wielded.

All this leads up to a book I just finished: “My Year of Meats” by Ruth L. Ozeki. It was a summer reading option for my book club and I have to say that I really enjoyed it. It is the story of Jane, a Japanese-American documentarian who lands a job producing a Japanese television show for an American beef exporting business. During her year producing “My American Wife!”, she learns about the unpleasant side of the commercial beef industry. She also learns about life, love and understanding. A parallel story of an abused Japanese wife searching for self and safety weaves in and out of the main narrative, as do poems from Sei Shonagon’s “The Pillow Book”. Reading this book felt like I was watching an expertly edited film or gazing upon a piece of collage.

Yes, it’s pretty disturbing in parts. I skipped a whole scene toward the end. But all in all, it is a darn funny book. I loved it in the way I loved the movie “Lost in Translation”. It wasn’t completely Japanese in sensibility, but it wasn’t entirely American either. It was like a wonderfully tasty dish, something that is both American and Japanese at the same time. Like drinking a Coke and eating sushi at the same meal, “My Year of Meats” was two worlds meeting on the same dinner plate.

At our last book club meeting (Note: I dislike calling our times together "meetings", they are so much more than that, but at this writing, I have lack of a better word!) we decided that there would be four books on our summer reading list and that we should read as many or as few of them that we could and our first time back together would be spent talking about what we read. One of the books, The Master Butcher's Singing Club by Louise Erdrich, I had already read and the other two (My Year of Meats by Ruth Ozeki and The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein) were nowhere to be found in my quest for free or nearly free books. The only book I managed to get my hands on and read was The Distant Land of My Father by Bo Caldwell. Hooray for Bookmooch.com! I like to think that there was some divine providence involved with my acquisition of this book because it was exactly the book I needed to read at this moment in my life's journey.


To the young Anna Schoene, our narrator, life in Shanghai is indeed magical. There are servants, a luxurious villa, a beautiful mother and a young, handsome father. Unfortunately, her father is also a smuggler and speculator who loves his freewheeling life more than anything (or anyone) else. Despite warnings, Schoene's father refuses to leave Shanghai even after the Japanese invade, and his wife and child retreat to Los Angeles. Anna's dreams and ideals of her father fall with Shanghai and she leaves China forever, learning to live in a land different from her his.

As the adult daughter of an father who is growing older between blinks, this book grabbed my heart and poked it in tender places. I don't always know what to do or who to be with my dad anymore, especially since my mom died three years ago. Most days I feel like the roles have been exchanged and then there are days when I feel like I am still 10 years old, searching for his approval. It gets to be confusing and frustrating and maddening and sad, all at the same time. The worst part is that I know it only gets tougher from here on out.

The Distant Land of My Father wasn't so much about cultural identity, as I thought it would be, but more of an exploration of what it means to be a daughter. But that's just my take on it. I'd love to know what you thought.

My book club friends are going to laugh, if not heartily at least under their collective breath, but the book I picked up at Emily’s Used Books in Nisswa, Minnesota was “Trans-Sister Radio” by Chris Bohjolian. Our group enjoyed Bohjolian’s “The Double Bind” so much that we chose to read “Midwives”, making our discussion back to back Bohjolian. Then I was at the library and checked out his latest book “Skeletons at the Feast” which I wasn’t super fond of and thought that, perhaps, I was just Bohjo-ed out. But then, in the far reaches of northern Minnesota, I found a Bohjo book that I hadn’t yet read. I did what any traveling obsessive reader would do, I pulled it off the shelf and took it on the road with me.

“Trans-Sister Radio” is the story of Allison and Dana. Allison is a divorced elementary school teacher living in a small Vermont town with her daughter Carly, who is getting ready for her first year of college. Dana is a professor at the local university. Allison is a student in his class on literature and film. Allison and Dana become friends and eventually begin a romantic relationship, both falling in love more deeply than either of them had ever fallen before. What Allison doesn’t know is that Dana is in the final stages of gender re-assignment, preparing for the surgery that will change him from a genetic male into a physiological woman. Allison has to decide what to do with this new relationship, whether to stay with the person she has fallen in love with or to end it and avoid the controversy that inevitably will come with it.

Each chapter is told from the perspective of either Allison, Dana, Carly or Will, Allison’s ex-husband, allowing the reader to see this supremely complex issue, if the soul or spirit of a person has a specific gender, from multiple perspectives. Thanks again for reading with me. Next time, we’re going old school, really old school

I’m a glutton, pure and simple. I have this habit, which I am altogether sure I am not the only one who does, when I enjoy a book, I feel compelled to read as many books by the same author as I can stomach. Often it’s intentional and I actively seek out additional titles. Other times it is like the universe hands me the books, like tiny existential presents.

On our Great Northern America Road Trip (that’s what I am calling it these days), I have had instances of both. Since I was not able to pack a whole lot of books for the long drives across the Northern States, my plan was to stop in thrift stores and used bookstores along the way, in order to trade in the finished books and to pick up new ones. I started in Seattle with a book of short stories by Jane Smiley called "The Age of Grief". Smiley is the author of several books I have loved, "A Thousand Acres" and "Moo". If I believed in past lives and reincarnation, I would propose that Jane Smiley was a weaver or rug maker. Her narratives are beautifully rich and complicated, with many, many different characters and plot lines woven together to create a larger story, not unlike a rich tapestry. Her short stories are quite the opposite. The stories in "The Age of Grief" are clean and direct, yet beautifully crafted. There is not an extra word or detail in any of the stories, but they never feel spare or minimal. Each is exactly right. On an interesting note, the 2002 movie "The Secret Lives of Dentists" was based on the title story. I haven’t seen the film yet, but it is certainly going on my Netflix queue.

By the time I got to Montana, I was done reading "The Age of Grief" and was on the lookout for my next fix. In Miles City, while visiting my brother-in-law and his family, we found a thrift store run by the St. Vincent de Paul society. I stopped in and headed straight for the book section. The first book I picked up was "Horse Heaven" by (wait for it, wait for it) Jane Smiley. "Horse Heaven" is a novel about the world of Thoroughbred horse racing. As "The Age of Grief" was minimal, "Horse Heaven" is ornate. As much as I was engaged in the stories of horse trainers, breeders, jockeys, owners and those who simply love thoroughbred horses, I sometimes felt like I needed to be taking notes and keeping a log of who belonged to whom. Nevertheless, I enjoyed this book immensely and am looking forward to a day trip to Golden Gate Fields to place a little bet on the ponies. Thanks for reading with me.

Next time, what I picked up in Nisswa, Minnesota.

I'm on a long road trip at the moment. I didn't have a large margin of packing space, thus the amount of books I could bring along was hugely limited. The one book I did bring along was Born Standing Up by Steve Martin, an autobiography of sorts. He describes the book as the story of "why I did stand-up and why I walked away".



Martin is one of those performers that I have a secret crush on. I find him intelligent, hysterical, thoughtful and classically handsome. I loved the movies "The Jerk" and "LA Story", still laugh aloud at the "King Tut" skit from SNL and find his works of fiction to be brilliant. He writes this piece carefully and thoughfully, revealing his studies of philosophy and logic, yet maintaining his amazing sense of humor, making this an engaging read.

As I did not have any room to pack books, I am stopping at thrift stores and used bookshops along the way. I have two Jane Smiley books on deck: The Age of Grief and Horse Heaven. I'll let you know what I think as soon as I finish.