Reading List for 2013

It's two hours away from 2013 here in Alabama, but I thought now would be a good time to go ahead and start laying down my reading list for the new year. My goal is to read at least 52 books in the new year. I've also decided that this will be the year I read all of Charles Dickens' works. I've already read Hard Times and Bleak House in 2012, so those I'll omit from my list for 2013. I've read some of the books on my list in previous years, but a large percentage are new reads for me.

My list so far...not in any particular reading order:

• The Bronte Myth by Lucasta Miller (Nonfiction read recommended by professor Jenn Lewin)
• The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins
• David Copperfield by Charles Dickens 
• Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood (recommended by author Susan Mccallum Smith)
• City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare (YA)
• City of Glass by Cassandra Clare (YA)
• City of Fallen Angels by Cassandra Clare (YA)
• City of Lost Souls by Cassandra Clare (YA)
• Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare (YA)
• Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare (YA)
• The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry (recommended by author Susan Mccallum Smith)
• Me Funny by Drew Hayden Taylor (essays)
• The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy
• Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
• Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens
• Sojourner Truth: A Life, A Symbol by Nell Irvin Painter
• Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
• A Jane Austen Education by William Deresiewicz (Nonfiction read recommended by professor Jenn Lewin)
• The Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell
• Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
• Lady Susan by Jane Austen
• The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi (YA)
• Jane Austen by Carol Shields (biography)
• The Running Sky by Tim Dee
• The Dark Angel by Meredith Ann Pierce
• The Chickasaws by Arrell M. Gibson
• Kingbird Highway by Kenn Kaufman
• The Oxford Book of Irish Short Stories edited by William Trevor
• The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
• The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark
• What the Robin Knows by Jon Young
• Bird Sense: What It's Like to be a Bird by Tim Birkhead
• A Dangerous Mourning by Anne Perry
• Defend and Betray by Anne Perry
• Moonstone by Wilkie Collins
• Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis
• In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
• The Odyssey by Home
• The Iliad by Homer
• The Aeneid by Virgil
• Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell (YA)

...more to come.

Revisiting childhood reads

I've been thinking about books that I enjoyed reading in my early teenage years. I've decided to go back and read those books again (as a mother in my thirties), and see if I enjoy them as much now as I did then. Also, I wanted to note any subtleties that I most likely missed back then.

Today, I reread Gary Paulsen's The Night the White Deer Died, a YA novel published in 1978. I read it in 1994 (as a thirteen-year-old). Here is a synopsis on the back of the Random House edition:

    An Indian brave stands poised to shoot a white deer drinking from a pool of water in the moonlight. It is only a dream--a recurring nightmare that haunts fifteen-year-old Janet Carson--but it is a dream that will change her life forever.
    
    Janet, one of the few Anglo teens in the New Mexico art colony where she lives with her mother, feels isolated and alone. For some reason, she is drawn to Billy Honcho, an old, alcoholic Indian who begs for money from her. As they get to know each other, the meaning of Janet's nightmare grows clear, and Billy becomes the brave in her dream.

When I read this novel as a kid, I don't remember being repelled by the fact that a fifteen-year-old girl ends up falling in love (with the idea of) a fifty-something year old man. It doesn't so much repel me now as it shocks me that it didn't repel me back then. I suppose the main idea of the novel is accepting that which seems unacceptable, but I can see how it could come across as borderline pedophilic...even though Billy, the older man in the novel, never physically touches Janet, it seems odd that Janet's mother allows her to be courted by a man of that age (and an alcoholic). I'm not sure how the modern publishing world would view this book, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't make it on the shelves in 2012.

I haven't read any of Paulsen's other YA books, but I plan to in the future. He has won the Newberry Honor Medal for three of his books, among other honors.

Next up on my list of YA books from my teenage years are two of Scott O'Dell's books: Sing Down the Moon and Island of the Blue Dolphins, Avi's The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, and I'm still working my way through Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden.

Hard Times

**UPDATE**
I finished this book a little before Christmas, and I loved it. Something that stood out to me in the novel is that it doesn't take place in London. In fact, there aren't any scenes in London, which I found surprising. Perhaps Dickens wanted some space from the city after writing Bleak House. I was disappointed with the death of one character, who I won't name, and I really wish his fate had been different, but someone had to die, I suppose. While it had elements of humor, the tone of Hard Times was much darker than Bleak House (in my opinion), and the ending was bittersweet, rather than happy. I'll be moving on to Oliver Twist next....

This week I'm reading one of Charles Dickens' classic novels, Hard Times, which was written after Bleak House (one of summer reads for Sewanee SOL). I'm not too far into the novel, but I've already discovered some glorious lines that only Dickens could pull off.

"He [Mr. Bounderby] had not much hair. One might have fancied that he had talked it off, and that what was left, all standing up in disorder, was in that condition from being constantly blown about by his windy boastfulness." (p.38, Hard Times, Bantam Books, 1981)

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

When I was a young girl, my grandmother used to read fairy tales to me--not the Disney versions of Cinderella, Snow White, and The Little Mermaid, but the real deal--those tales by the Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Anderson.

The only childrens' book I remember my grandmother having other than those fairy tale books, was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. She later bought the movie adaptation of the book, and I used to watch it when I visited and it was too cold or rainy to be outside. I read the book as a young person, but I recently decided to revisit the book. All of the mystery and fascination that it brought me as a child was still there when I read it as a 31 year old mother of two. It's a beautiful story that I hope to share with my kids in the near future (before they see the movie version).

Read The Secret Garden for free on Project Gutenburg's site.

Blue Christmas

Christmas is less than two weeks away, and while I've been doing the typical holiday things--shopping, decorating, eating too many sweets--I have to admit that this holiday season is a bit of a bummer for me and my family. My Grandfather, who was 85 years old, passed away on Thanksgiving Day, and the holidays just won't be the same without him--this year or ever. 

I got the call around 11 pm the night before Thanksgiving. Granddaddy was in the hospital and was going to have a major surgery. I arrived at the hospital a little after midnight and stayed for the next 12 hours, waiting for news. It was bad when it came. Surgery would be performed, but there was a big chance that it wouldn't be successful. It wasn't. Granddaddy died at 4:07 pm that same day. My Grandmother, and the rest of the family, was heart broken. Grandmother and Granddaddy had been married for 62 years, but it wasn't long enough. I'm thankful for the time that I had with my Grandfather. He was a great man, and a splendid gardener. I'll never be the gardener he was, but I hope to carry on the tradition of growing things that was his legacy. Love you, Granddaddy!  

Learn with Oxford University Free Podcasts

As much as I would love to, attending Oxford University isn't (and never has been) a realistic desire. But I've found the second best thing: free online lectures from Oxford U. on a variety of subjects (especially literature).

Here's a link to the main lecture series page, so enjoy!

Southern Stew: A Childhood Memory

Chicken stew was a common meal at my grandparent’s house, as was goat stew, and on occasion, rabbit stew. When I say stew, I really mean a thick version of soup. Grandmother would boil a whole chicken, pull the meat from the bones, and mixed it with canned crushed tomatoes that had been put up earlier in the year, onions, corn, potatoes, and season it with salt and pepper. The goat and rabbit stew was made the same way, the only difference being the meat used.

In general, I liked chicken stew, though I would pick out a bone occasionally, which would make me squeamish for a few seconds. My fear was that I would swallow a tiny bone and choke to death on it. There was nothing like chicken stew and saltine crackers to chase away the chill of winter, though.

I was less keen on goat stew. My grandfather would call someone he knew who raised goats, and together they would slaughter the goat for the stew, before my granddad would bring the meat home. The goat meat was dark and tougher than chicken, and it didn’t taste as good to me. On one occasion I found what I thought was a goat hair in my bowl. After that, I avoided eating the stew. I could deal with the fact that I was eating the meat of a young goat, but I couldn’t deal with that goat’s hair ending up in my mouth.

For a short time, my grandfather kept rabbits for eating. I don’t have any memories of him slaughtering the rabbits, but I remember eating rabbit stew. The rabbits he kept looked like pet rabbits, and were kept in cages in the barn. There were few animals that I didn’t love, so I was naturally drawn to the barn to spend time with the rabbits. My grandmother warned me to keep my fingers away from their cages. They would bite me if they got the chance, she told me on several occasions. Why would cute fluffy rabbits bite me when I loved them so much? I just wanted to stroke their smooth, soft coats. I was just gaining confidence when one of the red-eyed demons bit my index finger, drawing blood. Jerking my hand back, I looked for something to wrap around my injured finger to staunch the blood flow before my grandmother came back to check on me. Glancing around, I saw a crate of old glass soda bottles, a few of which were broken. I had found material for the lie fabrication that I was forced to make. Grandmother would probably spank me if she knew I had disobeyed her, so I would tell her I had cut my finger on one of the soda bottles. Surely the cut would’ve looked similar. There was no reason for her not to believe me, at least that’s what I told myself. I had learned my lesson anyway, so there was no need for me to be spanked over it. I kept my distance from the rabbits in the future. They looked all soft and fluffy, but now I knew what they were capable of. I just hoped that I didn’t have rabies. That seemed to be the general fear about being bitten by anything that wasn’t a pet. 

Granddaddy’s rabbits were for eating, so I figured I was probably safe. Being bitten by one made me less remorseful about eating rabbit stew. Not that I blame the rabbit for biting me now. I would’ve bitten me too. People automatically assume that animals have no sense of their doom, but maybe those rabbits knew more than we gave them credit for.