Here I go Again by Jen Lancaster

Sometimes karma can be a real bitch -- especially when you're a total bitch to those around you when you're in high school. Lissy Ryder was the queen of everything back then, and now she's riding (if you can ride a downward slide) on the results. She's lost pretty much everything she wanted (I can't say cared about, because all she cared about was herself). Instead of being the darling of her high school reunion she's the demon. Life isn't pretty.

Think about it. They say, "paybacks are hell." But what if you could go back and undo your wrongs, to avoid the damage you've done others, and restore the world to some sort of better place? Remember though, valuable lessons taught by Buddha and Marty McFly. You can't change the past without changing the future; all those butterfly wings, pond ripples, and missed first kisses. Lissy learns the hard way, and at 37, actually begins to grow up.

I picked this up after seeing reviews on Goodreads, librarything, and The BookReporter. The reviews were basically right. It's kinda fun when chic lit makes you think and makes you laugh as well.

Shocked: My Mother, Schiaparelli, and Me by Patricia Volk

It is my habit to listen to NPR and it was on one of the shows that I heard an <a href="http://www.npr.org/2013/06/10/189222503/in-shocked-patricia-volk-honors-two-formative-femmes">interview with Patricia Volk</a> about her book, <i>Shocked</i>.

I'm woefully ignorant about the world of high fashion, so the name Schiaparelli did not immediately strike cords with me. Yet as I read, I realized that her influence even peaked into that small home in a middle class, mostly Jewish neighborhood, where I grew up. But the interview was so alive, fascinating, that I immediately headed to the library to request the next available copy of the book. Luckily for me, the wait was just two days.

This was a voyage into a completely different world than my own. Though I grew up surrounded by strong, beautiful, fascinating, forthright women, they were nothing at all like either designer/artist Elsa Schiaparelli or Audry Volk, the author’s mother. It was a glimpse not behind the curtain, but more of one from backstage to the spotlight itself, to see how women of fashion and a prestige my family never experienced lived.

The juxtaposition of the the life of these two women, and how they helped shape Volk, not so much by example, but by helping her to build her mind and ideals into a life she, herself, wished to live, is fascinating. Richly illustrated with photographs and fancy from the world of both women, dotted with dashes of the famous, the memoir reveals lives rich in conviction, passion, flare, and some flamboyance. I loved that each chapter began with a quote from each woman, and then unrolled with Volk's take on a subject or situation. And Volk also reiterates the theme of how a single book can change a life. I would add my own belief, that it is the books you read, and the people you meet, who help shape the person you become. While this book will not change who I am, it certainly has expanded my knowledge and filled in some interesting bits of information. I'm glad I read it.

Addendum:
Some takeaway bits that particularly delighted me:
Schiap (the name she preferred over her given one) regularly scheduled dinner engagements with just herself, and then ate dinner, alone, in her library.

A quote from Bruno Bettelheim: "Books lie in wake for our readiness."

A quote from Patricia Volk: "No book is the same twice."

I was ready for this book. Now I wonder what I'd think on a re-read.

Hydrangeas

I tell time by the hydrangea bushes in my back yard. As the leaves green with awakening of spring, I carefully check for the first hint of buds. The days grow longer, lighter; I watch those buds flesh out, puckering into what will become individual blooms in a ball of purple, blue, and white. And I know that when those flower bloom in fullness, it will be June. June: the month I think of as Bumma's Bounty which marks not the anniversary of a passing, but for me celebrates the memory of a special soul.

Other years I've written a lot about how I've marked the month. This year is different. I am remembering her in deed, action, and donation but it's all much more low key. We've put this home on the market and soon hope to move back downtown, where we can be more directly in the city we love, rather than out here on the island. This is a beautiful home, but it was built for many more people, and the two of us rattle around in it, using only one floor except when we are graced with overnight guests.

It's odd having people traipse through the house, considering if they want to buy it. I definitely feel a difference in the vibrations or energy after viewings. There are pictures of our sanctuary on line in the listing, and I know that somewhere, someone is pouring over them the way I pour over online listings for places downtown. I feel a little vulnerable, as if I am living in a fishbowl.

Leaving here is really an ending to the nuclear family we started back in the 80's when bumma moved in with us just before her first grandson was born. We were three generations tucked into a house downtown, and we thrived there. Circumstances changed, and we built this haven on the lake. It was a place of healing for me. It was the place our son launched from the nest. It the family home for brothers, cousins, and other assorted relations. It was my mother's last home on this earth. Those are all tough things to leave. But I've learned that if there is one thing my love and I are good at, it's building a home filled with love.

I've also learned, since that rotten year of 2009, a year that started in hope and ended in stunned recovery, that it is true: memories find their home in the heart, and thus are easily portable. When I forget something small, like where my keys are, or turning off the water after filling the tea kettle, I feel the first panics that this may be a sign of a failing mind. My panic has two branches: the possibility of becoming a burden to those I love the most, and the thought that all those memories of loved ones lost will be really lost for good.

But for now, I tell time by the hydrangeas. They remind me of my mother. Hydrangeas and rosemary (for remembrance) from our garden went with her as the ambulance took her to the hospice. Some of the blossoms and some roses dried from my father's funeral, were cremated with her. The final few, which resided with her ashes (now scattered) are in the care of a dear friend, who will be my surrogate and take them to my father's grave, bringing it all full circle-- just like the circle that is closing with our time here on the island.

I don't think I'll see another springtime in this home by the lake, tucked away on a sea island off the coast of Charleston. But maybe, just maybe, wherever we move, we can plant some hydrangeas. When they bloom, I'll know it's June. I'll feel my mother's embrace.

Earlier posts from previous years of Bumma's Bounty
here and here, though there may be some overlap.

Serena, by Ron Rash

If you're wanting warm fuzzies, inspiring female role models*, altruism, or characters you'll hold in your heart, this is not the book for you. But if you want a well written novel about the early days of the depression, logging in North Carolina, development of the US National Park System, and one of the most ruthless women you'll meet in literature, pick Serena up.

This book takes place near our cabin, just over the NC state line, which is one of the reasons I like to read Ron Rash -- he sets many of his works in my stomping grounds. I've hiked and camped in these hills, and treasure the beauty of the land. It amazes me whenever I realize how much of this breathtaking landscape was brutalized by the forces of man. In Serena the reader is given a back seat into the logging industry, circa 1929, and a glimpse into the lives of the George and Serena Pemberton, and their partners in a large logging company. George Pemberton had the misfortune to not follow the advice my mother-in-law gave her teenage sons (the bit about having a good time, but "keep your pecker in your pants") and before his marriage to Serena impregnated a local girl. As the Pembertons narrow their focus on their plans for the company ("narrow their focus" being a euphemism for killing off their partners and competition), the Missus shifts her focus to the problem of to her husband's bastard, and the plot thickens.

Beautiful, clever, passionate, ruthless -- that's Serena. And this book plays out the suspense of the rape of the land, and the single-minded quest for power of one intense, memorable woman.

*unless you want to be the next Lucrezia Borgia or
Cruella de Vil.

Abraham Lincoln : Vampire Hunter, by Seth Grahame-Smith

If Lincoln didn't keep a set of secret diaries, he should have. Brilliant minds like that should have many outlets. Loved the mix of fact and fancy, though there were a couple of historical documents I wish I had the oomph to look up to see how they actually read.

Best thing I liked about this vampire story? The hot and sexy card isn't played.

As the story moved into the later years of Lincoln's life, I was struck again by how much tragedy he endured personally, beyond the near shattering of the country. It's no wonder his shoulders sagged and his face grew more haggard before his encounter with John Wilkes Booth.

Plot is described elsewhere, but if you're into history, alternate history, and fantasy, maybe give this one a whirl. Some people are too interesting to die, it seems, and Lincoln lives on in this book and the film of the same title.

(Rating is more of a 3.5 out of 5, but I rounded up to a 4 because of exceptional cover art.)

The Summer of Dead Toys, by Antonio Hill (Publish release date June 19, 2013)

Barcelona is climatically on the other end of the spectrum from the settings of the Nordic Noir I've been reading, but Antonio Hill packed a similar wallop of characters, mystery, into the pages of The Summer of Dead Toys, plus added the promise of a new series/Inspector to check out.

Hector Salgado, an Argentinian, now a inspector in Barcelona but now on probation after an episode violence in one of his cases, is asked to unofficially look into the apparently accidental death of a well-to-do young man. But Salgado discovers the case not to be as clear-cut as assumed. His journey to discovery takes him through some of the shadier parts of Barcelona life, the areas tourists will probably never see. The story unfolds with craft, skill, and intelligence. The descriptions of Barcelona painted the city in my mind's eye. The book kept me interested, with two main threads of action, realistic characters, and enough tension to make me nibble a fingernail or two. And, for those who like a little noir/darkness in their reading, there's enough of that seamy underbelly exposed to satisfy.

For me, the book is a clue in itself, that this is a series to keep in mind for future reading. There are enough interesting interactions between characters that will probably be recurring, enough realism, enough trueness in the relationships. Salgado, himself, seems to be that intelligent, flawed central character, the kind of which I like to follow in stories. The book, itself, is translated, but interestingly enough, the author is the actual translator, as that's what he does when he's not writing mystery/detective novels. While there is a little roughness in the telling of the tale, I think that will smooth out with time and more writing.

Many thanks to Read It Forward for forwarding this on to me. I will pass it along, now, knowing I'm passing on a good book.

Here Comes Mrs. Kugelman by Minka Pradelski (Release date July 9)

I'm a big believer in the the value of stories. I treasure the ones I learned from elders in my family, true or not. For the thing about stories is that the truth can slip as time and memory blur the edges of a tale. But a gifted storyteller is a treasure for the ability to craft images, characters, and situations for their audience.

In this novel, the storyteller is Mrs. Kugelman. She enters the world of the narrator, a young woman named Tsippy Silberberg, in a rather haphazard way. Tsippy, who has some rather peculiar quirks of her own with her eating habits, is in Tel Aviv to pick up an inheritance left to her by her father's sister. Bella Kugelman enters Tsippy's life with a knock on the door, and a story to tell. Through her words, the inhabitants of Bedzin, a small, predominantly Jewish, Polish village on the border with Germany, come to life again. She tells of day to day life, before the war, before the invasion, before the Holocaust. It's a time when children played pranks in school (or were even still in school, since those were closed almost immediately when things got bad), when people went to the rebbe for blessings before new ventures, when families sent their cholent to the baker on Friday, so it could cook in the oven all day on the Sabbath, and they would not be working to do so. Mrs K's tales take the reader right up through the start of the end of a way of life, painting a vivid picture of what was lost, both in lives and lifestyle.

The stories charmed me, especially since some of my own family probably lived a similar life. The bits in between didn't carry the same type of interest for me, and oddly enough, either did the two main characters.  The subplot of the relationship of Mrs Kugelman's stories to Tsippy's own life was a nice touch, but lacked the clarity of the mini-plots about the villagers of Bedzin. Indeed, just as kugel is often a side dish to a holiday table, Mrs Kugelman was more of a side character to the people she talked about.

I'm told the author is both a sociologist and documentary filmmaker and that her own parents were Holocaust survivors. Her interest in these survivors, their families, and the impact of horrors that occurred in that awful time, helped round this book out in a realistic way. This is her first novel. I look forward to reading more of her works in the future.

Thank you to LibraryThing Early Reviewers and to the publisher for sending me this copy of the book.