Category Archives: Books

Books, Fall, Flowers

Tapping on Autumn’s Shoulder

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In the Northern Hemisphere, we are one day away from the Autumnal Equinox—September 22. While I love this crisp time of year, I am always a little sorry to see a season end. (And, yes, I feel the same way about winter, too.) This summer, while too dry, was lovely nonetheless, with days that weren’t too hot or humid. At least most of the time. It actually felt like an old-fashioned Maine summer, the ones I remember from my childhood. So farewell, Summer! While I hope 2027 has more rain, I hope we have the same lovely temperatures.

Yesterday, I took some pictures of our yard and road to chronicle the changing season.

The coleuses are still thriving and will continue to do so until a hard frost nips them.

But I have stopped deadheading the flowers, and now that summer is coming to an end, they are free to be their rangy, spiky selves.

The begonias are doing well, too, and provide a welcome burst of color by the front door.

As for the gardens…well, we are heading toward late September, and as always, the plants are pretty much done blooming for the year. The picture below gives readers a pretty good idea of what the gardens look like. (Oh, the phlox was so beautiful this summer!) Readers can also see the progress on the house. The new siding is up, and the window frame is patched. Next comes the painting.

While the gardens are in decline, the trees, with just a tinge of color,  are beginning to gear up for their autumn glory. I went to the end of our driveway and took this picture of our road. Still a lot of green, but there is a slight blush of color.

And in our driveway, a little color, too, a preview of what will come when the leaves coat the driveway in a thick carpet. Then we turn to our trusty leaf blower—electric, of course—to help clear the driveway.

But that’s a couple of weeks away.

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Reading

I had planned to keep a monthly book log, but as I thought about my birthday challenge—70 books by 70—it seemed better to list them by the week. That way, I can go into them with a little depth without having readers’ eyes glaze over from too much information.

Book 1 of my 70 by 70 challenge

John of John by Douglas Stuart

Warning: Minor Spoilers

John-Calum (Cal) has graduated from art school, but unable to find a job, he couch-surfs at his friends’ homes and steals food from them when they are away. Therefore, when Cal’s difficult father, John, summons Cal home to Harris, an island in the Outer Hebrides, Cal only hesitates briefly. When John tells Cal that his grandmother is sick, this clinches the deal.

So home Cal goes, to his angry, sometimes abusive father, his beloved grandmother, Ella, and the tight religious community—Free Presbytarian—he left behind for the sinful big city.

Cal’s father is a lay preacher, sheep farmer, and weaver with a true feel for color and texture. He is also gay, a fact he hides from almost everyone, including his son. Cal is gay, too, and he also hides this from his father and most of the island community. This tension—a closeted father and son—drives the story, dialing up the emotional temperature of the book.

I became totally immersed in the world Stuart created—the austere beauty of the island as well as the family turmoil—and I read avidly late into the night to find out how the conflicts would play out.

But I do have two major criticisms.

First, religion is initially up front in John of John and of great importance. But as the story progresses, religion is pushed to the back burner to make way for Cal’s and John’s issues. The minister is never more than a one-dimensional figure, and while the church is featured from time to time and even causes a violent confrontation between Cal and John, it just doesn’t get the time it should in this story. After the chains-in-the-playground incident—put there to stop kids from playing on Sunday—I wanted much more about the Free Presbyterians, a group I had never heard of until I read this book.

Second, John is a violent, angry father who still beats his twenty-two-year-old son. Yet it felt as though the reader was supposed to root for John’s search for self-actualization in the book’s concluding chapters. While I had some sympathy for John and his conflicts, I found I couldn’t cheer him on as he tries to come to terms with his sexuality. Stuart made him too hard and too abusive. In short, John is a real canker.

But I was with Cal—sometimes selfish, sometimes good-hearted— all the way, even when he made bad choices. And it was this sympathy that kept me reading.

Books, Celebrate, Movies

Sixty-nine on the Fifteenth

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Tuesday, September 15, was my 69th birthday. Regular readers will know that our motto for birthdays and other special days is to celebrate early, celebrate often with simple pleasures. And that is exactly what we did for my birthday.

On Saturday, we went to Buen Apetito, one of our favorite restaurants in Waterville. We always start with margaritas, chips, and salsa before we move on to our meals. With its tasty food and lovely service, Buen Apetito is a pleasure for any occasion, special or not.

Yesterday, my actual birthday, was filled with many simple pleasures. Dee, Clif, and I took the day off, and Clif cooked us a delicious brunch.

After brunch, I went outside to take some pictures of the September garden.

In the afternoon, we—surprise, surprise!—went to a movie, The Uprising, starring, among others, Andrew Garfield. The Uprising is about the 1381 Peasants’ Revolt in England. Taxed beyond endurance and demoralized by the Bubonic Plague, Garfield, who plays Ploughman, helps lead the peasants to London to petition a very young and weaselly Richard II to relieve their burden. I will say no more about the plot except to note that Richard II gets what’s coming to him about twenty years later, when his cousin Henry Bolingbroke becomes Henry IV. (This is not featured in the movie, but as a Shakespeare fan, I am very familiar with “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”) Until a completely unbelievable, made-up ending, The Uprising is a good movie, stirring and brutal and more than a little applicable to modern times.

After the movie, we picked up pastries from Barnes & Noble and headed to our favorite place of all, our own backyard, where we had drinks, snacks, and dessert.

I had a very good day indeed and will celebrate yet again when we meet Shannon and Mike at the end of the month for more birthday brouhaha.

Celebrate early, celebrate often!

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Reading

A Challenge: 70 by 70

I decided to challenge myself by setting a goal of reading 70 books by my 70th birthday. As I read between 50 and 60 books a year, this will be a bit of a push for me. However, I feel as though I am up to the challenge.

I am currently reading John of John by Douglas Stuart, and this will be the first book of my challenge. (John of John, along with The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout, is long-listed for the 2026 Booker Prize. I’m not sure whether I will read the whole list, but I plan to add one or two more from it.)

 

 

 

 

Books, Fall

That Splendid Season plus August’s Book Log

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The calendar has flipped to September, the month that brings fall, Maine’s splendid season. In our yard, the goldenrod is abloom by the edge of the woods.

The air has a delicious, nutty smell as plants mature and form seeds. At night, the temperature drops to 50, and I put another blanket on my bed. One evening, it was so chilly that we even had to turn on the heat pump. But during the day, the temperature rises to the mid-70s and sometimes reaches 80, only to cool down at night. I wish we could have a couple more months of this weather, but maybe fall’s fleeting nature is the reason why I love this season so much. I feel very lucky to have a birthday in this beautiful month—as does Clif—and  you can bet there will be simple but fun celebrations that I’ll feature on this blog. As longtime readers know, our philosophy is to celebrate early, celebrate often.

My gardens are winding down and are definitely past their best, as this photo of the front yard illustrates.

Unfortunately, COVID slowed down Clif’s work on the house, but he’s pushing on, and he should get most of what he needs done before the cold weather comes.

But the plants on the front porch still look glorious and will do so until the first hard frost nips their beauty.

I am glad to be at the beginning of September rather than at the end. I still have most of this month to look forward to, as well as October, surely the most magnificent month in Maine. October is also the birth month of my eldest daughter.

Let the celebrations begin!

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One of my blogging friends, Rupali, features a book log every month. I really enjoy her log, so I decided to follow suit and share what I read each month.

Book Log for August

Zone One by Colson Whitehead

I’m a huge fan of Colson Whitehead, especially The Underground Railroad and The Nickel Boys, both of which have deservedly won a Pulitzer Prize. But if I had read Zone One first, I’m not sure I would have read another one of his books. A good lesson in how even very good writers can have a misstep, and not to judge writers by just one book.

Zone One should have been exciting. It features a zombie apocalypse, for God’s sake. The protagonist—call him Mark Spitz—and his cohorts are trying to clear a section of Manhattan, the titular Zone One, of zombies. The book’s action takes place over three days, but there are so many flashbacks to Mark Spitz’s pre-zombie life that the narrative becomes bogged down. The last twenty pages nip along nicely, but by then it’s too little, too late.

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans

Spanning ten years, The Correspondent follows Sybil Van Antwerp, a retired lawyer, through her daily life in Maryland. But rather than tell Sybil’s story in prose, Evans presents the novel in epistolary form—letters Sybil writes and letters she receives. Evans does this in a moving, compelling way, and I found myself saying, “Just one more letter” when I should have been cooking dinner.

Loss and grief inform the story. While Sybil is feisty—she never backs down from a fight or a slight, no matter how small—she is also stuck. Despite being prickly to the extreme, Sybil does care about other people and makes connections in unexpected ways. During the course of the book, these connections help Sybil unfold, and I was with her all the way.

The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout

Born and raised in Portland, Maine, Elizabeth Strout’s style typifies many people’s notion of a New England writer—spare, no-nonsense, and so brisk it borders on abrupt. I’ve read several of her books. There is no fat in them and only a glint of humor here and there. Yet, a sympathy for the characters runs strong in her books, and nowhere is this more evident than in The Things We Never Say.

Artie Dam—teacher, husband, father, and son—is the main protagonist in this story set in Massachusetts. A born teacher who is well-liked, Artie should be happy, but he’s not, and as the story progresses, we find out why. The book wheels through time—past, present, and future—revealing an unhappy childhood and troubles in his own marriage. The title suggests part of his problem: all that is left unsaid. Woven in with Artie’s problems are problems of the United States. But in his own gentle way, Artie makes a big difference in his community. If only there were more Arties in the world.

The Things We Never Say is a quiet story beautifully told.

Sag Harbor by Colson Whitehead

Yes, I gave Whitehead another chance. Such is the strength of The Underground Railroad and The Nickel Boys. Sag Harbor is a semi-autobiographical account of a summer in 1985 spent at Sag Harbor in the Hamptons, in a community built by upper-middle-class Blacks.

The story is told from fifteen-year-old Benji Cooper’s point of view. He and his brother Reggie are left to their own devices during the week while their parents work in Manhattan. Do Benji and Reggie get in trouble? Not really, although Benji comes close to losing an eye during a BB gun battle with his friends. Mostly, though, Benji broods about being a nerd, about girls, about fitting in, and about his alcoholic and at times abusive father.

There’s not much of a plot. Sag Harbor is essentially a slice-of-life story that ruminates on the past and explores the present. Yet there is a forward motion of sorts. At the end of the summer, Benji realizes he is now one of the older kids as he watches younger kids play on the beach.

At times, the book is laugh-out-loud funny. At other times, terrifying as Benji deals with his alcoholic father. I felt both tenderness and exasperation for Benji, exactly the way a parent often feels about their own teenagers.

The Witchmark by C.L. Polk

In a society reminiscent of Edwardian England, magic is reserved for the upper class. Everyone else must hide it or risk being sent to an asylum. Miles Singer is upper class, but his magic has been deemed weaker than that of his more powerful sister, Grace, and he is expected to spend his life assisting her. Not wanting to be in Grace’s thrall, Miles runs away, joins the military, and becomes a doctor, all the while hiding his magic. Miles gets caught up in a murder case, falls in love with a fae named Tristan, and becomes embroiled in his sister’s and father’s plans.

The characters and plot are well done and hold the reader’s interest. Unfortunately, Witchmark is undermined by platitudes and overwriting. Example: “The blood in my veins turned to ice.”

Fans of fantasy would probably enjoy the story. Non-fantasy readers should probably give Witchmark a pass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Books, Movies, News, Television

Enter Yellow

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It has been hotter than heck lately, by anyone’s standards, I think. With the heat index well over 100, plenty of heat advisories were posted on weather websites. In my heart of hearts, I know this is the new weather pattern for Maine in July, and I have to accept it. But how I long for the old days, when the temperature in July seldom went above 80°F, and the humidity didn’t sap the energy from humans and animals alike. Those days are never coming back, and I feel sorry for the young people who will never experience the glory of a Maine July before the climate crisis hit.

I can only be thankful, then, that we have heat pumps, which not only keep our home pleasantly cool but also act as dehumidifiers. No more clogged salt shakers! Unfortunately, the creatures in the woods do not have this advantage, and I feel so sorry for them. Our dependence on fossil fuels has cast a wide, destructive net that ensnares the innocent.

But, a bit of good news. The flowers seem to enjoy the high heat and humidity, and the evening primroses are now in glorious bloom. There is yellow mixed in amongst the green, and for a while, there was even a splash of orange.

We have had different friends over on two separate occasions, and despite the heat, we spent time in the gazebo. (In late afternoon, when the sun no longer shone in our backyard.)

‘Tis one of our favorite places to be, and although I have featured this picture in a previous post, I thought I’d include it again because the lights are so lovely.

We had planned to serve grilled bread, but a little rodent chewed through the gas line on the grill, and Clif wasn’t able to fix it before our friends came over. Next time, there will be grilled bread.

Along with the heat, July in Maine brings the Maine International Film Festival (MIFF), a ten-day extravaganza of movies, many of them foreign. We have full festival passes and are looking forward to seeing movies we might never have heard of if it weren’t for MIFF. Accordingly, I will be taking a blogging break from July 10 to July 20 or so. I’ll keep track of all the movies I see and report back with my top five. (We plan to see about thirty movies during the film festival.)

Until July 20…

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Reading and Watching

Book: The Other Bennet Sister by Janice Hadlow

Television Series: The Other Bennet Sister, adapted by Sarah Quintrell from Janice Hadlow’s novel of the same name

It is a fact universally acknowledged that a good book is usually better than its television adaptation. This is why it is often a mistake to read a book before seeing the series. A series (or a movie) seldom lives up to a reader’s imaginative vision of the story or to the author’s skill in revealing the characters’ inner lives.

Series and movies have their strengths, of course. Acting, dialogue, sound, and cinematography can come together to produce works of art and beauty that can have a profound effect on viewers. But for this reader—a wordy, nerdy woman who has been under the spell of the written word since childhood—books are most always superior to adaptations.

And so it was with The Other Bennet Sister, Janice Hadlow’s sympathetic portrayal of Pride and Prejudice‘s Mary Bennet, the plain and awkward sister plunked among four beautiful sisters. In Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen’s depiction of Mary Bennet is humorous but unkind, presenting her as a socially inept young woman who always says the wrong thing and can never read the room.

In The Other Bennet Sister, Janice Hadlow allows Mary to have her say, and she skillfully reveals Mary’s inner life—her love of books, her feelings of never fitting in or measuring up to her sisters. Of never being understood. Indeed, of not being loved by her family. I was with Mary all the way, and as she gradually found her footing, I cheered her on. Hadlow charts Mary’s growth in a convincing way. Mary never becomes the belle of the ball, but she does unfold in a way that is lovely to behold and true to Mary’s inner nerdy self.

The series, on the other hand, presents Mary (Ella Bruccoleri) as a clod whose facial expressions are so extreme and odd that, at times, she seems a bit touched. I was not unsympathetic with the character, but as my daughter put it, it was unbelievable that two attractive men would vie for Mary’s attention. In the novel, it was perfectly believable.

In addition, there is a plot change that makes no sense, given the times and the extreme wealth of two of Mary’s sisters. I suppose the change—Mary’s determination to be a tutor—is slipped in to give Mary some agency. This is all well and good, but it is the opposite of the way Mary feels in the book, and in the early 1800s, a family of means would never encourage one of their own to be a tutor.

I did finish the television series, and I didn’t totally dislike it, but the book was so much better.

As is usually the case.

Readers, have any of you both read the book and watched the series? If so, I would love to hear your reactions.

 

 

 

Books, Cats, Gardening

Done Da Done! And: Ferns, Ferns, Ferns

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Garden Report

Last week, I did it. Creaky knees and all, I raked the leaves from the last bed. Did I feel good about this accomplishment? You bet I did.

Now, onward to compost, wood ash, and fertilizer. Plus, moving things here and there. For me, as I’m sure it is for most gardeners, May is as busy a month as December. For different reasons, naturally. However, just as I love the holidays, I also love the month of May with its intense gardening.

Let’s hear it for hands in the dirt and a garden cart at the ready. Trowel, shovel, garden shears, cultivator. Check, check, check, and check.

For a gardener, life becomes pretty basic in the spring. But oh so good.

Fern Report

I’m not sure if I love ferns because I live on the edge of the woods, or if I live on the edge of the woods because I love ferns. But as readers might have noticed, I’m crazy about ferns.

Let’s take a look at the ferns I’ve been following since they poked their pretty little heads up at the end of April.

Here they are on April 27. Such dear little things.

And here they are, twelve days later: elegant, tall, and feathery.

Amazing, isn’t it? They really are all grown up.

But never fear. There are more ferns emerging for me to marvel at.

Soon, these little ferns will be grown-up, too, gracing the yard with their beauty, for which we are grateful. One of the best things is that, for the most part, I don’t have to do a thing to encourage them. They spread and grow on their own. (All right. I will admit that I might have bought a fern or two for my beds. But most of the ferns by the house and in the yard came here on their own. Seems like a miracle.)

Finally, a pleasing combination of pink and green.

First Drinks on the Patio

Saturday, May 16, was a banner day at our home on the edge of the woods. We had our first drinks of the year on our patio.

The owl wine glass belongs to my daughter Dee, who loves owls just as much as I love ferns.

Cheers to blogging friends near and far. Our happy time on the patio is here, and soon there will be a new addition in the backyard, which will add to our enjoyment.

Stay tuned.

Reading

When I Was a German, 1934–1945: An Englishwoman in Nazi Germany
(Original Title: The Past Is Myself)
By Christabel Bielenberg

When I Was a German, a memoir by Christabel Bielenberg, is a heavy book to read in the merry month of May. But maybe it’s good to read this kind of book when the weather is lovely, and things are green and growing.

In the book’s foreword, Christabel Bielenberg acknowledges that although there is ample material documenting this terrible time in Europe, she has “one advantage…I am English; I was German, and above all I was there.”

Indeed, she was. In England in 1934, Christobel married the tall, handsome German Peter Bielenberg. When she married, Christabel Bielenberg gave up British citizenship and became a German citizen. (Twelve years later, she would relinquish her German citizenship to “become a British subject once again.”)

At first, Christobel and Peter lived in Hamburg, Germany.  Both Peter, a law student, and Christabel were upper-middle-class and well-connected. From the jump, they thought that Hitler was “a clown” who would not be in power long. Turns out, they were wrong.

The Bielenbergs had friends who were staunchly opposed to Hitler, and they persuaded the young couple to stay in Germany to help bring down the government. Peter took a job with the Ministry of Industry and Commerce in Berlin to be closer to the Nazi government. By then, the couple had children, and they moved to Berlin, to the heart of darkness.

Things, of course, go from bad to worse. Friends are hanged, and Berlin is relentlessly bombed by the Allies. Christabel moves with her three children to a small village in the Black Forest, where they live in relative safety. Peter stays in Berlin and is eventually imprisoned because of his association with the men who tried to assassinate Hitler. (Peter himself was not involved in the attempt.)

All of this is riveting reading, and I especially liked Christabel’s descriptions of village life in the Black Forest, far away from Berlin. While the village and the villagers were officially allied with the Nazi party, they were kind to Christabel and her sons, and for the most part, they were not fanatical followers of Hitler. (This, of course, does not absolve them of their complicity, but it does add nuance.)

My one complaint about the book is that it covers too much territory too quickly. Those were, after all, eventful years. At times, the book felt rushed, and I think the material would have been better served by being expanded into several volumes, in which the various aspects of Christabel’s life could have been described in more detail. As it is, the book jumps from person to place, and I had a hard time keeping track of those not in the author’s immediate family.

Still, When I was a German is well worth reading, not the least because of Christobel’s insights.

I’ll conclude with one of her reflections, which seems all too relevant in today’s world, where the Right Wing is, alas, in ascendance once again.

“There would be few to pity them {the German People] for the wheel had turned full circle, as deluded by piffling ambition, bent on taking revenge for their failure, they were now slaughtering everything that was best about their country. No nation could afford such extravagance, there was no excuse,  no pardon for such things. This was the punishment, ruins, ruins and more ruins….When I married Peter ten years ago…I did not realize that I would be binding myself to the fate of the whole of this unhappy race.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Books, Environment, Flowers

This. Is. Not. Normal.

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Last week on Tuesday, this is what the thermometer outside our dining room window read.

To add insult to injury, the Winthrop Weather Station gave us this additional information.

This is Maine. In June. Back in the day, June was so cool and rainy that sometimes my father had to replant the green beans because they rotted in the soil. Not every year, but enough so that I remember him complaining about it.

Fortunately, during the extreme heat, we had our new heat pumps, and they worked like champs. They were installed at exactly the right time, and we are so very grateful to have them. They kept us cool and comfortable for the two days the extreme heat came to Maine.

Aside from the alarmingly high heat, the sad thing is the denial that I saw on Facebook. When the local meteorologists posted the heat warnings and noted that these were record-breaking temps, all too many people protested. There was “I remember it getting this hot when I was young.” Oh, really, I thought, did you live in Maine? Or, “It’s summer, deal with it.” As though the extreme heat were a trifling matter, and only wimps complained about it when in fact , according to NOAA, extreme heat kills more people than any other weather event.

Who are the people writing such things? Bots? Shills for the fossil fuel companies? Folks who just don’t want to face the truth?

How bad does it have to get before there is a general consensus about climate change and the will to do something about it?

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On a happier note…it is peak garden time at our home by the woods.

Here is a view of our backyard from above, taken from the dining room.

A closer look.

And even closer.

Now to the front, for a froth of astilbes.

With such visual delights, the extreme heat can be forgiven. But not forgotten.

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Reading

Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.
–James Baldwin, 1962

During the heatwave I ordered Mike Berners-Lee’s A Climate of Truth, a much-needed look at how denying the truth about climate change has not only held us back but has endangered us as well.

Even though I haven’t finished the book, I can highly recommend it. It is clear, well written, and moves right along. The book has also made me think about what I can do in my own life to reduce my carbon footprint. There is plenty of room for improvement even for this family of green beans.

Art, Books, Winter

Some Thoughts on Shadows

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In Maine, we have moved from deep winter to late winter and will soon be approaching the purgatory that is mid-March. But we still have a few weeks to go until purgatory, and in the meantime winter reigns, that time of shadows on the snow. How I love to see the shadows in our backyard.

The way the slats from the fence register on the snow,

the way the blue shadows stripe the yard,

and the way the dark shadows fill the woods.

Such a beautiful season, and even though staying warm is expensive, I never wish for winter to hurry into spring. Each year, I  welcome winter with a glad heart and am always renewed by this still, cold season that encourages a person to turn inward.

While we don’t want to turn inward indefinitely—we need spring and the exuberant return to life—winter, for me at least, is a necessary time to examine personal shadows and try to come to terms with them.

If this sounds very Jungian, well, it is. Years ago, I blasted through the books of the late, great Canadian writer Robertson Davies, who was a great admirer of Carl Jung, author and psychiatrist, among other things. If I remember correctly, Davies maintained that Jung, with his emphasis on the unconscious, was the patron saint of artists, all of whom, one way or another, dig deep into the unconsciousness to produce art. The deeper the dive, the greater the art. (By art, I mean art in general, which includes literature, dance, music, theater, and, yes, movies.)

Therefore, as I am surrounded by the shadows of winter, I settle in to read and think and write.

Spring will come soon enough.

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Listening

Bob Dylan: “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

Bob Dylan, a musician who has been much in the news because of the bio pic A Complete Unknown, certainly dug deep to write his songs. “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” beautifully illustrates this.

Books, Thankful Thursday

Thankful Thursday: My Fall Gardens, Backlisted Podcast, Soup by the Fire

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This post is part of a series called Thankful Thursday, where I list some things to feel thankful for. To some extent, focusing on what is wrong appears to come naturally to most people, who often complain, complain, complain when they get together with family and friends. (I’m no exception, that’s for sure.) So focusing on things to feel thankful for seems like good spiritual practice, a way to counterbalance the tendency toward negative thinking.

My  Fall Gardens

There are are no two ways about it—my gardens are definitely past their best. There are very few blooms, and many of the hostas, the backbone of the gardens in my front yard, have turned brown and yellow,

But there are still some things that catch my attention.

The red leaves of the evening primroses in combination with the pink sedum,

the spiky red flowers of persicaria against the Tesla’s charger,

a lone yellow daylily, somehow in bloom in October,

and last, but certainly not least, the Japanese grass that my blogging friend Judy, of NewEnglandGardenAndThread, gave me. Fingers and toes and everything else crossed that it comes up next spring.

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Backlisted Podcast

Along with being keen on movies, I am also keen on books,  particularly novels written by women in the mid-twentieth century when their roles were undergoing a major change.

A while back, I came across the literary podcast Backlisted, hosted by John Mitchinson and Andy Miller. Backlisted, as the tagline suggests, focuses on older books, often from the 1950s and before. However sometimes they venture into the 1970s and 1980s. (It’s a little sobering to think that a book published in the 1980s might qualify as an old book, but there you are.)

Backlisted started in 2015, and the current episode, which features Her First American by Lore Segal is Episode 222.

Readers, this podcast is like catnip to me, and I listen to it whenever I have a chance. Mitchinson and Miller laugh as much as the Car Talk guys did, and this adds a general note of hilarity to this literary podcast. However, despite the abundant good cheer, Mitchinson and Miller have a flinty side that reflects their many years in publishing. They know what good writing is, and they are confident in their opinions.

What’s astonishing about this podcast is the range of books read and discussed. While there is certainly an emphasis on literary fiction, Backlisted also features mysteries, fantasy, science fiction, children’s books, and even the occasional romance.,

Long live Backlisted!

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Soup by the Fire

One of the pleasures of autumn is sitting around a fire as night comes and the crickets sing and a frog croaks nearby. Add soup, tea, and a couple of rolls, and you have a winning combination.

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Thankful Posts and Simple Pleasures from Other Blogging Friends

Quercus from Quercuscommunity marks the retirement of his wife, Julia. This makes them a retired couple. While this might involve more decluttering, I hope it also involves more trips to tearooms.

Alys from Gardening Nirvana celebrates her 29th anniversary with her husband, Mike. Congrats, congrats!

Tootlepedal from Tootlepedal’s Blog not only shares a photo of his sister’s beautiful nerines but also a photo of his wife’s lovely crochet blanket that just happened to win first prize at a local agricultural fair. Congrats, Mrs. Tootlepedal!

Barbara from Thistles and Kiwis describes the World of Wearable Art show, which features “wearable art, dance, live music, aerialists and great staging.” Sounds like quite a show.

Anne from Something Over Tea notes the many simple pleasures that make her happy. Being a huge fan of simple pleasures, I smiled all the way through this past.

Cimple from A Curious Introvert revels in the glories of October, one of the most beautiful months if you live in a northern state. Plus, she included a picture of her adorable dog.

Books, Food, Thankful Thursday

Thankful Thursday: Tomatoes, Chickpeas, and Music

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This post is part of a series called Thankful Thursday, where I list some things to feel thankful for. To some extent, focusing on what is wrong appears to come naturally to most people, who often complain, complain, complain when they get together with family and friends. (I’m no exception, that’s for sure.) So focusing on things to feel thankful for seems like good spiritual practice, a way to counterbalance the tendency toward negative thinking.

Still Life with Tomatoes

In my garden, my four little tomato plants are at the end of their production, and soon I will be pulling them. However, our own Farmer Kev’s tomatoes are still going strong, and this week I got a wonderful selection from our farm-share box. I like the way they look lined up on the kitchen window sill. Also, with this picture you can see how our yard sits on the edge of the woods.

Chickpeas, Chickpeas, Chickpeas

Clif, Dee, and I are huge fans of the the humble chickpea aka garbanzo beans. They are delicious, economical, and good for you. What more can  you ask for? I buy them dried, in 16-oz bags, soak them overnight, and then cook them in the morning.

One of the ways I like them best is mashed up in a food processor with thyme, salt, and pepper. Clif uses two cups of chickpeas, 1 tablespoon of dried thyme and salt and pepper to taste. After which he scoops the mash into a bowl and adds a few tablespoons of mayonnaise. I know this comparison is overused, but the chickpea salad really does taste a little like chicken.

This is a wonderfully versatile salad. For those who like a little zing, onion or garlic could be used. Don’t want the Mediterranean flavor? Add curry. Or smoked paprika. Or whatever pleases you.

I scooped some of the chickpea salad onto one of Farmer Kev’s fresh tomatoes. Wicked good as we say in Maine.

Music

From—where else?—NPR’s Tiny Desk Concerts—featuring Jenny and the Mexicats. If they don’t pep you up, nothing will.

Thankful Posts and Simple Pleasures from Other Blogging Friends

Derrick of Derrick J. Knight describes how he and his wife Jackie brought garden refuse to a recycling center, came back with some treasures for their garden, which, in turn, will be recycled when their time has passed.  Yay, Derrick and Jackie!

Kate from The Cozy Burrow shares her October Reading list. I’ve already requested two of them—Moon Tiger and The Ministry of Time—through my library.

Barbara from Thistles and Kiwis celebrates her twentieth wedding anniversary with her husband Karl. Happy, happy and cheers to twenty years!

Dorothy from The New Vintage Kitchen features a mouth-watering pasta dish using autumn’s bounty. I could have some right now.

Ju-Lyn of Touring My Backyard finds beauty and serenity at Round Pond in Kensington Gardens in London.  How lovely to find such a place in a big city.

Cimple from The Curious Introvert praises the world of books and reading. Her own words say it best: “This week I’m grateful for a lifelong love of reading and books. A day doesn’t go by without reading or adding new books to my want to read list.” Hear, hear!

Books, Food

In Which We Rally from a Disappointment, and I Review Margaret Drabble’s The Millstone

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Last weekend, our daughter Shannon, her husband Mike, and their dog Holly were supposed to come to our home for the weekend—they live in the Boston area—to celebrate my birthday (September 15) and Clif’s birthday (September 27). Alas, they were having car troubles and couldn’t come.

Disappointing not to have them join us, that’s for sure. Because Shannon and Mike aren’t sure when their car troubles will be resolved, our eldest daughter Dee, who lives with us, decided to carry on with the birthday celebrations. She treated us to Chinese food at the utterly delightful Wei Li in Auburn.

Oh my, the food was good. I could have some of their delicious lo mein and general tofu right now.

Comfortably full, we headed back home for drinks on the patio in the screen house, cake and ice cream, and presents.

Among other things, Dee bought us solar lights for the backyard. Now that we have passed the autumnal equinox, it is dark by 7:00, and it’s a little tricky making our way to the front steps.

Not only do those solar lights have a magical glow, but they also give us enough light for navigation.

This upcoming weekend is Clif’s actual birthday, and there just might be some more simple pleasures planned. (Simple pleasures are Clif’s and my birthday presents to each other. )

More to look forward to.

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Reading: The Millstone by Margaret Drabble

I have a fondness for mid-twentieth century women writers, especially ones who come from the United Kingdom. When I was in my 30s, I started with Rumer Godden, went on to read Barbara Pym, and have continued on with other terrific writers who, with precision and heart, have chronicled the changing roles of women in the twentieth century. And my goodness, there have been changes, mostly for the best.

To my delight, I have found a blog—JacquiWine’s Journal––that often features reviews of women writers from that period, and I have gotten many recommendations from Jacqui.

One of them was the wonderful novel The Millstone by Margaret Drabble. (The link above is to Jacqui’s review of the book.) Set in in the 1960s, The Millstone centers on Rosamund Stacey, a young woman living in London in her parent’s fashionable apartment in Marylebone. Her parents, do-gooders of the highest order, are in Africa trying to do good, which means that Rosamund has a free place to live as she finishes her thesis, not a bad situation for a young woman in the swinging 60s.

The only problem is that Rosamund is so shy and reticent that she has a hard time swinging. She goes out with a couple of men, but doesn’t have sex with either of them, and they, in turn, think she is having sex with the other man.

But then she meets George, whom she thinks could be gay. (Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t.  In the case of George, Rosamund might not be a reliable narrator.) They make love once and seem to have real affection for each other, but George, as shy and reticent as Rosamund, is no more able to express himself than she is.

From that one encounter, Rosamund becomes pregnant and after considering abortion, illegal at that time, she decides to keep the baby. Being middle class and college educated, Rosamund feels that she can make it on her own, and although she longs for George, she doesn’t tell him about the pregnancy.

As it turns out, Rosamund can make it on her own. She has the baby, a girl she names Octavia, after the social reformer Octavia Hill. As soon as Rosamund sees Octavia, she falls totally in love with her infant daughter. (I remember feeling the same way when I first looked at my babies.) I found this expression of maternal love to be so moving, and Drabble’s writing, understated but warm, never veers into sentimentality.

This slim novel packs in so much: class, the changing mores of the 1960s, the bond between mother and child, a young woman’s journey into adulthood, and the United Kingdom’s National Health Service, still relatively new when the book was written.

Will Rosamund and George ever get together? No spoilers here.  You must read this fine book for yourself to find out.