World Book Night

There are two kinds of people in the world: enthusiastic readers and reluctant readers.

Maybe it's because my mom was a librarian that I became such an avid reader. Maybe it's because reading came easily to me. Maybe it's because no matter how bored I was, I could always find something interesting to read. Reading saved me in elementary school, where I would race through my class work just so I could read my book of the moment. Some teachers loved that about me, others were annoyed. But I loved reading and read voraciously.

Until college. I had so much reading to do for my courses (and read so slowly) that I had very little time for pleasure reading. (The exception was sophomore year, when my roommate Sylvia and I went on a Harlequin Romance binge that was a combination of guilty pleasure and pure procrastination. Do not ask to see my transcripts from that year. It's not pretty.)

After college, I had a lot of reading to do for work and it took me a while rediscover the joys of pleasure reading and to give myself permission to enjoy it again. What a strange thought that I needed some kind of permission to enjoy reading. After I had babies (two that first time, remember), fiction reading again was relegated to the back burner as I pored over nonfiction titles like Having Twins, Your Premature Baby, and Helping Children Overcome Learning Disabilities. Reading was essential, but not really fun.

Then I convinced a couple of friends to start a book club. It wasn't an easy sell to these young mothers, who all felt overwhelmed and didn't relish the idea of deadlines. We agreed that you didn't have to finish the book to attend meetings, and it was great to have everyone's input on the titles we chose. I was making so many tough decisions in my real life, that simple choices, like what book to read, seemed overwhelming.

And then reading was fun again. And it has been ever since. So it breaks my reader's and writer's heart when I hear someone (two of my sons, for example) say that hate reading. How can you hate reading? It's just wrong. Reading is an escape, an adventure, a learning experience, a way to be someone else, to explore new worlds, to meet new people, to become a different creature all together. Nothing transports you the way reading can.

I have heard many times that authors write only half the book; readers write the other half, and every time a book is read or reread, it is rewritten. I love this sentiment, because it is exquisitely true. When you see a film, you may be transported, but you are being transported to someone else's vision. When you read a book, you create the characters and settings and events in your mind's eye. Yes, the writer draws the outline, but you paint the picture with all the colors of your imagination. It's synergy—the interaction of two or more agents or forces so that their combined effect is greater than the sum of their individual effects—in its purest form.

That's why I was so excited to be chosen to be a giver in this year's first annual World Book Night USA. The whole goal of World Book Night is to inspire reluctant or infrequent readers to read more and learn to love reading. The sponsors of the event printed thousands of special-edition copies of 30 chosen titles. Each giver then selected one title and picked up 20 copies of that book to distribute on April 23, 2012—World Book Night. Today!

I chose The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. When I first read it in 2004, it took me four tries to get past page 40, but once I did, I was hooked. It has become one of my favorite contemporary novels. In fact, I was so enamored by my experience reading it, that I wrote to Oprah for the chance to meet Barbara Kingsolver and have a bookclub dinner/discussion with the two of them. While I wasn't chosen for the dinner (darn!), I was invited to be in the audience of the Oprah Show on the day the discussion aired. Here's my gushing epistle:

Dear Oprah, 

I recently finished reading Kingsolver's masterful "Poisonwood Bible" … or at least I thought I had. The characters, story and language of this book haunt me wherever I go. It may be that I, like Orleanna, have four children, including a set of twins (one of whom has different needs). Or maybe it's our family's recent camping trip, when all I could think about was preparing meals for my family in the conditions of Kilanga. Perhaps it was my stop at Old Orchard shopping center last Monday, when the pure volume of STUFF in just one store overwhelmed me—shamed me and our overindulged, ignorant nation. 

I was born in 1960, the year the Price family left for the Congo. The history spanned in this novel has been my history and I've known eve ry character of the book in my own life. Ms. Kingsolver's beautiful language eloquently expressed for me the one lesson I hope I have learned so far in life … that what you know to be absolutely true can be, and often is, completely wrong in other circumstances.  

By pure coincidence, my book club had chosen this book a few months ago. I couldn't even face the idea of a nearly 600-page, bible quoting novel about Africa. Now I can't believe it's over. I feel like this family will always be a part of me, that I will look at my abundant gifts with renewed thankfulness and that I will treasure the experiences of life with my family with less pettiness and more joy. It is the rare novel that inspires so much introspection—I just don't have that much time! But the "Poisonwood Bible" made me think about such things as parenting, politics, nature, marriage, racism, sexism, religion, tolerance, intolerance and the indescribable beauty of indoor plumbing, just to name a few.   

Finally, thanks to Adah, I'll never be able to read another sentence without trying read it backwards. It's driving me crazy! So, I'll end with my own palindrome.

Oprah, O, to go to Harpo! 

Please consider including me in your upcoming discussion of this wonderful book.

If you haven't read The Poisonwood Bible, go read it now. In the meantime, join me in celebrating World Book Night (WBN). It's such a thrill to be giving "permission" to some infrequent readers to really love fiction. Bookmark the WBN site so you can join in next year. Special thanks to The Book Stall in Winnetka for being a participating site (and being one of the most fabulous independent bookstores in the world). Finally, tell me, are you an enthusiastic or reluctant reader?

Grazie! תוֹדָה! Dziękuję! Merci!

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who view their lives through the lens of gratitude and those who view it through a lens of snark.

Thanks to my mom, I learned early on to "please" and "thank you" with the best of them. I have taught these magic words to my children, too, and I believe they are some of the most charming incantations in the human spellbook. But, though I bandy the words about freely, I find myself dwelling deeply in the land of snark. 

I'm not apologizing here (although I do that very well, too, and far too often). A little snark never hurt anyone. Snark is funny. It helps get me through my day. It takes a quick wit and a sharp tongue to pull off snark with aplomb, and I appreciate a talented practitioner. Many of my favorite writers — Sarah Vowell, David Sedaris, Mark Twain, Dorothy Parker, professional snarkers all — have proven over and over again that the pen truly is mightier than the sword, and I wish I could thank them all personally.

So let me take just a moment to be a little snarky about gratitude. Ever since Oprah jumped on the gratitude bandwagon, it has become big business. If you search her Website, more than 200 results show up for gratitude. I'm not complaining. I'm grateful for Oprah. Her show has made me laugh and cry and think, no small feat for the small screen. But all this gratitude talk also makes me cringe just a little.

Some years ago, I was given a copy of the bestselling book Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach. It was a lovely gesture, the perfect gift for an aspiring writer, for which I was very grateful. I've not read it. It stares at me reproachfully from the top shelf of my bedroom bookcase, it's sticky sweet pink cover making me feel like a middle-aged goth wannabe. Just thinking about it gives me a sudden urge to get a tattoo. I'm grateful for my profound aversion to pain, or I would be a painted lady by now.

The trouble with these prescriptions for injecting gratitude into our lives is that they tend to be full of cloying, treacly little algorithms for better living: Eat Pray Love; discover The Secret; Focus on the Good Stuff. It's hard to convey real gratitude without sounding mawkish (but when I discover the secret of how to do it and write my book about it, I will be eternally grateful to Oprah if she will interview me about it on her show).

"I feel a very unusual sensation — 

if it is not indigestion, I think it must be gratitude."

Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881)

But this morning (or yesterday morning or whenever it was that I last awoke from sleeping, as I see it is now after 3:00 a.m.) I heard a litany of "I hates" reverberating in my brain and the oddest thought popped into my mind: What if I changed every "I hate" statement I hear in my head to an "I love" statement. I know, I gagged, too, but that hazy, waking, early morning brain is hard to control and, unbidden, it started to make the conversions. Don't panic, there was no epiphany. But it did make me smile to myself in a genuine, unsnarky way — especially when I heard "I love school-related paperwork" whispered in my inner ear — and it got me thinking, which always a dangerous thing.

I am grateful — you know, sometimes. (Watch out, here comes the cotton candy.) When I look at my children, I am (usually) awash in a gratitude so profound that it defies verbal expression, so I smother them in kisses and make them promise never to grow up. I'm grateful to live in this country (where, despite all its faults, it is still the best place to be) and in this century (when, despite all its faults, it is still the best place to be). I'm grateful for our myriad comforts and gifts (even though I would be plenty grateful to wake up debt free with a brand new kitchen). 

I know I'm not grateful often enough. I don't need to read all those best sellers to understand that true gratitude, like exercise, takes practice and commitment before you can reap the benefits. I feel guilty enough without them harping at me.

My friend and fellow Chicago Moms Blogger, Kim Moldofsky, inspired this blog post (although, once she reads it, she may feel somewhat less than grateful). Kim has taken the 21-Day TinyPrints Gratitude Challenge and is writing about her feelings of gratitude for three straight weeks. I admire her commitment and effort at making gratitude a habit — as well as the speed, grace and frequency with which she posts.

I do have one funny little gratitude ritual. I keep a tzedakah box for collecting coins to give to charity in the cupboard above my washing machine. Whenever I find a penny or a dime or a quarter in the laundry, instead of pocketing it, I put it in the box and offer this little blessing: I'm grateful for the health and well being of my family. I try to say it without a trace of snark.

I'm always grateful for your comments — be they snarky or full of appreciation — just click here to share.

I'd like to express my gratitude for the fabulous photo that graces this post — Cafe Gratitude, San Francisco Mission District. My thanks to Shayan Sanyal who shared it through a Creative Commons license. 

A Place for Everything

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who keep things and those who throw things out.

Me, I'm a pack rat. I look at a notecard, catalog or newspaper article, and if there is a remote possibility I might someday want to look at some part of it again, I keep it.

My good friend, on the other hand, is a thrower outer. She looks at a piece of paper and if it is not of immediate import, she throws it away. This has included even the directions for things she doesn't know how to use or put together. "Oh, Jim will figure it out when he gets home," she explained when I asked her how on earth she planned to assemble a multi-piece something without the instructions.

I once had a roommate who wouldn't allow a newspaper to remain in the apartment for more than an hour — extreme by even the most fastidious standards. Clearly, there needs to be a happy medium.

My parents are the ultimate accumulators. They have a passion for garage sales, auctions and flea markets. Over the years they have accumulated an astounding collection of … well, everything. Recently, my father has become addicted to ultra clearance sales: you know, the bright orange signs advertising "(up to) 90% off EVERYTHING." He's gotten some great bargains, like bathing suits for my boys for six bits apiece. He's also gotten some great bargains on things no one could ever possibly use, like matching suede vests for my brother and husband (yikes!). 

This is not to say that my folks are disorganized. My mother, a retired school librarian, alphabetized our spice rack and medicine cabinet. Most kids moan when they ask how to spell a word and are told to "look it up in the dictionary." My mother always followed that admonishment with: "You'll find it in the 400s." Not every household can boast such a comprehensive understanding of the Dewey Decimal System. Even the talented Mr. Dewey, however, could not have devised a system capable of cataloging the sheer volume of artifacts housed by my parents.

I'm placing no value judgment on either keepers or eliminators, here. The trouble seems to come when a saver hooks up with a tosser, as in my marriage. My husband comes from a long line of neat freaks and complains that he is being edged out of every room in our house. He simply doesn't understand that paper can take on a life of its own.

He can't stand the apparent disorganization of my various piles. He thinks if it's not in a labeled file in a labeled hanging folder in a labeled file drawer, it's lost. And I loathe when he makes any attempt to organize my stuff. As every keeper understands, we can trace back in our minds exactly where everything is and, if anything is moved, the whole system falls apart.

Ironically, I love all the accouterments of organization — the sharpies and labelers and fancy filing systems. But, no matter how hard I try to organize it, there's always more stuff.

I've spent days whipping my office into shape, vowing never to let it get messy again. But then, a stack of mail comes or a flood of forms from school, and I can't get to it right that minute, so I start a pile. Just one, that I will get to tomorrow — maybe even tonight, once the kids are in bed. Then, a few more papers come in and I divide everything into two piles: the "hot" pile (which I will get to tomorrow) and the "soon, but not an emergency" pile, with things like that great new catalog from The Container Store.

Sure, I've watched the professional organizers on Oprah who teach you "how to organize things the way you use them." They advise you not to "containerize" until you have organized your belongings and lived with them for a while. What fun is that? I mean, there is nothing better than buying a cool new container or beautiful basket. So what if it doesn't work for your stuff. You'll eventually find a use for it. As every saver knows, it's the minute you throw something away that you need it.

So, do you want to keep it or throw it out? File your opinion here or email me at 2KoPeole@gmail.com.

Photo credits: White Elfa decor Freestanding Home Office from The Container Store.

Stumble It!

Shoe-bie Doobie Doo

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who love shoes and those who don't.

I have never understood shoe lust, and this has severely limited my experience of popular culture. Sex and the City references to Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik were completely lost on me. I hate everything about shoes: shopping for them (boring), paying for them (expensive) and wearing them (uncomfortable).

I know, as a woman, I stand virtually alone on this side of the shoe aisle. I have several friends who live for shoes. "My shoe size never changes, no matter what I weigh. I love that about shoes," says one close friend and Shoe-bie. Of course, that's not exactly true: BC (before children) I was a consistent size 8; three pregnancies and four children later, I range between an 8.5 and a 9.

It doesn't take a psychologist to recognize that my shoe phobia probably stems from wearing "corrective" shoes as a child. I was diagnosed as flat-footed and knock-kneed and sent with my mother to a cute podiatrist named Dr. Pancratz. I had a little crush on him, which is the only explanation I have as to why I allowed myself to be tormented by him for years.

The abuse was both physical and mental. Physically, every Saturday he taped my feet, I believe in an attempt to create an arch. I remember having to bathe with my feet hanging out of the tub and having to remove the tape residue every Friday night with nail polish remover. Then there were the bizarre exercises that required me to stand on the edge of a telephone book, extend all the way up on my tiptoes and then slowly stretch my heels down to the floor. Finally, there were the specially made shoe inserts.

Though the inserts contributed slightly to the physical abuse, it was the emotional distress they caused that has left the lasting scars. I have very wide feet and the inserts required my shoes to be even wider (I seem to remember EE). Including inserts, each shoe weighed more than two pounds, creating a somewhat less than graceful gait. More importantly, the shoes were stone ugly. At that time, all the little girls I knew were wearing penny loafers and Mary Jane's. Mine were ridiculous leather lace-up things. For some reason, the manufacturers thought if your foot was wide, the toe part of the shoe should be even wider. In a futile effort to make these boats more "fun", my poor beleaguered mother bought me a blue pair and kicked in the extra buck for red plaid laces. Bozo would have been jealous.

My shoe angst has not subsided in adulthood. Those freaks on "What Not to Wear" have tried to convince us that we are not properly dressed unless we wear high heels (even with jeans). High heels were definitely invented by a man. They are nothing but expensive, self-financed torture devices. Oprah has been quoted as saying: "My feet are still on the ground, I'm just wearing better shoes." That may be true, but I've been to a taping of the Oprah show, and I know for a fact that she takes off those expensive shoes during commercial breaks. Sadly, my life rarely includes a commercial break.

To leave a comment, click here or e-mail me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

Photo credits: jeltovski via MorgueFile.com