Books

“Are you a writer?”

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 6 Comments

“Are you a writer?” the author asked as I handed her my books to sign. They were “my books” because the young(er) man with the barely discernible grey streaking back to his slightly sloppy man bun, had given a “Buy first!” directive at the conclusion of his author introduction. His words, having received a flittering of insider-ish laughter, fluttered down upon front-row me. I already held the author’s works in my lap, because I had nabbed them from the nearby display table to peruse while waiting for the reading to commence. I knew I would purchase them. These days I don’t need permission to go to book readings or to buy books. 

Now I was handing my guilt-free purchases to the woman who had made the words come to life with her friendly, slightly drawling voice.

I’m sure her question was prompted by the fact we had been introduced by her college friend and fellow-author, Jennifer. Jennifer and I are new friends and members of the same book club. She is a published author and the reason I came to this reading (instead of road-tripping to Tombstone, another of my guilt-free choices for the day.) Jennifer can answer that question affirmatively. Most affirmatively. I’ve read her books, too. But me?

No. Not the way these bonafide authors’ experiences define this question. Still, I fumble at the pleasantly proffered query.  As I am sometimes prone to do, I fall back on my hallowed status of Mother. “My daughter is,” I say, surprising myself with the confidence of my assertion.  I know my daughter’s grad school Creative Writing pursuits, while likely appreciated, are of little significance to this author. But, to me, there is a voluminous intricately woven world in those pursuits. I know how I influenced those pursuits. This is no prideful, self-congratulatory knowledge. My daughter’s writing comes from the wounded life I passed on to her. Her own keen sensitivities perceived the word-nursing I applied to my own pain.  They nudged her towards the academic realm shared by the hand that slides my signed purchase towards me.

This morning I wondered if I could find my password. I almost felt like a traitor, returning here. I couldn’t even remember my last entry. The one I wrote after my last visit to the same bookstore. image

 

 

Something complete and great

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 9 Comments

“At any rate, that is happiness;

to be dissolved into something complete and great.”

 – Jim in “My Antonia” – Willa Cather

Yesterday I agreed to take my daughter and her friend to a book signing promoting the work of a TV heart-throb who is also something of a decent photographer.  This is not usually my kind of gig, but it was being held at a bookstore which also houses the First Draft Pub. I am a sucker for anything which utilizes a clever play on words. But bottom line: the event was at a bookstore. Few things rouse my sacrificial inclinations like proximity to a bookstore.  I also had some romantic notions of spending Valentine’s Day huddled in a dimly lit corner with a book and a strong cup of tea. (I was driving. With children.)

Reminder: You can buy calendars for 50% off if you wait long enough.  (I am often a week late turning the monthly pages anyway.) So, one 2015 calendar, one book, two gifts, and a birthday card later, I discovered that this was not the store location with the pub. Darn! I settled for the adjoining sandwich shop, and at a small table in a long row of small tables, in front of a long row of windows, took out my just-purchased copy of “My Antonia.”  Ultimately, it would be five hours before the girls’ books were signed.  That is plenty of time to read, and as it turns out, reminisce.

My son will soon be reading “My Antonia” in school, and I invited myself to read along. Just in case he wanted to discuss it. Maybe. I, too, was in high school when I first read “My Antonia” – a high school in Nebraska, no less. I don’t remember Willa Cather being presented with sentiment beyond appropriate reverence and appreciation. She was not God; she was not worshiped. She had moved to Nebraska at age nine and left the state in early adulthood. This was my exact journey. I do not know if Miss Cather made any promises before she left Nebraska, but I promised my high school Music/English teacher that I would one day read Cather’s “Song of the Lark.” More than anything I ever studied about Cather, it was this request that hinted at her significance and perhaps that of all young women setting off into the world – even mine. I was, after all, a girl with a song in her heart.

Cather was nearly a century ahead of me in discovering both the harsh realities and secret treasures of rural Nebraska life. Her writing is evidence that my memories are not mistaken. The forces of earth and sky she describes were still breathing life into persevering inhabitants when I lived there, and by Chapter V, the words on the pages had been replaced with my own recollections.

I felt the silty bottom of the Niobrara River washing from beneath my  bare feet as I trudged waist deep against its murky current. I felt sticky sap against the rough bark of  fragrant ponderosa pine branches. (Climbing those pines was something like an act of human Velcro antics.) I smelled the sweetness of haystack straw, its nimble shafts gentle in their pricks to sliding backsides. I felt the lung-biting coldness of a dazzling day-after-a-blizzard.

Despite the aspirations of movie plots, I cannot transfer these memories to my son. He will experience Antonia’s world with only Cather’s interpretation. That will, I am sure, more than suffice.

Detour

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ Leave a comment

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“It is not a happy thing to be a writer; imagination is a writer’s greatest gift but it can be a torture in everyday life. A poet never knows when or how his ecstasy or melancholy will seize him; the same people, the same place, the same things can fill him with joy one day, misery the next.”

– Hans Christian Andersen as quoted in Hans Christian Andersen by Rumer Godden.

As far as vacation sites go, it was not the most picturesque. In fact, in some ways it reminded me of a few modest plots in the small towns where I grew up. The clapboard house with the creaky wooden floors and maze of rooms and tiny hidden closets closely resembled ones where my brother and I spent hours creating and furnishing secret hideouts. (Not together, mind you; we only collaborated with friends, fighting territorial wars that undoubtedly erased any question in the mind of our long suffering mother, as to whether or not she really was housing monsters in the attic.)

This humble little getaway cabin did not overlook any scenic views, either – unless you consider parking lots of LDS wards to be “scenic.”

The interior scenery was not completely devoid of interest, however. There was an antique picture of a naked baby on the wall of the breakfast nook. My daughter nicknamed him Toby after the supposed specter who haunts a friend’s house. It only took a day for the kids to quit complaining about the little bare butt that shined over every meal we ate at the table. Soon we were too engrossed in our individual and corporate vacation pursuits to be bothered (too much) by bare baby butts. Since we found little inspiration looking out the windows – except for the minature one in the pantry that had apparently once housed a place for a one-nest chicken coop (Open window; grab egg; breakfast!) – we turned to looking to the skies. They did not disappoint our eyes or our ears.

Every afternoon a glorious beast of a thunderstorm rolled in over the White Mountains. This was not Sandburg’s fog coming in “on little cat fee.” It came on the paws of a black panther stealthily hunting its prey. Lightning flashed and the lights flickered as it crept. At its best it felt like the beast and prey were tumbling and scrappling right through the crooked passages of the cabin. It jolted and jarred the joists and jambs. We feared Toby’s little butt would come crashing down on the groaning planks.

We all agreed it was “perfect weather.” We sprawled on day beds and couches, curled under tall lamps in rocking chairs. We took up blankets. We took up our books. For the first few storms I fought boas and flew sorties with Roald Dahl in Africa. And then, as the Mormans commanded their troops across the street and my husband commenced the grand loading project, I stole the last few moments following Hans Christian Andersen down the cobbled streets of Copenhagen. That’s when I found the quote from his sad tormented hand.

On the way out of town and with a low gas tank, we took a wrong turn which led to an unintentional detour through the Apache reservation. It was scenic.

A to Z Blog Challenge: Day 2

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 5 Comments

Today is “B” day in the blog challenge.  I haven’t checked the stats, but it seems like B words ought to be one of the biggest occupants of the English dictionary.  It was tempting to choose blogging or books.  I even thought about transcribing the entire Berenstains’ B Book, as I spent a good portion of my life with a kid or two or three on my lap reading it till I was sure I was blue or brown or burgundy in the face…”Big brown bear, blue bull, beautiful baboon…”  But I’ve decided to stick with boiling up food-related themes.  Here I seek to bolster support for breading.

It seems like breading gets a bum rap these days, but I’ve learned from one of the country’s most credible weight loss programs that it can be used in healthy ways.  And lo and behold it’s actually quite quick and easy to make something taste “special.”  All you have to do is take 4-ounce cuts of turkey or chicken breast (sometimes I pound the chicken breasts to 1/4 inch thickness) or boneless pork tenderloin cutlets, season them with salt and pepper, brush both sides with a thin coating of reduced fat mayonnaise and press them into Italian-seasoned bread crumbs.  Place them on a lightly greased broiler pan and broil them 4 inches from the heat for 3-4 minutes on each side.

I will be completely befuddled if this method doesn’t boost your opinion of breading.

Recordings to Hear Before You Die

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 6 Comments

I noticed a fantastic phenomenon as my children were exchanging gifts this Christmas: much of it centered around music – CD’s, downloads, band T-shirts, concert tickets, etc.  Though they range in age from 10 to 24, this was common ground for them all.

I also noticed – while I was crying tears of joy over the symphony tickets that three of them gave me (Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue performed by the Phoenix Symphony!) and my husband was perusing his new Rolling Stones book – that the kids were all burbling about bands I’d never heard of.   I love their audacious sense of musical exploration.    In fact, they’ve inspired me to begin an adventure of my own.

Actually, I suppose it would be more honest to  say that my kids have re-inspired me.  I’ve wanted to embark upon this adventure ever since I gave my husband the book, “1000 Recordings to Hear Before You Die” for our 25th wedding anniversary.  I thought we could spend our next 25 years working our way through it.  My husband and I always exchange gifts we’d like to receive ourselves; I give him books, he gives me cooking utensils – with the exception of that particular instance, when he gave me a trip to Ireland.  Utensils or not, his gifts usually top mine.  Neither of us, however, have made any progress in the book.  Until today.

Today is my birthday.  I am now the age my father was when he died.  Not only am I struck, once again, by how young he was, but I’m amazed at how I’ve seen God do so much through a life cut so short.  My siblings and I – the abundant bounty and adventures of our lives – are evidence that God does indeed “restore the years that the locust have eaten.” (Joel 2:25)  Our father’s years were short, but they have been restored through the lives of his children and grandchildren – at least that’s the way I see it.   For me, this has meant a life rich in music and books.  That is why this book – about music – is the perfect capstone for a birthday which is for me wrapped up in no small amount of bewilderment and blessing.

I’ve added a new page to my blog, “Song Journal.”  It is in no way intended as an alternative to Tom Moon’s book.  It is, however, based upon his interesting and inspiring recommendations.  I hope you’ll join me on this adventure.

Judging a book

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 10 Comments

My husband is a master gift disguiser, beginning with our first Christmas together in our lower level one-bedroom in the shadow of the Rockies.  While our upstairs neighbor was getting high and coming up with new schemes to try to borrow money from us, and our kitten, Haley, was cometing around our Charlie Brown Christmas tree, he was wrapping up nuts and bolts for masterful plots of deception.  This year is no different.  Let the games begin.

I take a different tack – especially when it comes to wrapping up the plots themselves.  This year I’m intentionally going out of my way to make them obvious.  Whether you asked for a book or not, you’ll be able to tell that you’re getting one.  Your eye will spy it and you’ll be tempted to laugh at my inept skills in the art of surprise, but as you handle the rectangular packages with the tell-tale indentation on one side, you’ll be sucked into unraveling my own little yarn.  You’ll unknowingly be reading the unwritten message on the back of the package.  You can’t see the words, but with Braille-like finesse you’ll be reading them:

“Herein lies a book.  It may or may not be one from your wish list.  It may have been especially selected because the giver spied it on a shelf or a bin in a bookstore and lovingly perused the contents and thought it would be the perfect one for you.  As your imagination grapples to get its bearings, picture yourself reading this book – a Mystery for now – cuddled up in that overstuffed chair in the dimly lit corner opposite the twinkling, fragrant tree.  While everyone else is at the kitchen table destroying one another in a raucous game of Skip-Bo, you’ll be lost in your own little world – whatever world that is – whatever world you are holding in your hands right now.  You’ll sense the presence of your loved ones and that will comfort you and embolden you to unreservedly strike out on a new journey through pristine, unsullied pages – or perhaps through pages a little yellowed, a little musty, a little marked with a mysterious stranger’s inky scribbles.  No, you can’t precisely judge it by its wrapping.  Its size and feel have told you enough to hook you.  Like every good story, you won’t really know where it will take you until you unwrap it.  That will happen soon enough, but for now just keep rereading this teaser, this prologue to hours of happiness.  The more you do, the more you’ll wonder and the more enthralling will be that moment when you finally know to which world you’re headed.“