Girls in White Dresses

This month I’ve been reading …

I began the month by scavenging “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” from my daughter’s readings from school. Just an aside here, but I find it a bit annoying that my book fees include purchasing each book the girls read in class during middle school (and with 3 girls within 4 years, that means I’m buying 3 copies of each book. What a gravy train for the authors, although in this case at least, I suppose she’s dead). So I grabbed a copy of “Murder” from an avalanching pile and began reading.

I’m normally not much of a mystery person. My main foray into the genre came about 15 years ago, when a friend and I listened to audiobooks as we carpooled our 30-minute drive to work. We listened to several mysteries with a cat theme (googling a little, maybe the “Cat series” books by Lilian Jackson Braun?). They were enjoyable, and I enjoyed this one as well. The suspense, the clues – it was just entertaining. I don’t want to spoil things, but I’ll say that I considered the book’s final twist about halfway through, and all but guessed it outright by the final few chapters. Intriguing and just fun to read. Recommended.

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Since writing my own memoir, I’ve been picking up several others in that genre. “I Love You, Miss Huddleston” was an example. Philip Gulley grew up about 100 miles from me, and preceded me by just a few years, so our formative years were quite similar, to the point where I’d swear he was copying my book in spots (if he hadn’t written his first). This was an enjoyable foray into the ’70s, although its appeal to me was a bit limited because of the boy’s perspective. I can only read about stunts like shooting aeresol cans or throwing mannequins from bridges for so long before I long for a doll and a little intellectual thinking. That’s just me, though — if you grew up in the ’70s (and especially if you were a boy), check it out.

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“The Joyous Season” by Patrick Dennis was written the year of my birth, 1964, and the best way to describe it is truly a trip into the past, the past being New York of the 1950s. It’s the tale of Kerry, age 10, who tells the story, and his family. His parents get divorced, each finds a new love interest, plans a new wedding, and finally … well, I won’t spoil the ending for you. What stuck out to me was that this book was pretty much the definition of a “period piece.” You see women in pink furs, households with “colored” servants, a big emphasis on society and one’s place in it that we just don’t seem to emphasize (or at least mention out loud) nowadays. Even the writing style took me back … lots of italicized words and over-the-top, campy humor. It wasn’t really my style of book, but it was an interesting look at a bygone time period.

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Books like “This Boy’s Faith” are pretty much the reason I felt compelled to publish my memoir. It’s about a boy who grew up Baptist, seemed fine with it at the time, and then became an adult. It’s about “growing up Baptist … and then growing up,” as the jacket reads. I enjoyed Hamilton’s tales of his childhood (well, mostly – this book veered way farther into explicit areas than I’m comfortable with), but then he kept having to prove to us, over and over, how smart he is. Each chapter’s tale of a childhood incident ended with a flight into symbolism, such as this:

Somewhere beyond our city, a cyclone seethed across a continent, angrier than any storm we’d seen, mauling the innocent and the guilty: gritty ghettos, down-on-their-luck towns, the groomed fairways of the country clubs. Abandoned pueblos out west, where no one saw it coming, where no one mounted the cliff ladders in fear, where scarves of hummingbirds still blessed the air.

I kind of felt like I was in senior lit class: what exactly is the deep meaning here? He also throws in words like meshugana, marmoreal, charcuterie … okay, then, Hamilton, the author bio tells us you graduated “with high distinction,” no need to rub it in.

Hamilton’s adult angst seems to have been precipitated by the birth of his oldest son, who has a severe handicap. Hamilton is peeved at his parents, who don’t spend the time and effort on him and his family that he feels they should. They’re spared nothing in this book: we clearly understand that Hamilton sees them as hicks who say “I-raq” (horrors!), vote Republican “because they stand for Christian values, Son,” and don’t like Howard Dean. Never mind that his mom has survived breast cancer and the death of a child herself; he still can’t forgive her for not meeting his every need.

Sorry for the rant, but the author’s embodiment of every liberal stereotype really annoyed me. It was a perfect example of the left’s tolerance for everything other that what is different from them. It’s too bad that this had to become the book’s focus; the memories themselves could have made for an enjoyable read.

El sueno de la razon produce monstruos, Hamilton opines in the final pages. I googled it, since I ain’t smart like him, but it means “the sleep of reason brings forth monsters.” Watch out, all you religious folks out there! Monsters be comin’ to getcha! We can all — perhaps? — be grateful that reason has awoken in members of the left.