Reading | The Poisonwood Bible

The Poisonwood Bible | Barbara Kingsolver

The pious Price family leaves their home in 1950s rural Georgia to embark upon a one-year mission in Africa. Zealous Pastor Price plans to convert the natives in droves via mass baptisms in the wild rivers; Mother Price and her four young girls prepare to continue their sweet domesticity in the heart of the jungle. They board their plane wearing layers of pretty dresses, pockets stuffed with vegetable seeds, cake mixes, and a highly coveted hand mirror. Father brings his bible. And so they stride into village life in the heart of the Congo, confident that they are prepared for every possible contingency.

Ha.

At turns both tragic and hilarious, the story unfolds in chapters narrated in turn by Orleanna and her girls: self-obsessed Rachel, headstrong Leah, quirky Adah, and little Ruth May who may just have an ability to see the future in surprising ways. Set against the political backdrop of mid-twentieth century African politics, the family's fortunes are affected by historically accurate events. Over the decades, each Price pursues his or her own path of redemption, and works to find a measure of peace within themselves.

Barbara Kingsolver writes with power and sensitivity and hilarity and wit. Each of the five narrators tells her story with a unique voice; charming patterns of speech and idiosyncratic vocabulary reveal to the attentive reader who is speaking at any time. In Kingsolver's competent hands, this unlikely story of an arrogant evangelical extremist caught up in corrupt colonial politics sings with excitement, hope, and love. 

* * * * * 

In 1926, fresh from college with the ink still wet on their marriage certificate, my grandparents boarded a steamer, traveled to South Africa, and launched themselves straight into the bush where they planned to live as missionaries for the rest of their lives. A year or two passed happily; their eldest daughter was born on the continent, but events soon conspired to quash their dreams and bring them back to a family business in Michigan where they lived out the rest of their days. Bitterly, my grandmother told me this story over and over again; for the rest of her life, she deeply lamented the dream she'd lost. 

"If God had amused himself inventing the lilies of the field, he surely knocked His own socks off with the African parasites."

Nowadays, our culture often casts a cold eye on international missionaries, likening them to colonial oppressors if not outright racists. I see and hear that point of view. 

But I also know that in my grandparents' day, mission work was viewed as a generous act of service toward those with fewer perceived advantages and opportunities in life. It was only through actually living side by side with African tribespeople that my grandparents - and the fictional Prices - learned that they perhaps had a thing or two to learn from the natives as well. 

"Everything you're sure is right can be wrong in another place."

Decades after she returned home from Africa, my grandmother tutored immigrants to the United States; her small town became home to a considerable number of freshly transplanted Cambodians, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Laotians. One by one, she welcomed these strangers into her home, studied English with them at her dining table, then served them coffee as they presented her with small gifts of food that they shared together. 

And while I am sorry that my grandmother felt that life had denied her dreams, I'm thrilled that her passion for serving others found a different outlet, one human being to another, in a climate of mutual kindness and respect. 

* * * * *

More stories about books I've read in 2024:

Books By Anthony Doerr

What My Bones Know

Books By Emily Henry

The Poisonwood Bible

Harvesting The Heart

Watching | Downton Abbey

Baby spoiler: the series finale features a wedding. 

Downton Abbey | Created and Co-written by Julian Fellowes

Whatever happened to that fairy tale world of English lords and ladies, of rolling green estates studded with massive castles, filled to the brim with starched servants and aristocratic fellows who spend afternoons hunting on horseback or reading leather-bound books in their massive home libraries, then dress for impossibly formal dinners followed by cigars for the gents and titillating chit chat for their ladies?

Downton Abbey presumes to answer that question, after competently familiarizing viewers with the ins and outs of the post-Edwardian lifestyle, featuring many historical events of the years from 1912 to 1926: the sinking of the Titanic, World War 1, the Spanish flu epidemic, and so on. Woven between the threads of these historical accuracies are an intoxicating series of interpersonal dramas, featuring an ensemble cast of upstairs and downstairs characters who stir up a shocking number of scandals. 

With delightfully nit-picky historical advisors on staff, period costumes galore, and the full might of the BBC at its disposal, Downton Abbey has won extensive critical acclaim, an avalanche of awards, and the hearts of its massive worldwide audience.

* * * * * 

Yes, I am over a decade late to the Downton Abbey party. Since the show began her run in 2010, I've been hesitant to watch, fearing the program was, in plain terms, a soap opera with fancy hats. Well, I wasn't wrong. Each episode features a flurry of multi-generational mishaps, feuding siblings, a constant churning of break-ups and make-ups. Think Game of Thrones, Succession, Modern Family - shoot, this genre has been tantalizing viewers since Dallas and Falcon Crest in the 1980s  It's a familiar roller coaster I found myself climbing on. 

"Sympathy butters no parsnips." -Mrs. Patmore

But oh, what a ride this old girl gives us. The finely tuned accents of the aristocrats and the baudy twangs of the house staff have been rolling joyously if a bit clumsily off my tongue in daily speech, the sensibly sensuous low heels on women's shoes of the era leave me drooling, and the indecent permutations of the family tree lead to an interminable series of "Wait, pause for a minute" moments in which I require my husband to help me puzzle out the plot. As everyone who loves this show told me I would, I fell deep into the Downton world and did not care to ever climb out. 

"No one ever learned anything from a governess except for French and how to curtsy." -Lady Sybil

The cast is brilliant, the characters complex. The real-life estate that poses as Downton is breathtaking, inside and out. The plot is a tangled web of surprising twists and turns. Yes, Downton Abbey is a magnificently grand, historically accurate spectacle of a soap opera and most definitely worth the ride. 

* * * * *

What I'm watching lately. 

Formula 1: Drive To Survive

Masters Of The Air

Downton Abbey

2023 Ornament Of The Year

My 2024 Ornament of the Year

Once I read this sentence in a business article:

"The best ideas are when you take two older ideas that have nothing to do with each other, make them have sex with each other, and then build a business around the bastard, ugly child that results." - James Altucher

Now I hear those words have been published in a book and it's a good thing because I think they are mad genius. 

And those words pop into my brain whenever I find myself putting together two seemingly disconnected ideas and discovering that I may indeed be on to something grand.  

* * * * *

Here's a story of highs and lows, wins and losses, long years spent sitting in the dark, and eventually, sweet victory.

I'll call it Sex in Sweden. Let us begin.

After years of hibernation, my salt-dough disks are free of their storage bag and ready for paint!

Back in the fall of 2019, I was noodling about in my annual pursuit of a good Christmas ornament idea, and I thought perhaps some good old-fashioned salt dough might be the perfect medium for my madness.

Spoilers: it was not. 

But I didn't discover that until after I had whipped up a jumbo batch of salt dough that now had no purpose to serve. 

Well, I jolly well couldn't waste it. So just for fun, I grabbed my mother's sturdy doughnut cutter and made as many doughnut-shaped circles of salt dough as I could.

Which turned out to be exactly 41 circles.

Then my attention turned back to my 2019 models and these 41 salt dough disks found themselves sealed into a Ziploc bag and tucked into one of my garage craft bins. 

The next year, with hope rising in my soul, I pulled them out and experimented with some white acrylic paint. Nope. Still wasn't feeling it. Back they went into the garage where they sat for several more bleak and fruitless years.

But I never forgot about them. And I knew someday their time would surely come. 

Yes! Their time has finally come! 

Now this past summer, I received an interesting and seemingly unrelated email. The good people over at 23 And Me had recently upgraded their DNA analyses and offered me a refined report on my genetic lineage.

And Lord have mercy, saints be praised, I learned that I am 11% Swedish.

I can't tell you haw much I have always longed to be Scandinavian. Oh sure, I'm happy for my Scottish, English, German, and French ancestors - not to mention my Canadian paternal grandparents - but I have always felt a deep kinship to the Norsemen and wished to be one of them.

Well. Pass the pickled herring and pour me a cup of fika, once the excitement of my newfound ancestry sunk into my bones, I knew exactly what to do with my salt-dough disks. 

This ornament mother tries not to have favorites but if I did...

So this year's ornament is an homage to my Scandinavian roots. 

Minimalist design.

Neutral colors.

Natural materials.

Wood accents.

Airiness and a sense of space.

And you know what? When I counted out how many ornaments I needed - for my extended families, my own family of six, and three friends with whom I share the tradition - there were EXACTLY enough salt-dough disks to go round.

Forty-one. Exactly. 

And one for me. God Jul!

I'm delighted with how these long-ignored ornaments have finally got their time to shine, and bring such a special celebration to my new bit of family history.

Now my story is all told out. And we are living happily and Swedishly every after.

* * * * *

For more Ornament of the Year posts, check these out:

2023

2022

2021

2020

2019

2018
2017
2016
2015
2014

2013

2012

2011

Christmas Colors

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." -John Keats

Still available for 50% off MoMA Design Storeat the 

Bang! Boom! Pow!

For the past decade or so, my Christmas decorations have featured sweetly organic whites and shimmering silvers and golds. As my life was moving though a swirl of sadness, grief, and loss, I craved the quiet, calm energy that neutrals provide. But now, as the storm clouds have mostly cleared away, I'm reclaiming joy in my life and accordingly, I'm back to seeking out the brightest, boldest colors of the season.

While I'm not sure I'll deck out the entire house in these eye-popping combinations of complementary reds, pinks, oranges and greens, you better believe these brilliant tones will be center stage come Christmas 2024.

These colors make my eyes hum with delight and my heart explode with joy and - like a pulsing star in a sky filled with angels - isn't that just exactly what Christmas is all about.

Christmas At Last

Two little girls are snuggled in their beds

Pretty dreams of Christmas running through their heads.

Downstairs is quiet, cozy as can be,

Shining like the lights on the Christmas tree.

Candles have been snuffed out, fire warms the hearth

Santy Claus is traveling all around the earth.

Tis the night before Christmas and everyone's asleep

My Christmas house is finally done; so happy I could weep.

* * * * *

Four - count 'em, four - years ago I started building this tiny holiday doll house. Though my vision was clear and my early steps certain, I eventually fell into a state of indecision and my project spluttered stalled in its path.

Yes. I know. There are monumental decisions to be made in the world of miniature crafts, and I dared not make a wrong move.

Anywho, this year, I decided, it was high time to bring some closure to this half-done holiday home. And wouldn't you know, as soon as I set my jaw and took a firm upper lip with myself - See here now, we're going to finish this once and for all! - the decisions came quickly and every little detail fell into its charming place.

* * * * *

PS You may notice that there is only one little girl asleep in her bed. The second one is currently in Ukraine being carved from a small bit of alder tree, and will be here very soon to accompany her sister. Thank goodness sister has a cat to keep her cozy till then.

* * * * *

For more on how this creation began:

My New Project

Reading | Harvesting The Heart

This is my mom's copy of the book. 

The first ten pages were lovingly wrinkled and worn;

 the rest of the pages were untouched.

Harvesting The Heart | Jodi Picoult 

If you've dabbled in the world of adult fiction in the past three decades,  you've surely heard her name. 

Jodi Picoult, rapid-fire author of family saga-style stories that shoot straight to the top of the best seller lists, without fail. 

Though occasionally and thoughtlessly attributed to the genre of "chick lit," whatever that might mean, her novels routinely target morally complex issues like abortion, autism, the Holocaust, the death penalty, school shootings, race issues, fertility issues, LGBTQ issues, and so forth. Picout writes a mean procedural plot and often weaves banging courtroom dramas into her story lines. She's funny, she's smart, she's a master of the unexpected plot twist. More than once, she's taken my breath away. 

Harvesting The Heart is the second on Picoult's long list of written works. Paige is a new mom and wife of a cardiac surgeon and - most likely because her mom abandoned Paige when she was five - has deep doubts about her ability to mother. So she runs away from her own family to reconnect with her dad and track down her long lost mom. Along the way, Paige draws on her extraordinary gift for drawing to make sense of herself, and eventually makes peace with her husband and child. 

This is a perfectly fine book. But it doesn't hold a candle to the rich complexity and shining beauty of Picoult's later works. If you start here, keep going. Picoult has grown considerably as an author and has much more to offer than Harvesting the Heart.

* * * * * 

All her life a voracious reader, my mom enjoyed a good book even more during the early days of her dementia. As the rest of her world slowly closed down, Mom fell further and deeper into the magic of a well-crafted story. The local librarians understood her journey and took to steering Mom toward novels they thought she would like. They even held back new releases from the shelves to put directly into her hands, saying, "Here, Grace. You're going to love this one."

"I was starting to see that the past might color the future, but it didn't determine it."

And Jodi Picoult's novels Mom especially loved. More than once, she'd ask me, "Have you read Jodi Picoult's latest? Oh, she's so good." 

But I never did.

It was after one of her falls that my increasingly confused mom ended up staying in a rehab facility, and lamented to me that she couldn't find anything good to read. Without even attempting to explain the magic powers of Amazon, I told her I'd take care of the problem. Shortly after my shipment of books arrived - one of them being Harvesting The Heart - I paid a visit to my mom. 

She literally beamed with delight as she thanked me for sending her the books. Every single person who passed into her room got a dose of her sunshine; "Look what my daughter sent me! My favorite author!" Mom held the book on her lap as we chatted in her room, as she was wheeled to the dining room, as she rolled in for physical therapy. "Look what my daughter sent me!" She said it a dozen times a day.

And a dozen times a day, Mom would open the book to read it. But I noticed that she always turned to the same page, near the front of the book. And no matter how long she sat in front of that page, she never turned it. After my week-long visit, she was still opening her book to the exact same page. 

"I can stand on my own in a world that is falling apart. I can stand so well, I realize, that I can support someone else."

I'm quite sure that Mom never did finish reading that book. When it came time to pack up her home, I took it with me, knowing in my bones that someday, this book deserved a read. 

It sat on my bookshelf for a long time.

This summer, I decided to read not only Harvesting The Heart but the whole Picoult catalog. 

It's hard to say 

how warm and moving I found her books to be, 

how much I enjoyed reading them one after another, 

how deeply I appreciated the gift of her work, 

how close I felt my mother's presence as I read them.

"Perhaps he'd always known that the truth of a person lies in the heart."

And now that I've finished, I can say this with certainty.

Mom, you're right. Jodi Picoult really is so good.

* * * * *

More stories about books I've read in 2024:

Books By Anthony Doerr

What My Bones Know

Books By Emily Henry

The Poisonwood Bible

Harvesting The Heart

Ready To Fly

Tonight.

My home is a place where I feel comfortable.

Safe.

Secure.

Able to be fully myself.

Ready to take chances and try on new wings to see if I can fly.

And when, as it was this week, my home is tucked under a blanket of snow, it feels like magic too.

Thirteen years ago, on this very day, I began my blog. And ever since, it has been a place where I feel comfortable.

Safe. Secure. Able to be fully myself. Ready to take chances and try on new wings to see if I can fly.

And when, as I do today, I write on a snowy day, my words feel like magic too.

So here's to a fresh new year of writing. 

May I take chances, 

write about hard things, 

be honest about myself, 

and always, always be ready to fly. 

* * * * *

My first blog post ever. I still think it's very sweet.

Snow Makes All Things New

One Of My All-Time Favorite Guys

[source: Seattle Seahawks Facebook page]

Also: Diane Streicher on Pete Carroll.

A heavy sadness has been hanging over my heart this week.

Sadness.

Grief.

Loss.

And the undeniable fact that one of my favorite people in the whole wide world has taken a step back from his everyday influence in my life. 

Yes, as a surprise to really no one in the world of the Seattle Seahawks, Coach Pete Carroll is transitioning away from his position as head coach.

He didn't quit.

He didn't get fired.

It's more of a conscious uncoupling, if you will, to allow some fresh blood into the club leadership while still preserving a measure of Pete's wisdom and expertise. Here, read how owner Jodi Allen said it for herself in the official press release:

[source: Seattle Seahawks Facebook page]

So yeah. I know. He'll still be around.

He'll still be a part of the Seahawks magic.

He'll live on forever in the hearts of us 12s.

But what Pete Carroll will no longer do is put on displays like this one in his post game locker room team talks.

And because of that, I will miss him forever.

* * * * * 

More stories about Pete Carroll and his Seahawks:

Tonight Is The Night

Two Kinds Of Heroes

Finding A Way

Super Bowl Superlatives

The Difference Between Cam Newton and Russell Wilson

Reading Mornings

Smile Mode

The Joyful Now

 

Gracie's Grandma

My mom, for whom my dog, Gracie, was named, was obsessed with quilts.

She made them, by hand and by machine, with infinite patience and precision that boggled my mind.

She styled her finished products with flair, draping them across the open door of an antique cupboard, folding them just so over an old trunk, or of course, spreading them out over a bed with coordinating but contrasting (she was never a matchy-matchy kind of lady) pillowcases and maybe a vintage teddy to boot.

And when it came to protecting her beautiful quilts, my mom was all over it. She washed them by hand and dried them in the fresh air, and stored them safely away from the fading rays of the sun. And while she always allowed - even encouraged - my little daughters to climb up and explore her quilts at close range, she also made a habit of subtly turning down her fragile pieceworks just before the girls hopped up into the bed at night to minimize the wear and tear.

Now that she's gone, a handful of her oldest and most prized quilts lives on in my linen closet; now and then, they come out, one by one, to make an appearance on one of our beds where they are treated with the utmost care. As they deserve.

The sturdy red and white quilt she used on her bed every day spends several weeks during Christmas on my bed. In these mornings, I wake up to find my big red hairy beast of a dog swaddled in my mother's precious quilt. 

It's a jarring sight.

And I often struggle as I imagine what my mom might say to this gross appropriation of her pristine workmanship.

But then I remember. If there's anything my mom loved more than quilts, it was big red dogs. Especially of the hairy beast variety.

And I imagine her beaming down from heaven - much closer than we think - to see her namesake puppy dog wrapped up in her lovely quilt. 

And everything feels just right.

Happy birthday, Gracie, from your grandma and me.

Carrying Christmas

My furry philosopher.

For some people, it’s the day the tree comes down. 

For others, it may be the moment when the last holiday cookie is eaten, or the final scraps of wrapping paper hit the recycling bin, or the heaps of new gifts on the coffee table are finally given a proper home. 

For me, Christmas is officially over when my out-of-town daughters go back home. 

Today was that day. I woke up ridiculously early with a pang in my stomach, an ache in my heart, and the sad feeling of letting go. 

Mothers do not like to let go of their adult offspring, no matter how brave they may try to be.  It’s hard and sad. Every time. 

But off to the airport we went. And even when I returned home, the glum post-holiday mood hung over me like a heavy fog and I felt that familiar despair that comes around this time of year. Christmas is over, the celebration has passed, and I have nothing to look forward to. 

And then I looked at my dog. 

She’s a sunbeam, this Gracie of mine, and she all but sang out to me: “Mom! It’s okay! Every day is fun when we’re together!”

The waves of sadness ceased. A rush of calm washed over me. I felt bathed in a pool of peace. 

Because I knew in a flash that my dog was right. As long as we carry them in our hearts, the peace and joy of Christmas live on throughout the year. . 

Fresh Start

Alright, with January 1, 2024 officially in the books, my birthday celebration is now done and dusted, and I'm looking to kick the rest of my year off with gusto. 

Where, pray tell, does one go to 

restore the body,

refresh the soul, and 

reset the mind 

all at the same time?

Easy. The beach.

^ I can't begin to imagine how many times I've stood in this exact spot, staring out at the murky grey sea and sky northwest of Mukilteo Beach, and drawing in a breath of delight as the one of the ferries - the Suquamish or the Tokitae - peeps out from its berth and sets sail across Possession Sound to the fair isle of Whidbey. Despite the unrelenting monotones, this sight never fails to fill me with wonder and joy.

^ Speaking of wonder and joy, the neighbors to the north of the beach added a small, cheerily lit Christmas tree to the end of their pier. He's such a fierce little holiday tiger to face the elements this way, and simply demands me to smile. I do.

^ You know what else makes me smile? The marine mammals that put on a show for us today. No photos but my memory carries perfect images. The second beast we see is some sort of seal who saucily splashes its head out of the water, draws two deep and rasping breaths, quickly swivels to take in the surroundings, then slips back down to swim away. But just moments before that, we are treated to a chose-up with a harbor seal not ten yards from our feet. She pops her head up, and we make out the contours of her face: her eyes, her nose, her mouth. She is a pale white ghostly thing and her beautiful image haunts me even now. 

^ Okay, time to move inland and enjoy the lighthouse. As usual, her front doors are decked out in holiday cheer and we are powerless to resist many snaps of her charm.

^ The twinkle lights around the doors don't put on much of a show, even in the midafternoon gloom, but the wreaths give me all the holiday swag I need. 

^ As we wander back to the car, feeling satisfied and serene, my eyes fall on this faded hydrangea bloom and surprisingly, a zing of excitement shoots through me. Rather than see it as a worn-out relic of seasons past, I see this old girl as a promise of all that is to come - another full year of growth and fullness and joy. 

And I know that my new year is definitely off to a fresh start. 

Embracing Change

Happy cheesecake to me!

Ever since I was in middle school, I’ve been requesting angel food cake for my birthday. 

Yeah. Fifty-plus years I’ve been celebrating with that light, tangy sponge, the crispy layer of pink glaze, perhaps a spoonful of fresh raspberries, and the delightfully cooling hit of vanilla ice cream. There’s a lot to enjoy about my lifelong birthday treat of choice and I’ve loved every minute of the delicious ride. 

But a few years back, something awoke in me. 

“Sure, angel food birthday cake is great,” my inner change-maker observed. “But what else could you choose?”

Game-changing moment. 

Since my epiphany, I’ve mixed it up. No conventional cakes for me - my daughters cover the chocolate and carrot cake bases thoroughly on their own birthdays so I’ve been exploring new directions. 

A spongy trifle? Check. 

Banana cream pie? Why not?

This year, I chose a New York cheesecake. Extra lemon for plenty of zest. And it was delicious. 

Next year, who knows? I may go back to good old angel food; that’s always an option. But for now, I am embracing change. 

* * * * * 

A tour through just a few of my angel food birthday cakes of the past:

An Angel Food Birthday Cake

New Year's Resolutions And A Birthday Cake

A Trio Of Baked Goods