Reading | Books By Anthony Doerr

^The books are beautiful outside as well as inside, and that makes me happy.

Cloud Cuckoo Land | Anthony Doerr
Memory Wall| Anthony Doerr
The Shell Collector| Anthony Doerr  
All The Light We Cannot See| Anthony Doerr
Four Seasons in Rome| Anthony Doerr 
About Grace| Anthony Doerr

Anthony Doerr (pronounced as door) writes with lyrical sensitivity. 

Every word a poem, 

Every sentence with aching beauty. 

Paragraphs leave me breathless. 

Doerr often tells his stories through the eyes of children, employing their innocence as well as the precarious razor's's edge of their coming of age. He loves to write about people who love nature, science, the study of the earth. His plots, intriguing in their own right, often yield to the patiently detailed descriptions of the particular time and place in which his characters find themselves. Complex emotions abound, and without offering any spoilers, it's fair to say that Doerr is a master of satisfying conclusions that don't always spell out every detail, yet provide the reader a bit of gentle space to imagine exactly how things might have ended up. 

Of Doerr's six books, I could never choose a favorite but I can offer some distinctions between them, and a hint of the treasures that lie within.

In no particular order:

Cloud Cuckoo Land centers around an ancient and whimsical (fictional) folk tale about a man who, in his lifelong pursuit of visiting a celestial city, turns into a donkey and then a fish and then a bird. Doerr's story reveals how that folk story changes the destinies of three groups of listeners scattered across a millennium. Ideally suited for readers who enjoy discontinuities, shifting timelines, and loose ends that are gathered together in ways that simply take your breath away.

Memory Wall is a collection of short stories centered on the theme of memory, including one that follows a Chinese woman coming to terms with the fact that her ancestral village is about to be flooded by a new dam, and another featuring a woman who survived the Holocaust yet, many decades later, still dreams of her childhood friends who did not.

The Shell Collector is Doerr's debut - a collection of short stories featuring the connections between humans and nature. The title story highlights one of Doerr's signature scientific passions: sea shells; the final story plots the complexity of a married couple - one from Africa, the other Ohio - struggling to make a home in world that does not feel utterly foreign to either one or the other. 

All The Light We Cannot See tells the story of children coming of age during World War II. We meet a newly converted French resistance fighter who happens to be blind, and a reluctant Nazi radio operator whose paths slowly and inexorably converge as they both struggle to make sense of the world around them. 

Four Seasons in Rome is a memoir that documents the Doerr family's one-year sabbatical in Rome. Elegant descriptions of Rome's golden light, ethereal trees, and architectural treasures are interposed with unabashedly realistic descriptions of life with newborn twin sons. 

About Grace is the story of one man, David Winkler, and his astonishing gift of premonition. One night he dreams that he will be responsible for his infant daughter's death, and in his frantic efforts to prevent that from happening, his life becomes utterly unmoored. The quality of Doerr's prose is exquisite: painful yet heart stirring, as fragile and infinitely detailed as the snow crystals with which David is consumed. 

* * * * *

Last November, like many millions of other humans around Planet Earth, my husband and I enjoyed the Netflix four-part series of All The Light We Cannot See. Aficionado of World War II stories that I am, I Googled about to discover that the story was indeed based on a book, and I promptly put in a hold for a library copy.

What we eat is a poem.

Days later, casually texting with my second born, I mentioned that this story was a gem and suggested that she might like to read it. "I've already read it; I love that author," she explained. "Anthony Doerr wrote my favorite book."

My second born reads slowly and selectively. I didn't know she had a favorite book. 

I was now on the edge of my seat.

Without habit, the beauty of the world would overwhelm us. We'd pass out every time we saw - actually saw - a flower. 

And so my daughter explained to me that during her college semester abroad, three months in which she studied art in springtime Rome, she was assigned to read Doerr's Four Seasons In Rome and fell under its magical spell. Doerr's unfailing ability to capture

the essence of Roman sunlight, 

the gentle cascade of her flowering tree petals, 

the splashing of her fountains, 

the dark dank of her caverns and catacombs 

and of course, the unspeakable treasure of her art,

put words to the overwhelming scenes and sensations my daughter was experiencing during her very own season in Rome. 

I added that book to my library holds as well, and soon enough read every beautiful word.

(Rome) is a Metropolitan Museum of Art the size of Manhattan, no roof, no display cases, and half a million combustion engines rumbling in the hallways.

I'd always known that this daughter of mine loved her time in Rome. But now I understood, in new, more specific ways, why she loved it. I saw the swallows flitting against the achingly blue sky, heard the waters of the Tiber gently lapping at the stone embankments, all but tasted icy sweet gelato on my tongue as the sun beat down on my back. I was there with her, and felt closer to her for the sharing.

Watching teething babies is like watching over a thermonuclear reactor -- it is best done in shifts by well-rested people. 

And I thought, isn't that the most wonderful thing that books can do, to give us a shared experience, to bring us closer together with other people, saying, yes, I understand you now. 

Then I went and bought a copy of each one of Anthony Doerr's books. Because now, he is my favorite author too. 

* * * * *

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

Another Chapter

"True love stories never have endings." -Richard Bach

^ This is our latest chapter. But let me tell you the whole story.

Well, we've been at it again.

In the chilly days of January, a certain birthday elf left a surprise at my door. 

Inside this darling little package was a gift from my friend, Heidi, and wouldn't you know, the latest chapter in the long, sweet story of our collaborative game.

^ Don't let the bare feet fool you. It was not warm.

As you may know, Heidi and I went to lunch in 2011 and since I arrived first, I texted Heidi a pic of our table top, set and ready for our meal together. That image (which is of shockingly poor quality) has been bouncing back and forth ever since, telling a story between us for all these many years. With each new version of the image, one of us adjusts it in some way and sends it off for the other to make her own change. 

The chapters unfold and our story keeps growing.

^ So here's where we were: last spring, I'd sent Heidi this Easter banner. Now it was her turn  to make something new for me from these cutout letters and gold cord. 

She dismantled the banner, stacked the letters, coiled the gold cord on top, and took photos. From enlarged copies of those photos, she made an origami box. 

^  The top and the bottom of the box are made from different images, as you'll see more clearly further down. And the cord she used to tie the box shut? I do believe it's the same cord I used to string the banner. 

^ Heidi also took one of the photos she'd taken of the banner letters and coiled gold cord and created a pixelated version for a card. Super cute. 

^ And the gift inside the box? A set of three magnets, each sharing a circle of our deeply layered pattern. How fun!

Now it was my turn to write the next chapter, and this time I faced an extra challenge. Heidi's gift to me actually included three different threads of our story. How was I to choose which version - the top of the box, the bottom of the box, or the card - to move ahead?

As usual, the ideal solution popped into my head just as I was falling asleep.

A book.

I decided to make a little handmade book - Heidi is a devoted keeper of journals - and use strips of all three patterns to decorate the cover.

Here, let me show you.

^From left to right, these are my photocopies of the bottom of the box, the card, and the top of the box. 

First, I unfolded the top and bottom of Heidi's box, grabbed the card, and assigned my husband the task of making copies. Our printer is sublimely temperamental and he is better suited to fuss with it. Even so, he came to me with his head hung low, presenting me with the copies he'd made and confessing that the colors of these new copies were not true to the originals. 

But I assured him that the name of this game is transformation and it was perfectly fine to introduce some change in my new telling of the story.

^ Next I ripped the photos into strips, an inch to two and a half inches wide, and glued them front and back, inside and out, to a folded bit of white cardstock.

^ Once the glue dried, I trimmed the edges and had myself a little book cover. 

I cut a dozen pages of white printer paper to fit inside the cover, folded them in half, and used our brand new sewing machine to stitch the book together.

^Every picture tells a story and every book needs a title. Mine is short and sweet.

And thus the latest chapter in my collaborative story with Heidi has been told. 

But we are nowhere near the end.

* * * * *

Here are all the details of how our project has evolved. 

Start at the top of this list for a chronological report:

The Creative Adventures of Heidi and Diane

The Adventures Continue

Heidi Strikes Again!

It's Your Move

Another Chapter

Equinox

 "To love beauty is to see light." -Victor Hugo

Spring peepers, yes.

Pale pink cherry blossoms.

Spunky purple crocus.

Greening grass and slowly leafing trees.

And sunny days that sneak up and surprise us, delight us, warm our weary bones.

These are all vanguards of spring, brilliant waving banners that announce our side of the planet's tilt toward the sun.

But more than anything else, what heralds to me the change in the season is the light.

As the sun's angles shift, afternoon rays stream through my south facing windows. Golden sunbeams pour into my home in fresh and exciting ways; patterns of light play against every surface to announce the new season.

Spring has finally come. And, once again, its beauty leaves me breathless.

My Little Irish Lass

"Bless your little Irish heart and every other Irish part." -Irish blessing

^ My friend and me, with our lovely Irish lassies at the 2019 St. Patrick's Day parade in Seattle. 

Guess which one of us loves to dress up in costume.

After sharing most of my life with these spunky redheaded dogs, you'd think every day I'd be grateful for their many charms. 

But the truth is that with all of my setters, and these days Gracie in particular, I take certain things for granted.

The sparkle and shine in her eyes.

Her ever-wagging tail.

Her quick gait and alert posture as she hunts.

The gentle way she greets strangers, especially children.

Her unending desire to please me. 

The unmistakable look of mischief on her face when she's up to no good.

Her charm, delight, and never-ending blarney.

You would think I would appreciate every single day the magic that my lady leprechaun  - and my other Irish gentlemen before her - bring into my life. But honestly, I'm so regularly blessed with those smiling Irish eyes that I sometimes forget all I have to be thankful for.

Luckily, I celebrate a special holiday every year that reminds me of my good fortune.

I am blessed for the love of my little Irish lass. 

Watching | Masters Of The Air

^ There she is. Glamour shot of our leading lady.

 ^ And action footage of her gorgeous profile in motion. What a beauty.

^ Okay yeah, there are some actual humans in the cast as well. Meet Bucky (left) and Buck, our pilot besties with matching nicknames. They're cute.

^ But we all know the true stars of this show. 

Masters Of The Air | Created by John Shiban and John Orioff

Streaming on AppleTV

Here's a fresh World War II miniseries along the lines of Band of Brothers and The Pacific, and similarly, based on a book. This time, the action is centered around the Americans in the 100th Bomb Group in the Eighth Air Force, stationed in east England, who fly a variety of heavy duty bombing runs over Europe. Of course, there are roguish pilots, devoted underlings, affectionate English ladies, and even a bevy of rosy cheeked local children who cheer the Yanks on.

But the true stars of the show are the Flying Fortresses, the fast and high-flying Boeing B-17s perfectly designed for devastatingly lethal long-distance daytime raids over vast swathes of Nazi Germany. Most episodes feature long, loving takes of the planes droning across the Channel in precise formation, or falling from the sky in flames, or landing safely back at the airbase to the whoops and cheers of all. The entire series is a loving ode to this magnificent aircraft and to the men who so bravely and capably flew them. 

Like other miniseries in this genre, extended credits roll after the ninth and final episode to show us actual photos of the men on whom many of the characters were based, along with tidbits about their actual lives after the war. Today, more than ever before, we do well to remind ourselves of these men's dedication and sacrifice, as well as the many others who fell in battle, whose stories we don't recall. Let us remember them all and remind ourselves: never again. 

* * * * *

Though I was born 14 years after VE and VJ Days, World War II was very much a part of my childhood. My parents were teenagers during the years of the war, so neither they nor their parents served directly. But like most Americans of their day, my parents felt immensely proud of their country: still stunned by the brazen attack on Pearl Harbor, still dazzled by America's ability to rise to the challenge of this war, still horrified by the discovery of the concentration camps and the pure evil of the Third Reich's Final Solution. But proud of our nation's get-up-and-go, proud of our technological and military intelligence, proud of our boys in uniform.

My mom told us stories about the war quite often. Because even though my grandparents were too old to serve and my parents too young, my mother's mother, Clara, had a brood of younger brothers who were swept off into active duty.

Most of them came home. Uncle Dick was lost in some sort of piloting accident, but Ed, Bill, and Mickey all made it over and back in one piece each. I could never keep straight who did what, but apparently one served as a bodyguard for General Patton; another parachuted into France on D Day; a third spent time as a POW. Mom was always a bit short on facts because once they came home, my great uncles refused to talk at all about their wars.

I thought a lot about that.

I knew these uncles as towering giants - all the Belz men were well over six feet tall, huge tree trunks yet the most gentle of men. As a five-, six-, seven-year-old, I remember looking way, way up to see their faces, their sweet restrained smiles shining down on me. "She's one of Clara's," they would quietly remark to one another, and I felt a lovely sense of peace and protection.

It took some thinking for me to fully grasp that these very same men had been to war. 

They had done unthinkably dangerous things. 

They had held guns. 

They had fired guns.

They had most certainly killed people. 

And then they came home and softly laid their huge hands on top of my little head. 

How could such gentle men fight in a war?

In time, I came to understand the menacing evil of Nazi Germany. 

I understood that as much as we all hate the unthinkable act of killing other human beings, sometimes that is the only way to stop evil in its tracks. 

During the dark days after Pearl Harbor, the United States - including my sweet great uncles - had no choice but to stand up and do what is unthinkable. 

In order to protect what is good and true.

In order to protect me. 

And if I should ever be so tested, I hope I will muster a tiny portion of the unthinkable courage and infinite gentleness that I saw in my great uncles. 

* * * * *

What I'm watching lately. 

Formula 1: Drive To Survive

Masters Of The Air

Downton Abbey

Reading | What My Bones Know

What My Bones Know | Stephanie Foo

Stephanie Foo is a highly successful Malaysian-American professional in her mid-thirties. She is also a survivor of intense child abuse and abandonment. 

Seriously intense. Her parents took turns screaming at her, hitting her, humiliating her to an inhuman extreme, and threatening while driving to kill them both by sending the car over a cliff or into a cement barrier. By the time she was a teenager, both of Stephanie's parents physically and emotionally abandoned her. At least her dad kept paying the mortgage to keep a roof over her head and occasionally tossed her a few dollars for food. But beginning in high school, Stephanie was utterly alone.

As a young adult, Stephanie poured all her energy into her work to great success, but noticed that her personal relationships and her interior life were a mess. Fighting off suicidal impulses and self-destructive urges while desperately seeking answers, she began a journey toward wellness that covered many twists and turns, steps forward and back, and searching out the foremost experts in the gradually emerging world of Complex PTSD.

Eventually, Stephanie found a therapist who helped her discover two essential truths about herself: during the worst days of Covid, she marveled at her own C-PTSD-trained ability to handle tragedy and at the same time, Stephanie tapped into her enormous capacity to love. 

Stephanie says she is not healed from her C-PTSD; she's not even in remission. But she has agency and she has hope. Stephanie has realized her own strength; rather than being crushed by her emotional burdens, she has learned to dance.

* * * * *

I'm not gonna claim that my walk has been as bad as Stephanie's. My parents never laid a finger on me, neither parent ever trash talked me, and even though my dad walked away, my mother moved heaven and earth to keep a roof over my head and food on the table. 

But I've also learned that comparing trauma - even Big T trauma or what Stephanie explains as Complex PTSD - with another person is fruitless. Along with so many others, she and I both went through things that no child should ever experience, and that is common bond enough.

What's interesting to me is that despite our different journeys, Stephanie and I have come out at the same place,. As the book lays out, Stephanie's self image shattered into a thousand tiny pieces and it took her well over a decade of therapists, self-help books, and wellness exercises to finally hit upon the right combination of influences that helped her learn the necessary lessons.

The PTSD always told me I am alone. That I am unlovable. That I am toxic. But now it is clear to me: That was a lie.

Yes, I have read some super useful books and have seen a few therapists. But that's not where the main part of my journey toward healing has laid.

As a tiny child, four or five years old, I would lie in bed listening to my parents' fights wind up, and I would think, "Somewhere there is someone who loves me. Who loves me bigger than all of this. Who protects me. Who keeps me safe, even when those two cannot."

I thought it might be my teddy bear. 

But as a young adult it dawned on me. The force of love that I was feeling was and is God. 

Here's a theory: maybe I had not really been broken this whole time. 

And though my experiences with churches have ebbed and flowed over the years, my understanding of God is unwavering. He has loved and protected me through the nightmare of my childhood - and the extended nightmare of my trauma - and has kept my heart light and open. He's protected me from any sense that I was at fault for my parents' misery; my self-image has always been healthy and strong. And he showed me from a very early age that my pain makes me stronger that people who have had less traumatic lives. He has given me a heart for other people's suffering, and he's connected me countless times to other people who need encouragement and hope. Just as Stephanie learned during Covid, it is a joy to use your own pain to help others. I have felt that joy.

God has showed me how much he loves me, time after tine after time, and his love has made all the difference in my journey. 

Love, both Stephanie and I have learned, is the answer to healing ourselves. 

Over and over, the answer is the same, isn't it? Love, love, love. 

I gather than Stephanie does not have a strong faith in God, and that's fine with me. Her journey toward love took a different, more earthy route than mine but we both ended up in the same place.

Love is the answer. 

And for us children of trauma who were not properly loved by our parents, love comes to us as a priceless.gift. 

* * * * *

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

Thnks fr th Mmrs

The visual spectacle of this show can  barely be described. There were, among many other things, a man in a bunny suit, stuffed saguaros, a gigantic 3D dog head, fireworks, flames, confetti, a generous supply of bouncing balls. and a wicked light show.

I was entirely entertained. 

Once upon a time, during the naughties, my eldest daughter went to university about an hour's drive north of our home. 

At the same time, she needed monthly check-ins at her orthodontist, about a half-hour's drive south of our home.

And so it was that I found myself, once a month, making the drive up to campus to fetch her and come back home for the night. The next morning, I'd drive her to the orthodontist, then straight back up to school, and finally, home again. 

Which turned out to be about five hours of driving in less than a day.

Quite a slog, if you don't mind me saying so.

But I had a secret weapon.

I found it the first time I made this marathon trip. I was halfway to campus and bored out of my wits. Music, I thought to myself, if only I had thought to bring music. 

This was back in the days of physical CDs, so while careening down the interstate, I blindly rooted around in the glove box. My hand landed upon one slim plastic case. 

Hallelujah. 

I had no idea what it might be, but whatever was on that CD, I was listening to it.

Under the Cork Tree by Fall Out Boy.

I slipped it into the player and never looked back.

For the next year and a half, I completed these five-hour long monthly missions and blasted that CD every time. I learned every word to every song and sang at the top of my lungs. When I got to the end of the album, I'd start over. My daughter knew when I'd arrived at her dorm not because I'd texted her but because she could hear my jams from her room on the third floor.

Once she got in the car, I'd pause my music for a few minutes to chat, catch up on her news, catch her up on mine. But once we got the small talk out of the way, bam, we were back into the music till we pulled up in the driveway at home. And the next day, we'd do it all over again. 

During these trips, Fall Out Boy seeped into my soul. I've enjoyed the music they've put out since then, but the memories of my Under The Cork Tree drives have lodged deep in my soul. And so it was pure joy last week to hear the boys - now middle aged men - croon those tunes directly into my ears. 

Though this song was from their album after Cork Tree, it fit so neatly in my headspace as I scream sang it along with the crowd as Fall Out Boy played it at the show.

One night and one more time,

Thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories. 

* * * * * 

Photo credits once again to my firstborn. As usual, she had the wherewithall to take pics while I simply stood with my mouth hanging open.

Dinner at San Fermo

The Pump Room

Italian Village

Cafe Provencal

Elliot's Pine Log

The Bergoff

Philanderer's 

And every last one of the crazy, inventive Lettuce Entertain You restaurants around at the time.

A study in understated chic. 

Back in 1980, when I first landed in the Chicago restaurant scene, fine dining was all the rage.

Yes, there were countless diners and crab shacks and burger joints, most famously The Billy Goat Tavern where you could get cheezborger cheezborger cheezborger and maybe a Pepsi but certainly no Coke. 

But in my boughie world of professional accounting, we ran in the circles of fine dining.

Rooms with a view, decorated to a T.

Hushed waitstaff trained in crisp efficiency and discretion.

Lush linen tablecloths and heavy silver place settings.

And the food. Elegant, inventive, flavorful, fresh. 

I was fortunate to enjoy many an extravagant lunch or dinner on the company's pocketbook and I came to enjoy these pleasing meals as if they were second nature.

Crusty baguette, creamy butter, ginger carrot soup. Yum, yum, and yum.

Then, in a flash, my life changed.

I traded in my power lunches for a couple blueberry muffins to share with my toddlers or maybe a pizza lunch buffet. And then there were the Happy Meal years when my growing gang of girls figured McDonald's to be the end all and be all of fine cuisine.

But, you know, times change. Eventually I became a regular at hippie pita shops, semi-authentic Mexican restaurants, and that one Thai place down on the Ave that still blows my mind. As I eventually got opportunities to travel the world, I gained new respect for the food stalls, the street shops, the everyday dives that bring out the locals. Those, for my money, are usually where the best food is to be found and nowadays, those are the places I seek out for my meals away from home.

Genuine, authentic food for sure. 

But not what you'd necessarily call fine dining. 

We ordered several salads and passed them around. 

Then the entrees arrived and we stopped taking photos. 

The other weekend, I got an opportunity to eat at San Fermo, the Ballard restaurant where my brand-spanking-new nephew-in-law is working as a chef. And to my delight, I realized - as we slid past a row of two tops and squeezed past the standing crowd at the bar to work our way to a large table on the back patio - I was about to enjoy some post-modern fine dining.

The restaurant lives in a former residence, and the rooms are mostly intact, yielding a cozy, domestic vibe. The kitchen is in full view, and diners watch their meals come together just as they do at home dinner parties. Spotlights highlight formal portraits hanging on shiplap walls, looking like anybody's upscale farmhouse kitchen. Calm and cool, down to earth, the waitstaff is professional yet friendly in the egalitarian way that the postmodern world prefers. Our food is served up on a variety of mismatched vintage-esque plates; the place settings are pleasingly posh.

The food is good. Elegant, inventive, flavorful, fresh.

And while I delight in the heady experience of tasting, sharing, and chattering with my family as we enjoy our food, another part of me simply sits back and smiles to see how my dining experiences have come full circle. 

I'm enjoying a rare moment of fine dining. And I am pleased. 

* * * * *

Photo credits to my first-born.

I was too busy eating. 

* * * * *

How lucky am I to have two chefs in the family?! 

Read about my two brilliant nephews who love to cook.

Dinner At Peridot

Dinner At San Fermo

Made New In The Snow

This wasn't exactly a blizzard but it was enough of the white stuff to get my heart pounding. 

Maybe it's because I was born in the middle of a winter sleet storm where cars careened across the lanes of the highway and pedestrians crawled up and down the sidewalks outside the hospital on hands and knees, unable to stay standing on their own two feet.

Maybe it's from the countless hours little girl me spent sledding, ice skating, and traipsing around in the endless acres of my outdoor playland, not coming inside until I was so thoroughly cold I could only lie on the floor inside the front door and cry as my mother peeled off my icy layers.

Maybe it's from the four winters I trudged back and forth to my classes across the massive tundra  that was my university campus, dodging in and out of cozy buildings along the way for a blast of warm air  and temporary relief, then playing a few games of Asteroids before class to make my frozen fingers nimble enough to hold a pencil.

Maybe it's about the years I've spent skiing down sparkling white mountains and riding back up in frosty chair lifts, floating through the hushed crystal beauty. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it's about God pouring his love out onto our world, transforming all that is broken and dirty into pure sparkling, brilliant white.

What I know for sure is that when I wake up to fresh snow, as I have several times this past week, something in my soul comes alive.

And as much as I know I was born for snow, I'm pretty sure it's a God thing.

For me, God's love is made new in the snow.