Gone Girl

I'm not going to tell you much about this book's content. I don't want to ruin the experience for you, because I truly hope you will read it.

I am going to tell you how this book made me feel.

I first met Gone Girl at the Barnes and Noble at Brier Creek. I crossed the threshold on a rainy Sunday afternoon. When I stumble into bookstores, I never have a plan. I simply arrive, and the books find their way into my hands. I picked up the book from a center table, intrigued by the cover. I'd heard of it, but knew nothing about the story itself.

I opened it to the exact middle and was immediately pulled by the world inside. I am pretty sure my nose was still in the book when I paid for it, and as I walked outside.

Gone Girl is a story that you get lost in for days, emerging on the other side, dazed; while remnants of the book world cling to your subconscious, littering your real word with bits and pieces of imagination.

Gillian Flynn weaves a hell of a tale. I lived in that book for two days. Turning page after page after page.

If you're already a bookworm, you're familiar with late nights, staying awake reading, skipping sleep. Those nights don't happen with every book, only the truly mesmerizing and magnetic stories.

Gone Girl is the story of Nick and Amy Dunne.

On the morning of their fifth anniversary, everything is perfectly normal. She sings in the kitchen, as she cooks their breakfast, wearing a pretty little blue apron. They exchange words pleasantly and he left.

Amy disappeared.

Nick came home to find the door open, broken glass strewn about, an overturned ottoman.

What follows is a twisty tale full of surprises mysteries, and complete utter insanity.

What I really hated about this book was the ending. It angered me, infuriated me. As I related the story to a coworker, I was full of rage.

This story, was absolutely phenomenal. The way Gillian wove both Nick and Amy's tale together, throwing in amazing curve balls that kept me turning the pages like a maniac.

I HATED her ending. The ending was weak. I feel like she was running late on a deadline, and hurriedly finished the end.

I want to tell you how I would have written the ending, but that will ruin the story for you.

Despite my disagreements with the author's decision, overall, this was a GREAT book and I'd suggest you go pick up a copy right now. (Libraries are great, by the way.)

My copy.

This post is part of the 31 Days of Bibliophilia series. 

The Seagulls Woke Me

"It's gone, but I knew it when I had it, when the island was my home, and every morning the seagulls woke me."

The Seagulls Woke Me (by Mary Stolz, published in 1951) is easily one of my favorite books. (I suspect I will be saying, "my favorite book" all month long so you may have to get used to it.)

I discovered it when I was in very early adolescence. Mine is a beautiful blue hardcover with a cute little seaside village and little white seagulls, done in the style of Matisse, flying across the top. I loved it from the moment I first read it, and I've carried it with me from my childhood to now. I still re-read it every couple of years, usually take it with me on any trip to the beach. 

It's the story of Jean. A quiet, sixteen year old high school misfit, who had given up on having any social life. Her favorite thing to do with her time, when not at school, was to stay home and read books. (Yes, there may be a few similarities between the two of us/)

Her mother, while keeping her in long, braided hair, dressed in handmade clothes, pushed her to be more social at school. A classic introvert, she was an outcast. A boy invited her to a school dance. Jean only wanted to go to make her mother happy. Her mother happily went shopping with her for a dress. Jean, horribly uncomfortable with the idea of shopping, accepts the first dress she tries on. A horrid taupe-colored creation, that was hideous. It turned out the boy was just as awkward and odd as she, and he left her to fend for herself. She walked home, giving up on the night entirely.

Soon after, her parents received a letter from her aunt and uncle, inviting her to come stay with them at their Maine inn over the summer. They offered her room and board if she would help around the place. Jean had never been there. She wasn't even told about the letter until after the disastrous experience at the school dance. Her father convinced her mother to let her go. Her mother still viewed her as a child, treated her as one; but her father knew she needed to be allowed to grow up.

She was tossed onto a train, her bags meticulously packed by her worried mother, with many stiffly pressed dresses, and brand new, starched “blue jeans.”

What greeted Jean at the little New England island was a completely different world. She was used to hiding in her room, staying away from people. The environment at the inn was one of blusterous productivity. There was a group of five college aged kids who worked for her aunt and uncle, mostly taking care of the guest meals, and little odd jobs around the place. 

At first Jean was very hesitant, afraid to dip her toes in the water. Her first night witnessing the whole group clean up after dinner is a lovely scene. All of them are cracking jokes, laughing, and working as a well-designed team. She leaned back against the wall and absorbed the sight, relishing in its warmth. Max, who had wiggled out of dish washing duty, planted himself on a chair, and played his accordion. She picked up a towel and helped dry the dishes. 

I won't share all of Jean's stories, because I want you to read this book. But I will share a few.

There was a dog who loved to rock in the rocking chair on the front porch, serenely looking across the harbor. He would jump off the porch and glide away if anyone happened to catch him; it was as if part of the joy for him was doing it in secret. 

Jean went out in the crab boat with her uncle, into the ominous fog of the predawn hours. Warmed by a thermos of hot clam chowder, and a borrowed sweater, she learned how to pull up the crab traps and reset them.

Jean was accepted in the group without stipulation; and, most importantly, she learned to accept being accepted. She fell in love with the nerdy, argyle-sock-wearing, young man named Max.

What I love most about the story is Jean's transformation. She discovered herself. No, she created herself, over that summer. The girl who returned was not the same person her parents had shipped off to Maine. She had cut off her hair into a much more hip and stylish bob. She was sunburned and windblown. Her jeans were well-worn and dirty. She was a bright and shining light among her new friends. They had difficult time recognizing their daughter. She was no longer a stranger to herself, she grew into who she was supposed to be.

This is one of those books that I wish had never ended. I always wished I knew what happened to the characters. Where did Jean end up? With Max? What happened when she went back to school?

If I were to write an epilogue, I'd put her right back at that little coastal inn, with her love Max, and the rocking chair dog.

My copy of The Seagulls Woke Me, May 14, 2011, Beaufort, North Carolina, USA

This post is part of the 31 Days of Bibliophilia series. 

Only the Cat Saw

Only the the Cat Saw (by Ashley Wolff) is an illustrated book that my Aunt Roma gave me when I was a very young girl. I might have been five or six years old, but I can't quite remember.

There are not very many words in it. The illustrations are beautiful full-color paintings.

It's the story of a small orange farm cat. He’s nocturnal, as most cats are, and it tells us his story: his adventures, and what he sees, all while people and other animals are busy, sleeping, working, or doing other things.

He sees the mother, sitting in a rocking chair in a corner of the house, nursing a new baby; she’s singing softly to the new baby, in the peace and stillness.

He sees the farmer out in the garage, fixing the red tractor; then he walks out on the lawn and sees hundreds of fireflies in the grass.

He sees an owl hunting a small mouse in the shadows, under the low light of the moon.

He sees lightning outside, and rain pouring down the kitchen window. 

He sees the animals in the barn, getting all tucked in for the night. There is a small family of brown dogs (the mamma and puppies) and they get all settled in cozily into a cute little basket.

The book closes on an image of the cat, fast asleep in a basket on a rug, as the rest of the family wakes up to start the new day.

The message of the book (for me) is to slow down, and see. Observe. Pause. Notice things. Notice the details that everyone else misses. 

I know it might seem silly for my first post to be about a children's book, but this may be where it all began for me. Out of all the books I read with I was little, this book has stayed with me through the years. It's the first book I ever remember.

Thank you Aunt Roma, from the bottom of my heart - you ignited my lifelong passion for books.

This post is part of the 31 Days of Bibliophilia series. 

31 Days of Bibliophilia

My friend Corie Clark recently suggested that I participate in a 31 day writing challenge. At first, I was very skeptical. I thought (to myself), the internet will be FLOODED with words! I know many writers, and we share and promote each other's words. Sometimes, I get a little jaded.

I feel like the universe is inundated with tellers and speakers and writers, but not many listeners and readers. However, an idea flitted across my brain this morning; and, based on the gentle prodding of my friends (also thanks to Amy Latta), I'm going to grasp it, believe in it, and, before my courage wains, run with it.

I'm going to write "31 Days of Bibliophilia." What is bibliophilia? No, it's not a odd disease or weird phobia. Bibliophilia is the love of books. According to Wikipedia, "The classic bibliophile is one who loves to read, admire and collect books, often amassing a large and specialized collection." A much simpler (and more common) explanation: I'm a bookworm!

As George R.R. Martin wrote, "A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one." I've always been a book lover. I love living many lives. I love the knowledge, the random facts, and the "big words" that surprise people when they manage to cascade joyfully from the recesses of my brain.

I will be posting every day and linking all in this post. 

Day One: Introduction
Day Two: Only the Cat Saw
Day Three: The Seagulls Woke Me

Day Four: Gone Girl
Day Five: The Scarlet Pimpernel
Day Six: Look Through my Window
Day Seven: The Maze Runner
Day Eight: The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle
Day Nine: The Book Thief
Day Ten: The Witch of Blackbird Pond
Day Eleven: Outlander
Day Twelve: Wise Words about Books
Day Thirteen: Farmer Boy
Day Fourteen: The Ordinary Princess
Day Fifteen: The Adventures of a Bibliophile
Day Sixteen: A Tale of Two Cities
Day Seventeen: Joyland
Day Eighteen: The Fault in Our Stars
Day Nineteen: a few words about books
Day Twenty: The Glass Castle
Day Twenty-One: The Giver
Day Twenty-Two: The Time Machine
Day Twenty-Three: Back Roads
Day Twenty-Four: Mr. Mercedes
Day Twenty-Five: A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court
Day Twenty-Six: books: life-changers
Day Twenty-Seven: October's Party
Day Twenty-Eight: Divergent
Day Twenty-Nine: The Hunger Games
Day Thirty: The Passage
Day Thirty-One: epilogue: a grand adventure!

Photo: Rollie Lux, "Clouds over the Corn," Nebraska, October 8, 2013

one heartache

This is the story of my first boyfriend. Before you walk away, exasperated - wait. This isn’t just any story. This is my story.

I grew up in an extremely isolated and sheltered environment. Not only was I homeschooled (and only socialized with a handful of kids in my tiny hometown), but we didn't go to any church regularly, which could have been a social opportunity. We went to many different churches sporadically, none for very long. My mother would eventually discover something they were doing that she disagreed with, and we would stop going. I learned at a very early age not to get attached to (or become close friends with) the kids I met at these churches, because I never knew if we would go back.

I was never truly outside of my home environment. The summer after I turned seventeen, I got a job at a “big box” store in Kearney, Nebraska (This fact – this town – is true. All other names in my story have been changed to protect bystanders). I had my license for a few months, and it was a nice forty mile drive one way. I started driving our family's only mode of transportation – an ever so stylish Oldsmobile Silhouette minivan. I enjoyed a freedom I had never experienced before. It was absolutely liberating. We were not allowed to listen to “secular” music – only the local Christian radio station. And I remember deliberately setting the radio station in the van to the local pop station, and leave the volume up when I turned off the car. My dad would get so mad when he turned the key. It was just a little rebellion.

I started working as a cashier sometime in May. Of course, I noticed a boy. His name was Ben. He was nineteen, he smoked cigarettes, had more than one tattoo, and was a general all-around badass. At least to me. Of course, the situation being years behind me now, I do see it a little differently. He drank, he smoked weed, and he had a cool car (a ’70-something Maverick.) His perceived maturity was very attractive. Everything a young girl is looking for, right? In reality, I was a very innocent girl, with no exposure to the real world. I hadn't been given the opportunity to learn wisdom.

Sometime in early June, after we had spent some time together on our breaks and had had several conversations, he asked me to be his girl. We were standing in the hall near the lockers. I don't think we were sharing a locker at that point. (Being homeschooled, it was my first locker. And I remember being pretty thrilled about it at the time.) I said yes. It wasn't an option for me to say no.

No boy had ever asked me to be his girl. I was not about to close the door on that. Part of me knew he was bad news. I know even at that time I didn’t see a serious future with him. But I was not saying no. I did not want to miss out on that experience. So I was not about to miss the opportunity to see where it went. Not saying yes wasn't even an option for me.

I realize this sounds a bit ridiculous from an adult standpoint. You have to understand though, in my world, boys were taboo. I think that’s why they were mysterious and fascinating to me. But I was not allowed to talk to them. If I was caught even looking at a random boy, my whole family would say he was immediately my “boyfriend” and/or we were getting married. It was a group event – my siblings egged on and encouraged by my mother. It was a completely ludicrous form of reverse shaming.

Well, when I said yes to him, he leaned over (he was so much taller than me) and kissed me on my cheek. I remember his stubble grating against my face. It was my first kiss. And I liked it.

Now the problem: I was not allowed to have a boyfriend. Period. I had barely been allowed to get the job. I considered my life: I was driving our only vehicle, to a city forty miles away, and I was gone over 40 hours a week. There was no way they would find out. So I just didn't tell anyone. Our coworkers knew we were a couple, but that didn't really matter. We were normal to them.

We spent time together as we could. Sometimes, he'd come to work early to see me. And I started lying to my parents about my work schedule, so I could drive in early to see him.

We only went on one actual real date. We went to a Dairy Queen, and shared a frozen lemonade. I took him to a Bible study on a Wednesday night, and afterwards, the people from the church I was attending at the time, prayed for him. I took him to church with me one or two times also. It was the same church that my family had been going to, so I’m not sure why I would have done so. But I think I told them he was one of my coworkers, and then gave him strict instructions not to touch me affectionately.

He worked as a house painter after he got fired. I started driving to his house on my lunch break. I only got one hour, so I would speed all the way from the North side of Kearney to the South side, past the library a couple blocks, and a quick right turn, and then a few blocks West. It was stressful. I’ve always been very punctual, and this time in my life was no exception. I recorded in my journal how late I was in returning from my lunches. Most of the time it wasn’t more than a few minutes, but I still hated it. One time I actually tapped the bumper of the car in front of me at the very last stoplight before his house. Thank goodness they did not stop or I would have been busted.

The only thing we really ever did was just hang out in his room. On my lunch break, I'd usually bring him food and a Mountain Dew, or these peach-flavored drinks we both loved. I know he might have been high some of the time. I don't think I was fully aware of this back then. I was extremely naïve for being seventeen. (Thanks to the homeschooling and isolation.) I'm sure he offered it, but I never accepted. His best friend Alex was there sometimes. I liked Alex. They would tease me about not doing smoking or drinking, but I never did. For me it wasn’t that hard to say no; I’ve apparently always been interested in having total control of my faculties. They both wore horrible ugly bucket hats. I was really into Tweety Bird at the time and Ben gave me a Tweety Bird bucket hat. It’s so hideous, but I think I still have it.

He lived with his sweet white-haired Grandma. He had a room upstairs, which connected to a tiny kitchen nearby. She was always a sweetheart to me. I remember one afternoon, he was sitting in a soft blue recliner in his grandma’s living room and I was sitting on his lap. He was so bony, there was plenty of room. We were talking to her about when we were getting married. He wanted to get married on Halloween. I don’t remember having any objections to this, so the plan was set – marriage on Halloween. (At that point, we had been dating for maybe a month.) I also met his sister and his mom, and his dad. His Grandma was in the hospital one time, and we went to see her. I was there at the hospital in Kearney, visiting his grandma, with his whole family. It’s so surreal when I think about it.

One evening, the three of us took Ben’s car and drove over to his ex-girlfriend's house. She had a baby in a high chair. And her boyfriend was old enough to buy beer. So Alex and her boyfriend left to get some while Ben and I stayed. (I think that’s the only other time I might have gotten caught, if the boyfriend had been busted buying beer for a minor. Because I had left my backpack in his car.) Then the three of us went back to Ben's room and they drank beers while we listened to Kid Rock.

I remember we kissed a lot. He wasn’t a good kisser. But of course I didn’t think that at the time, since he was my first. He always tasted like cigarette smoke, but I wasn't averse to it. We never had sex. He never attempted to have sex with me. Which, of course, was good. And it really wasn't part of the equation for me. I didn’t know anything about sex. Although it kind of makes sense when I found out what happened in his life directly before and after his time with me.

Which brings me to the beginning of the end...

Ben struggled with depression. Even before he was fired, I would spend hours coaxing him through his bad spells, encouraging him as well as I could. He threatened suicide more than once. I did what I could with my very limited knowledge. He never told me all of him. All of his stories. We were together for roughly two months, and most of those moments were stolen when I could take my lunch or go to his house after work.

All this time, I was still keeping up the facade at home. My family knew nothing about him, except that he was my coworker. One time, our whole family went to the store. I remember telling him that he had to “act natural” or something similar; it worked and they didn’t know that he and I were anything more than friends.

One night, he was very depressed. He was being very dramatic, and climbed up onto his Grandma's roof. In retrospect, don't think he was ever going to jump. But you have to understand: I was a very naive little girl. I was seventeen, but I may as well have been twelve. I had no experience with anything like this, and I took it completely at face value. My isolated life had left me no examples or experiences to deal with his manipulative behavior. I had never been exposed to anyone so unlike myself. I stayed. I stayed for hours. I talked to him. And eventually he climbed down. I finally left. It was very late.

I arrived home sometime after midnight, to discover that my mom had called the police and my dad had gone out in his truck to look for me on the highway. (Remember, this was the grand year of 2000. The common use of cell phones was only right around the corner.) They had called my job and discovered the truth. I was busted. But I didn't talk. I told them I had to make one phone call and then I would talk. I called him the next day and asked him to come to my parent's house.

He couldn't come that day, only the following day. Like a loser. So I spent the day in silence.

In the early afternoon of a warm Sunday in early August, his car rolled up. I was sitting on the front porch, waiting. I ran out to him, and leaned into the car. We shared a quick peck of a kiss, and then walked into my parents’ house, holding hands.

I said, "This is my boyfriend, Ben."  

As soon as my mother saw us walking in together, our hands intertwined, she violently hit our hands apart, growling viciously, "Get your hands off my daughter!”

They made us sit on different couches, and grilled us about almost everything. I say almost everything because I know they never asked if we had sex. You would think that would be the first thing you ask.

I don't remember much from those moments or the aftermath. They are swallowed up in my grief.

At the end of the conversation, Ben was forbidden to contact me until I turned eighteen. As I walked him to his car, we managed to sneak a quick, heartbreaking kiss, and he was gone. 

I remember sitting on the swing on the front porch, hot, burning tears of silent anguish running down my face and neck. He had brought me a giant stuffed alien he won at the county fair. I gripped it tightly to my chest like it was a life vest. I had never been so devastated. People talk about closure. They talk about how important it is. It is, especially when you don't have any control of what's ripped out of your life. It takes a very long time to recover.

The following day, my dad went to my job and told my boss that he would not see me again.

~ Epilogue ~

Repercussions continued for months. I was not allowed to go anywhere (even to the mailbox, which was only half a block away) without one of my siblings with me. I was in an invisible prison. I fell into a deep depression. I started drinking Mountain Dew. A lot. Some days, I would drink an entire twelve-pack in a day. It was the only "drug" I could get my hands on. It numbed me. It was a very bad time in my life.

Over the next few months, got over him, slowly, painfully. He called a few times, but I was never allowed to talk to him. My dad talked to him. I started going to a different church; joined the youth group, the drama team, and I made some new friends.

I found out he had been in jail before we started dating, for statutory rape. When my eighteenth birthday rolled around, he was again in jail for a second statutory rape charge. Because my mother was afraid he would come after me, she shipped me off to a Bible college in Ohio. I think she had an image of him built up in her mind that was far from the truth. I was never afraid of him.

I saw Ben once after my parents split us up. Our family was stopped at a gas station in Kearney, and he was there. My dad and my brothers talked to him like they were old friends. I wasn’t allowed to get out of the van. I never saw him again.

beautiful desolation

I lived in Nebraska my first eighteen years. At the time, with the misguided mind of my youth, I didn't appreciate it as much as I should have.

I was so focused on getting out. I was too young to know that I needed to appreciate the moments I had. Now, my visits home are so few and far between that it breaks my heart. I look back to that time in my life with a certain sense of nostalgia.

When I tell people about my motherland I always describe it as both beautiful and desolate. Part of the beauty is the desolation. The wide open empty spaces. The haunting wind that whistles on the prairie. It lives immortal in the words of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Willa Cather.

We are all works of art, works of beautiful desolation. Beautiful emptiness. We are containers. We fill ourselves up with what we choose. Once we leave home, we have a choice. We can no longer blame our parents for our problems. We are our problem. And we have control.

It took me some time to get over the things I went through in my childhood. Time truly is a healer of many wounds. Seen and unseen. As we grow and mature, we have a choice to let our experiences define us, or we can learn and grow stronger from them.

Now I have a little more wisdom. I realize I wouldn't be the person I am today, if I had not I walked through all of the valleys and the shadows of my childhood and adolescence. And I like who I am. :-)

Sometimes, life doesn't make sense, until you look back, and you see the paths that led you here, and you realize it all made sense, you just didn't know it.

"Abandoned House, Haskell County Kansas"

By Irving Rusinow, April 1941

National Archives and Records Administration, Records of the Bureau of Agricultural Economics

where's that girl?

When you see someone putting on his Big Boots, you can be pretty sure that an Adventure is going to happen. A.A. Milne

There was once a girl who might have accidentally stepped into the freezing cold water of a state lake. Because she stood too close to the edge. Both her own mother, and her siblings, made fun of her. And she did feel a little silly, with her pants freezing to her leg. But what a story!

That girl splashed into the deep, murky water of the Loup River all summer long, despite the water moccasins. She rescued her baby brother from certain death when he was pulled under in strong currents of water.

At ten years old, she was a giant clumsy bull in a tiny little shop in Mexico, and broke a glass figurine. She ran away, embarrassed and mortified.

She followed the boys, racing around town with them, on an ugly old green bike. When the chain fell off and she flew over the handlebars, she lived to tell the tale, with two cracked front teeth, and ugly gravel-rubbed scars on her elbows and knees.

She's the girl who went to concerts late on Sunday nights; arriving at work the next day, utterly exhausted, but completely happy.

Her graduation announcement stated boldly, “On to Adventure!” but somewhere along the way, she got lost in the mundane, in routine. 

She was adventurous and daring, she broke the rules. 

What happened to that girl? Where did she go?

I intend to find her again, tell her to put on her Big Boots, and run jubilantly outside her comfort zone. 

So... skydiving, anyone?! ;)

"that girl"