The Mistress's Daughter a Memoir

“The Mistress’s Daughter” by A.M.Homes is a moving memoir in 238 pages, lyrical and poignant that I read in two nights. Look at that beautiful child on the cover and you know why this book caught my attention at B & N while I was checking over the non-fiction racks. I have never read anything by this author, but I would do so again; the cover of the book lists her other books and that she is a contributing writer for Vanity Fair. A.M. is 31 years old when her birth mother tries to contact her. Although she knew she had been adopted as an infant, there have been the never ending questions that roamed through her psyche throughout her life and now sitting in her parents living room and listening to them reveal the contact from the attorney who arranged her adoption. Her reactions and emotions range from wonder, anger, curiosity and through the entire spectrum. She learns that her mother was an unmarried young woman and that her biological father who had another family lived not far. All those years, so near and so far. This is a book for anyone to read who enjoys good writing and emotions in words. It’s a warning to anyone seeking out missing family members that life does not always end happily ever after and it is a book of encouragement for adoptees or those abandoned that you really are better off without the missing link. Yet it is a book for all of us who want to know more about who we are and how we got here.


The birth mother, Ellen, is not a likeable character but a very wanting needy person who would consume A.M. if allowed. The phone calls from Ellen become almost stalking. Her biological father, Norman, lives up to his “louse” image and does nothing to redeem himself. He promises to introduce A.M. to his family, to her half-siblings, but never does. He abandons her a second time in life. Reading her encounters with him gave me the impression that sex must have been the primary focus of his and Ellen’s relationship because he has the personality of a wart. Then again, it is a tale as old as the hills, Norman was the boss and Ellen, with obvious psychiatric short comings, worked for him. At one point in the dialogue A.M. addresses that their relationship had to be about sex only and she is the byproduct. All the discovery with the additional rejection and turmoil cause a despondency in A.M.

Meanwhile her parents torture themselves and her with “what ifs’ and A.M. develops a need to protect her mother from Ellen. A.M. allows herself to remember Ellen’s birthday each year but keeps her distance. When Ellen finally cajoles A.M. into meeting her for lunch, they are still worlds apart. A.M. thinks maybe an hour or two and Ellen visions a full day together. They meet at the Plaza Oyster Bar in New York at 4:00PM. A.M. arranges for a friend to come to retrieve her if she cannot escape Ellen gracefully. Ellen arrives wearing a rabbit coat and orders Harvey’s Bristol Cream to drink which leaves A.M. with more amazement that people really drink that. A.M. remarks that Ellen reminds her of Dusty Springfield.

Then there is Norman who is impressed with himself for some reason that is never made apparent. He lives consumed in a delusion of his own importance. He insists on a blood test to establish DNA at a shabby lab and does not even pay for it, nor will he later share the official results with A.M. He criticizes A.M. for not wearing jewelry of all things and says he would have taken her out for a nice lunch if she had worn something better. She comments that she is perfectly well dressed in linen pants and a blouse. Mr. Personality.

Some of the passages that make this a wonderful moving memoir:

pg. 10-11, “There is folklore, there are myths, there are facts, and there are questions that go unanswered. …………..How much was still being kept from me and how much had been forgotten or lost with the subtle erasure, the natural revision of time?”

pg. 38-39 “I am an amalgam. I will always be something glued together, something slightly broken. It is not something I might recover from but something I must accept, to live with—with compassion……………….It’s about fate, the life cycle of information.. “

pg. 68 “I used to believe that every question deserved an answer, I used to feel obligated to answer everything as fully and honestly as possible. I don’t anymore.”

pg. 91 “This is the world Norman lives in—faded but presumed aristocracy. The fact is, Norman is not upper class, and he is overextended.”

Pg. 93 “The fact is that whatever each of them is in this for has nothing to do with me. It is not about my need, my desire and for the moment I have had enough.”

My favorite quote is on page 69 “My birthday, the lighting rod, the axis around which I spin. I hold myself braced against it—an anti-celebration. “

The final chapter about her maternal (adoptive) grandmother, Jewel Rosenberg and her table, which A.M. acquires leads to her discussion of sitting at it with her own daughter. People who have lived otherwise normal lives within intact families should read this book to learn from someone who expresses how to become whole when parts are missing.

Sepia Saturday Week 16 Click here to link to other Sepia Saturday posters

Teofil Kochanowski 1887--1961    

 This week I jump to another side of my family, my grandfather, Teofil Kochanowski , my mother’s father.

This 1943  photo is my grandmother, Rose, my mother, Helen, and my grandfather, Teofil. 

While there are few photos of Teofil I have lots of memories.

To me he was Granpap and to the rest of the family, Pap.

“Never you mind” was his frequent response. And he always hummed or whistled a Polish tune. 

His favorite Polish saying, which I give you in English, is "where there are people there are troubles." 

 To him it meant, no worries, it is all just life!

 The spelling of the last name changed considerably depending on who wrote it. Uncle Carl, his son, Americanized it to Konesky in 1941 and the rest of the family used that spelling. But not my Granpap , he knew what his name was and he insisted it be that way! He was not an educated man through schooling, but he was very wise and shrewd. He knew how to read and write and I can still hear him say in Polish to his son, “Never you mind, I show you! You no change how spell my name!” Here they are in 1942, Teofil, is the shorter one and Carl.

Though he proudly claimed to be full Polish, his baptismal certificate indicates he was baptized in Zarsryn, Austria, born April 27, 1887 to Thecla Kochanecka (the spelling is hard to read in the Latin script) daughter of Adalberti Kochanecki and another name hard to decipher, Sunwae de Cictro Ober. He was baptized Theophilus; the Latin clearly includes a reference “illegitimus”. I wish I’d known about this when Granpap was alive, because he would have had a good story to tell. He had a brother, Charles ‘Krolicki” who died in Illinois in and a sister Nellie Buczek who lived in PA. I do not remember either of them.

 He enjoyed his "piwa" (beer) as this photo from 1945 shows him (left) with his visitng brother-in-law, Al Mroz. Teofil danced a wild polka and the "Russian" dance where he squatted and did the  kicks while shouting and raising arms.  I tried to do that but never could.  He would laugh and tell me that was the man's dance and I could not do it because I was a girl.  The proudest moment of his life was when he became a US citizen; he would shake his head in wonder that a boy who stole a cow could be a citizen of this great country. My aunt and mother said they remember him sitting on the stairs practicing English and studying US history for his citizenship test. When they laughed at his pronunciation of something, he would become very annoyed with them and shout, “go to bed! Never you mind, someday I’m gonna be a citizen and you no laugh from me no more."

My love of gardening stems from hanging out with Granpap. Among my favorite memories is sitting in the dirt smack dab in the garden with Granpap. I loved scraping up the dirt. He would hoe or shovel and I would crawl around with my own tiny shovel, spoons or my hands, sifting the dirt that he worked up into fine mulch. I developed my love of hot peppers right there in the dirt in Granpaps garden! I remember pulling peppers off the plants and biting into each one until we found the right taste of hot. This was to my grandmother’s horror! “PAP, DON’T YOU FEED THOSE PEPPERS TO Patty!” He’d laugh, “Never you mind, Rose, she’s help me find the hottest.” Oh we were a pair, Granpap and me. Grandma would scoop me up, scrub me clean and redirect my attention to my dolls inside the house. I remember when I was about five years old and she had me sparkling clean. Off I went because Granpap was outside in the garden, dragging Dolly along, both of us were back in the dirt.  Granpap warned me, “Oooh Parujcka (Polish for my name) you gonna get it for sure now….never you mind, go on over there by the wood shed.” He then decided he was done stirring the dirt for the day, wiped me off as good as he could with his handkerchief and then said, “Well what I gonna tell Rose now? You gonna make lotsa trouble for us two!” And of course it was the funniest thing in the world to him.

Here he is in 1943 with one of his hunting dogs.  Granpap would tell me stories about the mines, the strikes, hunting, but my Grandmother was always cautious about these. I can hear her yelling, “Pap don’t you tell her that!” He would laugh and point his finger to his lips to be quiet and then go on in a hushed tone. I remember sitting on the front porch swing with him and asking him how to say phrases in Polish, like, “you’re crazy” or “get away”, etc.  He told me that he had stolen a cow and sold it so he could get money to come to America. After he began to earn money he sent it to the farmer in Poland, he said, to his mother to pay for the cow.  When he arrived in America he hopped the freight trains and headed for Chicago, where he knew someone and which was a magnet for  Polish immigrants. He was a young man, an immigrant who spoke no English but knew he could make a living in America. For the rest of his life, he had a soft spot in his heart for railroad bums and he and my grandmother fed them whenever they wandered up from the tracks to their home. I suppose their home was known as a place where a bum could get a good hot meal. I don’t know for sure, but I think my Granpap snuck them some spare change too. My grandparents were not wealthy, but they believed someone else was always worse off and would share what they had.

Granpap was my salvation at church. We attended a Polish parish and in those days if the priests were not speaking Latin, it was Polish. As a child I understood neither and would get fidgety sitting there, bur Granpap would smile and tell me “just a little bit longer then we go home, and we gonna get ice cream on the way” which bought my quiet attention.

Teofil found his wife, my grandmother, Rose, in a bakery where she was working. They were married September 25, 1915 in New Kensington, PA. I found it strange that there was no Catholic wedding, but that could have been because of his past. I do recall my grandmother saying that they had gone to the priest later on that year to be really married. She was devout Catholic; Teofil was also Catholic but not as concerned. They had five children, Frank who died of the Spanish flu epidemic, Francis, Carl, Virginia and Helen, my mother. I never saw a wedding portrait, but I have a huge oil portrait of their faces which hangs in my study; my uncle said it was for an anniversary.

Granpap was a coal miner and he shared stories of working at the mines and being very grateful to the unions. He was proud that when the “scabs” came by to take their jobs when the miners went out on strike that he would knock them down and bloody their noses if they did not leave right away. This was amazing because Granpap was a small man and so kind. I could hardly imagine him in a fight, but I suppose he did that to defend his livelihood and the union. His miner’s papers taken out in 1913 note that he entered the country through New York on the Hamburg and record his weight at 145 pounds, height at 5 ‘5” blonde hair and blue eyes. Granpap told me that his hair had turned black working in the mines. I always remember him with dark hair and little silver or grey hair even when he died in 1961. I guess that mine coal dust stayed with him all his life! Now that my hair turns darker with each year, I wonder if I somehow have the strain of coal dust from Granpap.

Granpap suffered many strokes and was always told he would not walk again. But he always outwitted the doctors. He would be up hobbling about with his cane to the surprise and delight of all. With a grin and poking his cane, “never you mind, I not gonna lay in no bed!” He had no intention of spending the rest of his life in bed, because Rose had enough to do without having to wait on him. I remember him walking all over town and up the hills to our home.

Often his walks ended up at the butcher shop where they always had a card game going on in the back and he often won. My grandmother walked to the butcher shop almost every day to buy meat. Looking back now, I wonder why she just didn’t have Granpap pick it up, but then I supposed she never knew how long he might be staying there. I remember a big to do one late summer afternoon when Granpap did not return home from his walk. I was staying at my grandparents, which I did often. So after calling around and finding out that he had left the butcher shop hours ago, my Grandmother got worried. She called Uncle Carl who came and called the police. A search was on for Teofil…This is one of the few times I ever saw my grandma cry. Later before it was fully dark, Grandpap came up the sidewalk, with his cane, whistling and humming, which he always did as he walked along. There were many anxious Polish words spoken and Teofil began to laugh and then scold them all,,,,,”Hmph! Never you mind! I come home you all crazy or what!” He’d been down near the river, got interested in digging around in the woods…lost track of time….

Family called him the “junkman” because on his walks, he would invariably find something discarded by someone, which he would drag home. He was the original recycler before the term was ever invented.  Later he would drag these treasures to our home to my mother’s consternation. Granpap’s retort to criticism of his hauls were always the same short words, “Listen to me, this no cost you nothing, you no gotta feed it, someday you gonna want it and here it is…never you mind!” Today when I ponder whether or not to toss something, I recall Granpap’s advice, “well it costs nothing, don’t have to feed it, might be handy someday…”  He left a legacy, prone to packrat.

He always had dogs which were well trained whether they were a hunting dog or a pet. My uncle told how Granpap was so crazy about animals, and even when times were very lean in their lives Granpap always had dogs.  I found this 1956 photo where Granpap has a woodchuck on a leash. He’d once brought a woodchuck into the house, leaving it in a box overnight in the kitchen. The next morning it and the box were gone! I am sure my grandmother who kept an immaculate house came into the kitchen, saw that and out it went. Uncle Carl said, Granpap was annoyed but shrugged it off, “I no have proof, Rose, but I know you did something and I wanted that woodchuck for a pet!” He tried to snare birds to tame them without too much success; my Uncle Carl said he would sit in wait near a bush to snare birds that would come up to feed on crumbs he had set out. My grandparents always had a canary or two in a cage; he loved canaries likely associating them with use in the mines. I suspect that my love of Tweety bird today stems back to my granpap and his canaries. Canaries were used by the coal miners to gauge air quality in the mines but granpap would not sacrifice his birds for that. He would not sell them to miners whom he knew they only wanted the birds to test the air.

He died in November 29, 1961 the way we would all like to go. After they ate lunch he told my Grandma that he felt a little bit tired and was going to go take a nap. He never awoke. I was in my senior year of high school and still remember my grandmother’s voice of grief when she called our home after she found him. She moved to our house immediately after that. Teofil was the love of her life.

Magpie Tales Week 5 (click here to link to Magpie and read others)

Each week on Friday, Willow graciously posts  a photo prompt to which we respond with a tale, an ode, a line or two or whatever creative idea  comes from the prompt.  Clicking on the title to this post will take you to Magpie central where you can choose from many other  takes on the  prompt of the week.  This is the 5th week and here we go....

Ned strummed his guitar, tuned the harmonica and began to sing softly to himself sitting on a barstool at the corner of the stage, tuning up for the Saturday night crowd, “.. Put your Hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters, put your hand in the hand of the Man who calmed the sea, take a look at yourself and you can look at others differently by puttin’ your hand in the hand of the man from Galilee….” Ned wouldn’t be singing that song tonight but he was getting ready for the regulars; playing at the bar was just another way to earn spare change working his way through medical school.

The unshaven but neatly dressed older man who’d been sitting at the bar since Ned arrived, shook his head and tottered off his bar stool staggering back to the men’s room. “Unsteady on your feet there, John” called the bartender after him, “Maybe time to call it a day, guy.” Ned shrugged his shoulders toward the bartender thinking “just another one in hard times, drinkin’ himself silly …” Soon John came out of the men’s room, returned to his seat, drawing a $20 bill from his pocket and slapping it down onto the bar he said, “another one for me and give that sorry singer whatever he’s drinking too, sounds like his throat is parched. Do him good to loosen his vocal chords…… “ The bartender poured a draft for John and signaled to Ned that he had a drink coming… but Ned signaled back to pocket the coins for later, and continued to warm up his vocals, “hands across the waters, hands across the sea,……wheedto.. …turn around put your feet back on the ground…..”

John tottered back off the stool and approached Ned, “Sounds like you need a hand Sonny; I always figured the best place to find one was at the end of your arm…., but let me show you something…” John sat down at the piano and began to finger the keys then broke into playing the meanest boogie woogie Ned had ever heard! John smiled at Ned and said, “Now that’s how you do it Sonny! That’s what folks who come in here will want to hear…..’member that…that’s what to do with hands, keep those fingers moving….” “Ahh John, get away from the stage,” called the bartender, “Ned will do all right ‘sides he’s gonna be a doctor someday…won’t need your advice!” Ned continued his warm up…”I wantta hold your haaand… wannta hold your hannnd…” “Son didn’t you listen, nobody wants to hear songs ‘bout hands..” John called.  Ned noticed the first  couples arriving and started strumming and singing "c'mon all now gather 'round,  Listen to what I'm putting down. Whoo baby, I'm your handyman. I'm not the kind to use a pencil or rule....."  John shook his head, waved to the singer and  headed out the door; work to do back home, he'd just stopped in to quench his thirst. 

Flash forward 10 years to the world renowned Mayo clinic where Dr. Ned’s a famous orthopedic surgeon, specializing in hands.  Patients come from all over the world for his expertise. Ned reviewed his schedule for the day… two minor surgeries this morning, but one that would take most of the afternoon….a farmer had nearly severed his hand in a tractor accident. The farmer’s family was gathered in his room and Ned would reassure them of the wonders that could be done; he picked up the model wooden hand, the mock prosthesis from the shelf to explain this and walked into the farmers’ room . “Good morning doctor “chorused the family gathered around the patient. The patient, arose in the bed, “Well damned if it ain’t the guy who sings about hands…. You gonna be able to keep my fingers movin’?” “I really believe so, John, yes sir I do” Ned smiled from ear to ear!

Elizabeth Ostrowski Waszkiewicz (click here to visit other Sepia Posts)

Elizabeth Ostrowski Waszkiewicz 1903--2006 

For week 15 of Sepia Saturday I feature Lizzie, which is what everyone called her, my 2nd cousin who lived to be 102 years old. She was born to John Ostrowski, (Frank’s second son by his first marriage) and Frances Gapinski on October 18, 1903 in New Kensington, PA. There were 10 children altogether in that family; the only other one I knew was Annie Gorleski whom I’ll feature in another post. In 2006 Lewis and Raymond two of her brothers were alive, along with  Eleanor Watson one of her sisters. The others Henry, Eddie, Ignatius, Annie Gorleski, Francie Slodowski and Margie Hancock had all died.

On May 31, 1923 when Lizzie was not quite 20 years old, she married Stanley Waskiewicz. Their wedding picture here strikes me as odd; Lizzie is expressionless with her arms at her sides, while Stanley appears to be holding her up with one arm. I wonder what she was thinking under that gorgeous hat. Stanley died after they were married 31 years when he was 59 leaving Lizzie to continue to raise the family alone. Well as alone as could be with all the Polish relatives in the area. They had five children; two daughters are still alive in PA, Dorothy Centazzo, and Catherine (James) Wencel; the other daughter Louise Bobonick is now deceased and  two sons, Stanley Jr. and John died before Lizzie.

Lizzie worked as a seamstress at a sewing machine factory, as a waitress at the Alcoa Aluminum  plant cafeteria, and at John F Kennedy School in Creighton, where she must have helped in the kitchen/cafeteria.  She had  11 grandchildren, 14 great grand children and two great great grandchildren.

Likely I met Lizzie other times through my life growing up at the  many many Polish family gatherings but I do not remember those times. But I really remember our visit in September 2005 when I was in PA to care for my aunt Virginia through her surgery. My aunt told me that “we have a cousin who is over 100 years old” and that set me to wanting to meet her. I wish I had been astute enough to take a camera and photograph myself with Lizzie but I did not. Here is Lizzie's picture  from a news paper clipping announcing the family's celebration of her 100th birthday! 

Lizzie had a small apartment upstairs in the house where she lived with her youngest daughter Catherine and husband. The day we visited Dorothy was there too. Catherine had cautioned not to question Lizzie too much, but Lizzie wanted to talk, she was excited about a visit!  It was the treat of my life to meet her. Her mind was sharp and she was snoozing in her chair with a crossword puzzle book beside her on a side table; she looked absolutely wonderful, beautiful skin, white hair kept in curls with a perm. When she got up to go to the bathroom, we saw that she could hardly walk, severe arthritis had crippled her. Still she mentioned that she would like to go to the new Pittsburgh Mills Mall that had recently opened a couple miles from the home; I asked her what she wanted to buy and she said, “oh nothing just to look. I always like to shop for dresses.” Dorothy, her daughter rolled her eyes and clarified, “but she would never buy one because she always sewed better than what the stores sold.” Lizzie grinned.

Lizzie made quilts for the family until she was 99 years old, then she quit, saying her eyes didn’t work quite so good to sew like that anymore. She said she did not want to sew anything that would not be perfect!  Oh this is an Ostrowski if I ever met one, I thought.   She said today she liked sitting in her chair, looking out the window and working puzzles and watching the birds and the railroad cars go by. She didn’t care much about TV. She remembered me as Helen’s daughter, but mostly  Roses’ granddaughter (I was always with my granma)and said, “Patty, you became a beautiful woman. Why did you move so far away?” We talked a little about California where I had lived but I told her we moved to Minnesota now and she shrugged, like “where’s that?” Lizzie said that her brother Raymond lived somewhere in California but nobody ever heard from him anymore and that California was a strange place where people go and disappear. Well she was right; it was and is a very strange place! People don't diaappear there but often they lose thier contacts with their families, with their souls.

When I mentioned that her birthday was coming up she said yes, that she was born October 19, 1903 would be 102 in another month and grinned. I told her that my husband and I married on October 19 and she acknowledged that with, “then you can always have a shot on my birthday for me!” I asked her what kind of shot and she responded, “Whiskey!” When I told her I don’t drink that she grinned and said, “Well you need to try it sometime! You are old enough to drink whiskey.” She had a beautiful smile and eyes that sparkled especially when she laughed. I thought how beautiful she was at this age and how wonderful that her daughters cared for her so well. Her voice was good, not raspy or wobbly like some elderly can get. I would have guessed her at maybe in her late 70’s if I’d met her elsewhere.  Lizzie was an living example of the well aged ; she never grumbled, was most happy and gracious the entire time!  What a testimony to life lived well!

Lizzie reminisced that things were not so much fun anymore. I asked her what were the most fun things she remembered, her favorite times, and she regaled us about the old times with family. She said how they would have big parties and oh she especially liked the picnics over the 4th of July, all the dancing. “Just real fun we had! Now these kids don’t do that! And Dorothy just said, “Oh, Ma!” Lizzie shook her head and said, “See what I mean they never dance anymore! People should dance!” Amen Lizzie!  I couldn't agree more!~  Lizzie slipped into talking Polish sometime with my aunt and suddenly I was a kid again when the women spoke of what they didn’t want me to hear in Polish; imagine Lizzie at 101 speaking two languages. I recognized part of it as a cuss complaint about her arthritis that had her nearly immobile. She  wanted to be able to move and do things; she said she missed sewing and crocething.  

We only stayed for a little under 2 hours so as not to tire her out and then said our goodbyes with big hugs. Lizzie died on May 10, 2006 in a care facility after a brief hospitalization. She was only in the facility one day and I am glad that she lived at home comfortably till nearly the end. God bless her wonderful daughters who cared for her and made her comfortable.

PS I have been contacted by two of Lizzie's grand daughters, Melissa and Darcy, and her daughter Catherine through this post.  Catherine gave me some corrections which I've made above.  Thanks to Sepia Saturday I amcontinuing to  learn more about family.

Fiddling with my blog layout and links

After visitng so many other "better presented" blogs thourgh Magpies and Sepia I am inspired to improving my own blog. Well I am always looking for improvement, which  wearies even me at times.  My blog layout is ok, but I would like to enable  links to other blogs to which  I may refer  in my writings and also enable a faster movement to other writings on  my blog.  This is presenting a challenge and stretching my techno ability.  Well I find I am having to stretch my mind back to old ago  times of computer language to write the bloggger language to  get some of these features in place. Being a fidgety person, I have not yet found the time to dedicate myself to this. 

One thing I want to do is make it easier for the reader to look back through  my blog about something.  For example, you know I read avidly and  have a list of my books on the sidebar.  But I would like to enable the reader to click on that title and  get right to my review.  As it is now, the date of the posting is included in my list and the reader has to browse through my Archive tab or older posts.  Faster to look through the archive for the date and title, but takes a bit of a key stroke. 

I noticed  "Blogging for Dummies" and "Blogger on Google" or something similar in the internet section of  books in Barnes and Noble the other day.  You know them, those black and yellow striped paperback books, which  now are released on every subject one can dream up.  Actually I have recommended the  Dummies book on growing roses to many aspiring gardeners;  it is basic and everyone can understand it.  I have recommended the Ebay for Dummies for those who need such things.  But the blogger Dummies book looked way too basic; I am already past setting up this blog and did so following the  Blog spot prompts.  I can figure out most applications, drivers and software additions by following along, but the linkage business has me stumped.   A learning opportunity yet again in cyber form.  Some of the linkage language is written by a techie and has stymied me to the point of printing it out to digest it.  Still no aha moment has prevailed.  But I don't give up easily when I am on a mission.

Some blogs have inspired me to do better with more photos on my own.  Some blogs, particularly those with black backgound left me quite contented with my own.  For my eyes the black and dark backgrounds with subdued letters are difficutl to read.  It reminds me of so many movies and television shows which are being made in darkness these days. Being a fan of "let there be light" I do not like that darkness.   Some blogs are just too busy and make it hard for me to focus on what I want to  read.  And some blogs are just right, like Goldilocks in the baby bear's seat!  Willow's , Nancy's Life in the 2nd half, Vickie Lane's and Laurie's Back Porch Musings come to mind immediately as attractive to me.  Now see, if I had the  linkage enabled you could click right there and see what I mean.  But I don't so you will have to browse if you are interested..   

On this blog, when a reader has issue with the print being too small all the reader has to do is click on the small  % indicator in the lower  right hand corner of their monitor, and the size of the print can be changed to accomodate their choice.   But these other challenging improvements will keep me otherwise entertained. 

I am also annoyed with the lack of spell check while composing here.  I try to remember to compose in Word then cut and paste to the blog.  But today I am not doing that and will have to carefully reread this for typos which creep in too easily, especially when I am clicking on my laptop like now. I don't know why Blogger removed the spell check on composing but they did.         

Well I have spouted enough about my intentions.  Time to get out the door to work off the frustration at Curves; past time already!

The School of Essential Ingredients Chic Read

"The School of Essential Ingredients" is  Erica Bauermeister's first novel.  It was a quick read in 2 nights and  not what I expected.  From the title and scanning it at Sam's Club I thought it would be about cooking and perhaps recipes woven around a story ala  Diane Mott Davidson mysteries.  It is not, but it  is occaisionally entertaining.The author uses her reptoire of words  but  strangely at times.  It is wordy with odd comparisons, adverbs, adjectives and analogies. Almost as if she is filling up space on the pages to make a book, a story.    Certainly  some thought must have gone into the descriptions or else she threw words onto the page like darts at  a wall and where they stuck that's where they stayed.  Descriptive to a stretch at times, but easy light reading.  A chic book.   Fast reading, almost at a scanning pace hoping for interest to catch me, I kept waiting for something to take hold.  Oh well it did not, yet the words kept me going.  Each chapter features a different student in Lillian's cooking class.  Descriptives of cooking were interesting and maybe I learned something-- i.e., to coat  shredded cheese  with cornstarch so that the cheese will melt more smoothly?  Never heard that before, so who knows.

I thought I had found a novel mixing gourmet cooking  with words,  as on pg. 11   "....smells were for her what words were for others, something alive that grew and changed....."  Sadly this chapter describes Lillian's mother who goes off the deep end, deserting her at the young age of   9 or so and retreating to nothing more than reading books.  This might have been a hint, does this author like books or not?  She seems to blame them almost for her mother's  delusions and eccentricity.

The characters were shallow, a widower, an aged couple, a foreign exotic missing home, etc.  and all too brief, perhaps I'd have enjoyed  them more if there were depth to a few rather than the gamut for many.  When  a story from one character might reach a point of interest.  the  author threw words out like this on pg. 202...."struck her with the intensity of a perfume she had long ago stopped wearing, drifitng across a room she never intended to traverse."  Desciptive words indeed but what in the world is she saying?    Or this phrase,  "fecundity of late summer melons and gauzy lettuce..."  Huh?  I have eaten grown and enjoyed many lettuces, and don't recall any ever being gauzy.  Lettuce which is gauzy may not be a good thing, bugs have  laced up the leaves and they are not edible!   Maybe that's what bothered me about the writing,  surreal to nonsensical and at times just not believable.  

The novel has it's short spurts of inspiration, pg. 209, "If you live in your senses, slowly with attention, if you use your eyes and your fingertips and your taste buds, then romance is something you'l never need a greeting card to make you remember..."  these are Lillian's words to her class over Valentines Day.   It's just merely an ok read; I don't know that I'd recommend it to anyone.  Maybe very light readers.  This is what comes from browsing the aisles of Sam's Club and taking a chance.  I have much better waiting on my shelf to read and certainly better  waiting for rereads.

Olive Kitteridge

I read Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout  last month but  have not had time to post my review.  My cousin, Carol, recommended it because I absolutely adored  "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society."   In a way Olive is similar but  still very different.   My final verdict on this book though, is uncertain.  I did enjoy reading it and noted several phrases but didn't like the ending.  The  descriptive writing is outstanding, but a peculiar darkness  seeps in at times.  The link to this post indicates that this won a 2009 Pulitzer; a merited achievement.   While the main character is Olive, a  mathematics school teacher in Maine in her  sixty's, it looks back over the area and features  short tales about many characters.   I kept waiting for Olive to appear prominently  or heroically in each story but that was not the way it happened, sometimes she was annoying but each character  reveals more about Olive's character and the area. the town, the times the choices people make.  I am not sure whether I admired or pitied Olive.   The book is a significant  commentary about people, aging and life;  perhaps on the more quiet morose side, but certainly from Olive's eyes with many memorable lines.   I love the description of hope.  Actually I hilighted many lines in the book

Pg. 35,   "Does everybody know everything?......Oh, sure, what else is there to do?"

Pg. 60.  "..that must be the way of life, to figure something out when it's too late..."

Pg. 122.  "..when the years behind you are more than the years in front of you...."

Pg. 125  "..life picked up speed, then  most of it was gone..."

Pg. 126   "..one of the things about getting older, so many moments weren't moments but gifts...."

Pg. 162  "..quietly, joyful....Most people did not know enough when they were living life, that
they were living it..."

Pg. 203  " hope...The inner churning that moves you forward...."

And in  the  beginning of the book, a comment on pg. 33 during Kevin's look back at his childhood home, "States and traits....Traits don't change,  states of mind do."   That stuck with me, confirming that  often there is nothing to be done;  things about a person that  cannot ever change no matter what influences are pressed on the person.   No manipulation or intrusion by someone else really changes traits. Distinguishing wisely and truthfull accepting traits is part of the wisdom we can gain on our life journey.   

Olive Kitteridge is a book to ponder on, especially the  ending comparison  page 270 of two lives as Swiss cheese  slices, "..pressed together, such holes they brought to this union--what pieces life took out of you."

Magpie Tales 4 Elephant click to link to others

Mai Li straightened the desks and chair and smiling anticipating another good day with the third grade. She loved teaching and she loved this class. From their first day, she had connected with them and especially with Katey, the sassiest little girl Mai had ever known. Well Mai had only been teaching for three years, but she sensed something different about Katey, a little girl with skin as black as ebony, with a smile that lit up the room, and yet with toughness fed by a spark. Katey was the most attentive child she had encountered. When any of the class got a bit rowdy Katey would stand up, shout loudly “Yo! Sshhh” stare and indignantly announce “better be shut up right now! I be my Daddy’s eyes and ears and need to hear everything!” This child had a presence and something driving her.

But Mai Li had noticed that beneath Katey’s big black eyes a shadow of sadness floated near the surface. In this first month of the school year, Mai had begun to notice more about Katey and to wonder about her home life. Parent Teacher conferences were set for next week, maybe she would learn more. Yet, the trouble was few parents came to the conferences. Really few children had both parents, most were lucky to have one or a grandparent or any relative. Their lives were tragic. She knew the admonition the principle recited at the beginning of the school year to the teachers, “Do not become engaged with the children. This is Chicago, this is inner city! You will hear stories that you will not believe, many of these are true, stories of families of children that will break your heart, make you angry, make you sick and evoke emotions you cannot spare as a teacher! Be dedicated but have some distance. Else the inner city sanctum will suck you in and drain you. “And that was followed by the caution to be alert for signs of abuse and to report these promptly. Mai believed though that children of poverty still deserved to learn, deserved teachers who wanted to be with them. She was honored to be a part of their lives, and strived to be someone who brought sunshine inside the classroom.

Mai thought about how she had hesitated to accept this job because her parents dreaded her coming here, to Chicago, alone,so far away from her home in Texas. Mai sometimes wondered if it had been a wise choice going against the wishes of her American family who had urged her to stay in Texas. But she wanted to be out on her own. Mai wanted to repay the country that became hers and she had chosen to teach in the inner city of Chicago. Mai was an idealist! She missed her parents and Texas, but here in Chicago she had connected with others and was on her own path. She had grown used to the windy city and it cold snowy winters. Think of it a baby conceived in Vietnam, born in the Philippines and raised in Texas, now in Chicago! A twisted path in a small world.

Her Mom and Dad had adopted Mai Li as an infant and raised her as an American, but told her all they could about her Vietnamese heritage. There was little to tell. She knew the North Vietnamese Communists had killed her father for working with the Americans. For Mai Li the Vietnam War never ended; she lived her life in gratitude to the American soldiers. Her mother was rescued by an American soldier as the bombs dropped, but died giving birth to Mai in the refugee camp. She was a blessed baby, adopted and raised in America with all the opportunities this country had to offer. The only physical piece of Vietnam she had was the carved ivory elephant that her mother had with her in the refugee camp. When her Mom and Dad traveled to the Philippines to take her home the Nun had given them the elephant and told them that that it had been made by the dead woman’s husband. It was one of a pair; her mother had given the matching one to the American soldier who had rescued her as the mortar shells exploded around the village. Mai Li always thought that perhaps one day she would meet that soldier with the matching elephant and thank him for his bravery. Mom and Dad did not discourage her dream, only warned, it’s a very big country and who knows how you would ever find that soldier. We have no name and no way to begin to find him. Don’t set your heart on it.”

The school bus pulled into the school yard and the children poured out loudly shouting, shoving while moving into the school. Right in the middle was Katey whose corn rows with sparkling beads on the ends caught the bright sunlight that followed her across the yard.

Yes, Mai knew today would be a good day, but risky; other teachers had warned her,” You never know what those kids will bring into the room!” “Good morning Joe, Skip, Hialeah, Shawna,……” Mai Li greeted each child by name. She prided herself on quickly learning each name so she could speak to each child as an individual, a way to show respect to the children. “Good morning Miss Mai” echoed back. The principle walked by the class room and waved, “Good morning boys and girls!” ”Morning, Mr. Snoots.” The cheerfulness of Mai's classes amazed him and made him wish he could bottle her secret, spread it among the faculty. That young lady had an extra special quality of devotion to her students. He stepped inside the door way for just a minute to catch more of that good feeling.

“Mr. Snoots, could you please spare a moment or two to sit with us, we have a wonderful day planned!” Mai invited.

“Well perhaps just for a little bit, I’d like that” he replied ambling to the side of the classroom to allow Mai to begin.

“Mr. Snoots, Mr. Snoots,,, guess what?” This shout was from Katey, the little girl who was new to the school this year. The family had just moved from Gary; he understood that her father was disabled but attending college on the GI bill and the mother worked as a nurse’s aid. Katey was their only child and they seemed to have it better together than some of the school’s families but then he didn’t know all about them. There was likely some dark spot too, just like the other families.

“Miss Mai, can I please tell him?” Katey asked with that eager smiling voice.

“Tell whom what, Katey?” Mai inquired?

“Can I tell Mr. Snoots what we are doing today and can I be first! Please and thank you Miss Mai” from Katey who seemed so wound up this morning.

“Umm, well, Katey, go ahead, but perhaps Mr. Snoots doesn’t have a lot of time to hear many stories.” Mai smiled. Mai did not want to stifle any of Katey’s extra exuberance this morning.

“Well Mr. Snoots, today is show and tell! My Daddy has this special pet that he let me bring to show.” Katey said, running to the front of the classroom. “He got it when he was a soldier in Viet Nam; it was with him in the hospital where he went to get better after the explosions. They fixed him up as good as they could. When I told him Miss Mai was Vietnamese he let me bring this to show.” Katey pulled a carved ivory elephant from her backpack! Mai gasped but quickly straightened up. Mr. Snoots had noticed her reaction though and raised his eyebrows…. Obviously he would have to warn Mai again about engaging. Too much emotion was not good!

The next week Mai paced awaiting Katey’s parent’s arrival for their conference. The mother had sent a note that they both would attend. Mai wondered how and when she would explain her matching elephant. Maybe she would not say anything. She recalled Mr. Snoots’ admonition against engaging. And what would this family say? What would they think? Despite Mai’s dream and rehearsed words, this meeting was not going to be as easy as thanking the soldier. It was like life, nothing went exactly as planned. “Don’t set your heart on it” she remembered her Mom’s cautious words. As Katey led the couple into the room, Mai Li looked into the unseeing eyes of the man with the white cane. It must be him, the American soldier who had rescued her mother from the mortar fire in Vietnam. “Miss Mai this is my Daddy and Mommy, “Katey chirped, “And this is Miss Mai, my teacher!”

Readers I leave it to you  to determine what Mai did hereafter, or it may appear in a subsequent Magpie post.  These are  brought ot you by Willow's prompts.  To see what other wonderful writiers are contributing about the same photo click on the  heading and then click on any of the  other names on Magpie....