[In 1976 when I was seventeen, I traveled to Europe with a group of fellow high school students. I wrote the essay European Tour 101 in 2023. This essay was published in Tales of Travel by the University of Minnesota-Duluth. I’m publishing it to my blog in five parts.]
Lesson Four: Patriotism is Fine, But Ditch It for the Ballet
Rooftops of Rome, 1976
On July 4, 1976, our tour group was in Rome. Even before I left for Europe, I felt bad about missing America’s Bicentennial birthday bash. When we arrived in Rome, we were given a choice about how we wanted to spend the Fourth of July. We could attend a professional ballet performance or an evening picnic followed by fireworks sponsored by the American Embassy. I chose the picnic and fireworks because if I couldn’t be in the States for the Bicentennial, I could at least be with a group of patriotic Americans eating scrumptious picnic food and watching extravagant fireworks.
It was the worst Fourth of July celebration I ever attended. The food was second-rate, the fireworks were average, and the park was peppered with litter. I grew up inspired by Lady Bird Johnson and the Keep America Beautiful campaign. Every spring and fall my sisters and I pulled our red wagon up and down our road and picked garbage out of the ditches. I yelled at friends who threw litter out of car windows. The inconsiderate Americans who couldn’t put their trash in the garbage can embarrassed me. Before the fireworks even started, I regretted skipping the ballet.
Roman Colosseum, 1976
At the time I saw the embassy picnic as a lackluster celebration that didn’t match the significance of two centuries of democracy. In hindsight it strikes me that American democracy has a long history of casting aside many of its citizens, like the discarded rubbish I saw on July 4, 1976, dropped by patriotic Americans who somehow felt entitled to litter someone else’s park. Patriotism isn’t about eating a hotdog or watching fireworks. Patriotism should be about loving a country that embraces equality, justice, and opportunity for all.
Years later my mother-in-law took me to my first ballet, The Nutcracker. I loved everything about it—Tchaikovsky’s music, the graceful dancers, the whimsical costumes, and the enchanted scenery. And again, I regretted missing the ballet in Rome, which I think was Swan Lake.
Always choose the ballet.
[Coming soon: European Tour 101 – Part 3, Austria]
[In 1976 when I was seventeen, I traveled to Europe with a group of fellow high school students. I wrote the essay European Tour 101 in 2023. This essay was published in Tales of Travel by the University of Minnesota-Duluth. I’m publishing it to my blog in five parts.]
My European scrapbook is filled with ticket stubs, receipts, brochures, maps, postcards, etc.
In the spring of 1976 when I was seventeen, I brought home a brochure from my German class that showcased a thirty-day trip to six European cities in five countries. I had studied high school German for two years and middle and high school Spanish for five years, and Austria and Spain were two of the countries we would visit. I had no illusions about my ability to chat in German or Spanish with the locals, but I longed to visit Europe. I gave the brochure to my mother, who after reading it told me I could go. There was never a discussion of “maybe” or “we’ll see.” The trip cost around $1,400 in 1976, a lot of money for my parents who were on the lower end of the middle-class ladder.
Mother never said it in so many words, but she believed in learning about other cultures. She had encouraged me to study a foreign language. While I was in high school, she signed up to host foreign exchange students for Milwaukee Week. During this time, exchange students from all over Wisconsin spent a week in Milwaukee. I enjoyed meeting the exchange students, learning about their countries, and showing them around my city.
I’m over sixty now, but I remember my only trip to Europe with fondness because it was a good time, it influenced my life in a positive way, and it was educational on many levels. The life lessons I learned in Europe stand out to me because my European experiences are stored in my brain on a thirty-day shelf between two bookends—the touchdown in Madrid on one side and the departure from London four weeks later on the other side. The memories lean on one another, easy to access and tapping one wakes up its neighbor.
Lesson One: Travel without a Hangover
Royal Palace of Madrid, 1976
Sabatini Gardens, Madrid, 1976
The first lesson I learned was don’t be hungover as a tourist. A pounding headache and an unsure stomach turned out to be poor companions while touring Madrid’s architectural marvels on my second day in Spain. The day before at lunch, I split a small bottle of white wine with a friend, and at supper we split a small bottle of red wine. I never drank in the States because I was seventeen, but in Europe I wasn’t breaking the law, so I decided to embrace the whole experience, which is why I tried white wine at lunch and red at supper. In the evening a group of us went dancing. While disco music and colorful lights pulsated around the nightclub, and we danced with Spanish teenagers, I drank two screwdrivers because that is what my friends were drinking.
The next morning, a chaperone banged on our door, rousting us for breakfast. Startled, I sat upright in a finger’s snap. My head lagged behind, pounding as it tried to keep up with my body. Most of the day I had a throbbing headache. I didn’t throw up but the possibility was a nagging pest. Thousands of miles from home and only seventeen, I decided to experience Europe without hangovers, so if I drank at all, I limited myself to no more than one or two drinks in a day. I carried the lesson back home with me and even after I turned eighteen and could legally drink, I never forgot about my second day in Madrid.
Don’t be hungover in life.
Lesson Two: Even Muscle-Bound Bulls Have Feelings
Madrid, Spain, 1976
In Madrid we went to a bullfight. Attendance was optional because even though bullfights were part of the Spanish culture, the pretense of masculinity and bravado they symbolized had begun to dissipate as more people spoke against the cruelty suffered by the bulls. I decided to go because it was a Spanish tradition. I don’t remember if the bull died, but the matador didn’t. The stadium, crouching under the Mediterranean sun, became a cauldron of heat. I didn’t like hot weather, and I was sorry I had come. Why would anyone sit in the scorching sun to watch a choreographed drama between a sidestepping matador dressed like a golden baroque candlestick swirling a red cape and an incensed bull snorting like a diesel engine?
We had been told it was a nuanced battle, steeped in meaning. Clearly, I didn’t get it because that afternoon I decided if the object was to kill the bull, it was a show of pointless machismo. I sympathized with the bull, who unlike the matador or me, had been given no choice about where it wanted to be on that blistering afternoon. I concluded that any competition, legal or not, that humiliated or sacrificed animals in the name of amusement was wrong. But I couldn’t throw stones because I knew Americans had their dog fights and rooster fights and probably other types of fights.
Madrid 1976
As an adult, while watching cartoons with my children, I discovered Ferdinand the Bull, a Disney animated short that won an Oscar in 1938. Ferdinand wouldn’t fight. He wanted only to smell flowers. He so enraged the bullfighters they simply took him back to his green fields filled with flowers. Ferdinand was a consummate pacifist.
Don’t go to bullfights or dog fights or rooster fights.
Lesson Three: If You Don’t Know the Language, Don’t Insult Those Who Do
Man on a bench, Madrid, 1976
Mr. Z., who had been my freshman history teacher came on the trip as a chaperone. He was passionate about history, which I had liked about him. But he had a condescending manner that he dressed up as humor, often unsuccessfully, and that I didn’t like. His manner of off-handed superiority almost got him thrown out of a restaurant in Madrid. Tom and Gene, teachers from a neighboring high school, who were seasoned chaperones, often took us to restaurants that catered to locals instead of tourists. The food was usually excellent and the prices reasonable. But this meant staff at the restaurants rarely spoke proficient English. However, between Tom and Gene, we always had someone who could speak Spanish, Italian, German, or French, someone who could help with the pesetas, liras, shillings, or francs.
Firemen in Madrid, 1976
At this particular lunch, after listening to Tom speak Spanish with the waiter, Mr. Z., who probably suffered from a bit of insecurity after being shown up by a multi-lingual, seasoned traveler, declared, “It’s easy to speak Spanish. You just add an o or an a to the English word. So, soup is soupa.” Not quite, but no one corrected him. During the lunch, Mr. Z. needed butter for his rolls, but instead of asking Tom to talk to the waiter, he decided to ask the waiter directly. Applying his theory about the simplicity of the Spanish language to the word butter, he waived the waiter over, looked at him, and uttered a word that came out sounding like the Spanish word burro, meaning donkey. The waiter’s face went red, and his words, rapid and angry, crashed like falling rocks, frightening Mr. Z., who at least had the good sense to stop talking and look nervous.
Tom, fluent in Spanish, straightened out the mess. Understanding the arrogant American hadn’t meant to call him a donkey, soothed the waiter a bit, but Mr. Z.’s insult to the Spanish language still rankled him. To Mr. Z.’s credit for the rest of the trip, he didn’t try to speak Spanish or any other foreign language, but he should have known better. He had been to the same pre-trip meetings the rest of us had been to. We had been told that many Europeans looked down on Americans who expected everyone to speak English, yet couldn’t be bothered to learn another language themselves. Perhaps Mr. Z. wanted to soothe his bruised ego, or maybe he wanted to be funny, but either way he failed.
I write short stories, so I read a lot of short stories. Lots and lots of short stories. Many of which I enjoy immensely. Some stories fade from memory after a few weeks. Others resonate with me for months, while some haunt me for years.
I’ve selected nine stories by five different authors that I read in 2024. I chose these nine out of the dozens I’ve read because as 2025 starts, I still think about these stories. I’ll be doing the dishes, or walking the dog, or standing in line at the grocery store, and one of these stories will pop into my head. These stories have stayed with me, even months after reading them. I’ve listed them in alphabetical order by author. There is no way I can list them in order of preference because each story is both unique and powerful, with beautiful prose, captivating plots, and intriguing characters. Each story is wonderful for its own reasons, making me say, “Gee, I wish I’d written that!” Best of all, these stories give readers plenty to contemplate.
[Click on the authors’ names to learn more about them and their books.]
Two stories from Hunger: A Novella and Storiesby Lan Samantha Chang (25th Anniversary Edition, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2023)
1. “San” is a story about broken dreams and abandonment, and the struggle to survive both. The story is narrated by Caroline, whose parents emigrated from Taiwan before she was born. She tells the story of her father’s inability to claim his piece of the American dream, eventually causing him to desert his family. Caroline recounts the day she watched her father leave, taking her umbrella with him, never to return: “The umbrella had been a present from him. Now I stood and watched it go, bright and ill-fated like so many of his promises.” With stunning metaphors and beautiful prose, Chang creates a shifting setting and vivid characters that tell an ageless story in a new way.
2. “The Unforgetting” is the story of Ming and Sansan Hwang and their young son, Charles, who have emigrated from China and settled in Iowa. They speak Chinese in their home until one day when Charles’s fourth-grade teacher explains that their son’s English vocabulary is below average. The teacher suggests the family speaks only English at home. His parents follow the teacher’s advice, and a rift grows between Charles and his parents. Ming and Sansan never master English, making it difficult for them to express their thoughts and emotions with Charles, who, at the same time, forgets most of his Chinese: “Since they did not test [Charles], Ming never knew how long it took for all of those words to be forgotten.” Language is how people understand their worlds. Chang’s story explores how the stripping of one’s native language is more than a loss of vocabulary.
A story from The Effects of Urban Renewal on Mid-Century America and Other Crime Stories by Jeff Esterholm (Cornerstone Press, 2023)
1. “Long Ago on a Sunday in June” is the story of Patrick, who is almost fifteen. He wakes in the early morning hours on a Sunday to deliver newspapers. In the first paragraph, we learn Patrick won’t be coming home afterward because his body has been found in a field. The rest of the story is told as a flashback. We follow Patrick as he eats his breakfast and begins his paper route. We learn about Patrick and his dreams: “He wanted to get into Mr. Bukoski’s art class when he entered Port Nicollet High in September. That was a given.” He has a crush on his friend’s sister, and he wants a job at a pizza joint. We follow Patrick on the last day of his very ordinary life, and because we know how the story ends, and because Esterholm’s prose is both richly layered and nuanced, we are devastated for the life Patrick will never live.
Two stories from Close Call by Kim Suhr(Cornerstone Press, 2024)
1. “Play-School” is the story of four elementary-aged children who play a game of school. Young Mary plays the teacher, delivering lessons in addition and subtraction. During one of her lessons, she interrupts herself, lowers her voice, and pretends to be the principal as she announces, “It is time to begin our lockdown drill.” Told through the eyes of Willie, a first grader, “Play-School” explores the topic of school shootings and lockdown drills from the point of view of the children. (There are no adults in this story.) Suhr’s use of a child’s point of view, along with her realistic portrayal of elementary-aged children, creates a wallop in a short space. “Play-School” deservedly won first place in the 2024 Jade Ring Contest sponsored by Wisconsin Writers Association.
2. “Eradicated” is a dystopian tale set in the future where artistic creativity, now labeled a disease, needs to be eradicated, a goal that is nearly complete when we meet Dr. Bells, a scientist. Wishing to observe creative artists before the last of them dies out, the doctor visits an artists’ colony where creative people, who are considered to have disturbed minds, have been contained after being extracted from society. He wants “to hang out with people and ask, ‘What’s your medium?’ And say things like, ‘That’s so derivative.'” The themes in “Eradicated” are both timely and timeless. Marvelously written and exquisitely paced, Suhr’s story serves as a cautionary tale against intolerance and mindless conformity.
Two stories from Sweetland: New and Selected Stories by Will Weaver (Borealis Books, 2006)
1.“Flax Seed” is the story of a grandfather named Helmer who turns his farm over to his grandson, Kenny. With a handshake, Helmer states the terms of their deal: “Two-thirds, one-third. And no Sunday farming.” Kenny promises. He decides to plant flax, something his grandfather never grew. Farming is difficult. There is a time to sow, and a time to harvest. There is too much rain or too little. Too much heat or not enough. There are pests and diseases, rising and falling prices. There is often a race against time. For Helmer there is God. For Kenny there is the hope of flax and making good as a farmer. Helmer and his God; Kenny and his flax. And a difficult year. It’s a haunting story. Amen.
2. “A Gravestone of Wheat” is the story of Olaf who has loved Inge for forty-five years. They have farmed the land together and raised their son, Einar. They have welcomed grandchildren and great-grandchildren. When Inge dies, Olaf plans to bury her on their farm as Inge wished. But the law has changed: “‘You can’t bury your wife here on the farm,’ the sheriff said. ‘That’s the law.'” Olaf must decide if he will break the law and bury Inge on the farm or if he will bury her in town in the Greenacre Cemetery, knowing she despised the town. Inge has been his devoted wife for forty-five years. As Olaf ponders his choices, he recalls his first meeting with Inge and their unusual courtship, and readers are treated to a beautiful, but pragmatic love story. It’s a wonderful piece of historical fiction.
Two stories from The Path of Totality by Marie Zhuikov (Cornerstone Press, to be released February 2025) To pre-order Zhuikov’s book, click here.
1. “The Path of Totality” is the story of Marjorie and Justin, a young married couple, who travel from Medford, Oregon, to Salem, Oregon, to see the total eclipse of the sun. Caught up in a grief that both unites and divides them, the couple each experience the eclipse differently. Marjorie, along with other spectators, sees it all, astounded as the moon covers the sun. “But to Justin, the sun still shone as whole and bright as ever.” With eloquent prose, rich imagery, and well-crafted dialogue, Zhuikov’s story, told from the young husband’s perspective, is spellbinding. From a craft perspective, Zhuikov’s story reminds us that nature and natural events in our world can be powerful metaphors for human experiences.
2. “Bog Boy: A Northern Minnesota Romance” is set in rural Minnesota, where sixteen-year-old Natalie works at the Sax-Zim Bog, a nature preserve. On a spring day, while leading a birding tour, Natalie discovers a mummified teenage boy in the bog, whose remains are determined to be two thousand years old. The well-preserved teenager, with high cheekbones and beautiful hair, is handsome, and Natalie falls in love with him as only a teenage girl can – completely, blindly, devotedly. Because she cannot be without him, she brings the bog boy home to live with her and her father. Darkly humorous, “Bog Boy” combines the realm of speculative fiction with thought-provoking satire that made me laugh out loud at times. I still smile when I think about the story.
Yesterday morning I asked my dog, Ziva, if she wanted to go for a car ride. Of course, she said yes. She’ll go anywhere in the car, around the block or on a ten-hour trip to Petoskey, Michigan. She is just happy to be included.
We had three errands to run: go to the post office, go to the bank, and pick up my grand-dog Nellie. Before we could do any of those things, Ziva and I had a mishap. In a residential neighborhood, a speeding truck pulled out in front of us. Not only was the driver speeding, but he couldn’t see us as he approached the street that I was driving on because several thick evergreen trees grew on the corner of the lot. When he did see us, he drove even faster to avoid us, which was the better choice because he could not have stopped in time.
I was already going slow, but I had to use a heavy foot on the brakes, causing Ziva to slide from the front seat onto the floor. After I stopped, I honked my horn loud and long. The man stomped on his gas pedal, zooming away like an Indy race car driver after the green flag waves. If he thought he was fleeing from an angry woman, he was right. Had I been alone in the car, I would not have honked at him, as my honking would have come too late to serve as a warning. But my dog was tangled up on the floor, struggling to regain her footing. I used my horn to scream at him.
Ziva gingerly worked to untangle her feet. She slowly climbed back up on the front seat. Nothing appeared to be broken. For a moment I wondered if she would ever want to get in a car with me again.
Fritz, the dog who never forgot, Christmas 1962
When I was almost one, my mother had a car accident. Our two-year-old German Shepherd, Fritz, and I were in the car. After the accident the car was not drivable, but other than my mother having some cracked ribs, everyone was fine, including Fritz, who had been sleeping when the accident occurred. He never forgot that accident or that he had been sleeping instead of on guard. Afterward, if my mother was driving, no matter how long or short the journey, Fritz would sit on the seat and watch the road. His head might bob and his eyelids might droop, but he would jerk himself back to consciousness if he momentarily drifted off. If my father drove, Fritz would curl up and go to sleep. Fritz lived to be fifteen years old, and he never again slept in the car when my mother drove.
Nellie and I settled on the couch for some reading time. December 16, 2024
Ziva and I finished our errands then picked up Nellie. I was glad my grand-dog hadn’t been in the car when I had to slam on my brakes. She has an excellent memory, and in the future she might have become reluctant to get in my car.
As for Ziva, she was more than happy to get back in the car when we took Nellie home. And later on when I went to the grocery store, she was excited to ride along. She blamed neither me nor our car for her mishap, and she had been oblivious about the stupid, lead-footed pickup driver.
But after Ziva got up this morning, her head was crooked and she couldn’t seem to hold it straight, and when she walked, her gait was awkward. So, I decided to stay home with her. She ate a good breakfast, and after she moved around a bit, her stiffness disappeared and her head righted itself. People are always stiff and sore the day after an accident, so it would make sense animals would be the same.
Ziva is taking her morning nap as I write this. She’s happy to have me at home, and I’m happy to be with her. She is almost fourteen years old, and this morning, for a brief moment, I worried something might be wrong with her that couldn’t be fixed. After all, falling hurts more when we get older. We don’t bounce as well.
Ziva enjoying a good snooze after breakfast, resting up for our walk. December 17, 2024
A Place for Fido, Fitgers, Duluth, Minnesota. The stuffed toy display is straight ahead on the left.
Yesterday I went to a boutique pet store to buy my grand-dog Nellie a stuffed toy for Christmas. Next to the toy display stood a black, brown, and white, medium-sized dog. The dog looked at me and wagged its tail. Its big brown eyes were merry and its toothy smile was bright, so I asked its people, “May I pet your dog?”
“Of course,” said the woman, “she loves that.”
After petting the dog, I turned to the toys. I wanted one that didn’t squeal, squeak, groan, moan, or crackle because when my grand-dog sinks her teeth into one that makes noise, she is relentless.
The tri-colored dog turned with me. She watched me select toy after toy and squeeze it. The dog and I began a conversation.
“This one’s too high pitched,” I said to her.
“It sounds good to me. I like that toy,” the dog’s eager face said.
“This one makes a low noise,” I said. “It might work.” I kept it in my hand instead of hanging it back up.
Yeah, don’t even think about it — my grand-dog is cuter than your grand-dog.
“It sounds good to me. I like that toy, too.” The dog’s eager face filled with anticipation. She wanted a toy, but she was too well-mannered to do more than drop a hint. (My grand-dog is a Vizsla and she would have reached up and grabbed the toy. She’s not rude, mind you. She’s very, very sweet, but she’s a Vizsla. They’re impulsive. They’re enthusiastic. They’re larger than life.)
I tested toy after toy, telling the dog that each one was too loud, and each time the dog looked at me and the toy in my hand and answered, “It sounds good to me. I like that toy.”
I looked at the dog’s kind face. “My grand-dog will drive me crazy with these toys,” I told her. I decided even the toy that made a low noise was too noisy, so I hung it back up. I walked around the back of the display to see if there were more toys.
At this point I realized I’d been talking with the dog for several minutes while her owners looked at products on a display rack opposite the stuffed dog toys. Other than asking for permission to pet their dog and telling them I had a dog at home, I’d ignored them. It occurred to me this might be considered rude. It occurred to me that carrying on a conversation about noisy dog toys with a dog I’d just met might be considered strange. But in my defense, the dog was a good conversationalist.
I turned to look at the dog’s mother. “I guess you might think I’m a bit strange, standing here in a store having a conversation with your dog.”
“Not at all.” The woman smiled warmly. “I talk to her all the time. I would think it strange if you didn’t want to talk to her.”
Nice of her to say. I talk to my dog all the time too.
The owners and their dog moved on. And I wondered if they had stayed longer than they had wanted, thinking it rude to interrupt their dog’s conversation with a lady who was trying to find the right toy for her grand-dog.
I did find the right toy for Nellie. A nice clerk helped me find the only toy in the store without a squeaker. It looks like a cross between a squirrel and a beaver. Maybe it’s a woodchuck. Doesn’t matter. It’s nice looking, well-made, and quiet.
Ziva, September 2024. She’s loving the pâté.
I didn’t forget about my dog, Ziva. She’s not interested in toys, so I bought her two fancy-schmancy cans of dog food: Venison and Lentil Pâté and Lamb Recipe in Bone Broth. Both sound as though they should have come with a footman from Downton Abbey to dish up her food.
A heart without a pet is just an empty cockle shell.
When I returned home from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a mystical moonscape greeted me.
Last night I went to see a high school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Student actors dressed in colorful, eclectic, whimsical costumes, creating shimmering visions on the stage. They recited Shakespeare’s verse, never stumbling over their words. As the love potion delivered by Puck caused chaos and confusion, the energetic actors made their way on and off the stage, delivering humorous lines, catching the audience up in laughter. All of this on a stage decorated with cut-out trees so enchanting in their color changes, they almost stole the show.
During the quieter moments of the performance. I thought about the many high school and college plays I have seen over the years. All of those young people working together to create a moment of magic on a stage. A moment that would never be the same as the performance that came before, or the one that would come next. I thought about the long hours drama students spend rehearsing, creating sets, lighting the performance, making costumes. How they pass their time together, forging friendships and romances, talking about life and their dreams. Cracking inside jokes that only they understand, the bond of a shared experience. I thought about how young they are, with their whole lives ahead of them. I thought about how once these young thespians leave high school or college, they might never act upon a stage again.
Then I thought about Tom Lake by Ann Patchett, which I recently read and loved. Tom Lake is a story within a story. Lara Nelson, now in her fifties, owns a cherry orchard with her husband. Set in 2020 during the COVID lockdown, Lara’s three adult daughters are staying at the farm with their parents. Because of the pandemic, the family of five works the cherry farm without the usual hired help. Picking cherries is time-consuming, monotonous work. To pass the time, Lara, in a series of flashbacks, recounts the story of her summer in Tom Lake, where as a young woman she performed in a summer stock production of Our Town by Thornton Wilder. Even though Patchett’s novel is set during COVID, it’s not about the pandemic–at all. It’s a beautifully written, heart-wrenching coming of age story.
Last night as I watched the young actors perform, I wondered about their coming-of-age stories. I thought about my own coming-of-age stories.
And that is what good literature does. It slumbers in a corner of your brain, until something in your present world nudges it, and it lives once again in your imagination, giving meaning to both the world that is your life and the world of make believe.
Nellie “Bly” ponders an important question regarding investigative journalism: “Isn’t it time for lunch?”
On October 10, my grand-dog Nellie, whom I like to refer to as Nellie “Bly,” went on assignment with me. I was working on an article for Northern Wilds magazine. Our mission was to interview one bookstore owner in Two Harbors, Minnesota, and one bookstore manager in Grand Marais, Minnesota, and to take photos. Nellie Bly was game. (Although, if she had been given a choice, she would have rather chased small game instead of facts.)
Going on a reporting job with a dog is fun, but it requires more time. We were gone for over six hours. In addition to doing interviews and snapping photos, our assignment included four walks, a lunch break, and a supper break.
Nellie waited in the van while I did the hard-boiled investigative work inside the bookstores, asking the managers about the history of each bookstore and which books they anticipated would be hot for the holidays. Good investigative journalism means I had to ask the tough questions too, such as “What is your favorite holiday book? and “Do you have any holiday traditions involving books?” Of course, in the name of gathering evidence, I bought some books at each store.
Nellie got paid in food and treats. However, when I ate my Happy Meal for lunch, she made it clear that she wanted to exchange her bowl of dried kibble for my cheeseburger. And when I had my six-inch sub for supper, she again made it clear she wanted to swap her bowl of kibble for my sandwich. There were no trades. I told her life in the field as a reporter is filled with sacrifices.
Perhaps, if this article goes over well, it will lead to a TV series, where I travel the country, reporting on independent bookstores, asking probing questions about each bookstore’s origins and what’s selling well, all while spending my writing paycheck on books. Maybe Nellie Bly would like to be my assistant. We could travel in a RV with a driver so I could read and she could look out the window. I can hear Nellie now — trying to negotiate a better meal deal and asking for top billing in the credits. With her good looks, she would be the star of the show in no time anyway.
[To read my article click here: Northern Wilds, pages 14-15.]
[I reviewed Two States of Single for Wisconsin Writers Association (WWA) almost a year ago. Julie Jacob’s book is a collection of memoir essays. I loved this book the first time around. In October 2024, I met Julie at the WWA writer’s conference in La Crosse. I was an excited fan. It was fun to meet someone whose book gave me such pleasure. When I returned home from the conference, I reread Julie’s book. I’m happy to say, I loved it just as much the second time around, even though I knew how each essay ended. So I’m posting my review that was posted on the WWA website.]
Two States of Single: Essays on Family, Love, and Living Solo by Julie A. Jacob is a collection of well-crafted, engaging essays. In her opening essay, “Anything You Could Want,” readers meet Jacob’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, sister, and parents as she recounts the parties her mom and dad hosted when she was a child and living in southern Wisconsin. With humor and tender nostalgia, Jacob describes her parents working together as a team to provide a bounty of food and love for the guests who would soon arrive. In this essay, Jacob recognizes a credo by which her family lived: “They knew that life was filled with bumps so they enjoyed themselves while they could.” This theme threads its way throughout her book.
Jacob’s essays continue to follow the arc of her life as she describes her years in Chicago; a daring adventure in Brazil; joining sports clubs for young professionals; buying her own condo, then later on a house; taking a chance on love; caring for her aging parents; and losing her parents. Throughout Jacob hopes to marry and have children, but as the years slip by, neither marriage nor children happen for her. However, her desire to find a soulmate does not drive the book. Instead, what shines through in Jacob’s essays are her decisions to live in the present and to explore new roads rather than waiting for something that may never happen.
Vivid writing and crisp dialogue breathe life into Jacob’s essays. Readers will feel they know the people and places she writes about. Her essays are more than just good stories. They resonate because of Jacob’s ability to convey why each story matters, both to her and to her readers. In memoir writing a writer is supposed to do more than tell an anecdote. The essay needs to answer the question, “So why should I, the reader, care about this?” Jacob’s essays impact readers because as she writes about her past, she answers that question every time. As readers discover why each of these moments are important in Jacob’s life, they are given the gift of being able to do the same with the significant events in their lives.
By the time I finished Jacob’s collection of essays, I found myself longing to meet with a group of fellow readers, sip a good latte, and discuss Jacob’s essays. Her book would make a wonderful nonfiction read for a book club. Because married or single, male or female, we all have stories and insights to share about our choices, careers, loves, family, sorrows, and joys.
Ever have someone tell you to keep your head down? I interpret that to mean I should put my head in a book. And sometimes a book is the best place to be. I’ve been hanging out in a lot of books lately.
The Ski Jumpers by Peter Geye. I read The Ski Jumpers because I read The Lighthouse Road and Safe from the Sea, both beautifully written novels. Geye writes stories with brooding, flawed characters who are self-reliant and tough, yet vulnerable, which makes me like them and root for them. The vivid landscapes in Geye’s novels become a character that his protagonists must work with and sometimes fight against. In The Ski Jumpers family secrets gather like dust bunnies hiding in the dark, under a heavy, nearly immovable antiquated piece of furniture. Because each family member knows only a part of their family’s secrets, misconceptions develop and resentments grow. Pops Bargaard loves his wife, Bett, but she struggles with her own demons, one of which is her inability to love both of her sons. She dotes on Anton while despising Johannes “Jon.” Pops, an accomplished ski jumper in his youth, introduces his sons to the sport. Ski jumping becomes an escape for Pops and his sons. And as the years go by, ski jumping becomes what Pops and his sons talk about when they are still hiding secrets, when they aren’t ready to talk about their pain, when they are holding on to happier times. One of the joys in Geye’s novel is his detailed, vivid descriptions of ski jumping, which fly off the page, taking me along, letting me ski jump with Johannes and Anton. At some point while reading Geye’s book, I skipped to the “Acknowledgments,” and as I had come to believe, I found that he grew up ski jumping, which explained how he could write so intimately about it.
Still Waters by Matt Goldman. I read Still Waters because I’ve read three of Goldman’s Nils Shapiro detective novels: Gone to Dust, Broken Ice, and The Shallows, and enjoyed them all. Still Waters is one of Goldman’s stand-alone novels. It’s a murder mystery, but one that is solved with the help of ordinary people. Siblings Liv and Gabe, who are estranged, must reunite for their older brother Mack’s funeral in their rural northern Minnesota hometown. Mack’s death has been ruled a medical event, but Liv and Gabe receive emails from their dead brother saying he was murdered. While Liv and Gabe try to make sense of Mack’s email and uncover the truth about his death, someone else dies, and it’s clearly murder. Liv and Gabe discover mysterious letters in a box that belonged to their deceased mother, and they suspect the letters hold the key to Mack’s death and the second murder. This smartly woven mystery with multiple theories and a number of potential suspects kept me guessing. Plus, I could read it before I went to bed and still drift off to sleep without checking under the bed. (I like mysteries without psychopathic serial killers.) Goldman’s mystery does have some scary moments, but only enough to make the heart race a little.
Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing. I read Endurance by Lansing because I like reading about shipwrecks. (Click here for proof.) The Endurance isn’t wrecked on a shoal or reef, she isn’t tossed over by a violent storm, and she isn’t irreparably wounded in battle. Instead, she has purposefully sailed into the Weddell Sea filled with ice floes, looking for a place to land on Antarctica. She is stalled by the ice, which sandwiches her in a death grip, squeezing and squeezing until she groans, and parts of her snap like toothpicks. After becoming unseaworthy, her crew have no choice but to abandon her and their mission to be the first to cross the width of Antarctica using sled dogs. Now the twenty-eight men must survive the beyond-bitter cold, the howling winds, and the snow and rain while hoping to rescue themselves. When Alfred Lansing wrote this book, he had access to the daily journals kept by some of the men, and he was able to interview some of the survivors. Lansing took great care to write an accurate and descriptive account of one of the greatest survival stories, and his book is a tribute to the human ability to put one foot in front of the other and to cling to hope. When Endurance was published in 1959, it was a critical success, but not a commercial one. By the time the book became a commercial success in 1986, Lansing was dead. If you read this book curl up with a blanket and a cup of something hot! This book chilled me to the bone!
The Bullet that Missed: A Thursday Murder Club Mystery by Richard Osman. I read this book because I read the first two books in the Osman’s series, and they were fun, fun, fun. These murder mysteries are a treat. They are cozy but do have some un-cozy scenes. (And yay! No serial killers, which are so overdone.) Most of the main characters live in a retirement home in the English countryside. While they participate in some of the traditional retirement activities, they have one that’s unusual — they meet on Thursdays to look at cold cases that haven’t been solved. The unsolved murders somehow become entangled in a new murder case, which then also involves the police. One of the characters, Elizabeth, is a former MI-6 agent, and as it turns out, it’s not easy for her to give up the thrills of spying and sleuthing. Her fellow retirees join in the criminal-case-cracking adventures. This mystery series earns top kudos from me for its characters, its dialogue, and its plots. Most of the characters are senior citizens, but that doesn’t mean they have checked out of life. The older characters in the book are presented as people, who all have the same hopes, dreams, desires, and brains as the younger characters, even if the older ones do occasionally battle aches and pains. Osman’s snappy dialogue creates characters that are witty and quick thinking, conversations often drip with verbal irony and humorous understatements. The criminal characters are well-developed, too. They are brilliant and devious, but, of course, never a match for the Thursday Murder Club. While you could read these books out of sequence, I suggest they are best read in order.
Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. I read this book because I walked into Apostle Islands Booksellers and saw it prominently displayed on a shelf. I’ve had people say to me, “Have you read Slaughterhouse-Five? No? Well, you should!” I’ve read articles where writers suggest to their readers, “If you haven’t read Slaughterhouse-Five, you should!” And there it was — Vonnegut’s book — on a shelf, looking at me, waiting for me, so I bought it. Slaughterhouse-Five is described as an antiwar book focused on the firebombing of Dresden in 1945. It follows Billy Pilgrim, a WWII veteran, who time travels from his old age to Dresden, to his wedding day, to life with his family, to a veteran’s hospital, to a planet in outer space, to his youth, like a pinball pinging across a fantasy-themed pinball game. I’m not listing Billy Pilgrim’s time travels in the necessarily correct order; besides, as the story unfolds, Billy travels back and forth among these places in time. But Vonnegut clearly had a plan, and as I read the book, it not only made sense to me, it all worked seamlessly. I never felt like I was being yanked around. A book like Slaughterhouse-Five is hard to explain in words. I like it for its satire, its experimentation, its ambiguity and clarity, and its themes. I like Vonnegut’s simple, but powerful sentences. Slaughterhouse-Five is often spoken of as anti-war novel, and that theme runs through it. However, Vonnegut’s slim novel is thematically rich, and there is much more being said than war is terrible. As I read the novel, I sometimes thought about “The Swimmer” by John Cheever. Raymond Carver’s short stories also came to mind.
Time to go keep my head down in a book. The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store by James McBride is waiting for me.
Next year I’m going to Shetland. I’ve been learning as much as I can about the group of islands, which are so far north of Scotland that most maps represent Shetland with an arrow that points north and the words to Shetland. And you have to take their word for it that it’s up there, beyond the edge of the map.
I bought Shetland: Your Essential Travel Guide (2024) by Laurie Goodlad. Her travel guide has a section titled “What to Read before You Arrive” with a list of fiction and nonfiction books. I chose Catherine Munro’s Ponies at the Edge of the World (2022) because where I grew up, we lived next to a farmer who had a small herd of American Shetland ponies, a cross between Shetland ponies and other horses. My sisters and I spent hours petting those ponies and feeding them tall grasses. The farmer who owned them taught us which grasses his ponies liked and how to hold our hands flat while the ponies nibbled their treats from our palms so our fingers wouldn’t get chomped.
What is this book about?
Catherine Munro is an anthropologist who specializes in human-animal relationships. She spent a year in Shetland to study the relationship between humans and Shetland ponies for her PhD. She interviewed people who spent their lives raising and taking care of Shetland ponies. For some Shetlanders, the tradition of caring for the ponies goes back generations.
While Munro’s book focuses on the relationship between Shetland ponies and people, she also describes some of the astonishing wildlife and the mystical landscapes that make the Shetland Islands one of the most unique and beautiful places on earth. She also brings to life the pragmatic and reserved but warm-hearted and community-minded people who live in Shetland.
What did I love about this book?
In her book, Munro describes why human-animal relationships are so important. The bond between the Shetland ponies and the people who raise them, care for them, and love them is fascinating. Shetland ponies developed over thousands of years, adapting to the climate and the terrain of Shetland. These small, thick-coated, hardy ponies became the perfect workmates for crofters who worked the land. Munro talks about the concerns for the survival of Shetland ponies as a distinct breed. She asks us to think about the importance of animals, to see them as our equals, and to understand that a respectful relationship with animals is essential for the survival of all species, including people.
Yesterday I read a blogger’s post stating that the Slender-billed Curlew has been officially declared extinct by scientists, a stark and sad announcement. To read the blog, click here. We need to do better for our earth and the plants and animals that inhabit it.
[You can follow Catherine Munro on Instagram at catherine_m_munro.]
Writing Near the Lake 