Just finished two very different books: Maud Hart Lovelace’s
Emily of Deep Valley and What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki
Murakami. Both of them were welcome
distractions from the business of waiting around to hear if I have a job next
semester or not.
I have not read
either author before. The Murakami I
happened to pick up without knowing anything about his other books, but now I
am interested in reading some, although I couldn’t find anything at the
library. Apparently his newest is IQ84, which
serendipitously I happened to read a review of at Somanybooks.
Emily of Deep Valley I picked up in lieu of a Betsy-Tacy
book. After reading the Mother Daughter Book Club book about the Betsy books, I
thought I would try to find one, but all I could find were a couple of the
books about Betsy in High School and this one. Instead of reading Betsy books
out of order, I thought I’d try this one – plus it’s about an Emily...
It could be I just don’t know where to look at our library.
Their children’s section is unusual. I’ve been trying to puzzle it out: as you enter, you find the section of new books from a grant program. These two shelves are
always changing, and are a mix of nonfiction, picture books, biographies, and
chapter books. New books for teens and adults are on the back of this
shelf. I think they send back the books
that aren’t getting read. A lot of the picture books are dreck. We just read
one, called Otis & Sydney by Laura Numeroff of “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie” fame. I hate to be uncharitable, but this book was
just dumb. It’s about a couple of bears who are best friends and one has a
birthday party for the other. That’s it. Plot as flat as paper. Language was bland.
Couldn’t tell the characters apart. I didn’t like the illustrations either. Almost as painful to read as a Barbie book.
Meanwhile a new book by Kate DiCamillo and co-authored by Alison McGhee called Bink and Gollie, about two very different friends, an odd couple of
sorts, has complex vocabulary, unsuspected plot twists, and illustrations with
a certain charm. But it’s thin enough to make me wonder how it could be
co-authored. And it almost feels like it
is trying too hard to be charming.
Back to the library: The other part of the children’s section is a big square
that seems to be divided up into picture books, easy readers, chapter books,
series books, and older chapter books (the kind that have the heavy duty bound
covers and thick paper, where I found the Lovelace book). The few nonfiction books are in the first
part of the picture books and after the series books. Then there is a section
on the other side of the square that has some older children’s books – old books
and books for older kids mixed in. I can’t quite figure out the logic
here. And I just found another section
that is children’s trade paperbacks, which must be donated books. They are in a
very random order – partly alphabetical and by subject and by size.
So much for new picture books. I meant to compliment
Murakami’s book and meditate on Lovelace’s.
The nice thing about reading a love story is that it reminds
you how nice it is to be in love. I
could dismiss Emily of Deep Valley of being sentimental drivel, but it has a
sincerity that is hard to resist. How
can you help but want to live in her beautiful little town and quaint cottage? And
Emily is easy to admire for mustering up her will power to make the most of a
situation she didn’t desire. She also doesn’t hesitate to reach out to others,
even if she doesn’t know them well. She’s a good role model for a Navy wife:
you don’t always get to pick your location, but you can pick whether or not to
be happy and useful.
Every description of her high school crowd reminded me of
the conversations I had with my grandmother about her high school days. Even
though Emily graduated 10 years before my grandmother was born, the generation between
them seemed to make only a difference in style, not in the social life. My
grandmother reminisced about rolling up carpets in her living room, so her
crowd could come over and dance. She loved college, mostly because of the
social life. She was always looking for a reason to have a party. And like
Emily, she was an only child who was often lonely. My great grandfather, her father, was
older and strict. But my grandmother
still found a way to socialize often.
Not only did the book remind me of my maternal grandmother, it also
resurrected memories of my paternal grandfather.
Emily’s grandfather is more congenial and forgetful than mine was, but I
liked how she doted on him. I used to
cry with fear that my grandfather was dying.
I spent a lot of time at my grandparent’s house in high school because
they lived a couple blocks from where I practiced track. Like Emily's grandfather, they lived in a house filled with old things. I would have happily
moved in with them instead of going to college if I had needed to. I like to think so, anyway. But then I did
leave and didn’t come back.
Back to the love story: why is it frequently the case that
people miss – or almost miss – the right person because they are stuck on the wrong
one? If you’ve read Emily, you know she pines over a handsome young man who is
arrogant and moody. She never does condemn him. My quibble is that too much of
the book is spent describing how Emily yearns for the wrong fellow. I’d rather
read more about the courtship and conversations between Emily and the right
guy. Are these two main characters too
nice? Or are they a pleasant reminder of how to conquer selfishness with
genuine concern for others? As I
struggle with my own selfishness, I got a good kick in the shins about how much
I demand and how little I give while reading this.
I’ll have to post on
Murakami later.
