The Books of Summer

THE BOOKS OF SUMMER

Carolyn J. Rose

Recently I read Pecos Valley Diamond, a mystery set 90 years ago in southern New Mexico and told from the point of view of a nineteen-year-old young woman. The character’s voice and the gentle tone of the book took me back to the summers of my early teens when I had hours to myself, when I could stretch out in the shade of a maple and sink into a story. Within moments I would be in another place, another age, with real people or fictional characters. All of them were braver, smarter, and had more interesting lives than I did, but they all seemed willing to share their experiences, to confide their thoughts.

I had the ability back then to set reality aside, to let the words wash over me, to submerge as if into a warm lake. I would go so deep that all sound was muffled, even my mother’s call to dinner or my father’s shout that my chores hadn’t been completed. Sometimes I wouldn’t note the chill of evening, a rising wind, or the first drops of rain.

I read accounts of exploration and travel to far lands—Kon Tiki and Aku-Aku. I read the “traditional” books for girls—Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie and the adventures of Nancy Drew. I read tales of the detecting Hardy boys and the westerns my father enjoyed—stories by Zane Grey and Max Brand and Louis L’Amour. I read the books I found on my grandmother’s shelves, classics by Hawthorne, Melville, and Cooper. I read The Egg and I, and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

I didn’t always understand the themes and deeper meanings, but I connected with the characters, the settings, and the feel of those books. I lived inside the covers until I read the final words. Often, I read the books again the next summer.

Now I tend to read with one eye on the clock—Is it time to check that pie, meet that friend, turn out the light and go to sleep?—and one ear on the sounds of my surroundings—the dogs, the washer, the mail truck. Most of the books I read are as “busy” as I am, but Pecos Valley Diamond lulled my multi-tasking mind.

Was that due to Alice Duncan’s skill at creating her world, her characters, and the tone of her story? Or was that due to my unconscious desire to revisit and reclaim the reading experience of my youth while walking the sun-blistered roads of fictional Rosedale, New Mexico?

Even the most skillful writer can’t capture a reader who doesn’t want to be caught, so my conclusion is that it was a bit of both and Alice Duncan and I met each other halfway.

Comments? I love comments, especially about your reading experiences and the books of your summers.

Lying to the U.S. Census Bureau

Mike Nettleton:

I have a confession to make.

My wife Carolyn and I may have undercounted our household when we sent back last year's census form. We reported three people lived in our Vancouver home—me, Carolyn and our godson "The Viper." (His nickname may be the subject of a future blog.)

When the census swat team surrounds our home—the members all wearing stern expressions and Kevlar vests, all carrying automatic weapons and search warrants—I hope they’ll listen to our plea of extenuating circumstances: The sun was in our eyes. We got distracted by a passing herd of buffalo. A bearded stranger made us lie on the form at gunpoint. We're suffering from a vitamin deficiency. 

How am I doing so far? Are you buying this?

In the interest of full disclosure and for the therapeutic value and soul-cleansing inherent in the confessional, here's a comprehensive list of the additional residents of the Nettleton/Rose household.

   1."Somebody." This mysterious and mischievous individual

is responsible for a number of nefarious deeds and small

  domestic disasters. Most recently, Carolyn bellowed down

      the stairs at me, "Somebody didn't screw the lid down on the

       pickle jar tightly enough." I cowered beneath the pool table in

    my office, pretending the high-end hearing loss I’d suffered

      during my 42-year radio career had, just that minute,become

       total deafness.

2. “Somebody Else." This person often bears the brunt of the action taken by “Somebody,” as in, "Somebody Else tried to pick it up and the jar exploded, spilling pickle juice all over the bottom of the refrigerator.

3. "A Certain Person." Now this is where things get a little blurry. In certain situations (such as the now infamous pickle-juice-all-over-the-bottom-of-the-refrigerator incident, it appears that "A Certain Person"is an alias for "Somebody." Witness part three of the bellow. "'A Certain Person' needs to get off his big fat duff and come clean up this big mess." In case you wonder why "Somebody" might need an alias, I have it from a good source at the FBI that he’s wanted for questioning in connection with a multi-state crime spree involving destruction of private property with pickle juice and, in one case, assault with hot dog relish.

4. "Mr. Oblivious." This guy seems to have a lot of problems figuring out where things are located in the house especially after another undocumented residential stowaway has finished her most recent round of "I'm tired of where everything is, lets rearrange everything just for the hell of it." Her name of course is—

5. "Ms. Tee Hee." When pushed into a conversational corner by "Somebody," "A Certain Person," or "Mr. Oblivious" about her actions, motives, convenient memory lapses, or occasional bouts of unexplainable behavior, her first and only defense is, "Tee Hee." Luckily for her she's cute enough to pull this maneuver off and the mention of her name always ends any potentially contentious conversation.

You'll note that with the exception of "Ms. Tee Hee," my wife Carolyn is the sole witness to the existence of any of these additional members of our household. But, since I can see no reason for her to have fabricated them, we probably need to hand-deliver an amended statement and heartfelt apology to the U.S. Census Bureau. I know for a fact that "A Certain Person" feels horrible about the whole mess.