Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind

So this is the first book that I have read since starting this blog - Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind by Ann B. Ross, recommended by my mom, who loves books about southern women.  She was a little worried about giving it to me because it has a not too flattering portrayal of the Presbyterian church and Miss Julia's money-hungry pastor and my father-in-law happens to be a Presbyterian minister, but I don't think he would be offended.  More an indictment of small town gossip and politics than anything specifically Presbyterian.  Lots of funny, albeit kind of stereotypical characters and a charming southern story about a widow who finally becomes her own person and finds a new family after the death of her husband.  Cutesy stories like this are not my favorite, but it was very entertaining and did make me think about some deeper questions, especially why are we so willing to let ourselves be changed by relationships?  Miss Julia was a "shrinking violet" during much of her life - controlled by her father, then by her husband and her pastor, and always subject to the expectations of the community -  and it took her husband's death to force her to be independent and be able to realize that she didn't have to keep doing what men told her to.  And even while she's supposed to be becoming this steel magnolia, she allows herself to be persuaded by the pastor that she's suffering from nymphomania (ha!) and is terrified that the town will find out.  So was she lucky that her husband died?  Hopefully there aren't many women out there who would feel the same sense of relief that Miss Julia seems to have if their husbands died.  Should we judge Miss Julia because she wasn't able to speak her mind sooner or because she was so dependent on her husband that she couldn't?  My husband (who is a wonderful saint of a man) and I try to have an equal partnership and make decisions together, but there is definitely a part of me that breathes that sigh of relief when I can defer to him -- it's not my responsibility to get the oil changed or pay the bills or make that call to the repairman or plan the trip because I have a husband who can do it.  However, I also know that I could do (and have done) those things if I had to.  Wouldn't my life be easier if I were Miss Julia and only had to worry about what to bring to the next potluck at the church or what kind of new curtains to buy?  If Miss Julias are a dying breed, will girls in the next generation be even less concerned with gender roles than I am?  Wouldn't it be interesting to read a book where you didn't know the gender of the characters?

Up next - Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (I see you, LRC!)

The most wonderful time of the year

Supporting a habit like mine means you have to have a source for the goods.  You have to know where to get the good stuff and get it at a good price.  This is why I am an absolute sucker for the 3-for-2 table at Borders and the 4-for-3 bargain books at Amazon.  However, as good a deal as those are, nothing beats a used book sale.  In my hometown of Winston-Salem, a wonderful group called the Shepherd's Center has an annual book sale, and it is literally like Christmas and my birthday all in one.  Tables and tables of $0.50 or $1 paperbacks.  Get 25 of the $0.50 books for $10.  Get 25 of the $1 books for $20.  That's 50 books for $30...blows my mind.  Old, torn-up, wrinkly books, practically mint condition new books, fat books, thin books, yellowed books, trashy books, classic books, and everything in between.  And the smell...it's like heaven.  Your mucus membranes start to dry out after a while because of all the dust, but who cares.  It does take some effort to weed through the romance novels and John Grisham (no offense to John Grisham, I love him - I am a lawyer after all - I just already have all his books), but I think that's part of the reward.  This past year I didn't get to go until the last day of the 3-day sale and I was a little worried that all the really good stuff would be gone, but no...I found John Irving and James Michener and Belva Plain and Dick Francis and Robert Ludlum galore.  I think I was there for about 3 hours and had to send my dad to the car with books twice because I couldn't carry everything.

This picture (taken with crappy iPhone camera, sorry...) is of the to-be-read bookcase in my office at home that is filled with book sale bounty, as well as other bargain books and a few hardcovers that I broke down and bought because I just couldn't wait.  Yep, I read all the time and I still have this many books that I haven't gotten to yet.  I sit and look at this shelf and I'm seriously almost blinded.  It makes me happy to know that I have them to enjoy, but also a little sad because I can't just go in a room and not come out until I've finished them.  I want to be reading all of these books at once and at the same time, I want to have already read them and already know them.  And that I think is the definition of booklust.

The Legacy of the Red Bag

So, I really like books, like a lot.  I always have.  When I finish a book, I close it gently and lay my hands on the cover.  I don't exactly pray over the book, but I take a moment to linger in the atmosphere it has created around me, watching characters transform back into misty ideas and thinking of the words or images that will always transport me back to that book from now on.  I see this ritual as my way of offering thanks for what that book has given me (and every book gives us something), as well as an exercise in self control because it restrains me from putting the finished book aside and immediately opening another, which would seem a bit obscene or disrespectful.  But having had that moment with my new fully realized book friend, I can never wait too long to get my hands on the next one.

It was my mother who made me this way.   Some of my earliest memories are going to the public library with my mom and older brother.  We had this red canvas tote bag with white stripes down the middle, and every week I got the pleasure of combing the shelves in the children's section and filling up the red bag with as many books as I could fit.  I would line up dolls and stuffed animals in the den and read to them, being sure to show them all the pictures on each page just like the librarian at story time.  I was like a dog that goes berzerk whenever anyone says "car ride" or "treat" - I would see that red bag and start drooling and running around in circles.  Mom also read to us every night -- Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, all the classics that every mother should read to her children.  We would lay in my bed, Mom in the middle, and I just loved the sound of her voice and the way she rubbed her toes together while she read, crossing one foot over the other and strumming them back and forth.  Mom would tell you that she got me hooked on books even earlier than that. Before I could walk or talk, she would sit for hours with me and a book, usually one by Richard Scarry, in my lap, not trying to get me to understand the story, but just pointing to words and pictures and talking to me - Where's the ball?  Point to the red car.  How many apples are there?  I'm no psychologist but I'm pretty sure that kind of thing is good for child development.  Pretty soon I was devouring chapter books on my own, and by the time I got to Mrs. Shore's first grade class at Speas Elementary School, I thought I was hot sh*t.  I became locked in a bitter contest with two boys in my class to see who could read the most books.  It was a happy day when Omar got the measles and fell out of the race.

All of these experiences mean that today I am a 27-year-old self-diagnosed bookluster, whose love for the written word interferes with daily life more often than I should probably be comfortable with.  I've started this blog to see if I might enjoy writing about books as much as I enjoy reading them and if anyone cares about what I have to say.  So I will be posting about the books I read as I read them, and maybe about anything else I feel like talking about.  Please keep reading!