Roadtrip Reads

Of the many things I am thankful for, possibly the highest on my list is my ability to read in a moving car without puking, a gift that has saved me countless hours of boredom on long family trips and other adventures that might otherwise be mind-numbingly dull. This past weekend, I had the opportunity exercise my skill again on a 3-day journey from Bellingham to San Diego with pal Amy and her brother Steve. Once I finally convinced Amy that no, she did not need to bring a giant bag of hangers, a Chinese lantern, and a milk crate full of incense, there was actually room in the car for me to tote along a backpack of clean clothes and, of course, a few books.

Between my naps in the backseat and my management of the sing-along playlist (if I never hear "C'Mon Get Happy" again it'll be too soon), I read three books, all of which are recommendable. Let's start with The Vast Fields of Ordinary by Nick Burd, which focuses on the last summer Dade Hamilton spends at home before going to college. During these three months, he contends with his parents' crumbling marriage, his abusive boyfriend, and the local mystery of a missing eight-year-old girl. He also falls in love, and that element of the story is what makes this a particularly sweet summer read. Marketed to teens, but the elegant, witty writing and intelligent insights make it a great read for anyone.

I also read Elinor Lipman's latest novel, The Family Man. Lipman is known for her humorous portrayals of family life, couplehood, and friendship. In The Family Man, Henry Archer finds his life complicated by a phone call from his distraught ex-wife, Denise, as well as the re-appearance of her grown daughter, Thalia. Henry and Thalia were close when he was married to her mother, but lost contact after the divorce. Now that she's back, she and Henry refresh their bonds and help each other navigate the odd, humorous details of their professional lives, their personal lives, and their ever-unpredictable relationship with Denise. Like all of Lipman's novels, the dialogue is phenomenal--fresh, witty, and fast--and the plot, while pretty goofy and even a tad unbelievable, nevertheless transport readers through some amusing and unique territory. A beach read with smarts.

And because a backseat isn't a backseat without a little, umm, spice, I also read essays from Behind the Bedroom Door:Getting It, Giving, Loving It, Missing It, which while about sex, was more smart than salacious, satsifying my intellectual curiosity about what other people think/feel/do/hope for/regret without being a pornographic journey into other people's lives. Which was a good thing, cuz porn+best friend+backseat of best friend's car+best friend's brother=ewww.

Finally, on the plane ride home, I mostly dozed off listening to my iPod, but during conscious moments, concentrated on trying to balance my in-flight snack pack, my Bloody Mary, and my book on the teeny-tiny table tray. The book in question was A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers by Xiaolu Guo (if anyone knows how to pronounce that name, let me know and I will take care of your dog for free on weekends). In the novel, a young Chinese woman (she goes by the name Z) spends a year abroad in London, where she learns the language (sort of) and has a complicated relationship with a lover who is at first charmed, and later exasperated by, her naivete, innocence, and struggles to speak English.

I felt a little bit like Z in San Diego amidst the skinny surfers and tanned beach bodies. At least I had the books to distract me, not only from the perpetually youthful culture of Sunshine, but from saying good-bye to Amy. I look forward to seeing her soon. I'll be saving up some great books for the next trip south.

HAIR!

Thirty-one years ago, on the squareball court at Roosevelt Elementary, Amy Baklund called me (the new kid at the school) "little girl," and shortly thereafter, became not my tormentor, but my closest friend. Over three-quarters of my life are comprised of memories of her: the summers we spent at Camp Don Bosco, the time I put her underpants in her flute case before school, the "classes" we conducted we conducted as teachers with a roomful of stuffed animals (little Ralphie the beat-up black and white teddy bear was especially badly behaved), the time she spilled her Bunsen Burner in 8^th grade science, the billion notes we wrote under our assumed identities, Wanda Teetlebound (Amy) and Elouise Latink (me), the summer days we conducted Camp Kiddie Joy in my back yard, and the many, many times we costumed ourselves, laughed uncontrollably, and seized, together, the joy and the journey of life in Bellingham and on this planet.
In January of 2005, Amy was diagnosed with Stage 1 Breast Cancer, and for a horrible, terrifying time, there was a chance that these stories, these memories, this life that we had shared, would become anecdotes that I told at gatherings with our amazing group of friends: "Remember that time when Amy...." "Remember how Amy used to...." "I wish Amy were here to..." But Amy received excellent treatment at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance (in her words, "the juice bar") survived her cancer, and continues to be one of the most charismatic, vibrant, life-affirming people I am honored to know.

Amy says that one of the worst days of her cancer diagnosis was when her doctor gave her a prescription for a wig. Fortunately, she never had to fill it, because she didn't lose her hair, but lots of people with cancer aren't so lucky. And if you read, Hair: Public, Political, Extremely Personal by Diane Simon, you'll appreciate even more how our tresses not only frame our faces, but define who we are. As someone who has spent the past twenty years growing, caring for, wrestling with, and cleaning up after long, curly, hair, I know exactly what it means to be defined, at least in part, by the dead stuff hanging from my head.

Every year at my school, a cancer-awareness week is followed by an assembly in which students buy raffle tickets to shave the head of a dozen or so teachers. Many students also volunteer to have their heads shaved to show solidarity to those fighting cancer, and the funds raised are donated to Children's Hospital. This year, I joined in, following the example set last year by my principal Beth, my friend Laural, and a half-dozen courageous students who chopped their locks. This past Friday, Amy came to the assembly at BEHS to cut my hair. I shared her story with the students and then she carefully sheared off my two 8-inch ponytails, which I sent to Pantene's Beautiful Lengths, an organization that makes and donates wigs to women who’ve lost their hair due to cancer treatment. Later that afternoon, my other buddy Jill accompanied me for a touch-up haircut, which my regular stylist, Heather, donated to the cause.

I’d tell you that I went home, looked in the mirror at the curly cupcake that is now my head, and broke into tears. But the truth is, as much as I love having long hair, I love having Amy in my life more. Every day that I spend waiting for my hair to grow out is a day that I might not have spent with her, had her treatment not been successful, and I'd rather be completely bald than imagine a single day without her humor, spunk, intelligence, and friendship. I am so thankful, every morning, when I wake up, that her zest for adventure, our shared history, and a future of fun await. No amount of hair on earth would ever be an adequate exchange for that. When you see me, and my not-so-Carrie-Bradshaw-mushroom-head, I hope you'll agree.

The Best Missing Person Novel Yet

Just when it seemed impossible to read yet another story about a missing person, I found another one. And it's excellent. In The Local News by Miriam Gershow, fifteen-year-old Lydia Pasternak deals with the disappearance of her older brother, Danny, who despite his popularity at school and many friends, wasn't the ideal brother. He teased, bullied, insulted, and ignored Lydia, making it difficult for her to miss him much.

Nevertheless, she becomes obsessed with his vanishing and with the investigation into his whereabouts. When her parents--both of whom are too overcome with misery to be much comfort to Lydia--hire a private detective to find their son, Lydia also begins looking for clues.

But the story isn't so much of a murder mystery as it is a coming-of-age story with a twist. Lydia's life is profoundly impacted by her missing brother--her parents are hazy and uninvolved, her schoolmates and teachers remember a Danny that Lydia didn't know or care for, and strangers write to them regularly with bewildering clues, ominous "visions" and false leads. Lydia encounters all of the regular teenage issues: pressure from her best friend, her changing relationship with her best guy friend, her attraction to one of Danny's friends, but all of the normal challenges of being a teenager are exacerbated by the circumstances surrounding her brother's disappearance her parents' odd withdrawal from her care and attention.

The Local News is incredibly well-written; Gershow maintains a sense of tension and suspense that while related to the mystery at hand, also permeates the relationships in her characters' lives, lending depth and insight to what might otherwise be just another ripped-from-the-headlines story. If it weren't for the effect of the disappearance on Lydia's coming-of-age, this novel would have been just as excellent without it, and I would have appreciated the author's humor, intelligence, and wordsmanship just as much.