The Dust Pan

I wrote this essay in 1997.

The Dust Pan

My husband and I spent a Saturday afternoon clearing out the clutter from our tiny house.  We collected a truckful of junk and dumped it into a corner of our yard.  What a pile of garbage we had collected:  a lamp without a fixture, a dangerously broken floor heater, a half dozen terra cotta pots, several trashbags full of clothing, and other goodies.  Well, one man’s junk is another’s merchandise.  Gint suggested that we pile our stuff into our pickup and take it to his grandmother’s house.

The dreaded Lithuanian grandmother:  four feet tall, crusty, hollow, crackly, white, and crevaced.  She is always ready to tell you what you’re doing wrong with your life.  The first time I met Grandma Pat was a week before our trip to Lithuania.  Gint and I had just met two months before, and being in one of those in-between times of my life, I invited myself along on a trip to Lithuania he had been planning for quite a while.  I felt spontaneous and free and fearless.  Then I met Grandma Pat.  As we sat in the parlor of her modest and hot apartment, she waggled a bony finger at us.  “Don’t you trust anybody while you are in Lithuania,” she said in a dusty voice.  “They’ll rob you and take you for everything you have.  Everybody in Lithuania is hungry.”

I soon learned why when she presented us with lunch: tasteless tuna sandwiches on Kaunas black bread.  I politely nibbled mine and wished I hadn’t purchased my airplane ticket the day before.

My second encounter with Grandma Pat was at Thanksgiving.  The holiday tradition in my husband’s family is for everyone to gather at her apartment.  As we entered her home I realized it was extremely hot again, and not because she had been baking turkey and pumpkin pie all day.  No, it was hot because she never opens the windows, and even on an autumn day in Los Angeles this can prove to be deadly in her second story apartment. Everyone eyed the digital thermometer on the wall as it climbed into the high 80s. 

Thanksgiving dinner was imported by Gint’s mother Jo, who prepared the meal at her own house in Mount Washington and then transported it in plastic crates to West Hollywood.  After dinner, we retired to the living room, and Grandma Pat showed us a bottle of liquor she had won in a raffle at a Lithuanian festival:  Goldschläger, an expensive spirit with flakes of gold floating in the bottle.  Grandma revealed that she was saving it for a special occasion.  Gint’s father Gene took the bottle from her and eyed the gold flakes inside.  He smile broadly and nodded, “Yes, this is a special occasion.”

           

Grandma Pat tore the bottle from his hands and said, “I didn’t mean today!”

Gene hiccupped and said, “But why?”

“It’s not an after dinner drink,” she said.  A month later at Christmas we asked about the bottle, and she shrugged and said she had given it away to someone, she couldn’t remember who.

Over the last five years, episodes like the Goldschläger incident happened infrequently, only on those days when the family gathered for the holidays.  And here it was, a bright Saturday afternoon—nothing special—and my husband wanted to drag me to Grandma Pat’s.  There was a perfectly good reason why, too.  She keeps her garage stocked with a large assortment of yard sale nuggets. Every afternoon she opens her garage door that faces the alley and sells the items to everyone and anyone interested.  She makes pennies.  I know where she gets the stuff—she wanders through the streets of West Hollywood and rummages through trashbins and cardboard boxes.  I wonder if anyone has ever bought something from her that they had thrown out years before.

And now we had more treasures to add to the garage.  Grandma’s garage is full of decapitated dolls, 8-track cassettes, velevet dog paintings, dusty books about outdoor survival, rusty toasters, someone else’s red taffeta dress, boxes of buttons, Dean Martin record albums, termite-eaten bookshelves, dozens of wicker baskets, dirty used tennis balls, an even a corroded kitchen sink.  Turn off the lights and you’re in a haunted house, cobwebs included.

Reluctantly I agreed to go to Grandma Pat’s to drop off our junk.  I recalled the last time we visited, which had been exceptionally tedious.  It started with a perusal of the family pictures.  Hours later she decided to serve lunch: boiled chicken and boiled potatoes and a boiled conversation—basic Lithuanian fare.  After the meal she patted my stomach and asked if I was pregnant—I wasn’t.  She asked, “Well, what’s wrong with you then?”

I stammered.

“Well?”  The word hung thickly in the stuffy air.  I wanted to pluck out that word and stick it in my pocket.  “What’s wrong with you?”  she asked again.

I shot my husband the please-make-her-shut-up glare.  “We have to go,” he said.  That was my last non-holiday outing to Grandma’s place.

I pleaded with my husband to let me off the hook on this one.  He didn’t need me there, I’m weak and can’t lift things, and after all I have to clean the house.  He said it would be good for me to go, we haven’t seen her in a while, and she’s getting old.  “Fine.  I’ll go.”

Grandma greeted us at her door and asked if we had eaten.  Thankfully we had.  My husband suggested that we start moving things right away since the truck was open.  So, we exited Baba Yaga’s oven upstairs and headed to the ninth level of the inferno downstairs.  As the garage door careened into its cradle on the ceiling, a cloud of dust billowed out.  I choked but decided to tough it out. This is, after all, a visit to Grandma’s.  I chanted my mantra: be nice, be nice, be nice.

Grandma Pat floated through the garage, picking up and caressing items in a way that she would never caress a human being.  With Zen focus she picked up a vase, she was in the moment, and she asked me if I wanted to take it home.  If only she could hug her grandson with the same tenderness.   “No thank you, we have plenty of vases.  But this one is lovely.”  Be nice, be nice, be nice.

She continued to offer up all sorts of items: that size 2 dress, this painting of someone I didn’t know, those measuring cups, these coffee mugs.  For some reason she didn’t remember that we had just dumped a truckload of stuff in her garage in an attempt to create some walking space on the poor cluttered floors of our cottage.  Wasn’t she paying attention?

I had thought she was finished with the inventory when she picked up one more object.  “How about this dust pan,” she said.  The bright orange dustpan gleamed as she held it up. I flashed back to our cleanup of the morning—no dustpan in sight, it would have been nice to sweep the floors.  Finally something we needed.

“Oh, we really need a dust pan,” I said.

Her eyes lit up in stark blue excitement.  “You do!” she said.  Her Parkinson’s hand shook the dust pan in my direction.  Our fingers touched.  Her skin was cold and smooth, funny but I don’t remember touching her hands before.  Her knuckles whitened as she gripped my hand.  This old lady was strong, probably from sorting through garbage.  She exposed her gappy teeth in a crusty smile.  I had become the perfect wife for her grandson.  I had accepted her dust pan.

The dust pan had become our peace pipe, and I clutched it tightly as we exchanged a rare embrace.  I lingered a moment as I held her tiny, shallow body.  Maybe she’s not so bad.  So what if she’s not warm and affectionate like my effusive Italian family.  She expressed her love differently.  She gives from her heart and her soul: she gives from her garage.

Book review: The Book Without Words is just that

Book review:  The Book Without Words: A Fable of Medieval Magic by Avi

Characters with confusing motivations. A potentially interesting setting with limited detail. A slow-moving plot that goes almost nowhere. Pages and pages of dialogue that go where the plot goes. These are the reasons I was so disappointed with The Book Without Words. 

I would have enjoyed this book if it had delved into the deeper workings of the magic it describes. I might have recommended this book if the characters had compelling stories to tell. I would have put other books by this author on my to-read list if he hadn’t bored me so much with dialogue that babbles endlessly without advancing plot, character, or setting.
This book had a lot of potential, which is probably what makes it most disappointing. I have read several books that take place in medieval settings, and I was looking forward to another angle on this genre. Aspects of this story reminded me of the setting of Inkheart—it would be better to read Inkheart itself.


This book had a lot of potential, which is probably what makes it most disappointing. I have read several books that take place in medieval settings, and I was looking forward to another angle on this genre. Aspects of this story reminded me of the setting of Inkheart—it would be better to read Inkheart itself.
Here are my recommendations:

• If you want to read about the details of casting magic in a fantasy world, read the Harry Potter series or Magic Study.

• If you want to read a story that takes place in medieval times, read the Brother Cadfael mystery series.

• If you want to read a young adult story with compelling characters, read the Hunger Games trilogy or anything by Neal Shusterman. 

Sadly, The Book Without Words feels like just that—a book without words. There’s really no reason to read it unless you just want to add another book to your list of meh.

Two stars--maybe one.

The House on Mango Street: Classic or Classic Hype?

Book Review:  The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

The House on Mango Street was just plain irritating. With an unreliable narrator, this book is written in a voice that I don't particularly care to read. It's the diary of teenage kid, plain and simple. 

Sandra Cisneros tries too hard. On the one hand, the writing is slangy and informal to capture the narrator's voice, and then she inserts gobs of heavy or inappropriate metaphors. Here's one that bugged me:

"...Angel Vargas learned to fly and dropped from the sky like a sugar donut..."

Okay, really, did you mean sugar donut? Because when I try to imagine this, I get nothing but sugar donut. I don't see Angel Vargas falling like a sugar donut, I just see a sugar donut. Sugar donuts don’t really have any special falling quality—they fall like everything else.  She could have said that Angel Vargas fell like a loaf of bread or a box of kleenex.  Maybe she was trying to get across that he fell like anything falls, but the metaphor is just a distraction. Here--I think the author is trying to get a rise out of the audience by including some random metaphor that doesn't really fit. Hey look, I'm deep, I'm using an inappropriate metaphor here. Real deep. Oh gosh I know this is supposed to read like poetry, but it feels contrived. And when I feel like an author is trying to manipulate me, I'm bitter.

Hmmm, what else. I didn't like any of the characters, and I didn't care about any of the characters. Sure, the vignettes just gave a slice of a glimpse of some of the minutiae of this life and this neighborhood, but what does it matter if you don't care? The narrator's dispassionate approach to everything was contagious.  

I guess what bugged me the most was that reading this book was like reading the essays of my fourth grade students, which aren't that great in the grand scheme of things. I understand it's in the point of view of a barrio kid, and everybody's excited about this kind of literature, but it just left me wanting. Wanting other books.

Books that accomplish similar goals that I would rather read than The House on Mango Street:

• The Dead by James Joyce. A somewhat similar style, but so so so so much better. 

• Inside the WhiteHouse: The Complete Civil War Diary of John Hay. Someone else's diary with a better story, better writing, and likable characters. (And John Hay wanted to be a poet.)

• The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, if you really love metaphors. I ripped this book apart in an earlier review because of the heavy-handed use of figurative language, but at least the characters and the story are compelling. By the way, Zusak unabashedly admitted that he tried to put at least one good metaphor on each page. Too much! But aside from that, the story was very good.

• In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, the master of words. Okay world, if you want to learn how to make the English language sound like poetry, read this book. Mr. Capote doesn't club you over the head with the metaphors, he just quietly sneaks them in. 

• The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. This book also has a dispassionate narrator, but the dialogue is superb.

I've noticed this book on reading lists for middle and high schoolers. Kids either love it or hate it (I think mostly hate it, which explains its low score of 3.5 on the Goodreads review). Save this experiment with literary forms for the older kids.

I'm glad I read it to see what all the hype is about; now I'm wondering what all the hype is about.

Review: Planet of the Apes by Pierre Boulle

Review: Planet of the Apes by Pierre Boulle

I read the original Planet of the Apes by Pierre Boulle on the heels of seeing the new movie, Rise of the Planet of the Apes. (Loved it, by the way, thanks to Andy Serkis.) 

It's tough to write about a book that has been made into a movie that is iconic in popular culture. Certainly nobody expects the book and the movie to be the same, and of course in this case, there were lots of differences. But honestly, it's really hard to get the images of Charleton Heston and Kim Hunter out of your head when you're reading Planet of the Apes.

Having said that, this book was a good solid piece of science or speculative fiction with major thematic issues. The most significant issue is probably experimental testing on animals or people. You probably already know the premise of the book, but in a nutshell: Space travelers have crashed onto a planet where apes are in charge and humans are treated like animals. The apes have set up experimental centers, testing the brain patterns of humans by medically altering them. It reminded me of the Nazi experimentation on Jews during World War II, and it was probably meant to trigger that connection, given that the author was French and wrote it in the early 60's.  A really good piece of science fiction will explore a moral or ethical issue, and Planet of the Apes is no exception.

Also, the ape world was very well developed. I especially liked the ape-world stock exchange--utter chaos, like the NYSE, but also in three dimensions. Apes swing through the air from place to place to expedite transactions. Now that would be great to see in a film! 

What I didn't like about the book was its almost complete lack of dialogue in the first half, and limited dialogue in the second half. It was really hard to read so much exposition and description; my eyes would glaze over and I'd have to poke myself to keep reading. I know this was partially intentional because the space traveler did not understand ape language, but even after he became fluent, there was still limited dialogue. Also it's really difficult to develop characters when everything presented about them is done by the point-of-view description of another character (this is told in the first person by one of our travelers). The writing is so-so.

If you really love the movie franchise, then go ahead and read this book--it's a quick read. But if you're looking for a well-written piece of science fiction, maybe you should swing to another tree.

Game of Thrones: A Game of Show

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin

If you take one lesson from George R. R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones, it’s this: Show, Don’t Tell.

Martin masterfully cultivates a complex and compelling story without clubbing you over the head with exposition. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

His ten page prologue prepares you for what’s to come: he is a master storyteller capable of parlaying character and plot intricacies with a quick twist of the pen. Or keystroke, as it were.

“The trees press close here,” Will warned. “That sword will tangle you up, m’lord. Better a knife.”
“If I need instruction, I will ask for it,” the young lord said. “Gared, stay here. Guard the horses.”
Gared dismounted. “We need a fire. I’ll see to it.”
“How big a fool are you, old man? If there are enemies in this wood, a fire is the last thing we want.”
“There’s some enemies a fire will keep away,” Gared said. “Bears and direwolves and…and other things…”
Ser Waymar’s mouth became a hard line. “No fire.”

So, what do we read from this quote? Gared is experienced, cautious; Ser Waymar is arrogant and suffers from the sin of hubris. Mr. Martin, you had me at hello.

Starting this 800-page book was a daunting prospect. What if, after 400 pages, I hated this book? What if all the hype was just, well, hype? What if I invested hours of reading, only to get halfway through to realize that it just wasn’t worth it? I have been burned before. However, once I had read the first five pages, I knew that I would not be disappointed. 

A lot has been written about this book and its series, so I won’t belabor my review. 

You will love this book if you also love:
• fantasy
• a complex and well thought out world
• a good mystery
• intriguing characters
• an epic saga
• kids doing brave and interesting things (yes, kids)
• cool dwarves
I would like to make one comment about one character that merits a spoiler alert. Oh my god, what was Eddard Stark thinking? He was so obsessed—yes, obsessed—with honor that he shot himself in the foot. He foolishly trusted everyone, including people who outright told him they can’t be trusted (Littlefinger). He let the sword fall based on his rigid code of honor. He is no better than the merciless Lannisters. After all, how can you trust a leader who is rigidly bound by some code and will not make distinctions of gray? Eddard Stark suffered the same fate as King Arthur, who set up his own standards only to have his hand severed when he must enforce his law against his best friend and his queen. Frankly, I was relieved when he lost his head. 

A final note.  I am going to add Tyrion Lannister as one of my favorite literary characters of all time.  Yeah, I wouldn't mind having a beer with him, Sherlock, and Atticus.  Thanks, Mr. Martin!

The Borrower: Librarians on the Loose

Book Review:  The Borrower by Rebecca Makkai

My friend suggested I read The Borrower because I love books, and he was spot-on. This book drops dozens of references to other books (especially children's literature) in an endless stream of inside-jokes. And I loved it because I got the references. Yes, I've read From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler--got that reference. And of course I've read Goodnight, Moon--loved the chapter based on that book. Not to mention Middlesex, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and The Wizard of Oz. I got many or most of the esoteric references and felt like I was in the in-crowd. Of nerds, of course. How can you not love a book that makes you feel so cool?

The demographics:

Plot: small town librarian escapes confused and dreary life as she embarks on cross-country journey with 10-year-old library patron. 
Characters: Lucy the librarian (actually she's a librarian by trade but not by education), and Ian (precocious kid who is infatuated with books)

I've read many reviews of the book, and there are a lot of librarians (and just regular folk) out there who are really offended by some aspects of the book:
1. Our twenty-six-year-old hero Lucy works in a library but does not have a degree or certificate in library science. She makes many bad decisions as she embarks on her adventure, and this gives librarians a bad name. Boo!
2. There are a few negative references to anorexic people. 
3. An apparent kidnapping is apparently upsetting to some people. But really, if this upsets you, is it any worse than Lord Voldemort's numerous attempts to kill Harry Potter? How about the treatment of children in The Hunger Games? This librarian's intentions were well-wrought (and I really mean wrought with sweat and worry). Treat this story as a mild fantasy. 

To these complaints, I say: don't be so literal!

Our hero Lucy is clearly confused. She's young, idealistic, inexperienced, and carries a lot of baggage. The good thing about Lucy is that she shares all of her twisted logic and misgivings with us. Really, are any of us that perfect that every decision we make is the exactly right decision? So what if she decides to take little Ian for a ride--across state lines. She wasn't sure if he was being abused at home, or if he was just weird, or both. Most of us would just contact the Dept. of Children's Services, but hey--Lucy is immature and impulsive. Instead she decides to take him to Chicago.

People, haven't you ever felt like you just want to run away? Surely you were in your twenties at some point in your life. Even though many aspects of this story seem fantastic, the reflective musings of Lucy ring true to life. She agonizes over her decisions, is paranoid when she thinks she's being followed, worried about what's going to happen, confused about her purpose in life. Haven't we all done that? Anyway, she's a lot nicer than You-Know-Who.

I enjoyed her voice and her thoughts. I loved the people in this story--this book was chock full of fun and interesting characters, my favorites being all the Russians, and Tim the theater guy. We went to many small towns and even hit the big city of Chicago. I had so many big-smile moments as I read this book that I had to stop and read excerpts to my 13-year-old son (also a book lover).

Entertaining and nerdy--if that's what you're looking for, you'll love The Borrower.

Where Art Thou, JFK? How About You Sherlock?

Still posting my book reviews from my Goodreads page, I am turning to famous characters in history--one from fiction and one from history.  My quest for a visit with these characters was left a bit wanting...but I still managed to enjoy at least one of these stories.

11/22/63 

by Stephen King

Tacos. Reading anything by Stephen King is like eating tacos for me. I love tacos, I could eat tacos every day, and there is no such thing as a bad taco. I haven’t read anything by Stephen King in, oh, about 15 years, and returning to his fold with 11/22/63 was like having the best taco feast of a lifetime.

I’m sure you’ve had one of those college dorm room conversations—if you could travel back in time and change one moment in time, what would it be? It’s a great conversation to have over coffee, a beer, or whatever is floating your boat. And certainly that’s the kind of conversation you will have after watching movies like Back to the Future,Ground Hog’s Day, and Millennium (which was based on the novel by John Varley).

Thankfully, Stephen King took this concept and flew with it. The title is a dead giveaway to what will happen, and so you have to ask yourself—do I trust Stephen King to tell this story, a story that my college friends and I could have created ourselves? And do I trust him to play around with an infamously treasured moment so permanently marked in our culture that people can tell you exactly where they were when they heard JFK was assassinated? I certainly do trust him, as much as I love tacos.

What’s great about this book:

• Time is a character. Like many of Stephen King’s books, the setting becomes a strange, mystical influence that can’t be explained but is a formidable force in the story. Don’t mess with Time, he’s much bigger than you. He can rip the very fabric of your world.

• The world in which this takes place is wonderfully familiar if you have read other Stephen King books, especially It. It was great to visit creepy old Derry once again.

• Everyone in this story has a purpose. And depending on which way the butterfly falls, that purpose can change in an instant.

• The time jumps provide a compelling piece of historical fiction with a lot of fact thrown in. In fact, I would have liked to see more interaction between historical characters, but that wouldn’t have been possible given that the story is written from the point of view of our high school English teacher. A trip to the Rose Garden would have been cool but wouldn’t have fit in with the story. That phone call from JFK was such a teaser—I wanted to see more of him. *sigh*

• You really have to think about it. Would you change history if you could? Should you?

• Dang it—it’s just fun to read.

What’s not great about this book: 

• Jake's return to the dystopic 2011 is somewhat disappointing in its skimpiness and extreme ugliness.  I was hoping for something a little more subtle.  On the other hand, since he took the advice from the brilliant Doris Kearns Goodwin of putting George Wllace as president, maybe this kind of horrible dystopia could happen!  Just kidding.  Really, the effect of Jake's changes in the years 1958-63 were so profound that it almost completely pulled apart the fabric of the universe, thereby rendering our world with earthquakes galore?   That part was a bit hard to swallow, but since the other 830 pages of the book were so very excellent, I’ll allow Mr. King that transgression.

Really, we don't get to this final part until the last 1/8 of the book. Stephen King has no trouble writing thousands of words at the blink of an eye; why did he spend so few words on the punchline? After all, weren't we waiting to see what the world would be like if JFK had lived?  He spent just a few pages on that point, and as I said before, they were a little extreme. What I think, though, is that this book is less about JFK and more about making moral choices. We see such a complete character arc for our hero George/Jake that the JFK stuff is forced to take a back seat. Isn't that what we love about Stephen King, though? It's his ability to forge a complicated character and make us privy to everything that character is thinking. So, even though I was a little disappointed in the lack of detail in the last part of the book, it forced me to frame the theme of the book in a different light.

Well, anyway, Mr. King, thank you so much for the most excellent ride. I guess since I’ve had a 15 year hiatus, I should revisit some of your recent work. Why? Because I love tacos.

Sherlock Holmes: The Breath of God 

by Guy Adams

If you are expecting a facsimile of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's prose and approach to Sherlock Holmes--drop your expectations. This isn't that kind of book. More than being a crime fiction book, Sherlock Holmes: The Breath of God is more like a book about the supernatural and paranormal.

That's okay if you don't have any expectations. Holmes plays a relatively minor role in this story and disappears halfway through the book, only to reemerge at the end. His departure is reminiscent of his disappearance in The Hound of the Baskervilles, to which the author alludes when Holmes makes his disappearance. I was okay with that, especially since the Baskerville book is one of my all-time favorites.

What I had to do, though, was drop expectations that this was a crime novel and treat it more like an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I enjoyed the magical aspects of the story, especially the appearance of Alistair Crowley. The addition of Holmes as a character, and his approach to solving crimes, seemed like an afterthought. What do we want from a Holmes story? We want to see his attention to details that lead him to bold speculation that is almost always spot-on. We didn't find that in this book (maybe only a couple of times), and so I am wondering why Holmes is in this book at all.

Having said that, this story reminded me so much of the Rod Serling series Night Gallery that I even imagined Mr. Serling himself making introductions to the various chapters. That was a big plus. Another big plus was giving the story various perspectives in the form of letters and stories presented by various characters. That reminded me of Dracula, so the book gets another plus. The gruesome details of the mysterious deaths were deliciously horrific, reminding me of Stephen King. Another plus.

I do want to say one thing about the editing of this book. I found so many editorial mistakes in this printing that I began to wonder if it was edited at all. I had to pinch myself--was this a problem with differences in standards between British and American English? Was this due to the fact that this was told in the first person from the viewpoint of John Watson? I started to dog-ear the pages with mistakes. For example, I found a simple typo where the word "to" was used instead of "too." Also there were numerous grammatically challenged sentences that I had to read several times before I understood them ("Nonetheless, Mycroft has insisted that Holmes returns to London immediately"--really???). And finally, there were so many sentences with comma splices that I wanted to cry (I have not been a resident here for many months, I bought the house from the previous owner due to its suitability for a ritual I had in mind. For God's sake, don't be afraid to put a semicolon in there!). Certainly John Watson would never make these mistakes. Anyhow, I thought it was my own peevishness until I read this sentence: SIlence looked concerned. (sic) Note that the second letter in the name "Silence" is capitalized. This is obviously a typo, which makes me think that the editors did not give this book the once-over or twice-over it deserved.

Don't get me wrong--I did enjoy this book. I would give this book 3.5 stars because of the fun I had reading about the supernatural aspects, but I'm knocking it down to 3 (instead of raising it to hallowed 4) because of misleading me into thinking that this was a story in the Holmes tradition (i.e. looking at subtle clues to draw grand conclusions) and for the poor editing, which is sadly not the fault of the author.