Books: The Good, The Bad and The Classically Boring

A good book is not hard to find. But, once you have landed a bad one, it’s difficult to know what to do. My husband has been reading a groaner. By all accounts, it is supposed to be a great read. It’s a classic, one found on most recommended reading lists, one that I have not read but fully intended to, until he shared his deep discontent.

“This is supposed to be a great book, right?” he asked.

“Yep,” I replied. “It’s a classic. It’s got to be good.”

He periodically revisited the paperback over the last couple of weeks. He’d settle into his chair with a familiar grimace on his face.

“Still trying to finish, huh?” I asked.

“Trying,” he replied.

“Not exactly a page turner, is it?”

“I thought for sure it would get better by now,” he said, yawning.

“Maybe it would help if you stayed awake while reading,” I offered.

But he didn’t hear me. He was too busy forcing his eyes across the page.

Back in school, I always thought that the reason assigned reading was so distasteful was because we were made to do it. In the library, I could always find something that I would willingly read, unless, of course, it was for a grade. Assigned reading to me always felt a little like assigned eating. Some books are Brussels sprouts. Some books are a seven-course meal, a treat for all the senses. But now I know that assigned or not, some books are simply full of that regrettable Brussels sprouts aftertaste.

One of the books that most students read that I somehow escaped was “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Any decent Southern writer would be ashamed to admit that publicly, so I decided that at age 41, it was high time I read this contemporary classic. It was without a doubt the best book I have ever read. Harper Lee’s timeless story tells the captivating tale of young Scout and her brother Jem and father Atticus Finch taking on a lonely battle with racism and injustice in the small Southern town of Maycomb, AL during the Great Depression. If books were edible, this one would be the finest lemon meringue pie to be found on a café counter. In my book, it’s a must-read.

Since those years in high school English and college courses in composition, I realized teachers did me a large favor when they insisted I read Dante and Milton, Shakespeare and Poe. If nothing else, their intricate plots and complex theories and iambic pentameter of poetry showed me that the beauty of books is within the eye of the beholder but the character is in their content.

Some things we read because we must. Some things we read because we will. And some things we read because we should if we want to expand our horizons and learn from our history as humans.

Now and then, I try to read an author whom my English teachers might have recommended, like William Faulkner. I have a copy of “Light in August” shoved in my nightstand. I have read the same 45 pages a half-dozen times. I am told by Faulkner enthusiasts to just keep trying, that one day, the mile-long sentences and minute descriptions will fall away into a dreamy endeavor into fine Southern literature. My latest attempt ended in a deep catnap, which I am certain is a reflection of my inability to remain conscious on a lazy Sunday afternoon and not of the author’s ability to keep me entertained ― which brings me back to my husband’s latest wrestling match with great literature.

“Is it any better?” I asked.

“No, not really,” he sighed. “But, I’m almost finished!” About fifty trembling pages rested in his right hand, just below his sagging eyelids.

At http://www.classicreader.com/, readers can access 3069 works of literature by 320 different authors. Classics, because they have stood the test of time, warrant our attempt to read them. They connect us to invaluable stories of all the things we still struggle with today, like how to finish a bad book when it is all too easy to drift off to sleep and wrestle with dreams of Brussels sprouts.

Maybe a Pond Would Do...

Like star-crossed lovers, our family and waterfront property prove destined to never meet. We fantasize about living on the blissful shores of a lake, peering out over shimmering waters and taking in the gentle breezes. We see ourselves swimming and boating and fishing and reveling like otter in the natural goodness of water-based living. But the reality is that like most folks, money and opportunity get in the way of our securing a spot on the lakefront. It’s not that we haven’t explored all our options.

“Where’s the lake?” we ask the real estate agent as we stand on high, dry ground.
“It’s right over there!”
“That’s not a lake,” we say, squinting. “That’s a pond.”
“There’s only one waterfront lot left,” warns the agent.
“Out of how many?”
“Uh, three.”
“Is there a limit on fish?”
“Well, if you catch both of them, it wouldn’t really be fair to the rest of the residents, now would it?”
“Do you have anything else?”
“That depends. Do you have a Swiss bank account?”

To our credit, which extends only so far, we have found a few places from time to time that meet our criteria, which are: on water that would fill more than a bathtub, priced within reason, and fixer-uppers are fine. But, we always seem to be a day late and a few thousand dollars too short. This, of course, isn’t the agent’s fault. Perhaps we should not want something just beyond our reach. But then, isn’t that how dreams operate?

We have pursued an abode near water for so long that even our kids can search Realtor.com and alert us to available waterfront real estate. Several years ago, after months of showing us potential properties, our real estate agent finally got it.

“You know, I’ll call you if what you need comes on the market, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Well, sure. Thanks for all your help. Remember, we’re not picky.”

We drove off to the sound of hysterical laughter or perhaps that of a real estate agent who has finally disposed of those time-sucking monsters they warn you about in “Impossible Clients 101.”

Fortunately, we love the home we have. It has everything we need, except the water, of course. So, when we have perused the market and come up empty once again, it’s nice to know that we have a place that suits us well.

I’ve tried to pinpoint what it is about lakefront living that appeals to us so. I grew up on the Coast, not on the water, but near enough that the drift of Gulf air always filled my lungs and offered a sense of place. My Aunt Ora and her friend Tommie live on the Biloxi River. Standing on the pier, watching mullet jump, I feel I’ve returned to the real world, the one with close-knit ties to my childhood. My husband moved from Maryland to Ocean Springs when he was a kid. Their house perched above a canal that they navigated on a big yellow boat, all the way out to the islands. Homes on the water simply hold a special, familiar appeal for us both.

All this may sound as if we are missing out on something vital. Not really. As long as the water is there, as long as fish, pelicans, frogs and turtles continue to thrive in their watery world, we are happy. We can always visit them. My favorite waterfront is always those places that remain undeveloped, where pitcher plants stand tall among buzzing dragonflies and minnows scurry in the shallows, where a single fisherman can perch quietly among the sycamores and drop a line from a cane pole, undisturbed.

But, we still like to look. There is always the possibility that one day, all the planets will align and the price will be right and the view will be such that there is no mistaking we have found a new home. It’s a good dream, one that I don’t mind revisiting when I am feeling landlocked and dusty. Or deeply homesick.

Maybe a pond would do, after all.

How Do Voles Fall In Love?

Journalist Christopher Mims wrote a piece for “Zoogoer,” a publication of the Smithsonian National Zoo about how prairie voles answer cupid’s call.
http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Publications/ZooGoer/2004/3/monogamy.cfm
Titled “Addicted to Love,” the piece shared how these rodents who resemble wild hamsters meet, mingle and mate for life in central North America.

A chance meeting of a male and female might go something like this:


Dude: “Hey, baby. You smell great. What is that? Lavender? Chamomile? Bath and Body Works Vanilla Spice?”

Chick: “Ooo. You know, you don’t smell so bad yourself. Come on over here and let me get a deeper whiff.”

With a life expectancy of about a year, prairie voles don’t have a lot of time for a long courtship. They inhale each other’s pheromones, secret scents produced by animals that overpower the senses and lead them to do crazy things like smell each other in unspeakable places. Before they know it, a prairie vole couple finds themselves mating, nesting, defending territory and birthing babies in less than a month’s time. At which point, a discussion deep in the underground vole den might go:

Husband vole: “What do you mean you spent $400 on a new sofa? We don’t need furniture! We’re prairie voles!”

Wife vole: “I knew I shouldn’t have married the first prairie vole to sniff my stuff! I’d go back home to mother if she hadn’t been eaten by a coyote!”

Scientists like to study creatures like prairie voles because they offer insight into human behavior and our own biological development. Because prairie voles are unique among their philandering rodent cousins as monogamous creatures, scientists sought to determine what makes them stay together.

According to current research, the hormones oxytocin and vasopressin play pivotal roles in maintaining prairie vole marriage. Susan Carter, a scientist at the University of Chicago reported, "Oxytocin is a hormone associated with emotional safety and security. It down-regulates stress hormones and encourages positive social behavior.”

While a release of oxytocin takes place in males and females in love, male voles also get a boost from vasopressin. Swimming in hormones, they mate for 24 consecutive hours after a brief wooing. Too tired to argue, the male vole agrees to meet her parents, buy a ring and set up housekeeping on the spot.

Scientists say that prairie voles have receptors in a part of the brain, the “nucleus accumbens,” that respond to oxytocin and vasopressin in a way that drives “social memory.” Their brains not only recognize that having a mate is a good thing, they establish that loving and sticking with a particular mate is a big reward. For the prairie vole, it’s not just any old Joe that will do. It’s that familiar scent, that knowing swagger unique to her prairie vole partner that makes wifey stick with the same guy. And maybe some open communication works, too.

Wife vole: “I sure do like what you did with the family room, Dennis. You have such a way with dirt!”

Husband vole: “Aw, it’s nothing. Just a bigger hole for my favorite prairie vole!”

Interestingly, although prairie voles do tend to stick with one mate to raise offspring, make their nests, and guard their home, they do stray. Maybe two holes away, a mother prairie vole will shelter a litter of pups fathered by two males. Maybe around the corner, behind that patch of brown-eyed Susans, a chance encounter with a delightfully aromatic female will result in Joe sharing more than a courteous “howdy-do.”

Then, they simply go back home to their original partner and live out their lives raising babies and avoiding predators like owls, snakes and divorce attorneys.

As I finished reading the article on prairie voles, I realized something about human behavior. We have a lot to learn from critters like that. Probably the most important lesson is that life is short, but we should always take time to stop and smell the roses of romance, and other things. Like our hearts and our “nucleus accumbens” tell us, true love is life’s greatest reward.

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Spring to life on Rails to Trails

We spent some quality time at Rails to Trails last Sunday afternoon. The kids brought two of our poodles. The dogs nearly hyperventilated, sniffing signposts and foliage draped in the perfume of budding growth and possum droppings. Every time I visit that renovated rail bed, I come away feeling rejuvenated myself.

Even the day a long black snake slithered across the path just inches from my bike tire, I went home experiencing renewed energy. Some folks call that an adrenaline rush. I have seen wild turkeys, hawks, loads of rabbits and deer along the trail. There is something indescribably therapeutic about whizzing along the scenic route of locomotives, beside bucolic pastures and gurgling brooks, taking in the sun, revitalizing your spirit and working up a sweat.

One morning, I rode out with contempt for the world. It was one of those despondent days, when it seemed all that could go wrong had. I was angry and conflicted. I was confused and sad. I was unappreciated and misunderstood. I felt old. I felt ugly. I felt forgotten. I felt lost and misguided. And I felt it was everyone else’s fault but my own that I found myself in an unmitigated funk.

Out on the trail, I put on my headphones and strapped on my helmet. My misery and I pedaled out beneath the outstretched limbs of sycamores and maples, the summer humidity soaking the thin cotton of my shirt. As athletic bikers passed in streaks of streamlined latex, I picked up the pace and listened as Sheryl Crow crooned:

“With broken wings we'll learn to fly. Pull yourself out of the tide and begin the dream again.”

She sang of Diamond Road, a place to rekindle dreams and start again. In a shallow valley, cool air descended momentarily like a whisper of spring. I made good time for a tired old gal and noticed I had pedaled farther that usual. Barbed wire fences spanned the miles ahead, framing endless fields of corn and cattle. The world appeared changed, less hostile and foreboding. The sun slid behind a thick cloud and eased the throbbing heat of summer.

The morning had been a day of reckoning for me. I need them, from time to time, those days spent figuring out what is wrong, what is right, what just is. I saw a cow and her calf. They looked content and carefree. Horses stood full of grace and good fortune. Out past Sumrall, I suddenly saw llama grazing and decided it might be a good time to turn around.

I rode long enough that I listened to a full circuit of the songs on my MP3 player. Sheryl chided me to join her on Diamond Road again.

“Don't miss the diamonds along the way. Every road has led us here today. Life is what happens while you're making plans. All that you need is right here in your hands.”

I don’t like to make plans much. It seems when I do, they simply fall through cracks of indecision and good intentions. Life happens, either way. But I can see the advantage to accepting those things I cannot change and mustering the courage to change those I can. Knowing the difference is wisdom, of course, which can emerge from something as simple as a bike ride in the country. That’s when serenity replaces the madness. That’s when wounds heal and hopes rise.

Last Sunday, as the poodles bobbed on their tethers and my family cruised on foot among the dogwoods and azaleas, life happened all around us. Poets romanticize spring, gardeners worship it, but nature delivers it in glorious fashion every season. Plans may run astray, but the rebirth of spring always arrives as expected. Visit your Rails to Trails and find your own diamonds along the way. http://www.railtrails.org

For more information on the Longleaf Trace, visit http://www.mylongleaftrace.com/.