Yes, Betsy, Louise Plummer does have a blog!

I could have commented to Betsy individually, or just emailed her, or called her, or seen her at park day. But I've been meaning to talk about Louise's blog anyway, so it's a great chance to rejoice with Betsy. Louise Plummer does have a blog! And the link is right down there on the left.

Here's why I wanted to bring up Louise and her blog. First, because she's funny. And she writes well. Two reasons to read her blog in their own right, but she's doing something I wanted to point out.

Louise is writing her memoir. On her blog. So every day (or so, no pressure Louise, not that Louise reads this blog, it's just that if she happens to pop by I don't want her to think that there's a timetable here or expectation, or that there's this random woman checking her watch saying "Tick, tick, Louise, where's your daily post?".) . . . where was I? . . . Oh . . . every day or so Louise posts a picture on her blog and then writes her memories about it.

A very manageable way to write a memoir, really just a fancy name for personal history. But personal history sounds more clinical, like it's a place where one must go and confess all medical history, while memoir is much more warm and fuzzy and really, no one cares what your LDL cholesterol was last time you checked anyway.

It reminds me of this other blog I know, by my friend Katy. But Katy's blog is completely private and no one has seen it. Not even me.

So if you wanted to be a cross between Louise and Katy, you could make your own blog, keep it to yourself, and then write a daily memory. If I ever teach a writing class, I'll advise my students to do that. And then if you wanted to make that blog public for just a sliver of time, you could blog to book it and TADA! there would be your personal history. And in all those church lessons about the importance of writing your personal history, you could think of your secret blog and your memories and you could be smug while everyone was thinking, "I need to write that", you could think, "I write that! But I will never let anyone see it!"

Or you could just go read Louise's blog and see what she's doing and it's great.

But, alas, you won't be able to read Katy's blog. Which is OK. And if you don't know Katy, you should find someone like Katy because my experience is that every woman needs a good dose of Katy in their lives every now and then.

Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story

It's decided to be the dead of winter in our neck of the woods. Of course "dead of winter" where we live means it's 51 degrees outside and it's cold and it rains and the hummingbirds flit amongst the blossoms on the trees . . . the kind of weather that says spring/early summer/let's-go-to-the lake in some parts of Idaho, I realize, but it's winter for us. And that makes me want cocoa and movies.

So last night I huddled under a quilt and watched Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story, about a pediatric neurosurgeon and his inspiring story. It was on my Netflix instant queue.

We're going to read the book for my book club later this year and when I read that part of the plot of the book is that Carson has problems with some of the arrogant doctors he meets in peds neurosurgery, I knew this was the book for me. Someone else who has had a problem with a peds neurosurgeon---sign me up!

You should watch this movie. It is marvelous. Liz, you and Dan will like it.

I know I've already mentioned how much I liked Something The Lord Made, about the first heart surgery done on a child, but that's a good movie too.

After you've watched both of those, that should give you your medical movie fix for awhile.

I warn you, though, if you have ever loved a child who has been in the ICU, or surgery, or had medical adventures, you should bring some Kleenex.

Hypnotist's Love Story by Moriarty

Usually I don't blog about books I don't recommend. But I'm making an exception for Moriarty's new The Hypnotist's Love Story because I so liked What Alice Forgot.

But Hypnotist. Didn't finish it. Too many parts I had to skip . . .

Plot. Good.

Character Development. Fabulous. This is where Moriarty shines.

Content. Sketchy. Too much too much, you know. Sad, really, it didn't have to be that way. But if that doesn't bother you, proceed at your own risk.

Not for my shelves, that's all I'm saying.

Poisonwood Bible by Kingsolver

It took me a long time to read Pride and Prejudice. I tried, and quit, about seven times before I could finally blither through the details and find the plot. Once I realized that the details were the plot, it got easier. And then I read all of Austen, and Persuasion was my far favorite. I think I just had to grow up a little and meet a few more Mr. Wickhams. Get to know a Mr. Willoughby or two. See glimpses of Mr. Darcy and find Captain Wentworth. I think I stayed in Anne phase (nothing wrong with Anne phase) and with Anne it's that you either marry Gilbert or you don't.

With Austen, it's a little more complicated. There are more things to put the heroine in a tizzy than a rowboat.

But when I tried Poisonwood Bible, AGAIN, I had low hopes for success. I had to put it down the first time when the dad broke the plate---too dark, no thanks. But then a good friend of mine said, "Really, Deborah, you have to go read Poisonwood Bible." And maybe, like with Austen, I'd finally grown up enough, and seen or suffered enough, or become enough to get it.

I got it this time, and it haunts me. Now I wish I had read it when all my cohorts in literature were discovering it. I missed some good discussions. I have questions to ask. I have problems with the text. I want to deconstruct, find the holes, find the wholes, and put them back together again. I need to buy my own copy and read it again with a highlighter so I can figure out what Kingsolver is doing. I could write critiques and commentary and still be just getting to the meaning.

This is just my first reading, but there will be more.

But let me just say, as a post-script . . . that part where the African women are carrying things on their heads, and Leah puts her bundle up on her head and she says that after a few miles she couldn't even feel it . . . that is really real. I have walked with African women, lifting my whatever, too heavy to carry in my arms, up onto my head, and walked. As I read, I could feel my arms strain, my neck straighten, and the weight shift onto my hips. I was reading, but I was there. I was right back there.

I believe that is one of the messages of this book. Once you have been in there, you can leave Mother Africa, but she will never leave you. Her memories will flow in your blood and your heart will beat in time to her rhythm. You cannot go in and come out the same. She will birth you and you will then be her child.

And that was definitely one of themes of the book---what we become as we go and then return or choose to stay. How we change even as we resist. What life puts us through, how we are shaped. And in the end, what we believe and what we refuse to believe.

Good stuff. It was time.