The Rebellion of Jane Clarke

The Rebellion of Jane Clarke
By Sally Gunning (270 pages)
Published by William Morrow/HarperCollins
Bookish rating: 3.5

I was in the mood for some historical fiction, and I'm particularly fond of the colonial era of our fair country. So, The Rebellion of Jane Clarke, set on the eve of the American Revolution in Cape Code and then Boston, held some promise.

Refusing to marry the guy her father has selected for her, Jane is sent away to Boston to care for an elderly aunt. There, she hangs out with such folks as John Adams and also happens to witness the Boston Massacre. The first half of the story read better for me, as it was more Jane's story. As politics and historical events took center stage in the second half, though, it felt as though Gunning was struggling to integrate them into the STORY. And the STORY is what I cared about, not the trial (oh, the pages and pages of the trial!), especially because I already knew how the trial of the British soldiers would end. Because, like, it's history and stuff.

So, the reading became tiresome.

To Gunning's credit, I did get surprised by one big twist, and I liked the character of Jane. Historical details, descriptions of the cape, and the sprinkling in of some 18th-century literature, particularly the new concept of a novel (yay for novels!) was a fun addition. At least for nerds.

Mostly recommended.

May B.

May B.
By Caroline Starr Rose (240 pages)
Published by Schwartz and Wade
Bookish rating: 3.75

My friend Lauren recommended May B. to me, even though she wasn't much of a fan. See, she knows I have a penchant for stories taking place in sod houses. No, really.

I liked it more than Lauren did. Written in verse, and aimed at a younger audience, I tested it on an actual younger audience. Reading the novel to Charlotte, it kept her attention . . .  for a bit. But I found myself adding extra words here and there, reading aloud more as prose to help connect the story for my young listener. Though I was pleased that we got through about 75 pages or so together, especially because it exposed her to a different rhythm of story and no pictures helped her along, eventually Charlotte moaned when I picked up the book and suggested reading a chapter or two. It didn't hold her attention.

It did, however, hold mine. I liked the verse aspect, but as Lauren (far more articulately) argued, prose might have better served the story. On one level, the verse felt gimmicky; on another, it reduces the story down to the survival mentality May must take on.

Oh, the premise? Right. Set in the 1870s on the Kansas prairie, May is sent by her parents to a young couple to help them. Her folks need the money. She fosters a believable amount of resentment for this, but this dies out and never adequately resurfaces. Eventually, circumstances leave her stranded and alone in the soddy, with winter approaching and no way to get home. A wolf sniffs at her door. A blizzard brews. This is good stuff.

Oh, and May has dyslexia. Naturally. Actually, snark aside, I kind of liked the watching the process of her struggling to read, and this was an area I thought the verse worked well. Granted, I'm watching my firstborn learn to read, so perhaps I'm over-identifying with the painstaking process. It's so damn hard!

Overall, I enjoyed May B. Is it perfect? No. Is it a worthwhile read? Yes, I think so.

Slow Church

 

Slow Church: Cultivating Community in the Patient Way of Jesus 

By C. Christopher Smith and John Pattison (274 pages)

Published by IVP Books

Bookish rating: 3.5

Slow Church is about . .  . wait for it . .  Slow. Church. In an era of church-going that is so, SO focused on growth, growth, growth,  and attracting people and saving them souls, Slow Church is a crucial, corrective approach that resonated with me. Really, I found it quite revolutionary, the more I thought about it.

Although aspects of this book annoyed me—the authors apply their approach to church to the entire global economy, for example, and everything big or capitalistic is BAD—the overarching message is, in my opinion, one that churches need to hear.

What IS slow church? It’s being nestled in your community, addressing needs of the community, and cultivating depth as people spiritually grow, not Growth In Membership. Cultivating community within a particular church allows greater diversity in ages, mindsets, experience, socioeconomic classes, ethnicities, and so on. Bonds are tighter, grace more easily exhibited, hospitality more sincere, growth more organic (egads, that was an awful final phrase).

In our current, small town, I feel more at home than I ever have in a place. I truly didn’t understand what COMMUNITY was until we moved here. I love our town. Then, joining a wee little church dug those roots down further. I’ve never been part of a church that was ALSO where I lived. A half mile away (if that) and we’re there. Our neighbors LITERALLY attend there, too. The church is part of the town, and the town is part of the church. Totally tangled together, but in a good way.

Growing up in a conservatively evangelical church, big programing and ATTRACTING was The Most Important Thing. Like I said, we had to save them souls. We had to drive 30 minutes to get there. Not ideal. Also? A smidge too much like-mindedness across the congregation.

Whatever. I can’t say I regret my parents’ choice, because some of my best friends in the world are from that place. And many amazing people I’m thrilled to have known. But I wanted something different as an adult, something different for my girls.

Like, treating females as something other than current or future baby producers, for starters. And, like, complete beings, not some dude’s gently “complementing” asset.

But I digress.

When I discussed this book with the good pastor of our wee church, he pointed out the danger of seeing things as too binary—that our way (small, quaint, etc.) as The Right Way and everything else = bad McDonaldization of church and icky (and you KNOW they have contemporary praise songs on Sunday mornings, amirite?). I think he’s right. It’s a pompous way of thinking and good for no one.

Slow Church, while not a perfect book and a bit on the repetitive side, gives a lot to consider. Recommended.

Lydia's Party

Lydia's Party
By Margaret Hawkins (304 pages)
Published by Viking
Bookish rating: 3.5

If nothing else, this book has a pretty cover design, right?

Honestly, after I checked this book out from the library, I almost returned it without reading it. The description sounded a tad sappy on second read, and how many books depicting "women's friendships" can you read before they start to seem . . .  the same?

I decided to read it, and I'm glad I did. I do think the novel has value. Plot: Lydia throws a "bleak midwinter" party each year after Christmas. This year, she has her big announcement that she has cancer and it's terminal.

Hawkins actually dodges sappiness here. Which was a relief.

The dynamics among the women vary in their amount of interest and originality. The point of view of the artist friend is the strongest and best defined, and here is where the novel is raised a level. Blending art and creation of art amidst death? Well, yes. A good move.

A strange "spirit" of Lydia in the final chapters doesn't come through as believable to me, and I think it could've been omitted. I mean, that's the tragedy of someone's death, right? Their sheer absence? Also? WAY too many characters with not enough to distinguish them. Several morphed together for me.

Overall, not amazing, but not crappy. To use my friend Lauren's phrase, quasi-recommended.

Dancing Through It

Dancing Through It: My Journey in the Ballet
By Jenifer Ringer (257 pages)
Published by Viking
Bookish rating: 4

I love dance autobiographies. I always have. And lo and behold, newly retired Jenifer Ringer, former principal dancer with the New York City Ballet, produced a book I hoped would give insight into the more current, post-Balanchine NYCB inner-workings and dynamics.

Ringer doesn't disappoint. Now, this book has been crucified by reader reviews, because she pretty much blindsides the reader with a declaration of her uber Christian faith, followed by lots of Christian-ese sprinkled throughout. I get the outcry. You think you're picking up a book about the dark underside of the dance world and instead you get a soliloquy about a personal lord and savior.

However.

As someone who has studied autobiography pretty intensely, I tend to let a LOT slide when reading autobiography. The reason is that the author is deliberately making choices as to what to include, what to omit, and the way in which she presents it. To boot, a reader audience is constantly lurking, and this soooooo shapes the writing. Therefore, I find most writing decisions, both lovely and cringe-worthy, at least interesting.

So, then. Ringer's faith is central to her story: her raising, her struggles, her healing--her overall narrative. Why not include it? Yes, I cringed at the choice of language. As someone raised in a conservative, evangelical tradition, I deeply dislike its lingo. So, yes. I got uncomfortable reading so many "Daughter of the Lord" or "Child of God" phrases, complete the excessive capitalization such lingo generates. I just don't care for it. But my, it tells us much about Ringer, yes? And therefore, I'd argue it's an appropriate inclusion in her autobiography.

In many cases, the writing was a tad bland, even through the "darkness" of her disordered eating. And the story of her courtship with fellow NYCB dancer was like something out my childhood church's youth group's "Sex and Dating" series (which can pretty much be summed up as no sex, if you must date). But hey, it's how she rolls, and she's happily married and she and her husband appear to be intelligently and thoughtfully raising two children.

There's a purity in Ringer's writing: her love of ballet, a bit of innocence. In a strange way, it was sort of refreshing.

Where Ringer shined most was in her descriptions of various ballets, particularly Jerome Robbins's Dances at a Gathering, which serves as something of a symbol for her story in dance. Ringer describes choreography beautifully, making it very fun reading. You can see dances performed as you read. Also, Ringer's genuine love of ballet and performance shine through her writing. Her book is not a brag-fest, as dance autobiographies often are. I very much got the sense that Ringer was sharing a story.

Finally, she ends the book with a short chapter titled "The Mirror," which details a lovely, touching scene with her joyfully naked 4-year-old daughter, herself, and a mirror. I'll let readers discover it for themselves, but the scene ended the book perfectly, summing up her new role as mom and responsibility she feels to raise her daughter with a strong sense of self.

So, ignore the reviews that bitch about the Christianity part. This is a good dance autobiography. Recommended.

Housekeeping

Housekeeping
By Marilynne Robinson (219 pages)
Published by Picador
Bookish rating: 4.5

Housekeeping is something of a bildungsroman, a novel of a girl coming of age. Also author of the oh so good Gilead, Robinson is a mind-blowingly gifted writer. Her words and images contain so, so many layers, and all the while she keeps moving the novel forward, almost with the sense of water lapping at a shore--a tide, perhaps.

Which is appropriate, because water is a big 'ole symbol in Housekeeping, as Ruth and her sister Lucille dwell near an enormous lake, complete with a bridge. And trains.

After Ruth's mother dies, she's raised by her grandmother and finally her aunt, Sylvie, who is distant and weird but kind. Housekeeping toys with the idea of impermanence, the body or the home as the tangible shell of what holds before you cease to exist, time, God, and death. And, well, life, really.

Highly, highly recommended.