A Few Good Reads...

These are too good to be lost to the side of the page, where they will probably not be seen...

Every once in awhile I look through the recommended reading lists from some of my favorite catalogs (Veritas Press, Sonlight) and make sure the kids have covered the books from their respective age ranges, and recently I brought home a stack of such books that Aimee and Drew hadn't yet read.



Aimee offered a beautiful recommendation for one of the books I gave her - she said of In Grandma's Attic, a collection of true stories from somewhere around the turn of the century, that it gave her good dreams. I haven't read the whole thing myself, but from what I have read, the stories seem to be wholesome and pretty, without being saccharine.



On the other side of the spectrum, Aimee also offered high praise for a book my dad suggested for her, The Forgotten Door by Alexander Key. It's a science fiction story about a boy from another world, who accidentally falls through a door and lands in a rather unforgiving stretch of our planet. He meets up with a family, who helps him, and who he, in turn, helps in ways of his own. This wasn't a school read, but after she finished, we had a good impromptu talk about things like origins, government, and the state of humanity (Is it possible to achieve a "perfect" world where laws and leaders are unnecessary? Are we more civilized than our earliest ancestors, or less? Or is that really a moot point, since sin causes almost instant degeneration?). At any rate, Aimee said it was one of the "best books ever."



For Drew's grade level, Barry the Bravest St. Bernard is a great true story. All the boys, including Chase, were riveted as we read it on the swing yesterday morning.



The little boys listen to everything, although this is something of how it goes when books, such as the Barry book referenced above, are being read aloud:



Me, reading, "The robbers ran forward..."



Ryan - "Let me see the robbers!"



Me, resuming,"They pulled at the heavy doors. The doors opened, and fourteen huge animals leaped out..."

Chase, grabbing at the book, "Lemme see they leaped out!"



Me, "Their mouths were open. Their teeth shone in the moonlight..."



Ryan and Chase, together, "Let me see their teeth!"



Ryan, "Why do their teeth shine in the moonlight? Where is the moonlight? What is the moonlight?"



I try to turn the page, and move on, but Chase shrieks, "Lemme see the doggie picture!"



You can imagine that reading heftier literature aloud, such as Peter Pan, is an even tougher challenge on the nerves. I've made a deal with Ryan, that allows him to ask as many questions as he wants as long as I can get to the end of a page first. Chase often requires a little bribery with something like chewing gum.



But some shorter picture books they've enjoyed (with no fewer questions, however) have been The Bats at the Library and The Bats at the Beach. Well written, beautifully illustrated, and...well, with bats, which the boys find darkly irresistible.



I have a harder time discovering great new books to read. I am a stubbornly loyal reader, clingingly faithful to the authors I love (which really just masks a fear of trying new things!). When I was a girl, Louisa May Alcott and L.M. Montgomery were the Ones. I read all of their works, down the to most obscure, over and over. I did read some other books by other authors at times, but with reluctance and only in desperation, because I really did love to read. But I was not one for perusing the library shelves and trying out just anything by just anyone. When I was older, I fell in love with Jane Austen and Daphne DuMaurier, very different, but always dependable. I also liked to dabble in reliable fantasy or science fiction, usually provided my dad, so works like The Hobbit figured in at times as well. I did also enjoy Shakespeare, classics by authors such as Victor Hugo, and all the writings of C.S. Lewis (have you ever read 'Til We Have Faces? Amazing!) but I hardly ever tried out a modern author. And let's face it, many, if not most, books directed at modern teens are fluff, at best, and even trash, at the worse. Bleh. There were always Christian novels, but often those are poorly written and sickly sweet, I'm afraid. My mom and I did enjoy the series written by Bodie Thoene, and I would still recommend those, because they were actually well researched and well written, and the characters were real people. At any rate, as I moved through teen years into young adulthood, I also discovered, and truly loved, books by Madeline L'Engle, who wove such compelling stories that I couldn't read two in a row because they were so deep and affecting. And one of the greatest things I have always admired about her books was that I would get to the end, and realized that she had never once mentioned what the heroine looked like, and yet, I always had a perfect picture of the characters. Too many authors go into far too much detail in describing everyone and everything, which is tiresome, and when the writing is good, unnecessary. All this to say that I have a very critical eye when it comes to approaching new books. When I have run through a trusted author and want something to read, I am apprehensive as I stroll through the library aisles. I view the "new books" section with distrust, and generally avoid the bestseller lists like the plague. One of the last times I tried to overcome this, I selected a slim volume (I love that phrase) with a story set in the WWI era, which I thought was promising. But it was so drenched and dripping with metaphor and simile that it was like...no, I won't get caught in that trap. It was laborious and heavy, like... no, I catch myself again. But seriously, the poor heroine couldn't even walk into a room without observing that the "beams of sunlight pierced the room like needles." Every sight and sound symbolised something about her gloomy tale. In reality, sometimes - most of the time - things just happen that have nothing to do with anything; you know, like the way sunlight enters the room. So reading that book was a forgettable experience, and I felt a little like I'd been betrayed. More recently, I did venture into the world of Twilight - I was curious, and while it wasn't great literature, it wasn't bad writing, either. All in all, I confess it as my guilty pleasure. But that done with, what next? I like historical biographies, and I had put Georgiana, The Duchess on hold so that I could read it on the place to New York a couple weeks ago, but it was late coming in. Disappointed, but really wanting something to read since I would have all that time to myself, I picked up a copy of Big Stone Gap, by Adriana Trigiani, that my mom had at her apartment. Set in the Appalachian mountains in the '70s, I wasn't sure it would be my thing, but it was such a good story that I found it captivating. I read both the sequels later, then ventured into her other books, which I've just now wrapped up. They were fairly good, but all just variations of the same pattern, I thought, and I'm not sad to be done. So this really long ramble about my reading preferences gives you this recommendation: she is a good author with some good reads, the Big Stone Gap series at the best of her writing, I think.

And now the dog has broken a glass, eaten food off the table, and gotten into the cat litter while I've been writing this. I don't want to see what the kids have done elsewhere in the house, but it probably needs to be cleaned up as well.