A "Little House" Christmas

Tis the season and all that.

I can get a bit Grinchy this time of year, but I’m not totally immune to a heart-warming tale.

This year’s pick: Little House on the Prairie, is part of a beloved book series (see my past post on the joys of a favourite book series).

I’ve not read every book in the series of nine, but I’ve read at least half of them. They are not Christmas-themed books per se, but many have a chapter or two specifically devoted to the season.

The “Little House” books are based on Laura Ingalls Wilder’s childhood and adolescence in the American Midwest between 1870 and 1894. As books often do, this series introduces the reader to a world and lifestyle that was hard to conceive of when I was young, and is probably all the more foreign today.

In Little House on the Prairie (book three in the series), the Ingalls family of five pack up their belongings and move away from their home and extended family in the woods of Wisconsin. In search of wide-open spaces and free land, they travel west to “Indian country.” Along the journey by covered wagon, they encounter fast-flowing rivers, wild animals, bad weather, and other adversities. They camp every night, cooking over a fire, gazing up at the stars.

Eventually they find a place to settle, and it’s fascinating to read in detail the many steps that went into building a new home and barn. This is essentially done by one man, with occasional bartered help from a neighbour--not an architect, contractor, or tradesperson in sight. Then there's everything that needs to be done to keep a household/farm running day to day: feeding the animals, cooking, doing laundry (by hand), sewing and mending, obtaining food by various means, and eventually farming. And let’s not forget, all without the benefit of indoor plumbing!

Overlaying this already hard life are the physical threats from wildlife, such as wolves, as well as other settlers, and conflict with the Indians, on whose land they are settling. From where I stand today, the portrayal of the Indigenous people in this book is pretty shocking (although I don’t remember it having the same impact when I was younger); one settler’s favourite adage is “the only good Indian is a dead Indian.” That said, it’s a good reminder of the historic injustices that are still reverberating today.

Given the ongoing challenges in just getting through the day, it’s no wonder Christmas is anticipated and celebrated as heartily as it is in this book and series. As Christmas nears in Little House on the Prairie, the older children are concerned that the lack of snow and rising creek will prevent a visit from Santa Claus, as well as from their favourite neighbour Mr. Edwards. Although they have a big fat turkey set for the next day, they hang their stockings on Christmas Eve with little hope of gifts in the morning.

In Christmas miracle style though, Mr. Edwards crosses paths with Santa and agrees to pass along Santa’s presents to the Ingalls girls. The two older girls: Mary and Laura each receive a tin cup (they used to have to share one), a candy cane, a little heart-shaped cake topped with white sugar, and a bright new penny. As a bonus, Mr. Edwards produces nine sweet potatoes for all to enjoy with the turkey.

In some substantial ways, little has changed since Mary and Laura’s day. Christmas is still an exciting time for many children: a vacation from the everyday, comforting traditions, festive food, music, gifts, and a focus on family, friends, and good will.

I think this particular story has stayed with me through the years because of its simplicity. By modern standards, Mary and Laura receive a few stocking stuffers, but to them it is a bounty. They are also deeply grateful for what they receive, particularly as they were almost resigned to getting nothing.

Granted, some could argue the true meaning of Christmas is absent in this story: there is no mention of Christianity or the birth of Christ. But I've always been compelled by its hope, and a doing-the-best-we-can spirit we can all use from time to time. It makes my Grinchy heart grow a few sizes at least. 

Go Ask Alice

I've read a lot of addiction and recovery books, with a range of focuses: medical, neuroscientific, historical, social, treatment approach (such as AA), well as memoir. Memoirs make up a good chunk of my readings and they also vary, from authors who are merely “sober curious” to those who eventually climb back up from the lowest bottom (or don’t make it back, as their lowest bottom is death). As per one of my past posts, Drinking: A Love Story is still my top pick in the addiction memoir genre.

But such books were not always as commonplace, and I was recently reminded of one of the first I read: Go Ask Alice (Anonymous author). This memoir, based on diary entries, felt like a pretty risqué read at the time. It was published in 1971—when I was 10—so I suspect I read it a few years after initial publication. It was also made into a TV movie in 1973, featuring the multi-talented William Shatner, as well as Mackenzie Phillips, who would later write a memoir about her own addiction struggles.

The author of Go Ask Alice is a teenaged girl from an upper middle-class American family. In her first diary entry, when she is 15, she writes about dealing with an upsetting, awkward first boyfriend break-up. Given this, she is happy when her family decides to relocate for her father’s academic career. While her younger brother and sister seem to fit into the new town and schools seamlessly, she struggles, as many teenagers do, with low confidence and trying to find her place. 

By the end of the school year though, she has made a few friends, including best friend Beth. But Beth is off to camp for the summer, and the author is slated to stay with her grandparents in her old town. Initially bored, she’s invited by an old school friend to a party, where she unwittingly ingests LSD in a bottle of Coke.

She has a positive LSD experience and, despite her fearful thoughts that taking it makes her a drug addict, her experimentation with drugs continues. She also starts using prescribed tranquillizers/sleeping pills. Coming back home after the summer away, she finds her best friend changed, and becomes friends with another girl who gets her a job and connects her with a drug-taking crowd. Drug use escalates pretty quickly, she begins dealing, runs away, comes back, runs away again, comes back.

Home again, the author tries to live the “straight” life, but is harassed by her former drug-using friends. She must also deal with the death of both her grandparents in quick succession. Then one night while babysitting, someone slips her a drug, and she ends up in a mental health facility after a bad trip leaves her physically and psychologically injured. Once released, she takes a trip with family, then is back in school where the harassment and stigma have died down; she also has new supportive friends and a developing relationship. All seems good in her world, and she bids farewell to her diary (“her dearest friend”), deciding instead to share her thoughts with those around her.

Sadly, an epilogue lets the reader know that the author died of an overdose three weeks after this sign-off. The particulars aren’t shared, only that “she was only one of thousands of drug deaths that year.”

Over fifty years later, amidst a continuing toxic drug crisis in many jurisdictions, it’s tempting to see the 1960s/early 70s drug scene as pretty benign—dare I say even groovy—in comparison. That said, clearly deadly drug overdoses did happen in the 60s/70s era as well, and were just as tragic as they are today.

The book is also dated in other respects. Gelatin salads and homemade dresses were a thing, and film was processed and picked up. As well, drug use stigma was somewhat worse at that time (if that’s possible): the book had a scare-tactic vibe; there was a clear divide between “squares” and those who used drugs in any capacity (and those who did were quick to be labelled “addicts”), and the author was Anonymous. Today, many, including public figures, confidently put their name to, and proudly promote, their pretty gnarly addiction/drug use memoirs.

But the book is also full of themes and topics that transcend time: longing for acceptance, feeling like a misfit in school/in the family, dieting and body image, clothes, hairstyles, mother-daughter struggles, coping with death and grief, peer pressure, bullying, dating, young love, sex, fear of pregnancy, and the depth, complexity, and importance of female friendships.

Despite the dark ending to the book, it still made me nostalgic for less fraught times. When I heard of this book in the early 70s I was very curious, but ultimately its story felt foreign and irrelevant in my world. And, despite there always being some risk, occasional recreational drug use rarely ended in death (not that I was/am a proponent in any era). Today, young people are (of necessity) much more drug aware and educated, including issues surrounding the toxic drug crisis and its risks. Ultimately, we can’t go back, but the book did remind me of an era when many aspects of life seemed simpler.  

End note: Another drug-themed book I read in my youth was Nicky Cruz’s Run Baby Run. It was grittier and even less relatable to my life than Go Ask Alice (and The Outsiders), but definitely expanded my awareness, which of course is a key benefit of reading.

 

Coming Home to a Favourite Book Series

For an avid reader, there’s nothing better than starting a promising new book series.

I can’t remember who introduced me to Louise Penny’s Chief Inspector Gamache series, but I recall it had already gained some traction among readers when I started the first book.

That book was Still Life (2005): a mystery that, on the surface, feels like a classic who-done-it. The first sentence reads: “Miss Jane Neal met her maker in the early morning mist of Thanksgiving Sunday.” And the mystery, as well as the police procedural element, is off and running

Within the first page, the reader is also introduced to two central characters of the book and series: Chief Inspector Armand Gamache (of the Sûreté du Quebec), and the secluded village of Three Pines. These characters remain integral and consistent throughout what is now an 18-book series.

As I shared in a previous post, I love a good mystery, and this series does not disappoint in that regard. But it's not main reason I come back to it time and time again. I come back for the people and place, and I suspect this is true for many successful book series. 

Still Life introduces the reader to many of the characters who will continue throughout the book series. As mentioned, we are introduced to Chief Inspector Armand Gamache early on. And slowly, the rest of the main characters are introduced: Reine-Marie, Armand’s librarian/archivist wife; Olivier Brulé and Gabri Dubeau, partners in life and several hospitality businesses; Myrna Landers, former high-profile psychologist now bookstore owner; Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir, Gamache’s second-in-command and eventually his son-in-law; Clara and Peter Morrow, married artists; and Ruth Zardo, a cranky, irreverent, award-winning poet. There are other less central (or transitory) characters, but those listed above, with the exception of Peter, are mainstays throughout the series.

I think most readers—of all ages—would agree that well-developed, engaging characters are what keep us coming back for more. The characters that have resonated most with me are unique, multi-dimensional, imperfect, and evolving. Louise Penny does a skilful job of developing such characters.

In creating the village of Three Pines, Penny also establishes a powerful sense of place, as my human geography professor would say. Many of the folks who end up in this tucked-away hamlet have been seeking a life or lifestyle change, and find sanctuary there. While there can be conflict among its residents, there is also a palpable sense of community, and deep comfort in that community. Gamache visits Three Pines for the first time during Still Life, and keeps coming back for various reasons before settling there permanently with Reine-Marie upon retirement (spoiler alert: retirement doesn’t last).

Another attractive feature of Three Pines is it’s Canadian location. For Canadian readers, this feels somewhat unique in such an internationally popular series. For those outside Canada, it is an effortless way to read/learn about the beauty and traditions of Quebec. The weather—often in fall or winter—seems to figure prominently, both as a layer of plot and as atmosphere. Exposure to the biting wind, snow, and freezing rain, is often remedied by a crackling fire and tucking into hearty soups and stews.

If I have one complaint about the series, it's that Armand Gamache sometimes seems a little bit too good to be true: he’s honourable, competent, respected, ever-judicious, and family-focused. It’s said his character was inspired by Penny’s beloved late husband, Michael Whitehead. Gamache’s choice of life partner also seems to be what some would call ideal: his wife is loving, intelligent, and wise, with her own professional pursuits and personal interests; her nurturing spirit is evident in cozy, nourishing meals and the safe-place-to-fall home she creates. Their marriage is built on attraction, deep respect, and companionship, with a mutual sharing of joys, challenges, and important decisions. Over the series, a few rough patches emerge in the Armand Gamache patina, but I would like to see a few more.

That said, too much reality can be over-rated in a work of fiction. Sometimes the sanctuary of Three Pines and an honourable, dependable character like Armand Gamache are just what’s needed at the end of another jarring day out in the real world. When I open up a new book in the Chief Inspector Gamache series, I look forward to a diverting adventure, but am just as eager to find the comfort of home. I hope you find the same escape and comfort in your favourite book series. 

Lanterns and Shadows: A Father's Legacy

Please indulge me in sharing this less conventional post, marking my late father’s birthday, and the tenth anniversary of his death tomorrow.

It actually strikes me as fairly fitting, given my father, Alf Foxgord, was an unconventional man, with creative interests all over the place: visual art, sewing (even some clothing design), knitting, macramé, jewellery-making, inventive cooking, music, and various genres of writing.

In his retirement, he pursued his interest in writing through a local seniors group called The Scriveners. He enjoyed the challenge and discipline of writing various pieces for the group to read/listen to and constructively critique; he was also inspired and motivated by the work of other members.

The Scrivener’s first book: "We’ve Got Something to Say" (1989, Orca Book Publishers) became a local bestseller. The group followed this in 1993 with the publication of a new collection of fiction, essays/remembrances, and poetry titled: Lanterns and Shadows.

I’m glad my father found this group. He needed the creative outlet, and his family was only marginally interested in his writing pursuits at the time. In retrospect, I regret this, but at the time I was a young adult with my own interests and challenges, as were my siblings. Even my mother, who was an extremely supportive spouse, was busy with part-time work and other diversions.

In the end, eight of my father’s contributions made it into the published collection. He wrote about things he knew: Trial Island, where his sister and her family lived for a time; men shedding their veneer of toughness; the comfort of a long-term relationship, and the torturous waiting for a phone call that would likely bring life-changing medical findings.

An interesting submission was titled “Selections from Sketches,” which he describes as “brief descriptions, often concerned with a single image or event, that serve to sharply focus one’s attention for a moment.” He wrote lovingly about his children when they were young: a time he seemed to cherish. He also described the impact of the navy in moulding him. And, the sketch that follows seems to describe a side of him—or how he saw himself—that is antithetical to how he often came across. It surprised me:

If I have chosen a quieter way
To walk
Than most,
I am content.
Like Janus,
Looking both ways,
I sense a sameness:
I have known no great moments,
But have been blessed
With a multitude of 
Smaller joys.

His final contribution to the book is a family and friends favourite: “I am a House.” It is essentially the first-person tale of/by our family home: the comfort and shelter it has provided, and the life transitions of the people who've lived there. I won’t transcribe the whole poem here (contact me if you’re interested), but I include several segments to give you a sense of its spirit:

Until my thirty-seventh year
I never heard a youthful voice
More than a day or two.
Suddenly there were two, then three
And in my middle years, I learned
What it was to be a home,
Not just a house.  

With regret, one by one
I saw you leave,
And knew it was both the end
And a beginning.
Whenever you return I bid you welcome,  
My aging face smiling
To greet you,
But there will be a time
When man and his machines will come: 
In a few hours I will be dust,
And what there is of you in me
Will be gone
But what there is of me in you
Will live forever,
If you treasure it,
With love.

In my young adult self-absorption, I failed to fully appreciate the bittersweet timing of the book’s release. Lanterns and Shadows was published very near the time my mother died. In the months leading up to this, the pre-publication process occasionally offered some snippets of lightness and distraction in an otherwise dark family time; but in the aftermath of publication, my father had little capacity to savour this well-earned moment of fruition, given his life-changing loss. Heartbreak and uplifting accomplishment can exist side by side, yet this can be hard to reconcile.

Twenty years later, I was nursing another heartbreak as I created my Alf Foxgord memory box. The centrepiece of that box was (and is) Lanterns and Shadows. I may not have fully realized what a gift it was in 1993, but in 2023 my signed and personally inscribed copy remains poignant and priceless.

NOTE: Lanterns and Shadows can be found at the Greater Victoria Public Library, although it’s held in the non-circulating Heritage Room.

Your Brain on Nature

Man is an outdoor animal. He toils at desks and talks of ledgers and parlors and art galleries but the endurance that brought him these was developed by rude ancestors, whose claim to kinship he would scorn and whose vitality he has inherited and squandered. He is what he is by reason of countless ages of direct contact with nature.

--James H. McBride, MD, Journal of the American Medical Association, 1902  

Right now, in later spring, nature seems at its finest. The foliage is lush and green, the birds wake us up at an early dawn, and there’s colour everywhere.

Now that I’m retired, I have more time to appreciate this gift. Yet even when I had (or made) less time to enjoy nature, I intuitively knew that it was important to my well-being. That’s probably why I picked up Your Brain on Nature: The Science of Nature’s Influence on Your Health, Happiness, and Vitality (2012) over ten years ago, and it essentially reinforced what I strongly suspected to be true.

A key strength of this book is the evidence it puts forward about the benefits of nature exposure to human health, particularly brain health. Such evidence has increased in the years since publication but, at the time, this book was invaluable in bringing together foundational research on this topic.

Healers within various medical systems, from Ayurveda to traditional Chinese medicine, have long advocated nature exposure as a form of medicine. As humans made a transition from rural life to urban civilizations, even greater emphasis was placed on the medicinal effects of nature. In the late 1800s, the notion of unspoilt nature as a mental healer gained popularity in North America. Medical doctors began to prescribe nature exposure to reduce stress and improve mental outlook. At that time, this practice was not based on evidence; “it was a return to the intuitive recommendations of the ancient healers.”

Unfortunately, that trend was not sustained. A variety of changes served to end a focus on nature’s therapeutic powers for many decades, including a demand for scientific validation of health claims (and fair enough). Another powerful force was the emergence of pharmaceutical solutions to life’s stresses and strains.

The book outlines many research studies, which use a variety of research methods including brain scanning/functional MRI, biological measures, questionnaires, and performance testing. While there are too many findings to summarize in one blog post, I thought I would share a few findings that caught my eye:

• Hospitalized gall bladder surgery patients with a view of green space had: shorter hospital stays, fewer post-surgical complaints, and used less potent pain medications that those who looked out onto a brick wall;
• In various controlled international studies, greater proximity to greenspace was associated with lower mortality, including dying from stroke, and protection against certain cancers;
• Just a 20-minute walk in an urban park (as opposed to walking in areas with mostly buildings) resulted in children with ADD having much higher cognitive performance on post-walk attention-related tasks. The improvement in cognitive function matched that reported for two top-selling ADHD medications;
• Placing plants within a hospital radiology department decreased sick leave by 60%; and,
• Not surprisingly, there is a positive relationship between persons identifying with/feeling connected to nature and pro-environmental attitudes and efforts.

Another theme running through this book is the potential negative health impacts of technology on physical health, mental health, and cognitive health. The authors: both doctors (one a medical doctor, the other a naturopathic doctor), are quick to point out that they are not anti-technology. But they do present evidence of an association between time spent on screen-based gadgets and the prevalence of negative brain impacts such as increased stress, depression, anxiety, impulsivity; diminished cognitive edge; attention fatigue, and decreased empathy.

With a significant rise in screen culture has come a decrease in nature-based recreation. Researchers suggest that the easy availability of fast-moving, screen-based stimulation and hyperreality may reduce the excitement factor of nature. As well, and obviously, the many hours spent in front of a screen means less hours available to spend in nature. In 1988, in the United States, national park visits “started on their current downward trend.”

Again, there is so much information in this book that it’s hard to do it justice in this post. The book also touches on: specific elements of nature that act on the brain, green exercise, the benefits of gardening, nature therapies, the brain on nature’s nutrients (nutri-ecopsychology), even companion animals as a bridge to the natural world. Despite being published over a decade ago, all the issues it explores—particularly the role of screen-based technology in our lives—have only become more relevant in the intervening years.

Re-reading this book was a needed reminder of the clear health and brain benefits of engaging with nature. As the research demonstrates, a little can go a long way: a 20-minute walk in green space, a plant in the office or living room. And, while smartphones or tablets are not the villain, screen time comes with a price. So it's time to shut down this laptop and hop over to the park for a little forest bathing. 

  

The Outsiders: Nothing Gold Can Stay

In Grade Eight, my homeroom/English teacher was a pale, severe-looking, middle-aged man we secretly called The Reverend. Rumour had it he was—or had been—a minister, and he read us a daily bible passage. In a secular school today, this would be unheard of, but in 1974 it was just a little unusual.

I can’t remember how it began, but, at some point, The Reverend offered to read to us. I can imagine we were sceptical, but we were surprised by, and quickly drawn into, The Outsiders.

The book was published in 1967 by S.E. Hinton: a teenager when she wrote it. It’s about two weeks in the life of an Oklahoma teen: Ponyboy Curtis. He and his older brother SodaPop live with their oldest brother Darry, who recently became their guardian (at 20) after their parents died in a car crash. The boys are “greasers”: young men who live on the poor (aka wrong) side of town. The Curtis brothers hang around with four other key characters, who range from timid to dangerous, as well as a larger greaser “gang.” The greasers' rivals are a gang of rich kids called the Socs.

In the first two nights of the story, there are conflicts between the two groups. On the second night, Ponyboy and two other gang members go to a drive-in movie. There they meet two girlfriends of Socs, who left their boyfriends because they were drunk. After the movie, the greasers offer to walk the girls home, but the girls' boyfriends reappear and threaten to fight the greasers; the fight is averted.

 

But later in the evening, and after a physical argument with his brother Darry, Ponyboy and his timid friend Johnny are in the park cooling off, when the Soc boyfriends appear with reinforcements. The Socs grab Ponyboy and hold his head under a fountain. Fearing Ponyboy is drowning, Johnny panics, pulls his switchblade, and kills one of the Socs.

 

Ponyboy and Johnny get help to run away, and pass the time in an abandoned, rural church, changing their appearance to blend in. One of their gang visits and lets them know one of the girlfriends will testify that she's sure the killing was in self-defence. Just as Johnny decides to turn himself in, they return to the church and find it on fire with school children trapped inside. Ponyboy and Johnny rescue the kids and Johnny is severely injured in the process.

 

The boys are now celebrated as heroes, and Ponyboy is reunited with his brothers. But Johnny dies of his injuries, which sets off more fighting between the two gangs. As well, one of the greasers, overcome by grief, robs a grocery store and is ultimately gunned down by police. The senseless violence traumatizes Ponyboy, but also motivates him to write a book that speaks to other outsiders.

As I summarize the plot--after reading the book again recently--it now seems quite dated and lacks the wow factor it had in 1974. As well, the writing isn’t stellar and the vulnerable emotions expressed by some of the characters seem over-the-top and incongruent with how they were generally portrayed. I remember noting this latter point when first reading the book, but it seemed less of a problem and more of a curiosity at the time.

Yet, despite its flaws, when my class began listening to the story, we would beg our teacher for one more chapter; even the students too cool for books wanted to hear more. No doubt the book's quick jump into action was a draw, as was the male-centric storyline for the reluctant male readers in our class. The author also did a good job of quickly describing the unique characters; their edginess and quasi-dangerous, unfamiliar world offered additional appeal.

The theme of being an outsider (whatever that may look like) typically resonates with teen readers, and we were no different. And the complicated, imperfect dynamics of the Curtis family, as well as Johnny’s family, broadened my conception of families and family life. In several respects, the book was eye-opening to those of us living fairly sheltered lives in 1970s Oak Bay. Even the characters’ emotions, which sometimes seemed unrealistic in the story’s context, suggested that the external image or reputation a person cultivates may not tell the whole story of who they are, or what they are contending with internally or behind closed doors. This message remains relevant today.

Sadly though, The Outsiders overall is sure to be less relevant to 2023 teens. With so many diverse, contemporary reading options available now, a story about a small-town gang set in the 1960s is unlikely to capture youth attention on a broad scale. And, reflecting the Robert Frost poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” which Ponyboy recites when they’re on the run, this book, which had its heyday fifty years ago, has arguably lost its lustre.

 

An Unlikely Celebrity Memoir Choice

Please don’t think I’ve gone soft in the head with my next book selection. I can’t remember how a memoir by Brooke Shields even crossed my path, or what possessed me to pick it up. Given the hit and miss quality of celebrity memoirs, I suspect I wasn't particularly hopeful about this one. 

It may have been the topic: post-partum depression that ultimately drew me in. I’d first heard about the condition through my undergraduate psychology degree and other references, but I'd never read an in-depth, first-hand account of the experience. So, I was curious.

Down Came the Rain begins with Shields learning her pregnancy is no longer viable after many fertility challenges and interventions, including in vitro fertilization. The pregnancy had followed a fairy-tale courtship and marriage to Chris Henchy: a comedy writer. After the miscarriage and subsequent failed fertility procedures, they were just about to take a break from trying when an in vitro attempt finally took.

Shields delighted in her pregnancy, which was uneventful. But the birth involved an unplanned C-section after more than 24 hours of unproductive labour, and then a serious post-delivery haemorrhage that took time to resolve. Their daughter Rowan Francis Henchy was born healthy overall, although had several temporary health challenges, including jaundice, and unstable hip joints.

The most significant challenges happened post-partum. Trying to recover from the trauma of childbirth, as well as deal in the background with the death of her father just three weeks earlier, Shields felt used up. Over her five days in the hospital, she described herself as being “in a bizarre state of mind…with feelings that ranged from embarrassment to stoicism to melancholy to shock.” She lacked joy and a connection with her daughter, which she initially put down to just being tired and needing to recover physically.

But Shields' fatigue, emotional distress, and disconnection from Rowan only increased, and seemed more severe than the so-called baby blues. Her lack of understanding about what was going on only served to fuel her negative thinking, lack of engagement, and hopelessness. Eventually she was given medication that seemed to help, but that improvement then prompted her to discontinue medication cold turkey. This led to a quick decline, where she experienced overwhelming suicidal thoughts while driving with her daughter.

The rest of the book recounts her gradual improvement after this crisis, with the help of medication, therapy, and other supports. She grappled with some of the usual challenges of motherhood: lack of sleep, division of labour in the home, family dynamics, and later integrating work back into the mix. And, she also had to learn to distinguish between the normal worries of a new parent, and her reactions that might signal the need for more therapeutic work.

So, what is it about this celebrity memoir that makes it a keeper for me?

As I reflect on the many memoirs I've read (celebrity or otherwise), I'm generally drawn in by one or more of these factors: my interest in the author's life, the art of the writing, the skill of the storytelling, and/or the topic or themes of the memoir. See my post on Drinking: A Love Story for a memoir that hits all these elements.

In re-reading Down Came the Rain recently, I was not as pleasantly surprised by the writing as I had been originally. It wasn’t bad, but it could have benefited from further editing. And that’s not where its strength really lies. When this book was published in 2005, there were very few personal stories of post-partum depression, and none I can remember by a celebrity. Even more taboo, the book described a mother severely compromised by mental illness: a mother who was not extolling the joys of motherhood—in fact, quite the opposite. 

The author's stream-of-consciousness narrative, as she's mired deep in her depression, is difficult to read at times. The self-loathing and struggle to reconcile a despondent state of mind with the objective reality of her seemingly fortunate circumstances (a loving spouse, a longed-for healthy child, financial resources and security, a rich network of supportive family and friends) is raw and a stretch to grasp for those who haven't stood in her shoes. She dares greatly in this regard, and readers who stick with her get a gritty glimpse into the disordered, distorted thinking that makes severe post-partum depression—and clinical depression more generally—so debilitating and often misunderstood.

Like many celebrity memoirs, this one offers some manner of resolution and a dose of hope in the end. But, unlike some others, it does not come across as self-promotion or an image restoration strategy; in fact, at the time, it risked just the opposite. And Tom Cruise did not disappoint. His Scientologist-tainted public rants on the evils of psychiatric drugs in response to Shields' memoir seemed everywhere for a while, In the end though, it was Tom who needed the image restoration.

Although this memoir will not be everyone’s cup of tea for various reasons, and celebrity memoirs in general can engender some eye-rolling, I encourage you to explore the genre. As mentioned before, some memoirs are engrossing simply by virtue of the author’s life (for example, the late David Crosby’s Long Time Gone is a wild ride!). Others use the platform and their high-visibility influence to shine a light on a stigmatized, in-the shadows topic that lacks a voice. Putting forward that voice can be a gamble, and that’s why Down Came the Rain made my bookshelf.

The Accidental Tourist

It’s a new year, and for the first blog of 2023 I’ve chosen a book that insightfully portrays the sometimes unexpected process of recovery and hope: Anne Tyler’s 1985 classic The Accidental Tourist.

The central character, Macon Leary, is an early middle-aged man who could be described as sleep-walking through life. About a year earlier, his pre-teen son Ethan was shot dead as a bystander in a fast-food restaurant robbery. Grief has only exacerbated Macon and wife Sarah’s pre-existing marital issues, which becomes clear as she asks for a divorce early in the book.

Post-separation, he stays in their marital home, mired in low-level depression, and expending minimal effort to get through the day. Then he breaks his leg, and moves back into his old family home along with his late son’s marginally trained Welsh corgi Edward. There he is looked after by his younger sister Rose, a spinsterish, motherly woman whose self-appointed job is to keep house for her two older brothers who also live there, as well as to help various elderly neighbours. Macon writes guidebooks for reluctant business travellers, and continues to work from home while recovering. As the weeks slip by, he is slowly and willingly drawn (back) into the cautious, controlled home-life of his siblings.

But the outside world intrudes. Macon’s single, sporty editor tracks him down; Julian hadn’t known about his broken leg, separation, or eccentric, cloistered family, and is curious to learn more about this very private man. Muriel Pritchett: a dog trainer Macon employs when Edward’s misbehaving escalates, is also interested in learning more about him.

On the surface Muriel and Macon seem like a unlikely pair. She’s a much younger, financially insecure, often chaotic, and embarrassingly unrefined single parent, who regularly disrupts Macon’s orderly world and buttoned-down demeanour. Yet, as he spends time with her and her allergy-prone young son, he is unexpectedly nudged out of his emotional cocoon. When Sarah comes looking for another chance, and Macon’s family continues to disapprove of Muriel, Macon must choose between the safety and comfort of the known, or a more open, courageous life—and version of himself—he’s discovered through Muriel.

And, in a parallel story of opposites attracting, playboy-like Julian becomes besotted with prim, sheltered Rose. Despite resistance from her family, they marry, but Rose is soon pulled back into the familiar routine of her caregiver role and “the Leary groove.” To find out how it ends, you’ll have to read the book.

So, what is it about this novel that made an impression? As is often the case, it starts with the writing. Tyler’s descriptive language is highly effective in creating mood: the greyness and immobility of early grief, the constrained tone in the Leary home, the painful endings of a marriage. Many other details also made the story come alive. Just a few include: the moment-by-moment struggles of training a leashed dog on crutches, the smell of Macon’s estranged mother as she brushes past him at Rose’s wedding (“she smelled of bruised gardenias”), and the rain disappearing before it hits the ground on Macon’s work trip to Winnipeg.

That descriptive skill also helped me connect more deeply with the characters. This includes details of external attributes, like Muriel’s free-spirited, “vintage” wardrobe and Rose’s prim, old-before-her-time lifestyle. But Tyler also offers us glimpses into the characters’ inner worlds through her acute eye on (often subtle) behaviour. As well, characters are realistically well-rounded: not wholly good or bad. Macon Leary, for example, is a sympathetic character as he mourns the loss of his son, marriage, and usual mobility, yet the reader also learns of a man who can be frustratingly remote, selfish, ordered, and pedantic.

Several of these well-rounded characters are presented in the context of their past. The Leary brothers and sister were abandoned fairly early by their parents and raised by stern, conservative grandparents. Muriel’s relationship with her critical mother and her husband’s departure soon after her premature son was born, gives us insight into the underpinnings of her neediness, but also of her generosity and empathy.

This was also one of the first books I read that insightfully portrayed the complexities of parental grief: the guilt, the sometimes-illogical blame game, and the different ways individuals grieve, even whilst facing a common loss. Tyler also explores the psychology of taking life and relationship risks, sometimes pretty unexpected ones. Moving forward and embracing something new often means saying goodbye to a past that is also valued. This is not easy stuff, and the author handles such conflict with great truth and care.

And, while I rarely say this, I would highly recommend the movie version of this book as well. The novel's dialogue is well-reflected in the movie, and, dare I say, the excellent casting, acting, and cinematography even elevate the book in some respects. Whether via the book and or the movie, I encourage you to delve deep into this sometimes sombre but ultimately hopeful story.