The Story of Stress: Part 2

My last blog post focused on the book When the Body Says No, which largely regarded stress as a problem: something to avoid or manage, particularly given its potential negative impact on physical health. The book also explored the idea that our past traumas can make us more susceptible to the adverse impacts of stress, which makes its management all the more challenging.

Kelly McGonigal is the author of the stress-focused book I am highlighting in this blog: The Upside of Stress: Why Stress is Good for You, and How to get Good at It. She used to view stress as something to avoid, reduce, and or manage, given its role in illness and premature aging. For years, as a health psychologist, she delivered the “stress is a problem to be fixed” message in courses she taught and articles/books she wrote.

But she began rethinking stress when she encountered new research. In 1998, 30,000 US adults were asked how much stress they’d experienced in the last year and whether or not they believed stress was harmful to their health. Eight years later, researchers investigated who among this 30,000 had died. The bad news was that high levels of reported stress increased the risk of dying by 43 percent. But—and this is what really got her attention—the increased risk only applied to people who also believed stress was harming their health.

People who reported high levels of stress but did not view their stress as harmful were not more likely to die. In fact, they had the lowest level of death of any group in the study, even lower than those participants who reported experiencing very little stress. In the end, the researchers concluded that it wasn’t stress alone that was killing people; it was the combination of stress and the belief that stress was harmful. To highlight this concept, McGonigal shares a wide range of research studies to show how various stress mindset interventions and related exercises work, as well as their encouraging success rates.

The author emphasizes, though, that even if you’re able to shift how you think about stress, you will still encounter stress in your everyday life. In fact, stress goes hand-in-hand with a happy and meaningful life. She says that people who are busier tend to be happier (although I think there are some limits to this, as well as caveats around the nature of that busyness and individual tolerances), and people with a sense of purpose tend to live longer. So, stress is often not a sign that something’s wrong with your life; it’s frequently a sign that you’re meaningfully engaged with things and people you care about.

While Part 1 of the book focuses on reframing beliefs about the harmfulness of stress, Part 2 offers strategies for transforming real-life stress/stressors into useful resources for effective living. These strategies fall into three categories:

• Change threats into challenges: Manage your perceptions and reactions so you trigger a “Challenge Response” when moving through stressful times (instead of the Flight-or-Flight response), and convert anxiety to excitement/energy. It can be easier said than done but the book provides scenarios of what this looks like.

• Build resilience through social connections. Learn the steps and interventions you can use to activate a “Tend-and-Befriend” response (instead of retreating into isolation, selfish, and or aggressive behaviours). This triggers brain activities that make you more social, brave, and cognitively sharp as you cope with stressors/challenges.

• Grow from adversity. Very few seek out adversity, yet it’s an inevitable part of life. While not denying hard times, there are still ways to make the most of a bad situation, and use that situation to recognize and activate individual strengths, values, and other helpful internal responses.

The book provides ample examples are how these strategies can be implemented amidst challenging life situations, together with the research that supports them. Again, the message is not that we deny or ignore stressful situations, but, given that they will happen, how can we respond in ways that might be more helpful than mindlessly/habitually reacting. Even if we have limited control over a stressful situation, we may still have some control over how we respond.

I’ve read many books and articles on stress and stress management, so why has this particular book stayed on my bookshelf over the years? I think it’s because, like the author, the results of the research she presents upended everything I had previously known and assumed about how stress works. It seemed to indicate that there was room to rethink the dangers of stress, and to reshape/possibly control (to some degree at least) its negative impacts on mind and body.

As we move into the fall: a time of recommitting to learning, this book is a powerful reminder that information/research is always evolving. That’s an exciting idea, and it challenges me to keep my mind open to ever-growing developments in knowledge. That said, with new information being created at a faster and faster pace, and offered via a growing number of access points, it’s also a time to be discerning about information quality, and the agendas and credentials of its messengers. Caveat emptor—let the information consumer beware.

Note: See also Kelly McGonigal's popular 2013 TEDTalk on the topic.

 

The Story of Stress: Part 1

I was intermittently aware of experiencing stress back in my school days: talking in front of a class, waiting outside the principal’s office, working feverishly to finish a class project on time. In university I took a course in psychoneuroimmunology, which offered a more academic look at stress and its impacts on the body. In research papers we read about rats and other unfortunate captive creatures being shocked or otherwise stressed, with various adverse impacts on their physiology then measured.

However, it was not until I landed in the full-time working world that stress and stressors become more of a frequent and relevant topic of discussion. I worked in a medical/health library and our collection of stress management books, for both employees and researchers, seemed to grow by the year. There was also a burgeoning focus on employee well-being, and I remember many employees being handed a slim booklet titled: “Adapting to Stress: Start Taking Charge,” created in 1988 by the Hope Heart Institute (I still have it). It was fairly comprehensive document, with a focus on stress management strategies to reduce negative health impacts, including heart disease.

Since that time, I have read many books and papers on the topic. I think the topic continues to hold my interest because the experience of stress is universal, and has important—even life-saving—utility in some circumstances, although more so for our ancestors who dealt with greater physical demands and threats, like the proverbial sabre-toothed tiger. In the modern world, demands are now more likely to be psychological, but they create the same cascade of bodily responses. And, while the stress response is universal, what triggers a stress response in one person, may not for another. Fascinating stuff.

So, I thought I would delve into my stress library and choose two books that have made an impact in the field, albeit with slightly different takes on the topic. In this post I will focus on the book: When the Body Says No: The Cost of Hidden Stress, by Gabor Maté, a well-known Canadian physician.

Early in this book, Maté cites the work of Hans Selye, considered the founder of stress theory as well as the originator of the term. Selye states that stress consists of internal/physiological alterations--visible or not--when an organism perceives a threat to its existence or well-being. As well, this stress response is heightened when the demand made on an organism (which can be a positive or negative event) exceeds that organism’s capacity, or perceived capacity, to deal with that demand.

Maté draws on medical research, as well as his decades of clinical experience as a family physician, to advance the concept of a mind-body connection and its role in various conditions and diseases, including autoimmune disorders. In this context, he explores the link between stress and disease, examining how early emotional experiences (as well as current ones) impact the body’s immune system and ultimately lead to illness. Reflecting the book’s title, and through multiple case studies, Maté attempts to illustrate how disease can be a consequence (or a way of the body saying no/enough) when the mind cannot or will not acknowledge and or cope with certain emotional issues or traumatic content.

Despite my comments to follow, I think this is an important book to read. In western medicine, the mind-body link is still a relatively new idea, and not regularly reflected in medical practice in many sectors. As well, Maté worked for many years in a Downtown Eastside medical practice, which no doubt influenced and or solidified his trauma-informed perspective. Trauma at any stage in life, can have profound implications for physical and mental health, including the behavioural choices that influence these. Again, this is an idea that is just beginning to take hold in a variety of health fields, including those related to addiction and mental health treatment. In both these realms, Maté remains a crucial voice.

That said, the book is weighty with medical disorder cases that seem to be explained a little too conveniently (or dare I say simplistically) by Maté’s central theories. I think the cases he presents are real, and there may be an emotional/traumatic component to illness manifestation or continuation in a portion of these. But it feels like an over-assertion to say this is a factor in all cases: one that may be under-emphasizing or under-reporting other known or unknown factors. Related to this is the danger of blaming the victim. Maté insists this is not his intention, but that’s sometimes how it reads, and it doesn’t feel very helpful, particularly as the book is very light on practical ways forward for impacted patients. In the case where deep-seated trauma may be a legitimate factor in a current medical condition, many do not have access to specialized and typically costly trauma assessment/treatment. That just sounds like a recipe for more stress. 

In fact, it is not until the final (19th) chapter that Maté outlines how the reader might "heal" or mitigate some of the health threats he talks about in the previous 18 chapters. He outlines the seven “As”: acceptance, awareness, anger, autonomy, attachment, assertion, and affirmation. While he explains these in more detail, with examples, they still feel more conceptual than practical, and too little too late.

Again, When the Body Says No covers important ground, particularly in reminding us about the mind-body connection and the real impacts of unaddressed trauma (big and smaller) on well-being. I recommend reading it with an attitude of curiosity, and in full knowledge that Maté has a strong point of view to share. 

Enchanted April

It’s the time of year—at least in Westcoast BC—when spring is gaining some traction after months of grey skies, short windy days, and multiple layers of clothing. While it still feels too slow in coming, with many false starts and retreats, every sustained rise in temperature inspires hope. So, it seemed like the perfect time to introduce The Enchanted April, written by Elizabeth Von Arnim, first published in 1922.

As the book begins, two women are also struggling with the dregs of winter in post-World War 1 England. On a February afternoon, in a London woman’s club, they each separately come upon a newspaper advertisement that reads as follows:

 To Those Who Appreciate Wisteria and Sunshine. Small medieval Italian castle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be let furnished for the month of April. Necessary servants remain.

Mrs. Lottie Wilkins and Mrs. Rose Arbuthnot are middle-class housewives with predictable lives and strained marriages. They attend the same church, but differ in temperament and re the social circles they travel. Yet the advertisement stirs something in both of them, although they initially dismiss it as a pipe dream. But Mrs. Wilkins, “sees them there,” and thus begins the journey to San Salvatore.

To afford the rent, the women advertise for two more to accompany them. Applying are Mrs. Fisher: an older, curmudgeonly widow, and Lady Caroline Dester (the author later uses her family nickname Scrap), a young beautiful woman in need of rest from a full social calendar and a host of grabby suitors.

As the holiday begins under the warm and welcome Italian sun, tensions flare between these women of different backgrounds, characters, senses of entitlement, and expectations for the trip. For example, Lady Caroline’s single intention is to “lie comatose for four weeks in the sun.” It takes the others some time to understand this and just let her be. As they settle and begin to take in the magic of the place, they eventually bond over shared misfortunes and the pleasures of life in their tranquil surroundings.

Almost immediately Lottie “sees” her husband Mellersh there, despite the fact that the vacation seemed like an escape from her humdrum London life and her sometimes overbearing husband. She writes to him, and encourages Rose to invite her husband as well, which rocks the equilibrium of their little foursome. Mellersh arrives and surprisingly fits right in, happy his wife has made advantageous social connections. He finds new appreciation for Lottie and is heartened to offer help and advice to the others.

Joining them later at the castle is Mr. Briggs, owner of the property. He is initially drawn to the attractive and interesting Rose, but ultimately becomes distracted by Lady Caroline’s extraordinary beauty. Then Rose’s husband Frederick arrives: a philanderer and author of racy royal memoirs. He never received Rose’s invitation to visit, but instead coincidently came in search of Lady Caroline. He is startled by the appearance of Rose, as well as her enthusiasm, warmth, and ardour as she is overwhelmed by his unexpected arrival. In true San Salvatore style, they rekindle their romance and forgotten regard for one another.

As I describe the basic plot, it might seem like a gals get-away, which men then join to liven up the party. However, much of the novel is a languid homage to the deliciousness of slowing down, and to opening up our hearts and senses. From the moment she reads the advertisement, Lottie is drawn to the idea, then the reality, of San Salvatore. The warm sun and bursting garden, as well as her new-found initiative in supporting her own needs, infuse her almost immediately with a sense of agency and generosity towards others. That openness and warmth is contagious, and allows each woman to begin to trust each other and slowly reveal vulnerabilities. This ultimately extends to the men in their lives.

As the story closes, Lottie envisions her increasingly close relationship with Mrs. Fisher continuing back in England. Over the month, Mrs. Fisher’s initially crusty, demanding demeanour has softened into an almost motherly affection for all, with a willingness to accept affection in return. Lottie also sees a future match for Lady Caroline and Mr. Briggs, despite Lady Caroline’s early annoyance at his almost worshipful (and potentially grabby) attention.

But what happens when the magic of San Salvatore is but a memory, and ordinary life resumes? We’ve all had a restful, immersing vacation we’re sure will remain with us, yet the feeling inevitably fades as stressors re-accrue. But I’d like to think there are certain places and experiences that never leave us, and we can call them back in a heartbeat. I hope that magic continued for The Enchanted April characters.

NOTE: This book was made into a movie in 1991. A few plot points were changed, but the filmmakers did a laudable job of capturing the book’s characters and magic of San Salvatore. It has stayed with me. 

Clara Callan: A Canadian Favourite of Mine

Several decades ago (2001 or 2002), I went with a friend to a local literary festival. One of the authors, Richard B. Wright, read from his new book at the time: Clara Callan. The story is primarily told through an exchange of letters and Wright’s short reading intrigued me enough to buy the book.

My friend who attended with me has never warmed to the book, while I’m drawn back in every time I read it. What is it about this story that resonates strongly with me?

Clara Callan follows the lives of two small-town Canadian sisters, from the end of 1934 to the end of 1938. After their father’s death, thirtysomething Clara stays put in the family home, teaching school in their small Ontario hometown, as her father did before her. Her younger, more adventurous sister Nora is ready to spread her wings and moves to New York City, using connections to get work as an actor on radio.

Their letters back and forth chronical their lives during these four years; journal-type entries from Clara add further background detail. As Nora settles into her life in New York, her co-worker and free-spirited friend, writer Evelyn Dowling, also begins writing Clara. Clara’s letter topics range (and jump around) from the minutia of daily work and small-town life, such as keeping a coal furnace going in winter, to more weighty matters including her early-in-the-story rape and having to deal with the resulting pregnancy. Nora’s letters typically focus on her burgeoning career; her social life with friends, co-workers, and various men, as well as advice for Clara around expanding her seemingly little life.

But while Nora initially appears to be leading the bigger life, cautious dutiful Clara comes up from behind, experiencing significant life changes as the story unfolds. She distances herself from God and her church, while Norah continues to believe. She travels to New York, then Italy with Norah and her emotionally abusive boyfriend, offering Norah support throughout the journey. She also participates in an intellectually satisfying correspondence with Norah’s friend Evelyn. Later Clara begins seeing a man she met at a movie theatre, continuing even after she learns he’s married. Small-town rumours circulate and she is harassed. She finally breaks off her relationship with the married man, but finds herself once again pregnant. This time she decides to keep the baby, forcing her to resign from teaching and embark on a bold new life as a single mother as 1938 comes to a close.

Norah and Evelyn have dramas of their own, contributing to respective personal changes in both work and life; but their evolutions seem less surprising than Clara’s. In fact, their boldness and brashness seem subtly tempered over time by wisdom won through hard knocks.

Wright does a fine job of writing for these three strong, unique women. His ability to do so reminds me of the talents of Wally Lamb. In an era when women’s voices were essentially silenced or eclipsed, his focus on such voices is refreshing. That said, I would have liked to have seen more substantial, nuanced, and positive male characters. Other than a few mentions of Clara’s late father, and her teaching colleague, the only other men represented were a rapist, several cheating husbands, and a narcissistic abusive boyfriend. One would hope the men of the 1930s had much more to offer.

I also appreciated the Canadian context of this novel. The backdrop to a good portion of Clara’s year is the dark, bleak Canadian winter. Wright does a good job of capturing the claustrophobia and wearing nature of this season; and, admittedly, that atmosphere could be off-putting to some readers. Yet, this winter bleakness is counter-balanced by the hope and new energy of spring, the lushness of summer, and the crisp beauty of fall. For those of us who live in the land of Canadian seasons, it feels familiar and reassuring.

Also dark are some of the themes explored in the book: rape, illegal abortion, small-town intolerance, depression/mental illness, sexism, the limited options for women in that era, and politics (particularly in Europe) leading up to World War Two. Yet again, these are ably offset by the positives and small wins of everyday life, including the acceptance and support Clara, Nora, and Evelyn are able to offer and find in each other.

As my friend would attest to, Clara Callan is not for everyone. It is no beach-read romp, which is sometimes what we really need as winter drags on. But there’s also so much there to embrace and take comfort in: the bond of sisters (and siblings) who are different but mostly accepting of those differences; the power of reciprocal communication to ground us and help us feel known; the energy and promise of personal evolution, and the way life can surprise us and we can surprise ourselves. 

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. 

You're a Classic (and a Mean One), Mr. Grinch

On the face of it, How the Grinch Stole Christmas and its spiky protagonist, the Grinch, seem to lack the gentle, sweet-natured tone of many Christmas classics. Yet, this 1957 tale by Theodor “Dr. Suess” Geisel has unexpected charms of its own that have stood the test of time. It’s even inspired several movies that are also holiday staples. 

For the rare few who don’t know the tale, the Grinch is a cranky, odd-looking creature who hates Christmas for some unknown reason (several theories include his too-tight shoes or a too-small heart). He lives just north of a land called Who-ville, which is inhabited by Whos: happy, quirky-looking, Christmas-loving folk of all shapes and sizes.

After many years of suffering through the annual festivities, the Grinch is in no mood for the noise and merriment of Christmas again this year, so he comes up with “a wonderful awful idea” to stop Christmas from coming to Who-ville. He disguises himself as Santa Claus and deputizes his little dog Max as his reindeer. While the Whos sleep, the Grinch invades their homes and loads his sleigh with their stocking stuffers, toys, decorations, and festive food (everything from Who-hash to roast beast).

However, as he tries to stuff a Christmas tree up the chimney, he’s interrupted by a toddler named Cindy-Lou Who, who wants to know why “Santa” is taking their tree. The crafty Grinch tells a smooth story about taking the tree for repairs at his workshop. He then snatches the tree (and the log for their fire) and makes his escape. He repeats this thievery throughout Who-ville.

When finished, he escapes high atop Mt. Crumpet, where he plans to dump the contents of his sleigh. The Grinch waits expectantly to hear Who cries of dismay and sadness as they discover the loss of their Christmas finery. But instead, every Who down in Who-ville is singing. The Grinch hadn’t stopped Christmas from coming; it came just the same. After his initial confusion, he realizes that Christmas must be about much more than the material trappings. And “in Who-ville they say…the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.” Propelled by his renewed heart, the Grinch brings back the toys and food for the feast—he himself even carved the roast beast.

There are so many things I like about this Christmas classic. I am not always a huge fan of rhyming, but the author uses rhymed verse artfully to draw in and engage the reader, particularly young readers. He also captures the excitement and hope of the season, as the Whos get busy with all kinds of Christmas prep. It reminds me of the thrill and magic of the Christmas build-up when I was young, when the only thing I had to worry about was getting to sleep on Christmas Eve. Perhaps that's why Cindy Lou Who, with her wide-eyed innocence, remains such a beloved character.

The book’s drawings—done by the author—are spare and unique, as are its quirky characters. Although the book was first published in 1957, it never feels outdated, perhaps because we are perpetually able to imagine the Whos and Who-ville in an alternate sphere untouched by time and modern concerns. Sixty-five years ago, I doubt Dr. Suess could have envisioned the commercial madness of Black Fridays and Cyber Mondays, yet his story’s message is more relevant today than ever.

That said, this story is arguably a bit dated in that it focuses exclusively on Christmas. With the current emphasis on acknowledging and honouring a range of other traditions this time of year, who knows how Dr. Suess might have framed this tale if written today. Or, he may have unapologetically held tight to a Who-ville Christmas.

Now about that Grinch—I have a big soft spot for him. Granted, I am always a sucker for a bad boy who grows up a bit in the end, but it’s more than that. As an adult, life can get hard and it’s easy to don a cynical armour and lose the magic of the season amidst stressors, losses, and an out-of-control holiday "to do" list. And, like Charles Dicken’s Scrooge, the Grinch may have a backstory of loss that contributed his seemingly small heart and self-imposed isolation. Whatever the case, the good news is that all is not lost: the Grinch shows us that change is possible, and such change often happens through the inspiration of others.

As an endnote, I’ll add that I’m also a big fan of the 1966 animated version of this book. It did a wonderful job of bringing How the Grinch Stole Christmas to life, with the voice of Boris Karloff, complementary music, and animation that honoured the original illustrations but added a little something extra as well. 

Anne of Green Gables: Scope for the Imagination

This post choice feels a little predictable, but there’s no way around it. Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery, made a definite impression on me in my tween and teen years.

I can’t remember exactly how I first discovered this book. It might have been through my maternal grandmother, who also had other books in the “Anne” series. This grandmother was not as entertaining as our other grandmother, but she had lots of interesting books; a woods and wishing well as part of her property, and told us tales of woodland fairies and other creatures. It was all scope for the imagination.

For the uninitiated, Anne of Green Gables is about a skinny red-haired orphan named Anne Shirley who arrives at a modest farm (Green Gables) in rural Prince Edward Island in the 1870s/80s. That farm is home to an older woman (Marilla) and her brother (Matthew), neither of whom have married or have experience of children. They’d originally requested an orphan boy, in part to help on the farm, but Anne quickly captures the affections of the very shy Matthew. For this reason, as well as to save Anne from a subsequent placement with a large family needing a live-in babysitter, Marilla reluctantly agrees to take Anne on a trial.

The early part of the book is full of unfortunate scrapes Anne gets into, including an angry outburst with an outspoken pillar of the community and then a popular boy in school. She also accidently dyes her hair green in an attempt to transform the red; is on the cusp of serving a mouse-tainted dessert sauce; mistakenly gets her best friend drunk, and falls off a rooftop: the result of a dare. Amidst all this, Anne’s frequent flights of imagination, constant chatter, and focus on clothing and appearance are vexing yet gradually endearing. Despite the trouble she is often in, her intentions are most often good, and she ultimately finds a permanent adoptive home at Green Gables..

As relationships with the key people in her life: Marilla, Matthew, and best friend Diana grow more secure, Anne’s mishaps quiet down and she begins to blossom both academically and socially. As well, she eventually lets go of a long-standing grudge against that popular boy in school. There's even a hint of pending romance as the book ends.

The great thing about revisiting books that have meant a lot to me is I get to read them again and reflect on how a book impacted my younger self. I also have the opportunity to read the book with fresh eyes, enjoying it through a lens of intervening life experience and matured values.

Years ago, several aspects of Anne of Green Gables stood out for me. One was its highly descriptive language. As Anne travels for the first time to Green Gables, I felt right there with her, absorbing every aspect of the experience and eager to continue the journey. I was also a little in awe of her spunkiness. She wanted to be accepted, but also spoke out if threatened. As a young person still living in an era of "children are seen and not heard," I was in awe and delighted. Anne’s intense and enduring friendship with Diana was another draw, as was the fact that the story was set in Canada: a rarity in my junior book collection.

Reading this book again today, I appreciate some of the same things, including the highly descriptive prose, particularly as it applies to the beauty and natural world of rural PEI. In my present-day crankiness though, I was less enthralled with Anne’s incessant chatter, non-stop energy, and easy distraction. I couldn’t help thinking that in today’s world Marilla and Matthew might be urged to seek out an assessment. Yet, ultimately, her high energy and imaginative thinking didn’t seem to set her back, except for some scolding from Marilla.

As well, while I can understand the source of orphan Anne’s neediness and quest for reassurance, it sometimes felt like a lot, particularly in her initial meetings with Diana. Perhaps that’s a sign of changed times—today we may be less willing to be openly vulnerable—or perhaps I am just cranky. That said, I now appreciate, much more than before, the important role of a secure home and loving but firm guidance on the positive emotional growth of a child. Not every loving adoptive home ends up raising an academically excellent, responsible, socially poised Anne Shirley, but there’s a lot to be said for the power of love, acceptance, constancy, and few enforced house rules.

While the story is dated in many respects, the end of the book reflects an ageless dilemma: pursue ambition or put family first.  When Matthew dies and family finances are strained, Anne makes the difficult decision to decline a university degree scholarship and become a local teacher to support an aging Marilla at Green Gables. It's a test of character that remains instructive for readers of all ages. Anne’s path had narrowed but her generosity and optimism remained. “The joys of sincere work and worthy aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers…and there was always the bend in the road.”