Pages & Paws

Writing, Reading, and Rural Life With a Border Collie


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Review of ‘Lost December’

He’s amazing.  Just when I think he’s penned his final shimmering literary star, Richard Paul Evans flings another into the firmament of fine fiction.  Lost December (Simon & Schuster, 2011) is a case in point.

I loved this book.*    I read all 346 pages cover-to-cover in a day and a half, including the Epilogue.

Based on the biblical account of the prodigal son, Lost December introduces us to Luke Crisp, son of copy center mogul Carl Crisp.  Dad wants to turn the family business over to his son once Luke earns his M.B.A. from Wharton, an endeavor Dad urged Luke to pursue.  At Wharton, however, Luke falls in with would could be charitably dubbed a bunch of nihilist husks of humanity masquerading as intellectuals and fellows students.  Under their influence and at the urging of his smooth-talking, blood-sucking leech of a “room mate,” Sean, Luke has other plans.  He dumps Dad’s business – and Dad – and jet-sets to Europe with his new pals, footing the bill for everyone.  Once on the continent, Luke and friends make a career out of running up outlandish bar tabs and room service.  But Luke’s million dollar trust fund doesn’t last forever.  When the money runs out, so do his “friends.”

Luke returns to Las Vegas and soon hits rock-bottom.  Friendless, penniless, and homeless, Luke Crisp is the highly educated son of a Fortune 500 corporate exec. whose entire worldly possessions fit into the backpack he carries from one street to the next.

Too embarrassed and ashamed to contact his father, Luke winds up living “underground” in a culvert.  After being robbed and beaten up, Luke is rescued by Carlos, a Good Samaritan who runs a convalescent care center.  Carlos gives Luke a place to stay and hires him.  Luke soon takes on a second job at a local Crisp’s Copy Center, where no one knows who his father is – and he’s not about to spill the beans.  He comes closes when he meets the distant, detached Rachael, a single mom with a painful past.

What follows is a remarkable, poignant story of forgiveness, reunion and the true meaning of love.

Told in vintage Evans style – first person narrative, with an engaging, intriguing plot and three-dimensional characters you feel like you know – Lost December is a holiday treat.  Get a copy for yourself this holiday season.  Better yet, get several and share.

*  I admit it.  I love all of Evans’ books.  If you have a “reluctant” teen reader, check out Evans’ Michael Vey: The Prisoner of Cell 25.  My twelve year-old couldn’t put it down!


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Huckleberry Creek: Mount Rainier’s Best Kept Secret?

The Huckleberry Creek Trail to Forest Lake Camp may be one of the best kept secrets in Washington State’s Mount Rainier National Park.  That’s because you have to be part mountain goat to hike out.  Yep, the return trip is almost entirely uphill.  Think Empire State Building without an elevator.  But this is one trail that’s worth every grunt, groan and creaking knee.

 

You’d never guess that a world-class wildflower meadow, gurgling creek and glassy tarn are tucked into the conifer-clad valley below Sourdough Ridge at Sunrise on the eastern flank of Mount Rainier.  Their secrets are revealed only to the truly intrepid or utterly clueless.  Consequently, we had the entire hike to ourselves on a beautiful Thursday in late September, save for one other couple from Holland.  And they were lost.  See?  Everyone with brains headed toward Frozen Lake or Mount Fremont.  We, on the other hand, opted for “the road less travelled” and were rewarded with one of the most beautiful alpine settings in the park.  And aching knees.   But I digress.

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Dog-legging off Sourdough Ridge, the Huckleberry Creek trail narrows and turns treacherous as it juts into Huckleberry Basin, especially through a rock-strewn avalanche chute below the basin.  Past the chute, the trail slims further to ribbon-width as you dip into a riotous romp of Renoir pastels cleverly disguised as a serene alpine meadow.  While the wildflowers aren’t as plentiful on this higher, more exposed side of the Mountain as they are in Paradise, they still paint the landscape in rich floral hues where  yellow mountain daisies, purple aster, lupine, fire-engine red Indian paintbrush and white-tufted bear grass splash the landscape like a Louvre-worthy canvas.

Huckleberry Creek winds through tall, thick grass and plays hide and seek with the trail as it skips around gentle knolls and ridges bristling with evergreens.   Once you’ve reached the valley, cross a couple split-log foot bridges and elbow the creek on your left.  It’s a short walk to Forest Lake Camp.

While its shores are lined with the sun-bleached bones of fallen trees, Forest Lake is as still as the Sphinx.  If you’re part polar bear, go for a swim.  We lunched at the camp for about an hour, listening to warbling wrens and varied thrushes.  Chipmunks scurried nearby as gray jays, those shameless panhandlers, thought we were opening a traveling cafeteria.  We left reluctantly as afternoon faded and snow-scrubbed breezes began whining off the Emmons Glacier.

As for the return hike, well, be sure to fuel up the after-burners. Both creek and camp are well worth the hamstring-hollerin’ climb out.   Just don’t tell anyone.


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Review of ‘Every Last One’ by Anna Quindlen

Every Last One

By Anna Quindlen

Random House, 2010

She’s done it again.  In Every last One best-selling author Anna Quindlen offers yet another poignant mixture of panache and pathos as she traces the effects of seemingly inconsequential choices and actions that turn out to be life-altering.

Every may get off to a slow start, but its gathers steam quickly as we’re introduced to Mary Beth Latham, husband Glen and their three incredibly average teenage kids: popular over-achiever Alex; introverted, morose Max; and independent, free-spirited Ruby.  Neck-deep in “the usual” – proms, soccer games, high school angst, sibling rivalries, curfew, family dinners and sibling spats – this “typical” suburban family turns out to be anything but.  Just about the time the reader starts feeling lost in the dull monochrome of what could be the average American family – as in, ‘been there, done that’ – Quindlen tosses us a curve.  A big one.  The pacing is perfect.

The rest of this remarkable book focuses on how Mary Beth and her girlfriends such as no-nonsense Nancy and “English rose” Olivia help her cope with an immense tragedy. We also discover what’s eating Mary Beth’s former friend, Deborah.  Like the consummate storyteller she is, Quindlen weaves a rich tapestry of roles and relationships that are almost excruciatingly authentic.

Besides the carefully crafted plot and three-dimensional characters, the dormant strength of Every Last One – a phrase uttered by a police officer on one tragic New Year’s Eve – lies in its “every person” appeal.  Readers may feel they know the Lathams.  Maybe this ophthalmologist’s family is their neighbor, colleague, coach, or their kids’ favorite hang-out site.  Or maybe it’s them.  This complicated, beautifully drawn story of struggle, survival, unspeakable loss and love is weft as tight as a Persian rug, and is just as exquisite.  I read the LP version (385 pages) cover to cover in a day and a half.

Full of unexpected twists and turns, Every Last One is another stellar work of fiction like the kind we’ve come to expect from Quindlen.  Much of its strength lies in sturdy characters, believable dialogue and its subtle message of hope.  This one’s a keeper.

***

Coming soon: A review of the autobiographical Lessons from the Mountain: What I Learned from Erin Walton, by Mary McDonough.


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‘Once Upon a Story…’ Part 3 of 3

The best stories are often book-ended by Once upon a time and They lived happily ever after.  Once upon a time there were Three Bears, who lived together in a house of their own, in a wood.  Once upon a time there was an old sow with three little pigs…. A vain emperor who loved beautiful clothes … an east wind blew through Number Seventeen Cherry-Tree Lane.  Once upon a time Gepetto found a piece of wood, Tom and Huck a robber’s treasure, Aladdin a lamp.  A wisp of a happy ending waltzes in the wind.

That’s it, isn’t it?  What most of us want, deep-down inside?  Isn’t that why something stirs within us when a great and noble struggle winds up with a superlative conclusion in which Good triumphs over Evil?  Aslan vanquishes the White Witch.  Kidnapped through the machinations of his Uncle Ebenezer, David Balfour claims his inheritance with the help Alan Breck Stewart.  Dorothy Gale discovers “there’s no place like home.”

Don’t such endings make you want to pump your fist in the air, stand up and cheer?  “All is well” endings to wonderful stories bring sighs of satisfaction.  Where does that come from?  And what about the stories that end with “all is not so well”?  Capulets and Montagues take pot shots at each other from opposite sides of the Verona tracks; Romeo and Juliet are caught in the cross-hairs.  Anna Karenina leaves her husband for the dashing Count Vronsky and a train.   Quasimodo grieves himself to death, clinging to the dead body of his beloved gypsy girl, La Esmeralda.  Don’t they leave us feeling a little… bereft?  Like our map has been misplaced, or we wandered into the wrong tale?

What is it within you and me that sighs when we read or hear these stories?   It’s almost as if “happily ever after” is a yearning etched into the wet cement of our souls at birth.  And maybe it is.  Have you ever wondered why?  Have you gone ahead of your story?

***

Excerpted from chapter 1 of Once Upon a Story, by yours truly.


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‘Once Upon a Story…” Part 1 of 3

Once upon a time, a king loved a princess.  Their love was epic.  Pure and unstained.  Then evil entered, followed by betrayal. The lovers were torn asunder, the princess taken into captivity.  The king sent his son to launch a daring raid into enemy territory to rescue his beloved: You.  
A fresh look at the greatest love story that ever bloomed, Once Upon a Story… mines nuggets of eternal truth from some well-loved stories, reminding us that we were created for relationship, live in a war zone, have an enemy, and that God’s love makes it possible for our stories to end with, “and they all lived happily ever after.”
***
Once Upon a Story is looking for a reputable publisher.  Excerpts from chapter 1 are coming up soon.  Keep an eye out!


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Shout About It!

Read a book recently that’s too good to keep to yourself?  Found a story, author or series that’s simply amazing?  Maybe you stumbled onto a literary “stinker” that rates a red light?

Shout About It!

Even the most voracious book lover can’t read everything.  So let’s help each other.  If you’ve found something worth sharing – or can advise others to avoid – let your fellow bibliophiles know!

Shout About It!

This page is for you.  Share your favorite books, authors, hits and misses HERE!


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‘because of mr. terupt”: extradordinary (“dollar word”?)

Lisa was right.  Our intrepid Children/Youth Services Librarian usually is.

Roaming the stacks of my local library the other day, I couldn’t quite find “It.”  You know, a title that leapt off the stacks, grabbed me by the throat and hollered, “Read me!”  (Some do, you know.)  So I moseyed over to Lisa’s desk for a recommendation.  She understands my conviction that some of the finest writing and best literature on the planet can be found in Children’s or Young Adult sections because frankly, any author that can catch and keep a kid’s attention for an entire book must be doing something right!

Anyway, Lisa steered me toward because of mr. terupt (Random House, 2010), Rob Buyea’s debut novel.  “You will absolutely love this!” she chirped.

Lisa was right.  I finish a book a week on average.  Terupt is quite possibly the best thing I’ve read all year.

This clever, engaging story is narrated by seven kids in Mr. Terupt’s fifth grade class at Snow Hill School, Connecticut.  Each has a unique “signature” headlining their own chapter – and perspective.  There’s portly, sensitive Danielle; conniving, manipulative Alexia; bookish Jessica, newly re-located from California; Jeffrey, who detests school; Anna, who’s ostracized because of her home life; Peter, the class clown and mischief-maker, and Luke, the brain.

A first-year teacher who is much more than a classroom instructor, Mr. terupt teaches each kid not only how to calculate “dollar words,” the number of blades of grass in the school soccer field or what not to feed a plant experiment, but also about cooperation, compassion, loyalty, faith, forgiveness and courage in the face of overwhelming odds.

mr. terupt is packed with enough plot twists and turns to rival a ride down Disneyland’s Space Mountain.  Whizzing down the slopes from chapter one, the story snowballs into an avalanche of real emotion: fear, guilt, anger, love, courage and hope. The characters are so genuine and three-dimensional, you may feel like you sat next to some of them in your own fifth grade class.  Engrossing and brisk, the story has you ready to spit or pump both fists in the air one minute, then tearing up the next.  I finished all 268 pages in a day and a half.

Lisa was right: I loved because of mr. terupt.  I bet you will, too.  (Bring Kleenex.)


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‘Our Cute Little Killer’

By Gib Check

            Wife Ruthie is the bird-watching expert, though even I can tell the difference between, say, a duck and a woodpecker. One swims and the other doesn’t. In any case, I like watching the antics of our feathered friends as much as her.

This last winter I glanced outside and spotted one I’d never seen before sitting atop our backyard feeder. Robin-sized, with black and white markings on a pale gray body, it looked very striking. Funny, though, how it was ignoring the birdseed on the feeder platform. Instead, its perky little head kept swiveling from side-to side and down at the ground where seed had fallen onto the snow.

What a cute little birdie, I thought. Ruthie wasn’t around to identify it, so I just kept admiring it.

Suddenly it froze to stare at something below. A second later it swooped down, thrust its tiny beak into the snow, and pulled up a seed-hunting mole! The bird promptly killed it with a few jabs of its beak. Next it flew off with it to the island across from our pier. The bird’s line of flight jogged up and down with its heavy burden, but it made it.

I stood there flabbergasted. Then I was even more surprised to see this cute but homicidal little bird soon resume its perch on the feeder to find more victims.

Interrupted by Ruthie coming home, I rushed her to the window and told her what I’d seen. After laughing like I was only joshing her, she studied our little visitor.

“It’s pretty, but I don’t recognize it. I’ll go find my bird book.”

When I came home the next day, it was her turn to grab hold of me. “I’ve got to show you that bird! You won’t believe what it did!”

As we peered out at our pint-sized killer perched on the feeder, she said excitedly, “I thought you were kidding me yesterday, except it just now grabbed a mole!”

She laughed, “And here’s the crazy part! A squirrel ran over and tried taking the mole away from it! But then little Killer fought him for it!”

She said the two of them had a tug-of-war over the poor mole until the squirrel finally won and ran off with it.

Opening the bird book, she showed me that our mystery guest was a Loggerhead Shrike, a rare species that sometimes visits from the far north. Truly a killer if ever there was one, it preys on small birds and mammals. If thorn trees are handy, it impales its victims on long thorns to snack on later. This explained why no other birds were using the feeder. They were staying way clear of little Killer’s reign of terror.

Visiting friends stood with us at the window, all of us watching it on the feeder and hoping to see some blood-sport. Disappointingly, there was no savagery this time. Maybe it had already knocked off all the moles.

Since our squirrel had revealed itself to be carnivorous, we looked it up, too. Sure enough, we learned that yet another of our cutesy backyard critters often feasted on things besides acorns.

We always thought our backyard was a place where wild creatures peacefully mingled, but as it turns out, it’s a slaughterhouse. And so, dear readers, does all of this sound a bit grim? Then here’s a cheerier note, or at least it is for Ruthie and me; we sure won’t be plagued with any mole problems this year. Better yet, if you don’t mind a bit of bloodshed, maybe we could even send little Killer over to deal with your moles!

Author Gib Check

Retired from construction, I live on a Wisconsin lake with wife Ruthie and am finally exploring being an author. When I write about our travel adventures, I focus on the fun we have meeting people and exploring these places. I’m also big on hiking, biking, canoeing, and thrill to stargazing. (I keep hinting to Ruthie and the kids about a new ‘scope). But always, it’s the writing I love.


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Review of “The Longest Trip Home”

The Longest Trip Home: A Memoir

By John Grogan

HarperCollins, 2008

ISBN: 978-0-06-171324-8

I expected better from John Grogan.  I loved the pithy insights from his first book, Marley and Me, as well as his richly textured three-dimensional word pictures, nimble pacing and quirky chronicling.  Cynical, sour, and almost suffocatingly self-serving, The Longest Trip Home is a like a stiff shot of castor oil after a Florida-sized slice of cherry cheesecake.

Grogan’s “memoir” is coarse, self-absorbed and worst of all, tedious, eliciting the pizzazz of a plate of overcooked cabbage.  It’s essentially 300-plus pages of an anti-Catholic rant in which the author chronicles – and chortles at – his parents’ “Medieval interpretation of Catholicism, with its literal belief in guardian angels hovering over our shoulders to protect us from the dark agents of Satan,” which, among other things, “strikes both him and his wife, Jenny, as “as almost comically superstitious.”  This narcissistic romp though the author’s sexual conquests – both real and imaginary – also includes the horrors of Catholic school, altar boy service, and so on until the author smugly self-identifies himself as a “non-practicing Catholic.”

After grinding out twenty-four chapters running down his parents’ faith while simultaneously patting himself on the back for deceiving and misleading them about his behavior, mores and mindset for most of his growing up years, Grogan then seems baffled by his parents’ sense of hurt and betrayal when he finally comes clean as a thirty year-old about to be married to a non-Catholic.  He crows about how he has “Finally broken free from my parents’ influence” and “no longer felt the need to lie and obfuscate” and seems to think a crate of champagne is in order.  While Grogan crows about being “unapologetically my own person now…,” readers may wonder why we should care.  (I’m not Catholic, but still found this stuff tedious and bloated.) And did we really need to know every sordid detail about his Sister Mary Lawrence fantasies – as a second grader?

Although Grogan spends two-thirds of the book – 234 pages- ridiculing and belittling his parents’ staunch Catholicism and conservative views, Longest retains a glimmer of Grogan’s past panache.  In Part Three, Coming Home, the author seems to be trying to make up for the past 24 chapters by devoting 91 pages to some sort of penitential “maybe they were right” musings.  A trace of Grogan’s former prose prowess shines forth in the final chapters as he softens his stance while his mother and father succumb to old age, frailty and illness.  His tenderness toward his dad who is dying of leukemia and pneumonia is heartfelt and deep, but in a case of “too little, too late,” Grogan doesn’t quite pull it off.  Instead, he leaves the reader wondering if he’s “come home” to stay or if this is just another pit stop en route back to the land of “lies and obfuscation.”  What’s puzzling – and disappointing – is that the author is capable of much better.