The Silent Boy

 The Silent Boy by Lois Lowry

2003

Weight: 5.6 oz

Method of Disposal: Recycling (unfortunately)

This is another book that is in such poor shape that I cannot donate it.  The truth is that it was already falling apart when I came into possession of it, and it has only grown worse with each move.  I did want to read it before letting it go though so it was the last book I read in my time off after surgery.

It was a very sad book.  Not the whole time you are reading it, though from the beginning you know the ending will be tragic.  You just do not know how yet.  The tragedy of this book is not some shocking, never heard it before, cannot imagine it happening sort of thing, but something that feels much more common and, maybe because of that, even heavier.  

The book is told from the point of view of a 9 year old girl and much of it is about her feelings and thoughts about a misunderstood boy, who would now likely be diagnosed with autism, but at the time was just seen as different, and even scary to many people in the town.  Though the people that actually knew him knew that he was very gentle.  You could tell by how he loved animals and they loved him.  I cannot say much more without spoiling the book.  Ultimately, I think the author was giving us a snapshot into what it was like for girls and women, for people with autism, for people in different class systems, and for people in general at the turn of the 20th century.  As always, when looking at history, there are moments of nostalgia and plenty of good things happening, but some things can seem unnecessarily bleak due to the customs and beliefs of the time.  It is still haunting in that those customs continue to shadow us today and are not completely gone.

Giselle's Bucket List

Giselle's Bucket List by Lauren Fern Watt
2017
Weight: 1 lb
Method of Disposal: Lending library at a shelter

This ended up being my beach read in Sanibel because I had absolutely no time for reading, and this is something you can fall in and out of easily.  It reads quickly and is full of pictures of an incredible and sweet mastiff, Gizelle.  The author is a young, confused woman who is trying to figure out her place and meaning in the world--I can still relate to that, and I am just under ten years older than her!

 I am only slightly kidding.  I remember being 25 years old and being desperate for meaning and answers.  It was very frightening and it all felt so urgent.  I only made it through because of my dogs (and ultimately meeting my wife).  It is a scary age to own a pet because a lot of 25 year olds cannot afford the medical bills or know what it takes to truly commit to a dog for life, but I believe it is a time when many people would benefit from having a pet.  Lauren clearly did.

I, of course, cried when Lauren had to say goodbye to Gizelle and could absolutely empathize with her.  My heart broke.  6 years is definitely not long enough.  I am glad Gizelle had Lauren and her family and friends though.

I don't know that this book had a real trajectory.  The author tried to use the bucket list as the glue that bound it all together, but the bucket list did not really seem to be the big, powerful thing.  It seemed like she tried to fit the list into the book instead of the list driving the book.  I think, like in life, she was confused about what to do with herself, her feelings, and her grief and so she wrote a book.  I think she did a good job for where she is at in life, though it did not speak to me as much as it might have when I was younger.  I can still remember and relate. 

I also appreciated her sharing the difficulties she faces loving an addict/her mom.  That was heavy and sad and something else the author was trying to make sense of.  Her honesty in and of itself was helpful, and you could see the love shine through the sadness and frustration in her acknowledgements at the end of the book.  This book is not going to teach most people anything, including the author, but it is a sweet love letter to the dog Lauren adored so deeply and a good peek into what it feels like to be twenty something and not know what you are doing with your life, relationships, and career.

He Sleeps

He Sleeps by Reginald McKnight
2002
Weight: 7.2 oz
Method of Disposal: Donating

I have held onto this book since college because I remember going to a reading the author gave and liking him.  I also loved what he wrote inside the book when he signed it.  I remember thinking the writing was beautiful.  Every time I considered blogging about He Sleeps and letting it go I would put it to the side and try to find something else to write about, even though I could not remember what it was about.  I just knew it was good and that it was signed.  That I liked it.  This year I decided to pick it up and read it again.

My thirty-something-married-shelter-manager-self was not nearly as impressed as my super-sexual-eager-always out to learn-student self was.  The main character was deplorable and challenging to care about.  His dreaming life started off being interesting and grew somewhat redundant.  The woman characters were just props the author used to make his male characters look a certain way.  They were flat and disappointing.

The first time I read it, I underlined one sentence.

"Maybe you don't really feel married until you begin to feel watched."  pg.50

I think that pretty much sums up my college (monogamous) relationships but not at all my current married life.  Books mean different things to different people.  I am learning more and more that books mean different things to me depending on the stage of life I read them in.  I know, it seems like common sense, but it wasn't for me.  It is making it easier to let go of some of those books I have been clinging to for years, sometimes decades, now.

His inscription, on the other hand, I will love forever.  Though, I am not sure what it really means in context of the book.  It seems a little more sinister than it appears at first glance.

Boy's Life

Boy's Life by Robert McCammon
1992
Weight: 9 oz
Method of Disposal: Donating to the AKS

This book was recommended to me almost ten years ago.  I was working at Barnes and Noble and a woman that I absolutely respected, who had very different taste than me, highly recommended this book.  I bought it right away, but it took me a long time to actually read it.  I finally did this summer, and I really enjoyed it--despite the fact that it is not my usual style at all.  It will sound ridiculous, but it had everything from murder to streaking to dogs to camping to lust to racism to ghosts to magic to teenage boys to hunting to loss to family to underwater monsters...to on and on.  It is hard to imagine that he packed it all in there, but he did.  It is almost like someone challenged him.  Write a novel...and include all this crazy shit...and make it readable.  Like magic, you get Boy's Life.

Behind the Lines--Oh no they didn't! Get it, Lines/Lines.

Behind the Lines by Andrew Carroll
2005 (audio book)
Weight: 5.6 oz
Method of Disposal: Donating or giving away

I think about my brother often, and I think about him in different ways. I think of him as a child. I remember playing a post office game. There was some piece of furniture outside the door of my room with small drawers on the bottom. We would leave each other letters in the drawers. Is this where I developed my love of letters and of sending/receiving mail? I think about bodysurfing in the ocean and wiping out. Sometimes, I think of the mean sibling antics. I remember crying, as he threatened to “turn me off” with a remote control or key. The taste of batteries after he convinced me to lick them, they taste like candy. I especially like nice memories, like him giving me one of his favorite toys for my birthday. I saw a piece of the truck sticking out of the poor wrapping job, and I knew exactly what it was. I was so happy. I wanted to be just like him, have toys like his, hang out with him and his friends. He once saved up his allowance money to buy me a beloved Aladdin’s lamp, where the genie could come out and go back in his bottle.

 I think about him as a teenager. His massive Kurt Cobain poster and his constant strumming of an electric guitar. His girlfriend, his El Camino, and the Mane and Tail he used to grow his hair out long. We sometimes got in all out brawls. I once threw a tire at his head. Another time, I screamed at him and his friend, silencing them for once, and then walked straight into a shut door with such force that I fell to the ground, taking away all the ground I had gained. I also remember that when my mother told me that her and my dad were going to divorce, I grabbed my cat and ran, crying, to a nearby lake. My brother came after me to take care of me and to tell me it would be o.k.

Before he went away for boot camp, we watched atomic dog and talked about personal things, like my trying to come to terms with my queerness. He thought it was fine, better than fine, and was very comforting. He commented on how obvious I was, with all my Gillian Anderson pictures plastered on my walls. He noted that often the men in my posters were covered. I felt like he had become my best friend but then he had to go away. I wrote him letters all the time.

I often think about him as a soldier. I think about when he went to Iraq and how I had never been (and have not been) so scared in my entire life. The night before he left, I drank a bottle of vodka and had to stop at a KFC on (or near) base to vomit on our hike to the going away ceremony. I hated saying goodbye and could not look at him without bawling, full on weeping. I had to walk away and then run away. Another soldier was screaming at his mom in the parking lot, telling her he wished he would never see her again. I could not imagine it. I was in college dealing with relationship troubles, roommate situations, and ant invasions. He was getting shot at, sometimes I would see him in the local newspaper or on the news.

He is still a soldier, and he is also now a husband and a father. He is still amazing, and I am overwhelmed with love and protective feelings when we get the chance to hang out. The last time I saw him he read me a book while I drove. We learned all about plane crashes and why they happen.

Sometimes, when he is far away, I do ridiculous things trying to feel close to him. Things that make no sense. I buy things I would not usually buy—the consequences of being born into capitalism. Spend Money, feel better. I bought this audio book when it was on sale. I hope that I will never understand war fully. I do not want to know what it is like to lose friends, to have to kill people or be killed. I wish so much that my brother did not have to see the things he has, the things I rarely hear about, because he loved his country and his family. I do not want to know what that pain is like, but I do want to understand and know to the best of my ability. Does that make sense? I do not want to turn my back on one of the many facets of his life. I bought this book and others like it, trying to feel connected or get a glimpse. Sometimes, I would read or watch whatever I bought right away and other times it was too painful, and I would put the items away until I found them again.

The other night I noticed Behind the Lines on my bookshelf, amongst the actual books, and I took it to work. I listened to it while I cleaned out puppy cages and later in my car on a drive to Loganville. There were times when it brought tears to my eyes and once I even laughed. Components of it aggravated me. It seemed to have a Christian bias, didn’t it? There was an attempt at diversity. In some ways it was successful, but not in all ways.  The letters were from soldiers, civilians, people on different sides of the war.  There were men and women.  Some letters seemed to be selected with such an obvious purpose, like the one from a Japanese girl in an American camp stating that she was lucky to not be on the outside. With no other letters beside it I felt like it was such a placating, let us not think about what we did, moment. There were a lot of good things too. I have more positive feelings about it than little critiques. The letters spanned many wars and years. Soldiers of the past and the present were tied together by their feelings of love, fear, remorse, camaraderie, pride, hope. Overall, I liked it, for lack of a better word. They were actual letters and they all contained so much value and so much truth—some truth told through thinly veiled lies.

So many different people. I thought about the letters I received from Iraq and the many I sent. The letters that went to boot camp. The rare Yahoo Messenger conversation or e-mail. The photographs. And, while this book did not bring me closer to my brother in any unexpected way, I did find myself missing him again. That is why I was drawn to it after all. I did remember how grateful I am, despite anything else in life, that he is back, safe, with a loving family, and happy. I wished on every star, eyelash, and penny thrown into every pond from the day he left until the day he came back that he would come back alive, but also happy. How lucky am I?