I was looking forward to this movie for the most obvious reason: George Clooney. However, "The Descendants" is a much better movie than I had anticipated. It's about everything and about not much at all. Basically, it's a short story of a family just trying to cope with death and disappointment and the unfairness of life. Set in Hawaii, the scenery is pretty much the only nice, calm, happy thing we see. Clooney plays the husband of a woman in a coma who is never coming out of that coma. He is the father of two girls, immediately thrust into their daily lives in a way he is not prepared for. How to grieve, how to let his kids grieve, how to respond to the shocking news that his wife was having an affair before she was injured, simply how to move forward: these themes and more are what the movie tackles.
Every person in the movie is excellent. Clooney doesn't look gorgeous and glamorous, he looks tired and sad. The girls are snotty and bratty and, at the same time, afraid and insecure. The wife's father, played by the great Robert Forster, is cold, hard, bitter and heart-broken. The sub-plot revolving around some land the family owns and wants to sell was, to me, a metaphor about keeping sacred things intact. Family, inherited land, one's own soul: sometimes holding on tightly is the only way to be free.
Two thumbs up, check it out.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Book review: "Wild" by Cheryl Strayed
This book has been reviewed by many in the past several weeks. It has been called stunning, spectacular, smart, funny, wise, often sublime. On and on. Every reviewer mentions the author's dalliance with heroin, as if that is a crucial fact that frames part of the book. Every reviewer applauds the author's gutsy triumph over a crappy, self-destructive period in her life. I have yet to read a negative review, even a teeny bit negative. Is that because we must admire someone who overcomes adversity, walks 1,100 miles on the Pacific Coast Trail and finally is able to put her dead mother to rest and her past behind her? Is her self-absorbed nature acceptable because she had a fucked up life?
But I am being too harsh. It's a good book. When Cheryl Strayed writes about her mother's life and death, especially the death, the memoir is tear-jerkingly good. Her reaction to that death set off a spiral of self-destructive behavior, fairly common in young twenty-year-old adults. Her decision to tackle the Pacific Coast Trail seems rather rash, and she admits it was, but she was determined to do it, no matter how difficult, awful, exhilarating and humbling it turned out to be.
And yet, there is the same low-level hum of "me, me, me" that many memoirs seem to have. Now, of course a memoir is about "me, me, me" but some writers are able to get themselves out of the way and make their lives interesting despite themselves. Others, like Cheryl Strayed, want their life story to be heard because they think their terrible lives were more terrible than any one else and gosh, look what they had to overcome: Death! Poverty! A mean father! Recreational drug use! Again, I am being a bit mean about this and I did admire her guts to simply go out and do it.
This is the third book about hiking the PCT I have read in the past two years. (Do we detect a pattern here?) The narrative about the hike itself is captivating for about 100 pages, and then it begins to be tiresome, much like the hike itself, as she readily admits. Oddly, her descriptions of and dialogues with the people she meets on the trail range from fascinating to childishly new-best-friend-like. But then I have to remind myself, she did this hike when she was 26 and maybe that's how a 26 year old would feel. (Too many years have gone by for me, I can't remember how I felt 5 years ago let alone 36.) Even though she waited more than fifteen years to write this story, Strayed still manages to capture what was probably her youthful exuberance at that time and we all know that exuberance is often mercurial and child-like.
Bottom line, I liked the book, although I did speed read at least 100 pages, just to get through the here's-another-terrible-hiking-episode part of it. As I said, the passages about her mother and siblings were exceptional, more than enough to make the journey along the trail worth taking with her.
But I am being too harsh. It's a good book. When Cheryl Strayed writes about her mother's life and death, especially the death, the memoir is tear-jerkingly good. Her reaction to that death set off a spiral of self-destructive behavior, fairly common in young twenty-year-old adults. Her decision to tackle the Pacific Coast Trail seems rather rash, and she admits it was, but she was determined to do it, no matter how difficult, awful, exhilarating and humbling it turned out to be.
And yet, there is the same low-level hum of "me, me, me" that many memoirs seem to have. Now, of course a memoir is about "me, me, me" but some writers are able to get themselves out of the way and make their lives interesting despite themselves. Others, like Cheryl Strayed, want their life story to be heard because they think their terrible lives were more terrible than any one else and gosh, look what they had to overcome: Death! Poverty! A mean father! Recreational drug use! Again, I am being a bit mean about this and I did admire her guts to simply go out and do it.
This is the third book about hiking the PCT I have read in the past two years. (Do we detect a pattern here?) The narrative about the hike itself is captivating for about 100 pages, and then it begins to be tiresome, much like the hike itself, as she readily admits. Oddly, her descriptions of and dialogues with the people she meets on the trail range from fascinating to childishly new-best-friend-like. But then I have to remind myself, she did this hike when she was 26 and maybe that's how a 26 year old would feel. (Too many years have gone by for me, I can't remember how I felt 5 years ago let alone 36.) Even though she waited more than fifteen years to write this story, Strayed still manages to capture what was probably her youthful exuberance at that time and we all know that exuberance is often mercurial and child-like.
Bottom line, I liked the book, although I did speed read at least 100 pages, just to get through the here's-another-terrible-hiking-episode part of it. As I said, the passages about her mother and siblings were exceptional, more than enough to make the journey along the trail worth taking with her.
.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Lodging quirks
I have noticed a few odd things about people who stay at the inn in Calistoga. Not that they are odd because it is Calistoga, but more that they are strange because people are strange, oddly quirky, no matter where they are.
First, when I set out the breakfast spread, I always put out two pots of coffee, side by side. These two pots are exactly alike. The coffee in them is exactly the same. But the pot on the right is always empty before the pot on the left. Why? Do people gravitate to the right more than the left? If everyone at the inn was left-handed, would that make a difference? It is just so odd to me, every time I check the pots the one on the right needs refilling much quicker than the one on the left.
Dishes: there is a busing cart and on that cart is a large plastic tub where dirty dishes should be put. Most people put their dishes in this tub but not all. Now this is not as mysterious as the Coffee Pot Conundrum but it still rankles me. If everyone else is taking care of their dirty plates and cups and bowls, why do some people just leave their dishes on the table and walk away? Do they not see that this is rude and impolite? Baffling.
Parking: when one arrives at a hotel/motel and has to check in, isn't the logical thing to park near the office? Why would you park at the other end of the parking lot, walk over to the office and then ask the desk clerk (me) where to park? Honestly. Or they will park near rooms 1 and 2, come and check in and then move their car two parking spaces to be closer to room 3, for example. Really? Can't walk that extra six feet?
Lost and Found: it is amazing how often people leave things behind in their rooms. Not just small things like a pair of earrings or shoes or a cell phone charger, of which we now have a huge selection. Large things like a huge red hanging bag with at least six hangers, heavy like it contained five business suits and an overcoat. How could you miss this when taking that last glance through the room to see if you forgot anything? Or a huge ten gallon cowboy hat? How does that escape your notice? I know sometimes people put stuff in the closet but wouldn't you think to look there before getting in your car and driving off? And then they want these things mailed back to them! Of course, we oblige and charge them but it still astounds me how often this happens.
There are other things as well, like people who insist on knowing how hot the swimming pool is. I don't know the temperature of the pool, but I have had people ask if I can find out and call them back. Telling them that it is heated year-round is not enough for them. Or people ask how far it is to the main street of town and they just drove through the town to get the inn. Weren't they looking while they were driving? Or people asking me which I prefer, the geyser or the petrified forest. I can't answer that because neither appeals to me so I hedge the answer a little and then they look disappointed because I haven't given them the appropriate response and thus planned their day for them.
Needless to say, I just tell people to go to the visitor center in town and get more information there. I tell them I don't live near town and so know nothing apart from my little job at the front desk.
Ah, the tourist/hospitality industry. Gotta love it.
.
First, when I set out the breakfast spread, I always put out two pots of coffee, side by side. These two pots are exactly alike. The coffee in them is exactly the same. But the pot on the right is always empty before the pot on the left. Why? Do people gravitate to the right more than the left? If everyone at the inn was left-handed, would that make a difference? It is just so odd to me, every time I check the pots the one on the right needs refilling much quicker than the one on the left.
Dishes: there is a busing cart and on that cart is a large plastic tub where dirty dishes should be put. Most people put their dishes in this tub but not all. Now this is not as mysterious as the Coffee Pot Conundrum but it still rankles me. If everyone else is taking care of their dirty plates and cups and bowls, why do some people just leave their dishes on the table and walk away? Do they not see that this is rude and impolite? Baffling.
Parking: when one arrives at a hotel/motel and has to check in, isn't the logical thing to park near the office? Why would you park at the other end of the parking lot, walk over to the office and then ask the desk clerk (me) where to park? Honestly. Or they will park near rooms 1 and 2, come and check in and then move their car two parking spaces to be closer to room 3, for example. Really? Can't walk that extra six feet?
Lost and Found: it is amazing how often people leave things behind in their rooms. Not just small things like a pair of earrings or shoes or a cell phone charger, of which we now have a huge selection. Large things like a huge red hanging bag with at least six hangers, heavy like it contained five business suits and an overcoat. How could you miss this when taking that last glance through the room to see if you forgot anything? Or a huge ten gallon cowboy hat? How does that escape your notice? I know sometimes people put stuff in the closet but wouldn't you think to look there before getting in your car and driving off? And then they want these things mailed back to them! Of course, we oblige and charge them but it still astounds me how often this happens.
There are other things as well, like people who insist on knowing how hot the swimming pool is. I don't know the temperature of the pool, but I have had people ask if I can find out and call them back. Telling them that it is heated year-round is not enough for them. Or people ask how far it is to the main street of town and they just drove through the town to get the inn. Weren't they looking while they were driving? Or people asking me which I prefer, the geyser or the petrified forest. I can't answer that because neither appeals to me so I hedge the answer a little and then they look disappointed because I haven't given them the appropriate response and thus planned their day for them.
Needless to say, I just tell people to go to the visitor center in town and get more information there. I tell them I don't live near town and so know nothing apart from my little job at the front desk.
Ah, the tourist/hospitality industry. Gotta love it.
.
Movie review: Hugo
Perhaps seeing this film in 3-D would be better but I can't imagine how. This is a lovely movie, much better and more layered than I anticipated. Funny, poignant, beautiful and simply joyful at times, it is definitely worth seeing, no matter what your age.
A young boy lives in the attic of the Montparnasse train station as the keeper of the clocks, a trade taught to him by his father. He is a whiz at fixing things with gears and is intent on making an old "automaton" come to life with delicately honed wind-up mechanism. In order to get the gears he needs, he steals little things from a shop that sells toys, and eventually he gets caught by the owner. The owner turns out to be someone other than a mere shop keeper, however, and on this the story turns.
With Martin Scorsese as director, you know you are going to get grand scenes and larger-than-life sets. And you do. But there is a homage to films inside of this film that will make you smile. The viewer learns a little about the early days of film making, the simplicity of turning the crank to make the film slide through the gears and project onto the wall. The music is a little manipulative but the entire movie is as well, intent on making us feel good in a small, nostalgic way.
There are some gratuitously mean characters, a chase scene involving a comical Doberman pinscher dog, a bumbling station police agent, Paris in the snow. Wonderful visuals, even if computer generated.
I totally enjoyed this movie and am not disappointed it wasn't in 3-D. It made me remember "Cinema Paradiso," also about the love of cinema and that is now on my "soon to be watched" list. Two thumbs up for "Hugo." Check it out.
.
A young boy lives in the attic of the Montparnasse train station as the keeper of the clocks, a trade taught to him by his father. He is a whiz at fixing things with gears and is intent on making an old "automaton" come to life with delicately honed wind-up mechanism. In order to get the gears he needs, he steals little things from a shop that sells toys, and eventually he gets caught by the owner. The owner turns out to be someone other than a mere shop keeper, however, and on this the story turns.
With Martin Scorsese as director, you know you are going to get grand scenes and larger-than-life sets. And you do. But there is a homage to films inside of this film that will make you smile. The viewer learns a little about the early days of film making, the simplicity of turning the crank to make the film slide through the gears and project onto the wall. The music is a little manipulative but the entire movie is as well, intent on making us feel good in a small, nostalgic way.
There are some gratuitously mean characters, a chase scene involving a comical Doberman pinscher dog, a bumbling station police agent, Paris in the snow. Wonderful visuals, even if computer generated.
I totally enjoyed this movie and am not disappointed it wasn't in 3-D. It made me remember "Cinema Paradiso," also about the love of cinema and that is now on my "soon to be watched" list. Two thumbs up for "Hugo." Check it out.
.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Movie: St. Elmo's Fire
A smart woman told me to write every day. I don't think
I have enough to say but I am thinking about it every day.
In 1985 "St. Elmo's Fire" was released. Jennifer was 12. Gabe was 8. Why has this movie become a touchstone moment in our lives? Oh, wait, maybe it hasn't. Maybe it's just that Jenn learned to play the theme from it on the piano and played it perfectly and played it from memory. But, no. There is more. Yes, "The Breakfast Club" probably was more age appropriate, but it was released the same year! Go figure. John Hughes was responsible for Breakfast Club, Joel Schumacker for St Elmo's.
I watched this movie several times in the 80's and early 90's. I haven't seen it in 20 years. Does it hold up? Yes with qualifications. The dialogue is, at times, spot on and could be 25 year old kids talking today. At other times, not so much. But there are great lines, like "men, can't live with them, can't shoot them." And the question "why do they put ice in the urinal" and the answer "it tastes better." And the lines "fluff and fold." and "The only way to loose weight in the thighs is amputation."
But I have a few niggling comments. The character Wendy, in love with Billy, has terrible clothes. Really, really terrible. But she has two cool girlfriends! Do they not want to give her advice about losing the Mormon prairie girl look and just buy a pair of jeans? Come on. She is cute but her clothes don't work at all, ever, never. Jules and Leslie let her down. But whatever, in the end she gets to have sex with the only guy she loves, Billy. And watch that..... she is wearing jeans in that scene! I rest my case there.
Rob Lowe and Demi Moore went on to huge fame and fortune. The others did well in movies and TV but they all were shining in this movie. And note that in Breakfast Club Emilio Estevez, Ally Sheedy and Judd Nelson were great and I would watch that again right now. "Screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place." "...I can see you pushing maximum density." "I think violating fire codes and endangering the lives of children would be unwise at this juncture in your career." And the great scene with "fuck you" being shouted several times. Ah, you have to see it to get it. Diamond stud earring, lipstick, lunch, great scenes. Brat-pack be damned, these were good movies.
With St. Elmo's I laughed out loud several times and I got teary once or twice. Granted, some wine was involved, but still. Check it out and then check out Breakfast Club.
I have enough to say but I am thinking about it every day.
In 1985 "St. Elmo's Fire" was released. Jennifer was 12. Gabe was 8. Why has this movie become a touchstone moment in our lives? Oh, wait, maybe it hasn't. Maybe it's just that Jenn learned to play the theme from it on the piano and played it perfectly and played it from memory. But, no. There is more. Yes, "The Breakfast Club" probably was more age appropriate, but it was released the same year! Go figure. John Hughes was responsible for Breakfast Club, Joel Schumacker for St Elmo's.
I watched this movie several times in the 80's and early 90's. I haven't seen it in 20 years. Does it hold up? Yes with qualifications. The dialogue is, at times, spot on and could be 25 year old kids talking today. At other times, not so much. But there are great lines, like "men, can't live with them, can't shoot them." And the question "why do they put ice in the urinal" and the answer "it tastes better." And the lines "fluff and fold." and "The only way to loose weight in the thighs is amputation."
But I have a few niggling comments. The character Wendy, in love with Billy, has terrible clothes. Really, really terrible. But she has two cool girlfriends! Do they not want to give her advice about losing the Mormon prairie girl look and just buy a pair of jeans? Come on. She is cute but her clothes don't work at all, ever, never. Jules and Leslie let her down. But whatever, in the end she gets to have sex with the only guy she loves, Billy. And watch that..... she is wearing jeans in that scene! I rest my case there.Rob Lowe and Demi Moore went on to huge fame and fortune. The others did well in movies and TV but they all were shining in this movie. And note that in Breakfast Club Emilio Estevez, Ally Sheedy and Judd Nelson were great and I would watch that again right now. "Screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place." "...I can see you pushing maximum density." "I think violating fire codes and endangering the lives of children would be unwise at this juncture in your career." And the great scene with "fuck you" being shouted several times. Ah, you have to see it to get it. Diamond stud earring, lipstick, lunch, great scenes. Brat-pack be damned, these were good movies.
With St. Elmo's I laughed out loud several times and I got teary once or twice. Granted, some wine was involved, but still. Check it out and then check out Breakfast Club.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Workers
This is not an unusual situation but it perplexes me nonetheless. In both of my jobs there are Mexican women who do the cleaning of the rooms and the kitchens and the common areas of the inn. My job is to get breakfast out, serve the guests, deal with their problems, answer the phone and make reservations. At the Healdsburg inn, I help with the breakfast dishes, washing and drying when I can. At the job on Monday and Tuesday I don't even have to clean up after breakfast, the women do that. I check people in and out, do the office stuff. But that leaves me with a big time gap in the middle of the day after check-out and before check-in. I answer the phone, etc, but really there isn't much to do. I read a lot of books.
The dilemma is this: while I am reading a book or doing a crossword, the Mexican women are cleaning rooms, doing laundry, getting food ready for the next day, often even cleaning the manager's personal apartment. I do nothing that could even remotely be called "work" for 90% of the afternoon while they work 100% of their time on the clock. Add to that is the fact that I probably get paid more than they do (which isn't much, BTW.) It all adds up to an uncomfortable feeling on my part. There isn't any way around it, there is no real solution to this problem, but it makes me feel fat, lazy, indulged and those are not feelings I like.
Just wanted to get that off my chest, so to speak. I know this is the way of the world, that things are not fair nor even, that there will always be a real "working" class and a class above them that is supposedly "managerial" but is more like a "not getting hands dirty" class. I would honestly not mind pitching in and helping clean rooms or cutting up fruit or doing dishes but that is not an option. The lines have been established and I am not allowed to erase or blur them.
Thanks for listening.
.
The dilemma is this: while I am reading a book or doing a crossword, the Mexican women are cleaning rooms, doing laundry, getting food ready for the next day, often even cleaning the manager's personal apartment. I do nothing that could even remotely be called "work" for 90% of the afternoon while they work 100% of their time on the clock. Add to that is the fact that I probably get paid more than they do (which isn't much, BTW.) It all adds up to an uncomfortable feeling on my part. There isn't any way around it, there is no real solution to this problem, but it makes me feel fat, lazy, indulged and those are not feelings I like.
Just wanted to get that off my chest, so to speak. I know this is the way of the world, that things are not fair nor even, that there will always be a real "working" class and a class above them that is supposedly "managerial" but is more like a "not getting hands dirty" class. I would honestly not mind pitching in and helping clean rooms or cutting up fruit or doing dishes but that is not an option. The lines have been established and I am not allowed to erase or blur them.
Thanks for listening.
.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Movie: 50/50
Quick post: "50/50" came out the same weekend Seth Rogen was getting married in Healdsburg. A lot of his relatives stayed at the inn I work at in H'burg and the reviews of the movie generated a lot of conversation at the breakfast table. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, the "star" of the movie was at the wedding, as were many of the new wave of his and Rogen's contemporaries. Well, duh. Of course.
The movie is worth watching, even with its sophomoric humor which never gets out of hand. Behind the humor are just a couple of guys trying to deal with the possibility of death at the age of 27. There are teary moments and laugh-out-loud moments and the two main actors handle them well. Entertaining, yes, and at times even thought-provoking. Who knows how long any of us have on earth but facing the end of that stay cannot be anything but daunting. No matter how old you are. Or how mature.
Oddly, two thumbs up from me. Maybe I am just getting soft in my older age but I liked these two guys enough to want to meet them at the bar for a pint. Wisdom knows no age boundaries, I suppose, and it doesn't always need to be talked about. Sometimes being friends is all that it takes.
.
The movie is worth watching, even with its sophomoric humor which never gets out of hand. Behind the humor are just a couple of guys trying to deal with the possibility of death at the age of 27. There are teary moments and laugh-out-loud moments and the two main actors handle them well. Entertaining, yes, and at times even thought-provoking. Who knows how long any of us have on earth but facing the end of that stay cannot be anything but daunting. No matter how old you are. Or how mature.
Oddly, two thumbs up from me. Maybe I am just getting soft in my older age but I liked these two guys enough to want to meet them at the bar for a pint. Wisdom knows no age boundaries, I suppose, and it doesn't always need to be talked about. Sometimes being friends is all that it takes.
.
Books
"Carry the One" by Carol Anshaw.
A very good book. Dense, intense, funny and painful. A group of friends, some family, some just along for the ride, are unfortunately linked together by a fatal automobile accident (this happens in the first five pages so I am not giving much away) that continues to have repercussions for 25 years. The real thing about this book is that the characters are all fucked up in their own ways, some in big ways, some in small, and even if that accident had not occurred, their lives would have still been complicated and sometimes sad. At times infuriatingly self-absorbed, each person is fleshed out as much as the character allows that to happen. While the writing is intense and sometimes the characters are intensely obtuse and self destructive and deliberately stubborn to a fault, there are enough of them to find one or two that the reader can like. In other words, they aren't all assholes. Just a couple of them.
But the writing. It's so lovely. It is difficult to skip along in this book because each sentence, every paragraph is important. Here is a short paragraph about Amsterdam. The streets along the water slipstreamed with bicycle traffic. Men in suits, women in loose skirts, their purses dangling daintily from the handlebars. A musician with a cello strapped to his back. Parents with toddlers in rigged-up seats, front and rear. A woman with her dog in a box cantilevered out over the front wheel. There were no stop signs so the mix of traffic - the bikes, but also cars, motorcycles, delivery vans, pedestrian tourists five abreast - disbanded then reassembled itself at each intersection, in this or that nick of time. Alice thought she might be able to be happy here in an interestingly sad way.
Or this, as an adult son sees his mother on the other side of a Metro track: He stood watching her out the window.
He saw that she was looking up, her thoughts broken by the noise. If she had looked through the window of the train, she might have glimpsed his huge, crazy love for her, before he recalibrated his expression, turning down the volume to what was bearable in the give and take between them.
Or this: She was losing her belief in the possibility of changing people. It wasn't so much that they were in opposition to her or that they held their own beliefs so strongly. Rather, they appeared to have lost interest in belief itself, as though belief were tennis or French film. And this was so discouraging Carmen had to put a lid over the abyss or risk falling in.
In some ways Anshaw reminds me of some of Jane Smiley's works, like "A Thousand Acres" where you read something and you simply put the book down and pause, then read it again. The story here is not always happy but it is worth the work to read it. It's new. The library has it. Check it out.
A very good book. Dense, intense, funny and painful. A group of friends, some family, some just along for the ride, are unfortunately linked together by a fatal automobile accident (this happens in the first five pages so I am not giving much away) that continues to have repercussions for 25 years. The real thing about this book is that the characters are all fucked up in their own ways, some in big ways, some in small, and even if that accident had not occurred, their lives would have still been complicated and sometimes sad. At times infuriatingly self-absorbed, each person is fleshed out as much as the character allows that to happen. While the writing is intense and sometimes the characters are intensely obtuse and self destructive and deliberately stubborn to a fault, there are enough of them to find one or two that the reader can like. In other words, they aren't all assholes. Just a couple of them.
But the writing. It's so lovely. It is difficult to skip along in this book because each sentence, every paragraph is important. Here is a short paragraph about Amsterdam. The streets along the water slipstreamed with bicycle traffic. Men in suits, women in loose skirts, their purses dangling daintily from the handlebars. A musician with a cello strapped to his back. Parents with toddlers in rigged-up seats, front and rear. A woman with her dog in a box cantilevered out over the front wheel. There were no stop signs so the mix of traffic - the bikes, but also cars, motorcycles, delivery vans, pedestrian tourists five abreast - disbanded then reassembled itself at each intersection, in this or that nick of time. Alice thought she might be able to be happy here in an interestingly sad way.
Or this, as an adult son sees his mother on the other side of a Metro track: He stood watching her out the window.
He saw that she was looking up, her thoughts broken by the noise. If she had looked through the window of the train, she might have glimpsed his huge, crazy love for her, before he recalibrated his expression, turning down the volume to what was bearable in the give and take between them.
Or this: She was losing her belief in the possibility of changing people. It wasn't so much that they were in opposition to her or that they held their own beliefs so strongly. Rather, they appeared to have lost interest in belief itself, as though belief were tennis or French film. And this was so discouraging Carmen had to put a lid over the abyss or risk falling in.
In some ways Anshaw reminds me of some of Jane Smiley's works, like "A Thousand Acres" where you read something and you simply put the book down and pause, then read it again. The story here is not always happy but it is worth the work to read it. It's new. The library has it. Check it out.
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