Archive for April, 2013

We’re having a dreary day today. It’s raining down here by the river, but snowing higher up, reported by a friend during an early morning call. I really should be outside working in the greenhouses, but I think I’ll have another cup of tea instead, and share some of the photos my son took a few days ago, when the sun was shining and spring seemed much more committed to staying than it does this morning!

Right now the river is as low as it gets all year, and we're taking advantage of that to explore the sandy side channels which are usually full of water the rest of the year.

Right now the river is as low as it gets all year, and we’re taking advantage of that to explore the sandy side channels which are usually full of water the rest of the year.

Down along the main river bed itself, rockhounding bliss at low water - new territory to explore!

Down along the main river bed itself, rockhounding bliss at low water – new territory to explore!

And here's our quarry - glowing agates.

And here’s our quarry – glowing agates.

April 2013

Naturally polished Fraser River gems.

Naturally polished Fraser River gems.

Returning home on higher ground, the sagebrush buttercups are out in full force on the hillsides.

Returning home on higher ground, the sagebrush buttercups are out in full force on the hillsides.

This is the high point of the farm - the house in directly below this spot, though you can't see it for the trees - and looking upriver to the North.

This is the high point of the farm – the house in directly below this spot, though you can’t see it for the trees – and looking upriver to the North.

And from the same spot, a few days later, after some days rain, and enough warmth to result in melting snow in the high places. Our rockhounding grounds are seriously diminished; the river is on the way up once again.

And from the same spot, looking the other way, downriver to the South, a few days later, after some days of rain, and enough warmth to result in melting snow in the high places. Our rockhounding grounds are seriously diminished; the river is on the way up once again.

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the country cousin betty cavannaThe Country Cousin by Betty Cavanna ~1967. This edition: William Morrow & Co., 1971. Hardcover. Library of Congress #: 67-21735. 222 pages.

My rating: 5/10.

An equal balance between interestingly vintage (Paris in the sixties!) and appallingly dated (chauvinistic boyfriends!) The author did her research for this slight little teen tome, and it shows, mostly in a good way. An interesting – if feather-weight – 40-year-old read.

Bonus – great cover! Tells you everything you need to know right there up front, doesn’t it?

*****

My reading is all over the map right now. It was a toss-up this morning whether to take a stab at reviewing Stephen Fry’s sex-and-bad-language-soaked novel The Hippopotamus, or this mild little vintage teen-girl romance. But since my last review was of a very contemporary (well, 1999 – not really that contemporary, though it seems but a moment ago in some ways), sex-filled book – Fits Like a Rubber Dress by Roxane Ward – I decided to keep things all mixed up; from one I wouldn’t dare to give my dear old mum to one she’s enjoyed with gentle enthusiasm. (As did I.)

Melinda Hubbard – Mindy – has grown up on a large farm in Pennsylvania, and now, recently graduated from high school and facing all the “next step” big decisions, is at a loss with how best to proceed. Her beloved older brother Jack, her opposite in almost every way – strong, intense, smart and focussed, where Mindy is soft, mild, merely average in academics and waffling – is studying medicine and has just married his college sweetheart, Annette.

Bridesmaid Mindy takes part in the wedding in a fog, brushing off inquiries as to her future plans with vague evasions; she’s done the proper thing and has applied to several colleges, but is ashamed to disclose that her applications have all been denied because she hasn’t met the academic standards. Her mother is pushing her towards taking a secretarial course, but Mindy is less than enthusiastic about that, not being able to picture herself sitting at a typewriter all day.

A saviour appears in the person of Mindy’s older cousin Alix. Recently widowed – we find out that her young husband was killed in Vietnam – Alix has taken the insurance money and opened a clothing store in Bryn Mawr, catering to the well-heeled college girls and their mothers. On an impulse, Alix invites her droopy cousin Mindy to come and live with her for the summer, to work in the shop – called “The Country Cousin” (after a real-life dress shop, as we find out in the author’s note at the end) – and gain some experience in the retail trade while considering her next move.

Mindy is agreeable – though one couldn’t call her “enthusiastic” – it’s really not in her nature, such a strong emotion, you know! – and soon is immersed in the retail clothing trade. If there’s one thing Mindy does enjoy, it’s pretty clothes, and we learn that she is something of an accomplished seamstress herself, designing and creating her own dresses and so on; a talent which will end up leading her to her true vocation.

Mindy meets several young men, and dabbles with romance for the first time in her life. Handsome Peter, a friend of Mindy’s brother Jack, is from a wealthy family, and has a succession of girls trailing after him, as he lackadaisically dallies with them while waiting for just the right one to come along. “I’m going to marry a rich girl,” he flat-out states to Mindy one day, letting her know that while she’s okay fun for a casual date or two, she shouldn’t get her hopes up. Realistic Mindy never really thought that Peter was for her, but she did daydream a bit, so rough and ready, definitely not wealthy and far from urbane Dana, another friend of Jack’s, on his way to study Oriental Languages at the Sorbonne in the fall term, looks very much like a second best in the boyfriend department.

Dana persists in his efforts to improve Jack’s sister’s intellectual capabilities, lending Mindy books on art, and carting her off to concerts and picnics in the country. He – and Peter, and Alix as well – all seem quite concerned with Mindy’s personal appearance. She is self-admittedly on the plump side, so with all of these people in her new life dropping comments to the effect that she’d be better-looking if she slimmed down, Mindy resolves to do just that, and tries to forget her butter-and-cream farm girl tastes, and to subsist on black coffee and a slice of toast for breakfast, and salad for lunch, and so on.

The pounds miraculously melt away, and everyone oohs and ahs about the improvement in her looks, and Mindy is quite smug with herself.  And this is where I had my biggest issues with this novel. The boys in her life, and her mentoring older cousin, mention to her that she’s too fat, and that she should slim down, so she unquestionably goes along with it, and does. She drops five pounds and everyone is all over her – “Good girl! Such an improvement!” Well, five pounds isn’t all that much, is it? I can’t imagine what their conception of “too plump” must have been if that made such a tremendous difference, and the fact that they were all so rude as to say such things to her rather floors me. It was obviously socially acceptable at the time to do so; Mindy takes it without a murmur. Anyway, this bit bothered me.

So, along goes Mindy, cooperating in her rather wishy-washy way with what everyone thinks she should be doing. Alix carts her along on buying trips to New York, and Mindy is introduced to the dress trade, and realizes for the first time that perhaps she might have a vocation after all, that of fashion design. She and Alix come up with a scheme to go to Paris on a selling trip, taking along clothing sample and taking orders from the community of Americans living there, who are desperate for well-made, reasonably priced clothes; Paris apparently offers only haute couture and shoddy department store dresses, nothing in the mid-range. This venture succeeds beyond their expectations, and of course they meet up with Dana, and romance predictably blossoms in the soft Parisian air.

A pleasant depiction of the time and place and people; the Paris of the “Americans abroad” is captured very well, as is the middle- and upper-class college town atmosphere of Bryn Mawr. As a “working girl”, Mindy is frequently reminded of her place in that society – at the lower end of the food chain – but she realizes that there is a dignity and self-satisfaction about doing whatever it is that you find yourself engaged in competently and cheerfully. A teeny bit preachy, with a Great Big Moral gently tromping about, elephant-in-the-room-style, but not offensively so. Betty Cavanna is so very genuinely earnest, and her heroines are so reasonably realistic, even to their modest goals and not-very-dreadful dilemmas, that it is hard to find much to object to. Middle-class girls are “people” too!

All in all, a typical bildungsroman of the era, which holds up well to a 21st Century nostalgic re-read, if you’re into dabbling with such stuff. I’m sure the junior high school girls of the time enjoyed it greatly; the old ex-library copy I have is very well read indeed.

Now, I wonder what I should read next …

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fits like a rubber dress roxane wardFits Like a Rubber Dress by Roxane Ward ~ 1999. This edition: Simon & Pierre, 1999. Softcover. ISBN: 0-88924-4. 303 pages.

My rating: 6.5/10.

*****

Great title and teasingly provocative cover. Didn’t realize it was Canadian until I got a page or two in, though the cover blurb by Timothy Findley should have been a major clue:

“It’s a glorious book! Roxane Ward is a sorceress – she transports you into a weird world of frantic characters dancing on the edge of the millennium. Then she lets you in on the secret: it is your own world, seen through the eyes of young, super-urban artists who are never satisfied with what they have or what they find. I warrant you will not forget Indigo Blackwell, in her pursuit of a life that fits like a rubber dress …”

– Timothy Findley

I raced through this one in a single sitting, staying up much too late last night to finish it, so that is an indication of its more than decent quality. This said, Fits Like a Rubber Dress is being added to the giveaway box as soon as I record this review, as I doubt it’s a re-reader for me.

Our heroine Indigo Blackwell is 29, on the cusp of leaving her youth behind, and she is obsessed with all of the usual angst-ridden baggage this entails. Her four-year-old marriage to a freelance writer/aspiring novelist, Sam, is happy enough, though Indigo loudly complains to her husband and her best friends (bartender Tim and television presenter Nicole) that her sex life is not as exciting as it once was in the “early days” of her marriage. She obsesses about this as much as she does about the incipient wrinkles she imagines are lurking, waiting merely for the flip of a calendar page to appear. Indigo wants to have sex, lots and often; Sam just isn’t that interested, citing stress, and preoccupation with finishing his novel, and gently ignoring Indigo’s increasingly desperate attempts to maneuver him into the bedroom.

“Frustrated” describes Indigo’s general state of mind. Not only is her marriage dull and her sex life stalled out, but her career is increasingly unsatisfying. Working for a Toronto public relations company, Indigo is modestly successful in her field, but when she receives a minor promotion, her feelings of dismay surprise her. Indigo needs to spice up her life …

All of this sounds most clichéd and rather yawn-making – oh, yes, we’ve read this story before – but author Roxane Ward managed to keep me engaged enough to follow Indigo on her quest for self-fulfilment, for a life that fits her and expands with her as she “grows” and makes her look and feel oh-so-good about herself, obliquely referencing the title. This first novel is more than competently written; Ward has oodles of talent, and I am curious as to what she did after getting Indigo out of her system, though I can find no evidence of a second novel in my brief internet search this morning. Which, if so, is a shame. But I digress.

Okay, back to Indigo. Her seems-so-serene marriage is about to founder, due to Sam’s own preoccupation with sex, or, rather, the sex lives of others. Researching the Toronto gay scene for material for his novel, Sam strikes up an increasingly deep acquaintance with a male escort, Graham, though he insists that there is nothing personal going on with his fascination with that parallel world. Indigo, having decided to dump her P.R. career and go to art school to study film-making, walks in on Sam and Graham in the midst of Sam receiving some firsthand experience with male-on-male sexual practices, and though Sam insists that it is all in the nature of research and that Indigo should basically get over it already, the marriage is, from that moment of we-could-all-see-it-coming-but-Indigo discovery, doomed.

Luckily Indigo has a cozy place to escape to, as her mother has just left for Bali for an extended artists’ retreat (what wonderful lives these people lead – no one is worried about the phone bill; it’s all about self-fulfillment; but how do they pay for it?! – I wish I knew!), leaving Indigo with the keys to her house. Indigo embarks on her own sexual explorations, taking up with bad boy, drug-dealing, sadomasochistic Jon, who introduces her to the world of fetish parties and anything-goes sex. This is cool for a while, but then things go a little bit sideways, and Indigo bails out, showing more sense than I had initially expected her to have. (She is described at one point in the novel as being “malleable” – very apt, as she appears willing to go with almost anything that comes her way – so it was a happy surprise when the girl found her spine at long last.)

So at the end of the tale – and here be spoilers, so look away now if you care to – Indigo is quite happily solo, Sam is off doing whatever comes next in his life, one friend is pregnant, and another is dead. Oh, and Indigo has a new tattoo. The end.

Did that sound rather bitchy? Yeah, I guess it did. On reflection, I realize that I didn’t ever really like Indigo. She was just too self-absorbed and navel-gazy and spent so much time worrying about the really obvious things in life – yes, Indigo, we’re all going to die, and no, Indigo, drug dealing, abusive artist types are not that into empathy and understanding. Go figure.

All that aside, a good first novel in a modern-urban, slightly satirical way. Well written, good characterizations. Nicely done, Roxane Ward. I hope you’re still out there writing away, because if Fits Like a Rubber Dress is any indication, you can say it well.

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rochester's wife d.e. stevensonRochester’s Wife by D.E. Stevenson ~ 1940. This edition: Ace, circa 1970s. Paperback. ISBN: 978-0441733255. 335 pages.

My rating: 5/10.

*****

This is one of the “secondary” D.E. Stevensons, and, I believe, a “stand-alone” book, as none of the characters seem to reappear in any of the other stories. Though published in 1940, the time frame is pre-W.W. II, as there are only a few references to the “situation in Europe”, and, though the atmosphere is cloudy with foreboding, the focus is on the troubles of the individual characters, versus those of the wider world.

Young (in his late twenties) Dr. Kit Stone has returned to England after four years of travelling round the world seeking adventure. He had long cherished the ambition to become a sailor, but his (widowed) physician father had pressured him into studying medicine instead, with a view to taking over the family practice. The elder Dr. Stone died just as the younger Dr. Stone qualified, and the practice was instead sold, with the proceeds being split between the family’s two sons. The elder brother, Henry, had gone into business as a successful stockbroker and invested his share accordingly, while Kit, suddenly at loose ends, has decided to see something of the world.

Kit’s travels are touched on continually throughout the novel, and sound quite fascinating in and of themselves. He’s been in China, “looking for the war”, and has seen more of it than he had planned for. There is a reference, near the end of the book, to his standing in a marketplace when a shell fragment kills a mother and baby standing next to him; he is “spattered with their blood”, and there is a statement that he has seen quite a lot of blood in his travels. Strong stuff for this mild romance! Another incident, which has more bearing on the eventual plotline, is that Kit has had experience with diagnosing and treating a case of insanity while in America. One would rather like a full itinerary of his wanderings; he seems to have covered quite a lot of ground!

So now Kit is back in England, and though he still feels that he can’t bear to be “tied down”, he allows his brother to persuade him to try out steady employment for a while. Henry’s business partner, Jack Rochester, lives in the village of Minfield, just out of London. Jack’s wife, Mardie, is good friends with the elderly village doctor, who is getting overwhelmed with the demands of his practice, and when she hears of Henry’s brother’s sudden return, puts forward the idea that perhaps Kit might be interested in a position as assistant to the Minfield practice.

So Kit, rather reluctantly, agrees to try out life in an English village. Dr. Peabody welcomes him with gruff suspicion, which we (and Kit) immediately see as merely hiding hte proverbial heart of gold. The Peabody household consists of the elderly doctor, his bitter spinster daughter Ethel, and a grandson, precocious (and exceedingly likeable)young Jem, who is living in England for the “healthy climate” while his parents reside in Ceylon on a tea plantation. They are soon joined by another daughter, Dolly, recently married and, unbeknownst to her family, newly pregnant. Her husband, stationed in Malta, has asked her to stay in England because of her pregnancy, and Dolly’s reluctance to share this news with all and sundry has led to some speculation that perhaps her marriage is already in trouble, because otherwise why wouldn’t she be following her spouse?! Dolly and Ethel are the classic bickering sisters, and their feuding and continual cutting comments to each other add a lot of spice to this rather pedestrian tale.

The heart of the novel is an (apparently) doomed love triangle between Kit, the absolutely beautiful, charming and saintly Mrs. Rochester (Mardie), and her high-strung husband, Jack. Kit is immediately smitten with Mardie; Mardie is deeply in love with Jack; Jack depends on Mardie for emotional support as he deals with his stressful job, and much is made of how happy Mardie and Jack were in the first year or two of their marriage, though now, in year three, things are rather more difficult.

As young Dr. Stone is absorbed into the Minfield world, all seems to be going well with the “settling down” process, but for the unrequited love bit. Kit yearns for his unavailable love, and we start to see little hints that perhaps his passion isn’t exactly unappreciated and unreturned, but of course, there is that rather prominent husband in the picture. Jack, however, is showing signs of what could be charitably described as nervous tension; his personality is deteriorating by the day, and Kit and Dr. Peabody are soon looking up the characteristics of “insanity” in their medical books, and talking of bringing in a specialist.

The ending of this tale is a bit sloppy and unlikely, though everyone ends up neatly paired and with problems happily solved. I’m sorry to say that this is not one of D.E. Stevenson’s better efforts among those I’ve read so far, though there are many diverting situations throughout the book, mostly concerning secondary characters. We have the relationship between the Peabody sisters, young Jem with his brilliant talent for mimicry, an elderly Scottish housekeeper, Hoony, and her illegitimate grandson, Wattie, and, off in the background, the very happy marriage between Henry and his rather liberated wife, Mabel, who dabbles in the stock market quite successfully on her own, with her husband’s proud approval. The relationship between the two brothers, Kit and Henry, is nicely portrayed as well. They do seem a likeable family, with reassuringly human flaws fully recognized and easily forgiven by the reader.

A reasonably decent read, though I found myself groaning and figuratively smacking hand to forehead occasionally, especially regarding the whole “insanity” thing, and the remarkable (!) scenario the author has dreamt up for its resolution. Definitely worth reading as part of the D.E. Stevenson canon, though I’m afraid I closed the book and said farewell to the characters with a feeling more of relief than reluctance!

rochester's wife d.e. stevenson daylily detail 001And I must say something about the dreadful paperback cover. (Cover illustrations being, as some of you may have gathered by my continual harping on the subject, something of an issue with me.) Why, oh why do publishing companies insist on putting “current” illustrations on books set in past times? The characters illustrated on the Ace cover are obviously from the 1970s in dress and hairstyle; I cringe when I look at it. The only thing that that I found attractive (and here is the hort in me speaking) is the rather lovely inclusion of a border of tall orange daylilies (probably Hemerocallis fulva ‘Europa’ from the looks of them), in the foreground of the trio of tennis players and extending around the back of the cover.

Much more appropriate is this other coverrochester's wife hc dj d.e. stevenson, which captures the mood and setting exceedingly well.

I am coming to the end of my personal stash of D.E. Stevensons, and the more I read of her the more eager I am to go on with building the collection. It’s going to be an expensive year, I fear. Even the tired old paperbacks are seriously overpriced, but I’m afraid I’m now hooked and will be playing the seeking game to the full extent that my pocketbook allows.

Part of the fun is the glorious awfulness of some of Stevenson’s scenarios – I just now have realized I’ve made no mention of the Jane Eyre references in this particular novel – nothing subtle about that, is there?!

D.E. Stevenson. When she is good, she is very, very good, but when she is bad … maybe she’s even more interesting!

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A happy find yesterday while book-shopping! Two volumes of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Lyrics and Collected Sonnets, both published by Harper & Row mid-2oth Century, with poems chosen by Millay herself. And while peacefully reading Lyrics this rainy, windy morning, the following struck me as almost too perfectly appropriate.

Enjoy.

Raindrops turn to icedrops as the wind comes from the north ... Hill Farm, April 5, 2013

Raindrops turn to icedrops as the wind comes from the north … Hill Farm, April 5, 2013

Northern April

 

O mind, beset by music never for a moment quiet, –

The wind at the flue, the wind strumming the shutter;

The soft, antiphonal speech of the doubled brook, never for a moment quiet;

The rush of the rain against the glass, his voice in the eaves-gutter!

 

Where shall I lay you to sleep, and the robins be quiet?

Lay you to sleep – and the frogs be silent in the marsh?

Crashes the sleet from the bough and the bough sighs upward, never for a moment quiet.

April is upon us, pitiless and young and harsh.

 

O April, full of blood, full of breath, have pity upon us!

Pale, where the winter like a stone has been lifted away, we emerge like yellow grass.

Be for a moment quiet, buffet us not, have pity upon us,

Till the green comes back into the vein, till the giddiness pass.

 

Edna St. Vincent Millay ~ 1928

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some buried caesar rex stoutSome Buried Caesar by Rex Stout ~ 1939. This edition: Contained in All Aces: A Nero Wolfe Omnibus, Viking Press, 1958. Hardcover. Also published as The Red Bull in some editions. 153 pages.

My rating: 8/10.

*****

What with the immense number to choose from, with over seventy novels and novellas to the author’s credit, I’m nowhere close to having read all of Rex Stout’s clever and generally complicated tales starring private investigator Nero Wolfe (the more than slightly eccentric orchid aficionado, world-class gourmet, and superior thinker, with a most well-functioning brain residing in a body famously weighing, as we are often informed, a full one-seventh of a ton – a much rarer bulk back in the 1930s when Wolfe was created by Stout than we are used to today; I am quite sure I have seen a few gentlemen of this poundage and beyond in our nearest large city, though Wolfe would no doubt eschew the shopping mall food courts where many of my sightings have take place) and his trusty Man Friday – as well as Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday – Archie Goodwin. (Note to eagle-eyed readers and red-pencil holders, please forgive this complicated run-on sentence. I bemuse myself sometimes … punctuation scattered at will, stream-of-consciousness posting going full speed ahead …)

I am going to assume everyone reading this is at least generally familiar with Nero Wolfe, by reputation if not from personal experience, and from his rock solid position in the American mystery fiction canon, so I won’t go into too much background detail. Suffice it to say the Nero Wolfe is a superior thinker, doing all of his detective work sitting down, usually with eyes closed after a gourmet meal created by his private chef, Fritz. (Shades of Hercule Poirot’s “little grey cells”, but infinitely more cerebral, if that is possible.) Live-in employee Archie is the legs of the outfit, and, frequently, the eyes, ears and hands as well, especially when a female client calls. While Wolfe has a definite misogynist streak, Archie appreciates all things feminine, though he doesn’t allow a pretty figure and face to distract him from his duties. Well, most of the time, that is …

One thing for certain about Nero Wolfe is that he strongly dislikes having to leave his comfortable 4-story brownstone house in New York. He strongly distrusts the internal combustion engine, and assumes the worst of any vehicle, ascribing a sentient malevolence to the machinery, which mistrust is occasionally borne out, as in Some Buried Caesar. We are rather shocked to realize that not only is Nero Wolfe out and about in a car, but that the occurrence has satisfied his deepest misgivings, and the vehicle has indeed been involved in a crash. Archie is, as always, the narrator of the tale.

That sunny September day was full of surprises.

The first one came when, after my swift realization that the sedan was still right side up and the windshield and windows intact, I switched off the ignition and turned to look at the back seat. I didn’t suppose the shock of the collision would have hurled him to the floor, knowing as I did that when the car was in motion he always had his feet braced and kept a firm grip on the strap; what I expected was the ordeal of facing a glare of fury that would top all records. What I saw was him sitting there calmly on the seat with his massive round face wearing a look of relief – if I knew his face, and I certainly knew Nero Wolfe’s face. I stared at him in astonishment.

He murmured, “Thank God,” as if it came from his heart.

I demanded, “What?”

“I said thank God.” He let go of the strap and wiggled a finger at me. “It has happened, and here we are. I presume you know, since I’ve told you, that my distrust and hatred of vehicles in motion is partly based on my plerophory that their apparent submission to control is illusory and that they may at their pleasure, and sooner or later will, act on whim. Very well, this one has, and we are intact. Thank God the whim was not a deadlier one.”

Did you catch the obscure word  in this passage? Reading Rex Stout is an education all in itself, if you stop to take the time to investigate Nero Wolfe’s arcane terminology. I’ve never come across this one before: plerophory. According to my highly intellectual (ahem) search for a definition (I Googled it), plerophory means “a fullness, especially of conviction or persuasion; the state of being fully persuaded.”

All right, digressions aside, and on to the story. I’ll try to be as concise as possible. (The nice thing about writing up a post about a mystery novel, in my opinion, is that the reviewer shouldn’t really give too much away, so as to preserve the pleasure of discovery for those new to the tale.)

After crashing their car, Archie and Nero head off cross country to look for assistance. (They’re on their way to the big state fair, with a collection of rare albino orchids which Wolfe is planning on showing.) Crossing a pasture, they are distracted by a shouting man brandishing a shotgun, and, moments later, a large and very irate Guernsey bull.

The bull in question is the key player in the mystery to follow. He’s a prize herd sire raised by a neighbourhood farmer from a pup (okay, calf) and purchased by the present owner, entrepreneur owner of a highly successful restaurant chain, for the unheard-of sum of $45,000, as a publicity stunt. The bull is destined to be killed and barbecued and served to a large party of prominent people who are preparing to converge on the country estate in a few days. Needless to say, there is an upswelling of outrage among the farmers of the area, that an animal of such value as a breeder should be sacrificed at such a whim.

The plot gets really messy (literally) when the son of the next-door estate holder, a vocal opponent of the prospective barbecue, who has just advanced a $10,000 bet to the effect that the bull will NOT be killed and eaten, is found dead on the ground in the pasture being pushed around by the bull. Ah – but did the bull actually kill the young man? Nero Wolfe, reluctant witness to the scene, thinks not, and details his reasons.

As well as the (possibly) murderous bull, there are a pair of star-crossed lovers, an anthrax epidemic, a glorious description of a big state fair, and a second mysterious death – this one by pitchfork, so at least the bull is off the hook. This novel, only the sixth in the Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin canon, also introduces beautiful, witty, and wealthy socialite Lily Rowan, who figures prominently from here on in as our Archie’s soon-to-be close friend and love interest.

This is a classic vintage mystery read. Rex Stout stands alone; he’s in his own class entirely, though sometimes his stuff can be rather hit-and-miss.  Some Buried Caesar, good though it is, is far from my personal favourite of the Nero Wolfes I’ve read (I think The Mother Hunt might get that designation) – but this is an author worthy of exploration for any mystery lover. If your choice of book falls flat, try another; it may take an attempt or two to really get involved in Wolfe’s world, but once you’re won over, you’ll be a fan for life.

And this is what inspired me to pick up this book, after a Rex Stout hiatus of years. My sister, who recently celebrated a milestone birthday, is fond of orchids and has quite decent luck in keeping them happy and blooming, which can be something of a challenge. As a birthday gift, I gave her this handsome Cymbidium in full bloom, and, as I photographed it against the aqua walls of our newly painted enclosed porch, its temporary home awaiting the birthday party, I suddenly thought of orchidphile extraordinaire Nero Wolfe.

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hurray for me s j wilsonHurray for Me by S.J. Wilson ~ 1964. This edition: Pocket Cardinal, 1965. Paperback. 264 pages.

My rating: 5/10.

*****

This is a rather interesting book, written by an author I’d never heard of before. A first novel, very autobiographical in tone, which shows a lot of promise, and is a quite decent read.

The reviews on the back cover are glowing:

“A rare and refreshing book. It is a strong story gently told and I found it a delight to read…”  (Betty Smith, author of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn)

and

“…rings with character and the rhythms of young life. It stays with you for days after you’ve read the last page.” (New York Herald Tribune)

and

“Its innocence and freshness are like a breeze from the sea. What lends it magic is the way it is told, its highly original viewpoint, and the subtle shifts in mood and emotion …” (Saturday Review)

On the front flyleaf of this vintage paperback is this note from a previous owner:

Lake of Bays, July 13/66. Left under my pillow by Mary.

Intriguing!

And from Kirkus, 1963:

A five-year-old’s world which begins and ends with his mother and seem stable is viewed through the eyes of young Bobby Hirshman and told accordingly and lubly. For Bobby is a very verbal child whose tongue is given to twisting (“You’re crazy like a daisy, Fifi-la-la-Libby”). But once you get used to all these nonsense words and name calling, you may share in these scenes of Lower East Side, N.Y.C. and its good-natured schreierei; Mrs. Greneker whose feud with the landlord leads to further protest (garbage, out the window); the expansive Carmella; and the other familiars of the neighborhood. For Bobby, there’s first day at school and the new friend he meets, Johnny Schaefer. This brings many “”tsores”” (troubles) into his own life since Johnny’s mother is very sick, and, at her death, Bobby loses his own immunity to the intimations of mortality. With the loss of that childish certainty – mothers don’t die – Bobby grows up a little and the book closes…. A first novel, true to a time – the early ’30’s, and close to experience – guessably the author’s …

The story is told in first person narrative by young Bobby Hirshman, five years old and learning about life the hard way. Growing up Jewish in Depression-era New York is a theme which we’ve seen fairly frequently, and this poignant tale has the familiarity of repetition, but it is unique in its own way. Occasionally the author breaks character, but by and large the voice is authentic; the child’s-eye view feels true and strong.

I enjoyed this book, but not enough to shelve it with my “keepers”. In my internet browsing, looking for more information about the author, I have seen several comments to the effect that this is a rather hard to come by title. So I’ve decided, instead of just trusting to fate and releasing it via BookCrossing or the Sally Ann box, to pass it along more directly to anyone who wishes to try it. It’s a fairly slender paperback, crisp and clean despite some age-toning and a bit of weakness at the lower spine, and I’d be happy to mail it postpaid to anyone, anywhere. My treat!

This is by way of being an advance on my plan to give away some more books this month in honour of April being my one-year “Blog Birthday”. It’s a bit hard to believe the year has come full circle; I had no real expectations that I would still be so involved with the project, but here I am. Still interested, and hugely enjoying the conversations with other readers from all around the world!

So – if you think you’d like to own Hurray for Me, just drop me a note in the comments, and I’ll message you for your address and send it on its way.

It’s a neat little read, and deserves a good home. My other giveaways will be “draw” style, I think, but this one will be first come-first served.

Thank you, wonderful readers and writers, for a year of pure pleasure. I’m looking forward to what this next year will bring with happy anticipation!

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