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A Love Letter to Louise Penny

A selection of Louise Penny novels at the Morrin Center library in Quebec City

I didn’t plan to fall in love, but then, who does?

While listening to Anne Bogel’s excellent podcast What Should I Read Next?, I first heard of Louise Penny’s crime/mystery series. As luck would have it, its first installment, Still Life, was already on my bookshelf (so maybe I actually had heard of it before?). I started in right away and found myself transported to an imaginary but vividly rendered town in Québec and was greeted by all its quirky, warm, hilarious, and human inhabitants. I walked with them as their community was fractured by a dreadful crime, shared their pain and surprise. And met the wise and thoughtful man who would enrich my life forever. I was down for the count. I willingly gave my heart, not only to that honorable inspector of the Sûreté du Québec, but also to his creator.

Louise Penny, an author whose skill and artistry I now admire more than those of any living writer, has done more than mold and shape fully human personalities and craft compelling stories around them, although these probably would have been enough for me to burn through the 16-book (and counting) series. She has created a normal place that is magical, a combined heaven and nirvana without the saints and angels. In fact, her characters are purposely flawed, and each has struggles with their inner demons, their relationships, their careers, their art. And she placed them all in Three Pines, a town that is unreal and yet familiar.

Without a doubt, one thing that makes Ms. Penny’s books so delicious for me is that they are set in Canada, admittedly a place I’ve always had a strange but unapologetic affinity for. If you’ve read any of my other blog posts, especially Oh, Canada, you know how much I adore the Great White North. I love the unspoiled outdoors, particularly the magic of snow – how everything feels clean and fresh afterward, and the unique stillness and quiet it brings. (Three Pines gets a lot of snow, and what’s perhaps even more attractive to me is that its inhabitants, like me, do not seem to be fans of the sticky, oppressive heat of summer. In at least one book, the summer is unusually and unbearably hot, and nearly every one of the characters complains about it. These are truly my people.) I also love that there are few really big cities, and not so many small ones either. I do love a place that feels wild and wide and yet cozy and welcoming at the same time.

The Morrin Center and Literary & Historical Society of Québec

One of my happiest trips — not just because it was the last one I made before the whole world shut down in 2020 — was to the province of Québec, in winter, when everything was frozen and fabulous. While in Québec City, I got to go to the Morrin Center, which houses the Literary & Historical Society of Québec, a location featured prominently in The Beautiful Mystery.

Now, I don’t recommend reading these lusciously and subtly interwoven books out of order because you’d be missing quite a lot of what I believe is the point – the slow, rich character development and interconnection between plots, the buildup of friendship and the agonizing, awful burn of relationships deteriorating. Like most series, the books get better and better and better as you become familiar with the emotional landscape, trust me. (I have a rule about book series that you can’t decide to continue or drop them until book 3, and it’s not let me down with this or any other series I’ve read.) But if you just want to dip a toe into a quirky little mystery set in snowy, deceptively quiet Québec, complete with historical backstories and rife with the exploration of healing and redemption, you could certainly do worse than The Beautiful Mystery.

I’m not going to summarize plots or give you any spoilers here. I might be an okay writer, but I would just utterly fail to convey the experience you will experience if you just read the dang books. So please do that. I promise you’ll be transported.

Where will you go? Sometimes you’ll go to Montreal or Québec, but mostly, you’ll journey to Three Pines, where most of the books are set and to where all of its characters have a deep connection. It’s a quaint village (modeled on the one Ms. Penny herself inhabits) that is purposely out of reach of the rest of the more populated world, roughly an hour south-ish of Montreal and near the US border. A running joke in the books is that it’s terribly hard to find and outsiders frequently wonder why you want to find it anyway. There is practically no cell service and even the wifi is, well, mostly dial-up. It’s small, and tucked away, and community means everything to those who live there, so much so that they’ll welcome others to that community without question. And it’s a good thing too, because another running theme is that those who need to find Three Pines, will.

I suppose Three Pines is the character I’ve most fallen in love with. Absolutely everything about the location, the village cafe and bookstore, the food, the people, and the traditions appeals to me. And maybe I’m crazy, but its spirit speaks to me. It’s become symbolic to me, a “place” where I can think deeper and reflect on redemption and forgiveness and the goodness of humans. I recently bought a t-shirt that just has three pine trees on it. It makes me happy every time I see it and even happier when I wear it — kind of an inside joke with myself, a reminder to smile and be optimistic. Because of Ms. Penny’s lovely creation, when I see three pine trees together, I go to a place in my imagination that lifts my mood and soothes my soul.

Some might argue that Three Pines itself isn’t real, and they’d be right, but limited in their view. The village does not exist, physically. But I think of it as existing in ways that are far more important and powerful. Three Pines is a state of mind. When we choose tolerance over hate. Kindness over cruelty. Goodness over bullying. When we choose to be hopeful, not cynical. Then we live in Three Pines.
Louise Penny

So thank you, Louise Penny, for giving me so many hours of reading bliss, and for continuing to do it. For being curious about human nature and pretty smart about it observing it and mirroring it through your characters in all its messy and beautiful ways, too. And, of course, for bringing to life Gamache — and Ruth, the duck, Gabi, Olivier, Clara, Myrna, Reine-Marie, Jean-Guy, Annie, and those delightful dog-like pets. While my love will likely remain unrequited, I am rewarded nonetheless by the pleasure and peace I receive in living often in Three Pines.

We Got This

Someday people will look back on this post and maybe forget that it was written during a time of stay-at-home orders and self-isolation and quarantine. As unlikely as that future amnesia seems right now, let me just put in writing that this was posted in the spring of 2020 when the world of dystopian fiction came to life for all of us, to some degree, in the form of a novel coronavirus (COVID-19). So we all stayed home for a couple of months to prevent its spread and keep our healthcare systems working for those who did get sick. It was scary and confusing and strange and also kind of hopeful, in that so many people are doing the right thing not just for themselves, but for their communities. At this moment we’re still living some form of restricted-movement existence, which has been going on for about a month. Working at home and keeping gatherings under 10 people at first, but now staying at home pretty much all the time, only going out for essentials and even then, with the most recent guidance, covering our faces with homemade masks and staying 6 feet away from anyone.

For me, this time has coincided with the end of a remote-working contract, so theoretically, I should be in full-on “reading where” mode right now – traveling in real life as much as in my head.

Unfortunately, traveling is not going to be a thing for awhile. And pandemic reading has been kind of weird for me, too. I’m still reading every day and have managed to finish a few books each week, but it doesn’t feel typical. I have been reading because the act of reading brings me peace, certainly. At times, I can fully escape in the story and plug along as though it’s 2019 and I haven’t a care in the world except managing my TBR. At others, though, my mind wanders and I’m performing the act of reading while zoning out and skimming a lot. And in a few occasions, I find myself becoming hyper-focused on the words and the craft and what the words mean to me. I know; there are definitely worse problems to have in the current atmosphere. And honestly, a couple of books from the last month’s reading stand out for me as those that are “getting me through.”

The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson was a focused, slow read, but not because it’s not compelling; it so is. Rather, this nonfiction account of Churchill and London during the Blitz was ripe with so many opportunities for comparisons, highlighting the extremes people have endured in other times to protect and save their communities and their way of life, and what they did to help and comfort each other. During the Battle of Britain, the threat of nightly bombing raids by the Luftwaffe lasted at least six months and ultimately resulted in more than 23,000 civilian deaths. Buildings and landmarks were severely damaged or destroyed, and rationing of food items (like butter, meat, and eggs) took their own toll on morale. The fear and uncertainty people faced had to be brutal. With that perspective, it’s hard to be remotely whiny in this situation when all I have to do to play my part is #stayhome.

At the same time, I’m sure I’m not the only one who is feeling frustrated they can’t do more than that to make a difference. I am trying to help in other ways, where I can – staying connected to far-flung family, shopping local and small businesses whenever I can. I think keeping the right attitude is huge for me, and I know it’s not easy for everyone to do. To those of you who are struggling, my advice: Trust that you’re doing the right thing, and you’re doing a great job. Stay out of the news and your own heads as much as you can. Neither hourly headlines nor frequent mental rehashing of them will benefit anyone. You know what to do, and you know what you can control and what you can’t, so focus on the former because #WeGotThis.

To those who are out there doing the real and selfless heroics – by serving, providing, healing, delivering, caring for, and watching over – our deepest, heartfelt thanks. We will be sending good thoughts and positive energy your way. We won’t forget your work or its impact, and we will one day be reading about your splendid valor – count on it.

In the meantime, we should all be reading whatever gets us through. A couple of weeks ago, I was asked what my go-to comfort book is, something I re-read in trying times. I surprised myself when I answered with no hesitation, mainly because I’m not much of a re-reader. It might also be surprising because without thinking about it, I was revisiting the book at that very moment. The book I chose is not a classic, nor is it deep or literary. For me, though, The Martian by Andy Weir is a fantastic book to revisit in difficult times.

Not only is it a ridiculously fun story, but it is also a celebration of what mankind can imagine, what smart people can solve when they work together across borders of all kinds, what is achievable with ingenuity and grit, and what it means to be part of the human community.

At the end of the book, the main character muses about why so many people bothered to work so hard and spend billions to save one dorky botanist. His conclusion: helping others who need us is what humans do.

Mr. Rogers reminded us in scary times to “look for the helpers,” and I love this advice, especially for kids. We cynical, jaded, anxious adults should certainly remember that, and take some time to remind ourselves of the limitless possibilities of human resilience and compassion when faced with tough challenges: Take care of yourself and whomever you can. Find a way to be a helper, even if it just means staying home.

Be kind to yourself. Stay home, but wander and travel through books. Keep calm, and read on, my friends. We got this.

Oh, Canada!

July 1 is Canada Day. It’s like Canada’s Independence Day, for those of you who don’t have your finger on the pulse of Canadian holidays. I do because, y’all, I love Canada.

If you haven’t learned anything else about me, you should at least know that wanderlust and booklust are incredibly intertwined for me. I know I’m not unique among the reading world, but if I am planning to go somewhere new, I want to read every possible thing I can find that is set there or written by people from there. Lately, though, I seem to have reversed this. After reading books with a strong sense of place, I quickly develop mini-obsessions with the real-life settings and have no rest in my hindquarters until I get there (see my Longmire post for another example of this affliction).

One such place I’ve become absolutely obsessed with visiting is Canada, and it has been a dream bookish destination for me for the last year or two. This is largely thanks to Louise Penny and her excellent Inspector Gamache series. I’ll reveal my love for Ms. Penny and her work in another post soon (she deserves her very own post). For now, suffice it to say these books, among the many other things they do for me, paint such a lovely and vivid picture of a pretend place inspired by a real place that my feet are itching to cross the border.

The Great White North first entered my consciousness as a young girl when my mother (who swears she doesn’t recall this conversation) answered my question of “Where do you think I’ll end up in life?” with, among other more vague statements, “I can see you married to a bearded Canadian, living deep in the woods in a cozy house with your two bilingual sons.” For a kid with a deep and romantic imagination, this was all it took for me to start fantasizing. (And to her credit, my mom got the “bearded man” and “two sons” parts right, although, ironically, it is only my daughter who speaks French.) Canada, to this day, still remains a romantic destination for someone like me who:

loves being outside but hates being hot
adores walking in forests, or within sight of mountains, especially in the snow, but lives in a mostly treeless and relatively flat Southern suburb where even a chill in the air is relatively rare
is passionate about hockey
longs to have nature adventures without having to fight traffic or crowds
is thrilled by the idea of putting maple syrup or brie (or at least cheese curds) on everything

While Quebec (the province in which Ms. Penny’s fictional Three Pines is set) is on the agenda, for me it needs to wait until the weather is frosty enough outside to necessitate cozy, roaring fires inside. As a compromise of sorts, and because I possess nearly zero patience when I get excited about something, especially travel, I recently visited Calgary and some national parks in Alberta (Banff) and British Columbia (Kootenay and Yoho). It was a breathtaking trip I’ll never forget.

Calgary was an absolute gem. I’m so glad we booked a full day of city strolling because it was a remarkably hip and walkable town. I got to visit my first Tim Hortons, stroll past the Saddledome (hockey) and through the grounds of the Calgary Stampede (rodeo), brave the glass floor at the Calgary Tower (it was a process), learned about Canadian history at the superb Glenbow Museum, had an amazing affogato at a local cafe -and had a moment of both bookish serendipity and full geek-out worship when I stumbled upon the newly opened Calgary Central Library.

Not only was the building itself an architectural wonder, but it took less than five minutes inside for me to realize this was truly a community hub for readers and students and children, of books and learning and curiosity. I mean, you gotta love a place that has a word bison (a sculpture of a bison made out of letters) and a ceiling like this:

I highly, highly recommend the Canadian Rockies at any (accessible) time of year, but going in the late spring was magical. The snow melt was filling lakes and rivers with a gorgeous frosty aquamarine, and the temperature was perfect. Days were warm enough not to need a heavy coat, but cool enough that I was always comfortable. (Did I mention I hate being hot?) I could not get over the site of the beautiful mountains, and thankfully they were everywhere!

Daytime during this trip was full of driving and hiking and gaping in awe at the snow-capped peaks, crystalline lakes, and verdant forests, so reading time was reserved for evenings in the hotel. I tried to read only Canadian authors with relevant Canadian settings on this trip, and I’m happy to say I found a couple of good ones. I had The Outlander by Gil Adamson on my Kindle, and although it took me awhile to get into it, I finished it shortly after I got home, relishing this wonderfully rich, raw, and kinda strange historical novel set in the Canadian Rockies. I also read In the Shadow of the Glacier by Vicki Delany, the first book of a police-procedural mystery series based in interior British Columbia. I love stories set in small towns, and Delany’s Trafalgar (based on the real town of Nelson, BC) has me enchanted, so I’m sure I’ll revisit the rest of the series.

We saw a couple of mule deer and a black bear (from a distance), but the wildlife I was most obsessed with in Canada were the birds. I’m a bird lover anyway, and it was fascinating to me to meet feathered friends I haven’t seen “down south.” But when I saw a raven up close for the first time ever, I was in love. So even though the author is not Canadian, I had to listen to the audiobook Mind of the Raven: Investigations and Adventures with Wolf-Birds by Bernd Heinrich. It’s a very science-y book, so I am still dipping into it every now and then, but I’ve learned an incredible amount about these clever, clever birds. This is one of the things I love about being a book nerd: No matter where you are or what sparks your interest, there’s a book for that.

Visiting the Canadian Rockies was the best kind of pleasant and life-affirming surprise. When I planned the trip, it was sort of on a whim, a way to indulge in my Canada love and sate my curiosity until I could make it to the province of Quebec in winter. I didn’t do a ton of planning, figuring I’d let Canada show me what it would. I expected an adventure, certainly, and, wow, was it ever. I had no idea how hard I’d fall for the hip, vast, western, grand, simple, pure loveliness of it all, and I’m still overwhelmed by it. In fact, I’m running out of words to describe its awesomeness.

Oh, Canada, you truly are “glorious and free.” I left a piece of my heart in the Canadian West, so I’ll be back. (And this time, I’ll pick up some new adjectives from the word bison.)

Why Longmire? That’s WY

I suppose anyone reading this already knows that one of the reasons this blog exists is not just because I love to read, but because I love to immerse myself fully in reading worlds, to feel like I’m really there. When an author can inspire me to actually visit a place just through their stories, well, that’s the golden ticket.

Thanks to my dad, I was brought up on a steady diet of Western movies and TV shows. As a youngster, I could endure them, but I didn’t see the appeal of dusty, fuzzy, formulaic stories centered, it seemed to me, around horses and guns and saloons. It never occurred to me to read books in this genre, so the screen images I had of cowboys and lawmen and villains and the American West were firmly rooted. Then, sometime in the 1990s, I had a moment. Having unexpectedly finished the only book I had with me during multiple delays at the very beginning of (what I knew would be) a (long and boring) business trip to Houston, I bought Lonesome Dove in the airport. Chiefly because it was nice and fat and would see me through the week. I opened it, fell in, and climbed out a couple days later, blinking and disoriented and gobsmacked by McMurtry’s beautiful story.

I didn’t immediately jump into reading a bunch of Westerns, though. But I did develop a curiosity about the genre that led me to watch the fantastic Lonesome Dove miniseries, and eventually brought me to the Netflix series Longmire, which I watched early last year. I was instantly hooked on both setting and story. It’s a modern Western whose title character, Walt Longmire, is a sheriff in a county with more square miles than people. He is sensitive yet tough, broken yet redeemable, a stubborn, old-school cowboy who has had his share of hardships in life, which he bears pretty much silently. He’s a lawman, so the show’s episodes are crime- and mystery-focused, though the underlying character development is more important than plot. Unlike his bygone Western counterparts, though, Walt is not a complete loner. He’s got a grown daughter and a chosen family and a community of which he’s a crucial part. I can’t call it a “tribe” — although it sort of is, in the modern sense of the word — because a Cheyenne tribe and its nearby reservation figure prominently in Walt’s world; his best friend is a Cheyenne named Henry Standing Bear, their relationship is the source of some conflicts, a lot of humor, and a great deal of warmth and loyalty. The storylines are both timeless and blisteringly modern. All the characters are complex or at least interesting. The drama is heart-pounding and sometimes heartbreaking.

And, oh my gosh, the setting. The prairies. The mountains. The teeny, quirky town of Durant, Wyoming. The ever-present wind along the plains. The enormous sky. The vast expanses of empty highway. The stark, scruffy loveliness of it all. I didn’t want it to end.

When it did, I took matters into my own hands. It used to be extremely rare for me to watch a movie or TV show before I’d read the book(s). I just think your first love can’t be topped, so I read first and generally subscribe to the wisdom of “the book was better.” In the past couple of years, though, I’ve thrown this rule out the window, and I’m glad I did with the Longmire series because it reawakened me to the possibility that Westerns could be awesome. I started on the books almost as soon as the credits from the last episode scrolled by, steadily inhaling their world, which is both eerily the same and a striking contrast to the Netflix show. Craig Johnson, Walt’s creator, is a wonder. Such a great writer and world-builder. Not only did his characters, setting, and stories charm and captivate me, they were able to do so on both page and screen. Part of that is because the author’s love for the place comes through so strongly in both mediums. Even though the series was filmed in New Mexico, it is Wyoming itself that seeps out of the pages and into your heart. It may be our nation’s least populated state, but its sense of wildness, of times gone by, its offering of the simple life and of honest, proud people were the true inspiration for the characters and the stories. Because I was so affected by this “reading where,” I knew that if I made the effort to find it, this Wyoming of Walt, I would be rewarded with a chance to feel all of this again, like the quiet pleasure of finding a long-lost, long-loved pair of worn-in boots and taking a ramble in them.

Having a one-time real cowboy for a lifelong travel companion made it easy to make the case for the trip, so we tacked on four days to a scheduled visit to our son in California and set out on a whirlwind adventure. For four days, we explored, starting in Cheyenne, traveling north through the whole central part of the state, even skirting the Bighorns before eventually turning east toward South Dakota, gaping in wonder at the sights along the way.

I honestly didn’t do much pre-trip research on Wyoming, so there were no plans, other than getting to wherever we were going to stay each night. Which was kind of wonderful. It afforded us a long and winding side trip to Fort Laramie that had us bumping over dirt roads and livestock grates for miles and miles, for example, and it brought us to hidden gems – a reservoir with a campground and beach, a little town with a memorial to country singer and rodeo champion Chris LeDoux and an adorable museum, and gorgeous ranchland so pristinely vast you could smell the sagey hay smell from 50 miles away. So it was complete bookish serendipity when we wandered into the town of Buffalo.

Something about the town spoke to me the moment I got out of the car, and I had barely turned around before I saw it: the”Longmire Headquarters” sign on a Main Street store across the street. As it turns out, Buffalo is the inspiration for the town of Durant, the fictional town in the fictional county of Absaroka, where Longmire is sheriff. (Which, of course I didn’t know because, duh. No research.) The store belongs to Craig Johnson’s wife, Judy, and it holds a plethora of beautiful Western wares, including a ton of Longmire gear and memorabilia. We spent an hour (and quite a lot of money) in the place, chatting with the woman minding the store as a favor to the Johnsons. She shared my passion for the books, so we geeked out about the differences we liked and the similarities we loved between the books and the series. And that’s when I learned what I probably should have known already (except, of course, no research) – not only is Buffalo the inspiration for Durant; it’s also the site each summer of something called Longmire Days, a long-weekend festival that brings thousands to the little town to bask in the Longmire world and enjoy music, events, storytelling, and fellowship with other fans. The author and quite a few of the actors from the series faithfully attend, as well, making it the ultimate destination for anyone who has fallen in love with the characters and story and setting as much as I have.

So here’s the punchline. I’m headed back to Wyoming within a month, this time to purposefully visit Buffalo and experience Longmire Days for myself. It’s shocking to admit I’m that much of a fangirl, but it also feels like having the chance to be part of something special. I’m sure there are as many reasons for others to make this journey as there will be attendees of the event. But I strongly suspect we all will have these in common: a desire to connect with others, a fondness for good, old-fashioned storytelling, a belief that life can be both much simpler and richer at the same time, and a fascination with the ideals and traits that nurtured our country to greatness (and a feeling they still can, and do). I’ll update you, of course, but I predict it will be magical.

It was when I was first obsessing over Longmire and making plans for last year’s visit that I learned the tourism site for the state of Wyoming has the coolest little slogan: That’s WY. It’s kind of perfect. Why has always been one of my favorite words, as I’m a curious person and like to figure out the answer to that question most of all. (I also like the word where, in case you didn’t catch that yet.) That’s WY! is both a proud exclamation of (the postal abbreviation for) a state and an answer that implies, simultaneously, the completely obvious and the highly subjective. It encapsulates for me, in just a few letters, all the wonder and adventure and beauty and history Wyoming stands for, but that you really have to discover for yourself. I was thrilled to see this slogan is still a thing, and maybe I can actually pick up a flag this time!

What would I say to those who question this obsession that had me traveling thousands of miles because of a book series and its imaginary world? And that now has me planning another pilgrimage to hang out in a picturesque mountain town with those who brought it to life and those who are equally smitten?

That’s WY.

The Ultimate Book Dad

Yesterday was Father’s Day in the U.S., and when I think about fatherhood, the stellar examples in my own life come first to mind. My childhood and motherhood — ok, my personhood — would not be the same without the strong, wise, supportive, unconditional love and guidance of these outstanding men. I’m grateful for their influence and presence every day.

As a reader, though, I have also been granted the gift of an imaginary father figure that has shaped my perspective and expectations ever since I first met him. He is thoughtful, smart, compassionate, and soft-spoken, yet he is also a passionate and courageous crusader for justice and fairness. He had faced hardships in the past but didn’t wallow in grief; instead, he remained focused on making others’ lives better. He is a brilliant and committed professional, yet still finds time to be a pretty great dad. He isn’t perfect, but he is a good man.

In case you haven’t figured it out by now, this fictional character is Atticus Finch.

I first read To Kill a Mockingbird when I was 11 or 12, when it was still a new and surprising (and wonderful) thing to realize books had the power to gut me. It was the first book that ever made me cry. I remember this was not cool, either, because while I was probably safely in the privacy of my bedroom or the back porch when reading most of this book, I distinctly remember being on the schoolbus and fighting back tears while reading the last chapter. I know now that these are experiences to be cherished, when a book can transport you this fully and beautifully, but try telling that to my elementary-school self.

For a “classic,” this book was also accessible and compelling, full of memorable people. I loved Scout and wanted to be her (she drank coffee and called her father by his first name!). I adored Calpurnia and her tough love. I was fascinated with and touched by Boo Radley. But the character who kept coming back to me as I grew (and as I re-read the book for classes in high school and college, and then just for the heck of it) was Atticus, Scout’s dad and defender of all that was good and right, at home and in the courtroom.

When I first read the book, I thought Atticus was dreamy. Maybe subconscious visions of Gregory Peck, from the movie version, were creeping into my thoughts, but I just knew he was not only handsome, but dignified and classy, too. He was book smart, but also wise, two things even at that young age I recognized as important but not interchangeable qualities. He was somehow both a vital part of the book’s small-town community, good and bad, and also above it all.

When I was a teenager and just starting to get fired up about fairness and social justice, wow, was he ever an unwitting poster boy for all I believed was right. After all, Atticus was the vehicle Harper Lee used for so many of the great life-lesson quotes from the book. And it helped my sometimes unfettered passion to remember to hold my “head high and keep those fists down. No matter what anyone says to you, don’t let ‘em get your goat.”

Then, when I was a young adult, first venturing into a professional world where I suddenly couldn’t trust my instincts about people, learning the hard way that life wasn’t always rosy, or even fair, Atticus kept me hopeful. I knew he was fictional, but if someone could even dream him up, he had to be at least possible. I needed to know there where things worth fighting for, whatever the odds against you.

After all, Atticus is the one who said of real courage: “It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.”

Now that I’m old – er, more mature – his beautiful words are still worth revisiting. I might have become more cynical. From time to time, I am depressed and powerless and feel like all the decisions in my life are being made without me. But even when I’m at my loneliest, Atticus reminds me that integrity is a sacred and personal battle: “Before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself…The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.”

Maybe by today’s stereotypes Atticus, as a lawyer, is an unexpected teacher of empathy. I have two children who are currently studying to be lawyers. If law school itself doesn’t do it, I hope Atticus (or their mom’s obsession with To Kill a Mockingbird) gets this message into their heads: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” In other words, make the argument. But respect the other side, and try to be kind.

I hope they will remember, too, what a profound privilege they will have one day when they are participating in our country’s legal system. Justice is more than an aspiration, it’s an equalizer.

“There is one way in this country in which all men are created equal—there is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignorant man the equal of any college president. That institution, gentlemen, is a court…Our courts have their faults as does any human institution, but in this country, our courts are the great levelers, and in our courts, all men are created equal.”

I believe that intellectually. And I get to return to this great fictional dad, in (arguably) the greatest work of American literature, to help me feel it viscerally if I forget.

I’m fortunate enough to have the best ever real-life fathers in my life. But it makes my heart happy to know that books – specifically this one – can give anyone a taste of the mentorship, universal wisdom, and personal compassion of a good man, whenever it’s needed. Whoever we are, we can benefit from reaching for these lessons and listening to them whenever – or however – they’re offered.

For all you are to those who look up to you – thanks, Dad. And thanks, Atticus.

Reading into my journal

I’ve been keeping a book journal for two and a half years now. Funny I never thought to do it before, but I’m glad I finally got around to it because it’s given me some tremendous insights into what I read, how I do it, and, most relevant to this particular venture, where I am while reading it, both physically and spiritually.

I love connections. When I was a full-time communications professional, finding hidden (or at least not obvious) connections between people and leaders, motivations and results, seemingly disparate events and history, actions and consequences was a passion of mine. I’d like to think it’s one of the things that made me successful in some of these roles. Nonetheless, it was a tremendous way to learn and grow, and that’s exactly what keeping a book journal has done as well. It’s allowed me to see connections that have, in turn, helped enrich my enjoyment of the books I’ve read.

A couple of things prompted me to finally start recording a bit about each book I read. First, I got the best notebook (pictured here) for Christmas 2016 from my daughter, who had spent the fall semester studying abroad in the UK. The journal was designed by Cath Kidston, a very London brand I had never heard of before and that just charmed me. Not only was it beautiful, it was that much cooler for being (a) from the U.K. and my daughter, and (b) covered in illustrations of books, so I had to use it for something epic. And what’s more epic than books? Second, I wanted to write more, and I found that I don’t have the discipline required to write a regular journal by hand – I think my mind moves faster than my hand can write, so any traditional “journaling” is best done with a keyboard. Little snippets (like notes on the books I’d read) were way better suited to my analog writing efforts, so this seemed the perfect outlet.

And finally, I found I was losing track of my bookish life. I have an embarrassingly large Kindle library, full of hundreds of books, many bought on a whim or because they were on sale, and a shocking proportion of which I have yet to read. I love having an e-reader for its ease of use and compactness (especially while traveling), but it’s not always easy to find these unread books when they’ve been buried by more and more purchases. To make matters worse, I have always been a bit of a crazy person when it comes to owning “tree” books, as well. I have absolutely no sales resistance when it comes to bookstores, and if you throw any kind of sale or deal into the mix, I become a woman obsessed. The groaning shelves of my library bear witness to this affliction. And my eyes are always bigger than my reading stomach when I go to the library where, for some reason, I find it impossible to leave without at least four books. All of this adds up to a beautiful problem (sorry not sorry) but also mass confusion in knowing what I own, let alone what I’ve actually read.

So Christmas was probably the perfect time to receive my gorgeous blank notebook and to make this decision about how to use it. I was looking at a stack of recently acquired bookwealth that I knew I’d spend the post-Christmas-hangover days tearing through. But it was also good timing because, for many years now, I’ve set myself a book goal each year that begins (as the year does, duh) in January. Good Reads has been a fantastic resource for this because it allows you to set yourself a “Reading Challenge” that reminds you of your progress without having to keep track and count yourself. (Hello, English major over here. Numbers are important, but I prefer someone else does the work of actually adding.) I’m proud to say I’ve met (exceeded) my goal of 100 books (but who’s bragging) every year since I started the journal project, and I’m on track to exceed it this year. (Previously, I hovered around the 60- to 75-book-a-year range, although I was pretty lazy about recording them. Because numbers.) I’m even prouder that I’ve kept up the journal entries to this very day (book). It has definitely become a habit, and it’s been fun and enlightening to look back at all the books that have moved permanently off my TBR list.

What have I learned from reviewing and “reading into” this journal? Well, my writing clarity improved as I wrote more entries, and it took me less time to compile my thoughts. I also discovered that, although I didn’t plan this, I didn’t write reviews or synopses of the books so much as I jotted down how they made me feel. Turns out, connections are still pretty important to me. I recorded context in nearly every single entry: Who gave me the book or told me about it. How or why I selected it to read then, at that particular time. How riveted (or not) I was with the story. What I learned. And oddly enough, I almost always noted where I was physically when I read the book, and I definitely made a big deal about it if the author’s world-building prowess made me feel like I was totally somewhere else.

Each entry evokes more than just time and place. Collectively, they form a road map of where I’ve been, highlighting the paths that took me to amazing places, ones I want to return to, as well as those that were dead ends or slow, dense slogs. I’m reminded of a loved one’s care in selecting, recommending, and presenting me with the gift of reading. I’m brought back to the armchair, bed, car, kitchen table, airplane, coffee shop, garden, backyard, or hammock where I communed with my surroundings or completely shut them out. Keeping a book journal has made me be more mindful of connecting all the dots when reading, and when writing about reading. I have learned I love to think about, talk about, and relive books almost as much as I enjoy consuming them.

My book journal of very recent history began in 2017 because it had a pretty place to live and was necessary to keep my reading life straight and focused. It continues (in a less-gorgeous notebook) because it has been an outstanding way to stick to all my goals — and to force myself to write something down on a regular basis. But more than that, when you read a ton of books a year, it’s lovely to revisit where your reading took you. Though I still lack discipline at controlling my book purchases (and at writing regular blog posts? Ugh.), I have managed to create another habit that brings me joy, and to make reading an even bigger part of my life.

Reading under a tree

When I was a little girl, my ideal place to read was outdoors in some leafy, secret, hidden place. I had lots of these favorite “reading wheres” growing up because I was fortunate enough to live in the country with a sweet backyard but also fields on three sides that held plenty of wild flora and friendly fauna (birds, squirrels, deer) and a lovely woods behind it. It’s a family joke that if anybody said, “Where’s April?” in the first 13 or 14 years of my life, the answer would inevitably be, “reading, in a tree.” Not exactly precise (sometimes I was writing; sometimes I was in more of a bush than a tree), but pretty close.

The most vivid memories I have of this are wrapped up in what I read during those times, mostly long summer days, when time was totally my own and the boundaries of imagination and new worlds to discover were endless. If I thought hard enough, I could probably list the titles of a hundred magic carpets I took while enclosed behind leaves and branches and green in my childhood, even if I couldn’t tell you all about the journey itself or the destination. But there are some books that I simply can’t conjure without also seeing, smelling, hearing, feeling, and — in some cases, even — tasting the reading places of my childhood. To me these books are inextricably wrapped up in the place where I was reading, despite how little in common it had with the settings of the stories.

One series of books stands out especially. I began reading Laura Ingalls Wilder’s “Little House” books when I was 8 or 9, and I read the whole series every summer after that for at least three more years. I remember checking them out of the school library one by one in 4th grade, so I guess I even read them during the school year, too. I can confidently say the Little House books are the only series I’ve read more than once (I rarely even read individual books more than once, no matter how much I loved them). There are nine books in the series, but I’ll be honest. I usually skipped number three (Farmer Boy, about Laura’s eventual-husband’s childhood) and number nine (The First Four Years, about Laura’s first years of marriage). I guess I was old enough to find the romance of Laura’s teen years exciting as she set out to be a teacher and was courted by her young man, but I was still young enough to think both boys and marriage were boring.

The other seven books, though. Sigh. They were exotic and strange and yet cozy and familiar. Little House in the Big Woods, Little House on the Prairie, On the Banks of Plum Creek, By the Shores of Silver Lake, Little Town on the Prairie, The Long Winter, and These Happy Golden Years. Each one so vivid I can almost smell the pages of the paperbacks.

The story of Laura and her family is so entwined with my childhood reading places — with home — that just thinking about them makes me happy. In fact, I apparently expressed so much wistfulness and longing about owning these wonderful books again that I ended up receiving three separate versions of the complete series for Christmas last year. (I am a very fortunate lady that my loved ones listen to requests I don’t even consciously make!) I’m giddy just knowing I can look at these precious books any time I walk into my library. And times three! Despite the guilt of excess, it’s a fantastic feeling to know they are there, as close to me physically as they are to my heart. The connection is so strong between these books, my love of reading, and being a kid in that time and place. Powerful, happy memories.

And really, looking back on this with my 50-something perspective, that’s not surprising at all. I grew up in a simpler time than now, as Laura did, with nature all around me as I read. And I was growing up, as she was, in a loving family, in a home that had comfort and safety from the world, but awareness of the dangers out there, and that still afforded me the chance to explore to my heart’s content. Gosh, was I ever a fortunate kid.

Laura’s and my young worlds were, of course, separated by a hundred years or so. Probably that’s why the books were so compelling that I couldn’t put them down. We meet Laura in the first book when she lives in Wisconsin in a little house in the big woods in the late-ish 19th century. Her Ma and Pa, looking for a bit more space, loaded up a covered wagon and ventured to the frontier by the beginning of the second book. As a result, Laura, the middle daughter of three (until a fourth daughter arrives later) got to live on the prairie, by a creek, on the shores of a lake, and in a little town, all in wild and new country, far from where she was born.

She and her family lived off the land; they had farm animals, grew crops and vegetables, hunted and fished. Laura had chores that were drudgery to her but thrilling to me: churning butter, tending the garden, fetching water from a spring, helping to butcher a hog, feeding animals, even helping to build a house or two. It wasn’t all hard work, though. She went to a one-room school that doubled as a church, and she had friends (and even a mean-girl nemesis) She had music from her Pa’s fiddle most nights. As is true of most who depend on their environment for their livelihood, life wasn’t always easy for the little family. There were conflicts with Native Americans, illnesses, droughts, and one horrible snow storm that lasted all winter. But there were small comforts and beautiful surprises and Christmases that, although meager by modern standards, were resplendent with festive spirit, love, and thoughtfulness.

I should mention that these stories, while chapter books for young-ish readers, do have marvelous illustrations, but that’s not what made them so vibrant to me. It was the collision of worlds. The ability to be fully present under a tree, or in a lawn chair by the porch in the humid heat of a central-Pennsylvania summer, and at the same time deep within a little girl’s memories of the frontier. For me, it was the 1970s all around: the taste of Bubble Yum mixed with sweet tea, the buzz of a lawnmower, cars whizzing by on the road, a sticky haze thick with gnats and mosquitos, the scents of metallic hose water, cut grass, and Coppertone in the air. The minute I was inside those pages, though, I was fully in Laura’s time and place, too. Now I could smell wood smoke, fried pork crackling, and warm hay. I could feel the welcome warmth of a faded patchwork quilt, the dry scuff of prairie grass under my bare feet, and the cool promise of Plum Creek’s muddy shores. I could see the sturdy timber of a solid house, the snow-piled streets of town, the daintiness of the china lady on the mantle, and the bright yellow of a butter pat made with Ma’s special mold. I could hear the thrill of Pa’s fiddle, the throaty dong of a school bell, and the squeak of wagon wheels.

The power of books to transport, even while we are deeply appreciative of our actual surroundings, was magical and, at the same time, so real to me. Even today, the “where I read it” is almost as important to me as what the book was. It’s one of the first things that comes to mind when I think of any good book. And for some cherished reading memories of my childhood, the experience is powerful enough that I can relive it any time I want. I need but close my eyes, and I will be instantly transported to both of those places at once, Laura’s childhood world and mine. And smell the smells and feel the feels. And be content, under a tree and at home.

Welcome to my world of reading adventures…

Booklust. Wanderlust. These are two of my most favorite words because together they evoke my passions of reading books voraciously and of discovering new (to me) places (or revisiting beloved ones). These words will fuel this blog about books and the magical ability they have to transport and the adventures they inspire.

To me, “literary transportation” means several things:

Traveling – When I go somewhere, I like to take a deep-dive into the literature that evokes it and is from there, or explore the area that inspired the author. “Literary tourism” is, I think, the trendy term for it now, but this is pretty much how I’ve always traveled. Sometimes I read a book before I go somewhere, through either intentional preparation or just serendipity, and sometimes being someplace will create an urgency within me to learn about the place through the books that have been set there.
Exploring world-building — The setting is one thing, and sometimes it’s arguably the most important “character” of any book. My favorite novelists are really fantastic at creating a multi-sensory experience, either through their characters and how they interact with their world or by describing and using “place” profoundly in their writing. Even authors who have entirely created from scratch an imaginative and immersive new world or a brand new way of looking at one we think we know, if they’re successful, it’s still someplace you want to go. Whether or not you can literally exist there, breathe the air, take in the essence of a world, and walk around its landmarks, it’s become a real place. — even if you can only travel there in your imagination. I think the English major in me wants to dissect this magic just a wee bit, so I bet this is something you can expect to see in this blog.
Reading wherever you are – I have favorite places to read in my house, my yard, my community, and so on, but as someone who likes to use every stolen or idle moment for reading, I’m always finding new “wheres” to read. And I always want to find new ones (see wanderlust, above!) Lately, though, I’ve noticed that my book journal often includes the reading experience I had and how it was affected by where I was while reading (or where I was driving if I listened to a book instead). Sometimes my journal also includes how focused I was on the story, or how “into” it I was, where its setting reminds me of, or even the context of why I chose that book. There are also just places that are filled with books, like libraries and book stores, and these are my homes even though I don’t (unfortunately) live in them. I’ve also occasionally discovered a “where” that includes books, even though they shouldn’t logically be there — and who doesn’t love a good book surprise? All of this, in my mind, is very much related to ReadingWhere, so expect to see it here.

Most posts will fit into one of these ideas. As with any new venture, I reserve the right to figure this out as I go, so stuff might change as the situation evolves. I can promise you this: It will be an adventure! Ultimately the goal is to share my experiences reading and how we can be moved by story and by words — sometimes physically, but always spiritually. In short, I find that to be a reader means you believe in living curiously. Traveling promotes that, too. And the more we explore new worlds and the more we read, the more we can empathize with and understand others, and the more we are ourselves enriched. And isn’t that the best way to live?

Books take us on adventures without leaving our chair; let’s take that one step further together, shall we?