A Hundred Small Lessons by Ashley Hay

This book called to me with its story of a new mother starting over in a new house while the woman who had lived there for sixty years is learning to let go of the life she had. Having moved so often, settling into a new place and home, I connected to the story right away.

This is a book that delves underneath the surface of a life, past the mundane externals to hopes and dreams and fears, to memories and how they are skewed over time, and to the losses that come with age.

It is a story of mothers and daughters, of expectations and the misunderstandings that drive them apart. And of fathers who, amazed, suddenly realize everything has changed and that a child can turn their life upside down with love. And all the lessons that we learn about who we are and who we thought we were.

Author Ashley Hay was pregnant when she and her husband moved from Sydney to Brisbane, Australia. She found herself in a world where the landscape itself was alien as was her new role as mother. This influenced her to explore the theme of motherhood in her new novel, "imagining one woman (Lucy Kiss) arriving in motherhood, as another woman (Elsie Gormley) prepared to leave it."

Lucy, her husband Ben, and their child Tom have moved into Elsie's home of over sixty years. Elsie at age 89 had a fall and her children moved her into a senior home. Ben's work keeps him away, and Lucy becomes overwhelmed with motherhood's fears and concerns. She is curious about Elsie, hyer-aware of her legacy in the house, and she finds mementos left behind that give her a glimpse into Elsie's mysterious life. Lucy is convinced that Elsie, or someone, has been entering the house.

Elsie loved being a mother, putting other's needs first, but her daughter Elaine wants a different life. And yet a young Elaine marries and has a child, her life choices chaffing like a manacle. The love of Elsie's life and Elaine's father, Clem, never aspired to be more. Neither parent could help Elaine find her wings.

Scenes that allowed me into the character's inner lives stunned me, such as when Ben suddenly understands his wife's obsessive fears about protecting their child and when he thinks he sees an intruder in the house, his worst fears arising. I loved that Hay explored Clem, Ben, and Tom as well as the women.

The title of the novel comes from a poem that Lucy had once read to Ben, and reads to Tom, The Story by Michael Ondaatje:

For his first forty days a child
is given dreams of previous lives.
Journeys, winding paths,
a hundred small lessons
and then the past is erased.

I think that Hay's novel will be appreciated by readers who enjoy connecting with characters and the slow revelations that come with experience.

I received a free ebook from the publisher through NetGalley in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

A Hundred Small Lessons, A Novel
by Ashley Hay
Atria Books
Pub Date 28 Nov 2017 
Hardcover $26.00
ISBN:9781501165139

The End We Start From by Megan Hunter

The End We Start From arrived at my door and before day was over I had read the book. It is a small volume, sparsely worded, but thick with meaning.

Megan Hunter's first novel can be read as an homage to motherhood. Pregnancy and a child's growth and the bonds of baby and child are vivid and visceral, honest and truthful. I knew this journey.

"Pregnancy was the great adventure." The End We Start From

It is a dystopian story of a climate catastrophe causing mass migration, refugees seeking safety. Soon after the birth of their baby, a family flees rising flood waters that are overwhelming London. The father takes them north. As panic and disorder follows, the family retreat further from civilization. They find shelter in a refugee camp. They become separated.

There is a layer of symbolic meaning. The title, The End We Start From, comes from lines in T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets. It is my favorite Eliot poem.

What we call the beginning is often the endAnd to make an end is to make a beginning.The end is where we start from.

The story is told in a few short sentences grouped together and separated by asterisks, as if we hear the mother's spoken thoughts. Interspersed are italicized sentences, seeming quotations, that relate snippets of creation stories. Many readers will recognize the Judeo-Christian references to the Creation of the World, Adam and Eve, and Noah and the Flood.

Universal archetypes appear: references to world Creation Myths of emergence from water or a world egg, the symbolism of womb and a child's birth, the creation of  land and mankind, myths of paradise.

The structure of the novel may confuse some readers who prefer a strong narrative or character-driven story. But, if they give the novel a chance, these readers can relate to the story of a mother's love and the joys and concerns of motherhood.

The need to leave home for safety is, sadly, also too universal. Just consider the recent hurricanes, earthquakes, and wildfires.

And, Hunter has another message for us: When our lives seem to be torn asunder, and we have lost everything, there comes a child taking its first step. We know what we have lost. This child only will know the world as it is. The child is a new beginning.

Life is not linear, going from worse to better. Life is nothing but endings and starting over. We lose a loved one, a career, a home, mobility.

A child is born. Flood waters arose and covered London. People flee and gather to survive. The child grows. The waters recede. The people return. Nothing is the same. Life goes on.

I truly believe that Earth is changing and humans will suffer. Local climate changes will mean some crops fail and other will thrive, new species will move in and others will move out. Humans will migrate. There will be social, political, and economic stress. There will be violence and disorder. There will be an ending to the time we have flourished in, this interglacial period. There will be a new beginning, one born in violence of the death of all we have known. Somewhere, a baby will take it's first step into it's mother's arms.

It is the end we start from.

I received a free ebook from the publisher through NetGalley and an ARC through Goodreads giveaway in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.



The End We Start From
by Megan Hunter
Grove Atlantic/Grove Press
Pub Date: November 7, 2017
Hardcover $22.00
ISBN: 9780802126894


Hear T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets read by Alec Guinness at
https://soundcloud.com/tomrobinson/4quartets

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

Shaker Heights, Ohio, is a subdivision built on order where well off families live the American dream: good jobs, home ownership, well-ordered lives, and gifted kids earmarked for prestigious universities. It seems the community channels the original Shaker settlers, being a "patch of heaven on earth, a refuge from the world," a utopia based on harmony and order.

The Richardson family, a defense attorney father and journalist mother with two sons and two daughters, appear to be the ideal family. Mrs. Richardson inherited a house which she lets for low rent, a "form of charity" for the deserving poor.

Itinerant artist Mia Warren and her teenaged daughter Pearl move into the rented home. Pearl has been promised their frequent moves are over. For the first time she has to care what her peers think of her; she's in for the long haul.

"They dazzled her, these Richardsons..."

Moody Richardson befriends Pearl, who is like no one he's ever met before. Pearl is enchanted with the Richardson family and spends her free time with them. She has a crush on the eldest boy Trip and learns fashion from Lexie. Izzy is the family misfit, born to 'push buttons,' an original thinker who won't fit in, but who finds a kindred spirit in the free thinking Mia.

Things get complicated when sexual liaisons arise. One results in an unplanned pregnancy.

Meanwhile, Mr. Richardson is defending a Shaker Heights couple in a legal battle over the Chinese American child they are adopting when the birth mother tries to get her baby back.

"I mean, we're lucky. No one sees race here.""Everyone sees race, Lex," said Moody. "The only difference is who pretends not to."

The local art gallery has an exhibit of photography. Mia is clearly in one of the portraits. Mrs. Richardson puts her reporter skills to work to find out who this Mia really is and what she has been running from.

There is so much going on in this novel: Racism; the question of who 'real' mothers are (Biological? Adopted? Spiritual?); the discrepancy between what a child needs and what it is believed they need; choices of conformity and self-realization.

It is a joy to read, the characters so unique and vivid, their story lines so delightfully intertwined. There are enough ideas and insights into American life to keep a book club going for several sessions. But the book reads like butter, quick and easy and sweet.

Celeste Ng's first book Everything I Never Told You was a huge critical and popular hit. In Little Fires Everywhere she will secure her place in reader's hearts, as well as her place as one of our best young writers.

I received a free ebook from the publisher through Edelweiss in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

Celeste Ng grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and Shaker Heights, Ohio, in a family of scientists. She attended Harvard University and earned an MFA from the University of Michigan (now the Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan), where she won the Hopwood Award. Her fiction and essays have appeared in One Story, TriQuarterly, Bellevue Literary Review, the Kenyon Review Online, and elsewhere, and she is the recipient of the Pushcart Prize. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband and son.

Little Fires Everywhere
by Celeste Ng
Penguin Press
On Sale Date: September 12, 2017
ISBN 9780735224292, 0735224293
Hardcover |  352 pages
$27.00 USD, $36.00 CAD
Fiction / Literary

And Baby Makes Three

Gary, me and Chris at his baptism

Our folks had long since given up any hope of grandchildren from us. But now, I was thirty-four and Gary thirty-six years old and we were expecting!

My first doctor at the HMO, a young intern, went berzerk. "Do you know what this means?" he asked. "I'm having a baby," I responded. He went on to tell me all the horrible things that happen to older women, suggesting I needed testing to be sure the baby did not have a birth defect. I said no, I would mother the baby God had given me. I then asked for a new doctor. Our new physician, Anita Darpino, was wonderful.

I, of course, bought or borrowed twenty books on child raising in preparation. We signed up for an expectant parent class and were the oldest people in the room!

We decided to name our baby Christopher if a boy or Elizabeth if a girl. This way our baby could have a nickname, Chris or Beth.

As my pregnancy advanced I made a dress like a tent with a big bow. I discovered some people at work who didn't know me well thought I was just gaining weight.

My work friends held a baby shower for me.

At the baby shower wearing the pregnancy dress I made

Mom held a baby shower for me at her house and then my folks drove the unwrapped gifts to us and gave me a baby shower.

Mom's baby  shower held at my home.
I made the dress. My brother made the toy box.

On July 6 we went to the doctor after work. She said I had another two weeks. I was exhausted. At 10 pm I was in bed and turning off the light when my water broke. I got up and dressed and we went back to the hospital-- where we had just been as my doctor's office was there-- and I was admitted.

Gary had prepared mixed tapes for me to listen to, Gordon Bok and other folk singers we enjoyed. I had a fetal monitor on and every time I rolled on my side to sleep, a nurse woke me up and told me to get on my back. I can't sleep on my back!

The next morning they induced labor. That afternoon Gary told the nurses it was time but they did not believe us because of the monitor readings. Finally, Dr. Darpino arrived and said yep, it was time. Too late for the epidural dose! I was told to wait until the OBGYN arrived. Right.

Around two in the afternoon we had a son. The doctor remarked on two things: I never screamed and our son was born with his eyes open.

Chris one day old

When they placed Chris on my tummy we looked into each other's eyes, too exhausted to move. I fell in love.

Me and Chris

Gary had to return home to take care of P.J. and call our parents. The baby was taken away and the nurses disappeared. During the birth, there must have been a dozen people in the room. Suddenly I was alone. And helpless.

The television above the bed had been turned on and was airing a daytime talk show. It was driving me crazy. It felt like forever before I could get the energy to push the buzzer to call the nurse."Turn that TV off," I demanded, "and turn the air conditioner down--I'm freezing." I was covered with a blanket, the room was now dark and quiet, and I finally got some sleep.

The next day I was sent home although Chris had a high bilirubin count. I had three months pregnancy leave and Gary had a month. Gary waited on me hand and foot. A nurse came to the house and we took Chris to the clinic. Chris was losing weight and I had to give up trying to nurse and use a bottle. We gave him light therapy for jaundice. Soon he improved and rallied, putting on weight until he was in the 98%.

It was hot that July with two weeks straight with heat in the high 90s. I didn't leave the house except to take Chris to the clinic.

Gary took the 11 pm and 2 am feedings and I took the 6 am. By the time Gary returned to work, Chris was sleeping through the night, midnight to 6 am!

Friends from work came to visit me on for 35th birthday.

the girls from the office brought me a birthday party

We researched daycare options for Chris. The affordable ones were horrible, ten babies to one caregiver, and open windows with bees flying in. We found one that had only five babies to a caregiver, but it cost $100 a week.

Gary and Chris. We bought our first computer during my last months of work.

My folks came to visit. Mom planned to stay for two weeks to take care of Chris when I returned to work.  I cried all day my first day back. I missed my baby. I wanted to raise him myself and not miss a second. $79 a week was not a worthwhile tradeoff. I turned in my notice.

My going away card from Vic.

Larry, who is a marvelous cook as well as a talented musician, gave me a going away dinner. I kept in touch with my BOP friends, Chris and I joining my old friends for lunch at the cafeteria.

Gary and I had left FUMCOG and joined the smaller Chestnut Hill UMC where our clergy friend John from MFSA was a pastor. John always gave a sermon to the baby being baptized. It was very memorable and when he returned to parish ministry Gary adopted the tradition. There were a number of young families with preschool children.

Larry called me the 'only married single mother' he knew. Gary was gone so much, and Chris and I were home alone.

I had to walk P.J. with Chris in the stroller. It was time-consuming, taking the stroller down the front steps, then Chris, then returning for the dog. And the door always had to be locked.

Chris was only a few months old when I noted he was imitating language. I always said, "Hi, baby" when I came into his room in the morning. He was saying "I" back at me! And then he was chanting, "E-A" when ever he saw the dog, trying to say P.J.

Pay attention to me! P.J. demanding equal time.

Chris loved that dog but the dog was miffed to have his place as 'baby' usurped. We took P.J. to training and worked to make sure he knew his place in the pecking order.

Chris was very determined. I would check on him at night and see him laying on his back, struggling to sit up, his face red and angry. When he finally could sit up he started crawling soon after. Soon he was going after P.J.'s ball to throw it. He had been watching us play fetch, and he wanted to play with the dog too. Well, when the dog realized that Chris had a purpose, everything was great between them. Chris loved to feed P.J., too.

P.J. intently waiting for Chris to throw the ball

Chris was supposed to be still on the bottle when he started reaching for food I was eating. He first was determined to eat a banana. I bought a mini-blender to make baby food, but what he really loved was rice cereal with babyfood peaches.

Going for groceries was complicated since the local Pathmark didn't allow carts to be taken to the car. I had to leave my groceries in the cart, get Chris into the car, drive the car to the front of the store, park near my cart, and get the groceries into the car. At home, I had to get Chris into a playpen and bring in the groceries.

At nine months Chris was walking, or rather running. And was climbing out of the playpen and the crib. We had to put him in a bed after he climbed out of the crib and became stuck between the crib and the wall!

After grocery shopping one day, I took Chris into the house and returned with the bags. He was running around and fell and hit his head against the edge of the dishwasher. I took him to the doctor's office. Because it was after 5 pm my doctor and usual staff were not there. Chris needed stitches. I was grilled about child safety, and told his shots were not up to date. I panicked thinking I was to be reported to child services for neglect. The next day I called the office and they said that they were catching up on the record keeping and not to worry.

I joined an exercise class at the YMCA, the oldest gal in the class. Chris loved the baby center, especially the metal bus. On our way to the Y, as I strapped Chris into the baby seat, he would make this strange noise. One day we were stopped at a red light I noticed the sound of the motor of the SEPTA bus next to us. Chris was imitating the sound! No wonder he loved that toy bus. Those buses were big, noisy, and exciting. They were like gods to him.

My folks were crazy about their first grandchild, especially Mom. Gary's folks had four grandchildren, all girls, which made my mother-in-law happy since she had all boys. But Chris was the only one to carry on the family name.

Mom and Dad with Chris in the alley behind our house

From the beginning, Chris was around books. I read out loud when he was in the womb, and I had a small library waiting for him. He loved the poetry I read, and the songs I sang with my guitar. "Dig dig krucks" were his love. We read him books about trucks and he would point to a truck and we were to say the name. He was memorizing them. At the local CVS, passing the toy area, he would reach for the plastic model trucks.

Mom reading to Chris

Chris never wanted to go to bed at night, staying up until midnight.As an infant, he would fall asleep in the swing but woke when it stopped. I would put him to bed and sing him to sleep but he would wake up again. I finally stopped putting him down for naps and he was able to get to sleep around 8:30 pm.

I was always singing, making up songs, and making up stories. Chris would tell me what he wanted to hear about. He loved a story about Dan, Dan the Purple Van and stories about P.J.'s adventures.

Pastor John and his wife had a son a few months after Chris was born. John suggested a plan: we would take turns babysitting the other's child once a week. That way we had some free time.

I walked Chris in the stroller to CVS and to the library in downtown Olney. We brought home 15 books a week. We passed a park but the ground was littered with broken glass and I couldn't let him play there.  A homeless lady had a grocery cart and hung around the main street. One day she threw glass soda bottles at us. 

The little girls on our street all came to see Chris. The little boys had flattened cardboard where they practiced break dancing and Chris liked to watch them.

When I walked the dog and Chris, strangers passing by gave us a wide berth, eyeing P.J. warily. Yes, I always agreed, he was a miniature Doberman. P. J. made us feel safe.

Chris loved to eat at Roy Roger's restaurant. They had the best kids meal toys.

Larry was our first baby-sitter. In exchange, I came in as a 'ringer' in his church choir for their annual concert. I also met a teenage girl fundraising for the school orchestra. She lived in a nearby apartment building, living with several generations of her of Korean immigrant family. I hired her to babysit now and then.

Gary only saw Chris for an hour at the end of the day and weekends when he was not traveling. Chris loved him, but thought all bearded men were 'Daddy'. So there was Daddy (Gary), and Daddy John (the church pastor) and Daddy Raffi (the singer of children's songs; Chris loved his video).

Gary knew he needed to be more active in Chris's life. He talked about returning to the parish ministry and I supported him. He contacted the Eastern Pennsylvania Conference and said he was open for appointment.

His boss at UMCOR tried to talk him out of it, suggesting she could find me a job at the Board of Global Ministries, and we could enroll Chris in the child care center at Riverside Church, and buy a home in Englewood Cliffs, NJ. I knew that would never work. Chris was often ill with sinus infections and ear infections, sometimes being ill two weeks out of four. Plus, I knew we could not deal with a baby on a tight schedule that required driving in NYC traffic.

A friend from the conference told Gary he wanted him in his district. One option was discussed in Bucks County but the Cabinet appointed another man. In the meantime, we explored returning to Michigan to be near family. My mom was flying to visit us, or paying for Chris and me to fly to Michigan, every few months. I knew how much it would mean to our folks, and to Chris, for them to be closer.

Dad with Chris on a visit to Michigan.

Gary opted to request a transfer to the West Michigan Conference, the largest supporter of UMCOR. He was invited to meet a church in Hillsdale, MI. The pastor had left the ministry and they had been without a pastor for several months.

We flew out to Michigan, left Chris with my parents, and drove to meet the church. There were some red flags which we should have noted, but we were just so glad to be able to return to Michigan that we did not consider the implications. The idea of bringing Chris up in a small town, in a ranch house with a huge yard, seemed like a dream come true. And our folks were a few hours drive away.

We were found buyers for our house. Gary gave notice and I started packing up. We sold a good chunk of our library to the Princeton used book store for $500. Larry hosted a good-bye party at his house with my BOP friends.

In May 1989 we moved. We had been in our house for seven years. Chris was 22 months old.

Four Poems on Motherhood

Mom and me, 1952. Mom was 21 years old.

My mother said she was told that a "good mom is a selfish mom." I would wake up early and she would put me in a playpen and go back to sleep. My cousin Linda would come and take me out and play with me. I would beg Mom to color my favorite coloring book pages, knowing I would only scribble and she could make the picture pretty. She told me to do it myself. 

I did learn to color, quite well in fact.

When our son was born Mom thought I was too weak and easily manipulated, too indulgent. I had to learn to set limits, say no, make demands. Then I was told that parents have to 'line the nest with thorns' to force children to leave the nest and fly. 

Mothers ache to protect their children and smother them with feather hugs, but end up being mean--setting limits and expectations, pushing towards growth and self sufficiency. Instead of being idolized, we are cast into the outer darkness as our children detach and learn independence. It's hard being a mom, for its when we are not needed that we have succeeded. 

Mom in 1970

When my son was little I was still actively writing poetry. Here are four poems I wrote about motherhood.

****

Pockmarks

He is seven now, the child who was so small and perfect

when he was given to me.

Incarnation comes with strings attached,

pain and disappointments,

hard lessons to be learned, illnesses and heartaches.

Today he is learning about bullies and power;

the power we give up, and the power forcefully taken from us.

He tries to articulate the feelings that fill his small breast,

the fears and the questions. And I try to teach him

one more lesson, although I am not certain I know truth from fable.

Day by day, I send him off into the world; questioning

my ability to explain how we live and survive

and surmount life's challenges...

My child was born a perfect model of babyhood,

bright smile under observant eyes, his body flawless.

Today I note his allergic red eyes and the three pockmarks

on his face, the red gum where a new tooth gnaws upward,

and I wonder what lesions are forming in his heart,

and if he will keep them with him for ever

or if they will be healed with only a scar left behind.

****

A whisper of most tenuous thread

fragile, frail, the feeling of belonging

one to the other

Yet testing, always, endurance,

limits, our own strength

to live apart,

Alone. And fearing to find

it can be done,

one does survive

without the other.

O, Child, you grow so quickly

who once believed me you

And I, Mother, lose you

ever so quietly, an erosion

of bounds, to the world.

*****

I watch my son

go down the corkscrew slide

slowly, slowly turning.

He holds onto the rails

to pace his descent.

In his features I can trace

the toddler’s self-satisfied joy

and wonder.

How much longer will I see there

the face I know so well?

He does not understand how quickly he descends,

who thinks he is moving so slowly.

Let him go slowly, slowly.

Let the child remain.

Let me see in undeveloped features

the eternal possibilities,

the contentment

of merely being.

February 25, 1998

                     *****

I had believed I would bear light

to the glories of this world,

leading by the hand in small steps

to view sugar plum fairies and robin's eggs

like the pastel illustrations in a book.

I did not know I would be

also the first bearer of darkness,

teacher of life's many small cruelties.

Steel heart, o sharp and needle-like!

And that small face seeking in mine

consolation, questioning love,

his eager kisses, smothered in them,

each like an electric volt.

I am forgiven of necessity,

held greater than disappointment;

for how long, I wonder.

                  

                      *****