Reading The Barrowfields by Philip Lewis

Phillip Lewis's first novel The Barrowfields is so beautifully written, so evocative, that I can arbitrarily open the book to a random scene and be transported.

I received a hardcover copy of the novel through Blogging for Books. I opened the book to a scene where the protagonist, Henry, is celebrating at a going-away party with his law school friends. They have rented a house at the beach. The girl of his dreams has invited herself, Story of the golden hair.

There is a lot of drinking going on and Henry's friend J.P. is pontificating about writing, which "made it all sound so easy and color-by-numbers" that it "drove nails into the palms of my consciousness." What his friend does not know is that Henry's father had been a failed writer, and as his early promise was snuffed out by depression and alcohol abuse, he had ended his life.

Story finally arrives, "her hair wild and windblown, and I was stricken. Hard to say I would have been more impressed if the clouds had parted and the lord god himself, the King, Elvis Arron Presley had appeared in her place. I stood there barely able to speak." She walks over to Henry to greet him, but he is "unable to conjure a single syllable out of the space between" them.

That evening the gang "decided to caravan over the bridge to Charleston for dinner even though not one among us should have been driving." J.P. is still drunkenly bending Henry's ear about writing. On the way back to the beach house, Henry sits next to Story in the back seat of the car, the radio playing "one good song after another. The music was perfect." Story was smiling. And then Lewis writes,

"Back at the beach house, someone proposed in honor of the luminous night and clear sky that we all walk out to look at the stars. The doors on the back of the house facing the ocean were open, and the rush and hum of the mighty rolling waves called in through the doors and pulled us out to the sea.

"There is something extraordinary about standing on the shore at night under such circumstances. It is the closest one can come to feeling immortal--or to recognizing the euphoria of insignificance at the edge of the immortal sea. On a clear night the effect is more pronounced, for the stars burn numberless in the sky and remind us that time is beyond our understanding and that the universe is indeed indifferent to us--yet hardly benign."

I was transported to my own vivid memories of nights under the multitudinous stars, aware of the vastness of the universe, and suffering the fearful knowledge of my own smallness.

Henry identifies the stars, learned at his father's side. And J.P. recites Byron's Darkness, depicting a fatalist view of end of the world under an indifferent, blind universe, which begins, 

"I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air" 

After which a girl sings from Schoolhouse Rock, "Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, get your adverbs here"--my favorite Schoolhouse Rock song. Henry defers an opportunity to recite, then in his "weakened state of nostalgic drunkenness" imagines his father there and feels "gut-sick and benumbed. In a moment's time I hear it all, as if ten million words from as many books fell at once onto my ears in a drowning yet intelligible cataract. I hear my father's voice and his incantations. A flood of prose, remembered, unremembered, leftover like hellish debris from a writer's son's childhood. Every word he'd ever said to me. Every poem. Every paragraph he'd written and said aloud. Put that away, I tell myself. Put that away."

And, dear readers, there you have Henry's story: the ghost of a failed father he wants to forget, the girl he wants in his future just beyond reach-- or waiting to be touched--and the universe's indifference arching overhead.

I will revisit this novel many times.

Read Lewis discussing the 'easter eggs' written into his novel at
http://www.signature-reads.com/2017/03/phillip-lewis-on-the-literary-easter-eggs-in-his-novel-the-barrowfields/

Listen to a clip from the marvelous audiobook at
http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/539538/the-barrowfields-by-phillip-lewis/9780451495648/

I received a free book in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

The Remarkable Journey of the First Female President of Liberia

Madame President, Helene Cooper's biography of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, the first female president of Liberia, was not an easy book to read. The history of Liberia is so horrendous, the violence so overwhelming, the suffering of her people unimaginable that I had to often step away; Cooper does not tidy things up for easy reading.

The story of Liberian female empowerment is remarkable, a courageous story from a country where an estimated 75% of the women have encountered rape and sexual abuse. Ellen herself rose from abused wife to a Harvard education, from mother to leadership in the international banking industry, from working for a dictator to her democratic election as President.

Ellen made mistakes and learned from them. She made contacts and used them. She switched from 'bush' to Western as needed. But always she believed in a better Liberia, a fiscally sound and prosperous future, a land of peace.

Liberia was established by United States leadership as a way of dealing with the 'problem' of free African Americans. The idea was to buy land and establish a country where we could export slaves and free blacks back to Africa. John Quincy Adams was against this plan on the grounds that the free blacks were Americans and had a right to remain in their country of birth. But many slave owning presidents liked the plan, including Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe--for whom the Liberian capital Monrovia was named.

This book covers the series of brutal "presidential" dictators who siphoned public money for personal use, kept leadership in the family, and raised child armies to murder civilians--including their mothers--and rape their way across the country. The country's infrastructure was destroyed. The only way women fed their families was by going into the country to buy produce which they sold on the streets--the 'market women' who later organized, and by getting women out to vote, elected Ellen president.

Ellen's background in banking helped her secure loan relief, restoring solvency and the infrastructure--then Ebola arrived. Madame President called on President Obama to send aid. His quick response helped Liberia contain the outbreak, to the benefit of the country, the continent, and the world.

Reading about African history is a grim reminder of how tenuous maintaining a republic can be. It is also a reminder of how one person can make a difference, even a flawed person.

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

Read about the Liberian born, Pulitzer winning author Helene Cooper at
http://www.simonandschuster.com/authors/Helene-Cooper/18871279


Madame President: the Extraordinary Journey of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf
by Helene Cooper
Simon & Schuster
Publication Date March 7, 2017
$27 hard cover
ISBN: 9781451697353

You Must Change Your Life: Ninth Grade and a New School, a New Me

Me, age 14

Fall of 1966 saw another change in my life: going to high school meant a third new school since 1963. Homesickness had been replaced by nostalgia for the past. Fourteen years old, and already my heart resonated to lines such as, "I remember, I remember, the house where I was born," by Thomas Hood.

Me, Winter 1966-7

Being an introvert, not one to jump in and go with the crowd, I still missed having a best friend. I was lonely. I also knew that my priggishness was keeping me back. Only liking classical music, classical literature, and disdaining the popular was a real drawback to making friends.

My resistance to rock and roll and 'liking boys' was wearing down. I was ripe for change, and high school was an opportunity for a start-over. But, at what cost? Could I betray what I had always been--in exchange for what? That road was unknown.

A few weeks into the school year my English teacher Mr. Botens told the class, "You are three persons: "The person you were in the past; the person you are at this minute; and the person you will and want to be in the future." That comment changed my life, for I understood that I held my destiny in my own hands. I could be who I wanted to be. The question was--what did I want to be?

I was very aware of leaving childhood. "I'm suddenly seeing things through different eyes," I wrote in my diary. "I found out what life is all about. The suffering, pain, and work that was ahead. But the thread broke and the dream of childhood drifted away." I wanted to write, and knew "it takes imagination to write fiction, and study, brains, and experience to write non-fiction."

Homecoming float for Freshman Class, Oct. 29, 1966

My Freshman year classes at Kimball held a mixed bag for me, academically. I actually did good in General Math, Civics, Glee, and even Gym, but ended up flunking German although I really wanted to learn. I never could memorize. In college, I just squeaked by in Latin.

Team English had three teachers and 90+ kids. I was in the highest Reading Group, but middling spelling and grammar groups. (Many years later when working in editing and copywriting, I kept my trusty grammar guides beside me.) I loved Mr. Botens.

Girls Glee Club 1966-67. I am on the center row, far left. 

I was in Girls Glee Club and was pleased when Mrs. Ballmar called me to join a group of girls she thought were some of the best singers. My training was good: I had been in chorus in elementary school in Tonawanda and played the piano. My folks bought me a guitar and I was taking lessons and teaching myself to sing folk songs with guitar. I loved the idea of 'portable music,' an instrument I could take anywhere.

The Christmas Concert was an amazing experience, with all the choirs joining in the last piece, The Song of Christmas, and the O Holy Night. Learning the alto for O Come, O Come Emmanuel was handy considering how many times I sang it in church over my life! In my four years singing in three choral groups, the Christmas concert remained a highlight of each school year. Performing was exciting. In the Spring Concert, we sang Mr. Wonderful.

1966 Christmas Concert program

I made many friends in Glee. Pat had been in Mrs. Hayden's class and we became best friends that year. If I was fearful and controlled, Pat was a free spirit who pushed the envelope. She certainly pushed me into uncomfortable areas. Even going to see Dr. No and Goldfinger at the Main Movie Theater was a push for me!

Pat took me home with her after school and we practiced flirting with the 19-year-old man who was helping to build an addition on Pat's house. We made pulled hard candy. I stopped by Pat's house on the way to school and we walked together, or her mom gave us a ride in bad weather. Pat let me borrow her parent's copy of Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis. Now, I wonder if her parents knew! One weekend we walked to downtown Royal Oak by way of the railroad tracks, discussing religion.

I had a mad crush on a boy and Pat encouraged and abetted me in all the wrong ways. But, I also had crushes on dozens of other boys as well. It is a great relief to know that as a teen Jane Austen was described one of the silliest and boy crazy girls in England! I can excuse myself for being normal. I had finally broken my vow to never be silly over boys.

Me and Pat, summer 1967

Pat encouraged me to lose weight, giving me an exercise pamphlet. I went on a 1000 calorie diet. Mom had already tried a high protein diet, a calorie control diet, and even 'pep' pills. I can't believe the doctor gave me pep pills! Plus, I walked 2 miles to and from school every day. I did lose 25 pounds before the end of summer 1967.

By the end of the year most of the girls I would be friends with in high school I had already met. Friendship was such a big deal to me after several lonely years. I would walk girls to their classes for a moment's gossip, and be late to my own class!

In my diary I wrote about the overwhelming newness and awareness of just starting life, but also the lack of a purpose in life. I was still seeking the faith in God I had observed at the altar call when I visited a Baptist church in Sixth Grade.

"I think some people don't have a point of life to make it worthwhile. You may be having a grand time, but what is it worth if it doesn't have a point? A goal, a purpose, something to achieve. I don't have a point in life. I'm just living it. Seems a pity to just waste it. I just go on and on, every day. As much as I love life--my life--it doesn't appear to have much of a point." I continued, "The best point to have, I think, is God. It must be. Our point is to worship God, to believe in and love God. To serve him, and not we ourselves. No, not ourselves. We should do God's bidding. That seems like a good point in life. It really does."

I was not "there" yet, and my language reflected what I had heard, not what I had personally experienced.

Christmas came and went. Our consumer, throwaway values upset me when I saw the Christmas trees at the roadside. I wrote,

"I was thinking about all the little Christmas trees at the side of the roads now. How can people just toss them out in the snow? To think--a few days ago, they were decorated and "oohed" and "ahhed" at. Now, no one cares beans about them. They were beautiful, and loved, but once used, they're tossed away. Trash. People kick at them while walking. No one now thinks of how beautiful they were. People use them, then just throw them away."

I also wrote a poem, full of mock pathos:

The Tragedy of the Ever Green Tree

ah, once pretty ever green tree
with strands of tinsel
still hanging among your branches
of brown, falling needles;
the season's over.
ho-ho-hos and presents are gone,
safely tucked away in drawers and rooms
and memories.
your work is done, ever green tree.

once pretty ever green tree,
laying in the once fresh sparkling snow
now dirty and gray
next to tin cans full of
residue and refuse from the holiday--
the garbageman will come for you,
children kick you on their way to school,
and cars splash black melt on you
as you sit by the roadside.

once grand and regal
in the warmth of the livingroom,
decked in lights and donned in ornaments,
now you lie in the cold,
on the street
to be taken away.
grandeur has left.
all fame leaves with the turning
of calendar pages.

I was in my e.e.cummings phase. I later read this poem in speech class but gave an alias for the author. It was not the only poem I was to write about a throwaway society. When I was in my early twenties I wrote,

I am an old Bic pen,
an empty tube of colorless plastic.
Bought cheap.
Used.
Discarded.
The consumer's whore.

Mr. Botens had to get our parents get permission to read The Catcher in the Rye. I had never read anything like it. The last book I had written about reading was Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad. In January I wrote, "I picked up some good sayings from Holden. Good ole' Holden," adding it helped me 'express' myself. I also admitted that the 'sex' stuff in the book was pretty embarrassing to discuss in class. I took to introducing myself as Rudolph Schmidt, the alias Holden used when he met a fellow student's mother. I went on to read everything I could by or about Salinger.

Other books I noted reading that year included Uncle Tom's Cabin, Ethan Frome, Death of a Salesman, The Oxbow Incident, Inherit the Wind, In Cold Blood, and The Great Gatsby.

The first 45 record I ever bought was Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfield. I was now spending most of my allowance on a 45 record a week, which I bought at the Kmart store in Troy. Records I bought included Michelle, Ebb Tide, Homeward Bound, Message to Michael, Sloop John B, Monday, Monday, Paint it Black,  Red Rubber Ball, and I Am A Rock. I even bought silly records like Little Red Riding Hood! So much for pledging to never like silly music like Itsy Bitsy Teeny Tiny Polkadot Bikini!

I kept the Top Ten record sales lists in my scrapbook

Easter 1967

But that other side of me was still there. At home, I played classical music on the piano, drew, and filled notebook after notebook with my writing.

In March I wrote, "It's fascinating, even at my age, to see a butterfly land on your finger, spreading it's golden-orange wings in the breeze as if it were keeping time to some unheard song. Sitting peacefully and calmly without at care. Only to fly away in a moment. Up and away it goes, off to another place. Gaily it circles in the wind, to land on a flower or a green leaf." But I also envisioned a dark future, "Perhaps it will land in a spider's web. Carefree, happy and gay--it's caught. It struggles to get away, but alas, it is too late. He turns gray and soon our pretty butterfly is no more."

Dad in our back yard. 1967

May 21, 1967, my family went to see dad's friend who lived in Windsor, Canada. I documented the whole trip minute by minute. I wrote,

"We went by the tunnel. We stopped at a Hi-Ho restaurant for a hamburger. Customs took about 2 seconds. On the way back to Detroit, we saw a whole pile of smoke. Dad thought it was from a factory. But as we got close, we decided there was too much smoke to be from smoke stacks. It was a fire, a tremendously big one. The flames went up so high in the air, and the gray smoke swirled upward in the wind to form big billows of gray clouds. Beautiful--yet deadly and sinister. A two-story building was on fire, and [there were] houses all around. People emerged from everywhere and nowhere, all watching and talking. We heard on CKLW it was the third time for that building to be on fire this year."

Then, Dad got lost.

"We had to travel until we found Woodward. We went through the heart of Detroit and the slums. The slums I've seen in movies all year in Civics, they were right there in front of my eyes. The crowds of people in front of porches, talking, leaning on cars, sitting on steps. The mutilated buildings boarded up. Why doesn't someone do something? I wish I could. I don't blame them for hating us. I think we're half-sick. Why can't everyone feel the way I do? Why so much prejudice? I think there should be more propaganda to get sympathy for the Negroes, and booklets telling how you can help them fight for their rights. And if anyone says we're traitors--no--we aren't. It's the patriotic, right, Christian thing to do. To put them down should be a sin or something. I don't know, I swear, I don't know or understand anything. Nothin."

I ended by writing, "Born Free is playing on CKLW. We're all born free, and yet some can't be free. We are born with rights and then somebody comes and takes it all away because your skin's the wrong color. Hate--violence--the one to blame is the one who won't give citizens their rights."

My teacher Mr. Warner taught us that there is only one race--the human race.

Most of my diary is filled with an obsession with friends, boys, and the agony of typical teenage angst over friends and boys. I hardly recognize the girl I had become during those teenage years. At fourteen I had an idea that people change continually, evolving, and named each change an 'era'. I suppose I still believe that for looking back I can see myself becoming different people as experience and wisdom shaped me.

March 21, 1967, Detroit Free Press story with Kimball boys.

April 11, 1967, Detroit Free Press. Hemline wars.

Homer the Ghost and other Juvenalia

After we moved from Tonawanda I was lonely and created an imaginary friend, Homer the Ghost. Now, I was cognizant that Homer was a fiction of my imagination, in many ways a continuance of the make-believe play Nancy Ensminger and I enjoyed. I was still spinning tales. I was story telling.

I drew pictures of Homer and the ghostly gang and wrote stories.

Homer!
First you must know who Homer is. He is a ghost friend of mine. He's about 1,500 years old. Homer has three cousins, Greta, Herman, and Gertrude. His best friend is Irving.

Homer is nice but sometimes troublesome. Like the time he rode my bike without asking me. It was 4:40 pm when he rode it. How would you like to see a bike going by itself! Well, I'll tell you what Mr. White did.

Mr. White was very superstitious and read lots of science fiction books. He was reading Invaders from Pluto in his living room. He read out loud to himself; "Suddenly, the creature disappeared! He turned invisible, said Capt. Monroe." Mr. White looked up and out the window saw a bike going by itself! Of course, it was just Homer.

"Help! Police! Help!" yelled Mr. White. He ran into the next room and dialed the phone. "Police give me the operator! I mean, operator, give me the police!"

"Soon the police where on. "Yes," said Mr Blocker, the Captain.

"There's an invisible bike, er, man, I mean a creature from Pluto riding a bike!" said Mr. White.

"What?" said Capt. Blocker.

"An invisible creature from Pluto on a bike!"

"What? A creature on an invisible bike?"

"No! A thing from Pluto!"

"I can't understand you, calm down! Talk slower!"

"Details! This is of national concern! We've been invaded! I just sighted an alien creature in the street!"

Capt. Blocker made a face of exasperation at the phone, and to humor the man, replied, "I'll send a car over to investigate..."

This story ends there. I also wrote many more stories including A Martian Fairy Tale, "The Three Gooks," Adventures on Atom, To Mars! Sail On!, The Creature from Beyond, The Very Last Goodbye, and Eve of Destruction.

I have a letter written by classmate Mary W. that reads,

Dear Homer,
Hi! Do you remember me? I am Rudolph the Reindeer. I came down to see you on Xmas evening. You were asleep and I didn't want to wake you. Did you like what you got for your Xmas presents? Don't forget to write me back, OK? Give my letters to Mary W. I am 2 years old in Reindeer life, and 14 years old in human life. Are you human? Or what are you? Love, Rudolph. PS this isn't the way I really write [all caps print] by I want you to read it.

I found my Larry Peterson mystery story. It begins,

"I was walking in a wood, near a riding stable. It was a beautiful day, and would be perfect for horseback riding, but I didn't have any money. I was 16 and didn't have a job and I spent my allowance on a mystery book.

"Just that morning my mother had told me, "Larry Peterson, if you spend one more dollar on a mystery book, I'll swear you'll have 2,000."

I had quickly added, "I spent my allowance on a $3 mystery book today. Now I have 345 and a half."

"A half?"

"Me and JR put our allowances together to buy a mystery book so we each own it until I pay him for the other half."

I heard a noise behind me and turned to see a leopard frog sitting on a slab of limestone. As I watched it I saw something behind it--a garter snake? Yes, it was. He came closer and closer. He was just about to strike it when I heard the loud noise of a horse.

I turned around. There stood a sorrel horse with a white mane, tail, and socks. It was saddled, but no one was in sight. I remembered the frog and turned to see the snake with a big lump in him. "Frog legs, huh?"

The horse nuzzled me. "Where did you come from, boy? The stable? The horse pawed the ground and neighed.

"Well, seeing your rider left you, I'll return you. Come on."

I took the rein and led him in the direction of the stables. As we approached I saw a group of people talking with the owner.

"That's her horse!" said the woman.

"Where's Diana? What did you do with her? Where is she?" the man cried.

"These people say their daughter came here and took this horse to go riding, then she just disappeared."

And so started my mystery.

One of my first poems was named The Poem, perhaps written for school.

I stand here packing up and down
and walking all around
thinking, "What, oh what, should I put down?"

I'm no good at poems,
no ideas have I,
so I pace up and down
with an occasional sigh.

What should I write?
What should I say?
Should I write about a horse
or a girl named Kay?

Or what about a sunset,
a bird or a plane?
How about a teacher
who won a basketball game?

So after about three hours or so
at 10 o'clock and time for bed
it came to me --
just what I read.

Another early poem was written in 1967.

Black is Black.
White is White.
They will always be that way.
For nothing can change them,
They are what they are to stay.

Love is love.
Hate is hate.
It will always be that way.
With one for good, and one for bad,
They are what they are to stay.

I am I.
You are you.
It will always be that way.
I love you; you love me not.
It will always be this way
And I regret that I must say
We are what we are to stay.

I had told Nancy Ensminger when we were nine that I wanted to be an author when I grew up. I had earlier wanted to be an art or music teacher, and for a few days a nun, but in the wisdom of age had decided that authors were the most powerful influences in the world. For they could make one cry or laugh, change their ideas, and reveal new visions.

One More Mr. Henckel Post

I found some errata concerning Mr. Henckel our glee club teacher at Jane Addams Junior High.

Mr Henckel and the Glee Club

Nov. 18, 1964

This is the day Mr. Henckel got paddled. He had told Mike M. that he had the right to paddle anybody who didn't put the books back right. Jim B. put a pile of books back wrong. Mike hit him once. Then Mr. Henckel put his book back wrong. Mike got up and took the paddle. Mr. H was writing something in his black book. SMACK! After a while he said 'when I gave him that job I didn't think he'd have enough nerve to do it to anybody.' Everyone died of laughter.

Nov. 23
Today Mr. Henckel came in and told us about his new son, Graham, who was born the Sunday before. he told us he was named after Graham Hill, the race car driver. He said he was going to get training wheels for his motorcycle. Someone asked if Graham had a middle name. When the answer was no, someone said, "How about Graham Crackers?" Now my brother goes around eating graham crackers all day saying, "I'm eating Mr. Henckel's son all up."

NOTE: Lori Shader Patterson admits she was the one who suggested Crackers as a middle name!

Nov. 24
In music class we sang "Noel" off-key; he let us out early.

Dec. 7
Iolante, an operetta. It was good. Even if it was about fairies I enjoyed it very much. Mr. H. put a sign in the projector that read: "Help! I'm being held prisoner in the projector! The next day he said he found out who it was, and put his own photo under the projector." Denise made a little paddle for Graham Mr. Henckel put it under the projector while we watched Iolante.

Dec. 10
Mr. Henckel got mad at us. The boys tried to out-sing the girls. He put on a record of Christmas Carols. Everyone got bored. Sue and Ann had a staring contest. Sue won because someone pushed Ann's belly-button.

Dec. 11
Mr. Henckel gave us a speech on Mozart. Denise has gotten a lot of tape on her mouth.

Dec. 15
Three days ago someone took Mr. Henckel's paddle.

Dec. 17
We all said Merry Christmas to Mr. Henckel. He said, "Same to you, lunkheads."

Here is something I made up back then:

Mr. Henckel's Musical Dictionary

Accent: emphasize or stress. Example: When Mr. Henckel has to tell the 7-4s to be quiet. SHUT UP YOU MEATHEADS!

Alla Breve: Two beats to the measure. Example: Spanking someone to music.

Allegretto: Gay and moderately lively. Example: The way Mr. Henckel acts when he doesn't have to stay up and feed Graham that night.

Cadence: The end of a musical sentence. Example: When Mr. Henckel finished a speech on music.

Crescendo: A gradual increase in tone. Example: What Mr. Henckel does when he gets mad.

Da capo de fine: return to the beginning and play to the measure marked fine. Example: What Mr. Henckel has to do with we aren't listening to his speech and he has to repeat it.

Fortissimo: very loud and strong. Example: How Mr. Henckel talks when he's mad.

Henckel: A famous music teacher.

Graham 'Crackers': a famous food.

Lump-Lump: a name used by Mr. Henckel

Meatheads: people with no musical sense, talent, etc. Example: the 7-4s.

Molto: much. Example: Mr. Henckel like much music.

Non Troppo: not too much. Example: the 7-4s don't like much music at a time.

Peabrain: a name used by Mr. Henckel

Peanutbrain: another name used by Mr. Henckel

Poco: little. Example: We do little singing.

Sempre: always. Example: The 7-4s will always like Mr. Henckel.

Sforzando: forcing. Example: We always force Mr. Henckel into letting us sing.

Spaceman of Bohemia: Truths Must Not Be Feared

Jakub Prochazka has never forgotten the Shoe Man who turned his grandparents out of their home. He appeared with an iron shoe that Jakub's father once used to torture him. Jakub's father had been an informer when Czechoslovakia was under Soviet rule, a ranking member of the Party, an expert torturer. Then came the collapse of the USSR and the trial, and orphan Jakub living with his grandparents.

When my father the hero was lost, my father the nation's villain came to light.

Jakub's dream of becoming a scientist is partly inspired by the desire to reestablish Prague as a center of scientific research.

But mostly Jakub desires to restore his family name, remove the curse as it were. When he is offered the chance to go into space and investigate Chopra, a strange purple dust cloud, he eagerly accepts. He will be a hero, bringing scientific glory back to the homeland.

Even if it means leaving his beloved wife behind, an unwilling Penelope left in limbo as her husband explores new worlds.

During his isolated journey through the solar system Jakub has a lot of time to miss his wife, think about the past, and discuss his life with a new friend--the giant black arachnid, the last of his kind, with an interest in earthlings. He teaches Jakub his people's tenants: The body must not be violated. Truths must not be feared.

When the Chopra cloud is reached, Jakub faces challenges that change his life. In the end, Jakub must decide on what kind of life awaits him.

Spaceman of Bohemia by Jaroslav Kalfar is an unusual book, at once funny and probing, emotionally wise, improbable, a blend of philosophy and fantasy. Exactly the kind of genre-bending read I enjoy dipping into a few times a year!

Kalfar is a Czech-American who came to the US at age 15, and says he learned English from The Cartoon Network. This is his first novel. He holds an MFA from New York University. I look forward to reading more from this young author.

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

Spaceman in Bohemia
Jaroslav Kalfar
Little, Brown and Company
Publication March 7, 2017
$26 hard cover
ISBN:9780316273435

More Mr. Henckel Memories and a Surprise Connection

Several people who were also in Glee Club at Jane Addams Jr High have shared their memories.

We recalled how the boys would act up and get Mr. Henckel upset. He would go into his office until a boy went and apologized.

I remember that the kids all loved Louie, Louie and that I hated it for being one of those silly songs I had pledged as a girl to never like.

A man told me he recalled we sang The Telephone Song from Bye, Bye Birdie and he had a solo.

In 1964 Mr. Henckel and his wife had a son, Graham, named for Graham Hill the race car driver. I created a card for him, but of course never gave it.

It appears that Mr. Henckel's son grew up and became an engineer who worked on the Chrysler Viper!

Graham Henckel and his Viper from Linked In

Here are links to stories about the Viper and its chief designer:
http://www.usatoday.com/story/money/cars/2014/01/19/chrysler-srt-viper-paint-job/4582633/
http://www.motortrend.com/news/a-closer-look-at-the-2013-srt-viper-on-the-downshift-270157/
http://www.torquenews.com/106/chrysler-issues-28-minutes-new-2013-srt-viper-videos

My Dad also worked on the Viper during his last years at Chrysler! He was a mechanic who worked on small electric motors, including intermittent windshield wipers and door locks and was involved with testing. The Viper was one cool car!

Gene Gochenour in a Viper at work