Reading, writing...that's what I do.

Love for the printed word, love and belief in ideas.

10055 South Wood Street, The Story of a Family

In the late sixties, I became a latchkey child who didn’t mind walking two plus miles from Longwood High School to my home in Beverly Hills, a Chicago neighborhood far south of the city. Through the soft breezes of spring and the freezing cold winds of winter, I walked the same cracked sidewalks and the same streets, avoiding the whoosh of traffic, and depending on the time of day, waiting to hear the faraway horns of the Rock Island Trains bringing commuters to and from the city.  

Beverly, a place of parks and treed streets, older homes and churches, my mile plus walk taking me by shops, two-flats, train-tracks, buses—and depending on my mood when I left school late because of chorus or working on our newspaper, I’d walk south to 99th street, turning right and heading west to Wood…or I’d walk west on 95th to Wood, turning left through familiar neighborhoods…because these pathways, despite cold winds or hot sun, were my way home.

Later, when struggling to find the key to our grey frame house, I rarely realized my good fortune…this place of green lawns, neatly kept homes, so different from the descriptions of city life I’d read about in books, seen in photos in Life Magazine. Beverly, like a small town, easy to navigate–city blocks with north-south streets bearing elegant names, east-west streets using numbers to indicate their distance from Chicago’s city center. Beverly, with nature’s gifts lining our streets…stately elms shaped like wine glasses reaching out to maples, oaks…all forming arches of spinning leaves.

And so begins my book…thanks for reading…soon to be available on Amazon. 

PS. Many of you who still follow me and read my work, know that after living in Park Forest, Homewood, Des Moines, Iowa, and West Lake Village California….my husband and I are now back in Chicago, in Beverly.

But I wrote this book years ago, eager to preserve my memories of growing up in an amazing place, being raised by my giving and wonderful mother after my father died in 1950 of a major heart attack. Medicine could not save him at that time. And as I grew, married my forever love, John Havey, taught high school English at Bloom Township High School, later to be blessed with three amazing children, I then went back to school to become an RN, work in Labor and Delivery at Mercy Hospital in downtown Chicago.

All of this before moving to Des Moines, Iowa, after John got a phone call…a growing company needed his skills. And so we moved, I working for Meredith Books and then the Des Moines Health Care Center during H1N1. But the best part, I had time to write. This book is my second Amazon Publication. Last year I gave you: AFTER PAPER LEFT. So as always, I thank you for reading, for being here, Beth  

REVIEW OF THE CORRESPONDENT by VIRGINIA EVANS

Novel writing is always about human joy, human grief. And novels often use tropes to organize content and please the reader. Definition: A trope is a common or recurring motif, theme, or device in storytelling. It also refers to any figurative use of language—such as a metaphor, simile, or irony—where words express a meaning different from their literal sense.

Reading Virginia Evan’s THE CORRESPONDENT, the cover quotes Ann Patchett: “A cause for celebration.” In my humble opinion…that depends. It took me a long time to read and finish this novel. I read another (Elizabeth Strout’s THE THINGS WE NEVER SAY) during that time.

But yes, I finally did get to the end of the correspondent, a series of letter shared by the main character, Sybil Van Antwerp, who is the correspondent, with various other letter writers who come and go.

All writers use tropes. In fact, you might be creating a novel right now and not realize that the amazing plot  line you are working with contains a trope, one that has been used for centuries by other writers. Examples…the long, lost parent, the dead child, the secret lover, the dying major character. 

And what is a motif or theme…basically it is human experience. When you sit down to write a novel, you are writing about love and grief, surprise and longing. These are human qualities and they surface in our lives when we encounter love, death, abuse, abandonment, success, and unforgivable pain.

It would be wrong of me to state right out what the major TROPE in The Correspondent is. You have to read much of the novel to find it, which is interesting, because many writers use a trope at the very beginning, and then expand on it to bring the novel to a its close. Evans reveals this almost at the conclusion of her work. It’s as if she is driving us down a twisting highway, allowing us to meet so many people in her life, when the one person she longs for who we know nothing about is finally revealed.

Maybe that is why Evan’s Sybil is THE CORRESPONDENT, her name another interesting choice: Sybil is of Greek origin and translates to “prophetess” or “oracle”. In ancient Greek and Roman mythology, sibyls were prophetic women believed to interpret messages from the gods and possess divine knowledge of the future.

The Correspondent is 281 pages of letters, characters and indecision, the major cause of all being revealed at the end. Different? Useful? It worked for this new and now admired writer. Let me know if it works for you. 

Info On Supporting the Celiac Safety Act

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A friend online asked that we call our representatives in Washington, regarding the CELIAC SAFETY ACT. I immediately offered to write about this condition. 

DEFINITION: Celiac disease is an autoimmune disorder. When a person with this disease eats gluten, which is a protein found in wheat, barley and rye, the small intestine is often damaged. Such damage causes malabsorption, leading to symptoms such as diarrhea, bloating, and fatigue. The basic treatment is a strict, lifelong gluten-free diet. 

 Though symptoms can vary widely, they often include digestive issues, unexplained anemia, osteoporosis, or an itchy rash (dermatitis herpetiformis). In children, the condition may cause stunted growth and delayed puberty. Left untreated, it can lead to malnutrition and other autoimmune conditions.
  • Blood Tests: Screening for specific antibodies (such as the tTG-IgA test).
  • Endoscopy: If blood tests are positive, a gastroenterologist performs an endoscopy to take a tissue sample (biopsy) from the clients’s small intestine to confirm the damage and thus the condition: Celiac Disease. . 
Currently, the only gluten ingredient required to be listed on labels is wheat, because it’s also a major food allergy.
But people with Celiac (which is a condition that can severely damage the small intestine) are sensitive to all gluten — so not only wheat, but also barley and rye, and a long list of ingredients derived from those things (e.g. brewer’s yeast, malt, farro, graham flour, some soy sauce and “natural flavors”).
If the SAFETY ACT passes, it would mean all gluten would have to be declared — a real game-changer for folks with Celiac. Everyone should be able to EAT without worrying the food is destroying their body.
Please read and consider helping. Look up your reps and write to them. And thanks for reading, because when this reaction occurs, patients frequently experience a wide range of gastrointestinal and non-digestive problems, including
  • Digestive issues: Abdominal pain, bloating, chronic diarrhea, constipation, nausea, and vomiting.
  • Nutrient deficiencies: Malabsorption can lead to iron-deficiency anemia, low vitamin B12, and calcium deficiencies.
  • Bone and joint pain: Long-term poor absorption can lead to weak bones, osteopenia, or osteoporosis.
  • Dermatitis herpetiformis: An intensely itchy, blistering skin rash that often appears on the elbows, knees, and buttocks.
  • Systemic and mental symptoms: Chronic fatigue, headaches, depression, anxiety, and in some cases, infertility

 

10055 South Wood Street, The Story of a Family

Below is an excerpt from my current WIP, work in progress. It is the story of my family, of growing up without a father. It will be published soon.   (SHE is my mother, Virginia Rausch Pfordresher)

Jinni. Beth (standing), and Bill

John, Beth and Bill. Three years between each of us. But when a salesman or an old woman who wants to sell her potholders comes to the door, She becomes “just a widow with three kids.” But every night at the dinner table, as the years stretch on, there is laughter or we argue about who will wash the dishes, or we watch Bill try to tell a joke and then fall on the floor laughing, rolling around. Then much later, we sink into bed, sleep like the dead. We are safe, with no fears. At least the three of us are. We don’t think to ask how it is for her.

There is a wake at the funeral home, this the night She must move about, hold and hug people, her husband lying just beyond, solitary in an open casket. It is a ritual that some may think barbaric, but She will tell me over the years of the comforts it brought, she now in a trance of sorrow. Many arrive, his dental patients who weep, shake their heads. He was so loved. He was too young. They have gifts for her—fond words, their own special memories of him, and of course hugs and tears. And though promises will be made, they will then say good night, turn from her, grateful for the progression of their own peaceful lives. But what else can they do in the face of her sorrow?

There is Dr. Valentine, a fellow dentist, crushed by this loss, unable to approach the coffin, though throughout the evening he stays at her side, introduces her to doctors who have come, patients that she might not know. And She will tell me when I’m grown of one unthinking mourner, who says my father should have been on blood thinners. In that day, in that time, these drugs were new and not always available. It is hurtful to be armed with knowledge, but not with understanding. She will also tell us of the promises people made, the things they said they would do for her and for us—but most did not.

And there are the words of the nurse from the Medical Arts building where my father had his practice: “I saw Dr. Pfordresher one day, sitting on the back steps of our building, his head in his hands. I went to him, asked him if there was anything he needed, if I could help him. He looked up at me and said, ‘No, no one can help me.’”

I will live in a frantic cloud of anger, asking over and over Where is he? Where has he gone? I will fight what I can’t understand, my world so changed, his deep voice, his hugs and kisses, gone. I’m like Helen Keller, fighting my misunderstanding, being unruly, angry, overwrought, uncooperative. She seeks help from doctors. They tell her to let me be, but then at least once a day, to remind me that she is in charge. And later, I do not remember the day or the experience, She tells me my father has died and gone to heaven. I ask where heaven is and how he got there.   

But there are always the songs She will sing to me, the words of love she will say…and the hugs of my Nana and aunts, the soft body of my tiny baby brother as I hold him, smile down at him. There will be the quiet of the back bedroom with the shades pulled, the hall light on, the window slightly open to the crickets and sometimes an owl. And there will be me, lying singular in my bed, sucking my thumb, always sucking my thumb, my heart beating, beating—all my living moments buried in the wood, the plaster of this house, mingling with the slope of the ceilings, the creak of the floors, the very air of the space. It will be there, a second skin, and I will hold it, depend on it, as I live my child self into the future.  

The swing on the cherry tree is mine, and after my father’s death I spend most of my time on that swing. It is a place of solace, one I refuse to share with anyone, yelling, screaming when my friend Tigh, sits on it. From my father’s death in June to the cold autumn weather, I swing, back and forth, back and forth, my little body taut with an energy I cannot expend normally, my mind full of questions, memories I cannot articulate…except to sing a song my father taught me, sing it over and over… “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”

Elizabeth Strout’s Latest Novel: THE THINGS WE NEVER SAY

Elizabeth Strout is ONE AMAZING WRITER. Starting with her novels, AMY and ISABLE, ABIDE WITH ME, she went on to create OLIVE KITTERIDGE, which won her the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 2009. But even if she had not had that prestigious start, Strout would have forged ahead, a village of her characters constantly speaking to her, enabling her to keep writing one amazing book after another. I have read all of them.

Her most recent award, THE STORY PRIZE, was given for her novel: ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE…a collection of interconnected short stories set in Amgash, Illinois—the imagined rural, impoverished hometown of imagined author Lucy Barton from Strout’s, MY NAME IS LUCY BARTON. 

The book introduces us to new characters, revealing why Lucy left the town and its confining culture to move to New York, where she created a new life and began to write stories analyzing and revealing the memories of these people and their circumstances. When Strout writes from the point of view of Lucy Barton, there is a sadness and loss of connection that Strout might have experienced in her own life. Those novels include: MY NAME IS LUCY BARTON, and TELL ME EVERYTHING, LUCY BY THE SEA, THE BURGESS BOYS. But with the love of her older characters still fresh and alive, Stout then gave us: OLIVE AGAIN, and OH,WILLIAM.

Now in this latest book, she is exploring and developing characters in a totally different environment, but with the same interior writing. We truly KNOW Strout’s characters, because she slowly peels away the elements they are hiding: their fears, mistakes, longings, and confusions. And so…

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAY 

A brief summary: The novel’s main character is Arti Dam, a history teacher, liked and honored by his students, who lives and works in costal Massachusetts, but who secretly fights his personal fears, brought on by feelings of isolation, despair and the occasional desire for suicide. We gradually learn that these events are related to past sorrows in his life. Arti might be named for the “art” of finding one’s way through sorrow and worry, through memories that create confusion. Because what is life? What is MY LIFE? And most particularly, how can Arti get closer to his estranged son, after an accident that caused a death?

And yes, we might admire a character who approaches each day with the desire to communicate with his students. But that cannot heal the worries and the fears that Artie is struggling with. Secrets make people fearful. Secrets make people lonely. Maybe this amazing writer is speaking to many of us….how are you doing in life today? What fears are you forced to hide? What truths are you denying? And if you are denying your individual truths…why are you doing so?

Reading always helps us SEE our own true selves. At least I believe this. Thus, maybe Elizabeth Strout has a message for all of us….because this novel is also set against the backdrop of the 2024 election. Wow! 

Let’s ask ourselves…what things do we need to say, do we need to share with those we love? And do we need to share them NOW?  A question to consider. 

Thanks for reading.  

MISSING SADIE MAE

When I was growing up, there really wasn’t room in the bank account for our mother, Jinni, raising three children on her own….to provide us with a pet. But regardless of our slim funds, Jinni always managed to keep us happy. There was the occasional bowl of gold fish, and our turtle we named IKE. But being desperate to be like the other children in our neighborhood, we devised a way to take Ike out onto Wood Street, where he soon after died, probably because you can’t pull a slow turtle down a sidewalk and expect him to enjoy it. 

But then, after awhile, there was a major change, there was PETER FRITZ, a gold-colored canary. We set up a wire birdcage in the corner of our dining room, opposite where Jinni had her typewriter and table of the necessary things one needs type insurance policies and thus raise we three children. 

This was a very big deal for Jinni to allow us to have this PET. All our friends had dogs–but Jinni made it very clear that dogs cost money and would require more work on our part. SO…we settled for the bird…this after Bill and I tried to walk a turtle down Wood Street by tying a string around his neck…truly not a cruel act on our part….we just desperately WANTED A PET.

And then our dream came true, we had this lovely canary, we all eagerly awaiting a lovely song to proceed from his throat. But maybe Peter Fritz (named because I wanted to call him Peter, and my older brother John wanted to name him after the musical conductor Fritz Reiner, a common thread in our family, using names that no one else would ever use, one gold fish named Igor, after Igor Stravinsky…) But this is totally okay! We  were always a music loving family, my father having one of the first phonographs that allowed him to also record our voices. And this became a true miracle, his encouraging voice also being  recorded (though I refused to speak)…so that when our father died a year later…wow, we had his amazing deep voice recorded. But that death also meant that when I came home from high school and found Peter Fritz lying on the floor of his bird cage, I called my mother at her office, begging her to do something. But there was nothing to do. The bird had died, but even so, we will offer our profound human love to a bird, a cat, and very often a dog, who we somehow believe will be with us forever.

And then….much later….there was Sadie Mae, the beloved pet of our daughter Christie and her family…a poole mix, the first dog I ever truly loved my entire life…Sadie Mae, who died this week. And now we are all missing her, remembering how sweet she was, how protective she was and so caring of Christie’s children. A dog who learned about love from her family, and thus from the very beginning showed us how she LOVED HER PEOPLE, her people always loving her back. Sadie creating a game with me when she discovered a newly purchased bag of apples and sent them rolling along Christie’s kitchen floor. It became a game that I would struggle to win. Sadie loved it. And the time I had brought dark chocolate to the house, and somehow she got up on the counter and I found her trying to eat it. This required a trip to the vet…but we were fortunate and Sadie was okay. 

Sadie of the LONG LIFE. Sadie of the GOOD LIFE. She will be missed forever….puppy, charmer, lover, and giver into her old age. And if you know the phrase A Dog’s Life to be one of goodness and love….Sadie certainly had A Dog’s Best Life.   

 

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