DNF in 2024

 

I tried. I really tried. As noted in my year-end summary, I read 711 pages and listened for almost 10 1/2 hours, but for a variety of reasons, couldn't finish these books. Some of them I've even tried to read more than once. The audiobooks remain in my audio library, but the others have been donated and quite honestly, I'm glad they are off my shelves. I realize that many of these books are highly regarded by you and others, but they weren't for me. 

Rejected

I have a vivid memory of the first time I saw a friend's TBR shelf. It was sometime in the early 90s and we were talking about books, and she was telling me about Willa Cather. As she pulled a book from her bookcase, I noticed a few more that sounded appealing. I asked her if she liked them, and she told me that she hadn't yet read them. What?! Why not? Apparently, she had several that she was planning to read, but had others to read first. Up until then, I either bought a book and read it or checked a few out from the library and read them before getting more. I had no idea about TBR shelves. Fast forward a few years and not only had I started a small face-to-face book club, but I joined a couple of Yahoo book groups. Suddenly, book recommendations were coming in faster than I could read. I participated in book box mailings lists (from those online groups), eagerly attended library book sales, perused used bookstores, and swapped books with friends and relatives. As if that weren't enough, I got a job at Borders Books and Music, followed by Barnes & Noble, and was the lucky recipient of numerous comp copies and ARCs. Blogging added to the flow of ARCs, as did giveaways on Goodreads. Before I knew it, I had a bookcase overflowing with unread books. I was all set for a blizzard!

I can't tell you how many of those books have been with me for over 20 years, but I do know that many have moved with me from Nebraska to Texas, back to Nebraska, and ultimately winding up in my office in Oregon. Each year I try to read from my own shelves, but the new and shiny releases are hard to ignore. This past year I read over 50 books from my stacks, which felt like a great accomplishment. Eager to keep that trend going, this past week I've pulled well over a dozen books from the shelves only to discover they no longer appeal. I gave each a chapter or two before moving on to the next. I don't know if I'll ever be happy without a TBR stack, but there's something liberating about weeding out the deadwood while discovering a gem in the rough.

Called It Quits

All four of these novels came highly recommended by several respected bloggers. I was thrilled to find them at the library earlier in the month and was eager to settle in for some great reading. Sadly, each and every one of these books failed to capture my attention. I even set one aside to try again later, but once I resumed reading it a week later, it continued to disappoint. Back to the library they went. On the plus side, I didn't waste any money. #lovemylibrary

Rejected

Last week I made the decision to spend the month reading from my stacks. These books have been in my possession for close to a decade, if not longer (and have moved from Lincoln to Texas and back to Lincoln again!). With fairly strict adherence to my 50 page rule, I've managed to toss five aside. The good news is I finally found something I'm enjoying. These are the losers.

Read two dozen pages. No interest at all.

Bought this one at Powell's in the Portland airport. Isn't the cover art beautiful? Unfortunately, the coming-of-age tale didn't do anything for me.

I loved A Fine Balance and was anxious to finally give this one a read. Judging by the ratings on Goodreads, I'm in the minority, but after 40 pages it simply didn't appeal to me.

It's been such a long time since I read Big Stone Gap that I'd pretty much forgotten the entire back story when I picked up Trigiani's follow-up novel. I didn't even make it past 30 pages. With that said, I'm well over a 100 pages in Milk Glass Moon (the third in the series). Go figure. I may have to come back to this when I'm finished.

Another sequel that failed to pull me in. These Is My Words is one of my all-time favorite epistolary novels. I've read it twice and have hand sold well over a 100 copies. Unfortunately, Sarah's Quilt feels slow and plodding. I read over 50 pages and found I was beginning to check to see how much further I had to read. Not a good sign.

I Quit...

No, not blogging! As noted in my previous post, I no longer hesitate to give up on a book if it fails to capture my attention. Lately, I’ve given up on several books, but rather than post a separate entry for each, I thought I’d lump them all together. I know there’s no reason to bother with the DNFs, but my memory isn’t what it used to be and I need all the help I can get to remember what I’ve read or attempted to read so I don’t accidentally buy a book I’ve already tried. Please tell me you all suffer from the same problem!

So, very briefly, here’s what failed to capture my interest:

The Little Friend
by Donna Tart

I read almost 100 pages, but after the first chapter it was quite a struggle. Strange novel!

I See You Everywhere
by Julia Glass (audio)

Listened to over 100 pages before finally calling it quits. I read and enjoyed Three Junes when it first came out, but haven’t read anything else by Glass. I haven’t given up on her yet.

Doc
by Mary Doria Russell

Listened to a chapter or two and gave up. The reader was putting me to sleep! My husband, stepdad and two good friends loved this book. I’ve enjoyed everything by Russell, so I’ll have to try the printed format.

Falling Together
by Marisa de los Santos

I gave up after about a hundred pages. I couldn’t get interested in Pen’s story and thought the writing was very disjointed and the plot lacking. This is so disappointing, especially since I loved Belong to Me and Love Walked In. This new novel almost feels like it was written by a different author. I’ve read several reviews on Amazon and have to agree with those who gave it only one or two stars.

Now to go read more of Jack Finney’s Time and Again, which has captured my interest!

Sea Glass

Sea Glass by Anita Shreve
Fiction
2002 Little, Brown and Company
Quit 8/11/11
Rating: DNF





Publisher’s Blurb:

With all the narrative power and emotional immediacy that have made her novels acclaimed international bestsellers, Anita Shreve unfolds a richly engaging tale of marriage, money, and troubled times—the story of a pair of young newlyweds who, setting out to build a life together in a derelict beach house on the Atlantic coast, soon discover how threatening the world outside their front door can be.

Sea Glass is the third volume in a series set on the coast of New Hampshire. The large coastal home featured in The Pilot’s Wife and Fortune’s Rocks is once again the focal point of this story. I thoroughly enjoyed the earlier novels in this series, so I was disappointed that this book didn’t live up to my expectations. Each chapter centers around one of six characters and is typically only a couple of pages in length. I usually don’t mind short chapters and can go back and forth between narrators, so it wasn’t the style of formatting that bothered me, but rather a general disinterest in the thin plot, coupled with a lack of affection for any of the characters.

Looking back on all the books I’ve read by Anita Shreve, it’s a wonder I keep trying to find a winner. I loved Fortune’s Rocks and The Pilot’s Wife, but was less impressed with A Wedding in December, Light on Snow, The Weight of Water, and now Sea Glass. I still have some of her backlist in my stacks, so we’ll see if any of them are as enjoyable as the first two I mentioned.

Summer People

Summer People by Brian Groh
Fiction
2007 Harper Perennial
Quit on 8/4/11
Rating: DNF



Publisher’s Blurb:

Nathan Empson has just accepted the most unusual summer job of his life. In exchange for serving as a “caretaker” for Ellen Broderick, the eccentric matriarch of an exclusive coastal community, he’ll earn a generous paycheck and gain access to one of the last bastions of old New England wealth. But not everyone in town is welcoming—or even civil. And while he discovers companionship with a philosophical, ex-punk Episcopalian pastor, and more than companionship with the alluring nanny to the pastor’s children, Nathan finds it increasingly difficult to ignore his employer’s unnerving behavior. With each escalating mishap, a new aspect of Ellen’s colorful past comes to light, exposing the secret lives of her old friends, flames, and enemies, as well as the story behind a scandalous incident Nathan must prevent her from repeating. Yet to sound the alarm about her condition would mean leaving his beachside oasis and the romance that may well change him forever.

I fell in love with the cover art for this novel.

I should know better than to judge a book by its cover.

In spite of a couple of enticing paragraphs, the promise of which which lured me into the beach setting, I set this book aside after 50 pages. I didn’t care about any of the characters, especially Nathan who is self-centered and immature. The plot is flat and lifeless and the dialogue dull and boring.

One Summer

One Summer by David Baldacci
Fiction
2011 Grand Central Publishing
Quit on 7/26/11
Rating: DNF




Publisher’s Blurb:

It’s almost Christmas, but there is no joy in the house of terminally ill Jack and his family. With only a short time left to live, he spends his last days preparing to say good-bye to his devoted wife, Lizzie, and their three children. Then, unthinkably, tragedy strikes again [spoiler removed]. Just when all seems lost, Jacks begins to recover in a miraculous turn of events. He rises from what should have been his deathbed, determined to bring his fractured family back together. [Remainder of blurb removed due to spoilers]

It’s been close to a decade since I’ve read something by Baldacci. I don’t think I’ve ever read any of his thrillers, but I thoroughly enjoyed Wish You Well and had high hopes for another outstanding departure from his usual books. Unfortunately, after close to fifty pages, I decided to call it quits. Pick a word, any word: Overly sentimental. Schmaltzy. Predictable. Sappy. Contrived. Overwrought.

Blech.

Note to self: Read the back of the book before adding it to my stacks.

The History of Love

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
Fiction
2005 W. W. Norton and Company
Quit on 6/14/11
Rating: DNF





Publisher’s Blurb:

Fourteen-year-old Alma Singer is trying to find a cure for her mother’s loneliness. Believing that she might discover it in an old book her mother is lovingly translating, she sets out in search of its author. Across New York an old man named Leo Gursky is trying to survive a little bit longer. He spends his days dreaming of the lost love who, sixty years ago in Poland, inspired him to write a book. And although he doesn’t know it yet, that book also survived: crossing oceans and generations, and changing lives….

I’ve had this book on my shelf for several years and decided to give it a read when it was shortlisted for the 2011 One Book, One Lincoln. After more than a hundred pages, I decided it was time to call it quits.

Marvelous? (San Francisco Chronicle) Astonishing? (Washington Post) Ingenious? (New York Times). I beg to differ. I had a hard time following the flow of the narrative, which jumped from one topic to another, and I didn't care at all for any of the characters.

Final thoughts: Dull. Convoluted. Obscure.

The Enchanted April

The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim
Fiction
1922 Washington Square Press
Quit on 1/14/11
Rating: DNF




Product Description:

High above a bay on the Italian Riviera, the small medieval castle of San Salvatore was awash with the scent of flowers, its olive groves sweeping in terraced descent down to the sun-warmed sea. San Salvatore invited the heart to burst into bloom...

Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Arbuthnot are glad to leave their stifling duties and distant husbands behind; Mrs. Fisher wants only to sit in the sun and savor her youthful memories, while Lady Caroline Dester longs for the sweet oblivion of no adoring suitors. They agree to rent the castle for a month of blissful privacy. Yet, amid the showers of fragrant wisteria, in the hazy heat and sensuous silence, each one will be seduced and changed by the magic of San Salvatore...

I’m planning to travel to Italy (!!) next year to celebrate my 50th birthday. My hope is to read all of the books I’ve collected over the years that are set in that enchanting country. I’ve owned this particular book for more than a decade and I’ve tried to read it a couple of times, but have never gotten very far. After reading Bellezza’s review, I decided to give it another go. Well, I tried. But once again I failed to finish and quit after more than 100 pages. Maybe I’ll just have to settle for a viewing of the film.

That said, I did mark the following and after re-reading these little gems, I am actually re-considering the book.



The bedrooms and two of the sitting-rooms at San Salvatore were on the top floor, and opened into a roomy hall with a wide glass window at the north end. San Salvatore was rich in small gardens in different parts and on different levels. The garden this window looked down on was made on the highest part of the walls, and could only be reached through the corresponding spacious hall on the floor below. When Mrs. Wilkins came out of her room this window stood wide open, and beyond it in the sun was a Judas tree in full flower. There was no sign of anybody, no sound of voices or feet. Tubs of arum lilies stood about on the stone floor, and on a table flamed a huge bunch of fierce nasturtiums. Spacious, flowery, silent, with the wide window at the end opening into the garden, and the Judas tree absurdly beautiful in the sunshine, it seemed to Mrs. Wilkins, arrested on her way across to Mrs. Arbuthnot, too good to be true. Was she really going to live in this for a whole month? Up to now she had had to take what beauty she could as she went along, snatching at little bits of it when she came across it—a patch of daisies on a fine day in a Hampstead field, a flash of sunset between two chimney pots. She had never been in definitely, completely beautiful places. She had never been even in a venerable house; and such a thing as a profusion of flowers in her rooms was unattainable to her. Sometimes in the spring she had bought six tulips at Shoolbred's, unable to resist them, conscious that Mellersh if he knew what that had cost would think it inexcusable; but they had soon died, and then there were no more. As for the Judas tree, she hadn't an idea what it was, and gazed at it out there against the sky with the rapt expression of one who sees a heavenly vision.

and

They left the path, and clambered down the olive terraces, down and down, to where at the bottom the warm, sleepy sea heaved gently among the rocks. There a pine-tree grew close to the water, and they sat under it, and a few yards away was a fishing-boat lying motionless and green-bellied on the water. The ripples of the sea made little gurgling noises at their feet. They screwed up their eyes to be able to look into the blaze of light beyond the shade of their tree. The hot smell from the pine-needles and from the cushions of wild thyme that padded the spaces between the rocks, and sometimes a smell of pure honey from a clump of warm irises up behind them in the sun, puffed across their faces. Very soon Mrs. Wilkins took her shoes and stockings off, and let her feet hang in the water. After watching her a minute Mrs. Arbuthnot did the same. Their happiness was then complete. Their husbands would not have known them. They left off talking. They ceased to mention heaven. They were just cups of acceptance.

Maybe I’ll just read it in bits & pieces and see if I wind up enjoying it as much as Bellezza. I'm having a difficult time saying I'm finished with this book...

On the Road

On the Road by Jack Keroauc
Fiction
Penguin Audio, Unabridged Edition 2007
Read by Will Patton
Quit on 7/20/10
Rating: DNF


Product Description

On the Road chronicles Kerouac's years traveling the North American continent-from East Coast to West Coast to Mexico-with his friend Neal Cassady, "a sideburned hero of the snowy West."

From Amazon:

Though Jack Kerouac began thinking about the novel that was to become On the Road as early as 1947, it was not until three weeks in April 1951, in an apartment on West Twentieth Street in Manhattan, that he wrote the first full draft that was satisfactory to him. Typed out as one long, single-spaced paragraph on eight long sheets of tracing paper that he later taped together to form a 120-foot scroll, this document is among the most significant, celebrated, and provocative artifacts in contemporary American literary history. It represents the first full expression of Kerouac's revolutionary aesthetic, the identifiable point at which his thematic vision and narrative voice came together in a sustained burst of creative energy. It was also part of a wider vital experimentation in the American literary, musical, and visual arts in the post-World War II period.

It was not until more than six years later, and several new drafts, that Viking published, in 1957, the novel known to us today. On the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of On the Road, Viking will publish the 1951 scroll in a standard book format. The differences between the two versions are principally ones of significant detail and altered emphasis. The scroll is slightly longer and has a heightened linguistic virtuosity and a more sexually frenetic tone. It also uses the real names of Kerouac's friends instead of the fictional names he later invented for them. The transcription of the scroll was done by Howard Cunnell who, along with Joshua Kupetz, George Mouratidis, and Penny Vlagopoulos, provides a critical introduction that explains the fascinating compositional and publication history of On the Road and anchors the text in its historical, political, and social context.

Until last month, I had never read any of Kerouac's works, so I was pleased when my book club chose On the Road for our July selection. Not a huge fan of the "classics," I decided to opt for the audio version. I wish I could say I was pleasantly surprised with this literary classic, but after four discs, I had to call it quits. I found Patton's nonstop reading of Kerouac's prose exhausting (and a bit annoying) to listen to for more than 10-15 minutes at a time.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop, and everybody goes ahh...

Truman Capote famously said about Kerouac's work, "That's not writing, it's typing".

Final thoughts: If you're looking for a "road-trip" adventure story, read John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley. Excellent book!

About the audio version:

The year 2007 marked the 50th anniversary of this modern classic, and an audio interpretation is a marvelous way to experience Kerouac's free-flowing prose. Will Patton, noted for his performance of books by James Lee Burke, is a fine match for this text. ON THE ROAD is a winding, meandering journey, and Patton's performance as narrator provides the map. His voice brings the vitality of Kerouac's sense of spontaneity into being. Patton creates distinct voices for the two main characters, speaking for Kerouac in the guise of the observant Sal Paradise and for his friend Neal Cassady in the guise of the pleasure-seeking Dean Moriarty. Patton is appropriately quiet or exuberant, optimistic or cautious, and an ideal guide into the experience that is ON THE ROAD.

In other news, Viggo Mortensen will be playing Old Bull Lee in the upcoming re-make of On the Road. Click here for more info.

Godmother

Godmother: The Secret Cinderella Story by Carolyn Turgeon
Fiction
2009 Three Rivers Press
Quit on 4/10/10
Rating: DNF




Product Description

Lil is an old woman who spends her days shelving rare books in a tiny Manhattan bookstore and lonely nights at home in her apartment. But Lil has an intriguing secret. Tucked and bound behind her back are white feathery wings–the only key to who she once was: the fairy godmother responsible for getting Cinderella to the ball to unite with her Prince Charming.

But on that fateful night, something went terribly and beautifully wrong. Lil allowed herself the unthinkable: to feel the emotions of human beings and fall in love with the prince herself, going to the ball in place of Cinderella in her exquisitely gorgeous human guise. For her unforgivable mistake, she was banished to live among humans, far from her fairy sisters and their magical underwater world. But then one day she meets Veronica–a young, fair-skinned, flame-haired East Village beauty with a love of all things vintage and a penchant for falling in love with the wrong men–and suddenly it becomes clear to Lil that she’s been given a chance at redemption. If she can find a soul mate for Veronica, she may right her wrong and return to the fairy world she so deeply longs for. . . .

I'm not sure I would have ever picked this up on my own accord, but since it was a book club selection, I went ahead and gave it a read. Well, 87 of the 273 pages, that is. I loved the opening scenes, describing Lil's job in the bookstore.

I sat down, pulled the book close to me, against my chest. I loved that each book had its own history. I kept a box under the counter filled with the ephemera I'd found in them, the notes and receipts and lists and bookmarks and bits of feather or plastic that people stuck between pages and forgot to pull out again. Once I'd opened a copy of Middlemarch and found a dried sprig of lavender and one pink rose. Another time a love letter had fallen out as I flipped through the pages of Thérèse Raquin. "I can't see anything but your eyes," the lover had begun, and I would wonder who it was, if the lovers even remembered the fever that had passed over them once.

I loved the scribbles in the margins, the notes in the front of the books that told their stories, the way they passed from one person to another. "To Jennifer, Christmas 1921. May these words stay with you." The stray phrases and numbers jotted on the side of a page—"Indian Taj, 74th Street" emerging from the margins of Utopia, "BUY PUMPKINS" blaring up at me from the back cover of To the Lighthouse. As I sat behind the register, carefully erasing the penciled marks, I felt as if each book had a secret to tell, only to me.

Unfortunately, the pacing was uneven and I found my mind wandering as I read further. The transitions between Lil's life as a human and those of her past as a fairy were clumsy and often confusing. I usually try to read all the books chosen for my book club, but decided to ditch this one as the pressure to read the stack of newly acquired ARCs mounted.

Has anyone read and enjoyed this novel? Can you convince me to pick it up again??

Await Your Reply

Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon
Fiction
2009 Ballantine Books
Quit on 2/16/10
Rating: DNF




Product Description

The lives of three strangers interconnect in unforeseen ways—and with unexpected consequences—in acclaimed author Dan Chaon’s gripping, brilliantly written new novel.

Longing to get on with his life, Miles Cheshire nevertheless can’t stop searching for his troubled twin brother, Hayden, who has been missing for ten years. Hayden has covered his tracks skillfully, moving stealthily from place to place, managing along the way to hold down various jobs and seem, to the people he meets, entirely normal. But some version of the truth is always concealed.

A few days after graduating from high school, Lucy Lattimore sneaks away from the small town of Pompey, Ohio, with her charismatic former history teacher. They arrive in Nebraska, in the middle of nowhere, at a long-deserted motel next to a dried-up reservoir, to figure out the next move on their path to a new life. But soon Lucy begins to feel quietly uneasy.

My whole life is a lie, thinks Ryan Schuyler, who has recently learned some shocking news. In response, he walks off the Northwestern University campus, hops on a bus, and breaks loose from his existence, which suddenly seems abstract and tenuous. Presumed dead, Ryan decides to remake himself—through unconventional and precarious means.

I've never read anything by Chaon, but a friend recommended this book, so I thought I'd give it a try. I took it with me to the courthouse while on jury duty last week and had plenty of quiet time to get started. Unfortunately, after 30+ pages, I decided to call it quits. Neither of the three disparate characters or their plights captured my attention. After reading the reviews on Amazon, I have no second thoughts about trying again. This one's not for moi!

Same Kind of Different As Me: A Modern-Day Slave, an International Art Dealer, and the Unlikely Woman Who Bound Them Together by Ron Hall and Denver Moore
Memoir
2006 Thomas Nelson
Quit on 10/6/09
Rating: DNF


Product Description:

A dangerous, homeless drifter who grew up picking cotton in virtual slavery.

An upscale art dealer accustomed to the world of Armani and Chanel.

A gutsy woman with a stubborn dream.

A story so incredible no novelist would dare dream it.

It begins outside a burning plantation hut in Louisiana . . . and an East Texas honky-tonk . . . and, without a doubt, in the heart of God. It unfolds in a Hollywood hacienda . . . an upscale New York gallery . . . a downtown dumpster . . . a Texas ranch.

Gritty with pain and betrayal and brutality, this true story also shines with an unexpected, life-changing love.

After 60 pages, I decided to call it quits. Has anyone else read this? It was recommended by a good friend, but I simply couldn't get interested.

First sentence:

Until Miss Debbie, I'd never spoke to no white woman before. Just answered a few questions, maybe--it wadn't really speakin. And to me, even that was mighty risky since the last time I was fool enough to open my mouth to a white woman, I wound up half-dead and nearly blind.

From Shelf Awareness:

Samuel L. Jackson has agreed to star in Same Kind of Different as Me, adapted from the book Same Kind of Different As Me: A Modern-Day Slave, an International Art Dealer, and the Unlikely Woman Who Bound Them Together by Denver Moore, Ron Hall and Lynn Vincent.

Variety reported that Jackson will play Moore, "an ex-con drifter who develops an unlikely friendship with a wealthy Dallas art dealer named Ron Hall. The book . . . was optioned by Veralux Media in 2008. With Jackson aboard, the script is now being shopped for production financing."

Benny & Shrimp

Benny & Shrimp by Katarina Mazetti
Fiction
2009 Penguin
Quit on 9/6/09
Rating: DNF





Product Description:

Two middle-aged misfits and a love that should not be as complicated as it seems.

It started in a cemetery, where they begrudgingly share a bench. "Shrimp," the childless young widow and librarian with a sharp intellect and a home so tidy that her jam jars are in alphabetical order, meets Benny, the gentle, overworked milk farmer who fears becoming the village's Old Bachelor. Both driven by an enormous longing and loudly ticking biological clocks, they can't escape the powerful attraction between them.

But how will she learn to accept that he falls asleep at the opera and has a house full of his mother's cross-stitch? And how could he ever feel at home in her minimalist apartment, bare as a dentist's waiting room?

An international sensation now available for the first time in the United States, this quirky, humorous, completely readable novel breathes new life into the age-old conundrum that is love.

About the Author

Katarina Mazetti was nominated for the Prix Cevennes in France in 2007, and has worked as a journalist, teacher, and author of books for readers of all ages. For twenty years she lived on a small farm in northern Sweden, an experience that became the basis for Benny and Shrimp, her first adult novel.

Why is it that I dread writing a review for a book I either didn't finish or disliked, particularly when said book was sent directly from the publicist or author? I don't know these people. I don't have to make polite conversation with them at a dinner party. I'm sure they don't expect everyone to love their work. And yet, sometimes, I just hate to be the voice of dissension. But I've always been honest in my reviews and hope that those with low ratings might still appeal to other readers.

It certainly feels better to be able to say I couldn't get interested rather than to have a laundry list of complaints and irritations. Fortunately, Benny & Shrimp is simply a book that couldn't hold my attention. I have no specific complaints other than it just wasn't my cuppa tea.

The Big House

The Big House: A Century in the Life of an American Summer Home by George Howe Colt
Nonfiction - Memoir
2003 Scribner
Quit on 7/16/09
Rating: DNF




Product Description

Faced with the sale of the century-old family summer house on Cape Cod where he had spent forty-two summers, George Howe Colt returned for one last stay with his wife and children. This poignant tribute to the eleven-bedroom jumble of gables, bays, and dormers that watched over weddings, divorces, deaths, anniversaries, birthdays, breakdowns, and love affairs for five generations interweaves Colt's final visit with memories of a lifetime of summers. Run-down yet romantic, the Big House stands not only as a cherished reminder of summer's ephemeral pleasures but also as a powerful symbol of a vanishing way of life.
..."We're here!"

When I was a child, this was the moment we had been waiting for all winter. As the car slowed to a stop, my brothers and I would kick off our shoes. Then we'd spring from our seats to run barefoot from place to place, making sure the things we had dreamed of during the last nine months were still there. We'd run down to the beach to test the water with our toes, a foretaste of the hundred swims that lay before us. We'd patrol the rocky shore for sea glass, jingle shells, and the skates' egg cases that my grandmother called mermaids' purses (but that to me looked more like devils' pillows). We'd touch the dinghy from which we'd fish for scup. We'd race across the lawn to the barn, where we'd run our fingers across the winter's dust that furred the pool table's protective plastic cover. And then, like the child at supper who saves his favorite food for last, we'd turn to the house.

When I first began reading Colt's memoir (coincidentally, while traveling to our family reunion in Depoe Bay, Oregon), I was reminded of many childhood summers spent at my grandparents' beach house in Leucadia, California. The house (which everyone who knew of it referred to simply as The Beach House, and always pronounced as if it were capitalized, so I'll do so here) sat high upon a bluff, overlooking the Pacific Ocean; eighty-plus steps led down to the sand where my brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and family friends would spend long days playing on the private beach. We would dig huge holes that would fill with sea water as the tide rushed in; build castles dripping with wet "icing" made of sand, surrounded by protective moats; bury one another with only our heads exposed, warming our chilled bodies beneath the sand; shiver under sandy towels, popping seaweed bulbs as we obeyed that dreaded parental order to wait one hour after eating before going back in the water; dig for sand crabs that we'd use for bait in the early morning hours, catching perch and the occasional stingray; ride the waves on styrofoam surfboards which rubbed our stomachs and legs red and left us with sore rashes (this was long before boogie boards); join my grandmother on long walks, stepping cautiously as we searched for shells, sand dollars and other treasures along the shore, avoiding the slimy jelly fish that would wash up on the beach, hidden amidst the piles of kelp.

My grandparents, great-grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins and brothers.
It's probably pretty obvious which one is me.

My grandmother sitting at her dining room table.
What a view!

My grandparents, Nathan (Nate) and Margaret (Mardie) Searles.

After a full day in the sun, we'd make the long climb back up to the house, wash the sand (and the annoying tar, the removal of which required a rag dipped in turpentine) from our feet in the outdoor shower, and head inside where we could continue to enjoy the beauty of the ocean from the wall of windows looking west in my grandparents' living room and dining room. Oh, such memories! As my grandfather sat in his chair, watching a golf tournament or working a crossword puzzle, we could find my grandmother in her large kitchen, making dinner preparations for the crowd. Someone was always gazing out the windows, shouting out for everyone to come see the whales passing by or dolphins and seals riding the waves closer to the shoreline, and my brothers and I always fought over who got to look through the binoculars first. And, oh, the sunsets. Beautiful beyond words.

So many memories of that incredible house on the bluff (and the creepy basement room that had a door leading to exposed crawl space, full of spiders and who knows what!) and the times spent together with other relatives who had also traveled great distances to spend a week (or two or three!) enjoying all the fun in Southern California. In addition to all the beach activities, there were trips to Disneyland, Sea World and the San Diego Zoo (although I'm fairly certain we we didn't do them all in one summer). And, it was at The Beach House that my brothers and I and our cousins all learned how to play Mah Jong. Fun times, to be sure.

And, of course, there's nothing quite like falling asleep to the sound of the waves crashing up against the bluffs. It always took me a couple of nights to get used to that rhythmic sound, just as it always took me a couple of nights to get used to the sound's absence once we'd returned to our home in Northern California.

Yes, The Beach House was a special "summer home," but as I read Colt's prologue in preparation for writing this review, I realized that my grandparents' house wasn't really a summer home. It wasn't the sort of summer home that was closed-up at the end of the season. After my grandfather retired from PanAm in 1966, they moved to the house and spent the next ten years entertaining friends and family year-round. It was their home year-round. Can you imagine?!

However, as I began to read Colt's memoir, I was flooded with another set of memories--those of my parents' cabin near Big Bear (in California's San Bernardino Mountains). Like my grandparents' beach house, The Cabin became the place for many summer (and winter) family gatherings and getaways.

The Cabin
Big Bear, California

My mother teaching Amy how to knit.

Rod relaxing in the living room.

The following passage from Colt's prologue particularly reminded me of many arrivals to our mountain retreat:

The doors that are always open have been closed and locked. The windows are shut tight. The shades are drawn. No water runs from the faucets. The toaster—which in the best of times works only if its handle is pinned under the weight of a second, even less functional toaster—is unplugged. The kitchen cupboards are empty except for a stack of napkins, a box of sugar cubes, and eight cans of beer. The porch furniture—six white plastic chairs, two green wooden tables—has been stacked in the dining room. The croquet set, the badminton equipment, the tennis net, and the flag are behind closet doors. The dinghy is turtled on sawhorses in the barn, the oars angled against the wall. The roasted-salt scent of August has given way to the stale smell of mothballs, ashes, mildew.

Here and there are traces of last summer: a striped beach towel tossed on the washing machine, a half-empty shampoo bottle wedged in the wooden slats of the outdoor shower, a fishing lure on the living room mantel, a half-burned log in the fireplace, a sprinkling of sand behind the kitchen door. Dead hornets litter the windowsills. A drowned mouse floats in the lower-bedroom toilet. The most recent entry in the guest book was made five months ago. The top newspaper in the kindling pile is dated September 29. The ship's clock in the front hall has stopped at 2:45, but whether that was A.M. or P.M. no one can tell.

After gorging on summer for three months, the house has gone into hibernation. They call it the off-season, as if there were a switch in the cellar, next to the circuit breakers, that one flipped to plunge the house from brimming to empty, warm to cold, noisy to silent, light to dark. Outside, too, the world has changed color, from blues, yellows, and greens to grays and browns. The tangle of honeysuckle, Rosa rugosa, and poison ivy that lapped at the porch is a skein of bare branches and vines. The lawn is hard as tundra, brown as burlap. The Benedicts' house next door, hidden from view when I was last here, is visible through the leafless trees. The woods give up their secrets: old tennis balls, an errant Frisbee, a lost tube of sunblock, a badminton birdie. Out in the bay, the water is the color of steel and spattered with whitecaps; without the presence of boats to lend perspective, the waves look ominously large. On the stony beach, the boardwalk—a set of narrow planks we use to enter the water without spraining our angles on the algae-slicked rocks—has been piled above the tide line, beyond the reach, we hope of storms.

A summer house in winter is a forlorn thing. In its proper season, every door is unlocked, every window wide open. People, too, are more open in summer, moving through the house and each other's lives as freely as the wind. Their schools and offices are distant, their guard is down, their feet are bare. Now as I walk from room to room, shivering in my parka, I have a feeling I'm trespassing, as if I've sneaked into a museum at night. Without people to fill it, the house takes on a life of its own. Family photographs seem to breathe, their subjects vivid and laughing and suspended at the most beautiful moments of their youths: my father in his army uniform, about to go off to World War II; my aunt in an evening gown, in a shot taken for a society benefit not long before her death at twenty-eight; my grandfather as a Harvard freshman, poised on the sunny lawn. I am older than all of them, even though many are now dead.

In this still house, where is the summer hiding? Perhaps in the mice whose droppings pepper the couch, the bats that brood in the attic eaves, the squirrels that nest in the stairwell walls. They are silent now, but we will hear and see them—and the offspring to which they will soon give birth—in a few months. For if the house is full of memory, it is equally full of anticipation. Dormant life lies everywhere, waiting to be picked up where it left off, like an old friendship after a long absence: that towel ready to be slung over a sweaty shoulder, that tennis ball to be thrown into the air, those chairs to be set out on the porch, that fishing lure to be cast into the bay, that guest book to be inscribed with a day in June. Even on the coldest winter morning, this house holds within it, like a voluptuous flower within a hard seed, the promise of summer.

I haven't been to The Beach House for over 30 years. My parents sold The Cabin in 1997. But the memories live on in stories shared and in photographs stored in albums and shoeboxes. This past July, we gathered in Depoe Bay, 15 of us aunts and uncles and grandpas and grandmothers and cousins and sisters and brothers, for a small family reunion. We climbed to the top of a sand dune in Pacific City, kayaked on Devil's Lake in Lincoln City, and hiked in the Silverton Falls Forest near Portland. But the most memorable moments were those spent in my parents' beautiful house in the woods -- watching my sister-in-law make homemade flour tortillas; listening to the soft murmer of early morning conversation out on the backyard deck, as my husband and stepdad enjoyed their coffee in the company of chipmunks, squirrels and hummingbirds; walking through the peaceful neighborhood and along the bluffs with my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephews; listening to incredibly gorgeous music my niece and nephews created on the piano in the loft above the dining room; learning magic tricks from my niece and nephew; watching one of my older nephews patiently play board games and cards with his younger cousin; and, yes, teaching my nieces and nephews the joys of Mah Jong. As my sister-in-law says, we Jacksons are a competitive bunch when it comes to that game. It was most definitely a fun-filled and memorable week.

My parents' house in Little Whale Cove (Depoe Bay, Oregon)

My sister-in-law, Ana, making tortillas!

Mah Jong!

Ana and my niece and nephews (Julia, Tim and Steve).

My brother, David, and his son, Caymon.

But I digress. This is a book review after all.

I know I was distracted by all the activities of the week in Oregon (and I rarely do much reading while on vacation), but I was quite certain I'd get engrossed in The Big House once we boarded our flight back to Nebraska, especially since I so enjoyed (and related to) the prologue and first chapter. I read and read and read, but I simply could not get interested in Colt's story. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar location (Cape Cod) that failed to intrigue me. Or, maybe the problem was the family history (which, to be honest, wasn't all that compelling). Whatever the reason, I finally called it quits. And yet, I'm not sorry for the time I invested in it. It stirred up a lot of great memories and made me thankful for the opportunities to enjoy so many wonderful summers at the beach and in the mountains -- and in the woods near the ocean.



And, yes. I saw whales off the coast in Oregon. Just a few hundred yards offshore from the bluff that I walked along every morning while visiting my parents in Little Whale Cove. This time I didn't have to fight over the binoculars.

Does your family have a summer home or retreat? Share a little bit about it in a comment and I'll throw your name in the hat for a chance to win my gently used copy of George Howe Colt's memoir. Entries to win this book are open to all! Cut off date is Saturday, August 22nd.