Sandwich

 

Sandwich by Catherine Newman

Fiction

2024

Finished on June 27, 2024

Rating: 5/5 (Excellent)

Publisher's Blurb:

From the beloved author of We All Want Impossible Things, a moving, hilarious story of a family summer vacation full of secrets, lunch, and learning to let go.

For the past two decades, Rocky has looked forward to her family’s yearly escape to Cape Cod. Their humble beach-town rental has been the site of sweet memories, sunny days, great meals, and messes of all kinds: emotional, marital, and—thanks to the cottage’s ancient plumbing—septic too.

This year’s vacation, with Rocky sandwiched between her half-grown kids and fully aging parents, promises to be just as delightful as summers past—except, perhaps, for Rocky’s hormonal bouts of rage and melancholy. (Hello, menopause!) Her body is changing—her life is, too. And then a chain of events sends Rocky into the past, reliving both the tenderness and sorrow of a handful of long-ago summers.

It's one precious week: everything is in balance; everything is in flux. And when Rocky comes face to face with her family’s history and future, she is forced to accept that she can no longer hide her secrets from the people she loves.

I loved this novel! After reading We All Want Impossible Things last year, I couldn't wait for the release of Catherine Newman's new book, which came out earlier this month. I rarely buy newly published books, but I wasn't going to wait for this one to come out in paperback. I knew if I borrowed it from the library, I'd wind up buying a copy for a re-read anyway. My only regret is that it wasn't longer. Like Rocky, the week-long vacation with her family went far too quickly.

"It's only Monday!" I say. I say this every year. This is the part of our vacation where I feel like the week will never end. Like it's just going to stretch out luxuriously this way for the rest of time. It won't last, though. Later I'll cry, "How is it already Friday?" and everyone will nod and sigh because I ask this every year.

Coincidentally, I started reading Sandwich while my brother's family was visiting our coastal home for a full week. "How is it already Friday?" echoed my feelings as our week drew to a close. Newman's setting is vivid, and if I squint my mind's eye, I can almost imagine Rocky's vacation home here on our bluff in Little Whale Cove. Of course, instead of lobster dinners and mini-golf windmills, we have crab cakes and whale watching, but it's really not so different!

Little Whale Cove

Years ago, when I read Nora Ephron's hilarious book, I Feel Bad About My Neck, I had not quite reached the age to which she was referring, but I still enjoyed her essays, knowing my time would come when my wrinkled neck would annoy me. (Spoiler alert: It has!). Conversely, Newman's protagonist is in the middle of menopause, while thankfully, my experience of hot flashes and emotional outbursts ended over a decade ago.

I'm looking in the mirror at my hair. My hair! What on earth? It used to hang down in heavy, glossy waves, and now it sticks out of my head like a marshful of brittle autumn grasses. It is simultaneously coarse and weightless in a way that seems like an actual paradox, as if my scalp is extruding a combination of twine, nothing, and fine-grit sandpaper.

Despite the age difference, I found Rocky's thoughts and experiences relatable and validating. I also found her relationship with her two adult children, specifically with her twenty-something-year-old daughter, enviable, albeit not without its flaws.

And this may be the only reason we were put on this earth. To say to each other, I know how you feel. To say, Same. To say, I understand how hard it is to be a parent, a kid.

Followers of this blog know that my favorite genres are memoir and fiction, specifically those centered around family, marriage, mother-daughter relationships, and aging women. Sandwich checks all the boxes. As with We All Want Impossible Things, I found Newman's latest novel humorous and tender. Reading late in the night, I disturbed my husband's sleep as I laughed aloud on numerous occasions. 

I'm happy to have purchased a copy of the book for my keeper shelf and look forward to reading it again later this summer. Fans of Anna Quindlen, Joyce Maynard, Stewart O'Nan, Abigail Thomas, and Kelly Corrigan are sure to enjoy this gem. Highly recommend!

Glitter and Glue

Glitter and Glue by Kelly Corrigan
Memoir
2014 Ballantine Books (imprint of Random House)
Finished on 11/21/13
Rating: 4/5 (Very Good)




Publisher’s Blurb:

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Middle Place comes a new memoir that examinees the bond—sometimes nourishing, sometimes exasperating, occasionally divine—between mothers and daughters.

When Kelly Corrigan was in high school, her mother neatly summarized the family dynamic as “Your father’s the glitter but I’m the glue.” This meant nothing to Kelly, who left childhood sure that her mom—with her inviolable commandments and proud stoicism—would forever remain her father’s understudy.

After college, Kelly took off for Australia to see things and do things and Become Interesting. But soon after savings dwindled, and she realized she needed a job. That’s how Kelly met John Tanner, a newly widowed father of two looking for a live-in nanny. And there, in that house in a suburb north of Sydney, she suddenly heard her mother’s voice everywhere, nudging and advising, cautioning and direction, escorting her through a terrain as foreign as any she had ever trekked.

This is a book about the differences between travel and life experience, stepping out and stepping up, fathers and mothers. But mostly it’s about who you admire and why, and how that changes over time.


I discovered Kelly Corrigan’s early prose several years ago when I stumbled upon her website (Circus of Cancer), while scouring the Internet for information about my youngest brother’s cancer. Shortly thereafter, I got an ARC of The Middle Place and I was pleasantly surprised to see that Kelly was the author. I found myself completely absorbed in this memoir, marking passages and nodding my head in agreement. A few years later, I did the exact same thing with Kelly’s poignant new book, Lift, which I read twice in two weeks. I became a big fan and started following Corrigan’s blog and watching her YouTube videos, eager for a new book to add to my collection. I have now read all three of Kelly Corrigan’s memoirs and they each have spoken to me about various aspects of my own life. I can hear her voice in my head as I read and, as with her YouTube clips, her memoirs make me laugh out loud in one instant and bring tears to my eyes in another. As her editor states in her letter to readers at the beginning of the ARC for Glitter and Glue:

Here’s the thing about Kelly Corrigan: You can’t read her books without wanting to be her best friend. It’s just that simple. As soon as you turn this page, you’ll see what I mean. It’s like the best of all magic tricks, the way she puts readers under her spell, and it doesn’t take long. One minute, you’re starting a new book, and the next, it’s as if you’re sitting across the table from the author, listening to her tell her story over a cup of coffee.

I wish I lived in Manhattan Beach, California. Not only do I have family there (and it’s on the beach!), but I could have had the chance to meet Kelly today at Pages A Bookstore (which is less than half a mile from my aunt’s house!) where Kelly was having a book signing. This past week, she was at The Tattered Cover in Denver (almost close enough!) and Santaluz Country Club in San Diego (where I have more family and friends). Next month she'll be in Dallas (at the Highland United Methodist Church), which is where my daughter lives. Somehow, I doubt she’ll be in Nebraska anytime soon.

But back to the new book, which I actually read three months ago. (Yes, I am still trying to catch-up…) I was hooked from the first page, reading slowly, savoring it as long as possible. As a daughter, and also the mother of a grown daughter, I enjoyed all the passages about Kelly and her mom, once again finding myself nodding in agreement as I read. The majority of the memoir focuses on Kelly’s time as a nanny to a family in Australia and while I enjoyed that part of the narrative, I longed for more about mothers and daughters. I guess it’s time to re-read Lift!

Take a look at Kelly’s most recent YouTube clips about Glitter and Glue here and here. This is also a favorite.

You can find my reviews for The Middle Place and Lift here and here.

The Arrivals

The Arrivals by Meg Mitchell Moore
Fiction
2011 Regan Arthur Books
Finished on 9/20/11
Rating: 4.75/5 (Terrific!)





From the author’s website:

It's early summer when Ginny and William's peaceful life in Burlington, Vermont, comes to an abrupt halt. First, their daughter Lillian arrives, two children in tow, to escape her crumbling marriage. Next, their son Stephen and his pregnant wife Jane show up for a weekend visit, which extends indefinitely. When their youngest daughter Rachel appears, fleeing her difficult life in New York, Ginny and William find themselves consumed again by the chaos of parenthood—only this time around, their children are facing adult problems. By summer's end, the family gains new ideas of loyalty and responsibility, exposing the challenges of surviving the modern family. And the old adage, once a parent, always a parent, has never rung so true.

Anyone who’s been reading this blog for a few years must know by now that one of my guilty pleasure is women’s (or domestic) fiction. I find it so satisfying to read a passage that validates my thoughts and feelings, whether it be about marriage, parenthood, or grief. Narrated from multiple points-of-view, Meg Mitchell Moore’s debut novel is a hit! It’s the kind of novel I can’t wait to return to at the end of the day, but hate to read too quickly, especially since there’s no backlist of titles on which to catch-up. My book was full of marked passages and on several occasion, I found myself nodding my head in agreement.

On empty nesting:

In the moment, you were often too tired to enjoy watching your children turn into people. It was such a busy time, so demanding. There was always somebody with a science project due the next day, always a lesson or a practice to get to, always a meal to cook or a stray mitten to find.

And then suddenly everyone had cleared out, flung themselves into the big world, two of them to New York City, Lillian to Massachusetts, calling, sure, e-mailing often, even visiting, but they were gone, truly gone, replaced by the silence—beautiful and blessed, of course, but still, sometimes, she had to admit, strange and unnatural.

On adult children:

“I’m going up to get my stuff,” said Lillian. She leaned down. William thought it was to kiss the baby but instead she kissed him, a cool, unexpected whisper on his cheek that was over so quickly he barely had time to register it. He didn’t acknowledge it—he looked steadily down at Philip’s unblinking gaze—but he felt his heart lift slightly. It was funny, the way your adult children could both delight and annoy you in the very same ways that they had when they had been actual children. He wouldn’t have predicted that particular truth of parenting, thirty years ago.

On family:

While they talked, Ginny looked out at the lake and let her thoughts float and settle, trying to put her finger on what it was she was feeling, where this sense of peace and fulfillment was coming from. And while she couldn’t articulate it exactly, she thought that probably the presence of all of the people in her house—all these different creatures, with their hungers and their desires and their moods and their love—was allowing her to feel necessary, to feel loved and embraced again, in a way that she hadn’t realized she’d stopped feeling. Hadn’t realized she’d been missing.

Now suddenly it didn’t matter much to her why Lillian and Philip and Olivia and Stephen and Jane and Rachel were there. It didn’t matter how long they were going to stay. It only mattered that they were there.

On adult daughters:

“Bye, sweetie,” Lillian said to Olivia, who had her thumb in her mouth and did not look away from the television screen. To Ginny she said, “He’ll sleep the whole time, I’m sure of it.” She leaned into Ginny and hugged her, and Ginny had to work at not holding onto her too long, because after all it was delicious to have her daughter, however briefly, in her grasp.

On motherhood:

“Why are you taking it so personally?”

She thought about that. Then she took a deep breath and touched her hair. She didn’t look directly at William when she answered, because she thought that if she did she might begin to cry.

“Because they’re my life’s work.”

He remained silent, watching her, listening.

“If they’re not happy—if they’re not capable of living on their own, and being happy—it means I’ve failed. I should take it personally.”

“Oh, Ginny.” He reached across the table and laid his hand on her cheek. She pressed it in closer.

“This is it,” she said. “I’m sixty-three years old. This is what I’ve done with my life. They’re my masterpiece, and they’re broken.”

Fans of Anna Quindlen, Marisa de los Santos, Lisa Genova, and Erica Bauermeister will not be disappointed with Moore’s perceptive and uplifting novel. I think it would make a marvelous book club read, especially one with multi-generational members.

Publishers Weekly says:

“Moore finds a crisp narrative in the morass of an overpacked household, and she keeps the proceedings moving with an assurance and outlook reminiscent of Laurie Colwin, evoking emotional universals with the simplest of observations, as in 'the peace you feel when you are awake in a house where children are sleeping.'”

Nan says:

There are so many joys in this book that I barely know where to begin. The story is such a real one for those of us with adult children.

and

There is no tragedy. There isn't a dysfunctional family. There are simply good, interesting characters who are all trying to find their ways at their own particular stages of life.

Marcia says:

Some scenes in this book tore at my heart; others made my heart sing. I've always said that you never know when the phone rings or the back door opens what your children will bring home to you. Ginny and William get the phone calls and open the back door, and how the Owen family deals with the summer of their discontent made for an excellent reading experience.

Kay says:

I truly enjoyed reading The Arrivals by Meg Mitchell Moore, and I took my time with it. Perhaps it wouldn't have meant so much to me had I not been the mother of a grown child. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so poignant and funny and satisfying if I hadn't recently returned from a vacation spot that I had visited with my late parents, that last time alone with them, just Mom and Dad and me. The Arrivals was a very good read, perfect for me.


I related to so many aspects of this novel and I have a feeling my mom would, as well. I wonder what my (non-reading) daughter would think!

I borrowed this book, but I plan to buy a copy for my permanent collection. The cover art for the hardcover is so lovely, but I’ll probably wait for the paperback. Isn’t the Australian cover art lovely, too?



And, yes. This is just a tad bit reminiscent of The Weird Sisters, although I enjoyed Moore’s quite a bit more. I like quirky characters, but only in small doses.

It looks like Meg's second novel is due out on May 29, 2012. It's called So Far Away. Here's the cover:


I like it!

Traveling with Pomegranates

Traveling with Pomegranates: A Mother-Daughter Story by Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor
Nonfiction - Memoir/Travel
2009 Penguin Audio; Unabridged edition
Finished on 5/28/10
Rating: 2.5/5 (Fair)




We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.
~Anaïs Nin

Product Description

An introspective and beautiful dual memoir by the #1 New York Times bestselling novelist and her daughter.

Sue Monk Kidd has touched the hearts of millions of readers with her beloved novels The Secret Life of Bees and The Mermaid Chair, and with her acclaimed nonfiction. Now, in this wise and intimate dual memoir, she and her daughter, Ann, a writer making her affecting debut in these pages, chronicle their travels together, and offer their distinct perspectives as a fifty-something and a twenty-something, each on a quest to redefine herself and to rediscover each other.

Between 1998 and 2000, Sue and Ann travel together to the sacred sites throughout Greece and France. Sue, newly aware of aging, caught in a creative vacuum, and longing to reconnect with her now grown daughter, struggles to find the wherewithal to enlarge a vision of swarming bees into a novel. Ann, just graduated from college, heartbroken and benumbed by the classic question about what to do with her life, grapples with a painful depression. The intimacy of travel and the wondrous nature of the places Sue and Ann visit bring forth each woman's internal struggle and provide fertile terrain for reflection and inspiration. In voices candid and lyrical, this modern-day Demeter and Persephone explore the richly symbolic and personal meaning of an array of inspiring figures and sites in Athens and Eleusis, Paris and Rocamadour, and places in between. They also give voice to a moving transformation of that most protean of human connections: the bond of mothers and daughters.

A wise and engrossing book about feminine thresholds, spiritual growth, and the relationship between mothers and daughters, Traveling with Pomegranates is both a revealing self-portrait by a beloved author and her daughter, a strong new voice, and a momentous story that will resonate with women everywhere.

I spent most of May listening to this book while driving around town in my car. As it turns out, it was the perfect book to listen to rather than read. The allusions to ancient symbols, mythology and the "sacred" began to wear on me, and it was easy to let my mind wander, momentarily tuning out the repetitious references while driving to and from work. Had I read the book, I would have certainly lost interest and given up early on. However, I did find myself wishing that I had the book to occasionally glance at and mark passages for future reference. The three maps (one of the eastern states of the U.S., one of France, and one of Greece & Turkey) would have been helpful to look at before starting each new chapter, and the following Table of Contents would have added to the points of reference:

LOSS
Greece/Turkey/South Carolina
1998 - 1999

SEARCH
France/South Carolina
1999 - 2000

RETURN
Greece
2000

AFTERWARD
September 2008

The authors narrate alternating chapters and my initial reaction to Sue's voice was that of annoyance and displeasure. She enunciates each and every word and syllable so precisely that she sounds unnatural and awkward. Ann, on the other hand, speaks in a relaxed, yet enthusiastic voice, drawing me into her narrative more so than her mother. Kind of ironic since I'm much closer to Sue's age than Ann's. But I did relate to Sue's role as a woman approaching the second half of her life, as well as that of a mother of an adult daughter.

Sitting on a bench in the National Archaeological Museum in Greece, I watch my twenty-two-year-old daughter, Ann, angle her camera before a marble bas-relief of Demeter and Persephone unaware of the small ballet she's performing—her slow, precise steps forward, the tilt of her head, the way she dips to one knee as she turns her torso, leaning into the sharp afternoon light. The scene reminds me of something, a memory maybe, but I can't recall what. I only know she looks beautiful and impossibly grown, and for reasons not clear to me I'm possessed by an acute feeling of loss.

It's the summer of 1998, a few days before my fiftieth birthday. Ann and I have been in Athens a whole twenty-seven hours, a good portion of which I've spent lying awake in a room in the Hotel Grande Bretagne, waiting for blessed daylight. I tell myself the bereft feeling that washed over me means nothing—I'm jet-lagged, that's all. But that doesn't feel particularly convincing.

I close my eyes and even in the tumult of the museum, where there seem to be ten tourists per square inch, I know the feeling is actually everything. It is the undisclosed reason I've come to the other side of the world with my daughter. Because in a way which makes no sense, she seems lost to me now. Because she is grown and a stranger. And I miss her almost violently.

and

Lying on the twin mattress, I stare at the edge of light oozing under the curtain and I think about my relationship with my daughter. Congenial, warm, nice—those are the words that come to me. We've never had one of those pyrotechnic relationships that end up being written about so often and famously in books.

We've had our moments, naturally. The period of mild rebellion when she was fourteen springs to mind, a phase when the door slammed a lot. Beyond that, we had the typical antagonisms and disagreements. I suspect like most mothers and daughters we've participated in the classic struggle: the mother, trying to let her daughter go while unconsciously seeing her as an appendage of herself. And the daughter, enmeshed in her mother's power, compelled to please her and pattern herself in her mother's image, but straining at the same time to craft an identity separate from her.

Mostly, though, our relationship has been full of goodness. I would even say, given the natural constraints of adolescent girls and their mothers, we've been close. And yet I feel my relationship with Ann now exists largely on the surface. There is distance in it that I have trouble characterizing. We talk, for instance, but nothing really heart to heart. It's as if the relationship has fallen into a strange purgatory. For so long our roles were strictly defined as mother and daughter, as adult and child. But now as she leaves college, we both seem to sense some finality to this. She is changing and I am changing, too, but we don't quite know how to shift the conversations between ourselves. How to reforge our connection.

I feel traces of guilt about the growing distance between us. I toss on the bed, remembering that while she was away at school metamorphosing into the young woman I barely know, I was too busy with a book project to notice she was gone. Her leaving was not a problem. At least not in the maternal trench where these things are usually battled out. What's more, I was proud of this. I chirped to my friends: "I don't know what the big deal is about the empty nest. It's kind of wonderful, actually."

and now from Ann's point-of-view:

Catching my eye, she waves and begins to wind her way toward me through the other tourists. I wonder why I can't tell her what I'm going through. When it came to the letter back home [a letter in which Ann's application to study ancient Greek history at the University of South Carolina's graduate program is rejected], still in the drawer with my gym socks (why did I keep it, this evidence against myself?) certainly I didn't think she'd reject me. Perhaps the shame of failing is not my only reason for not talking to her about it. We've been close since childhood, but I feel a kind of partition between us now, not anger or aloofness, but a room divider that properly marks the space: this is your territory, this is mine. I did not confide intensely personal matters to her. Are the particulars of your own darkness something you describe to your mother or your best friend?

But it wasn't just the darkness I secreted, was it? Why did I give her only the postcard version of my first trip to Greece? Ran a race in Olympia, visited Athena's Tholos, saw the Charioteer, sat beside Parthenon, danced in a restaurant with some locals, bought a pretty ring...having a great time—wish you were here. Obviously she knew I'd been affected enough to want to spend my life teaching ancient Greek history, but I'd left her to sense for herself the deeper imprint those experiences made on me. Maybe it was the particulars of my soul—the experiences, feelings, and inner thoughts I held close—that I kept from her.

Final thoughts: Overall, I enjoyed listening to this memoir. In addition to the whole mother-daughter dance and travel stories, I found it interesting to learn about Sue's initial ideas for her novel, The Secret Life of Bees (a book I've read and enjoyed more than once), as well as Ann discovery of her own passion for writing. And yet, this isn't a book I want to own or read again.

Go here to listen to Ann and Sue deliver the commencement address at Scripps College in Claremont, California.

Mother's Day

My beautiful daughter
and
my wonderful mom.
(1986)

I love both of you beyond words.

Lift

Lift by Kelly Corrigan
Nonfiction - Memoir
2010 Voice (Hyperion)
Finished on 3/8/10 and... 3/19/10
Rating: 5/5 (Outstanding)









Publisher's Blurb:

No matter when and why this comes to your hands, I want to put down on paper how things started with us.

Written as a letter to her children, Kelly Corrigan's Lift is a tender, intimate, and robust portrait of risk and love; a touchstone for anyone who wants to live more fully. In Lift, Corrigan weaves together three true and unforgettable stories of adults willing to experience emotional hazards in exchange for the gratification of raising children.

Lift takes its name from hang gliding, a pursuit that requires flying directly into rough air, because turbulence saves a glider from "sinking out." For Corrigan, this wisdom—that to fly requires chaotic, sometimes even violent passages—becomes a metaphor for all of life's most meaningful endeavors, particularly the great flight that is parenting.

Corrigan serves it up straight—how mundanely and fiercely her children have been loved, how close most lives occasionally come to disaster, and how often we fall short as mothers and fathers. Lift is for everyone who has been caught off guard by the pace and vulnerability of raising children, to remind us that our work is important and our time limited.

Like Ann Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea, Lift is a meditation on the complexities of a woman's life, and like Corrigan's memoir, The Middle Place, Lift is boisterous and generous, a book readers can wait to share.

After finishing Lift, I did something I've never done before. I turned around and read it again. Not on the same day, but within a couple of weeks. The first reading took place over the course of two days. I wanted to savor this slim little book, taking in the freshness of Kelly's new work, wishing with each turned page that it was longer. The second reading took place yesterday afternoon. Snuggled under a blanket on the couch, snow gently falling outside, Post-it Note flags in hand, I began to read. And in my head I could hear Kelly's voice, sharing her stories with her young daughters, feeling a tug in my chest and a lump in my throat as I read the words that I knew would cause her to choke back her own tears.

It's tempting to share all of my favorite passages from Lift, but I have a feeling Kelly would frown upon me quoting her entire book! So here are just a few samples:

I heard once that the average person barely knows ten stories from childhood and those are based more on photographs and retellings than memory. So even with all the videos we take, the two boxes of snapshots under my desk, and the 1,276 photos in folders on the computer, you'll be lucky to end up with a dozen stories. You won't remember how it started with us, the things that I know about you that you don't even know about yourselves. We won't come back here.

You'll remember middle school and high school, but you'll have changed by then. You changing will make me change. That means you won't ever know me as I am right now—the mother I am tonight and tomorrow, the mother I've been for the last eight years, every bath and book and birthday party, gone. It won't hit you that you're missing this chapter of our story until you see me push your child on a swing or untangle his jump rope or wave a bee away from his head and think, Is this what she was like with me?

and

Georgia, you hate it when I cry. All my conspicuous emoting turns you off. That fed-up look you give me at teacher retirement parties or soccer games or the winter concert is partly how I know that I am only a few years away from exasperating you by the way I apply my lipstick or talk to waiters or answer the phone or drive or walk or breathe.

and

People rarely rave about their childhoods and it's no wonder. So many mistakes are made.

I see how that happens now, how we all create future work for our kids by checking our cell phones while you are mid-story or sticking you in the basement to watch a movie because we love you but we don't really want to be with you anymore that day, or coming unhinged over all manner of spilt milk—wet towels, unflushed toilets, lost brand-new! whatevers.

and

This tug-of-war often obscures what's also happening between us. I am your mother, the first mile of your road. Me and all my obvious and hidden limitations. That means that in addition to possibly wrecking you, I have the chance to give to you what was given to me: a decent childhood, more good memories than bad, some values, a sense of tribe, a run at happiness. You can't imagine how seriously I take that—even as I fail you. Mothering you is the first thing of consequence that I have ever done.

and

I remember having an awful conversation once, long before I became a mother, about whether it would be worse to lose a baby or a ten-year-old or a twenty-year-old, and so on. Why people think about these things, I don't know, but we do. We hover around the edges of catastrophe—trading headlines, reading memoirs about addiction and disease and abuse, watching seventeen seasons of ER. I said it would hurt the most to lose a twenty-year-old, because you'd have loved them so much longer and your attachment would be so much more specific. Babies love everyone and everyone loves them. But twenty-year-olds? They won't lean into just anyone. You have to earn any sliver of intimacy you share with them. Some pale memory of trust and connection has to hold against the callous disregard that is adolescence. And at twenty, they are just on their way back to you.

I love this book. It spoke to me on so many levels and I found myself nodding my head in agreement or recognition at least a dozen times. After I finished the first reading, I went to work and couldn't stop talking about what I'd just read. I found beautiful passages and read them aloud to coworkers. I promptly put four copies in the top tray on my endcap, eager to share my enthusiasm with my favorite customers. I made a mental note of friends and relatives I thought might also enjoy the book. And what timing! Tucked in a small basket with a bottle of perfume or lotion, and a little box of Godiva chocolate, Lift, with its warm and honest testimony of a mother's love, would make a perfect Mother's Day gift.

I rarely ever read the jacket blurbs or author endorsements until after I've read a book, so I was quite surprised to see the comparison to Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea. About halfway into Lift, I had that exact same thought and even went so far as to go upstairs to find my copy of Gift of the Sea, with plans to read it again.

Bravo, Kelly! What a treasure you've given not only to your readers, but most importantly to your daughters.


You can hear Kelly read from Lift here:

I posted this clip a year or so ago, but want to include it again.

My review for Kelly's previous memoir, The Middle Place, can be found here.

Final thoughts: I listened to Gift of the Sea while walking on the bike trail near our house a few years ago. While I would love to experience the audio version of Lift, I think I better listen within the privacy of my home. It's one thing to suddenly burst out laughing while listening to an audio book in public and quite another to walk past strangers with tears streaming down one's cheeks.

Book Giveaway!

Earlier this week, I received the loveliest email from Ashley, with Wolsak and Wynn Publishers in Hamilton, Ontario (Canada). Apparently, they found my blog through my review of Erin Noteboom's Mongoose Diaries and liked my blog so much that they've decided to highlight it on their website! How cool is that?!

In addition to this flattering honor, they've offered to send me a copy of Erin's book so I may offer it in a giveaway. I won't make you jump through any cute hoops or limit it to U.S. deliveries. Just leave me a comment with your email address and I'll draw a winner next week. Let's say, December 10th, since that's my daughter's birthday and this book is primarily about motherhood.

Good luck and a big thanks to Wolsak and Wynn for their generosity!