Still looking for the 'best book ever'...

By Mary Reiman

My first venture into writing a 5 Women Mayhem blog was on February 23, 2020.  I named it: ‘How and Why’ I Read.

The introduction from that first blog: “As I write my blogs, I’ll probably always include a sentence or two from the book I'm reading at the moment. They have framed my world, my story, and I hope in some way they will speak to you... I believe we’ve all found phrases that guide and sustain us.”

Today I am writing my 50th mayhem blog. Still contemplating. Still reflecting. Still putting aside the house projects and avoiding deep cleaning, because it's so much more important to read! Yes, still reading, knowing the current book might be the 'best book ever.'

‘Will you be my friend?’ That’s what I would say to author William Kent Krueger if I met him at a local bookstore. Authors are fascinating, aren't they. How do they construct their stories? How do they weave their ideas together? When they are writing, do they realize they will be capturing our attention and our hearts as we become absorbed in the lives of their characters? 

Most of Krueger’s crime/mystery novels are set in the beautiful north woods of Minnesota. He is the author of well-known titles: Ordinary Grace and This Tender Land. However, I admit that I am fixated on Cork O’Connor, the main character of his mystery series. You have many titles to choose from as Cork weaves his way from sheriff to private investigator, the protector of family and friends both on and off the Ojibwe reservations. Some would say you should read the books in order. I flip back and forth, reading whichever one I can locate in the library at any given moment. Trickster’s Point, Tamarack County, Lightning Strikes and Fox Creek, to name a few. 

Becoming Madam Secretary written by Stephanie Dray

“Miss Perkins, sometimes there's a man—or a woman— who is made for a moment. I happen to think you were made for this one.”

Frances Perkins’ story wasn’t in our American History textbooks when I was a child. It should have been. I hope it is today. Everyone should know of Frances Perkins. The first female Secretary of Labor. Long before she was chosen by Franklin D. Roosevelt for that position, she was an advocate for human rights. Besides being the first woman to be appointed to a cabinet post, she also served one of the longest terms of any Roosevelt appointee (1933–45). He trusted her. He gave her major responsibilities in spite of those who felt a woman’s place was not in our national government. Her most important contribution came in 1934 as chairwoman of the President's Committee on Economic Security, implementing the Social Security Act of 1935 and the Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938, establishing minimum wage and prohibiting child labor in many workplaces. Definitely worthy of a chapter in our history books.

The Cemetery of Untold Stories by Julia Alvarez

“Stories don’t die, they just wait in silence to be told.”

Julia Alvarez, author of many novels, including In the Time of the Butterflies and How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accent, has again woven a mesmerizing tale focusing on a writer named Alma Cruz. A writer and a storyteller, with many stories she’s started and not yet finished. So, when she inherits a small plot of land in the Dominican Republic, she decides to turn it into a place to bury her untold stories. Literally. She creates a graveyard for the manuscript drafts and the characters whose lives she tried and failed to bring to life and who still haunt her. She wants her characters to rest in peace. But they have other ideas. 

As one reviewer says: “The Cemetery of Untold Stories asks: Whose stories get to be told, and whose buried?... Julia Alvarez reminds us that the stories of our lives are never truly finished, even at the end.”

The Paris Architect by Charles Belfoure

“In the darkest moments, hope shines the brightest.”

Lucien Bernard is an architect in Paris in 1942 who is keeping his head down, looking for more work, recognizing the brutality inflicted on the Jews in France but choosing not to act on their behalf. That all changes when he is asked to use his knowledge and skills to create hiding places. 

This book was written in 2014 and it’s a page-turner. I can’t believe none of you told me about it sooner.

The Women by Kristen Hannah

“The women had a story to tell, even if the world wasn’t quite yet ready to hear it, and their story began with three simple words. We were there.”

JoAnne Young wrote about this book last week. What we should remember ... how "The Women" reminds us. Please read her post if you have not done so already. Indeed, this is a story that needed to be told.

A Calamity of Souls by David Baldacci

“The world does not all look like we do, Robert. And if you want to live in that world you need to understand what all of it looks like. Not just our piece of the pie.”

Searching for a fair trial in 1968 in southern Virginia. A murder case sets two lawyers against a deeply unfair system as they work to defend their wrongfully accused Black defendants in this courtroom drama. Another Baldacci page-turner. 

Yes, the characters in ‘A Calamity of Souls’ were hoping for change. 100 years after the Civil War, still hoping for change. 

Speaking of the Civil War...

The Demon of Unrest by Erik Larson

From Erik Larson’s note to readers: “I was well into my research on the saga of Fort Sumter and the advent of the American Civil War when the events of January 6, 2021, took place. As I watched the Capitol assault unfold on camera, I had the eerie feeling that present and past had merged. It is unsettling that in 1861 two of the greatest moments of national dread centered on the certification of the Electoral College vote and the presidential inauguration.”

This book is narrative non-fiction. Every word, every conversation corroborated from historical documents, ledgers, plantation records. The amount of research is immense and as always, Larson brings the historical figures to life. Dissatisfaction, dissension, the call for secession. Beginning with the election of 1860 and explaining the almost daily activities, conversations, communications, strategies developed among representatives of the north and the south leading up to the events at Fort Sumter in April, 1861. 

And as I finish The Demon of Unrest, I need to take a reading break to reflect on the lessons we did, or didn't, learn from the Civil War.  

But I'll be back. I’m not sure where to go next on my reading pathway, so you can help me. If you have a great title you know I MUST read, let me know. Always looking for the next ‘best book ever’!

What we should remember ... how "The Women" reminds us

By JoAnne Young 

 

There were no women in Vietnam, they said. 

 

Except for the 11,000 or so American women who served there during 10 years the United States sent troops to fight alongside the South Vietnamese in their battles with the North. Except for the women who were there in makeshift hospitals in the middle of battlefields as nurses and doctors. The women who were communications specialists, intelligence officers and support workers in military headquarters. 

 

Except for the several million Vietnamese women who served in the military and in militias,  especially those engaged with guerrilla forces that supported the North Vietnamese Army in spying, medical care, logistics, administration and combat. 

 

The women served their country in the most controversial war in recent memory. And no one noticed. Except for the men who suffered the blasts and bullets, broken bones, burns and brain injuries and passed through their care in one of the battlefield hospitals. The men who were treated with ingenuity, compassion and expertise by those women. 

 

Nearly 50 years after the Vietnam War ended, I am rethinking what I thought I knew about the war and the role of women there. I joined the cascade of readers recently who tumbled through The Women, by Kristen Hannah, following 20-year-old fictional character Frances “Frankie” McGrath as she graduated from nursing school and joined the Army after her brother’s enlistment, following his example to serve her country. 

 

We soon find out how difficult a life she has chosen. 

 

Kristen Hannah, a lawyer turned writer, whose best-selling books The Nightingale, The Four Winds, The Great Alone, has mesmerized readers and developed a huge fan base. That’s evident by the number of Lincoln library holds on this, her newest book, standing for weeks at more than 400 people waiting to check out the 109 copies. 

 

“The women had a story to tell,” Hannah said, “even if the world wasn't quite yet ready to hear it, and their story began with three simple words. We were there.” 

My daughter, a big fan of Hannah’s books, surprised me with a copy of The Women for my birthday in May. I’m usually a slow reader, switching off among three or four I have going at once. I gulped down this one. Weeks after finishing it, I am still thinking about it. 

 

Hannah researched the women who served in Vietnam well. Then she threw everything she learned about those who served into Frankie’s story. 

 

In one scene of 10 hours of mass casualties, rows of helicopters with the injured hover near the hospital, waiting their turn to touch down. Rocket blasts shake the Quonset huts. The lights go on and off in the operating room. The noise of mortar attacks, helicopters, suction machines,  generators, surging electricity, hissing respirators, is excruciating. All the while, U.S protests of the war are going on at home, with returning GIs getting the opposite of a hero’s welcome.

 

The book is intense. The stories of the women who served is thought provoking. 

 

I knew there were nurses there because where there is war, there are nurses and doctors to care for the injured and sick. My mother was a nurse in her hometown of Shreveport, Louisiana, and then a military wife. My father spent his career in the Air Force, but when his next assignment was to be Vietnam, my mother drew the line and he left the service. 

 

I was a military brat, one of those kids who learn bravery, resilience, adaptability and toughness as only the military can teach. You have to learn those skills when you follow your parents from station to station, changing locations, schools and friends every 12 to 24 months. 

 

I knew a bit about the Vietnam War. I had participated as a student in protest marches and sit-ins against the war and the country’s leaders who sent so many young men to their deaths or to a life of physical, mental or emotional disability. More importantly, I had known a young man killed in that war.   

 

Kenney Chappell, his name on Panel 28E, Line 53 on the Vietnam Wall Memorial in Washington D.C., his body buried in Shreveport, Louisiana. His single mother did ironing for my grandmother and I had known the family when I was a young girl living in Shreveport with my mother and sister while my military father was stationed in Turkey. 

 

Kenney was small, 5’6 maybe 5’7, and the story goes that he was eager to join the Army so he ate as many bananas as he could the weeks before his physical to get his weight up to qualify. He ended up in the jungle, and was near the end of his deployment, two weeks until he was to go home, when he stepped on a landmine in Quang Tin Province.  

 

The details Hannah reveals in her book about the war and the aftermath for the women who served there, even though fictionalized, are profound. And they are repeated over and over in real life in our world in Iraq, Afghanistan, Ukraine, Gaza, where women suffer along with the men, in medical roles, in combat roles, in spousal roles. 

 

Cheryl Feala of North Bend, Nebraska, had a true life experience as a nurse in Vietnam, as recounted in several media reports, including Nebraska Public Media. Like Frankie, she spent her first year out of nursing school stationed near heavy fighting. Cheryl was close to the Demilitarized Zone (the DMZ) in 1968. The Tet Offensive had only just begun when she arrived at Chu Lai Airbase.

 

She provided crucial emergency care accompanied by small comforts and necessary but doleful tasks like helping to identify the dead in makeshift morgues. Her airbase was regularly targeted by the Viet Cong. She worked seven days a week, and like Frankie, she would spend occasional downtime on the beach of the South China Sea.

 

When she returned home, “I didn’t talk about it at all for probably 20 years,” she said. “Even my folks didn’t ask. ... It just was never brought up.” 

 

In her service, she was simply doing the right thing, she said. 

 

If you haven’t read the book, consider it. Even if the plot or the writing doesn’t completely suit you – although many, many readers have praised the story and the writing – reading it will recount the details of the Vietnam War and the effect of it. 

That war and those more recently in our world, and their impact on women as well as on the men, need to be remembered. 

 

When it comes to war, women can be, and are, our heroes. 

 

 

I Have a Sister...Her Name Is Kaye Lynette

 By Marilyn Moore

“I have a sister, ten years younger than me.  She lived only four days.  Her name is Kaye Lynette.”

These are words I have hardly ever spoken.  In those conversations when you’re meeting someone for the first time, in class, at a conference, at a party, in the neighborhood, and you’re getting to know one another, and you ask about where you’re from, what do you enjoy beyond work, where do you like to travel, tell me about your family…you know, those conversations.  When asked about siblings, I always tell them I have a brother, Randy, who is one year younger than me, and that he and my sister-in-law live on the family farm, and I’m so glad the farm is still in the family.  

But I stop there.  I don’t say that I have a younger sister, who I never met, who died after living four days.  It seems a little too intimate, a little too personal, to drop in a getting-to-know you conversation, and then, it just never comes up.  I don’t know if that’s true with other adults who had a sibling who died at a very young age, I just know it’s true for me. 

Until earlier this year, when a friend was interviewing me for some writing that she’s doing, and she asked about those growing-up years, where were you born, where did you go to school, what did your parents do, what about the rest of your family.  I told her about Randy, and then I paused, and I told her about Kaye Lynette.  

Since that conversation, I think a lot about Kaye Lynette. I remember how excited our family was before she was born.  We didn’t know gender; I don’t know if anyone knew gender in 1959.  Randy and I knew that one of us would be sharing a bedroom with the new baby, and that seemed just fine.  A day or two after Christmas, Mom went to the hospital, Uncle Jim and Aunt Gertie came to stay with us until Mom and the new baby came home, Aunt Gertie made plate-sized pancakes for breakfast, Dad came home from the hospital and told us that Kay Lynette had been born, and anticipation was high.  

Until something seemed not quite right.  When you’re ten, you don’t notice a lot about adult behavior, at least, I didn’t, but I had the sense that not all was well.  I overheard my dad say something to Aunt Gertie that mom was fine, but something with the baby wasn’t fine.  The mood in the house shifted from joy to watchfulness.  And then, on the fourth day, after my dad called from the hospital, Uncle Jim told us that Kaye Lynette had died, and that Mom would be coming home soon. I think now how much my parents must have trusted Uncle Jim and Aunt Gertie to tell us that sad news.

My mom was in good health while pregnant.  She had regular prenatal visits.  She didn’t smoke, didn’t drink alcohol, had a healthy diet.  Kaye Lynette was a full-term baby, not a preemie.  She died because of an Rh factor blood incompatibility; she was Rh+, and my mom was Rh-.  It’s not always fatal, but sometimes it is…or was, then. Today, my mom would have received an RhIG  (RhoD immune globulin) medication in the last few weeks of her pregnancy; the RhIG  protects against antibodies building up that attack the fetus’s red blood cells.  Today, babies like Kaye Lynette are healthy births, thanks to the science that developed that treatment, about ten years after Kaye Lynette was born, and died. 

I remember saying to my mom after she came home from the hospital, in all my ten-year-old certainty, that she could have another baby.  Mom hugged me, and then told me that no, she could not.  She knew that each pregnancy of an Rh- woman carrying an Rh+ baby is increasingly dangerous, and Rh+ is the dominant blood type.  Statistically, another pregnancy would likely have another sad outcome.  

Because 1959 was a time when children were not allowed to visit in hospitals, Randy and I never met our sister; we never saw her.  Her funeral service was the day after she died, on New Year’s Day.  Children didn’t go to funerals then, either.  I have no idea what the service was like.  When we went back to school on January 4, there was no counselor, no grief counselor, no Mourning Hope.  I’m sure our teachers knew what had happened, as did the whole community, because in small towns everyone knows everything.  But I don’t remember that anyone ever talked about it.  I do remember that our house felt very sad for a long time….

I wonder about Kaye Lynette.  What did she look like?  There were no photos of babies who died, no plaster casts of handprints and footprints.  Did she have the dark flashing Premer eyes from my mom’s side of the family?  Did she have the dimples from my dad’s side of the family?  Was her hair straight or curly?  Black or brown?  Maybe a hint of red?  As she grew up, would she have been a musician, an athlete, a writer, a farmer, a scientist?  She would be 64 now.  Would we be close sisters?  Would she be a grandmother?  A whole life, a whole story, not lived beyond four days.  

Except, of course, her life, brief as it was, and her death, sad as it was, became a part of my story, a part of our family’s story, said out loud or not.  I remember many times on December 28 my mom remarking that the day was Kaye Lynette’s birthday; I so regret not asking her to tell me what she remembered of her.  I remember reading about the development of the RhIG medication and realizing what an impact it would have on moms and babies from that point on. And as an Rh- person myself, I’m glad to be a blood donor. Because my blood type is O-, I’m a universal donor; my blood is safe for anyone, regardless of their blood type.  Sometimes when the Blood Bank calls, they tell me they have a surgery scheduled the next day for a baby, and ask if I can donate.  I always say yes.  

I wonder what it felt like to be Kaye Lynette.  I think babies experience emotions of fear, distress, security, and comfort…and perhaps others.  They know what it’s like to be in pain, to be hungry, to be hot or cold, to be comfortable, to be fed, to be held, to be safe.  I hope that in her four days of life, and in that moment when she “slipped the surly bonds of earth, and touched the face of God,” that she knew that she was loved, beyond words, beyond measure.  

“I have a younger sister, who died when she was four days old.  Her name is Kaye Lynette.”  Words I may say more often.  

Can You Relate?

In our last group blog, we shared with you, our dear readers some of our favorite travel memories. This time, we're giving equal time to some of those pesky sources of Mayhem in our lives - our pet peeves. 

Rules of the grocery aisle, buddy …

Mary Kay Roth

My kids and I used to call them grocery store road hogs. Then giggle and under our breath murmur a quiet “oink, oink.”

Inane, I know. Honestly, I don’t know why this annoys me so much.

But when someone blocks the grocery store aisle with their cart, my blood pressure rises a notch or two.

Rules of the road, buddy.  Basic grocery store etiquette.

There was actually a theory that went viral a few years ago theorizing an individual’s moral character could be determined by whether they chose to return a shopping cart to its designated spot – or not.

No way. I would base moral fiber on blocking the aisle.

When someone thoughtlessly leaves their cart smack dab in the middle of the lane – so nobody can pass
– I at least imagine they are self-centered creatures unaware of anyone else.

 And there’s no good solution.  I’ve tried clearing my throat.  Hint, hint. Asking them politely to move their cart.  However, a grocery store road hog almost inevitably wears earphones.

 So, these days I generally just slide their cart to the side. And quietly move on.  (“Oink, oink.”)

***

Its or It's?

by Marilyn Moore

It’s a little thing.  But it drives me crazy.  It’s or its? 

That pesky apostrophe…. Most of us learned in some English class at some time that an apostrophe is used for two purposes, either to show possession or to indicate a contraction.  And that rule works nearly 100% of the time.  Mary’s car wasn’t damaged in the hailstorm.  The apostrophe in Mary’s indicates possession; Mary owns the car.  The apostrophe in wasn’t indicates a contraction, was not. 

But the exception, oh, the exception.  The only time it’s is the appropriate form to use is to indicate a contraction, it’s for it is or it has, as in, “It’s been a rainy month of May.” Its, all by itself, with no apostrophe, indicates possession, as in, “The car still belongs to its original owner, purchased some forty years ago.” 

 I realize that autocorrect will get this incorrect some of the time; it’s happened to me, sometimes after pressing Publish or sending the email.  How embarrassing!  And I recognize it’s not a big deal to probably most of the reading world.  Still, it rankles my proofreader’s heart, especially when the error is in a published work, like a newspaper or a novel.  Or a huge sale sign in a window.  Or on a billboard….

I also recognize I live a pretty privileged life if this is life’s annoyance that most irritates me.

***

A Quandry...

By Mary Reiman

Is there etiquette for texting?

Two questions: Who has the last word in a text conversation? And how many abbreviations should I be using?

I send a text message asking a question. A reply arrives.

Do I acknowledge that reply or do I simply stop the conversation?

I have the answer to my question, but is it rude to not say THX (Thank You)?

If I say THX, another bubble will arrive. YW (You’re Welcome) or NBD (No Big Deal) or NP (No Problem).

Should the conversation stop now? Or do I send a smiley face? If so, a thumbs up appears.

Is that the end? YNK (You never know). Definitely IDK (I Don’t Know). It’s a quandry...

***

Pet peeves and broken cheese

By JoAnne Young

We all have lots of peeves, those small things that show up just often enough to annoy us. When they become pets, we just have to yap about them ... which in turn may agitate someone else.

I find that many of my peeves are ones that originate with me. Like the Northern Lights that everyone in Lincoln seemed to see but me, despite how I spent hours on a Saturday and Sunday night driving northward, my eyes on the horizon, and never saw them, n.e.v.e.r. “Look, is that them? That glow, is it greenish or is that just the city lights? Aren’t they supposed to be bright and brilliant? Oh, well.”

I’m annoyed by the gravel that finds its way into my shoes, those itty-bitty rocks that bug me with every step. But I keep walking on the same gravel paths.

It irritates me when I get sucked into watching Instagram reels on my phone. I could be reading Mary Oliver poems or sleeping or writing letters or meditating. But no, I’m watching cats push things off counters and chickens dance and parents crack eggs on their kids’ foreheads and David and Moira: “The next step is to fold in the cheese.” "What does that mean? What does fold in the cheese mean?” 

I'll stop now. Best of peeves to you all! 

***

By Penny Costello

There are plenty of things that will leave me feeling peevish. It’s hard to nail it down to one top pet peeve. So, I’ll briefly share two that are certainly close, if not at the top of my list. Second from the top are those drivers who do not signal their intentions to exit a roundabout. Is it that hard to use your turn signal to communicate to other drivers where you’re headed? Do I really need to sit here at a full stop wondering what you’re thinking until you decide which way you’re going??? I guess one good thing that has come from my irritation is that I have developed a very consistent habit of using my turn signal when I’m leaving the roundabout. So, I suppose I should thank those noncommunicative nitwits for helping me to become a better driver. Maybe later…

Another thing that puts me in a major peeve is when I’m reading posts on social media, and very often when I peruse the comments, someone will pose a question or comment that clearly shows they didn’t bother to read any of the other comments in the thread, because if they had, they would see that their question had been answered or their sentiment duplicated in the comments posted above theirs.

Come on! The comments thread is the social media equivalent of a conversation. Read the comments and participate in the conversation! Seeing your question that was answered before you posted it, or your duplicated comment just says to me that your time is too important to invest in fully participating in the conversation, but all the rest of us will surely be enriched by reading what you have to say, even when we’ve read it two, three, or five times already further up in the thread.

Okay. Enough of my peeving. Thanks for ‘listening’ (and, yes, it can be used as a verb. Look it up.)

***

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