I believe I have read Lamb’s previous novel, “She’s Come Undone” but without my ever-faithful shelf of books, I can’t be certain. If I have, it’s been awhile.

“I Know This Much is True” is an undertaking not to be taken lightly. The enormity of the book itself mirrors the enormity of the battles within. The story is told through the voice of an indentical twin in his 40’s, as he wrestles with his past, the history of his family, the schizophrenia of his twin brother and his present relationships. As his story unravels for the reader, we are also given the chance to read a novel of his grandfather’s writing, a history that traces back the long reach of abuse in the narrator’s family, a legacy of broken people, a parable on the exploitation of power.

As we struggle alongside the narrator to uncover the truths to the mysteries that plague the novel, we find the plot only thickens as answers are elusive. Lamb tells in tanglible detail a personal history that has raged like a river through this family. The detail is rough, crass, and even gruesome. His characters are troubled, selfish and broken. The plot is huge in scope and yet particular in it’s detail. Seek answers and find only more questions.

I was captivated by the novel by the mid-point. The characters had attached themselves to me and I was eager to pay witness to their struggle, to hope for their personal recovery, to plead for their forgiveness. Beyond the mid-point, I struggled to take it all in. I wanted more answers and fewer questions. I wanted something to play out with grace and dignity and nothing did. I, like the narrator had grown tired of fighting the fight for absolution.

Lamb wraps up the ending in his own due time, following his own lengthy course. Some answers were not difficult to predict, some outcomes feel more similar to what he hoped would happen than to what seems realistic, but we reach a point where we understand that for the fight of all that was unknown through the novel, throughout the life of the narrator, we do, perhaps, alongside each other, come together at the end to understand a few certain truths.

While I’m not certain I would put this book near the top of my “must-read” list for life, it was certainly a book that I will think over for awhile. A struggle with questions not unfamiliar; a lesson on the necessity of forgiveness that we all need to hear. Sometimes it is not the answers to questions that we wrestle with that bring our lives meaning, but the process of wrestling through the questions. At least from my own life, I know this much is true.

I think Peyton Manning should send Rex Grossman to Disney World as a thank you for the gift of his first SuperBowl win. It wasn’t so much that Rex lost the game for the Bears as he gift wrapped it and hand delivered it for the Colts.

At least people will stop talking about ‘when’ Peyton will win a big game, though.

And Tony Dungy deserves the Championship.

When I moved to the East Coast nearly 9 years ago, I was astounded by how frequently people stopped to ask me where I was from. People all around me noticed immediately from my speech that I wasn’t ‘from here’. Having been raised in northern Illionis, it had never crossed my mind that I had an accent. Where I live in Pennsylvania, we are situated south of the New England/Boston/New York accents, west of the Jersey accent and north of anything southern. I had not recognized there was a uniqueness to this area as well.

Sometimes it wasn’t an accent per se that gave me away, it was my choice of words. Over the years, I’ve learned to say ‘pocketbook’ instead of ‘purse’, sometimes I even say ‘carriage’ for a stroller. No one here goes to the ‘beach’, they all go to the ‘shore’. If I listen closely, I notice a difference in the way people say ‘water’ here, it sounds more like ‘wudder’, but in general, I’ve learned to tame my Chicago ‘A’ sound and have changed the way I say ‘pajamas’, ‘radiator’ and sometimes even ‘aunt’ depending on whom I’m speaking to.

Having just watched an interview with a Brit named Bear Grylls (from Discovery’s ‘Man v. Wild’) and I have to say, if I could choose how to speak, I would speak like he does. There is something so incredibly proper and sophisticated and intelligent in the way a Brit speaks (in my mind). Perhaps it would lose it’s appeal if I lived there and I understood the slang and noticed the dropped syllables and the mispronunciations, but it seems as if the language is cleaner, and more correct than ours is anymore. Even their idioms seem more entertaining and creative. Their word choices seem to elevate a conversation to a more sophisticated level.

I am sure to some, the English accent and even the East Coast accent sound snobbish (I hear you nodding, Bear and Jules). And I am certain my Dad and Judy would have much to say about learning the southern speak after they moved to Tennessee a number of years ago. My brother, G, switches between a southern drawl and his Illinois upbringing anytime you talk with him.

All I can say is, if Hallmark would make a talking card with a British Accent, it would be the best Valentine card ever.

I could not begin to review this book and do it justice. I will simply quote the author. “Hidden blessings inside suffering. This is ultimately what “Little Altars Everywhere” is about. We are given our lives, our fear, our broken bones and broken hearts. Breaks create openings that were not there beefore, and in that space grow the seeds for new creation.”

Exactly what I needed today. Thanks, Poka, for the recommendation.

I need to apologize. Remember all those times when I was a kid and you told me to do something a hundred times and I didn’t do it? Remember when you paid for piano lessons and for my flute and even later for my oboe, and you insisted that I practice, but I didn’t, or I said I did, but I really didn’t? Remember when you told me to plan ahead with my homework so I wouldn’t have it all to do in one night? Remember when we stayed up late the night before that big math project was due so I could get it done because I hadn’t planned ahead? Remember when you told me to double check my work to make sure I turned in my best but I rushed through it and turned it in incomplete anyway? Remember when you took me to some cool event (no, not the Captain and Tennille concert) and I moaned and groaned about how miserable it was going to be, and even during the event I was completely uninvolved and distracted but afterwards I spoke like it was the most amazing thing I’d ever done? Remember how it took teamwork between the both of you not to kill me before we got home? Remember when you wanted to take me out to do something nice for me as a surprise but I spent the whole time complaining about some silly little issue that you turned the car around and went home instead? Remember how I thought you were always wrong and I was always right? Remember how I resented how you pushed me to do and to be my best even though it helped me to get an academic scholarship and then a 4.0 in my major? Remember all those times I just drove you batty as a child? I AM SO SORRY!!!!

All I can say is, paybacks are hell.

Love,

Eliza Jane

I was certain I had read Maeve Binchy before, but none of her titles are ringing a bell. Maybe I’ve just heard her name so often I assumed I had read her. “Tara Road” is another library book sale book I picked up. As the author’s name would suggest, the book is set in Dublin, Ireland. “Tara Road” tells the story of a number of characters, interwoven throughout a twenty year period. The main focus is on Ria, whose marriage and friendships serve as the common denominator that connects the characters.

I could summarize the plot but so could you without ever reading the book. If I told you Ria meets a dashing, charming man who sweeps her off her feet in her 20’s, you could finish the sentence and the story by saying he probably betrays her and leaves her in her 40’s. If I said she is surrounded by several close friends and family members, you could probably peg their personalities, even if you didn’t know which belonged to whom. Surely there would be the friend who is married, too, but not as richly, not as romantically (her sister); of course there would be the friend who is always there in times of trouble, an extremely successful, independent icon of a woman who mysteriously never marries, a fact that leads us to easily realize she must be having an affair with Ria’s husband (Rosemary); there would have to be the cynic in her life (Ria’s mother) and the friend who is worse shape than she is and balances out the themes of unearned abundance and hard-earned poverty (Gertie). Perhaps you might even suggest a few minor characters to throw in, surely a mistress (or two) will come into play (Orla, Bernadette, even Polly); and some character must represent the sinister side of humanity, the side of greed and arrogance abundant in novels, (Barney).

Given the already overly-simplistic, idealistic plot line that a high school writing student might have drafted, it’s not hard to take the next step and dream up the conflict. Upon knowing that her husband has betrayed her, what will Ria do? Of course she will do something that both drastic and assertive (the contrary would be even worse reading), but also something that will demonstrate the strength of a woman and of friendships. Binchy introduces us at this point of the novel to Marilyn, an American, who through a very fast and barely thought-out negotiation, occurring at the perfect time, swaps houses with Ria for the summer. And it’s not hard at all to realize that Ria will find herself, her independence, her worth and her ability to support herself during this sojourn.

It’s a sweet, simple story of friendship. I guess I’m just looking for a plot that I can’t surmise on page 5. I can appreciate conflicts that I can relate to, or that are familiar to me, but it doesn’t make exciting reading material. In my mind, a book filled with stereotypical relationships doesn’t make a bestseller without a creative perspective, a unique plot or matchless depth and “Tara Road” lacks them all.

If you’re looking for an easy, summer, beach book, this might be one, if you can get it cheap. If you’re looking for something unique, something to remember for awhile, something that leaves a sweet taste in your mouth, this isn’t the book.

(It’s hard to show, but the door is NOT open, it’s still latched. He somehow got the whole front of the crate to collapse IN to the crate (where he was) – I have no idea how.)

Is “Houdini” a Biblical name?

(Luckily, it doesn’t look like he chewed or pee’d or anything wrong in the house…whew!)

I’ll be the first to admit, I was skeptical. It seemed too soon after my mom’s death that my dad was taking women to see “Forrest Gump”. I knew he loved my mother, I knew that her long battle with cancer had worn on him, aged him, but I didn’t see what the rush was to find someone new.

I’m not sure I remember exactly the first time I met Judy, although she probably remembers meeting all of us. I’m sure we were all glazed over with cynical eyes and judgmental hearts. I remember visiting her adorable little house and while I’m sure I complimented her on it, I also know I didn’t want it to be adorable. I didn’t want her to be nice, to be a teacher, to make my dad laugh. I remember the day we all went to dinner (or something) and then we walked around Lake Geneva (or parts of it). Dad and Judy were way ahead, walking at what we would later deem “Judy Speed” and the rest of us falling behind, complaining that we never had to walk with Dad before, and whose idea was this anyway?

They announced their engagement, although I don’t really remember how they told me. I just remember that my brother, still living at home, in the house my mom had passed away in, was really struggling with the idea. I remember fighting with my Dad because I stood up for my brother when he refused to stand up for the wedding.

The wedding was really beautiful. It was small, and filled with family, just like mine had been. What I remember most was the toast that Judy’s son gave. How he addressed the fact that she had been married twice before (a fact we couldn’t get our narrow sheltered minds around) and how wonderful my dad had been to her. I realized that day it wasn’t about us. It wasn’t even about my mother. It was about my dad being happy. And Judy made him happy.

I can’t say I still didn’t have my moments. The first Thanksgiving, back in my childhood home with Dad and Judy with the table full of dishes I couldn’t identify. She had been kind and had made several that were my mom’s recipes, and yet, still, my focus was on all the things that were different. The most blaring example being Judy herself.

It wasn’t that she was the opposite of my mother, just that they were remarkably different. Judy had been a single, working mother. My mom had been fortunate enough to stay at home for nearly her entire adult life. Judy had two grown sons, one of whom was married with a child. My mother had raised two girls and then a son. My mom cooked with simple “farm” ingredients, very limited spices. Judy cooked anything and everything. It had been a remarkable statement when my dad, after perhaps 15 years of eating a large, thin crust ham with mushroom pizza from Pizza Hut every Sunday night, ordered a Hawaiian pizza one day. With Judy, her pizzas came with every topping imaginable. My dad, a non-drinker suddenly had boxes of wine in his fridge.

They have been married for more than ten years now, and I now see things so differently. Judy wasn’t looking to get remarried when she met my dad. But God brought them together at the right time. My dad, I have no doubt, had been lonely for years, living by my mother’s bedside as she fought and finally lost her battle with cancer. Judy opened not only my dad’s eyes, but our whole family’s to new ideas, new beliefs and new opportunities. More than just an introduction in “How to Cook Using More than Five Ingredients,” Judy taught us how to disagree and still love each other. I don’t remember my parents fighting because they disagreed on a topic (my mother believed the husband was head of household and had final say – most of the time) but more over something that had been lost, or something that wasn’t done right. I wasn’t familiar with this new kind of disagreement, one that was taken in such stride. I felt defensive of my dad and his opinions.

As I worked through my own divorce, some of the best advice came from Judy, who had been there and knew what I was feeling. She not only gave me tips on what issues were important during mediation, but also seemed to be the one who best understood my own needs during and after the process was complete. Even now, she knows far better than my own mother would have, what it feels like to be a single mom.

I had the wonderful opportunity last month, to talk with Judy one morning, while watching the sunrise on the cruise. It was the first time in a very long time I can remember listening to her share such intimate feelings. She talked openly of some frustrations in her own life and of her feelings towards her grandchildren – all six of them. I have never once heard her refer to any of her grandkids as “step grandchildren”. It was a moment I will always treasure.

I used to refer to Judy as “my dad’s wife” and then later as “my stepmom” but recently have found that word to get tangled in my throat. Today, when people ask about my parents, I explain that my folks live in Tennessee. While I know she will never replace my own mother (and she has never tried to), in the past ten years, she has come to mean more to me than any “step-no-blood” ever could.

I have been remarkably remiss in not demonstrating to her better how sorry I am for the skepticism I first conveyed, even if it was innocently displayed as a child’s sense of protection for her only remaining parent. I have also been remiss in telling her exactly how important she is to me now. I wish there was a word in the English language for her position in my life, the best I know to give it is that Judy is my second mom.

Happy Birthday, Judy. May this year be a remarkable year, and may it be filled with all of God’s blessings for your life.

“Eli” came home on Friday, tail a waggin’. The cats retreated to LM’s bedroom where I shut them in for the first day and have eased them into the idea of a pooch in the house slowly over the weekend. They aren’t too amused, but Eli has been patient and generally calm with them (that is, until Jonah comes out in ‘stealth mode’ and Eli thinks he’s just playing!) Eli has a shaved spot on his back where they had to give him two injections to treat his heartworm. His heart was enlarged so the treatment had to be more drastic than might have been otherwise. He’s to stay calm for the next month or so, so we’ll wait to go to the dog park until March. He didn’t have any experience with a leash but by tonight he’s doing much better and is getting the hang of it. He’s picked up ‘sit’ quickly and we’re working on ‘down’. He has yet to really eat, but that’s to be expected with all the changes he’s suffered through in the last week.

He’s also being treated for tapeworm, and I’ve had to clean out his disgusting ears (we’ll be doing that everyday until we can get the stench removed!) and he’s had a bath. All that and he still loves us!

He’s adapted well to his crate at night and hopefully will take tomorrow in stride as his first day crated while I’m at work. I’ve only heard him bark once, and that was when he heard LM arriving home for church this morning.

As he sleeps soundly next to me on the floor, I have to say, so far, it seems as though we’ve been blessed with a wonderful companion. I’m so glad we were able to rescue him, and I cannot imagine who gave him up in the first place (but we’re glad they did!)