photo by Jeff Harbin, Life of Riley Photography

A Literary Classic

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My New Year's Revolution

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Something is strangely amiss when a grown woman old enough to have grandchildren resorts to hiding out in the Cliff Notes section of her local bookstore simply in order to remain a member in good standing of her ladies’ literary club. I should know.

It all started last year when several of my friends got the bright and bushy idea to form such a club. Don't get me wrong. I like a good book with lots of words and pictures as well as the next guy, but there's something about hearing the word "assignment" and "book" in the same sentence that conjures up too many loathsome 8th grade English memories. It was the worst of times.

Besides, with so many classics now turned into TNT movies, wouldn’t it be simpler and more practical to start a movie club? To read or not to read, that was the question. Yet I slowly warmed to the idea. Hearing words thrown around such as, “enrichment,” “fulfilling,” and “cheese and wine,” I decided I could at least do my part. And so, throwing caution to the wind I boldly entered a brave new world.

In the beginning, I had great expectations. So much so, that I actually attempted reading the selection before making an effort to discuss it at group. Admittedly a novel approach, my innocent zeal soon faded. I could see this was going nowhere fast. Or, slow. After making a dozen stabs at War and Peace, I retreated for a spell determining unabridged just wasn’t my genre. No farewell to arms for me; this would most certainly be war.

Month two I deployed a new strategy. Arriving late, I entered quietly, sliding along the back wall I sat alone in the adjoining room so as to call no undue attention to myself. Requesting a hall pass in mid-discussion, however, seemed to be my undoing. I could clearly see they were on to me, reading me like an open book.

But by the third month, after they’d chosen To Kill A Mockingbird, I was ready and loaded for bird. (I, for one, know why the caged bird sings!) “Who wants to start us off today?” began Elaine, the fearless leader of our group; the one I respectfully refer to as our Reader-Leader. “What did you girls think of Atticus?”

Waving one hand frantically while retrieving bits of sharp cheddar from off my lap with the other, I bounced excitedly on the love seat. “Oh! Oh!” I knew this answer so shot out with both barrels, “I thought Gregory Peck was extremely good looking!”

The eyes of those three musketeers pierced me like sharp daggers. Even in the silence, I could faintly hear the sound of their fury.

“Oh?” I jerked, in quick recovery mode. “You mean. The book? Yes. Well. I was going to read that very book. But. My cat?” Here I nodded my head slowly for emphasis. “She ate it.”

“Don’t you mean your dog?” Linda sneered from the recliner, another smug reader with real leader potential. Did I sense a possible mutiny at our bounty?

“No!” I blasted, sticking to my guns. “I don’t have a dog. I have four cats. And they are all very smart.” And so little by little I began to lose interest. I missed gardening. I missed hauling my kids to soccer practice. I missed having my teeth worked on. Until, I remembered Cliff Notes. That’s when I began stealing out of the house on weekends and slouching towards the reference section of the bookstores.

My Sherlock Holmes research was going nicely (another exceptionally fine movie, I must say) until the Sunday my family decided to join me unexpectedly after church. Wandering off, thinking I was alone, my husband snuck up from behind and startled me, catching me like a thief, red-handed.

“Hey, there. What’re you reading?” he quipped.

“Great Gatsby!” I shrieked, slapping the little book shut, dropping it to hide all evidence. “Oh, you mean those silly Cliff Notes?” I laughed gingerly. He continued sipping his mocha, clearly unamused, while I snatched the book from off the floor. “For your information, Mister, I was looking at that cover…to get… color schemes for our bathroom.”

“Black and yellow? Hmm. Must be book club week again,” he said, shaking his head before turning to meander back to the gun section. Wise guy. I’ll show him the gun section!

Before you could say Les Meserables, month four had rolled around, and I was.
Elaine called the meeting to order. “But aren’t you going to read the minutes?” I interrupted, stalling for time. It’s a book club, they remind me. There are no minutes.

Quick Tip for the Book Club Beginner: When you’re clueless about the subject matter, I recommend one of two things. First, plead the Fifth. Or, recite convincingly from a book jacket endorsement – any book jacket. With so many to choose from, it’d be a shame to let one go to waste; so I chose the later.

The ladies turned serious and reflective, exactly like Mrs. Flannigan, my 8th grade teacher, less the hanky. “What did you think of the Hound of the Baskervilles?” asks Elaine.

“I thought it was a taut thriller full of whiplash plot twists and wisecracking dialogue.” I gushed, testing the waters. “But most of all,” I added slowly, mindful of the importance of appearing earnest, “I appreciated the author’s quintessential American voice.” There.

Kelli’s salad fork paused in mid-air. “Sir Author Conan Doyle was no American,” my smart friend piped up knowingly. “He was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in the mid 1800s to an English father of Irish descent and an Irish mother.” The girl is nothing but trouble I tell you, having read all sorts of real books and encyclopedias. Still, I couldn’t help but believe she was making much ado about nothing.

“Even so,” I shrugged, undeterred, “you must admit it’s a genuine work of pop art… squarely in the column of must reads.”

All that to say, if you’re in a bookstore and happen to spot a middle-aged woman in disguise, lurking in the reference section, struggling to make out the small print – don’t be too surprised. Sometimes, truth really is stranger than fiction.