Book Review: May the Road Rise Up to Meet You

May the Road Rise UpPeter Troy, author of May the Road Rise Up to Meet You writes a compelling story, weaving the lives of four main characters as they cope with turbulent times. The novel encompasses first Ireland and its Great Famine and then moves on to America just before and then during the Civil War. His description of the Civil War, seen through the eyes of these diverse characters, makes this novel a unique read. The book chronicles years 1853 through 1867.

Mary Wilkins, a slave,.is a young girl when she’s sold to a family who treats her kindly, but she is nevertheless a slave, unable to personally benefit from the beautiful garments she creates.

Ethan McOwen is only twelve when he leaves his grieving mother and aunt in Ireland to join his father and brother in America. For the first time in his life, he’s alone for the endless dangerous journey across the sea. He’s reunited with his father and brother whom he hasn’t seen for two years and his life begins again in America.

Micah, a slave, eventually gives himself the last name of Plowshare, but for much of his life, he is simply Micah. An extraordinary carpenter, he is much in demand, but has no control over his own life, and sees his skills benefit only his master. When it comes to rights, he’s on an equal par with a mule.

Marcella Arroyo, originally from Spain, is the daughter of a wealthy merchant, but becomes involved with the Abolition Movement to end slavery. In order to follow her heart, she must leave her father’s house to join others of like mind.

As the stories of these individuals unfold, I found myself embroiled in this great saga. Troy doesn’t always follow the rules of writing literature, but rather follows what captures your heart. His use of colloquial language and accents enriches the narrative. He skillfully balances the perils and joys of each life as they encounter one another. The ravages of the Civil War drive their individual stories, giving the reader insightful behind-the-scenes glimpses of America during this dark period.

I highly recommend May the Road Rise Up to Meet You. ‘Tis a book you’ll not soon forget.

An African Encounter with Hippopotamus

HippoFrom: Tubob: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

One of our big goals while serving with the Peace Corps in The Gambia was to visit Niokolo Koba National Park in Senegal. We were able to take the 3-day trip with two other couples, US AID people who had a vehicle at their disposal.

The drive getting to the park was long, hot and dusty. After some viewing, we were ready to call it a day and make the next day our main viewing day.

Camping was allowed only in designated areas and we found the camps spartan but adequate. On our first night, the riverside camp had a round grass-roof hut and a cooking hut with a bench. The hut nicely held four people so Bruce and I elected to pitch our borrowed tent outside.

After getting that hot work done, we couldn’t wait to cool off in the river. The six of us rushed into the river and gave a collective sigh of relief. I heard yelling and looked up to see the park ranger frantically waving for us to get out. “What? Get out? We just got here!”

We didn’t want to get into trouble, so we reluctantly climbed out of the river and up the bank, not yet really cooled off. Once he saw us safely out of the water, he pointed upriver. There, we saw a family of hippos, their tiny ears and eyes reflecting red showing just above the surface of the water. Oops. Guess it was the wrong time of day to be cooling off in the river.

As we climbed into our tent later that night, I said to my husband Bruce, “I don’t suppose this little tent is much protection from those hippos.”

“There isn’t room for two more in the hut.”

“I suppose we could set the tent up in the cooking hut.”

“Forget it. I don’t have the steam.” With that, he fell sound asleep.

Oh, well, I thought, and immediately drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, we saw dozens of big, flat hippo footprints leading from the river through the campground. Those huge animals had walked within two feet of our little tent, leaving footprints the size of turkey platters.

Book Review: The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer

The_Emperor_of_all_MaladiesHow old is cancer? What are the roots of our battle against this disease? Where are we in the war against cancer? In this comprehensive book’s almost 600 pages, Siddhartha Mukherjee does a magnificent job in answering these questions. The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer, a Pulitzer Prize winner, is a powerful, engrossing read, beautifully expressed and understandable to a lay person.

As this scholarly book takes readers through the ages, the author sites specific cases, some through his own oncology practice, that give the book a human touch and facts that a lay person can relate to.

Cancer is possibly one of the oldest human diseases. Although we’ve come a long way in learning what it is and what can be done toward curing, or at least controlling it, cancer, in many respects, is still a mysterious disease.

We tend to lump the different forms of cancer altogether. In many respects there is a commonality among the many different kinds, but oncology, the branch of medicine concerned with the study and treatment of cancer, has learned that cancer is not a disease, but a whole family of diseases. These diseases are linked at a biological, cellular level. The particular types of cells, though different within the various types of cancer, abnormally divide and multiply, and eventually “take over” critical organs of the body.

Each type of cancer cell has its own look, its own personality, its own method or pathway it takes through the body. Interestingly, when cells break away from their origin, for instance, with breast cancer, those rapidly multiplying cells might attach themselves to another part of the body, a process called metastasis. Even though it may be in another part of the body, it is identified as metastasized breast cancer.

The study of cancer and its treatment involves a multitude of disciplines, from the many oncology sciences, to cancer screening, to specialists in surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, monoclonal antibody therapy, and even palliative care. In some cases oncologists have isolated probable causes of cancer, such as smoking and working with asbestos. Screening for early detection, such as pap smears and mammograms, have allowed treatment before cancer spreads to other parts of the body. In some cases prevention, such as a vaccination against human papillomavirus (HPV) have avoided incidences of cancer. However, the war on many types of cancer is still raging. New medicines are on the horizon, but testing and availability take funding and time, commodities that many cancer patients don’t always have. Sometimes the best an oncologist can do is redefine victory by focusing on prolonging life rather than eliminating death, making expectations manageable.

Thankfully, gone are the days where a single treatment is tried, then, failing that, another. Nowadays, a cancer patient can consult a team of specialists who work together to provide the best care known to date.

The Emperor of All Maladies:A Biography of Cancer, published in 2010, is an important work, full of compassion, energy and impeccable prose. At the end of the book (at least in the copy I read) an interview with Siddhartha Mukherjee sheds even more light on his passion for cancer enlightenment.

Uganda: Helen Keller Would Be Proud

Uganda Man Receiving Eye Care

(Photo by Roy Lesher)

Helen Keller overcame the adversity of being blind and deaf and became one of the America’s leading humanitarians. In 1925 Ms. Keller spoke at Lions Club International Convention at Cedar Point, Ohio. She concluded:

“The opportunity I bring to you, Lions, is this: To foster and sponsor the work of the American Foundation for the Blind. Will you not help me hasten the day when there shall be no preventable blindness; no little deaf, blind child untaught; no blind man or woman unaided? I appeal to you Lions, you who have your sight, your hearing, you who are strong and brave and kind. Will you not constitute yourselves Knights of the Blind in this crusade against darkness?”

For more than 85 years, the Lions Club has carried out Helen Keller’s plea. Recently, Roy Lesher of Camano Island and an active member of Stanwood, WA Lions Club, joined a team from the Seattle chapter of the Volunteer Optometry Services to Humanity (VOSH) on a 5-day mission trip to Uganda, Africa. Lesher has also trekked to Mexico with Lion/VOSH teams.

For many years, the Lions Club has collected eyeglasses in store receptacles, both prescription and over-the-counter, The eyeglasses are turned over to VOSH who then cleans, adjusts and runs them through a lensometer to be rated for strength.

On the recent mission trip to Uganda, the 15-member team, lead by Dr. Willow Thompson, took with them about 14,000 pairs of glasses. Setting up a clinic in Kapchowa District on the eastern border of Uganda, the team saw about 2,200 patients and fitted 1,300 pairs of glasses to those who otherwise would not have the benefit of corrected vision. Patients with other eye problems were referred to specialists for treatment.

On a typical day, 300 to 400 people wait to be seen, so great is the need. The team examines patients, tests vision, and fits them with glasses, giving people from developing countries the gift of vision.

The primary mission of VOSH is to facilitate the provision of vision care worldwide to people who can neither afford nor obtain such care. The Lions Club, also an international organization, is dedicated to serving their communities, meet humanitarian needs, encourage peace and promote international understanding. In the spirit of Helen Keller’s challenge and in partnering with VOSH, the Lions Club has enabled thousands to have the benefit of eyeglasses.

Roy Lesher extends his gratitude to readers in the Stanwood Camano area for their faithful contribution of eyeglasses. The next time you need a pair of glasses or sunglasses, consider donating your old pair to the Lions. You’ll often find a receptacle near a grocery store’s pharmacy or next to the checkout, also at Camano and Stanwood senior centers and libraries. If you don’t see a receptacle, ask a clerk, or call your area Lions Club and ask where to find the closest drop-off. The recycled glasses may enable someone to earn a living for their family, or make it possible for a child to attend school.

 

Book Review: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox

Maggie O’Farrell’s The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox makes me thankful that I wasn’t a woman living in the thirties. When Esme Lennox failed to comply with what was considered normal behavior, her family committed her to a mental asylum.

Sixty years later, Iris Lockhart receives notice from the asylum that she needs to make arrangements for her grandmother’s sister, Esme Lennox, her great-aunt, because the institution is closing. Iris, unaware that Esme even exists, is overwhelmed, not only with worry about what to do with Esme, but with the vague memories and clues she’s always known were there, but never acknowledged.

O’Farrell’s novel skillfully toggles between the present with Iris handling the situation, to Esme, both in the past and present. The story also includes Iris’s grandmother, Kitty, the favored older sister, in her past and in her present-day Alzheimer’s ramblings, which hint of an ugly secret. The early recollections of Esme and Kitty take place in India, and later in Scotland.

The story is a tragic revelation of yesteryear’s inhumane treatment of women who didn’t comply with the strict standards of the day. Unraveling the past, Iris discovers shocking secrets, which were largely the result of a family not communicating in order to preserve its reputation. At least in the upper middle class existence of Esme and Kitty’s childhood, much emphasis and engergy was spent in keeping up appearances and what was thought of as propriety.

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox is a spellbinding novel of depth and complexity that I won’t soon forget.

Fly-Day in The Gambia

From: TUBOB: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

There were always flies. We never got used to them, but in Africa flies are a fact of life. Over the two years we served with the Peace Corps, I spoke to many an African while a fly ran along the rim of an eye and the person barely flinched. We never acquired that acceptance.

When my husband Bruce and I drank anything out of a bottle, we automatically kept our hand over the opening to keep out flies. Woven straw fans were as much for batting away flies and mosquitoes as for stirring up a breeze.

But the day we forever after called “fly-day” was unbelievably awful. It happened on a Sunday and we were home all day. Conditions must have been just right, or just wrong, to create the “perfect storm” of flies. Our screened, thatched-roof hut remained relatively fly free, other than those that sneaked in when we entered, but we could control those few. On that day, the small mud-brick house where we cooked was another story. Flies and other flying critters could enter through the gap between the wall and corrugated tin roof. Flies were on every surface. There must have been three hundred flies on the overhead electrical wire that reached between the kitchen and the dining/living room, where we ate breakfast. We couldn’t bring a bite of food to our mouths without flies landing on it. In the old days we might have thrown out the food, but you’d starve if you did that every time a fly landed on your food in Africa. But this day that scenario was magnified a thousand times.

A video of us would have revealed people who appeared to have delusions with arm waving, hands suddenly going to our ears, nose and eyes. It was a nightmare.

“Whose idea was this?” Bruce asked, using Newsweek as a fly swatter, nailing three at one time.

I laughed. “Not mine! I think coming here was your idea.”

As soon as we could after eating breakfast we retreated to our hut, to spend the day hiding out, reading, and writing letters.

We had to brace ourselves to leave the hut to prepare meals. We worked like a well-oiled team, swatting and carrying on, then making a dash for the hut with our prepared food.
Fly-day lasted only the one day, to be followed by lots of flies, but not at that level.

Book Review: By Nightfall

For a close-up view of man’s frailties, the novel By Nightfall may be just what you’re looking for. Michael Cunningham tells a good story, digging deep into man’s inner thoughts, family dynamics, and the whims of the business of art.

Peter Harris, 43, owns an art gallery in present-day Manhattan. His wife Rebecca is editor of an arts and culture magazine. From all appearances they live well, are happily married, work hard, and are reasonably content. Their only child, Beatrice, now living on her own, plays a minor role, but recollections of her bring regret.

Their world changes forever when Rebecca’s much younger brother Ethan, nicknamed Mizzy, short for Mistake, comes to stay for an unspecified time. For years, Rebecca and her sisters have come to Ethan’s rescue in his various efforts to grow up. Although Ethan is now an adult, he seems to constantly need support from family and friends. Handsome and charming, he brings anxiety and unrest into Peter and Rebecca’s lives.

Author Michael Cunningham delves deep into Peter and Rebecca’s family backgrounds. These back-flashes bring texture to who the characters are in the present. When Ethan arrives, their routines are interrupted as they both try to cater to his needs. Rebecca takes on the role of big sister, but tries desperately to “let go.” Peter attempts to be a big brother, a friend, but surprising emotions spring to the surface.

Throughout the novel, readers learn about the inner workings of the business of contempory art. Most of the book is written from Peter’s viewpoint and his ever-present pangs of growing older, of how he appears to others, and how his work affects his bevy of artists and customers. By Nightful is an in-depth and memorable study of human nature, particularly in privileged society.

Although many readers may not relate to Peter Harris, his journey makes for an interesting glimpse into his world.

Making Lists Isn’t Always the Answer

Worker preparing to be lowered into a well site.

From Tubob: Two Years in Africa with the Peace Corps

My husband Bruce’s job with the UN well-digging unit continued to be one frustration after another. He described it as “running a business on promises.” Getting supplies in a timely fashion was challenging. Many trips downriver could have been avoided if the upriver crew could have depended on routine supplies, such as motor oil, fuel and spark plugs. As it happened, they had been unable to change oil in the vehicles for some time because they couldn’t get enough oil to perform this task. They could only top up the oil when it was desperately needed. The disregard for vehicle maintenance grated on Bruce.

Sometimes equipment would go into the bush, only to break down and have to be rescued. Bruce knew many of these breakdowns could have been avoided with consistent maintenance. It was expensive for yet another vehicle to go into the bush to rescue the first, change a tire because there was no spare, take fuel which should have been filled before they left. The wasted time and resources slowed down the operation and raised expenses.

To help alleviate needless trips, Bruce made an itemized list of things that needed to be checked off before the Land Rovers and trucks left for the bush. Bruce instructed the lead mechanic to check off the items on the list as they were performed.

__ Tires checked
__ Spare tire checked
__ Radiator Level Checked
__ Oil changed, if needed (see schedule)
__ Check battery
__ Check brakes

A truck was about to depart and Karafa, the head mechanic, handed the to-do list to Bruce, with all items dutifully checked.

Bruce looked over the form. “Karafa, you’ve checked off ‘Oil Changed.’”

“Yes.”

“But we’re out of oil.”

“Yes.”

“How could you check this off then, if we don’t have oil?”

“We must check this off before truck can go to bush.”

“But you couldn’t change the oil.”

And on it went. Bruce then realized that Karafa, as well as most of the other men at the shop, couldn’t read nor write. Yet Karafa managed to maintain a fleet of trucks under very difficult conditions. Until you’re faced with situations like this, it’s hard to realize the advantages of education that we take for granted.

Book Review: Hauchuca Woman

Arletta Dawdy manages to pass on an amazing amount of southwest history in Hauchuca Woman. The story ranges from 1886, toggling to 1952, and ends with a satisfying 1961 epilog. The historical fiction is the first of the Huachuca (pronounced Wha-chew-ca) Trilogy, followed by novels By Grace and Rose of Sharon.

Josephine, the story teller, born in 1877, was about nine years old when she first met the famed Chiricahua Apache, Geronimo. Josephine’s family befriended the small starving band and in turn were considered the infamous chief’s friends.

Although the episode with Geronimo is a short scene, it sets the pace of a historical novel about the life of a white woman who lived through the taming of the Southwest, particularly in Arizona, in the late 1800’s. Josephine, 75, tells her story to her two young-adult grandchildren who are cousins, and offspring of Josephine’s twin sons. The young people are eager to tape record their grandmother’s fascinating history, bits and pieces of which they’ve heard all their lives. Toggling from 1952 and the telling of the story back to the events of 1880’s, makes for an interesting contrast. The three travel to the nearer story settings, allowing the reader to “see” through more modern eyes various historical events.

Through Josephine, the grandchildren are able to piece together their grandmother’s complex and enlightening story. Josephine’s Lazy L ranch, is her family’s homestead and a place the grandchildren cherish. They hope to encourage their families to help make it a place where family, friends and guests could gather and relish in an atmosphere of history carved from decades of dedicated labor.

Josephine’s colorful life takes surprising and often unconventional turns and twists. Her story demonstrates the highs and lows of a life well lived.

I found the segment about Fort Huachuca particularly fascinating. The Fort, still in active use, headquartered the famed 10th Calvary, the “Buffalo Soldiers,” one of the Army’s elite black cavalry corps.

Arletta Dawdy does a good job captivating the spirit of yesteryear. The details of time and setting, dialect, clothing and transportation, add immeasurably to the work.

Huachuca Woman is available in print and e-book formats. To learn more about the author, visit www.ArlettaDawdy.com

Dodging Longhorns in The Gambia

From: TUBOB: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps

After work one day I walked to the farmers’ market with a long list of items we needed. Heading home, I tried not to think about the heat and the heavy pack on my back. Instead I planned our Easter dinner. Absorbed in my thoughts, I trudged along the winding path. Suddenly I stopped in my tracks. A large herd, maybe fifty head or so of longhorn cattle, grazed on the scrub grass, completely blocking the path.

To turn around and go back to take the road home would add at least a mile to my walk, not appealing in that heat. I looked around for a Fula herdsman, but didn’t see him, though I was sure a herd this size wouldn’t be here on its own. Most cattle, especially this many, were owned by the Serahule tribe, but herded by a Fula tribesman. Well, I’d just take my chances. I walked down the dusty path, talking softly so I wouldn’t startle them.

“Hi, guys,” I murmured. “I’m just going to slide right by you here.” I kept watching out for those long horns, hoping one wouldn’t stick me. Almost as worrisome was being swished by a shitty tail.

“Okay, here I am, just step aside.” I kept my voice low key, almost a whisper. A few of the cows mooed at me, some sort of grunted. None were alarmed, though they rolled their huge eyes at me. A few stepped out of my way; others let me step around them. Flies from the cattle landed on me, but I concentrated on not waving them off, trying not to make sudden moves. Churned-up dust settled on my shoulders and hair. I walked perhaps a quarter of a mile through the scattered herd before reaching the other side of them.

At one point along the path, a small hill rose on one side. From the hill I heard, “Abete ata bake, Mariama!” Well done, Mariama!

I looked up and saw the herdsman sitting in the shade. He waved. I waved back. The poor guy probably had held his breath the whole time I wove my way through the cattle, expecting to have to pry me off one of those long horns.

For weeks afterward, I heard about that incident. Word spread like locusts in a maize field. Woman couldn’t imagine why I would do such a thing. Men thought I was probably just ignorant of what could have happened to me. I kept telling everyone who questioned me that it was just too hot to turn around and go home the long way.