I should
have seen it coming. Interest in my book club of over a quarter century had
been steadily declining. The former minister’s wife moved to Rhode Island, the
writer was taking a Tuesday night class, the frequent flyer could no longer
commit, and the endodontic office manager just stopped coming. Finishing the
selection each month, while encouraged, was not required, although requests to
refrain from giving away the ending were generally ignored.
Attendance waxed and waned over the years as new faces came and went, but we could usually count on a core group of eight. When only two of us turned up in October, after a six-month hiatus, we were forced to read the writing on the wall.
Attendance waxed and waned over the years as new faces came and went, but we could usually count on a core group of eight. When only two of us turned up in October, after a six-month hiatus, we were forced to read the writing on the wall.
Trying to
determine how long we’d been convening, I recalled a particular incident. At
one of our early meetings a thirsty member had inquired, “Where’s your booze?,” prompting the
resident toddler to run and fetch his foul-weather footwear. He had apparently
mistaken “booze”
for “boots.”
The kid turns 26 next week.
Book club
wasn’t all about plot, dialogue, and denouement. The sweets and savories were
also key ingredients, as was the wine. Some hosts stepped it up a notch and
prepared special food that related to the reading. We talked about Isabelle
Allende’s “The
Japanese Lover” while sampling homemade mango and green tea mochi. Lox and
kugel were served during our discussion of Kristen Hannah’s Nazi-era
novel “The
Nightingale.” And a gorgeous, glistening tarte tatin was the perfect
accompaniment to the posthumously published “Suite
Francaise” by Irene
Nemirovsky. In the thematic culinary department I contributed precisely nil.
I’m an appreciative eater if not much of an entertainer. More creative types
might want to consult “The
Book Club Cookbook” by Judy Gelman, containing “recipes and food from your book
club’s favorite books and authors.”
Since
most of us wouldn’t have seen each other since the previous meeting, naturally
we would have personal news to share. We were familiar with each other’s
families, jobs, holidays, hospitalizations, and whose kids were struggling in
school, going to Prom, graduating, or getting married. There might have been a wee
bit of gossip as well. And if time allowed, we even talked about the book.
My
youngest daughter, who called a day or so after the group’s demise, was sympathetic. As one of the
original members, I’d been part of this book club her entire life. Belle told
me how disappointed she was to have gone to only one meeting of a new book
group in Brooklyn before she moved away. The conversation eventually turned to
what each of us was reading.
I
had just finished Will Schwalbe’s
moving memoir, “The
End of Your Life Book Club”--for the second time. I’d meant to skim it just to
refresh my memory but ended up rereading it cover to cover. I actually took a
speed-reading course in college to train my eyes to jump from phrase to phrase.
That practice ended abruptly with the final exam. When I read for pleasure I
prefer not to rush. The one advantage of this tortoise and hare approach is
that I could usually recall most of the characters’ names at book group, having
stayed up too late the night before trying to read every word.
Will Schwalbe—writer, editor, and devoted
son—learns that his intrepid mother has been diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic
cancer. To help pass the time during her lengthy chemotherapy treatments, they
start their own book club. While living down the street from Julia Child in
Cambridge with her husband and three children, Mary Ann Schwalbe was director
of admissions at Harvard. She subsequently devoted her life to helping refugee
women and children and building libraries in Afghanistan. She was universally
beloved.
Aside
from wishing I’d had Mary Ann for a mother and Julia for a neighbor, I loved
reading about all the books the author and his mom discussed, as well as their
conversations on life, love, literature, loss, and anything and everything
else. I felt like a privileged, invisible member of their little club. Many of
the titles they talked about I had already read, and now want to read again. As
for those I hadn’t, the list in the Appendix will provide a lifetime’s worth of
recommended reading. I calculated that our book club read roughly the same
number of books in twenty five years as Mary Ann and Will tackled in two.
But
back to my conversation
with Belle. If the Schwalbes could start a book club, why couldn’t we? She
sounded intrigued and suggested we include her sisters. Easier said than done
since we live in multiple time zones, but it seemed a great way to connect. I
was dubious about the logistics but my co-worker informed me we could video
conference using Google Chat.
I got the green light from three of the kids.
The fourth, possibly preoccupied with a new love interest, said she’d consider it.
Like the
girls themselves, their reading tastes are very different. The oldest is a fan
of Kurt Vonnegut and Wally Lamb, the next in line leans toward the classics,
while the youngest chooses books I might never pick up on my own. Then there’s
Katie, who’s been slogging through Herman Wouk’s “War and Remembrance,” at my urging,
for the better part of two years. It’s become a joke.
I realize
the odds of five of us agreeing on a book, reading the book, and scheduling a
time to discuss the book--factoring in the nine-hour time difference and the
inevitable technical difficulties--are slim at best. But no one could have
predicted our first book club would pass the quarter century mark, nor could
Mary Ann and Will have anticipated being granted enough time after her
diagnosis to share their thoughts on over 200 titles.
The
verdict is in. We’ll begin our hopeful endeavor with “My Brilliant Friend,” book one of
the four Neapolitan Novels by Elena Ferrante. It’s not quite as ambitious as it
sounds since two of the girls have already read it and I’m halfway through, but
still. To misquote the immortal words of Humphrey Bogart in “Casablanca,” “this could be the beginning of a
beautiful book group.”
