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I know just where I was when…

When I think about my life and art, I think first about music. There’s a soundtrack to my life–I have an annoyingly crisp memory for where I was when I first heard a song, no matter how dreadful the song. (Wildfire, I’m looking at/listening to you.)

And yet, there’s also a book-track of my life, one that has shaped me every bit as much as the songs I’ve soaked up. No, I can’t remember where I was for every book that I’ve read. But there are some books where the reading of them was so consuming I forever associate a specific time, place, and emotional outlook with each one.

When I was five my little sister died. Prior to that my parents spent many a late afternoon visiting her in the hospital. I stayed at a neighbor’s house and read or watched TV. I know there were others in that house but all my memories–fallible–are of being alone. One afternoon–I think this must have been very close to the time my sister died–I remember reading very very slowly P.D. Eastman’s Are You My Mother? That book, though it ends joyfully, is for me a terribly upsetting book. When I see it, I think of myself, so sad and anxious, feeling like that lost little bird.

One summer I went for a week of–I think–Girl Scout camp. I’d just finished fourth grade and had lost much of my interest in trying to earn more badges. So, every chance I could, I read Gone with the Wind. I thought it was astonishing–I’d never met a girl that had Scarlett’s power or professed beauty. I’d lay tummy down on the skimpy twin mattress in our cabin, kicking my heels, and imagining making clothes out of curtains or stealing someone’s husband. Both seemed equally improbable. I loved the book and–true confession–have never read it again. I feel sure I’d see it all so differently and I prefer the reader’s memory I have.

Other books over my tween and teen years are also evocative of a time and place. Scruples (so racy I had a hard time believing anyone really did those things) and Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (so much hair) I read while babysitting at the next-door neighbors. We lived in Marin County, it was the 70’s, and the books the adults around me had were full of sex, transcendence, and war. Our seventh grade class had to read Go Ask Alice and I read the entire book one afternoon in our family’s deadly treehouse (a platform twenty feet up in the air in a eucalyptus tree). That book scared the holy hell out of me and shaped my view of drugs for years.

When I went to college, I read so much my memories of those years’ reading is a blur. The book I remember best is Lillian Smith’s Killers of the Dream. I read it in while at my grandparents house over Thanksgiving. They lived in a small Virginian town and, as I read Ms. Smith’s words about race in the pre-1960’s South, I felt exposed and known in the worst way. When I finished reading, I put the book down and went for a walk in the rain. I’ve never seen my history again in the same way.

I read Presumed Innocent in a hotel in Chicago where I whiled away a day waiting for my husband to take his boards. He came in, late in the day, full of stories about the experience and I just wanted him to go away so I could FINISH THE BOOK. I read Possession on a rooftop in Key West, on the first vacation we took after we had our first, very colicky baby. I am not sure I’ve enjoyed a book more–I lost myself in Byatt’s language, sobbed over the tragic lovers, and adored not having to take care of any one but me for three whole days.

I listened, night after night, to the audiobook of The Time Traveler’s Wife, at a time when my own marriage felt fragile. Experiencing Claire’s and Henry’s extraordinary love and horrific loss helped me make sense of why I so wanted to stay married. When Henry died, I cried so hard I had to get up and change my pillowcase.

When I think back over the past twenty years, there are few book memories that are stronger for me than the one I associate with Jennifer Egan’s The Invisible Circus. I read it on vacation with my entire family, up in the Appalachian mountains. I had two small children, a husband, my siblings, my parents, and a pair of close family friends to spend time with. I wasn’t interested in any of them. Egan’s heroine, a girl of 18, is living in San Francisco in 1978. Her experiences, thoughts, longings, and fears were so similar to mine at the same time in my life–I was 17 in 1978 and had just moved away from Northern California–it was uncanny. I took the book with me everywhere, read it at the lake and gave thanks that lifeguards were paying close attention to my children as they played in the shallow baby pond. The book consumed me–I felt as if I were reading a possible version of my life, one that didn’t happen but could have. When I finished it, I began it again. I read it twice that week. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that with another book in quite the same obsessive way.

How about you? What indelible book memories do you have?

 

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Detra
Detra
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11/19/2014 7:37 pm

I have several cases for this post, but the earliest is when I was 11 years old I broke my femur. I was in the hospital in traction for two months before they could put me in a cast. There was a lady who went around with a cart from the gift shop for people who were not ambulatory. She had a boxed set of “”The Little House on the Prairie series. I got totally absorbed in the world of the Ingalls family and it helped the time go faster.

Dabney Grinnan
Dabney Grinnan
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Reply to  Detra
12/05/2014 9:55 am

This happened to me with the chicken pox!

HeatherS AAR
HeatherS AAR
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11/19/2014 1:17 pm

I recall my grandmother giving me a copy of Flame of New Orleans one summer day and how everything fell away except for the pages of that book. I was vaguely aware of the breeze through the open windows, ancient sheers billowing, that still wasn’t enough to offer any relief from the incessant heat. A nubby white chenille bedspread and wood paneled walls that faded out as I became lost in Aimee’s story. I don’t think I saw or spoke to anyone for two days while I read that book.

Bee
Bee
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11/18/2014 6:19 pm

After getting my first public library card, I remember reading Cynthia Voigt’s “”Dicey’s Song”” when I was in middle school and finally I was able to process the feelings I had about being left behind by my mother. As I grew older, I read lots of harlequin paperbacks. Most of the romance euphemisms went over my head but I enjoyed the idea that there were selfmade women out there and the possibility of a happy ending.
My love of adventure fiction started with The Bourne Identity series which were the only books in the relative’s house I stayed one teenage summer.
Historical romance was last with Knight in Shining Armor, my first sob fest at age 16. The most memorable after that was “”Outlander”” which I discovered the summer I was 22. Then the more modern romantic fiction. There was a book I read in my early 30s that broke my heart “”The Last Time They Meet”” by Anita Shreve. Of course “”The Time Traveler’s Wife”” was memorable too. I agree that the movie couldn’t capture it’s poignancy.

Dabney Grinnan
Dabney Grinnan
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Reply to  Bee
11/18/2014 7:31 pm

Cynthia Voigt is so under-appreciated.I loved that whole series.

leslie
leslie
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11/17/2014 5:13 pm

My experience with POSSESSION and THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE are very similar to yours. A.S. Byatt changed my reading life with THE GAME. I remember reading POSSESSION soon after the death of my 22 yr. old brother. I was 28, grief stricken and living in a cottage overlooking the Pacific in Big Sur, a powerful place that is very isolated and breathtakingly beautiful. That book means a lot to me, it help me tremendously during my grief process.
THE TIME TRAVELERS WIFE was being discussed quite vigorously by two woman at Borders during the holiday shopping season in 2005. Of course I bought it! At the new year our family takes a skiing vacation, that year we went to Whistler. I don’t ski, so usually I spend my time reading in the cozy chalet. I fell in love with Henry that winter and when he died I sobbed my heart out.
Both film adaptations SUCKED!! :(
Another book memory is TAM LIN by Pamela Dean. I was a poor grad student, knowing no one so I spent a lot of time browsing USB’s in Seattle. I remember my first snow fall, trying to get home on the bus (which was sliding on the road) before all the hill streets were closed. I had TAM LIN in my bag, so I started reading it on the long ride home and couldn’t stop reading it once I got back to my tiny apt. It’s a beloved book of mine.
I remember reading ARE YOU MY MOTHER to my children. My youngest thought it too sad and always wanted me to read the ending first.
Thanks for the post!

Mary
Mary
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11/17/2014 1:44 pm

I was ten when both of my grandfathers died within two weeks of one another. It had been a hard summer and I spent most of it traveling between the two cities where my grandparents lived. My maternal grandmother had a bookshelf that covered an entire wall from side to side and ceiling to floor. That bookshelf proved a haven as I sought to escape the sounds of my grandfather dying. I first read Little Women that summer and by the time I traveled to my paternal grandfather’s funeral, I was reading Little Men. That funeral was awkward as I overheard my aunt make a disparaging remark about my mother. After hearing that, I did not want to have much to do with that side of the family, so I found a corner to read. A great-uncle by marriage found me and asked about my book and we had a small discussion about reading, which really helped to take my mind off the terrible things going on around me. About two weeks later, I received a beautiful gilded and illustrated copy of Little Women in the mail. I don’t think he included a card, but I knew who it was from. I do not think I ever saw that uncle again, but I always remembered his kindness and I still treasure that book to this day – 46 years later.

Dabney Grinnan
Dabney Grinnan
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Reply to  Mary
11/17/2014 2:06 pm

What a lovely story. Thanks for sharing it.

Marianne McA
Marianne McA
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11/17/2014 12:22 pm

Tons of place-specific book memories – but none, perhaps, with the sort of resonance you describe. My Gone With the Wind attempt was in later childhood (10/11?) staying at my uncle’s on holiday – but I don’t remember anything about it – that holiday was made magical by the fact he had the entire set of Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven books, bound in red board. We weren’t allowed to read Blyton at home, so I tore through them, and GWTW was only an afterthought.
And another holiday in Aix, where my aunt had squirrelled a zillion older M&B in a cupbard. (Come to think of it, she had Bunty annuals in her holiday home by the sea: that’s where I know the Four Marys from.)
On the train home from uni, ‘Strong Poison’ chosen pretty randomly for that week’s journey – falling in love with Peter Wimsey and deciding to marry someone just like that.
On my 3rd try, finding a book that actually made my mother’s maxim – all you need to get through labour is a really good book – almost true. The opening section of Pratchett’s ‘Pyramids’ kept me laughing even though they misplaced the doctor and couldn’t offer me any pain relief. (And kept my husband who, in a very unWimseylike way picked up the book when I put it down to concentrate on pushing, laughing until daughter #3 arrived.)

I don’t think I must read when I’m distressed: or at least, I don’t have any books I associate with difficult times. ‘Morning Side of Dawn’ by Justine Davis is vaguely associated with daughter #3’s hospitalisation, but I read it waiting on the ward on a sunny, sunny day, for the doctor to okay her release back into the wild. So it’s a happyish memory.

Dabney Grinnan
Dabney Grinnan
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Reply to  Marianne McA
11/17/2014 1:39 pm

Why couldn’t you read Blyton?

Marianne McA
Marianne McA
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Reply to  Dabney Grinnan
11/17/2014 6:35 pm

My mum retrained as an English teacher at about that time, and the educational theory of the moment was that Blyton was bad because (IIRC, and I probably don’t) children could get ‘stuck’ on her, because she’d written so many books, and therefore they wouldn’t read more widely and get wider vocabularies/ ideas etc.

Eggletina
Eggletina
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11/17/2014 10:17 am

I guess it’s true that film and tv productions prompt readers to try books. I remember reading Gone with the Wind when it first aired on tv. I can remember reading several other books as they aired as mini-series on tv, such as Taylor Caldwell’s Captains and the Kings and John James’ Kent Family Chronicles.

I have other book memories that are tied to friendships and sharing books. When I was a teen I would spend several weeks in the summer with my sister and BIL and read many of their books. Shogun and Sagan’s Cosmos were memorable. I can remember my BF and I reading aloud to one another The Count of Monte Cristo at the pool one summer. This was the same summer I started trading bodice rippers with the older girls in my neighborhood and was my introduction to the epic, historical adventure romances that were so popular. We didn’t have air-conditioning in our home, so I also link late night reading with hot, sultry summer nights and the chirps of insects outside.

LeeB.
LeeB.
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11/17/2014 9:50 am

Wonderful blog Dabney. Condolences on the loss of your sister. You must have been so sad.

Diane Newcomb
Diane Newcomb
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11/17/2014 8:12 am

This post caught my eye because remembering where you are at a certain time in history is most often associated with historical events. Like you,I can also remember certain books, how they affected me and where I was when I read them. Daphne du maurier’s Rebecca is the first that comes to mind. I was 12 and it was summer. My entire extended family was at my grandparents house at the Jersey Shore. I sent the whole weekend in the small over the garage bedroom, doing the same thing as you. Kicking my heels and reading, which is still my most favorite book of all time. One more for you, Presumed Innocent also rings loud ugly bells with me. I loved the book and later loved the movie, but it also came at a bad time. I had just found out that my husband, and father of three had just had an affair. By the second chapter I knew who the murderer was and sympathized. Still enjoyed the book!

Dabney Grinnan
Dabney Grinnan
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Reply to  Diane Newcomb
11/17/2014 8:39 am

Yikes. That’s a rough setup for Presumed Innocent. I was just thinking about that book and its overlays with Gone Girl. In both cases, the guy is NOT sympathetic.

Blackjack1
Blackjack1
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11/17/2014 7:02 am

Past reading experiences are such a powerful part of one’s life. My earliest memories all revolve around my mother. My mother used to read aloud to my sister and me as children and I remember sitting with her every night listening to _David Copperfield_ and _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_. She was so clever at ending just at a place that would have been impossible to put down had I been reading rather than listening, and I remember greatly anticipating our evening reading time all day long to find out what happened next. Going with my mother to reading time at the library as a child is something I still think about. When I was twelve I wanted to read the books I saw my mother reading, which just happened to be Harlequin Romances, and voila, a romance reader was born. Before my mother died I told her that she nurtured my love of books, and she laughed with me about my memories.

I recall well reading _Gone with the Wind_ when I was twelve. I didn’t fully comprehend the complexity of the sexual politics at the time, but I remember loving Scarlet’s passion for Tara. I moved around so much as a child that I was completely infatuated with the thought of connecting to a place.

I think I decided to make literature my profession when I was in the tenth grade. I was sitting in final period on a beautiful spring day listening to my English teacher read William Wordsworth to us. I suddenly craved finding a way to be in nature and have an emotional connection rather than merely an intellectual one to the ideas he expresses through his lovely and evocative poetry. For a short period of time that year, I would race home each day and head straight to our duck pond where I would feed the ducks and try to feel the elusive ideas Wordsworth conveys about the importance of reconnecting with nature. I still now try to finish up my work every day by walking in the wetlands near my house with my dogs or by getting on my horse and trail riding a bit. I swear I do my best thinking this time of the day. Somehow nature & literature became forever intertwined for me, and I credit my high school English teacher for helping this to happen. I’m honestly sad when people tell me that they didn’t enjoy reading as a child, or that they had a horrible time studying literature in school. I didn’t, and it made all the difference.

Dabney Grinnan
Dabney Grinnan
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Reply to  Blackjack1
11/17/2014 8:58 am

I moved around a lot too. I wonder if that’s part of why these discrete memories are usually sad ones–I kept leaving the places I loved behind.

Blackjack1
Blackjack1
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Reply to  Dabney Grinnan
11/17/2014 3:58 pm

That makes sense and great blog today. Many of my memories of reading are tied to loss as well, especially to my mother who died far too early, and so my memories are bittersweet and nostalgic for places as well as people.

Dabney Grinnan
Dabney Grinnan
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Reply to  Blackjack1
11/17/2014 6:25 pm

Yes. I think that having such a huge loss occurring so early in my life is a big piece of why sadness in books resonates so strongly for me.