Children’s Books Dogs

Book Club

/ J. F. Riordan / 48 Comments

I had a little meeting with a local book club yesterday. They are all old friends, and did more talking than I did, and mostly on topics unrelated, but I’m not in a position to criticize digressions.

I almost always enjoy meetings with my readers, because by definition we have something in common, and people who don’t like my books generally don’t come to hear me speak. There was one notable exception: a book club on Washington Island shortly after my first novel came out.

It was a luncheon meeting, just before Easter, and after a pleasant lunch we all sat down for the meeting. One woman spent the entire discussion rapidly paging through the book to find things she didn’t like. She found many. Another pointed out that the map in the front was inaccurate. Another remarked how unrealistic the book was, since in her thirty years of living on the Island, she had never been invited to sit in the ferry’s pilot house. I wish I had had the nerve to say I could see why. Nor did I point out that my book was a work of fiction, only loosely based on reality. Until then, I hadn’t imagined it would be necessary.

It was an excruciating hour, and I was longing for a stiff drink. As the ladies filed out, I sat, somewhat shell-shocked. One leaned over to whisper as she went out.

“I liked it.”

Afterward, in need of some fresh air, I headed down to the ferry office to pick up a package. As I was leaving, there were some guys down at the dock calling and waving at me. “He’s mad at you for not telling him you were here,” the crewman joked, pointing at the captain. I went over to chat with them, relieved to see some friendly faces. “We’re heading out. Want to come for the ride?”

So we did a little round trip on the ferry, while I sat in the pilot house with the crew, entertaining them with the story of the book club meeting. They were able to identify everyone who was there by my descriptions, laughed about the surliness of the book-paging woman, and told stories of her rudeness. The conversation progressed to some fascinating stories about life on the Island. By the time we returned, I was in a much better mood.

So, I did say I don’t mind digressions. But my actual point is: if you live within a reasonable drive of Milwaukee, and would like to host a book talk, you can contact me here.

But only if you like my books.

Letting go; Holding on

/ J. F. Riordan / 30 Comments

I’m keeping my nails ridiculously short these days. It’s partly because I am playing the piano again, and partly because getting my nails done bores me. I am at the point in life when I don’t want to waste my time. And I am not trying to impress anybody.

There is a fairly thin line between feeling free to do what you want and letting yourself go. It’s a much thinner line for women than for men. Gray-haired men look distinguished. Gray-haired women usually just look old. I have a friend who decided to stop coloring her hair, and she looks fabulous. Not everyone does.

Most days, when I am at home writing, I still do my hair, wear mascara, and make an effort to look nice. I partly do it so my husband isn’t horrified (not that he would ever say so, even if he was). But I mostly do it for myself. I feel crummy all day if I don’t make some effort, even if it’s not all that noticeable to anyone else.

I have two particular women I always keep in mind as examples. One is someone I knew quite well. She was a friend of my mother’s who lived to be 108. Her name was Blanche, and I got to know her as an adult when we were both docents at a tiny art museum. Even though we worked together, I never dared call her by her first name; it would have been disrespectful. She was an alert and intelligent nonagenarian, and every time I saw her—even at her own home—she was nicely dressed, wearing a touch of makeup and a little bit of jewelry, and looking nicely pulled together. She was never overdone. But she took care.

The other is someone I never even met. Some years ago I was invited to speak at the opening of a museum exhibit. I only knew the curator and some of the museum staff, so after I did my part, I had the pleasure of carrying a glass of champagne while I wandered alone in a gallery of Dutch masters. This, I confess, is just about my favorite thing to do in the world, and I rarely miss an opportunity to hang out at the National Gallery. It soothes me.

But, as usual, I digress.

On my rambles, I noticed an elderly lady being shown around the gallery by one of the museum staff. He was attentive. She was clearly interested. She looked carefully. She asked questions. She spent more than the polite amount of time with the paintings. She was slim, white-haired, and elegantly dressed in black. She projected both strength and grace, while also being impeccably stylish. I asked who she was. She was Roberta McCain, John McCain’s mother.

Later, as I waited for a cab, I watched as one of the valets brought up a tiny hatchback. He handed the keys to Mrs. McCain, and she drove off alone. I don’t know exactly how old she was then, but she, too, lived to be 108.

I think often of these two women: one a small-town girl in Wisconsin, the other the daughter of an oil tycoon, wife of an admiral, and mother of a war hero and senator. What was their secret? Genetics, no doubt, were a factor. But wealth clearly was not. Nor was a life without worry. What kept them going? Faith? Curiosity? Generosity? Friendship? Or just plain stubbornness?

I can’t help thinking that there is a connection between longevity, having interests in larger things, and a willingness to make an effort. And so, I continue to try. I think it is a signal to yourself that you are worthwhile, and that you are not idling somewhere in a back room. You are prepared to meet the world. You are in the world. That matters a lot, I think.

But I also wonder whether art museums are a wellspring of long life. It’s a theory I am happy to test. Any time.