Book Review: Only the Lonely

I have meant to blog regularly about our current trip to Galicia, but two prior commitments are putting that on the back burner: 1) An agent is interested in my MG mystery if I rewrite certain portions of it, so I have been diligently doing just that each day. 2) I have two book reviews I'd promised, and so I am taking care of those, one by one. (Rest assured, I'm also writing copious journal notes, and my husband has been taking numerous pictures, so on return to California, I'll do several posts about Galicia and some new discoveries on this trip.)

And now to the review of Richard Hughes' intriguing novel, Only the Lonely.

It isn’t often one encounters a family saga written by a man and from a man’s point of view. Much as I love to read traditional family sagas, this was a refreshing book for that very reason.The book takes the protagonist, Winston Hamilton from 1917 to 1945, and thus, through two world wars, fought by two different generations.

In 1917, Winston delivers coal to homes in a horse-drawn wagon, lives with his parents, and enjoys a good mug of beer with his friends at Louis’s Irish Pub. Then he accepts an invitation to Abby Cherniky’s house for a lesson in cursive handwriting. To the contemporary era this may seem a rather tame encounter. But Winston’s been delivering coal to her family for some time, and he and Abby have noticing each other. The handwriting lessons are a ploy on both sides for Winston to start courting in an era when a young man had to have a reason to come to a young woman’s house while the family checked him over.

But Mrs. Cherniky disapproves of alcohol, and when Winston realizes he’s deeply in love with Abby and wants to marry her, he gives up alcohol and the pub life. The author layers the difficulty for Winston very nicely, laying the seeds for his later problem, which mushrooms after their marriage and Abby’s death in childbirth. 

Devastated, Winston returns to drinking and gives his daughter to his in-laws to raise, since he can’t bear the reminder of Abby and doesn’t think he can be a good father. He also enlists in the “Great War” going on in Europe at that time, and his self-destructive urge leads him to fight valiantly, if recklessly, ironically making him  hero. On return to civilian live, he drinks to forget everything he saw in the war. He also starts his own business, but the alcohol has taken hold, and it deeply impacts his second marriage and his second family.

I wouldn’t want this to suggest that the book becomes a tract against drinking. The strength of this aspect of the story is the way in which the author gives a sympathetic understanding of the tragic turns of Winston’s life, events that are often beyond his control and only made worse by his dependence on alcohol. The book is about much more than his drinking. Winston was a lonely man to begin with, and alcohol helps him to preserve loneliness despite work and family life. He is truly one of “the lonely” of the title until a later turn in the road gives him a glimpse of a possible change before it’s too late. 

Particularly strong were the war scenes and their details that brought war to a reader in all its impact. But one of the author’s main strengths is the ability to render scenes in general with simple brushstrokes. Some samples:

“The trees looked dead, but Winston knew it was just a ruse to trick the bitter winter out of its biting sting. The trees had merely withdrawn into themselves as if meditating on their dreams.”

“The trees had changed to different shades of yellow and red. The sun was just above the tree line, backlighting the large white clouds with glowing borders.”

“He went back downstairs, decided to look in the basement, and walked down the rough-hewn stairs. The cold musty cellar was dimly lit from light coming through small windows near the tops of the stone foundation walls.”

Following a storm that devastated neighborhoods: 

“Mrs. Logan knelt in the middle of her wooden living room floor— practically all that was left of her house, that and the broken brick fireplace, the top half of the chimney strewn across her yard. Old and frail, with tousled gray hair, she clutched a picture frame to her chest and cried mournfully.”

Told mainly in third person singular point of view, with Winston being the point of view character, the story at times enters other points of view. But the story is firmly Winston’s.

One small nitpick is a I noticed in paragraphing: Sometimes paragraphs are indented, and sometimes not. Sometimes there are line breaks between paragraphs and sometimes not. I have noticed this in other e-books, so it seems to be a common formatting problem. After the first few pages, it didn’t particularly bump me, although I do think it’s something that could be addressed in future books. 

Only the Lonely can be purchased at Barnes and Noble and various locations listed on Goodreads, as well as his story collection, Battles and Other Stories.   

He also can be contacted at his blog, Living and Writing by Richard P. Hughes or at R. Patick Hughes's Blog on Goodreads, as well as Facebook 

1st Week in Galicia

On the way to our village

Our first week has flown by. Eight days, to be exact. That is, eight days after the evening of our arrival. We've been socializing, entertaining with Indian food, and we've had overnight guests. And still we've managed to squeeze in a bit of Spanish study each day and, in my case, work on a rewrite. The rewrite is still in the research phase for new information I need to work into the story.


Mornings begin with hot chocolate, and then coffee, at our little table in the galeria, an indoor hallway lined with windows) staring out at the small pasture across the sheep path, with its little apple tree. (It looks like this when it isn't pouring rain. Since we've arrived, though, it's rained quite a bit with only intermittent sunshine.)  

The field beyond our gate

The apple tree

Then my husband showers while I write in my journal, and then it's my turn to shower. After that, we usually go into a nearby small town called Escairon. It's really more a large, village than a small town -- a town only in relation to the area villages, especially ours, which has only 8 continuous inhabitants during the year, and a sprinkle more during summer months.


In Escairon we stock up on most of our daily groceries at a little market called Alipro, and it's also where we refill our butano (butane) tanks for heating water and cooking. Then we go to a small café called Circulo do Saviñao (where I'm sitting now) and have a second cup of café con leche and do our work. (My husband is a design engineer and often has Skype conferences here in this café.) The wifi here is free, and everyone seems to come to use it. We often see regulars seated at other tables, online with their computers or Skyping. The proprietors are quite happy with this arrangement. And this is not the only place where this is true. A number of café/bars in Monforte have a similar set up. 


Then we usually go home for lunch, though sometimes we drive into Monforte and do some shopping or meet friends for lunch or simply snack at one of the café/bars. We are not big eaters, so for us, lunch usually consists of two raciones and wine at about 2:00 p.m. (which is lunchtime in these parts). A ración is a portion that is bigger than a tapa but smaller than a meal. We're vegetarians, but we eat fish and seafood, so we always find something we like. One of my favorite raciones is pimientos de Padrón, tasty little green peppers fried in olive oil and salt, and they are just coming into season. 


All the stores close down for about two hours so that all the workers can either go home for lunch or to one of the cafés. If you think that's late, suppertime starts at 9:00 p.m. We thought we would never adjust to this on our first visit, but it's amazing. One or two days after our arrival we are totally into it as if we've eaten such late suppers all our lives. 


After our lunch, we usually take a walk on one of the country roads, even on a rainy day.  This area is lovely in any weather, and if you are bundled up right, the fresh, wet air is just invigorating. During the afternoon we may drive around the area, or read, and in the evenings, if we aren't entertaining or meeting friends, we also read. Being a writer, I read all the time, whether traveling or at home in Sacramento. My husband loves to read, but he often doesn't have time at home, since he is busy designing during the day, then reading the newspaper in the evening. Here, he can just kick back and read, since we can't understand any of the newspapers or even the newscasts. (Well, soccer, yes, because he grew up with soccer in India, and can tell everything that's happening, but that's about it.) In warmer weather (usually on our fall trip, but some years on our spring trip as well) we meet our neighbors at the village bench and just talk until sunset.


So that's our day, and the time just seems to drift by. Already eight of them are gone. 

Almost Off to Spain

The Puente Roman in Monforte de Lemos

A view from our galería window in Trasulfe

Nightfall in Tasulfe

     Wednesday we will be on our way to Galicia, Spain, for four weeks. Four weeks that will be almost entirely in Spanish, except when we are with our British friends. Does this mean that we are fluent in Spanish? No. It means our Spanish friends are supportive and kind as we thumb madly through our pocket dictionaries to figure out what they just said.
     But we love the experience. And our Spanish is getting better. 


     So, I probably will not be blogging before Sunday. But please check back, because I have lots to share:


     A review of Richard Hughes' story collection, Only the Lonely. (And my apologies, Richard, for putting your last name as Hansen in my last post when I passed out the Lucky 7 Meme. I have another friend named Hansen, and that just leaps out every time. I've made the correction in the post. And anyone reading this today, go check out his cool blog here. . . .)


     A review of a book by Lewis Buzbee (title withheld to keep you wondering.)


     A sprinkle of posts about Galicia.


     I also will be working on my MG while we're there: the one I quoted from in the last post. My goal is to finish this particular rewrite, which is entirely probable, as it's a great place to write, and I'm in the last third of this rewrite.
     And then, it looks like another rewrite. Which may be the final one. (Of course, you know how that goes. . . .)


     For now, it's house cleaning time so that I can leave the domicile in great shape for our fabulous house sitter, whom Cezar adores. (It's the only reason we can leave him for four weeks following his March misery when he had the ear infection.) She lives here while we are gone takes wonderful care of both house and dog.


     I also have a few submissions to get out before we leave, so adios and ciao for now. (Okay, so caio is Italian, but for some reason they say that a lot in Galicia.)
   

Tagged!

Before I get to some book reviews and interviews that have been on the back burner, It's "catch up" time for some tagging. In March I was tagged by two cool bloggers, Rachna Chhabria and Linda Jackson with The Lucky 7 Meme tag.  
Here's how tagging works 
(although some of you already know this):


1. Go to page 77 of your current MS, WIP.
2. Go to line 7.
3. Copy down the next 7 lines, sentences or paragraphs and 
post them as they are written.
4. Tag 7 authors.
5. Let them know.


Soooooo, here are my 7 sentences: (The car in question is a Model-T)


     All at once everything returned to me--Father's struggles to keep the top up; rain pouring down; all of us pushing to free the wheels from the mire.
     A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I leaned against the doorjamb. Something inside me gave way, and tears gushed out, drenching my face. A long moan broke loose from me, hanging in the air before it turned into racking sobs.
     Michael was nowhere to be seen, but I heard the clatter of his steps and the back porch's door bang as if he had flown up the stairs.
     I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. If I went inside now, everyone would see my face.


And now for the next 7 "tagees": 


Rosi Hollenbeck
Richard Hughes
Lydia Kang
Joanna Marple
Alleged Author
Theresa Milstein
Kurt Chambers

I am looking forward to their 7 sentences, as I know you are. Go check them out, as they have good posts to read.


Meanwhile, any feedback you have for my 7 sentences I'll certainly appreciate. 

Last Visits and Memories

One of the things I love about entering an Indian home is the mingled scents that greet you: fragrant incense from the shrine and the mouth-watering aromas of spices from the kitchen. Garlands of flowers strung over some doorways. Here are what some of the spices look like: Very pretty in the kitchen as you cook with them, as you can see. And 

 the grains are colorful, too. I used to keep glass jars of the
grains on my countertops, but then I needed the work space, so,

back they went behind closed doors.

You can see more of these spices at PublicDomainPictures.net, where I downloaded this from.




We visited two more homes during our stay. One was to my husband's sister at the home of her youngest son, Madhu, and his family. As mentioned earlier, she keeps busy at three households, as she has a daughter in Bangalore and two sons, Madhu and Vasu, in Chennai.

My husband's sister, Pattu.

BR: Rohid, Malathi, Maithreyi; FR: Madhu, Pattu, me .

Like Ashok in Bangalore, Madhu is a tech expert, but he has a multitude of interests, including poetry and homeopathic medicine and acupressure. On our visit, he gave me five exercises to do that help control allergies and boost immunity, among other things. (The allergy ones seem to be working, too!) His daughter, Maithreyi is a doctor in homeopathic medicine and is now beginning her internship in Mangalore. Their son, Rohid (like Rohan in Bangalore), was studying for his twelfth standard finals in March. His wife, Malathi, is another excellent cook and has given me many great tips about how to make a dish come out right. 

A moment of humor between Malathi and Maithreyi

Unfortunately, I don't have pictures of Vasu and his wife, Srimati, who stopped by Virugambakkam one evening to see us. We were so busy talking, we forgot to take photos. They have a grown, married son and grandson, and a younger son, who stayed home—you guessed it—studying for exams. 

The bride, Archana, groom, Bahdri,
 and one of the  priests.

 I went to the married son's wedding
 six years ago on a visit, and I did 
take some pictures then. An Indian
wedding is a lovely event, dazzling 
in its array of beautiful saris, for one
thing, and a great social occasion 
where relatives and friends catch
up on news. And a great feast 
afterwards.

Vasu, Srimati, Archana & Bahdri

The Sunday after arrival on this particular trip, we visited Rajan's second brother, Narayanan, in an area called Tambaram, which is not far from the airport. He lives with his youngest son and wife, Vasanth and Nalini, who have two grown sons living in America. The eldest son, Arjun, got married last year, but we were unable to attend the wedding in India. Arjun sent us pictures of it, but we had the special pleasure of watching the CD of the wedding on our visit to Tambaram. 

The day we visited was also one of the days of the big cricket match between India and Australia. Cricket is HUGE in India; probably even bigger than football is here. So you know what we were all doing during much of the afternoon. Everyone was delirious with joy when India won that particular match. I do not have a picture of them cheering, but here are a couple of pictures of them:

Nalini & Vasanth

Nalini, Vasanth, Rajan

Narayanan

There are so many moments that linger in memory after I come home from visiting
India. Moments of visits with family, and moments of the sights and sounds during every journey: bougainvillea on compound walls, cows wandering roads, temples with painted gateways and towers, and every kind of traffic imaginable, including oxen carts and the occasional elephant. Nettu-lingam trees rising like tall, slender-but-bushy dusters; coconut palms, banana palms. The cries of vendors, selling their wares from door to door, and the stall where we take our clothes for ironing. Heat and dust. And always the warmth of the people. I hope I've been able to share just a little of it with you, and I hope you've enjoyed the journey. 

Family Visits in Chennai

The Saturday after arrival, we visited my husband's "doctor brother", Parthasarathi, who lives with his wife, Vasantha, son, Hari, and Hari's family in a section of Chennai called Panaiyur. As I mentioned in my last post, Chennai is so spread out whole sections warrant a name of their own. Travel time has to be calculated. Twenty miles can be an hour's journey in non-rush-hour traffic. During commuter hours it's longer.  

Panaiyur is a rural area, on the way to Mahabalipuram (a city famous for its temples), and is a few blocks from the ocean. A lovely breeze cools the air. Houses are on large lots that are verdant with trees and bushes. The family's home is new to them, but the previous owner designed the house along lines that are compatible with the Indian version of Feng Shui. It's spacious, with balconies and arches. In the center hall—what we would call the living room—a swing suspends from the ceiling, which I loved sitting on. (Here we are below, chatting and swinging, chatting and swinging.)

Me, Soundara, Vasantha

Parthasarathy has always loved plants, so he spends a lot of time gardening, when he isn't perusing medical journals. (He is retired, but like everyone in the family, he loves continuing to learn and do research. Whenever we go to India, my husband consults him with any medical questions, as he can be trusted to know the latest medical wisdom.)  

Parthasarathy, Rajan's 3rd brother, who specialized in Tuberculosis, but stays current on developments in other medical concerns as well.

Me, Vidya, Anusha, & Hari, contemplating Patrhasarathi's garden.

3 brothers, Parthasarathy, Ranganathan, & Rajan.

Anirud, Adithya in back, Vidhya, Hari, in front. A beautiful family. I would love to paint a portrait of them.

I had met Hari's wife, Vidya and their son, once before, on our second visit to India in 1989. Adithya was only a toddler then, and Hari was working abroad. And I met Hari for the first time at another grand-nephew's wedding, in 2006. It was nice to spend time with them all together, and get to know them better, along with their youngest son, Anirud, who has just started college. 

Vidya speaks and teaches French. When she was in college, her French class visited Switzerland in an area not far from where my nephew, David, and his wife, Brigitte, live. (How I wished there was a way to introduce them.) A grandniece, Parthasarathi's and Vasantha's granddaughter,Anusha, joined us for lunch (a new feast, since Vasantha is another fabulous cook in the family.) Anusha's sister lives in Fremont, California and just recently had a new baby girl, so Vasantha made arrangements to send back frocks for her. 

The day passed much too quickly. But we were thankful for the chance to see them all again. On return to California, poems about India have kept welling up in my mind, inspired by journeys across the vast city and visits to all the households. 

How about you? Do family visits inspire your urge to write? Do visits to other lands make your thoughts turn to poetry?

Virugambakkam, Home Away from Home When We're in Chennai

When we go to Chennai, we stay with Rajan's eldest brother, Ranganathan, and our sister-in-law, Soundara, in an area called Virugambakkam, and we visit other relatives from there. (Chennai is so huge and sprawled out, that areas or districts have names of their own, almost like mini-cities.) Imagine street after street after street, going on for miles and miles. And to get a real feel for traveling in the city, go to this site. 


As soon as Ravi and Ranganathan brought us from the station, Soundara brought us good, strong coffee with milk and sugar. Let me say, there is nothing as heart-warming as South Indian coffee. (And I speak as one who loves the coffee in Spain.) There's a special technique in making South Indian coffee and combining the hot milk, pouring it back and forth and then serving it, and it was just the thing to shake off our travel weariness. 

(There is also a special technique to drinking this coffee in such a way that the cup never touches one's lips. Everyone makes it look so effortless that I once tried it, sure that it was easily done. Well, it is not. I got coffee all over me!) You can learn more about making it and serving it and the utensils required at this blog site. (It's also a site for wonderful Indian recipes. You'll really want to pay a visit.)


Ravi (our nephew) had to go to work after he dropped us at the house. Later in the morning his father (Rajan's 2nd brother) came over, and the morning was spent with the brothers visiting and other relatives telephoning to set up times for visits. Later in the afternoon, Soundara and Rajan and I walked over to visit with Kalyani's family three streets away. (Raghavan and Kalyani -- another brother and sister-in-law -- live in Pittsburgh, but they own the house at Virugambakkam.) A couple of weeks after our return from the trip, Kalyani's mother passed away; it's a time of sadness for them all, so I will wait to post about the paintings Renukka (Kalyani's sister-in-law) does. This just isn't the time.

Each time we go to India, by the third day I feel I've been there forever. Time seems to stand still there, and India has a way of just seeping into your psyche as daily routines unfold. We stay in our usual corner room, and each morning I wake again to the odd call of the Indian cuckoo, a different sound from that of the European cuckoo. In previous trips I've only ever heard one calling again and again, and always in the morning. This time there was a whole chorus of voices throughout the day. You can hear the cuckoo for yourself at this site. You can see a picture of one on this page at Wikipedia, since I couldn't ever capture it on film myself. They're really rather large birds, as you can see. 


As the morning unfolds, incense floats from the shrine where Ranganathan does poojai. He gives us each a palmful of holy water, and a small piece of banana, and, for me, flowers for my hair. Overhead fans whir overhead, stirring the heat, while delicious aromas float from the kitchen, because Soundara is a master cook. (Pattu had planned to come to Chennai and help Soundara with the cooking, but then she caught a virus, and her doctor told her to stay home for a week.) 


Not being Brahman, I couldn't help Soundara in the kitchen (though she was generous with her recipes and let me see how she prepared them). So all alone she served up feasts during our stay: vangibath, a spiced mixture of eggplant and rice; idlis that were marvels of fluffiness with sambar; snake gourd chopped fine and spiced. I could go on and on. As for tiffins: gulab jaman,deep fried dough balls soaked in syrup; ladu,an incredible "semi-sweet" made from lentil flour, sugar, and ghee, that literally melts in your mouth; savories like ribbon and vadai, another treat made from soaked dhal that has been ground to a thick dough flavored with chiles and salt and then deep fried.

Soundara is in her 80s and gets tinier each time I see her.Each time her face seems sweeter, if that's possible. She had her teeth all removed recently, but her smile is no less radiant. Rajan was four years old when she married Ranganathan, and she has always held a special place in my husband's heart. And I know she enjoys so much the opportunity to talk with Rajan face to face, even though we call often from California. It never is the same, is it?


Ranganathan, turning 90, was his same kindly, enlightened self. A devout Hindu, he is open and tolerant to all religions. When we visit, he tells me more about the Mahabharata, or the Upanishads, or other sacred writings that he continues to study. They say good people shine from afar, and these two are simply distilled goodness. I miss them when we come home.

A photo Rajan took of Ranganathan.

Soundara on the right; Shamala, on the left, comes once a day and helps with housework.

When we are there, I love listening to Tamil swirling around my ears. All of our relatives speak English, but for catching up on news, it's quicker and easier for my husband and them to speak in Tamil, while he translates to me. I have valiantly tried to learn Tamil, but it's a challenge for one who didn't learn it young. The script is so different, and the alphabet is composed of many more vowels and consonants than in English. Not only that, the written symbol is slightly different for each vowel/syllable combination. You can see the whole alphabet at Wikipedia. 

The grammar is different, too, because like some other South Indian languages, Tamil is not Indo-European, but Dravidian. So, I content myself with simply appreciating the lovely sound of it when I'm there, and learning a few serviceable phrases (that I'm sure I pronounce all wrong.) Our relatives all promise that if I stayed there a year, I would be fluent in Tamil, but they are being kind, I know. This is a very kind family in so many ways.
Next post will be about our visits and visitors.