Have you ever received a gift so special that you find yourself awed, humbled and amazed by it? This week, I did. It was a belated birthday gift from a special friend, but that was not what made it stand out (though anything coming from her is indeed special).

No, what made this so amazing is that she is in the midst of one of the most difficult times of her challenging life. This is a woman who has had many hard times, but who has also had a lot of joy. She’s a reader with whom I have had many deep conversations.

Dollars are tight for her right now, sometimes very tight. And when the virtual gift certificate from Powell’s came in last night I was both delighted and distressed. I tried to get Powell’s to refund her money, but they don’t refund these items. So I told her I would send her the money for the cards. She begged me not to do that in words that brought tears to my eyes:

I ADORE you for wanting to return it, but it gave me such joy to do it. I have systematically given up little things JUST to be able to give you that gift. I put money in a tin in my desk drawer and watched it grow... What I gave up was lunch at the hotdog vendor when I had hotdogs in my own refrigerator, some wee bags of chips from the vending machine at work when I just wanted to nibble when I had cheese in my tiny office refrigerator and crackle bread in a drawer and was too lazy to put it together, or I had a hankering for something sweet (empty calories - I didn't buy those peanut M&Ms...instead of a can of pop, I brewed some tea. My only regret was that it took me a wee bit longer than I expected to get this to you - so that I could give you 25.00 instead of 20.00, I wanted to give it to you sooner, but the extra 5.00 sounded so much better.  There are tiny ways that all of us "waste" money, so all I did was find small ways to un-waste it. I had a ball with my little goal.  

There is something selfish in it, too...sending you that gift gave me pleasure, it took me outside of all the crap going on around me and allowed me to focus on something else and I learned just how much I still waste if I am not careful...so look at the gift as my experiment...you get to find a book you love and I got to learn a bit more.  It was a good thing for me, and I hope it will be a good thing for you.

Happy belated birthday, my sweet friend...honestly...enjoy the gift, it does this old bird’s heart good.  Let me know what wonderful tome you ultimately find....THEN...the circle will be complete.

Such a gift—with the love, affection and sacrifice behind it—can not be refused. It has not been. I have honored my friend’s wishes in two ways. I went to Powell’s and I purchased The Girl on the Via Flaminia and Little Man, What Now?, two novels that intrigued even this dedicated nonfiction reader; The Road from Damascus: A Journey Through Syria, an unusual travelogue of a “terrorist” nation; and Windows of Brimnes , a thoughtful exploration of the differences in American society and Icelandic community.

My dear friend, you know who you are, and you know that the circle of which you speak is indeed complete. You reached out to me in that special way, our connection through books, and I think I have chosen wisely. The four books are meant to reflect the depth of our friendship, the wisdom I so often hear in you, the determination and courage you unfailingly possess, and the affection I have for you. Thank you for the books which will have a special place in my home and in my heart. Books can bring more than the world to us. They can bring heart.

In the spring of 1890, Russian author Anton Chekhov decided for reasons unknown to anyone then or since, to board a train headed for Sakhalin, an island five thousand miles east of his Moscow home. Author James McConkey, in a re-invention of the journey that Nicki Leone calls “a unique and odd blend of travel writing, memoir, philosophical speculation and fiction,” shares what he perceives as the probably reason for the trip in a book Nicki reviews this week in A Reading Life.

I am old enough to remember when telephone numbers began with a two-digit abbreviation of a name (in my family’s case it was ST for “State” or “78.” And since my father spent his working life at AT&T, retiring the day the company was broken up, I grew up around the myths, legends and realities of Ma Bell (Lily Tomlin’s famous Ernestine character notwithstanding). Telephones have a fascinating history, and this week, in On Marking Books, I explore its history thanks to a pair of telephone-related bookmarks in my collection.

Albert Camus is the subject of Henry Carrigan’s attention this week in Readings. This twentieth-century existentialist writer whose novel, The Plague, “deals with the indifference of the world and an individual’s attempt to create an authentic existence in the face of such indifference.” It’s one of the world’s Great Books, and in this essay it is vivid and alive. It is a book worthy of more than a Great Books list; it is a book worth reading today.   

If one favors literary reading matter, but comes up against certain job requirements that demand a knowledge of popular fare, what happens? Lisa Guidarini finds out and shares it this week in Reviews & Reflections.

Twenty-four hours in a day can often seem to be insufficient. This is especially true if many of those hours are filled with “have-to-do’s.” As she gets older, Anne Michael notes in Seasoned Lightly, she finds herself trying ever harder to prove she can still run with the best—and then asking herself if exhaustion is the reward she is really seeking. Perhaps, she muses, “taking time to enjoy the things that make life worth living” is better.

How does one impart a love of reading to students in the classroom, a place notorious for dulling one’s sensitivity to forced reading. But Andi Miller finds, in her first class she can call her own, finds that the challenge teaching literature of higher education can be  not only rewarding for the students but for herself and her own reading. This week, in The Finicky Reader, she takes on a literary journey into her own education.

Bookstack is a marvelous book  blog by someone who calls herself “Ravenous Reader.” It’s a relatively new blog, begun in January, to share her passion. “I’ve been reading ravenously for the past 47 years,” she says. “I devour books like some people devour fine chocolates, savoring each delectable word, one by one. There’s nothing I love more than a stack of books, their heft, their perfume, their promise of worlds exciting and new.”
 
What I really like about R.R. is that she shares her reading, that is, whenever I read one of her posts it feels as if I am sitting across a table in a lovely outdoor café with her, enjoying a delicious meal and glass of wine and listening to her. They are that conversational. A recent example:

So you’re reading along, in a book you quite enjoy, one whose characters’ lives are very reminiscent of your own, their little dramas seeming oh so familiar to you, when you start feeling just a bit nervous, fearful really, of what’s coming.  Because actually, this situation - this fictional situation, you keep reminding yourself - is inching ever closer to something in your own life that’s just a bit too horrible to contemplate right now.

But still you keep reading, hoping against hope that what this character (who has by now become quite dear to your heart) is about to reveal won’t be that dreaded thing  you’re so worried about. You keep reading, sending a silent pleading to the universe, making one of those crazy, ridiculous bargains with fate - if it isn’t true for her, than it won’t be true for me.

And then, it splashes over the page like vomit.  That vile circumstance you dreaded so.

And you can’t read the book any more.

Abandoned.

Now tell me, has this ever happened to you, that a book cut so close to the quick of your own life that you were forced to abandon it?

Yup. And if she ever heads out my way, I want her to call me. I’d love to tell her about some of mine. Plus there’s always that café with the incredible Caesar salad.

Until next week, read well, read often and read on!

Lauren