This set of four fabulous books are all about women, written by women. Three are historical: sisters live hard in ancient Rome, a daughter goes missing in 1962 Maine, and mothers and daughter clash in 1930s Vancouver. Comedy and death are a perfect pairing in Catherine Newman’s book featuring a woman who covers all the bases: mother, daughter, wife, and friend. I would read all of these again.

We should Not Be Afraid of the Sky by Emma Cooper

This is the first book by Emma Hooper that I’ve read and it was unlike anything I’ve read before. Are her other books like this? I felt like I was reading one long, epic poem. Those sisters lived a whole lifetime in the short number of years they were given, and they lived them hard.

Safe is the opposite of alive.

Nine identical sisters are born to the commander’s wife during the golden age of the Roman Empire. Two die at birth, along with their mother, and–unknown to the commander who was away during the birth of his daughters– the other seven were adopted by village families. They grew up with many adopted siblings, running in the fields and climbing the lemon trees. Two more sisters were lost to the pox and one was sent away to avoid the illness.

When their father discovers that some of his daughters are still alive and living in the village, he has them brought to the big house and tries to make up for lost years. They are treated well by the commander, but the sisters are destined to part ways again, three of them leaving one behind.

This was our work now, our job, our everything. Our legs were tired, our legs were strong. We woke in the mornings because they kicked out, restless, ready, knowing it was time to go. Needing to go. We ran and ran and ran, and, sometimes, we flew.

We follow the sisters on their journey, away from traditional marriages and lives to one of hiding, living like outlaws, and fighting for the freedom of themselves and others. They may look alike, but their different talents and temperaments lead them to make decisions that both separate them and bring them together. They live with purpose and passion, living for others more than they live for themselves.

…under it all, always, under the free the fight the river, I was waiting, still waiting, always waiting, though sometimes, a lot of the time, I’d forget for who.

I thought this story was beautiful and poetic, and when it was over I just sat still and let it echo around in my head.

Her words rang in my head and came back again later, again and again, like the crash of a dropped pot echoing on and on between the listening mountains.

We Should Not Be Afraid of the Sky was longlisted for the inaugural Carol Shields Prize for Fiction.

We All Want Impossible Things by Catherine Newman

After reading the first couple of chapters of this book, I wondered if it might be too flippant for me. But I’m so glad I kept going, because this book is like a big hug.

Edi and Ash have been friends for over 40 years and now Edi is dying. She is staying in a hospice near Ash’s home so Ash can visit and comfort and help and hold on as long as she can to what is left. Through it all, Ash’s marriage is in jeopardy, she’s become a little too familiar with a few acquaintances, and her teenage daughter is noticing everything. I love the relationships in this book, as well as the humour that makes the inevitability of Edi’s death so much more bearable.

Everywhere, behind closed doors, people are dying, and people are grieving them. It’s the most basic fact about human life–tied with birth, I guess–but it’s so startling too. Everyone dies, and yet it’s unendurable. There is so much love inside of us. How do we become worthy of it? And, then, where does it go? A worldwide crescendo of grief, sustained day after day, and only one tiny note of it is mine.

They’re so old, some of these folks, their bodies so worn down and used up, that sometimes when you peek into their rooms to say hi you can’t even tell if they’re there in their beds or not. They’re nearly completely flat, like paper dolls, with just a tiny fluff of cotton glued at the top for hair.

The sun rises and sets, rises and sets, calendar pages fly off the wall, the roses bud, open, wilt, drop all their petals, the ice caps finish melting, the seas rise, and finally Edi is ready to go.

I do like a man who likes a cat.

I think Catherine Newman and I could be friends. Check out this tour of her house!

The Berry Pickers by Amanda Peters

The Berry Pickers has been a much anticipated book on my list and I think I’m the first to read this copy from my library. I’m not the first to write about it, however – Sarah has written about it on her blog and describes it as “a powerful, deeply affecting novel about family, grief, and injustice.”

There are two alternating narratives in The Berry Pickers. In one, a four-year-old girl goes missing in 1962 when a Mi’kmaw family from Nova Scotia goes berry picking in Maine, as they have been doing for years. The family is devastated, but receive no help from local authorities. The last person to have seen Ruthie was her brother Joe, who was only six when she disappeared. The incident haunts him for decades.

The day Ruthie went missing, the blackflies seemed to be especially hungry. The white folks at the store where we got our supplies said that Indians made such good berry pickers because something sour in our blood keeps the blackflies away. But even then, as a boy of six, I knew that wasn’t true. Blackflies don’t discriminate. But now, lying here almost fifty years to the day and getting eaten from the inside out by a disease I can’t even see, I’m not sure what’s true and what’s not anymore. Maybe we are sour.

The second narrative tells the story of Norma, a girl growing up in Maine with parents who had almost given up on having children when Norma finally came along. Her parents can be both distant and overprotective, the result of years of disappointment. Despite knowing they love her, Norma feels like there’s something they’re not telling her, and she spends a lifetime trying to figure it out.

I lived my entire childhood in the shadow of infant ghosts. Their memory haunted my mother, and she carried them around with her, constantly tripping over their absence and blaming me for the fall.

What I love most about this book is the love. There is also anger and sorrow and shame. But so much love that persists and protects and supports and heals.

Junie by Chelene Knight (Book Hug Press)

Junie is another book that was longlisted for the inaugural Carol Shields Prize for Fiction, which is what prompted me to make it a priority in my reading.

Junie takes place in 1930s Hogan’s Alley, a Black and immigrant community in Vancouver’s East End that was eventually demolished to build the Georgia Viaducts. The sense of place in this novel shines. The community and supporting characters surrounding Junie as she comes-of-age in Hogan’s Alley are vividly described and portrayed.

Junie’s eyes darted from building to building, from brown face to brown face. Their old neighbourhood was not like this. It was cold. She was often afraid, and shivered under her covers most nights, the waning moon sending icicles down her small body. The sidewalks were empty, and everyone who wasn’t like them scooted along in cars. Dogs sauntered down the tree-lined streets attached to long leather leashes with tight-lipped white people clutching the other end. But here, there was so much flavour to behold. Pleasant feelings and tingly sensations skirted down Junie’s spine into the worn insides of her black shoes.

At night, the neighbourhood transforms. It shapeshifts. When day turns to night, I watch the East End come to life. I feel free here, in this hidden world. The music makes the floorboards fly up, nails and all. Hardship and pain take the night off.

I close my eyes to the wind. The East End heats. The grease-slicked puddles do nothing to deter me from hugging these streets with laughter. This is breathtaking. I am home. The trees wilt when it rains, bowing to me as I pass. I see the mountains when I close my eyes. My guide. On Sunday mornings I sip on steaming cups of black coffee folded by a ribbon of cream. I dream of standing on my fire escape wearing my favorite white lace dress with the scoop neck, the one Mama told me makes me look older than I am. On Sundays I sit out with my pad and my pens and sketch the essence of this neighborhood.

For me, the heart of the story is the relationship between Junie and her mother Maddie. A relationship that is contrasted with the one of Junie’s friend Estelle and her mother Faye. Maddie is a jazz singer with a daughter, a broken heart, and a worsening dependency on alcohol. She’s hard on Junie–always angry and unhappy–but Junie never stops wanting to please her. Luckily, Junie has two important adults in her life that encourage and support her education and creativity.

I spend most of my time going back and forth between hating my mother, then worrying about her, then right back to hate. Mama doesn’t even try to hide her problems. Hmm, I wonder if there was ever a time when Mama was sweet and careful? Protective and loving. When did her hurt wrap its hand around her throat?

Faye is a business woman in town, the owner of a club. She’s able to provide well for her daughter in all areas but the attention Estelle desperately wants. For very different reasons, both Junie and Estelle long to be properly seen by their mothers, but instead have to rely on each other over the years. Sometimes this is helpful, and other times it’s not. But it’s interesting to see the girls observe the world around them and learn from each other’s experiences.

… we don’t have any control over who our mamas are… But we do have control over who we become.

What have you been reading from the library lately?

#LoveYourLibrary