Skip to main content

Stuff I'm Reading

 I've been reading "Plainsong," by Kent Haruf, and it's like a rough draft of the TV version of "Friday Night Lights."


Both of these works concern small towns; both concern high schools and varied family-shapes. In "Friday Night Lights," there is basically one "conventional nuclear family," then there is a boy raising his younger brother, a single mom with two daughters, a grandmother in charge of a high-school junior, and so on. "Plainsong" has two orphaned, elderly brothers "raising" a girl whose mother has lost her mind. Also, two kids basically take care of themselves when a parent begins confining herself to bed, rejecting food, going unwashed.

I liked "Friday Night Lights" best when it steered away from melodrama. For example, many celebrated scenes focused on tiny disagreements between "Coach Taylor" and his wife, Tami: disputes about the annual Panthers BBQ, awkward discussions about post-partum sex and "when to resume," chats about strange notations in the checking account that haven't been announced or explained, chats about how to accommodate a visiting, charismatic "frenemy" from childhood.

"Plainsong" has a similar approach to storytelling. Despite its heavy themes, the book still sometimes lingers on two little boys delivering newspapers, or on procedural details within the local Board of Education meetings, or on how to select and assemble a crib. We begin to understand Haruf's memorable characters in these small moments. When a little boy has to choose eggs for oatmeal cookies, it's a crisis, because the shopping list doesn't specify "brown" or "white" eggs--and how can I know whether or not the color-difference is crucial to the recipe?

I'm happy to take a break from serial killers and murder plots--and I see myself in Haruf's fictional people. It's a great gift if you can keep your readers spellbound--just with descriptions of ordinary life.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...
2 comments
Read more

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...
Post a Comment
Read more