“Daffodils” by Arthur Baker-Clark
The sun is out here this afternoon and everyone is wandering around, staring with confusion at blue skies, shadows, and other consequences of sunlight that have become foreign to us over the last few months of near-constant rain. Most importantly, it feels, if only for a few hours, like spring is really coming and that the snow drops aren’t just here to lure us into a false sense of optimism. Here’s hoping.
I’ve spent an entertaining weekend acting as moral support for my mother, who, at age 63, has decided she wants to sew again after abstaining for more than thirty years. My grandmother was extraordinarily talented and my mother once upon a time was very good herself – they may have been poor when they immigrated to Canada but they were extraordinarily well-dressed. My mother’s powder blue jumpsuit circa 1970 is still remembered fondly by every boy/man who ever saw her in it. However, a busy corporate career, two time-consuming children, and a healthy disposable income had my mom cheerfully turning away from her sewing machine for the last several decades. Now semi-retired and looking for hobbies, she’s decided this is the way to go. I remember absolutely nothing about sewing so am in no way useful but I am a cheerful and positive presence (I am told) and am enjoying the entire process immensely.
What I am expert at is reading. I’ve been reading steadily and am entertaining myself right now by flipping back and forth between The Letters of Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh and The Blue Zones of Happiness by Dan Buettner. The Blue Zones book looks at happiness research from around the world and identifies habits, attitudes, and structures from these places that people around the world can imitate to improve their own happiness. Evelyn Waugh could have used some of these. In his thirties he appears to have been merely rude and intent on making several enemies per year. As he aged, he became exceeding ornery and determined to make enemies of everyone he met. His much more charming correspondent, however, remains sunny and optimistic even when going through her own personal struggles. And Mitford got to live in dynamic Paris rather than dreary England so that surely helped (echoing an important lesson of Buettner’s book: it’s hard to be happy in depressing surroundings, especially when all the people you see are also miserable).
These are probably the two most interesting books I’ve read all month. Here’s a taste of a few other things I’ve been reading that weren’t quite worthy of getting their own dedicated posts:
Yeoman’s Hospital by Helen Ashton (1944) – this story of a day in the life of a country hospital was a bit too slow moving and detailed for me. I like the idea and the doctor characters were nicely done but the story dragged terribly every time the focus shifted to the nursing staff. While there is no obvious war-related storyline, it’s interesting to see how social changes wrought by the war are integrated into the story. For example, when the senior doctors are considering filling positions they remark on how the most capable young doctors available are generally women since the best men are enlisted. This is certainly reflected in their hospital staff: one of the central characters is a very accomplished female doctor whose skills are never in doubt. She does have a needlessly overwrought romantic life, though, which makes for one of the tiring plotlines in an already tired novel. Definitely not Ashton’s best and easily skippable.
The Magic Apple Tree by Susan Hill (1982) – I found a book where Hill isn’t immensely annoying in every second paragraph! This chronicle of a year of country life is beautifully observed and elegantly written. It isn’t quite up to the standard of books like A Country Life by Roy Strong or Adrian Bell’s trilogy (starting with Corduroy) but it was a very pleasant read. She is particularly good in writing about winter and autumn (her favourite season) and conjuring up cosy indoor scenes and spartan outdoor ones.
Miss Billy by Eleanor H. Porter (1911) – this sounded charming: the story of an eighteen-year old girl who, when her last surviving relative dies, seeks out her father’s closest friend (William) after whom she (Billy) was named. William generously invites her to come make her home with him and his two younger brothers only realising her gender when he goes to meet her at the train station. Cute, yes? In execution, it’s awfully bad. Billy is annoying from her first appearance, not a single character is fleshed out enough to ever become interesting, and the plot is both flimsy and absurd. Billy is paired up with each of the brothers at one point or another and it’s all very unconvincing. The main point in the book’s favour is how short it is and I finished it with relief. What is truly horrifying is that there are two sequels!
There’s No Such Thing as Bad Weather by Linda Åkeson McGurk (2017) – McGurk, Swedish by birth, was living and raising her children in Indiana with her American husband when her father became ill. Wanting to be closer to him while he went through treatment, she moved to Sweden for six months with her two daughters while her husband remained in America. Having been frustrated by how difficult it was to get her girls in America to enjoy the outdoorsy lifestyle she grew up with (concerned neighbours often stopped their cars to offer her a life when they saw her – well dressed for the elements – out walking in rain, snow or cold weather) she is excited to see how they will react to life in Sweden, where active lifestyles are the norm and schools prioritize outdoor playtime.
The verdict? The secret to Swedish parenting is to make your children go outside in all weather and to teach them from childhood to enjoy nature as part of their daily life. I grew up and live in a very outdoorsy place so there was lots familiar from the Swedish approach but the institutional issues McGurk saw in the US education system (particularly reduced time for outdoor play during recess and lunchtimes) are definitely things we’re seeing – with concern – here in Canada as well. Overall, very entertaining and sensible.
The best thing about celebrating on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas Day is that you gain a whole evening in which to enjoy your Christmas gifts. And for me, that meant curling up with the 
The Captive Reader 