"The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry

O. Henry, along with the likes of Mark Twain, marked a new type of journalist; ones who became serious writers; a tradition which has continued to the present day. With such luminaries from Mark Twain on through to Jimmy Breslin and Norman Mailer, journalists have become, increasingly, some of the leading writers of their times. O.Henry was no exception. With his incredible feel for irony, and knowledge of human behavior, he wrote of the daily struggles which faced the generation of his time. Jim and Della are emblematic of that struggle, and the love for one another which enabled them to make it through the rough times. The irony in the story is apparent, as well as their love for one another. The illustration I have posted here is the "Adoration of the Magi" by the Italian Artist, Sandro Botticelli (1445-1510). This is a perfect Christmas story, which I have enjoyed for many years, thanks once again, to a grammar school teacher who really had a heart, and made a difference. Mrs. Denslow, this one's for you.

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Charles Fort - A Most Peculiar Man

Charles Hoy Fort was a most unusual man; some might even say peculiar. Either way; he made quite an impression, leaving over 60,000 written articles to the New York Public Library upon his death in 1932. He may not have been correct in most of the things he wrote about, but he was prolific!

Born in August 1874 in Albany, New York he is considered to be an American writer and researcher of anomalous phenomena. Although he was controversial; to say the least; his books are still in print and there adherents to his philosophies; even if they have largely been discredited by science. He is somewhat of an American oddity; indeed, I am writing about here, over 80 years after his death in May of 1932.

Some might say that Mr. Fort was the father of the modern American conspiracy theorists; those who believe that the government lies to the people about everything. Hmmm, there might be something to that. But Mr. Fort’s distrust seems to have originated with his stern father, who was a grocer by trade. In his autobiography he recalls several “harsh” physical punishments at the hands of his father.

As weird as some of his theories may have been, the man was literally driven, by his teen years he was already a collector of sea shells, birds, rocks, insects and anything else he could amass. And he became totally immersed in whatever he was interested in at the time. So, it is no surprise that when he turned of age he set off to see more of the world which he was so curious about.

In 1892 he left on a tour of the world, in order he claimed, to "put some capital in the bank of experience". He crossed the United States, went through Scotland and England before setting off to Africa. It was there that fate made its appearance and he took ill, forcing him to return home.

But even that turned to his advantage when he reconnected with Anna Filing, a woman whom he had known previously and was now engaged as his nurse. They were married in 1896 and the couple set off for England shortly after that. It is of particular note that she was 4 years his senior and not very well read. Her chief interests seem to have been silent films and parakeets! While in London they lived a rocky life financially as he struggled with writing short stories to fund his research into just about anything which interested him.

His chief bit of renown came from his investigation in “spontaneous eruptions” of people bursting into flames. Although they were burned to a crisp, their clothes were always unharmed; which ruled out lightning. In the 1890’s and on through the early 20^th century this was a common occurrence; which has never really been explained beyond the fact that science wasn’t able to answer the question at the time. So, you have to wonder…

His Uncle died in 1916, leaving him enough money to quit working; if you can call what he did working; and devote his time to writing full time. The efforts produced 10 books, one of which actually got published. It was a story about life in the tenements. It was not very well received. He then turned to science.

He was mainly concerned with two questions; the first was about Martians. He believed that we were puppets of the Martians and that they were actually controlling us from space. His other big thing was the existence of a lost civilization that lived at the South Pole. He believed that there was an opening there which allowed them to exit the interior of the earth. He believed that they were plotting to take over. It’s interesting to note that there are some UFO buffs who believe that flying saucers come from that location; thus combining Fort’s two theories into one.

From this theory he was encouraged by writer Theodore Dreiser, to write “The Book of the Damned” in 1919, which would cement his name into literary history. If not for that work I would probably not be writing of him now. The book is a compendium of all his unproven research. Unproven is used here in two ways. The first is obvious; he never proved any of his theories to be true. The second meaning is better; science had never actually proven him to be wrong.  

Aside from a return visit to London, where he lived from 1924 to 1926, he spent most of the rest of his life in the Bronx. He was a lively and witty character, and sought out by literary contemporaries such as Dreiser. This group of friends rotated meeting at one another’s apartments for coffee and robust discussions about everything under the Sun. When their spouses tired of the meetings night after night, they would adjourn to local neighborhood taverns.

During this period he found himself to have an actual following of people who admired him for any number of reasons. Some believed his theories; while others merely found him to be engaging company. Although he suffered from poor health he had a routine of sorts. Each day he would take the subway to the New York Public Library. He would buy a bunch of newspapers and clip articles from them, writing notes about them all. He needled anything which claimed to be scientific, and then gave his own explanation. These articles comprise much of the 60,000 items he left to the library upon his death.

Say what you will about the guy, he had the courage of his convictions; eschewing doctors and the medicines which might have alleviated some of his suffering. He collapsed on May 3, 1932 and was taken to the hospital. His publisher came to visit him and let him know that his latest book was to be published shortly. He died a few hours later from what was probably a form of leukemia. He was a most peculiar man.

The Christmas Tree from "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" by Betty Smith

This is from my favorite book ever written, "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" by Betty Smith. I actually keep extra copies on hand to give away. This text is from the 1943 Harper & Brothers 5th Edition. To me, this portion of the book represents something which lies beyond each of our exteriors; the true essence of who we are as individuals; in this case it is the "tree man", who is emblematic of us all; both wanting to give more, yet keenly aware of our own need to survive what is, indeed at times, “...a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!” All the more reason to give what you can to those in need during this holiday season.

There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn’t have to buy a tree; that “they’d chuck ‘em at you.” This was literally true.

At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn’t fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one.

On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neely nine, mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy it was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood and its price was so high that no one could afford to buy it. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top.

The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked;

”Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it?”

Francie stepped forward. “Me, Mister.”

A spurt of derisive laughter came from the tree man. The kids snickered. A few adults who had gathered to watch the fun, guffawed.

“Aw g’wan. You’re too little,” the tree man objected.

“Me and my brother — we’re not too little together.”

She pulled Neely forward. The man looked at them — a thin girl of ten with starveling hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with his fair hair and round blue eyes - Neeley Nolan, all innocence and trust.

"Two ain't fair," yelped Punky.

"Shut your lousy trap," advised the man who held all the power in that hour. “These here kids is got nerve. Stand back, the rest of youse. These kids is goin’ to have a show at this tree.”

The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the big man with the big tree at the other. It was a human funnel with Francie and her brother making the small end of it. The man flexed his great arms to throw the great tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For the split part of a moment, the tree thrower went through a kind of Gethsemane.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” his soul agonized, “why don’t I just give ‘em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let ‘em go. What’s the tree to me? I can’t sell it no more this year and it won’t keep till next year." The kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. "But then," he rationalized, if I did that, all the others would expect to get 'em handed to 'em. And next year nobody a-tall would buy a tree off of me. They’d all wait to get ‘em handed to ‘em on a silver plate. I ain’t a big enough man to give this tree away for nothin’. No, I ain't big enough. I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta think of myself and my own kids." He finally came to his conclusion. "Oh, what the hell! Them two kids is gotta live is this world. They got to get used to it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And by Jesus, it ain’t give but take, take, take all the time in this God-damned world.” As he threw the tree with all his strength, his heart wailed out, “It’s a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!”

Francie saw the tree leave his hands. There was a split bit of being when time and space had no meaning. The whole world stood dark and still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. The tree came towards her blotting out all memory of her having lived. There was nothing – nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went down to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.

When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley’s face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his bewildered blue eyes and the fairness of his skin made more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they not won the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys hollered “Hooray!” A few adults clapped. The tree man eulogized them by screaming,

“And now get the hell out of here with your tree, you lousy bastards.”

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, Goodbye – God bless you.”

"Confessions of a Wandering Man" by Louis L'Amour

This book, by one of America's most prolific authors, was first published in 1989. This is my third time reading it. Louis L'Amour is best known for his paperback Western novels, which can be found on any ship at sea, or on any military base in the world. They are easily read, packed with excitement, and the good guy always wins. I never liked them much, picking them up only when nothing else was available to read. Still, the author himself was intriquing to me. He had, apparently, done all of the things he wrote about in his books. That really interested me. The idea that his fiction was part fact made me very interested in the man himself.

Not just a writer of Western novels, Mr. L'Amour also wrote short stories and some poetry and non-fiction. His memoir is one of my all time favorites. In it he recounts most of his adventures as a seaman, rodeo rider, and hobo. There is even a fascinating section on the difference betwen hobo's, tramps and bums.

At age 17 he was in Singapore while his high school class was holding graduation in Jamestown, North Dakota. The education which Mr. L'Amour received aboard ship, in lieu of high school, was to prove more valuable to him than any classroom could have ever been.

This book was reprinted in 2008 and contains some new photographs not seen before. They offer even more insight into the world of the author. The list of books and plays that he read while traveling, also give the reader a unique perspective on what influenced Mr. L'Amour's own writing, beyond his travel experiences.

But, the most important lesson impatred by the author in this memoir is that education is available everywhere, everyday, in some form. All you have to do is reach out for it and it can be yours.

"Cry Hard, Cry Fast" by John D. MacDonald

It would be an easy argument to state that John D. MacDonald is one of the most prolific authors of late 20th century fiction. With over 70 books under his belt, it would seem hard to beat him, although Howard Fast does come to mind. Mr. Mac Donald's Travis McGee series alone would earn him a notable place in American popular fiction.

But before there was a Travis McGee, and a formula for sucess in his writing, Mr. MacDonald was one of the most imaginative writers on the scene. This 1955 novel deals with an everyday tragedy, a car accident. What makes it such a landmark novel is the authors approach to the actual event. He traces the movements of each of the persons involved in the wreck during the days and weeks preceeding the event. This look into the lives of the victims of this multiple tragedy allows the reader to really step inside the shoes of each one of the victims and feel their pain, from their individual points of view, which range from guilt to grief.

Guilt and grief can go hand in hand. One is as much a prison as the other. The hard part is seeking out the balance in between which will allow you to go on living. A superb read by one of America's premier authors.

"Midnight Dreary" By John Evangelist Walsh

What could be more perfect than a mystery about the man who invented the genre? I read this book in 1998 when it first came out. Seeing it on the shelf at the library was like bumping into an old friend. We just had to get together again.

Poe was traveling from Richmond to New York by steamboat and landed in Baltimore when he disappeared for several days in late September and early October of 1849. He was found on the morning of October 4th badly in need of medical attention and dressed in old rags which were surely not his own.

What happened in the last days of his life is an eternal mystery. There are several versions, the most prevalent being that he was given drink and "cooped" with several of Baltimores lower inhabitants the night before Election Day in October, 1849. That he was found in the 4th Ward and outside Ryan's Tavern gives creedence to this version. It has always been the one that I have adhered to. He was stupified with drink and taken from polling place to polling place to vote the ticket he was instructed to.

But Mr. Walsh explores other avenues, while not entirely dismissing the Election night version. For instance, he has identified the mysterious "Reynolds" whom Poe called out for in his last hours. There was a Henry R. Reynolds present at Ryan's Fourth Ward in the Gunners Hall section of Baltimore in the days preceding the election and coinciding with Poes absence. But there was also a Jeremiah Reynolds, who was one of the leading characters in Poes longest work, the 180 page mini novel "The Strange Adventures of A. Gordon Pym, Late of Nantucket." Which Reynolds was Poe calling out to in his delerium? The fictious Reynolds, or the Ward Heeler?

A fascinating read no matter what your opinion is of Poes disappearance and subsequent death. The book captures the city in the mid 1800's flawlessy and delves into areas not usually associated with the great writers death. For fans of Poe this is the JFK of it's time. And like the mystery in Dallas, I hope they never solve it. The speculation is simply too much fun.

"Mark Twain's Helpful Hints..." Edited by The Mark Twain Project

While awaiting publication of the third autobiography of Mark Twain, the one he directed to be released 100 years after his death, I have been hungering for some of his wry words of wisdom. To that end I journeyed to one of the local libraries and came home with this wonderful little book.

First published in 1991 by the Mark Twain Foundation, this edition is edited by Lin Salamo, Victor Fischer and Michael B. Frank. Comprised of 8 distinct sections the writings range from Mr. Twains views on Etiquette, Complaints, Travel, Health and Manners to name only a few. Most of the material comes from the private papers of the author.

For fans of Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens for the purists amongst us) this book will delight you with some things which are familiar, as well as surprise you with the things you have not previously read. And for those folks who are unfamiliar with Mark Twain beyond "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn", the book will serve as an open door through which you will hopefully discover the delight and wit that made him one of America's greatest writers.

This book makes an excellent companion for a hot and lazy summers day. And a suitable resting place for those of us awaiting the Autobiography due this fall.

Happy 1st Birthday Rooftop Reviews!

Well, it has been one year ago today since I started this blog. It was an impulse based on boredom. And when I saw that my freind Suzy at Garden Lust Journal had a blog, well, I just had to have one too!

The name kind of popped into my head - and the best rooftop photo I had was the one you see and I have grown attached to over the 15 years or so that it has hung on the bedroom wall of wherever my wife, Sue, and I have lived. Currently, that is North Carolina.

Originally I was going to compare books with the movies that were made from them, but somehow I got sidetracked into everything from a short autobiography in 31 installments to book and movie reviews as well as music and theater. I actually did get around to doing a couple of comparisons with movies and books here. It was a surprise to me as well!

I have met and corresponded with so many different people through this site. Most comments come as e-mails, my address is posted right at the top. The correspondents range from authors such as Boris Gindin to Tommy Chong. (I'm still smiling from that one!) I have communicated with Mafia hitmen and ex FBI agents. My favorite in that category has been Abraham Bolden, he was the first African-American Secret Service Agent. Appointed by Eisenhower, he was later placed on the Kennedy White House detail. A very spiritual person, with a very interesting story to tell.

I get almost no negative e-mails, well that depends on your point of view. I did have one Aryan fellow e-mail me to tell me how right I was in my assesment of a particular book. I had to re-read the book to make sure that I was not going crazy!

So this is a day off for me- I can't believe I stuck it out for a year already. I don't post every day, more like 4 or 5 times a week. I avoid politics and religion. There are already too many divisive voices out here. I like to think of this site as an oasis. I hope you do as well, and thanks for stopping in. It really means alot to me that you do.

"Betty Smith- Life of the Author" by Valerie Raleigh Yow

They say good art comes from pain. The life of Betty Smith proves this to be true. But before you read this biography you need to be aware that you may be tearing down the facade that makes her novel, " A Tree Grows In Brooklyn," such a pleasure to read over and over again.

The author, Ms. Yow used to pass a quaint little house adjacent to the UNC Campus at Chapel Hill. Inquiring about it she found that it was the home of the author Betty Smith. Realizing that all of Ms. Smiths papers are stored at the Chapel Hill location she requested, and then obtained permission, to look through them, with the aim of writing this wonderful book.

Drawing upon the University archives, Ms. Yow has written an extensive and accurate biography of both the life of Betty Smith, and her landmark novel "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn." Originally written as an autobiography and then, at the suggestion of an editor, reformed into a novel, this is one of my favorite books. Actually, it is my favorite book.

Beginning with the histories of the real Wehner (Nolans) and Hummel(Rommely) families, the author takes on the novel, piece by piece and points out the differences in the fiction versus the real life stories. They are slightly different, but remarkably the same.

To begin with, Katie's family was Austrian, not German. And Johnny's family was German, not Irish. This was kind of a shock. But almost all of the remaining features of the novel were taken from real life.

Beginning with the caul that was coveted by the midwife at Francis' birth, and continuing on to the local junk dealer and even Aunt Eva, the story is clearly an autobiography. Even Uncle Willie Flittman is there. But sadly, there appears to be no real Aunt Sissy.

The caul story is one of the more fascinating tales in this book. I knew that the practice of obtaining a caul was common amongst seamen of the time, but this was the first book that really drove it home. Maybe because it's real and takes place in Brooklyn.

Another of the striking sequences in the book is the direct replay of her Dad's drinking and day dreaming, much to the dismay of Frances' (Betty Smith's) mother(Katherine) in the novel. Some of the dialect is verbatim and it hurts to think how much this must have hurt Ms. Smith to hear. She clearly worshipped her father, flawed as he was.

The story of her mothers remarraige is also sad. A trash collector 20 years her seinor was bawling her out for sweeping into the street. He came back to apologize and eventually they entered into a marraige of convenience. He had two sons. In many of her private letters and some of her short stories Ms. Smith alludes to some sort of uneasiness concerning her stepdad. And this caused some friction with her Mom. She blamed the daughter for imagining things.

Leaving school at 14 years old so that her brother could continue on to High School is another true event. And it had lasting repercussions. While her brother went on to finish High School, he wound up owning a gas station for his entire life. He never needed his Diploma at all. Ms. Smith, on the other hand, worked for everything required to gain her Bachelor of Science degree, but never received it due to not having a High School Diploma. And when it came time to receive her Master of Fine Arts, she lacked the necessary Bachelors Degree to be awarded the Masters.

There is so much more to this book than just the story of the novel. This book chronicles the entire life of Betty Smith, her marraige and her writing.It is a very interesting and well researched book that strips away all the sepia toned quality of Brooklyn as a serene and quaint place in the summer of 1912. For that reason, and that reason only, I am sorry that I read this book.