The Mysteries of Reading blog I posted held two books in my mind. The first was by Ann Hood titled The Obituary Writer. I opened the first page and began to relax. I know by the title, and by some of the stories and characters, relaxing may not happen for some that read this novel.
But as Ann wrote, I desired darjeeling tea and toast, pens, pretty stationery, my box of pictures and old stories from past relatives. To not give up on the slight chance my great-grandfather was not sucked down, lost forever in the San Francisco earthquake of 1930 something. That maybe he wandered aimlessly, or took this as an opportunity to start a new life, discarding his wife and my grandmother.
I found myself vowing to listen better to people, to be more sensitive, and make special time to let them express themselves. I cried. I figured out a mystery before it was revealed. I felt sympathy and found that I was trying to not be so judgmental of decisions made.
I really enjoyed being in two different time periods. By the time the novel was coming to an end, I felt nicely satisfied. I knew I wanted to go to the library. I would be disappointed if Ann Hood had not written again. I could not wait to look for her name as my eyes scrolled the authors on the books in the aisle.