I've noticed something odd. First I read A Place Called Canterbury. The author grew up down the block from our family -- I knew him slightly; he's a few years younger than I. But he's writing about a 'geriatric apartment building' in Tampa -- a place where those who can afford it go to spend their so-called Golden Years. I actually know some of the folks he's talking about so the book was of particular interest to me. And the lesson I took away was this -- even with money, there's nothing "golden" about getting old and helpless and, worst of all, senile.
But it's a good, sometimes funny, sometimes sad, read which I recommend.
Then I pick up something to re-read: Fannie Flagg's sublime Fried Green Tomatoes -- forgetting that much of the action takes place in (all together now) a nursing home! As I read, I realize that I, too, have written about nursing homes -- in Art's Blood and again in In A Dark Season.
I shake my head -- time for a change.
Water For Elephants, which comes highly recommended and has been sitting on my TBR (to be read) pile for months. It's terrific -- a beautifully told story about life in a small traveling circus during the Depression. Oh, and the narrator's a ninety-something year old man, living in a . . . nursing home.
My next read is going to be Winnie the Pooh.
And on a different and cheerier note -- here's a link to an video of twin baby mooslings playing in the sprinkler.