I’ve joined a book club.
 
Doing so wasn’t spontaneous on my part, or an impromptu idea by my friend Deb, who came up with the concept.
 
In fact, Deb was ready to go with a solid timeline in place the spring before last. She’d also compiled a list of friends
and acquaintances who loved to read. And even though most of us didn’t know one another, she figured that we
could have enough in common—mainly, age and political leanings—that once we had all met, we’d be good to go.
 
Of course, you know what happened next.
 
The tsunami called COVID-19 arrived. 
 
And just like that, the idea of any sort of grown-up playdate migrated to everyone’s back burner.
 
Eventually and as the months dragged on, there was talk of putting the club on Zoom. But since I loathe the platform,
I knew I couldn’t take part. Also, our library was closed, and since I’d decided to procure all of my books this way,
it made no sense to join.
 
But now that the library has reopened, and everyone in the group is double vaccinated and boosted, I’m thrilled to say that seven of us are reading our hearts out.  
 
In fact, we’re already on our third book in the same number of months. 
 
Each selection has been fiction, with one written by a woman and the other two penned by men. But there’s no set genre (such as mysteries) or topic (such as the history of the United States), so at this point, we’re all over the map.  We’ve also been instructed to suggest two books, although none of mine has been chosen.
 
At least, not yet.  
 
But I don’t mind.
 
That’s because when left to my own devices, I get stuck in the same kind of books—short stories, memoirs and biographies of classic Hollywood movie stars.  Thanks to this club, I’ve been pushed into topics I’d never go for alone.
 
So far and in order, here’s what we’ve read.
 
Released only months ago, The Sweetness of Water was an instant New York Times best seller, likely due to the fact that it was an Oprah Book Club pick. 
 
The author also appealed to Deb because of where he’s from. Just 29 years old, Nathan Harris grew up in Ashland, about an hour’s drive from the town where most of us live.
 
But this novel, set days after the end of the Civil War in a tiny Georgia town, never appealed to me, no matter how hard I tried. I couldn’t connect with any of the characters—white landowner George Walker, who has a bad hip and a gay son, and two recently emancipated brothers heading to a new life up north. Plus, my favorite books are beautifully written, and Sweetness lacks this. Still, I slogged through to the end because I’d made a commitment that if I was going to be in the group, I’d do the talk and the walk.
 
Thankfully, our second choice had me hooked on the first page. Published last year, The Vanishing Half is the second novel from Britt Bennett, whose debut book The Mothers was a smashing success.
 
Half takes place over a longer period of time—spanning nearly half a century, from the 1940s to the 1990s. Focusing on “creamy skinned” twin sisters Desiree and Stella, the siblings were raised in a Southern town started and meant for only light-skinned blacks. As teenagers, the two snuck away from home together, but eventually went on wildly divergent paths. One wed and divorced a dark-skinned man and the other passed as Caucasian, married to a white man and giving birth to a blonde, blue-eyed daughter. So satisfying was this book that I read The Mothers immediately afterwards.       
 
The book we’re just finishing is The Overstory, written by Richard Powers and winner of the 2019 Pulitzer Prize
for Fiction.
 
At over 500 pages of very small print—and no pictures--it’s a super dense read and challenging to get into. The plot is also hard to summarize, except to say that Overstory focuses on nine people in the United States; their relationship to trees, and how that brings about a shared experience. Powers can be morose, too, but his prose is lyrical and full-bodied, with the first chapter about the beginning, middle and end of a stupendous chestnut tree in Iowa. I can’t wait to see how all of the many sub-plots will come together. 
 
One last thing. 
 
I’m not a book club newbie.  
 
I’ve been in two others, one when my 23-year-old daughter was a preschooler and we lived in a California beach town, and another shortly after moving to Oregon two years ago.
 
The first club met in comfy homes but had too many members—at least a dozen women. So, staying on topic was challenging. But what was more maddening was that most participants didn’t bother to read the book. This made the gatherings purely a social club, which wasn’t what I was looking for.  
 
I lasted just one meeting with the second group.
 
The head of this club was not only its founder, but a micro-manager who chose every selection, as well as the date and time for every meeting. Also, most of the women were at least a decade older than me, and we met at a retirement home in its brightly-lit conference room. It was the wrong leader; the wrong demographic, and the wrong venue.
 
Now, though, the third time seems to be the charm.
 
And who knows?
 
Maybe one of my book suggestions will be picked soon. 

Those of A Certain Age, I think, have memorized the best vacations we ever took; top places we’ve called home,
and favorite jobs of all time.  Foodies like me can even wax nostalgic about the finest meals we’ve had the pleasure
of experiencing.
 
But for other folks, also like me, who grew up around books and can’t imagine our lives without them, there’s another inventory that comes to mind—one that goes back to our very early years. 
 
I’m talking about the children’s books (also called kiddie literature or “kiddie lit” for short) that were read to us by parents and nursery school teachers; as well as the ones we later sat down with on our own, and those that we then passed on to our children and even grandchildren. Given that I got my first library card at five years old, that’s a whole lot of pages to ponder.
 
I was reminded of my very favorite children’s stories a couple of weeks ago, when a librarian chum posted an article last month during Children’s Literature Week. The 14-page piece is courtesy of Atlas Obscura, a web site that bills itself as “the definitive guide to the world’s hidden wonders.”  The site asked its followers to recount those little-known books that have stuck with them, but ones that also hardly anyone else seems to remember.
 
Nine hundred people answered, and from those responses, the editors compiled their favorite two dozen titles.  And, although I think of myself as a big fan—and collector—of kiddie lit, I wasn’t familiar with any of them. 
 
Included are The Summer Birds, about a group of children in rural England who learn to fly one summer; Time Windows, a ghost story involving a little girl and her doll house, and The War Between the Pitiful Teachers and the Splendid Kids, all about a school that’s grimly serious about turning out perfect children, and the eventual rebellion of its students.
 
Clearly, I’ve missed a lot of terrific books.
 
Still, I wished I had seen the original clarion call, because I absolutely would have responded. 
 
But wait.
 
Because I’m the sole proprietor of Girl Clown Dancing, I still get the chance to name my favorites right here, right now.  Happily, I have copies of most of them. And because only one is a book that most don’t know about, I’m hoping that not only are these books still remembered, but that they’re still being read by millions of kids—and adults, too.  
 

• Me Too is a big, grey-covered picture book published in 1945, and would be my entry into the little-known category.  It’s the enchanting story of a very smart, very curious and very mischievous duckling. “Me Too’s name wasn’t Me Too at all,” the book begins.  “It was Herbert.  But everybody called him Me Too because every time his mother said, ‘I am going to take the older children to the pond,’ he said, “Me too, Me too!” 

• Then there’s The Little House.  Written in 1942, I still remember, as a very little girl, sitting in an itty-bitty library chair and turning its pages over and over again.  Told exclusively from the house’s point of view, the tiny pink house with big shutters lives a quiet and uneventful life, with birds and flowers and children for company. Still, she wonders what life would be like in the city, which boasts fast moving cars, busy people and twinkling lights.  Eventually, she finds out.  Perhaps this book might also be considered obscure; not even the owner of our town’s indie bookstore was familiar with this title when I placed a special order for it last year.

• Next up is a book from Dr. Suess, who I like but don’t love… except for Happy Birthday to You.  Coming out in 1959, it’s tells the magical Technicolor tale of one very lucky birthday boy who lives in the land of Katroo. After flying through his bedroom window early one morning, The Great Birthday Bird whisks the child from adventure to adventure over the course of one very long day, including a stop at The Birthday Flower Jungle and the famous Mustard-Off Pools (which I imagined diving into one day myself).  I love this book so much that I’ve bought it for more than a few friends.   

• Released in 1941, Make Way for Ducklings has been in continuous print since that time, selling more than two million copies.  With its gorgeous charcoal illustrations rendered in sepia tones, the book tells the story of ducks Mr. and Mrs. Mallard (is anyone seeing a theme here?).  After more than a few (mis)adventures, the couple decide to raise their eight little ones—Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack—on an island in the Boston Public Garden.  I bought Ducklings for my daughter before I even brought her home.

• I’m hardly adverse to chapter books either, which is where Mary Poppins, first published in 1933, and the Doctor Doolittle series come in.  For those who know Poppins only through the movie and play, it’s worth noting that the original nanny character was anything but saccharine sweet.  She’s much more dimensional and much more human: while her magical powers are very much in play, Poppins’ behavior toward her charges (Jane and Michael Banks, then later, twins John and Barbara) could sometimes be downright mean.  Also, I learned one of my first big words from the first book: perambulator, better known today as a baby stroller.

• The initial Doctor Dolittle book came out in 1920; 11 more followed, with the final one released in 1952.  All penned by Hugh Lofting, the stories about a physician who shuns human patients in favor of animals (he can talk to them!) made their premiere in Lofting’s illustrated letters to his own children.  They were literally written from the trenches of World War I when actual news, the author later said, was either too horrible or too dull. I don’t know that I got to every single book, but I did read every one my town library had on the shelf.

 
That’s it for now, but frankly, I could list a dozen more kiddie lit favorites and still be far from finished.  If you haven’t read a grand children’s book lately, the list above—if this girl clown does say so herself—is A Very Good Start.
 
Please tell me about your favorite children’s books.  I look forward to your comments and stories!
 
P.S. The entire Atlas Obscura article is here, at www.atlasobscura.com/articles/obscure-childrens-books-reader-responses
 

 I still remember, with absolute clarity, the day I decided to give up reading.

I had just left my college adviser, who, upon looking over my upcoming schedule for the spring, pronounced that once the semester was over, I’d graduate with a degree in journalism.

“Really?” I said, absolutely astounded. 

Not always the sharpest pushpin on the bulletin board, I sat for a moment to take it all in.  “Really?”  I repeated.   

In my defense, that reaction was understandable.

I had already spent more than five years at two different four-year universities, banging and bouncing around between three dissimilar majors.  On top of that, I’d taken a year off to attend the famed Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Clown College, and then became a professional Big Top buffoon.  And, whilethat particular journey provided lots of valuable lessons, none of those life skills translated into college credits.  So when I returned to school after the road, getting a degree seemed light years away. 

Yet that time would soon arrive—and with it, the shiny promise that after decades of required reading, I would no longer be forced to open another book, ever, ever, ever. 

A few weeks later, though, I realized that I might want to rethink this no-reading rule.

First, I recognized the fact that I’d probably want to keep reading, and here’s why: with professors no longer dictating book choices, I would finally be able to read what I wanted.  This, of course, made all of the difference in the world. 

Second, and I didn’t have to dig deep for this one either, I couldn’t help but read: I was hardwired to be a bookworm.  I also knew that wasn’t going away any time soon.  Indeed, I had received my first library card in first grade and have been current, no matter where I’ve lived, ever since. 

So it was that I began my post-college reading with restraint—choosing a handful of magazines and newspapers. This made perfect sense because most of the articles were short and to the point. 

I soon discovered Bob Greene, the famed columnist for Esquire; he became the reason I bought that publication every single month.  Too, in preparation for my move to New York City, I was soon gobbling up The New York Times, and for my weekly alternative fix, The Village Voice. 

These days, I’m still reading… and happy to report that books returned to the mix a long time ago.  

I’m especially attracted to big fat tomes of short stories and essays.  I’m particularly fond of those by Joan Didion, the greatest essayist in the world; Joyce Maynard, who, wonder of wonders, is a Facebook Friend, and the late, great, remarkable Nora Ephron, who not so coincidentally, once penned the essay Reading is Everything (part of that delightful prose is here, at www.goodreads.com/quotes/146811-reading-is-everything-reading-makes-me-feel-like-i-ve-accomplished.  Her long-ago first husband and I also once shared a kiss, yes, on the lips.  But that’s really another story for another day.)     

Of course, there are plenty of other fave genres. 

Always on the alert for well-written memoirs, The Glass Castle has become a beloved book.  And maybe because of my background as a television producer who put together a lot of true crime stories, I still enjoy a good Ann Rule read.  And, no matter how many times I read it, I continue to find Fatal Vision by Joel McGinnis an absolute page turner.  Put the two genres together and you have the wrenching Lucky by Alice Sebold.            

Like every voracious reader I know, there’s also my favorite book.

You’ll probably recognize its author—Ira Levin, famous for Rosemary’s Baby.  But a lesser known Levin novel from 1970, This Perfect Day, is flawless in every way. A futuristic thriller with scores of twists and turns, I inhaled this several-hundred-pages book the first time in one night; it was that good.  Every few years, I take out my tattered copy and go through its heart-stopping pages again.  (Here’s a summary, at www.amazon.com/This-Perfect-Day-A-Novel/dp/160598129X)

Yup, I am definitely one contented girl clown when I crack open a book of my choosing.   

But now, besides the already-known benefits of reading, such as mental stimulation and vocabulary expansion, it turns out that those of us who read a lot can be something else.

Boarding the reading train, it turns out, can also help us heal from traumatic events, and may even make us happier.      

These ideas aren’t new. 

In fact, they’re all part and parcel of a type of mental health treatment called bibliotherapy, first used by ancient Greeks. 

In broad strokes, it means the practice of encouraging reading for therapeutic effect.  Often, today’s professionals doing this sort of work see clients in the midst of major and minor calamities, such as a career rut; nursing a broken heart, or feeling unsettled about upcoming parenthood.  With the latter, for instance, a reading therapist might lend his patient a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, because the protagonist, Atticus Finch, is the perfect father in nonfiction. 

What’s also very cool about bibliotherapy is that it can take many forms. 

There are literature courses for prison inmates and reading circles for seniors suffering from dementia.  For some, it can mean a one-on-one session for lapsed readers who want to enjoy books again but can’t find their way back to the train station alone.  (If I’d only known about this, my reentry back to loving reading would have come much sooner.)

Here are a few more benefits for us readers: opening a book for pleasure has also been shown to put our brains into a pleasing, almost trance-like condition.  In fact, it’s a feeling much like meditation, and even brings the same health benefits of deep relaxation and inner calm.  Regular readers also sleep better; are less stressed, and have lower rates of depression than non-readers.

So, while it took a while for me to find my way back to the reading train, I’m so glad I did. 

My advice for today?  If you have a library card, use it.  If you don’t, go get one. 

Right now. 

Is reading a part of your life, and if so, what’s your favorite book or books?  I look forward to hearing from you!