What One Book . . .

  
     The late great political pundit William F. Buckley was once asked what one book he would bring with him if he was stranded on a desert island. He shot back his response:  a book on shipbuilding.

     As a rule I don't recommend books to people, because if they're like me, they have more books on their to-read list than they'll ever get to.  

     Nevertheless, a friend recommended a new writer last week, and I have to pass on the tip. Well, she's new to both B and me, but she's not brand new. She published her first book in 2007 and has four books out in all -- still, she's new compared to the likes of Patricia Cornwell, Michael Connelly or Sue Grafton, each of whom has over two dozen books to their credit.

     Her name is Tana French and she currently lives in Ireland. Her father is an economist who worked in resource management. He did extensive traveling all around world and often brought his family with him. French was born in the United States, but also lived in Ireland, Italy, Malawi and elsewhere. She has dual citizenship in the U.S. and Italy.

Colaiste Na Trionoide, Baile Atha Cliath (Trinity College)

     Tana French went to Trinity College, Dublin, and trained as an actress. She appeared in several plays, then did voiceovers, before "finding her bliss" as a writer of mysteries and psychological thrillers. Her first book In the Woods won several awards including the 2008 Edgar Award (named after, who else? ... Edgar Allen Poe) for best first novel.

     After our friend casually recommended Tana French over the dinner table, B brought home two of her books from the library. B is now reading Faithful Place, and I just finished the author's most recent work Broken Harbor.

     Broken Harbor features Detective Mick "Scorcher" Kennedy and his rookie partner Richie Curran, who are investigating the murder of a family in a new but never finished housing complex outside of Dublin, in the wake of the country's recent economic collapse. I'll admit the book is a bit "talky" and perhaps a bit too long at 450 pgs. (B says I complain that every book I read is too long). But the dialogue is sizzling and the story is riveting. There are a few extraordinary plot twists -- but as a reader you believe them because the writer has the talent, and has taken the care, to draw out her characters as real people who sometimes do crazy things.

     Anyway, I can't wait to read Faithful Place -- if B will just hurry up and finish it! Otherwise, I'll have to download it onto my kindle.

     And if you're about to be abandoned on a desert island (for spring break maybe, or your retirement home?) you could do a lot worse than bring along a Tana French mystery to keep you company.

   

Where to Retire in the West

     I write weekly articles for U. S. and World Report retirement site, and I'm supposed to come up with one of those lists of ten best places to retire. The twist to this list is that it's not supposed to take cost of living into account, as most lists do, but instead offer nice, friendly retirement destinations for people who are fairly affluent. Not the Warren Buffetts of the world (after all, he lives in Omaha, and who wants to retire in Omaha?), but not people living solely on Social Security either.

Nicer than this

     I'm asking your help. I know the East Coast. I've been researching retirement locations on the East Coast for years. One of my favorites is Cape Cod, even if it is a little cold and windy in winter.

     Another is Naples, Florida. Now I know some people prefer the east coast of Florida -- say, Jupiter or Vero Beach -- and others aspire to retire in Sarasota, for its relatively upscale environment and its cultural attractions. But I've spent plenty of time in Florida, and for me the east coast is too crowded, and on the west coast I prefer Naples to Sarasota. So I'm going to include Naples on my list -- and, yes, there's a certain degree of subjectivity to my list, as there is to any other list. (I know, there's a degree of silliness to these lists as well, but what are ya gonna do?)

But not ridiculous

     Here's what I'd like some opinions on. Where to retire in Texas, in New Mexico or Arizona, and in the Pacific Northwest.

     I know an old colleague who retired to Tucson, and she seems to like it. But I've only been to Tucson once in my life -- and I don't know anything about it. Sedona is beautiful, but seems too small-townish. What about Scottsdale? It has the advantages of being near Phoenix, without the noise, traffic, dirt and heat of actually being in Phoenix. Plus, I went to someone's house in Paradise Valley last year. Boy, I would retire there in a minute . . .  if I could afford it.

     It seems there are a few people out there who live in Oregon (though not as many in Washington, I wonder why?) so I wonder where you'd find paradise in Twin Peaks territory. I've been to Eugene, which seems nice but not particularly retirement-oriented, and to Portland several times, and once to Seattle. But I don't know the area very well. I've heard that Bellingham is a nice retirement town, with a university that offers courses for retired people. Any opinions on that?

     Anyway, thanks for your help and advice. Gee, I just thought of a bonus for me: if someone offers me a really super idea I've never heard of, maybe I'll start packing my bags!

What's the Worst Four-Letter Word?

     What's the dirtiest word you can think of, the one that's most negative, that produces the most self-destructive behavior?

     It's not the F-word, that's for sure. After all, the F-word is nothing but a crude term for what can be a loving act and exhilarating experience, a connection that is responsible for all life as we know it. Not one of us would be here without the F-word.

     Maybe the R-word is the worst. It is the cruel, ugly, violent version of the F-word.

     Another candidate might be Hell. Although it's generally considered a fairly mild curse word -- I even heard my mother say it once or twice! -- it in fact refers to the worst condition, the worst situation, that the human mind can imagine. Some people soften it and say, "Heck." I remember when my very proper fifth-grade teacher got frustrated or mad, she would smile knowingly and say, "Oh, Hades!"

     But from my experience, the worst four letters put together in the English language is the word, "Cool."

As cool as ice

Cool as a cucumber

     No other word has led people to do crazier things. In the effort to be "cool," people undermine their health, sabotage their careers, destroy their relationships and compromise every other aspect of their lives.

     You don't think so? So why did you start smoking all those years ago?

     A few young women may have started smoking to lose weight (although the only reason they wanted to lose weight was to be cool). I started smoking to keep up with my older brother and his friends. They were soooo cool, I could barely stand it.

     It took me two decades to quit smoking entirely, after many attempts, many false starts, and years and years of "cheating." All that work -- and possibly shortening my life -- just because when I was 15 years old I was trying to be cool.

     How many teenagers start drinking because they think it's cool? By the time I got to college, it wasn't cool to drink anymore. It was cool to take drugs. It was kind of cool to smoke marijuana, but the real cool kids took speed or mescaline. Fortunately, I was never cool enough to try the hard drugs. But I had a few friends who did -- and it didn't do them any good.

     I admit there is a positive aspect to coolness. Playing sports is usually considered cool, and many aspects of sports are good for us. In a few, select groups it's considered cool to be smart or talented. But how many young people want to be writers or actors or musicians, because they think it's cool -- and then end up disappointed, unemployed and scrambling to get their lives back on track when they're 30?

     How many people drive gas-guzzling, air-polluting SUVs or high-performance sports cars, because (whether they admit it or not) they think it's cool?

     How many people end up in bad relationships because they think the person is cool, or hang around with mean, nasty people because they're the in-crowd?

Coolest of them all

     I remember when I was a kid, playing the disaffected youth personified by James Dean was considered cool. That never did me any good, I can tell you. Later, maybe it was Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin or Keith Moon. But I know you're not as cool as they were, because if you were, you wouldn't still be around.

     Remember Karen Carpenter? She wanted to be so cool, and so skinny, that she starved herself to death. Okay, now I'm getting a little far afield. But isn't there some element of anorexia, as well as other behavioral diseases, that stems from people wanting to be more beautiful, more loved ... more cool?

     Trying to be cool leads many of us to do stupid things -- sometimes they're funny, sometimes they turn out to be tragic. But one advantage of growing older, I think, is that we can give up trying to be cool. Although, why else am I on facebook? So maybe I'm wrong.

     Which reminds me of the time, back when I was in 8th grade . . . hmmm, I don't know if I want to tell that story. Maybe next time.
    

Put the Glass Down

     I ran across this story, via a friend of mine, on the Sun Gazing facebook page. They suggested sharing it, so I'm sharing it.

     A psychologist walked around a room while teaching stress management to an audience. As she raised a glass of water, everyone expected they’d be asked the “half empty or half full” question.

     Instead, she smiled and inquired, “How heavy is this glass of water?”

     Answers ranged from 8 oz. to 20 oz.

     The psychologist paused for effect, then replied, “The absolute weight doesn’t matter. It depends on how long I hold it. If I hold it for a minute, it doesn't feel heavy at all. If I hold it for an hour, I’ll have an ache in my arm. If I hold it for a day, my arm will feel numb and paralyzed. In each case, the weight of the glass hasn't changed, but the longer I hold it, the heavier it becomes.”

     She continued, “The stresses and worries in life are like that glass of water. Think about them for a while and nothing happens. Think about them a bit longer and they begin to hurt. And if you think about them all day long, you will feel paralyzed – and incapable of doing anything.”

     It's important to let go of your stresses. When the day is done, put down your burdens. Don’t carry them through the evening and worry about them all night. Remember to put the glass down!

Irish Snakes Are Smiling

     I know I just logged a post saying how I wasn't going to be doing much blogging for the time being, because I got a work assignment last week. But it's Sunday, my day of rest, so let me pause to wish you a Happy St. Patrick's Day.

     I'm half Irish. Most of my friends don't know that, however, because my name isn't Irish. My father's family hailed from Austria, or so they said, by which they really meant, somewhere in Eastern Europe. When they came to America in late 1800s, Austria ruled half of Europe, so we don't honestly know where they came from, exactly. What I do know is they weren't Polish.

     I still can remember visiting my grandmother when I was a kid, driving up to her old industrial town in New England, where everyone on her street had a name that ended in "ski" or "kov" or "ini," and all the men worked in the local metal factory. My grandmother would sneer at the Poles, spitting and cursing and saying they were no good bums. I, myself, being an American from suburbia, was amazed that she could even tell the difference between a Pole and a Ukrainian or a Hungarian. But she could.

     But that's a subject for another blog post. The Irish side of my family was my mother's clan. She was as Irish, she used to say, as you could get if you came from New Jersey. The names in her family were Callahan, Kiernan, Sullivan and Murphy.

     I won't bore you with the whole family story, as my Uncle Tom used to do, always starting out with, "There were three brothers, Patrick, Frank and Thomas, who lived on a small farm in County Westmeath, along the road to Horseleap, right by the old dangerous bridge . . ."

     My Uncle Tom was a successful lawyer, but also a classic hard-drinking, flush-faced Irishman who loved to tell a story or two. He died at the age of 93, in 1996. So he's long gone now, as are his mostly-made-up stories. But I do miss him.

     Anyway, did you see yesterday's article in the New York Times reporting that Ireland, where St. Patrick drove out all the snakes, now has a problem with snakes slithering through the countryside? Apparently, during the so-called Celtic boom of the 1990s and early 2000s, snakes became popular as pets among the young and newly rich. But when the bust came, these people didn't want to spend the money to feed them and take care of them, so they let them loose into the brush and the heath where they have thrived in the mild wet winters.

     I saw one report that a 16-foot python was found in a garden in Mullingar, the county seat of Westmeath. My Uncle Tom surely could have made a grand story out of that one, he would!