WHAT THE OLD LADY READS

                                    WHAT THE OLD LADY READS

                                             Elinore Standard

            I rolled my eyes every time I saw my mother reading yet another Georgette Heyer Regency romance. She escaped into stories with happy endings. The rich and titled bachelor always chooses the plain (but highborn) governess. The ladies wear bonnets and never go anywhere alone. They faint and have hysterics. There is always a servant to brush their hair and serve their meals. The outside world never penetrates the drawing room. No wonder my mother devoured this stuff.

            Now I am as old, maybe older, than my mother was when she read a book a day. I find myself doing somewhat the same but so far I’ve gone for  more highbrow choices although, (true confession here) give me another five years and I’ll probably be ready for Heyer and Barbara Cartland.

            I read thrillers and noir detective novels by writers including Ken Bruen

 Ian Frazier and Denise Mina with their depressive protagonists who smoke and drink and wreck relationships. I read a lot of Nordic gloom by Henning Mankell and Karen Fosum.

I escape just the way my mother did but I do it by entering the lives of

others via the memoir. I am drawn to the story of the unprotected child in “The End of the World As We Know It” by Robert Goolrick, "Don't Let's Go To the Dogs Tonight," by Alexandra Fuller, "Without a Map," by Meredith Hall and "Falling Through the Earth" by Danielle Trussoni.

            I love Before and After, the story of the life makeover.  I like to read about the life of somebody as old as I am and to savor their recollections of pre-WWII childhoods and life in the ‘50s and 60s when acquiring stuff had not yet won out over having good friends and a good time. Check Diana Athill’s “Somewhere Towards the End," written when she was almost 90.

           Mostly. I read memoirs to find out how I’m doing, to weigh my own progress through life against the experiences of others. However bad things may seem, there is always somebody who has had it worse and how comforting is that? 

            There are three recent novels about older people that I want to mention here before I forget. “Olive Kitteridge” by Elizabeth Strout took me aback in the way that novels don’t usually do. Set in coastal Maine and spanning lifetimes of  small town characters, regular folks such as the pharmacist, the insurance guy, the lobsterman and the math teacher (that’s Olive), this collection of related short stories provides catharsis usually reserved for tragedy. Strout's people struggle with loss and love, with thoughts of suicide and despair, with hoarded anger and lifelong resentment. Their kids do dope and drop out or they leave home and go crazy. Disappointment is part of everyday life. Secrets are revealed, confidences broken. Everyday interaction produces little emotional murders and the death of the heart.

            Death looms as the characters age and there are lessons for all of us about generosity and loyalty and loving kindness. I got emotionally involved with "Olive Kitteridge" and whether or not the lessons sink in enough for me to make adjustments in my own life remains to be seen.

            Two companion novels by Jane Gardam, written in her own old age, tell the story of a husband and a wife, British subjects who grew up in Asia at the end of the Raj. “Old Filth” is Sir Edward Feathers’s story, told from his point of view. “FILTH” stands for “Failed In London Try Hong Kong,” where he does try and ultimately becomes rich in the practice of law. He emerges from an outrageously unprotected childhood, works hard and carves out a niche for himself as a distinguished judge.  He marries Betty Macintosh and together they live sedate, passionless lives.

            “The Man in the Wooden Hat” is Betty’s story and it fills in and amplifies

events in her husband’s life. Just as we think we know everything about someone, we find we haven’t a clue. At every turn, this book surprises and shocks. I would be hard pressed to say which of the two I think is more compelling but they both have thrown me off balance and there are enough resonances in my own life to make each story unsettling.

            So here are three novels that are certainly not what I would describe as

cozy reads. Although not lacking in humor and irony, they are close to the bone and unsparing of the reader’s emotions. You see yourself too often in many of the characters and this is not always so good. They make you reflect on your own choices and your missed chances. They make you wish you hadn’t said what you said. Once there seemed to be all the time in the world to mend fences and to shape up. Although we are told it is never too late to change, there does come a time when that possibility dims and all those new leaves for turning over have shriveled up.

            These novels by older women have appeared at a time in my life when I am most open to messages about enduring love and hope. I’m not so sure I would have been at all this receptive back in 1955.