French Braid by Anne Tyler: A review

In French Braid, Anne Tyler takes us to the familiar territory of Baltimore once again. She's also on familiar ground in exploring a family and its relations. In this instance, her focus is on female aging and its implications for womanhood and motherhood. It's a topic that is close to my heart.

It may seem that this is the story that Tyler has been writing over and over through the years. We've met these insular Baltimore families in the pages of her books throughout her career, but what could be tiresome in the hands of a less accomplished writer never fails to entertain as a theme in her novels. For one thing, even though all of her families have things in common (e.g., Baltimore), they are all different; the members have their unique personalities and their idiosyncratic, often quirky, reactions to situations. And for better or worse, members of the family are all bound together, not unlike the strands of a French braid.

In this case, the family is the Garretts and we get their story from the 1950s to the present day. They are a familiar and somewhat typical group. Robin and Mercy Garrett are middle-class and responsible people who have inherited the family plumbing supply store. When we meet them their three children consist of two teenage daughters and a seven-year-old son.

In 1959, the family takes their first and only vacation, a week at a rustic cabin on Deep Creek Lake. The children observe that their father "is not a born vacationer" and he doesn't really get into the spirit of the vacation. Mercy is an amateur painter and takes full advantage of the opportunity to practice her art. Their son David is not interested in learning to swim and prefers to spend his time playing with his GI figurines, while 15-year-old Lily, the younger daughter, becomes completely infatuated with a 21-year-old man who is vacationing nearby and who she fully expects is going to propose to her. The older daughter, Alice, a particularly sensitive observer, notes that everybody in her family is "separate" and "A passerby would never guess that the Garretts even knew each other. They looked so scattered, and so lonesome." In these descriptions, we can sense the trajectories of each of these characters' stories.

Each of the chapters in the book moves the family's story forward by about ten years. We see the children growing up, going to college, getting married, and having families. The bonds of Robin's and Mercy's marriage strain almost to the point of breaking but in the end they hold. It could be the story of almost any family.

And so it is with families that maintain their ties through the years. Even when you think you are somehow separate and different, the family impression on the strands of one's life remains. As David observes as an adult, "That's how families work. You think you are free of them, but you're never really free; the ripples are crimped in forever." Like the ripples in a French braid.

Is there anyone writing today who captures the essentials of the ordinary life any more vividly than Anne Tyler? Her characters are not in any way exceptional people. We can recognize ourselves in them. She writes of their daily lives and the choices they make. In almost every case, there are no big dramatic scenes to stick in our memories. Instead, there is just the chronicle of the everyday happenings in the lives of completely unremarkable people. That might sound boring but in Tyler's hands, it is entirely riveting.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

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