On the Ice

I do not travel well. It's not that I don't like to travel. There are lots of places in the world I'd like to see. I'm waiting for it to be possible to visit Australia during the day and be home in my own bed at night.

So my recent interest in Antarctica might seem a bit odd. I recently read a book called Where'd You Go, Bernadette?, the events of which are initiated by a 15-year-old's desire to take a family vacation to Antarctica. Who knew you could even take a vacation to Antarctica? But you can! And so, my current fascination with The Last Continent was born. This curiosity defies the expectations of those who know me best. "Cold" does not begin to describe the temperature, regardless of which part of the continent you refer, nor does "storm" accurately depict the whiteouts caused by hurricane strength winds that occur on a regular basis. Since I begin to worry about my hair's tendency to frizz during cold weather, Antarctica would not seem to be a good match if I'm to look my best. The people who stay there are either "beakers," scientists conducting research, or support staff, hard-working folks who work six days a week to keep everything running so scientific data can be gathered. Being interested in neither research nor hard work, again, Antarctica would not seem to be a natural fit for me. Because everything has to be flown in, from building materials to medicines, one finds very few comforts on the ice, including when one needs to visit the powder room. And, of course, food becomes a source of sustenance and calories in a harsh environment that requires all the energy one can get, more likely consisting of oatmeal rather than fresh apple pie. Way to take all the fun out of it.

Yet, I'm entranced by the idea of Antarctica. A place where there is little impact by human beings, where night and day each last six months, where nature exists in a beauty unlike anywhere else. The continent is about one and one-half times the size of the United States with 97-98% of it covered by ice. It is a desert, cold, dry, and windy. While its existence was suspected from ancient times, it wasn't until 1820 that a Russian Navy captain named Fabian von Bellinghausen actually laid eyes on an Antarctic island. This prompted people from nations around the world to swarm the coastal islands, but it wasn't until the early 1900's that "the Great Race" into the continent's interior began. British naval officer Robert Falcon Scott's expedition arrived at the South Pole, deep and high in Antarctica's interior on January 17, 1912, only to find the Norwegian flag already left a month earlier by an explorer named Roald Amundsen, who had used skis and dogsleds to cross the polar plateau (trust me when I tell you you don't want to know any more than that). Antarctica is now governed by an Antarctic Treaty System, currently signed by 50 countries, that sets aside the continent as a scientific preserve. Today, a number of countries have set up research stations; the United States has three: McMurdo, Palmer, and the Admundsen-Scott Station at the South Pole. Who wouldn't find such a mysterious, untouched place captivating?

I began reading more. As with all complex topics, I began with some children's books. Non-fiction written for children is an excellent way of learning just enough about a topic to abate one's curiosity. I highly recommend Wikipedia as another fountain of information on a variety of subjects but with the caveat that, well, stupid people sometimes write for it. I learned a bit more about the race between Scott and Amundsen to reach the South Pole (typical men, always trying to out-do one another). Seems that Scott and his men made it to the South Pole but didn't quite make it all the way back, the last three of them dying only 11 miles away from their base at McMurdo Sound. I also read some fiction taking place on Antarctica. While the first novel I tried, a young adult book that focused on a teen's relationship with one of the men from Scott's expedition (dead for 90 years, of course), turned out not to interest me. I gained the most from In Cold Pursuit by Sarah Andrews, a mystery that takes place at McMurdo Station. It was here that I truly began to understand why I will never be able to work on Antarctica. Lack of "freshies" (fresh food, particularly fruits and vegetables), not to mention sunshine for months at a time, would have me on the first plane out of there. Depending on where and when you are on the continent, it's not unusual for temperatures to remain significantly below 0 degrees Fahrenheit. Everything they do has to account for the safety of the people there, as a small problem anywhere else could become disastrous in a place with few resources, little communication, and at times, no access to the rest of the world. Ironically, it was when I read Ice Bound, written by a doctor who was "wintering-over" at the South Pole when she discovered she had breast cancer, that I saw why people would choose to do this. The South Pole, even more so than McMurdo or Palmer stations, is particularly remote and unreachable during the austral winter (not to mention dark and cold). Jerri Nielsen, the only doctor wintering-over with 40 other polies, had every reason to want to get the heck out of dodge. But her book is, in many ways, a love letter to Antarctica. She loved the changes it brought out in her, the beauty of the geography and the unique skies where you can see things like the auroroa australis, the kindness it brought out in the people around her, the way it forced her to depend on herself. What she describes is a place unlike any other. There are, of course, consequences, and Nielsen also reveals the conditions known to be brought on by the effects of the temperatures and high altitudes (including memory loss). But there was a camaraderie that one would never experience anywhere else, and I found myself sort of wishing I was a part of it. I also watched several movies, from a feature film to documentaries, about Antarctica, surrounding myself with all things Antarctic, if not the continent itself.

Which brings me back to vacationing in Antarctica. How do we make that happen? No need to actually stay there for long. Can't we just look at the pretty icebergs for a while? In fact, you can. Tourists visit through one of the 80 operators that are part of the International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators. Most travel by ship. But this is no cruise. These are special, ice-breaking kinds of ships, and they must go through some of the roughest waters in the world to reach even the more temperate islands and coastal regions (if you can call 50 degree highs temperate). And that's in the summer, November through March in the Southern hemisphere. There are special land tours and sightseeing by air as well (there are no paved runways on Antarctica, so make sure they don't let the new guy land). Again, that's only during the summer, as everything would freeze up if planes tried to go in and out during the winter. Most tourists keep accomodations on the boat, where operators take them on excursions to the land. There are no hotels, so you'll be back on the boat at night. They take preservation of the continent very seriously, so expect to clean off your boots before stepping onto land to avoid carrying seeds, dirt, or other contaminates with you. And you'll be taking all waste back with you. Just a heads up. But is it worth it? In 2006, more than 25,000 tourists visited Antarctica, so most likely, yeah, it's worth it.

What an incredible place! It occurs to me that there's no where else that has prompted such cooperation among the nations of the world, people from all over living in harmony with respect for each other and for the land. My delicate sensibilities will keep me from ever actually, you know, working there, but perhaps one day I can wave to those who do from the heated cabin of my airplane.

Wine and Cheese with Jill

I had the pleasure of meeting author Jill McCorkle in person a few days ago. Preparing to launch her new novel, Life After Life, her publisher, Algonquin, held an open house in her honor, and I was lucky enough to get an invitation. Okay, so I tagged along with the person who did actually get an invitation, but the result is the same, isn't it? Happily, the Algonquin offices are only three miles from my house, as the further from my house an event, the less likely I am to get out of my pajamas. Plus, there was food involved, also serious incentive to get me out of my pajamas. Trust me, there isn't much out there that makes getting dressed worthwhile.

I was not the only person piggybacking on the invitation. One of our senior librarians received it, and she graciously invited me and a couple of other coworkers to join her. We were all excited--imagine a teenager getting to go backstage at a concert, and you're in the ballpark. Meeting a real-life author is an occasional but not common occurence, so this was definite cause for celebration. Which is why my first stop was to the drink table for a glass of wine. As is often necessary at these events, I was handed a name tag to fill out and stick on my already pilly dress. I pondered what I should write. Tracy, librarian extraordinaire? Tracy, high on fresh ink? Tracy, Adult Materials Selector at the busiest public library system in the state? Tracy, cat mom? I finally settled on just Tracy. I handed the pen back to a cheery looking woman directing people to the elevator. She awkwardly took it, shifting on the crutches on which she balanced. "You tried to take the stairs instead of the elevator, didn't you?" I observed.

Arriving at the third floor, we were greeted by another Algonquin employee, very sweetly making sure we were all adequately wined and dined and offering to take us a on a tour of the offices. The Algonquin suite of offices is lovely and overlooks a wooded, residential area through large, bright windows that seem to be everywhere. The creative side of the house, where the artists do their brilliant thing, is full of beautiful book covers and other amazing artwork. Having no artistic abilities myself, I'm astounded by the beauty that these people can produce, not to mention their gift for making me want to read the books that inspired it all. We then moved over to the offices that house the editors and marketing staff. One room's walls were filled with books, a copy of every book Algonquin has ever published, in chronological order. In the center of this room is a short, round table at which interns and assistants sit and quietly make their way through stacks of manuscripts. Somehow I had always imagined this work taking place on a couch, in front of a fireplace, but this works, too. I found myself wondering how I could be a part of this world only to remember that I can't get through the pile of books already on my dresser without anyone adding more to them. After the tour, we made our way back to the central party area and prepared to mingle. I ran into a few people I know from other libraries and immediately wished I had lost 10 pounds that afternoon. Or at least put on more makeup. Before I could give this too much thought, it happened. Our tour guide pushed us forward, and suddenly, I was standing in front of Jill McCorkle, library star. Oh, and author.

We are proud to call Jill McCorkle a local author. Having grown up in Lumberton, NC she studied writing at UNC with greats like Lee Smith and Louis Rubin. She slipped away "up north" for a while, but we're happy to report that she's back home in North Carolina, living in Hillsborough with her husband and teaching at NC State. While much of her writing has been in short story format, her latest work is her sixth novel the first in seventeen years. Life After Life centers on on a retirement community in fictional Fulton NC, full of the quirky characters for which Jill is known. Lovers of southern fiction--well, any kind of good fiction, really--anxiously await its release.

And now she's smiling at me. Waiting for me and my colleagues to say something. Anything. While I tried to figure out what that would be, we were rescued by one of my colleagues, who expertly stepped forward and introduced herself, recounting a story in which she had met Jill at a reading years earlier. The conversation began to flow. Jill told us about some of her work while she was up in Boston. We asked her what she was reading, and like anyone involved with the academic world, she laughed and responded that she has to fight for time to read things not involved in her teaching work. But she has several titles she's hoping to get to, like an upcoming Daniel Wallace, and I could tell that she loves being on the reader's side of the book as much as the writing side. Jill's family is clearly important to her, and you could truly feel how much she loves her mother. The exchange even touched on eBooks, and we all agreed that there's nothing like holding a print book in your hand to really appreciate a writer's work. Jill has such a lovely, unique voice, that I had to ask if there would be an audio version of the new book and there was a possibility she might narrate it herself. The American south is as much a character in Jill's writing as any human, probably because it seems to very much be a part of who Jill herself is, and we shared an appreciation for North Carolina's wide-range of offerings, from mountains to beaches, large cities to country towns. Jill has a wonderful smile and a charming personality, and I would have loved to keep her attention all night listening to her stories. But another group of book-lovers was waiting its turn, and a table of fabulous looking appetizers was calling to me, so we said our good-nights.

I was about to follow a caterer with a fresh tray of goodies when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Surprised, I turned around to find one of my closest friends, also a collection development librarian. Each of us accused the other of having kept the evening's plans a secret, but both of us were feeling quite special to have been invited. We talked shop with some of my colleagues, and when no one was looking, I grabbed an extra copy of a galley of Life after Life. I was certain I would want to share it with a yet-unnamed someone and wasn't about to hand over the copy I was going to be reading.

Still not having made it to the hors d'ourves table, I turned my attention to the Algonquin staff members who quieted the group to allow Jill to read. As delightful has she'd been earlier, Jill talked for a few minutes about her fondness for Algonquin and all their staff had done for her. She described a bit of her process for writing this book, which began seventeen years earlier and included scraps of paper with notes that came to her in the most unexpected of places. The day she was driving her 14-year old son somewhere in heavy traffic and heard him ask her how many of the people in the cars around them were probably murderers, she paused, thought, and pulled out a piece of paper to start writing. Too many, she eventually responded. As it had earlier, her love for her mother clearly shined and even comes through in her new book. One of the characters possesses a trait of her mother's in which she cuts up pictures to rearrange people's lives to be what SHE thinks they should be. This person really should be in that person's life, so let's just cut them out of this picture and paste it on this one. As Jill noted, she was the original Photoshopper. Jill then went on to read from the new novel, and I knew I was right to think she absolutely must narrate the audio for this novel. The words truly poured out with a lilt only a true southerner could give them and with the added quality that only the author can give it.

Finally. The hors d'ourves table. Juicy looking barbecue sandwiches, crispy cream-cheese pastries, elegant cheese and crackers (and I've never met a cheese I didn't like), and decadent looking finger deserts. I indulged for a few minutes. I was a little awestruck but the fabulousness with which I was surrounded. I was on a first-name basis with a nationally known author, if only for a few minutes. I was in the offices of the people who have brought us not only Jill but Hilary Jordan, Lee Smith, Michael Parker, Sara Gruen, and Robert Morgan, among so many others. I was surrounded by people who loved books. Since I work with librarians, that last one is not exactly unique, but talking with writers and editors is an entirely different experiences than talking with librarians. I was thrilled to find myself among such literary genius.

But all good things come to an end, and it was time to start making our way to the door. We said some thank-yous and got in the elevator. The good news is that I now get to start reading my galley of Life After Life, and I feel certain I'll have lots to say about it to co-workers and library members.

My Life Next Door by Huntley Fitzpatrick

For years, Samantha has watched the large family next door with a sense of fascination. All those kids! But they seem to be having a lot of fun, always into something--the exact opposite of her own family. Her mother, a state senator, doesn't look fondly upon the 10 Garretts next door (ironic, since she ran on a platform of "family first.") She thinks Samantha and her sister should associate with the right people in the right places, and the Garretts just aren't right.

But this summer, 17 year-old Samantha gets drawn into the Garretts family life, and she finds that she kind of likes it. Every member of the family is a character, and I especially loved little George and Patsy. It's Jase, however, to whom Samantha becomes drawn. And we love Jase. Confident, smart, and, of course, adorable, Jase falls for Samantha as well. Soon, Samantha is spending all her time with Jase and his family. Until a horrible accident changes everything.

There were so many things to love about this book. The relationship between Samantha and Jase is perhaps the first and most obvious, but certainly not the only one. Their transition from next door neighbors (who don't even know each other) to boyfriend/girlfriend is an appropriately complex journey. I could feel the tension building as I moved through the narrative, wanting things to move faster, but savoring the slow build. Jase's family may not be perfect, but it's not totally dysfunctional either, and I found myself wanting to escape next door with Samantha. The youngest Garretts are bright and funny, and it seems perfectly normal that they're as busy, not to mention smart, as everyone else.

To my great surprise, my favorite character may have been Tim, the brother of Samantha's best friend. Having known Tim since she was little, it was painful for Samantha to watch his descent into addiction. Yet Tim is sharp, even clever, and it turns out that he's the one who's there for Samantha when she needs someone. We watch Tim struggle to get his life together, wanting to hug and slap him at the same time, and I couldn't help but love his directness. In many ways, I rooted for Tim more than anyone.

It's Samantha's relationship with her mother, Grace, that requires the most contemplation. Grace has very definite ideas of what is right for her daughters. They're ramped up considerably when Grace decides to run for re-election and is influenced by a new, assertive, and equally charming campaign manager. Suddenly, nothing Samantha does is right. Grace seems to love her daughters, but she loves her career more. She doesn't know Samantha very well, and she doesn't particularly care to. Throughout the novel, I watched for signs that Grace would put her family first, wanting her character to develop over the course of the book and become a different person by the end.

I want to be part of the family next door!

Shades of Gray

It's finally happened. I've found a gray hair. At least, I think I have. It's a little hard to tell, since my hair color is compliments of Miss Clairol. But, all good things eventually fade, including hair dye, allowing me a glimpse of something I hoped to never see.

The day started out like any other, one in which I hurriedly pulled a brush through my hair as I prepared to leave (late) for work. Something caught my eye, twinkled a bit in the mirror, and I leaned in closer to investigate. Was something reflecting off my head? Did I get glitter in my hair? No, haven't used that since kindergarten, so that's not it. Did I get water on my head when I was brushing my teeth? No, that would make my hair wet, not shiny. Could those vitamins I've been taking finally be making a difference? Um, probably not only to a single strand on the top.

I continued to ponder what was wrong with my head. The hair shone brightly under the fluorescent lights of my bathroom. It was more obvious near my scalp and seemed to be a little more normal toward the end. Maybe I could pull it out. I might not be able to figure out what it is, but I could sure make it go away. I dug for my tweezers and set about trying to isolate the single offending hair. As it turns out, this as not a simple a task as it might sound. After several tries and coming dangerously close to a bald spot, I decided that my scalp is just too delicate for this kind of surgery. Or I am.

I returned to studying it, changing positions, using a magnifying mirror, shining a flashlight on it. Only after puzzling over this difference in a single hair for a good ten minutes did it occur to me. Could this really be my first gray hair? But that can't be right. I've always had great hair, not gray hair. Aren't the two mutually exclusive? I'm only 41. I'm too young for gray hair. I don't feel like I should have gray hair. Yet I could come up with no other explanation for such renegade tresses. It was time to ask an expert.

As it happened, my next hair appointment came up quickly, so last week, I announced to my hairdresser that I thought I'd found a gray hair. She had already started to cover my hair in dye, so there was no chance for show and tell. Instead, we played twenty questions. Well, since I have an awesome hairdresser, it only took one question. "Was it shiny, especially at the root?" she asked. How did she know? "Oh, yeah, that's a gray hair, alright." She nodded. "It's only one hair," she insisted when she saw my face. "You're not exactly going fifty shades of gray, yet." That, however, is not the point. Don't the hair gods know that they're not supposed to come after me for at least another ten to twenty years? 

I returned home and tried again to locate the offending hair, but now that I was freshly coiffed, it was impossible to find. Nasty hair. Thankfully, modern technology and a talented hairdresser mean it will never see the light of day.