Joy School by Elizabeth Berg ~ my review

Joy School by Elizabeth Berg

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Honest. Clever. Guileless. Did I mention honest? Joy School's heroine is as winsome as they come. Elizabeth Berg's twelve-year-old Katie is a child so sincerely trying to grow up, get by, do the right thing, be liked, love and be loved, I cannot help but be in her corner. Katie is smart, observant, sensitive, and funny. From her hilarious descriptions of her high school teachers to her desire to know how to kiss when the time comes, this novel entertains. And helps me laugh at what I probably felt at twelve but never articulated nearly as well as Katie does. Joy School also tugs at heartstrings. Katie is lonely and learns who she wants to be through ups and downs of friendships and her first big crush. Elizabeth Berg masterfully crafts all the characters. I enjoyed Joy School more than a decade ago and thoroughly enjoyed it again this time.



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The Story of Arthur Truluv, by Elizabeth Berg ~ my review

Such a sweet story ~ Arthur Moses, Maddy Harris, and Lucille Howard finding each other, taking care of each other. We all should be so blessed. Author Elizabeth Berg’s novel, The Story of Arthur Truluv, is based in the unpleasant facts that life can be cruel, some people find cruelty entertaining, and loss and longing are profoundly painful. Berg then transforms these lonely sorrows into hope.

Eighty-five-year-old Arthur Moses’ beloved wife Nola dies six months before this novel opens at her grave, with Arthur having his daily lunch with her. Maddy Harris, still painfully alone in the world after her mother’s death and father’s distance, hangs out at the cemetery to avoid her high school classmates’ contempt. Arthur and Maddy strike up a conversation. Meanwhile, Arthur’s next-door neighbor, Lucille, is distraught and depressed at losing her recently reappeared high school beau. Despite their differences, these three people extend simple kindnesses to each other. Friendships are born. Lifesaving friendships. Life-enriching friendships. Second-chance-giving friendships.

I enjoyed reading this uplifting novel. Plus, I always enjoy Elizabeth Berg’s presentation of everyday life. A bonus in The Story of Arthur Truluv happens in the symbolic cemetery. A favorite pastime of Arthur is imagining lives of buried persons from minimal facts on headstones. What he comes up with is classic Berg. For example: “When she read, she liked to be barefoot and she liked to lace her fingers through her toes.” [p. 48] Another excerpt: “Even in old age, he and his wife would load up the car with blankets and lawn chairs and go out to reserve a place in the park while the sky was still a smoky red and the birds had not yet begun to sing.” [p. 49] I very much admire Elizabeth Berg’s creative combination of her powers of observation and imagination.

My review of Elizabeth Berg's Tapestry of Fortunes

Who doesn’t wonder “What if?” about former flames, roads not taken, wrongs not righted? Whose heart doesn’t flutter or freeze at the prospect of changing old decisions? In Elizabeth Berg’s Tapestry of Fortunes, Cece, Joni, Renie, and Lise—four women asking these questions, grappling with these fears—take a figurative and literal road trip to new possibilities.

In this regard, Berg’s signature style shines. She expertly expresses real women’s hearts. As a reader, I want to be on this road trip with the characters. I myself would like to knock on the door of some dreams. I, too, would like to change some unknowns to knowns. I imagine many readers of a certain age might feel the same. In addition to being a gentle nudge in the discovery direction, this novel is just plain fun to read.

Although my actual life situations do not match Cece’s, Joni’s, Renie’s, and Lise’s, I can identify with their longings and fears, their disappointments and joys. This is a credit to Berg’s insightful portrayal of real women. I find other aspects of the story incongruent, however. The Tapestry of Fortunes title comes partly from the characters’ basing life-changing decisions on a fortune teller, tarot cards, I Ching, tea leaves, and other powerless practices. Really? All four of these bright women do this? Their human hunger for the supernatural leads them to seek life guidance from dead things? And then they take big risks based on this advice? [Such life-strategy methods remind me of ancient Greeks who sought answers from an oracle who answered their questions by reading cobwebs.] This makes about as much sense to me as hoping for something beyond my own grasp and relying on crossing my fingers to get it instead of praying to a loving, living God who actually has the power to fulfill my hope.

Another incongruity was what I perceived to be Southern drawls of people the women met on their journey. Since all four of the women’s destinations were in Northern states, these accents and down-home expressions, though entertaining, didn’t make sense to me. Yet another incongruity, or at least it seemed so to me, was that a male character, a professional photographer apparently famous enough to be requested for international gigs, was declared “not … Googleable” by Cece. She had to track him down through non-Google methods. Okay, I’ll play along, but that scenario is not likely.

That said, I did enjoy this novel. The tapestry Berg weaves has more than lame fortune-telling threads in it. The characters’ fortunes, in the sense of chances and outcomes, are colorful, varied, and interesting. Cece has just lost her best friend to cancer and we see her grieving honestly, adjusting, moving on, adjusting some more. Clearly, this precious friend will forever be an important part of Cece’s life. Cece is changed for having known her—and having grieved for her. Another growing-forward thread involves Cece’s recently widowed mother; yet another involves a young, dying man and the woman he loves. Another thread is how downsizing one’s life can expand one’s horizons and certainly lighten one’s load. The friends’ candid, caring banter is a refreshing thread. Berg weaves her tapestry loosely, with a light touch. (Wait till you get to the bowling alley scene!) She ties up threads satisfactorily.

Besides sheer enjoyment, I think what I appreciate most about Tapestry of Fortunes is that each attempt at a no-regrets life bypasses trite positive mental attitude and musters true courage.   

The Waiting Room

When body language experts deem people with crossed arms unwilling to open up, they may not be thinking of the mammography waiting room. In this eight-chair, eight-locker, women’s world, we may be unwilling to uncross our arms, but we strangers seem to be quite willing to open up our emotions to each other. A certain sisterhood forms as we slouch, firmly crossing arms across criss-cross-tied gowns in obligatory mauve—the universal hospital color scheme for women—waiting for our names to be perkily called by a radiology tech.

The newest woman timidly exits a dressing room, clutches her blouse and bra to her chest, and searches for an open locker.

“All these locker lights are blinking,” she says, bewildered.
“The lights on those lockers over there are dark,” I say, pointing to a locker on the other side of the table strewn with homemaking magazines; and another woman nods and turns back to our side of the room.
“What are you here for?” she asks the grimmest-faced woman with the tightest-crossed arms.
“I’m waiting for a biopsy,” she replies. She relaxes her pseudo-bra arms a teensy bit and tries to smile.
“Needle?”
“I think so. I, uh, hope so.”
“Oh, I’ve had one of those; it’s not so bad.”
“It should be all right,” biopsy lady murmurs, not very convincingly.

I’m not feeling all that brave myself. Having just been through a mammography a few weeks ago, I am back for another looky-loo at what they call a “thickening.” Probably just the clavical bruise inflicted by one of the machine’s appropriately named “paddles” two weeks ago, I pep-talk myself. On the other hand, I do have a family history of breast cancer … but, I don’t want to go there, to that sudden life-change place. That place where one recent late-August Saturday all the picnickers’ faces were red and flushed from the heat, and the next day they wore sweaters to church. I don’t want my mouth-watering musings to go immediately from homegrown tomatoes to pea soup. That’s what autumn is for, to meander from iced tea to hot cocoa. But if a perky radiology tech is going to flip my life’s switch to the next season, then I guess I’ll have to do more than pretend I’m prepared to fight for my life.

I pick up a magazine with recipes for summer fruit cobblers. The article promises to tell me how a crumble, crisp, cobbler, betty, grunt, and buckle differ—something I’ve always been curious about. Really. Flipping through other recipes, I vow to also make a spinach quiche and stuffed peppers soon. Oh, and here’s another recipe for something I’ve been curious about—red beans and rice. One ingredient, a half-pound of light kielbasa cut into half-moons, strikes me as funny. Or, reminding me of Elizabeth Berg’s description of “living a half-a-banana life,” it could be ominously prophetic of a frightening future. Turning back from that precipice, I wander back to the summerier recipes.

The biopsy lady’s name is called. As she stands up, her feet head toward the perky tech, while her face turns back toward me. She doesn’t want to go, but she has to. Her eyes widen, fill with tears. I wish I’d told her I’d pray for her before she left, but boy I sure pray for her after she’s gone down the hall.

My turn. After fake-smiling through all the way-more-than-this-will-just-be-a-little-uncomfortable smashing, I follow the tech into a consultation room. When she shuts us into this room with heavy, dark wooden desks and big green leather chairs (and no magazines), I am barely breathing. This is a room designed for life-and-death talking. I expect the tech to flip the switch that will catapult me into pea soup. I wish I’d brought a note pad and a friend.

“Everything’s OK!” she crows. “The thickening was just tissue.”
Yeah, probably the clavical bruise, I want to say but bite my tongue.

My blinking locker beeps open. I can go home! As I dress, I am aware of stress draining from each limb. As I spring past the reception counter, I notice its lame little jar of orange, yellow, and green suckers. That really should be a two-gallon jug of dark chocolate Dove promises, you know is what I want to say to the receptionist, but instead I skip right out to the café in the hospital lobby to order a celebratory mocha before I go home. Home! WhooHoo! In the parking lot, I pass a chorus line of different-colored support ribbons dancing across the back of an SUV. I pray they’ll be dancing for biopsy lady when she goes home too.