Living with Margaret, Louise and Eleanor

 

I met Margaret Atwood almost three decades ago. Her collection of short stories Dancing Girls was on the shelf of my anthropologist friend's used book store in Argeles-sur-mer, France. I was hooked on Atwood's writing.

After that, I read every Atwood book that was at the English library in Geneva, Switzerland. I disagreed with the under-enthused reviews of Handmaiden's Tale. It turned out I was right when the book became a television phenomena.

I can't remember which of Louise Penny's mysteries I read first, but I know as soon as I did, I secured every book she wrote (now 20) and read them in order. 

They were more than books. They were a visit to the Canadian village of Three Pines. I've made friends with Clara, Myrna, poet Ruth and her duck Rosa. I've eaten at the bistro. I watched the leaves change color and snow fall. I watched the growing romance between Jean-Guy and Annie and celebrated the birth of their children. I love their dogs and wonder will I ever know for sure if the third animal is a dog or ferret. 

My husband and I have copied the Icelandic tradition of Jolabokaflod, (Christmas Book Flood) where we give each other books on Christmas Eve, then go to bed and read them, often sharing bits of writing that we love. We've been know to nibble chocolate too.

 

His gift to me were two new Penny books and Atwood's A Memoir of Sorts which I had planned to buy in the New Year, something I hadn't mentioned to him.

Thus I've been submerged in the books, still found time to make a Christmas pancake breakfast and savor his Christmas ham dinner that he copied from his childhood. 

There was time on Christmas Eve prior to exchanging our books to visit with village friends of French, Irish, Greek, Danish and Irish nationalities over a Canadian (pot luck) dinner.

In the morning I found time to share Sherlock's pleasure in his new stuffed toy, a duck, and watch a Grinch movie before I snuck back to Three Pines and Atwood's observations.

The rain has been almost continuous and torrential. When it stops, the wind blows with a ferocity, that I suspect our dog could become a kite at the end of his leash. When we open the door and he sees the rain, he goes into reverse.

Now to Eleanor Roosevelt. I bought the three volume biography of her life on my Kindle written by Blanch Wiessen Cook. I was half way through volume two on Christmas Eve day. Eleanor is now resting on my night stand. I will release her when I finish my Christmas Eve books.

Don't worry, I do have many other books in the ready, but these days of submerging myself when the weather outside is frightful, is another gift.