A Life of Bright Ideas Page 37

  RHRC: Do you think the unforgettable duo of Evy (Button) and Winnalee will ever appear in any of your future novels?

  SK: Yes, I’d say it’s very likely I’ll revisit these characters again. Not in my next book, but perhaps the one after that.

  RHRC: How long did it take you to write this book?

  SK: Believe it or not, I have no clue! Time both stands still and whooshes along when I’m writing. Couple that with the fact that I have practically no sense of time to begin with, and I’m completely stumped. All I can say for certain is that I loved every moment I was writing it.

  RHRC: What is your writing process like?

  SK: I go straight to my computer first thing in the morning. When I’m at the awkward beginning stages of a novel, I’m not as quick to rise, and I have to push myself to stick with writing for even five or six hours. But in no time, the characters start breathing on their own, and the story begins sailing along. Once I’ve reached this point, I eagerly wake before sunrise, and I could easily write for ten to twelve hours a day, if I didn’t discipline myself otherwise. While I love long writing days, my wrists and back do not.

  RHRC: You tend to write about tightly-knit families in small towns. Did you grow up in a small town? How have your experiences shaped your writing?

  SK: I spent the majority of my life living in a township of 399 people and often joke that I started writing fiction because I knew that if I didn’t create people, I’d never meet another new person in my life! I was in my early forties before I even visited a large city, and the first few visits gave me sensory overload. Eventually, though, I came to love the energy of large cities, and I now visit them every chance I get. I’d live in one, but I fear that with my love of meeting new people and experiencing new places, I’d never get any writing done. I write what I know, so I write what I know best: about complex families living in simple places.

  RHRC: How much interaction do you have with book clubs, and how have your experiences with them been? Are you part of one yourself?

  SK: If there is one aspect of being a writer that I don’t enjoy, it’s spending vast amounts of time in isolation. I am a people person and lose energy if I don’t have a certain amount of interaction with others. Visiting book clubs (in person, and via Skype) is a wonderful way for me to connect with the public, and to meet my readers. And, yes, I have been a member of a book club for years. You can read about our crazy crew on my website: http://www.sandrakring.com.

  RHRC: What are some of your own favorite books?

  SK: Unfortunately, I’m one of those writers who cannot read and write at the same time (it’s like listening to two radios at once, each tuned to different stations) and I always seem to be writing. So while once I read four to six books a week, I’m now lucky if I get to read that many in a year. Some of my all-time favorites include Of Mice and Men, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Education of Little Tree. I did manage to sneak in The Help (and loved it!) in the week I took off after finishing A Life of Bright Ideas. The books on my ever-growing stack of to-be-read list are waiting patiently.

  RHRC: We’d love to know what you’re working on next. Can you share any details of your next book?

  SK: I hesitate to say too much about a plot that’s still unfolding, but I can tell you a little about the characters. There’s Sada Flitchart, who, at ninety-four, wants only to let go of this life and join her beloved husband in the next—though she has unfinished business to tend to first. And there’s Sada’s wig-wearing friend, Loretta Brewster, who is hiding more than her balding head. The story is told through a series of flashbacks that spans their lifelong friendship, and is supported by the presence of Carly Butters, the fanciful seven-year-old girl who visits them at Peaceful Heart Rest Home. As their story unfolds, both women just may learn that there’s truth to what their young friend says: that if you get to the end of the story and the ending is sad or scary, it only means that the story isn’t over yet.

  Questions for Discussion

  1. This novel has many strong themes: family, friendship, love, loss, and healing, among others. Which one resonated with you the most?

  2. Evy and Winnalee are best friends, but have such different personalities. What are the dynamics of their relationship, and how does their friendship work so well? In your own experience, are you more drawn to people who are similar to or different from you?

  3. What has changed about the two girls’ outlooks on life since they wrote their “book of bright ideas”? What has stayed the same?

  4. How does the book deal with the theme of loss and how we can be healed? What roles do family and community play in healing?

  5. How were both Evy and Winnalee affected during their adolescence and early adulthood by the heady times of the sixties? For you, what was most evocative of the sixties in the book, and how have things changed?

  6. Winnalee tells Evy to “say it, don’t scratch it.” What facilitates Evy’s journey from self-harm and bottling up her emotions to expressing herself with others?

  7. Like her mother, Freeda, Winnalee struggles with adult responsibilities. How does she ultimately come to terms with them?

  8. What does this novel have to say about passing down problems from generation to generation? Is it possible to break the cycle?

  9. Evy cherishes a picture of a tree that perches improbably on a rock, far from the nurturing soil of the bluffs. She realizes that there are many small roots that reach back to the bluff, anchoring the tree to the soil. What is the significance of this?

  10. What is it that makes Dauber, Wisconsin, so special? Would you like to live in a town like this? Why or why not?

  Read on for an excerpt

  from Sandra Kring’s

  The Book of Bright Ideas

  CHAPTER

  1

  I should have known that summer of 1961 was gonna be the biggest summer of our lives. I should have known it the minute I saw Freeda Malone step out of that pickup, her hair lit up in the sun like hot flames. I should have known it, because Uncle Rudy told me what happens when a wildfire comes along.

  We were standing in his yard, Uncle Rudy and I, at the foot of a red pine that seemed to stretch to heaven, when a squirrel began knocking pinecones to the ground with soft thuds. Uncle Rudy bent over with a grunt and picked one of the green cones up, rolling it a bit in his callused palm before handing it to me. It was cool in my hands. Sap dripped down the side like tears.

  “Here’s somethin’ I bet you don’t know, Button,” he said, using the nickname he himself gave me. “That cone there, it ain’t like the cones of most other trees. Most cones, all they need is time, or a squirrel to crack ’em open so they can drop their seeds and start a new tree. But that cone there, it ain’t gonna open up and drop its seeds unless a wildfire comes through here.”

  “A wildfire?”

  “That’s right,” Uncle Rudy said, scraping the scalp under his cap with his dirty fingernail. “See them little scales there, how they’re closed up tight like window shutters? Underneath ’em are the seeds—flat little things, flimsy as a baby’s fingernails—with a point at one end. If a fire comes along, the heat is gonna cause those scales to peel back and drop their seeds, while the ground is still scorching hot. Then that tiny seed is gonna burrow in and take root.”

  I was nine years old the summer Freeda and Winnalee Malone rushed across our lives like red-hot flames, peeling back the shutters that sat over our hearts and our minds, setting free our sweetest dreams and our worst nightmares. Too young to know at the onset that anything out of the ordinary was about to happen.

  I was sitting on my knees behind the counter at The Corner Store playing with my new Barbie doll, her tiny outfits lined up on the scuffed linoleum. It was the first day of summer vacation, and Aunt Verdella was watching me because my ma was working for Dr. Wagner, the dentist, taking appointments and sending out bills and stuff like that. Aunt Verdella didn’t work, like my ma, but she’d been filling in at
the store for Ada Smithy (who was having a recuperation from an operation, because she’d had some ladies’ troubles). It was Aunt Verdella’s last day, then Ada was coming back, and we could stay at Aunt Verdella’s while she looked after me.

  Aunt Verdella was standing next to me, the hem of her dress like a blue umbrella above me. She was talking to Fanny Tilman about Ada, and Aunt Verdella’s voice sounded almost like it was crying when she said, “Such a pity, such a pity,” and Fanny Tilman asked her what the pity was for, anyway. “Ada’s well past her prime, so seems to me that not getting the curse from here on out should be more of a blessing than a pity,” she said, and Aunt Verdella said, “But still …”

  While they talked, I was trying to get Barbie’s tweed jacket on, which wasn’t easy because her elbows didn’t bend, and that tiny hand of hers kept snagging on the sleeve. While I was tugging, I was itching. I was looking at the little clothes spread out and trying hard to remember if she was supposed to wear the red jacket with the brown skirt or the green skirt. I cleared my throat a few times, like I always did when I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next, and Aunt Verdella looked down at me. “Button, you’re doin’ that thing with your throat again. What’s the matter, honey?” Aunt Verdella’s voice was loud, so loud that sometimes it pained my ears when she wasn’t even yelling, and her body always reminded me of a snowman made with two balls instead of three. The littlest ball was her head, sitting right on top of one big, fat ball.

  I stood up. My knees felt gritty and I glanced down at them, hoping they weren’t getting too dirty, because I knew Ma’s lips were gonna pull so tight they’d turn white, like they always did when Aunt Verdella brought me home looking all grubby. “I can’t get her jacket on,” I said.

  I handed Aunt Verdella my Barbie, the tweed jacket flapping at her back. Aunt Verdella laughed as she took it. Fanny Tilman peered at me, her puffy eyes puckering. “Is that Reece and Jewel’s little one?” she said, like Aunt Verdella could hear her but I couldn’t. I put my head down and stared at a gouge in the gray countertop.

  “Yep, this is our Button,” Aunt Verdella said. She wrapped her freckly arm—stick-skinny like her legs—around me and pulled me to her biggest ball. It was soft and warm, not snowman-cold at all.

  “She looks like Jewel,” Mrs. Tilman said, and she sounded a bit sorry about this. I saw her looking at my ears, which were too big for my head, and the face she made made me feel smaller than I already was. Aunt Verdella thought that long hair would hide my ears until I grew into them, but Ma said long hair was too much work to keep neat and she already had enough to do. Every couple of months, she’d snip it short, thin it with those scissors that have missing teeth, then curl it with a Tony perm. When she was done, my hair was bunched up in ten or eleven little pale brown knots. I wanted hair long enough to hang loose past my shoulders and cover my ears when I was around people, and to put up in a ponytail that swished my back when I wasn’t. But shoot, I knew I’d never have anything but those stubby knots.

  Aunt Verdella finished dressing Barbie, then handed her to me. I stood there a minute, wanting to ask her which skirt matched, but I didn’t want to talk with Fanny Tilman still looking at me, so I sat back down on the linoleum and stared at the two skirts some more.

  Aunt Verdella had the door propped open with a big rock, because it was nice outside and the store was too hot with the sun beating through the windows. I was staring at the doll clothes when the sound of metal scraping on pavement filled the store.

  “Uh-oh, somebody’s losing their muffler,” Aunt Verdella said. The racket from the scraping muffler got louder and sharper before it came to a stop. Aunt Verdella got up on her tiptoes, the tops of her white shoes making folds like Uncle Rudy’s forehead did when she brought home a whole trunk-load of junk from the community sale.

  “Good Lord, look what the cat’s drug into town now,” Fanny Tilman said. “Just what we need, a band of gypsies.”

  “Oh, Fanny!” Aunt Verdella said.

  I heard a door creak open, then slam shut. A lady’s voice started talking, but I couldn’t make out what it was saying. I heard some banging and then, “Jesus H. Christ! Is anybody gonna come pump my gas or not?” Folks who got gas at The Corner Store pumped their own gas, except for a couple of old ladies and the outsiders. Aunt Verdella called out, “I’ll be right there, dear!”

  “Excuse me, Button,” she said as she stepped over me and hurried around the counter. I put my fingertips on the counter and pulled myself up to take a peek. Mrs. Tilman was standing in the open doorway, her purse clutched in her arms like she thought the “gypsies” were going to try swiping it. She was busy gawking, so I stood all the way up and peeked out between the handmade signs Scotch-taped to the window.

  The bed of the red pickup truck at the pumps, and the wagon towed behind it, were piled high with junky furniture I knew didn’t match and boxes stuffed with bunched-up clothes and dishes that spilled out over the tops.

  My eyes almost bugged out of my head when I saw the lady who was standing next to the truck while Aunt Verdella pumped her gas. She had the prettiest color hair I’d ever seen. Red, but like a red I’d never set eyes on before: shiny like a pot of melted copper pennies. Not dark, not light, but somewhere in between, and bright like fire. She stretched like a cat, the sleeveless blouse tied at her waist riding up a belly that was flat and the color of buttered toast. She was made like my Barbie doll, with two big bumps under her blouse, a skinny waist, and long legs under kelly-green pedal pushers. She was wearing a pair of sunglasses with a row of rhinestones at the corners that shot rays into my eyes when she turned toward the store. There was something about the lady too, that shined just as bright as her hair and those rhinestones. Not a warm kind of shining, but a sharp kind, like bright sun jabbing through the window and stinging your eyes.

  Aunt Verdella cranked her head toward the store and yelled, “Button, bring Auntie the restroom key, will ya?”

  I stepped up on the wooden stool and reached for the key, which was taped to a ruler so it couldn’t get lost easy, and I hurried it outside. As much as I hated meeting new people, I wanted to see the pretty lady up close.

  The Barbie lady took off her sunglasses and poked them into her fiery hair, which was piled high on her head in a messy sort of way. She had green eyes like a cat’s, and her eyelids were sparkly with the same color, clear up to her eyebrows. She had real nice ears too. Tiny, and laying flat to her head like ears are supposed to. I handed Aunt Verdella the key, and she gave it to the pretty lady, who was glaring at the truck, a crabby look on her face. “The ladies’ restroom is right around the west side of the building, honey,” Aunt Verdella told her.

  The pretty lady tapped the ruler against her thigh. “Winnalee Malone, I’m gonna blister your ass if you don’t get out of that truck this instant and go pee. You hear me?” I’d never heard a lady swear before, so I know my eyes must have stretched as big as my ears.

  The windshield of the truck was blue-black in the sun, so I couldn’t see who she was talking to. Aunt Verdella put the gas handle back onto the hook alongside the pump, then headed over to the driver’s door where the Barbie lady was standing, still tapping the ruler on her leg. “Oh my,” Aunt Verdella said. “Ain’t you the prettiest little thing! You’ve got a face like a cherub.” Aunt Verdella said “cherub” more like “cherry-up.” “Why don’t you come out here and say hello? I got Popsicles inside. A free one for the first pretty little customer who uses the restroom today.” Aunt Verdella looked at the lady and winked, then turned back to the truck. “Come on, now, honey. We don’t bite.”

  The Barbie lady lifted her arms and slapped them against the sides of her thighs. “Ah, to hell with you, Winnalee. If you’re gonna be stubborn, then sit there till your bladder bursts, for all I care. I’m too tired to argue with you.”

  “Winnalee? Now, ain’t that the prettiest name. Where’d you get a pretty name like that?” Aunt Verdella asked.

  “From
my ma,” said a voice from inside the truck. “It’s a homemade name.”

  The lady cussed again, like ladies aren’t supposed to do, then she said, “Winnalee, I’m not going to stand here and piss my pants waiting for you. You coming or not?”

  Aunt Verdella cranked her head around. “You go on to the restroom, dear. I got a way with children,” she said, then she winked again. The pretty lady made a growly sound in her throat, then she headed toward the building, her heels clacking against the pavement.

  It took a while, but finally Aunt Verdella coaxed Winnalee out. When I saw her, I could hardly believe my eyes: She had long, loopy hair the color of that stringy part inside a cob of corn, but with some yellow mixed in too, and it hung clear down to her butt. It didn’t have any rubber bands or barrettes in it, so it floated in the breeze like a mermaid’s hair under water. Her face was round and pink, with little lips that looked like they had lipstick on them. She was wearing a lady’s mesh slip, and it was rolled up at her round belly to keep it from falling down. She had on a white sleeveless blouse that belonged on a grown-up too. One side of it slipped down her arm and she crooked her elbow to keep it from falling all the way off. She didn’t look at us but turned to reach for something on the seat. I scootched over by Aunt Verdella to see what the mermaid girl was getting.

  “Well, my, what do you have there, Winnalee?” Aunt Verdella asked as the girl slid out of the truck holding a capped, shiny silver vase in her arms, cradling it like it was a baby doll.

  “It’s my ma,” Winnalee said.

  “Your ma?” Aunt Verdella asked, suddenly looking a bit shook up.

  It was like Aunt Verdella didn’t know what to say—which I was sure was because she was thinking the same thought as me. That there wasn’t a lady anywhere small enough to fit into that vase. Either Winnalee was funning us, or else she was just plain nuts. Instead, Aunt Verdella asked her about the thick book she had tucked under her armpit. “Button likes to read big books too, don’t you Button?” she said, putting an arm around me.