Mi Mi Mi Mi

I often lend good library books to my mom. I had just finished Jhumpa Lahiri’s latest book of stories and had stashed it in the diaper bag to take to her. I hadn’t even had a chance to put my bag down when she greeted me with, “I have the best book. You have to take it.” I followed her back to her bedroom where she handed me Unaccustomed Earth just as I pulled it out of my bag to give to her.

The funny thing is growing up, I remember my dad always reading a paperback thriller, but I have few memories of my mom’s reading habit apart from the unopened Book-of-the-Month package floating around the back of the car. I do remember seeing her with a book called Victory Over Japan and thinking how boring to read a book about World War II.

It wasn’t until a high school sick day spent perusing the bookshelves in the living room that I came across the same book by Ellen Gilchrist. I spent the rest of my recuperation enchanted by the Mannings. That was only the beginning of a shared affinity for authors ranging from Elizabeth Berg to Amy Tan.

More recently, my mom has introduced me to Eliza Minot’s The Brambles and A. Mannette Ansay’s Blue Water. I also discovered The Secret Life of Bees because it was on her bookshelf. I do have to be careful in my recommendations to her. To this day she thinks I lent her Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout because she identified too well with the crotchety protagonist.

By the way, Mom, I just checked out the new boook of stories by Annie Proulx. I’ll let you borrow it when I’m through.