A "progressive" book club. That's what my friend Barb Beck calls it.
"Would you be interested?" she inquires.
I blink. What does a progressive book club look like, I wonder? And how progressive can an old pro-life Catholic like me be exactly?
Progressive enough, it turns out.
Cyndee Shellhaas, the unofficial leader, hosts our very first meeting. Right off the bat, we set firm ground rules. Only the first thirty minutes should be reserved for socializing, everyone agrees politely. After all, we don't want to be one of those sorry book clubs that meets only to drink, stuff our faces, and gossip about the Kardashians.
Five years later, by God, I'm proud to say we've never once even mentioned the Kardashians. Sadly, the other rules fall by the wayside. Wine flows, Lori's lemon squares are to die for, and as for when the thirty minute rule for socializing disintegrates, none of us can say for sure.
Maybe it's when Lori makes us read The Weatherman, a scintillating and cosmopolitan murder mystery.
"I don't know that I was prepared for all the sex," Sue cocks her famous eyebrow.
"You're welcome," Lori never bats an eye.
Or maybe it's when we cry our way through All the Light We Cannot See, a World War II account that somehow causes us to reminisce about our grade school days in the 50's and 60's when we obediently hide under our desks during the Duck and Cover drill. Vikki, who grows up in Ralston right next to Omaha SAC, a prime target, remembers her mother's strict directions in the event of a nuclear attack.
"Find your little brother in school and walk to your grandparents' house in Grand Island," she instructs the horrified ten-year-old. "But be sure to call when you get to Chapman so they know you're coming."
Because you wouldn't want to be rude and arrive unannounced.
In the beginning, I'm not sure I'm smart enough to hang around these enormously intelligent women. Most of us are educators: Vikki Deuel is the retired long time principal of Walnut Middle School and one of the finest administrators I've ever known. Joan Black, Cyndee Shellhaas and Christa Speed are extremely gifted retired teachers in the Grand Island Public School system. Gayle Bradley, before she retires, works with at-risk kids at Grand Island Senior High. Sue Clement is our resident historian and astounds us with her knowledge. Not only was she a long time organist and choir director at her church, but she also taught kids history at the Stuhr Museum in the facility's historic buildings. Barb Beck, like me, is still working. She's a community college instructor in early childhood education and still the brightest, funniest girl I've ever known. And Lori Jeffres, the only one of us young enough to still have estrogen coursing through her veins, keeps the service techs in line at Jerry's Sheet Metal.
These girls are beautiful, passionate, crazy fun, and, like me, suckers for a good book. We've devoured the works of Charles Dickens, Tony Hillerman, Pat Conroy, and Margaret Atwood to name a few. Every selection is as diverse as the women in our club. and even Sue, who hates any kind of gore, dutifully plows her way through Stephen King. Somehow, as we share our own perspectives of great literature, my friends and I are sharing our own lives as well. It's because of Book Club that I know Gayle chases away a potential kidnapper when she's a tiny girl.
"Do you know my mother lives right there!" she wags a finger in the face of the man who tries to coax her into his car. Overwhelmed by the spunky little girl who relentlessly scolds him, the man throws up his hands and skids away.
Because of Book Club, I know that Barb, one day in the community college class she teaches, is slapped in the face by a small girl who's recently moved into foster care and been forced to wear clothes that are not her own.
"You needed to be mad at somebody today," my compassionate friend soothes the traumatized little girl.
I know that Cyndee's mother was orphaned, that Christa tenderly nurses her dying mother at the same time she plans her daughter's wedding, and that Sue does such a profound impersonation of Grand Island's historical Edith Abbott that I choke back a lump in my throat.
We don't appreciate the real bonds of friendship, however, until election year, 2016. Abruptly, Book Club takes on a new dimension. To the last member, we're petrified of candidate Donald Trump. It's all we talk about.
"He'll never get elected," I try to sound confident.
But Sue has an ominous feeling.
On election night, each of us in our own homes, we stare at our television sets in horror.
I can't stand it any more and pull out my phone to message the book club.
"C'mon, Florida!" I plead.
But as the map bleeds red, Christa messages one fatal line: "We're screwed."
Just like that, Book Club becomes vitally important. In a country divided, we all become aware that family members, work colleagues and old friends are drawing lines in the sand. Conversations become stilted. After silly arguments with people I love most in the world, I learn to keep my mouth shut.
During a pleasant lunch gathering, a friend of mine shakes her head bemoaning the "free houses" Habitat for Humanity gives away. Not so long ago, I would have confronted her. It's pointless now, I realize. Even so, I feel like a traitor - to the Ortega triplets - three exceptional graduates whose parents work relentlessly to earn a down payment for their own Habitat house and after many years march into the bank to triumphantly make the final mortgage payment. I think of Bev Yax, whose smile lights up my American Literature class, and the day she tells her classmates she'd give her life for the Dreamer's Act. Or Youhanna Ghaifan, also a successful graduate of our school, whose parents flee from warring Sudan to give their children a better life in America.
Thank God for Book Club. Other than my own home with my own husband, it's the only other safe place in which I rant and rage and vent. "We're not radical people!" I look around at each dear face in the room. "We're just reasonable human beings!"
Cyndee places a hand on my arm. "Don't you see?" she says in her gentle, wise way. "Everybody in the country feels they're only being reasonable."
She's right, of course. I suspect, honestly, that most of us in the United States fall in the middle during these turbulent times. Practically everybody I know, regardless of personal politics, is horrified by the border separation of children and parents. Most of us condemn racism, defend those of us who are disabled, and love without condition our gay sons and daughters. Yet even in our community, in every community, an explosive few feel empowered and emboldened by the President's new, pervasive atmosphere. And they scare me.
They don't scare my Book Club friends, though. Cyndee Shellhaas gathers her entire family in Lincoln to protest at the Women's March. She and Vikki Deuel commit their time and energy to the Literacy Council teaching, encouraging and befriending refugees who bravely try to make a new start in this country. Barb Beck and her lovely husband Dave earnestly teach one of Cyndee's students, Abshir Awalie, to drive and obtain a license as he studies for his community college degree.
Later, Abshir will tell his mentor Cyndee, "My life is so good."
So is mine. I'm lucky to have these friends. They came to me late in life. But in their 50's, 60's and 70's, my book club cronies are teaching me it's never too late to make a difference.
Every fourth Monday evening of the month is an event. Lori makes us laugh til we cry, Sue offers astonishing perspective on every event in history, Joan's passion is contagious, and Christa is serenely resilient. The books we read, and not always books we'd ever choose to read, enrich and inspire us nevertheless. They persuade us to see the world and its inhabitants in a different way and to examine our own lives in the process.
These last five years, my friends and I have discovered that good friendships can spring forth from the unlikeliest of places, that experience really is the best teacher, that even when knees, hips and memories deteriorate, we still have a lot to offer.
And that there's nothing better in the whole world than sharing a good book with remarkable friends.
"Would you be interested?" she inquires.
I blink. What does a progressive book club look like, I wonder? And how progressive can an old pro-life Catholic like me be exactly?
 |
| Left to right: Barb Beck, Sue Clement, Vikki Deuel, Lori Jeffres, Joan Black, Christa Speed, Cathy Howard, Cyndee Shellhaas. |
Progressive enough, it turns out.
Cyndee Shellhaas, the unofficial leader, hosts our very first meeting. Right off the bat, we set firm ground rules. Only the first thirty minutes should be reserved for socializing, everyone agrees politely. After all, we don't want to be one of those sorry book clubs that meets only to drink, stuff our faces, and gossip about the Kardashians.
Five years later, by God, I'm proud to say we've never once even mentioned the Kardashians. Sadly, the other rules fall by the wayside. Wine flows, Lori's lemon squares are to die for, and as for when the thirty minute rule for socializing disintegrates, none of us can say for sure.
Maybe it's when Lori makes us read The Weatherman, a scintillating and cosmopolitan murder mystery.
"I don't know that I was prepared for all the sex," Sue cocks her famous eyebrow.
"You're welcome," Lori never bats an eye.
Or maybe it's when we cry our way through All the Light We Cannot See, a World War II account that somehow causes us to reminisce about our grade school days in the 50's and 60's when we obediently hide under our desks during the Duck and Cover drill. Vikki, who grows up in Ralston right next to Omaha SAC, a prime target, remembers her mother's strict directions in the event of a nuclear attack.
"Find your little brother in school and walk to your grandparents' house in Grand Island," she instructs the horrified ten-year-old. "But be sure to call when you get to Chapman so they know you're coming."
Because you wouldn't want to be rude and arrive unannounced.
In the beginning, I'm not sure I'm smart enough to hang around these enormously intelligent women. Most of us are educators: Vikki Deuel is the retired long time principal of Walnut Middle School and one of the finest administrators I've ever known. Joan Black, Cyndee Shellhaas and Christa Speed are extremely gifted retired teachers in the Grand Island Public School system. Gayle Bradley, before she retires, works with at-risk kids at Grand Island Senior High. Sue Clement is our resident historian and astounds us with her knowledge. Not only was she a long time organist and choir director at her church, but she also taught kids history at the Stuhr Museum in the facility's historic buildings. Barb Beck, like me, is still working. She's a community college instructor in early childhood education and still the brightest, funniest girl I've ever known. And Lori Jeffres, the only one of us young enough to still have estrogen coursing through her veins, keeps the service techs in line at Jerry's Sheet Metal.
"OMG - what if the pies don't get baked, the turkey doesn't get roasted and the cranberry relish isn't finished because this book keeps calling my name?!?" (a Book Club Facebook post by Vikki Deuel right before Thanksgiving)
These girls are beautiful, passionate, crazy fun, and, like me, suckers for a good book. We've devoured the works of Charles Dickens, Tony Hillerman, Pat Conroy, and Margaret Atwood to name a few. Every selection is as diverse as the women in our club. and even Sue, who hates any kind of gore, dutifully plows her way through Stephen King. Somehow, as we share our own perspectives of great literature, my friends and I are sharing our own lives as well. It's because of Book Club that I know Gayle chases away a potential kidnapper when she's a tiny girl.
"Do you know my mother lives right there!" she wags a finger in the face of the man who tries to coax her into his car. Overwhelmed by the spunky little girl who relentlessly scolds him, the man throws up his hands and skids away.
Because of Book Club, I know that Barb, one day in the community college class she teaches, is slapped in the face by a small girl who's recently moved into foster care and been forced to wear clothes that are not her own.
"You needed to be mad at somebody today," my compassionate friend soothes the traumatized little girl.
I know that Cyndee's mother was orphaned, that Christa tenderly nurses her dying mother at the same time she plans her daughter's wedding, and that Sue does such a profound impersonation of Grand Island's historical Edith Abbott that I choke back a lump in my throat.
 |
| The ravages of Book Club. |
We don't appreciate the real bonds of friendship, however, until election year, 2016. Abruptly, Book Club takes on a new dimension. To the last member, we're petrified of candidate Donald Trump. It's all we talk about.
"He'll never get elected," I try to sound confident.
But Sue has an ominous feeling.
On election night, each of us in our own homes, we stare at our television sets in horror.
I can't stand it any more and pull out my phone to message the book club.
"C'mon, Florida!" I plead.
But as the map bleeds red, Christa messages one fatal line: "We're screwed."
Just like that, Book Club becomes vitally important. In a country divided, we all become aware that family members, work colleagues and old friends are drawing lines in the sand. Conversations become stilted. After silly arguments with people I love most in the world, I learn to keep my mouth shut.
During a pleasant lunch gathering, a friend of mine shakes her head bemoaning the "free houses" Habitat for Humanity gives away. Not so long ago, I would have confronted her. It's pointless now, I realize. Even so, I feel like a traitor - to the Ortega triplets - three exceptional graduates whose parents work relentlessly to earn a down payment for their own Habitat house and after many years march into the bank to triumphantly make the final mortgage payment. I think of Bev Yax, whose smile lights up my American Literature class, and the day she tells her classmates she'd give her life for the Dreamer's Act. Or Youhanna Ghaifan, also a successful graduate of our school, whose parents flee from warring Sudan to give their children a better life in America.
Thank God for Book Club. Other than my own home with my own husband, it's the only other safe place in which I rant and rage and vent. "We're not radical people!" I look around at each dear face in the room. "We're just reasonable human beings!"
 |
| Cyndee Shellhaas, far right, with her family at the Lincoln Women's March, spring 2017. |
She's right, of course. I suspect, honestly, that most of us in the United States fall in the middle during these turbulent times. Practically everybody I know, regardless of personal politics, is horrified by the border separation of children and parents. Most of us condemn racism, defend those of us who are disabled, and love without condition our gay sons and daughters. Yet even in our community, in every community, an explosive few feel empowered and emboldened by the President's new, pervasive atmosphere. And they scare me.
They don't scare my Book Club friends, though. Cyndee Shellhaas gathers her entire family in Lincoln to protest at the Women's March. She and Vikki Deuel commit their time and energy to the Literacy Council teaching, encouraging and befriending refugees who bravely try to make a new start in this country. Barb Beck and her lovely husband Dave earnestly teach one of Cyndee's students, Abshir Awalie, to drive and obtain a license as he studies for his community college degree.
 |
| Barb and Dave Beck, middle and right, preparing to teach Abshir Awalie to drive. |
So is mine. I'm lucky to have these friends. They came to me late in life. But in their 50's, 60's and 70's, my book club cronies are teaching me it's never too late to make a difference.
Every fourth Monday evening of the month is an event. Lori makes us laugh til we cry, Sue offers astonishing perspective on every event in history, Joan's passion is contagious, and Christa is serenely resilient. The books we read, and not always books we'd ever choose to read, enrich and inspire us nevertheless. They persuade us to see the world and its inhabitants in a different way and to examine our own lives in the process.
These last five years, my friends and I have discovered that good friendships can spring forth from the unlikeliest of places, that experience really is the best teacher, that even when knees, hips and memories deteriorate, we still have a lot to offer.
And that there's nothing better in the whole world than sharing a good book with remarkable friends.
Setting aside time in a busy life to discuss words, emotion, story, as each forges her own story forward, can be the most powerful gathering of all. Thank you for sharing this. I hope I find my own book club at some point. You are all fortunate to have found each other.
ReplyDeleteIs there such a group for men?
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