A Good Read: The Aviator’s Wife

Aviator's WifeIt’s approaching the end of May, and I finally finished reading a book I began in February: The Aviator’s Wife.

The cover of the book clearly states that it is a novel; however, it is historical fiction focused on Anne Marrow Lindbergh, Charles Lindbergh’s wife. In this novel, we hear Anne Marrow’s voice–the story of meeting, loving, and living with THE Charles Lindbergh. Even more so if listening to the novel, which I did.

Often, I had to remind myself that it was a novel…the basic events were factual: their wedding, their flights, the kidnapping of their son, World War II, Charles Lindbergh’s death; however, the book captures the reader’s imagination so thoroughly, it’s easy to think we hear Anne Marrow Lindbergh’s inner thoughts and feelings.

Reading historical fiction often leaves me wondering how the author could write such a novel. Where is the line between fact and fiction? How does an author play with that? Perhaps it’s because I’m more of a fiction writer–it feels safer to invent a character and put that character through various events and adventures. It seems more difficult to imagine the lives of historical figures and imagine how they felt about historical events or how they navigated through their lives behind closed doors. The fact that Melanie Benjamin does this so well is not lost on me. In fact, I wonder how the Lindbergh family feels about the novel. I have not read comments from the family. Perhaps you have? Feel free to comment below!

Besides the questions about writing historical fiction, the book awakens questions about womanhood, marriage, writing, identity, among others. These questions may always go unanswered, but seeking answers is why I read.

This novel lead me to purchase two more books about Anne Marrow Lindbergh: a biography by Susan Hertog and Anne Marrow Lindbergh’s own writing Gift from the Sea. Happy reading!

~K

Advertisements

One more reason I read fiction…

Rebecca Brown’s 1994 book The Gifts of the Body follows a homecare worker as she cares for HIV and AIDS patients.  This is an open letter to the author.

Dear Ms. Brown,

I spent some time with your book this winter.  The first time I picked up my paperback copy I read it quickly – the clear, simple prose held me close, kept me moving.  I read more slowly the next time around.  I poured over each chapter on cold Sunday evenings hoping that my students were shut in their dorm rooms doing the same.  As I read I remembered the AIDS epidemic of my teens – the scary, calculated sex education that felt like a legal brief on the death penalty.  As I prepared for my classes I tried to assemble the facts for my students.  I found timelines and journal articles.  I watched clips of Magic Johnson and Ryan White.  I wanted to give them background and context so they’d understand the story.

When the class met for the first time, my students surprised me.  I expected fear and misconceptions about AIDS and the gay community.  I’d been warned about their ignorance – the Millennial picture of HIV is a healthy NBA star.  But their compassion and understanding shocked me.  The book’s caregiver captivated my students.  They were unsurprised by her generosity; they expected her tenderness and perseverance.  My students instinctively understood that the caregiver’s ability to build relationships with the dying made room for the gifts of the body.  Our discussions progressed easily with the caregiver as our guide.  The gifts of the dying were clear to them; they embraced sweat and wholeness and tears.  They wrote about perspective and grace.  They got it.

I, however, was a little slower on the up-take.

Three weeks after I’d shelved your book in my office, I ended up in Southern California for my uncle’s funeral.  His bed was still in the living room when I got there.  Someone had moved the wheel chair out and packed up the sheets and pillows, but the little corded box that moved the hospital bed up and down was still in the middle of the room.  The bed hummed in the background of every conversation.  I think I tripped over the cord seven times before I wondered aloud about the empty bed overlooking the Pacific Ocean.  My dad yanked the cord from the wall plug and the room went quiet.

By Sunday afternoon the bed was gone and the room was full of tables and flowers and people.   We celebrated my uncle’s life with rich food, good wine, and laughter.  That evening I sat at a corner table with my oldest brother.  As we visited with our tablemates, we realized we were surrounded by Bob’s caregivers.  One man told us how he’d balanced our aunt’s dinner plates on broom sticks to entertain our bedridden uncle.  A woman told us about how even at the end when ALS had taken nearly all of him, Bob loved to see his little dog, Whimsy, on the edge of the couch.  Another woman brought three perfect calla lilies wrapped in brown paper.  They were Bob’s favorite.

Books have always been some of my best companions.  They line my walls and keep me company.  But at times in the classroom, I struggle to communicate the true importance of reading fiction.  My students quickly found the point of strongest connection in your stories.  It was the scholar who needed to be hit upside the head.  Without The Gifts of the Body, I would have left that living room knowing less about my family.  I would not have paid enough mind to the hours and hours those three strangers spent sitting with a man I loved.  I would not have known how death really looks.  I needed fiction to remind me to pay attention.

Sincerely,

– S