The Book Club

I admit I like the concept more than the reality, as evidenced by my general lack of attendance. The group has been meeting approximately every six weeks for nearly seven years and I have been present for only a handful of those meetings, but for some reason my name has yet to be deleted from the mailing list, and everyone is nice to me when I show up.

It’s easy to describe what appeals to me about the club, starting with the way it celebrates reading and assumes that a book is a perfect centerpiece for conversation. I like, too how it includes women in their seventies and women who are still raising young children and everyone in between, and that food and wine are present in abundance, and there is ample time for general schmoozing and no one cares to rush that part along.

Why then is my attendance so erratic? For one thing, I’m a brat -- I resent the feeling of having been assigned a certain book to read when it isn’t one I feel particularly drawn to and there are so many others competing for my time. Reading is my own personal journey and refuge, and I bridle when it suddenly feels like homework. (And that’s richly ironic coming from a former middle school teacher, but I’ve always said that the reason I did well with sixth graders is because that’s about where my own development has lingered.)

Then, too, there is the difficulty of discussion with a dozen disparate women; even with a leader the talk can meander into odd little corners, though maybe for some this is part of the fun.

My biggest problem, though, is that when I am not out of town I am firmly at home, and difficult to dislodge. You would not think the ten-minute drive to Luella’s house could seem so insurmountable, but there’s this whole inertia thing going on. By now it is evening, and I am very comfortable, and there are books on my nightstand, right here.

I did go last week. The book was The Zookeeper’s Wife and I had not read it. (I just didn’t feel like it; that’s why.) But I opted to go for the friendship and camaraderie and because I wanted to cook for someone and because I am still on the mailing list even though I do not deserve to be.

Luella’s house is at the top of a long winding hill. On book club nights there will be a complicated arrangement of vehicles parked by the house. These vehicles are driven by competent Ranch women who can do all sorts of maneuvers such as reverse without hitting anything or going over the edge, but I am not gifted in this way so I always park my car at the bottom and walk up.

On this particular evening Kathy came along and offered me a lift just as I was about to begin my trek. The wind was howling and I happily said yes. (Kathy is a cowgirl, by the way, and not just because the outfit is cute.) She cleared some debris from the passenger seat, asked me to hold a plate of cookies baked by her daughter, and we cruised up the road to Luella’s.

It was so good to see those Gaviota gals. Cele and I talked about our wandering offspring and memory loss, I think, and Louise made me promise not to write a novel (no problem there) because you have to be crazy and obsessive and let’s just go for a walk instead.

Outside the tall trees swayed in the wind and there were whitecaps on the ocean, but the room was filled with conversation and laughter, the smells of pizza and shampooed hair, the dusky light of an early April evening. The attire of choice was jeans and pretty blouses, and I didn't have a single sip of wine, but everyone looked beautiful to me.

Maybe I'll even read the book next time.