Jul. 18th, 2010 | 05:16 pm
Our lovely bookclub that often provides my sole social sustenance in any given month, took our annual retreat to Guerneville: home of gays, rivermoss, and good times.
We rotated through the house, lovingly called "Cabin De Menthe" by the cutest of Deep Lez vacation rental owners, Tina and Sue, noshing on perfectly tuned meals, playing our less than tuned violins, sipping wine & whiskey around the firepit and soaks in the hot tub until my fingers shriveled up like a California raisin. I am told that our skin wrinkles in the water because soaking dehydrates the body and sucks the water out. I'm not sure if I believe this but plan to research. Good theory. Although more whiskey doesn't necessarily return the body to its watery hydrated state.
Bookclub is dedicated. We are pushing 2 and a half years of monthly gatherings where 75% of those in attendance have read most of our democratically elected novel for the month. We claim James Baldwin as our patron saint, but recently have had an affinity for the Southern Gothic. Maybe 2 selections out of the 30 months of bookclub, give or take, have been light hearted or comedic. No surprise then, when one of the fearless originators, Jade, suggests we read Dorothy Allison's short story, "River of Names" around the campfire, in honor of her residence in Guerneville. (There was intent of reading and discussing short stories on the retreat, and despite our best intentions, relaxing took the precedent for the weekend.) It is one of those stories that I have read many times, and each time I battle through its six pages, I swear I never want to read it again. I love the rest of "Trash" and her other stories, but that one, I'm better off without it.
Bookclub doesn't have a fancy name, just bookclub. The invitation is open, ground rules tried and true. I appreciate bookclub, the love of my family in that safe space, and all the amazing contributions each person brings to the table.
We rotated through the house, lovingly called "Cabin De Menthe" by the cutest of Deep Lez vacation rental owners, Tina and Sue, noshing on perfectly tuned meals, playing our less than tuned violins, sipping wine & whiskey around the firepit and soaks in the hot tub until my fingers shriveled up like a California raisin. I am told that our skin wrinkles in the water because soaking dehydrates the body and sucks the water out. I'm not sure if I believe this but plan to research. Good theory. Although more whiskey doesn't necessarily return the body to its watery hydrated state.
Bookclub is dedicated. We are pushing 2 and a half years of monthly gatherings where 75% of those in attendance have read most of our democratically elected novel for the month. We claim James Baldwin as our patron saint, but recently have had an affinity for the Southern Gothic. Maybe 2 selections out of the 30 months of bookclub, give or take, have been light hearted or comedic. No surprise then, when one of the fearless originators, Jade, suggests we read Dorothy Allison's short story, "River of Names" around the campfire, in honor of her residence in Guerneville. (There was intent of reading and discussing short stories on the retreat, and despite our best intentions, relaxing took the precedent for the weekend.) It is one of those stories that I have read many times, and each time I battle through its six pages, I swear I never want to read it again. I love the rest of "Trash" and her other stories, but that one, I'm better off without it.
Bookclub doesn't have a fancy name, just bookclub. The invitation is open, ground rules tried and true. I appreciate bookclub, the love of my family in that safe space, and all the amazing contributions each person brings to the table.
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