The young men of the title are all members of the aptly named Drones
Club, that refuge for the exquisitely well-dressed young man with nothing on
his mind but the perfect top hat (from Bodmin’s, of course). There’s
nothing serious here, but quite a bit to laugh at: this book is the
proper home of my favorite Wodehouse story, “Uncle Fred Flits By”, as
well as of the fiendishly plotted “Goodbye to All Cats”, along with nine
other gems. Buy it, read it, chortle.

I have two “special needs” children. My son, Will, is 15. When he was 10
we took him to a doctor to see if what we saw as profound driftiness was
something like ADD. The teachers at school blew us off when we mentioned
it. One memorable teacher told me he had to “learn to be more
responsible.” He failed the TOVA (Test of Variable Attention).
miserably. Medication and therapy followed and for a time he did better
in school, better at home and found some friends. I acted as his
executive secretary. This year he decided that the meds make him too
“gorked” out, to use his words and he wanted to try school without them.
And we, as parents, decided to let him give it a try. He is failing all
his core classes.

My daughter, Abby is 12. When she was in 1st grade she didn’t learn to
read. She learned how to memorize books that were read to her and
recognize words in those books. Abby is a smart cookie. The teacher,
bless her, thought she was reading. So after some long chats with the
teacher we got her tested by the school. They decided she had language
deficits warranting special interventions and Abby was moved for language
and reading from the mainstream classroom and its Whole Language method
of teaching reading and writing to a Direct Instruction special ed room.
Within weeks she was reading and within months she was reading for
pleasure. I love Direct Instruction and phonics. We did all the usual
work with her. I got her a Franklin Speller. We sounded out words. We
practiced using phonics rules. We used the dictionary. We wrote and
rewrote and rewrote assignments. I rewrote math problems vertically so
she could read them. We used graph paper rather than lined paper–the
squares are easier to work with when you can’t see a letter or number
amidst all the “clutter” on a page. We did math drills and more math
drills. We never watch TV on school nights, which isn’t that big a
sacrifice. She got by but was isolated. Kids in special ed are “stupid,”
“dumb,” etc. Her self esteem suffered. She is belligerent with and
resentful of her peers. She can’t be in sports because she needs the time
to do her schoolwork. The teachers tell me she is always alone. And this
year she is failing all her core classes.

I tend not to completely trust experts. I tend not to trust rules. Some
are good and there for my safety. I always stop at a red light, even in
the dead of night when I am the only one on the road and could scootchy
on thru with no one knowing but myself. But when my kid is failing in an
institution set up to get them ready for “life” and no one knows how to
fix it and I have been working for years to help them make it in the setting
they are in, I am willing to look at alternatives. Outside the box
alternatives. So I picked up this book and read it.

This book is about parents who have chosen to homeschool their kids.
There are 21 stories of how and why and what they did to get their kids
ready for life. Some were more interesting than others. Some were more
helpful than others. Some were so far outside the box that I just didn’t
buy it. What the book did was show me that there are alternatives. I am
not sure I will homeschool my kids or even if that would help them. But
after reading this book I know I can do it. It is not beyond my
abilities. And that gives me a little more energy to deal with the
situation at home and at school.

Last night I started hitting the paperback shelves really hard, and after
some negotiation with Jane ended up with this list of books to be
disposed of:

Magician: Apprentice, Magician: Master,
Silverthorn, and A Darkness at Sethanon by
Ray Feist. My feelings for Feist’s work have cooled somewhat
(I’m no longer buying new books), but I’m getting rid of these only
because they are duplicates.

Fire and Fog, The Bohemian Murders,
Emperor Norton’s Ghost, and Death Train to Boston,
by Dianne Day. I rather like
The Strange Files of Fremont Jones; it has a brooding, macabre
atmosphere about it which goes well with mist-shrouded San Francisco.
I’m keeping it. But the subsequent books, as Deb English
recently discovered, decline steadily in quality.

Hope’s End, by Stephen Chambers. Bad
fantasy/science fiction. The title is oddly appropriate.

Different Women Dancing, by Jonathan Gash. I
rather like Gash’s Lovejoy mysteries (though I think it’s pathetic the
way Gash has allowed Lovejoy to deteriorate over the years). But this
book is the first in a different series, and I really didn’t like it.

Rats and Gargoyles, and Grunts, by
Mary Gentle. Judging by the covers and blurbs I should like
these books; but though were moderately entertaining while I was reading
them, they were ultimately disappointing.

The Hearse You Came In On and
A Hearse of a Different Color, by Tim Cockey.
Mysteries about an undertaker. The first was adequate if somewhat
disappointing; good enough that I gave him another try. The second was
also merely adequate.

Silence of the Hams by Jill Churchill. Got this
from a friend; didn’t think much of it at the time, and so there’s no
reason to keep it now.

Me, by Jimmy (Big Boy) Valente, by Garrison Keillor.
Yeah, it was kinda funny….but I just can’t picture myself reading it again.

A Dance to the Music of Time, 1st Movement, by Anthony
Powell. Years ago, I used to read the rec.arts.books newsgroup
regularly and profitably; it’s how I found out about Patrick
O’Brian and George Macdonald Fraser.
Powell is another author that got mentioned regularly, particularly
with respect to “A Dance to the Music of Time”, a set of twelve novels
in four volumes, of which this is the first. I bought it during one
of my more pretentious phases, and was disappointed. Perhaps I’m not
highbrow enough, but the books evoke what somebody on
rec.arts.sf.written calls the Eight Deadly Words: “I don’t care about
any of these people.”

Track of the Cat, Endangered Species,
Ill Wind, Firestorm, A Superior Death,
and Blind Descent, by Nevada Barr. I rather liked
these books as I read them; good writing, good suspense, interesting
locales. I don’t regret having bought them. But it’s been quite a while
since then; in the meantime I haven’t felt like buying Barr’s newer
books, and I haven’t felt like re-reading them. I might regret it later,
but out they go.

My Body Lies Over The Ocean, by J.S. Borthwick.
This book failed for me on so many levels…use the search box to find
my review, if you care.

Battle Circle, by Piers
Anthony. I used to be a big Piers Anthony fan. A couple of
purges ago, I got rid of almost all of his books, including this one.
I regretted it later, and (though it took a while to find it) I bought
a new copy. And then when I re-read it, I regretted having bought a
new copy. There are some good bits here, especially in the first part
of the book, but unlike Jane I don’t read just the good bits.

War for the Oaks, by Emma Bull. Now this is an
outstanding book–but as I have another copy signed by the author (she’s
a nice lady), I don’t need this one.

Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo. Good book, in bad
condition; if I tried seriously to re-read it, the cover would probably
fall off, and I hate that. Plus, I’m not sure I want to devote
another month of my life to the task.

The Switch, by Elmore Leonard. I kept hearing how
funny Elmore Leonard is. Maybe I got a bad one, but I thought it was
only so-so.

Mythago Wood and Lavondyss, by
Robert Holdstock. More books from when I confused obscurity
with depth.

Soulsmith, Dreambuilder, and Wordwright,
by Tom Deitz. When I first read these I was mightily
impressed, and enjoyed them hugely. On second reading they were just
annoying, and I couldn’t even finish the third book.

Windmaster’s Bane, Fireshaper’s Doom,
Darkthunder’s Way, Sunshaker’s War, and
Stoneskin’s Revenge, by Tom Dietz. Suburban
fantasy with Celtic and Native American elements. It was interesting
at the time, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to touch them
again.

In the Presence of the Enemy, Playing for the Ashes,
Well-Schooled in Murder, and A Great Deliverance,
by Elizabeth George. George is a talented author, and the
books were gripping. But there’s not a trace of humor amid the suspense,
just horrible things happening to good people, and while I enjoyed them,
they made me terribly irritable. More books I’ve no temptation to pick
up again.

The Princess Bride, by William Goldman. We have a
copy of the 25th anniversary edition, so we don’t need this paperback.

Wildside, by Steven Gould. I think somebody told
Gould that he could break into the juvenile fiction market if he wrote a
book that was politically and ecologically correct on all levels.
“Insipid” doesn’t do the book justice.

The Haunting of Lamb House, by Joan Aiken. I
usually like Aiken’s work, but this one failed to capture my interest. I
found it on the shelf, bookmark in place, having completely forgotten
about it ages ago.

Galileo’s Daughter, by Dava Sobel. Some time ago, Deb
English and I were going to try something new: we were going to
read a book together, and submit a joint review in the form of a
dialog between us. I’d still like to do that someday. We picked this
book, which I’d recently been given, and which I really should have
liked–but alas I found it desparately dull and gave up. My
apologies, Deb….

I’m about halfway through the stacks; there’ll be more to come.

Some more books that failed to make the cut.

No Place Like Home, by Fern Michaels. This is one
of Jane’s romance novels; she decided she didn’t want it. I don’t ask
questions.

Enemy Glory, by Karen Michalson. Bad fantasy. I
panned this some months ago.

Legs Benedict, by Mary Daheim. Failed humorous
mystery. At least, it didn’t tickle my funny bone.

The Big Nap, by Ayelet Waldman. Yet another
meant-to-be-funny stumble-around-’til-you-solve-it mystery. It was OK,
but I won’t miss it.

The Bad Beginning, by Lemony Snicket. Duplicate
copy.

How to Live with a Neurotic Dog, by Stephen Baker.
No, this isn’t a repeat; I found another copy. Why we had two copies, I
dunno. We used to have two dogs, but that seems like an insufficient
excuse.

Pooh and the Millenium, by John Tyerman Williams.
Subtitled, “In which the Bear of Very-Little Brain explores the Ancient
Mysteries at the Turn of the Century.” It was funny, I guess…but it’s
so 20th Century.

China Mountain Zhang, by Maureen F. McHugh. Lots
of people really like this book; sadly, I’m not one of them.

Midshipman Bolitho, by Alexander
Kent. Life in Nelson’s navy. It’s not Patrick
O’Brian, but it’s fun. This is a duplicate copy.

E=mc2, by David Bodanis. A book about Einstein
and his equation. This is a duplicate copy; again, I dunno how we ended
up with two of them. I’d be for getting rid of both, as I don’t expect
to read it again, but Jane thinks she’d like to read it.

L is for Lawless and M is for Malice, by Sue
Grafton. I’ve gone off Kinsey Millhone a bit, and while I don’t
intend to get rid of all of Grafton’s novels, these two hardcovers
simply take up too much room.

The Dolphins of Pern, by Anne McCaffery. Sigh. I
remember when a new Pern novel was an event. This one, however, was not.

A New Song, by Jan Karon.
Duplicate copy. Plus, it’s a hardcover, and I have all of the rest in
matching paperbacks.

I’m still (slowly) going through the
book collection; here are some more of the victims.

How to Live with a Neurotic Dog, by Stephen Baker.
Funny book; we no longer have a dog.

A Treasury of American Anecdotes, edited by
B.A. Botkin. A friend gave me this many years ago, rightly
guessing it’s something I’d find interesting. Unfortunately, the cover
is more interesting than the contents; once was enough.

This is True: Deputy Kills Man With Hammer, by
Randy Cassingham. “This is True” was, and perhaps still is,
a sort of proto-weblog dealing with odd news items. I bought the book
because I used to work with Randy Cassingham.

The Long Valley, by John Steinbeck. I went
through almost all of Steinbeck some years ago, and I’ve concluded that
when he’s being funny he’s really, really good, and when he’s being serious,
he’s really, really serious. This is one of the serious ones.

Little Girls in Pretty Boxes, by Joan Ryan. The
world remembers Nadia Comeneci, Kim Zmeskal, and Dominique Dawes as truly
outstanding gymnasts. They were also the product of a training system
that tested hundreds of little girls to physical destruction to produce
that one star capable of a perfect 10. This is an expose about that
process in elite gymnastics, and the related (though less severe) problem
in elite figure skating. I read it with interest when it was new. But
it’s a little too strident to be pleasant reading (even if the topic lent
itself to that); and besides they’ve adjusted the age limits upwards
precisely to discourage this kind of abuse.

Previn, by Helen Drees Ruttencutter. I think we
inherited this book from my parents.

Sam Walton: Made in America, by
Sam Walton with John Huey. I don’t think we bought this one;
perhaps it was a gift?

Shakespeare’s Insults: Educating Your Wit, by
Wayne F. Hill and Cynthia J. Ottchen. Some things are simply
better in theory than in practice, and this is one of them.

Children First, by Penelope Leach. This book is
subtitled, “What our society must do–and is not doing–for our children
today.” Jane and I will take care of our own children, thank you.

A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole.
A lot of people are very fond of this book. I do not understand
why. I’ll grant you, the writing is good, and there are some funny bits.
But on the whole, this is one rollercoaster I think I’ll skip next time.

The Citadel of the Autarch, and The Urth of the New Sun,
by Gene Wolfe. I went through a real Gene Wolfe phase many
years ago; it was an era when I confused obscurity with depth. Wolfe is
an amazingly gifted writer, but he no longer floats my boat. Plus, these
are hardcovers, and they take up too much space.

So it ends. After nearly two years, reading approximately one volume a
month (and skipping a couple of months), I’ve finally come to the
ultimate conclusion of O’Brian’s twenty-volume saga, reading this book
for the first time ever just this month. I began it with some
trepidation, given that its predecessor was only so-so; some of my fears
were justified, but not all.

Jack does a lot of hurrying hither and thither in this book, more or less
in clandestine pursuit of Chilean independance from Spain; some of the
action is to the point, and some of it seems like filler. Stephen’s
romance with Christine Wood blossoms; I thought the sequences dealing with
that topic were among the best in the book, which surprised me considering the
cheap and sleazy way O’Brian got rid of Diana in the previous book.

O’Brian didn’t know this was to be his last book; the reports of his
death indicated that he was a chapter or two into a new Aubrey/Maturin
book, and I think that’s just as well. The closing pages of
Blue at the Mizzen bring Jack the orders making him Rear Admiral of
the Blue; and while Stephen’s future with Christine Wood (a woman much
more suited to him than Diana ever was) is by no means assured, there are
promising signs. As this is the last book, I choose to believe that
ultimately they are married, and live happily ever after.

And so they sail off into the sunset. What could be fairer than that?

Oddly, this isn’t so much a mystery as it is a historical novel pure and
simple. Sure, there’s a murder…but what there really is, is a
complicated political setup involving a civil war, some poignant family
connections across the battle lines, and some of Cadfael’s own past
history. It turns out to be quite a good book, but the initial set up is
brutally long, about fifty or so pages, before you can even understand
who the players are. I suppose more of them would have been familiar if
I’d been reading the series in sequence. Anyway, recommended–but don’t
think it’s a typical Brother Cadfael mystery.