Autumn 2024, In My Reading Log

Sometimes summer is a slow reading time for me, but this year? The opposite! The stacks were swelling in May and June, and every flat surface was cluttered with books begun-but-unfinished, and I didn’t have a chance to think about what else I might do…so, I read.

In David Robertson’s The Barren Grounds (2020), it’s thirteen-year-old Morgan’s job to help the other new kid settle into the house; she’s been in foster care for ten years and Eli’s one year younger, drawing pictures like those in the fantasy books Morgan reads. They’re in Winnipeg, in the era of Star Wars comforters and Hilroy scribblers, but soon they’re in Misewa. (I won’t spoil how it happens, but it worked for me.) It’s winter all the time there: snow as far as anyone can see. “What’s beyond the Great Tree [to the north] besides woods?” Morgan asks: “More wolves?” But, no—it’s a mistapew. (AKA the figure of Orion.) The kids’ journey is engaging and complex: I didn’t know I needed a Narnia retelling from a Norway House Cree writer, but now I’m eyeing the rest of the series (the fifth publishes this fall).

Sinclair also writes about the Red River Métis community, historically settled around the forks of the river at the city’s heart. There’s a Red River in the Ląc Việt region of Vietnam too, where Phong Nguyen’s Bronze Drum (2022) unfolds. I borrowed this when it was new, intrigued by the idea of ancient Vietnam—it’s set in Ląc Việt Year 2734-2735, 36-37 CE—but other books were more insistent: this time, the style was just what I craved. It’s the story of two sisters, how they learn and grow with limited opportunities under the Hán, how they ultimately rebel. It has a mythic feel and reads almost like a YA novel at times, but it feels more substantial than that implies. Partly because of research conducted with an archaeologist who specialises in that era (Nam C. Kim), but he’s also a reader who values richly layered narratives, so even though this one reads easily, it’s neither light nor forgettable.

Bronze Drum depicts a literal war; Sunshine Nails by Mai Nguyen (2023) depicts a metaphorical war between two nail salons, one longtime neighbourhood salon run by the Tran family, the other a Scandi-styled newcomer. “Tuyểt and Xuân were now Debbie and Phil, named after their favourite eighties singers, Debbie Harry and Phil Collins,” and they have two grown children. Daughter Jessica is back at work, after her engagement in L.A. falls through, and son Dustin is a loyal employee of Moodstr, a tech company with millions run by a jerk who regularly tells Dustin how much he’s valued but repeatedly gives all the other employees raises. Cousin Thuy has been in Toronto for ten months, and has been called the Monet of nail art, for her delicate marble-lined technique, but she’s got her own dreams. Nguyen probes deeper questions (“What was it about some jobs that made them more revered than others?”) and acknowledges persistent prejudices, but comedic scenes lighten the load. The Junction neighbourhood in Toronto is the perfect setting: diverse and historically rich, with a cut-throat undercurrent via the abbatoirs (The Stockyards).

David Miller was mayor of Toronto from 2003-2010, and he’s now the Managing Director of the C40 Cities Climate Leadership Group. Solved has been updated to demonstrate the potential of using existing technologies to avoid further climate breakdown. His focus on works-in-progress (not technologies in development) and proven results (not hypotheses and theories) appeals. As does the international breadth: reports from Japan and Slovenia, Brazil and Denmark, Ghana and India. Although parts are very detailed, it’s hard to argue with the fact that it’s data-driven. If I wanted vague ideas about changes made and what possibilities lie therein, I could scroll on my phone, right? And the explanations—say, about the specific developments of the LEZ (Low Emission Zone) in London, England and how the 2019 introduction of the ULEZ (Ultra…) has improved conditions, particularly for those most vulnerable to air pollution, like children—are clear and direct. (All the other books here are published by mainstream presses, so probably not too hard to find, except this one.) 

From large to small, when it comes to reading about communities on the frontlines of the climate crisis, Peter Edwards’ take on his hometown is as readable as Sinclair’s articles. In Lytton, readers learn the town had a population of 550 when Edwards grew up; when it burned down in the summer of 2021, 249 people called it home. Edwards received an Eagle feather from the Anishinabek Nation and the Centre for Human Rights gave him a gold medal for his journalistic work on the Ipperwash crisis and, here, he works with Kevin Loring of the Nlaka’pamux of Lytton First Nation. In what’s now southern British Columbia, the Nlaka’pamux flourished—their society predating the building of the Giza Pyramid and the Great Wall of China: Lytton reaches way back to tell the history of the region and its varied inhabitants. (Kevin’s dad once lived in the Edwards house: it’s a small town!) From Buddhists to Hollywood stars, it attracts all sorts throughout history, and not only was this fascinating, but I learned the word ‘alpenglow’.

Kelli Jo Ford’s Crooked Hallelujah (2020) also focuses on a very small Indigenous community, this time in what’s now Oklahoma and North Texas. Justine grows up in a chronic state of struggle with her mother, whose Christian belief system doesn’t leave space for her daughter to find herself. “Lula held herself together with a religion so stifling and frightening that Justine, the youngest and always the most bullheaded, never knew if she was fighting against her mother or God himself, or if there was even a difference.” This Cherokee writer’s novel-in-stories develops in such a way that it’s Justine’s relationship with her daughter, Reney, at the core of it all. But one of my favourite sections doesn’t include any of these characters, but focuses on the life of a man who lives down the road from them, after two married women move into the region (a new concept for this neighbour). Like Tommy Orange and Morgan Talty, Kelli Jo Ford sketches a community in broad strokes with deft use of detail and a bedrock of emotion.