Growing up, reading was a solitary activity. Even when I was lucky enough to live near someone else who had a similar connection to books and stories, we never did that together: we played. We might swap books, under the best of circumstances, but we never had our own copies to read the same book at the same time. Whenever anyone complains about the impact of the internet and technology, I recognise how some of those complaints and concerns are true, but how thrilling it’s been to have bookish friends.

All year, Rebecca @ Bookish Beck and Mel at The Reading Life and I have been reading Carol Shields Collected Stories (2004). Rebecca has done a fabulous job of summarising the three collections in that omnibus edition: Various Miracles (Rebecca), The Orange Fish (Rebecca), and Dressing Up for the Carnival (Rebecca). Mel has written about ten of the stories so far: Segue, Various Miracles, Mrs. Turner Cutting the Grass, Sailors Lost at Sea, Purple Blossoms, Fitting Behaviour, Pardon, Words, Poaching, and Scenes. We’ve largely been reading at our own paces, but somehow it all works.

“Segue” is the first in Collected Stories but the last Shields wrote. It was new-to-me and, to begin with, I read it so quickly that I was too caught up with the details of the woman’s day-to-day to peer beneath the surface. Then, I was struck by the fact that, within 24 hours, I’d had to think about the words ‘anapest’ and ‘dactyl’, which I’d not thought of since English class (and hadn’t properly understood then). Jane writes sonnets (her husband’s a novelist) and my weekly poem in Ruth Padel’s book of 52 poems for a year was a sonnet too.

When I reread Shields’ story, I considered that title like the title of Unless, of “joining words”,  and how that works in that novel, how it fascinated her. Once I started to look for the hinge, the turn, the sense of alteration in “Seque”, the questions the narrator poses took on a fresh significance. When I scanned the story, these questions seemed to appear in bold. And even though the story itself slanted towards one perspective on the woman’s life, her questions slant quite the other way. It’s an unexpected delight to unravel.

I made a list of 1937 options months ago and landed on these three for Kaggsy and Stuck in a Book’s event this week. First, I love mouse stories and I trust Nancy Pearl’s judgement and I lamented that I’d not read any children’s books at all last year (weird). Next, to include some CanLit in the event: a Morley Callaghan novel. And, finally, I’ve had The Nutmeg Tree, unread, on my shelves for ages, and everyone seems to love it.

Walter’s tiny epic is captivating. In short, he must fend for himself and, so, makes friends with other animals who help him. It’s funny to witnes his perspective on things changing, and to see how others around him begin to see him differently too. Somehow it’s a tender but not saccharine tale, and he comes to see possibilities where it seemed there were none. And I really loved how the characters (three frogs and a turtle are key) share their ideas and strengths, and we observe what sticks and what doesn’t; it’s an interesting take on culture and discovery, which affords everyone the chance to be themselves, regardless of definitions and expectations, while learning to keep others in mind.

For a completely different reading mood, Morley Callaghan’s More Joy in Heaven is a fictionalised exploration of Norman Ryan, the Jesse James of Canada, who’d committed a series of crimes in Canada and the United States-he’s called Kip Caley in the novel. Callaghan (1903-1990 and, Bill, this Wikipedia link is for you) was born and raised in Toronto and, in the 1920s, he worked at The Toronto Star. (Hemingway worked there at the same time and they became friends; Callaghan’s  1963 memoir, That Summer in Paris, includes talk of his bookish friendships and evokes the summer of 1929.)

Stylistically you feel the journalistic tone: direct, clear, and purposeful. Thematically, Callaghan is concerned about matters of morality and spirituality: how does one lead a good life. And, if one’s not led a good life until now, how does one repent. “I’ve made some mistakes. But I found out that the thing I got hold of belongs to me—it doesn’t depend on anyone else.” He focuses on the kind of characters often overlooked in fiction, and the themes remain relevant today.

I’m still reading Margery Sharp’s The Nutmeg Tree and it’s just as fun as everyone has said. There are bailiffs looking for money and women throwing parties. There are headaches that require retiring to one’s room and someone retires to read The Forsyte Saga. Style-wise, it reminds me of Edna Ferber’s Emma McChesney stories: light reading that’s surprisingly revealing of social norms and expectations—and subversions.

It’s always a treat, reading in company. Thanks for the good times!