Olivia Dwyer
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“Want a Free Book? It’s Not the Bible!”
Who wouldn’t want a free book? Plenty of people, it turns out. Yesterday after work, I paraded down to the shopping center a block from my apartment with a box of 20 books in tow. As I tried to hand them out, I was baffled by the general wariness of those coming and going outside the local supermarket. People avoided eye contact, gave me a wide berth, said “no, thanks” as I approached and hurried past. Then a woman stopped to ask me what I was giving away and why. “It’s The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien. I’m a giver for World Book Night, and a bunch of publishers paid to print one million books for me and people across the country to give away.” She smiled. “That’s awesome! I thought you were giving away the Bible.”
Aha. Light bulb moment. I tried a different approach. “Want a free book? It’s not the Bible!” This worked better. Shoppers broke stride a half step past me and turned back to hear more. Some admitted they thought I was an evangelist, Hare Krishna, or Jehovah’s Witness. My mantra did ruin the fun for one gentleman, who delivered his regular line for religious types—“I’ve read your book, and it ends badly!”—before happily tucking O’Brien’s book into his hemp grocery bag and heading home.
I admit The Things They Carried is not the easiest book to give away. It’s a work of fiction about the Vietnam War, based on the author’s personal experiences. The story hinges on the tokens and talismans carried by a platoon of soldiers, both the physical—photos, a girlfriend’s pantyhose, tranquilizers, a puppy—and the intangible baggage of war. Like many people, I read the book in college. (It’s commonly used in literature and composition classes.) I flipped through the pages Sunday night to get reacquainted, and I got nervous about handing this book to strangers. Sex, drugs, and violence are main players from page one. Those misgivings weren’t unfounded. The first mother I tried to give the book to said, “Oh, no, I can’t read this. It will give me nightmares.”
I knew it could have that affect. I hoped people would read it anyway. The U.S. has been at war for more than a decade now, in conflicts that bear more than a passing resemblance to Vietnam. Days ago, my high school classmate shipped out after a week of R&R at home with his wife and kids, returning to Afghanistan to finish his second tour of duty. One of my best friends just returned from a year in Afghanistan. They have sacrificed their health and happiness and lived with violence and tragedy in this war. Meanwhile, I’m preoccupied with how much water my garden needs and where I’ll go mountain biking this weekend. I think of my friends often, but the closest I come to this war is a feeling of vague disgust for my country’s politics. The people at home need to be unsettled, and we can suffer a few nightmares. The Things They Carried did this in a big way for me the first time I read it. I’m not the type to march in the streets, but handing out copies of this particular book was a kind of protest on my part.
It was also an act of celebration. My last stop was my boss’s house, to give his wife (an English teacher) a copy of the book. We came in for a beer, sitting in the living room beside an overstuffed bookshelf. Their 10-year-old son lay on the couch, tearing through the last of the 208 pages in The Lord of the Flies. He’d started the book after school that day and hadn’t moved from the couch all afternoon. That’s how I read, how I love books. I tumble into them, falling into another world and living experiences beyond my own. I venture into used bookstores just to inhale the heady aroma of aged tomes, and a block of pages with rough-cut edges is more valuable to me than a brick of gold. I wanted to share that, which is why I signed up for World Book Night. There were a few bumps in the road, but I’ll be back next year.
Check out worldbooknight.org for more information and a list of the 30 titles we gave away yesterday. If you’ve already read The Things They Carried, pick up a copy of War by Sebastian Junger, a riveting, factual account of his time embedded in Afghanistan.
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“If you know her, you love her.” So says the introduction to Sally Francklyn’s Caring Bridge page. It the simplest, most obvious way to sum up what this wonderful woman means to the skiing and outdoor community.
I don’t know Sally very well. I exchanged e-mails with her as a freelancer, hung out with her at a few media events, skied with her at Alta and Solitude in January, saw her on the floor during the trade show bonanza, and then a few more e-mails in her latest role as PR maven. A collection of moments and casual encounters, really. She was always smiling, laughing, and lighting up the room, and always made my day better for it. And she’s a ripping skier, of course.
This past Saturday, Sally fell while skiing the Jackson Hole sidecountry, sliding downhill and suffering a cranial fracture when her helmet struck rocks. She’s been in a coma since then, and the outpouring of love and support on Facebook, Twitter, and other social media is a force to behold. It’s still coming on strong, because this lady is amazing and we need her back. Watch the video above and get to know Sally. Then get to know her better at @sallyfrancklyn, or the Super Woman Sally Facebook group page, or her Caring Bridge site. If you want to help, check out Sally’s Super Fund. And please send love and strength her way.
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Get growing, garden
Back in the day when I was picking up sticks and moving halfway across the world every six months, my secret dream was to grow a garden. Turn the dirt, plant the seeds, pull the weeds, and pick the food. Not easily done when your possessions must fit in a backpack and board bag, and the first hint of spring means it’s time to move on to the next seasonal job.
But now, here I am, with an adultish-looking lifestyle and a rock steady 9-5 gig that I’ve been working for almost four seasons now. And yes, the garden is happening. I put my name on a wait list for the local community garden, got in, paid $60, and now I have a wee plot all my own. Johnny and I got busy clearing the tubers, roots, and weeds that we’d inherited, and double digging the soil for this year’s crop. Check out the huge-mungo carrots we woke from hibernation in one corner. Still tasty! Brought a bagful home and just pulled a carrot cake out of the oven. Thanks, strangers who decided not to garden this year!
Here’s the before shot:
The coop in the corner protects strawberries. That was the only thing Johnny adamantly wanted in the garden, so we’re already ahead of the game. Lots of other work left to do, but plenty of fun to be had along the way. Go go garden!
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Two years ago today, CR Johnson died in a ski accident at Squaw Valley. I was living in Tahoe and working at Squaw at the time. I never met CR, but I vividly remember the impact his death had on the community. He was universally loved and respected, and he is greatly missed. This is CR’s segment from “Seven Sunny Days” by Matchstick Productions, chronicling his struggle to return to pro skier form after a traumatic brain injury. You don’t need to be a skier to appreciate it. If there’s anything you’re passionate about, anything you love to do, anything at which you aspire to be great, this is worth watching. And hopefully we all find something in our lifetime that makes us say some version of this: ”The joy I get from skiing, that’s worth dying for.”
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Take a Gamble
A sucker punch buried itself in my gut yesterday morning when I saw the news of three skiers killed in an avalanche just out of bounds at Washington State’s Stevens Pass ski resort. I sunk into a sick cycle of hitting “refesh” and trolling Google for details. I couldn’t let go. My ESPN editor was with the group, and people I’d spent the better part of January getting to know at trade shows were close at hand.
As a freelancer working overseas, I followed stories of avalanches and deaths in the mountains from outside the circle, always sorry but always safe. Over the last eight months, working full-time in the outdoor industry, I’ve met incredible people—athletes, journalists, industry insiders, PR pros, and more. When this story broke, it was close to home. I know the names in the headlines. I work with people who consider taking risks an essential part of being alive. That makes the 9-to-5 my dream job, but it also scares me.
Not in a physical way—there’s equipment, classes, and experience to help with that. But what about my heart? ”We gamble on joy,” my husband said. The simple stillness of blue skies and white snow. The pain of burning lungs on the uphill and the reward of floating through powder on the down. And the most perfect happiness of all: people to share those moments with. These people died doing what they love, with friends. It’s small comfort, but it means something.
