14 hours and 44 minutes on CD. Sarah Bird authors brilliant, introspective novels of bittersweet reminiscence tempered with humor. The Yokota Officers Club is a tale both courageous and touching--a journey of the heart that speaks volumes of the transient, isolated lifestyle of military families. Having grown up at the Yokota Air Base in Japan, and having moved six times in the last eight years, Bernadette "Bernie" Root and her five siblings are quintessential military brats. It's 1968, and eighteen-year-old Bernie is returning to the regimented life at Kadena Air Base on Okinawa after her first year away at college. Although her attitudes toward the military have changed, Bernie is beginning to realize the intense bonds she shares with her unusual family.
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Outtakes from an interview that appeared in the April 2011 issue of Southern Living...
Southern Living: Are there any personal connections to this novel that you'd like to share?
Sarah: Oh, gads, there are SO many. I'll try, (and no doubt fail), to keep it brief.
In 2008, our son became a member of the largest college freshman class in history. Everything about the experience surprised me. Let's just start off with the cost. I knew that college costs had skyrocketed so we'd put aside a small fortune. We learned, however, that small wasn't going to cut it. Instead, a great walloping fortune would be required.
The next shock was discovering that in order to even be allowed to spend these breathtaking sums I would have to take on a second job as a ratings coordinator. There are over four thousand colleges and universities in this country and each one had to be parsed because, as it turns out, the college your child goes to is, essentially, a referendum on you as a parent. Are you a five-star Ivy League parent? A small, selective liberal arts college parent? A giant, state university parent? A two-year community college parent? Being a no-college parent was so far beyond the pale that it wasn't even ever mentioned.
So the getting in part surprised me. But what surprised me even more was what happened after when the empty nest loomed as a reality. I was bereft. Completely blindsided by how much it affected me.
While pregnant eighteen years earlier, I had devoured every "What to Expect " book out there. As we slogged through this college experience, I wished for a whole new slew of guides to help me through this unsettling phase. For example, was it normal to both ardently pray for the day when this grumpy stranger you've raised would vacate the premises and burst into tears in the frozen food aisle because you'll never buy pepperoni Hot Pockets again? And Real Estate Regret? Is Real Estate Regret--the constant replaying of the different lives your child would have had if you'd lived in a different neighborhood, went to a different school, had different friends--normal?
Time Travel, I knew that Time Travel wasn't normal, yet, as we approached the date of our son's departure, I was swept uncontrollably off on journeys back through the years where I'd revisit key moments in the past. Then, like Real Estate Regret, I'd create an entirely different childhood for my son in which, for example, we'd never allowed videogames. Or had been active in the Methodist church. Or the Buddhist temple. Or had owned a telescope and pursued astronomy as a family hobby. Or raised chickens. Or all made our beds every morning.
Obviously, I needed, probably still need, intensive therapy. Instead, I wrote "The Gap Year."
Southern Living: Are there any personal connections to this novel that you'd like to share?
Sarah: Oh, gads, there are SO many. I'll try, (and no doubt fail), to keep it brief.
In 2008, our son became a member of the largest college freshman class in history. Everything about the experience surprised me. Let's just start off with the cost. I knew that college costs had skyrocketed so we'd put aside a small fortune. We learned, however, that small wasn't going to cut it. Instead, a great walloping fortune would be required.
The next shock was discovering that in order to even be allowed to spend these breathtaking sums I would have to take on a second job as a ratings coordinator. There are over four thousand colleges and universities in this country and each one had to be parsed because, as it turns out, the college your child goes to is, essentially, a referendum on you as a parent. Are you a five-star Ivy League parent? A small, selective liberal arts college parent? A giant, state university parent? A two-year community college parent? Being a no-college parent was so far beyond the pale that it wasn't even ever mentioned.
So the getting in part surprised me. But what surprised me even more was what happened after when the empty nest loomed as a reality. I was bereft. Completely blindsided by how much it affected me.
While pregnant eighteen years earlier, I had devoured every "What to Expect " book out there. As we slogged through this college experience, I wished for a whole new slew of guides to help me through this unsettling phase. For example, was it normal to both ardently pray for the day when this grumpy stranger you've raised would vacate the premises and burst into tears in the frozen food aisle because you'll never buy pepperoni Hot Pockets again? And Real Estate Regret? Is Real Estate Regret--the constant replaying of the different lives your child would have had if you'd lived in a different neighborhood, went to a different school, had different friends--normal?
Time Travel, I knew that Time Travel wasn't normal, yet, as we approached the date of our son's departure, I was swept uncontrollably off on journeys back through the years where I'd revisit key moments in the past. Then, like Real Estate Regret, I'd create an entirely different childhood for my son in which, for example, we'd never allowed videogames. Or had been active in the Methodist church. Or the Buddhist temple. Or had owned a telescope and pursued astronomy as a family hobby. Or raised chickens. Or all made our beds every morning.
Obviously, I needed, probably still need, intensive therapy. Instead, I wrote "The Gap Year."
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