- Mass Market Paperback: 384 pages
- Publisher: Dell (August 25, 2009)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 0385338163
- ISBN-13: 978-0385338165
- Product Dimensions: 4.2 x 1 x 6.9 inches
- Shipping Weight: 6.4 ounces
- Average Customer Review: 197 customer reviews
- Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #2,119,409 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
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The Book of Bright Ideas: A Novel Mass Market Paperback – August 25, 2009
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About the Author
Sandra Kring lives in Wisconsin. Her debut novel, Carry Me Home, was a BookSense Notable Pick and a 2005 Midwest Booksellers’ Choice Award nominee. The Book of Bright Ideas was a 2006 Target Bookmarked™ selection and was named to the New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age list in 2007.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I should have known that summer of 1961 was gonna be the biggest summer of our lives. I should have known it the minute I saw Freeda Malone step out of that pickup, her hair lit up in the sun like hot flames. I should have known it, because Uncle Rudy told me what happens when a wildfire comes along.
We were standing in his yard, Uncle Rudy and I, at the foot of a red pine that seemed to stretch to heaven, when a squirrel began knocking pinecones to the ground with soft thuds. Uncle Rudy bent over with a grunt and picked one of the green cones up, rolling it a bit in his callused palm before handing it to me. It was cool in my hands. Sap dripped down the side like tears.
“Here’s somethin’ I bet you don’t know, Button,” he said, using the nickname he himself gave me. “That cone there, it ain’t like the cones of most other trees. Most cones, all they need is time, or a squirrel to crack ’em open so they can drop their seeds and start a new tree. But that cone there, it ain’t gonna open up and drop its seeds unless a wildfire comes through here.”
“That’s right,” Uncle Rudy said, scraping the scalp under his cap with his dirty fingernail. “See them little scales there, how they’re closed up tight like window shutters? Under- neath ’em are the seeds—flat little things, flimsy as a baby’s fingernails—with a point at one end. If a fire comes along, the heat is gonna cause those scales to peel back and drop their seeds, while the ground is still scorching hot. Then that tiny seed is gonna burrow in and take root.”
I was nine years old the summer Freeda and Winnalee Malone rushed across our lives like red-hot flames, peeling back the shutters that sat over our hearts and our minds, setting free our sweetest dreams and our worst nightmares. Too young to know at the onset that anything out of the ordinary was about to happen.
I was sitting on my knees behind the counter at The Corner Store playing with my new Barbie doll, her tiny outfits lined up on the scuffed linoleum. It was the first day of summer vacation, and Aunt Verdella was watching me because my ma was working for Dr. Wagner, the dentist, taking appointments and sending out bills and stuff like that. Aunt Verdella didn’t work, like my ma, but she’d been filling in at the store for Ada Smithy (who was having a recuperation from an opera- tion, because she’d had some ladies’ troubles). It was Aunt Verdella’s last day, then Ada was coming back, and we could stay at Aunt Verdella’s while she looked after me.
Aunt Verdella was standing next to me, the hem of her dress like a blue umbrella above me. She was talking to Fanny Tilman about Ada, and Aunt Verdella’s voice sounded almost like it was crying when she said, “Such a pity, such a pity,” and Fanny Tilman asked her what the pity was for, anyway. “Ada’s well past her prime, so seems to me that not getting the curse from here on out should be more of a blessing than a pity,” she said, and Aunt Verdella said, “But still . . .”
While they talked, I was trying to get Barbie’s tweed jacket on, which wasn’t easy because her elbows didn’t bend, and that tiny hand of hers kept snagging on the sleeve. While I was tugging, I was itching. I was looking at the little clothes spread out and trying hard to remember if she was supposed to wear the red jacket with the brown skirt or the green skirt. I cleared my throat a few times, like I always did when I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next, and Aunt Verdella looked down at me. “Button, you’re doin’ that thing with your throat again. What’s the matter, honey?” Aunt Verdella’s voice was loud, so loud that sometimes it pained my ears when she wasn’t even yelling, and her body always reminded me of a snowman made with two balls instead of three. The littlest ball was her head, sitting right on top of one big, fat ball.
I stood up. My knees felt gritty and I glanced down at them, hoping they weren’t getting too dirty, because I knew Ma’s lips were gonna pull so tight they’d turn white, like they always did when Aunt Verdella brought me home looking all grubby. “I can’t get her jacket on,” I said.
I handed Aunt Verdella my Barbie, the tweed jacket flapping at her back. Aunt Verdella laughed as she took it. Fanny Tilman peered at me, her puffy eyes puckering. “Is that Reece and Jewel’s little one?” she said, like Aunt Verdella could hear her but I couldn’t. I put my head down and stared at a gouge in the gray countertop.
“Yep, this is our Button,” Aunt Verdella said. She wrapped her freckly arm—stick-skinny like her legs—around me and pulled me to her biggest ball. It was soft and warm, not snowman-cold at all.
“She looks like Jewel,” Mrs. Tilman said, and she sounded a bit sorry about this. I saw her looking at my ears, which were too big for my head, and the face she made made me feel smaller than I already was. Aunt Verdella thought that long hair would hide my ears until I grew into them, but Ma said long hair was too much work to keep neat and she already had enough to do. Every couple of months, she’d snip it short, thin it with those scissors that have missing teeth, then curl it with a Tony perm. When she was done, my hair was bunched up in ten or eleven little pale brown knots. I wanted hair long enough to hang loose past my shoulders and cover my ears when I was around people, and to put up in a ponytail that swished my back when I wasn’t. But, shoot, I knew I’d never have anything but those stubby knots.
Aunt Verdella finished dressing Barbie, then handed her to me. I stood there a minute, wanting to ask her which skirt matched, but I didn’t want to talk with Fanny Tilman still looking at me, so I sat back down on the linoleum and stared at the two skirts some more.
Aunt Verdella had the door propped open with a big rock, because it was nice outside and the store was too hot with the sun beating through the windows. I was staring at the doll clothes when the sound of metal scraping on pavement filled the store.
“Uh-oh, somebody’s losing their muffler,” Aunt Verdella said. The racket from the scraping muffler got louder and sharper before it came to a stop. Aunt Verdella got up on her tiptoes, the tops of her white shoes making folds like Uncle Rudy’s forehead did when she brought home a whole trunkload of junk from the community sale.
“Good Lord, look what the cat’s drug into town now,” Fanny Tilman said. “Just what we need, a band of gypsies.”
“Oh, Fanny!” Aunt Verdella said.
I heard a door creak open, then slam shut. A lady’s voice started talking, but I couldn’t make out what it was saying. I heard some banging and then, “Jesus H. Christ! Is anybody gonna come pump my gas or not?” Folks who got gas at The Corner Store pumped their own gas, except for a couple of old ladies and the outsiders. Aunt Verdella called out, “I’ll be right there, dear!”
“Excuse me, Button,” she said as she stepped over me and hurried around the counter. I put my fingertips on the counter and pulled myself up to take a peek. Mrs. Tilman was standing in the open doorway, her purse clutched in her arms like she thought the “gypsies” were going to try swiping it. She was busy gawking, so I stood all the way up and peeked out between the handmade signs Scotch-taped to the window.
The bed of the red pickup truck at the pumps, and the wagon towed behind it, were piled high with junky furniture I knew didn’t match and boxes stuffed with bunched-up clothes and dishes that spilled out over the tops.
My eyes almost bugged out of my head when I saw the lady who was standing next to the truck while Aunt Verdella pumped her gas. She had the prettiest color hair I’d ever seen. Red, but like a red I’d never set eyes on before: shiny like a pot of melted copper pennies. Not dark, not light, but somewhere in between, and bright like fire. She stretched like a cat, the sleeveless blouse tied at her waist riding up a belly that was flat and the color of buttered toast. She was made like my Barbie doll, with two big bumps under her blouse, a skinny waist, and long legs under kelly-green pedal pushers. She was wearing a pair of sunglasses with a row of rhinestones at the corners that shot rays into my eyes when she turned toward the store. There was something about the lady, too, that shined just as bright as her hair and those rhinestones. Not a warm kind of shining, but a sharp kind, like bright sun jabbing through the window and stinging your eyes.
Aunt Verdella cranked her head toward the store and yelled, “Button, bring Auntie the restroom key, will ya?”
I stepped up on the wooden stool and reached for the key, which was taped to a ruler so it couldn’t get lost easy, and I hurried it outside. As much as I hated meeting new people, I wanted to see the pretty lady up close.
The Barbie lady took off her sunglasses and poked them into her fiery hair, which was piled high on her head in a messy sort of way. She had green eyes like a cat’s, and her eyelids were sparkly with the same color, clear up to her eyebrows. She had real nice ears too. Tiny, and laying flat to her head like ears are supposed to. I handed Aunt Verdella the key, and she gave it to the pretty lady, who was glaring at the truck, a crabby look on her face. “The ladies̵...
Top customer reviews
In the Book of Bright Ideas, we get to see the world of Button (Evelyn) Peters through the perspective of an eight-year-old girl. I am very captivated by books about people who are damaged and fragmented and the lengths they willing to endure to either change or not change.
We meet Button and her family who is dysfunctional at best. One-summer day two sisters come to town, Freeda and Winnalee. It is a summer of awakenings, secrets kept and secrets exposed.
Lives are not only shaken up but also shaken to the foundations. Truth is a mirror that shows our deepest hopes and secrets. Everyone get to look at that mirror and we get to see those truths through the eyes of a child.
We meet damaged people and learn how they became that way. We see people evolve, grow, and change. We see people encounter truth and learn to see and speak their own truths.
I have read books that play to heartstrings that make us reach for a tissue but this book does it in an honest way because it is so real and bare bones honest.
Some reviews object to cursing but this book is about real life. In real life people do cuss. Characters in this book face their demons and I think that is what makes this book so special.
Many people get right to the very edge and face their demons and are so overcome with terror they run; never gathering the strength to push past that and actually see what happens. That is not the case in this book. Perhaps it is not by everyone’s choice, but truths are told and no one is ever the same.
The characters are very real. I did not find the book predictable or trite either. I have loved books all my life. The Book of Bright Ideas is and wonderful adventure, and quite honestly, the most touching book that I have ever read. It is my hope that someone who may find difficulty finding and speaking their truth will read this book and see what it is like for someone to find their voice. Perhaps it may help them find their own.
This is definitely Chick Lit with more emphasis on Chick than Lit, but the characters are endearing as they grow to accept themselves and learn how to express their love for others. There is a good amount of profanity, drinking, and sex needed to tell this story, so readers should beware it they are easily offended. It is a better book than Saving CeeCee Honeycutt: A Novel, and it about on par with Whistling In the Dark, but it is definitely not To Kill a Mockingbird. If The Book of Bright Ideas were turned into a film, it would be a straight to TV Lifetime Movie Channel original.