But gay man’s ‘women’s fiction’ tale is worth a read
Terri Schlichenmeyer | Bookworm Sez
BookwormSez@yahoo.com
The Clover Girls by Viola Shipman; c.2021, Graydon House; $16.99; 416 pages
The grass is greener on the other side of the fence. Someone else’s life is always better than yours, warts and all, and you wanted what she got, partly because she got it first. Greener grass often goes with sour grapes, but, as in the new novel,
The Clover Girls by Viola Shipman, it ultimately depends on how well you tend your garden.
V, formerly known as Veronica, felt fat.
She was sure that her husband, David, was embarrassed by the weight she’d put on since the kids were born and she’d had to give up her modeling career. Yes, she was once a cover model, lithe and beautiful. Now, she had an extra 15 pounds, but no career, no forward-looking future and no friends.
And then she got the letter.
When they were kids at Camp Birchwood, Rachel told her camp-mates that she’d be a famous actress someday. More than 20 years later, she was famous alright — as the spokeswoman for a misogynistic political candidate. Everybody hated what Rachel said on his behalf, and they sometimes hated her, too. But she was happy — wasn’t she?
And then she got the letter.
As Liz sat next to her dying mother, it hit her: Liz’s own kids and grandkids would never take care of her like that when the time came. So what kind of legacy was she leaving, then? There was her online store and a respectable amount of sales, but the creativity she had as a girl — the talent her friends appreciated — had never quite taken hold. And where were those friends these days, she wondered.
And then she got the letter.
Em said she’d be dead by the time they read their letters, that the cancer had metastasized too far for a cure. Sweet, dear Emily was the only one who’d kept track of everyone; she’d hoped the friendship-shattering event that happened years ago was forgivable, and she took a drastic move to try and make it so.
But is a four-leaf clover that’s missing a leaf still lucky?
There’s a meme-thread going around social media chiding men who write awkwardly about female characters. You might ask yourself, then, how author Wade Rouse, a gay man writing under a female pseudonym, would do it. The answer is: With a semi-contrived plot and a whole lotta heart.
On one end, readers who are used to more action-packed novels may roll their eyes; the main characters in The Clover Girls are all celebrity look-alikes, their spat was schoolgirl-silly, the plot lines are oh-so-convenient: How many times will they spread Emily’s ashes, and where did Liz get all that fabric?
It’s enough to make you squint. And yet, the basic story here is sweet and not outrageously dramatic. Shipman/Rouse instead makes it gentle, loving, squeaky-clean and perfect for sharing with anyone who devours women’s fiction like this.
So put aside the go-go-go novels. Look beyond the contrivances, and The Clover Girls may be your next obsession. Find it, and you might not be able to leaf it alone.
Learning to love laundry day
Laundry Love: Finding Joy in a Common Chore by Patric Richardson with Karin B. Miller; c.2021, Flatiron Books: $25.99; 185 pages.
Tomorrow’s outfit is on a chair over there. That’s where it’s been since you last washed it.
What you wore today came from a basket and off a hanger, the shirt needed ironing, there was a tiny stain on the pants but who noticed? And you just bought new socks, so there’s that.
Time to do the wash? Yeah, but get a load of this: Laundry Love by Patric Richardson (with Karin B. Miller).
In one of his earliest memories, Patric Richardson’s uncle holds him aloft so that Richardson could watch laundry swimming in the washer. He was almost a baby then, but the fascination was set: At age three, Richardson was “over the moon” when he received a toy washing machine as a birthday gift. He remembers that it was Harvest Gold.
Growing up, Richardson absorbed washday secrets from an extended family of women, and he learned the appeal of laundry hung on a line outside. While at the University of Kentucky, he met three professors who taught him about textiles, and employers educated him further. Love of fabric eventually became Richardson’s career, and laundry is his love-language: “Caring for your loved ones’ clothes shows them love.”
The first thing to know, Richardson states, is that “Our clothes are bossy.” If something you enjoy wearing says “Dry Clean Only” on the label, lay it on the kitchen counter, grab a pair of scissors, and cut that label off because, “Anything can be washed at home.”
Here, you’ll learn how to save time on wash day. Find out why big-brand-name detergents are unsafe, and see what you need to care for your clothes properly. Learn to iron, eliminate horrible stains, wash woolens and other awkward-to-clean items and see how to rescue yellowed linens and special-event clothing like a pro.
Remember, says Richardson, “You don’t have to do laundry — you get to do laundry.”
These days, though, author Patric Richardson doesn’t “get to” very often. His husband, he says, does their wash while Richardson runs a clothing store and offers “Laundry Camp” at the Mall of America. But since not everyone can be a happy camper, there’s Laundry Love.
If you’re thinking that a book about joyfully washing clothes would be a mighty skinny book, you’re right, but laundry is only a part of this story here. The rest is biography, and a love-letter to Appalachain and Southern women. In giving props to the women who raised him, Richardson shows how his interest in fabric grew, too; the subject of textiles, which may be perceived as mundane by many, is treated in this light as something precious and accessible.
If you come for the biography, you’ll be glad you stayed for the hints as Richardson shows how even the most delicate items can be safely home-cleaned. That fur you love? Done. That stinky-perfumed vintage item you found? Clean. Ahhhhhhh, so pick up the undies in the corner, use Grandma’s linens, shop thrift-stores with impunity. Go ahead, fear-free. Having Laundry Love should take a load off your mind.
