A love of books drew this group of Fresno women together. That was 30 years ago
Books throw open doors and windows, inviting me into the world: another’s life, another place, another time. I meet characters who challenge my beliefs, decisions, relationships, the life I am living. I meet authors who remind me the very essence of composing is art — the rhythm of language, the turn of a phrase, the poetry of words.
And I surround myself with other book lovers — my Champagne and Popcorn Book Club, a 30-year sisterhood. Fully vaccinated, my friends and I gather monthly in my kitchen, popcorn popping in the microwave, champagne bubbling in fluted glasses, as we share recent events. Our friendship is long, our conversations deep — surviving breast cancer, hip/knee replacement, loss of mates, general aging afflictions. We laugh, commiserate, shed tears — a sisterhood of survivors.
When the microwave beeps, we carry popcorn, champagne, and opinions to the living room.
“I loved this book!”
“I loved the writing but hated the story!”
“Oh, my gosh, I didn’t want it to end.”
Books in hand, we search for passages to read aloud. We discuss plot, characters, and writing style. We consider differing points of view without judgment. Our lively, literary, analytical conversation reflects an intimacy from years of sharing a personal and professional journey as wives, mothers, friends, and educators.
My own love for the written word began in childhood. I remember my father seated at the kitchen table with Uncle Hampartzoom, the Asbarez, Fresno’s Armenian newspaper, spread before them. Dad read aloud, as I leaned in, elbows planted firmly on the Formica.
I remember National Geographic, Readers Digest, Life, and Look magazines stacked on the coffee table with The Fresno Bee and The Fresno Guide. Dad often called me to him while he read aloud, imparting his enthusiasm for news of the world. I can still see Mamie Eisenhower’s famous bangs displayed on the covers of Look and Life Magazines and Ubangi women with wooden discs in their lips, proudly posing on the cover of National Geographic.
When I entered upper elementary, we neighborhood girls trekked from Arthur Avenue to the Gillis Branch Library across from the Tower Theater. We walked two miles, book bags slung over shoulders, excited to find new reads.
As a middle schooler, I gained some sophistication from Reader’s Digest’s condensed book series sent with my father’s subscription. Throughout summer, I read what I would later recognize as classic literature: Steinbeck’s “East of Eden,” Michener’s “The Bridges at Toko Ri,” Kathryn Hulme’s “The Nun’s Story,” Dr. Thigpen and Dr. Cleckley’s “The Three Faces of Eve” — all on my own.
In high school, my friend, Dick Green, who shared a love of reading, loaned me his brother’s college books. While my Fresno High English class slugged through an oral reading of “A Tale of Two Cities,” Dick and I devoured “1984” in 1961, as well as “Goodbye Columbus,” “Atlas Shrugged,” “Exodus” and “The Hiding Place.” These books broadened my understanding of how novels both record and reflect life.
As a young wife, mother, and high school English teacher, I checked out books from the “best seller shelf” at Fig Garden Library during summer. My husband reminds me that as the sun came up, he would often find me folded into the love seat in the den, my book on the floor.
Someone once said a good novel provides a window into the human soul whether in another place, time, culture, or the present. It also provides an historical record of emotional, social, and physical survival. This is the wisdom my book club gleans. This is the reason we read. This is also how we are surviving COVID isolation.
