The book “Caravan” by Dorothy Gilman, is by far, one of the greatest books I’ve ever read. I found it on my mom’s bookshelf and promptly stole it outright. (I’m still not sorry.) I have read that book until the cover is cracked, the spine is boiled-noodle soft and the entire middle section, pages 37-114, have gone AWOL like renegade soldiers. I’ve started storing it in a manila envelope instead of trusting it to hold together on the bookshelf.
Dorothy Gilman in general was an incredible story teller (she died earlier this year). She came up with original and hilarious concepts, but the thing that I love about her books is the characters. Each of them is so strong, in a lot of different ways.
One is a perky, elderly woman who, fed up with geraniums and volunteering, applies for a job as a secret agent…and gets it. But instead of being kitschy and stodgy (Lookin’ at you Miss Marple), Mrs. Pollifax reveals great depths of ingenuity, humor and enormous emotion. Despite the impossible situations she finds herself in, she is incredibly human and relatable. I daresay I find myself loving her like a grandma sometimes.
But of all the Dorothy Gilman books I’ve read (14) my absolute favorite is Caravan. Following the life of a 16 year old girl in the early 1920’s, this book is about A LOT more than just growing up. The main character, Caressa, marries an older man and very quickly is whisked away to Africa with her linguistics studying husband. Very soon, she finds herself stranded in the desert, captured by native tribes, sold as a slave, pursued by bandits, even the object of affection.
This story is touching on so many levels. The things that Caressa faces are terrifying, but she accepts and deals with them with such charisma and even humor that it makes me ashamed when I get pissy over the grocery store being out of wasabi flavored seaweed wraps.
It isn’t just Caressa that I love. The entire story is rich in the history and culture of Africa and humanity in general. It’s a striking tale, spun beautifully and timed so perfectly that it seems like a poem each time I read it.
It’s become something of a routine for me. I’ll go 2 or 3 months, just boppin’ along, living life and then I’ll have the Terrible Week. The Terrible Week consists of a series of incidents ranging from slightly annoying events (flat hair) to full blown anger inducing rage-makers (flat tire). Overall it makes for a soul-shattering, energy-sapping bad week, where the only thing keeping me from a triple shotgun homicide is my daily Frappuccino.
When I get like that I head instinctively for my bookshelves. I run my finger along the familiar titles, looking very studious indeed, searching for that perfect book, a mixture of humor, adventure and romance. A reflection of my own flaws and an example of what I should strive to. An elegant, beautiful, soulful book that will calm and center me. Eventually, I stop pretending to look and reach for what I wanted all along; a tattered manila envelope holding 256 pages of the best story I’ve ever read.
In this manner, another triple shotgun homicide is avoided.
