Welcome to the Lounge! This is a 55+ Community of books. I would like to introduce a new genre, "Silver Lit". The silver boomers advancing in age. have arrived! It's time to call attention to literature that may not be young in years, but "old" in wisdom. Like others, I am always looking for a good book, but also one I can relate to. I believe with age, comes wisdom and life experience, which adds texture to the book. To the publishing world, a wink, we are here and we are reading.
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
The Orchardist By Amanda Coplin
I read this book several years ago and I still remember it fondly. Unfortunately, this is the only book written by this author. It is a stunning debut and the setting is the Pacific Northwest. A reclusive orchardist, William Talmadege, tends to his apples and apricots as lovingly as hid did at age 20 as he does at he does in his 80's.
He revels in quiet solitude and prefers the peace and quiet of the orchard, which he maintains meticulously. One day, two young pregnant girls appear and steal fruit from him at the market. The girls later appear on his orchard and decide to take up residence. They are starving, desperate and appreciative of his compassion and kindness.
Interwoven, other storylines erupt, a man of mystery, William Tallmadge is haunted by the loss of his sister, who ran away, was kidnapped or killed herself? He has no idea what happened to her.
The two young girls, Della and Angeline, are described as 'feral' and balk at societal norms, wild and free they chose a life free of boundaries, but lack basic skills to support themselves and their soon to be children. They become dependent upon the graces of Will Talmadge.
The author writes poetically, and provides a vivid picture of the setting. As Will Talmadge is assessing his livelihood and work ahead, the author writes descriptively.
"Now at his back, the shrouded bushels of apples and apricots rustled in the wagon bed, the wagon creaking forward beneath the weight, the old, old familiar rhythm in accordance with these leagues of thought. Dazzled and hunkered down, suspended by the sun. The mountains-cold-at his back. It was June; the road was already dusty. His frame slightly hunkered down, the floppy calfskin hat shielding his brow, under which was a scowl holding no animosity. The large hands, swollen knuckles, loosely holding the reins."
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Fiction
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