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Olive Kitteridge

Elizabeth Strout won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction this year, for her loosely related short story collection called Olive Kitteridge.  The book is one of the best I’ve read for character study.  Each story either brushes up against Olive–the wife of a loving husband, a mother of a stubborn boy, and seventh-grade teacher in town–or highlights her entirely.  At times abrasive, at times endearing, Olive has ups and downs we can relate to.

My favorite story–for many reasons–is “Security.”  It’s when you, at last, learn that Olive has a faulty self-awareness, and it reminded me a little of how we all might get into trouble with family members.  We all know that something went horribly wrong somewhere, but we can’t figure out where, and it’s this icky everything-is-not-right feeling that prevents us from sorting things out.  You’d think it would be easy–that you’d just talk everything out–but that requires two parties, and if the other party isn’t ready, or you’re not ready, well, let’s just say that you’re out of luck.

Olive, who is now older and retired, goes to visit her son Christopher and his new wife in New York.  She “knows” he’s been avoiding her, but she attributes it to busyness, to life in general.

Christopher has a new wife and two sons, and on a lark, they all go out to an ice cream parlor.  When Olive arrives home, she realizes that she has spilled dark butterscotch sauce all down the front of her top, and no one has told her.  She’s miffed, of course, and she understands that she’s become her Aunt Ora, who everyone thought was pathetic.

The next morning, she huffs and puffs and tells her son she’s going home.

“Christopher shook his head slowly.  ‘I knew this was going to happen.  I knew something would trigger things off.’

“‘What are you talking about?’ Olive said.  ‘I’m simply telling you it’s time for me to go home.’

“‘Then come inside,’ Christopher said.

“‘I guess I don’t need my son telling me what to do,’ Olive said….

“‘I asked you to come visit,’ Christopher said slowly, ‘because I wanted to see you.  Ann wanted to meet you.  We were hoping we could just have a nice time.  I was hoping that things had changed, that this wouldn’t happen.  But, Mom, I’m not going to take responsibility for the extreme capriciousness of your moods.  If something happened to upset you, you should tell me.  That way we can talk.’

“‘You’ve never talked your whole damn life.  Why are you starting now?’  It was the therapist, she realized suddenly.  Of course.  That foolish Arthur fellow.  She ought to be careful, this would get repeated in a therapy group.  Extreme capriciousness of your moods. That was not Christopher’s voice.  Good God, they’d discussed her to pieces already.  The thought caused her whole body to shudder.  ‘And what are you talking about, the capriciousness of my moods?  What in hell is that all about?’

“Ann was mopping at the milk with a sponge, still holding the baby.  Christopher stood calmly in front of her.  ‘You kind of behave like a paranoid, Mom,’ he said.  ‘You always have.  At least a lot, anyway.  And I never see you taking any responsibility for it.  One minute you’re one way, the next–you’re furious.  It’s tiring, very wearing for those around you.’”

Oh, Olive is furious, being called “a schizoid.”  She’s appalled she’s raised this boy child of hers.  How dare he?

Do you see what I mean?  I think it mirrors exactly what family is to a lot of people.  That’s what makes Strout’s writing so good.

If you’re looking for a good character study, read this book.  It’s fascinating, and nothing like you’d expect from short fiction, in my humble opinion.

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