By Beth Lisick
Beth Lisick began as a homecoming princess with a Crisco-aided tan and a foul perm. after which every thing replaced. Plunging headlong into America's private subcultures, whereas preserving either ft firmly planted in her parents' Leave It to Beaver values, Lisick makes her grownup domestic at the edge of mainstream tradition and reveals it wealthy with paradox and humor. at the one hand, she lives in "Brokeley" with drug purchasers and highway gangs; at the different, she drives a station wagon with a toddler seat within the again, makes her personal poultry inventory, and attends ladies' luncheons. How precisely did this suburban girl-next-door turn out as considered one of San Francisco's top-rated chroniclers of different tradition? Lisick explains all of it in her hilarious, irreverent, bestselling memoir, Everybody into the Pool.
enthusiasts of David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell will delight in Lisick's scathingly humorous, shrewdpermanent, very genuine tackle the effluvia of day-by-day dwelling. it doesn't matter what neighborhood she's exposing to the sunshine, Lisick continually hits the perfect chord.
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Extra info for Everybody into the Pool: True Tales
If you so much as stirred in your sheets, blinding lights would flash in your face; and somewhere, invisible behind them, she would subject you to a ruthless interrogation. Miss Nichols moved in a perpetual fug, a great grey bulk of musty pullovers and thick woolly stockings and steel-capped walking-shoes that clicked like the deathwatch. Her face loomed out of the dark, wrinkles dusted with white powder that wedged itself in granules between the furrows, a ghostly mask capped by a cast iron hairstyle with steely ringlets that had not changed since the old Queen died.
Thursday 30 March 30 is my parent's wedding anniversary, neither of whom were particularly interested in gardening. Though in our family film it might seem otherwise: my mother picking the roses, and dad pushing a large wheelbarrow jauntily along blooming herbaceous borders. On this day nearly 50 years ago my parents posed for their wedding photo under a daffodil bell hanging in the lych gate of Holy Trinity, Northwood. The photo, with my father in his RAF uniform and my mother holding a bouquet of carnations, her veil caught in the March breeze - captured the imagination of the press.
The tide was low, the sands a pale blue, the sea ochre yellow with little white breakers blown back; above them, mauve clouds. Behind Prospect Cottage the sun was setting huge. Later a full moon was up in a cloudless sky - very clear. At midnight your shadow had gradation. The sea swelled right up, almost to the top of the shingle, moving slowly and relentlessly; the wind had dropped. Shimmering path of the moon across the sea. Ships etched against the sky far out in the channel. Very cold. Thursday 23 A bright sun dawned but cold winds soon blew in a very grey day.