Seeing Life Through Pinhole Glasses

Christopher doesn't mind touching dead things.  Christopher doesn't like being touched.  Christopher thinks metaphors are stupid but he understands and adores prime numbers.  Often the world is too loud and bright for this fifteen year old boy's comfort and people he meets are in it extremely confusing.  As far as Christopher is concerned, all of life would be better if it were predictable, like a mystery story.

As such, Christopher John Francis Boone takes center stage as narrator and autistic hero of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time.  Recognition of this development disorder has been growing for the last two decades and the Centers for Disease Control believes that roughly one percent of the world's population is a member of this group (U. S. statistics suggest that number is low).  That means at least 74 million people are participating in life right now without the verbal and non-verbal communication skills the rest of us use without effort.  Minus the ability to recognize or understand the nuanced feelings of others, these people go through life often aware they don't quite fit in with  "regular people" but unable to bridge the gap between themselves and the rest of the world. The condition becomes a filter they gaze through, seeing somethings clearly but missing part of the world, like someone looking at life through Pinhole Glasses. 

Christopher's perceptions are limited by his disorder and by a lack of information.  His mother disappeared awhile ago but his father doesn't want to talk about it.  Mr. Shears's name can't be mentioned but Christopher isn't told why beyond the statement, "That man is evil."  Then someone kills the neighbor's dog and Christopher has a mystery he cannot ignore.  He decides to use the methods of his hero, Sherlock Holmes, to find out what happened to the dog.  What results is a lesson in unearthing the odd corners of the human heart.

While Christopher is mystified by the actions and reactions of the people that surround him, his creator, Mark Haddon, is not.  Mr. Haddon allows Christopher to tell the story so that the love, frustration and sadness of the non-autistic characters shine through, even though Christopher doesn't see the clues.  Haddon's skill simultaneously shows us the world Christopher sees with its  attendant terrors, triumphs and confusion without condescension or judgment of his hero.  Although he may seem impaired by our standards, Christopher views himself as a complete, competent soul who responds reasonably to strange situations.  By the end, you may think he is right.

For those of us who know or love anyone on the autism spectrum, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time is a godsend but it's so much more than that.  Anyone who has ever been mystified by the actions of others or been faced with a situation difficult to handle can empathize with Christopher.  It's also good for anyone who has had to forgive actions they do not understand.  In other words, we've all lived in Christopher's world and his story is for all of us.

Where Memory Resides With History

Thanks for the Memories

A friend from college visited me earlier this summer. She's a great gal and it's always terrific to see her but before she arrived, I wondered where I should take her during our visit. We have the usual amenities within easy driving distance but why bring her to some spot like another near her home?  In the end, we went to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, a museum and memorial to the Civil Rights Struggle in Birmingham, Alabama. It was the right thing to do. Birmingham's history with the Movement may not be what the city wants to be known for but it's our calling card in the pages of history. Hiding from the past never helps.

Because of Birmingham's infamous role in that struggle, explaining positive aspects of this place to the casual outsider can be difficult.  (Well, some of my Caucasian friends have admitted this is hard; I haven't got the nerve or bad manners to find out if my African-American friends here face the same issues.)  In the face of bombed churches and fire-hoses, how can anyone describe warm-hearted people and neighborhoods without sounding like a fool or a racist?  How can the domestic joys of tree-lined streets, southern cuisine and music be reconciled with murdered children and systematic oppression?  How do you balance the good in a place that has held so much evil?

Diane McWhorter set out to do something like this in her prize-winning book, Carry Me Home.  As a white child of the South she admittedly grew up "on the wrong side of the revolution" and her recollection of Birmingham's melt-down was similar to my memory of living in Texas when President Kennedy was shot. Distanced by youth and luck from the epicenter, only the  faintest reverberations of nation-shaking events initially touched either one of us. Repercussions from the 16th Street Church bombing threatened to affect her high school musical. The President's murder  upset my mother and preempted my Saturday Morning Cartoons.

Ms. McWhorter eventually realized her family might have closer ties to "Bombingham" than she originally supposed and part of Carry Me Home traces the twin strata of racism and social caste that ran through the power structure of 1960's Birmingham and how those two methods of exclusion supported each other.  The wealthiest power brokers of Birmingham limited their public resistance to integration by complaining about "outside agitators" while ignoring the circumstances that drove the agitation and privately supporting/manipulating the civil authorities that turned peaceful demonstrations into full-scale riots.  These business leaders turned a blind eye to the violent actions of their local government and law enforcement much as those in governmental authority chose not to see the clandestine relationship between some of their members and the Klan. The end of legalized segregation in Birmingham wasn't just a political victory for a coalition of under-funded, often competitive leaders.  It was a David-and-Goliath struggle where David couldn't stop fighting until Goliath realized he was wrong.

That realization came more slowly to some than others and there are still days when I despair of the future but something my husband said once comforts me.  In the middle of the Rodney King riots he reminded me that Birmingham faced some ugly truths about itself in the middle of the 20th century. It wasn't an easy or a pleasant task but, as as a result, the town lost its blinders and began the long, slow, turn towards tolerance.  He went on to say that more peaceful cities often assumed they didn't have Birmingham's issues and ignored the pockets of hate still  festering within their own borders. Only a tragedy on their own doorstep would expose the latent evil and rip away their personal blinders.  In the aftermath of a tidal wave of hate-based murders, the only good thing I can hope for is that other communities are starting to recognize the problems and divisions they contain.

No atonement will bring back the dead or repair the families blasted by loss but I believe humanity tends to correct its mistakes, once it sees what they are. We saw that in the respectful, kind way all the staff and visitors treated each other at the Civil Rights Institute that day. That's why places like the BCRI and books like Ms. McWhorter's are important. Not only do they honor the lost, they teach us how to create a better future instead of repeating the sins of the past.

The Scents of Summer

We've officially moved into the Summer Season, the one we dream of during the dreary, wet days of February and the long brutal nights of Winter.  The thermometer has begun it's annual low boil of mercury, keeping the glass over the 90 degree mark opaque but I am not complaining.  This is a glorious time of year, when the earth seems to spill over with an abundance of living things and I am its eager audience.  More than any other, Summer is a season of scents for me and a single whiff sends me into a cascade of memories eternally tied to this season.

Lilac I grew up in a two bedroom house, unprepossessing in appearance.   Between the patchy lawn and the faded exterior, it would never draw the eye except for 10 days every year when the wall of lilac surrounding the house blossomed.  For the rest of the year the bushes were just as a privacy fence between us and the neighbors, but each year, between May 1 and my birthday, they burst into glorious bloom, drowning the block in scent and turning our wren-brown house into a thing of beauty, framed by that delicate color. In the morning, I could bury my face in the blossoms or pick armfuls of them for pleasure.  In the evening we sat on the porch and I watched my mom tilt her head backto immerse herself further into the waves of this marvelous perfume.  The flowers would eventually fall, leaving behind long, leafy saplings that my sister and I cut and pealed to create "hiking staffs" for our rambles to imaginary summits.  New owners took possession of the house and, I understand, eradicated the wall of lilac.  I can't understand this.  Without that waterfall of flowers, how can they know when summer begun?

Swimming Pool Smells  A sub-group of people in this country think of summer whenever they start to do laundry.  They should be known, collectively, as the Pool Kids. Not every generation equated summer with swimming and not everyone had access to a pool but for a certain number of years, those of us who did spent every spare minute and penny we could in that concrete hole full of chemicals and water.  From late spring until the next school year started, we prayed for sun each day and then begged our mothers for the price of admission.  Kids spent a lot of those summer days dressed in swim suits, either for the morning swimming lessons or for the afternoon free-for all and more than one blonde head turned green over the summer due to long-term exposure to the chlorinated water.  Of course, chlorine is only the base note of the Swimming Pool perfume.  The complete fragrance also carries the scent of Baby-Oil and the grace notes of Coppertone and Hawaiian Tropic.   Older girls drenched themselves in this marinade of emollients and then laid by the side of the pool, hoping to roast to a golden-brown and attract the attention of boys.  That pungent combination of unguents and chemicals is a time machine on me.  One whiff and I'm back at the five foot ladder listening to the whistle of the life-guard and the ker-splash! of a cannonball dive.

Peaches At one time, I couldn't stand Peaches.  When  I was very small, Mom would stop by orchards that would sell all the fruit we could pick for a pre-specified price.  The only thing was, we didn't pick the fruit.  Mom stood under the tree and directed me up the trunks to pull the fruit from the branches. climb down and hand them to her.  Between the heat, the small, knobbly branches and the fuzzy fruit, the trees were a misery to climb and with every peach, I was terrified that I'd also pick up a worm.  I didn't care about any of the wonderful desserts or preserves Mom promised she'd make from my labors and no amount of explanation could help her understand why I loved climbing the mimosa tree at home but hated everything to do with peaches.  It took me years to reconsider.

The American South is justifiably known for it's incredible bounty of peaches and one of the "Peach Capitals" of the region is where I changed my mind.  Years ago, a boss took me on a late summer field trip that ended in one of these Peach Palaces. It was just after harvest and the late summer sun made the afternoon dusty-hot but my boss knew her way to the air-conditioner and a plate of home-made Peach Ice Cream.  I could have wept for the sweetness and the foolish years I had wasted avoiding the miracle of peaches.  Since then, I've haunted fruit stands and farmers markets for peaches and when they are fresh in the store, I sniff them like a bouquet of flowers.  Peaches are the last, rich, best part of summer for me, vibrant, juicy and sweet, already spicy in their own nectar.

There's something to love about every part of the year, some stillness or quickening to appreciate.  There's glory in the color of the autumn, joy in the blossoming of spring and a reverence in the still, white, silence of winter.  Enjoy them each in turn but don't neglect the scents of summer.  They're a feast for the senses.

Getting to the Heart of the Problem

At one point of my life I thought DNA made me fat.  I was very young then and it seemed to me my extra pounds were the result of a random inheritance, like green eyes or height.  My father was big, both my grandmothers were heavy and one of my uncles could be described as "comfortably cuddly". Of course that meant my sister, my mother, and my other relations had been gifted with the "skinny" gene, so I figured I had no choice in the matter.  Mama got rid of those illusions.  Fat happened when more calories went in than energy went out, she said, and pointed out that my svelte little sister was one of those children that never stood still.  Once I started eating less and moving more, my days as a fatty would be over.

Well, they weren't.  I started a multitude of diets, upped my exercise and periodically lost hundreds of pounds through the years, all of which returned with interest each time my newest reduction plan stopped. It got so I  was miserable while I was losing weight, obsessed by every calorie and scale-revealing ounce and I was even more miserable fat. My eating habits got, if anything, worse, my weight loss efforts landed me in the hospital at least once and my appearance/health eventually turned into a radioactive subject. I knew the extra weight was killing me and I knew what was causing it, but I couldn't understand why, with all this knowledge, I still engaged in these destructive behaviors.  

This was when I found Geneen Roth's Feeding the Hungry Heart,  her groundbreaking book about compulsive overeaters.  These folks (and I am one) have unconsciously turned a normal, necessary activity (eating) into a way of avoiding and (ironically) reinforcing negative emotions.  It's a simple, hellish tango of flawed logic.  Follow me through the dance steps:

1. I'm feeling lonely, sad, stressed, or depressed (This is first position)
2. I don't like the way I feel. (turn)
3. I eat until I don't feel anything but full (lunge)
4. Now I feel worse with the binge-caused guilt and remorse overlaying the original problem (return to first position)
5. And the only relief I know is to....(slide/backstep toward)

Begin Eating again

Feeding the Hungry Heart helps the Compulsive Overeater identify the emotional triggers that start a binge cycle and work through the feelings instead of dulling them with calories.  It replaces calorie obsession and grazing with Mindful Eating (being aware of all the flavors and textures of a meal instead of grazing) and the negative self-body image most Compulsive Overeaters have with Acceptance of yourself and Life as it is Right Now. Basically, it helps remove the emotional obstacles interfering with the attempts to address a physical problem.

If this sounds too New Age-y for you to relate to, no problem.  Not everyone who overeats is a Compulsive Overeater.  If you are, reading this book won't magically solve all your problems. Recovery takes time and a lot of work.  But it will let you know you are not alone and that there is a dance you can do besides the binge/guilt tango.  And sometimes, knowing there is hope is enough to begin again.

Maybe the Greatest Race Horse of All Time

Well, another Belmont race has been run and America's flirtation with horse-racing has been put away for another year. Sure, there are thousands of people who spend their lives breathing and living for horse racing but lots more limit their equine attention-span to the Kentucky Derby and focus on the Belmont only if the winner stands to win the Triple Crown (rare) or beat Secretariat's Belmont time (Impossible, as far as I'm concerned).  Of course when that rare instance occurs, civilians like myself love to debate who the truly great horses were/are and who would win if we could time-transport them all to a single race.  My late mom adored Man O' War just as fervently as my husband still roots for Secretariat and, thanks to Laura Hillenbrand, Seabiscuit again has an army of followers. People I respect in Europe talk about Frankel.  All of these were incredible racers but for horses with a story, I have to give my thanks to Geoff Armstrong and Peter Thompson for introducing me to Phar Lap.  He's the great racing heart of Australia.

Like most heroes, Australia's "Wonder Horse" had unlikely beginnings.  The  yearling came from a sire and dam with great blood lines and lousy racing records.  He was picked from a catalogue by a struggling trainer for his pedigree instead of his picture.  A good thing too because Phar Lap was no beauty.  He was huge for a race horse (17 hands), skinny and so long in the back and legs, they said he looked more like a Kangaroo Dog than a horse. The new owner, David Davis, took one look at him and wanted the homely colt sold.  Instead, the trainer gave him a name that meant lightning, gelded him and put the young horse into a training regime so rough, sometimes the animal was too tired to stand up afterward. The brutal treatment brought quite a result: Phar Lap finished his first race Dead Last.

But every hero gets a friend and Phar Lap's was his groom, Tommy Woodcock.  Tommy treated the horse with kindness and helped guide the two-year old's instincts to get to the front of the pack. Phar Lap won his last race as a two year old and then thirteen of his twenty races as a three year old, including all of the major races that year and often two or three races in one week.  Phar Lap had falling in love with running and the public had fallen in love with him.

If the public loves a horse that consistently wins, you can bet someone else wants him to lose. Before one major race, someone tried to shoot Phar Lap. They missed and the horse won but racing officials decided Phar Lap needed a handicap.  The 110-120 pounds of weight that Phar Lap carried in his second and third years were considered too light and extra weight was added to his racing saddles. He continued to win, though the racing was harder, and the authorities kept increasing the weight. By the time Phar Lap ran his third Melbourne Cup race, he raced with 150 pounds on his back, a good ten percent more than the other runners. The horse couldn't take that kind of a burden and his owner decided a trip was in order.  Phar Lap would run in the North American Agua Caliente, with a reasonable weight. He did and won the great race without trouble.

I wish that was the end of Phar Lap's story but what comes next is an unsolved mystery.  Two weeks after his last victory, while David Davis considered future races and Tommy looked after his friend, Phar Lap suddenly became ill.  His death shocked the racing world and theories behind the cause are still debated today.  It's one of the great "who-dun-its" of the racing world, like the kidnapping of the Irish winner Shergar.  As for Australia, they never have forgotten the rangy runner who could come from behind and pass the pack on the outside rail.  Phar Lap and Tommy Woodcock both became revered members of Australia's racing history.  

Perhaps when we see our next great star or athlete, we'll remember a bit of Phar Lap's story and cherish the talent that exists rather than handicap it to compete with the pack. Genius, in whatever form it takes, occurs too rarely for us to limit it with artificial constraints when it does appear.

Fitness and the Reader's Dilema

I was born to be a Sedentarian.  I'm not sure that's a recognized word yet but when I've seen it used, it describes (obvious, isn't it?) someone who prefers walking to running, standing to walking, sitting to standing and lying down to sitting.  Someone who loathes the idea of exercise.  When you add in an addiction to books, sedentarianism becomes more than a preference, it becomes the path to salvation.  Only problem is, it can be detrimental to your health.

Right now, you are looking at my library, complete with desk, PC and reading chair.  Comfy as all get out but not a site adapted for getting in shape.  So what's to be done?   I have to read and until today, that mean I had to sit still.  (Every time I've tried to read with the body in motion, I've contracted an epic-sized bout of motion-sickness.)  I'm under doctor's orders to lose some weight and I'm trying to comply but exercise isn't just sweaty and painful, it's boring, a factor no bouncing paperback or Kindle could overcome.

And there's the answer, friends and neighbors, I needed book that doesn't bounce and I got one.  Does anyone besides me remember Kindle can run on a computer monitor screen?

I set up an old favorite (in public domain) on the screen Kindle, Sense and Sensibility

On my computer that fills all of a very large screen and I can read it from several feet back, while I march or run in place.  When the time comes, I hit the > arrow key and the page flips.  I keep on stepping and reading without missing a beat.   It's amazing how much walking you can get done while you are buried in a book.

With this, I may have a shot at gaining some fitness!   Has anyone else learned to enjoy their book habit while they exercise?  Send in your suggestions, I need all the help I can get!

Thanks so much!

Summer Stories: The Frothiest Part of the Reading Year

I really think some stories are seasonal.  Autumn stories get us to think about life and its priorities; generation-spanning epics are good for those long, winter nights and spring stories are about inspiration. Summer stories live in another world, one of twilight and green shade and flirting. Summer novels are meant to be read with pink lemonade on a porch swing or on a chaise in the shade.  These are the tales of romance and fun, even the ones that don't contain conventional love stories. Summer is the frothiest part of the reading year and Peter Mayle writes summer stories like no one else.  His novel, A Good Year, suggests the summer can do more than help you through a domestic crisis; it can lead you  to the best part of your life.

This tale goes well with lemonade..

If Summer is the season for self-awareness, then Max Skinner is neglecting the calendar as well as his personal life.  While others are living their London lives, Max has bartered his for a high-stress job and a possible bonus. A self-serving boss robs him of both just as Max learns the uncle who raised him died. Max may be out of a job but he's inherited an old house and vineyard in the country beyond Avignon. With help and encouragement of his best friend, Max leaves behind his career in the City to rediscover life somewhere in France.

...or other drinks of Summer

Now, anyone who reads Peter Mayle's books knows his stories require certain things. There is always sunshine, as well as the pleasures of food and wine, and somewhere the hero must run across a House That Needs Work. A Good Year delivers that and more.  Here is the sunny, dusty, green paradise known as Provence and the hard working families that have been there for generations who regard
"The Invading English" with reasonable suspicion. Max's legacy turn out to be a vineyard and "almost-chateau" badly in need of attention, money and care.  Still, these are not the most serious obstacles keeping him from becoming the region's next wine maker.  A heretofore unknown daughter of his uncle appears who could challenge his inheritance.  Even worse, the vineyard's product is vile. Max's wine is comparable to cat urine.

Of course obstacles make up the structure of stories and life; the setbacks that happen to us mean less than how we deal with them.  Max's adventures among the vines are a lesson in the art of adaptation through friendship, intelligence and a certain amount of acceptance of the Eccentricities of Others.  The life he has at the end of the story is not the future he foresaw at the beginning, nor is it etched into stone but he has patience and hope. After all wine, like Summer and word of mouth, needs time to develop so the best part of life's journey may lie in enjoying the road to success.

So as the summer begins to heat up, remember why you wanted it to appear. Smile at the sunshine in the early morning and savor the taste of just-ripened fruit.  Do a lazy backstroke in the pool, if you have one, or enjoy the feel of a cooling shower if you don't.  Term papers and deadlines can take a back seat for the moment.  Summer is calling with the promise of A Good Year.

Taking Arms Against an Ocean of Clutter

Full Disclosure:  I carry the "clutter" gene in my DNA.  While my mother's clan of military migrants moved their Spartan households around the map, my Dad's family decided there wasn't an empty bottle or old magazine on earth that shouldn't be saved.  And while half of my chromosomes are Clutter Monkey, my husband got the gene from both sides.  Given this, you can probably imagine what our house has looked like in the past.  You can imagine it, but you'll be happier if you don't try. By March of this year the flotsam and jetsam of life were threatening to swallow us whole.  I've done a bit to beat back the tide but I'm getting a lot of help from a book my sister sent me.  The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo has done more than help clean up my house.  It's  brought some needed perspective to my life.

Most "how-to" books are filled with lists of steps.  Marie Kondo teaches tidying by concept.  One of her big ideas for recognizing the extras is to spread out everything you have of some category.  Then pick up each item, one at a time, and see if it gives you a "spark of joy."  If the item doesn't spark you, out it goes.  That may sound silly but think about it.  Aren't there some possessions you like more than others?  I decided to try this theory out on my shoes.

Now, for an anti- fashionista, that's a whole lot of zapatas...

Fast forward with the KonMari method and I'm left with the shoes that spark.

That result proves two things to me: 1) I have a subconscious rule limiting me to shoes that are black, brown or white and 2) I was giving a lot of house room to footwear I didn't like. Worn-out shoes, half-pair shoes, shoes that hurt my feet.  Now my footwear fits my feet, my needs and the space in my closet.

The KonMari method honors what (and who) you love and the roles they play in your life. If a loved one got you an unsuitable gift, remember to thank the gift for the affection and event it commemorated. That's the reason you got the present in the first place and your acceptance completed it's purpose.  Now, move the gift on (discretely!) to someone who will love it for itself.  Non-sparking mementos from finished relationships aren't keeping your memories of someone, but holding on to those tchotchkes may be holding you back from reaching out to new people.  Getting those items out of your life helps you to move on.

This method even works on pictures, my sister says.  As a doting mom and the custodian of the bulk of our parents' photographs, she had a million snaps taking up room everywhere and no real way to review them. Now they are culled through, organized and in place, ready when she wants to share them.  

Now, I still have a ways to go but our house looks more like a home instead of an episode from A&E's Hoarders.   We're healthier, happier and it takes us less time to find the possessions we want. I won't finish "The Great Tidy" in one fell swoop, but I'll tell you one thing: The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up is one of the books I am keeping.

My Desk Needs a New Home

Free, to good home close to me: one wooden student's desk, desirous of continuing

 its Academic and Professional career.

Although manufactured during the Cold War, Desk's classic design and sturdy construction have allowed him to support generations of students through many levels of academia, earning various former owners multiple high school diplomas, three associate degrees and a Bachelor of Arts degree (Summa). Desk has also played a substantial supporting role in such post-graduate tasks as resume and correspondence preparation, personal accounting and other personal business concerns. Multiple levels of technology have partnered with Desk (starting with manual typewriters and continuing through CPU's, CRT's, printers, scanners, tablets and all-in-one flat screens) and all have found Desk's surface adequate for their purpose. In addition, Desk has been successfully utilized for reading, creative writing, a solitary meal and the occasional nap.

Although possessing only a single drawer, Desk's storage capacity is surprisingly large, as the drawer can hold upwards of 40 pounds of clutter at a time.  This drawer shows a positive talent for attracting and safeguarding all matter of small objects (even from their owners), from pitch pipes and guitar picks to flash drives, keys and pocket change. His open shelves are also surprisingly capacious, and have been deemed acceptable cat bunk beds by experts.

Desk has been cleaned and his drawer has been retrofitted with new pulls. All he needs to return to action is a fresh coat of paint and a setting where he can be of use. Desk is anxious to relocate and only regrets he cannot pay for his own shipping. Any parties interested in adopting &/or employing Desk can contact me here. A photo of Desk is attached. (Sorry, accessories not included)

Thank you for your time.

The History We Never Question

As a rule, we don't question many things we are taught.  If your Mom said stuffing should be cooked separately from the turkey and your Dad decreed all Fords are junk, chances are you accepted those statements, at least until you reached adolescence.  If your favorite teacher taught a specific subject, then you probably learned to like the same field.  Maybe you adopted some of the professor's opinions. All of that is well and good until those beliefs become accepted history.  As somebody said (Orwell? Napoleon? Churchill?) history is written by the winners which means some accepted historical accounts are nothing more than preserved propaganda and lies. You know this if you've read Caroline Alexander's book, The Bounty.  Or do you still loath and fear Captain Bligh?

When I was a kid, my cousin used Captain Bligh's name whenever we pretended we were pirates. According to my cousin, no buccaneer or sailor on the Seven Seas was meaner or sneakier than this terrible man.  Of course, he got his ideas from watching Charles Laughton in "Mutiny on the Bounty", a wonderful old black-and-white picture that contrasts Clark Gable's bare-chested nobility with Laughton's debased and evil Captain Bligh. The picture and source made it clear the sailors that took over the H.M.S. Bounty were mutineers in name only: their actions were caused by the barbarous treatment of Captain Bligh and taken only to save their own lives. That's a thrilling, romantic idea, but is it fact or fiction?  The difference, Caroline Alexander explains, is much more compelling as well as complex.

The fact is, the battle for the Bounty was created by two social climbers, Peter Heywood and William Bligh.  Both men joined the navy as teenagers in order to build personal fortunes, one of the few legal ways in that culture a man could rise in rank and wealth. Bligh rose through the Navy's ranks through years of hard work before he was offered command of the Bounty. Peter Heywood secured his berth through his family's connections, (including Bligh's father-in-law and Fletcher Christian). For whatever reasons, when the rebellion occurred, Heywood and Bligh ended up on opposite sides.  Bligh and the loyal half of the crew were put off at sea in a 23 foot boat while Heywood remained with Fletcher Christian and the mutineers in the Bounty.  Over the next 47 days, Bligh and his remaining crew covered more than 4,100 miles of the ocean in an open boat, fighting hunger, thirst, cannibals and stormy seas. Meanwhile, the mutineers sailed to Tahiti and divided into two groups again.  This time, Fletcher Christian and the core mutineers sailed on to Pitcairn Island while Heywood remained in Tahiti.

Bligh returned to Europe and was initially hailed as a brilliant sailor, innocent of blame in the mutiny. Another ship, the HMS Pandora, captured Peter Heywood and his companions and returned them as prisoners.  Peter's family got him legal help and used their influence to circulate the rumor that the rebellion should be blamed on its victim, Bligh. The mutinous crew captured in Tahiti were all convicted and sentenced to hang but the two mutineers with lawyers were pardoned. The mutineers without lawyers or influence were hung. Heywood got a promotion along with his pardon and returned to his career in the Navy. Bligh survived other voyages and rebellions and lived to watch his name get dragged through the mud. Even as he became a rear admiral, he rarely received command of another ship.

Caroline Alexander is too smart to take even these truths at face value.  Her research shows Bligh as neither tyrant nor martyr, but a man so anxious to avoid failure, he obsessed over details and continually criticized of his subordinates' job performance. (Blight was less physically abusive than many other British Captains).  In the end, Caroline Alexander's The Bounty is less a search for truth about the rebellion than an investigation into the conspiracy that obscured it.  At sea, William Bligh was a capable officer but against a collective of political operators, neither he nor the truth stood a chance.