A few days ago I found myself wondering about how early inhabitants dealt with the cold gray often rainy weather that seems to define “winter” here in the Northwest. No prozac or full-spectrum bulbs. I like to imagine that everyone just hunkered down in the lodge house and told stories. By lodge house I don’t mean the large log building at the end of the ski run serving nice drinks.

For a longtime I’ve been fascinated with Haiti.  I’m not sure if this book of short stories helped form this fascination I have of the country or if I acquired the book because of my interest. Don’t really know where this book came from. Although according to the price tag on the back — it lived in Borders at some point.

On one of those pages at the beginning reserved for quotes there is an excerpt by Sal Scalora, “White Darkness/Black Dreaming” Haiti Feeding the Spirit:

“Krik? Krak! Somewhere by the seacoast I feel a breath of warm sea air and hear the laughter of children. An old granny smokes her pipe, surrounded by the village children…’We tell the stories so that the young ones will know what came before them. They ask Krik? We say Krak! Our stories are kept in our hearts.’”

Sometimes consciously exploring why I like a collection of stories eliminates some of the magic.

Set in the Australian outback (I guess it’s the outback) a mysterious man buys a giant ranch and then proceeds to plant Eucalyptus. Every type of eucalyptus. Rare, common etc. His daughter — Ellen the speckled beauty soon arrives and thus becomes so beautiful that it becomes necessary to find her a husband in the interest of averting some sort of catastrophe. Ellen has a fondness for slick traveling salesmen and others of their ilk. Her father announces that the only successful suitor is the one that can name every eucalyptus on his property winning the hand of the speckled beauty and the very large ranch.

Eventually many try and many fail until one man looks like he might just finish the naming. Ellen, somewhat upset because she isn’t being wooed, comes across a man lying under a tree (eucalyptus of course) who begins to tell her human interest stories in lands near and far. Personally, I thought he was something of a lousy story-teller.

Generally this sort of novel appeals to me — I love the stories of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and others within that genre. Eucalyptus failed to transport me to the that bit of land sighing with Eucalyptus trees. The plot is an old story which is not really unusual, but with an old plot the key is to weave a many textured world with well-drawn characters. This book also had the “readers club questions” in the back — which I find irritating (other irritants include the Oprah seal of approval and lengthy introductions.)