. Spinning .

Munro sets the stage: an older couple, Mildred and Wilfred, entertaining visitors, his brother Albert, his wife and her sister, in their small home for the summer. Then she paints in the characters, Mildred and Wilfrid are large, robust people; his brother–whom he hasn't seen in thirty years–and his family are thin, quiet, the women are mouselike.

Against this delicate balance of family reunion that proves to show they have little in common, we get a taste of some small but acceptable flaws that Mildred sees in her husband. We see however that each, though married late in life, have led lives of relative flamboyance in contrast to brother Albert. She came to him fresh from the death of her lover, an elderly married man. He traveled and took jobs where he could, likes his buddies and drinking and slightly off-color jokes. The difference in the two families may have been formed in the way they grew up, yet we see a strong love in the relationship of Mildred and Wilfred that's absent in the others; a more natural, easy caring, a zest that feels the emotions of life.

There is a leit motif (I think) in the story that illustrates the division:
They had a kitchen not much wider than a hallway, a bahroom about the usual size, two bedrooms that were pretty well filled up when you got a double bed and a dresser into them, a living room where a large sofa sat five feet in front of a large television set, with a low table about the size of a coffin in between, and a small glassed-in porch. (p. 199)

"You could be standing on the step, Albert," said Mildred, with as much interest as she had energy for.
But Albert said, "We never had a step at the front door. We only opened it once that I can remember, and that for Mother's coffin. We put some chunks of wood down then, to make a temporary step." (p. 212)
The image of the coffin–and their mother had died within weeks of giving birth to Wilfred and he was farmed out to an aunt–serves two situations here. In the first instance, it is an acceptable large part of their living space. In the other, Albert rather coldly refers to his mother's coffin being taken out of the house.

There is also the underlying theme of physical size, Mildred and Wilfred being very large but happy in a small space and the shrunken and dry appearance of Albert, his wife and her sister. This emphasis that Munro places on size–including the landscape where the brothers were born–seems to echo the personalities of the characters. While Mildred and Wilfred have traveled and lived elsewhere, they seem to bring their live-life-to-the-fullest attitude wherever, and squeeze it into whatever space they find themselves in, At one point, Mildred is squished in the back seat of the car with the two skinny sisters on each side yet they both have their heads down in embroidery rather than looking around at the countryside. They don't even get out of the car to walk up to where Albert and Wilfred were born.

It's a wonderful little story about a simple visit, and Munro makes it powerful with character.

Two old friends meet, talk a bit about love and relationships and stories with twisted endings, and we go back to their last meeting of a few months' back.

At that time, they attended a conference and accepted a ride back home by a friend (Douglas) of the first person narrator. The narrator is recently divorced, her friend Julie is unhappy in her marriage. On the ride they tell stories of infidelity and surprise at how marriages exist. We sense something between the narrator and Douglas beyond friendship, and yet we see something else happening between Douglas and Julie.

Without bringing us back to the present meeting of the two women, Munro leaves us with the thoughts of the narrator riding home with Douglas and Julie:

And so Munro has put the twist of their story, mentioned in the opening conversation, at the beginning, or so it would seem. The narrator's view of the future would have been of the three of them together, while the reality is that Julie and Douglas have an affair.

I think what Munro establishes is the secrets, the desires, the uncontrollable emotions in reaction to one another of relationships. While the narrator has made the decision long ago to divorce her husband and make it on her own, she still has a hope for happiness that includes Douglas and her friendship with Julie. Even as the stories they tell each other reek of wonderment at the attraction that brings two people together, she is surprised by the way things turn out, as is Julie. Douglas simply follows his nose, which may be the answer, after all.

This is a very interesting look at two old women who find themselves in a nursing home. Munro carefully draws out the difference in their lives, though they had known each other in kindergarten, over eighty years ago, and likely grew apart and not seen each other much in the interim. Munro displays the difference in their appearance back then, and the husbands they chose, and even the gifts they've received from their children on view in their rooms. Lit-up plastic roses and crocheted dolls that are pincushions are in Mrs. Cross' room; books fill the shelves of Mrs. Kidd's.

While they seek each other out in their new restricted world of wheelchairs and very sick people, there is still within each a tendency to hold onto their own separate lives. When Mrs. Cross befriends a stroke-afflicted newspaper man, Mrs. Kidd sees much less of her, and eventually finds another patient-resident who is more easily manipulated. Mrs. Cross tries very hard to help the man to speak and communicate despite doctors' warnings and when he gets angry with her for her mothering and tutoring ways, she is flustered and weary. Mrs. Kidd notices that Mrs. Cross does not have her wheelchair (here's where I sort of felt Munro contrived the situation, in having Mrs. Cross say that she left it behind in helping the man to the recreation room) and Mrs. Kidd boldly offers her own chair to Mrs. Cross and pushes her all the way back to her room. With instructions to haul herself out of the chair and lay down on her bed and have the nurse return the chair to Mrs. Kidd's room later, Mrs. Cross disappears into her room and Mrs. Kidd, completely exhausted, sinks to the floor to recuperate.

Again, a beautiful look inside human nature, and yet this last detail spoiled it for me a bit (see previous story review): Why didn't Mrs. Kidd wait until Mrs. Cross had gotten into her bed and then wheel herself back in her chair? While I might understand the show of strength and sacrifice, this little detail seems to undermine the image of both women as quite practical and intelligent. There would have been little lost in having Mrs. Kidd take the chair right then, as Munro has already included the detail of Mrs. Kidd's labored breathing.

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm getting too picky on some things; after all, I accept fiction as it happened that way–not my way. Munro so carefully uses details to define the real story that perhaps I'm just not good enough a reader yet to have understood the image.

This story, as do most of Munro's, focuses on how people interact, what part of their inner self they compromise or embellish in order to deal with life and the people in it.  There is usually, as is here, a conflict that unravels slowly through character revelation and interaction, specifically dialogue and reflections, and a resolution that often leaves the character changed only in their acceptance of a situation.

Here, we have a smoldering fight and unhappiness after a year of marriage when realities about one's partner sink in and are often resented. Munro shows us both sides of the situation and we find that they do love each other but that the veneer has worn off. We find the battle one of self-identity and change forced by becoming a partnership. As the ice thaws, one makes the effort to break through and the other accepts, but first considering choices that prepare for future scenarios.

But Munro's ending to this story has just a bit of dissatisfaction to it–not because of the ultimate changes made, the growth in the relationship–but rather the impetus and how it was handled. As they all drive home, and some peace is made, suddenly out of the dark a car comes straight at them, veering off into the cornfields just before they would otherwise impact.  They drive the short distance home and sit in the car in the driveway, likely stunned by the moment that could have ended their lives.

What spoiled it for me? Well I just don't buy that they didn't stop and check on the driver and passenger in the other car. This wouldn't seem realistic, especially since they live out in the country where other cars are not likely to be going by in any number. This sort of changed the image of the two characters that Munro so carefully built.

Again, Munro's just tops with creating a rounded character that evokes empathy. Here, a husband and wife (Roberta) are going to a friend's for dinner and they've been fighting for a couple days and are in the middle of a polite but cold war. Before they've left, George has told her "Your armpits are flabby," when she asked him why he didn't like what she'd planned to wear.

Munro gives us some of her thoughts:

The beauty here is the conflicting emotions. Roberta is well aware that she needn't try so hard to please him, that she needs to learn to be comfortable with herself and her own identity. She "must get away, live alone" she says.  And then adds, "wear sleeves." We know this feeling, we know that she's trapped.

While Alice Munro pins down her characters so well that they remain in the mind for a while as an acquaintance, this definitive description of a 12 year-old caught me by surprise:

Now this is typical Munro, describing character via the clothing. We can "see" Eva and get an idea of what sort of girl she is; flamboyant yet proper, a wild-looking outfit yet bridal, see-through yet she thinks to put on shorts beneath.  Munro then goes on to confirm our image:

This comes after the detailed descriptions of her parents and older sister. We somehow know that Eva is the character to watch.