Synopsis
It's the summer of 1953. Calvin Jefferson Coolidge is
thirteen years old when the ghost of Joseph Stalin appears to him in his Aunt
Evelyn's cluttered Cleveland attic and wants to dictate his memoirs to him.
"I want to tell my side of the story," Uncle Joe tells him.
"They're giving me one year to set the record straight, so we need to get
started right away." Calvin's life is falling apart at the seams. He's a
misfit and loner whose only friends are famous dead people. He loves polka
music and Westerns and sometimes wonders what it would be like to kiss a girl.
His con man father is in Florida looking for his bipolar runaway mother. His
cousin Buck is abducted and experimented on by aliens. The lady next door wants
to coach him in the ways of love. His pastor thinks he's headed straight for
Hell. His English teacher thinks he's a savant. The school psychologist wants
to have him committed. His shrink thinks he's just plain nuts. Sometimes, Calvin
believes it too. Everybody's trying to figure out what makes Calvin tick in
this quirky, fast-paced metaphysical romp through the heart and soul of 1950's
America.
Book review
When I bought the book on a
recommendation, I did not know what the word 'metaphysicalin' meant but
it sounded intriguing. According to the Collins Dictionary, it means, 1. relating
to or concerned with metaphysics, 2. (of a statement or theory) having the form of an empirical hypothesis, but in fact immune from empirical testing and therefore (in the view of the logical positivists) literally meaningless, 3.(popularly) abstract, abstruse, or unduly theoretical, 4. incorporeal; supernatural. After reading it, it still
sounded Greek to me, but it describes the book perfectly.
Young Calvin Jefferson Coolidge—his
actual name—found himself in a conundrum. A mystery so big that he could only
play along and allow the events to play out. Since his parents fell into 'difficulties',
young Calvin had to live with foster parents. They laid the foundation that
truly helped him to navigate through the rest of the story. It gave his footing
the balance to make sense of the unfolding events after his abduction. He became
richer because of that. Not richer in money, but richer in people and life
skills.
At thirteen years of age, he had a lot to deal with. But when
he met Joseph Stalin's ghost, it became apparent why he first had to live with
the preacher and his wife. Without giving away spoilers, it was clear that he
became a solver of ghosts' problems. Like a magnet, historical figures drew to
him, finding in him a person who they could tell their side of the story
without judgement. I mean, they are after all dead.
It is indeed a metaphysicalin
story that takes you on Route 66, through different states, in a mad dash where
his Old Man teaches him to outwit unexpected customers from their money, phantoms
in need of saving and telling a story, trained by Tolstoy which became
published in a New York magazine.
The author wrote the story in
first person, exploring the world through a thirteen-year-old's eyes. The characters
he meets, a lively bunch that wants to teach him the ways of life through their
own set of beliefs. But with the Bible as his source, it was interesting how he
stayed true to the course of life. How he stayed to be logical-positive through
it all was because of his strong character and own set of beliefs. An old soul trapped
in a young boy is maybe the best way to describe him.
This is definitely a book for a
specific reader and not something I would have picked for myself but worth the
read in the end.
Excerpt
One day in the summer of 1953, the Old Man "sprung"
me from foster care. I was playing in the front yard by myself when he showed
up in a big shiny car. "Where did you get this?" I asked. "Never
mind. Get in." "Wait – I need to get something." I ran into the
dining room and grabbed the Bible from the table. Then I ran back outside and
got in the car. "Is that all you're bringing?" the Old Man asked. "Mrs.
Welles is praying upstairs. I can't get my suitcase without her seeing me."
"Don't worry, kid. I'll buy you a new suitcase." We pulled away from
the Welles' house and left town. The Old Man saw the Bible in my lap. "What's
that?" he asked. "This… is the Word of God," I said reverently. "Oh,
brother…" the Old Man shook his head. He wasn't really that old. He was
only in his early thirties, and still looked pretty good. But to me, he's
always been the Old Man. We drove up to Los Angeles. On the way, I told the Old
Man about the Bible stories I'd been learning. I told him how Joseph's brothers
sold him into slavery in Egypt because they were jealous that their Old Man
liked him best. Then I told him how Joseph won Pharaoh's favor by interpreting
a dream for him, and how Pharaoh was so grateful that he put him second in
command of all of Egypt, and how Joseph ended up saving Egypt from famine. Then
I told him about Salome's dance that got King Herod all worked up and how she
asked Herod for the head of John the Baptist, which was brought to her on a
platter. The Old Man listened intently for mile after mile. When I was
finished, he looked over at me and said, "You know, Sport, those are just
stories – like fables, or myths." "What does that mean?" "Fake.
They didn't really happen. That book's nothing but a bunch of fairy tales."
"But Reverend Welles said they're true. Reverend Welles said that God
wrote this book Himself." "Yeah, well he would, wouldn't he? That's
why I came and got you, before he had time to really mess you up." "But,
I like these stories." "You just listen to your Old Man on this one:
you can read that book for entertainment, as long as you remember it's about as
real as Peter Pan." I let the Old Man have the last word, but I still
couldn't help thinking that somehow, my time with the Welleses wasn't just a
mistake or accident. It was my first inkling that there might be a divine
providence woven into the inscrutable tapestry of the universe. Or something
like that. You can take it to the bank.
About Marc Sercomb
Reedsy / Goodreads / LibraryThing / Barens and Noble / Amazon
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