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Mennonite in a Little Black Dress: A Memoir of Going Home
Mennonite in a Little Black Dress: A Memoir of Going Home
Mennonite in a Little Black Dress: A Memoir of Going Home
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Mennonite in a Little Black Dress: A Memoir of Going Home

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

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A hilarious and moving memoir—in the spirit of Anne Lamott and Nora Ephron—about a woman who returns home to her close-knit Mennonite family after a personal crisis

Not long after Rhoda Janzen turned forty, her world turned upside down. It was bad enough that her brilliant husband of fifteen years left her for Bob, a guy he met on Gay.com, but that same week a car accident left her with serious injuries. What was a gal to do? Rhoda packed her bags and went home. This wasn't just any home, though. This was a Mennonite home. While Rhoda had long ventured out on her own spiritual path, the conservative community welcomed her back with open arms and offbeat advice. (Rhoda's good-natured mother suggested she date her first cousin—he owned a tractor, see.) It is in this safe place that Rhoda can come to terms with her failed marriage; her desire, as a young woman, to leave her sheltered world behind; and the choices that both freed and entrapped her.

Written with wry humor and huge personality—and tackling faith, love, family, and aging—Mennonite in a Little Black Dress is an immensely moving memoir of healing, certain to touch anyone who has ever had to look homeward in order to move ahead.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 1, 2010
ISBN9781429982337

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Reviews for Mennonite in a Little Black Dress

Rating: 3.3604652045219634 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I listened to this book. It took me a while to "get" the tone of the narrator, which initially sounded so flippant that I wasn't taking the book seriously and nearly stopped during the first chapter. I'm glad I kept going. It's an interesting memoir of growing up in a Mennonite household, distancing herself from it as an adult, and returning after the breakup of her marriage. Coincidentally, I was reading Swing Low by Miriam Toews at the same time, and she too grew up in a small Mennonite community and left it. Though I suspect Miriam was much more of an outsider from girlhood, they both share a similar perspective on the positives and negatives of their upbringing.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    A fun read. Entertaining, charming, and appreciative of both the Mennonite and outside worlds.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Digital audiobook narrated by Hillary Huber From the book jacket: Not long after Rhoda Janzen turned forty, her world turned upside-down. From the outside, it seemed that she had everything she wanted: a fulfilling job, a beautiful lakeside home, and a brilliant husband of fifteen years. But then her husband announced he was leaving her for Bob, a guy he met on Gay.com – and that same week a car accident left her with serious injuries. Under circumstances like these, what was a gal to do? Naturally, Rhoda crossed the country and returned to the land of Borscht, Zwiebach, and corduroy-covered Bibles. My reactionsI’m not sure what I was expecting. I hadn’t read the book jacket blurb. I had noticed a few Goodreads friends had read and enjoyed the book, and I’m sure one or more of those reviews is what landed this on my TBR list. In any case, I’m not sure how I feel about the book.One the one hand, Janzen is able to look at her life and the choices she made honestly and without (much) regret. She chalks things up to experience and moves on with life. She seems to genuinely like and cherish her family, though she has left behind the teachings and restrictions of her childhood faith. I particularly loved the relationship she had with her mother, who is cheerfully optimistic about everything. On the other hand, I’m not so sure Janzen was truly over her husband’s having left for a guy he met on Gay.com. Why do I think that? Mostly because Janzen mentions this fact every few pages. Reminds me of a woman I know who left her husband some 20 years ago and STILL manages to bring him up every time I run into her with a not-so-casual, “Oh, what do hear from X lately?” She may have divorced him, but she’s never LEFT him. In summary, I enjoyed much of it and found her sense of humor about her own situation refreshing, but I didn’t love it. Hillary Huber does a marvelous job voicing the audiobook. She set a good pace and has just the right tone for the self-deprecating humor, and to convey the tender love Janzen finds in her family home and community.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    feel right at home this author, so much so that I hated for this book to end. Even though my family were not Mennonites I knew a lot of the sayings and traditions already from on my mother's side of my family. Because of poverty my mother also had to take lard sandwiches to school for lunch. I like this book so much because it brought back memories of my grandmother. I think she could have fit very well in the Mennonite community. She voiced the some of the same restrictions on social life. She did not like that my mother went to the church's Ice Cream Social because it would have boys there. She didn’t want my cousin paint my nails or tell me how to use lipstick because I would be learning how to be a “painted lady”. She could make noodles from scratch and just about anything else. I would love to sit down with the author and compare notes. We have had some similar experience when growing up. Ms. Janzen wrote in the first person and in a conversational tone. Sometimes, there was bouncing back and forth in time but it all seemed natural. I kept wanting to tell her my own life stories as I read hers.After her marriage fell apart, she sought to find herself, she had previously divorced herself from her Mennonite background. But when she returned to live with her family, she saw it through a grown-up’s eyes, she found both unnecessary restrictions and treasures of her family heritage. I really like her chapter on "Wounding Words". You must read this book.In the back of the book, there is a Primer on Mennonites with some history of the movement and identification of do's and don’ts. I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in the Mennonites and situation of growing up in one culture and then living in a different one.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A string of bad luck sends Janzen home to her Mennonite parents to recuperate. Janzen writes humerously about her husband's mental illness and abuse during thier marriage and his leaving her for a man he met on gay.com. She did not come across as overly bitter or whiney. She uses her time at home to heal physically and to take a relaistic look at her life. Along the way she shares about her Mennonite heritage. Even though she chooses to live outside of the Mennonite circle she does not disrespect how she was raised. This is a well written book about a woman who is finding herself.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I really enjoyed this book. It felt a lot like I was reading email anecdotes from an intelligent and funny friend. I found myself laughing out loud quite often as Rhoda described her experiences with her family and friends. Every once in a while I was confused about the timeline and sometimes I had to run to a dictionary to look up a word, but the book is very well-written and easy to read.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    There were a lot of things about this book that I enjoyed. I appreciated the honesty of the author, especially when she is writing about herself and the trials of her life with her Mennonite family and her bi-polar husband. I did laugh out loud several times. I reminisced over the wax paper sandwiches, the meals of cabbage, and love of family. I adored Rhoda's mom and her wisdom pertaining to all things. You don't have to live "in the world" to know how to react to the world. Since this is a memoir, there is no real climax to the story. There also isn't a tidy ending. It is a story of life and lessons and learning from our mistakes and realizing it is ok to start over. There were so many occastions in the story that I stopped to reflect on, but some of my favorites were: 1 - Rhoda's mom speaking, "When you're young, faith is often a matter of rule. What you should do and shouldn't do, that kind of thing. But as you grow older, you realize faith is really a matter of a relationship-with God, with the people around you, with the members of your community." 2 - Rhoda's description of "wounding words" and how long they stay with us. 3 - Rhoda asking, "Is it ever really a waste of time to love someone, truly and deeply, with everything you have?" I found myself rooting for Rhoda at the end of her book. I hope she has found new happiness in her life and is continuing to laugh at herself and the constant twists and turns of life.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Another very light memoir, a fast read, nothing too detailed about the Mennonite culture. The author cracks a lot of "I get to say this because I am one" type of jokes... sarcastic without being bitter.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A non-fiction account of a woman who was raised Mennonite and returns to her parents house after a divorce and an accident. The most fascinating part of the story for me was that I learned that Mennonites are not all separatists. She went to public school and was raised in the modern world (though she was not allowed all the modern amenities that her peers were allowed.) The book itself was interesting and I did read the whole book. But I wouldn't actually recommend the book to others. It was just meh.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Mennonite in a Little Black Dress was a fun read.I found it an interesting story. Rhoda had an eventful life, and I enjoyed hearing about it. I loved her relationship with her sister and with her mother. Her mother was an interesting balance of open mindedness and of what we expect a Mennonite to be. It was clear that Rhoda and her mother loved each other even while living very different lives. Rhoda and her sister both left the Mennonite way of life, but they ended up living differently from one another as well.I wasn't so thrilled with her husband, but I wasn't supposed to be. I wish the relationship had been a little less extreme, but I suspect the author wished the same thing. The book jumped between the various stages of Rhoda's life. This helped build the picture of the woman that Rhoda became.Mostly, I enjoyed Mennonite because it was well written and funny. The anecdotes were great, and the attitude towards her life was refreshing. If I had one complaint about this book, it is that I was hoping for more depth. I think the depth might have been there, but I lost track of it with all the fun I was having.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The chapters in this book read like an NPR story snippets. Reading anecdotal moments in Rhoda life instead of hearing it on the radio. I selected this from the LT Early Reviewers list because of my recent separation and divorce and it was just the right amount of humorous moments with real life situations. Though it was a bit cliche that most chapter headers came from the closing line or paragraphs. Much like a salty-dog pun-story.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I received this as an ARC from LibraryThing, and I was very excited. The first chapter had me howling with laughter with extraordinary wit, and it was edited with a tight hand keeping the dialogue controled and entertaining.Then I think her editor went on vacation.Starting with the second chapter, the writing was far less cohesive, dialog points were contradictory, and the attempts at humor far more desperate. Tangents developed upon tangents to the point that by the time we return to the original topic we had forgotten it or stopped caring. I have always been wary of memoirs - the idea that anyone can recall an accurate conversation which took place in Junior High School is questionable in my mind at best - but the past recollections and contemporary reminiscences didn't jive. By the end of the book I wasn't sure if she was happy being a Mennonite or if she would continue her path as the "vainglorious one". With all of that said, it was still an enjoyable book. I learned a lot about the Mennonite community (although I wonder how much would hold up in a conversation with another Mennonite), but as the book seemed to start as a journey of recovery from her divorce, the path of the recovery seemed too disjointed to make it the focus of the memoir.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    The premise of the book is interesting enough- young Mennonite woman gets dumped by her husband for a man. That is where the interesting part stops. The author keeps repeating the same sentence over and over again, "I got dumped by my husband for a guy." Ok, we get it. You don't have to beat a dead horse. I agree with other readers- about halfway through the book, the story becomes less and less stimulating. While it is noteworthy that Ms. Janzen can take a humourous approach to an unpleasant set of circumstances, the style of the writing, combined with a lack of a true plot, makes for very boring reading.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Rhoda Janzen went through a difficult time with medical problems and a husband who left her for another guy. So she decided to go back home and spend time in the community of her youth with her parents and siblings. With her easy and informal writing style, she outlines her experiences from that brief time and reminisces about her childhood growing up as a Mennonite in Mennonite in a little black dress : a memoir of going home. She discusses food in depth and, in the extra bonus pages in my copy, there are recipes from Rhoda’s mom, what the author calls shame-based recipes. Food is a large part of the book, from school lunches to meals at events. The bonus section also has an interview with the author and questions that can be used in a book discussion group.Now I do have to say that the Mennonites she portrays have no resemblance to the Mennonites I knew as a child and in later years. (And I am not talking about the black-bumper Mennonites or those that live in communities that are close to the Amish.) They drive cars, use modern appliances and send their children to public schools at times. But they do not have televisions or stereos. Their churches do not have organs; in church, the only music was the voice. At home, the only music was traditional hymns; no modern gospel music! Their churches were plain structures. A Mennonite church in the area expanded several years ago and bought an unused UCC church. The stained glass was lovely; the organ magnificent. The congregation removed the organ but decided that they had an obligation to the city and its history to preserve the windows. It is a most unusual Mennonite church.As to dress, the women and girls do not wear slacks or shorts; some of the women do still wear the Mennonite dress, the bib over a dress made from a patterned cotton fabric. But many wear simple skirts and dresses such as I would wear. The young girls always have braids until a certain point where they put their hair up under a white mesh cap. (Janzen’s comment on this practice is a bit flip.) Men would wear slacks and, for farming, jeans; never shorts. For church, they wear a Mennonite jacket over a simple shirt; never with a tie. Button shirts were worn most of the time by the men and boys. Both men and women do not wear jewelry, including wedding rings. But watches were common.Janzen’s describes her father, at one time a moderator of the Mennonite Brethren Conference, as the equivalent of the Pope, just in plaid shorts with black socks! That was on page 2. Then her mother is singing “The twelve days of Christmas” (p. 19) and not a Christmas hymn. The family has a piano. They celebrated a secular Christmas, which is unusual. These points set the tone for the book. I never quite could rid myself of skepticism and wondered what was real and what was made up. Hence, this book is not as I expected. Read with caution.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Uproarously funny in parts, enlightening and somewhat refreshing, but I can't figure out what the point was. This is just a rambling autobiographical series of reflections about the life of a 43 yr old college professor whose aetheist husband of 15 years leaves her for a guy named Bob.She tells us about a car accident, her recuperation with her parents, vignettes about growing up 'in the community', but nothing seems to tie together. Worth reading, but don't expect the definitive treatise on anything.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The author does a good job of describing the Mennonite ways of life according to her experience. She writes about being left by her gay husband and being in a terrible automobile accident - both happening on the same day. These circumstances lead her back to visit her Mennonite family in California. I did find myself laughing as she explains certain rituals, but this author also shows you a lot of herself and her own reactions to situations - not always funny but though-provoking. She might not have married Mennonite or lived Mennonite through her 20s & 30s, but she will always be Mennonite.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I wasn't quite sure in which direction this book was going to go, after all it's about a book about a woman who was raised as a Mennonite and then returns to her family after her husband leaves her for another man. I was curious about how much religion or doctrine I was going to find within the pages, and the answer was - some, but nothing too heavy.

    Overall this is a book about Rhoda, not her religion. Or maybe I should say that it's about Rhoda and how her religious upbringing and family have affected her life, but that makes the book sound so serious, and in reality the majority is light-hearted and funny. Not just "gee this is amusing, I'm cracking a smile," but really laugh-out-loud funny.

    The book is not G-rated. While the scenes are not overly graphic or offensive to me, they are blunt and talk about just about everything under the sun. For example, there is one section on pages 66 and 67 (of my advance reader's copy - it might be on different pages in the final copy) that discusses topics ranging from a lady taking off her panties in public (to show her friends her excessive hair problem) to a discussion of whether it is acceptable for someone else to discuss with their relatives a Christmas present that happened to be a sex toy. Of course, her writing makes it sound much funnier than that, but I'm not going to quote the section here for fear of the traffic it might draw to this site.

    The first half of the book is jam-packed with humor - page after page of entertainment. As you move further into the book though, the author starts to reveal a fuller picture of her life, her struggles, and her failed marriage. You begin to realize that within the humor on the pages there is a fair amount of tragedy - especially in her account of her relationship with her ex-husband.

    One of my favorite aspects of the book was learning more about what it was like to grow up as a Mennonite. Her mother seems like an amazing woman, not only for her care of her family, but also for her sense of humor, and her penchant for discussing gross bodily functions at the dinner table. I thought it was funny that her very religious mother would sing old fashioned songs that had lyrics that while innocent in themselves, had parts that rhymed with naughty words. This of course was in contrast to her mother's complete ban on dancing while they were children. All things considered her mother seems like a very fascinating lady.

    If you like reading funny memoirs, or have any interest about Mennonite life then you should pick up this book.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    amusing at first then drags on and the crassness gets old. yeah yeah, you're so smart and sarcastic, so what, get to the point.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Funny and entertaining. The story of a woman who goes back to stay with her parents after divorce. Her Mennonite family surrounds her with love and humor as she slowly heals.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Loved this simple little book.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I couldn't wait to read this book! It sat by my chair for three days, beckoning to me to read....What would you do if your husband of 16 years left you for a man named Bob, he met him on gay.com? If that isn't enough to give you pause, he had a vasectomy a week after he married you!! How do you deal with this surreal experience? The answer.....go home, in this case, it is straight into the arms of the Mennonite community, a little out of kilter????? Strap on you seat belt for a real ride that is a hilarious journey for the soul, as well as the spirit!!!!Mennonite in a Little Black Dress is a true feast for the soul, it has everything, a true experience, a wake up call for us all!!!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Rhoda Janzen had one of those spells that can occur in life -- life-threatening illness followed by betrayal by the person closest to her (who had handed her the bowl to toss her cookies in only moments -- in emotional time, at least -- before). So what was a woman to do? Maybe write a book that leaves David Sedaris in the dust?I picked up this book because ancestors a generation or two back were Mennonite, and I liked the double-take title. I read the book and almost suffered whiplash from crying so hard I could only laugh (or maybe it was the other way 'round). Don't read this book if you think logic should rule life. DO read this book if you can look back on some of your bad memories with fondness for the people who were there with you.I lent my copy ONLY to a very dear friend -- who I knew in the end wouldn't give it back. I'm going to go look at the swap offers now...
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This was an entertaining read. I am not a biography-lover, so it fell a little flat for me as the chapters wore on. However, the relationships were vibrant and well-played and the situations elicited a smile, smirk or grimace. I recommend this one.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Like Elizabeth Gilbert (who is quoted on the front cover) I did laugh out loud at parts. Janzen has a wry sense of humour and the ability to poke fun at herself. At the same time I kept wondering why she was telling us all this stuff about her marriage. Everytime I was enjoying her description of her family or the Mennonite lifestyle along would come a zinger about her marriage. And I thought it was funny the first couple of times she mentioned her husband dating someone named Bob that he met on Gay.com but after that it got a little repetitious. I hope writing this was cathartic for Janzen and that she has got the whole disastrous marriage out of her system.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I thought I would love this book--many people did--but instead I was disappointed. Many readers found it funny; again, I did not. About the only thing it had going for it as a memoir was the "divorced foodie from a minority religion" angle, and that just wasn't enough.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I was looking forward to learning more about the Mennonites with this book and was disappointed to find that it was written to poke fun at them. It is a collection of humorous anecdotes about her family and others, with no cohesiveness and no real point to the book. I thought it was a real stretch to call this a memoir--a book of humor would be more accurate. I have a sneaky suspicion that there might be a lot of fiction in this "memoir". If you're looking for some mildly funny light reading this book might be for you, but I was soon bored and could not even make it to the end.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Rhoda Janzen is 40ish English professor. She is married to Nick, successful and happy. Well, at least she thought she was..."Which is all to say that given the surprising events of the Year of the Pee Bag, I assumed I was safe from ill heath and trauma for decades. But no." "Two months after the move to the expensive lakefront property, Nick left me for a guy he'd met on Gay.com. (Yep - it's real)So, with the Gay.com thing and some health issues, Janzen moves back to her parent's home to gather herself together. Janzen was brought up in the Mennonite church, but chose to not actively pursue the Mennonite life and faith as an adult. Her parents are very active in the church.When she goes home,we are treated (and I say treated because this is one of the best memoirs I've read) to an intimate look at her family, friends, community and her childhood memories.Janzen's voice is fresh and funny, witty, wry and warm. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much reading a book. Janzen puts it all out there - she is brutally honest in revealing the shortcomings in her marriage and her part in it. No subject is sacrosanct. Body functions, sex, friendships, family, community, religion, food - you name it. I enjoyed 'meeting' her family - especially her mother, who has a perpetual sunny outlook on life, no matter what. The descriptions of Mennonite life were fascinating.Janzen's exploration of her life and her future, by calling on her past make for a riveting read. I absolutely loved it. A memoir you must read and then pass on to every one of your friends.Want a sneak peak? Read the first chapter of Mennonite in a Little Black Dress. The publisher, Henry Holt, has lots of extras - photos, reading guide, audio and video as well. Oh and some Mennonite recipes too.(Canadian connection - Janzen's mother is from the Ontario area, which boasts a large Mennonite community)
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This book is laugh out loud funny, especially in the early part of the book, although there is crudity in it which is not funny or enjoyable. The author was rasied a Mennonite and her parents are portrayed in a funny way though not disrepectfully. The author was married to an atheist for 21 years but her husband left her for a guy named Bob whom he met on gay web site--as she tells us about 50 times in the book. She tells a lot about Mennonites but in a light-hearted way, and spends no time on why Mennonites believe what they do.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    What a fun read. It's a pleasure to get a sarcastic, hip view of Mennonites and the people who leave the fold. Janzen had me laughing out loud and still left me with a great insight into the people who make up this faith.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    I really disliked this book. I think the author is very intelligent and a great writer but she had nothing to say. She is mad about her ex and it was painful to sit through 272 pages of meaningless stories. Don't buy or read this book.

Book preview

Mennonite in a Little Black Dress - Rhoda Janzen

ONE

The Bridegroom Cousin

The year I turned forty-three was the year I realized I should have never taken my Mennonite genes for granted. I’d long assumed that I had been genetically scripted to robust physical health, like my mother, who never even catches a head cold. All of my relatives on her side, the Loewens, enjoy preternaturally good health, unless you count breast cancer and polio. The polio is pretty much a done deal, thanks to Jonas Salk and his talent for globally useful vaccinations. Yet in the days before Jonas Salk, when my mother was a girl, polio crippled her younger brother Abe and also withered the arm of her closest sister Gertrude. Trude bravely went on to raise two kids one-armed, and to name her withered arm Stinky.


_____ Yes, I think Stinky is a cute name for a withered arm!

_____ No, I’d prefer to name my withered arm something with a little more dignity, such as Reynaldo.


Although breast cancer also runs in my family, it hasn’t played a significant role. It comes to us late in life, shriveling a tit or two, and then often subsiding under the composite resistance of chemo and buttermilk. That is, it would shrivel our tits if we had tits. Which we don’t.

As adolescents, my sister Hannah and I were naturally anxious to see if we would turn out more like our mother or our father. There was a lot at stake. Having endured a painfully uncool childhood, we realized that our genetic heritage positioned us on a precarious cusp. Dad was handsome but grouchy; Mom was plain but cheerful. Would we be able to pass muster in normal society, or would our Mennonite history forever doom us to outsider status?

My father, once the head of the North American Mennonite Conference for Canada and the United States, is the Mennonite equivalent of the pope, but in plaid shorts and black dress socks pulled up snugly along the calf. In the complex moral universe that is Mennonite adulthood, a Mennonite can be good-looking and still have no sartorial taste whatsoever. My father may actually be unaware that he is good-looking. He is a theologian who believes in a loving God, a servant heart, and a senior discount. Would God be pleased if we spent an unnecessary thirty-one cents at McDonald’s? I think not.

At six foot five and classically handsome, Dad has an imposing stature that codes charismatic elocution and a sobering, insightful air of authority. I’ve considered the possibility that his wisdom and general seriousness make him seem handsomer than he actually is, but whatever the reason, Dad is one of those people to whom everybody listens. No matter who you are, you do not snooze through this man’s sermons. Even if you are an atheist, you find yourself nodding and thinking, Preach it, mister!

Well, not nodding. Maybe you imagine you’re nodding. But in this scenario you are in a Mennonite church, which means you sit very still and worship Jesus with all your heart, mind, and soul, only as if a snake had bitten you, and you are now in the last stages of paralysis.

I may be the first person to mention my father’s good looks in print. Good looks are considered a superfluous feature in a Mennonite world leader, because Mennonites are all about service. Theoretically, we do not even know what we look like, since a focus on our personal appearance is vainglorious. Our antipathy to vainglory explains the decision of many of us to wear those frumpy skirts and the little doilies on our heads, a decision we must have arrived at only by collectively determining not to notice what we had put on that morning.

My mother, unlike my father, is not classically handsome. But she does enjoy good health. She is as buoyant as a lark on a summer’s morn. Nothing gets this woman down. She is the kind of mother who, when we were growing up, came singing into our bedrooms at 6:00 a.m., tunefully urging us to rise and shine and give God the glory, glory. And this was on Saturday, Saturday. Upbeat she is. Glamorous she is not. Once she bought Hannah a black T-shirt that said in glittery magenta cursive, NASTY!! She didn’t know what it meant. When we told her, she said sunnily, Oh well, then you can wear it to work in the garden!

Besides being born Mennonite, which is usually its own beauty strike, my mother has no neck. When we were growing up, our mother’s head, sprouting directly from her shoulders like a friendly lettuce, became something of a family focus. We’d take every opportunity to thrust hats and baseball caps upon her, which made us all shriek with unconscionable laughter. Mom would laugh good-naturedly, but if we got too out of hand, she’d predict that our Loewen genes would eventually assert themselves.

And they did. Although I personally have and appreciate a neck, I was, by my early forties, the very picture of blooming Loewen health: peasant-cheeked, impervious to germs, hearty as an ox. I rarely got sick. And the year before the main action of this memoir occurs, I had sustained a physical debilitation—I won’t say illness—so severe that I thought I was statistically safe for years to come.

I was only forty-two at the time, but my doctor advised a radical salpingo-oopherectomy. For the premenopausal set, that translates to Your uterus has got to go. A hushed seriousness hung in the air when the doctor first broached the subject of the hysterectomy.

I said, You mean dump my whole uterus? Ovaries and everything?

Yes, I’m afraid so.

I considered a moment. I knew I should be feeling a kind of feminist outrage, but it wasn’t happening. Okay.

Dr. Mayler spoke some solemn words about a support group. From his tone I gathered that I also ought to be feeling a profound sense of loss, and a cosmic unfairness that this was happening to me at age forty-two, instead of at age—what?—fifty-six? I dutifully wrote down the contact information for the support group, thinking that maybe I was in denial again. Maybe the seriousness and the pathos of the salpingo-oopherectomy would register later. By age forty-two I had learned that denial was my special modus operandi. Big life lessons always kicked in tardily for me. I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer, a slow learner. The postman has to ring twice, if you get my drift.

My husband, who got a vasectomy two weeks after we married, was all for the hysterectomy. Do it, he urged. Why do you need that thing? You don’t use it, do you?

In general, Nick’s policy was, if you haven’t used it in a year, throw it out. We lived in homes with spare, ultramodern decor. Once he convinced me to furnish a coach house with nothing but a midcentury dining table and three perfect floor cushions. You know the junk drawer next to the phone? Ours contained a single museum pen and a pad of artisan paper on a Herman Miller tray.

Nick therefore supported the hysterectomy, but only on the grounds of elegant understatement. To him the removal of unnecessary anatomical parts was like donating superfluous crap to Goodwill. Had the previous owners left a beer raft in the garage, as a thoughtful gift to you? No thanks! We weren’t the type of people who would store a beer raft in our garage—not because we opposed beer rafts per se, but because we did not want to clutter an uncompromising vista of empty space. Nick led the charge to edit our belongings, but I willingly followed. Had you secretly been wearing the same bra since 1989? Begone, old friend! Were you clinging to a sentimental old wedding dress? Heave ho! Nick’s enthusiasm for the hysterectomy made me a little nervous. I kept taking my internal temperature, checking for melancholy. The medical literature I was reading told me I should be feeling really, really sad.

But in the weeks before the surgery my depression mechanism continued to fail me. I remained in a state of suspicious good cheer, like my mother, who had also sustained the trial of early menopause. I called her up. Hey, Mom, I said. How did you feel about having to lose your uterus when you were my age?

Fabulous, she said. Why?

Did it make you sad?

No, I got to take the day off.

But did you mourn the passing of your youth? I pressed.

She laughed. No, I was too busy celebrating the fact that I wouldn’t have to have my period anymore. Why, sometimes I used to have to change my pad once an hour! The flow was so thick—

Okay, gotcha! I interrupted. My mother was a nurse, and she had a soft spot in her heart for lost clots, used pads, yellowed bandages, and collapsed veins. If I didn’t cut her off, she’d make a quick transition to yeast infections and all would be lost.

After I had talked to my mother, a friend told me gently that I needed to prepare myself for the upcoming shock of not having a uterus. My fifty-four-year-old friend was troubled, she said, by my cavalier attitude to this major rite of passage. I thanked her. Ah, in my heart I had known that my mother’s cheery zeitgeist was not the norm! I got good and nervous. I called the doctor’s office. Does a salpingo-oopherectomy come with any weird side effects? I asked. For instance, a rash?

No rash, said the physician’s assistant. You’ll be sore for a couple of weeks, though. No sex for two months.

Will it decrease my libido?

No.

Will it make me fat?

Not unless you stop taking care of yourself.

Then why do I need a support group? I asked.

Many women appreciate a community to support them during this transition, she said earnestly. Many women find that it is hard to adjust to a new phase in which their childbearing years are over.

I decided to compromise between a posture of pleasant indifference, which was what I actually felt, and a posture of gentle, sensitive loss, which was what I tried to feel over a journal and several pots of soothing elderberry tea. Because I was sensitively writing in a journal, trying honestly to face and feel my emotions, I figured I could give myself permission to dispense with the support group. I’d never been much attached to my uterus to begin with, since I had elected not to bear children. So boo to the support group. What I mean is, God grant those supportive gals abundant sisterly blessings!

But God knew that the journal was a fake, and he ended up punishing my callous insensitivity. (Have I mentioned that the Mennonite God is a guy? Could anyone have doubted it?) During the surgery, Dr. Mayler, who is in most cases quite competent, accidentally punched a hole in two of my organs. He didn’t notice. Oops. When I came to, I was piddling like a startled puppy.

So I who had always been the picture of vigorous health was returned to my husband two weeks later in a wheelchair, thin as a spider and clutching a pee bag that connected to my body via a long transparent tube. The first couple of days I was too ill to care, but then my mother’s disposition began to assert itself. The truth started to sink in: Pee bag. Tube. I kept watching bubbles drift down the tube, thinking: I am peeing. Right now. At this very moment. Or: I am eating and peeing at the same time. I am woman, hear me pee! That is, hear me empty the pee bag into a plastic basin that is too heavy for me to lift!

I lay there doing nothing, unless you count peeing, which was an ongoing activity. But instead of mourning my lost uterus, I took naps and read the New York Times, which in my regular life I never have enough time to finish. Reading the paper at my leisure smack in the middle of the day was not unlike being on vacation—deluxe! said my Loewen genes. The new doctors had told me there was a chance that I would be permanently incontinent, a possibility that would seriously mess with my love life, not to mention my gym schedule. But like my mother, I immediately began telling myself that permanent incontinence wasn’t the end of the world. It was better, for instance, than quadriplegia. I had great friends, a husband, and a cat. Large-sized diaper products, although hazardous to the environment and destined for decades in the landfill, were cheap. Why, just the other day, I had seen a coupon for Depends.

Because of Nick’s rough childhood, we were both worried about how he would handle a much more difficult convalescence than either of us had bargained for. Nick’s mother, who had a long history of mental illness, had subjected her children to what nineteenth-century doctors called a tyranny of vapors—meaning that she used her many aches and complaints to control folks. No matter what was going on in the lives of her children, it was all about Regina. As an adult, Nick had distanced himself from her, loathing the trope of the Invalid Woman, and he had often told me that he wouldn’t be with me if I were one of those clinging, hysterical types.

During our infrequent visits with Regina, I tried to distract her by getting her to talk about her extreme beauty. This wasn’t a stretch. Even at eighty-one, Regina had that vavavoom Italian wow factor. She really was physically beautiful—Nick had to get it from somewhere—and she looked twenty-five years younger than she was. She usually wore a tremendous glam wig and stretch pants. I didn’t mind asking pressing questions about how many men had asked to marry her. All in a day’s work.

I have a story that sums up the essential Regina. Twelve years ago, Nick and I were poor grad students when we got the call that his father had had a severe stroke and was dying in a West Virginia hospital. We couldn’t afford to fly, so we hopped in the car and drove nonstop from Chicago to Fairfax, about a twelve-hour drive. We drank gallons of coffee, driving as fast as we dared, willing Nick’s father to stay alive until we got there. When we finally pulled up to the hospital, we didn’t even stop for the restroom; we ran upstairs as fast as we could, chuffing down the critical-care corridor. There they were, Nick’s dad at death’s door but still in the game, and Regina, looking every bit the lovely and distraught wife. She jumped up and stretched out her arms to me. Dear! she exclaimed intensely. What do you think of my hair!

Having Regina for a mother would have freaked anybody out. Would Nick be so repelled by the sight of a feeble female that he would be unable to take care of me?

The lion’s share of the gross-out work would fall on him—changing dressings, cathing me, emptying my pee bag into a basin, disposing of my urine like a good old-fashioned chambermaid. I’ll do my best, he said gamely. But that pee bag’s fucked up.

Then Nick surprised us both. He turned out to be a natural in the sickroom. Crisp, competent, almost jovial, he sailed into my sickroom opening windows, fluffing pillows, and lubricating tubes. He appeared with cups of coffee and odd sandwiches. I’d wake to a tray of peanuts, a new maroon nail polish, and a literary journal. Here, he’d say briskly, handing me a midmorning gin-and-tonic. Time to take your pills!

My best friend, Lola, happened to be in the States that summer, and she flew in to hang out with me. Lola was kind of like a support group, and her timing was perfect. I didn’t want Nick to have to bathe and toilet me too; it was bad enough that he had to swish my pee. We were the type of married couple who prefers not just separate bathrooms but bathrooms separated by two thousand square feet. I had been intermittently sharing bathrooms with Lola, however, for upwards of thirty-five years, so during her visit, she helped me into and out of the shower. I had gotten so weak that I couldn’t even wash my own hair. But Lola and I hardly ever got to spend time together now that she had married an Italian, so, pee bag notwithstanding, what we really wanted to do was maximize our two weeks together. We were on fire to go shopping.

In Italy, most expat Americans find the shopping scene challenging. One, things are hugely overpriced. Two, Italy has a sale only twice a year. Three, Italy does not offer clothing sizes for women with generous opera-singer bottoms. So Lola has to wait to go shopping until she comes stateside, and that summer, in spite of my postsurgery frailty, we were itching to go to Nordstrom Rack. We were trying to find a way to make an afternoon at Nordstrom Rack a reality. Let’s just tuck your pee bag into a colorful tote, and then you can carry it like a purse, said Lola.

But you’ll be able to see the cord coming out of the bottom of my skirt, I objected. And what about the fact that I can’t walk yet?

You can lean on a shopping cart, Lola said. It will be like one of those walkers with a built-in basket. And I don’t think anybody will really notice your pee tube, since it’s transparent.

Yes, but bubbles of urine are passing through it all the time, I said, worried. Look, here’s one now, this very second. As it drifted by, my cat Roscoe tried to attack it. Hey, dumbass, I said to him, that’s not a toy. That’s URINE. I don’t know, Lola. Am I ready to pee in public?

You know what? said Lola. "Just put it out there. Like a disability you’ve come to accept. Love me, love my pee tube. People diddle around in public with their gross psoriasis, scratching and brushing. Or think of that guy at the diner who showed up for breakfast with an open wound on his head. Waffles and pork links and a big tender scab with the blood barely clotted. Or think of new mothers who whip out their nipple and breast-feed in public, in front of God and

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