A Slice of Orange

By Nancy Farrier

Something caught my eye as I stood in the front yard talking with my neighbor. I looked up to see my two-year-old daughter racing, arms outstretched, down the slope of the roof toward the edge. My heart stuttered. I broke into a run, hoping to get close enough to catch her when she stepped into space. Instead, she stopped, her small feet poised near the drop off, a smile as big as the Grand Canyon on her face. She still had her arms out, and I could see how delighted she was to have this vantage point. My expression of utter panic didn’t faze her.

This wasn’t the first time my daughter managed to climb on the roof. She’d been eighteen-months-old the first time she found her way there. Since then, we often heard from neighbors driving by, who would call when they got home to tell us Anne was on the roof again. Hooray for small towns.

Despite my repeated attempts to apprise her of the dangers, Anne loved being up so high. I would send her outside to look for something, and when I would find her on top of the house, she would say, “But, Mom, I can see better from up here.” Who could argue with that logic? Well, I could—and did.

Sometimes, in life I get bogged down. There are everyday mundane chores that never seem to end no matter how often I do them. When that happens, I can find myself forgetting the joy and fun in life. All I see are the piles of laundry, the dirty dishes, the nitpicky editing I need to do, and on it goes.

I have to remember to be more like that two-year-old. My attitude doesn’t have to be that of a grumpy person, even if I have a lot of responsibility. Not that I intend to run across my roof, but I do need to put my arms out sometimes and surrender all the things that weigh me down. I need to keep alive the joy in my life.

A few years back, a friend gave an interesting view on reading. She claims that the first book you read by an author is nearly always the one you like best. I’m not necessarily talking about the author’s first book—rather, the book by that author that you read first.

When my friend said it, I thought, yes, that’s exactly right. Now, I’m not so sure. I think back over some of the authors I’ve “discovered,” and in some cases I liked the first book I read the best, but in others, I liked later books as much or more.I’m going to talk about some of those books here.

Please note, just because I say I like one book best, it doesn’t mean I didn’t like, or even love, the author’s other books. I’m just talking about that book I would name as my favorite by that author.

The “first is best” rule holds true for me with some authors. Anita Shreve’s Fortune’s Rocks was the first I read of hers and is still my favorite. My Sister’s Keeper is my first and best read from Jodi Picoult. Prince of Lies (Harlequin Presents) is my first and favorite book by Robyn Donald. The Heiress Takes a Husband is, I think, my favorite book by Silhouette author Cara Colter, and it was also the first I read (it was part of trilogy, BTW, and somehow I missed the other two books, which is a lasting regret!).

But on the other hand… Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married was the first book I read by Marian Keyes, but Rachel’s Holiday is so far my favorite. This Heart of Mine was my first Susan Elizabeth Phillips book, but although it’s still right up there, I think I prefer Kiss an Angel or Match Me If You Can. Marrying Marcus is my favorite book from Silhouette author Laurey Bright, who also writes as Daphne Clair, but it was by no means the first I read. With Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series, I think I’ve enjoyed all the books equally.

I rather enjoy sitting around remembering books I’ve read and debating (with myself, mostly) which is the best. How about you? Do you think the first book you read by an author tends to be the best, or does that have nothing to do with it?
Abby