The Monday Book – The English Teacher by Lily King

Guest review by Janelle Bailey, avid reader and always learning; sometimes substitute teaching, sometimes grandbabysitting, sometimes selling books

The English Teacher by Lily King

The English Teacher by Lily King

This is not a new book–it was first published in 2005)–but I came to it after first discovering Lily King and then wishing to read everything she’d written. I was not disappointed by that pursuit. King’s writing is solid, her stories holding layers of literary value, her characters thoughtfully deep and charismatic.

And it’s even been years since I read this book, but I’m still thinking about it, especially in light of some critical issues that have been developing for women these past couple of years. I often think of Vida…and also of my discussion post-reading with a great friend and fellow lover of good literature. Vida was very real to us, and she prompted a thoughtful discussion that could apply to many situations and which I think of often.

The English teacher in this novel, however, is that Vida. The book’s main character, Vida is a bit of a mess, but she wasn’t always, necessarily. It’s that during the action of this novel, she is first confronting some of her stuff, which she had been, well…stuffing…for years and years. Vida teaches English at Fayer Academy, a cozy little boarding school built in a mansion once owned by Vida’s grandfather, coincidentally. She has the third floor pretty much to herself. She’s much loved by students, named teacher of the year by then and rewarded more than once in her career, and she teaches the classics, such as Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles in ways with which any of us who’ve taught literature at all can relate, that beautiful repetition of seeing a work anew but the same, too, with a brand new group of students.

And outside of her classroom, Vida is also mom to Peter, now a freshman at Fayer…and dog mom to Walt…and she likes her wine. And she enjoys a positive, camaraderie- and history-filled, collegial relationship with many of her school colleagues, having worked there for years and living right on campus in a school-owned house.

And yet the life that Vida has been living outwardly allllll of this time has not required her to confront much of what she keeps inside…until she meets and then marries Tom.

This is a great book…thoughtful and thought-filled, well-written, characters believable and intense, and giving us access to our own stuff on the side.

I hope you have something new in the works and coming out soon, Ms. King.

Come back next Monday for another book review!

Heart and Sole?

The journey to get a mammogram begins with a single step – until you look down and discover your shoes are coming apart.

I like to schedule these annoying-yet-essential procedures early. That’s not as in early detection, but early in the morning; off I went in my trusty Prius with its beloved heated steering wheel, on a cold and frosty morning.

As I walked to the hospital elevator, I realized my Dansko shoes were squeaking. I tend to pick up cute shoes, usually Allegria or Dansko brands; these bargains often exhibit some small detail that prompted the prior owner to donate them. Baby powder stops squeaky shoes, and I made a note to fix them later.

Except…. They were also kinda wobbly. Danskos have those notorious thick soles, so why should I feel unstable?

Checking in, the nurse complimented me on my shoes. “Those are adorable. What brand?”

“Thank you,” I said, lifting my foot to show her the logo as I added, “Dansko.” The shoe’s heel stayed on the floor.


She didn’t notice, having turned to add my vitals to some e-record the dark forces would use to market things to me later. I left a trail of little black bits all the way down the hall to the waiting room, where I again lifted my foot to see what the hell was going on down there.

Another piece of sole parted company with its host. I brushed the spongy stuff under the chair with what remained of my shoe and took sock—er, stock—of my situation.



For whatever reason, those thick Dansko soles had cracked as I walked on them, the cracking pieces falling away in chunks and crumbs. By this time, I had about half a sole left on each shoe, in random places, the entire thing resembling something the dog had gotten hold of, if the dog were to eschew chewing leather in favor of what looked like foam rubber coated with shellack. I am shoe-construction naïve. I just buy them when they’re cute.

As I pondered being soleless, the second nurse came to get me. I considered coming clean but instead staggered behind, leaving a trail of black crumbs, to the prep room. As she sat me down for the routine chat, I crossed my legs, then hastily uncrossed them as her eyes traveled to my shoes.

“Those are so cute! Where did you get them?” She pointed to my feet flat on the floor. The lighting was dim, the black rubble piling up beneath me invisible against the dark carpet.

“Thrift store. They’re Danskos.” I said, as we moved down the hall to the machine.

“That’s a great brand,” she said, and began sliding parts of me into the vice.

I used to think so, I thought as she rotated, squeezed, and photographed. At one point I was certain my breasts would join my shoes in rebelling against these working conditions and part company with my body, but I remained whole, reassembled my clothing post-procedure, and wobbled out the door.

Behind me the receptionist gave a cry of annoyance. “How did all that dirt get on the floor? Is it raining? Call housekeeping.”


When I got home and checked into social media, my side advertisements were all…of course…shoe sales.