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Life Is So Good Kindle Edition
“Things will be all right. People need to hear that. Life is good, just as it is. There isn’t anything I would change about my life.”—George Dawson
In this remarkable book, George Dawson, a slave’s grandson who learned to read at age 98 and lived to the age of 103, reflects on his life and shares valuable lessons in living, as well as a fresh, firsthand view of America during the entire sweep of the twentieth century. Richard Glaubman captures Dawson’s irresistible voice and view of the world, offering insights into humanity, history, hardships, and happiness. From segregation and civil rights, to the wars and the presidents, to defining moments in history, George Dawson’s description and assessment of the last century inspires readers with the message that has sustained him through it all: “Life is so good. I do believe it’s getting better.”
WINNER OF THE CHRISTOPHER AWARD
“A remarkable autobiography . . . . the feel-good story of the year.”—The Christian Science Monitor
“A testament to the power of perseverance.”—USA Today
“Life Is So Good is about character, soul and spirit. . . . The pride in standing his ground is matched—maybe even exceeded—by the accomplishment of [George Dawson’s] hard-won education.”—The Washington Post
“Eloquent . . . engrossing . . . an astonishing and unforgettable memoir.”—Publishers Weekly
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- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherRandom House
- Publication dateMay 9, 2000
- Reading age18 years and up
- File size2.4 MB
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Editorial Reviews
From Publishers Weekly
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
---Theresa McDevitt, Indiana Univ. of Pennsylvania
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Kirkus Reviews
Review
“A remarkable autobiography . . . . the feel-good story of the year.”—The Christian Science Monitor
“A testament to the power of perseverance.”—USA Today
“Life Is So Good is about character, soul and spirit. . . . The pride in standing his ground is matched—maybe even exceeded—by the accomplishment of [George Dawson’s] hard-won education.”—The Washington Post
“Eloquent . . . engrossing . . . an astonishing and unforgettable memoir.”—Publishers Weekly
From the Inside Flap
Born in 1898 in Marshall, Texas, the grandson of slaves, George Dawson tells how his father, despite hardships, always believed in seeing the richness in life and trained his children to do the same. As a boy, George had to go to work to help support the family, and so he did not attend school or learn to read; yet he describes how he learned to read the world and survive in it. "We make our own way," he says. "Trouble is out there, but a person can leave it alone and just do the right thing. Then, if trouble still finds you, you've done the best you can."
At ninety-eight, George decided to learn to read and enrol
From the Back Cover
" I tell people not to worry about things, not to worry about their lives. Things will be all right. People need to hear that. Life is good, just as it is. There isn't anything I would change about my life."
" For almost four years, I had gotten used to being alone. It didn't bother me none. Back at our farm I was most often the first one up. There was lots of chores to do, but sometimes, shutting the door quietly, I would lean against the logs and look at the sky and take a few moments for myself. Inside, the cabin had the comfortable feel of people. Outside, it was empty and lonely and I had grown to like that too. I liked to look at the stars on the still and quiet mornings and listen for the howl of the coyotes."
" I had never seen a car before and that model T was beautiful. It was polished black with a shiny brass radiator cap. The top could come down, of course, and it was something to see. It worked in town, but wasn't too practical. We didn't get a lot of rain, but when the rain came down it was often a downpour. Our roads turned to mud, and the autos just couldn't make it. After a good rain, I saw cars being towed by a mule or a team of horses. Most people agreed as to how those cars were close to useless, but I still liked them anyway."
About the Author
Richard Glaubman is an elementary school teacher. He lives outside Seattle, Washington.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
"Take your time, son," my father said with a grin. "You did a man's work this year."
Putting his hand on my shoulder, he said to the store clerk, "He's all of ten years, but the boy crushed as much cane as I did." Since the age of four, I had always been working to help the family.
I don't know if it was pride from Father's words or the pleasure from a piece of hard candy that beckoned, but I felt so good I thought I would burst. I had been thinking of those hard candies since my father woke me before daybreak and said, "Hitch the wagon. We gonna take some ribbon syrup into town and you comin'."
When I went back inside, the stove was going and Ma had a pot of mush cooling. We ate quiet-like so as not to wake the little ones that were asleep on the other side of the room.
I was happy to see they was still sleeping for it was uncommon to spend the day alone with my father. We never had much time to talk and I just liked to be with him.
Two barrels of cane syrup were tied down in the wagon. We sat up front. My father clucked toward the mule. I wanted to tell him that I was glad he was taking me and it was going to be just him and me together all day. Trouble was, I didn't know how to say that in words. So under the shadow of my straw hat, I just looked over at him.
Solid is what I would say. He took care of us. We had potatoes and carrots buried in the straw and salt pork hangin' from the rafters. We was free of worries. Papa was a good provider. Someday I would be just like him.
Must have been a couple of hours toward town when my father nudged me. He handed me the reins and unwrapped some burlap. I took a piece of cornbread with a big dab of lard on it. When I commenced to eat, he started talking.
"With this ribbon syrup, we be out of debt and have some left for trading. We gonna have seeds for cotton, some new banty chicks, and the fruit trees that are gonna bear fruit next year. No one has the fever and we all be healthy.
"Life is good." And with a grin, he added, "I do believe it's getting better." I liked it when Papa talked to me as a man.
The morning haze had long ago burned off. The wagon stirred up a lot of dust that kind of settled over everything in a nice, smooth blanket. It was good for the mule as the dust had a way of keeping the flies off. Nothing else was said for the next hour, till we came around the last stand of trees and to the rise above Marshall.
In those days, I had in my mind that Marshall was maybe about the biggest and the best place there could ever be. The hardware store had big windows that I liked to look in. I had never been inside since I knew they didn't appreciate black folks with no money. I was partial to the general store, but I liked to walk by the livery stable too. Once a man gave me two bits to rub down and watch his horse for the afternoon. It was 1908, and I hadn't yet seen a car. I had heard of them, but nobody I knew owned one. Papa said that they didn't do too well when the rains came and the roads was deep in mud. Besides, they scared the horses. Mostly, I just liked seeing all the folks from the big ranches and the little farms like ours that was out on the boardwalk.
The cafe and the barbershop was whites only, but I knew a boy that worked in the cafe. And I knew some folks that shined shoes at the barbershop. I liked to look in those windows too.
We never had no cause to go into the post office. But I pictured that one day someone would say there was a letter waiting for me. I would walk past all the folks sitting in the town square beneath the big oak tree. When I was inside, I would say, "I'm George Dawson. I'm here to get my letter." I don't know when that was gonna happen but maybe someday it would. Marshall was a busy place and good things could just happen. It was the county seat and that had to count for something too. At least, that's what I thought then.
But at that moment, in the general store, when my father told me that I could do a man's work, anything seemed possible. I remember everything. I saw the white man frowning, my father grinning at me, and those barrels of candy to choose from. I also remember everything my ears told me that day.
As I picked up a piece of peppermint, I heard a commotion from the street. My father's gaze followed mine. It was dark and cool in the store and the hot light through the doors caused a confusing picture. There were people running, harsh words, and a lot of shouting. Papa set down a kerosene lamp he was inspecting on the counter and run to the door. I followed with the counterman behind me.
At first, out on the boardwalk, in the bright sunlight, I couldn't see the faces on the street. I heard Pete's voice before I saw him.
"It wasn't me. I didn't touch her," Pete screamed. "Lord, let me go."
I would of backed off from what I saw, but by then we was crowded up against the rail. First time in my life I saw the white folks and the colored folks together in a crowd.
It scared me. There was no more frown on the face of the white counterman that was beside of me. His lips were set in a smile. Hate was in his eyes. Across the street, in front of the barbershop, I saw three colored men frozen in place. The white folks surrounding them had red, twisted faces.
They were screaming. I had done nothing, but I felt them screaming at me.
"Kill the nigger boy, kill the nigger. They can't be messing with our white women."
Six men had Pete by the arms. The toes of his boots dragged in the dust. His face looked up to the sky as he screamed, "I didn't touch her."
I knew Pete and knew that was so. I shouted, "Pete, I'll tell-"
My father's hand clamped over my mouth. His other arm crushed the air right out of my chest. I read his eyes and then he slowly let me go without saying a word. I knew it wasn't so, though. The Riley's cook had heard the whole thing; she just kept on working in the kitchen and watched Betty Jo and her father. She was right there, but they didn't even notice she was alive.
She was scared about what they said and I heard her talking to my mama about it. Betty Jo had gotten herself in trouble. Folks already knew that she had a thing for one of the Jackson boys and was spending a lot of time with him. When her daddy found out she was with a child, she had a whipping coming sure enough. Her daddy was steaming mad and of short temper anyhow.
"Who's the boy that done this to you?" her daddy shouted. Sally looked at the belt in his hand. She was crying but wouldn't say nothing. She was scared, and afraid to tell the boy's name, because she figured that her daddy just might go off and kill him.
"Well, if you did this 'cause you wanted to, a good beating will teach you right."
She cried even harder then.
"Well, you got it coming unless maybe this happened against your will."
Her crying slowed and seeing a way out of a beating she listened close.
"Is that what happened?" he said slowly.
Scared as she was, Betty Jo could tell that the safe answer was yes. Not wanting to tell a whole lie, she just nodded her head.
"Damn. Was it that Jackson boy from across the ridge?"
Betty Jo, she loved him, or at least thought she did, shook her head no.
Her daddy looked at her hard. His face turned angry and he said, "Was it our hired boy, Pete? That worthless, lazy nigger! Did he rape you? Did he do this?"
To each question, she just nodded in the smallest way. The tears still flowed, but he threw the belt down and stormed out the door.
"There is one nigger gonna pay for this."
Pete was seventeen and the hired boy around their farm; picking cotton, cutting cane, chores like that. He was a good worker. But he was smart and he knew enough not to even look at a white woman.
I knew Pete since we were little. He was older than me, but he treated me well. Pete was the one who swum out and saved Jimmy Blake at the swimming hole. Jimmy had smacked his head on the corner of the raft when he was showing off for us little kids. Everyone was afraid to swim out that far, but he done it. Pete, he would do anything for anybody.
As I was growing up, I didn't have any toys, but I did still own a baseball that Pete had given me a year earlier. We had been at the pasture of a Sunday afternoon last summer. I had helped to cut the field. A team from Tyler had come over to play some of our boys from Marshall. We didn't have a real stadium, but we would go out and mow the pasture, and set up table for a big Sunday feast and get together afterward. Pete played shortstop. He was good too. If you wanted fast, you should have seen Pete run the bases.
The score was tied and went to extra innings. In the eleventh Pete came up with a man on first, two outs. He took their pitcher full count. And then ... and then he almost hit a cow. It would of been a home run if we had fences. As it was, he got a triple and drove in the winning run. I cheered and cheered for our Marshall boys, especially for Pete.
I was proud of him when the team gave him the game ball. He gave me that ball and said, "You practice with it, George. You'll be a hitter someday too." I was awful pleased but I could barely mutter thank you when my mama nudged me. Pete was my hero.
The colored couldn't play in the big leagues, but if they could I know Pete would of made it.
Yeah, someone had committed a sin and Pete was gonna pay for it. I looked down the boardwalk. They was dragging Pete in the direction of the post office. Sheriff Tate stepped off the boardwalk up ahead from where the mob was. I let out a big breath of air. The sheriff was a big man. I had heard it said that, on a bet, he had carried a barrel of molasses on his back from the general store down past the saloon. They say that once when things got out of hand at the rodeo and the crowd threatened an official, the sheriff took care of it himself. He laid six men out cold before the crowd settled down. I knew he could stop this. People was spilling off the boardwalk and cursing Pete something terrible.
"We gonna keep our women safe."
"Make that boy pay and show all the niggers that they can't get away with this."
Pete was kicking and thrashing, but the mob was still hauling him farther down the street. Taking a few steps along the edge of the road, the sheriff stopped. He kicked the dust and planted his feet. He had big, shiny-looking boots that dust didn't want to stick to. His pants, tucked into the boots, had a stripe down the sides. A big pistol hung off his belt. He pulled the pistol out and crossed his arms so that the pistol set against his chest.
He turned and looked back toward the boardwalk. The sheriff was in front of a group of colored that was pressed into the crowd. He scowled and sent them a message that gave me a chill on a hot day. I had heard tell that the sheriff ran with the Klan at night when they would come through the colored section or out to the colored farms. They would leave a burning cross or shoot some windows out. That's what people said about him and now I knew it was true.
Behind us, a man was pushing his way out of the store. The sheriff walked toward us and waved his pistol. We opened up some space and let the man through. I saw the big coil of rope slung over his shoulder. I wanted to cry, but I held it back. He ran along the edge of the street and a couple other men stepped down to join him. Some of them were farmers I recognized from when we delivered our cotton. They looked like ordinary farmers with overalls and farm work boots. But that day, their hateful faces made them different.
As they caught up alongside Pete, the mob seemed to get inspired. Pete had been twisting and screaming all get out, but those men seemed to double their strength when they seen the lynching rope coming. Up by the post office, the old oak tree, the Confederate Tree, they called it, was going to be a gallows.
As the rope got closer to the tree, more men arrived to help. One of them tried to throw it over a big limb, but it fell short. It kept falling short. Some in the crowd jeered as if it were a contest at the county fair. Finally a man tied one end around a horseshoe. It sailed over the big limb, causing a small cloud of dust when it landed. Some cheers and laughter followed as if the spectators was at a picnic.
I looked down at the boardwalk. I saw the gouges and grooves worn over time. I focused on one rough spot that almost had the shape of a half-moon. I would of studied it forever, but I couldn't help but look up. It had seemed as if we were all in slow motion and now everything was happening so fast. Someone had pulled a wagon into the shade under the rope. The horse was whinnying and nervous. A couple men were up front giving it some kindness and making it calm.
Pete was closer now, could see the rope and the wagon. His shouts and protests had changed to cries for mercy.
"I swear to God it wasn't me. Have mercy, you've got the wrong man. I didn't touch her."
Pete's eyes had a wild look as more men began milling around him. He was up on his feet now, but it was more that they was holding him up. Pete was swaying, as if he was about to faint. His face was all bloodied, but his eyes could see clear what was going to happen.
His arms were pinned behind him and someone had bound him around the wrists. One of the men in the buckboard said, "Get that boy up here."
As they reached to grab his legs Pete started to kick wildly. His boot kicked one of them under the chin. A farmer, actually a moon shiner, by the name of Norris staggered and went down as blood spurted out of his mouth and onto his overalls.
"Damn."
Spitting out a tooth and a mouthful of blood, he said "That nigger hurt me!"
Some men went over to help him but Norris waved them off and regained his feet. It had gotten awfully still and you could hear his boots scrape across the hard dirt as he pulled himself up. He walked, kinda punch drunk from the kick to the head, till he was maybe two feet from Pete. He was swaying a bit and trembling from his anger. Now it was Pete that stood steady and still.
Some men were still holding Pete tight from behind so that he couldn't even budge. But if Pete knew he was gonna die, the fear had left his face. Though Pete was just a boy, he must of been four to five inches taller than Norris. He just looked down at Norris, looked him in the eye. Most always we was supposed to look down at the ground when a white man was talking, and this seemed to set Norris off even more.
Norris was a squat man but he was powerful and broad across the shoulders. The first punch was so hard to the stomach that across the square we could hear the air push out of Pete's chest. Even the two men who held Pete was pushed back a step by that blow. They seemed to brace their legs for the next blow, and Pete sagged. I didn't want to look, but I seen it all.
The gunshot took me by surprise. I saw the smoke drifting out of the crowd and followed that to see where it came from. The sheriff didn't say nothing, he just walked slowly toward Norris and holstered his gun. My heart lifted. It was like the reverend told us: All had been darkness and now there was light.
I watched Norris and saw that all the bluster was gone. I turned and looked up at my father. His lips were set, but there was a questioning look in his eyes. Mostly, I looked at Pete. He wasn't smiling, but I could see there was hope in his eyes as they followed the sheriff.
It seemed like forever came and went till he stopped in front of Norris.
It was like a low whisper, but the sheriff's voice carried across the crowd.
"This ain't your show, Norris."
People talk about white trash around here. My mama and papa won't let us call anyone white trash, but it seemed that's what the sheriff was saying to Norris, the way that he talked to him like he was a dog that better get himself off the porch. While lots of white folks would buy moonshine from Norris, you could tell that at the same time everyone thought he was shiftless and no account.
Pete was watching the sheriff, but the sheriff, he didn't even take no notice of him. He nodded to the half-dozen men gathered in front of the buckboard and walked back toward the crowd. It was as if he had given his blessing.
Pete had taken the best that Norris had to offer, but you could see that it was the sheriff that had delivered a crushing blow. Pete's legs buckled. He moaned as those men dragged him the remaining few feet around to the back of the buckboard.
"I didn't do nothing," Pete cried in a voice that rang without hope.
I buried my head against my father's chest.
When I heard the whip snap and the buckboard lurch forward, I looked back. Pete's neck broke instantly; his head rested at an awkward angle. His eyes were open and he looked out at everyone.
As he swayed from the tree, the crowd hushed and tried to look away from his accusing eyes. Not till Pete's body stopped swinging did anyone move. The crowd broke up in silence and went their separate ways.
I didn't want to, but as we left Marshall I turned round in my seat and looked. Pete was still looking at me and I knew that he always would be. Pete would stay till morning. When they did a lynching, they made us leave the body hanging, to put a terror in the colored folk.
His face looked different than I had ever seen it, but Papa still hadn't said a word. First time I looked up from the wagon, I noticed that we were already passing Miller's Swamp. We was halfway home and I hadn't wanted to raise my eyes to the world. I had always looked closely when we passed the swamp, see if I could see any muskrats or water moccasins. Now I didn't care. I would never care again, I promised myself.
I had been thinking hard, though. We lived just three miles from the Johnsons, a white family. And since I was eight, I had been feeding hogs at the McCready and Barker farms. They always paid like they promised, or most often sent home a slab of beef or salt pork in exchange for my work. But after what I saw, I decided that life was different now. I figured I owed that to Pete.
"I will never work for or talk to a white person again," I said with anger.
My father, who had seemed lost in his own thoughts, jerked his head and looked at me.
"That was wrong what they did," I said. "Those white folks are mean and nasty people."
Papa swallowed hard and pulled up on the reins so that the wagon stopped.
He turned toward me. "No. You will work for white folks. You will talk to them."
"But, Papa, what about Pete? He didn't do nothing and they killed him."
"Yeah, I know they had no cause for that, but-"
I cut my father off short, something I had never done.
"But they made Pete suffer so."
"His suffering is over, son. It's all over for Pete. You don't need to worry for him."
"They took his life. Pete was still young. He should of grown to be a man.
"That's so," Papa said. "It was Pete's time, though. His time had come and that's that."
My anger still had some hold on me and I swallowed hard.
Papa looked at me and said, "Some of those white folks was mean and nasty. Some were just scared. It doesn't matter. You have no right to judge another human being. Don't you ever forget."
My father had spoken.
There was nothing to say. I didn't know it then, but his words set the direction my life would take even till this day.
A year earlier, I had been kicked by the mule. It hurt like all get-out. I couldn't work for three days, but I didn't cry. I was proud that I was man enough to take it. But this hurt worse. I cried and my daddy wrapped his arms around me and held me to his chest. Then something broke loose deep inside. I didn't know a body could have so many tears.
I cried for me. I cried for Pete. I cried for the little ones and for Mama and Papa. I cried for all the pain that there was in this world. Papa had his own tears and he just held me.
When the tears slowed, Papa told me, "This morning, I said that you did a man's work. But you was still a boy. Now you are learning to be a man."
After we got home, I found my peppermint was still in my pocket. I scraped off the lint and the dirt. I gave it to one of my little sisters. My taste for it had disappeared. Ninety years later, I still don't like peppermint.
About six months after the lynching, Betty Jo had her baby. It was a boy, a little white boy. No one said nothing. I guess by then most folks, white folks anyway, had all forgotten. I didn't forget. Mama said that maybe where Pete is now, if they have a team, colored could play in those big leagues. I think, Pete would be starting at shortstop.
I'm one hundred and one years old now. But I still remember. Though that was over ninety years ago, I see it in my mind like I was there today. I can't let loose of my memories, even if I wanted to. Yeah, I've seen it all in these hundred years, the good and the bad. My memory works fine. I can tell you everything you want to know.
Product details
- ASIN : B000Q9II90
- Publisher : Random House; Reprint edition (May 9, 2000)
- Publication date : May 9, 2000
- Language : English
- File size : 2.4 MB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 274 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #742,308 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #105 in Family & Personal Growth
- #274 in Aging Parents (Kindle Store)
- #293 in Motivational Growth & Spirituality
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

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Customers find the story inspiring and humbling. They describe the book as an easy, fascinating read that should be required reading in high school. The author speaks honestly about his life and portrays actual life during those times. Readers appreciate the authenticity, beauty, and realness of the story. They mention it's great for all ages and never too late to learn and have faith. The main character is memorable and a great example for all of us.
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Customers find the story inspiring and humbling. They appreciate the author's honest approach to life and his positive attitude. Readers describe the book as an insightful read with powerful witticisms. It is described as a wonderful true-life story that shows courage and hope.
"...Dawson and Richard Glaubman "One man's extraordinary journey though the twentieth century and how he learned to read at age 98." Worth..." Read more
"...Some of George's wisdom is expressed in simple yet powerful witticisms: -For me its like fishing...." Read more
"...His account is a fabulous reminder of what is truly important in life and how very blessed (and frequently spoiled) we are when compared to those..." Read more
"I love true stories, this book was very interesting as to what and how the fella grew up and the challenges he faced during his lifetime." Read more
Customers appreciate the book's humility and positive attitude. They find it uplifting and encouraging, with an example of gratitude despite challenges. The author is described as warm and endearing, helping readers feel kindness towards others.
"...man, returns to Texas to raise a family, demonstrates perseverance, gratitude, wisdom of elders, importance of reading and lifelong learning...." Read more
"...Yet, he remained positive, hopeful, kind. No reason to ban this book." Read more
"...George and his co-author captured the essence of an extremely humble, determined, focused individual who stayed true to who he was, how he wanted to..." Read more
"...His upbringing was exemplary: strong work ethic, respect for all, though he was especially coached to be respectful to whites, employers, etc...." Read more
Customers find the book easy to read and engaging. They say it's beautifully written and should be required reading in high school. The chapters are short enough to read before bed. Readers appreciate the simple yet complicated life journey depicted in the book.
"Very different read. A interesting story told by a very determined person. Riddled with hardship, it never seem to have an effect on him...." Read more
"I liked this book. The simplicity yet complicated manuvering through the life of one amazing individual. I cant even..." Read more
"HIGHLY recommend this book! It is a quick and easy read, but very thought-provoking...." Read more
"...This book should be required reading in high school as it depicts the life of a man who learned to read at a very old age. Anthing is Possible !!" Read more
Customers find the book authentic. They say it's a genuine account of a real person's life, with a good portrayal of actual life during those times. The book makes readers want to be better people.
"...that not everyone carries those beliefs, is stunningly real and honest...." Read more
"This is a memoir of truth and honesty, and the power of rising early, fishing, work and staying away from "trouble"." Read more
"...Couldn’t put it down at times. Facts through the eyes of a freed man." Read more
"...He brings perspective on what really matters in life - honesty, staying busy, not worrying, not holding grudges, being grateful and family." Read more
Customers find the book honest and inspiring. They describe it as a realistic look into a life and times different from their own.
"...as his revelation that not everyone carries those beliefs, is stunningly real and honest...." Read more
"...A real look into a life and times so different from mine. I love to read about "everyday" people." Read more
"Such a real and inspirational story. To know and listen to another's story is to learn. Thank you _..." Read more
"...A beautiful, precious soul ... wish I could have met him and talked with him at length." Read more
Customers find the book suitable for all ages. They appreciate the message that learning never stops, and that it's never too late to learn and have faith.
"...gratitude, wisdom of elders, importance of reading and lifelong learning...." Read more
"...in high school as it depicts the life of a man who learned to read at a very old age. Anthing is Possible !!" Read more
"Very nice story enjoyed the book. Never too old to learn." Read more
"This book is great for all ages. My 8 year and 14 year old have read it along with me. Great book for the entire family." Read more
Customers appreciate the character development in the book. They find the main character memorable, a great example, and say the book gets inside his life.
"The main character in this book was very memorable. A man who spends his whole life working and regretting that he cannot read is very inspiring...." Read more
"Exceptional book about an exceptional individual that had so much of the character that we are missing today...." Read more
"...This book has given me hope. What a good man and great example George is for all of us." Read more
"...The book was so well written and he was such and admirable man. What an inspiration!" Read more
Customers find the book easy to read and engaging. They appreciate its simplicity and wisdom from a humble author. The book encourages setting new goals and achieving them.
"This is such a wonderful escape from today's world. Simpler times (not all great) and the incredible wisdom of a very intelligent man who didn't get..." Read more
"For 103 years the subject of this simple, humble and more importantly humbling book led this All-American life. Learn from it what you will." Read more
"HIGHLY recommend this book! It is a quick and easy read, but very thought-provoking...." Read more
"...The world need more George Dawson. Mr. Dawson was so easy going and humble." Read more
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Book banned by school named after author
Top reviews from the United States
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- Reviewed in the United States on September 22, 2015Life is So Good by George Dawson and Richard Glaubman "One man's extraordinary journey though the twentieth century and how he learned to read at age 98." Worth buying for school, friends, or relatives. Winner of the Christopher Award -- books that "affirm the highest values of the human spirit."
Discovered this in Barnes & Noble while looking for a book that would meet a dual credit history teacher's requirements for content (and mine for length, dialog, action, readability). This went WAY beyond my criteria because of the inspirational story and moral examples. LOVED it for so many reasons. A few...100 years of history told through the common man's pov, who happens to be black, sees first hand how people judge (and kill) based on skin color alone, relays life in a small Texas town growing up, travels the country as a young man, returns to Texas to raise a family, demonstrates perseverance, gratitude, wisdom of elders, importance of reading and lifelong learning. Bought extra copies for school, the original story and the sequel for self.
My only complaint...reader's guide question #12 in the back. "As they rode home in their wagon after seeing a lynching, George Dawson's father told his angry and outraged 10 year old son, "You have no right to judge another human being. Don't you ever forget." Ninety years later, George Dawson recounted, "I didn't know it then, but his words set the direction my life would take even till this day." Do you agree with George Dawson's father that it is never okay to judge someone? Do you think there are times when anger is a better response than acceptance?"
Imo, there should have been a question similar to..."What's the difference between judging the actions of a person as harmful and unwise, and judging the person as a whole?" (Hate the sin, not the sinner. Judge not, least ye be judged. We are walk in different shoes on the earth school journey...that kinda thing. ;-) How about this one, "Do you think there are people who know how to accept all human beings where they are, yet stand firm against their unwise choices...without the need of fear based anger?" Or for more mature readers "Anger is the protective emotion we feel when we believe our needs are not being met. Is it possible to react out of faith and love instead of fear in any situation?" (I.e., How does one become a saint? Not that I'm planning on getting there in this lifetime ;-)...but removing fear and reacting out of faith is my eventual state of being.)
- Reviewed in the United States on August 21, 2018This is the story of George Dawson: a figure seemingly destined to be poor, angry and uneducated but who leads a life rich in experiences, personal connections and wisdom. People who are somewhat familiar with the book will think its merely about an illiterate 98 year old who decides to go back to school. Once you get to know the main character, you realize that anecdote is merely an obvious extrapolation for a man who spent his whole life working hard, incrementally bettering himself. As the author recounts, "I had come to record a life of hardship and was not prepared to hear of gratitude."
Some of George's wisdom is expressed in simple yet powerful witticisms:
-For me its like fishing. Some folks, they go fishing and they keep reeling in, changing bait, and trying again an again. Me, I cast out and then I stick with it.
-Do you see that cup as half full or half empty? I see it as being enough. So its just fine.
-People forget that a picture aint made from just one color. Life aint all good or all bad. Its full of everything.
-Even when it’s a three-two count, don’t back down. Go with the fastball
And some of George's timeless advice:
-I want for people not to worry so much. Life aint going to be perfect, but things will work out.
-A man is supposed to work and take pride in what he does no matter what the work is.
-Those people have been marching for you and now you cant let them down.
-That boy looked at me but didn’t, couldn’t believe a word I said, and I shut up because he didn’t even see me. He saw an old black man, a gardener… I stopped talking and he didn’t learn nothing about his grandma's loom. He wasn’t read to learn.
- Reviewed in the United States on June 13, 2010This wonderful man lived to over 100+ years old, and very thankfully he garnered the attention of a younger man (the co-author) who had heard that he had just learned to read at the age of 98. He sat him down and got him to ponder important times in American & World history over the past century, hoping to hear a first-hand account of what it was like to be alive at the time. While the title might suggest that this is a book about literacy, it's really not.
When Mr. Dawson begins the book it is nothing like I had expected, and probably not what the author thought he would hear, either. Instead of listening to a man describe well-known historical events, he lets us in on the relatively unknown lives that were happening behind the scenes. He had little or no idea what was going on in the world because he couldn't read, certainly did not own a radio or TV and frankly was just doing what he had to do to survive.
The life lessons that were very hard-won by Mr. Dawson are the kind of basic values that have been lost to many. His account is a fabulous reminder of what is truly important in life and how very blessed (and frequently spoiled) we are when compared to those who came before us.
The book traces his life from childhood to adulthood to his senior years with many fascinating tales. Some are heartbreaking, some uplifting, some frightening...but all of them result in vivid life lessons that we should all be sure to hear. His life as a black man faced with a lifetime of prejudice, as well as his revelation that not everyone carries those beliefs, is stunningly real and honest.
I would highly recommend that all young people (actually, anyone of any age) read this so as to more completely understand the advances in lifestyle, race relations and progress in general over the 20th century. It's an inspirational and informative tale that Mr. Dawson shares and I would hope that his story lives on through many more generations.
- Reviewed in the United States on December 10, 2024I love true stories, this book was very interesting as to what and how the fella grew up and the challenges he faced during his lifetime.
Top reviews from other countries
- Linda LutzReviewed in Canada on November 20, 2022
5.0 out of 5 stars This is a good true story
I liked that the true story was intertwined with history as this gentleman worked so hard and finally did learn to read.
- AlanReviewed in the United Kingdom on October 11, 2018
5.0 out of 5 stars Great read
Emotional from the get go, I can't recommend this book enough. Some of the English is a little odd at times but then it is American and written by somebody that learnt to read and write at 98 years of age so I can forgive that. A must read for the 'entitled' generation of today.
One person found this helpfulReport - JasmineReviewed in Australia on July 12, 2021
5.0 out of 5 stars This is a great book
This is one of my favourite biographies about a man who was illiterate until he learned to read and write in his 90’s.
That’s pretty amazing but not the most memorable aspect of this book. The man himself and the story of his life is extraordinary an inspiration. I hope a lot of people get to read this wonderful book
- wolfReviewed in Germany on April 11, 2013
5.0 out of 5 stars Great book ... great lesson
It's not money that makes life so good ... it's your attitude
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Omar SorienteReviewed in Italy on January 6, 2013
5.0 out of 5 stars Storia dalla forte capacita' ispirativa
La vita di George Dawson e' un'autentica storia di esperienze che attraversano tutto il novecento fino ad arrivare all'inizio degli anni duemila. Un uomo di colore vissuto e cresciuto con forti valori morali e con convinzioni che si sono poi evolute con il passare di un secolo, sofferenze e soddisfazioni, partenze e ritorni, scoperte affascinanti e situazioni diverse e diversificate. Questa storia e', a mio avviso, uno di quei racconti veritieri che hanno, riga dopo riga, una notevole energia positiva volta ad ispirare il lettore. Per chi pensa che il tempo non sia un ostacolo per la propria evoluzione e miglioramento potra' trovare, nella storia di George, una conferma circa questo modo di pensare. Si e' sempre in tempo a fare quello che si desidera veramente. Chi invece pensa che arrivati ad una certa eta' sia quasi un'obbligo rinunciare ai propri sogni puo' capire quanto lo scorrere degli anni non sia in realta' un sintomo di invecchiamento, se lo stato d'animo rimane quello di un ragazzo di vent'anni, ma solo un'opportunita' di accrescere la propria conoscenza e saggezza. Il racconto delle esperienze di un uomo, che gia' a quattro anni si trovava nei campi di cotone per aiutare i suoi genitori a sbarcare il lunario, ci fanno rivivere alcuni importanti avvenimenti accaduti negli Stati Uniti sotto un altro punto di vista. Non voglio svelare troppi dettagli per non rovinare la sorpresa al lettore ma posso solo dirvi che un uomo di colore agli inizi del novecento, e primo genito, non aveva la possibilita' di andare a scuola ed imparare a leggere e scrivere, ma George Dawson ha imparato tutto cio' ad un'eta' che scoprirete durante la lettura. Rimmarrete sbalorditi per ogni esperienza vissuta, per ogni frase e parola riportata nel racconto e, cosa piu' importante, scoprirete che la semplicita' e' la chiave di una vita felice. Come dice George “la vita e' cosi' bella ed ogni giorno che passa diventa migliore”. Lettura consigliatissima per le emozioni che travolgono il lettore pagina dopo pagina, per la scorrevolezza del testo, per la scoperta di avvenimenti successi durante i primi anni del novecento e per la forza ed energia positiva che rimane dopo la lettura di ogni capitolo fino all'apoteosi del finale meraviglioso. Spero ci possa essere presto anche la versione in italiano perche' essa e' una storia che tutti dovrebbero leggere. Buona lettura.