[[Floyd Skloot]]'s compact collection of short stories [Cream of Kohlrabi] start with a riveting group of stories set in nursing homes. In all but one the main character is one of the residents, failing mind at all. You would think these stories would be depressing, but they are not at all, all of them focus on the little triumphs and humor and wisdom to be found among these people who, for the most part, make the best of it. Having had a mother who ended up in a dementia ward, I can tell you these stories ring utterly true. In one a resident simply walks away, and the well-meaning but inexperienced staff struggle to pull together to find him, this one also was spot on. To me these first stories had an organic wholeness to them, they were artfully crafted, but you were unaware of the mechanics and craft going into them, the stories were that good. Most of the rest of the stories focus around people who are damaged or have made bad mistakes and are trying hard to do better, but a few are a bit clunky with the "I am a well-crafted short story" feeling to them. They aren't bad or uninteresting, but they are less convincing overall, or so they were to me. The final story, about a man in his thirties, who really can play baseball well, but who clearly has Parkinson's, tries out for the Mariners when they are in some kind of difficulty and are simply asking people to come and try out - returns to the level of the first group. All of the stories are better than most of what I read in the NYer, which, these days, is the main place I encounter short stories and where there is an obsession with 'cool' or something among the editors which blinds them to how awful some of their choices are. Skloot's stories in that they are about unsophisticated people dealing with life and Skloot's insight and generosity, hit home, feel true. **** ( )