Uh oh! Printing mistakes happen! Read Chapter 7!

If your copy of The Fullington Road Monster has duplicate content for chapters 6 and 7, you can read the missing chapter below!

 Chapter 7 

AS EXCITED AS I was to see Sean, I couldn’t seem to tell Mother and  Dad I had a date. But on Tuesday night, after dinner, I couldn’t put it off  anymore. It was my dish night. I stood at the sink and watched out the  window where Wilkie was playing in the yard. Dad was sitting in a lawn  chair, watching him, a Coors beer can in his hand. Mother came down the  stairs behind me. 

I let the words come out in a rush. “Mother, I need to talk to you  about something.” I turned to look at her. 

“Yes, Daphne. What is it?” She had an armful of laundry and was  headed toward the washing machine in the corner. 

“Can we sit at the table? And talk?” 

“I suppose,” she said, dumping the laundry on the top of the  washing machine. She sat across from me, her eyes wide and inquisitive.  “What’s up?” 

“I have a date Thursday night. I needed to tell you that.” “Okay, well, that’s fine. You know the rules.” 

There was tension in the air between us.

“His name is Sean. He’s Jason Thomas’s cousin, from Fort  Wayne. He’s staying here for the summer working for Mr. Thomas.” “Yes, and?” 

“He’s older—I mean—he’s not in high school anymore. He’s  19.” I stopped and held my breath. 

“Hm. That’s quite a bit older than you, Daphne. Where’d you  meet?” Mother was calm and composed. Always. 

“We met at Sheila’s cookout. He was there with Jason.” I couldn’t  tell Mother we had met at Jason’s kegger. Geez. 

“I see. And Marti has met him?” 

I panicked. My lie was getting deep. “Not exactly. Um, Marti was  too busy to meet him.” That made sense. Mother had been to parties  thrown by Marti before. Like Sheila, Marti had a flair for the dramatic,  and parties were her time to shine. “But Mother, you’ll like him. He’s in  school—well he was... and we have so much in common. I mean we hit it  off right away!” 

“I guess, Daphne, I’m okay with you going on a date with this… man. I cannot, however, say I think your dad will feel the same.” “I know! That’s why I wanted to talk to you first! Mother, please  talk him into it for me! Please! I need the chance to get to know him better.  You’ve been telling me I should get out more often.” Mother was the  rational parent in the house, and if I could win her over, then she would  help me, even if it meant we didn’t tell Dad the truth. I remembered when I wanted to go to Sheila’s birthday party in the sixth grade. It was my first  ever boy/girl party. Mother and I plotted against Dad for me to go. It was  hard for her to do, but she knew it was the only option for any of us to live  normal lives. 

She covered her eyes with her hands, rubbing them gently. She  was tired, I could tell. “I’ll see what I can do. But you know, it could go  either way with your dad. I’ll talk to him in the morning before he has had  time to… What time will your date be here?” 

“6:30. Sean, Mother. He’s picking me up.” 

“Okay. We’ll see.” 

All week, I had put my hope on those words. I had spent my time  at school at the library because my A+ in every class exempted me from  exams. In the library, the books on the shelves called to me, deep and  soothing. I could always escape in a book; the stories made the world  disappear and everything was okay. Now I had hope and it made me feel  the same way, anticipating the same escape. Mother would make it all  okay. 

On Wednesday, I sat with the usual group at lunch—Char-o,  Sheila, Jason, Andy, Jackie—the whole crew. Andy was stuffing an entire  piece of pizza in his mouth because Jason dared him. The rest of the guys  cheered him on. It was revolting. 

Jackie leaned toward me and said, “My uncle Paul says that  monster is the real thing.” Jackie was nice enough, but I knew she was a gossip. I didn’t trust her, but I knew her uncle was an old friend of my dad  and Uncle Grave. 

“Yeah,” I answered. “My dad and Grave have told us the stories.”  I tried to act uninterested, but she continued. 

“Uncle Paul said that he saw it down by Samuel’s Pond. It was  the summer your Grandma Fullington died.” Jackie stopped and ate a bite  of her iceberg lettuce. 

Char-o leaned in. “What did he see?”  

“The monster. The Fullington Road monster. It was by the pond  on your farm. Uncle Paul was supposed to meet Grave and your dad there  to go fishing. It was the middle of the day, too. He smelled it first, but then  he saw it on the other side of the pond. He said it was kind of like looking  at heat come up off the road on a hot day. All hazy-like.” 

“What did he do?” Char-o asked. 

“He said she couldn’t move. He felt frozen. And then it just  disappeared. But when your uncle and dad got there, they could still smell  it.” Jackie shrugged. “We saw something that night we were down by your  farm. I’m not going back.” 

I rolled my eyes. Good thing she wasn’t going back. It was private  property, after all. I started to tell her that, but she interrupted. “Uncle Paul says it comes at certain times. He said that his own  grandfather told him it was there the summer of the big drought in 1935. Everyone’s crops died. And then it was there the summer your grandma  died. Sounds to me like it’s some kind of omen.” 

Jackie’s statement caught me off guard. She had put more  thought into the monster than I had. I needed to talk to Uncle Grave. I  knew I could ask him questions about the monster. If it was an omen— 

My thinking was cut off when I realized that Jason, Bryan, and  Andy were laughing at me. 

“What?” I said. 

“I hear you and Sean have a date tomorrow,” Jason said. He had  a glob of ketchup on his Dokken t-shirt and was still chewing fries while  he talked. 

“Yeah, so what,” I said, trying to downplay anything Jason  brought up. 

“Better watch out,” he said, swallowing his fries. “He got thrown  out of college. My aunt sent him here to get him away from the crowd he’s  been running with. You need to know that.” 

The mood at the table was subdued after Jason’s reveal. “So they  sent him here to hang out with you?” Sheila asked. “His mom should have  just put him on tour with Motley Crue. Would’ve been safer.” Everyone  laughed and Jackie pinched Jason’s cheek. Thank God for Sheila. She was  always good for a laugh. She knew when I needed some backup. 

I knew perfectly well Jason was mad because I would never go out  with him. I wasn’t going to let Jason’s jealousy of his cousin ruin my excitement about our date. I had checked Char-o’s reaction to the scene,  looking at her from lowered lids. She was eating her sandwich, acting like  the conversation wasn’t even happening. We hadn’t talked about Jason  since Sunday. Even though I was a pro at making sure everyone was happy,  I wasn’t sure how to fix this situation. 

Fixing problems could wait, for now. I didn’t want to worry  about anything. I had a date with Sean, and Mother had promised to talk with Dad. I had to trust that for once, someone else would make sure that  everything would be all right. The clock was ticking, though.

How My Book Was Published and Unpublished in Less than A Year

The Fullington Road Monster isn't the first book I wrote, but it became the book of my heart. I wrote it during the Pandemic, pouring my soul into the story about sisters on a farm haunted by monsters, real and metaphorical. It became my hope in a time of lost connections and an abundance of despair. 

I queried it to agents and a few editors on and off for two years. I would send a batch of Dear Agent letters with polished first pages, get a batch of rejections, and go back to the drawing board. I was constantly waiting for the magic to happen, for the universe to applaud my determination and give me just one yes.

Magic takes work. I revised, worked with outside editors, sent the manuscript to beta readers (and made new friends in the process). I "killed my darlings" and axed parts of the book that I adored, but weren't working. I updated the genre and comp titles, and finally, I got a couple of full requests, two agents who wanted to read the whole manuscript, but ultimately, said 'no thank you.'

It was two days away from Christmas 2023. I was ready to put Monster on the shelf, and start over with a few other manuscripts I had been writing. It was time. My heart was heavy, but I was being realistic. During my lunch break, I checked my social media. One post caught my eye: an author encouraging others to submit to the publisher she was working with. Their submission window ended that day. 

"What have I got to lose?" I shrugged. I submitted my Dear Editor letter and polished first pages to the small publishing company. I returned to work, lost in the routine of a day, thinking about the holiday to come.

Later that afternoon, there was an email from Brittany McMunn at Conquest Publishing asking for the full manuscript. I was excited, but had learned not to get my hopes up. I sent it off to her that day. 

Christmas came and went, and a few days after, I got another email from Brittany. Conquest wanted to publish my book. I remember sitting with that for a while before I said to my husband, "They want to publish my book." The words made it real. The universe had sent me a yes. 

From there it was a whirlwind of steps, starting with a call with Brittany to discuss a contract. I liked Brittany right away, with her southern drawl and sweet dimples. She was personable and knew her stuff. I accepted the contract's terms (found a local lawyer who looked over the contract first), and then it was time to get a headshot, send out publishing announcements, and start thinking about pitches and cover art. Overwhelming, but so amazing. 

Patience is the most important virtue when it comes to publishing. There is a great deal of hurry up and wait, whether you have a contract or you are searching for a publisher or agent. For more than a year, I waited for my book to be published. In that time, there were periods of lots of activity, followed by quiet. Designing a cover, developmental edits, line edits, formatting edits. Each of these tasks took a lot of attention. They were a back-and-forth process, me working, sending to the amazing creators and editing team at Conquest, waiting for their reply, and then completing any necessary checks and edits. This was followed by periods of waiting.

Patience is also a superpower, and when the waiting was done, I held my book with its gorgeous cover and amazing formatting. It was surreal, something I had dreamed of for so long.

It took one yes. Brittany McMunn made my dream come true. She made the dreams of so many other authors happen too! Not only did this mother with a full-time job own her own publishing company, she was also the Editor in Chief for Wild Ink Publishing. I have no concept of how she made all of this work, but this soft-spoken, angelic-faced wonder managed to do all her jobs and do them well. When she found out the books for my launch wouldn't arrive in time, she spent all day finding a local printer who could have them ready in two days time. When I mistakenly thought my author copies hadn't been sent, she gave me ten more copies, apologizing for not specifying they were sent with my launch copies. That was Brittany. 

On a winter morning not long ago, I opened an email from Wild Ink Publishing's owner, Abby Wild. I had signed a contract with Wild Ink earlier in the year for my middle grade contemporary novel, and Abby is a great communicator. But the message had nothing to do with my book. Words can change lives, just like Brittany's 'yes' had made my dreams come true. This time, the words were a nightmare. Brittany had passed away in her sleep the night before. 

Shock ran through the Conquest and Wild Ink family. Always close and connected through and instant message platform, the group of authors and creators mourned together. I have always appreciated having these authors by my side through the publishing journey, and now I felt their presence more keenly. We had lost a woman who made our collective dreams come true. Brittany's family, a husband, two daughters, parents, siblings, cousins had lost part of their hearts. Abby lost her partner. The world lost a gregarious and persistent woman who fought for the people blessed enough to know her. 

Beyond grief, there is reality. Conquest was a business run by one amazing woman. Without Brittany, Conquest didn't exist. Her family decided to dissolve the publishing company. 

I won't say this wasn't a blow, but it is real. Magic exists, but it takes work. All the tasks that Brittany did relied on the knowledge she had. With the dissolution of the publishing company, rights to The Fullington Road Monster reverted to me. I can seek a new publisher or agent representation. I can self-publish. I can do nothing and remember this time as a published author as Isak Dinsesen remembered owning a farm in Africa. 

For now, I am sitting with my grief. I think about Brittany often, those dimples and that twang. I have had several author events, one where I sat on a panel with Margaret Peterson Haddix. I have worked on overcoming the impostor syndrome. Yes, I hold a book in print, but in reality, it is no longer in print. That is sorrowful.

Magic exists, but you have to work for it. I am writing a new book about sisters on a road trip in Iceland while I query agents with a historical fiction novel based on a true story. I am far from giving up. In my dreams, there is an editor who loves all my books, who emails me with magic words. Yes, yes, yes. 

Words Changed My Life

Words changed my life. Maybe it is more accurate to say that books saved my life. I am, after all, a reader more than anything else. But without reading and an absolute love affair with books, I am not sure I would have ever started to write or know how or why I did. 

I was no more than 11 when I read Jacob Have I Loved by Katherine Paterson for the first time. I remember so clearly lying on my bed, the late afternoon light streaming down on me. While reading it, I had felt each cruel word Sara Louise’s grandmother delivered to her and found myself resentful of her twin sister, Caroline. I could recognize the main character’s feelings of inadequacy and being less than. As the second of three sisters, I had experienced the same emotions as Sara Louise. I was not the favorite sister either—at least not for the only grandmother we had. She would often lash out at me for no reason and it hurt because I didn’t know why she treated me as she did. Reading Paterson’s Newbury winner was the first time I can remember feeling known by someone or something other than the people in my family. When I read the end of the book, I closed it and held it close to my heart. I didn’t move, but stayed where I was in that faded sunlight reveling in the idea that I was not alone and that I was not wrong. I knew that because I had read it in a book. The words changed my life.

The fact that books help readers see themselves and understand others is a major reason why I tell other people to read books. It is why I read them and taught them for twenty years as an English teacher and school librarian. Watching students connect with a book reminded me of my own joy in reading. It was one of the reasons I got up each day and went to work, knowing I would see a smile when I found just the right book for a reader. I want to hope it made them feel known just as I had felt that afternoon, lounging in my childhood bedroom, finally beginning to understand I could make my own way in the world without favor from someone else.

Writing has changed my life. I finished my first novel in three months and quickly started on The Fullington Road Monster. Both manuscripts are my own story as much as they belong to the very real-to-me characters I created. I have read a lot of books, and while I have stories to tell, writing them down is not as easy as it seems. I think about George R.R. Martin’s words often: “Some writers enjoy writing, I am told. Not me. I enjoy having written.” The act itself is difficult. There is no way to create the objects of my affection, however, without the work. So I write. During the last year when life shut down so many other opportunities, writing remained. It was there for me, a focus and a panacea.

 Living on her family’s farm, immersed in the legends and lore of a family and place, Daphne’s story mirrors my own experience in many ways. Through her, I grappled with my own family’s struggle with alcoholism and came to terms with adult and childhood traumas. As I wrote and rewrote the story about Fullington Road, so much of what I thought I knew was transformed. Instead of feeling disconnected and far away from the people I loved but couldn’t see because of the pandemic, I visited them every day, had conversations with them, and overcame misunderstandings and decade-old hurts. Writing changed my life. 

I know that words change lives. I have seen it in the faces of my students. I am still in contact with some of them on social media and they surprise me with their memories of how a book we read in class or one I recommended in the library still resonates with them. I have felt known and understood after closing a book, the words changing me and my perspective. Writing for me is about giving back, reaching a child who feels not enough, misunderstood, and so alone to find herself in my words, the story on the page. Words change lives.

A Time, A Place, A Way of Life

Call me morose, broody, sentimental, and nostalgic.  Critique my writing for its focus on the past or for its moody emphasis on the sad passings of life.  Stop reading what I post, leave this site, forget yourself in a Buzzfeed quiz.  It's all the same to me.  I write because it is my placeholder; it is my chance to tell a story.

This is a picture of my dad playing the ukulele.  I suppose he learned to play in the serrvice - he served in the 1960's in Guam.  He was an officer in the Navy, and he made some of the best friends of his life there.  They were the Drones Club, pulled from P.G. Wodehouse's books.  He talked of golf and cocktails, exotic trips and movies.  For all my life with him, I knew about his Navy buddies.  Christmas cards yearly and a few face-to-face meetings.  Later in life, I learned more about his time there as we found letters and notes he had written home and left for these friends,  My sister, living in Japan at the time, traveled to Guam on vacation not long after my dad died.  She wrote a letter to one of the Navy friends and asked him the places they had gone, the views she should see.  We all so despearately wanted to feel like there was still a way to connect to my dad.  He wrote back, and sent letters Dad had sent him.  He sent mementos from the Drone's Club.  We sat and read them all.

My dad played the ukulele.  He played on the front porch on summer nights.  He played at the kitchen table where we sat every night and ate dinner together.  He sang too.  I remember Sweet Betsy from Pike, Sloop John B and Goodnight, Irene.  We would sing and giggle.  The lightning bugs would flicker.  Cats in the shadows would slink under the fence, into the pasture and stalk their prey.  Mom would sit and rock in the chair, her cigarette just an orange orb in the night.  Bedtime soon followed and we were all tucked in, light left on please.  I didn't like the shadows and how different the room looked in the dark.

When we were cleaning out my parent's house after mom went to the nursing home, we found a lot of cameras.  Dad liked picutres and video.  He is seldom in vacation or holiday pictures because he was the cameraman.  One of the last things I remember we all chipped in to get him for Christmas was a digital camera.  This picture was on the camera we found.  My sister had them developed.  There were pictures of my children as babies, toddlers, primary school scholars.  There was also this picture of dad, playing the ukulele.  We bought him a new one for Christmas.  His old one was out of tune, beat up.  He played for his grandchildren.  We sang along, and our childten didn't know what to think.

What I love most about this picture is that it is not just a picture of my dad.  This is a picture of a time, a place, a way of life.  I see that kitchen from my childhood home and know I will never find another place like that.  I would walk in the back door, and there would be the kitchen table - the same one where dad played the ukulele and read Little Orphan Annie to us.  The same one where my mom sat alone after dad died, and did her sudoku puzzles, even when she didn't remember how to play and just filled in every square with fives or twos.  Behind dad in the picture is the clock he bought in Japan that would chime the hour.   That kitchen holds so many echoes of talk, and laughter and singing.  Some of it is happy, and some is sad.  I watched a show the other night and a child explained heaven as the place where each person was happiest.  For me, it has to be in the house I grew up in, my parents at the kitchen table, the soft murmur of their voices while I lay in bed, searching for sleep.

This blog is called Muse of Reading, so here's the book. Black Rabbit Hall by Eve Chase.  It is the story of a British family who visit their Cornish estate in the summer.  In the summer of 1968 when Amber, the narrator is 14, a tragedy occurs.  The book is two stories - Amber's and Lorna's, who has visited Black Rabbit hall in present day and wishes to have her wedding there.  The plot was predictable for the most part, but I really didn't care because the writiing was so beautiful and real that I couldn't seem to get enough.  I loved the Gothic setting - the crumbling old house with hidden secrets -but in the end what I really remember is the story of a a family and a time and a place.  A way of life. The ending of the story certainly brought a sense of closure to the characters.  Amber's and Lorna's stories combine in a satisfying way. But the end of their stories is not the end of the book.  Chase includes one more short chapter, and in it captures the timelessness of all stories, the ubiquitous neverending story that each of us face.  I very much enjoyed this book, and the final chapter ensured for me a universally pleasing theme - the very fleeting nature of life and the beauty and sadness that intertwine to become who we are and what we remember.

So like I said, call me morose.  I contend that in the end, we are all just people looking for those times and places that cannot be forgotten, that are the core of who we are.   These moments of people, places, things - a kitchen, a ukulele, a clock, my parents - are often more of who I am than are the clothes I wear or the titles I hold in life.

Thanks, Patrick

I wrote this last fall after attending the Ohio Educational Library Media Assoication conference where I attended a session led by author Patrick Carman.  He showed all of us the way he used visual mapping to create and form stories, and then aksed each of us to do the same.  The map I drew resulted in this essay, The Door,  The ending is vague because Patrick Carman said I should leave it that way.  I wrote the essay with my Junior English class.  Each of the students did their own visual map and then wrtoe their narrative.  Some of them were really good.  Thanks, Patrick, for the inspiration.  I love to write.  I wish I had more time to do it.

The Door

I grew up in an old farmhouse that has been passed down in my family for three generations, my siblings and I being the fourth that ran up and down its creaking staircases and slept on its wide balcony during the summer months.  The rooms are big with high ceilings, and the windows look out on the green yard, and cow pastures and alfalfa fields beyond.  The whole third floor of the house is the attic, and was filled with boxes and trunks full of four generations’ pictures, documents and unknown treasures.  My brother and sisters and I loved that attic.  We loved rifling through its photo albums, old cigar boxes and blanket-draped piles.  My parents, particularly my father, frowned upon our expeditions into the winter cold and summer hot space.  Having stored his own childhood in the attic, my father did not trust his own children to not barge into those closed boxes and dusty papers of memories. Undeterred, whenever we  could, we would climb the steep and dusty steps regularly and search through the remnants of three generations’ lives and laughs, and loss.

There was a mattress against one cracked, yellowed wall, in between the non-functional fireplace and the raised platform with a purpose still unknown.  On one of our expeditions, one of us knocked that mattress over.  There was no reason for us to do this, except for the mere fact that we could.  But, it could have been fate, because behind the mattress was the door.  It was small, only four feet high, with a small door latch that would not turn when we attempted to open the door.  Who ever tried to open it didn’t try hard, because we knew that this door was special, and its opening should be monumental.

My brother, two sisters and I grew up creating fantasy worlds in the backyard.  Fairyland was just beyond the gate that led to the pasture behind the house.  Hungry beetles covered the floor of the living room on rainy days, which made it necessary to jump from chair to couch to table in fear that we would be devoured by the carnivorous bugs.  We could create elaborate villages using Fisher Price Little People who were savagely stalked by Star Wars alien figurines.  We grew up with fairy tales and mystery.  We thrived on the magic of possibility.  When we found that door behind the mattress, we knew, we just knew, that this was the chance we had been waiting for.  The door was our portal to adventure.

C.S. Lewis’ Narnia was a favorite fantasy world for us.  We had read the book - my older sister the whole series - and envied the four Pevensie children.  The story of siblings who discover a wardrobe in an empty room in their uncle’s secluded country home gave a tangible edge to our imagination; this book gave us hope that we too could find an entrance to the fantastic world of our imagination.  Through a wardrobe, between two tall trees, in the bottom of a cupboard, or, even inside a door never opened - we would find the way to adventure.

This door was special, but we needed a plan.  We couldn’t just walk into a new world.  Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy were terribly unprepared for their voyage into Narnia.  The cold and dangerous landscape left them vulnerable, though they were able to find trustworthy friends that provided them with food and shelter.  My sisters and brother and I knew we could not assume anything.  Secretly, we collected supplies:  food and water, sweaters for layering, a flashlight, a knife, a lighter, paper and pencil.  I also remember specifically that my brother decided that we needed a candle to test for oxygen, or lack thereof.  He reasoned that the room had been closed for a long time, and therefore, the space beyond would be oxygen-deprived.  A lit candle would quickly go out without oxygen.  I am not sure that I saw the logic of this, but we all went along with this part of the plan.

We waited until both our parents would be gone to open the door.  In Narnia, time passed, but time on Earth remained the same.  We were not sure what the reality would be for our situation, but just in case, we didn’t want our parents to notice that we were gone and worry.  So when we heard the back door slam several days later, we went into action, grabbing multiple backpacks, thermoses, and jackets.   The attic door was at the top of the stairs to the second floor; we opened the old wooden door and climbed in single file the steep and narrow stairs to the attic.  

Memory does not not allow me to remember much of who did or said what in the next few moments.  I just remember standing in front of the door - smaller than any of us with a small knob, surrounded by a yellowed, cracked wall.  How long ago had it been since it was last opened and who opened it?  Most importantly, what was beyond the wooden door that had been hidden by an old mattress in the attic of our family home?  Breathing was surely rapid and communication was largely non-verbal as we decided who would open the door.  I remember a mixture of fear and excitement and the knowledge that I did not want to be the one who would open it.  I think it was my brother - my twin and the only boy - who opened it.  We stood behind him with backpacks, and a lit candle as he tugged on the small knob forcefully.  

The door came open suddenly and we shoved the lit candle inside the dark recess.  As the flame brightened the space, we four sighed as one, our discovery made.  Four pairs of eyes focused on the open door’s void together, our breathing timed as one.  What lay beyond the door is difficult to describe, and will not be found in any records where useful places are catalogued.  What lay beyond the door was a space that became over time an image seared into memory, unchanging and protected.

I have started thinking more about this childhood memory in the past six months.  My father passed away in 2007, and shortly after, my mother began showing the odd and sometimes brutal signs of dementia.  Last May, my brother and sisters and I made the incredibly difficult decision to put mom in the care of a nursing home. It is the hardest thing I have ever had to do as an adult, more trying even than caring for my father as he battled lung cancer.  My siblings and I were faced with an unappealing task after mom was safely in the care of professionals.  We needed to clean out our childhood home.

Adulthood can be heartbreaking, more so than childhood, because as adults, we know what we have lost.  Adulthood can be all business, all work and no play.  Adulthood is about life insurance and making hard decisions and cleaning up vomit at 3 am.  Adulthood makes me feel so old.  When my sisters and brother  and I started cleaning out the house, there were moments where the memories of childhood seemed so very present, so tangible that it was as if I had never left the house, had never grown up, had never had children of my own.  We found the angel chimes from Christmas and crayon drawings to Daddy or Mommy. We went through Dad’s old vinyl record collection, and saved the ones that we had once listened to, over and over 30 years earlier. We discovered love letters our parents had sent to each other and the scribbled notes our mother wrote to us as she began her descent into the gray world of dementia.  We laughed and cried, and at times, we just walked away from an area if it was just too much to deal with at the time.  

Finally, in October we had a date set for an estate sale.  The Sunday before, we were all there and the attic was one of our last areas to cover.  We went through boxes of Mom and Dad’s college textbooks, got distracted by an old box of mementos from our great-grandfather, and discussed whether or not to sell Dad’s model train sets.  We wondered why our attic had ended up as the home of a distant relative’s keepsakes and why our grandfather and his brothers had made plaster casts of their faces as children which we found in a trunk.  

The door was there, closed, and unnoticed in the efficiency of time restraints. But I brought up the memory to my brother and sisters, and yes, they all remembered it too.  Funny, how each of us had differences in our memories; my older sister had no recollection of my brother’s candle theory.  We decided to open it again, to see what was behind it.  Several of our children were with us; a new generation who appreciate fantasy, but most certainly do not store their hopes and dreams in it.  We stood in front of the door, breathing as one, waiting for what lay within.  

When I looked inside, it was not what I remembered at all.  The reality of what was  beyond the door was not accurate in my memory.  Our children, the  sixth generation turned away, already forgetting the contents.  Despite my misleading memory of what was beyond the door, the magical wonder of it in my memory was correct.  For one brief moment in my adulthood, I had felt it again.  I think my sisters and brother and I all did, as we shut the door again, and turned away back to the difficulties that were very present and demanding.  But it was real, that feeling, and it is one thing that we will never sell or put out with the trash.  The magic of possibility is still there in the door, and within each of us.

Why I am Glad My Kids Cried During The Fault in Our Stars

I took three teenagers to see The Fault in Our Stars, or TFIOS, last week.  I was not thrilled, but it was my soon-to-be thirteen-year-old daughter's greatest wish. Originally, it was just going to be the two of us - a girls' day, but we added my 16-year-old son and his girlfriend.  We ate at Chipotle first.  That was good.  So, TFIOS.  I read the book, of course, and was less than blown away.  I felt like I had missed something. It was a nice story, and I liked the characters for the most part.  They were a bit pretentious and know-it-all, but I think most of John Green's characters are like that.  John Green is kind of like that.  It's sad, and cancer sucks.  But, I was underwhelmed.  I think one of my English teacher friends summed it up well when she commented on my Goodreads review that teens have had such a small number of emotional experiences that a book like TFIOS really resonates with them and hits' em hard right in the heart.

While I was reading the book, and watching the movie, I couldn't help but take the parents' side. The movie doesn't really portray Hazel's mom the same as the book.  Laura Dern was pretty laid back and really let Shailene Woodley (or whatever her name is) do what she wanted to.  But the book mom was tough.  She loved her daughter and she was in charge of her.  Hazel is a teenager, after all, and teens shouldn't make some of the decisions they make.  I don't think any adult would argue with me on that.  I kept thinking, "Right on, Mom!  She shouldn't go to Amsterdam or spend all her time with that boy and not eat."  I am a mom.  I can't help but think like one and have empathy for other moms.

After we saw the movie (the sniffles were very loud throughout the theater), I kept thinking about why the teens were so sad.  And I remembered a couple of movies I saw as a teen and cried during.  A lot.  One was Lady Jane with Helena Bonham Carter.  It is about Lady Jane Grey who was Queen of England for about three days until her cousin Mary came back and Jane beheaded.  It was a love story too.  Cary Elwes plays her husband and they are sooo in love.  They both get their heads chopped off.  Perfectly romantic.  I sobbed watching that when I was a teen.  The other one was Stealing Home with Jodi Foster and Mark Harmon.  I went to see it with three of my friends and we couldn't stop crying on the way home.  That one was a little more than a love story; it was also a coming of age movie, and I think we all knew we were growing up.  What made me cry in those movies?  I was a hopeless romantic as a teen (really, I still am) and I had never had a boyfriend.  I couldn't imagine having someone to love and who loved me and then watching them die.  To teenage me, there could be nothing worse.

Fast forward to 42-year-old-me.  I've seen worse.  Life is hard, and full of losses.  Dads get cancer; moms get Alzheimers.  Children struggle and get made fun of and cry and get depressed.  Couples grow apart and separate, and the pain is like a knife in the heart.  It snows on Easter, and there's no money for Christmas.  The new position at work turns you into an outsider, and old friends become new enemies.  It's sad and sometimes bleak, and it often makes it hard to get up in the morning.  But it is life, and I wouldn't change a thing about the 42 years I've had so far. The bumps and bruises have only made me wiser, stronger and believe it or not, more hopeful.

I am glad my kids cried during The Fault In Their Stars because to me it means they haven't had to experience those really tough things in life yet.  They haven't lost my husband or me, and Christmas was still joyous. They have people in their lives who love them and care for them - family, extended family, friends, church family, teachers....the list goes on.  I know that they will eventually face darker challenges than the internet  going out, or losing the wrestling match, and even losing a grandparent.  That's okay.  It is part of life, and I hope I am teaching my kids that bumps and bruises hurt, but they happen and you can live through it.  With hope.  I'm saving their tears like ZuZu's petals...for a rainy day, to remind me that things can always be worse.

Experience

When I Was One-and-Twenty

BY A. E. HOUSMAN
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.”
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
“The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.”
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.


When I was sixteen, the world was absolute. I would always have the same friends. Nothing would ever be as important to me as going out with my friends TONIGHT (and no tomorrow is not the same, Mother, the world revolves around right now!) I would always love the same things, and feel the same way, and there was no point in telling me anything different. I understood the cosmos at 16; surely I had seen it all.


As I grew up, I experienced a lot - love, marriage, death, loss, birth, joy, angst, betrayal, humility. We all do, right? Experience equals learning and learning comes with growing. It's all a beautiful cyclical process, and while I certainly do not understand the cosmos at all, I do think that this process is part of what it all means. I am in my 40's now, and I know only one thing with absolute certainty: there is no such thing as certainty.


E.L. Lockhart's newest book We Were Liars is, in a way, about experience. It is also about being 15, and knowing the cosmos as we only can during our early years. It is about absolutes, and the knowledge that comes when absolutes are challenged and lost. It is a book for teens, but it is also a book for adults.


As Shakespeare said in King Lear, “Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.” It is important to bring Shakespeare and old man Lear into this because to me, this book was very much a retelling of King Lear: an aging King rules over a vast, wealthy kingdom. He has three daughters who all want his kingdom. They fight, there is death, and loss. Experience reveals what once was absolute is seldom ever certain. The liars are Cadence, Mirren, Johnny and Gat, all Sinclairs except for Gat. The Sinclairs are old money, and own their own island just off of Martha's Vineyard. Granddad has three daugthers, who are the mothers of Cadence, Mirren, and Johnny. Gat is an extra, an outsider, as un-WASPish as they come. Grandmother Sinclair dies; three daughters vie for their father's attention, his money, his favor. Tempers rage, jealousies emerge, tragedy ensues.


As a narrator, Cadence is unreliable, and emotional. I was initially put off by her dramatic voice, but I realized how true it was for a teenage girl whose ideas are absolute: She will always love Gat. Her family will always be the same. She will do whatever it takes. Half-way through the book, the story changes. At first we are living with the Sinclairs, lazing on the beaches, living in one of the four houses on the island, saying only what each should, and never what we feel. It is summer 15 for the Liars - a seemingly endless repetition of rituals for the four teens who have never known change.


Then, there is an accident. Cadence is unsure, forgetting what happened. She is sheltered by her mother, and for a year, does not return to the island for the summer. She suffers migraines, and sends emails to her beloved Liars, only to be ignored. Why won't they talk to her? How did Gat forget their love? What was the accident that left Cadence so alone and in pain?


In summer 17, she returns to the island. Everything is different. All is flux. The Liars stay in Cuddledown, one of the four houses; Aunt Carrie walks the beaches at night. Granddad's beautiful old Victorian is gone, replaced by a glass and metal house that is not a home. Slowly, truth comes back to Cadence as she remembers what happened during summer 15. The climax is a quiet storm, a flash of light that reveals to Cadence the darkness of her youthful existence. The end of the book is full of uncertainties, lacks absolutes, but promises growth, endurance and sunlight.


I was breathless from the climax to the ending of this sweetly cruel book. Experience changes us all, growth leads to wisdom. Just wait for it to come.



“The weight of this sad time we must obey,
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.”
― William Shakespeare, King Lear

Ch-ch-changes

What?!  It has not been over a year since I last posted!  Seriously.  Let this post remind all how very much can change in a year.
1.  My children are all a year older.  In adolescence, a year is a long time.
2.  My beloved mother is  spreading joy safely supervised  in a dementia unit.
3.  My husband was unemployed, and now employed in a job he enjoys.
4.  There was a pony in my pool.
5.  We are experiencing the third snowiest winter on record.
6.  I got a new job.

Okay, so let's focus on #6.  I got a new job.  I loved my former job - K-12 school librarian/HS English teacher.  I was in that school district for 20 years. My children go to school there.  I loved the people I worked with and my students.  I loved buying books with other people's money.  But one day in September, an email came about a job opening for an institution I admired and had always kept in the back of my mind as a home for my retired self.  So, I applied.  And I got an interview. Then, I had a second interview.  I got the job. I am now an ILibrarian (the I stands for Integration) at INFOhio, Ohio's PreK-12 Digital Library.  I work from my home, and travel locally about 5-6 days a month.  I love it.  I miss my students and my friends at my former school, but I do not miss the new Ohio teacher evaluation system, the testing we piled on students, and the frustration of the testing and evaluation system combined.  I do not believe I am alone in saying that this was a small part of the reason why I left teaching after 20 years.

Did I mention I miss buying books?  I am still reviewing, but I feel an emptiness in the results.  I have seriously considered making lists to buy just for fun. I have not done it yet, but I have thought that maybe somewhere, someone needs a book-buying consultant on the side.  That could be me. I haven't visited Net Galley in a while, but I was prompted to do so in search of a sequel to M.D. Water's Archetype which I received through Penguin's First Read's program.  It was such a great read, but more importantly, when I shared it with some of my older student readers, they loved it.  We can't wait for the sequel - I am hoping I can track down an ARC or galley somewhere!

 In my quest for Protoype I found Shirley by Susan Scarf Merrel, a fictional book about a young, married couple's brief stay with the author Shirley Jackson.  I have greatly enjoyed Shirley Jackson's writing.  The Haunting of Hill House is near the top of my scariest-books-ever list.  I taught it to my sophomore English classes, and I love exploring with them the psychological terror and uncertainty that Hill House evokes.  That scene in the bedroom and the walk in the garden....brrrr.  Still gives me the shivers.  Whatever walks in Hill House walks alone, and so does whatever walks in the home of writer Shirley Jackson and her scholarly husband Stanley Edgar Hyman.  The troubled marriage of two larger-than-life characters and their old, creaky, well-lived in home provides the setting for the book.  It takes place a few years before Shirley's sudden death at the age of 48, and is told from the viewpoint of young Rose Nesmer, whose husband Fred has come to be a teaching associate at the college.  Rose can only be 18 or 19 years old, and is incredibly naive, but likable.  She is pregnant, and finds herself attached easily to Shirley's big personality and her unpredictable moods.  Over the course of about 8 months, Rose finds herself both loved and hated by Shirley, but through it all, she remains enamored of the author.

What is most frightening about this book for me is not the underlying question of  Shirley's involvement in the death of a young college girl.  Hyman was good at sleeping with his students, and Shirley's instability is largely hinted to be due to his infidelity.  There is plenty of suspense from this elephant in the book, but it was not this plot line that frightened me.  I was most afraid of how Rose changed while she lived in the Jackson-Hyman house.  She was a young bride whose own mother had left her, and Rose absorbed Shirley's energies, as well as the miasma of the house itself.  For me, the climax of the book was when Rose finally succumbed, much like Eleanor to Hill House, to the ghosts and horrors of her temporary home.  Rose became part of what was bad, ugly and wrong in the house and within two highly intelligent, dramatically charged and fatally entwined people.

The ending was full of irony and wisdom; Rose's transformation in the book is tangible, but not in a decrepit or stale way.  She has grown, as all humans do, through hardship and hurt.  Rose's character is very much a foil to the Ozymandias that was Shirley Jackson, broken and forgotten too soon.(Though really, Shirley's writing has certainly kept her alive!)  Instead of living in a haunted house, Rose moves on, and find where joy abides.  It was a thought-provoking, dark and eerie book.

Two and Twenty Dark Tales

It's been a long time since I have blogged, but in that span of time, life certainly did not stop.  I've been working and reading, and cooking and caring for my family.  I have had stacks of books piled up for reviews; between Library Media Connection, SOYAMRG, NetGalley and Penguins First Reads Program, there never seems to be a time when I don't have obligatory reading to do.  Not that I am complaining...but maybe I am. I am finally reading a book right now that I want to read - Donald Ray Pollock's The Devil all The Time which has been on my to-read shelf for about 8 months.  I am excited to read this - it sounds dark and suspenseful and that's the way I like my books.  I just finished reading Philip Reeve's Predator City quartet - Mortal Engines, Predator's Gold, Infernal Devices and On a Darkling Plain.  These are fantastic books - new classics and I was absolutely weepy at the end of the series.  But, I spent a long time in that Steampunk world, and my brain was craving some new setting.

 Two and Twenty Dark Tales was a switch, but not the one I really wanted.  This is a NetGalley download published by Month9Books, and is marketed as a charity anthology of dark retellings of Mother Goose Rhymes.  I was most pleased with the publisher - this is their first release and they will donate the proceeds from the sale of the first 5,000 books to a charity they love.  In fact, this title is the first in a series of annual charity anthologies to be released.  It is refreshing to see this act of charity in a publishing world that seems to be dominated by greed for money.  I am not ignorant;  I know that money makes the publishing world go 'round, but Penguin's attitude about ebooks and libraries can be called nothing but selfish.  So, bravo, Month9Books and Georgia McBride on your debut.  I am looking forward to future publications.

The book is delivers just what it promises to in its title.  Mother Goose nursery rhymes serve as the inspiration for dark and fantastic short stories for young adult readers.  There are to be 22 tales in the final publication, but this ARC had only 21 total.  There were some extended versions of stories not included, as well as a poem.  Several of the stories stand out to me, while others left me as soon as I finished.  The first story in the book, "As Blue as the Sky and Just as Old" by Nina Berry was an excellent start to the anthology and was inspired by the nursery rhyme about Taffy the Welshman.  I'm a real sucker for Welsh words - there's just something about all those y's that is pure poetry to me.  But this story really captured the retelling or even the real telling of this nursery rhyme.  So many seemingly childish rhymes are in reality based on dark and grim events and folklore.  Berry's story of timeless search for three disguised objects and the evil forces that seek them is deliciously frightening with enough magic glimmering at the edges to keep it light. It was well-developed with just enough back story to make the plot interesting and characters believable.  On the other hand, "Pieces of Eight" by Shannon Delany and Max Scialdone was overly developed for a short story.  There was too much to accomplish - an entire quest- in one short story and I found myself overwhelmed and eventually uninterested in this retelling of the nursery rhyme Sleep, Baby, Sleep.  The authors might want to consider writing a novel based on this short story in order to include the full quest plot and  character development.

"Wee Willie Winkie" by Leigh Fallon and "Life in a Shoe" by Heidi R. Kling are two stories that should be developed into novels.  The setting of each story were unique and beg to be developed fully.  Voice was strong in each as well, and I found myself wanting to know more about the females narrators in these two dark tales.  Also satisfying were "The Wish" by Suzanne Young and "A Ribbon of Blue" by Michelle Zink. These two stories managed to catch me by surprise and deliver an element I wasn't expecting.

Overall, the book is entertaining and a treat for anyone who loves nursery rhymes.  This will be a great addition to school libraries and will be perfect for readers who like their stories short and sweet.  It is a solid first publication for Month9Books.

Summer Heat

We made it through the 4th of July blast - temperatures in the high 90's and low 100's here in the Midwest.  It was miserable.  I finally gave in and turned on my A/C.  I hate being shut in during the summer months.  I grew up in a big old house that had electric heat for the winter and some 20 year old fans for the summer.  One fan was made in the late 30's, probably.  I kid you not - heavy, wood encased dark metal blades.  In other words, I am used to temperature inconvenience.  My best childhood memories are of nights scorching hot where my sisters and I would sleep at the ends of our beds in order to be closer to the breeze from our box fan.  Inevitably, sometime in the night, the temperature would drop and I would crawl to the head of the bed, and pull a sheet over me to deter the chill.  Bliss.

Middle age brings the need for comfort, however.  Night times are the worst for sweating, I have found.  Air conditioning is the savior for those uncomfortable muggy evenings when not a breath of air is moving through the windows. Reading in bed is one of my favorite things to do, so a cool evening is appreciated.  My latest read came from Penguin First Reads.  City of Women by David R. Gillham is a WWII story set in Berlin in 1943.  All the men are gone - either burned up in ovens or fighting the battle against the Russians.  Sigfrid lives with her mother-in-law while her husband fights on the front.  She works in the patent office and appears to be an honorable German hausfrau  doing her part for the Motherland.  In truth, however, she is an adulteress who has had an affair with a Jew named Egon.  The beginning of the book centers on this relationship and with Sigfrid's self absorption as she deals with his recent disappearance.  Strewn with glimpses at Sigfrid's sad childhood and her lonely adult existence, the book allows readers to see the motives for the protagonist.  She is not a likeable character, but by the end of the book, she has added layers and matured to become a believable and complex woman who makes choices no longer based on her wants and needs.  Her involvement with the illegal hiding of Jews complicates her life in numerous ways, which leads to death, betrayal and finally redemption. 

This was an excellent book and I am glad that it was part of the Penguin First Reads program as it is not a book I would have committed to otherwise.  I no longer seek Holocaust literature, though it will certainly haunt me forever.  But this book was more than just a story of the underground railroad for Jews.  It was the story of a woman who like a slim wick dipped over and over in hot wax, developed into a candle with the possibility of light.  This will be a great discussion book, and one that will stay with me for a while.  Complex and sad, it is not a beach book, but it was a cool spot during the summer heat for me.

One Moment

A couple of years ago, I was fortunate enough to meet author Kristina McBride at a Librarian's Luncheon at a local JVS.  She talked about her first book, The Tension of Opposites and about her inspiration for the book.  Her book sounded intriguing and the explanation of her process was so helpful, that I took notes and actually followed through on her advice.  I wrote about two chapters of that book I have always wanted to write before I lost focus yet again.  I haven't looked at it in about a year, but reading McBride's second book One Moment inspires me once again to work on that book.

When I met Kristina, it wasn't her presentation that intrigued me.  It was the discussion we had after the presentation.  My mother had just been diagnosed with dementia and I was somewhat overwhelmed that day.  I was talking to the host of the luncheon, an old friend, and Kristina became part of the dialogue.  I found her to be one of those people that I instantly click with, one who is easy to talk to, real in her approach and downright likeable.  We found each other on Facebook and have kept in touch over the last two years.  I have kept up with the writing of One Moment and have eagerly waited to read this book.  When it finally was available on Net Galley, I immediately downloaded it and read it in one day.  It is a great book, and one I think will establish Kristina as a well-known young adult writer. This is a book that teens will seek out for its subject and for its realistic take on adolescent emotions and concerns.  In other words, Kristina nailed it. 

The book is the story of a group of friends in a small town in Ohio (based on Yellow Springs) who face a great loss and must deal with the realities that arise as a result.  Beginning with action, One Moment never loses that initial pace.  Readers will not find rest until the final pages of the book when the resolution leads them just where they knew it should. There are no real twists in this book;  I could see what was coming all along.  However, Kristina's writing is strong enough to make me connect fully with the characters, especially Maggie.  Realistic dialogue and intuitive teenage actions combine to create a strong emotional tie for readers - even one who is 40 years old.  I imagine adolescents will identify even more with the feelings and thoughts of the characters as they encounter painful truths and realities that will shatter life as they knew it.  Overall, the books seems tautly composed and cleanly written.  It is Kristina's style that makes this book a winner, and I will highly recommend it to my friends and library patrons. 

As a reviewer, I have to conclude by saying this book is a necessity for YA libraries.  As a friend, I have to conclude by saying, "Bravo!"

Books Are Our Friends

 I know I am not the only one who experiences something in life, and thinks, "Oh, this is just like when so and so in such and such book did this.."  Good books are not over when the last page has been read; good characters last despite the ending of a series.  I am often reminded of Nick Carraway watching that light and thinking of Gatsby's life...beating against the current.  Aren't we all in some way or another?  Good books are going to capture those moments that are ubiquitous and real.  I am often borne back into the past, even if it isn't the way to move on in life.  I just can't help it. 

Life is challenging right now, even more so than usual for me.  I have some tough realities to face, but face them I must.  I have lots of family and friends to get me through, and I am so very grateful for that.  I also have books, and I know I will bring them with me into any challenge.  I wonder how much I will think of Michelle Cooper's Montmaray Journals series when I think back to this period of time in my life.  It is very apropos, to be sure, for anyone who has grown and changed, loved and loss, looked back and looked forward.  Sophie's story is not unique in theme.  Despite a made-up country, her story is anyone's.   I love this series, and the characters have always felt more like friends to me than like fictional characters.  The Montmaray Journal, The Fitzosbornes in Exile, and The Fitzosbornes at War are books in a series that is overshadowed by showier, more dramatic series.  The writing, characterization and development in this series is far superior to that of many other series.  I hope the general public discovers them.

I have a happy memory of when my kids were little and we first moved into the house where we live now, but won't be for much longer.  The boys were 5 and three, and they ran across the yard to a fence that separated our property from the neighbor's.  I had been afraid that we would not like living so close to others, that this new house wouldn't suit our needs.  But as I watched them race across the grass and climb the white fence, my fears were put to rest.  I remember it along with the end of the final book about the Fitzosbornes, as Sophie remembers her sister Henry racing along the beach, her beloved dog at her side.  "That is just like when the boys ran to the fence,"  I thought.  Good books last like good memories. 

My NetGalley review is below.




Michelle Cooper's third and final installment in the Montmaray Journals series is a much more mature and sophisticated book than the previous two.  It is to be expected, however.  In The FitzOsbornes at War, Sophie, Veronica, Toby, Henry and Simon grow considerably since they were introduced to us in the first book, with years passing and wars brewing.  Not only have the Fitzosbornes aged, but they have faced grim realities:  the occupation of Montmaray by Nazis, the rationing of food and supplies, the bombing of London, and the entanglement in a war by all ages and genders.  Toby and Simon join the RAF, Henry becomes a WREN, Veronica works as a translator, and Sophie writes propaganda for the British Food office.  Even Aunt Charlotte does her part for the war effort, trying to outdo her rival Lady  Bosworth in monies collected for charities.  The books spans the five long years of WWII, and is again told in the form of Sophie's journal entries, letters and articles.  The naive Sophie has a much wiser voice in this final book, but she stays true to character, and is an excellent storyteller.  Readers will weep with the FitzOsbornes as they experience loss, and rejoice as they reach victory.  Cooper does not spare the family from the war; readers should be ready for a realistic look at how it changes people and places forever.  Each member of the royal family will be altered in some way while fighting the war and finding the way to return to the beloved island of Montmaray.  Cooper's final book in the series is a satisfying ending to a story full of characters who are more like friends, and a plot that will last in memory.   Readers who have faithfully followed this underappreciated series will remember Sophie, Veronica, and the others and think, "I wonder what she is doing now?''  Well-crafted, this final book is a victory for Cooper and a must-read for fans.  

Debut

If someone says "free books," I instantly raise my hand.  It's a Pavlovian thing, probably.  Getting my hands on more books is a daily goal.  Of course, I have to read them, too.  That's where the problem begins, not because I don't want to, but because I do want to.  I also want to read the other 294 titles I currently have listed as To-read on Goodreads.  I want to do nothing but read, but there are these other obligations like children, work, cooking...When I got my weekly update from Early Word and it was looking for reviewers for the Penguin Debut Authors group, my hand shot up in the air.  "Pick me!  Pick me!"  I am that annoying kid in the class who always has to be heard.

Two weeks ago, I received the first book in the mail, The Orphanmaster by Jean Zimmerman.  While Zimmerman has written other books, this is her first fiction.  It is historical, and is set in mid-seventeenth century New Amsterdam.  The book takes its title from an actual position in earlier time periods.  Orphan masters were in charge of caring for the orphans of a community.  New Amsterdam's orphans play a key part in this historical suspense book, and unfortunately for many of them, it is the supporting role of corpse.  Someone is killing orphans.  That someone uses the Native American folklore to confuse the community, and appears as a Witika.  Also know as the Wendigo, this Native American boogeyman haunts the wilderness and takes, rapes, kills and eats its prey.  A grown orphan, Blandine von Couvering, finds herself thrust into the mystery, not only to help the orphans, but eventually to clear herself of blame.  As more children disappear, familiar and beloved members of New Amsterdam become suspect, including Aet Visser, the orphan master and Blandine, whose independent, assertive nature makes her stand out even in the gender-tolerant Dutch community.  Aided by a British newcomer, Edward Drummond, Blandine discovers the truth is often more frightening than tales of the boogeyman.  United by love, the couple must face a serial killer who is haunted not only by loss and hunger and but also by a sense of entitlement.

The setting of this book is fascinating.   Historical fiction lovers will adore Zimmerman's writing style which brings life to a long-gone Dutch community in 17th century America.  Political upheaval is imminent for New Amsterdam, and Zimmerman deftly weaves a cast of characters whose actions and interactions create a beautiful and intricate plot tapestry.Characters who seem extraneous initially eventually become central to the plot, and each is cleverly developed and connected to the mystery at hand.  The plot may be somewhat formulaic - that was one problem for me.  I found myself checking off a mental checklist each time an event occurred that was predictable or expected.  Overall, however, I thoroughly enjoyed this book and  found it easy to pick up and hard to put down.  Zimmerman is an author I will seek in the future.  

Sometimes, raising your hand a lot pays off, as it did in this case.  This afternoon is the live chat that is part of the Penguin Debut Authors group, and I look forward to sharing thoughts with others who have read this fascinating book.  Can't wait to see what arrives next, but until then, I am reading Michelle Cooper's third installment of The Montmaray Journals, The FitzOsbornes at War,  a Net Galley ARC that I snagged immediately.  I also have seven books to read for SOYAMRG by the third week in May.  Oh, and I went to the public library this week and checked out three books that really look good, including a book of short stories by Joyce Carol Oates.  So many books, so little time.

Two for One

A long and snowless winter has become an early spring.  On the second of April, flowers are in full bloom and trees are green, a sight usually not seen until the middle of the month.  Temperatures have already hit the high 70's this year, and wintry pale legs emerge from shorts and summer skirts.

We are in our Spring Break now.  Eleven days free of schedules, alarm clocks and homework.  I left everything work related at work.  This week, I will concentrate on the tasks I want to concentrate on:  reading, gardening, parenting.

In the past two days, I have finished two books for review.  One was Unspoken:  Book One of the Lynburn Legacy by Sarah Brennan Rees.    The other was A Greyhound of a Girl by Roddy Doyle.  The completion of this book fulfilled the responsibility of two reviews - Net Galley and SOYAMRG.  Two very different books.

The first in a new series, Unspoken is the story of Kami Glass, a British teen living in the village of Sorry-in-the Vale.    All her life, Kami has been different.  It is not just the matter of being half-Japanese that separates her from her peers.  Kami hears a voice inside her head, that of Jared, a very real boy that Kami has never met.  Despite the peculiarity of hearing the voice, Kami is quite close to Jared and can reach out to him in times of need or joy.  The two share thoughts and feelings.   Her parents are aware of the situation and Kami has one friend, Angela, who is too lazy to be bothered by Kami's real imaginary friend.  Trouble has come to Sorry-in-the-Vale.  The disappearance and ritualistic death of animals and the return of the Lynburns has stirred up the small village.  Secrets hide in the back of the once familiar shops, and the faces of neighbors are lined with worries and fears newly discovered.  The return of the aristocratic Lynburns, sisters Rosalind and Lillian, is perhaps the most disturbing event that has occurred in the past twenty years.  The beautiful blond women bring with them their families, including handsome sons Ash and Jared, and live in the cold, imposing manor house.  On an awkward elevator ride, Kami finds herself face-to-face with Jared.  In her mind, she hears her beloved Jared complain about the Asian girl he has encountered.  It is her reaction to this comment that reveals to Jared who Kami is, and thus begins their strained and unexpected real relationship.  Despite the difficulties of interacting as physical beings, Jared and Kami find themselves thrown into the mysteries of Sorry-in-the-Vale, the sleepy town that is not at all what it seems.  When a girl is found dead, the community turns its fearful eyes to the Lynburns and the strange power they seem to hold over them all.  Kami and Jared must overcome their own fears and doubts to stop the evil that has returned to the village, before it is too late.

Sarah Brennan Rees has written a suspenseful and moody first installment in the Lynburn Legacy series.  An abrupt ending will seduce readers back for answers and romantic fulfillment.  Sorry-in-the-Vale is a well-developed setting and despite the mysteries that surround it, really quite charming.  The strong sense of place is the best feature of the book:  Gothic, yet quaint all at the same time. It is the believable setting that makes the whirlwind plot easier to follow.  Within the first 20 pages of the book, Rees has thrown readers into a half-dozen realities that are all central to understanding both the rising action and the characters.  Readers may find themselves taking deep breaths and flipping back a few pages to fully understand the issues introduced at the beginning of the book.  A slower pace is not always a good thing, but I think the plot and characters of this book would benefit from just that.  After the hundred yard dash that is the beginning of the book, the pace does slow down.  Some of the best moments of the book are when Jared and Kami are alone exploring who each is in light of the others existence.  The climax and the resolution of the book work:  thus the surety that readers will be back for more.  There are few factors in the book that separate it from other YA paranormal romance, but if Rees focuses on the bond between the connected teens, she may be able make Lynburn Legacy series one a must read for teens and the young at heart.
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Doyle's A Greyhound of a Girl is a story for all generations, one that offers insight for the young and the old.  It is about four generations:  Mary, her mother Scarlett, her grandmother Emer and great-grandmother Tansey.  The journey the women take is one both metaphorical and physical, and with it, each gathers elusive memories as well as the realities of life. 

Mary's best friend has just moved away.  Forlorn, she walks home from school, only to be met by a lady in the front of her house.  Odd features which emerge as age, transform into an old-fashioned appearance, and Mary finds herself intrigued by the lady, Tansey, with her quaint way of talking and dated methods.  When she mentions the name to her mother, she is told that the name is that of her great-grandmother, a woman who died when her own ailing Granny was only three.  After several encounters, Mary introduces her mother to Tansey, and she confirms that she is indeed, a ghost who was unable to leave her daughter.  Realizing that Tansey and Emer must be reacquainted before it is too late,  Mary and Scarlett invite the ghost to visit the hospital.  Riding in a car is a new experience for the ghostly great-grandmother, and she savors every moment of the trip.  Sadly, ghosts are translucent, and the trio realize she cannot venture into the hospital where her appearance may cause more trouble than needed.  Instead, frail and worn Emer is bundled into a wheelchair and then into the car where the four generations travel to the family farm where Tansey died of the flu after she cared for the slippery, skinny greyhounds in the yard.  Emer's fear of the dogs is tied to the loss of her mother, who quickly puts to rest that fear.  In the empty, abandoned farmyard, the four generations look upon a life that was, and still is, despite the change of year and scenes.  Grand, indeed. 

Doyles' beautiful, lilting writing speaks to the reader as if the room is full of Irish lassies.  The style and structure of the dialogue carries the reader quickly from one line to the next, as if borne by windy, green meadows where greyhounds run.  Each character has her turn to talk and tell her story, and the essence of each generation is caught in simple memories.  The book is a quick read, and will engage readers from one chapter to the next, until there is no more to read.  However, the voices of the book remain, and will last well after the last page is read.  Doyles' story, then, is one of life and of what passes from one generation to the next.  A Greyhound of a Girl is a sweet story, one to be read and savored by any age.

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Moving on to The Orphanmaster by Jean Zimmerman.  Review to follow!  Now for some April sunshine!

Reaching Midnight

My mother has dementia.  It is all too easy to say she suffers from Alzheimer's disease, but I have learned that there is no way to diagnose Alzheimer's until after death when an autopsy reveals the pitted and shrunken brain of a true victim of the disease.  So, I say she has dementia.

It started slowly.   My father died four and a half years ago, and at first, my brother and sisters and I thought that she was grieving, suffering from depression.  Forgetfulness can be a sign of depression, as can changes in habits and interests.  My mother didn't read anymore.  She was a constant reader, the flint to my reading fire.  Now reading was hard and required focus, which she lacked.  She was moody and terse, quick to anger.  When friends called, she dismissed them.  Too tired, too much hassle, no, no, no.  And of course, she forgot.  First, she forgot that she had already told me who called and what they said.  Then she forgot she had appointments.  She forgot that she had just bought two bags  of groceries and went to the store again.  And again.  She bought three bags of groceries.  She still bought more.  Mom forgot how to have fun with her grandchildren.  They were afraid of her.  She forgot to take her medicine.  She forgot she already took her medicine.  She forgot what day it was.   Mom forgot my birthday. She forgot she had already given the granddaughters their Christmas gifts and yelled at them for snooping and prying. She forgot to be rational and use logic.  Why shouldn't she drive?  If she wrecked the car, she would die -so what?  But what about the other car that you crash into, Mom?  And what about the baby in the backseat...?

She knows who we are.  There has not been a moment yet that she has seen her loved ones and not known who we are.  I am so grateful for that.  I am frustrated by her lapses now, but I know that the worst is yet to come.  I ask her questions now, and I prod her for stories.  On Halloween, I pick her up to take her to my sister's house.  Her hair is wind-blown, and she wears an old coat.  The silver white hair is her greatest feature, and now it suffers from lack of affection.  My mother wore lipstick and slacks to the grocery.  Her wardrobe is haphazard and monotonous these days.   "Do you remember how you always brought us trick-or-treating?  Dad was always in the fields, so it was just you?  Do you remember?" I ask her in the car.  And maybe she remembers, and maybe not.  But she tells that story to everyone the rest of the night, including me.

"Ask Grandma about the blood pit in Murrayville," I urge my daughter.  She does, but Grandma doesn't know.  "Yes, you do, Mom," I say.  "It was behind the funeral home where your grandparents worked.  It was where all the blood went - remember, Mom?"  And she nods her head, and tells me about her grandparents and the legendary Murrayville, Illinois where she spent so much of her childhood.  Those moments are golden.  She still knows who we are and more importantly, who she was.  Watching her realize that she was someone else once is really the hardest part of this disease.

Memory is such a tenuous thing, really.  It floats around in the mind like cirrus clouds- those thin and insubstantial ones that can be gone in a minute.  When I read Terry Pratchett's final book in the Tiffany Aching series, I was awe struck by the profound and moving passages it contained about memory, especially since I knew that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's.  In an interview he recalled his favorite memory - the night his daughter was born.  His words are not unique or new.  It is the simplicity of what he says that captures the reader:

 "...the elation – I mean, nothing could’ve gone wrong that night.

“I think I’d hate to lose that memory.”

It is the feeling that accompany the memories that really make them worthwhile - whether it be elation or sorrow.  That is why we store memories despite their transparency.  When  I read I Shall Wear Midnight by Pratchett, I felt like the book was just for me.  The characters and their conflicts reflected my problems.  I felt known.  The memory I have of the book was a memory itself as the the village witch tends to the dying Baron.  The old man speaks:

"The hare runs into the fire.

The hare runs into the fire.

The fire, it takes her, she is not burned.

The fire, it loves her, she is not burned.

The hare runs into the fire.

The fire, it loves her, she is free....

It all comes back to me!  How could I ever forget it!  How did I dare to forget it?  I told 

myself I would remember it forever, but time goes on and the world fills up with things to 

remember, things to do, calls on your time calls on your memory.  And you

forget the things that were important, the real things."

And then, despite his nurse's dismay, the Baron tells Tiffany about the September day and the little boy in the tweed jacket and how his father sang.  The fields burned and the animals ran before it.  One hare looked at him - directly in the eyes- and then turned and jumped into the fire.  His father told him the hare song.  It was a day of elation for the child baron.  And it was the memory he took with him to his death soon after he shares it with Tiffany.

I am not quite sure who I held closest when Pratchett told me that story in I Shall Wear Midnight.  It might have been my dad who I had already lost, or my mother who I am still losing bit by bit.  I do know, however, that I ache where my heart is and a lump forms in my throat.  I do know that he is telling his own story as much as he is telling my story, or anyone else's for that matter.  For now, the world still turns and we find and forget, we create and we destroy.  But one thing is ephemeral.  Not memory - but those feelings that accompany them.  

We beg and beg and beg, and finally Mom says okay.  We gather around the kitchen table and she quickly reads to us from The Wizard of Oz.  Around us are the signs of cleaning and housework, but for now, she is ours.  I feel special and loved there at her knee.  The story comes off the page, and her precise and practiced voice brings us all to a different world, if just for a minute in time, if just for this one perfect moment.