Read. Write. Share.

Little Bee

2012-02-07T19:31:00.000-08:00

Little Bee. Sound like a children's book? This novel by Chris Cleave (which has been sinfully collecting dust on my shelf for that last couple of years) is anything but. Even the title and cover design seem to imply a lightness. But the story isn't light. It's fairly heavy. And I found it deeply compelling–and irrevocably eloquent.

The story involves a young Nigerian refugee girl who escapes the horror of her homeland as big oil companies are uprooting villages. Her fate becomes bound to a recently widowed journalist who is dealing with her own complex issues. Her husband took his own life, leaving her with a four-year old super hero who refuses to take off his Batman suit. When Little Bee shows up at Sara Summers door on the day of her husband's funeral, secrets and histories become disclosed.

There were many aspects that struck me about this book. The beautiful dialect of Little Bee. Maybe it's because I have an African friend, but I loved the voice. I could hear her lovely idiom, as she so formally used the "Queen's English." And while by definition prose is not poetry, Mr. Cleave's writing is undeniably elegant. Beautiful.

At the heart of the novel is a moral conundrum that would make for an excellent book discussion. I won't ruin the plot for you, but I bring it up because it made me consider how I rate books/characters. Typically, if a protagonist had done something that I am morally opposed to, I repudiate the book. (Not always, but often.) And not this one. The story was too compelling. The writing was too good. And obviously, the plot was too clever.

Oh and one more thing. While it was fiction, it certainly brought to light more social injustice in the world. And once again, it reminded me to thank God for my warm bed every night.

Left to Tell

2012-01-12T20:04:00.000-08:00

In 1994, I had the world by the tail. Fresh out of grad school with a job that was full of promise. Newly-engaged to the man of my dreams. But while I was consumed by advancing a career and planning a wedding, there was something incredibly sinister occurring across the globe. A holocaust was taking place. Approximately a million people were slaughtered in the Rwandan genocide.

Immaculée Ilibagiza is a surviving Tutsi from Rwanda. And she recounts her amazing story in the book Left to Tell. If you haven't read it, please do. I'd also recommend renting Hotel Rwanda. It's an important piece of our modern history. And it still befuddles me.

The young beautiful Rwandan poignantly takes us through the story of the Civil War through her innocent, faithful eyes who grew up in a peaceful village of Hutus and Tutsis. She, herself, didn't even know her lineage until the "ethnic roll calls" begin. Then we see how the world turns upside, seemingly, overnight. And Immaculée loses almost everyone in her family–in the most unthinkable ways. While she (and seven other women) are kept alive by a minister in a secret bathroom, she is really saved by her faith in God.

There won't be a part of the book that you won't continue to think about. But I will tell you this–the ending will resonate with some force. The survivor is not only delivering a message of tolerance. She's delivering a message of faith...and forgiveness. Forgiveness. Now that's grace.

Reading with Your Kids?

2011-11-30T17:45:00.000-08:00

Need a quick "pick-me-up" type of read? In the spirit of the holiday season? I just downloaded Barbara Robinson's The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. Glad I did. Now it's my kids turn. They won't put up a fuss, since they heard plenty-o-giggles my way.

How often do we really seek out the face of God in others? No matter who they are or where they came from? (I can't take credit for this question. It was posed to our congregation in our priest's homily a few weeks ago.) It's certainly something I need to ask of myself more often. And this cleverly crafted story which recounts how the shunned clan known as the Herdmans manage to transform the annual Christmas Pageant from a rote ritual into what the Christmas story is meant to be. And while the pageant was a bit clumsy and unorthodox, it was perfectly heartfelt and undeniably real. I love a message when it's spun with humor. Speaking of...

On to Diary of a Wimpy Kid's Cabin Fever with my son. I sense a theme in my reading material these next few weeks. Oh–happy times! The most wonderful time of the year!

Three Weeks with My Brother by Nicholas Sparks

2011-11-12T12:33:00.000-08:00

A few years ago (quite a few actually), having just finished vacationing with our best friends at the Great Wolf Lodge, we were getting ready to head home from Kansas City. While it had been a fun vacation, all of us were tired. And a bit cranky. The kids were on the verge of shattering our nerves and I was praying the four hour ride home would be...peaceful.

"Have you read The Notebook?" asked my dear friend Amy, handing over her copy as we parted ways.

I'm not sure if my husband has ever forgiven me for completely ignoring the crying kids in the backseat while his wife read, sniffled, and cried for the duration of our trip home. (I think it's why he gets annoyed every time I try to force the DVD on him as well.) Anyway the point to this verbose anecdote? It was my introduction to Nicholas Sparks. And my sensitive soul was hooked on his works.

I'm a fan of Mr. Sparks, but I have to pace myself when reading (or watching) his creations. Since I'm likely to cry over a well-crafted soap commercial, you can imagine how I'm affected by A Walk to Remember. Needless to say, I greatly respect this author. So, when my good friend Diane brought me Three Weeks with My Brother by Nicholas and his brother, Micah, I was excited to read a piece of his non-fiction! This certainly wouldn't be a tear-jerker.

Au contraire.

The book intertwines a three-week trip that Nick embarks upon with his brother and his own personal history, beginning with his childhood. And while I dived into the book thinking, "How lucky for this guy to become an overnight success," I certainly have different sentiments now. Mr. Sparks writes about the human heart so beautifully because he himself has been struck by tragedy himself. And not just once. I'm fairly certain Nicholas Sparks would trade his fortune for the family members he's lost.

But don't think this is a sad book. It's not! There's actually a fair bit of humor. And this author is so talented that you think you're reading a travel/memoir, then all of the sudden, wham! You just learned a lesson about life...

I myself have been working, working, working. Trying to finish this project. Trying to get to that project. But not really living. And that's what Mr. Sparks was forgetting to do. Live. Enjoy the gift of life. And I'm sure this is the message he wants to pass on to everyone who reads his books.

Cutting for Stone

2011-11-01T17:37:00.000-07:00

My mother determines the greatness of a book if she's still thinking about it a few days after completion. Good litmus test. It's been a few weeks since I've finished Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese. And yes, I'm still thinking about it. I'm not really sure I'm even qualified to write a review. The novel is just that massive.

For starters, we could talk about the metaphoric title at length. At book club, one of our members mentioned that her son (a pre-med student) was required to read this fictional account of an Indian nun who gives birth to twins at a missionary hospital in Ethiopia. (Cool prerequisite, huh?) The father, a surgeon, named Thomas Stone, flees upon the death of the nun and the twins are left to be raised by other doctors. Anyway, that's just the beginning. The story is at the heart of an Ethiopian revolution and much, much happens as the twins grow up and eventually become reunited with their father.

The book was long, yes. But compelling is an understatement. For example, the last time our Lunch and Library read a book over 600 pages, only three of us toiled through it. When I walked into our Cutting for Stone session, we had a full house. And we hardly had enough time to fit in all of our discussion.

Voice–beautiful. And there was plenty of medical terminology tossed about. Now that's talent.
Themes–the unique bond between twins, a doctor's duty to care for patients, Africa's constant war with itself, unrequited love, requited love. Yes. He manages to weave all of these themes perfectly.

A five star book, through and through. I'm typically a fast reader...I whiz through them. But this is not a book to speed read. It's a book to savor. So, if you're reading it for book club, start early.

The Great Gatsby

2011-09-29T19:02:00.000-07:00

Last summer we saw Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. I can't imagine any enthusiast of literature not loving this film. Especially when Ernest Hemmingway, Gertrude Stein and F. Scott Fitzgerald made their clever appearances. Anyway, the film reminded me that a long time ago I had read The Great Gatsby. And loved it.

I was really young (high school age), so I searched my memory bank. Why had I loved it? Barely remembering the plot or the characters, the depiction of life in New York York City in the 20's is what resounded with me. Maybe, just maybe I needed to read the novel again to make sure my youthful self had painted the picture F. Scott really had in mind. What better excuse to read?

Said task is complete. The verdict?

Still love it. And amazingly, the images of "West Egg and East Egg" in Long Island are still just as vivid as when I read them over twenty years ago. The plot had been pretty much lost in my memory completely. So that was fun for me - like reading a whole new book.

I was most amused by each of the personalities' flirtatious relationship with the glamorous eastern metropolitan of NYC, even though these characters were actually common Midwesterners, like me. (Okay, maybe a little less common than me.) Of course this book is chock full of symbols and metaphors dealing with the age-old of topics of love, greed and calling - all great fodder for book club discussion and high school language arts class. But I want to discuss what really makes me love this book... the lyricism. The voice.

I can pick up my paperback classic, flip to any page and start reading.

"Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization."

I'm an aspiring author - one of my favorite ways to study writing is reading from the best - and finding a sentence like this and pondering it for awhile.

The minute I read the first paragraph of Gatsby, I was hooked. I was hooked until Mr. Fitzgerald typed the last sentence in which he so perfectly and poetically stated,

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaseless into the past."

I do wonder how a mint julep tastes...probably best not to know. Best to let those Roaring 20's cats drink their drinks. I'll just sit here and imagine.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

2011-09-20T19:42:00.000-07:00

Words can hardly give this book review justice. But if it's any indication, I'd like to purchase the novel since I read the library's copy. Certainly, I'd read it over and over again, for it's brilliant prose and heartbreaking story. Of course, I will not let my family alone until each one of them has read it as well. Because it's simply too important.

This historical fiction takes place in the heart of Nazi Germany-with our protagonist, Leisel, merely 13, a foster child, being raised on the poor side of the town of Molching. While the tale is full of colorful characters (complete with rude yet lovable neighbors) and with animated language (peppered with German insults), it's also fraught with danger since Leisel's foster family is hiding a Jew. Oh - and of course, the tale comes equipped with a full-scale villain. Amazingly, author Zusak didn't have go very far into the depths of his imagination to create him. Adolph Hitler actually lived.

Of course, this story is sad. How can it not be? We all know the tragedy and horror that took place in World War II. (Did I mention the narrator is Death? He really seems quite endearing.) However, there is much beauty in this book. One of the themes that struck me most has to do with the power of words. Of course, Hitler used words to bring together an economically depressed country to obliterate an ethnicity in the most dastardly of ways. But there were a few quiet and courageous ones, like Liesel who used words in only the best of ways. And while "The Book Thief" seems a negative connotation, it wasn't for Leisel Memminger who was only attempting to keep true to herself in Nazi Germany. Eventually, words, reading, and books helped Liesel to save others and their sense of themselves in the darkest of times.

This book is listed in the Young Adult genre. My hope is that our youth will take a break of vampires for this one - it's an important piece of literature. It's very deserving of the awards and accolades it has received. And it was very deserving of my tears that I shed when the cruelty and heartbreak of World War II became real. Sometimes we forget what happened. Words won't let us forget.

Sister by Rosamund Lupton

2011-09-06T20:07:00.000-07:00

I'm an only child. So, naturally, sibling relationships fascinate me. So when Mom recommended I read Sister by Rosamund Lupton, it wasn't without reservation. “And perhaps it spoke to me since I’m still grieving for my brother,” said my mother. Never one to doubt my mama, I took hold of the novel and wasn’t disappointed in the least.

Death in the form of murder. Grief. Deep-seated guilt. Dark topics, yes? The story is actually refreshing because Rosamund Lupton has crafted a unique literary piece, most suited for pondering and discussion. In my opinion anyway. Topically, Sister is first and foremost a murder mystery. And there are a load of twists and unsuspecting turns in this novel. But what I found most compelling was the protagonist’s (Beatrice) uncertain personal journey in pursuing her sister's murderer. In a way, her sister (Tess) became the sacrificial lamb in order for Beatrice to reclaim her life - a life that she had slowly and irrefutably let slip away from her.

Grieving for a sibling not only contain the typical prongs of pain, but I'm guessing include extreme elements of loneliness as well. While I don't have that experience myself, I have comfort in the camaraderie I witness between my children. When me and my husband pass on, they will have each other. In reading this book, Ms. Lupton poured out this sibling love so masterfully, I felt the pain of losing one's sister. Now, that's good writing.

And by the way, I had no idea who did it. And there was another "I had no idea that was going on" in this book. And that's good plotting...

Bossypants by Tina Fey

2011-08-12T15:32:00.000-07:00

Once after watching an old Saturday Nite Live skit (or maybe it was after watching Baby Mama, I forget), I likened myself to Tina Fey. Husband raised his brow and agreed with this and remarked, "Except she's funny." Touche.

I had the pleasure of reading Bossypants during our get-away to Minneapolis in the past few days. And if my hubby were to read the parts that I didn't read aloud to him, he just might find more similarities than he might think. Busy. Working Mom. Guilt. Bossy. Pants. Not terribly mean. A peppering of feminine outrage. (Not the set your bra on fire type, but have experienced enough in the workplace type...)And if I were half as clever as Ms. Fey, we'd be like two peas in a pod. Oh, the girl is funny.

Much of my amusement, methinks, has to do with

my Gen X mentality, and whoosh, when did we get slammed into this adult world? I completely related to her highly scientific stress graph on various workers such as comedy writers, coal miners and TGIF managers. Next time I feel a bit of adrenaline on a hectic day, I'll remember her graph.
my obsession with everything Chicago and NYC, which is where she launches her amazing career at SCTV, SNL and 30 Rock...
again, her incredible wit.

Admittedly, she threw a few names and references in the book that left me clueless. (NO! I'm not talking about Palin, McCain or Lorne Michaels! Do you know who Lorne Michaels is? Huh?) They were probably names well known to people with a vast knowledge about the world. Unlike me. No - I'm not calling her a namedropper! Gheesh. Tina seems about as down to earth as, well, let's just say she doesn't even drive. (Wish I could get away with that.) And there are many other interesting things you'll find out about her if you read the book.

Bossypants is much more than a humorist's rant. It's an interesting tale of a woman who worked hard in a tough industry. Yes, especially for a woman, it was tough! But the book impacted me so that as a matter of fact, I'm urging my daughter to consider a career path as an SNL writer. (What kind of mother does that?) Now, Alex is reading Bossypants. (What kind of mother allows that?) Apparently, I do.

The other night I had a dream (the night I fell asleep reading the book - although it was very good reading), that Jimmy Fallon missed a marketing meeting. Kenan Thompson, though, had astutely made it. As it occurred to me that we had great comedians working for our bank, I leaned over to Kenan and asked, "Do you guys really need the day jobs?" He nodded and replied, "Oh, yes. SNL isn't as lucrative as you'd think." That's all I remember about the dream. And I don't really want to think about what it means as I'm trying to get a novel written.

Anyway, the book is awesome - hilarious - compelling! I hope Tina reads my review and wants to become my new BFF. But that might be weird.

Promise Me

2011-07-20T17:56:00.000-07:00

Book Club Alert! Ever wonder who IS this Susan Komen and how HAS her name become so ubiquitiously associated with the Race for the Cure against breast cancer? Well, I know. Because I read stuff. And, I got friends at book club who know lots and lots of stuff – and recommend really good books like Promise Me, written by Ms. Komen’s sister, Nancy G. Brinker.

Promise Me seems (to me) to be three books in one!

-A human interest story where we meet the infamous and beautiful Susan Komen (along with her incredibly ambitious sister Nan). “Susie” was a pretty lady and dedicated wife and mother - who died much too young. She suggested to her sister that cancer treatment need not be such a sentence. Perhaps victims should be treated with a speck more humanity. Have you, or someone you know, gone through treatment? Were the walls painted in bright colors? Or were there floral decorations of some sort? You can probably thank Susan. And, of course, her sister.
-A medically intriguing history which takes us from the days of horribly painful surgeries without anesthetics to a completely amazing awareness campaign that we now know as "The Race for the Cure". (The phrase "Awareness Campaign" seems a bit trite!) Was there a time do you remember that it was shameful to discuss breast cancer? Some of you do, for sure. Thanks goodness we seem beyond that.
-The story of Nancy Brinker herself. She certainly had her share of hardship, but boy has she made her mark on the world. I'd like have some of this fireball rub off on me...

Loved the writing. Loved the information. And for anyone who has been affected by a cancer victim, this is a story worth taking the time to read.

My Summer Reading - The Chronicles of Narnia

2011-07-15T17:19:00.000-07:00

I purchased the Chronicles set some time ago for my imaginative children who have a penchant for stories like Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. Most likely I was smitten by the first beautiful production of the The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe when a Scholastics book order came around. And, by jove, guess who of the Kramer clan has solely found herself in the land of Centaurs, badgers and telmarines?

It is I.

No, I haven’t convinced my children of the lovely, rich, and overall goodness of these adventurous tales whose allegories would please any English major on a rainy day. I’m completely delighted to study Mr. C.S. Lewis and his ability to spin a story, seeming at times to face the camera with a clarification, yet without one ounce of pedantification. He's like the charming grandfather I never knew.

Back to encouraging my kids to read this most awesome series. (Currently on Book 4- Prince Caspian.) They loved the movies, so I was perplexed by their hesitation on picking up the books. Alex, the elder, was already in the midst of another series. Cole, the younger, on the other hand, was more interested, but tentative. Then I learned that he had tried. And he read the first few pages several times...attempting to understand. Sigh. So, the next time I picked up where I was reading, I considered it from my son's perspective. "In the name of Aslan, I wonder you have never asked me before?" Hmm. A slight twist in the dialect probably made this book a bit ardous for Cole. More than I had anticipated. But good for him for trying.

So, I'll journey to Narnia alone for now. And await for my children to join me. I'll be patient. I believe they have some wizards to watch.

Sidenote: I would like to thank the Narnia film producers - as I read, the imagery is tainted but what I saw in the movie, but in a magnificent way by the fine actors and great scenes. And, of course, Liam Neeson's voice as the powerful Aslan...

The Devil in the White City

2011-06-02T20:39:00.000-07:00

Remember those days when I was on medical leave? And I was posting a book review at least once, twice or three times a week? Those days seem a distant memory...Well, a few days before I went back to work, I opened Erik Larson's The Devil in the White City. And I read nearly 1/3 of the compelling non-fiction piece before having to put it aside for our book club's 500 page laborious novel. Then baseball, soccer and a few other obligations got in the way. But tonight I finished it! And it wasn't so much a story to read. It was a story to become absorbed in. To become fascinated, horrified, saddened, amused and even made proud. It was a unique history skillfully written by a talented author whose research must've been excruciating.

Mr. Larson juxtaposes the 1892 Chicago World Fair (The Columbian Exposition) with a charming serial killer who set up shop (a hotel and pharmacy) only blocks away from the event. There is so much fodder in this book; how the fair came to Chicago, the political climate of the nation, the economy, the architecture of the fair, AND the profound impact the fair had on our country today....really. All the way from Urban Planning to Shredded Wheat to light bulbs to the bank holiday that we know as Columbus Day. Oh, and let's not forget about Disney. But that's just part of this amazing story. Anyone interested in criminal minds and depraved serial killers will certainly be intrigued. And, certainly you'll draw some parallels between the calculated murders and the men who died in attempt to create the "White City."

I never really favored non-fiction. Give me fiction any day. But I find myself reading more and more of the stuff all the time. Perhaps I wasn't finding non-fiction writers who were compelling for me. Suddenly, I've got uber favorites! Elizabeth Gilbert. Lauren Hillenbrand. (Deepak Chopra and Sonia Choquette on the spiritual side) Now, add Erik Larson to the list. I must leave you one quote that this author wrote in all place, the acknowledgements.

"I fell in love with the city, the people I encountered, and above all, the lake and its moods, which shift so readily from season to season, day to day, even hour to hour."

That is a great sentence. About a great city. In a great book.

Lunch and Library Club

2011-05-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

After missing April's gathering, I was determined not to miss another literary discussion after being cooped up in the house for so long. "Lunch and Library" is non-negotiable time for me. It's a recurring appointment in my calendar. No lunch dates with friends. No lunch meetings with peers. The only events that keeps me from attending are surgery and sick grandmas. And despite being tempted to quit reading the laborious 500-plus page novel, I drudged through the All-Iowa read for May, to join my erudite friends on the second Tuesday of the month. The novel? Sing Them Home by Stephanie Kallos.

The cover of the book is quite lovely. And by approximately page 400, I was finally getting into it. And according to Bev (book club member who read to page 30), every review she found on the Internet was glowing. Out of approximately 12 members who regularly attend our library club, only three of us finished the tome. Roger (an extremely well-read library board member) commented, "Life's too short."

To be fair, the three of us who stuck to it (and even those who read part of it) had a lively and great discussion. And it certainly had a story line that made me think for a while. The maternal themes were quite timely for the motherly month of May. Characters were fairly interesting. Prose was good. It was just the darn Dutch funeral that bored me. But we all seemed intrigued by the story. Apparently, those who make the selection for the All-Iowa read know what they're doing.

Anyway, a few years ago (on a whim) I decided to start attending the lunch and library club. A bit nervous on my first visit, I joined in on a discussion of The Reader. Since then, I've made a number of new friends, and my life has become vastly enriched. While reading is joyous in and of itself, it becomes so much more enlightening in a social setting and allows us to reach more deeply into ourselves.

Not a part of a book club? Don't you wish you could discuss some of your reads with others? Then, you should do it. Find new friends. Explore new thoughts. Share intriguing ideas. You won't regret it.

The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

2011-04-17T14:44:00.000-07:00

Most recently, I alternated between tears and smiles as my dog peacefully slept at my feet while reading The Art of Racing in the Rain - a tale narrated by a dog. Enzo is the most clever of dogs - interpreting his surroundings infinitely well (including the English language) which leaves this novel completely rich with detail.

Of course, Enzo is handicapped by his inability to speak (tongue is much too long) and his lack of a thumb. So all he really has "is gestures." But as we all know, dogs perform amazing feats - to stir or sooth our emotions - using...gestures! Throughout this compelling story line - of a race car driver who must fight for custody of his daughter - Enzo never forgets his purpose.

All dog lovers will relish in this book. Race car enthusiasts will also be amused. And those who appreciate strong prose will think, "Smart dog."

This morning I sat on the floor, attempting to stretch my legs. My faithful dog, Percy, decided to join me. I thought to myself, "I wonder if he understands more than we even realize." So, I looked into his big brown eyes as he wagged his tail. Then I gently reminded him,

"Remember what I told you about not putting your paws on my tummy right now. That would be a no-no. Because it hurts pretty bad."

He wagged a bit more. Before reaching his little paw right over to my sore belly. So, he might not have Enzo's mind. But he does have gestures. And that's all he needs. That's all we need, Percy.

Our Percy...

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeliene L'Engle

2011-04-13T09:58:00.000-07:00

Once in awhile the stars will align, your dog will come when you call, someone will let you have her parking space, your son gives you a hug, and your daughter says, "That was a really good book you gave me." Hmm. You try hard not to smile. Because she probably wouldn't want to hear how proud you feel about the fact that your girl's got some depth. Anyway, I picked up A Wrinkle in Time by Madeliene L'Engle as a small Christmas gift (almost selfishly) explaining it was one of those books that for years was on the "banned list." It might be fun to read together and find out why.

Wrinkle is an allegory, disguised as an adventure, with several layers of social elements to consider. First and foremost, we meet our social misfit and heroine -Meg Murry. While most of us have felt "different" at some time or another, Meg is brave enough not to deny who she is. So she gets in trouble a lot. From her troubled hearth, with a missing father, we are thrown into an adventure with a wild cast of characters including her brainy young brother, a charming schoolboy and three magical neighbors with the monikers of Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who and Mrs Which. Don't worry about keeping them straight- the author is completely and wonderfully magical herself at creating her characters. I'd like to read a few passages again and study the art of L'Engle's writing - undoubtedly, the dialect of the dialogue helped, but I was truly taken in by some of the cast of actors. I found myself reading aloud - as if I was in a play! And I had grown quite fond of Mrs Who and her ability to quote great men AND to traverse between languages.

Beyond the intriguing characters, the social commentary (especially in light of the time the book being written -1962) should stir some robust dialogue. As Meg is on the mission to save her father and brother, the tale leads us to question the convention of conformity and authority. How much is too much? Where do we draw the line? But there are so many other underlying issues to consider. Like when the group stopped at a peaceful planet and it occurred to Meg that on earth, the same beasts that nurtured her would have been shot without warning.

The ending is sublime. And as Meg has carried resentment because of her lack of convention, ultimately she has what it takes to be the heroine. But what's her secret weapon? I won't spoil it for you - you'll have to read it for yourself.

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

2011-04-06T07:36:00.000-07:00

Lay down vampires. Pave way for that literary genre known as historical fiction. With books so well written as Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, readers will quickly become spoiled by clever plot (with embedded biblical symbolism), compelling backstories about circus folks, subtlety pleasing prose, robust dialogue, gripping cruelties, and the clincher - a love story to die for.

The tale is about Jacob Jankowski - a 90-something (he forgets) nursing home resident who is watching a circus set up across the street. He begins to reminisce events of his youth - unbelievable events as he found himself in the midst of a quagmire as a circus menagerie attendant.

The author aptly pulls us into Jacob's life. One minute we're sitting with him in his room. Sometimes we're humored by his wit which involves his sharp sense of his dull surroundings. Other times we're saddened by his lonely and deteriorating situation. But in a flash, we traverse to the Depression era world of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth - Jacob's youth. Novelist, Sara Gruen is so crafted at her art, I read this book in colors. The transition from Jacob's nursing home room to the circus world was in sepia. (As a matter of fact, when editing this post, I had to to change the word "movie" to "book" several times. Talk about creating imagery.)

Okay, I must admit that perhaps the movie trailers with the handsome lead may have motivated the read...but the first few paragraphs quickly had me hooked. And I'm not even sure if I want to see parts of the movie, because there were cruelties that were certainly difficult to digest. Again - another indication of the author's writing talent. But overall, I found the tale from beginning to end a complete indulgence.

I have a few indicators of great reads - compulsion and bookmarked prose. This book scored high on both of these. I was going to quote a sampling so readers could at least have a "taste." But guess what? I couldn't find a passage where I felt I could stop. I started reading the whole thing again. So get your own selves hooked at the Amazon's "Look Inside"section!

comfort food by kate jacobs

2011-04-04T06:22:00.000-07:00

After reading Louis Zamerini's nonfictional account of surviving sharks and deranged Japanese guards in a POW camp, Comfort Food by Kate Jacobs (who also wrote the best-selling Friday Night Knitting Club) seemed a bit...trite. Obviously I had to keep reading. And it became deliciously trite.

Ms. Jacobs weaves a story (with plenty of of spicy characters) around an aging (ahem - a few years older than myself!) Food Network celebrity in danger of losing her show. The grand old elements of humor and romance spin into some fun and there's even a life lessons learned in the tale. But if you decide to read this book, I'm positive you'll walk away craving...food. I was quite impressed with the author's knowledge of the culinary arts - tossing around terms like canapes, fontina or pimenton as if they were as common as salt and pepper. While these terms probably meant something to real foodies, it was Kate Jacob's descriptives of homemade buns, chicken and noodles, or (my personal favorite) cake that would make my simple tastes percolate.

Anyway, I do believe the Food Network owes this lovely author of comfort food some royalties. After completing the book, I was strangely drawn to the TV yesterday...and watched a marathon of celebrity Chopped nearly all day. Coincidence? Me thinks not. I bet I wasn't the only reader who became mesmerized by some chefs after reading this appetizing novel.

Unbroken by Lauren Hillenbrand

2011-03-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

My husband declares himself the "non-reader" of the family. Sure, it's a bit ironic considering my aspirations. But don't most wives enjoy the challenge of improving their loved ones? Well, it seems after all these years, I'm getting a bit closer to wiping him off that sordid and fabricated club of "people who don't like to read."

After an addiction to all books written by either Dan Brown or Dave Barry (polar opposites? maybe...), my Doug has informed me that Unbroken by Ms. Lauren Hillenbrand has taken top honors as his favorite book of all time. I had the pleasure of topping off the read yesterday...and while it's too fresh for me to put into my favorite of "all time" category (my bookshelf is a bit wider than my darling's), it will certainly get the "Five Star" and the "heart" on Shelfari.

Anyone that has read Seabiscuit knows that Hillenbrand is an accomplished artist when it comes to writing compelling non-fiction. It's been awhile since I read about the racehorse, but the story of Louis Zamperini had me so captivated from the start, it felt like I was reading something from fiction. Could this all be for real? Yes. Amazingly, yes.

The stories will appall in parts. How can it not? It was war. But it's not all about despair. The story is incredibly inspiring. On my worst day....my very worst day, it would do me good to think about what some of the poor young men battled in those awful POW camps. It would seem we, and I mean my generation (of the X variety) of Americans, take a lot for granted.

I have a friend in her 80's. She's a widow, and her husband was a WWII veteran. She still ventures to a WWII veteran reunion with his battalion that has been meeting every year since the war. Isn't that amazing? They never forget what it's about. I love my country. But honestly, sometimes I forget about freedom. I take it for granted. I complain about taxes. I forget how easy it is to walk outside. Or to do whatever I want. Or say whatever I want. This book made me think how so much has been given for the lives we live today. In our peaceful land in the center of the universe.

Thank God for the many, many heros....like Louie Zamperini. I found a few interviews with Louis. This one was my favorite. It won't take away from the book. Take a look...and don't forget to pick up the book!

Sidenote: I was thinking about the argument of E-books being the decline of the book industry. But for a really great book, like Unbroken, perhaps that argument is flawed. Case in point: My mother purchased the book on her Kindle. Then decided my father needed to read it, so purchased the hard bound book. She loaned to us. Doug read. Then I read. Now, I feel that we need the book on our shelf. I will buy upon our next visit to a bookstore. I also believe that my 80-something friend (aforementioned in the post) would love this story, so I will also purchase a copy for her as a gift. Thus not only has one electronic copy been purchased, three additional hardcopies. Oh - and I mentioned this book to one of my best friends, Amy,who also is a bibliophile and most certainly will grab the book on her next visit to a B&N...So make that four additional hardcopies. My point? Maybe we need more great books...

The Storm Before Atlanta by Karen Schwabach

2011-03-25T16:55:00.000-07:00

Did my last post ramble on about reading for pleasure? Well, let's get back to expanding the mind. For my hospital stay, I chose a book that took place during the Civil War. Interesting choice, I must say. As I learned of men having limbs sawed off without provisions, I thought maybe I should suck up my bit o' pain with a bit more gusto.

For anyone who likes historical fiction, this is a good read. I believe it was actually written for Middle Grade, but I just loaned it out to my mother-in-law. She'll read it quickly...cuz I do want the kids to read this one. (I want my kids to read everything. Just ask them.) Anyway, back to the Civil War...back to this book.

While I wasn't unfamiliar with the details that were described in the book, they were very well done throughout the story. It never hurts to be reminded of the horrors of war. And the Civil War seems, to me, to be the worst of the worst.

What was great about this book was the personal stories of a boy who went to war to find glory and a girl who escaped slavery to find freedom. Neither of them discovered what they expected. (Do we ever find what we're after?) After navigating fierce battles and befriending a Rebel spy, the war gives Jeremy and Dulce battle scars. But most of all, it gives them a deep understanding of selflessness and true friendship.

There are a lot of interesting twists and turns in this book that will definitely keep you flipping the pages. I don't won't to blow it for you... Alex told me she's starting a unit on the Civil War in History. How timely. I mentioned there's this book that would be great for her to read...I don't think she rolled her eyes.

Reading for Pleasure??? YES!

2011-03-21T15:52:00.001-07:00

Preface - Half of blog was written "before surgery." Finished this blog today...sorry if the ending seems a little "rushed." :) I really did enjoy the book.

When choosing a book to read, my selection usually boils down to

a long-standing bestseller,
an Oprah pick,
a Classic...so that I'm well-read - and of course living up to my "English degree" from the U of Iowa reputation (and becoming more masterful writer),
a spiritual or self-help - for obvious reasons,
a non-fiction/business to hone, hone, hone, hone...expand, expand, expand my knowledge of anything really, and/or
basically anything that's not wasteful of my time...

Then it occurred to me as I finished reading a book the other day, what's so wrong about wasting time? And does reading always have to be a learning experience? It seems I've forgotten the joy of reading for leisure. So, about this book? Chasing the Sun by Kaki Warner. And it was really good! Quite honestly, it probably wasn't something I would have picked up, but I won it on a blog contest. And I'm glad I did - BECAUSE:

I haven't read a Western since....??? And it was great fun. It was like watching Hopalong Cassidy with my dad as a little girl. And who couldn't love a story with a myriad of strong female characters, tangled love interests, witty dialogue and, of course, despicable villains? Oh yeah, there's a really nice fairy tale ending - my favorite...

Evil Plans: Having Fun on the Road to World Domination by Hugh MacLeod

2011-03-13T20:12:00.000-07:00

The Kindle has some handy features that allow you to bookmark, notate and highlight passages you find inspiring or at least worth revisiting. This is all good and dandy, until you find a book so amusing and full of delectable quips that you find yourself bookmarking the whole damn book. Such is the case with Evil Plans: Having Fun on the Road to World Domination by Hugh MacLeod.

Don't let the name fool you. While Mr. MacLeod takes a few jabs at corporate America - and he doesn't lack of sharp wit with shreds of cynism (undoubtedly, residue from his time working an inane job that suffocated his creative spark -dang cubicles), Hugh is an inspirational writer. And this is a book (believe it or not) about...love. As a matter of fact, I think I'd like to have tea with Hugh. Although, I very much think he's cut more from my hubby's cloth and prefers a brewsky. Anyhoo-

Things I LOVE about this book:

The author's vocabulary - use of words like "feckless" and other words that don't even show up on the Kindle's dictionary. I can't remember them, but there seemed to be a few obscurities starting with the letters "sch..."
The cartoons - undeniably funny. And some very sweet! Too bad I had to view them on the Kindle. But I was compelled to visit his blog this way. You should too - www.gapingvoid.com
Anecdotes and other business stories. They were relevant for every point Hugh made. Hugh's smart. I like smart people. It generated much discussion between me and my husband. Basically, I read the entire book to my husband.
A poem called "Welcome to the Hunger." Seriously, I had tears in my eyes when I finished reading it. At the end, there was a cartoon with a caption stating "my name is hugh macleod. and right now i'm crying." How is that for uncanny?

For anyone who is interested in reconciling passion and career, entrepreneurialism, or marketing your own business, this is a must-read. It was surprisingly delightful and stirring. I'll leave you with one of Hugh's cartoons (which I think can be purchased by visiting his website) in hopes that you'll be inspired to visit his blog and find wisdom in any of his many art forms:

The Social Network

2011-03-03T18:48:00.000-08:00

"In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it. The last is much the worst." -Oscar Wilde, writer (1854-1900)

Last weekend I was finally able to sit down and watch The Social Network - a movie with a story that has piqued my interest since I saw a preview some time ago. Perhaps I was merely struck by an eerie rendition of Radiohead's Creep. Nevertheless, I was even more compelled when the screenplay became nominated for an Oscar...and isn't it time that I finally see a movie with some depth? Apparently! Cuz I can't seem to quit thinking about it.

While there were many aspects of the movie that I admired - the soundtrack, the clever dialogue, the intricacy of the screenplay, great acting - what I loved most is how the movie reflected the terrifying and wonderful experience of college-youth. No matter if you're the brilliant outcast who would someday develop Facebook. Well, he's not much of an outcast anymore. And by the end of the movie, Mr. Zuckerberg (youngest billionaire in the world) didn't seem to care about "fitting in" anymore. I think we all learn that lesson eventually - but most people would agree that Mark Facebook Zuckerberg has had a far more interesting journey than most of us.

Oh sure, The King's Speech swept the Academy, but I wouldn't let that stop you from seeing this movie! (Not sure if the Oscars sway you or not...) And no matter your opinion of Facebook - it's a game-changer. And it's origin is quite intriguing.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

2011-02-17T19:04:00.000-08:00

A book about cancer cells? I wasn't so sure I'd be interested in this particular non-fiction work. But Rebecca Skloot had me hooked in the first couple pages as she she so craftily described her early fascination with cell division. Suddenly I (a banker, writer, musician - definitely not a scientist), found myself intrigued with a woman named Henrietta Lacks, who had died in in 1951 of cervical cancer. Her cancer cells are still living and dividing to this very day. Oh and by the way, she didn't know her cell tissue was going to be used for research. Neither did her family (for many years). And another thing - she was black.

Never mind the fact this had been the first time in history that cells had been able to grow outside of the body. HeLa cells (named after Henrietta Lacks) opened a whole big world for scientific research, paving the way for important discoveries like the polio vaccine. Ms. Skloot not only defines HeLa for us in a scientific sense - she writes the story of Henrietta Lacks. She is a person, with a family who ironically has a myriad of health problems and can barely afford health insurance. But at least a few companies got rich from it.

This novel is definitely discussion-worthy. While racism is an obvious theme, I believe the most controversial issue is "informed consent" in the medical field. This has been taking place on all races and all genders for quite some time - before HIPPA. Have you ever had a procedure and wondered what happened to the "waste" (for lack of a better word)? Honestly, I have not - until I read this book. I don't care what they do with it. I don't even care if they use it for research - more power to them. Most would agree (including the Lacks family) that research for the progress of science is good. But I'd sure like to know if I had contributed to mankind in some way. And of course, I'd sure be curious if there's something about my "waste" that could make a research outfit billions of dollars.

Anyway, this book is much more than a scholarly translation about cancer cells - it's a story about Henrietta Lacks and how she changed the world. And it's a story about a person's right to know how he or she can change the world. It's a great read - I hope you read the story.

Reading about Writing

2011-02-01T17:12:00.000-08:00

I once heard someone tell me that they preferred to write, not to read. Needless to say, the statement baffled me. Now, I love to write. LOVE IT. But writing without reading? What the hay? As a matter of fact, reading (to me) is simply a guilty pleasure. But to an aspiring author, it's also an important tool.

In addition to those classic penmen - John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald (sorry Ma - I like him), Willa Cather, Mark Twain - and the contemporary greats like Stephen King, Toni Morrison and Amy Tan, every writer should arm themselves with some technical writing books beyond Strunk and White's Element of Style. I've just finished reading a couple of books that are surprisingly compelling! Then I went to my bookshelf to see what else I've read (on writing). As it turns out, I have a few others to recommend...

The Glamour of Grammar by Roy Peter Clark - touts itself as "A Guide to the Magic and Mystery of Practical English." Don't let the subtitle fool you. Mr. Clark is as clever as the the fellas on late-night TV. And he doesn't even have the benefit of celebrities like Snooky for material - he's merely using his wit and the ole subject matter of grammar. Anyway, beyond the coy, there's invaluable advice for writers.
Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark - notice a theme yet? Well, after reading his second book, I went back to the bookstore to pick up his first book. While this book is also clever, it's more scholarly (really), giving the writer fifty specific writing tools. So break it down - do the math, you're bound to get your money's worth. Honestly, as I read it, I made a pact to myself to re-read this "manual" every year.
Becoming a Writer by Dorothea Brande - I have no idea when I picked this book up, or if my mother gave it to me, or if I picked it up at a conference, but I am THRILLED that I have it! Why, you ask? Because Roy Peter Clark references this book in Writing Tools - I made a side note to check it out at the library. Needless to say...I already owned it. Serendipity at its best. Will read soon.
Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose - This book was a Christmas gift from my mother a few years ago. "The trick to writing is reading - carefully, deliberately, and slowly." This particular book was transformative for me. I have never read a book in the same way - and while I'm an English major from the University of Iowa (and am only slightly pretentious when it comes to literature), Ms. Prose helped me to distinguish a ho-hum sentence from a fly-to-the-moon sentence.

I'm sure there are many more books to explore. There always are. But that's my short and inexperienced list. As I find more, I'll be sure to spread the news. Anyway, since this is the web, if you have any to share, please feel free to comment!

Dear Lucky Agent Contest!

2011-01-08T18:22:00.000-08:00

Once again, the trusty Guide to Literary Agents blog is sponsoring a contest for anyone who has finished their manuscript and has not yet published their masterpiece! Get the details at the GLA blog! Contest runs from January 9th through January 23rd, so don't delay...

Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert

2011-01-01T14:49:00.000-08:00

There are writers in which I take a particular delight; as soon as I read their written words, it's like coming home from a long hard, day at the office. And when I'm done with their books, I'm sad. It's like Monday morning all over again. Elizabeth (or Liz, as I like to think of her) Gilbert is one of those authors for me.

On the first day of the 2011, I finished Committed, Ms. Gilbert's follow-up piece to the wildly successful memoir Eat, Pray, Love. (Love that one too.) This book had the same voice of the writer, but a much different feel. It's a compelling, smart sequel for a someone whose world was sadly falling apart a few years back. Now her dilemma (even though very personal -- she must marry Felipe, if she wants to stay with him) seems to identify at a much more universal level.

Anyway, the read is very anecdotal (adding to the warmth - she is lovingly self-deprecating), and it's interestingly academic at times. Truly, Committed is engaging (no pun intended) for anyone who wants to talk about love and marriage. And who doesn't want to talk about that? Really! Even most guys, deep down, like to talk about it. Even MY husband.

Mostly, I love the way Liz writes. (Yes, she and I are having tea next week.) She has a vast lexicon. (I slightly regret not purchasing the tome (:)) on the Kindle - her vocabulary is a bit more extensive than mine....had to get my arse off the couch to find the actual dictionary a few times. Good for me though.) And for the aspiring writer in me, I so admire how she effortlessly pieces together a story or an argument, not forgetting to weave in her cunning wit. I find myself giggling and uttering, "good point" in the same breath.

I found out that Elizabeth (we're not really that close) will be speaking in Omaha in April! Mother and I decided that we'll be venturing out to this conference - no matter what. Hope that I can somehow manage my way over to obtain a signature on my two books, maybe I can think of something witty to tell her - or, something poignant about her book. But star power will probably overtake me. I'll probably think of the most brilliant point ever made about marriage days before the event. But when I meet her?

"I like the part about the flower girl in your book. That was cute...." If I say anything at all.

Anyway, the point of this post - I loved the book, as I love the writer. If you like Lizzy Gilbert and you're at all interested in the institution of marriage, I suggest you read.

The Girl WithOUT the Dragon Tattoo

2010-12-29T12:27:00.000-08:00

It had been sitting on my bookshelf since last summer, but too many other reading obligations kept me from getting to it. But every time I walked by and caught sight of the brazen yellow cover with the dragon design, my heart raced. "Three more books and I'll get you off that dusty shelf!" Could it be as good as the Hunger Game series? Harry Potter? The various components of Stieg Larsson's "Millennium" trilogy have been dominating book charts for how long now? It was time for me to be swept up by a series once again.

But for as much respect as I have for Mr. Larsson's writing craft (may he rest in peace), I must make this courageous admission. I didn't enjoy the book. Too disturbing for me. Perhaps this writer was too good with his subject matter?

Undoubtedly, the story was compelling - I had to keep reading to uncover the details of the complicated mystery. (After all, it had been too long since Mom had read it for her to tell me the ending - and that's not my style...) And despite (or perhaps because of) their flaws, main characters Michael and Lisbeth became like next door neighbors to me - a bit scary though. (Once I learned that Daniel Craig will be playing the American version of Michael, the journalist became quite fanstastical...)

There is one observation I learned about myself. I'm not really sure what I truly believe about "vengeance." I thought I was a bit more like Jesus, but perhaps it has its place. That's all I'll say about that. Except I'd never want to cross Lisbeth Salander.

Will I read the sequels? The Girl Who Played with Fire or The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest? Too early to tell. But let's just say I've stood around those Larsson displays in the bookstore and pondered the idea. But I haven't picked them up. Yet. And will I see the movie? Most likely - but did I tell you that Daniel Craig is starring?

A Short Story - The Day the Field Blew Up

2010-12-12T14:50:00.000-08:00

Wearing duct-taped glasses and whistling Darth Vader’s Imperial March, Leif Emerson Andersen approached home plate as a hush settled in the crowd.

“Eye on the ball, Leif-Blower!” yelled out his coach, chewing gum so ferociously, he bit his cheek.

Leif scanned the bleachers to find his sister - the one with blue streaks of hair, pretending to read a horror novel. Then the batter made a request to the baseball spirit of Roger Maris before stepping up to the plate. As the ball sped toward the scrawny ten-year old, he knew this one would finally be his.

Like a missile targeting the scoreboard, the baseball took flight into left field. And before the boy’s eyes, he watched the baseball explode into pieces.

“I did it,” he whispered to himself. “I blew the insides out.”

Bits of dirty white leather and crimson stitches suddenly reversed directions and headed straight back to the assailant who was still holding the bat, watching.

An explosion was taking place, propelling the disassembled ball back to where it came. The town’s new and colossal scoreboard had burst into flames, setting off a chain of explosions with the billboards following suit. Flames engulfed the outfield. Little baseball players ran aimlessly. Mothers frantically screamed for their kids. Pieces of plastic and wood flew through the air. Through a crackling sound system, John Fogarty still sang of centerfielders playing the game.

Only Leif stood staring at the spectacular sight, until his sister grabbed his hand and dragged him away.

***

“OMG, Dude. What in the shit did you do?”

Facing his sister as she drove a ’99 Chevy pickup out of the ballpark, Leif asked, “Dad would’ve been proud of that hit, do you think?” Then he cleaned his glasses. “Is that blue in your hair, Ambrosia?”

“Seriously, Dude? Did you have a baseball wired or something? Cuz like blowing up a baseball field? Major felony!” Ambrosia scanned the radio. “It was only ‘sort of’ awesome. As long as no one got hurt. Or killed.”

Leif peeked back at the ballpark. “Hey! There’s Mom! She came to my game!” Leif hopped around in his seat. “Let’s go back.”

“No way, Bro,” Ambrosia barked, accelerating out of the park. “We’re getting you outta here ASAP. Mom will totally understand.” Ambrosia glanced at herself in the mirror. “And yes, I just added blue in my hair. You like?”

As the pickup growled into the street and wove in with the rest of the traffic, sirens grew louder. Leif was still staring out the back window, watching the actions of his hysterical mother, still in her scrubs from work.

“Where we going?” Leif asked, slamming his head on the window.

Humming the tune of Green Day, Ambrosia turned to her brother. “Maybe...to find Dad.”

While the thought of seeing his father perked him up, Leif was concerned. “Have you ever driven in Chicago?”

***

Sam Rush, police chief of Woodgrove (population 2,444), had finally shown up after his local police force and the volunteer firemen had cleared the premises of the ballpark. The only injury considered to be serious was a slice to a coach’s head -- a flying piece of fence post was sure to leave a remarkable scar amidst the receding hairline.

Five of the voluntary firemen, including Fire Chief Andre Wilson and police deputies Chaz Popp and Joe Easterly, gathered around the fire truck to assess the damage. All were quenching their thirst with beer provided by an appreciative community member.

“Gentlemen,” Chief Rush addressed the group as he scanned the field, now black with soot and scattered with pieces of billboard, which still hinted of advertisements from insurance agents, banks and restaurants. In left field, the scoreboard lay disheveled: a robot, now dead, unmoving and not willing to fight.

“It’s a damn shame,” Chaz shouted to the police chief. “You told your wife yet?”

“Christ, you’re an idiot.” Joe slugged his partner. “Holly was at the game, Numskull. Watching Sammy Jr. play!” Joe addressed his boss. “I made sure they got outta here safely, Sir. You bein’ outta town and all.”

“Out of town?” asked Fire Chief Wilson. “Was wondering why you hadn’t shown up to this disaster.” Easing his way toward Sam, the 6‘5 fireman hoarsely stated, “Just about called the sheriff. Or the FBI.”

“I left Chicago as soon as I got the call. Required training. The sheriff was there too. Shit - he’d come to Woodgrove the day he’d wipe Chaz’s ass.” Sam sighed and looked at the field. “Thank God no one was hurt. Only needed one fire truck, at least.” Sam rubbed his temples. “Who in the hell would do this? And why?”

One of the firemen brought a beer to the police chief and said, “Looks like Holly done all that fundraisin’ for that fancy new scoreboard for nothing. Sucks man.”

Sam didn’t acknowledge the beer offer.

“Sam,” Andre called out as he he stomped toward the scoreboard on the field. “Come with me.”

Andre and Sam had been friends since junior high. They didn’t currently run in the same social circle, because Andre was still single. But occasionally, they found an excuse to drink a beer together. And more often than not, their professions brought them together out of necessity.

“Here’s what I know,” Andre explained. “The scoreboard was wired to create a pretty damn nice light show. But was it a professional? These wires are messy.” Andre held up a mesh of colored wires . “It was done fast. And the billboards seemed to be an afterthought. But I can’t figure out the trigger. Must be off-site. If you figure that out - you’ll solve your case.”

The bomb had been planted at the base of the scoreboard. No one noticed or questioned the conglomeration of wires which connected the other wires on the fence line, ready to wreak havoc on Woodgrove’s beloved baseball field.

“So, is it out of the question to think it would be the work of kids?” asked the police chief.

The men stared at the field. The same field where they played ball as kids.

“Apparently that little Andersen kid was up to bat,” explained Andre as he took a drink of his beer. “You know, Davey Andersen’s kid?”

Sam nodded. “That skinny, runt of a kid? Kind of geeky? Not like the old man.”

Andre shrugged. “Apparently he’s not a bad hitter. The story is that little Leif crushed it to left field - straight to the scoreboard when it exploded.”

“Crushed it? What was the score?”

“Score was tied. Bottom of the fifth,” Andre sighed. “Left a kid on third. Woulda meant the win. It was the county tournament, you know.”

Sam had heard much grief about missing the tournament.

Andre finished his beer. “Sam, is Leif in your son’s class?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he smart?”

Sam nodded. “My boy tells me that he’s wicked smart.”

Andre grabbed his old friend on the shoulder, “Chief, I think you have your first suspect then. And he’s a ten-year old boy.”

***

The pickup sputtered to a halt in the secluded the driveway, lined by aged and overlapping pine trees. The white farmhouse didn’t welcome Leif and Ambrose, but it didn’t repel them either.

“Why are we here?” Leif whined to his sister.

Ambrosia snapped her gum while studying her phone. Then she peered at a window on the second floor. “Hold on a sec.” Easing herself out the pickup door, Ambrosia sauntered toward the massive front door. Leif was hoping to take her phone so he could text his mother, but she stuck the device in her pocket.

Eventually, the front door opened and out he came. Pierced nose. Jet-black hair. Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt. White jeans.

“There’s my fair little lady,” said the boy as he moved closer to cup his hands around her face.

Ambrosia blushed. “Look, Jax. Can you help us? You know I’ve never driven in Chicago.”

Jax looked over to the pickup and waved at Leif, who quickly looked away.

“Sorry,” Ambrosia gulped. “He’s had a tough day.”

Jax pulled Ambrosia toward him and whispered in her ear,“You are way too cute.”

“So, will you?” she pleaded.

As he kissed her neck, she only heard the birds in the awful trees and knew the answer. Thank God her father kept the GPS in her truck.

“What an effing jerk,” Ambrosia uttered as she spun out of the driveway, hoping the gravel would hit Jax squarely his proclaimed third eye.

Leif turned to his sister, “Never trust a guy in a Steelers shirt. That’s what Dad always says.”

As the Chevy rattled on the highway, Jax dialed 911 to let authorities know the whereabouts of a runaway teenager and her little brother.

***

Natalie Andersen sat at her kitchen table, drinking cold coffee and staring at the text message received from her daughter.

Leif n me OK. B home soon.

But when she tried to call or text Ambrosia, there was no response. That girl’s independence frustrated Natalie beyond all reason. Her only consolation was that she maintained straight A’s, worked a steady job and always took care of Leif. What could Natalie say when she herself typically worked 50-hour work weeks in the ER and couldn’t rely on her workaholic husband to be home before 8:30 every night?

Something had to change. This was not the family life she dreamed about. Exhausted from the day, her job, her life; she laid her head on the table, and thought about the stories being circulated at the ballpark.

“Leif hit the winning run! And the scoreboard caught on fire!”

“Isn’t he a brainiac? He blew up the ball in midair!”

“Does Leif know quantum physics? Because that genius has somehow ruined our entire field.”

Leif is a lot of things, Natalie thought. But he’s not destructive. She decided to check out his bedroom anyway. On the way to his bedroom, the nurse became aware how tired she felt - how inviting the shower looked. Then the doorbell rang.

Without checking the peephole to preview her visitor, Natalie swung open the door.

“Chief!” Natalie cried with terror, knees dropping to the floor. Ambrosia. Leif. Gone. Dead. Her worst fear realized. She had wasted her life at the hospital. Now her beloved children were gone. She began to sob.

“Natalie!” Sam stepped in to help her up. “Are you okay? I came to ask if I could speak to your son. Is he here?”

She considered the police chief’s words. Then noticed his dark skin and dark eyes. At this proximity, she could see the Native American blood. “Did you just ask to speak to my son?”

Sam nodded.

Relief swam through her body. The smell of the hospital on herself made her giggle. Then cry. “Oh, Sam. He’s not here. Neither is Ambrosia.” Natalie wiped her nose. “That’s what I thought you came to tell me…something terrible.”

Sam scratched his head, trying to figure out what to say. “I see. Didn’t mean to scare you, but uh...” Sam looked around and tapped his boot. “Do you know where they are?”

Natalie shook her head.

“Look Nat, I know this is hard,” Sam said kneeling down. “But Leif might be in some trouble here. If he blew up the field, he’s looking at juvie. Do you care if I look around?”

“Sam, can I talk to you as a person?” Natalie stared at the chief.

The chief flinched.

“That kid is not capable of violence. When his hamster died, we held a two hour funeral, eulogy and all. Would you like to see the gravestone we ordered over the Internet?”

“Look, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t investigate. Can I just look around?”

Natalie pushed her greasy, blonde bangs back and reached her hand out. “Help me up. I’ll show you to his not very secret lab. Then maybe you could please help me find my kids?”

***

Deputy Chaz Popp pounded on the newly-constructed home where Sam Rush resided with his wife, Holly and their only son, Sam Jr.

Even though Sam had assured Chaz his family was fine, the deputy insisted on checking on them “after his shift was over. Really it’s no problem, Sir. It’s on the way home.” In reality, Chaz’s partner, Joe Easterly, had pulled him aside to make the suggestion. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to make some brownie points with the Chief.”

Face scrubbed clean and dressed in her pajamas, Holly opened the door reluctantly.

“A lil’ early to call it a night, don’t you think, Holly?” Chaz joked, inviting himself inside. “Howdy, Sammy! Eatin’ chicken?”

Picking at his TV dinner in the kitchen, Sammy tossed his hand in the air toward Chaz.

“Chief isn’t home yet, Chaz,” Holly stated dryly, staring straight ahead.

Chaz nodded, “Figured. Just checking on ya. Joe thought I should stop by to make sure you’re alright.” Chaz surveyed the house. “Chief’s probably busy piecin’ the whole damn explosion thing together.”

Holly began to sneeze. She sneezed eight times before Sammy got up and went to his bedroom, leaving most of his dinner on the table.

“Geez! God Bless...” Before Chaz could finish his sentence, the window shattered. Holly screamed. Chaz fell to floor, blood spilling from his right shoulder.

As Holly stood paralyzed watching Chaz bleed on her Persian rug, Joe Easterly blasted through the front door. Then he pointed his weapon at the crying woman, ready to shoot as her son crouched in the hallway, watching in horror.

***

Once they were within thirty minutes from their father’s office, Ambrosia called her father - only to reach his voice mail, as usual. But he’d be calling her back as soon as he realized they were on their way to the city. Any second now.

“You want to know how I see trees?” Leif asked his sister.

Beads of sweat were forming on Ambrosia’s upper lip as the city’s skyline became more prominent. She knew the route to her father’s building, but she had never actually driven it herself.

“Uh, sure,” Ambrosia said as she considered taking the next exit.

“Searchers, dancers and warriors.” Leif pointed. “See how that tree looks like he’s looking at the ground? He’s a searcher.” Leif watched the tree closely. “Although...he kind of resembles an elephant. Don’t you think? Ambrosia, look at it!”

Ambrosia cut in front of a semi-truck to get take the exit. “I see it, Leif.” She smiled as she felt her shoulders drop and her knuckles lighten off the wheel now that the pickup sputtered on the highway. “You study trees, huh?” Ambrosia’s breath returned to normal. “I prefer to look at the sky.” She tilted her eyes under the visor. “See all swirls right now? It’s as if God couldn’t quite mix the paint into one color. He’s trying to make that one color - not quite blue - not quite purple. What is it?”

Leif shrugged.

“Uh...periwinkle! Anyway, looks like God finally gave up. And decided to leave the sky a swirly mess.”

Leif laughed. “Ambrosia? When I’m out of college, will you hang out with me? Like come over and watch movies and eat Wimmer’s hot dogs?”

Pulling into a diner and messing her little brother’s white hair, she responded, “Sure.”

Then her cell phone dinged. “Dad’s ring tone.”

“Ambrosia,” Leif whispered. “Look who just pulled up.”

As Ambrosia grabbed her cell, anxious to consult with her Dad, a sudden cramp numbed her legs as a state trooper glared into her glossy eyes.

***

Sam Rush picked up a light saber that lay on an unmade bed.

“You’re probably wondering how I dust this room with all this crap everywhere.” Natalie picked up t-shirts, socks and Star Wars action figures.

“Not really.” Sam tossed the toy of the floor. “Got bigger things on my mind. You talk to your husband yet?”

Natalie nodded, “Look Sam. I know what you’re thinking, but how in the hell do you think my kid could’ve pulled this thing off?”

“Where’s Ambrosia’s room?” Sam asked.

“Brosia? You think it’s a conspiracy now?” Natalie stomped through the hallway. “Come on.”

As Natalie led the police chief across the house to her daughter’s bedroom, Sam stopped at a window. “Wait - what’s that?” Sam pointed to a tree house near the edge of the backyard.

Creeping back to Sam, the tired nurse began to nod, “The treehouse. That their Dad built…” And when she saw the old baseball scoreboard behind the oak tree, her thoughts suddenly became very unclear.

“Did Leif have the old scoreboard working?” Sam asked.

Natalie stared at the backyard without responding. How could she have completely forgotten? The Andersen’s had taken that old scoreboard - as a project for Leif. This couldn’t look good.

***

“Ambrosia! What in the hell are you doing?” Dave Andersen scolded his daughter. “Have you any idea how sick you’re making your ma?”

Leif brightly waved at the state trooper while Ambrosia barely registered her father’s words. If the trooper had been suspicious, Leif’s countenance had erased any semblance of it. With a tip of his big hat, the trooper was out of sight and into the diner.

Ambrosia high-fived her brother, “I know. Dad - I’m sorry. But…”

“No “buts”, Brosia,” Dave paused. “I can’t imagine what possessed you to take off to the city.”

“I was only trying to protect Leif.” Leif slumped a little while they talked. He was ten, not five.

“And your mother’s not capable?”

Ambrosia wanted desperately to respond by saying, “Not sure. She’s not around a helluva lot.” But she didn’t want to hurt her brother’s feelings.

“Dad, can you meet us here?” Ambrosia pleaded. “We’re just outside of the city. I’ll text the address.”

Dave Andersen had already shut down his laptop and locked down his file cabinet. “Of course. Stay where you are. Send me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

***

After Dave hung up with his daughter, he reviewed the report laying on his desk and sealed it in an envelope. Then he called his wife.

“Hey, the kids are safe. Going to meet them right now.”

When Natalie explained that the Police Chief was at their home, investigating the possibility that Leif caused the explosion, Dave requested to speak to the Chief immediately.

“Sam? Give up trying to peg the explosion on my ten-year old kid. Or my daughter.”

Dave paused and listened to the Chief. Then he opened the envelope again to review a certain page of the report.

“Because I know who’s responsible. As a matter of fact, I have the evidence in my hands at this very moment. When a person plans to blow up a scoreboard, they should know better than to call the insurance company to confirm coverage amounts. We log our calls. I’ll bring you the report directly.”

***

I’m going to die, thought Holly as she closed her eyes. Joe Easterly is going to kill me. And my son will see his mother die.

Joe switched positions and demanded, “Who shot him? Who shot Chaz?”

Now visibly trembling, Holly opened her eyes. But she couldn’t speak. Sammy ran to Holly. The movement caught Joe off guard and he pointed his gun at the young boy.

“NO!” Holly leapt in front of her son.

But Joe didn’t shoot. Instead he ran to Chaz and checked his pulse.

“Call 911!”

Holly kissed her son’s head and ran to the phone and did what was instructed.

Sammy joined Joe who was attempting to stop the bleeding around Chaz’s shoulder.

“Is he dead?” Sammy asked.

“Not yet,” Joe said, panting.

“I saw the car that drove away,” Sammy whispered. “It was a blue Volkswagon bug. An old, rusty one. I’ve seen it around here before.”

“Sammy!” Holly interrupted. “Get your shoes. I’m taking you to Grandma’s.”

When Sammy left, Holly asked, “Why’d you come here, Joe?”

“Just passing by. When I saw the window blown out, thought I better stop.”

“Chaz said you told him to come.”

Joe shrugged, “My hunch about danger was right.” Joe looked at Holly. “Sorry about your scoreboard.” Then leaning back over his friend, he instructed, “Come on Buddy, I hear you breathing. It’s just a little shoulder wound.”

Then the sirens sounded once again.

***

After turning off his squad car, Sam could do nothing but sit in his driveway, listening to the crickets and occasional toad. It had been a long time from when he left this morning.

A tap on the passenger door interrupted his meditation. “Care if I take off, Boss?” asked Joe who was anxious to get to the hospital. “No sign of the perpetrator since the incident.”

Sam pulled himself out of the car. “Get outta here. Chaz wasn’t making a whole lotta sense when I left. But when does Chaz make a whole lot of sense?”

Sam studied the broken window, then trudged inside to see his wife scrubbing the Persian rug. What a lonely life I’ve made her lead, he thought, studying her pale white skin and muted red curls. Without a word, he took her hand and led her outside to a swing in the backyard.

“Do you remember our first date?” Sam asked.

“We went fishing.”

Sam nodded. “We haven’t fished in a long time.”

“No.”

“Do you feel safe tonight?”

Holly didn’t respond, but her breathing became louder.

“Was Sammy on third base when you blew up the scoreboard?” he asked.

With her arms covering her head, Holly collapsed to the ground. Between gasps she whispered, “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way...He was only supposed to take out the scoreboard...a small implosion…to make it look like faulty wiring!”

Sam, not typically moved by any criminal’s show of emotion, kneeled down and caressed his wife’s back. “Holly, just tell me why. It doesn’t make sense. All the fundraising.”

Her tear-stricken face shot up. “Because everyone hated it! It’s all I heard. ‘It’s so ugly. Wish we had the old scoreboard back. What a waste of our money.’ So, I thought I’d show them. God, what if Sammy would’ve got hurt?” Her body collapsed again.

“Who did you get to do it?” Sam asked.

“Some kid from Chicago. When I told him that I wouldn’t pay him since he almost killed Sammy, he came by and shot out the window. So, I called him later to say the checks in the mail.” Holly looked at her husband. “I’m so sorry Sam. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

While looking into his wife’s amber eyes, he could blame no one but himself. His inattentive self.

***

“Try it now, Leif!” hollered Dave from the outfield.

Inside the bleachers, Leif flipped a series of buttons and levers before the flash of the old scoreboard lit up. Cheers from the fans (Ambrosia and Natalie) could be heard throughout the ballpark.

The family went to the field with baseball gloves and an old bat.

“Dad?” Leif twirled the bat.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to play baseball anymore. I mean for the Woodgrove Giants.”

Dave took a deep breath while he tossed the ball in the air. “Bud, I don’t blame you.” Then he placed his son’s baseball cap on backwards. Now, let’s have some fun. Okay? Brosia? You’re pitching first.”

“Girls against boys, right Mom?” asked Ambrosia .

“Girls against MEN, right Dad? corrected Leif.

The family played baseball that afternoon. It took hours, because every time a run was made, someone had to race to the top of the bleachers and flip the lever to change the score. But the scoreboard functioned and resided peacefully amidst a charred outfield, which now showed evidence of healing as new growth sprouted in the space where small cleats once roamed. And intended to roam again.

7th Lucky Agent Contest

2010-10-22T19:23:00.000-07:00

Here we go again! Some of you might notice my blog roll (See menu to the left below). It's packed with blogs I've found chock full of superior writing advice. One of my often-frequented blogs is called the Guide to Literary Agents - a compendium of knowledge from a variety of writers, agents and editors. Currently Mr. Chuck Sambuchino (editor) is sponsoring a contest which will allow one talented winner a look-see at their manuscript....Sooooo, I'm currently throwing my name in the hat for my work-in-process "Diamonds in the Woods" YA novel! Got anything you'd like to submit?

Here's the link!http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog/

The Ladies of Seneca Falls by Miriam Gurko

2010-10-10T12:23:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Cady-Stanton and Miss Anthony

It's quite possible that I might be difficult to live (unlike before), now that I've read a completely fascinating account of the 19th Century women's movement. Oh sure, I'd heard of Susan B. Anthony. And knew she had something to do with women's suffrage. (And of course, we banking professionals are all too well-aware of the nifty silver dollar done in her honor.) But just ask me about this amazing Quaker-feminist-speaker-writer who never even lived to see the 19th amendment passed. We all have those people we can't wait to meet in heaven...Jesus (of course), our grandparents, Buddha, and so on. Well, Miss Anthony is in my top five. Elizabeth Cady Stanton would be there as well; although, I dare say I might be a bit intimidated by her. Simply put, my greatest question to these courageous women would be: How far do you think we've come? They might just turn around and tell me, "Look, here are the things you still need to do."

To encapsulate how this book affected me in a blog is impossible, but here are a few thoughts to summarize:

It took 72 years from the first organized women's convention to grant legal authority for women to vote. 72 years! Trivia: When was the 19th Amendment passed, allowing women to vote? Hint - It wasn't terribly long ago (in a historical sense). The answer: 1920. Although, women have been paying taxes since...uh, we landed on Plymouth Rock perhaps? Interesting. Does anyone recall a little saying that went something like "taxation without representation"? I believe the book points out how a few feminine property owners, such as Susan Anthony's sister, Mary, would pay her taxes along with a note stating "Paying Under Protest."
The masculine consensus was that women were too frail or didn't have the capacity to make such decisions. And a populace women's vote could be the detriment of the country! Obviously, this argument is flawed at many levels. Most women weren't allowed an education. But so what if a woman wasn't educated? If a man wasn't educated or intelligent, was he not allowed to vote? Of course he was. (I didn't come up with this argument - one of the great minds at the convention at Seneca Falls argued this point.) As for the capability for women to learn? We must give thanks to our Quaker brothers and sisters for being the predecessors of equality in this particular issue. If they had not brought up female and male to be educated equally, who knows where women would be today? This issue continues to boggle my mind. Even today's classroom, don't girls mature more quickly than boys? Couldn't society see this in the 19th century? Most recently I read an editorial in the WSJ from Thomas Spence How to Raise Boys Who Read . Instead of creating these dumbed-down grossology version of novels, shouldn't we be holding them accountable to learn at a certain level? (Let's say the same level as our female student? Tee-hee. Issue aside - the article is worth reading.) Anyway - I was thinking how the 1800's culture would read the title to Spence's article as such a paradox!
In general Quakers led the cause in the education of females; however, there were a few brave non-Quaker women to buck the issue of education and demand more than elementary schooling, i.e., Lucy Stone and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. The great men of our country (and they were great in many other ways) argued that the Bible commands women to be subservient to their husbands. A few great women, the aforementioned, could not and would not accept this. So, they needed to learn Greek and Latin to translate the original text of the Bible. Of course, they were called heretics and much worse, for that matter, but eventually, they came to prove their position upon equal standing as men. And guess what? There were many, many men that believed in what they had to say.
I'm getting a bit windy, aren't I? Okay, I'll try to be succinct, but these points are worth reading. (Oh, maybe you should just read this book...I'm just barely touching the surface.) The Civil War actually was a setback to the movement. Almost all of the women felt their contributions to the War would earn them "points" in the eyes of the government. When the the black man was allowed the vote, surely women would be allowed to vote as well. Not so much. Susan B. Anthony was the only one to predict this. The Republic felt that women needed to put their selfish wishes on the back burner. It was the negro's time. It couldn't be done all at once. Where did this leave the black woman? Ask Sojourner Truth - one of the few Black Abolitionist Women. It set them further back than anyone could imagine.
Beyond suffrage, what were the other issues of the women's movement? If women owned property, it went to her husband. If they divorced, the husband gained custody of the children. Women couldn't sign a contract. If a woman was beaten by a drunk husband, she had no civil rights. If she was raped by her husband, she had no civil rights. If the woman worked outside the home, all earnings went to her husband. And of course, the education of women for any of the fields open to men has been a long and arduous journey.
Issues of abolition and temperance ran parallel to women's rights in the 19th century. Would you believe these issues actually hampered the women's right movement? I alluded the Civil War setting back the women's movement above. But temperance? Well, there were two major entities who absolutely did not want women to get the vote; politicians and the alcohol industry. Politicians didn't want women taking note of the corruption - and cleaning up their machine. And the alcohol industry saw women as the ultimate victims of alcohol abuse. So, put those two factors at work and the result? 72 years of fighting for the vote.

I've been trying to decide, where does this leave us today? Obviously, women have all the possibilities as men in terms of education and career paths. Susan and Elizabeth are smiling down at that. But I think a few of us are not carrying on the fire of the women's movement. Women's pay is not equal for the same job uniformly across industries. And surveys show that the majority of childcare and household chores are still carried out by the woman even if both are working full-time. This is NOT freedom. (Is this the collective psyche that girls are the natural caretakers? Whatever!) I love taking care of my family - so should my husband. Anyway, I think there is some work to do. I'm going to start by making my daughter and son read this great work by Miriam Gurko. And I'll end this rant with a quote from Susan B. Anthony:

"Oh, if I could but live another century and see the fruition of all the work for women! There is so much yet to be done."- Susan B. Anthony

My Reading Pile?

2010-09-29T14:15:00.000-07:00

I'm on a bit of a non-fiction roll these days...but apparently my focus is easily diverted. The following three books have been cracked open:

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya A...awesomely heartbreaking

The Glamour of Grammar by Roy Peter Clark - delightful, can't keep myself from picking this one up. How can Mr. Clark make apostrophe's and semi-colon's so intriguing?

The Ladies of Seneca Falls by Miriam Gurko - for my book club, truly a fascinating account of women who fought for equal rights. Hopefully it becomes required reading in all high schools so that all American females can appreciate our circumstances today.

In the hopper - Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed (Yes, I miss her already.)

Boy, I'm gonna need some fiction soon to break up all this reality. (The Dragon Tattoo has been sitting on my bookshelf, waiting, staring me in the face.)

So, what's on your nightstand? BTW, it's banned book week. What's your favorite banned book? Huck Finn? To Kill a Mockingbird? Let's hear it!

Mockingjay and Eat Pray Love

2010-09-07T19:04:00.000-07:00

Mockingjay tis finished...It's always kind of sad to come to the end of a truly great series...but it did not disappoint. I like to cry, and tears held me captive for the last quarter of the novel...that's all I will say.

So now I'm rereading Eat Pray Love, which is not something I normally do. I have too many other unread book sitting on the shelf. But seeing the movie inspired me to pick up the book and reminisce over a few of Liz (as if we're friends) Gilbert's the great passages. I love funny and smart women. Makes me want to be one when I grow up...

BTW, did you know that Elizabeth Gilbert is coming to Omaha in April next year? That is way cool. I think I'll see go and see her if at all possible...

E-Readers and Books

2010-08-26T20:02:00.000-07:00

Denise (a co-worker) and I were talking about books and Kindles the other day. She didn't have a Kindle and was asking how I liked mine. Did I like it better than an actual book?...I do like my Kindle. But do I like it better than an actual book? No.

Currently E-books are outpacing the sales of books which is no big surprise. They are cheaper and it's a new technology. But books are still magical. Don't you remember when you were little and you held that one special book in your hand? Even before you could really read?

After lunch Denise brought back some wonderful hardbound books that were given to her by her grandmother. She keeps in her enclosed bookshelf and one of her favorite happens to be Evangeline by Longfellow. What a treat it was to thumb through the weathered, crisp pages with evidence of Denise's grandma's studious mind leaving a pencil trail of notes. I couldn't help myself but to take a whiff of the stale and glorious novel. It really was a beautiful tome. And why don't they have illustrations like that anymore?? I totally appreciated my friend sharing it with me.

I don't think E-readers will be the death of books. My Kindle hasn't really slowed my book-purchasing habit. If anything, it's increased it. I noticed on my Shelfari, I'm way ahead of the number of books I read last year. Perhaps because I purchase books on the Kindle and yet, I haven't stopped frequenting bookstores. When it stops being a fun past time for me and my family, then maybe I'll quit buying books? But for now, I'll just keep piling up the reads on my actual and virtual shelves...and truly, I predict that book sales will pick back up again. It's still an art form that people appreciate - especially the young-uns.

Of course, I could be way off on this. But my intuition tells me otherwise. I guess we'll see.

Just a Quote

2010-08-26T19:21:00.001-07:00

“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.”

-Charles W. Eliot (1834-1926)

On Sonia Choquette

2010-08-04T18:32:00.000-07:00

Three books - I've read three of her books since I saw this inspirational speaker at the ICAN conference last April. And I highly recommend them ALL! Each has a distinctly different flavor, but they all impacted me greatly:

The Answer is Simple..Love Yourself, Live Your Spirit (Five Star with a Heart): Read this book if you have a great need to boost your self-esteem or just need to find yourself or your spirituality. I found great inner peace. This book remains by my bedside at night.

Your Heart's Desire: Looking to reach a particular goal, but having trouble getting there? READ THIS BOOK! It will be perfect for you. (Five Star)

Ask Your Guides: Connecting to your Divine Support: This book is nothing what I expected to be, but it was really wonderful. It sort of confirms everything that was taught to us in Sunday School and everything that we innately know, but sometimes choose not to believe. I love this book -- another Five Star and a Heart for Sonia.

Sonia Choquette is an amazing person. I visit her website regularly and check her inspirational comments on facebook. I really hope to meet her someday. But for now, I'll just keep reading her books!

The Virgin of Small Plains by Nancy Pickard

2010-08-04T18:22:00.000-07:00

Success! I got my hubby to read this suspenseful novel. It's definitely a page-turning, difficult-to-put-down tome. And Ms. Pickard is an enjoyable writer to read!

Perhaps I felt closer to this novel because of the small town setting, but I really think the author is masterful job at creating characters you care about. And she creates a few despicable ones - but what I found myself wondering near the end of this book, "should I be caring for...? Maybe he/she is the bad guy?" It adds to the suspense - and the fun of this book!

My rating - a four star, strong recommendation for anyone that wants to get lost in a cliffhanger! Oh, and there is definitely romance in the book...gotta to love that!

Sweetness of the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley

2010-08-04T18:13:00.000-07:00

I can't remember why I bought this - maybe an NPR recommendation? But the cover is adorable - bright green, dead snipe with a bright orange stamp sticking through the beak. The artwork is wonderful.

The names in the book are lovely - Flavia De Luce, with sisters Ophelia and Daphne and I really do love Flavia. BUT, I do not for one minute believe that Flavia is eleven years old. Perhaps British children in the 1950's were incredibly cultured and way beyond my level of intelligence. Maybe it's just my blue collar background? Nonetheless, it doesn't take away from the fact that I really enjoyed the mystery behind the novel. And like I said, I really liked Flavia. (I just couldn't believe she was eleven - no matter her level of precociousness.)

And - I was disappointed with myself. Typically, a fairly good sleuth, I missed this one. Maybe I was too focused on not knowing some of the cultural references to figure out the mystery. Perhaps that's Mr. Bradley's device?

My rating? 3.5 star -- almost 4. But, I would certainly recommend the book!

I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron

2010-08-04T18:01:00.000-07:00

Because I was going to be traveling in my car during my two weeks vacation, I went to the library to check out some Bill Bryson audio books. Since our library only had Bill on cassette, I had to find something else. As fate would have it, my eyes were drawn to Nora Ephron's bright yellow cover "I Feel Bad About My Neck" which happenend to be on DVD. And thank goodness. Because it was so hilarious, that I spent quite a bit of my vacation googling Ms. Ephron on watching her on YouTube and reading her articles in the New Yorker.

And I thought she just made movies. My, that woman is clever.

My review of Nora doesn't really mean squat, but if you're just feeling kind of bad about anything at all, this might be the book or audio for you. I almost recommend audio - hearing it in Nora's voice is par for the course. She doesn't try to cover up any of her heartache. She makes an art of self-deprecation. And she still knows how to laugh. But you know what's best about Nora? Underneath it all, it's quite evident that Nora is still a hopeless romantic. Who can't love this woman??? I just wish I could have coffee with her tomorrow. If I drank coffee.

I'm going to get her other stuff as soon as I get through about five other books waiting to be read. I'm just trying to decide - audio or paper? I'm pretty sure if I buy her books, I can imagine her voice since now every other book I read is now in Nora's voice (even those not written by her).

Rating? Five star and a smiley face. (No neck)

A Bride Most Begrudging by Deeanne Gist

2010-08-04T17:49:00.000-07:00

This book got the little heart on my Shelfari bookshelf. Completely enjoyable - but I'm partial to historical fiction with witty dialogue.

Taking place in colonial America (circa 1640's), the story revolves around the tobacco brides that were traded among the Virginian farmers. The premise is that an independent (and educated!) daughter of an earl was mistakenly swept up on a ship to be sold as a bride in exchange for tobacco...well, you can imagine how the rest of the story might go. Yes, a bit predictable. However, the social context and commentary would be great for reading group for discussion. And again, I was completely delighted by a few scenes - the wedding night when the subject of the bible keeps rearing, a dinner fight, Christmas service where the London "scoop neck" has not yet been fashioned and the appearance of the earl himself near the end of the novel.

My rating - a definite five star, with a heart to boot.

Shiver by Maggie Stiefvater

2010-08-04T17:36:00.000-07:00

Tired of vampire love stories? This YA story is a nice change of pace, especially if you lean toward Team Jacob. I wouldn't put it in the same league as the Hunger Games, but I was certainly compelled to find out what happened between Grace and Sam. Ms. Stiefvater seems particularly talented at creating vivid scenes.
And the ending certainly was set up for a sequel - you have to love that.

I'd give this book a strong 3 star - definitely worth the read.

Book Rap!

2010-08-04T17:25:00.000-07:00

By the looks of this blog, it quite appears that nary a book I've read lately. Quite the contrary, actually! But, I'm not very good at updating this blog! I need to figure out how to link this up to Shelfari. Undoubtedly, there's a way and I could probably spend the next three hours trying to figure it out. Instead, I'm going to do a series of mini-posts with mini-reviews of the books I've read this summer...so read on for my picks and pans. (Well, I'm too nice to have any pans really.) So, read on for my picks and my super duper picks!

On Edith Wharton

2010-07-18T15:10:00.000-07:00

So I'm a bit behind on any bit of reading or writing tidbits...instead of listing off excuses, let me get down to business by going clear back to the beginning of the summer when I was into reading Edith Wharton.

It all started with Ethan Frome - the book chosen for our book review club. I was thrilled because I had read it many moons ago and remember pondering the book for some time and even renting the flick to see Liam Neeson's interpretation of the somber and pathetic Ethan Frome. (Yes, he gave him a much more dapper appearance than my imagination.) Anyway, after re-reading the depressing tale with the unhappy ending, I decided to wallow in another by Wharton and picked up The House of Mirth which had an interesting prologue on the life of Ms. Wharton. (It was enlightening as to the subject matter of her novels...and her outlook on life in general.)

Anyway, as I logged into my Shelfari account to do "my reviews" on Frome and Mirth, it occurred to me how demoralizing it would be for Edith to be receiving a 3 star from some unknown self-published flunky of an author like myself. But truly the purpose of Shelfari isn't necessarily to grade writing, would you agree? Obviously, if I were rating her novels on writing, she'd be receiving way beyond five stars. She's a completely brilliant writer - a great author for writers to study in terms of prose, character development, setting a scene and making a political statement through a story line. But it terms of pure enjoyment, I couldn't honestly give it anything over a 3 star. So sorry Ms. Wharton. Both stories made me too sad.

Anyway, it was difficult to pick up anything after reading two classic Wharton novels in a row. Not so much because of the sadness. Everything I started to read seemed so, so trite! (And that's coming from someone who wrote Goodbye Def Leppard, I'll Miss Those Jeans.) I actually stopped reading the first book (which need not be named). Finally, I started a Young Adult detective novel - The Sweetness of the Bottom of the Pie. It was the perfect read after Edith's tumultuous novels.

That delicious review to come later.

Writer's Digest Lucky Agent Contest!

2010-03-31T19:02:00.000-07:00

One of the blogs on my google reader is www.guidetoliteraryagents.com And they do some really cool stuff -- like sponsor contests! If you're interested in entering, check out the blog!

I'm so entering...

Same Kind of Different as Me

2010-03-03T17:56:00.000-08:00

This non-fiction story by Ron Hall and Denver Moore is so worth the read. It's one of those, "gosh, I should become a better person" book.

The book is told in from the perspective of two men from completely different sides of the fence -- a very rich Texan art dealer and a poor homeless man who has had his share run-ins with the law. The men are brought together by the art dealer's angel of a wife who volunteers at a homeless shelter. And this woman is an angel...I'm sure she and SIster Theresa are sitting together on a cloud somewhere.

Anyway, I love those stories which fate brings together the unlikeliest of characters and causes unforeseen changes of the heart...especially when the change of heart is the reader. A must read for anyone...

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins

2010-02-04T17:57:00.000-08:00

Harry Potter. Twilight. Those of you who have read either of those series understand the "that was good-can't wait to read the next one!" feeling. Suzanne Collins' sequel to The Hunger Games, CATCHING FIRE, smashes that sentiment to pieces. As a matter of fact, thirty seconds after I read the last word of the last chapter, I was searching for the third novel online - only to find out that it won't be released until AUGUST 24TH! Let me apologize to all those whom I've recommended the read - If you haven't started reading it, perhaps wait to start the series this summer so as not to keep you hanging for so long. Or not.

Ms. Collins not only has an incredible imagination, but she has strong prose (especially for YA), colorful dialogue and characters that make you go "hmm". The heroine of our story (Katniss) can't really be described as endearing, yet her character quite preoccupied me. Brutally honest. Protective. Loyal. While she does everything she can to keep within her walls, the author intricately allows a love triangle to enter her life. Oh, yes - it's also a romance.

While the book is fantasy, the underlying political themes are a bit haunting...and most profoundly pronounced in this sequel. Of course, I'm beyond anxious to find out the fate of Panem (a place formerly known as North America) and Katniss's loved ones.
(Katniss is only one of the interesting names in the books...for those of you looking for unique baby names, put the baby name books away!

The Forgotten Garden - A Novel by Kate Morton

2010-01-10T10:59:00.000-08:00

2009 was a good reading year for me. The Help by Kathryn Stockett - a favorite. Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins - another favorite. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Annie Barrows and Mary Ann Shafer - a double favorite. (Just to name a few.) Now 2010...with its inclement weather encouraging us to stay at home and read...is starting off in a grand way.

Yesterday I finished a novel complete with mystery, longing, unrequited love, relentless maternal motifs, haunted histories and (alas!) FAIRY TALES. In THE FORGOTTEN GARDEN, Kate Morton creates a beautiful novel with imagery that is so escapist, I was able to stay up past 10:00 pm in recent weeks. (Big feat for me.) She creates a story line so compelling that my mind was always a minute away from considering the plot -no matter what I happened to be doing. (Sorry Boss.) But most of all, Ms. Morton passed my lovability test by creating incredible and soulful heroines amidst three very distinct story lines that ultimately become interwoven.

I can't wait to discuss this book at my book club next week. It's a double favorite - right up there with Guernsey. Obviously, I highly recommend. But if you do, a quick warning: Be prepared to lose yourself.

The Hunger Games...Suzanne Collins

2009-12-25T15:03:00.000-08:00

If it weren't for some trusted book critics, I never would've picked up this novel...the premise might make you raise an eyebrow and say, "no thanks." But trust me, it's a compelling, fresh and very well-written read. Okay, it's a real page-turner -- using cliffhanging action, the underpinnings of a complicated romance and even some political commentary.

That's all I'm going to say about it...except I can't wait to purchase the sequel.

Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay

2009-12-13T14:57:00.001-08:00

This novel was heartbreaking, compelling and well worth the read. I believe this might be this novelist's first - if so, she's started her writing career with a bang.

Like many, I tend to look for those books or movies that I know will make me smile and perhaps shed a few happy tears. So, as I read this story that disclosed a shameful part of France's history, I thought, "Well, maybe this Jewish family will escape - maybe there's a happy ending." Well, there was an escape. But how can there be a happy ending when so many innocent people were ruthlessly taken from their homes, tortured, starved, ripped away from their children and assassinated?

But it was reality. It was the Holocaust. And this historical fiction piece beautifully proclaims that while time marches on, we must never forget the victims. We must never forget to honor those who suffered like no human should ever suffer.

As an American reading the story, I felt a bit self-righteous. As if our country would never sweep its own actions under the rug. But then I remembered the Japanese internment camps. Of course, there are skeletons in the closet. And despite my desire to always read of rainbows and unicorns, I understand the importance of never forgetting.

On Writing

2009-11-24T17:43:00.000-08:00

"A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it." -William Styron, novelist (1925-2006)

This quote came across Anu Garg's A Word A Day blog today. For me, this is how I define "a favorite" tome. Often, I will read a book and conclude the author has strong writing skills. However, I don't always connect. Can any of you relate?

I read another article today in Writer's Digest written by Steve Almond. He argues that the best writers reveal their love through ALL of their characters...even those posed with defects and non-redeemable qualities. It was a brilliant article aimed to aspiring writers. He ends his essay by stating, "Your highest calling is not to sell books or get famous, but to awaken mercy within your readers. That only happens when you treat your characters with the same unconditional love."

Well-said Mr. Almond. I wonder if this works on real life as well...

Headache Strikes Again

2009-11-16T18:28:00.000-08:00

Have any of you read Virginia Woolf's essay, "On Being Ill"? Woolf begins this brilliant run-on sentence of an essay by stating, "Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to light..."

I've been feeling quite centered lately, focusing on prayer and meditation. Then last night, I wake up at 3:00 AM with my head throbbing. My second dose of Maxalt hardly brought any relief. I'm a bit more among the living now and it occurred to me how the pain didn't make me feel closer to God. I imagine He's not to proud of my attitude right now. Full of self-pity, lacking a charitable conscience and downright growly.

But Woolf's essay did come to my mind. She unequivocally hits illness on the head, and btw, poses an interesting question as to why illness hasn't been prodded and portrayed as much as love in literature? Well, it's not near as fun or compelling, but it's certainly as affective on your soul...

Next time you're bit under the weather, find her essay. You'll find a small amount of comfort in knowing others have felt as bad as you.

Now, I need to attempt to get centered.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

2009-10-23T16:34:00.000-07:00

This book was so good that I forgot to write about it. (Does that make any sense???) Anyway, if you want to read a book that makes you a) laugh, b) sad, c) stew over social injustices, d) appreciate friendship and e) fall in love with characters...I've got just the read for you -- THE HELP by Kathryn Stockett. I read it shortly after reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (with expectations of a let-down) and felt like maybe I was just becoming the most easily entertained reader in the world. (There's a bit of truth in this, but another book I read recently proved this theory wrong...) Anyway, a short synposis:

A writer, who happens to be the daughter of a rich cotton-grower in JACKSON, MI decides to write a book from the black maids' perspectives, circa 1960's....thus, the plot. Ms. Stockett easily captured tenderness, narrow-mindedness, forgiveness, acceptance, friendship and love.

On the star rating system, I'd give it a 5 out of 5 (only one less star than Guernsey). While I didn't live during this time, nor have I ever visited much of the South (except being born in Louisiana), the novel placed me in a time warp, making me feel l was there -- a telltale sign of a great writer. I look forward to reading more from Ms. Stockett.

Still Alice by Lisa Genova

2009-10-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

I suspected the book, as selected by my book club, would scare me a bit. And it did, but it also surprised me.

At a young age, I remember watching a television movie about a lady with a relatively unheard of disease called Alzheimer's. The show made me feel very sad. Then Nicholas Sparks came along with The Notebook, and those sad feelings about the awful disease resurfaced.

So I prepared myself for tears and worry before I delved into the novel. But the novel was compelling to me - and not so much in a scary or sad way.

At first, as I watched a brilliant professor lose her faculties, I became acutely aware of my own memory lapses. Once I miraculously remembered that my forgetfulness has plagued me since the first grade, I was able to engage in the story and its message.

As the professor lost her ability to remember and to reason, an amazing transformation occurred. She was finally able to put her busy schedule aside to grow closer to her children. If she could save nothing else about herself, she saved what was most important.

Anyway, for all of you who find yourself beyond busy on your quest for achievement, read this book. It just might change your perspective.

Reincarnate -- Short Story

2009-09-07T09:02:00.000-07:00

I fell asleep thinking of the dead artist’s exhibit. I dreamed of her self-portrait throughout the night. Perhaps I wasn’t sleeping. Because when I opened my eyes, there it was again. The self-portrait. The water-color is vivid in my mind; although, it seems I only gave it a casual glance at the museum.

Water is running from the shower, which means Mark went jogging without me. I didn’t hear him get up, so apparently I slept some. I roll out of bed and peek out our window as I do every morning. Our sublime view in this secluded part of the world fills me with gratitude. The July sun blinds but beckons. A squirrel captures my attention. How would the artist capture this particular scene? Would she focus on the colors or the lines first? The squirrel scampers up a tree, and I’m reminded to check on my children.

I tiptoe into my daughter’s room, knowing my son will have found his way into her room in the night. My boy lays on top of the covers, sprawled across the lion’s share of the bed. His nubile face makes me feel young. My daughter’s mop of hair indicates her presence, buried under the covers and claiming only a small portion of her own bed. I kiss each of their heads ever so slightly and carefully step back out. Once in the hallway I skip to the laptop sitting on the sofa. My search begins.

Bailah Grace. 1941- 1975 American Impressionism or New Genre? Metropolitan Museum of Art. Diary Exhibition on Tour 2009.

“...recently discovered diary of Bailah Grace reveal clues to her psyche...themes surrounding the German occupation of Denmark in World War II… captures a collective sentiment within the depths of her subconscious.... Born in 1941, Ms. Grace certainly didn’t live through the era, but wrote entries of terrifying attempts to hide her Jewish friends. Perhaps she needed to live it to paint it.”

I click on the image search, scrolling through her most notable works like “Baltic” and “Occupation.” Finally, Bailah herself. I maximize the self-portrait, but the impressionistic smudges are nothing but a blur for me. I zoom back out. Pixie haircut, piercing blue eyes, desolate expression.

I set the laptop aside to rummage through the kids’ art supplies. After finding a blank piece of paper and a somewhat sharpened pencil, I sketch. I’m attempting to replicate the eyes that penetrated me in my dreams, that penetrate my thoughts now. I’m feverishly working on the detail of the deep-set eyelids when a touch on my shoulder startles me.

“What are you doing?” Mark asks.

I study my sketch and crumble the paper, “I don’t know. Trying to convince myself I can draw.”

“The exhibit sure had an effect on you,” he remarks while placing the teapot on the stove. “You’ve been distracted ever since we came home yesterday.”

I dig through our assortment of teas and casually toss out my plan, “I’m thinking of driving to the city today. Do the Soho thing.”

He seeks my expression to determine the appropriate response. I save him the trouble, “Alone. Can you entertain the kids?”
With a sigh Mark replies, “Of course. But I hate when you venture to New York City alone.”
We’ve discussed this issue so many times before. My periodic need for independence has always been our most notable point of contention. My intent isn’t for him to agonize, so I offer a compromise, “I’ll take my sister, if it will make you feel better.”
He wants to offer another solution. Like letting my sister watch the kids, so we can rendezvous in the city. But the purpose of my trip isn’t leisure, making my sister the perfect companion. We travel together well, each having our own agendas. Mark knows this and acquiesces.

I drive to the outskirts of Manhattan and park in the first garage with a vacancy. A cab takes us into the heart of Soho. As we step on to the busy sidewalk Annie inhales, “Smell that!” We both agree meat on a stick is repulsive, yet the aroma is alluring. Soho invigorates me. It’s not quite like coming home, but it gives me a strange sense of belonging.
“Where to?” Asks my sister.
I shrug, “Not sure. Let’s see where the wind takes us.”
We pace past the unhurried and are jostled by the scurried. Every so often, I look down. After a twenty minute shuffle, I see a coppery glow near the curb. Swiftly I pick up the coin and close my eyes. Then, I open my eyes and point, “There.” Across the street sits a narrow building with a window much smaller than other trendier galleries.
We escape the herd to enter “Kelly’s Hut.” There are iron sculptures, ethnic baskets, colorful pottery and only a few paintings. I’m disappointed.
“Mahrnin,” says the African clerk in a peculiar accent. He drops something heavy to greet us. As he approaches, I’m alarmed by his green eyes.
“Hello,” we say in unison, both smiling because of the manners our pleasant mother has taught us.
“Wat can Ah help ya lovely ladies wit today?”
“Just browsing,” I say abruptly.
“Browz away,” he offers and returns to his project. “Holler at Thabo if ya needs anyting.”
As I cautiously scan the store, my sister makes her way to Thabo to give me space. There are intriguing pieces, but I don’t see what I want. What do I want? Gradually, I find myself next to Annie.
“Find wat ya looking for?” Thabo addresses me.
“Have you heard of Bailah Grace?” I finally ask.
He’s quiet a moment, adjusting a piece of iron. “She all da rage. Wit de diary, heh?”
I nod, “It’s compelling, don’t you think?”
Thabo stands up and bores through me with those haunting green eyes. I meet his gaze for a moment, then turn a way. Annie interjects, “Was that the expo you attended yesterday, Sis?”
I nod. Thabo taps his chin and walks away. Quickly he returns, unrolling a small painting. “Aha,” he scrutinizes the picture, “before impressionism.” He hands it to me. Sharp lines. Concave eyes. Primary colors. The image in my dreams.
“Me likes tis Bailah best,” Thabo smiles.
“You realize what you have here, don’t you?” I ask.
Thabo nods. His leisurely attitude stiffens, “Not for sale.”
I immerse myself in the details of the treasure. Then I close my eyes. This portrait is already imprinted into my memory. “Thanks for sharing,” I offer as I give the portrait back.
Thabo groans, “Ah. You make me feel guilty.”
I laugh. Annie giggles. With a grunt, Thabo beckons us to follow him to a table near the back. He exits as we sit.
“Interesting fellow, isn’t he?” Annie comments.
Thabo returns with an envelope, then looks to the ceiling and mutters, “Forgive me, Auntie if dis is wrong.” He offers me the envelope. “Bailah Grace and me crazy African mahter were like seesters. She give me dis before she die. Now I give to you.”
I shake my head, “Why me? I have no connection…”
Thabo puts his hand over my lips, “Just take de letter. Read it alone.”
I nod, and soon we leave.

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m peeking out the window. No squirrels, but the birds are wretchedly loud. I hope they don’t wake Mark. Quickly I dress for a jog and check on the children. Remarkably, they sleep in their own beds.
I escape outside, letter in hand, and follow the path to our pond. My heart beats quickly as I unfold the crackling paper.

Instructions to my Zulu-Irish Dearie:

Thabo, deliver this letter to the reincarnated me when I come looking for myself. I trust you’ll understand when the moment arrives. Much love, Auntie Bailah

Dearest,

I have blamed myself, not the Germans, for a guilt that started in a former life. Failing to help the Jews is not easily forgotten. Not even through rebirth. Apparently I didn’t do enough to save them. Art was not the catharsis I assumed. It was merely a self-absorbed passion.

As I lay on my deathbed, I realize what I should have done. It wasn’t about me.

Bailah

The pond ripples. I realize Bailah died the year I was born. A frog croaks. I put the letter in my pocket and begin my jog. To ponder the German occupation of Denmark.

Later that day, I’m sealing a package addressed to Thabo Kelly with instructions to deliver to his mother.

Dearest Ms. Kelly,

Enclosed please find a picture of my family and a listing of every school child I ever taught. So far, there are 273. The students with asterisks don’t signify if they were good students or graduated with honors. They honorably indicate if they demonstrated an act of kindness

Much Love,

Mrs. Levine

P.S. If it suits you, I’d like to keep in touch. Tea sometime?

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society Review

2009-09-05T15:34:00.000-07:00

When I really, really like something, I become a bit obsessive. Well, if you haven’t read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, you might want to A)read it before you talk to me or b) find cliff notes and pretend to have read it before you talk to me. (If you straight out admit that you haven’t, I’ll bug you until you do.)

My rating? 6 stars out of 5.

Why?

Charming. Witty. Historical. Heartbreaking and uplifting at the same time. All of this and it's a love story to boot.

The novel is written in the epistolary form (of letters). It makes me want to start writing letters! Although, I guess we can argue that email serves a similar purpose and it's much more convenient. I'll probably stick to email. Oh, how I wish Juliet (fictional character) had her own blog. I'd read it upon every chance.

But it also makes me want to travel to Guernsey! Yes, it's probably cold - the island sets on the English Channel. But I don't care! It gives me a great excuse to wear scarves, caps and adorable Wellies. Anyway, that trip might have to come after I retire...but it's undoubtedly on the list.

Please, please don't wait for this movie to come out (as I have a suspicion it might.) Read...and if you don't find utter joy, I'll take you out to eat. Anywhere you want...just bring your copy of the book so we can discuss.

My Sister's Keeper

2009-08-27T15:34:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been in the middle of something and suddenly you realize you miss your mom or dad because you haven't spoken with them in awhile? Have you ever wanted to leave a work project and spend the rest of the day merely staring at your kids? Have you ever simply needed to call your spouse, with nothing really to say, but needed to reaffirm your connection to each other?

MY SISTER'S KEEPER reminded me of these feelings that periodically consume me, causing me to block out all the minutia before me. I'm not one to pick a novel that will inevitably leave me crying. But one of my-book friends handed her copy to me, simply stating it was one of the best she's ever read. How could I not? (Dang it Deb, I haven't been able keep mascara from streaming down my cheeks for a week now.)

I finished the novel last night, and without giving anything away, I am compelled to communicate the impact the story had on me personally. First, let me try to express the love for my family in the form of a timeline:

May 28, 1991: Met the love of my life and knew we were destined to be together. Never had I met someone whom I couldn't bear the thought of parting...(Married August 27, 1994)
June 6, 1997: Birthed our first child, a daughter. Was amazed by my overwhelming need to protect and care for the beautiful baby. I could barely stand the thought of NOT holding her.
August 27, 2001: Birthed our second child, a son. My fear of not loving the second child as much as the first was quickly squelched the minute I wrapped my arms around the feisty infant.

Undoubtedly, I love my family with every inch of my essence. MY SISTER'S KEEPER filled me with enormous gratitude for their health. I also realized how much I take our daily contact for granted. No longer will my hugs, kisses, laughs and banter will be done by rote. Yes, I hate to admit that I let those wonderful expressions of love sometimes exist in the form of a mental to-do list. No longer.

Thanks, Deb, for lending me Jodi Picoult's MY SISTER'S KEEPER. Sometimes we need friends to give us reminders on how to live. It was the perfect reminder.

My Kindle

2009-08-17T18:43:00.001-07:00

I can't believe it's been June since I last blogged here! I guess I've been too busy on my Mommyhood blog...it's summer and all. I can't believe I didn't even write a book review! Okay, in a snapshot...

The God of Animals by Aryn Kyle.....5 Star! Wonderful character depictions, whether human or beast. A bit of a heartbreaker though.

Little Grrrl Lost by Charles De Lint...3 Star. Cute story, but couldn't get into it. My mother and daughter completely disagree.

A Word a Day by Anu Garg ....5 Star Plus! For all you verbologists, a must-read!

The Host by Stephene Meyer...4.5 Star. I loved this post-Twilight tale. It's imaginative and an interesting commentary on the human race.

Diary of a Wimpy Kid (Rodrick Rules)...3 Star. Not quite as clever as the first book, but still fun to read with 7 -year old boy.

I think I'm missing one...oh, well. What I really wanted to communicate is how much I love my 40th birthday present to myself -- The Kindle! It's light, easy to use, easy to find titles and never leaves me without something to read! My only complaint is that I wish it lit up in the car and perhaps didn't need charged so often. But I love that fact that I can subscribe to any paper or blog for a lower cost and it's a bit of an environmental saver.

Anyway, if you're looking for a gift for the reader, The Kindle is your answer...Oh, and I was very much against the idea of parting with my book. But now I'm a believer!

Beyond Pippi Longstocking

2009-06-27T13:35:00.000-07:00

I am proud that my 12 year old Alex is an avid reader. But it has taken a few years to cultivate her fondness for literature. I'm hoping that Cole eventually finds his stride as well; he's a good reader, but when I make him sit down to read, he grimaces the entire fifteen minutes. Apparently, he's more comfortable reading upside down on the couch.

Avid readers share a certain connection, as I've said before. It can bring together the most unlikely friendships. And it can strengthen the relationships with those closest to you. Thursday night, my mother, my daughter and I trekked to Des Moines to hear author Lisa See speak. It gave me joy to hear Alex ask the author a question about her book, even if the question only involved a Chinese dessert!

I've read more Young Adult novels in this past year than ever because I want to keep connecting with my daughter as she enters the oh-so-scary years of teenagers. In case we can't seem to find much in common, we'll always be able to discuss books. I guess you could say it's my back-up plan. And I'll continue to read Batman stories if that's what it takes to make Cole a book lover.

I came across a link today which gave some ideas on cultivating young readers. Take a look. I hope you get some ideas to spur reading with your kids or grandkids.

And finally, what books are your kids reading???

Summer Reading Lists?

2009-06-22T19:16:00.000-07:00

Now that it is OFFICIALLY summer, what reading are you planning to do in the next few months? I'd love to hear from YOU!

Since the kids have been out of school, here's what I've read...

Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney
This book provides me nightly reading with Cole. Funny, boyish humor -- great recommendation if you want to find something to discuss with your 7 year-old boy.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wrobleski
Beautiful prose, engaging characters. But the ending will piss you off. I'm serious! No one in my book club felt the ending was justified.

Shanghai Girls by Lisa See
Undoubtedly, I'm a big fan of Lisa See. The voices of her characters are lovely. Her historical streaming is captivating. I found tears coming out of nowhere as I read various parts of the book. While this book has closure, there's some wiggle room for a sequel.

What's next on my list?
Well, I'm taking a few days to blog and rewrite a few passages of my own books. Then, it's The Host by Stephenie Meyer. But after that? I'm not sure -- what are you all reading or planning to read? I have a long list, but would love to hear suggestions from you all!

The Woods, Draft Two

2009-05-17T06:47:00.001-07:00

My last assignment focused on polishing prose. Here's a re-write of a story I wrote a few months ago...

The peace of daybreak finally settled over the house that had roared with activity throughout the night. Erin’s sheet now loosely shielded her from the cool air streaming through the rickety fan in the window.

Before drifting to sleep, she fought with the the shrieking voices of her parents’ party downstairs. She tangled with the sheet clinging to her body. No matter how hot or humid her room would get, a sheet couldn’t be sacrificed in the night, for Erin knew ghosts would feed off the bare skin of those who slept. But now it was morning; it was quiet; and she was safe once again.

Saturday. Erin loved Saturdays almost as much as Christmas morning. Dad would be disassembling and assembling motorcycles in the garage. Mom would be stripping the beds and making the house smell like laundry detergent, even with a cigarette burning in her ashtray. Cliff, her little brother, would be playing with his tractors and attempting to escape from the confines of his “Moma.”

Erin snuck down the creaky stairwell, hoping to be the first one awake. But the smell of coffee and pungent smoke hit her as she curved her way to the kitchen.

“Morning, Sweetie.” Her mother held little Cliff on her hip and took a swig of coffee before clearing off her father’s breakfast dishes. “Did you sleep well?”

“It was so hot last night! Why can’t we get an air conditioner? Jo Jo’s family just got one!” Erin snarled, remembering the tortuous night.

The comment was ignored as a discussion on gas prices began. Cliffie blew spit bubbles through his tiny lips, and murmured an unintelligible language of two-year olds. Erin poured Rice Krispies and three heaping spoons of sugar in the bowl that had been laid out for her. She ate three bites of the dry concoction before the telephone interrupted her feast. She jumped up to grab the receiver, connected to a new extended cord which allowed her to speak privately in the laundry room next to the kitchen.

“Hello? Yeah, I’m ready!” Erin’s breath accelerated. “Did you call Tina yet?”

Erin ran back upstairs to dress in her Lucky Charms cereal box t-shirt and pink shorts. After slipping on her tennis shoes without socks, she planned her escape.

Quietly, trekking through the house, she made it to the backdoor of the kitchen. “See ya. Going to the railroad track, so I better not bring Cliffie with me today.”

“Be careful, Slick.” Erin’s Dad looked up before the screen door screeched shut.

Her mother quickly came to the doorway, watching Erin climb her pink bicycle that was nearly too small for her already. “Come home for lunch, Hon. Don’t forget. Please.”

Erin peddled her bike through the quiet town. Already the humidity was threatening to rob her of air the fresh morning air.

As usual, she was the first one at their special hideout. Twenty yards past the railroad track marked the entrance of a wooded area on the edge of town. A large tree stump served as their headquarters. As Erin waited for her two best friends, she found comfort in the chattering of birds and insects. Hopefully she wouldn’t see any snakes. She monitored the ground closely for any slithering motion.

Something glittered in the grass near her feet. Erin kneeled to study a thick piece of green glass. After digging the piece out of the ground, and setting her discovery on the stump, she searched for more. Eventually, she excavated ten pieces of glass, ranging in colors from green to brown to translucent.

Finally, her best friends Jo Jo and Tina appeared. All three girls wore their Lucky Charms cereal t-shirts with varying shades of pink shorts.

“What in the H-E-double toothpicks?” asked Tina while studying the broken pieces of glass.

“Treasures,” answered Erin nonchalantly as she kept searching.

Jo Jo shrugged and sat on the stump. “Looks like pop glass to me.”

“Now it does,” answered Erin as the fervor of her dig intensified. Tina kneeled next to Erin.

“What are we doing today? Riding bikes?” Tina asked hopefully. She always wanted to ride bikes.

“Too hot.” Jo replied, before joining her friends on the ground.

“Then what?” Tina looked up at Jo, who was now digging up her own piece of glass. “We could…build a Barbie city? No, that’s getting boring. Play ball with the boys? No, Joel’s too mean. Have you finished writing your movie, Erin?”

“No,” Erin sighed. “Besides, I need the boys for a few parts. And with ball starting...” Erin trailed off, feeling discouraged about her movie project.

“How about…a swim in the Nishna?” Tina stood up to count the pieces of glass.

“After lunch,” Jo Jo answered. “We’re busy now.”

Every summer, as soon as the river tempered, the town kids stalked through the weeds covering the bank and cooled themselves off in the muddy waters. Every mother in town winced when their children returned from the shallow Nishnabotna River. No child was allowed to enter a house until thoroughly rinsed from a garden hose and examined specifically for ticks.

“Okay, but if I see a snake I’m going home.” Tina always threatened to go home. Jo Jo never wanted to go home.

“Aha!” Erin pulled a rusty tuna can out of the ground and then placed it next to the bounty. “A trove for our treasures.”

Erin stomped toward the railroad tracks and picked up three large pieces of river rock. Holding the rocks in her t-shirt, she ran back to camp. After giving each of her friends a rock, she began to crush the glass on the stump. Tina and Jo Jo smiled at each other and joined Erin in the task. The final product was placed into the rusty can once the glass was reduced to small, but not inscrutable, multi-faceted jewels.

“Jo Jo, what will you do with your riches?” Erin asked, in hopes that Jo Jo would talk. She always wished Jo Jo would talk more.

Jo Jo shrugged, while Tina took the floor, “I know! I’m getting a really cool car. A red convertible. Then I’ll buy Mom and Dad a nice car, so they don’t have to drive the green bomber.”

The girls laughed, since they had all been passengers in the loud, muffler-less Chevy Impala many times. None of the families had new cars, but the green bomb was the ugliest of them all.

Erin watched Jo, who still didn’t answer.

“I’m going to buy shoes,” Erin jumped on the stump as she spoke. “and party dresses. No one at my parties could smoke though.” Erin imagined an affair like those she watched on “The Young and the Restless” – something much different than their parents’ parties of barbecue and beer.

Jo smiled and kept crushing. Then with a shriek, she dropped her rock and began to suck on her finger.

“Jo Jo! You’re bleeding!” Tina and Erin ran to their friend’s side.

Jo closed her eyes tight, as she always did with the anticipation of pain. Tina delicately pried her friend’s slightly bloody finger.

“It’s not bad.” Jo felt embarrassed.

“We should go back and get a band-aid,” directed Tina.

“No,” Jo responded emphatically. “I’ll get in trouble.”

“We all will,” Erin added. But they all knew that Jo would be in the worst trouble if her Dad found out.

Jo wrapped her finger around her t-shirt and looked at her friends. “You know what I think we should do with our treasure? Forget dresses and cars. Let’s see the world! We’ll snorkel off the Yucatan Peninsula, shop on 5th Avenue in New York City, ski in Steamboat, climb the Eiffel Tower, see the Parthenon in Greece, go on a safari in Africa…”

Tina and Erin often listened to Jo describe places they knew nothing about. Jo’s mother had been a flight attendant before moving back home to marry her high school sweetheart.

Erin interrupted Jo. “Hey! Let’s have lunch at Jo Jo’s! Your mom can tell us stories about the places she’s been.”

“Can’t. Mom’s working today.”

Thoughts of the world were quickly replaced by grumbling stomachs. None of the girls wanted to go back to their own houses for lunch. So after a few minutes of waiting for a solution to appear, Jo suggested, “We could go to Granny’s.”

“Tang with 7-Up,” Tina added.

“Let’s go,” directed Erin. “Ride fast by the ball field. Maybe the boys won’t throw rocks at us today.”

“Wait. What about the diamonds?” asked Jo.

“I know.” Tina found a soft spot in the earth and started digging a hole with her rock. Once the hole was big enough, Jo placed the tuna can in the hole. Erin covered the treasure with the loose dirt. The three friends smiled at their accomplishment, then jumped on their bicycles to race toward Jo’s grandmother’s house.They easily whipped past the ball field without being tortured with name-calling and pebble-throwing; the boys were in the middle of a double-play.

As they sped through the pebbly main street of town, a muffled sound of a thunderous engine settled in the air. The girls made a sharp turn at the t-section to hear the revving of the engine getting louder.

“Car!” Erin yelled to her friends who performed the drill of slowing down before scattering to the soft edge of the road. Generally, all kids came to a complete stop to watch a car drive through town. Today was no exception.

Initially the girls were blinded by a deceiving silver flash, created by the sun’s reflection. Then a bright yellow sports car broke through the aura.

“Wow!” Tina exclaimed. “It’s gotta be a Camaro.”

Trucks, station wagons and sedans were common place in the town that housed blue-collar families working as machinists, secretaries or waitresses. Sports cars were rare.

The girls watched the car pace nearer, eventually stopping next to the parade of bicycles.

“Dad?” Jo squinted her eyes in disbelief as the driver rolled down his window. “Who’s car is that?”

The girls parked their bikes to gain a closer look.

“I was right! It is a Camaro. Is it brand new?” Tina felt the smooth paint job.

Jo’s father couldn’t hold back a smile. “Oh, no. It’s two years old. 1978. Think your mom will like it, Jo Jo?”

“Dad? Are you kidding?”

All three girls stood back, eyes wide open.

“Nope. Bought her today.”

Jo looked at her friends in wonder. Erin smiled incredulously. Tina smirked.

Jo ducked her head in the window. “Can we have a ride, Dad?”

“Not now, Hon. I’ll take you girls out for a spin later.”

Then the three girls watched the rumbling, yellow machine drive away.

“How are you and your brothers gonna fit in that?” Tina asked.

“I think it’s very cool,” Erin offered her friend.

“I hope Mom likes it,” Jo stated under her breath. “Wonder what Granny will think.”

The girls made their way to Granny Annie’s, who seemed to have predicted guests. Ham, bread and potato chips were set on the table. As the girls sat down to devour their sandwiches, Granny Annie mixed Tang and 7-Up.

“Guess what, Granny?” Jo talked with her mouth full. “Dad just came home with a brand-new, well not quite brand-new, Camaro!”

Granny stopped pouring the 7-Up and looked up, with a gaze directed to nowhere. “Test-driving, I suppose. Just dreamin. Your daddy’s a dreamer, alright.”

“No. He bought it.” Jo continue to chew. “He told us.”

The girls kept talking and laughing, not noticing the subtle change in Granny’s attitude. Granny set the drinks on the table, kissed Jo Jo on the head and said, “There’s ice cream in the freezer. Help yourselves when you’re done. I’m going out to the garage to talk to Gramps, okay?”

“Bye, Granny. Thanks for lunch.”

Granny Annie left in a hurry to tell her husband about their financially-strapped son’s recent purchase. Despite Granny’s reaction, excitement was the only emotion ruling over the three girls. Even Tina, who felt a bit jealous, was encouraged. If Jo Jo’s family could afford a Camaro, certainly her family could too.

“Should we go back to the hideout? Or should we go swimming?” Erin asked.

“I’m kinda thinking that those diamonds are lucky. Maybe we should go back to the hideout.” Tina decided that it was her turn to dig up some luck.

Erin nodded and lifted her cup of Tang and 7-Up. “A toast – to the diamonds in the woods.”

The three girls raised their drinks to each other, gulped ferociously, and slammed their plastic cups on the table. “To the woods.”

And with a fire kindling in their eyes, they set off to the woods to find more diamonds. But when Jo came to the street that led to her house, she stopped.

“Jo Jo? What’s wrong?” Erin turned her bike around when she realized Jo wasn’t behind her. Tina was still pumping her bike, racing her friends to the woods.

“I’m gonna head home,” Jo looked up the street to her house. “I better finish my chores before Mom gets home.”

Erin sighed in disappointment. She sensed the joy leaving her friend.

“Do you want us to help you, so you can get your chores done real fast?” Erin asked while she noticed Tina still driving to the woods.

“No. If I get done, I’ll come out and find you. Thanks anyway.”

Erin watched Jo peddle to her home. Then she turned to catch up with Tina. There was much more for the girls to discover in the woods.

And they would discover much more.

The Woods -- First Draft

2009-05-16T10:59:00.000-07:00

All was quiet, except the steady hum of the fan blowing the cool morning air through the window. Somehow, Erin’s bedspread had made its way back over her body in the night. Before she had drifted to sleep, the heat had made the sheet barely tolerable. But a sheet couldn’t be sacrificed, in case ghosts decided to feed off her bare skin. A silly thought in the morning. It was never silly before bedtime.

Saturday. Erin loved Saturdays best, even during summer break. Dad would be disassembling some motorcycle part in the garage. Mom would be stripping all the beds and making the house smell like spring, even with a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Erin would have no responsibility toward her younger brother today.
She snuck down the creaky stairwell, hoping to be the first one awake. But the smell of coffee and smoke hit her in the dining room. Her parents were already drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Good morning, Sweetie. Did you sleep well?” Her mother asked, as she did every day.

“It was so hot last night. Can’t we please get an air conditioner for the upstairs? Please? Jo Jo’s family just got one.”

The comment was ignored and gas prices continued to be discussed. Erin sat at the table and poured cereal and milk in the bowl that had been laid out for her. She ate three bites before bouncing out of her chair to answer the ringing phone.

“Hello? Yeah! Did you call Tina yet? Five minutes.”

Erin ran back upstairs to dress in her Lucky Charms cereal box t-shirt and pink shorts. She brushed her teeth without flossing and ran to the door to put on her tennis shoes without socks.

“See ya, Mom. See ya Dad. Tina, Jo Jo and I will be at the railroad tracks. Don’t tell Benny, please.” Erin’s little brother had a way of showing up wherever she was.

“Be careful, Slick,” Erin’s Dad looked up before the screen door slammed shut.

Erin peddled her bike through the quiet town. Already the humidity was beginning to threaten her refreshed soul. As usual, she was the first one at their special hideout. Twenty yards past the railroad track marked the entrance of a wooded area on the edge of town. A large tree stump served as a table, and often the chairs as well.

As Erin waited for her two best friends, she listened to the insects and hoped she wouldn’t see any snakes. Unlike Tina, she monitored the ground closely for any slithering motion. Tina refused to look at the ground. Joanne didn’t search out, nor did she avoid seeing snakes. She didn’t like them, but they didn’t scare her either.

Something glittered on the dry, native grass near her feet. Erin reached down to pick up a thick piece of green glass from a soda bottle. Setting the glass on the tree stump, she bent down to look for more. Eventually, there were ten pieces of glass on the stump, ranging in sizes no bigger than two inches. Most were green, but a few pieces were brown or translucent.

Eventually Jo Jo and Tina joined her. All three girls wore their Lucky Charms cereal box t-shirts. Tina wore purple shorts that she insisted were pink. Joanne stuck to code with her pink shorts.

“What in the world?” asked Tina while studying the broken pieces of glass.

“Treasures,” answered Erin nonchalantly as she kept searching.

Joanne studied the pieces. “Looks like pop glass to me.”

“Now it does,” answered Erin.

Joanne began searching the ground with Erin.

“What are we doing today? Riding bikes?” Tina asked hopefully. She always wanted to ride bikes.

“Too hot!” Joanne answered.

“Then what?”

Joanne and Erin kept searching the ground, waiting for Tina to answer herself.

“We could…build a Barbie city? No, that’s getting boring. Play ball with the boys? No, Jimmie’s too mean. Have you finished writing your movie, Erin?”

“No. Besides, we need to convince the boys to be in it.” Erin was writing a play with the intention of having the town kids perform for their parents.

“How about… swimming?”

“After lunch,” Joanne answered decisively. “We’re busy now.”

Tina sighed. She was going to be forced to look at the ground. “Okay, but if I see a snake I’m going home.” Tina always threatened to go home. Joanne never wanted to go home.

“Perfect! I wondered where we were going to hide them.” Erin pulled a rusty tuna can out of the ground, then placed the can next to the bounty. “I think we have enough. Be right back.” Erin walked toward the railroad tracks and picked up three large pieces of river rock. Holding the rocks in her t-shirt, she ran back to camp. After giving each of her friends a rock, she began to crush the glass on the stump. Tina and Joanne looked at each other and smiled, then joined Erin in the task. Once the glass was reduced to small, but not inscrutable, sparkling jewels, they were placed in the tuna can.

“Jo Jo? What are you going to do with your riches?” asked Erin first. Erin always wished Jo Jo would talk more.

Joanna shrugged. Tina responded immediately.

“I know! I’m getting a really cool car. A red convertible. Then I’ll buy Mom and Dad a nice car. Something better than our green bomb.”

The girls laughed, since they had all been passengers in the loud, muffler-less Chevy Impala many times. None of the families had new cars, but the green bomb was the ugliest of them all.

“I’m going to buy shoes; high-heeled shoes of every color to match my sequined dresses. We should have fancy parties, don’t you think? But no one could smoke or drink! We’d only serve Tang with 7-Up.” Erin imagined a party like those she watched on The Young and the Restless – something much different than their parents’ parties of barbecue and beer.

Joanne smiled and kept crushing. Then she shrieked, dropped her rock and began to suck on her finger.

“Jo Jo! You cut yourself!”

Joanne closed her eyes tight, as she always did when she anticipated pain. The other two girls stopped working to pry out their friend’s injured finger. Tina delicately held the finger that continued to seep blood.

“It’s not bad.” Joanne felt embarrassed of the tiny cut.

“We should go back and get a band-aid,” directed Tina.

“No,” Joanne responded emphatically. “I’ll get in trouble.”

“We all will,” Erin added. But they all knew that Joanne would get in the worst trouble if her Dad found out.

Joanne wrapped her finger around her t-shirt and looked at her friends. “You know what I think we should do with our treasure? Forget the dresses and cars. Let’s see the world! Erin, Tina and Jo Jo will snorkel off the Yucatan Peninsula, shop on 5th Avenue in New York City, ski in Steamboat, climb the Eiffel Tower, see the Parthenon in Greece, go on a safari in Africa…”

Tina and Erin had often heard Joanne talk about places they knew nothing about. Her mother had been a flight attendant before moving back home to marry her high school sweetheart.

Erin interrupted Joanne. “Hey! Let’s have lunch at Jo Jo’s! Your mom can tell us about places we should visit!”

Joanne became serious. “Can’t. Mom’s working today.”

Thoughts of the world were quickly replaced once the girls realized their stomachs were grumbling. The sun had crept into their shaded meeting spot and the shouting of boys playing on the baseball field could easily be heard throughout the small town.

Neither Erin or Tina felt like going back to their own houses for lunch. So after a few minutes of waiting for a solution to appear, Joanne suggested, “We could go to Granny’s.”

“Tang with 7-Up.” Tina added.

“Let’s go,” directed Erin. “Ride your bikes fast by the ball field. Maybe the boys won’t throw rocks at us.”

“Wait. What about the diamonds?” asked Joanna.

“I know.” Tina found a soft spot in the earth and started digging a hole with her rock. Once the hole was big enough, Joanna placed the tuna can in the hole. Erin covered the treasure with the loose dirt. The three friends smiled at their accomplishment, then jumped on their bicycles to race toward Jo Jo’s grandmother’s house. They easily made it past the ball field as the boys were in the middle of a play.

As they sped through the pebbly main street of town, a muffled sound of a thunderous engine settled in the air. The girls made a sharp turn at the t-section to hear the revving of the engine getting louder.

“Car!” Erin yelled to her friends who performed the drill of slowing down before scattering to the soft edge of the road. Generally, all kids came to a complete stop to watch a car drive through town. Today was no exception.

Initially the girls were blinded by a deceiving silver flash, created by the sun’s reflection. Then a bright yellow sports car broke through the aura.

“Wow! Look at that car,” Tina exclaimed. “It’s gotta be a Camaro.”

Trucks, station wagons and sedans were common place in the town that housed blue-collar families working as machinists, secretaries or waitresses. Sports cars were rare.

The girls watched the car draw closer and eventually come to a stop.

“Dad?” Joanne squinted her eyes in disbelief as the driver rolled down his window. “Who’s car is that?”

The girls hopped off their bikes to take a closer look.

“I was right! It is a Camaro. Is it brand new?” Tina felt the smooth paint job.

Joanne’s father attempted to hold back a smile. “Oh, no. It’s two years old. 1978. Think your mom will like it, Jo Jo?”

“Dad? Are you kidding? Are we getting it?”

All three girls stood back with eyes wide open.

“No, Honey. We got it. I bought it today.”

Joanne looked at her friends in wonder. Erin smiled incredulously. Tina’s smirk reflected her apparent jealousy. Joanne ducked her head in the window to get a closer view of the interior.

“Can we have a ride, Dad?”

“Not now, Hon. Later. I’ll take you, Tina and Erin out for a spin.”

The three girls watched the rumbling Camaro drive away.

“I wonder how you and your brothers are all gonna fit in that.” Tina noted.

“I think it’s very cool,” Erin told her friend.

“I hope Mom likes it,” Joanne said with trepidation. “Wonder what Grandma will think.”

The girls made their way to Granny Annie’s, who obviously predicted guests for lunch with lunch meat, bread and potato chips already set out. As the girls sat down to devour their sandwiches, Granny Annie mixed the Tang and 7-Up.

“Guess what, Granny?” Joanne talked with her mouth full. “Dad just came home with a brand-new, well not quite brand-new, Camaro!”

Granny stopped pouring the 7-Up and looked out the window.

“Test-driving? Just dreamin, I suppose. Your Dad’s a dreamer.”

“No. He bought it. He told us.”

The girls kept talking and laughing, not noticing the subtle change in Granny’s attitude. Granny set the drinks on the table, kissed Joanne on the head and said, “There’s ice cream in the freezer. Help yourselves when you’re done. I’m going out to the garage to talk to Grandpa, okay?”

“Bye, Granny. Thanks for lunch.”

Granny Annie left in a hurry to tell her husband about their financially-strapped son’s recent purchase. Despite the anxiety felt by Granny, excitement was the only emotion ruling over the three girls. Even Tina, who felt a bit jealous, was encouraged. If Jo Jo’s family could afford a Camaro, certainly her family could too.

“Should we go back to the hideout? Or should we go swimming?” Erin asked.

“I’m kinda thinking that those diamonds are lucky. Maybe we should go back to the hideout.” Tina decided that swimming now seemed boring.

Joanne nodded and lifted her cup of Tang and 7-Up. “A toast – to the diamonds in the woods.”

“The magical diamonds in the woods,” Erin corrected.

“No, the magical, mystical, friendship diamonds in the woods.” Tina finalized the toast.

The three girls raised their drinks to each other, took big gulps, and slammed their plastic cups on the table. Now they had orange mustaches to match their Lucky Charms cereal box t-shirts.

And they each had the twinkle of hope in their bright, young eyes.

Fiction Assn #5

2009-05-10T18:43:00.000-07:00

In this assignment, we had to write a series of three scenes, with a focus on plot and the beginning and ending of a scene...so a little more preview to my next novel...

Red sucks, she thought.

Li stood outside one of Soho’s nascent, and highly acclaimed, art galleries. Inside the window sat various sizes of canvases, all splattered with the same hue of red. Tired of being disappointed with another rising artist, she dismissed the idea of entering the shop and turned away.

“Excuse me, Miss? Would you care to see a private viewing of the artist’s works?” An English accent projected from the entrance. “I’m not closing right yet. Especially for such a pretty lass.”

Li turned to face the unshaven and messy-maned greeter. The black t-shirt and raggedy jeans confirmed, in her mind, she was facing the artist. Initially tempted to toss a polite smile and walk away, she remained frozen when she caught sight of his troubled, ocean-blue eyes.

But she kept her composure and with a sigh, confessed, “I wasn’t sure if this was an art gallery or a Gap outlet promoting their Red collection.”

“Ah,” he responded with a slight chuckle. “Apparently, your shoes have gotten the best of you on this early evening! I imagine those platforms can only take the concrete sidewalks for so long. Even if they are...what brand, I dare say? Jimmy Choo?”

Now she really wanted to walk away, but how could she let him have the last word? Her mind scrambled for a comeback, but nothing witty presented itself. Perhaps it was the dull headache from too much wine last night. Or perhaps her feet really did hurt too much.

“Sir?” A matronly pair of ladies stepped in front of Li. “Are you the artist? We’d sure like to see your work if you’re not closing!”

He flashed a smile at Li, then took each lady’s arm. “I’d be honored to reveal my artistry to you and your lovely friend.”

Li watched him escort the ladies inside and paused only a moment to reconsider her initial impression of the art. When had she become such an art snob? What happened to that wide-eyed art history graduate who would have given the artist a fair chance to prove his brilliance? Now, her opinion was based on a ten-second review of a window display.

After a few pedestrians bumped into her, Li went away in search of a coffee shop.

***

Ackley Dunstan excused himself momentarily before beginning his private tour for Gladys and Beverly. He poked his head out the door to see the silhouette of the tall, Asian lady wearing a floral summer dress headed toward Sixth Avenue. He’d hope to find her later.

Despite his quicker-than-normal art showing, the tour proved to be fruitful. Gladys and Beverly, smitten by the polite and handsome Englishman, each made a purchase for $3,000 a piece. Ackley was relieved to divest of some of his earlier works.

After wishing his new fans well, and accepting a raincheck for dinner, Ackley locked the doors and immediately got to work on his next project. Dashing to his art supplies, he carefully selected a sharpened charcoal pencil and a fresh Wilko sketch pad. Then he sat down on the floor to draw.

Within minutes, he tore out the sheet and exited his gallery, ready to begin the second part of his project. Intuition made him feel optimistic about his chance for success.

With drawing in hand, the artist headed toward 6th Avenue, in search of a coffee shop. He predicted she would choose “Twilight Java,” his personal favorite. But when he found himself in front of a Starbucks, he was compelled to take a quick glance. Just in case.

He took a step inside, still amazed to see the line up of people in the ubiquitous franchise. Just as he began to feel relieved about not finding her in the coffee shop, he saw her, standing near the back exit. The excitement of seeing her completely erased the relief of not seeing her.

Afraid somehow she might escape, he barreled toward her as she wiped her fingers with a napkin.

“Hello again,” he addressed her back, admiring her long, black hair. “I’m wondering if you might assist me in an experiment?”

She casually glanced behind her, “Are you talking to me?” Once recognizing the face, she added, “Oh, you are talking to me, aren’t you?”

He extended his hand, keeping his gaze intently on her face, “Ackley Dunstan. And you are?”

She quickly wiped her right hand on her dress, in hopes of eliminating all frosting, before extending it.

“Li Vo. How can I help you?” She focused on the man’s eyebrows, in an attempt to avoid direct eye contact.

Ackley brushed his forehead. “I’m sorry. Do I have something on my head?”

Li laughed and looked away. “No.”

“That’s a relief. When I’m trying so hard to impress.” Ackley motioned to an open table. “Will you do me the honor? Can I buy you another cup of coffee? A pastry?”

“No, thank you. I imagine I’ll be up all night, as it is.” Li’s eyes popped as she spoke, seeming to regret her choice of words.

Ackley understood the innuendo and did her the favor of ignoring it. “A dose of Tylenol PM does wonders in offsetting caffeine.”

Ackley gestured for Li to lead the way. As she gracefully floated to the designated table, he breathed in her essence. A lovely essence, he thought.

Once they sat down, Ackley fiercely studied Li’s face. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Li asked, “Is there something wrong?”

“Incredible. I wasn’t even close.” Ackley muttered. “Quite an embarrassment, really.”

“I’m sorry,” Li interjected, “I’m not following you.”

He laid out his sketching of a face resembling Li. She picked up the drawing, raised her eyebrows, then faced Ackley.

“Is this supposed to be me? Or is this someone you know who happens to look like me?

Ackley took the drawing and laid it on the table between them. “Well, if I were to draw sunglasses on this woman, she’d be a fairly good impression. But I’m not Superman, and have no ability to see through dark sunglasses, worn by a particularly stunning woman outside my gallery. Especially in the evening when the need for sunglasses had long passed.” He studied her eyes again, with less ferocity. “Actually, there’s no way I could capture your eyes. The most talented artist in the world couldn’t capture your eyes.”

She looked away, pulling her hair back, as if in a ponytail. When she glanced up again, she let herself smile at the charming man.

“Your eyes seem too large to come from China. Is that your lineage?”

“No. Vietnamese. My parents are from Saigon.”

“Of course. ‘Vo.’ I once knew a Vietnamese couple with the same last name. I’m sorry not to catch that.”

She smiled at the apology. Most people she met grouped all Asians together. It hadn’t really bothered her, since she grew up in the Midwest and couldn’t tell a German from a Dane.

“I owe you an apology as well,” she shifted the conversation into a confession. “I didn’t give your artwork much of a chance.”

“Are you a critic?” Ackley asked with great interest. “Honestly, it didn’t occur to me that you’d be a critic. Seriously, I’m not trying to bribe you for a great review.”

Li nodded. “No, no.” Li smiled again. Certainly her attitude fit the part of a critic. “Actually, I’m only in New York for a short while...oh, hold on.” Li’s Blackberry beeped. While she typically didn’t respond to anyone while she traveled, she always checked her caller ID to ensure there was no emergency.

“Oh, no. Oh my God.” She furrowed her brow as she read the text message.

“Li? Are you okay?” Ackley gently touched her arm.

She looked up in a daze. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dunstan.” Li stood up and picked up her bag. “But I need to go home. Someone I know passed away. Yesterday, actually.”

Ackley stood up and put his arm around Lis’ shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Are you sure you’re okay? Can I take you somewhere? On my scooter?”

Li gradually became aware that Ackley was holding her. “No. But thank you. You’re very kind to offer. I need to catch a flight back to Omaha, right away. I’m sorry. Perhaps on my next visit I’ll tour your gallery?”

“I hope you do. Are you certain you’re okay?”

“I’m okay. I mean, it’s not a family member or anything. Just someone I knew from being on a committee together. He was a kind, older gentleman.”

Ackley nodded before facing Li and extending his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you. If only for a few minutes.”

“A pleasure to meet you as well. I’m sorry for the brevity.” Li nodded and briskly approached the exit.

“Li?” Ackley shouted out.

She turned to address her new acquaintance.

“One quick survey question, if you please.” He scratched his head, waiting for her nod to proceed. “Guggenheim or the Metropolitan?”

“What do you think?” she asked, anxious to hear his guess.

“The Met. You’re a Met girl.”

She smiled, waved and walked out the door.

***

“I no understand. You make trip back for dis guy funeral?” Han shook her head as she opened a bag of green tea leaves.

“Mom, I told you already. We served on the zoo’s board of directors together.” Li handed the infuser to her mother, who immediately put the utensil aside.

“You not know how make good tea.”

Li shrugged and sat down, still dressed in the suit she wore to the funeral. “Paul was a pillar of this community. I had a great amount of respect for him. Everyone did.”

“So whaat? You act like you date him or something?” Han looked at her daughter, waiting a response. “You date him? Or something?”

“Mom! No! He was, like, old!” Li threw her arms in the air. “Every time I mention a man’s name, in any context whatsoever, why do you always assume I’m screwing him?”

“Shhh!” Han replaced the top of the tea kettle to begin her own method of steeping. “No raise your voice so loud. I got neighbors, you know.” She shuffled to the table, setting out two ceramic tea cups. Noticing her daughter’s angry expression, she sat down to face her.

“Here’s an idea, Mom. Why don’t I call you every time I screw someone. Then you won’t have to ask.” Li crossed her arms and peered at the dainty woman sitting across from her. Li knew her mother’s delicate appearance was deceiving.

Under her breath Tran replied, “You no need be snippy. I just worry.”

Now Li felt bad. “I know. It’s just that I happen to have a lot of friends who are men. But that’s all they are - friends. We’re not in Vietnam, Mom.” Li placed her hands over her mother’s, and was immediately embarrassed by her own, expensive French manicure. Han’s wrinkled hands and nails reflected years of hard work in restaurants and nursing homes.

“Men and women never be friends. No matter Saigon or Omaha.” Han stood up to check on her tea. “I no trust none your man friends! ‘Cept Jason. I like Jason. He gay right?”

Li could no longer see the point of continuing the conversation. The discussion about men would ultimately lead to questions about her own father, which her mother would answer diligently, and inconsistently. Sometimes Li’s father was an ace pilot for the Vietnamese Air Force. Sometimes he designed airfields.

As Li considered conversation options, her Blackberry beeped.

“Ack! Dat your phone again?” Han resented Li’s attachment to the device. “How can curator be too important? No one dying, right?”

Li checked the “urgent” message from her assistant as her mother opined.

“CALL ACKLEY D TO ARRANGE VISIT TO OMAHA. CELL # ATTACHED.”

The artist had found her, with nothing but a name and a city. She should have been concerned, but she wasn’t.

Fiction Assn #4

2009-05-05T18:46:00.000-07:00

This week we focused on voice. Today I introduce you to Li's mother.

I wait for my daughter. It be our last conversation. I so sad, and grow more weary waiting. Morphine drip into my blood. I watch ugly, cruel clock on wall. She be here soon though. I try be patient.   

Footsteps coming, like fancy shoes she wears. I try not weep now.
  “Mom!” She runs to me, kissing my head. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner. My flight back from New York City was completely hellish. I missed a connecting flight. Then it took forever to... Oh, it doesn’t matter. Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? How long have you had this pain?”

  “Wasn’t so bad,” I lie. She be mad if she knew. “Doctor take it out anyway. I good now.”

  Her face no believe.  

“Mom, I spoke with the surgeon.” My daughter comb through my hair while she speak, like my mother comb when I a child. “It had to be painful in your tiny belly. The tumor was bigger than a grapefruit.”   

She sigh hard and stop combing. I see tear fall down her pretty face.  “The cancer has spread to the lymph nodes, Mom.”

  I be strong now and sit up. My belly split, but I ignore.

  “Li,” I touch her face. “You everything to me, you know? I love you more than I supposed to love you. But I tell you truth now. Truth about your family. About your father.”

  “My father? The truth?” Li ask me.   Her eyes confused. I hold her hands and try take deep breath.

“You know picture I give you? Of your father?”

  “Of course,” Li nods and smiles at me. “I keep it on my desk. It’s the only thing I have of him.”

  “Li,” I squeeze her hands, “he not your father.”   She pull her hands away and stand up. I know she be upset.   

“Not my father?” She throw her hands up. “So, the Vietnamese militant is just some stranger, sitting in my hand-carved mahogany frame?”

  “He no stranger! He your uncle, my brother. You not waste good picture frame.” I explain, but she not care.

  “But what about my father? Please tell me he really was in in the Vietnamese Air Force, and all those stories you told me are real?”

  “Li, Peanut. Sit down by me.” I soothe her, though fire burn in my belly. She sit and I take her hands again. “That better.” I hear clock tick. Time run out soon. “You come from wealthy family in Saigon.”

  “Wealthy? Rice farmers?”   This make me laugh, but pain stop my laugh.

“No rice farmers. My father, very rich exporter. Ancestors make friends with French people long time ago.” I lay back. “Baba love me. Though I only a girl. Oh, how he spoil me!” I close my eyes and see Baba’s treasures. I now in my beautiful bedroom is Saigon. “He make Mother so crazy.”   

“Mom?” Li squeeze my shoulder.

  I open my eyes. I must finish. Soon.  

Fiction Assn Part 3

2009-04-27T19:22:00.000-07:00

In this assignment we had portray a character using narrative, dialogue and action methods. So, here's a little more about Li.

Narrative:

She had four projects looming, three with deadlines in the next two weeks. And she was out of steam. Other graphic designers took walks to overcome blocs. The only thing that ever worked for Li was a tangible escape.

Her favorite solitary rendezvous was Soho, but the NYC district was becoming crowded with acquaintances. One acquaintance, in particular, was absolutely necessary to avoid.

Since she lived her life by the religion of signs, she interpreted the Wall Street Journal article on the Asian art exhibit as a personal calling and found herself flying to San Francisco.

Silversun Pickups played on her Ipod as she easily avoided conversation with other passengers. The refrain reverberated. A chord changed, and there he was. His image consumed her, making her heart stir and stomach flip.

“No more,” she thought, defying her desire to wallow in her misery. She switched to her Classical playlist. But as the first few notes of Debussy’s Reverie began, she wondered if all music was a self-defeating exercise.

She rested her head back and ran her fingers through her hair, still not used to the shorter length. For years, he urged her to try a new cut. She resisted, calling upon her mother’s wish to keep it long. But the very day she pledged never to see him again, she entered a salon and requested her locks to be shortened with layers. Never had she received so many compliments. Now, everyone focused on the perfect features of her face.

Dialogue:

She had been staring for twenty minutes at an image of a goddess, the Green Tara, when the hushed chatter in the museum drowned out a Chakra melody playing in her head.

She turned to study the next piece of art, only to find him staring at her with that tenacious smile. She lost her breath, only for a moment, before posturing herself. She was thankful for defying her Vietnamese height genes, allowing her to look him squarely in the eye.

“Why are you here?” she asked, hoping to convey her contempt.

“Li! What do you think I’m doing here? The minute I read about this exhibit in the Wall Street Journal, I took the first flight out of New York.”

Her purse fell off her bare shoulder, diminishing her taut stance.

“My muse looks delicious as ever,” he continued in his alluring English accent. “Love the hair. Very bon ton. Your eyes. They seem darker.”

She folded her arms. “I’m not your muse. Not anymore.” She looked away, unable to face him when she added, “You’re despicable.”

She reminded him of a little girl, pouting with her lower lip extended. But she was not a little girl.

“You don’t mean that,” he walked to her, ensuring to invade her personal space, then gently kissed her smooth shoulder. He smiled when she shivered.

“Please, just go away,” she begged in defeat.

“You don’t mean that either, Love.”

She tried not to become hypnotized by his scent.

Action:

Li stepped out of the art museum, hoping he would not be outside waiting for her. When she didn’t see him, only slight disappointment fell upon her. Instead of catching a taxi, she decided to walk back to the hotel.

Her journey to Market Street began with eyes pointed down, her gait slow and aimless. Desperately needing to clear her clouded mind, she whispered the Green Tara’s mantra. By the time she reached the commotion on Market Street, she was lucid.

“I walked away from him.” She stopped to absorb the energies surrounding her. Suddenly, with focused determination, she pushed through the crowded street and trotted nearly a mile to her hotel.

She stormed into her room, kicking her shoes in the air and tossing her purse on the bed. The view from her window briefly captured her attention.

“I walked away from him.” She smiled.

Then she powered up her Mac, ready to tackle the projects that no longer puzzled her. Within an hour, she finished two particularly challenging designs.

Her stomach growled. When was the last time she ate? On her way out the door to catch a bite, her Blackberry vibrated. She didn’t care who it was, even if it was him. But it wasn’t a call. Anne Jenkins, her new client, sent her an email with information that might help Li with a logo design. For some reason, the message made her laugh.

On a whim, Li decided to call her new client back.

Anne and Li -- Fiction Assignment 2

2009-04-21T19:55:00.001-07:00

In our 2nd assignment, we had to create character descriptions of two main characters in 250 words. So, here is a little more to read about Anne and Li, as you met in my first assignment.

Anne Jenkins intended to prove her worthiness as the bank’s new marketing director. Marketing was certainly beneath her intellectual ability, but it was her only job offer, compliments of mother’s political pull.

If her father had been alive, he would have called her with a word of encouragement today. Instead, she attempted to calm her nerves by playing her favorite Bach Partita on the piano for an exclusive audience. Her cat, Holly, had been the only one to hear Anne play in years.

She focused on her posture as she entered the bank, then nodded politely, without expression, to loan officers and tellers already diligently performing their duties.

“Could they possibly be comparing me to Audrey Hepburn?” Anne joked with herself. She had taken the time to swoop her hair up, accentuating her long neck and angular jawline. The classic black dress with the bolero jacket made her feel somewhat like the Hollywood starlet, fueling desperately-needed confidence.

In actuality, no one compared her to any movie star. They noticed a mute, towering frame. For a second or two, at most.

“Good morning?” Anne knocked lightly on her manager’s open door. Throughout the interview process, she distinctly felt unwelcome, even despised. She hoped today would be different.

Anne’s fists remained clenched as Mrs. Ashe lifted her gaze from the Wall Street Journal.

“My, oh, my. Don’t we look sophisticated today,” Mrs. Ashe stated cooly as she folded her newspaper.

Anne’s color drained from her face. So much for hope.

==============================

Li Vo watered the plethora of plants on her miniscule deck. Navigating through the container garden in her Christian Louboutin pumps was always challenging, but she managed not to trip.

Then it was time for her to leave. The Asian Art Museum of San Francisco was having a fascinating dragon exhibit from the obscure country of Bhutan. She’d call her mother on the way to the airport.

“Only a week, Mom. ”

“I don’t understand though. You no longer curator. You graphics designer. Why all these trips?” Her mother worried.

These trips were non-negotiable. No matter what, or who, was going on in her life, she’d slip out of the city she loved, but could no longer tolerate. Her mother would be the only one receiving the courtesy of a goodbye. Li’s many friends loved her, but they found her abrupt departures frustrating. There would be no emails or texts for at least a few weeks from her now.

“Lie?” The ticket checker verified Li’s ticket and driver’s license.

“It’s pronounced ‘Lee,’” Li responded with her crooked smile. Li Vo informally dropped the "e" in her Vietnamese name, but hadn’t taken the legal steps to have it removed.

He studied the Asian woman, noticeably longer than the other passengers. Surely, she was too beautiful to be kind-spirited as well. Perhaps he would try to engage her on the flight.

Li recognized the checker’s reaction. She looked down while taking back her documents.

“Thank you,” she murmured before proceeding.

Preview to Rubigunda Podcast

2009-04-19T18:39:00.000-07:00

Take a sneak peek at my novel Rubigunda by listening to this podcast! I've discovered a new website -- www.podbean.com. For any of you interesting in podcasts, take a listen.

Lunch

2009-04-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

I thought it might be fun to post a few of my assignments from FIction Workshop Class. Here's the first one -- a 500 word scene description. It's actually the start of a new story I will eventually create.

Anne tried to study the menu, but her eyes kept wandering to the large window of the trendy eatery’s facade. The sound of the steady rain, along with the hush of the sparsely-populated restaurant, soothed her nerves. It wasn’t like the banker to be so bold and accept a lunch invitation from a graphics designer.

Casually, she glanced at her watch as the place began to fill with professionals. 11:18.

“Miss? Are you ready to order?”

The aroma of the spicy Thai cuisine intensified at that very moment. Her stomach flipped.

“Not yet. I’m waiting for someone.”

Anne sighed in anticipation as more patrons entered the swanky cafe. Chatter began to muffle the sound of the rain as Anne felt her anxiety brew.

Soon an Asian woman dashed by the window. The lime trench coat and polka-dot portfolio inescapably identified the graphics designer. She entered the restaurant, bustling through the crowd waiting to be seated. Amiably, she spoke to the hostess who hurriedly pointed to Anne’s table. Anne stood, reminded herself to smile, and offered a handshake to her lunch date.

“Li?”

“Anne! So nice to meet you in person!” Li’s hands enclosed Anne’s stiffly extended fingers. Strangely, the exuberant welcome seemed to diminish Anne’s apprehension.

The waitress reappeared with a pitcher of water. “I’ll be back in a minute to take your orders.”

As Li slid out of her coat, Anne gasped, covering her mouth. Li abruptly looked to determine the source of the gasp. Both ladies adorned the same navy wrap dress, purchased from a Gap store. Only their accessories differed; Li wore a bright silk scarf, Anne wore a necklace with a pendant.

“I see you have good taste,” remarked Li with a smile.

Li powered up her Mac laptop and began her quest to impress Anne with award-winning logos and web designs.

“Did you hear that?” Li’s hand flew to her mid-section. “How embarrassing. My stomach is growling at me.” Her eyes floated toward a waiter carrying a Thai chicken lahvosh appetizer.

“Do you smell the cilantro?” Anne asked while admiring the logo on the computer. She glanced at the food. “That particular dish looks divine, but is probably too much for one person to eat.”

The waitress reappeared, pen and pad in hand. The commotion in the restaurant seemed to fade as the ladies focused on their new order of business – what to eat.

“Can I interest you in something to drink, other than water?” asked the waitress as she caught her breath.

Li addressed her potential client, “I rarely do this, but would you like a glass of wine? To go with our lahvosh?”

As Anne considered the offer, the sudden crash of dinner plates rang throughout the restaurant. Conversations paused for a few seconds, allowing Anne to direct her thoughts properly.

“I better not,” blushed the banker, not wanting to seem prudish to her chic date.

Part of my Playlist

2009-04-10T16:02:00.000-07:00

Don't you love it when you find someone who shares the same taste in music as you? I’m sorry if this seems like a sorry excuse for a blog posting, but it occurred to me today, as I was exercising at 5:15 in the morning to my newly revised playlist, how I love seeing other people's playlists! So, I thought I’d share a few of my favorites.

I must admit that my playlist is currently WAY TOO LONG, with 43 songs. (I know...I should create more than one big, long, honking playlist.)Doug’s playlist is much more manageable at 20+. He deletes songs when he’s tired of them. For some reason, I feel like I’m offending the artist by deleting them. As if they even know. Enough babble, now for the highlight of this posting…Here are the first few songs on "Stef's List", which BTW are great work-out songs.

What I’ve Done…Linkin Park
Holiday…Green Day
I Don’t Care…Fallout Boy
Lazy Eye…Silversun Pickups
Psycho…Puddle of Mud
Yes…Coldplay
She…Green Day
Someone Who You’re With…Nickelback
Bad Girlfriend…Theory of a Deadman

That's the first few. For the last two months, I’ve explicitly listened to either the entire Twilight soundtrack or Coldplay’s Viva La Vida. The Twilight soundtrack really kicks! And of course it reminds me of my favorite vampire.

There you go. In our house, it’s somewhat of a contest who has the better playlist, as if it’s not subjective. What’s on your playlists? Which artists get you going?

Wonder

2009-04-02T17:37:00.001-07:00

Does anyone remember the song, Wonder by Natalie Merchant? It came out either in 96 or 97? After Alex was born in June of 1997, the song became our theme as I cried and rocked the baby to sleep while Natalie sang how her baby was one of the wonders of the world. Eventually my raging pregnancy hormones eked back down to normal levels (arguably, anyway) and I could listen to the song without a tear dripping.

Anyway, I just had a wondrous day with my mother at the ICAN Women’s Conference in Omaha. Rubi J Organic Clothing made their first appearance and drew a wonderful crowd to our booth! We met many enthusiastic mothers, grandmothers, and aunties…one particular mother left on impression on me that I won’t soon forget. She asked if we had any onesies in the size of 2 or 3 T. Unfortunately, the largest onesie size we carry is 12-18 months. Then she explained why she wanted that size.

She wanted to hide a contraption that her son had to wear on his hip. “Dane,” has a rare brain disease. His brain has not grown larger than that of a two-year old. He doesn’t have the ability to hold his head up, nor does will he be able to walk or use his hands functionally. This beaming mother told us that her son wasn’t expected to live past six months after he was born. Miraculously, he is now over three years old. Dane’s mother only spoke of the blessing he has brought her and her husband.

So I devote this posting only to express the blessing I feel for my children tonight. No complaints on their behavior. No gimmicky topic. I just want the world to know that Doug and I love Alex and Cole more than anything in the world. The are truly the wonders in our lives.

Time to Celebrate!

2009-03-22T12:25:00.000-07:00

It's spring. Yahoo! And reasons to celebrate just keep multiplying...

1. The Twilight DVD arrived three days before the release date. And Amazon gave me some sort of $5 discount. Yahoo! Doug explains the phenomenon by pointing out the frequency of purchases from my favorite web-retailer.
2. Coldplay decided to surprise me for my 40th birthday by playing at the Qwest in June! Yahoo! Do you suppose Chris Martin will be singing happy birthday to me?
3. My newest book club friends decided to read one of my suggestions – Snowflower and the Secret Fan. Yahoo! I hope they like it and don’t kick me out of the group.
4. Flowers are popping out of the ground. Yahoo! I can’t even kill them yet.
5. It’s Sunday afternoon and I haven’t had a headache since early yesterday morning. Yahoo. Knock, knock, knock on wood.
6. Jim Zimmerman won a customer service award at the Chamber Banquet Friday night. Yahoo! Denise Reinig won last year – the Shelby County State Bank has a pretty good run going.
7. After taking a personality test, it turns out that all four of us Kramers are INTROVERTED! Who'da thought? Yahoo!
8. Mom, aka Rubi J has the most adorable new line of organic cotton T's. Yahoo! Watch for some upcoming deals...
8. Flash, my hamster, I mean Cole's hamster is still alive and seems to be growing into a big, fat guinea pig! Yahoo! He’s so cute. Wait speaking of Flash…

It was brought to my attention that Flash receives more blogging time than my very own father. So, here goes. Dad, you’re the best. You’re funny and look way younger than your 62 (?) years of age. I’m so proud of all the motorcycles you have rebuilt and hope someday I’ll be able to rebuild a 1934 JD Indian Panhead, just like you.

Yahoo!

The Readers!

2009-03-15T12:16:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday I joined the "Lunch and Learn" series at our local library. Every month, one of the librarians leads a discussion on a certain book. After completing my gig with the vampires, I read THE READER by Bernhard Schlink so I could join in. Admittedly I was a little nervous before the session. What if I didn't contribute? What if my observations seemed trite?

My concerns were invalid. It was fun, relaxing and completely enjoyable. Truly, lovers of books are a special breed of people. Whether introverted or extroverted, whether a sci-fi or a romantic, whether a realist or a fantasist, readers can easily connect.

The key, I think? Being open to other perspectives AND a love of learning...about anything. There is something so completely engaging about discussing a book with another. This past week, I've had so many discussions about books with different people, (admittedly much about Edward and Bella) and the affect? Truly uplifting! (Of course, this weather may have something to do with it as well.)

Anyway, for all you readers out there (you know who you are!), think about coming to a "lunch and learn" at the library. It's the second Tuesday of every month. I can't wait to find out our next "assignment" and once again join my interesting group of new friends!

And if you're interested in meeting other readers or finding book suggestions, check out Shelfari .It's my favorite social networking site by far! (Although I have the fewest number of friends here...)

Some Quick Book Recommendations

2009-02-16T16:54:00.001-08:00

I just read two amazing books... Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See and The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterland. Each received five stars on my Shelfari.

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan -- a poetic tale that reminded me of the importance of female friendships. What intrigues me is that this theme is SO universal -- across ethnic groups, time periods, generations and social levels. Read it and be reminded to make time for your female companions. (Warning -- hopefully the lesbian connotations won't offend you.)

The Thirteenth Tale -- a bit eerie and definitely a mystery seeping with literary value. I became completely immersed on the issue of love between twins and sisters. As I've told many of you before, if my 61-year old mother told me she was having a baby, I'd be thrilled! I still remember the very moment, as a child, when mother told she miscarried. It still makes me sad in some ways. (Could I also have a sibling spirit who has been with me my entire life?) Anyway, while the novel was a bit haunting, it was completely fascinating.

Anyway, for you avid readers, these are just two suggestions. I have embarked on the Twilight series and am halfway through the first book. Alex has completed all four and loves them more than Harry Potter! I must admit, the book, so far, is compelling and quite entertaining. Thus, I sign off to continue to newest assignment on vampires.

Diamonds in the Woods

2009-01-28T18:45:00.000-08:00

My Newest Release

2009-01-10T20:03:00.000-08:00

My second novel, Rubigunda, is finally complete! If any of you are interested in the issues of motherhood, most particularly the fear and fascination of raising children, you will enjoy this novel. The theme is explored in a tale of two sisters dealing with various adversities in their life. Jade, in particular, is resentful about having a mentally-handicapped mother while trying to piece her life back together after a near-fatal accident. Ria, on the other hand, continues to reach out to her mother, if only to catch glimpes of the woman she remembers before a tragic incident that changed their lives.

How would your life change if something you believed turned out to be false? How much control do we have over our own fate? Read Rubigunda, then ponder these questions. I hope you enjoy.

A Modern Magi Tale

2008-12-20T07:55:00.001-08:00

“The magi, as you know, were wise men – wonderfully wise men – who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.”

Odelia loved the infamous O. Henry story. As she finished reading the classic tale, a thought overcame her. She wanted to do something special for her newly-wedded husband, Jameson, even though they had both decided their gift to each other this year would be a Mediterranean cruise they had saved for to be taken next autumn. Jameson would be done with his residency in July and Odelia intended to be finished with her final PhD thesis on ‘The Impact of Judaism on Western Religious Traditions’ by then also.

But not giving any gift to her beloved on Christmas, especially since it would be their first as husband and wife, made her feel empty. Perhaps she should purchase him new clothes, or maybe a new IPOD since his was broken. No. Purchasing clothes for Jameson would be more of an indulgence for her than him. And a new IPOD would sit unused while he worked his relentless hours. Maybe a book? No. Despite his passion for reading, he was too often exhausted to even skim through the daily newspaper.

Odelia sipped on her chamomile tea and considered ideas. Then her heart grew full when she remembered something about Thanksgiving. Hadn’t he raved about her grandmother’s pumpkin bread? She’d call Granny for the recipe and bake this afternoon!

“And don’t forget, Dele – they must be white raisins.”

“I won’t forget, Granny. I love you. Merry Christmas!”

A quick trip to the store was needed for white raisins and a can of pumpkin. She quickly bundled herself up and walked three blocks north from their apartment to obtain the magic ingredients. To her surprise, white raisins were plentiful in stock.
As she walked back to her apartment, she began to sweat. Had she overdressed? The temperature on the bank clock indicated only 18 degrees. Perhaps she was too excited about her project. A break from her studies was desperately needed.
Once she arrived back to the apartment, she stripped her clothing and changed into a t-shirt and shorts. Jameson would probably be pleasantly surprised by the change from sweatpants, sweaters and slippers!

Odelia read her grandmother’s instructions carefully, then methodically arranged the ingredients on the counter. After turning on the oven to pre-heat, she smiled. “Won’t you be glad to see something other than a frozen pizza?”
She found two beautiful ceramic bread pans, received as wedding gift, and never once been used. Then she began to create the mixture. At one time in her life, Odelia considered pursuing a career in art. Perhaps she would convert that old interest into perfecting the craft of domesticity.

Careful not to rush the project, she enjoyed each step of adding the various ingredients. But as the temperature in the oven rose, she, once again, began to feel hot. Could she be getting sick? She opened the can of pumpkin. The aroma of the gourd scoured through her being. She could feel her gag reflex engage and quickly ran to the bathroom, only to lose everything she had consumed for the day. But she felt better. After a few deep breaths, she went back to the kitchen to finish her project.

Once again, the quaintness of the bread pans made her feel warm.

The mix was finally complete and the bread was set in the oven to bake. After setting the timer, Odelia decided to lie down for awhile. She curled up on the sofa with her favorite fleece blanket. Being a light sleeper, she wasn’t concerned about sleeping through the timer. However, the light snow falling outside the window hypnotized her. Soon she was dozing.

Then the calmness within the apartment was interrupted by a door slamming shut and the buzzing in Odelia's dreams was realized as a timer going off.

“Odelia?” Jameson was confused by the smell of the oven and the timer buzzing.
She jumped up in confusion. “Jamie! Oh my gosh! I’m baking something for you!” She ran to the kitchen, shut off the timer and quickly retrieved the two bread pans out of the oven as Jameson stood at the door watching.

Odelia furrowed her brow and scratched her head. “That isn’t how they’re supposed to look!” She glanced at the time to see if she had baked the bread too long. “They certainly don’t look burnt.”

Jameson placed his bags on the table and walked to his wife. “Could you have forgotten something?” He picked up the can of pumpkin, still full.

While Jameson smiled at the error, Odelia began to cry.

“Del? It’s okay! It’s just bread.” Jameson put his arms around his young wife.

“It was my Christmas gift to you though! I worked so hard on it.”

Jameson wanted to laugh, but he held back. “Well, it was very sweet of you. Are you okay? Why don’t you have more clothes on?”

Through her blubbering she explained, “I got hot. Then I got sick.”

Jameson’s medical training kicked in. He unraveled his arms and felt Odelia’s forehead. “You don’t seem to be running a temp. When did you get sick?”

“Actually, when I was making the bread. The smell of the pumpkin overwhelmed me. I guess that’s why I forgot to add it.”

Jameson led his wife to the sofa and sat next to her. “Have you felt sick all day?”

“Off and on.”

“Odelia? When’s the last time you had your period?”

Odelia looked up at her husband. “You got a haircut. It looks nice.”

“Thanks. Dr. Douglas thought perhaps I should take a little time to clean up before the holidays.” Jameson took a deep breath. “ Hon? Do you think you could be?”

Odelia stared at her husband. She liked it when Jameson let his hair grow. But she couldn’t deny that shorter hair made his brilliant eyes quite irresistible.

“Oh, Jameson. I don’t know! This autumn semester has been so busy. Could I be?”

The couple ran to the bathroom. Jameson had brought home a few pregnancy tests from the hospital after Odelia had skipped a period one other time. Jameson, being a doctor, was compelled to administer the test.

“I can do this myself, you know.”

“While you are quite brilliant as a theologian, you’ve had no medical training, my dearest Odelia.”

The couple quietly waited for the results to appear. After a couple of minutes, Jameson anxiously picked up the stick. He then looked at Odelia with an unflinching expression. Odelia reviewed the results. She laughed, nervously, before facing Jameson. The couple embraced in the small bathroom.

“Odelia? This may be the happiest moment of my life.”

“Mine too.”

Jameson stepped back and clutched his wife’s arms. “Would you like to open your Christmas gift now?”

“Jamie! You weren’t supposed to…”

“I know. But you’ll love this.”

Odelia followed Jameson into the kitchen as he pulled out a beautifully-wrapped gift from her favorite department store. Carefully she opened the package. A white eyelet string bikini lay in the folds of the decorative tissue. Odelia laughed.

“For the cruise, of course.” Jameson smiled.

“The cruise! Jameson! Wouldn’t I be due around September?”

“Well, I’m estimating August. Either way, I think the Mediterranean will have to wait a bit longer for us.”

Odelia walked over and sat on Jameson’s lap. “And maybe the bikini will go into storage for awhile.”

The happy couple kissed as the late afternoon rays of the sun began to cast shadows in the small apartment. It was their first Christmas, and they both were blessed with the gifts of the Magi.

NYC... It is Altogether...

2008-12-08T18:14:00.000-08:00

"It is altogether an extraordinary growing, swarming, glittering, pushing, chattering, good-natured cosmopolitan place." -Henry James

Well-said Mr. James!

Doug and I took in as much of NYC as we could in two full days. We skimmed through many of the must-sees, but not all of them! We basically tasted it -- someday we'll go back for the full course.

As the New York skyline disappears while our plane flies us away, I am already missing the place. I swear I've been here before -- perhaps in another life? No, how silly of me. All of my favorite movies take place in New York. When you've watched You Got Mail as many times as I have...

But there's something more to this strange sense of homesickness I feel for a city that I would never want to live. It started when we visited Ellis Island. It's the spirit of my ancestors who braved the elements to make a new life here. Talk about courage. And our particular ancestors didn't stop in New York. They went another world away to the Midwest! (Perhaps the people in the burroughs scared them away...Or perhaps the open prairie beckoned them forth.)

So, while the commerce, architecture, history and the arts in New York genuinely intrigued me, I leave the city most inspired by the courage of all the immigrants who created the most eclectic culture in the world...starting in NYC, then permeating the rest of the great nation of ours.

The Cross Necklace

2008-11-02T15:26:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was the anniversary of my father-in-law's death. It's hard to believe that a full year has gone by without Mark physically among us.

Last night, the family joined together to celebrate the Mass dedicated to Mark. Then we convened after dinner for a few drinks and much laughter. Undoubtedly, a wonderful novel could be written about life on the Kramer Farm and perhaps it will be a project someday. But as I listened, I heard some of the untold and perhaps unrecognizable lessons taught by Mark and Mary Ann...

Lesson #1: Hard work builds character. And you're never too young to carry ten- gallon buckets of feed, chase cows in a cornfield or gather beheaded, bloody chickens.

Lesson #2: Helping others is rewarding -- even when you think you're free of chores because of your collegiate status. Pulling a calf isn't all that gross once you realize you've helped to bring new life into the world.

Lesson #3: Laughter is a great way to show love. I've seen my husband hug one of his sisters only once in the 17 years we've been together. (And that's when she won a new car.) But the Kramers know how to share stories and laugh together. And boy their laughter is contagious!

Lesson #4: Nothing is more important than God and family. Despite the lateness of the season, combines were shut off and schedules were re-arranged to attend Mass and spend an evening together.

The last lesson resonates with me because of an incident that happened long ago when Doug and I moved on the home place. I was busy carrying small boxes in the house, while the men were carrying larger furniture. While I noticed a bright gold chain laying on the ground, I chose to ignore it. Then one time, while standing outside contemplating which box to bring in next, Mark saw the chain and picked it up. He cleaned off the dirt and offered it to me. The chain had a gold cross pendant. I've worn it on many occasions since.

But on the day of Mark's funeral last year, I couldn't find it. Looking absolutely everywhere, I had to give up the search and felt horrible about not wearing the gift my father-in-law gave to me.

Then a few months later, on a particularly hectic day as I was cursing my busy life, the cross showed up in my car. It made me stop and remember what's truly important.
Even though he's gone I have no doubt that his spirit lives strongly among and within us.

Thank you, Mark, for the lessons you gave to your children and those they love.

A Conversation

2008-10-20T14:45:00.000-07:00

Please let me escape conversation today.

Martha readjusted her pillow, staring out the small airplane window. Typically, she used every public appearance to promote her business. But it had been a tiresome trip. Making arrangements for her dying mother was physically and emotionally exhausting.

The last time she had gone outside without make-up was when Rich rushed her to the hospital to deliver Anna. That was twenty-one years ago. No cosmetic had touched her face in the past three days. Ironically, her personal motto was to never leave the house without a killer pair of shoes and to always dress like you’re going to meet with the President. The President would have to accept a sweat suit today.

She closed her weary eyes. Her poor mother was all she could see. When did she grow so old? How did time get away so quickly? Two weeks was not enough time for her to say good-bye. Yesterday, Martha purchased a plane ticket to return to Des Moines next week. The store would have to operate without her for awhile. Rich could take care of himself. Rich probably enjoyed the freedom.

Rich. Richard. Richie.

“Shall I come with you,” he asked after Martha received the phone call, informing her of Martha’s mother’s deteriorating condition.

“No. You’re in the middle of a semester. I’m used to traveling alone.”

She saw a tinge of relief in his face. He would have gone if she would have asked. Why should he accompany her now? Just because her mother was sick didn’t mean they were automatically a couple again. The thought of her marriage made her sad, but she refused to do anything about it.

The jostling of a passenger buckling his belt next to her made her jump.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

A lanky, young man in need of a haircut was settling in the seat nearest the aisle. While she detected no accent, he had a dark complexion making him appear of either Hispanic or Indian descent. Suddenly, Martha was very concerned about how she looked. Then she remembered that she was forty-five.

“No. I wasn’t sleeping.”

The young man shot a sweet smile and took a book out of his backpack before stowing his bag under the seat in front of him.

How refreshing, she thought, not to see him wearing ear buds. His book was entitled Cry, the Beloved Country. It sounded familiar to her. Maybe she had read it before.

Finally, the restlessness in the jet subsided with the plane beginning its’ ascent to the sky. Martha was always fascinated how the chaos of the airport and boarding evaporated once they were airborne.

It seemed her wish for solitude had been granted, as her neighbor was completely preoccupied with his book. Now she felt like conversing.

“Are you from Des Moines?” she asked.

Hiding his annoyance from the interruption, he answered politely. “No, I’m actually from Phoenix and studying in Iowa. I’m going home for a long weekend.” He was hoping that answer would suffice.

“Really? What are you studying?”

“20th Century Modern American Literature. I’m a Master’s student at the U of Iowa.”

“Really? Is the 20th century considered modern?” asked Martha with sincerity.

“Modernism is merely the genre defined by American writers of the late 19th and early 20th century.” He hoped she really wasn’t interested in discussing the factors that defined Modernism.

“So is that book your reading considered modern?”

The young man smiled. “Not really. It takes place in South Africa in the 1940’s. You’ve never heard of it?”

Martha furrowed her brow, “I thought it sounded familiar. So, why are you reading it?”

“Merely, for pleasure. It’s one of my favorites.”

Martha nodded, “Oh, I see.”

After a short pause, Martha introduced herself. “I’m Martha, by the way.” She extended her hand. He decided to close his book and surrender himself to the conversation.

“I’m Zach. Nice to meet you Marta.”

She almost corrected him. But in an instant she decided that Marta sounded more exotic than Martha.

“So, are you going back to Phoenix for any special occasion? Or, do you just need a break from the cold?”

Zach smiled. “A break in the cold will be good, but I also happen to be going back for a very special purpose. I’m going to propose to my girlfriend.”

“How exciting! Does she have any clue?”

“She should. But she thinks I’m coming home only to celebrate my parents’ wedding anniversary.” Zach had envisioned how he’d propose at least a hundred times.

Martha identified a look of anxiety, pleasure and love on Zach’s face. Hadn’t her own Rich looked at her the same way a long time ago? Hadn’t he read her a beautiful and mystifying poem upon his proposal to her? Now, he seemed to only look at her in fear or disgust.

“Well, best of luck to both of you.”

“Thank you.” Zach answered. Then, as if he had forgotten his manners he asked, “And how about you? What’s your story? Are you from Des Moines?”

She knew he didn’t care about her story. She barely did herself.

“I used to be. I live in Phoenix now. I came back to Iowa to see my mother. She’s very sick.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Zach was quiet a moment. “So, do you have other family?”

“Oh, yes. My husband Rich and my daughter Anna. She’s a sophomore in college, with an undeclared major. Rich teaches at the college. A philosophy professor.”

“Wow. Philosophy? He’s obviously a bright man.”

“Oh, yes. He’s wickedly bright.” Martha laughed.

“And you? Do you work outside of the home?”

This was normally the time Martha provided a five minute commercial about her boutique – a boutique that had become financially successful beyond her dreams. But the past week had made her question what she gave up for the success.

“I own a small boutique.”

Zach nodded and wished he could think of more questions to ask the lady. Martha sensed Zach’s boredom in the conversation, so decided to excuse herself to the restroom. When she returned, she let Zach continue to indulge in his book while she rested and pondered.

She pondered her mother. How she loved the sweet woman and how she had visited so little in the past few years.

She pondered Anna and felt lonely for a mother-daughter relationship that seemed to be overshadowed by the father-daughter relationship in the house. Rich had done more than his share of raising Anna while Martha focused on her business. And she pondered Rich. He was a good man. Interesting. Still good-looking. Intelligent. Very intelligent. He used to have a great sense of humor. What happened to it? Martha knew. She killed it, with her drive to be successful. She took her stress out on Rich. How could he still possibly love her?

Finally, the plane began its’ descent into Phoenix. Martha and Zach exchanged pleasantries as they exited the plane. By the time they reached the unsecured area of the airport, Zach was long out of sight.

Martha combed through the crowd in attempt to find her ride home.

“Anna! I didn’t know you were coming to pick me up! Couldn’t your father make it?”

“Mom?” Anna looked bewildered. “Actually, I didn’t know…”

Anna was interrupted by a man sweeping her into his arms. Martha almost thought her daughter was being mugged, until she recognized the young man was Zach.

“Zach! I missed you so much, Zach!” She then playfully pushed him away. “Zach. I’d like you to meet my mother.”

Zach turned around to meet the lady he sat by on the airplane.

“Anna, we’ve already met!”

Zach formally extended his hand, “So, your Mrs. Cadwell? I guess I didn’t get your last name. Maybe I would have pieced it together then.”

Martha forced a smile, but felt embarrassed she didn’t know about Anna’s boyfriend --especially when an engagement was imminent.

Anna could sense Martha’s embarrassment. “Mom. I was going to bring Zach over to the house this weekend. How perfect that you met on the airplane!” Anna flashed a smile at Zach.

“Anna Banana? What are you doing here?” Rich made him way into the circle.

“Daddy!” Anna quickly hugged and kissed her father’s cheek. “How perfect. Dad, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Zach Lahiri. Mom already met him on the plane.”

“What a coincidence! So you’re the young man Anna’s been telling me about? Studying English at the U of Iowa, huh? I’m sure she told you that I received my undergraduate degree there.”

Zach extended his hand, “Yes, sir. I was extremely happy to hear that we would both be rooting for the Hawkeyes, despite their current losing streak.”

Martha watched the interaction as if she were a third party observer with her attention focused on her husband. She noticed Rich’s dark thick hair, now speckled with gray. She noticed the natural smile he flashed as he spoke with their daughter’s new boyfriend. She noticed how Rich asked questions and listened. He studied people because he was genuinely interested. “My God,” Martha thought, “he’s spent our entire marriage listening to me. And how could he have possibly cared about the infinite details of lady’s apparel? He’s a brilliant man. I’ve barely asked him anything about his work, his life. And he’s done nothing but hear me rant for twenty-three years.”

Rich turned to his wife and gave her a conciliatory hug. “Are you doing okay?”

Martha hugged him back, something she hadn’t done in a long time, whispering in his ear, “I know I look like shit.”

“No. You look beautiful. Like always. As a matter of fact, I like you best in no make-up and sweats.”

“Mom?” Anna interrupted. “How’s Grandma?”

Martha stared at her daughter, considering her response. “Honey, Grandma’s very sick. But we’ve had some wonderful talks. Maybe you’d like to travel back to Iowa with me next week to see her?” Martha glanced at Rich. “Maybe you and Dad would both like to come?”

Rich nodded. “We’ll come with you. Don’t try to take this on by yourself, Mart.”

Then Martha buried her head into her husband’s chest and cried. “Thank you, Rich. Thanks for putting up with me all these years.”

Rich caressed his wife’s hair. “Thanks for coming home.”

Zach and Anna watched the couple’s tender moment. Anna was relieved to see her parents showing affection to each other. Zach kissed Anna on the top of her head and thought to himself, “Someday. That will be us.”

Peter and Kimberly

2008-09-23T18:59:00.000-07:00

“Is something wrong? You don’t seem like yourself today.”

Peter had been unusually quiet this morning, and his office mate, Kimberly wondered if she had done something wrong. At first she enjoyed the peace.

“No. It’s nothing.”

Satisfied with Peter’s response, Kimberly took a sip of her coffee and studied the proposal on her computer screen. She was in the middle of editing the second paragraph when Peter began.

“Well, Kimmie. You know me too well. I don’t get much past you, do I?” Peter took a deep breath. “It’s Bill.”

Bill. Bill. Who was Bill again? She definitely had heard of Bill, but couldn’t put him into context. Was he the boyfriend or one of the pets?

“Bill? Really? What’s wrong with Bill?”

“He’s not acting right. I put him in his roller ball last night, like normal, and he just stood there looking at me with his cute little beady eyes.”

Of course. The hamster. Bill was Peter’s hamster.

“Oh, well, maybe Bill was too tired last night.” Kimberly tried to appear concerned.

“Too tired! No way, not my Billy. Ever since I got him two years ago, he’s never been too tired for a roller ball ride. There’s definitely something wrong.”

“Is he eating?” Kimberly sometimes was amazed at their conversations. Peter was an engineering genius. She relied on him so much for his quick ability to solve the most difficult engineering challenges. But the poor guy’s personal life was pathetic.

“He never did eat very much, so I can’t tell.”

“Maybe you should take him to the vet.”

“Last time I went to the vet, they took my pet away. Remember Becky?”

It wasn’t Becky that she remembered so much. But she remembered the grieving period. Peter wore black for a month. Kimberly had thought all along that Becky was at least a dog or a cat the way her office mate spoke of the animal. He took Becky on trips with him. He’d curl up with a good book and Becky sleeping in his arms. He even made Becky a winter sweater. Kimberly was amused when she saw the scrapbook of Becky, the guinea pig.

“But Peter, if Bill’s suffering, you have to put him out of his misery.”

Peter was quiet and Becky felt sorry for him, despite her indifference to hamsters.

“I need a break.” Peter stood up quickly and Becky couldn’t help but notice that his pants were completely unzipped. Again. She really wished she hadn’t noticed the candy cane striped underwear. There’s no way she could tell him.

Peter briskly walked out of the double cubicle space with his head down. Unaware of his surroundings, he ran into a tall, large woman in a purple pinstriped suit. It was their boss, Dina Moore. Kimberly watched the interaction, wishing she could hear the details of the conversation.

Dina brushed Peter’s bangs out of his face, probably asking him if he was okay. She nodded as Peter talked, with a genuine look of concern. Then she furrowed her eyebrow and spoke slowly. Then Peter started to walk away. Dina quickly stopped him and said one more thing before moving on. Peter looked at his pants and immediately zipped them up.

Kimberly went back to work. Peter returned after thirty minutes. To Kimberly, his absence seemed like thirty seconds.

“Here you go, Matey.” Peter set a cappuccino next to Kimberly. He then plopped into his chair, sipping a mango banana fruit smoothy with a pile of whipped cream topping. Peter would never notice the dried whipped cream on his upper lip. “Nothing like a fruit smoothie to cheer you up!”

“Thanks for the cappuccino, Peter.”

“Anytime.”

Even though Peter was incredibly annoying, he always made the work day interesting. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand another minute with Peter, he would do something like buy her a cappuccino.

“Hey, you want to come out dancing with me tomorrow night? You promised you’d try it one of these weeks! You know, when I offered you that idea in the Misek Proposal.

Now she was obligated. She absolutely hated country music, Peter’s favorite genre.

With a sigh, she agreed.

“Hey, if you’re busy, you don’t have to.”

“No, I’ll go. I want to. It’ll be fun.”

“That’s the spirit! I worry about you sometimes, all cooped up in your apartment. Never doing anything cool.”

Kimberly smiled to herself and tried to focus on her work. “Okay, Peter. Let’s get to work. I can’t let you distract me anymore.”

Then it happened. Without any warning, flatulence overcame Kimberly’s petite body. Not only was it loud, but it was long – as if she couldn’t quit. With utter dismay, she shot a glance at Peter. Peter studied Kimberly. When the passing of the gas had passed, he asked, “Are you okay?”

As if she didn’t understand what she had just done, Kimberly responded, “Yes?”

Then Peter laughed. And so did Kimberly. They laughed until tears rolled down their faces.

“Kimberly? You never fail to surprise me! Wait ‘til Mom hears this one!”

Then Kimberly quit laughing.

But only for a split-second.

Grandma Dot's Journal

2008-09-14T18:04:00.000-07:00

November 27: Temperature reached a high of 63. Mostly sunny. Nice for November.

Eighty-three Thanksgivings now. Today I was ready by 8:30 a.m. and waited on the porch until 9:20 for Sully to pick me up. I wasn’t supposed to bring anything, but my pies always seem to go over so well. This must sound like bragging! I made an apple, pumpkin and peach. Not one piece was left to bring home. I’m glad. I don’t like pie.

Sully has a new car. I can’t remember what kind, but it was pretty and silver. I wonder what his father would think about him driving something foreign. Sully told me that I looked nice and was glad I baked the pies. He knew Anna told me not to, but he told me secretly to bring them anyway. We had a nice talk in the car. He said that Max will be doing his residency in California. I was happy for him even though he’ll be clear across the country. Sara was promoted to a vice president and is now the manager in her division. She’s still not engaged, even though she has dated the same guy for five year. I asked about Zach. Sully said he was glad that Zach finally landed a bank job. I said that doesn’t sound like Zach. Sully didn’t say anything.

Dinner was good. Sully picked himself a pretty darn nice wife. If I would have had a daughter, I would want one like her –not that I don’t like my other daughter-in-laws. They’re pretty nice, but Anna’s a bit more sincere than the rest. She’s the only person in the family to call Sully by his real name, David. When I told her that he got the nickname because he was an amazingly moody two-year old, she said she would only call him Sully when he was in a bad mood.

Anna always asks me to help in the kitchen, so I do. Today I helped her make scalloped corn and mashed potatoes. She can never figure out why my mashed potatoes are so good. I sneak in some sour cream and put twice as much butter as she puts out for me to use. How many times have I written in this diary, complaining about the amount of potatoes I’ve made in my life? Now I look forward to it.

Everybody made it this year, except, of course, Raymond. He’s been gone for three years now, but holidays still feel strange without him. I supposed they always will now.

I was worried that my Zach wouldn’t be there today. He didn’t come last year and the entire day felt wrong. But he came today and brought a sweet little girlfriend named Claire. I can’t deny a little of my disappointment about him going into banking, but his parents are proud. I love all my grandchildren, but there’s something special about Zach. I asked him several times to play me something on the piano. He kept saying “Later, Grandma.” Finally, I told him that I wouldn’t leave until he played me something. I don’t like being a pest, but sometimes I must. He played and sang a song he’d written about his girlfriend. Of course it was beautiful. Then I asked him, “You won’t let this banking job get in the way of your music, will you?” He smiled at me. “Hope not Grandma. But like Dad tells me, I got to grow up sometime.” He said it in a way that made me sad.

When I was young and always had Thanksgiving at the house, I used to hide in the bathroom. Actually I hid in the bathroom even when it wasn’t Thanksgiving. I just needed some alone time. I always thought to myself, “If I smoked, I’d be smoking right now.” Now, I long for those days when my children were young. The noise, the action, the incessant requests. But it’s enjoyable to observe the chaos from my position now. But I still miss the craziness of that life. I even miss hiding in the bathroom. I don’t need to hide anymore. Quiet surrounds me.

I’m thankful for my kids. They all take time to visit me. Never do I want to be an obligation, but I fear that’s what I’ve become. For a person who…

Sorry, I was just interrupted and can’t remember what my last thought was. But my interruption was a nice surprise! Zach came by to drop off my pie plates that I forgot. He sat and talked with me for over an hour. I asked him why all the sudden he decided to be a banker. Then I found out that his little Claire is expecting and they are getting married in a few weeks. They were going to announce at Thanksgiving, but he decided to tell me first before telling the rest. Isn’t he a sweetie? So, that explains the job. I asked if he was going to stay in his band. He didn’t know. I told him that I was proud of him no matter what. Since his brother is in med school and his sister is an engineer, he doesn’t get as much encouragement. I love my Sully, but he’s an awful lot like his father. Zach asked me what I thought of Claire. I laughed and said she was a dish. He laughed and said he’d pass on the compliment. When he turned to leave I told him never to give up his music. He said “Grandma, I have more important things to worry about now.” I said “Zach, you have a gift from God. Don’t forget to thank Him for it.” He smiled and gave me a hug. Then he said, “I love you, Grandma Dot” and it almost made me cry, but I didn’t. I just told him that I loved him too.

I’m tired, but will go to my piano and play a song before I go to bed. Arthritis hasn't taken that away from me yet. Tonight: As Time Goes By.

Yours Truly,
Dorothy Marie

Cry, The Beloved Country by Alan Paton

2008-09-02T04:40:00.000-07:00

I recently finished reading this classic novel which takes place in South Africa in the 1940's. I'm unsure how this amazing piece of literature completely escaped any of my high school or college curricula, but it did.

The poetic, lyrical and emotionally-charged novel depicts a tragic event that exposes the demise of the native tribes along with the European exploitation of South Africa's natural resources. It gives insight into the issues of apartheid that have afflicted the country for so long.

Anyway, I end with this recommendation with a quote to give you a taste of the beautiful prose:

"Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply."

Cry, The Beloved Country Alan Paton

Grandma Ruby's Gift

2008-08-31T09:16:00.000-07:00

The other night I had a dream about Grandma Ruby. She was sitting in her wheelchair, looking bright eyed, her hair freshly-styled and telling me a story about my great aunt Myrtle. The significance of the dream wasn't the story she told me, but how wonderful it felt to be talking with her again. Grandma died in 1998 and I haven't dreamt about her in awhile. I guess I miss her.

Race relations have preoccupied my mind lately. Not so much because of the presidential campaign, because of books I've been reading. Earlier this summer I read Warriors Don't Cry which detailed the experience of the nine black high school students who dared to integrate in 1957. Now I'm reading one of the most poignant novels I've ever read, Cry the Beloved Country, which takes place in South Africa in the late 1940's. I'm not finished yet, but recently read a passage which explores how a person's perspective on racial injustices develops.

Two nights ago, Cole asked me, "Mom? Grandma was in a wheelchair, right?"

"Yes, for the last eight years of her life, she was."

"Was she black?"

I wasn't sure what he was asking. "Do you mean was her wheelchair black?"

"No. Was Grandma black? Like her skin black?"

"No."

"Oh. I was just wondering."

I'm unsure where the question came from, but it made me contemplative. Grandma was a good person. She was easy to make happy, always laughing a lot. But the best thing about Grandma? She wasn't judgemental, always willing to accept anyone and everyone into her circle of friendship. She most definitely wasn't a prejudiced person -- this was an exceptional quality, especially for a person who grew up in a community that wasn't particulary welcoming of diversity. When I married in 1994, it was somewhat of an issue for a Protestant to marry a Catholic. After telling Grandma about my engagement to a Catholic, she smiled and said, "It's good for families to mix religions."

Grandma didn't have a lot of money. But in addition to her love, she gave me a very important gift I only most recently realized. She gave me the perspective of acceptance. Without acceptance, I never would have understood the importance of diversity in enriching my life and the lives of those I love.

Thank you Grandma Ruby. I love you.

The Summer of the Butterfly and Lightning Bugs by Stef Kramer

2008-08-04T05:03:00.000-07:00

Jenna sat on her front steps eating buttered toast and sipping coffee. A monarch butterfly was furiously flying around her. Its’ rapid movement caused her to flinch a few times.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a peaceful creature?”

Every morning in the summer Jenna went outside to pray before she went to work. Sometimes she forgot to pray. And sometimes she didn’t finish her breakfast there either.

The deep orange wings of the Monarch reminded her of something oriental. Although her only experience with the orient was an occasional meal at the local Chinese restaurant. She loved fried rice with the steamed vegetables.

Throwing her crust and the rest of her coffee on the ground, she took notice of her grass. “Tonight I must mow.” The one flower pot in front of her house needed to be tossed. The bright pink wave petunias that were sold at the grocery store had appealed to her so much that for a week she considered gardening as a hobby. But she kept forgetting to water the flowers and set them in a location that rarely saw the sun.

After setting her coffee mug back inside and quickly brushing her teeth, Jenna went to work. On her way she plotted out her day. Baths, haircuts, exercises. Lunch was hamburger gravy today. This afternoon she would help with a new admission. Jenna understood the daily routine of the nursing home so well that she could even predict when a resident was going to die.

She had been an aide for the past six years. Her wage was on the high end of the scale because she was skilled in her position, and she worked a lot -- signing up for additional shifts and covering for anyone who called in sick. She devoted herself completely to the job after her husband left her. After all, she needed something to occupy her time. Something different from drinking or doing drugs. Although it had only been six years, those days were now a distant memory. And so were a few friends who walked away during her transition from party girl to working girl. At least her family talked to her again.

“Good morning, Sandy!” Jenna greeted her manager brightly.

Sandy looked up soberly. “Hi Jenna. Come in and sit down a minute.” Sandy motioned Jenna into her office. Jenna felt a sense of panic. Had she done something wrong? What had she forgotten?

“Fred died. Sometime in the night.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Fred? No! Not Fred. He was fine yesterday when I left. We had a long talk. He felt good!” Jenna put her head in her hands. Many residents had died during her time at the nursing home. Some saddened her. Some relieved her. But none had truly grieved her. Until now. She looked up at her boss.

“But I always know, Sandy. I always know when they’re going to go. I should’ve known if Fred was ready.”

Fred appeared to be a bitter man with a consistent scowl on his face. Jenna had become good friends with him because of her ability to combat his sharp tongue. She knew behind the critical façade was a gentle soul who never quite got over the death of his wife. They never had children and Fred never remarried.

“It was just his time, Sweetie. We can’t always tell.” Sandy rubbed the young lady’s back. “Hey. At least he died peacefully.”

Jenna wiped her eyes, stood up and said, “I gotta get to work.”

Sandy wanted to tell her to take the day off, but she needed her help too badly. Besides, how could she start letting her staff off for residents dying?

Jenna performed her duties the rest of the day solemnly and avoided Fred’s common hangout areas when possible. A few of the other aides and nurses offered words of consolation to Jenna, but she shrugged them off and responded, “We all gotta go sometime.”

Jenna went home that night and mowed, trimmed and watered her dead petunia. Maybe she could bring it back to life if she moved it into the sun. Instead of eating supper, she took a shower, curled into bed and thumbed through the local college’s course offerings for the fall semester. Fred had told her she should become a nurse.

“No money.”

“So! I’ll loan you some.”

“I’d never pay you back. Never loan money to your friends.”

“Who says you’re a friend?”

She liked the idea of being a nurse. An RN. It made her feel proud to wear scrubs and she wondered how many people assumed she was a nurse. Her mother and sister always called her for health advice. She spent a lot of time on the web researching medical conditions. Especially the long-term effect of drug abuse.

She turned off her reading lamp and watched outside the window. The summer evenings had been filled with lightning bugs, unlike any summer she could ever remember. She watched the glow of the insects flicker until she fell asleep.

She got ready for work in the same manner she did every other day. But as she ate her breakfast on the front steps, she noticed the butterfly was gone. And her petunia didn’t look any better.

When she arrived at work, Fred’s nephew was in the office paying a bill. She smiled politely at him as he passed her by. He didn’t really recognize her, or any of the aides in the building.

Jenna walked into Sandy’s office.

“Sandy?”

“Hey, Kiddo. Doing any better today?”

“I’m enrolling into the nursing program. Today. Is that okay with you?”

Sandy smiled, nervously. “Jenna. You’d make a wonderful nurse. Of course I’d support you.” She paused a moment. “Have you thought about how you’re going to finance it?”

“Yeah. I’ve got some resources.” Jenna had failed in many areas of her life, but she was good at saving money.

Sandy sighed. “I know you and Fred were close. But his nephew just informed us that Fred left everything to charity.”

“Good for Fred. He was a good man.” Then Jenna’s forehead creased. “Why did you tell me that anyway? Do you think I expected some of Fred’s money?” Jenna felt her blood start to boil.

“Hey -- don’t get cross with me. He talked many times about leaving you some. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

Jenna started to cry. “The only thing that disappoints me is that I lost my friend yesterday. And I don’t have so many, you know.”

Sandy stood up and hugged her. “I’m your friend.”

Jenna backed away and wiped her nose. “Thanks.”

“Now, why don’t you take off and get yourself signed up for next semester. Before you change your mind.”

Jenna walked slowly out of the facility and took a deep breath. As she looked over the well-landscaped courtyard, she noticed a monarch butterfly feverishly flying toward her. She raised her arm, and the butterfly landed harshly on her hand. It fluttered twice then flew away. She waved and called out. “Hey! I’m on my way.”

And then Jenna went on to make her way.

The Ballerina Slipper by Alex Kramer

2008-07-27T08:08:00.001-07:00

“Wow! Thanks grandma!” said Kia.

“You’re very welcome, Kia,” said her Grandma Joyce. “It’s was mine when I was a girl you know. It’s been passed down from generation to generation in my family.” Kia’s grandma had just given her a pearly white, ballerina slipper! The ornamental slipper was made from real pearls. It had Alexandrite gems streaming all around the bottom rim and engraved in silver the words “To A Real Ballerina” with a little gold heart right above it. It was the most beautiful thing Kia had ever seen.

“Now Kia,” said her grandma, taking Kia out of her trance. “Never let anyone take that from you. It’s very old and very delicate.”

“I promise, Grandma!” said Kia.

10 years later

“Wow! I would have loved to get something like that when I was five!” said Camille, Kia’s best friend. Kia had just shown Camille the ballerina slipper.

“Thanks! I always bring it with me before a big test like this one,” said Kia, beaming. “Just for good luck.” Kia and Camille walked into class, took their seats, and took the test.

They’d just finished the test and were headed home.

“That test was sooo hard,” said Camille. “I can’t believe I even finished it!”

“Speak for yourself,” Kia said. “I had, like, nine questions left.”

Camille was staying at Kia’s house for the weekend while her parents were away. They got home with the greeting of Kia’s dog barking and shouting from the inside.

“Be quiet you stupid dog,” said a man’s voice Kia had never heard before.

“Come on! It’s not here,” said another man’s voice, also unfamiliar. “We’ll just have to tell the boss what happened.”

“Hide behind this tree!” said Kia so frantically it made Camille jump. They ran behind the nearest tree while the door opened and the men walked out. Camille stuck her head out a little. One man looked around at the tree while Camille quickly ducked.

“I think there’s someone behind that tree,” said the man.

“Don’t be stupid,” said the other man. “That girl couldn’t have walked home so fast.” The men left, and Kia and Camille came out from behind the tree, both puzzled.

“Who were those guys?” asked Camille, she still had a puzzled look on her face. “What were they looking for?”

“I don’t know, but it must be something valuable,” answered Kia. She was hoping it wasn’t her slipper, but she had half a mind that it was. They walked in and saw that nothing was messed up. They both set their bags down and walked up to Kia’s room and sat on her bed, listening to music and reading magazines. Then suddenly they heard a scream! They both looked out the window at the same time. The two men were grabbing a woman’s purse and telling her to be quiet. Kia ran outside grasping the slipper while Camille darted after her. Kia bounded out the door with Camille (who had finally caught up) and raced toward the woman!

“Stop!” yelled Kia.

“Let go of her purse!” yelled Camille. The men dropped the purse and the woman ran in terror. Both men were staring at the slipper in Kia’s hand.

“Get the slipper!” one yelled. Kia ran, Camille couldn’t keep up. Kia kept running! She turned into a corner and saw it was a dead end!

“Give us the slipper,” said one man.

“No! It was my grandma’s and I’ll never give it up!” yelled Kia in terror. “Why do you want it anyway?”

“Cause it’s worth a lot of money and we were paid to get ‘em from ya.” said the other man.

“What do you mean ‘them’?” challenged Kia. “I only have one.”

“We found the other one in a box at your house addressed to you,” said a man while he pulled out another ornamental ballet slipper and was made from pink pearl with light green Peridot gems running around the top half. Engraved in gold were the words “To Ballerinas with Grace” with another little heart right above it only this time the heart was silver. Then the man pulled out a heart-shaped locket with a ruby inside.

“This stupid thing was also for you,” said the man and tossed the locket to her. She caught it as she lunged forward for the other slipper. Once she had the slipper, she started to run when she heard sirens from a police car. Camille had called the police! They arrived just in time to catch the robbers.

“Thanks,” said Kia.

“Your welcome,” said Camille in reply. They answered a few questions from the police and walked home.

The End…For Now

See next time what happens to Kia and Camille as they unlock more mysteries of the ballerina slippers.

The Library Card

2008-07-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

It was 10:02 AM.

“Wonder what’s keeping Mr. Lake? He’s two minutes past the hour,” sardonically thought the librarian who was pulling her daily past due report.

Within seconds of the thought, Mr. Lake burst through the entrance of the library. Flashing a smile, he held his convenience-store coffee in one hand and waved with the other.

“Good morning, Miss Ptacek.” How he loved to pronounce her last name.

His daily greeting irritated her. She had told him on numerous occasions to call her by her first name, April.

“Good morning.” She never called him by any name.

He headed straight to the daily periodicals, grabbed the Wall Street Journal and took a seat in the worn-out orange plaid chair. Even though he received the subscription at the office, he preferred to come here. It wasn’t Starbucks, but it was away from the office. After glancing through the headlines, he specifically researched the price of his stocks and mutual funds, as he did every day. Most of his portfolio had been going down lately. At least he had a sizeable amount still held in the bank. While his return at the bank was ridiculously low, as he made known to his banker, the FDIC insurance gave him some peace of mind.

He sipped his coffee and casually perused the paper after recording his stock prices on the notebook he kept in his pocket. He had one eye on the paper and one eye on the librarian. She looked nothing like his wife. Mrs. Lake had long brunette hair, deep green eyes and a tall and lean build. She was one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever laid eyes on. He stared at her every morning as she slept, never waking before he left for the office.

April Ptacek was short and slightly overweight. She kept her hair cut short to keep her dry-ends from splitting. She had thick glasses and hardly ever applied cosmetics to her face. Everyday she wore a short-sleeve tight cotton t-shirt, in various colors, with either khaki pants or a denim skirt.

“Yes, this is April Ptacek from the library calling. You have three books overdue. Please bring them back as soon as possible. Your late fee is one dollar for each book and each day they're late. Please note that there is a waiting list for A Thousand Splendid Suns. Thank you.”

April hung up the phone and started to dial her next number on the list when she noticed Mr. Lake standing in front of her.

“So, do you have a lot of calls to make today?”

April looked up at the man. Don’t you have anything better to do? “Yes, there are quite a few today. It’s Monday. Everyone forgets to bring them back by the weekend.”

“I bet you get some real hotheads on the phone, huh?”

Why was this man talking to me? “Not really. People are generally nice.”

Mr. Lake nodded. April waited for him to say more. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Lake?”

Trying to think of something to say, he asked, “Yes. Uh, just wondering if you had any recommendations for some summer reading?”

It was August. “Well, of course. I always post my summer picks on the board right over there.”

He glanced at the board, “Oh. Okay. Well, I guess I’ll take a look then. Thanks.”

She sighed. “What kind of books do you like to read?”

"About anything really. Mystery. Humor.” He hadn’t read anything but legal briefs in years, so he wasn’t sure what genre he liked anymore. What was the last book he even read? Perhaps it was The Sound and the Fury in college. He hadn’t really enjoyed it.

“Humor, huh?” Why did this man insist on visiting with her everyday. Aren’t lawyers supposed to be too busy to be messing around at a library? “Hold on.” She left her desk and retrieved a book from a nearby shelf. “Have you read any Bill Bryson?”

He hesitated, “Maybe. Not sure.”

“Here, check this one out. He’s a very witty writer. It might be a nice break from depositions, or whatever it is that you lawyers do.”

He took the book from her hand and read the insert. “The Life and Time of the Thunderbolt Kid, huh? Sounds intriguing!”

Intriguing? A non-fiction memoir of a kid growing up in Iowa sounds intriguing? “Well, it’s entertaining, at least.” She added in a pedantic tone.

Then he looked into her eyes and gratefully remarked, “Thank you very much, April. I really appreciate the recommendation.”

His heartfelt thanks caught her off guard. Suddenly she felt guilty about all of the harsh thoughts she aimed toward him. She smiled, sincerely. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Lake. Anytime.”

“George. Please just call me George.”

“Okay, then, George. Can I see your library card?”

George Lake had come in every day for well over ten years but had never obtained a library card. April recognized the anxiety in his eyes. Yesterday she would have made him suffer through an explanation as to why he didn't carry a card. But not today.

“Lost it, didn’t you? No problem. Let me type you a new one.”

He gently took the card from the librarian, held it in his hands a moment and carefully placed it in his wallet. This man was accustomed to receiving high-end gifts. Plasma TVs. The I-Pod phone. A trip to the Caribbean. Even a new Gator for his vacation home in Colorado. But none of those gifts gave him the feeling this new library card did.

“Two weeks.”

“What?” he asked in somewhat of a daze.

“Return the books in two weeks. Or, I’ll be calling you!” April joked with him.

“Right! Two weeks.” He picked up his coffee and newly checked-out book. “See you tomorrow. April.”

He walked out of the library with a particular hop in his step. April watched him leave.

“See you tomorrow. George.”

Unwelcome Visitor

2008-07-12T07:32:00.001-07:00

You came by in the middle of the night and decided to stay awhile. It's been a long time since I've heard from you, and I had no bribes to make you go away. So you stayed and made your presence well-known.

You suck the life out of me. When you're here I can't read, write, talk. I can't even sleep. It's impossible to get comfortable when you're here. Sometimes I'm not sure if it's really you. You hurt so badly, could it really be you? Or is it something worse? Am I dying?

What in the world brings you here? Lord knows I've researched you to death. Is it hormones? Dairy? Nuts? Weather-fronts? Allergies? Nuts? Cheese? Stress? All of the above?

Today, I'm better after my husband delivered the medicine. Three doses of migraine medicine makes me somewhat functional, but your effects still linger. I'm tired, as if I've been beat up. You're not completely gone, so I worry about your return. But I pray you go away. Please go away, so I can be a person again.

I want to be that person that listens to my family with enthusiasm. That person who is ready to take on the world and get stuff done! But I can't when you're here. So please, once again, go away so that I can live.

Freedom

2008-07-04T10:35:00.001-07:00

I asked my son,Cole, why we celebrated the 4th of July. His response:

"Because we like to do fireworks, picnics and play on rides."

An appropriate response for a six-year old, I think. Then I asked my daughter, Alex, to tell me what freedom meant to her. An aspiring writer herself, she wrote the following:

"Freedom to me means not being controlled, because we shouldn’t have to be. Anyone who thinks that he or she should be given more freedom than another is not recognizing another human being’s freedom. Slavery was a time when almost all African-Americans were given very little freedom or power. So freedom to me is not being controlled, it’s being free to choose what you want to do."

Alex, age 11

I hope my children never take their freedom for granted, as it can be an easy thing to do.

As I worked on my garden this morning, I made a list of the freedoms I'm thankful for. Here's what I came up with:

1) To go outside and feel safe.
2) To get into my car and drive anywhere I choose.
3) To talk to whoever I want.
4) To express my opinion.
5) To learn, especially to read.
6) To marry the person I fell in love with and still love.
7) To work in a pleasant environment.
8) To appreciate diversity.
9) To protect my children and raise them in a safe surrounding.
10)To create my own life.

Obviously not everyone in America enjoys these freedoms. But I pray everyone can enjoy at least some of these, someday.

What does freedom mean to my husband? I'd ask, but he's on his motorcycle, enjoying the freedom of the road.

Have a joyous weekend and God Bless America.

Thanks Erin Smith!

2008-07-01T14:00:00.001-07:00

Erin Smith was the first to review Goodbye Def Leppard on Amazon! My sales are well-exceeding my expectations. Thanks for all your support and look for my next novel to be published soon.