The Winter Sea

St. Martin's Griffin

Trade paperback

December 30, 2014

Idgie Says: 

 I found this book to be disappointingly plotted.  

The back cover and description call this Cassie's story about her marriage, new love and finding out dark family secrets.  

But Cassie's story doesn't start until page 104.  By then, after reading about Giuseppe's life since he was 10.....I could care less about her's.  She is a stranger to the story.   I wanted to read about the dark secrets when they occurred during Giuseppe's life, not when Cassie discovered them years later.

So I paged to 231 and continued with his story.....a small village fisherman boy who succeeds by working hard after catching a boat to Australia in the 30s. 

Perhaps if the story had been stylized with back and forth chapters, I would have remained interested in both lives and stories, but after a 1/3 of the book being only about one life - and an interesting one at that, I only wanted his story, not a new one suddenly thrown in.

Again, just my opinion, but I was unable to command my attention to Cassie after being with Giuseppe for so long. 

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Book Description: 

The Winter Sea

The Winter Sea is a sweeping saga of family, honour and secrets set on the beautiful NSW south-coast.

Escaping to the country from her unhappy city life, Cassie Holloway moves to the little town of Whitby Point. Here she meets the Aquino family, whose fishing business was founded by their ancestor, Giuseppe, an immigrant Italian, some ninety years before.

Life for Cassie on the south coast is sweet as she sets up a successful restaurant and falls in love with Giuseppe’s great-grandson Michael. But when the family patriarch dies, a devastating family secret is revealed which threatens to destroy her dreams. Cassie’s future happiness now rests on her quest for the truth.

A novel about finding your true place in world, The Winter Sea is a must read.

Click here to download a free sample of The Winter Sea

To All My Book Loving Friends..........

The Transcriptionist

NOW IN PAPERBACK - January 20th!

The Transcriptionist
Amy Rowland
Hardcover: 256 pages
Publisher: Algonquin Books (May 13, 2014)

Book Description:

 No one can find it. That’s the first thing. The Recording Room is on the eleventh floor, at the end of a rat-hued hallway that some workers at the newspaper have never seen; they give up on the ancient elevator, which makes only local stops with loud creaks of protest. Like New Yorkers who refuse to venture above Fourteenth Street, there are newspaper workers who refuse to go above the fourth floor for fear of being lost forever if they leave the well-lit newsroom for dark floors unknown.

In this room you’ll find Lena. She works as a transcriptionist for the Record, a behemoth New York City newspaper. There once were many transcriptionists at the Record, but new technology and the ease of communication has put most of them out of work, so now Lena sits alone in a room on the building’s eleventh floor, far away from the hum of the newsroom that is the heart of the paper. Still, it is an important job—vital, really—a vein that connects the organs of the paper, and Lena takes it very seriously.

And then one day she encounters something that shatters the reverie that has become her life—an article in the paper about a woman mauled to death by lions in the city zoo. The woman was blind and remains unidentified, but there is a picture, and Lena recognizes her as someone whom a few days before she had met and talked to briefly while riding home on a midtown bus.

Obsessed with understanding what caused the woman to climb into the lion’s den, Lena begins a campaign for truth that will ultimately destroy the Record’s complacency and shake the venerable institution to its very foundation. In the process she finds a new set of truths that gives her the strength to shed what she describes as her “secondhand life” and to embrace a future filled with promise, maybe even adventure.

An exquisite novel that asks probing questions about journalism and ethics, about the decline of the newspaper and the failure of language, The Transcriptionist is also the story of a woman’s effort to establish a place for herself in an increasingly alien and alienating world.

Global Predator

Idgie Says:
This book looks very interesting for readers who enjoy the political terrorist type novel.  From Jack's biography, I would have to believe that the author knows what he's talking about and that some of the actions in this book might be close enough to real to be very scary. 

Perhaps there is a little romance in there too!

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GLOBAL PREDATOR

By Jack MacLean

Legend Publishing

September 19, 2014

NEW POLITICAL-THRILLER FROM THE

PRIZE-WINNING FOREIGN NEWS CORRESPONDENT

High above the mountains surrounding the beautiful Swat Valley in Pakistan a Global Predator drone circles, waiting to unleash its Hellfire missiles. In GLOBAL PREDATOR  the National Security Agency pursues the trail of Osama Bin Laden’s deputy Ayman al-Zawahiri. When a recording reveals new clues about al-Zawahiri’s plans, the NSA’s hunt for the international criminal escalates. A special intelligence team, led by Faiza Azhad an agent on a personal vendetta, plots to catch him at a meeting of high-ranking al Qaeda leaders.     

Meanwhile, the local Taliban have been stepping up their attacks on anyone who dares to educate women. The situation is growing desperate; foreign aid organizations have closed their doors to the Pakistanis. All except English aid worker Sally Hodges. Despite the constant threat of the Taliban, Sally remains in Pakistan determined to build schools to help young women achieve an education. All she lacks is capital, which is why she’s agreed to a gift from her old flame Wilkins—a man hiding his own dark reason for being in Pakistan. When Sally is taken hostage at her school, Wilkins has an opportunity to redeem himself—if only he can escape from his own Taliban captors.

As Faiza continues to hunt al-Zawahiri, the clock is counting down to the terrorist rocket attack. Can the Taliban be stopped? GLOBAL PREDATOR is an adrenaline-fueled race through the mountains of Pakistan to a shattering conclusion. 

JACK MACLEAN is the pen name of a prize-winning former foreign correspondent for a British newspaper with firsthand experience of Asia. He is the author of eight non-fiction works.

The Heart Does Not Grow Back

Macmillan Publishers
December, 2014

Idgie Says:
This started out, to me, as a storyline not often told with an interesting twist to a man becoming a superhero.  Yet it quickly morphed into a very dour, and at times excessively violent, story.    Dale Simpson really isn't much of anything in life, nor is his best friend.  They go after women who are perhaps not the brightest stars in the sky. Women who apparently go after violent men.  Their lives start at middle ground and go down from there.  

The superhero aspect of the story is an odd one.  Dale might act like he's trying to help people, but really he's just taking a very odd circumstance and using it to make money to support himself.  A job seems easier to me. Not a happy book.  Not a book where you root for the characters.  

BUT... it is a very different type of novel than mainstream that contains well written passages and a story line that does not bore. 

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EVERY SUPERHERO NEEDS TO START SOMEWHERE...

Dale Sampson is used to being a nonperson at his small-town Midwestern high school, picking up the scraps of his charismatic lothario of a best friend, Mack. He comforts himself with the certainty that his stellar academic record and brains will bring him the adulation that has evaded him in high school. But when an unthinkable catastrophe tears away the one girl he ever had a chance with, his life takes a bizarre turn as he discovers an inexplicable power: He can regenerate his organs and limbs.

When a chance encounter brings him face to face with a girl from his past, he decides that he must use his gift to save her from a violent husband and dismal future. His quest takes him to the glitz and greed of Hollywood, and into the crosshairs of shadowy forces bent on using and abusing his gift. Can Dale use his power to redeem himself and those he loves, or will the one thing that finally makes him special be his demise? The Heart Does Not Grow Back is a darkly comic, starkly original take on the superhero tale, introducing an exceptional new literary voice in Fred Venturini.

Excerpt HERE.

Current Reads

I am sure that most of ya'll have noticed my usual every other day book reviews have been missing lately, but it is the holiday season and reading time is slim.  So there have been more shout outs instead of reviews, and even that has been reduced.  I am sure after the festivites are done we will be back on track though.

In the meantime, here's my current reading stack.......if I can just find time to read!!

Southern Living 2014 Annual Recipes

What a lovely gift I received from Southern Living today.  Somebody please make this Apple Stack Cake for me!  (I am a horrid baker).  I love the Ode to Cream of Mushroom soup -I personally use that in everything!  Finally, the Cult of Casserole is my fave.

A Season for Martyrs - a Shout Out.

Bina Shah’s international New York Times op-ed, “A ‘Homeland’ We Pakistanis Don’t Recognize,” created such a stir that it was reprinted in the U.S. edition of the Times under the headline, “Not My ‘Homeland.’” http://www.nytimes.com/2014/10/16/opinion/bina-shah-a-homeland-we-pakistanis-dont-recognize.html?_r=0

In the piece, Bina writes: “Whenever a Western movie contains a connection to Pakistan, we watch it in a sadomasochistic way, eager and nervous to see how the West observes us. We look to see if we come across to you as monsters, and then to see what our new, monstrous face looks like. Again and again, we see a refracted, distorted image of our homeland staring back at us. We know we have monsters among us, but this isn’t what we look like to ourselves.”

Bina’s U.S. debut novel, A SEASON FOR MARTYRS (November 4), is getting critical acclaim for shedding light on the rich history and tradition of the people of Sindh, a region and culture in Pakistan little understood in the West.

______________________

A SEASON

FOR MARTYRS

A Novel

By Bina Shah

The Sindh province of southeastern Pakistan is home to the fertile plain of the Indus River, the great mystical Sufi saints and a rich history that binds Muslims and Hindus alike. Young Ali Sikandar is from a long line of landowners in Sindh, a fact he has hidden since his father abandoned the family. Relied upon to support his mother and siblings as a TV journalist, he finds it impossible to refuse even the most dangerous assignments. One day in October 2007, Ali is ordered to cover the controversial return of Benazir Bhutto following her eight years in exile in Bina Shah’s exquisite look at her homeland, A SEASON FOR MARTYRS (Delphinium Books/distributed by HarperCollins; November 4, 2014; $14.95). 

Bhutto’s very presence invites protests and assassination attempts, but to Ali she symbolizes his struggles with his father, his fervent longing for a better life, and his identity as a Sindhi. Ali finds himself irrevocably drawn to the pro-democracy People’s Resistance Movement, a secret that sweeps him into the many contradictions of a country still struggling to embrace modernity.

In her American debut, one of Pakistan’s most gifted writers sheds light on a region and culture little understood in the West. As Shah weaves together the centuries-old history of Ali’s feudal family and its connection to the Bhuttos, she brilliantly reveals a story at the crossroads of the personal and the political, a chronicle of one man’s desire to overcome extremity to find love, forgiveness, and even identity itself.

BINA SHAH is a regular contributor to the International New York Times and frequent guest on the BBC. She has contributed essays to Granta, The Independent and The Guardian. She holds degrees from Wellesley College and the Harvard Graduate School of Education, and is an alumna of the University of Iowa’s International Writers Workshop. Her novel, Slum Child, was a bestseller in Italy and she has been published in English, Spanish, German and Italian. She lives in Karachi.

A SEASON FOR MARTYRS

By Bina Shah

Delphinium Books/distributed by HarperCollins; Nov. 4, 2014

$14.95; 288 pages

ISBN: 978-1-88-328561-6

Merry Christmas, Mama

Merry Christmas, Mama
by Rocky Rutherford

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It was Christmas when two men in uniform walked smartly upon our front porch, rapped on the door, then told my mama, Carrie Mae Hamilton Dillahey, that her husband, my father, James Harold Dillahey, had been killed in action in a place I never heard of. He was a good Marine and died a hero fighting for his country, they said, and left. I became the man of the house.
My name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey, Mama's oldest son at the time. I was 12. My little brother, Peter Hamilton Dillahey was six. They said a twelve year old isn't old enough to be anything but a twelve year old, that he is too young to know what life is about. What they did not understand is a twelve year old grows up fast when he has to.
Mama figured it best we pack up and head back to Doaksville where we would be closer to some of my father's family. We came in on the bus a week before Christmas. At the bus station Mama made a phone call and we all settled down to wait for someone to pick us up.
The bald headed man behind the counter turned on his radio so we could all listen to Christmas carols. That worked for a while but it did not contribute to Mama's Christmas spirit. She loved Christmas and needed no prodding.
"Do you mind if I fix your decorations?" Mama said to the ticket master.
"No, mam, you go right ahead." Now, Mama was like that. Not only was she pretty she had a way with folks and she always made things brighter.
At that time, I saw nothing to be happy about. Deddy gone and his family in the middle of a cold night without a place to stay. It was his fault. Why would anybody leave a lady like my Mama and go off to fight in a place nobody ever heard of? As I saw it nobody cared if he or we lived or died. We were in a mess; Christmas carols and tinsel would not fix it.
　
"McQueen," Mama said, "would you help me, please," holding her hands out to me like I aught to be pleased to death to fix up a messy wall of tangled and tacky decorations. I looked at the ticket master then to Petey.
"Please," Mama repeated and I went to her. We took the mess down and rearranged it, singing along with the Christmas music. Petey tried to sing Jingle Bells but Mama shushed him while I frowned.
"There," Mama piped like a little girl, clapping her hands and standing back to look at the miracle she just created. The ticket master said it was beautiful and real Christmassy. And as always Petey just squealed.
"Now," Mama said, her voice gentle but commanding, "let's sing a Christmas carol. Yes, let us sing "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." With falling snow turning colors in the neon glow outside the window, we tried to sing along with her. We stopped and listened.
If there are angels, Mama was the leader. She never seemed to cry or look sad. She always found the sunshine.
"That was lovely," said the ticket master.
"Boy, my Mama can sing, huh?" Petey yelled.
I curled up in a folding seat and Mama sat next to me, Petey snuggled up like a puppy in her lap. She hummed. The ticket man nodded. The snow fell.
When I woke Mama and a big fat lady whispered by the door. Mama frowned and I knew something was wrong. Petey stirred and before I could stop him yelled "Wow, McQueen, there's Santa!" The fat lady's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Mama's look told me to get us ready to leave so I yanked on my jacket and bundled up Petey whispering in his ear to keep his mouth shut.
The driver complained all the way to the house. Mama sat straight between me and Petey in the back seat. She wiped Petey's always snotty face then took my hand. Her touch told me she was concerned, not afraid, concerned.
Mama sent us to the porch while she talked to the fat lady who stayed inside the big car. The grumbling driver got out and carried a big paper bag to the front porch and plopped it down by the door. He mumbled something about Christmas, slouched back to the car and they roared off into the swirling snow.
"Oh, we're going to have a wonderful time here," Mama said, clapping her hands, "McQueen, please build us a fire." To me it was an ugly old ratty house that nobody wanted to live in anymore. It stunk like old meals and burnt out fireplaces. "McQueen, please help me." And that's all it took. I built a roaring fire from firewood stacked along the wall. Mama emptied the bag on the floor and by the firelight made us a decent supper from canned green beans, little round potatoes, and light bread, which she heated on the hearth. We topped it off with canned peaches.
Later, after we burrowed into the army blankets, Mama led us in Jingle Bells. The way she sang "Oh Holy Night," almost made me believe it. Thank God, she believed, I didn't and Petey didn't know any better.
During the night the cold woke me. I poked up the fire and added more wood. Mama had fallen asleep reading her Bible and it lay near her head.
In the firelight she looked young but sad. Petey, snotty faced as usual, curled in his blanket near Mama's knees. I wondered if visions of sugar plums danced in his head.
When I woke again it was morning, dark, and cold. Mama was already up in the shabby kitchen boiling oatmeal.
"McQueen, hurry now, get Petey ready, school starts at nine."
I stoked the fire, put more wood on, and yanked a squalling Petey from his covers.
"Mama," I called back over Petey's howling, "there ain't three days left before time school lets out for the holidays. Ain't no need in going back now, is there?" After that last school I hoped I would never have to go back again.
"Isn't, young man. Why, the way you talk you'd think you'd never been to school. Now hurry up, please." And she started caroling again.
When I finally got Petey awake and into his knickers and half way dressed I pushed him into the kitchen where Mama sat at the spindly legged table, hands folded in prayer, waiting for us.
"McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey, would you say grace please." I glanced at Petey who stuck his tongue out then tried to pray like I meant it. But it was hard. I really didn't see anything to be thankful for. Here we were in a strange cold place, little money, no home and Christmas a week away. When I said amen and looked at her she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.
"Now, see what you did, McQueen? You made Mama cry. I hope Santa Claus leaves you a bunch of switches." I started to tell him the truth about
Santa but Mama lowered her eyes and I dropped it.
We ate the steaming oatmeal then got all bundled up. Ice and snow pushed around by a snappy wind had fallen most of the night. Out on the little flat front porch Mama laid down the law: "Now, McQueen, you know how important education is. We must not miss one single day if we can help it.
You are in charge and it's your responsibility to get you and your brother to school. You go down this street then up it and the school is on your left. You can't miss it. Once there you must get both of you enrolled. Even though you only have three days left, you must get enrolled. Do you understand, McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey?"
"Yeah," grunted Petey, "unnerstan?" A hard hand squeeze shut him up.
"Yes, mam." At that time I did not understand. In the first place I didn't like school. What good was it when what we needed was money to live on? What I needed was a job. Not a bunch of kids making fun of the brothers with the mile long names: McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey and Peter Hamilton Dillahey. Reading, writing, arithmetic. Bullshit. I was twelve years old and I could work and we could have a nice Christmas. I could buy Petey Santa Clause and a present for Mama. Maybe a new Bible or a warm over coat. Mama kissed us both and we started down the hill.
Front porch lights glowed yellow in the gloom. The snow and ice had turned to a chilly fog. As we passed the houses Christmas tree lights twinkled through the windows. Petey got excited and tried to stop and gawk at every window but a good squeeze got him going again. Other bundled kids trudged up the hill and we followed them.
I thought about Mama and the gift I would not get her. But maybe I could get her something. Maybe there was something at the school. Like a drawing or a card they would let me make to take home. Little kid's stuff but it would do. It didn't take big things to make Mama happy; any show of love pleased her. I guess it was because she never thought of herself. Just me and Petey.
At the top of the hill, on the left, just like Mama said stood the school, a massive, Frankenstein looking place protected by an iron railed fence that looked like a hideout for King Arthur and his knights. Petey was dragging now and not responding to my hand crushing. Glad and relieved we passed through the large iron gate.
"What you doin' here?" I was digging Petey's head out of his scarf and not sure what I heard.
"You hear me, white boy, I said what you doing here? Ain't no white boys allowed in here."
Both my feet came off the ground and I hung in the air like a puppet.
"Put my brother down," Petey howled. When I finally stopped spinning I saw I was held at arm's length by the biggest kid I had ever seen.
The other catcher's mitt fist he had drawn back aiming it at my face. White teeth flashed in his basketball sized dark head.
Laughing , he let me struggle, my arms flailing away. He shook me hard enough to knock both my eyes in to the same socket. All the while aiming that fist at my face. The more I flailed the more he laughed. I called him a son of a bitch but that just made him laugh harder.
When Petey bit him on the leg he decided to finish me. I spit at him as he drew back.
"Put him down." He dropped me and I hit the frozen ground hard my butt hurting, my mind on Petey.
"Petey, where are you?" I scrambled around looking for him.
"Over here, McQueen. Over here."
Another older boy, but not as big, had Petey by the hand. From my hands and knees I charged like a wild bull, head down, aiming to run over Petey's captor.
"No," Petey squealed just as I charged. Too late. The boy with the grace of a gifted bullfighter turned sideways still holding Petey's hand and I whizzed past him into the fence. It stopped me cold as I sprawled against it like a fly caught in a spider web. I slid down, crumpled, knocked cucoo.
"I told you no," said Petey at my side. "This is Bobby Joe and he's on our side."
"Come on, champ, let me help you up," Petey's new friend said, pulling at my elbow.
"I can help myself. I'm in the seventh grade and I don't need your help," I said, snatching my arm away and staggering to my feet. He just stood there smiling and holding Petey's hand.
"Turn my little brother loose. We don't need your help. Come here, Petey." Petey didn't move, just hung on to Bobby Joe's hand.
"Come on, guys, I'll show you the way to the principal's office, Her name is Miss Barnes," he said, turning toward the front door with Petey traipsing right along like nothing happened.
We went up the steps and into a hallway bustling with students. Some gawked at us. The big boy who had threatened to kill me stood by the front door with two other scowling buddies but they made no move toward us or said anything. Just growled and frowned. Petey took a new grip on Bobby Joe's hand and stuck his tongue out at the bullies as we started down the hall to the principle's office.
"Well, here it is, guys," Bobbie Joe said, "Miss Barnes will take care of you. And don't worry about those guys. They won't bother you." He pried his hand away from Petey's. "It's okay," Bobby Joe told him and tousled his hair. For a second he just stood there looking at us and that's when I got a good look at him.
About fifteen or sixteen he had a smile that said what he was. He wore green cordoroy knickers and dark knee socks and a gray sweater with the collar buttoned neatly at his neck. Perched almost squarely on his head was a Ben Hogan courdoray golf cap. He moved gracefully, spoke calmly, his voice deep and rich. Petey liked him.
"My name is Bobby Joe Bohanon," he said extending his hand to me. When I hesitated taking it Petey said "Shake his hand, McQueen, he's our friend."
"My name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and this is my brother Peter Hamilton Dillahey," I said expecting him to laugh. He didn't. I took his hand.
"Glad to know you McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and Peter Hamilton Dillahey." And he was gone.
We went inside the glass paneled room to a counter I could just barely see over. I plopped Petey down on a bench against the wall and went to the counter. I guess we made too much noise because as soon as I got there and looked over, a huge round head said "Shhhhhh." Then it's eyes grew wide and rolled toward the ceiling, nose up.
"Mam," I said, "We may be poor but we don't stink." Her eyes got bigger when she heard Petey say "Yeah, we don't stink. Mama gave us a spit bath."
"What do you want?"
"Mam, I want to register me and my brother for school."
"Sit," the lady said, leaning over the counter and looking down at us. "I'll get Miss Barnes, the principal."
"Merry Christmas," said Petey.
She disappeared and we sat back down with nothing to do but look around. About every two minutes I wiped Petey's nose. Christmas music drifted in from somewhere and it made me think hateful thoughts of not having a gift for Mama. I hoped they would kick us out then I could get a job to buy her and Petey a present. Still plenty of time before Christmas. Besides, I didn't like this school at all. Well, I didn't like any school, but this one was the worst, it'd be like all the rest. Teaching one thing and doing another.

Then I noticed a manger scene with little figurines at the end of the counter near the wall. I stood up to get a closer look which made Petey squirm. So I held him up to see.
"Look, McQueen," he said, pointing, "there's a colored Jesus"
I wrestled him back to the bench and stuffed him onto it.
"Boy, what's wrong with you, Jesus ain't colored." Before he could answer the big head appeared over the counter again and said Miss Barnes would see us now. She motioned us around the counter and we followed her pointing finger to an office that had Principal on it. We stopped at the door and she motioned for me to knock. I wiped Petey's nose again and patted down my hair. I guess the lady still thought we stunk because she stood way back from us.
"Come in," a voice called and I did, dragging Petey who kept looking back for Bobby Joe. I guess we did look like a pair of ragamuffins.
A tall skinny lady in a red dress stood behind a great big desk. Her eyes bulged behind her glasses. She looked like all the principals I had seen except she didn't have a 3 foot ruler in her hand. I looked around for it but there was none. I had already made up my mind that she or anybody else in that school hadn't earned the right to whip us yet. So she'd best leave the ruler be.
"May I help you, gentlemen?"
I looked at myself, brushed my hair down then Petey's. She didn't talk loud like those other principals.
"Mam, my name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and this is my brother Peter Hamilton Dillahey. My mama, Carrie Mae Hamilton Dillahey, sent me to register us for school. I know there's only three days left before the holidays but my mama says education is important and we should go to school every chance we get. It's okay with me if you don't want us. Then I can go and get a job so I can buy Mama and Petey a Christmas present. That's more important to me than going to school especially in a place that doesn't want us in the first place...we don't stink...."
"Please, Mister Dillahey, sit down." We shuffled backwards into chairs along the wall. Petey had trouble getting on his so I yanked him by the arms and pulled him up. He howled like I was killing him. The lady principal walked from around the desk her hands folded and waited for me to get us situated.
She smiled at Petey and he smiled back, trying not to use the back of his hand as a handkerchief.
"Is Jesus colored?" Petey said. Sometimes he made a whole lot of sense or could say things that made you think. He wasn't really as dumb as you thought he was. I waited for her answer.
"I don't know, Mister Peter Hamilton Dillahey. I guess he's what color you want him to be." That satisfied Petey and he smiled. Then he turned to me.
"She's nice, McQueen. Do you think you could be nice back?"
I threatened Petey with my eyes but he kept smiling waiting for me to answer. I felt Miss Barnes eyes on me and when I looked up at her they were not principal eyes.
"Yes, Petey, I'll be nice back but I don't take orders from a snot nosed kid like you. I'll be nice because I want to. Not because you tell me to." But that little rat just kept on smiling.
When Miss Barnes got finished with us she walked us back to the outer office. Bobby Joe sat on the bench.
"We hope you both enjoy your stay with us," she said. "This is Bobby Joe Bohannon. He'll escort you to your classrooms."
Petey ran to her and wrapped his arms around her. Oh, no, I thought, snotty hands and all. She let him hug her then tilted his head back and wiped his nose with a tissue.
"See, McQueen, she don't hurt like you do." Then he strutted over to Bobby Joe, took his hand and stood waiting for me. And I could just hear that little rat saying "be nice, McQueen, be nice."
Since I was now the head of the Dillahey house I would have to act like a man. A man doesn't cry or whimper or beg. He looks you straight in the eye as he shakes your hand and thanks you for what you need thanking for. If he doesn't get what he wants he takes it like a man and goes on. He keeps on keeping on.
I marched straight to her and looked up into her eyes. "Thank you, Mam," I said, extending my hand. She shook it and said "You are welcome, Mister McQueen Hamilton Dillahey."
I had done my duty. I did like mama wanted. Petey and I'd spend the next three days in school like she wanted. Maybe that could be a Christmas present. But it wouldn't be much under the tree.
So Petey and I spent the next three days at Church Street School. We had a good time and no one, not even Big Banks, was mean to us. Bobbie Joe Bohannon seemed to be every where. And every chance he could Petey had him by the hand.
On the last day before the Christmas holidays the school held its annual Christmas play. Bobby Joe played Santa and read the Night Before Christmas. When he finished all the kids clapped and yelled as he went to Petey, took his hand and led him to the tall Christmas tree in the hall. He whispered to Petey who smiled like I'd never seen him do before. They stood holding hands while a pretty girl sang O Holy Night. I almost cried.
As soon as the last note ended Petey scrambled among the gifts under the tree, grabbed one, and beaming like a Carolina moon, handed it to Bobby Joe who called out the name it belonged to. They had handed out maybe ten gifts when it hit me that there would be no gift for me or Petey. I wasn't concerned about me but it would break Petey's heart. How could I, the man of the house, let this happen to a little guy who had never hurt anyone. God, I wished I had told him the truth about Santa Claus a long time ago. Too late now. And Mama, no present for Mama.
"From Santa to Peter Hamilton Dillahey!"
By this time wrappings filled the air and it was hard to hear over the racket. Again "From Santa to Peter Hamilton Dillahey!"
I heard it this time and so did Petey who stopped dead and stared at Bobby Joe. Oh, no, I thought, he's going to bawl. But he just stood there, smiling, then dropped his chin. Bobby Joe went to him, bent down and gently nudged the little guy's chin up.
"Open it, Petey, it's from Santa to you."
Another boy about Petey's age took over Petey's job while he tore open the present. He pulled out a matching two gun set of Hopalong Cassidy cap busters. Bobby Joe strapped them on Petey who was jumping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. I almost said "Thank you, Lord." But what about Mama?
I was so happy for Petey I didn't feel the big hand pressing down on my shoulder. Big Banks.
"Merry Christmas, white boy," he whispered patting my shoulder and letting a small slender package slide down into my lap. I opened it and found a brand new Barlow knife. I looked for Big Banks but he was gone. Bobby Joe smiled and winked at me.
Mama was so happy when I told her about our last day at school.
"You are a wonderful gift from God, McQueen Hamilton Dillahey" she said that Christmas Eve as we bunched around that stinky old fire place roasting marsh mellows. "My son, you are a blessing."
"Yeah, McQueen, you ain't mean all the time," Petey cut in, drawing a bead on me with his Hopalongs. My Barlow felt solid, substantial, in my pocket and I fingered it just to make sure it was real. It was.
Just before we settled down for the night Mama read us the Christmas story from the gospel of Saint Luke, something she did every Christmas Eve. I could never get beyond the thees and thous but Mama believed it. Every word. You could see the joy busting out of her.
My heart ached for Mama. I did not want to do it but when I got around my selfishness I made up my mind to go out tomorrow, sell my Barlow to get her a present. After all, I'd had it for a whole day and the man of the house can't let childish feelings get in the way of doing his duty. It would be late coming but at least she'd have the present she deserved.
All through the night I worried and wondered why Petey and I had presents but she didn't. The one person in the world who really deserved something, got nothing. I even tried praying for the first time in my life. I mean honest to goodness praying but I got no answer. Several times I got up and put wood on the fire. At least I could see she stayed warm.
Her pretty face glowed in the firelight. I fixed the army blanket up under her chin and lay down close and put my face almost to hers. A little smile kept coming and going on her young lips. Her gentle breath kissed my cheek. Everything about her gentle, kind. I watched her for a while. She seemed so happy and peaceful and I tried to figure out why. I stayed that way until I had to stoke the fire again.
Petey squirmed, searching for his Hopalongs. I helped him find them and he went back to sleep, smiling.
Just before dawn the truth came to me. Mama didn't want presents. She had rather have a gift. I guess I was growing up because suddenly, deep into that long ago Christmas Eve, I realized the difference. A present is of the world. A gift is of love. Though presents are given with love, gifts are love, come from the heart, and give a part of oneself to another. I had given her the most beautiful gift possible: doing what she asked and trusted me to do. I had given myself, my love to her.
As Christmas morning slipped in around the faded shades I leaned over and kissed her.
"Merry Christmas, Mama."
"Merry Christmas, McQueen Hamilton Dillahey...my son."

End

May the Christmas Spirit always find a warm spot in your hearts.
Adios, God Bless, and Happy Trails,
McQueen Hamilton Dillahey

Confederate Hopes

Confederate Hopes

When I told Pa

I was joining up

to fight the Yankees,

he got madder then a wet hen.

"What's wrong with you, boy?

It's not our fight.

We don't own slaves.

Let those rich plantation owners,

who live like kings

and lord it over us small farmers,

get themselves killed,

not a smart boy like you."

I couldn't tell Pa

I hated the farm

and this was my chance

to get away from back-breaking labor,

as well as kill some Yankees

for telling us what to do.

He tried to talk me out of going,

told me how bad it was

when he fought

in the Mexican War,

more soldiers dying of disease

then were killed in battle.

But I wouldn't listen.

My friends were going,

so I was going with them.

Beau said we'd whomp them good

and be home in a month or two.

So despite Pa's warning

I set out on an adventure.

We whupped them bluebellies good

at Manassas,

watched them run like rabbits,

but some of my friends got killed

and some were wounded,

arms and legs smashed,

later cut off by the surgeon.

Little Billy had his head took off

by a cannonball,

his neck gushing blood,

his body standing there

until it finally fell.

It wasn't what I expected.

But Colonel Dunwiddie,

the biggest plantation owner

in our part of South Carolina,

which made him our commander,

told us it would be over soon,

because the Yankees had enough.

So we waited and waited,

more and more boys

sickening and dying

without firing a shot.

And we heard stories

of fighting in the west,

some place called Shiloh,

in Tennessee, or Kentucky,

but General Johnston

just kept us sitting around.

Then General Lee took over.

He was a handsome man.

I wished Pa looked like that.

He got us marching off

to fight the Yankees

at Manassas again

and we whupped them good again,

but this time they didn't run,

just moved back steadily.

and it was clear

them Yankees

was learnin how to fight.

I guess General Lee

figured we had to try

something new,

so we invaded Maryland

and the Yankees met us

at a place called Antietam.

It took a while for me to know

how to say it,

but I'll never forget it.

We stood shoulder to shoulder

shooting at the Yankees

a hundred paces away,

and they did the same thing.

Smoke covered the battlefield,

the roar of cannon,

the crack of rifles

was deafening.

It looked like a picture of hell

in Ma's bible.

Bodies were falling on both sides

like leaves in a storm,

thousands and thousands,

in the bloodiest day I ever saw.

We moved out that night

so I guess we lost the battle.

The Yankees learned how to fight.

I learned something too.

What I thought about the war

was completely wrong.

It wasn't an adventure.

It was a brutal business.

When I said one day

I missed General Johnston

some of the Virginia boys

like to beat the stuffin out of me,

so I learned to shut my mouth.

General Lee marched us off

to a place called Fredericksburg

where we whupped the boys in blue

and watched them retreat again.

They left thousands on the battlefield,

wounded and dead.

So the year ended.

We were still in Virginia

and it was the first time

I hadn't spent Christmas at home

with Pa, Ma and the girls.

Why don't those Yankees give up?

_______________________________

Gary Beck

The above is a poem from 'Voices of War', that reveals a soldier's hopes and fears in the violence of battle, and shows the similarity of war throughout the ages: ‘Confederate Hopes'.

 

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 7 published chapbooks and 2 others accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways (Winter Goose Publishing). Perceptions and Displays will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts of Defiance (Artema Press). His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City

Independently Wealthy

Idgie Says:

This is a shout out for Lorraine's newest novel.  If you read New Money, you definitely want to find out what happens next!

________________________

Independently Wealthy

A Novel

Lorraine Zago Rosenthal
Thomas Dunne Books

In Lorraine Zago Rosenthal's sequel to New Money, Savannah Morgan delves into the mystery of her late media mogul father’s death and uncovers more than she ever expected.
In New Money, Savannah Morgan was thrust into high society New York when she learned she was the sole heir to her media mogul father’s billion dollar fortune. In Independently Wealthy she is living her dream life on the Upper West Side, excelling at her job as an editorial assistant, and enjoying her handsome new boyfriend, Alex.

Everything in Savannah’s life should be perfect—except she can’t ignore the mystery of her father’s death. Her hopes of solving this complicated and dangerous mystery are shared by Caroline Stone—her newfound sister who is slowly becoming a friend. Savannah decides to investigate, but not everyone wants Savannah to know the truth. Her domineering older brother, Ned has his own problems, including a lingering regret over his recent divorce, the constant pressure of running the Stone media empire, and managing a playboy bachelorhood. As Savannah's quest for the truth becomes more complicated and dangerous she is led to Washington, D.C., an alluring stranger, and more surprises, trouble, and changes than she ever could have imagined.

Readers will be swept away by Savannah Morgan once again as she unravels the mystery of her father’s death on Capitol Hill with all the charm and perseverance of when she first arrived in New York City.

INDEPENDENTLY WEALTHY

12/1       JENNIFER VIDO                                               ‘TOP PICKS’ + GIVEAWAY

12/1       CHICK LIT CENTRAL                                       ‘BOOKSHELF’

12/1       THE BEVY BIBLIOTHEQUE                            REVIEW + GIVEAWAY

12/2       BOOK MAMA                                                   REVIEW + GIVEAWAY

12/2       THE READING DATE                                       EXCERPT + REVIEW

12/2       JENNIFER VIDO                                               EXCERPT

12/3       A SOUTHERN GIRLS BOOKSHELF                 EXCERPT + GIVEAWAY

12/3       DEW ON THE KUDZU                                     ‘SPOTLIGHT’

12/4       RATHER BE READING                                     REVIEW + GIVEAWAY

12/5       LUXURY READING                                          GIVEAWAY

12/6       HARLEQUIN JUNKIE                                       ‘SPOTLIGHT’

12/8       BOOKS IN THE BURBS                                   INTERVIEW + GIVEAWAY

12/9       LOVING YA LIT                                                EXCERPT + GIVEAWAY

12/10    CHAPTER CHICKS                                            EXCERPT + GIVEAWAY

12/11    THE HIDING SPOT                                           REVIEW + INTERVIEW

12/12    DREAM WITHIN A DREAM                            EXCERPT + INTERVIEW + GIVEAWAY

12/15    JUMP INTO BOOKS                                        EXCERPT + GIVEAWAY

12/16    INKBITTEN                                                       REVIEW

12/17    WILLA’S RAMBLINGS                                     REVIEW + INTERVIEW

12/18    WINDOW SEAT ON A RAINY DAY ‘SPOTLIGHT’ + GIVEAWAY

12/18    WRITE MEG!                                                    REVIEW

12/19    KAYLA’S READS AND REVIEWS                    EXCERPT

12/22    THE READING FRENZY                                   ‘SHOWCASE’ + INTERVIEW