tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68362321585887774652024-03-05T14:38:29.314-05:00Strong Words That Matter, by Beth KanellVermont author Beth Kanell is intrigued by poetry, history, mystery, and the things we are all willing to sacrifice for -- at any age. Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger291125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-57586421066162109232024-02-07T19:48:00.004-05:002024-02-07T19:48:46.655-05:00More Than One Road to Get There<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzJU774Z_PNp8oyQxvw8RZADzYLzHTjH8u1KKUxcmpuSbMCs5nCdsM0kEhA6Svc2mBLSy_szHq43KDl8N6hMCHZJmwT8oFLX5HUicLmYYIGbv_NJdKkT029cJ0XxV4IUMaLL7uO361PqKQ-cUvqhYTypeWk5JQTBaR-xA0pqXiICwYuxWsMFJDrDHdBM/s3088/IMG_7312.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzJU774Z_PNp8oyQxvw8RZADzYLzHTjH8u1KKUxcmpuSbMCs5nCdsM0kEhA6Svc2mBLSy_szHq43KDl8N6hMCHZJmwT8oFLX5HUicLmYYIGbv_NJdKkT029cJ0XxV4IUMaLL7uO361PqKQ-cUvqhYTypeWk5JQTBaR-xA0pqXiICwYuxWsMFJDrDHdBM/s320/IMG_7312.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br />I've been writing "segments" of my life, most of them taking place in northeastern Vermont, for more than three years now on the platform <a href="https://bethkanell.medium.com/">Medium.com</a>. A gap in my usual copyediting labors in January gave me "bandwidth" to begin a second set of strands there, on <a href="https://code.likeagirl.io/">Code Like A Girl.</a> It probes how I've related to and worked from my STEM background -- I'm a chemist by training, as well as a writer.</p><p>What I'm discovering as I lay out this second pathway through my life is that "telling the story" from any chosen direction is very different. It's like taking the interstate from one end of Vermont to the other, or relaxing on old Route 5, or (most time-consuming of course) taking detours when they appeal. Obviously, the journey takes different amounts of time. But it also seems to glow in different colors, maybe different wavelengths. </p><p>I'm enjoying discovering that the telling of a life is a rainbow of words. Or, on my best days, fireworks.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietNSRNLssC6Q_yTSQXg1FpXrZv_JYAQzDzd7LhxaeG6ad7mlwceKXg7SWWQRf4GG4m-GvimptBmjvMVhvjXHH5s8sn7F6dIhHSv0b127MhatUbmHw992BdltEuktPoX-8EpWvzNTOv_w5d1cfoJTQBgf4soiIYToYWapTwzLxYhAwAIG5Ckrx9G8NBxI/s4032/IMG_5829.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietNSRNLssC6Q_yTSQXg1FpXrZv_JYAQzDzd7LhxaeG6ad7mlwceKXg7SWWQRf4GG4m-GvimptBmjvMVhvjXHH5s8sn7F6dIhHSv0b127MhatUbmHw992BdltEuktPoX-8EpWvzNTOv_w5d1cfoJTQBgf4soiIYToYWapTwzLxYhAwAIG5Ckrx9G8NBxI/w362-h482/IMG_5829.jpeg" width="362" /></a></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-72327575163790486362024-01-27T13:58:00.003-05:002024-01-27T14:01:17.527-05:00Deepening Sherlock Holmes: New from Laurie R. King, THE LANTERN'S DANCE<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvP-OCcmAl1wWAJtVmBa6mhldH0amf81NZ09FYErbuBJGry-oY3D5iD2sDcNUv2U5vChyebnUcYuDv4cpSNEVBeS5GRnSDOVQrmExnJOm1eQtXSfH_p5y1uHVmDWcpvfnqH3S1yHZoQHoZMfm_RePUSRHDcPMdtQ2XVPNO65L4HnL1YKgrZHUIY6rdvg/s450/9780593496596.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="296" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvP-OCcmAl1wWAJtVmBa6mhldH0amf81NZ09FYErbuBJGry-oY3D5iD2sDcNUv2U5vChyebnUcYuDv4cpSNEVBeS5GRnSDOVQrmExnJOm1eQtXSfH_p5y1uHVmDWcpvfnqH3S1yHZoQHoZMfm_RePUSRHDcPMdtQ2XVPNO65L4HnL1YKgrZHUIY6rdvg/w310-h473/9780593496596.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><br />When seeking entertainment, it's not entirely fair, I know, to have to consider a literary definition first -- but if you haven't yet fallen for the Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes series by <a href="https://laurierking.com/">Laurie R. King</a>, which marks 30 years in 2024, you'll benefit from the definition of pastiche: "A <b>pastiche</b> is a work of visual art, literature, theatre, music, or architecture that imitates the style or character of the work of one or more other artists. Unlike parody, pastiche pays homage to the work it imitates, rather than mocking it."<p></p><p>There are many books that wear the pastiche label with pride. Perhaps the largest group of them is made up of books that take Sherlock Holmes into new cases (and there are some now that work from the original minor character of his landlady, too, which I find fascinating). A Holmes aficionado may decline to read such books — they're not written by the long-dead A. Conan Doyle, and even the best of them can't entirely match Doyle's style and tongue.</p><p>But New York City's <a href="https://www.mysteriousbookshop.com">The Mysterious Bookshop</a>, which described itself as the oldest mystery bookshop in the world, devotes almost as much shelf space to Holmes pastiche and parodies as it gives to the original works. I share this photo from the shop's Facebook feed (thank you, Otto Penzler and team) to make the point:</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIKzs95srh7zkUgyGdCZ2Rp14F2aOwTxi8lAooz039E36B3mRTRcDysBq59h2hch1Lunyu0NLOf0HcVmiedv81UUKhwZE1KnJv2GOmTEPZqy4cPaOBxAkRYm1FEE3hDfXgVBdl831AW20huR_Tc2NIzVA8LU505X5DrQ0ZvqFoAyiOpq73pqQUj3uZwg/s1350/418728999_18410772709040918_7683608280096461561_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIKzs95srh7zkUgyGdCZ2Rp14F2aOwTxi8lAooz039E36B3mRTRcDysBq59h2hch1Lunyu0NLOf0HcVmiedv81UUKhwZE1KnJv2GOmTEPZqy4cPaOBxAkRYm1FEE3hDfXgVBdl831AW20huR_Tc2NIzVA8LU505X5DrQ0ZvqFoAyiOpq73pqQUj3uZwg/w411-h514/418728999_18410772709040918_7683608280096461561_n.jpg" width="411" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Relevant bookshelves at The Mysterious Bookshop.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>So I'm far from alone in treasuring Laurie R. King's lively series. This year King brings us THE LANTERN'S DANCE, and expands the art of pastiche into new Holmesian terrain: the childhood of the great sleuth, and its harsh conflicts and puzzles.</p><p>For the most part, King's series has reflected mostly the point of view of Mary Russell, who meets Holmes when she's in her teens and he is old enough to retire—but, as Holmes readers know, such idleness (even leavened by his hobby of beekeeping) won't suit the sleuth, and in fact would plunge him into the dangerous waters of drug use, his shelter when he's bored.</p><p>So in King's hands, Holmes and Russell find each other's deepest needs met by first a mentoring relationship, then friendship, and finally marriage. The most recent books of the series have revealed the surprise that Holmes has a son, Damian Adler. Holmes hadn't realized that his "one woman" from the original work, Irene Adler, became pregnant in their affaire. The simple reason is, Irene didn't allow him to know! In adulthood, Damian needed Holmes's assistance and broke through the secrecy that had separated them ... but didn't, of course, reveal all.</p><p>As THE LANTERN'S DANCE opens, Holmes and a slightly handicapped Russell (sprained ankle) arrive at Damian's home in France, where they expect to spend time with him, his daughter, and the petite and intelligent Scottish doctor he's soon to marry. Alas, the housekeeper and her husband inform the arriving couple that the Adler "family" has decamped. The reason is quickly clear: Someone broke into their home while they were asleep, and the level of threat shocked them. </p><p>Challenges multiply: Holmes, of course, must protect his newly established family from the threat -- but is this a threat due to something in Damian's past, or an enemy of Holmes himself, or an effort to pressure his brother Mycroft? As he races off to apply his considerable skills of disguise and investigation, Russell is left behind at the Adler home and discovers a coded manuscript that calls on all of her linguistic and scholarly background to determine what it says and, most importantly, what it means, for Holmes, Damian, and herself.</p><p>As a pastiche, the book is cleverly done and probes the birth family of the mythical sleuth; language and customs are well matched to the historical period, and King has reached a superb level of narrative. The familial mysteries that unfold (including in India!) fit well with the original Holmes, and are intriguing and quirky. As a novel, its biggest challenge is the author's decision to use three narrators: Russell, Holmes, and the woman who penned the discovered manuscript. Although they are clearly delineated, this device keeps the action mostly at the surface because there just isn't enough time within the "speech" any of the three voices to dip into the emotional quandaries that King has explored in some earlier books.</p><p>Nonetheless, for any reader of the series, this is a must-have addition. Those just starting an acquaintance with Mary Russell should probably go back a few titles—maybe not all the way to <i>The Beekeeper's Apprentice</i>, but at least to the closely knit titles <i>The Language of Bees</i> and <i>The God of the Hive</i>, to make best sense of the importance of the events in this new volume.</p><p>My personal favorites of the series are <i>The Moor, O Jerusalem</i>, and <i>Justice Hall</i>, and I recommend those to anyone dabbling in King's river of pastiche and her insight into how a young woman might best partner such a difficult yet rewarding spouse as the great Sherlock Holmes. Each of these also brings me much pleasure and education as I continue to work at the writer's craft myself.<br /></p><p>THE LANTERN'S DANCE has a February 13, 2024, release date. Don't judge it by the simple cover, or by the cryptic title. There's a very enjoyable read, within.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-40808252291723040872024-01-12T11:34:00.000-05:002024-01-12T11:34:57.083-05:00"Ekphrastic Challenge" and the Moon Shot<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixJGCUvXQoYiqXj5fu2ZLpP8NK5xXjZCPAvEkwzbZ9csZ80nJmWuk8jRdZ6jYZu_sQYPTzQeaiiIO-bVu2Aq7eiqERGgIcyL3WGkLntH9HZj-pUoBf64tDiX0D74XBQnlzliJ9WBYcKUOqfqLmWwHuP-av6ym5ECJF7PEnWQuH_jWPumuh55epPkOSSkE/s2048/1-23-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixJGCUvXQoYiqXj5fu2ZLpP8NK5xXjZCPAvEkwzbZ9csZ80nJmWuk8jRdZ6jYZu_sQYPTzQeaiiIO-bVu2Aq7eiqERGgIcyL3WGkLntH9HZj-pUoBf64tDiX0D74XBQnlzliJ9WBYcKUOqfqLmWwHuP-av6ym5ECJF7PEnWQuH_jWPumuh55epPkOSSkE/w495-h371/1-23-16.jpg" width="495" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave and I went to Littleton in January 2016 to hear Chris Christie in person—Dave's way of listening and inquiring.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />The literary journal <i>Rattle</i> offers a monthly "ekphrastic" challenge, where poets write from what the presented artwork suggests. The challenge was on my to-do list today. I shocked myself by writing a political campaign poem, nothing I'd ever considered doing.</p><p>But the roots of this action were clear: Earlier today, to provide support for a very ill teen, I looked up some of the memorable quotes from John F. Kennedy, whose years as US President marked my life. Well, I was young and naive! It hurt, years later, to learn some of his flaws, see the shadowy nature of his "feet of clay." </p><p>Yet many of his words (yes, co-written by Ted Sorenson) still inspire me:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfDVlOlL85Bfm4V8-mVFgITwA4YGhstDNkTMoWbCuZFcc8Cnajk7aDZxsnmHReLGxylqKYqdSBFeNdDFguaqT23GqyaXAXqzUFxjHrhRzGraBepvqKpBT8XaQtmwidGoNJ22MsGwi5e3C8KNnBha2GEQ4EK27M4iIBxnFtcWWW4aa2QOzX3UsYjS0o4s/s1852/JFK%20quotes%202.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1852" data-original-width="1150" height="742" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfDVlOlL85Bfm4V8-mVFgITwA4YGhstDNkTMoWbCuZFcc8Cnajk7aDZxsnmHReLGxylqKYqdSBFeNdDFguaqT23GqyaXAXqzUFxjHrhRzGraBepvqKpBT8XaQtmwidGoNJ22MsGwi5e3C8KNnBha2GEQ4EK27M4iIBxnFtcWWW4aa2QOzX3UsYjS0o4s/w462-h742/JFK%20quotes%202.png" width="462" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXYKdvuoq3DkKO0MUbQJzV0EbMnMYXu9SwgC_7rr-v0VjyzHf1Npk2tHFU9Q6HLy8YqtR3hU4WA-TAYr2vr3gzKtaPGWbkiz34gYeltfTyYZBRPFS9JsuKQz6GYNDNKhtUqQ5sw9XvVs2XArgEggp3pX9k17KHN0LP3nv877LQLLpQQGDMTsWic96LDi4/s1614/JFK%20quotes.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1614" data-original-width="1374" height="571" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXYKdvuoq3DkKO0MUbQJzV0EbMnMYXu9SwgC_7rr-v0VjyzHf1Npk2tHFU9Q6HLy8YqtR3hU4WA-TAYr2vr3gzKtaPGWbkiz34gYeltfTyYZBRPFS9JsuKQz6GYNDNKhtUqQ5sw9XvVs2XArgEggp3pX9k17KHN0LP3nv877LQLLpQQGDMTsWic96LDi4/w485-h571/JFK%20quotes.png" width="485" /></a></div><br /><p>So here's a relevant (and now "vintage") postcard image, showing how JFK's moon program continued, after his assassination:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjue-ZMuPyIAtYLbC8yKybWW-pE_dSeVwe3U0hkWvSlawHI85Z0XCuwoBuo4e7Rb7vR8vPMittfDddK0cYk98-6PNnavrH1U_g-OqUdcLrCF4DHFQNvmW131SVxOeKePoCEg4jnwvxKor8USMG-jRtsrJrCBX65eE46Xnwet3-xtrB5WBHVABZj7r_H-Eg/s2186/Apollo%2011%20moon%20landing.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2186" data-original-width="1400" height="559" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjue-ZMuPyIAtYLbC8yKybWW-pE_dSeVwe3U0hkWvSlawHI85Z0XCuwoBuo4e7Rb7vR8vPMittfDddK0cYk98-6PNnavrH1U_g-OqUdcLrCF4DHFQNvmW131SVxOeKePoCEg4jnwvxKor8USMG-jRtsrJrCBX65eE46Xnwet3-xtrB5WBHVABZj7r_H-Eg/w358-h559/Apollo%2011%20moon%20landing.jpeg" width="358" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-8865239440716746582024-01-10T19:02:00.007-05:002024-01-10T21:29:14.854-05:00A Little Kanell History: From Russia, With Love<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHJS1GRYLJu6wQSd0UYPGKQRJn0Gv5MkEXLLb37tYLbAcEeaeNQ3iO5cLaYeWzlU71mbf32PwbYZCIL-v0P01gv4EIytxGNw0e_l9luSmeP-aJMNJOYg0FdpZR5Mt26bLnn-Xf-BC6Rgg0H8AImg3GixOW7XnTpc4cRFIfhGeocaWCvJ6hyphenhyphenlQgCvVSXY/s2048/Joseph%20Kanell.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1375" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHJS1GRYLJu6wQSd0UYPGKQRJn0Gv5MkEXLLb37tYLbAcEeaeNQ3iO5cLaYeWzlU71mbf32PwbYZCIL-v0P01gv4EIytxGNw0e_l9luSmeP-aJMNJOYg0FdpZR5Mt26bLnn-Xf-BC6Rgg0H8AImg3GixOW7XnTpc4cRFIfhGeocaWCvJ6hyphenhyphenlQgCvVSXY/w332-h494/Joseph%20Kanell.jpg" width="332" /></a></div><br />I spent a while working on my husband Dave's side of the family tree today. It's almost five years now since Dave's death, and I'm rusty on details, so it took half an hour of document diving to confirm what I thought I remembered: that Dave's grandfather Joe Kanell had been a grocer in New Haven, Connecticut, in the 1930s. I didn't want to accidentally pass along a mistaken detail ... and I had a poem in mind.<p></p><p>This photo of Joe Kanell, at age 47, shows him on board a ship in 1935, circling the globe, going to see his relatives in Vilna, also called Vilnius. The city was part of Lithuania, which at the time was governed by Russia -- when Joe immigrated to the United States in 1905 he declared himself "Russian," and later Census documents show that both Joe and his wife Yetta considered themselves to have been Russian before they became American. They described their parents as Russian, too.</p><p>In addition to being Russian, they were Jews, and knew the risk of pogroms, organized massacres that targeted people who identified with this religion. Yet in 1935, when Joe came from America to visit the rest of the family, they must have felt "safe enough," because none of them kept Joe company on his return to New Haven. The photo here shows Joe on his way to Vilna, Dave wrote.<br /></p><p>In 1941, German forces occupied Vilna and liquidated -- that is, murdered -- its Jewish population. Imagine murdering a quarter of a city ... despite fierce resistance from the Jews of Vilna, that's what took place. (<a href="https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/vilna">Read more here</a>.)</p><p>When I met Dave in 2001, his grandfather was long gone -- died in 1969 -- and in Dave's mind, just a few Kanells were slaughtered in Vilna during the Second World War. A few years after we married, one of his cousins from outside New Haven, someone he hadn't known well, showed him a photo taken in Vilna of grandfather Joe and the Kanell family there: more than 30 people. Dave's concept of what had happened needed to be completely shifted, and I'm not sure he ever stopped reeling at the new knowledge of how many of his family had been killed.</p><p>So here is a poem for Joe and his family. I hope I have most of the pertinent details right. And I hope this wondering is of use to others along the way.</p><p> </p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Unasked Questions</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He leans on the ship railing, white collar buttoned,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">tie and a cardigan, gives a wide smile—</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">no clue now to who took the picture, and Joe,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">forty-seven then, gone such a while.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nine decades later, wondering who </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">watched his grocery— wife Yetta, still well?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What did it cost to sail around the world?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ship fare, the store losses—no way to tell.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But this is the story passed down for years:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His family lived in a Russian city</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and he tried to persuade them to leave, to come</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to America’s freedoms—alas, what a pity</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">that nobody wanted to follow him back.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For decades we thought there were two or three lost</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">then saw an old photo of Joe and the crowd</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">who vanished soon after, and found out the cost:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two dozen or more of the Russian Kanells</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">were gone in a decade of war and disaster.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How did he bear it? How did he go on?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet we know he delighted in grandchildren after—</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">tossing a baseball, applauding their skills,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">launching them upward, helping them grow.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We who are wondering how we’ll survive</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">try to live with our losses, like grandfather Joe.</p>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="x193iq5w">This post is in honor of my Grandfather
Joseph Kanell (July 4, 1888 to Oct 18, 1969) who chose his birthday to be on
July 4th because the United States was a land of opportunity & freedoms.
From Vilna, Lithuania to New York City & then New Haven, Ct area. Have a
great 4th today. I should also note that my grandmother Kanell also chose the
4th of July for her birthday. My grandparents always had the American Flag
flying at every holiday.</span><br />
<span class="x193iq5w">This is a photograph of my grandfather aboard a ship on
the way to visit his relatives in Vilna, Lithuania in 1935. This was the last
time that he had any contact with his family from the Vilna area and in all
probability they all perished in the Holocaust.]</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-59901955045355614702024-01-08T12:26:00.004-05:002024-01-08T18:56:03.774-05:00What Could Happen Next? Are You Ready?<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5UqHXoNV_ysoiPXZHuJ1ZSYEsMlyazLtEPFDBLXdBtlOIfHNS_UQ1zA5SkQHcM9eUFL_FehSi7MEJFZQ2wKWNxeG2H8WmMCgzO5uEJgrx0VQ2qiQjMkN-Wt6fdAhoD3ywXmb9lADxAX2VUva9_Ya5smCv_mSK7L-i10-2_CX-X07rQnZ36of8jtv_qk/s2048/20819581_10155757938787642_7502914684180724245_o.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5UqHXoNV_ysoiPXZHuJ1ZSYEsMlyazLtEPFDBLXdBtlOIfHNS_UQ1zA5SkQHcM9eUFL_FehSi7MEJFZQ2wKWNxeG2H8WmMCgzO5uEJgrx0VQ2qiQjMkN-Wt6fdAhoD3ywXmb9lADxAX2VUva9_Ya5smCv_mSK7L-i10-2_CX-X07rQnZ36of8jtv_qk/w348-h464/20819581_10155757938787642_7502914684180724245_o.jpg" width="348" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave, being a good sport at our niece decorates him at my birthday lunch.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />"Hope for the best and prepare for the worst." The phrase dates back to the eighteenth century, according to one online source. It could easily be a New England expression, from the folks who brought you the following interaction: "Lived here all your life?" "Not yet!"<p></p><p>Another version of the saying comes from author Maya Angelou: "Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between." </p><p>My mother Joan would have turned that around completely: Although life came with challenges (you try raising five kids, on a budget, and cutting your own hair), she prepared for good things to happen. That is, she prepared those good things ... trips in the old VW bus that rambled back roads and arrived at a store that sold thousands upon thousands of buttons, for instance; a cooler full of sandwich fixings and apples; exploring a Revolutionary War battlefield on the day of the week when the historic house was closed, so the only people running around the green fields and clambering onto the massive cannons were, you guessed it, her five kids.</p><p>Vermont winters can lure a person into constant preparation for the worst, of course. Your vehicle should include jumper cables, flashlight with good batteries, jack and its handle, wrenches, screwdriver, shovel, and optionally (for getting out of snowbanks or off ice) a bag of sand or unused kitty litter, a scrap of old carpeting, even a purpose-made length of metal grating to tuck under a tire. Keep adding to that, and you can lose a full seating location. Or if the gear is on the floor, everyone will learn to watch their feet.</p><p>Another situation that bends the arc of preparation toward risk and danger is a family member with a long-term illness. I used to have a basic first-aid kit in the glovebox and would note those friends who needed to add an "epi-pen" (for severe allergies) or asthma inhaler to their preparations. Traveling with kids means any prep involving bottles of beverages or packets of food will need endless replacement, though.</p><p>What I'm thinking of today, inside at the desk, a foot of fresh snow outdoors, a small patch of blue sky poking through to signal noon, is that almost none of the "prepare for the worst" strategies I implemented for life with a terminally ill husband turned out important. Some weren't even useful. Dave couldn't face writing a will, so I wrote my own as an example that he resolutely ignored, and then it turned out that by "letting him do things his own way," I ended up financially crippled. Unpredictable, really. Nor did my efforts to stay on top of CPR pay off; I was almost sure he'd die of his enormous, caring, and blood-starved heart quietly failing in his sleep. I was wrong on that one. The long list of emergency phone numbers also went unused, because his final days involved only one number, that for the hospice nursing coordinator, who calmly sent trained personnel as needed.</p><p>On the other hand, preparing for the best really paid off. We visited San Francisco three years in a row, buying books that thrilled us. I bought and planted trees with all my birthday money, and even though I had to sell the house after Dave's death, those trees are thriving and I rejoice when I drive past the "old place." Dave invested in creative designs (his own!) of birthday and Valentine's Day cards for me, and each one of them delights me. I keep them in a handy place, for joy.</p><p>"Know trouble will come, but prepare for happiness." I think that's closer to what I'm finding useful now. "Widow world," as I call it, has a share of loss and endlessly missing someone -- but it also confirms such delights, each time I find Dave's handwriting on a sticky-tag in some research, or consult his address book to connect with old friends.</p><p>Hold onto the love. Make room for smiles and full tummies and the colors of the sky, the trees, the birds ... and the bright cards in the drawer.<br /></p><h1 class="quoteText"><br /></h1>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-12529590301163113632023-12-30T13:06:00.005-05:002023-12-30T13:17:02.844-05:00"Crossing Over the Moose": A Finalist in the Northwind Treasury (Mooselook Diner!)<p><span style="font-size: large;"> Crossing Over the Moose </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> by Beth Kanell, 2023<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It’s a funny name for a diner. Newcomers</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">stare around: the sign says Mooselook,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and maybe the back table will show them one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antlers! Long legs! Maybe they even cook</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">wild harvests here. If deer meat is venison</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and pigs become pork, what do you call—</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">they scan the menu, but there’s no sign</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of butchered moose at all. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tentative, uncertain, they work their way</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">through blue-plate names, special dishes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The waitress, bright smile, sparkling stud</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">at the side of her nose, collects wishes</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">for eggs over easy, a turkey plate with just</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">a little gravy. Home fries on the side, much</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">ordered, always piping hot. Pickled beets. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Vermont homestyle with a chef’s touch.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Me, I take my usual table, watch the door,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">see who’s coming in—I have a hunch</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">that my two friends may be running late</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">but they’re on time for noon lunch.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With a nod to the window, satisfied,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">they note the water view, smile:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s the Moose River out there, wide</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">as the day’s options. Framed in style.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Going home after, I cross the bridge</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">while at the water’s edge a man stands</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">patient with a fishing rod. I pass; he reels</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">his line back in, casts, capable hands.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">People who haven’t lost don’t guess </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the way old passions stir and swirl below.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was a man who kept my heart. He died. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I find him in each new crossing. I think he’d know.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjag8V8_cuP5CjqlFucpWHXBBn0sLIVsaB-AZEjxce1jrj1020dd_dpOS76rK1QDBrMc84lFN_cO2EUm-O8UlOZ4tjKN5req2t2MtsqTxSGga1W5Yof7-VcgkBqjBuGP2ZwCarD86v3Et0mCL1qXTdBvCDdNt4NmwXRXSp_WXvnlISm9KCta4eziFKwlw0/s4032/IMG_4413.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="485" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjag8V8_cuP5CjqlFucpWHXBBn0sLIVsaB-AZEjxce1jrj1020dd_dpOS76rK1QDBrMc84lFN_cO2EUm-O8UlOZ4tjKN5req2t2MtsqTxSGga1W5Yof7-VcgkBqjBuGP2ZwCarD86v3Et0mCL1qXTdBvCDdNt4NmwXRXSp_WXvnlISm9KCta4eziFKwlw0/w364-h485/IMG_4413.jpeg" width="364" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the Moose, from the Mooselook Diner.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7AzFwxbxWqr_4zCeyWdrxPU0rtukzw9WL4xw3HCyQj368vEMoXMfLP1gM9HKvNi1bZdEX7ASklhRsE1N8i5j7IZyj1oe9ALKFiGVgt4pwsSEH0FdrkSU5a7QQjkU-3snwqwo5vHGPBRXDnSwQZQsvZI-5Np5d5gq16F99eg7maTur40cJMfUBWkHwUR0/s4032/IMG_7985.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="411" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7AzFwxbxWqr_4zCeyWdrxPU0rtukzw9WL4xw3HCyQj368vEMoXMfLP1gM9HKvNi1bZdEX7ASklhRsE1N8i5j7IZyj1oe9ALKFiGVgt4pwsSEH0FdrkSU5a7QQjkU-3snwqwo5vHGPBRXDnSwQZQsvZI-5Np5d5gq16F99eg7maTur40cJMfUBWkHwUR0/w547-h411/IMG_7985.jpeg" width="547" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mooselook Diner's Kevin Fontecha, with the published poem.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_N64Uu_TZYClC7wjtQnYBU6elD9fj_tStUBW_Fz5QaveEzhZAaMvJcg6k1UPyJZWETvJc8vfJd5Syqo5p1RIcYRTGKnmdlSoTMVrHEyS0GzrFYVHRV4IfLhukywY5iigvmOubdu40-LnLVKvNPBC_kq7XMxY2Yvws0BwFK4DwZGT1gJXQlDqxPzwyTrk/s960/413868319_10161868847862642_4456328587067428639_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="592" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_N64Uu_TZYClC7wjtQnYBU6elD9fj_tStUBW_Fz5QaveEzhZAaMvJcg6k1UPyJZWETvJc8vfJd5Syqo5p1RIcYRTGKnmdlSoTMVrHEyS0GzrFYVHRV4IfLhukywY5iigvmOubdu40-LnLVKvNPBC_kq7XMxY2Yvws0BwFK4DwZGT1gJXQlDqxPzwyTrk/w444-h592/413868319_10161868847862642_4456328587067428639_n.jpg" width="444" /></a></div><p></p><p>AND: If you'd like to get a copy of the book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/2023-Northwind-Treasury-Amanda-Trout/dp/1960991132/ref=sr_1_1?crid=36BPFPHZPF6IR&keywords=2023+northwind+treasury&qid=1703960165&sprefix=2023+northwind+treasury%2Caps%2C94&sr=8-1">it's on Amazon here</a>! <br /></p><p></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-58142048390610899572023-12-20T20:26:00.007-05:002023-12-20T20:35:42.494-05:00Combining Vermont, Love, Loss, and Literary -- It's Been a Big Poetry Month<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gFByuZ9LVuVznmFplw7XEcK1Cy3X_6SB-K8zs7fiq2Qq3BJ_Jhyphenhyphen3qLYb4jva-h78q7sycgqRbjlPdzjza-LPQJ7_6rGWoQNAVJ46EoL9WV9tIHUPW-b1oMjZRbTjs_puPgVMIPpnWxGsJAVCPi56QuwHhmOPZcMXKekv1CUZWW4q3-o6yztfo7PaMDs/s1280/Nov%2029%202017%20haircut%20for%20cancer%20treatment.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gFByuZ9LVuVznmFplw7XEcK1Cy3X_6SB-K8zs7fiq2Qq3BJ_Jhyphenhyphen3qLYb4jva-h78q7sycgqRbjlPdzjza-LPQJ7_6rGWoQNAVJ46EoL9WV9tIHUPW-b1oMjZRbTjs_puPgVMIPpnWxGsJAVCPi56QuwHhmOPZcMXKekv1CUZWW4q3-o6yztfo7PaMDs/w454-h341/Nov%2029%202017%20haircut%20for%20cancer%20treatment.jpg" width="454" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My short haircut from Dec. 2017, when I didn't know whether breast cancer surgery and treatment might make it too hard to wash and brush my longer (and increasingly silvered) curls.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p>As a person with decades in recovery from alcohol abuse (it's a long time ago now, but I have no intention of picking up a "first drink" even though time has passed), I'm especially impressed with the online literary magazine <i>Anti-Heroin Chic</i>. It's an "anti-drug addiction safe space" where writers can express pain ... and of course, relief. So I'm touched and honored that the winter issue features two of my poems: "From Nails to Screws" reflects part of the journey I've made to set aside my Dad's well-meant but very dangerous instructions for life as a woman. And "In the Very Air" brings you first to Harvey's Lake in Barnet, Vermont, where I finished raising my sons, and then to my front porch "now" -- the place where I can see both the land's beauty and the tragedy of climate change. </p><p><a href="https://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/poetry-by-beth-kanell">Here's the link to those two poems.</a></p><p>Another online magazine that's become a favorite of mine is <i>Persimmon Tree</i>, which offers space especially to older women writers. You can find my poem "Breast Cancer, 5 Years After," which is pretty fierce -- <a href="https://persimmontree.org/winter-2024/poets-of-the-eastern-states/?fbclid=IwAR2RxtX8M3KHOoLxYVg7Gq6ymzpHivW8oEyDiKVtInDzSXXmiM2lZmCJeqk">click here and scroll down quite a ways</a>, browsing other intriguing work along the way.</p><p>The winter issue of <i>Persimmon Tree</i> also includes a "likes/dislikes" list of mine, in the fashion launched by Susan Sontag. Because there are a lot of those, they are being rotated day by day, so if you don't see my list when <a href="https://persimmontree.org/winter-2024/what-i-like-what-i-dislike">you first click here</a>, take a look at some other time. Or, if you don't have time to visit twice ... here you go, without the attractive graphics of the magazine:</p><p></p><div class="no-indentation"><u></u><blockquote><u>Things I like: </u>hard rain on the roof, new snow, bonfires, fresh cinnamon, pillowcases, signed books, watercolors, chipmunks, <i>Star Wars</i> music, double rainbows, nickels, dark chocolate, globes, rowboats, comb honey, toast.<br />
<br />
<u>Things I dislike:</u> an empty mailbox, stale mushrooms, herbicides, crumbs
in bed, pigs, cheap cheesecake, splinters, garlic before breakfast,
collapsed barns, diesel fumes, hammers, nylon petticoats, socks that
slide down, malice.</blockquote></div><div class="no-indentation"> </div><div class="no-indentation">**</div><div class="no-indentation"> </div><div class="no-indentation">This month also includes publication of "Crossing Over the Moose," as an honorable mention by Raw Earth Ink and therefore included in <i>The 2023 Northwind Treasury</i>, an anthology coming from Alaska. I'll post a photo when my copy arrives!</div><div class="no-indentation"> </div><div class="no-indentation">I've also settled into writing about one segment per week for <a href="https://bethkanell.medium.com/">my "story of my life" (aka memoir), on the platform Medium.</a> You should be able to see a few of these chapters when you first visit; after a bit, Medium will ask you to subscribe to the platform. That will give you access to thousands of authors, and you'll recognize many of their names right away -- as well as getting acquainted with rising stars of the literary world.</div><div class="no-indentation"> </div><div class="no-indentation">Now I've got to get back to some holiday baking. May your browsing give you a break from your own stresses, and maybe some hope and pleasure as you go. <br /></div> <br /><p><br /><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-21347302219885281042023-11-26T11:43:00.003-05:002023-11-26T11:43:25.474-05:00Cute and Sweet "Cozy" Mystery: SPOON TO BE DEAD by Dana Mentink<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiyl5cAS1nw0y2XQI6reH9MV19KtVdHsutbEpKns_qHlXQcI8i-Ift64wNBcEB7Qf-a-JEN2g9uff0k0x_mqwxukgFKE7IrNc8sOuowXIAYcJVbHw4Rxu-ajh1vyI-RzVJ3qz7Ud9eleIZ3Whid0_FJK54m4DZryJUSAocXQFhGnZYuX1wNRfhWHHBPdE/s410/book-spoon-to-be-dead-author-dana-mentink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiyl5cAS1nw0y2XQI6reH9MV19KtVdHsutbEpKns_qHlXQcI8i-Ift64wNBcEB7Qf-a-JEN2g9uff0k0x_mqwxukgFKE7IrNc8sOuowXIAYcJVbHw4Rxu-ajh1vyI-RzVJ3qz7Ud9eleIZ3Whid0_FJK54m4DZryJUSAocXQFhGnZYuX1wNRfhWHHBPdE/s320/book-spoon-to-be-dead-author-dana-mentink.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />I review (and savor) a lot of dark mysteries. Well, the darkness often comes with the nature of crime! But not always ...<p></p><p>Suppose you owned a darling little ice cream shop in, let's say, Oregon -- and winter was around the corner. Would you be worried? Trinidad Jones surely is, as she anticipates a drop in the sales of her very creative specialties. So to make sure the Shimmy and Shake stays in business and her unusual but sweet employees get paid, she'll compete for a catering slot: a holiday party on a steamboat owned by Leonard Pinkerton, who can certainly afford her prices.</p><p>In this third in her delicious <a href="https://kingdombks.blogspot.com/2021/05/delicious-ice-cream-oriented-mystery.html">"Shake Shop Mystery" series</a>, <a href="https://www.danamentink.com/">Dana Mentink</a> offers a set-up that's far more complex than just the sugary side of an ice cream business, though. Trinidad is one of three former wives of the charming but cheating Gabe Bigley, who's currently in jail, since his fraudulent dealings extend to more than just these women. Against the odds, the three of them have become friends and all live in the same town. (That's the only thing you really need to know from the two earlier books in the series.)<br /></p><p>So when Gabe, apparently paroled, stumbles through the door of the ice cream shop with blood on his clothing and says something about having killed someone—then passes out—the immediate disruption hits a lot of lives all at once. Moments later, the victim turns out to be Trinidad's friend and ally, Oscar.</p><p></p><blockquote>The day had started out with such promise. Now Oscar had been run down, her ex-husband was involved, and there was an orphaned parrot nesting above her rib cage. Oh my giddy aunt indeed, Trinidad thought as they returned to the Shimmy and Shake Shop.</blockquote><p></p><p>Mentink offers a network of friendships, sleuthing, and potentially thwarted romance as the small-town mystery leaps toward a dramatic finale. This is a classic "cozy" mystery, packed with as many flavors of sweetness as a banana split. Add it to a stack of books for light and often giggling distraction on a winter afternoon.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-26736886302548192342023-11-24T15:13:00.003-05:002023-11-24T15:13:51.891-05:00Most Unusual Serial Killer Novel Yet: DAUGHTER OF ASHES by Ilaria Tuti<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGPVbBrtk2Eze7_VoVd4F6Zr1IHEW-pH_neKlgnWveiVcbHwQ9G3NXlILkgYv1T3Ccy3UJe2MwjsdVG4ER3VObvAHtNSpDfEKqDJT0bKg9tqU-0KAPZFcRIdH_yG9NMlA61th31o8UlrjBKJD289I9BNNha_T96yt9WK2GhXIBnEvhf2Yle8qOAEZ9ZI/s600/9781641294171-400x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGPVbBrtk2Eze7_VoVd4F6Zr1IHEW-pH_neKlgnWveiVcbHwQ9G3NXlILkgYv1T3Ccy3UJe2MwjsdVG4ER3VObvAHtNSpDfEKqDJT0bKg9tqU-0KAPZFcRIdH_yG9NMlA61th31o8UlrjBKJD289I9BNNha_T96yt9WK2GhXIBnEvhf2Yle8qOAEZ9ZI/s320/9781641294171-400x600.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />November is almost done; today's unexpected glimpses opf blazing blue skies hint at the brighter, coler weather ahead here in Vermont. Winter is a time to be selective, to pick up only the best mysteries and crime fiction, ones that will pin us into snug reading rooms and give us heartfelt potential growth.<p></p><p>Serial killer crime fiction often settles into one of two categories: either bloody and horrific and terrifying (those Hannibal Lecter types), or hard-pressed beahvioral analysis against a ticking clock (some Jeffery Deaver books, and every episode of <i>Criminal Minds</i>).</p><p>Italian author Ilaria Tuti, in a powerful and flowing translation from Ekin Oklap, concludes a remarkable crime fiction / police procedural trilogy with DAUGHTER OF ASHES. Her protagonist is police superintendent Teresa Battaglia, who battled her way to a Northern Italy superintendent slot despite her gender, holding a firm grip on a department of mostly men and using her personal losses as added incentives to break open cases.</p><p>As Teresa arrives at a maximum security prison, her staunch ally Inspector Massimo Marini awaits her. The pair haven't seen each other in two weeks, since they broke the case featured in book 2 of the series, <i>The Sleeping Nymph</i>. Their presence at the prison is because serial murderer Giacomo Mainardi wants Teresa's help and has called for her to come see him. After all, he'll never be out of prison—where she helped confine him 27 years earlier.</p><p>The narrative alternates between "Today" and "Twenty-seven years ago." Tuti maintains fierce suspense in both timelines, and each offers a poignant sense of loss: Discovering how much Teresa lost in the past won't happen until there's a workable explanation of what Giacomo is up to now, however. And Marini isn't just there to back up his superintendent—Teresa wants him to learn how the brilliantly insightful Giacomo can assess and attack emotionally. It is, after all, the core of how he's chosen his victims and what the coded clues he lays out indicate.</p><p>And Teresa wants very much to both teach and protect Marini, who's become part of her "family of choice" (or maybe of necessity) in her later years:</p><p></p><blockquote>Now that they were finally face to face again, they took a moment to study each other. It had scarcely been twenty days since they'd closed the case of the <i>Sleeping Nymph</i>, and they both still bore its scars: a bout of sciatica for her, a few burns and bruises for Inspector Marini. But how his eyes blazed. Teresa saw in him the young officer she had once been, sleep-deprived and desperately eager to prove herself. He was already primed to dive into a fresh case, and he wanted Teresa to go with him—unaware that she had already fallen into this particular vortex before, nearly thirty years ago.</blockquote><p></p><p>Although Teresa will struggle throughout this new case with her own ailments, physical, mental, and emotional (doing her best only to reveal the physical), instructing and protecting Marini drives her to keep taking risks. What Marini can't understand or accept, however, is her apparent bond with the killer. Is this what it takes to analyze a serial murderer? He's repulsed by the notion that his policing mentor might think she has something in common with the monster behind bars.</p><p>It's increasingly clear that this is likely to be Teresa's final effort on the police force, although how she'll convey the reasons to Marini is still unclear. When Giacomo sends them chasing evidence at an archaeologically significant crypt, she learns how serious her disabilities have already become. But still, she needs Marini to understand Giacomo the way she already does:</p><p></p><blockquote>"Most people think of Giacomo as a sadist, but I never got that impression." She hadn't spoken at all for the last two hours, not since her blunder at the crypt—a moment which, like all decisive acts, had proven to be revelatory. Her voice sounded hoarse, and guilty. She cleared her throat. "The amputations always occurred after the victim's death; the aim was never to cause suffering, but to take the life of those who were deemed—symbolically—not to deserve life at all."</blockquote><p></p><p>Not only are readers walking into dark places with this investigator, but she will have to draw Marini along into how she approaches criminal analysis. In the process, she may be forced to reveal her private losses and damage, because they may be part of what drives Giacomo Mainardi. And it seems he has the capacity to keep on killing.</p><p>Immaculately plotted and intricate, DAUGHTER OF ASHES sets a new bar for fictional investigations of murder. Whether Teresa can convince Marini, or us, that empathy for Giacomo is both humane and important to solving his crimes acts as an added strand of powerful suspense, in a book that also probes the most painful and enduring of our losses.</p><p>From Soho Crime, an imprint of Soho Press, releasing on December 5.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-57720399809059590012023-11-19T16:47:00.005-05:002023-11-20T14:12:59.411-05:00How Bad Could Things Get? Chris McKinney's WATER CITY Trilogy Tests the Answers<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 40px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0kvtpLsLl8OhUTs5971_8zMtggJUu2IZ4iWeoi5r4zYVEz0BZy6ymPu7jxBI52g88a1PrjZDZuaBN3troGqHgAzXHbgjVWIVrACr9Lni3kBrw-vzt96LaDyyVNRXdFj1hTUQhk9VDwyUu9Gp_GztFou9CT4qw0-RMRCTJvo9y_DvdQ8MmMDVnidLS7M/s600/Sunset-Water-City-cover-397x600.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="397" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0kvtpLsLl8OhUTs5971_8zMtggJUu2IZ4iWeoi5r4zYVEz0BZy6ymPu7jxBI52g88a1PrjZDZuaBN3troGqHgAzXHbgjVWIVrACr9Lni3kBrw-vzt96LaDyyVNRXdFj1hTUQhk9VDwyUu9Gp_GztFou9CT4qw0-RMRCTJvo9y_DvdQ8MmMDVnidLS7M/w313-h473/Sunset-Water-City-cover-397x600.jpg" width="313" /></a></div><br />Climate collapse, floods and fires, political divisions, wars and devastation—in America, it's not uncommon for people to feel like it's going to take a great leader to get us safely out of these very hard times.<p></p><p>But that's not where Chris McKinney heads in his WATER CITY trilogy. After the earlier <i>Midnight, Water City</i> and then <a href="https://bethkanell.blogspot.com/2023/07/wait-what-century-are-we-in-radical-new.html"><i>Eventide, Water City</i></a>, where a synesthetic former detective's been tackling the crushing issues around him in an effort to save his too-talented daughter from being coopted, McKinney and Soho Press collaborate to move rapidly into the last volume: SUNSET, WATER CITY. </p><p>In a radical switch from the nameless not-quite-hero of the first two books, the third one (set in the year 2160) spins from the point of view of that talented daughter, Ascalon, whose experience at age 19 includes both armed resistance and a lot of forms of tech destruction. Battling both her US neighbors in the toxic lands of the Great Leachate, and the overwhelming technological dominance of the near-deity Akira Kimura, Ascalon's courage and defiance take root in her anger at her father, as well as her love for her vanishing family.</p><p>As I read SUNSET, WATER CITY a second time, I thought a lot about trilogies. The one I grew up with was The Lord of the Rings (Tolkien); then there's the Hunger Games trilogy. But also there's a trilogy at the start of Ursula Leguin's Wizard of Earthsea books: <span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">A Wizard of Earthsea (1968), The Tombs of Atuan (1970), and The Farthest Shore (1972). And I'm one volume into reading Cixin Xiu's formidable Chinese space trilogy right now.</span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">On reflection, I wonder whether world-building requires a bigger canvas than a single book. Building the pressure points needs to extend beyond that first volume, and the most intriguing and memorable characters, whether heroic (Frodo, Katniss) or antiheroic (Ascalon's father and Akira Kimura herself), need years to mature and deepen, in order to provide a meaningful resolution to another world's issues. And maybe that's especially true when, as with McKinney's trilogy, the issues are so clearly unsolved in our own present time: environment, antagonism, excessive power.</span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">So my second reading of SUNSET, WATER CITY looked for how McKinney (who by the way is a native Hawai'ian with ethnic threads that are Korean, Chinese, and Scottish) asserted the solutions to the trilogy, not just to one book. What I found is that this third volume is as much a statement of human value as it is an adventure. Ascalon asks herself, "It this what it always is to be with other people? To not understand each other? To harbor trauma? To bottle anxiety, probe, and flinch before another even responds? I feel lost." When she decides to tackle the bigger issues of her world, she's aware that it's also an escape from this inner lack of certainty; "I will try to bury my grief and rage for now. I will try to fix this. I will take my father and Jon6J to Ascalon Lee. It's time to return to Water City."</span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">A return to Water City demands unusual physical capacities, and many will feel especially strange to "mainlanders" reading the series -- but less so to those who live with islands and oceans. Over time, the presence of this trilogy and the inevitable film versions to follow may bring Ascalon's adaptations to some level of expected adaptation, like Frodo's interaction with the Ring. But expect a first reading to feel uncomfortable; expect to utilize your capacity to "listen" and to "suspend disbelief." Ascalon's discoveries, at first framed in her perceptions of her father, are worth reaching: "He should've known that it's impossible to sleep to the future to change the future. One needs to be awake to change that."</span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">Without spoiling the plot, I can say that Ascalon clarifies her own motives as she battles for what she feels is right. Unlike the three leaders around her -- her father, her mentor Ascalon Lee, and the overwhelming Akira Kimura -- this young woman intends to protect her world, if she can just figure out which elements of it merit that protection.</span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">In a time of chaos and pain, it may seem counterproductive to dip into a trilogy that proposes that Earth's issues are so extreme that only interplanetary settlement and technological unity will pull us through. But McKinney's narrative is so compelling that it's well worth entering his speculative world and his painfully maturing protagonists. Besides ... isn't it time, after so many decades, to step beyond Frodo and Gandalf's solution for Middle Earth?</span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">[For some extra insight from the author, look here: https://www.watercitytrilogy.com/building-water-city.] <br /></span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-88111251036651355892023-11-19T16:00:00.000-05:002023-11-19T16:00:32.620-05:00Detroit Crime Novel Sees "the Church" at Fault, in Stephen Mack Jones's 4th August Snow, DEUS X <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtZbmbgnTC0UeEsHdBiniIu7I9CZylekl7URlMdq_jBQWqO3KY1Qt611919PXl4MtEnKW_KG5aR_sQex4z5n-JjVUceva4juY5ROlL0MR7FUTZ65UR8v7BYqWIJop-hqnO60BFL7U3Z4NwElYMzKoxth_IQ2J7oRYG2ephhCdE8aGfno11_2LR3irfVE/s600/deus-x-cover-397x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="397" height="451" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtZbmbgnTC0UeEsHdBiniIu7I9CZylekl7URlMdq_jBQWqO3KY1Qt611919PXl4MtEnKW_KG5aR_sQex4z5n-JjVUceva4juY5ROlL0MR7FUTZ65UR8v7BYqWIJop-hqnO60BFL7U3Z4NwElYMzKoxth_IQ2J7oRYG2ephhCdE8aGfno11_2LR3irfVE/w299-h451/deus-x-cover-397x600.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><br />For me, part of the point of working hard (and creatively) is the pleasure I can take later, collapsing into a fictional world that's totally apart and full of eventual triumph. So a well-plotted crime novel with characters I can care about, well, that can be quite a gift. And it's a thrill to let people know about the award-winning fiction coming from a "Michigander" like <a href="https://kingdombks.blogspot.com/search?q=stephen+mack+jones">Stephen Mack Jones</a>.<br /><p></p><p>You haven't read his August Snow series yet? Wow, you've got a big treat in store! This ex-cop in Detroit lives at the edge of multiple ethnicities — especially Hispanic and Black — in the Mexicantown neighborhood he and his friends have been steadily rehabbing.</p><p>When the local Franciscan priest, Father Michael Grabowski, suddenly retires and appears to be dying, August is convinced there's more at stake than physical illness. Father Grabowski's abrupt withdrawal from friendships and his 40 years of community care signal a spiritual collapse that's got to be related to another nearby priest's suspicious death. </p><p>When August starts probing, he meets his match in a fierce (and armed) investigator from the Vatican who wants the local priest to take all the blame for a string of other abuse and deaths. And that's where the crimesolving rips into action.</p><p>Still, the deep pleasure of DEUS X is in Jones's rich descriptions of the neighborhood and of August and his allies, like Tomás: "Tomás handed me a mug. Like me, it was dangerously dark, slightly bitter, yet oh so satisfying." Yes, there's a woman in August's life, Tatina, who feels that way about him, but in this adventure, she's mostly off scene ("Somali and German, living in Norway").</p><p>Which is just as well for Tatina's sake, considering what August and Tomás are up against. The Vatican has its own enforcement team? Who knew? Is there a rational explanation for how some of the related menacing men seem to vanish when cornered? Although August tries to reassure himself that real deaths involve physical results, even he is worried about whether there's a scientific or technological explanation: "If not, I'd have to seriously reassess my position as an agnostic Mexican-American Catholic with African-American Baptist metaphysical leanings."</p><p>Jones takes this fast-paced crime novel across several boundaries of old magic and traditional healing, as well as Catholic priesthood abuse issues. So it's a compelling page-turner, excellent for a winter weekend of escape and questions, framed in sturdy friendships with plenty of firearms and other defenses. You don't need to read the other three books in the series first, although if you do, this one will resonate more—but you can pick them up afterward, because chances are, August Snow's fierce urban loyalties will leave you wanting more of his adventures.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-67708201893109280892023-11-11T12:50:00.003-05:002023-11-11T13:20:07.268-05:00Digging Into Veterans Day, Poetry Included<p>Yesterday I spent an important hour with a "poet of war," encouraging more writing, trying to hold some doors open. I hadn't thought of this person with such a category until I got there and began to listen (in person), and then it seemed so clear that I was surprised I hadn't found the term before.</p><p>Of course there are many who've written from their war experiences. The one that brought me reality (instead of lines of warnings and mourning) was Brian Turner. Here's the cover of his first collection. He's released three new books this year, all very different from where he'd started, with a richness of music to them. I hope you'll drop in and visit <a href="https://brianturner.org/books">his website</a>.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6ZniG4vK_-zokDV7XkZdaXp9j9pGvd9I-F6fgw4L2FXvvDmGeo_Wi4VooQI_uL_Cxj7hccQQtcVg-QTK8kxw7Z5OqzZB-a_JuGBQ6adklsTe0nly1E-n9L4vpVsZFcnW_UMwy1Clkz69wjVrPtkpaWGCS1yx33tiCLGMH8sUVfJPuZ-BvwLfHsHxg64/s1169/meta%20eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1169" data-original-width="750" height="417" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6ZniG4vK_-zokDV7XkZdaXp9j9pGvd9I-F6fgw4L2FXvvDmGeo_Wi4VooQI_uL_Cxj7hccQQtcVg-QTK8kxw7Z5OqzZB-a_JuGBQ6adklsTe0nly1E-n9L4vpVsZFcnW_UMwy1Clkz69wjVrPtkpaWGCS1yx33tiCLGMH8sUVfJPuZ-BvwLfHsHxg64/w267-h417/meta%20eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==.webp" width="267" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>A bit of one of his poems: "A murder of crows looks on in silence / from the eucalyptus trees above / as we stand over the bodies." Or from another, where a woman at a distance is hanging laundry: "She is dressing the dead, clothing them / as they wait in silence, the pigeons circling / as fumestacks billow a noxious black smoke. / She is welcoming them back to the dry earth, / giving them dresses in tangerine and teal, / woven cotton shirts died blue."<br /></p><p>And thinking of those two together -- one local, not-yet-very-published poet, and the nationally and even globally recognized author -- led me to writing my own poem for the moment. There is indeed very gray and cold weather in northeastern Vermont today, with winter (its trials and delights) marching toward us, unstoppable, unbearable at times unless you hold onto love.</p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Thoughts on Another Veterans Day</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the same wind-tossed gray sky that held in place</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">at childhood Easter mornings—resurrection arrives small,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">one crocus at a time, one purple pod of potential</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">determined to unfold in any scraps of sun.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now I hesitate on the other side of the year</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">aware that every small snowfall, every frigid silent night</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">warns of what’s ahead: Those in shabby housing press</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">plastic over the windows and grieve the cost of oil.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In town, the courthouse flag flaps wildly. Solemn words,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">uniforms, a prayer. At the entrance to the grocery store</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">an old friend sits at a modest table, resting his knees</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">while reaching out with red paper poppies. Take one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Veterans I have known: An angry man whose letters to</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the editor poked like porcupine quills from his raw scraped</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">skin. A doctor who scrubs her hands too much. Young
relative,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">prospering, riding between wild lands and profit.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My father, who taught us Navy knots. Mom’s father,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">arranging his kitchen for baking bread, typing out</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the detailed recipes, mailing them across the ocean.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Z,” moving up the ranks, her friends lifting a glass.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The closer they are, the more personal their survival.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But understanding? For that, I lean on words, which means</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">that man in the middle distance (who hid his poetry notebook</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">when leading into battle), pulling me beyond</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the cost of winter. His reality: first a pause to smile</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">at children in a desert land; to admire a woman at a well;</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to press the love he’d hand-nourished, into another man’s</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">wounds; strike with a fist his own heart, for the sake of</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">honesty. Which is not at all like a textbook, after all. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because it bleeds, forms a scar, resists hard rain.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">-- BK <br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAA6DfTIzivCfmYWlBdFIvwXhFBhVBh9DJ65N8GnVGJdAo6R8B1h4mOtf1i-QDi2UfJHgXworXLs-dBnjTirNO9nfElXh6aiH0ujrhmHm98swsAKj7XwnSE5yF2voG9eRzlYtxTlDaj4rtn7sk3li9cEY9Q7xIpojd7lIhdnaFM9omu1aO8DFTjWIh9J8/s4032/IMG_7357.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAA6DfTIzivCfmYWlBdFIvwXhFBhVBh9DJ65N8GnVGJdAo6R8B1h4mOtf1i-QDi2UfJHgXworXLs-dBnjTirNO9nfElXh6aiH0ujrhmHm98swsAKj7XwnSE5yF2voG9eRzlYtxTlDaj4rtn7sk3li9cEY9Q7xIpojd7lIhdnaFM9omu1aO8DFTjWIh9J8/s320/IMG_7357.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-3867354015233594412023-11-05T14:50:00.001-05:002023-11-05T14:50:12.443-05:00Dad's Side, Mom's Side, and Poems Linked to Each<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLaNmminsOMPKMgD9JeQBXtakP13V8d46wv6AL68dmgbKwCyYpS18z21b80_Ol1FDqcL2A-pbzrDfGfUNID9ReRPCAfLDSDIDDzEgCDY-Ycgg5wCLcHHr-UobI81jrl3j8-G8v7M94Fg7aTRZb14CDfoxidWFfy62NrbbPrRJx2TGEG_K5OWpp-qIioHI/s4032/IMG_7010.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLaNmminsOMPKMgD9JeQBXtakP13V8d46wv6AL68dmgbKwCyYpS18z21b80_Ol1FDqcL2A-pbzrDfGfUNID9ReRPCAfLDSDIDDzEgCDY-Ycgg5wCLcHHr-UobI81jrl3j8-G8v7M94Fg7aTRZb14CDfoxidWFfy62NrbbPrRJx2TGEG_K5OWpp-qIioHI/s320/IMG_7010.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Although my parents thought kids should find their own way to religion when they grew up, they each explained briefly their own backgrounds: Dad came from a German Jewish family with little religious attachment (and Dad himself refused any form of belief, he said, due to the Holocaust). Mom grew up with a Quaker mother, valued what she knew of that form of worship, but added that she felt closest to God in her garden. And New England was her core.<br /><p></p><p>For the past couple of decades, as I've investigated Dad's life, with leading questions from my Jewish and much-loved husband Dave, my poems have explored more of Jewish tradition and culture. But when I'm in my garden, I'm my mother's daughter, inhaling the scent of soil and plants.</p><p>It seems I've arrived at a life point where I want to probe my mother's side of things more deliberately, so you'll be seeing more of that. In fact, it's sort of obvious in the two poems of mine published this week.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyx-bXK0ZaaYCy_UrSTmaB3iFi2YbZGVPWSqTnDw6oXp_1e6scdjffGo7VOya3tMenjpVMO-S3rbqx1dxOvN-bMTrK78XuSlHBc6qCXPsFuIqQdSx0UlfopOIfTTt5nw_Hgw0XmxEn-Z7_ob25ENIK7hXAOtCxj2pdFCCKul4MHEPX3x0nserNzNp9L8M/s4032/IMG_7001.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyx-bXK0ZaaYCy_UrSTmaB3iFi2YbZGVPWSqTnDw6oXp_1e6scdjffGo7VOya3tMenjpVMO-S3rbqx1dxOvN-bMTrK78XuSlHBc6qCXPsFuIqQdSx0UlfopOIfTTt5nw_Hgw0XmxEn-Z7_ob25ENIK7hXAOtCxj2pdFCCKul4MHEPX3x0nserNzNp9L8M/s320/IMG_7001.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><a href="https://ritualwell.org/ritual/every-word-a-lit-match">Here's one that seeks to find light in the darkness</a>, as Israel and Gaza continue their war -- you'll see it's especially about Dad.</p><p>And <a href="https://www.doesithavepockets.com/poetry/bethkanell?fbclid=IwAR23m8OkYeBT1fb2lTq4B8bwqX6fxBGyPrfYBo_O8B6qN8lVmJD6sQTO6Es">this one, told from the point of view of Henry David Thoreau's sister Sophia</a>, digs into my mother's New England heart, into the wonders of the natural world, and into the determined sense of women's "agency" that Mom taught me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlx5Sl_stUljGut5oEkZD87lae6Lu2VSI9q_X-PhoF-VeT3bkrbPJKC8EXZHvNbtxKFctCoYTv2tmL2cEjeTADuLu-e0spRry1WfDs6INS_FJBmtY5pmnw2NLZKElEcG7pvlZiC6e_A6phaH6g2YdA57TvS5tFRAxxJw1oljQr36_a_eIbysVkBhw79A/s4032/IMG_7188.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlx5Sl_stUljGut5oEkZD87lae6Lu2VSI9q_X-PhoF-VeT3bkrbPJKC8EXZHvNbtxKFctCoYTv2tmL2cEjeTADuLu-e0spRry1WfDs6INS_FJBmtY5pmnw2NLZKElEcG7pvlZiC6e_A6phaH6g2YdA57TvS5tFRAxxJw1oljQr36_a_eIbysVkBhw79A/s320/IMG_7188.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-85115272038051596482023-11-02T11:24:00.004-04:002023-11-02T11:24:31.860-04:00Loving November<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqlyoYU42EkvhboPiHlZhu1SRJht0pUgZE9L36T_GyS-bmOxvu4mpRgzBOV4zZP-NYnQU8gaDGn4g2uoE1D21dawGWvqXJAj1wFpon-CAKLgbLgdKfR74rHQeYhzRzhVTOIkhL9CB121C8R9d-pG3S_quXk6-t54E1wGnp-iLTZTzixZv2ETx16HMtfk/s1367/Ernest%20and%205%20of%20us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1367" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqlyoYU42EkvhboPiHlZhu1SRJht0pUgZE9L36T_GyS-bmOxvu4mpRgzBOV4zZP-NYnQU8gaDGn4g2uoE1D21dawGWvqXJAj1wFpon-CAKLgbLgdKfR74rHQeYhzRzhVTOIkhL9CB121C8R9d-pG3S_quXk6-t54E1wGnp-iLTZTzixZv2ETx16HMtfk/w639-h433/Ernest%20and%205%20of%20us.jpg" width="639" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Center, my grandfather; I'm standing behind my youngest brothers., at the airport.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />After a dingy, cloudy final week of October, November has launched here with bright skies and gusts of snowflakes. It's a season full of energy and daring (at least on the best days), and I'm up for it.</p><p>My grandfather Ernest's birthday was November 4, and when I was small, birthday phone calls across the Atlantic were costly and had to be booked in advance with an overseas operator. My grandfather sympathized with my parents' tight finances and would place the call from his end. Mom and Dad only needed to stay home and receive his call.</p><p>They reminded each other of the date using a British rhyme about Guy Fawkes Day, when bonfires in England declare vengeance on a long-ago traitor. The rhyme says, "Remember, remember, the fifth of November!" (That was the date of Fawkes's treasonous Gunpowder Plot back in 1605.) Ernest's birthday would be the "other date," the fourth.</p><p>One November, my folks recited the poem wrong, accidentally saying "remember the fourth of November" instead -- and assuring each other that Ernest's birthday phone call would thus take place on the fifth. So they cheerfully went out to a local hamburger diner on the fourth, and felt terribly embarrassed to miss my grandfather's important phone call after all.</p><p>That makes it easy for me to recall the right date now! </p><p>My grandfather Ernest's dual citizenship and cultured awareness enabled him to leave Germany safely before Hitler's "Final Solution" took form. In these days of rising anti-Semitism, it's good to reflect that my father's parents found sufficient haven in England, although I know now that Fascism in London at that time still meant a level of discomfort and fear.</p><p>Lucky me: Although I didn't understand my grandfather's life, and I didn't wake up to the questions I could have asked until way too late, I did very much feel his love and support. Now I imagine some conversations we might have had, and they intrigue me.</p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Cigar Ash on His Tie</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nothing pretty about him at seventy: massive hands,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">lower lip drooping and deep, reddened, quiet eyes</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">watching my efforts. Ernst. Grandfather to nine</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">smaller family than his own father’s—yet none of us</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">starving in a brutal camp, or fleeing to South America</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">not even exiled to Australia (great-uncle Alfred). We</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">could fit within a single room. Yet Ernst overflowed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Say “Ernest” in England, banker, explorer, eager lover</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of strong women: Some people walk away. Refuse.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With long strides he walked toward. What I seize</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(years later) must mesh with my early observations, white</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">cigar ash on his tie, and on his car dashboard too, thick</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">soft, scented, no relation to ashes of war. Symphonies,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">portraits, books, the riches of late peace. His early winter
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">promised French cafés, Dutch museums: In November winds</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hear his smoker’s cough, his hawk-fierce whistle, and </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">welcome my grandfather’s haunting.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-96872986955389872023-10-23T16:09:00.005-04:002023-10-23T17:20:54.374-04:00A Worthwhile Protagonist Has "Agency" -- Like Dr. Kate, the Vet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvSmMzpZJTMNVE8nLw_GvG4xcrTbxZg5jm18sepnb3sLWwMl9DnQy-MmTiK9xnGa8D_B3sUttJb_Yf7ubiVW6hlLVoaMs3Omp2vhPlBrcMJYFeeHTDiZn9gM-TAIMALdqGolxAJsdFy5AX7Fc_20BsrNESV_XIgCjxkw6h5aQDiZ4g9H7g7wOpWktZlg/s442/9781728249377.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="300" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvSmMzpZJTMNVE8nLw_GvG4xcrTbxZg5jm18sepnb3sLWwMl9DnQy-MmTiK9xnGa8D_B3sUttJb_Yf7ubiVW6hlLVoaMs3Omp2vhPlBrcMJYFeeHTDiZn9gM-TAIMALdqGolxAJsdFy5AX7Fc_20BsrNESV_XIgCjxkw6h5aQDiZ4g9H7g7wOpWktZlg/w238-h351/9781728249377.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br />Although I hosted a wonderful elderly dog at my home for two months earlier this year, it turned out that I'm not a very skilled dog trainer ... and am getting a bit past learning new tricks myself. It hurt my heart to return the sweet pet who'd come here for a try-her-out visit, but it was the right thing to do, before I either broke a bone by falling while she tugged me along, or lost too much sleep to her eager awareness (bark, bark, bark, growl!) of the other animals around this rural place.<p></p><p>Even without a "companion animal" at hand, I found strong interest in the creatures in the new "Dr. Kate Vet Mystery" from <a href="http://www.eileenbradymysteries.com/">Eileen Brady</a>, released this month: MURDERS OF A FEATHER (Poisoned Pen Press).</p><p>As in many a "cozy" mystery series, the complications of crime in this lively tale are paired with Kate Turner's aching heart and hope for romance in time for Valentine's Day. Too bad the new vet in the area, "Dr. Mike," is married with newborn twins, as the two adults work so well together in a barn, meshing one's large-animal skills with the other's deft surgical and medical approaches. This too will turn into a twist of the plot, of course!</p><p>The murders Dr. Kate discovers are very human ones, but she'll tug at the strands of the crimes for the sake of both her own staff members and the many related animal emergencies around her, in an upstate New York harsh winter. Ice, snow, and slippery suggestions of motive and means fill the pages in a well-twisted plot with abundant discoveries. Her insistence on "agency" — that is, independence and taking her own direct actions — moves the plot well.<br /></p><p>The best part of reading Brady's mysteries is the way she weaves Dr. Kate's animal and owner experiences into the insights that sleuthing requires: "Obsessive love. Jealous vindictive love. You see it in people and in animals that fixate on one person. That one being is all they want, all they need. And when they can't have them—they show their teeth."</p><p>Similar to the progress in a true crime investigation, it takes quite a while for Dr. Kate to unwind the final strand she needs. And that, in turn, allows readers more time to meet and enjoy the intriguing pets and farm animals along the way.</p><p>Between its charm and its intrigue, MURDERS OF A FEATHER (yes, there are crows involved!) can be a rewarding addition to the winter reading stack, and a handy choice for a holiday gift to an animal-loving friend or mystery aficionado.</p><p>And it's so very different from the next book I want to tell you about, which begins also in winter ... in urban Detroit. No pets involved at all, but plenty of love and loyalty, and a deft hand with crime.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-20445673895863824202023-10-15T18:55:00.003-04:002023-10-15T18:55:40.690-04:00Judith Janoo's New Collection of Poems, JUST THIS — and the Resonance of Place (Book Recommendation)<p><br />As of 2022, Vermont (said the US government) had 130 people earning an income as writers. This figure looks ridiculously low to anyone who's been to an author event or book festival here ... but I suppose it's because of the income aspect. Vermont mystery writer Archer Mayor used to claim the average writer's income was $7,000 per year, which won't pay for the rent these days, let alone food and car. So most of Vermont's writers probably combine another paid gig with their writing. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyCTB20LLB-q_1slzkYeSjcQtklfsF8DPJ8DhQW0ZW2PKfcmBazJ-M85EOJ6iN-UyBrITkpqesvW-aSBuC_6A8buGbNqVBuh0u8bxv1Om0tx8uPqbJ6yT_JRmwVc2GXCtmqIlW_h1ti_uPt5LeQKBtWZDgPgS40cwejAARsHUogoxgEY13fnhLzDNFAI/s1080/janoo3_front_720x.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="720" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyCTB20LLB-q_1slzkYeSjcQtklfsF8DPJ8DhQW0ZW2PKfcmBazJ-M85EOJ6iN-UyBrITkpqesvW-aSBuC_6A8buGbNqVBuh0u8bxv1Om0tx8uPqbJ6yT_JRmwVc2GXCtmqIlW_h1ti_uPt5LeQKBtWZDgPgS40cwejAARsHUogoxgEY13fnhLzDNFAI/w298-h448/janoo3_front_720x.webp" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover art by Helen Stork.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Still, it's a small state and in a given region, you get to at least know each other's names and often faces. And that's about all I've known of Judith Janoo, after crossing paths with her at maybe a dozen writing-related events but never even having tea together. Plus I read and reviewed her 2019 collection of poems, <i><a href="https://kingdombks.blogspot.com/2018/10/diversion-northeast-kingdom-poetry-from.html">After Effects</a></i>, and recently saw and enjoyed one of her new poems in a literary magazine.</p><p>So I bought a copy of her newest book, JUST THIS (so new it's not yet on her website), and settled down to enjoy. And investigate.</p><p>Because yes, for me, a book of poems is a double-direction investigation -- looking at how someone else sees the world, and comparing it with my own experience, and learning from the gaps and overlaps. Before I'd finished reading the "front matter," I'd discovered things I hadn't wondered about ... including pointers that showed me that Judith's last name came from her late husband Vincent, born in Malaysia. Why hadn't I wondered about the name "Janoo" before? Maybe it just seemed to fit so well with Judith? </p><p>The front matter also says she absorbed Malaysian culture for 27 years. Hungry for more about a culture I don't know, and how a "Maine-er" like Judith would connect with it, I began looking at PLACE in Judith's poems.</p><p>The first two are instantly located "here-abouts": one poem build in stubby and intriguing tercets, called "Route 132" (I know where that is, in real life!), and the next, "Bear Cub," also in tercets but with slightly longer lines and a rich trove of sensations, from touch to scent to bright color and hunger, and a deep tenderness. I'm home, I thought -- these are poems of "my place" in Vermont.</p><p>Then with a flip of the page I arrived in Maine, tasting the salt air and savor of my own mother's longed-for location, listening to the poet's childhood and new adulthood forming. "I am from the rocks and shore / of fishermen, lobster boats // dove gray mornings that rise / from blackness over water."</p><p>Abruptly, at the end of the first section of poems, I tumbled around the world to "Johor Bahru" on the South China Sea, and needed to press onward into the next section, that reader part of my mind whispering, "Tell me more! More!"</p><p>And so it went, through the collection. I might have asked for a sequence of poems that felt more geographically organized, but that, I know, is because I like organization. Instead, JUST THIS offered me five senses and a daring freedom of the map. </p><p>I enjoyed it. I didn't put it down until the end, and then a few hours later I picked it up again and dipped back for more tastes. Let me know if you feel the same way about this resonant new collection.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-21453397604386017912023-10-06T10:24:00.004-04:002023-10-06T10:24:33.159-04:00More Poetry Publications on the Way<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYaVW1Cz9CqlR0cKzWcnkoGEJkD0TgNSGoAT3IubxX1wFM9aEhFPoCiGrTySPOiNZdEF7aco4keBNBs5yxLn7_u1vIIgUYEGQr88ltwIb9BIf8SK-TrGmgNHNEAYf1-zvQBl-cfaL2PZ9u-yDAm0JBuL1y-JLNSTJkVy0fgme-yEV0IW0LwAWBjQxF5Q/s4032/IMG_6799.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="487" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYaVW1Cz9CqlR0cKzWcnkoGEJkD0TgNSGoAT3IubxX1wFM9aEhFPoCiGrTySPOiNZdEF7aco4keBNBs5yxLn7_u1vIIgUYEGQr88ltwIb9BIf8SK-TrGmgNHNEAYf1-zvQBl-cfaL2PZ9u-yDAm0JBuL1y-JLNSTJkVy0fgme-yEV0IW0LwAWBjQxF5Q/w365-h487/IMG_6799.jpeg" width="365" /></a></div><br />I've probably spent too much time today, trying to figure out how to convert a recorded poem from one format into another -- and failing the tech aspect! But I have hope that the digital natives at <a href="https://www.thepostgradjournal.com/">The Post Grad Journal </a>will figure that out for my poem "Teen Summer," lined up for their next issue.<p></p><p>Plus this morning I had the amazing experience of learning, before being fully awake, that two other poems of mine, "Crossing Over the Moose" and "This Tree of Ripened Fruit," earned honorable mentions from the Northwind Writing Award, sponsored by <a href="https://raw-earth-ink.com/">Raw Earth Ink</a>. </p><p>In this amazing interior + exterior season, I also am excited that "Diatribe from Sophia Thoreau (His Sister)" is scheduled for the November issue of <a href="https://www.doesithavepockets.com/">Does It Have Pockets</a>. <br /></p><p>None of the links above will show my poems yet -- but as soon as there are links for you to see them, I'll let you know! Now I need to get my feet back to earth, for today's exploration out on a back road in Danville, for my next <a href="http://www.northstarmonthly.com/">North Star Monthly</a> feature. Which will NOT be poetry!<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-29486544308490735502023-10-01T10:14:00.002-04:002023-10-01T17:18:34.318-04:00To Wrestle With Abuse, Pain, and Anger -- in a New Noir Crime Novel by Matt Phillips, A Good Rush of Blood<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6ge1M5u_ecUM2_PREq1x7jPiSHC9i2z46TySOqFULtnfyGsnOluXHRP3FWSxl6Dcat7P5tMnPNCqbHHyfuEn9Y_SymrTDkpLcFznH5Hlla7aeW9ANJTNu3pTm8c78VH_4Ny0PzdiTsmX_iXAJF9aQkmQ4WGISwK-yRImVt0QLE1myAIdEcHpsWcKEWI/s847/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-09%20at%2012_22_40%20PM.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="519" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6ge1M5u_ecUM2_PREq1x7jPiSHC9i2z46TySOqFULtnfyGsnOluXHRP3FWSxl6Dcat7P5tMnPNCqbHHyfuEn9Y_SymrTDkpLcFznH5Hlla7aeW9ANJTNu3pTm8c78VH_4Ny0PzdiTsmX_iXAJF9aQkmQ4WGISwK-yRImVt0QLE1myAIdEcHpsWcKEWI/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-09%20at%2012_22_40%20PM.webp" width="196" /></a></div><br />The first time I started reading A GOOD RUSH OF BLOOD by <a href="https://www.mattphillipswriter.com/">Matt Phillip</a>s, I had to stop. Thanks to the heavens, the fates, a few better decisions, and a middle-class upbringing that cloaked me in some forms of protection, I haven't lived on the street or sold drugs. But Oh Dear God, I've known plenty of others who have (if you haven't known any, you've cut yourself off from the sad side of America), and more than once, I've experienced a dangerous locale and wondered how I'd deal with being sexually violated, should it happen. Probably the worst season for that last issue was in my late 30s, living in a rough cabin and often alone at night, creating fear out of the darkness.<p></p><p>I finally reached a quirky and only marginally rational conclusion, but it was enough to let me get some sleep: I had heard that nerve cells, the slowest in the body to regenerate, are made anew every seven years. So, I reasoned, if rape took place and I became estranged from my own body, I would just need to survive seven more years until every cell would be clean and new. </p><p>The mind, unlike the cell, doesn't regenerate. We'd be lost if it did, having to start all over again with how to balance on two feet, how to move food to our mouths. The drawback to this continuity is, most of the time, the hardest scariest parts of life are not fully forgotten, are they? We just make a sort of peace that lets us move forward.</p><p>So the young woman named Creeley Nash, driving a valuable load of potent drugs to Portland, Oregon, scared the you-know-what out of me. Not only was she balancing her life on "ordinary" drugs like booze and weed, but in order to earn a decent living, she'd agreed to run the transport for a man named Animal. </p><p></p><blockquote>What Creeley was: Thirty-nine years old, unwed, poor as sh**, and somewhat proud to be a second-shift waitress at Walburn's in downtown Portland. But no, she was not Animal's girl.</blockquote><p></p><p>The constant danger she's in when driving illegal drugs reflects the nastiness, cruelty, and crudeness of most people in that business. But to Creeley, who thinks a lot about what's going on, the treatment she gets from the people she delivers to is a predictable part of life as she understands it:</p><p></p><blockquote>She expected it because being a woman meant being seen as a possession—men thought they deserved her. Or wished they deserved her. At her age, Creeley found this dynamic amusing. She'd stopped being afraid of men a few boyfriends ago, and now she steered clear of them. She'd given up on love. Didn't exist. Not for her.</blockquote><p></p><p>A tip of the hat to Matt Phillips: The author's gender is almost irrelevant to this 300-page crime novel.</p><p>Creeley's inner commentary on drug running is revelatory: Rich people commit as much crime as poor ones, but hide it better. All cops are bent in some fashion, from her point of view. In a way, that reassures her, because it lets her finally ask for help from one, when she realizes she's got to know for sure whether her imprisoned mother really did murder someone, or was framed.</p><p>OK, I had to stop reading early, in my first dive into this book. I wrote to one voice of the publisher, Vern Smith, about the way the book trampled on old traumas of mine. I wasn't sure I'd do the review.</p><p>Vern replied, in part:</p><p></p><blockquote>I think we always considered that this might be read as a heavy book,
and accepted it as such, seeing literary and social value in that, too. I
do believe that eliciting such a response is more of a blessing than a
curse in that a book like this should spark conversations, and the best
thing, I think, we can do in response is talk, which is sort of what
we’re doing here.</blockquote><p></p><p>So you can guess what I did. With the lights on brightly and the locks on the doors double-checked, I stepped back into the story.</p><p>Turns out, within the violence and peril, A GOOD RUSH OF BLOOD is a classic crime novel after all. A murder took place. Blame got distributed. Someone—Creeley in this case—is searching for both truth and justice and willing to make sacrifices for that.<br /></p><p>So it turned out to be a powerful book worth reading. The investigation makes sense, the voices are real, and yes, Vern and Matt, there will be more conversations about it, when I find some other folks who've read this (that's a hint, folks). </p><p>And if I didn't especially like some of the resolution, and would have made different choices in Creeley's shoes, well, thank goodness those shoes aren't mine. Because despite all the strange and scary parts of my earlier life, I found a really great set of decades eventually. Sometimes life really is stranger than fiction. Safer, at least. And happy.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-69299535227484336102023-09-27T18:22:00.003-04:002023-09-29T18:50:02.867-04:00Recently Published Poems, Stories, More<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8Ea87hvqu0cILCTTS4lVEeDXYxAM_v2P4nJm6C04pBeTrs6BwWHVd-CXLRy9nZOEs_fPRwHbQOFmsNuORRnpli8-xOBDAYkLmW9EbSyk4CfDb0jo0i8pKlTc5s7EXGvCQb4N_YGP2go7ldCQw4-k42I2YRkTI4dOaW-E0fSLHMvkng6lKpywyqs7GuU/s4032/IMG_4692.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8Ea87hvqu0cILCTTS4lVEeDXYxAM_v2P4nJm6C04pBeTrs6BwWHVd-CXLRy9nZOEs_fPRwHbQOFmsNuORRnpli8-xOBDAYkLmW9EbSyk4CfDb0jo0i8pKlTc5s7EXGvCQb4N_YGP2go7ldCQw4-k42I2YRkTI4dOaW-E0fSLHMvkng6lKpywyqs7GuU/s320/IMG_4692.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Rise Up Review, winter 2022 issue, "<a href="https://riseupreview.org/beth-kanell">Psalm for Gaza</a>."<p></p><p>Medium Day tutorial video on writing novels (and more): <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0o3jmsriK8&list=PLgtayi6nE1yk49tHO1GHJa8XU58y4GZMN&index=148">Make a Promise In Your First Chapter. </a></p><p>Persimmon Tree, poem, <a href="https://persimmontree.org/spring-2022/forgetting">"Forget-Me-Nots</a>." </p><p>Written Tales Magazine, poem, <a href="https://writtentales.substack.com/p/storm-surge?utm_source=post-email-title&publication_id=827623&post_id=118064367&isFreemail=true">"Storm Surge</a>." <br /></p><p>RitualWell, poem, "<a href="https://ritualwell.org/ritual/ten-plagues-sestina">Ten Plagues Sestina</a>." <br /></p><p>Gyroscope Review, winter 2023, poem, "Letter from This Morning's Burdock Plant."</p><p>Lilith Magazine, Feb. 2022, "<a href="https://lilith.org/articles/fiction-knit-purl-repeat">Knit. Purl. Repeat</a>." </p><p>Journal of Radical Wonder, "<a href="https://medium.com/the-journal-of-radical-wonder/rescuing-the-abandoned-property-in-vermont-a9a7df152040">Rescuing the Abandoned Property in Vermont.</a>" </p><p>Lilith Magazine, "<a href="https://lilith.org/articles/mythic-under-the-radiations-red-eye">Mythic Under the Radiation's Red Eye</a>." </p><p>Mystery and thriller reviews being added steadily at <i><a href="https://www.nyjournalofbooks.com/search-site/Kanell">New York Journal of Books</a></i>. <br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-38277553223617892042023-09-04T12:20:00.001-04:002023-09-04T12:21:00.749-04:00Place and Voice (a Writer's Notes): New Philip Marlowe Mystery (by Denise Mina) and Mountain Pioneer Joseph Seavey Hall<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXCKlR8H3smt3lujzpGEYtPIQuCl8TnQygkMOAP02X2KYV6kVnt27Oilx_6KegnEb7905b6EdFnSiaoMxiFNU9Tm8cWnKCbyGIl1U5yCShBScsZ5niiAQ8pOp5TIPtQJqC_YtSVhmlvIoWUJD7wfH1BsZi8_TvURAFJ-QhBsy7d2jMxHRZmzEkP65zLE/s2600/9780316265645.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2600" data-original-width="1675" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXCKlR8H3smt3lujzpGEYtPIQuCl8TnQygkMOAP02X2KYV6kVnt27Oilx_6KegnEb7905b6EdFnSiaoMxiFNU9Tm8cWnKCbyGIl1U5yCShBScsZ5niiAQ8pOp5TIPtQJqC_YtSVhmlvIoWUJD7wfH1BsZi8_TvURAFJ-QhBsy7d2jMxHRZmzEkP65zLE/w249-h386/9780316265645.webp" width="249" /></a></div><br />It's probably been a long time since you've read a Philip Marlowe private investigator (PI) novel by Raymond Chandler. If you ever have. The books are "of a time" -- classic for detective fiction, and redolent of California Anglo culture in the 1930s and 1940s, when the Silver Screen meant so much.<p></p><p>So why would you read one now, if you're not into the classics?</p><p>Simple: Glasgow mystery queen Denise Mina wrote this one, in sync with Raymond Chandler Ltd. And it's a lively, enjoyable read, made "modern" with assertive women whose beauty and intelligence operate in tandem, in that famous California sunshine.</p><p>First, though, here's the original voice of Chandler at the opening of <i>The Big Sleep</i>:</p><p></p><blockquote>It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.</blockquote><p></p><p>Now here's Denise Mina, doing Chandler/Marlowe:</p><p></p><blockquote>I was in my office, feet up, making use of a bottle of mood-straightener I kept in the desk. A mid-September heatwave had descended on the city. Brittle heat rolled down from parched hills, lifting thin dust from roads and sidewalks, suspending it in the rising air and turning the sky yellow. ... I don't usually drink in the office at ten thirty in the morning but I had a bad taste to wash away.</blockquote><p></p><p>Nice, right?</p><p>Here's a quick sketch of <b>THE SECOND MURDERER by Denise Mina</b>: Marlowe, narrating in his classic first-person style, immediately hates his new client, but the missing young woman he's supposed to find seems to be in a lot of trouble, and some of his old friends think she deserves a hand. Of course he can't resist a pretty young woman in trouble. He locates her soon, but sorting out her situation turns out to be way, way over his head. At least four strong women get involved; they can't really make it all better either, and Mina adds a bitter ending that fits the genre very well.</p><p>I thought I'd go nuts in the first quarter of the book, because the editors clearly have no idea of American spellings, alas ... it's very distracting to have a California PI talking in British spellings! The the plot took over and I enjoyed the rest of the book. I won't want a second reading, but the first one turned out fine. The main thing is, despite her Scottish writing accent, Mina knows how to turn a good story. (In fact, the last quarter of the book sounded more like Mina than Chandler, but I'm not complaining.) And she definitely did her research -- it's California all the way.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4szuH9AJrJJcjiniGNTFR5XZyTbNj2uICPhBx84Jjk0M8IhwLQ7_37WFeSuTreJJfpXSk6yzqtjPChqpXjHmymDwl00KXC2ST8jQvqoLktwKwF0N7CrWAdlDuHM7QrNo6in_grzQU3lsuer7qbdfAC9KZTmzKFrth-SdwB-ppNeDqVAiemZFXp3iBq0k/s622/Annie-Gibavic-Joseph-Seavey-Hall-1692704794.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="414" height="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4szuH9AJrJJcjiniGNTFR5XZyTbNj2uICPhBx84Jjk0M8IhwLQ7_37WFeSuTreJJfpXSk6yzqtjPChqpXjHmymDwl00KXC2ST8jQvqoLktwKwF0N7CrWAdlDuHM7QrNo6in_grzQU3lsuer7qbdfAC9KZTmzKFrth-SdwB-ppNeDqVAiemZFXp3iBq0k/w298-h447/Annie-Gibavic-Joseph-Seavey-Hall-1692704794.webp" width="298" /></a></div><br />Also on my reading table for the past few weeks has been <b>JOSEPH SEAVEY HALL (1818-1899), Pioneer of Mountain Tourism, by Annie Gibavic</b>. This 227-page New Hampshire mountains history (Bondcliff Books) is authentic in ways that Mina's Chandler novel can't match—Gibavic is both a regional historian and a descendant of Hall, and worked from a trove of correspondence and background material to write the life of this mountain guide, including his adventures during the Civil War, silver mining in Nevada, assisting family in rough-country Michigan, and settling for his final years in Vermont.<p></p><p>Joseph Seavey Hall began his working life in the White Mountains when it was wilderness, and cut roads and built shelters, becoming the "engineer" of tourist routes on Mount Washington. Guiding and rescue alternated in his life after that, because the region took quite a toll on those on foot, especially in winter. Gibavic quotes passages from the death of Lizzie Bourne and, even more powerfully, from Hall's noted rescue of Dr. B. L. Ball on the mountain: </p><p></p><blockquote>We dispatched a man with a red flag to a point that could be seen from the Glen House. Mr. Thompson was so watch for a signal with his telescope in case we found him. He caught the signal. I throwed my right arm around the Man's body with his left arm over my shoulder and with another man holding to the other side we hastened with our living burden in the direction of the Bridle Road. He had no use of his limbs and no other than the very strongest of men could have moved him over the rough Mountain.</blockquote><p></p><p>The trove of original material that Gibavic amassed is stunning, and Hall's story is well worth the read. Like Mina, but with less fanfare, Gibavic crafts voices from the past in order to quilt her excerpted material together. As she explains in her author note at the end, "The words of Alice and Kitty are for the most part fictional, to lend continuity to the story." Gibavic's personal heritage of family lore and affection are also significant in this quilting. </p><p>For some readers, the improvised fictional voices will distract, since the language in them is not as closely matched to the originals as Mina managed for Chandler. Yet even Mina showed her own narrative style eventually, so we can hardly fault Gibavic for a dose of the same. And in fact, her connection passages do exactly what she'd planned: They offer a more contemporary slant on what Hall's life engaged and how startling and impressive the achievements of this undereducated but ambitious man grew to be.</p><p>I recommend both books—but for very separate explorations. If you try both of them, let me know what parallels you see.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-20342722559310432242023-08-30T11:06:00.002-04:002023-08-30T11:06:29.505-04:00A Little Wobble on a Rainy Day; and PROUD SORROWS by James R. Benn<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuMBEl6YJrbGgG8Mg1nAbdFaRqSZgfp4oX3u26KPB5d7Gx0a10wty0InxBYK-1d9ETMoQd6VT65jFEDQr0vweII6RaVA5Xl-3-rYPJayNXusmUY1KPuR7_xhCN7w1sOU3HHD-ZpwUzxZiI0mie0C8zcUaXfsa01QgXhYjsS7DgUUS6B-lpd43Vs6oB60Y/s4032/IMG_6491.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuMBEl6YJrbGgG8Mg1nAbdFaRqSZgfp4oX3u26KPB5d7Gx0a10wty0InxBYK-1d9ETMoQd6VT65jFEDQr0vweII6RaVA5Xl-3-rYPJayNXusmUY1KPuR7_xhCN7w1sOU3HHD-ZpwUzxZiI0mie0C8zcUaXfsa01QgXhYjsS7DgUUS6B-lpd43Vs6oB60Y/s320/IMG_6491.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br />It's raining ... again. A quick look at online records suggests that in Vermont, in August, you have a 50/50 chance of rain on any given day. But it feels this year like the rainclouds slip around on a fairground track, headed back toward us the moment we think they're gone.<p></p><p>That's good for anything I've transplanted this month, since the roots are being steadily wetted down. On the other hand, I've started resorting to the dryer to get my towels back to useful status, instead of hanging them on the porch. We'll remember this wet and often flooded summer, as we look back on it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sgem6Nh4M7-efpVP7jEa3R0fzr5LEMkeooB6bs2Vr_jQc1XiOsht4mv2UxPKVQKSNoO_YAvIpB5SC4WtDUQK-8VqnCCiFoG66arb6zeNxIccNMuuUP_jKLHlhZTnCkEbjEj4GKQtQCsdSE0iVwFLyu8sqTC5TT-aDyGb2n8EKdSIzwiM5JxbXmjQalQ/s1586/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-30%20at%2010.58.43%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1586" data-original-width="1060" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sgem6Nh4M7-efpVP7jEa3R0fzr5LEMkeooB6bs2Vr_jQc1XiOsht4mv2UxPKVQKSNoO_YAvIpB5SC4WtDUQK-8VqnCCiFoG66arb6zeNxIccNMuuUP_jKLHlhZTnCkEbjEj4GKQtQCsdSE0iVwFLyu8sqTC5TT-aDyGb2n8EKdSIzwiM5JxbXmjQalQ/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-30%20at%2010.58.43%20AM.png" width="214" /></a></div><br />Speaking of looking back -- well, isn't that one of the functions of historical fiction? For the hours that I am "inside" a well-spun story, I'm no longer comparing then and now, but I'm experiencing a different time altogether.<p></p><p>The <a href="https://kingdombks.blogspot.com/search?q=james+benn">Billy Boyle World War II Mystery series </a>presents its 18th title next week (Sept 5, Soho Crime imprint of Soho Press): <b>PROUD SORROWS</b>, by <a href="https://www.jamesrbenn.com/">James R. Benn</a>. The title comes from a Shakespeare couplet in the play <i>King John</i>, referring to the force of grief. In November 1944 in Britain, surely everyone had a reason to grieve: The war hadn't destroyed Britain, Germany hadn't defeated the proud island nation, but death, crippling injuries, and residual trauma affected all.</p><p>Benn's first chapter swiftly reveals all the English village characters who'll have potent roles in the murder investigation ahead of Billy Boyle and his colleagues. Poor Billy! He's supposed to be taking a long-overdue break at the country home of his girlfriend Diana's father -- it's damp and chilly, a classic English November, but he comments, "I shouldn't complain. I was dry and no one was shooting at me."<br /></p><p>Trust a big dinner group to show the cracks in family and friendships, though. Soon enough, Billy's worrying about the tensions that surround him. Some vacation! Series readers know he grew up in a Boston "cop" family and landed in Europe as a criminal investigator working for one of General Eisenhower's teams. Benn, however, is a straightforward author who won't leave you guessing about that, and about Billy's skills, in case you're new to his books:</p><p></p><blockquote>Curiosity is the curse of any decent cop, as my dad and Uncle Dan, both detectives with the Boston Police Department, had drummed that into my thick Irish skull on many occasions. <i>Always wonder why things happen</i>, they'd say. <i>Figure things out, even little things.</i></blockquote><i></i><p></p><p>Billy's not-a-vacation-after-all involves a retrieved German bomber, some local feuding, injured and missing persons, and eventually the discovery of a murder. Will the little things help solve the crime? Trust Billy to see what's not obvious, even when looking at a ransacked home: "When a house has been gone through so thoroughly, it's usually because the object in question wasn't found."</p><p>A good part of the pleasure of Benn's Billy Boyle books is discovering what quirky, politically forceful, and culturally mystifying historical forces this author has unearthed in his march through the years of World War II. This time, the focus is on the Ritchie Boys and on right-wing politics. Benn provides a fascinating set of notes at the end. As usual, what cracks the case will be what Billy and his allies pull together, in this case about Nazi prisoners of war, but also about the land and nearby ocean. </p><p>PROUD SORROWS offers an exhilarating and often emotional adventure, with hints at what lies ahead for the series in its inevitable movement toward the final year of the war. Now I think about it, re-reading this well-told mystery is just perfect for another Vermont rainy day. Time to make a cup of tea and tip back into the armchair.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-80367771975392906952023-08-26T10:09:00.003-04:002023-08-26T11:28:40.204-04:00Slow Horses, Dark Discoveries: THE SECRET HOURS, Mick Herron (Sept. 2023)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgEdISX-h33YmG1tjVdVHjPXWATIuGgOcF_ckUD1ov6koovEKtljhBqmgiIatVparJzIaGji2inzm4SqN6R1IZ8tfiVCA8k1VNzQlLKxAxQORflSYr3AmLlkrfBfiTu-Ydebhu4XYngfPaO10Of-S2P4OEhp3K7zlH9hG5-VDeFHV31hqe3HgHGr8lXo/s600/secret-hours-397x600.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="397" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgEdISX-h33YmG1tjVdVHjPXWATIuGgOcF_ckUD1ov6koovEKtljhBqmgiIatVparJzIaGji2inzm4SqN6R1IZ8tfiVCA8k1VNzQlLKxAxQORflSYr3AmLlkrfBfiTu-Ydebhu4XYngfPaO10Of-S2P4OEhp3K7zlH9hG5-VDeFHV31hqe3HgHGr8lXo/s320/secret-hours-397x600.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />My favorite characters from the <a href="https://kingdombks.blogspot.com/search?q=mick+herron">Slough House/Slow Horses series</a> are River Cartwright and Catherine Standish. I identify with each of them for a different set of reasons. (No, I am not going to whine about my father or my past here! I do that in memoir pieces, here.) And I can't stand Roddy Ho, with his endless primping and overweening self-esteem.<br /><p></p><p>But the ones that obsess me are Jackson Lamb, Molly Doran, and Diana Taverner. Why? Because I'd love to have learned from each of them, and I wish I were as brave or as smart, and I know that I'm not. As a small child, when I began to realize that my parents kept secrets from me, I hoped with a deep unholy thrill that one of them was my identity as a Genius. By ninth grade, I knew that wasn't on the map. In the Slow Horses/Slough House series, though, each of these three has special incisive mind and, as a result, a degree of power that I'd now hate to have in my hands. The books let me peek into the inner selves of these characters, though, and there's a marvelous illicit thrill to that past-the-curtain view.</p><p>Hence the absorbing, impelling fascination of Mick Herron's 2023 offering, THE SECRET HOURS. Breaking the tradition of the reader knowing the sneaky secrets, this London/Berlin espionage novel offers a kaleidoscope of work names, job positions ("First Desk" at MI5), and hidden motivations as if the story unfolded in a very foggy neighborhood where any sighting of a spy on the sidewalk ahead could actually be the local bartender lost outside his terrain—and vice versa. </p><p>Because the narrative involves so many hidden identities—some for the sake of anonymity among espionage professionals, some for political manipulation, some due to multiple identities either on British soil and foreign, or while publicly appearing "kind and wise" and secretly shown as manipulative and wicked— THE SECRET HOURS offers a shadow dance at first. Naive young "spooks" experience real life; political hostages slowly notice their bondage. Series readers will get the most from this novel, as they'll be alert for signs of which First Desk is hiding in the shadows, who could be a traitor, and small character traits long since revealed among the so-called slow horses. As one mask after another is lifted, the masquerade turns deadly. Yet, of course, this is Mick Herron writing, so deadly is also simultaneously funny and heartbreaking.</p><p>There are also delicious asides into evocative description, slipping in mention of the book's title phrase: "Even when apparently peaceful the [MI5/MI6] hub is alert for disturbance, whether in the world at large, on the streets of the safeguarded cities, or at the next work station along, because—as the whispered mantra has it—<i>You never know</i>. You never know when treachery might strike, or from what quarter. This is true whatever the time, but especially true after dark, since how we act in the light of day is largely for other people's benefit, but what we do in the secret hours reveals who we really are."</p><p>Or the revelations of character in the face of rude awakening: "There was a big rip down the centre of everything now. It wasn't fair, she absurdly thought; wasn't fair that people should expose the violent terrors history held, and expect you to know how to respond." </p><p>In the deliciously balanced double time spans of the book, the same character in another era will reflect: "The events she is recalling took place years ago, decades ago, but there is no statue of limitations on remembered damage, if that is what this is. And how can it be anything else? Happiness takes on a different shade in the light of its consequences."<br /></p><p>Don't let the "literary" phrasings mislead you -- this is also a book of fistfights, kidnapping, death threats, and some murder-for-politics. The difference is, in Mick Herron's hands, the questions asked by the ordinary people doing the footwork really matter. And ache. (And sometimes make you snort with an unexpected laugh.)<br /></p><p>I often tell people to plunge into a book without worrying about whether they've read earlier work in a series. And you can do that with THE SECRET HOURS, of course. But if you do, then dip into some of the earlier Mick Herron books and come back to this for a second read. Then you, too, will double your time periods of engagement, and perhaps see, and feel, the movement of the world more clearly.</p><p>Release date from Soho Crime, an imprint of Soho Press: Sept. 12, 2023.<br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-62450551784978721222023-08-14T16:16:00.004-04:002023-08-14T16:16:27.168-04:00A Last Round of Summer Reading: Book Recommendations<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguZO4rZLx2t5csUiw32MWs876am4yg7a8lLPLJZtnuR50Oel4wMva5GRiZ0XgD77sPMRcqFmMKVqGjnPf58pR-YsTfl8oHw_NZc6VxFIoSVVW-MFwoVK-43erBk31cuCySSIaW8QpjCvj8X7_gvOyaY0_mMhvTdbk2xGIX7B2yPHSGHViFt4paFevRB9Y/s4032/IMG_6232.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguZO4rZLx2t5csUiw32MWs876am4yg7a8lLPLJZtnuR50Oel4wMva5GRiZ0XgD77sPMRcqFmMKVqGjnPf58pR-YsTfl8oHw_NZc6VxFIoSVVW-MFwoVK-43erBk31cuCySSIaW8QpjCvj8X7_gvOyaY0_mMhvTdbk2xGIX7B2yPHSGHViFt4paFevRB9Y/s320/IMG_6232.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />I've recently taken photos of leaves turning red and yellow and landing lightly on the back roads or new-mown grass. It's still summer here in Vermont, where mowing the lawn with the walk-behind mower means working up a good sweat, but the cool evenings glitter with shifting constellations. Orion will rise in a few more weeks, and we'll start worrying about frost.<p></p><p>One of the unexpectedly moving crime novels on my summer reading stack has been WHERE THE DEAD SLEEP by Joshua Moehling (Poisoned Pen Press). This is his second book and takes a deeper look into the life of Sheriff Packard, introduced in <i>And There He Kept Her</i>. Significantly, it opens with an "inconsolable" three-legged dog whose nightly share of Packard's bed was taken by a visiting lover. Within a few paragraphs, it's already clear that Packard isn't handling his personal life well, while trying to be a small town's first gay (acting) sheriff. This personal confusion inevitably interferes in his crimesolving, and in his insight into why a local gambler turns up murdered in a home invasion.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kusIR7kCIQjh8hwgExkVzAqBbjhHKuq9RZEH6LDjbBlvuTj5NEtQbo8ao3q87vQrgSt4Q5EuPliSLnp2ZhBZrkzqpkpYZzmx3DB4wYA2Lcr_FUFnhsMeLZq0yZKel0M3vvW-TvOMR6pcMorbmXCwuP52ikRL5veGRr_mX9hpTGFJ_NzKgTKLNo20jAo/s618/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-14%20at%204.10.57%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="406" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kusIR7kCIQjh8hwgExkVzAqBbjhHKuq9RZEH6LDjbBlvuTj5NEtQbo8ao3q87vQrgSt4Q5EuPliSLnp2ZhBZrkzqpkpYZzmx3DB4wYA2Lcr_FUFnhsMeLZq0yZKel0M3vvW-TvOMR6pcMorbmXCwuP52ikRL5veGRr_mX9hpTGFJ_NzKgTKLNo20jAo/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-14%20at%204.10.57%20PM.png" width="210" /></a></div><br />Moehling is a gifted storyteller who sets up situations that clarify how greed, anger, and frustrated love can all become motives for crime. Packard's strengths depend on his ability to enlist loyalty and honesty from people who may not readily offer them. He also captures a twist of information and character in a few well chosen words, as in this fragment of a poker game: "When the river card turned, Jim raised and Richard folded. Alan shuffled his chips, then finally called. Jim took the hand with a three of a kind. Alan tossed his cards, showing a low pair." Minutes later, Packard will clear the high-stakes table with a haul of $75,000 that he can't accept, but that buys him enough respect to get some of the truth of the crime at last.<p></p><p>This book interfered seriously with my work plans. I wish you the same experience.</p><p>Also in the August heap has been EVERGREEN, the second crime novel of Japanese internment and anti-Asian prejudice surrounding World War II, by Naomi Hirahara and published by Soho Crime, imprint of Soho Press. I wasn't a huge fan of Hirahara's first, <i>Clark and Division</i>, finding it a bit too stilted (tasting like a translation despite the California birth and life of the author) and without a lot of character. </p><p>To my delight, I found <i>Evergreen </i>smoothly written, intriguing, with strong development of determined Aki Ito and her struggles with both family and the unwelcoming nation, and with a complex strand of crimes involving both the plight of "second-class citizens" and the postwar new growth of America. Here's one of the polished turning points as an example:</p><p>The next meeting was going to be held in the Japanese-operated flower market on Wall Street in a few weeks.</p><p></p><blockquote><p>"It's going to take time, Pop," I said.</p><p>"Those son-of-a-bitches," my father cursed. "They are not going to get away with it."</p><p>I sat quietly in the passenger seat, clutching my pocketbook. I knew that he wasn't just talking about the produce market. I couldn't bear to say out loud what I felt: <i>Pop, they already have</i>.</p></blockquote><p></p><p>You'll want this one for any collection that circles World War II and the aftermath, or hate crimes, or American history, as well as Japanese culture and well-plotted urban crime fiction.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKfcur3mB45UW1jhODV_xoTXMuoMbunsCPu9a55SdylIrZtjAyAuU-yk9pb4uQ0uJyrzYxdvgOI6nVObQer0wMqamqebyi9ffQWHIuGTDNY6EGvQG4S84IHWlNNLL21lYM5PBdEj-JrTryKBIcmRqMlrhH1BBsppy_-_N46V1BN6vqPQrlAX8Mt9sIWro/s622/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-14%20at%204.13.14%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKfcur3mB45UW1jhODV_xoTXMuoMbunsCPu9a55SdylIrZtjAyAuU-yk9pb4uQ0uJyrzYxdvgOI6nVObQer0wMqamqebyi9ffQWHIuGTDNY6EGvQG4S84IHWlNNLL21lYM5PBdEj-JrTryKBIcmRqMlrhH1BBsppy_-_N46V1BN6vqPQrlAX8Mt9sIWro/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-14%20at%204.13.14%20PM.png" width="211" /></a></div><br /><p>Later this evening I'll be working on my new memoir segment at <a href="https://bethkanell.medium.com/">Medium</a>; I really enjoyed sharing some writing tips with other authors on the platform last weekend, using my extensive reviewing background to point to what makes a strong piece of writing and offering tried-and-true tips to get there. Every day, I'm aiming to deepen my own writing; it gets easier to make time after Vermont's first serious frost arrives, but until then, I've got a yard and garden to tend, as well.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-39880248821612078702023-08-11T17:50:00.005-04:002023-08-11T17:52:07.151-04:00The Writer, the Page, the Reader: A Magical Triangle<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsr-HmtQ7ImavcuUefCF6GbI86eF9HmoaEUNBRBUNKNTpCpNyCmmTf1z5FlcdcBRKehs-fyIq2tLUBAnY5gj8zoAp839YHeYrWb68PG0PbE3PuSr-pmO_kRtANA8LASTYfKTMTmlse4IaH1veT5pgJbOk662AjHLVvQ_mqBVxOY-VZwDRbbciyOMu2uQU/s4032/BK%20books.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsr-HmtQ7ImavcuUefCF6GbI86eF9HmoaEUNBRBUNKNTpCpNyCmmTf1z5FlcdcBRKehs-fyIq2tLUBAnY5gj8zoAp839YHeYrWb68PG0PbE3PuSr-pmO_kRtANA8LASTYfKTMTmlse4IaH1veT5pgJbOk662AjHLVvQ_mqBVxOY-VZwDRbbciyOMu2uQU/w489-h367/BK%20books.jpg" width="489" /></a></div><br />If you were a shy kid in elementary school, you will see entirely different things in a poem than your neighbor will, who arrived in first grade with friends from the neighborhood.<p></p><p>If the first time you made love was with the person you married, romance as a thread in the mystery you're reading may feel familiar and make you chuckle; when you've just concluded an acrimonious divorce, you might skip over those pages.</p><p>That's why I think of a piece of writing as one point on a triangle; the other two are who I am, and who you are. Good writing leaves room for the triangle to spin in different directions, expand, make a fresh angle, and rise into a second dimension. Yet the triangle, the bond between story and reader, must remain resilient and still touch all three anchors.</p><p>On August 12 at 5 pm (Eastern time), I'll bare my reviewer "chops" on Medium.com and offer a tips session for writers of haiku to short story to novel -- even applicable to nonfiction feature articles. There'll be some time for questions and answers, maybe even controversy.</p><p>Please do stop in and check it out! <a href="https://hopin.com/events/medium-day-2023/registration">Scan the offerings for Medium Day and register here.</a><br /></p><p>Meanwhile, a couple of sites with intriguing material on "endings":</p><p><a href="https://www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-the-perfect-ending-for-your-novel">https://www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-the-perfect-ending-for-your-novel</a></p><p><a href="https://www.emwelsh.com/blog/find-best-ending-story">https://www.emwelsh.com/blog/find-best-ending-story</a></p><p><a href="https://scribemedia.com/write-book-conclusion">https://scribemedia.com/write-book-conclusion</a>/</p><span class="sc-dcrmVg JUTrP hpn-Text sc-kuWgmH sc-hKUiOL hKsCkN hztmUR"></span><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl dEVTYN sc-fFGjHI sc-liwHTo fNhrje bpbctc hpn-Box"><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl kcVdR sc-fFGjHI sc-ksNGjt fNhrje fQSTm hpn-Box"><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl fqnhVl sc-fFGjHI dzxNKw hpn-Box"><span class="sc-dcrmVg ipVtXO hpn-Text sc-kuWgmH sc-eePZqt hKsCkN iSurBe"><b>Make A Promise In Your First Chapter: How-To Tips And Q&A For The Writing Life</b></span></div><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl ihlMkR sc-fFGjHI fNhrje hpn-Box"></div></div><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl kcVdR sc-fFGjHI sc-UnBNk fNhrje erTDtx hpn-Box"><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl dEVTYN sc-fFGjHI fNhrje hpn-Box"><span class="sc-dcrmVg iXPVld hpn-Text sc-kuWgmH sc-kCvKRn hKsCkN kBflEo"><div class="sc-XKpuV krgfcL" data-testid="description-html"><p>Whether you’re writing a segment about your life, insight into history, a feature article, a novel, or a poem (yes, even haiku!), you’re laying out a path, an adventure, for your reader. There’s a reason for every ending: It seals the promise you make in your first line or paragraph or chapter. Then satisfaction makes your reader say, “Ah, that was good!” This seasoned author and reviewer shows how crafting your opening builds a promise to a reader. Discover the power of a beginning and ending that fit together (even when they have to fit head to toe). Gain a strategy for writing stronger and more memorable work. You’ll shape your writing with fresh insight from this chat.</p></div></span></div><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl jUXmwj sc-fFGjHI fNhrje hpn-Box"></div></div></div><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl dEVTYN sc-fFGjHI sc-kRJYiJ gbJQRE diDmDY schedule-event-list-item-tags hpn-Box"><span class="sc-kjUpzh dTPabx hpn-c sc-gWfLn gRngUh"><span style="border: 0px; clip-path: inset(50%); clip: rect(0px, 0px, 0px, 0px); height: 1px; margin: -1px; overflow-wrap: normal; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: fixed; white-space: nowrap; width: 1px;">Tag:</span><span>Writing</span></span></div><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl dEVTYN sc-fFGjHI sc-ksNGjt fNhrje fQSTm hpn-Box"><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-efvICy iqAKwB rLJbl ZfoAG sc-eworkO sc-dSLLkn ivcDcU kzPeMM hpn-Box" data-gridcols="2"><div class="sc-fQcmUk kPdUzY" data-testid="speaker-profile"><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl jUXmwj sc-fFGjHI fNhrje hpn-Box"><div class="sc-hssNwF iWTYFF hpn-Avatar sc-dNtQuv fSoQcd"><img alt="" class="sc-dgDMAE ldEgfr" src="https://hopin.imgix.net/suggested_profiles/pictures/000/789/405/original/7e16e559-fee3-422c-8f1a-9b0681d29dc8.png?ixlib=rails-4.3.1&auto=compress&w=60&h=60&fit=clip&s=034248553dc07968a510eb6d890c6296" /></div></div><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl gmsQew sc-fFGjHI hcwpjn hpn-Box"><span class="sc-dcrmVg JUTrP hpn-Text sc-kuWgmH hKsCkN">Beth Kanell</span><span class="sc-dcrmVg iXPVld hpn-Text sc-kuWgmH hKsCkN"> <i>Writing That Braids Loss, Joy, Love</i></span><div class="sc-bgqQcB sc-gTRrQi sc-ewnqHT iqAKwB rLJbl jwobOQ sc-fFGjHI jOWdrl hpn-Box"><a aria-label="LinkedIn" class="sc-eAzDjm hCMcst hpn-Butticon sc-dPwPAC sc-erIdjD krDouM fWnVCR" data-testid="linkedin-icon-beth-kanell" href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/beth-kanell-136b9a6/" rel="noreferrer" target="_blank" title="LinkedIn"><div class="sc-jeCNp iUjtQM hpn-Icon sc-eywOmQ jQLHPy"><svg aria-hidden="true" class="sc-dicizt heRGCU hpn-VectorGraphic sc-iVCKna fnjGzO" fill="none" viewbox="0 0 24 24" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg"></svg></div></a></div></div></div></div></div><a aria-label="Twitter" class="sc-eAzDjm hCMcst hpn-Butticon sc-dPwPAC sc-erIdjD krDouM fWnVCR" data-testid="twitter-icon-beth-kanell" href="https://twitter.com/@BethKanell" rel="noreferrer" target="_blank" title="Twitter"><div class="sc-jeCNp iUjtQM hpn-Icon sc-eywOmQ jQLHPy"><svg aria-hidden="true" class="sc-dicizt heRGCU hpn-VectorGraphic sc-iVCKna fnjGzO" fill="none" viewbox="0 0 24 24" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg"><br /></svg></div></a><a aria-label="Website" class="sc-eAzDjm hCMcst hpn-Butticon sc-dPwPAC sc-erIdjD krDouM fWnVCR" data-testid="website-icon-beth-kanell" href="https://bethkanell.blogspot.com/" rel="noreferrer" target="_blank" title="Website"></a><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6836232158588777465.post-62699471968677751722023-08-01T09:03:00.003-04:002023-08-01T12:03:45.229-04:00Sometimes Parents Can't Be Saved (and a Book Recommendation)<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhom2CBIKGPgbMv-HF9SRfWDmO3tOMfGpoOC_sI3P03X1f4YpgdtmbV8pzDo9j0NyKo-5ST_3EgnhEJ33RrcyfLHQL00npIFHlT1Q2vMy_EoC5IrDjH9C2GuZaKAcbVAbQEssp7iTERPA4OGXjWvB-n6CSUZJCHHeTRQ79YIcd_EpidzIx_GpaFhYExCes/s740/Martha%20Kanell.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="740" data-original-width="561" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhom2CBIKGPgbMv-HF9SRfWDmO3tOMfGpoOC_sI3P03X1f4YpgdtmbV8pzDo9j0NyKo-5ST_3EgnhEJ33RrcyfLHQL00npIFHlT1Q2vMy_EoC5IrDjH9C2GuZaKAcbVAbQEssp7iTERPA4OGXjWvB-n6CSUZJCHHeTRQ79YIcd_EpidzIx_GpaFhYExCes/s320/Martha%20Kanell.jpg" width="243" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martha Kanell, Dave's mother<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Floods, fires, mass shootings -- in each news report, my eyes strain to see the children, in hopes that someone has saved them, putting them first. It seems like a shared value: If we can, we rescue the children. Then we look for others, including parents, grandparents, and more.<p></p><p>My husband Dave and I found many "coincidences" as we compared our lives before we met, at age 50. One especially poignant one involved our mothers: His mother, Martha, had died suddenly when just 57 years old (trust me, younger readers, that's a very unfair age for death), of a preventable complication from a hospital procedure. My mother, Joan, died suddenly at age 53 from a preventable complication from a hospital stay that in turn should never have happened.</p><p>Both of us agonized over those deaths—not just the grief of losing your mother before you've really had time to share adulthood with her, but also the insistent feeling that there must have been something we could have done to save them.</p><p>Sometimes, though, as I'm probing in my memoir segments at <a href="https://bethkanell.medium.com">https://bethkanell.medium.com</a>, that saving notion is a fantasy. Maybe it makes us feel that life is more predictable, if we imagine we have the strength and skills to save people. Maybe we're drowning in persistent guilt and trying to breathe.</p><p>One way I balance the loss and grief that life brings is by walking each morning, looking for ways to frame Vermont's natural beauty in photos. Poetry steps into that same balancing. And, of course, I read books. Although I read a lot of mysteries, some of them present caring stories where people support their neighbors and some people DO get saved! Here's a good one, new to the market today:</p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">Birder, She Wrote, by Donna Andrews -- Relaxing Reading!</span></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61bc9TVGcmwx5gVMj5eE3OTd-OvDUvPT3xTG8lQl01E1oQKHcUU7_BynnoZ5ur32SR0hkNTEnG5JQb2nYFMvJyxXaj02ubtiTEjwB8aHKAAvNbOYEGd0sT4QUgfjasFiD00ZBl_VdfR_Z5VlZH3hi2UTRMqMwbUKw4ZShD3hH1FMPNiRKT1-hkjAxExs/s500/51LjCI13lmL._SL500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61bc9TVGcmwx5gVMj5eE3OTd-OvDUvPT3xTG8lQl01E1oQKHcUU7_BynnoZ5ur32SR0hkNTEnG5JQb2nYFMvJyxXaj02ubtiTEjwB8aHKAAvNbOYEGd0sT4QUgfjasFiD00ZBl_VdfR_Z5VlZH3hi2UTRMqMwbUKw4ZShD3hH1FMPNiRKT1-hkjAxExs/s320/51LjCI13lmL._SL500_.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />[<a href="https://www.nyjournalofbooks.com/book-review/birder-she-wrote-meg-langslow">originally published at New York Journal of Books</a>]<p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Between
the careful plotting, the clever twists, and the colorful descriptions, <i>Birder,
She Wrote</i> fills a nice slot for summer beach reading.” </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Ah,
summer in the country—a hammock, watching the hummingbirds, a break before
going back to her job as the mayor’s special projects assistant. Meg Langslow
ought to be able to count on that much, right? But that would be leaving out
the hive of bees her father is setting up at her home, her grandmother
Cordelia’s community activism that’s somehow landed a reporter among them, and
of course, the political challenges of her job, inconvenient and pressing. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Her
“short list” at the end of the first chapter already involves calming two
wealthy families in town and finding the two unusual men whose lives have
caused an upset. An upset, that is, about bees. Funny coincidence, right?<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Actually,
from the moment Britni the reporter pushes into the family’s efforts, nothing
feels very funny. Almost immediately—after all, this is book 33 in the lively
Southern mystery series that always involves some level of bird life out in the
countryside—a dead body turns up. And finding the lost naturalist resolves
nothing! Meanwhile, why on earth is Britni determined to profile Meg’s socially
active grandmother for a sappy sweet-tea magazine that focuses on decor and
dresses?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Count
on Andrews for liberal splashes of humor: Meg and the law enforcement team,
including Meg’s father, search the woods using Pomeranians as snuffling body
detectors and then as search-and-rescue canines. Gentle puns also abound. But
Andrews also sticks with the tried-and-true regimen of a good crime novel:
clues and red herrings, and probing for the perfect combination of motive,
means, and opportunity that makes clear who’s got a mission to murder in the
neighborhood.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Meg
presses the chief of police to reason more closely about the murder victim:
“How’d he manage to get himself killed out here near one of Clay County’s
better-known drug and moonshine markets? And … isn’t it more usual for drug
dealers and moonshine sellers to keep shifting around where they do their
dealing?” She pairs the circumstances with her knowledge of her hometown and
past crimes, and takes the notion further: “What if Wally the Weird now fancies
himself a hotshot vigilante anti-drug crusader? What if he thought he’d found
another neighborhood teen on his way to buy drugs and followed them out here to
get the goods on them?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Meg’s
also blunt when questioning local citizens, including those complaining about
wildlife around their new homes in the country: “The bees were here first,” she
points out. “If a bee-free environment was essential to your health and
happiness, maybe you should have done a little more investigation before you
bought your house.” The point’s well taken, and might have eliminated some
local friction and even dropped a suspect off the list, if only the woman Meg
lectured hadn’t turned out to be a likely victim of blackmail. So the question
becomes, at what point does blackmail and the threat to “tell a secret” become
motive enough to kill?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Adding
fresh timeliness to the novel is a sideline of tracking down a long-vanished
African-American cemetery in the woods—something that the prissy-appearing
reporter tagging along finds totally uninteresting, but that puts the
Pomeranians to even more use and engages Meg and her family with more of the
neighbors and their histories.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Andrews
offers a smoothly spun story full of her trademark observations of nature (not
just birds) and women’s friendships. Between the careful plotting, the clever
twists, and the colorful descriptions, <i>Birder, She Wrote</i> fills a nice
slot for summer beach reading. Just don’t start looking up things like the
“murder hornets” Meg has to consider, before packing your book bag for
vacation.</span></p><p><style>@font-face
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