#when will my husband (hockey) return from the war (summer)

[elibeeline]

does the hockey understand that i Need the hockey Now

[falsegoodnight]

a new header??? it matches better <3 these are the fics I read or reread and enjoyed this month! like last time, i’m separating it into different sections: main list, wips, and non-1d. rereads will be included in the main list and marked with a star (*). 

*note: this list encompasses the fics i’ve read from the 1st to the 28th only

—

main list ~

✰ Don’t Wait Up by reliablyimperfect | NR | 1k

Without Harry’s warmth next to him, he felt the chill of the air creep over his skin. He tugged the blanket down from where Harry kept one draped over the back of the couch for him, grateful. With the blanket, he instantly felt warmer, but it backfired when his eyes began to droop again. Trying to keep his eyes open was impossible, and he was consciously aware of how long his blinks were becoming. They stay closed longer and longer until, eventually, they didn’t open again.

so soft and sweet and lovely! made my heart feel so warm <3 will return to this for some quick comfort in the future!

✰ my ugly mouth kept running by @hadestyles | E | 4k

Sometimes second chances are more important than the first.

rori’s lush writing + abo + exes to lovers = absolute perfection. my fic cameo gives it a bonus too :’) definitely one of my rori favs 

✰ i’ve loved you three summers now honey, i want them all by @softloubabie | M | 4k

The restaurant was small and bright, soft colors filled the walls and tables and fairy lights hung from everywhere. From what Harry had read, the food wasn’t overly expensive but it was still comparable to what you would get at one of the more expensive places. If Harry could he would take Louis to the biggest most expensive and extravagant restaurants to do what he planned to tonight, but this would do.

After being led to their table Harry nervously tapped his jacket pocket, sighing in relief when he felt the small box still there. Tonight was the night. He couldn’t wait till it was time to surprise Louis with all the gifts he got for him. Then finally the big surprise.

so cute and sweet! their kids were so adorable and the proposal so lovely!! they love each other so much <3

✰ love me in between the future and the past by navigator & quitter | E | 11k

Harry's scared of history repeating itself.

this honestly hurt to read but in such a raw and emotional way?? was mad at harry and then sad for him :( this writer duo’s fics never fail to amaze me!

✰ sunshine on my mind by @raspberryoatss | E | 13k

Louis visits Harry in Portland

this was so sweet and lovely! the perfect addition to this wonderful universe! pip’s characterizations and fluff never fails to make my heart feel warm <3

✰ rapture in the dark by @stylinsonsupporter | T | 13k

Harry Styles is a breakout musician who has shed his boyband label in favor of embracing his inner brooding rockstar. His PR team think that his rebrand is the perfect time for Harry to come out of the closet and have devised the perfect plan for doing so. Enter Louis Tomlinson, up and coming (and very openly homosexual) model whose public image as America's Sweetheart is the perfect foil for Harry's new edge. From a PR standpoint, it's a dream come true - a power couple that can slowly coax the public into accepting Harry's altered image. The only problem? They hate each other.

always love a good fake dating au and this is no exception! and model louis >> really enjoyed this!

✰ Maybe, Baby* by thoughtsickles | M | 16k | mpreg

It all feels too easy, too good to be true. It all feels like a scene from Louis' daydreams, the kind of life he'd always imagined he'd have when he was younger and bored at his momma's work, sneaking around the hallways of the maternity ward until the nurses let him in to hold the babies. He'd felt so important being allowed to touch them. He'd told them stories of the lives they were going to have, houses with nice wallpaper that wasn't peeling, yards filled with sunshine and flowers and grass that never went yellow. A hammock to nap in, cuddled up with his husband.

You can't stay here, he tells himself, but Baby doesn't want to listen.

have reread this one quite a bit of times now and it still makes me so happy <3 this Louis and Harry deserve the world <333

✰ Let Me Inside by reliablyimperfect | E | 18k

Louis is Harry’s boss, but Harry is the boss of Louis. 

loved this one! really enjoyed the balance between h&l and how they maintained their dynamic in subtle ways outside of the bedroom while also keeping it separate. very much enjoyed the jealousy as well <3

✰ a scintilla of predilection by @dehydratedpoolfics | T | 20k

There, in the far back of the room, next to the only available seat left, is none other than Harry Styles. Harry, who grew up next door to him, who knew all his secrets as a child and played FIFA with him on Saturday mornings after he would spend the night Friday evenings every week, whose curly hair would tickle his nose as they held each other during bitter cold nights that made his room glow a haunting blue.

love ex-childhood friends with misunderstandings!! louis was so cute and i loved his poetry <3 harry too was so stupid but so smitten and lovely :’) really enjoyed this!

✰ Keeping The Flame Alive by @crazyupsetter​ | E | 20k

Recording with One Direction never felt like this. There’s a couple reasons for that, Harry thinks. One is that they did most of their recording on the road, rushed and in busses and hotel rooms, never in one place long enough to really get an argument going. The other, larger and more important one, is that back then he had the sweetest, meanest little omega around to distract him from all of that frustration.

The first time around, when he’d been recording his debut solo album, it hit him pretty hard. He likes to think he’s better adjusted to it now, but frustration is warring under his skin nonetheless. He doesn’t want to be told what to do most of the time, and he especially doesn’t want to be told what to do when it comes to his music.

What he does want right now is that sweet, mean little omega right in front of him with his mouth on Harry’s cock. Unfortunately, the best he’s got is his own hand and a shared toilet. So. That’s really not going to work.

✰ like it’s a game* by @soldouthaz | E | 32k

There is little Harry hates more than truth or dare.

And Louis.

queen of enemies to lovers! it’s been a while since i’ve reread this but too absolutely no surprise, it’s just as amazing as always <3 sarah never misses!

✰ Too Young To Know by @2tiedships2 | M | 35k

Harry doesn’t present as an alpha… until he does.

really enjoyed this as per usual! exes to lovers is my jam and the added angst of Louis dating someone else at the beginning... love <3

✰ Some Things Take Root* by  navigator & quitter | E | 50k

Louis' ex doesn't get jealous of anyone besides Harry. Harry helps Louis use that to his advantage.

stumbled upon this randomly and decided to reread on a whim... ended up staying up to read it in one sitting! so good!

✰ Safe and Sound (You’ll Always Be) by @all-these-larrythings | E | 58k

When a failed case and a guilty conscience leaves Harry more than a little lost, his boss presents him with a new, less taxing assignment to help him cope. An escape from all the madness is just what Harry needs to get his life back on track. It's just too bad his new client has a grin like the devil, a pair of electric eyes that Harry simply can't get over, and no intention whatsoever of letting him catch a break.

i don’t know how i’ve never read this before??? it was absolutely amazing though! perfect blend of humor and fluff and tension and angst <3

✰ Mind Over Matter (You Under Me) by @youreyesonlarry | E | 74k

It’s dark outside when Harry finishes practice for the day. 

the slow burn in this fic killed me - which is to say, it was perfect! loved how they progressed from working together to being friends to something more and how much they genuinely cared for each other! the hockey was so fun too!

✰ Call Out My Name by frenchkiss | E | 102k

Apparently, it's bad PR to fall in love with the omega you hired to help you through your rut.

Harry Styles begs to differ.

ellen truly knocked it out of the park with this one!! had everything i could ever want: abo, famous/non-famous, fluff, humor, angst, drama, and more! i loved it from beginning to end!

wips ~

✰ ‘cause all our tomorrows lead the way by @loubellies | E | 64k | 7/11

So maybe Louis’ in over his head.

He had signed up for the Bachelor on a whim after his second bottle of wine and well, here he is. He’s just been announced as the twenty-sixth Bachelor and his ass is sweating. Like, literally sweating. He’s positive that if he was to turn around, the entirety of Bachelor Nation would get a nice peek of his ass sweat.

am thoroughly enjoying each chapter!! it’s been a wild ride so far and although things are currently calm, i am still on edge!! but i trust mar with my life <3

✰ Truth Behind Golden Eyes by @lwtisloved | E | 83k | 8/16 

Louis is a royal servant born with magic in a kingdom where his sole existence is outlawed with a war he has no idea he has a part in upon him. Harry is the prince on whom the burden of mending a broken kingdom falls upon and he might be willing to risk it all for a simple servant if only he admitted it to himself.

caught up last night! still really enjoying every chapter and can’t wait to see what happens next!! things are *happening* with h&l and answers are being given!! (love the jealousy too!)

non-1d ~

✰ Keep Me Close (I Need Your Faith) by @princelouisau | E | 23k

Somewhere along the way he had fallen in love and in doing so, had broken the one rule he knew he couldn’t come back from. As quickly as he realised, he decided that he must never dare speak it. He resigned himself to loving Draco in silence.

first foray into reading drarry... and, to no one’s surprise, i loved it! beautiful writing as always and beautiful atmosphere! it’s really not a shock that i fell for these characters and their story when danielle is behind it <3 it had me entranced from beginning to end!!

finally, i myself actually posted a fic this month:

my fics ~

✰ yesterday came suddenly by me | E | 49k | mpreg 

Harry the deadliest member of the NYC assassins’ guild, is forced to face a seemingly impossible task in hopes of finally leaving the underground behind for good, but when ghosts from the past come back to haunt him, escaping the darkness becomes that much harder.

If you read any of these beautiful works of art, remember to leave kudos and comment to show your appreciation!

*if i made any errors, please let me know :)

enjoy!

[smokedstorybara]

I’m compiling a list of all my wips w/ summaries here to remind myself what all I should be working on and keep myself accountable - and if y’all wanna yell at me about them please do

(Also be warned there will be some spoilers in here cause I suck at non spoiler-y summaries)

Fanfics:

Dear Evan Hansen:

(Apprentice) Park Ranger Handsome part 16 (doesn’t even have a name yet I’m so sorry)

Evan and Connor’s first date!! They go to the orchard of course, and have more relationship conversation... and a picnic.

Fae Court AU

Prince Connor of the Winter Court falls in love with a human boy and acts on it, despite his parents having Rules against relationships with humans. The consequences are big but Connor and Evan weather them well.

Flash:

Soulmate AU (I’m thinking ‘Dream A Little Dream Of Me’ for series title)

A series of one-shots following the Arrowverse characters - with a bit of a focus on Team Flash and the Legends - as they find love and happiness , with some bumps along the way, in a world where you share dreams with your soulmate. Timeline is spread out from Stein and Clarissa’s first meeting to some point around mid canon.

endgame ships include Barry/Len, Hartley/Cisco, Wally/Jax, Sara/Ava, Nate/Ollie/Felicity/Lisa(it’ll make sense I promise), Iris/Caitlin/Shawna, and more

Role-reversal AU

In a world where Barry was kept strictly away from the file on his mother’s murder after he becomes a CSI he grows resentful and distrusting of law-enforcement and a little quicker to recognize that he can’t entirely fix the issues with the police from the inside. So when he wakes from a nine month coma with super speed his first thought is how much he can shove the police’s faces in the fact that the system isn’t perfect and needs to change... he becomes the world’s fastest thief - unbeatable. At least until he goes after a certain diamond at the same time as one Leonard Snart, who walks away from the encounter looking to the world like a hero and gets a sweet taste of positive press that he’s not all that eager to give up.

Harry Potter crossover

Snart and Rory go “backpacking across Europe” on a ridiculous challenge to steal one thing in each country. Their last stop is in England and they’ve set their sights on a suburb in Surrey... which leads them to noticing the treatment of the young nephew of their potential target. Being survivors of abuse themselves they decide to remove him from that environment... along with all of Vernon Dursley’s valuables. Raising a kid is hard, raising a magical kid while maintaining positions as master thieves? ...piece of cake...

Check Please:

Moving On

When Jack and Bitty go through a messy breakup their friends are torn and Bitty is uncertain about what to do, especially when he has to go back to Georgia - where he’s firmly in the closet - for summer break. He can’t talk to his family or his friends about all his conflicting feelings about what happened, so he somehow finds himself corresponding with the one person who he knows would understand - Jack’s other ex, Kent Parson. He also finds himself growing closer to the previous year’s freshmen on his college hockey team and the team’s new manager - especially when summer ends and they’re all handling the situation better than the rest of his friends - ie: behaving like nothing happened except that they’re immediately down to fight Jack at a moment’s notice.

The Umbrella Academy:

Ghost Dave (that’s what it’s called in my google docs but it’s definitely not gonna be the title of the final product)

Dave Katz has been haunting the surviving members of his unit for a couple decades when the story about the 43 women comes on the news; a story Dave had heard plenty about before he died from his lover, Klaus Hargreeves. In whose tellings of it he was one of the children born that day. He also had claimed a few times to be from the future so Dave was fairly willing to take this as proof he was telling the truth. Immediately Dave seeks out Reginald Hargreeves and the 7 of the children he adopted. Over the next 29 years Dave follows the young Klaus around, giving him advice and unconditional friendship and protection from the other ghosts the poor kid could see.

Circle Of Magic crossover

When Tris finds herself dropping out of some kind of portal in a strange land it doesn’t take her long to figure out that some mage had decided to get rid of her - and possibly her siblings - by banishing her to another world, one with advanced technology but not much by way of magic - if one didn’t count the six super-powered siblings she appeared in the middle of. At the same time, but also not, Tris’s adopted sister Sandry wound up smack dab in the center of a group calling themself The Commission who’re very interested in adding her to their ranks, she joins up but maintains suspicion. Daja, the third sister, follows a pair of assassins. And their one brother, Briar, falls into the Vietnam War alongside one freshly tortured Klaus Hargreeves. They all find their way back together eventually - with much fewer casualties than if they hadn’t been there

Harry Potter crossover 1

When an eighteen-year-old Klaus Hargreeves gets bored of being lookout on a mission in London and wanders into the bar across the street he isn’t expecting to find a best friend, but that’s exactly what happens. Lily Evans is a couple months into a break-up and still tired of her ex and his idiocy, especially after his most recent letter - a pile of stupid big enough to send her straight to her local bar. The two hit it off instantly via complaining about anything and everything and egging each other into doing the most ridiculous but fun things. Their night of fun turns sour when Klaus finds out his brother Ben died during the mission and at least one of his siblings blame him. Lily takes the broken boy back to her flat and let’s him stay with her until his visa to stay in England runs out. Thirteen years later the apocalypse is interrupted by a tired ex-professor bringing life changing news - Lily was pregnant when Klaus left England(they’d slept together a handful of times but were never more than friends with benefits), also Lily and her husband(the idiot ex who apologized and changed his behavior, Klaus was at their wedding) are dead and Klaus and Lily’s son was placed with his aunt Petunia(who Klaus has met and knows the boy never should’ve been put with) because only five people besides Lily and James knew who Harry’s father really was and the only one capable of doing anything about it had to find the wandering junkie first. Klaus handles all this about as well as a powerful veteran with a traumatic childhood can - fighting tooth and nail for custody and then raising the boy the best he can with help from his siblings and robot mom and shoving his son’s happiness and safety in the faces of everyone who did the boy wrong

Harry Potter crossover 2

Not long after the war ends Harry finds that he can’t stand staying in magical Britain any longer, so he takes his godson and moves to America. Six years later one of the kids who live across the street sneaks out his window, wearing only pjs despite the heavy snow. Harry finds himself staying up waiting for the boy to return to their street and making some hot cocoa - which he offers to the boy as soon as he sees him. It quickly becomes a Thing(tm); Klaus will sneak out his window in the middle of the night, go for a walk, and eventually wind up having hot cocoa in Harry’s kitchen. They form a strange friendship, one where Klaus has someone he knows he can go to when everything becomes too much - even if that means crawling through Harry’s window, collapsing on his floor in tears, and falling asleep on his couch, waking up just in time to get home before his absence is noticed. Three more years have passed when Harry and Teddy are idly watching tv and Harry sees a very familiar face as Reginald Hargreeves introduces ‘the inaugural class of the Umbrella Academy.’ When Klaus comes over that night Harry asks how much choice Hargreeves gave him and his siblings in their ‘heroics’. After some thought Klaus remembers how his brother Ben hadn’t wanted anything to do with what happened at the bank but was made to participate anyway. He answers honestly: they weren’t really given any. Thus begins Harry’s campaign to get custody for the kids from Hargreeves.

Original Works:

Four Elements Universe(a collection of stories set along one timeline - very far apart and with no overarching plot, just a shared world):

Sisa:

A secluded young king sneaks out of his castle and gets a job under a false identity in hope for friendship, then gives everything up to help his new friends and the rest of his people when he realizes the extent of his adviser’s corruption. Around the same time, a teenage master thief is hired to steal a specific box from the castle - and then to help another thief break her friend out of the castle dungeon - and uncovers several major secrets that might just change the fate of the kingdom.

Kings:

Bandit King Vakhtang’s life is irrevocably changed when he agrees to lend his men to a rebellion for a hefty amount of gold. Over time he finds himself growing fond of the boy prophesied to be the next king and learning just as much from his new employer about letting himself care and open up as he’s teaching the boy how to protect himself. (His best friend and lover is very proud of this growth and kinda wants to adopt the kid)

The Completely Unrelated Adventures Of Four People Who Had Nothing To Do With Each Other Beforehand:

Four teenagers in rural Texas follow a cipher they found in an old tome and discover that all four of them have magical abilities, and that their town may not be as average as they’d believed. As they delve deeper in this new world they uncover two different secret organizations and find themselves caught in the middle of a dangerous conflict over a powerful artifact - that may or may not be the kid sister of one of them.

Mythicals:

Six kids around the world each find objects - artifacts - that grant them magical transformations and abilities. Seven years later all six of them end up at the same prestigious performing arts school in New York. When they discover that they all have these artifacts and powers - and that New York and possibly the world is in danger - they team up to protect everyone else, and quickly become close friends. Though one of them has a secret that could drastically change how the others view them... and possibly risk the fate of the human race.

Eternity And Forever(this one does have an overarching plot):

Eternity Of Forever:

Back in the early years of humanity a young man goes up a mountain for his Trials of Adulthood - a series of three trials set to test a person on the traits of whichever three gods they’ve been assigned to serve - unfortunately for this boy he’s been chosen for the gods of empathy, loyalty, and love... three traits that do not come easily to him. In his desperation to pass his trials he cheats the system and gets caught. As punishment he’s cursed to live forever just on the cusp of adulthood but never reaching it, the only way to break his curse is to prove - with no possibility of dishonesty - that he’s capable of the three traits. Over the next few millennia he gets caught up in a war for the fate of all life on earth, and also somewhat adopts a maybe-alien and falls in love with a time traveler.

Throughout Eternity:

At some unknown point in the future all that’s left of the human race is a refugee colony on an island floating above the desolate remains of our planet. It’s into this that Quinton is born. But when it’s discovered that he can travel through time with just a thought he’s trained for a very important mission: to go back in time and stop the apocalypse. Shortly into his mission he meets an immortal teenager who claims to have met Quinton’s future self and who offers to help, telling him that first thing he should do is gather a team to help him - he even provides names and years. This little team becomes like a second family to Quinton, especially the pretend-aloof immortal.

Forever And After:

After the death of the closest thing he ever had to a father, Slythus finds himself applying to the superhero school the immortal had founded - despite knowing that even if he were accepted into the student body he’d never be accepted by the student body. Somehow he manages to get in... and even more impossible; manages to make friends. But even as he learns how to be good, his past is lurking on the edges of his new life and quickly becoming impossible to ignore - figuratively and literally.

Shadow Warriors:

After the dragon Svartr gets cursed protecting a village from invaders they offer their children to be trained by him - to take care of him as his condition worsens. Those selected and taught by him become known as the Shadow Warriors. Alexir was born several generations after the tradition began of sending every twelve-year-old up Svartr’s mountain for the selection and she never expected to be chosen, being much more focused on intellectual growth than physical, so when it happens it comes as a bit of a shock. She struggles to keep up with her peers in most of the lessons but refuses to give in, pushing herself to reach their level while also learning the complexities of friendship from them all.

Consequences(originally titled ‘Consequences of War’ until I realized it’s more about just consequences for actions in general - like: don’t piss off the powerful magical Being hiding out in the abandoned building):

After deliberately pissing off what they believed to be a ghost - or a false rumor more likely - a college aged idiot ends up being banished into a strange world... with a distinct change in biology(mostly in the area of hormones and primary sex characteristics). As they travel this new world in search of a way home - and back into their original form - they learn new things about themself and make interesting new friends. They find themself questioning whether they actually want their ‘old body’ back and then, when they begin to fall in love, whether they really want to return to their old world.

[jamesgalgano]

VINCENT J. GALGANO, MY FATHER, MY LOVE , MY LIFE!

Vincent Galgano , my father , my love my life By james a galgano

Time has too many ways of playing tricks upon your unchosen life There is some pseudo truism which states the good die young This may be true, but they did not know my father, Vincent who died today At the age of 104 years young as he and his memory will remain forever to me He was a good honest loving husband and father for as far as the eyes can see still Born to immigrant parents who travelled to find their dreams passing through liberty They fell on hard times during the Great Depression their father unable to find work Chose another path to help his family survive running a speak easy until he died My father’s brothers helped there dad anyway they could until his life was taken short away Leaving Antonio, Frankie, Vincent, Angie and Mikey to help their mom my grandmother dear When World War two hit our shores 3 of the brothers signed up to protect democracy Antonio and Frankie spent time fighting overseas, my dad remained behind helping our cause First as a mechanic, servicing vehicles destined for the battle lines changing with each year Then as a master sergeant training integrated forces to learn to do the same across USA He married Carmela Ammirati , my mother and became father of a daughter Elaine at 24 After, WW2 ended he took a mechanic job for buses in New York City , Where I was born 1952 When my brother Anthony was born in 1953, our parents moved us to oceanside by the sea My dad became involved in union politics becoming shop steward then president of his branch Yet even after his job his and my mom’s dream was to one day own a house of their very own In 1958, he got a job in the post office as a carrier and moved us to Commack further east By 1959 after my sister Gloria was born, dad became involved once more in union there Becoming Commack postal workers elected representative and the local’s democratic chair Nevertheless, to meet mortgage demands he took addition jobs to meet rising costs He worked these jobs not only for this but to also give each of us a catholic school education By 1967, my parents grew tired of this life and chose to take us to Arizona to try once more It took my father until 1968 when he became permanent and was once more elected union rep He did this until the day he retired in 1979, after moving my mom to a new home in Mesa He told me he regretted this early retirement he did so until the day he died 12/15/2021 Even though my father many years worked 2 or 3 jobs after work, he often took tony and I When he cooked at Long Island Arena for all events then cleaned up after we often were there With him to watch every event and to help him clean arena seats after every event, Where we met circus performers, hockey players, wrestlers, roller rink players, and the like With my mother, he took us where they saved throughout the year to spend summer vacations In Lake George where we discovered folk music and protest music then being born anew Or Hyanis Port, where we met Bobby Kennedy walking with his family on Hyanis streets My dad drove us across country from New York showing us the nation as all should see He was and will always be my hero. He never looked for recognition of fame only to help others Instilling in each of us that all are created equal and must be treated same way no matter what When my took ill he cared for 17 years until she gave up the ghost to escape excruciating pain After my mom died 2009, I returned on my sabbatical and each summer to care for him there He always remained political and active in union until day he finally departed from view Yet, no matter this he will remain my love, my hero, my guide through this my life through Knowing we had a loving mother like Carmela and role model like Vincent we were never alone They gave us love support with what little they had to make our house a loving home

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

September, 2021

Michele Moore V

3 QUESTIONS I AM ASKING MYSELF BEFORE VOTING IN THIS COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY FEDERAL ELECTION

‘The hardest thing about any political campaign is how to win without proving that you are unworthy of winning’. (Theodor Adorno)

Hello!

I hope this September, 2021 edition of Takhuk finds you well. How was your July/August? A blast? Peaceful? Crazy busy? Difficult?

Mine was a little bit of all of those things. Best blast – taking 4 little boys, ages 2, 4, 7, 9 (grandsons) for a day at the creek on a hot summer day. Preventing child drownings and making sure each kid got their fair share of the best snacks were my primary duties, which came with a few unforgettable moments. My favourite - when the 7 year old asked the 2 year old to spread his hands to demonstrate the size of the fish he had just seen. The 2 year old did exactly what fishers are famous for (his father is a fisher - is it genetic?) He began with his hands about six inches apart, and ended at about two feet. (I’m pretty sure what the 2 year old saw was a minnow.)

I also enjoyed a few peaceful moments on mountain tops and a deliciously relaxing five day stretch camping beside a river under a mountain that glowed with the sunset every night. No forest fire smoke. No rain.

Along with these wonderful interludes, my summer had a weighty dose of crazy busy. Important and unavoidable stuff that comes along in one’s life. The heaviest?  We moved. But, we had to rent until the house we bought became available. So we actually moved twice. We are now gratefully installed in our new home, which was built in 1981 and still has a lot of the original equipment, (including a first generation vintage microwave which doesn’t work but looks so cool I’m wondering if I should keep it in the wall just for decoration). Along with the hours and hours of packing and hauling boxes around, we have also been spending a lot of time talking to renovators. And furnace people. A LOT of time with furnace people. Still don’t know what furnace is best. Any suggestions?

All of the foregoing (except the grandchildren) has little significance in light of the array of truly serious issues we humans are currently grappling with.

Yes, serious issues that need immediate attention. Yet, here we are, facing another federal election. Geesh. Will politicians ever, ever, ever, stop playing political games? Is there a place on this earth anywhere that has freed itself from the yoke of political maneuvering and scheming? Everyone knows why Trudeau called this election. And everyone knows the Conservatives would have done the same thing. It’s a game, of course. A game to win power. Perhaps all politicians should be required to play hockey for a few hours every morning before they head into work. To rid themselves of some of that competitive, power hungry juice that flows in their veins and infects their thinking.

Having once been a politician myself (municipal level), I have seen from the inside what can happen when people get a taste of the power that comes with being elected. It’s dangerous stuff. There are so many well-meaning and truly committed individuals who want to ‘give back’ by serving in government. I was one of those people. I simply had an interest in the political process, I understood the value of supporting and engaging in our political system, which is actually one of the most transparent in the world (yes, it’s true). The value I saw was in being able to protect and if possible improve the democratic process, to ensure honesty in government, to seek fairness in government, and to work with others to find the best possible solutions to a never ending parade of problems that come with being human. As a municipal councillor, our Reeve (like a mayor), sought consensus amongst the elected council, never calling for a vote until we had reached an agreement. Sometimes this Reeve would keep us talking and debating for hours, so determined was he to make us find consensus. The second tray of donuts would be long gone, the eye glass cleaner all used up, our bums gone numb, our backs stiff as petrified wood. But it was worth it. Consensus is a precious thing. A precious thing that helps maintain a productive, positive, and respectful working elected group, which can then honestly and confidently project the reasons for decisions taken.

In my years as a municipal politician, I worked with and met many excellent people in government – both elected and hired. I also met some who were definitely in it for the game, for the showmanship, for the perks. These people rarely had any clear ideas or solutions, they had chosen to go into politics for the power, really. And those perks.

I met people who did not want to hear anyone else’s views of the world. People who did not want to listen to other ways of thinking. Their views, their ways of thinking, were the only valid ones, the only right ones. And they were so convinced of this that their single purpose goal was to impose on others their ideology, because that’s really what it was. Ideology. No point in debating their ideology with those who had different ideas, because those who did not also adhere to this ideology were obviously wrong. Of course as I write this I am thinking of some very specific individuals I came across during my time in politics. I found these kinds of people in riding association meetings, I found them at high level roundtables, I found them in the stock exchange on Bay Street in Toronto at the inaugural meeting of a now well established think tank filled at the time with some of Canada’s high profile ideological loudmouths. So they are literally everywhere.

Promoting an ideology is often expressed as a ‘movement’. I believe this to be deliberately deceptive. I think most of us associate the word ‘movement’ with fundamental rights such as freedom from discrimination, freedom from dictatorship, freedom from persecution. Martin Luther King led a movement. Nellie McClung (women’s right to vote), led a movement. A political ideology is not a movement. It is simply a way of viewing the world, a belief system about how our government should be structured and how our economic system should function.

So all of this is why the following is the first question I am asking myself as I determine who will get my vote: Do I believe the candidate will pursue consensus and is genuinely willing to listen to and consider, openly and respectfully, other points of view? Does the candidate see the inherent value in consensus? Will this person promote the idea of consensus to the leader of their party? Will this candidate seek consensus in their day to day duties? When someone is elected or hired into government, consensus, in the back offices, in committees, in caucus, and ultimately in Parliament, is the best way to achieve a successful, functioning government. Consensus should be the goal whenever possible. It’s a hard thing to achieve, but it is so worth it. Like a family huddle to decide where to go on vacation, or a team meeting to decide which tournaments to enter. Everyone buys in when decisions are made by consensus.

The second question I am asking myself:  Do I believe the candidate recognizes that we must move forward, not backward, in terms of public policy? In other words, is the candidate someone who understands that societies naturally change and evolve, and therefore public policies, too, must evolve? Societies create systems that respond to the times, and then times change, and so then, must systems. Thus, we no longer have feudalism in Europe, or monarchs and serfs. In the western world we no longer have children working in factories. Today, all children have the right to an education, regardless of their roots. There was a time when only the wealthy and privileged had access to education. (We no longer have teachers smoking inside schools either - remember when that was the norm?) We no longer bring foreign workers here to build our infrastructure (thousands of Chinese immigrants build the Canadian Pacific Railroad) and then impose a Head Tax on their relatives – a tax designed to stop family members from being able to come to Canada to join their husbands and fathers (and of course, the government of the day that came up with this way of thanking these workers also hoped the Head Tax would compel those workers to return to China to rejoin their families in what was then a war torn and impoverished place). Today, new immigrants driving taxis, serving up a Timmy’s coffee, cleaning hospital floors and taking care of our elderly do not pay a head tax for their families to join them. Today, we invite immigrants here to help us build and run the country and thank them by giving them the opportunity to become Canadian citizens. 

This seems critical to me. That we elect people who are in touch with and keen observers of changing societies and who will look for ways to accommodate that change while also championing the values that we all share – equality of opportunity, equitable access to the fundamentals of a decent society – healthcare, education, housing, personal security. Peace.

The last question I am asking myself: this time, is it the party or the individual MP in my riding that best connects with the first two questions. We all know that drill. Sometimes the leader is so clearly capable or inept that we vote only on that one point. Sometimes a party’s platform is so repelling to us personally that we choose by elimination. Sometimes platforms and leaders are all coming up the same colour and that’s when we start looking at the candidate in our own riding.

I’m keeping it that simple because my personal opinion on the many issues we face will not matter if we do not elect representatives who are open-minded, respectful, and forward thinking.

As someone with whom I recently had a great political debate said, ‘that’s just my two cents worth’.

‘The measure of a man (or woman) is what he (or she) does with power. Pittacus

 michelemooreveldhoen.com

[beckylower]

My interest in the footnotes of history and lesser-known heroes have led me to a woman of whom I had not heard until I stumbled upon her in my research. American women owe Inez Milholland Boissevain a debt for the part she played in advancing the cause of women’s rights. Errant Vassar student, suffragette, labor lawyer, World War I correspondent, and public speaker, Inez packed more into her short life than most of us achieve in a lifetime.

Entrance to Vassar

Born in New York in 1886 to John and Jean Milholland, Inez’s parents were able to provide an intellectually and culturally stimulating environment for their three children. Her father started his working life as a reporter and editorial writer for the New York Tribune, but moved on to business ultimately heading a pneumatic mail tube company. Their financial situation was such that the family maintained homes in both New York and England. Inez spent much of her adolescence in London where she attended the Kensington High School for Girls. In the school’s progressive environment, the daughters of earls studied alongside shopkeepers’ children because class distinctions did not exist within its walls. Her application to Vassar was initially rejected, but after additional study at the Willard School for Girls in Berlin where she received an acceptable diploma, she returned home to the US for college.

At Vassar, Inez was involved in the college experience in every conceivable way. She was an outstanding athlete, playing basketball, tennis, golf, field hockey, and breaking a campus shot put record. In addition to sports, she was a member of several clubs, on the debate team, acted in college dramas, became involved in a children’s cause in the community, and was president of her junior class. This would have been more than enough for most young ladies, but an encounter during the summer between her sophomore and junior years changed her life.

Back in London, she met the notorious Emmeline Pankhurst and joined her Women’s Social and Political Union. Pankhurst and her suffragettes chained themselves to fences and refused to stand down in their demonstrations calling for women’s rights, especially the vote. When arrested and imprisoned, they went on hunger strikes and were force-fed by tubes rammed down their throats. When these tactics failed, they moved on to more violent means.

Inez brought this fervor back to the Vassar campus where her ideas and attendant activities were not well received by the administration. Her first volley over the bow of entrenched patriarchy was an article for the Vassar campus magazine describing her adventures with Mrs. Pankhurst and decrying the lackluster state of the American suffrage movement by comparison. Since suffrage was a taboo subject on the Vassar campus, Inez and those she attracted to the cause held an organizational meeting in a nearby cemetery. Attending were 40 students, 10 alumna, and suffrage proponents from the community and New York City. This was the beginning of the Vassar Votes for Women Club, which continued to meet off-campus under Inez’s leadership. While the Vassar website makes no mention of it, some sources say Inez was suspended from college at one point in her battle of wills with the college president, James Monroe Taylor who strictly forbade any discussion of suffrage on campus. One might conclude he was delighted to see the last of Miss Milholland when she graduated in 1909.

After graduation, Inez’s interests broadened to include the law and writing for the socialist journal, The Masses. Rejected by several Ivy League law schools, she was admitted by NYU where she graduated in 1912 and became a clerk in a NYC firm. In 1913, she defended labor leader Elizabeth Gurley Flynn who had been arrested during a textile strike. That same year, she made her most celebrated appearance in support of women’s suffrage by leading a massive Washington D.C. parade the day prior to Woodrow Wilson’s inauguration. Sitting astride a white horse, a crown upon her head,  and dressed in a flowing white cape, the beautiful young socialite turned activist must have been an awe inspiring sight. When a crowd drunken men attempted to impede the marchers’ progress, it is said she turned her horse on them and they scattered. That same year, she proposed to her future husband, Eugen Boissevain, whom she married later that year and with whom she maintained an open marriage as a believer in free love.

When war broke out in 1914 Inez, like so many of her colleagues, believed the US should stay out of the European conflict. To get a first hand look, she went to Europe on Henry Ford’s Peace Ship in 1915. She stayed on as a war correspondent until Italy kicked her out of the country due to her pacifist views. She returned to the US and took up the cause of women’s suffrage once more joining a national tour of the National Women’s Party. She drew large crowds wherever the tour stopped.

It was while on tour that Inez developed an infection from which she would not recover. As a suffer of pernicious anemia, her immune system must have been particularly weakened. She collapsed in Los Angeles on November 25, 1916 and was taken to a nearby hospital where she died. She was only 30 years old.

From an obituary:

“Beautiful and courageous, she embodied more than any other American woman the ideals of that part of womenkind whose eyes are on the future. She embodied all the things which make the Suffrage Movement something more than a fight to vote. She meant the determination of modern women to live a full free life, unhampered by tradition.” The Philadelphia Public Lodger at the time of her death

      The National Women’s Party proclaimed her a martyr to women’s rights, but her fame faded until today she is a rather obscure figure from a long ago movement. I suppose there is some cause for celebration in the fact that women now take the vote for granted. We tend to forget we once were second class citizens without personal or property rights, which is an indication of just how far we have come.

  Historical Fiction Featuring Suffragettes

          Resources

http://vcencyclopedia.vassar.edu/alumni/inez-milholland.html

https://www.loc.gov/collections/women-of-protest/articles-and-essays/selected-leaders-of-the-national-womans-party/icon/

https://www.thoughtco.com/inez-milholland-boissevain-biography-3530528

https://time.com/4391874/the-society-girl-who-became-a-martyr-for-womens-suffrage/

https://spartacus-educational.com/Jmilholland.htm

http://inezmilholland.org/

https://americancivilwar.com/women/Womens_Suffrage/Inez_Milholland.html

  A Brief but Spectacular Life My interest in the footnotes of history and lesser-known heroes have led me to a woman of whom I had not heard until I stumbled upon her in my research.

[flutecattle9-blog]

What I Read: July 2018 | Recommendations for Books to Read

If you’re looking for a good book to read, you’ve come to the right place. This post is part of my monthly “What I Read” series, featuring the books I read the previous month with lots of recommendations for you! All of these book pair perfectly with donuts, cookies, pasta, or pizza… And always a glass of wine.

Have you heard of Tsundoku? It’s a Japanese term used to describe the art of buying books and then not reading them. If you saw the piles of books in my house, you would totally know that I practice tsundoku in a major way. So much so that my husband sent me this article and was like “um hello, this is you.” But it’s not like I’m over here just collecting books. I promise! I only buy books I truly want to read and I have every intention of reading every book that’s currently on my bookshelf or sitting in a pile around my house… At some point. The problem is, the piles keep growing and my reading time is not expanding. Nine books in a month sounds like a huge amount to some people, but at this rate, I’ll never get through all of the books I want to read. I also get a lot of books sent to me and absolutely love reading new releases, so sometimes I have to remind myself to go back and grab something from one of my piles. Oh, and let’s not even talk about my “virtual piles” of electronic books. You can’t see them, so as far as you’re concerned, they don’t exist, OK?

Anyway, in this month of reading, most of my books are “newbies,” but I did grab two older books, one that I actually re-read (Crazy Rich Asians) and one that has been on my to read list for a long time (The Song of Achilles). I’m going to start making even more effort to read some of the “older” books I’ve been collecting, instead of simply grabbing the new shiny things!

Do you have an insane amount of books at your house or apartment, too? Or do you have more self-restraint than I do?

In any event, I’m excited to share my July month of reading with you! (Just an FYI that links to some of the books below are affiliate links. Thank you for supporting WANM!). And don’t forget to follow my book Instagram account (bookstagram!) at @booksontheside!

The Other Woman by Sandie Jones: If you think you have an evil mother-in-law, you need to meet Pammie. Yikes! When Emily meets Adam, she quickly falls in love with him… But then she meets his mom. Pammie is that kind of evil that is veiled behind sweetness, so not everyone sees it. She’s absolutely horrible to Emily, but in ways that make Emily question whether she’s paranoid or being overly petty. This was a page turner for me because Pammie’s behavior is so ridiculous and I couldn’t wait to see what she’d do next. But honestly, I had a hard time justifying why Emily put up with so much! Her love for Adam wasn’t totally believable to me, at least not to the point where she’d put up with Pammie’s antics. I wanted to jump into the book and shake her. I also didn’t love the ending and felt like it was a little rushed… But overall, this is a fun not-too-scary, but still suspenseful thriller perfect for a light read. Also, if you have issues with your mother-in-law, this book may end up making you thankful for her! The Other Woman’s official pub date is August 21, but you can pre-order it now. (thanks to the publisher for my copy of this book!)

Campaign Widows by Aimee Agresti: OK, I have some mixed feelings about this one. I enjoyed it because it’s a fun (very fictional) look inside a presidential campaign, showcasing what the presidential campaigns experience is like for spouses of candidates, staff members, journalists, etc. It follows five self-proclaimed “campaign widows” during a presidential election season. The main widow is Cady, who has picked up her whole life to move to DC to be with her boyfriend (turned fiancé) who is working for a presidential hopeful. As a producer on a news program, Cady covers much of the election and is also thankfully thrown into a group of other campaign widows who can commiserate with one another. My main issue with the book is that there are so many characters, it was a bit hard for me to keep them all straight and get fully sucked into the story. But I still enjoyed the story and feel like this is another one of those light fun summer books that’s perfect to read on vacation. (thanks to the publisher for my copy of this book!)

My Squirrel Days by Ellie Kemper: It’s hard not to love Ellie Kemper (in case you’re like “huh? who?? You probably know her as either a) Erin on The Office, b) Kimmy Schmidt, or c) Becca in Bridemaids). I’ve been a fan of Ellie for a long time, but was slightly worried about this book because I feel like she’s so typecast and has such a voice that, while endearing, can also be a tad bit annoying. Her memoir ended up showing me that she basically has all the good parts of her characters in her real personality (sweet, kind, quirky), but is also so much more (smart, down-to-Earth). Her “Kimmy Schmidt voice” (how I refer to it!) definitely comes out at times, but not to the point of ridiculousness. I loved this book because I learned so much about Ellie that I had no idea about, including the fact that she had such a seemingly normal childhood and one that I could relate to in many ways. She always loved performing, but wasn’t a child actor and didn’t even really get into acting until doing improv in college (after quitting the field hockey team). She’s just so normal, likable, a humble. I didn’t love every single essay in the book and have definitely laughed more reading other memoirs, but still really enjoyed the book… And now want Ellie Kemper to be my bff. My Squirrel Days’ official pub date is October 9, but you can pre-order it now (thanks to NetGalley for my copy of this book!)

The Garden Party by Grace Dane Mazur: This definitely wasn’t my favorite book of the month, but I do think it’s beautifully written and I loved the concept of it from the moment I read the description- two families come together for the wedding rehearsal dinner of their children. The families are quite different (though seem much more alike than they think!) and both have worries and apprehensions about the dinner. I think many people can relate to this as there are always some nerves involved when bringing together the families of significant others. I love that this novel takes place all in one evening and that we get peeks into each unique character’s lives.  But this is another book with a ton of characters that are tough to keep straight and some I thought could have been cut all together. However, I have to mention again that the prose is beautiful (though in some spots a little too flowery) and I think this is the kind of book I’d enjoy much more were I to read it a second time and really let myself sink into every sentence, reflecting on its full meaning. If you have time to sink into this book, do so, but just know that it may leave you wanting more. (thanks to the publisher for my copy of this book!)

Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan: OK, this was actually my second time reading this book, but with the movie coming out this month, I had to read it again! Also, I let over a year go by between reading the first and second books of the series and realized that I had forgotten way too much needed to brush up. It actually kind of felt like I was reading it for the first time… So, I guess that’s one of the benefits of my normal book amnesia (LOL). I also read this along with a reading group I’m in on Instagram and that made it even more enjoyable as we got to discuss it as we read. The story follows multiple characters of a (very!) wealthy Asian family, but really centers on Nick and Rachel. After college, Nick left his family in Singapore and moved to New York City, where he meets Rachel, an American Chinese girl from a “normal” family. She has absolutely no idea of his extreme wealth (and crazy family) until he takes her to visit his family where everyone is ridiculously rich and obsessed with money and status. Sure, the book is a little bit outrageous at times and incredibly un-relatable, but that’s also what makes it fun. Now I’m even more excited for the movie and two followup books!

The Summer Wives by Beatriz Williams: I pretty much always enjoy novels from Beatriz Williams and will likely forever read her new releases, though my biggest criticism about them is that they aren’t always super memorable to me. But they are enjoyable and in many cases, that’s exactly what I want when I’m reading (as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not great at retaining lots of info about all the books I read anyway). This book jumps between a few time periods. One in the early 1950s when 18-year-old Miranda Schuyler arrives on Winthrop Island with her mother who is set to marry the wealthy Hugh Fisher. Miranda gets to know the island with her new step-sister Isobel and lobsterman Joseph Vargas. We also jump to the late 1960s when Miranda is returning to the island after some sort of accident and a long time away from the island. In between these scenes, we go back to the 1930s and learn some of the happenings and relationships on the island during those times. The Summer Wives is the kind of book that had me quickly turning the pages wanting to know how everything would tie together and what exactly happened in the various phases of Miranda’s life. Even though I haven’t been thinking about it a ton since I finished it, I still thoroughly enjoyed reading it! (thanks to the publisher for my copy of this book!)

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller: This one has been on my must-read list for forever since I’ve heard so much good stuff about it. I’m happy to say that it didn’t disappoint, though it’s definitely a bit different than my normal book loves and may not be for everyone! I admit, it isn’t really the type of book I’d usually pick up; war stories with lots of battle scenes aren’t quite my thing. But The Song of Achilles is about so much more than battle scenes and has such a focus on relationships and emotions that I couldn’t help but get sucked in. The book left me feeling all kinds of things and wanting to take a seriously deep dive into Greek mythology… So, I’m calling it a definite win. The story revolves around Patroclus, his childhood, and how he first comes to meet Achilles. I love how the book is set up and I feel like all the details Miller includes are so intentional and essential to the story and our emotions. As his relationship with Achilles grows, the feelings between them feel so believable and real. The decisions they make are often heart-wrenching and they deal with situations I can’t imagine myself in. Yes, there are plenty of battle scenes (how the heck did this war last for so long?!), but they’re also quite intentional and everything always goes back to the relationships. This is one that I definitely want to re-read at some point and I think I’ll gain something new from it every time I do! And now I’m extra excited to read Miller’s next book Circe (which is sitting on my shelf waiting for me!).

All Your Perfects by Colleen Hoover: I know so many people who are obsessed with Colleen Hoover books; I’m pretty sure she has some of the biggest super fans around. I definitely wouldn’t say I’m obsessed with her, but I do really enjoy her books and am happy to grab her new releases as soon as I can. Sometimes her books just feel way too dramatic to me… But I’m happy to say All Your Perfects is my favorite from her thus far. In true Hoover fashion, it’s a very dramatic book… But in ways that feel really realistic and right. The book bounces back and forth from the past (about 7 years ago) to the present. It starts with Quinn heading to her fiancé, Ethan’s apartment, only to run into a random guys sitting in front of Ethan’s apartment door. Why was he there? Well, because his girlfriend was inside Ethan’s apartment in bed with him (I promise I’m not spoiling anything). Flash forward more than seven years and we learn that Quinn and this mystery man Graham are now married (so cute!), but seem to be on the brink of divorce in large part due to trouble with infertility. The book feels so powerful because in the sections that take place in the past, we can easily see how crazy deep in love Quinn and Graham are… In some ways, you think “how could a couple like this ever want to leave each other?” But then in the sections that take place in the present, we gain a very clear understanding of why their marriage is struggling so much. This is definitely an emotional book and one that may be difficult for some people to read if only because it’s so real and spot-on. Hoover does an excellent job dealing with a very tough subject matter that’s relevant to so many people. And even if it’s not relevant to you, you’ll still be able to feel for this couple and get completely immersed in their story. If you haven’t read any Hoover yet, make this your first one. (thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for my copy of this book!)

The Masterpiece by Fiona Davis: You know this book is going to be up my alley because it’s historical fiction that takes place in NYC. For some reason, this is the first book from Fiona Davis I’ve read, but now I definitely want to check out her other releases. This story bounces back and forth between two time periods- the 1920s and 1970s- and focuses on the art school that once lived within Grand Central Terminal. In the 1920s, it’s a popular and respected place to take art classes. In the 1970s, it’s completely abandoned and not many people even know it was ever there. The school really did exist, though the story Fiona Davis tells in The Masterpiece is fictional. We follow Clara Darden, a teacher at the school in the 1920s and and blossoming illustrator striving to get her fashion-focused illustrations published in Vogue and the like. We also follow Virginia Clay, a recently divorced mother, struggling to make ends meet in the 1970s, with a new job at the Grand Central Station information booth who discovers the abandoned art school. The women are incredibly different, but both ambitious and determined and I felt immediate connections with both of them. I love how Davis intertwined the two time periods and how she managed to bring everything together at the end (with a bit of a twist I definitely wasn’t expecting!). It’s the kind of book that has you missing the characters once you’re done reading it. It also has me wanting to take a trip to NYC to wander around Grand Central Station and learn more about its history. (thanks to the publisher for my copy of this book!)

And that was my July in books! Spoiler alert… I know we’re not even two weeks in, but I think August is going to be my favorite reading month of 2018 so far! I’m also off on vacation later this week and am hoping to get some seriously good reading time in.

Tell me what you’ve been reading lately!

If you’re looking for more book recommendations, feel free to take a look at my other book review posts from so far in 2018:

What I Read in January What I Read in February What I Read in March What I Read in April What I Read in May What I Read in June

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Source: https://wearenotmartha.com/what-i-read-july-2018-recommendations-for-books-to-read/

[jamesgalgano]

VINCENT GALGANO, MY FATHER,LOVE AND LIFE

Vincent Galgano , my father , my love my life

By james a galgano

Time has too many ways of playing tricks upon your unchosen life

There is some pseudo truism which states the good die young

This may be true, but they did not know my father, Vincent who died today

At the age of 104 years young as he and his memory will remain forever to me

He was a good honest loving husband and father for as far as the eyes can see still

Born to immigrant parents who travelled to find their dreams passing through liberty

They fell on hard times during the Great Depression their father unable to find work

Chose another path to help his family survive running a speak easy until he died

My father’s brothers helped there dad anyway they could until his life was taken short away

Leaving Antonio, Frankie, Vincent, Angie and Mikey to help their mom my grandmother dear

When World War two hit our shores 3 of the brothers signed up to protect democracy

Antonio and Frankie spent time fighting overseas, my dad remained behind helping our cause

First as a mechanic, servicing vehicles destined for the battle lines changing with each year

Then as a master sergeant training integrated forces to learn to do the same across USA

He married Carmela Ammirati , my mother and became father of a daughter Elaine at 24

After, WW2 ended he took a mechanic job for buses in New York City , Where I was born 1952

When my brother Anthony was born in 1953, our parents moved us to oceanside by the sea

My dad became involved in union politics becoming shop steward then president of his branch

Yet even after his job his and my mom’s dream was to one day own a house of their very own

In 1958, he got a job in the post office as a carrier and moved us to Commack further east

By 1959 after my sister Gloria was born, dad became involved once more in union there

Becoming Commack postal workers elected representative and the local’s democratic chair

Nevertheless, to meet mortgage demands he took addition jobs to meet rising costs

He worked these jobs not only for this but to also give each of us a catholic school education

By 1967, my parents grew tired of this life and chose to take us to Arizona to try once more

It took my father until 1968 when he became permanent and was once more elected union rep

He did this until the day he retired in 1979, after moving my mom to a new home in Mesa

He told me he regretted this early retirement he did so until the day he died 12/15/2021

Even though my father many years worked 2 or 3 jobs after work, he often took tony and I

When he cooked at Long Island Arena for all events then cleaned up after we often were there

With him to watch every event and to help him clean arena seats after every event,

Where we met circus performers, hockey players, wrestlers, roller rink players, and the like

With my mother, he took us where they saved throughout the year to spend summer vacations

In Lake George where we discovered folk music and protest music then being born anew

Or Hyanis Port, where we met Bobby Kennedy walking with his family on Hyanis streets

My dad drove us across country from New York showing us the nation as all should see

He was and will always be my hero. He never looked for recognition of fame only to help others

Instilling in each of us that all are created equal and must be treated same way no matter what

When my took ill he cared for 17 years until she gave up the ghost to escape excruciating pain

After my mom died 2009, I returned on my sabbatical and each summer to care for him there

He always remained political and active in union until day he finally departed from view

Yet, no matter this he will remain my love, my hero, my guide through this my life through

Knowing we had a loving mother like Carmela and role model like Vincent we were never alone

They gave us love support with what little they had to make our house a loving home

[prettypaprika]

2016 Year in Fic

This year I wrote a lot (especially for me!) and wanted to take the opportunity to look back and see just exactly what I spent all that time doing…

STATS Fics: 14 Word Count: 91,174 (give or take)

Fandoms: 8 Star Wars: The Force Awakens: 4 Original: 4 (Although two of which were fake superhero, so not completely original) Misc: 6

Ships: 10 different ships m/m: 6 f/f: 2 m/f: 2 gen: 1 most written character: Poe Dameron and Finn most written ship: Poe/Finn (shocker) OVERALL:

Did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you'd predicted? In terms of words, absolutely! I’m a little bit in awe of just how many words I wrote this year, although I ended up doing two long fics for exchanges that pushed up the number. In terms of stories, less. Last year, I think I wrote 11 or 12 fics and thought I would write a lot more this year. But, I think that my most productive period last year was October/November and this year I was packing and moving during those two months, which really cut into my ability to write.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? Gen in Over the Garden Wall--I hadn’t even heard of this wonderful, amazing show in January. I think it’s also been years since I wrote anything truly gen, so that was definitely a surprise.

What’s your own favorite story of the year? I think that my Charlie/Adam Mighty Ducks fic, “@thatduckingcharlie” is my favorite. It evolved very naturally from a fake twitter quote about one of the characters to a whole story told through twitter. I had so much fun writing it and trying to figure out how tell a story from snippets of a public life. I also really enjoyed writing the two stories set in a rip-off superhero world, mainly because of all the bad jokes I got to make in those stories. My s2b2 story was also a blast–I took a lot of inspiration and spirit from one of my favorite movies, The Thin Man, and tried to translate that into a fun slash 1930s occult mystery.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? I like to think that I took some risks this year--I tried to diversify my style as well as write stories outside of my usual repertoire. I think that non-romance focused stories as still hard for me, but something that I’d like to keep working on. 

Do you have any fanfic goals for 2017? Maybe to finish and publish some of my random WIPs that are hiding on my computer. Survive the big bang that I signed up for. I would also like to write the original story that I spent about three months researching this year but wasn’t able to write in time for the s2b2 issue it would have been for. Write more in general!

Did you meet your goals from last year? No clue. Knowing me, I probably set goals that aren’t able to be easily measured and so would deem myself has having failed them.

BEST AND WORST:

My best story of the year: Stylistically, probably “@thatduckingcharlie” since it was told from an interesting perspective. Technically, I would probably say “Mystery in the Adirondacks”, which I wrote for s2b2′s October issue. I wanted to evoke the banter and gaiety of The Thin Man, because it’s a film that I’ve always thought had fantastic dialogue and atmosphere. At times it was difficult to convey that luminosity on paper, but, I think that the end product turned out well and I had an amazing artist, @beili, working with me who did breathtaking illustrations. 

My most popular story of the year: Kudos-wise, it’s “Barks and Recreation” for sure (it also wins in bookmarks). Kudos/hits ratio, I think it’s “Drowning in Our Blood” mainly because it’s in a super tiny fandom.

Story of mine that is most under-appreciated by the universe: “The Violators” which was a story I wrote for the Trick or Treat challenge that featured a superhero and supervillain that fall in love without knowing who the other when they first meet playing rec league hockey. Mainly, this was a story that I cracked myself up writing as I created ridiculous fake superheroes and supervillains. I also gave a lot of blood, sweat and tears for “This Story Does Not End With A Kiss” which was a modern retelling of the fairytale Kate Crackernuts, but it’s definitely a super tiny fandom, so I didn’t expect much attention.

Most fun story to write: Probably “@thatduckingcharlie”, because of the coming up with twitter handles and figuring out how to convey fights and confessions of love without outright saying anything was explicitly happening. Coming up with the dialogue in “Mystery in the Adirondacks” was also a blast.

Story with the single sexiest moment: Toss-up between “The Priestess of Divinity” featuring dubious consent between a priestess possessed by a god and the priestess’ loyal knight and “Mystery in the Adirondacks” with Hank and Jack finally getting together after having UST for the entire fic.

Most “oh um.... uh ok....” story: Probably the closest that I got was “The Priestess of Divinity” featuring dub con all around, divine possession during sex, a threesome and...more!

Story that shifted my perceptions of the characters: This is a hard one...how I think about characters constantly changes throughout every story I write. I think that “The Woods Are Lovely, Dark and Deep” definitely changed my perception and understanding of how Over the Garden Wall functioned as a show and how difficult it is to balance between whimsicality, appropriateness for kids but also depth and darkness. Buuuut, I suppose the answer to the actual question asked would be “Yo Helga!” because it gave me a chance to explore Helga as a character not just in Hey Arnold! but also how her experiences would continue to affect her as an adult.

Biggest disappointment: Not getting to write my epic slash story set in the 70s about two actors in New York. I really wanted to write it in time for the December issue of s2b2 but training for a triathlon in the summer and moving in the fall decimated my free time.

Biggest surprise: Deciding to write two treats for the Trick or Treat Exchange (after not signing up) and writing for the October issue of s2b2. On a whim, I decided to write those stories all around the same time period and they were done fairly quickly.

Most unintentionally telling story: “The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep” definitely echoes some of the uncertainty that I feel in my own life, including my reluctance to change paths.

WIPs

untitled joseph liebgott/david webster big bang fic Joe followed David in and they both stood there for a few seconds in the entrance, awkwardly measuring each other up. Joe had been a skinny guy back in the day, army rations persistently unhelpful, but now he’d evened out a bit, muscle thicker in his arms and chest, making him less lanky and more wiry. He was paler than he’d been in the war; with a faint scar up above his left eyebrow and he was exactly as David had dreamed the other night. The resemblance was so complete, it took David’s breath away for one heart-hammering second. untitled dan/blair pregnancy fic Blair turned back to Dan and began taking off her coat to drape over a chair. “Well, you said that you wouldn’t move back to New York, so you only left me with one option.”

“One option—” Dan started and then stopped abruptly. Blair was wearing a very fashionable print wrap dress with black kitten heels. Dan would hazard a guess that the dress was probably Marc Jacobs or Gucci. The shoes, Alexander McQueen. But even clearer than Blair’s continued sartorial achievements was the fact that Blair was definitely, most certainly pregnant.

“Eleanor is embarrassed beyond belief that her only daughter is having a child out of wedlock. She is also no longer speaking to me since I refuse to tell her who the father is. Serena has promised to come out and help when I’m due, but I can’t exactly crash with her and her husband in Chicago,” Blair said, pronouncing Chicago like it was a bad word. To Blair, it probably was. 

untitled femslash mermaid story (based on this picture) When she'd been a young mermaid, every time that Adriane had gotten in trouble from skipping classes to hang out with the kelpies or learning to smoke from the selkies, her father would threaten to send her up one of the rivers where there were plenty of humans. "If you keep this up," he used to say. "They'll find you and skin you for your pelt and you'll deserve it."

untitled 28 days later fic The refugee camp is fucking depressing, which says a lot after having survived a rage virus pandemic. There are only a few hundred people in the camp. They’re told that several thousand people have been rescued since the United Kingdom and Ireland were quarantined and that the search is still ongoing, but the facts are pretty plain: tens of millions of people—entire villages, cities, metropolitan areas have been wiped out. Out of the seventy or so million people living in Great Britain and Ireland, maybe only seven or eight million remain.

On their second day in the camp, they find out that Hannah apparently has some distant family in Canada. The immigration officer comes to speak to Jim, Selena and Hannah in barely accented English about sending Hannah to live with her family, Hannah flatly says that she’ll kill herself if they separate her from Jim and Selena.

 “Jim and Selena are the only family that I have left,” Hannah says. “I’m not going anywhere without them except in a body bag.” 

untitled cinderella fic In the glimpses the woman-child had taken of her dance partner throughout the evening, a spectator watch a spark begin to deepen. It was one thing to abstractly know that such a life of luxury and wealth existed, but to have a taste—to have an intoxicating glimpse of lust and richness—there was no return from that knowledge.

Although the woman-child could not have identified the flame beginning to burn within her, her observer could. It was the deepest longing, the start of a desire that would go to the very core of the woman-child’s soul. A desire that, once it had taken root, would accept water at any cost so that it could grow.

RECS!

AT THE SAME STARS by spicyshimmy -- (Star Trek) Kirk/Spock with a Tarsus IV divergence. Such Great Heights by softlyforgotten - (HP) Draco/Harry EWE where Draco has a dragon. A Year and a Day in Old Theradane by Scott Lynch -- (Original) Amazing fantasy universe heist! Sixteen Days in September by Tevere -- (GenKill) Nate/Brad AU set during the 1999 East Timorese crisis The King’s Road by Tsukizubon Saruko -- (Original) Femslash utterly fantastic story of the kidnap and ransom of a noble daughter got a million ugly words for what you are by spock -- (Slow West) Silas/Payne pre-canon

(i make no guarantees regarding when these were written, only when I read them)

[how2to18]

CRABAPPLE, PRICKLY GOOSEBERRY, bittersweet, and devil’s walking stick — are these the names of thorny old monsters in some dark children’s fairy tale? Nope. They are simply the flora that vine the paths of the forests and hollers of the Smoky Mountains. A brave five-year-old girl named Ernestine must journey through these persnickety snatchers in the early morning shadows in order to deliver mason jars full of fresh milk to the neighbors who live far away. It is 1942, and the husbands are away at war. The wives and mothers run the farms, raise the children, milk the cows. These country neighbors take care of one another in their time of need.

This is the framework for Kerry Madden-Lunsford’s Ernestine’s Milky Way, an achingly poignant tale of independence, resourcefulness, and good old-fashioned neighboring as seen through the eyes of a strong-willed little girl in the wartime South. The illustrations, by Emily Sutton, brush the pages like the powdered wings of butterflies. There are sturdy rock houses and old wooden fences, hand-sewn blankets and dusty banjos, everything surrounded by watercolor bursts of soft country colors — trees, leaves, grass, and plants. Flowers and vines are like their own characters. The facial expressions of the people make you ache for home. Any city-dwelling child is bound to look up at the parent, or teacher, or sibling, or babysitter reading them this story and ask, “Can we please go the woods tomorrow?”

I met Kerry Madden-Lunsford during my first MFA in Creative Writing Residency at Antioch University in Los Angeles. I was immediately drawn to her; she emanates a warm and welcoming vibe, with sparkling blue eyes and a wide, down-home smile. She dresses like a hippie teenager from the ’60s who has met her future self, an older, wiser earth-mother. Currently she directs the Creative Writing program at the University of Alabama-Birmingham, where she covers the desks and tables of her classrooms with books — dozens of picture books and chapter books, and middle-grade and YA, and, sprinkled in between, weathered copies of classics, like cherished relics from a magical library. Reminiscent of your favorite elementary school teacher, she actually writes out the lessons — infused with words of wisdom and anecdotes — in a comforting cursive on the board. She connects with everyone. She connects with their work. She was my first workshop leader, and her editorial letter about the 20 pages I had submitted told me everything I needed to know about her — namely, that she was a very old soul with a very young heart. You can sense this about her. You can feel it flowing from the pages of her books.

I recently visited Kerry at her home in the hills of Echo Park. We sat together over bagels and coffee with her husband Kiffen and their dazzling little dachshund, Olive, to talk about her latest release, the aforementioned Ernestine’s Milky Way, as well as her prior work. 

She is the author of eight books, including the lauded Maggie Valley Trilogy set in the Smoky Mountains of Appalachia. The first in that series, Gentle’s Holler (2005), was a PEN USA finalist in Children’s Literature, and it’s easy to see why. The book shares some strands of Ernestine’s world as it explores the life of a 12-year-old girl and her adventures, with her eight brothers and sisters, in the Smoky Mountains in the early 1960s. It’s heartwarming and heartbreaking at once. Imagine a mash-up between A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Coal Miner’s Daughter, and you’re nearly there. Mountain country folk ridden with worries about money and bellies swollen from hunger are the characters that anchor Madden-Lunsford’s work. But the families in her stories rely on mutual affection and a resourcefulness that flows like pure mountain spring water to get them through the rough times.

Her December 2018 essay in the Los Angeles Times, “The Christmas Suit,” is a blistering meditation on family addiction — a deeply caring mother’s despairing attempt to stave off the crippling inertia of frustrated emotion. It’s a different side of Kerry, a flip of the coin. It reveals something tender and truthful about a majority of authors who write picture books, middle-grade, and YA: that they are seasoned individuals whose brave flights of fancy trying to survive adult life are the pearls of wisdom hidden in the sealed-shut shells of books that celebrate innocence, or the end of it.

¤

TIM CUMMINGS: Where did you grow up?

KERRY MADDEN-LUNSFORD: That is a complicated question, though it shouldn’t be. The short answer is that I grew up the daughter of a college football coach, and we moved all the time. For years I said that I lived in 12 states, but my daughter, Norah, reminded me that it’s actually been 13 states. Alabama is lucky number 13. I used to remember all the states by mascots and teams rather than towns. My father’s first coaching job was for Father Lopez’s Green Wave (High School). He married my mother in between football and basketball season.

He was both the coach for both outfits, so he had the basketball season printed on the wedding napkins to build up team support. “Follow Janis and Joe on the Green Wave.” Always the coach, he informed the principal, Sister Annunciata, that the school dance should be held in the library, so the students wouldn’t mess up his gymnasium floor in fancy shoes. He only told me this story a few weeks ago or it would have been in Offsides, my first novel about growing up the daughter of a football coach. Sister Annunciata shut that suggestion down flat, and the dance was held in the gym. I asked him if he chaperoned, and he said, “Hell, no.”

Because some people are going to think that I am the daughter of John Madden, which I am most definitely not, I finally had to write an essay called “I Am Not John Madden’s Daughter.” My father has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s dementia and he sometimes wakes up from naps, talking old football plays or what defense he ran at the Sugar Bowl in 1977 as the defensive coordinator. He did this while we were in Rome a year ago, and my mother said, “Snap out of it! You’re in Rome!”

How did you come to writing?

I’ve told this story once or twice, but I really do credit my fourth-grade teacher, who told me I was a good writer. It was the first time a teacher ever said any such thing. They usually said, “Aren’t you a nice tall girl who listens well?” They said this because I was shy. So it was a relief when a teacher noticed more than height or shyness. That day, I walked around my neighborhood of Ames, Iowa (Iowa State Cyclones), noticing everything, and wrote a story called “The Five Cents,” thinking it was about the “the five senses.” I never was a good speller. I remained a shy kid, and later some of the nuns began to suggest I might have a vocation to join the convent. I wrote about everything, but mostly I read — I read all the time and that absolutely formed me as a writer.

Who are your greatest influences?

My parents were great influences for humor and resilience, but I rebelled quietly because I was not a girly-girl or an athlete (unless field hockey in ninth grade counts, along with golfing on the boys’ team in high school), so I set out to find ways where I could create my own identity away from the gridiron.

I was definitely influenced (terrified) by Helen Keller and facing her fate when I had to get glasses in third grade. The doctor told my mother, “she’s blind without them,” to make a point. When I sobbed in my father’s arms about my horror of going blind (I think I also threw up in the bathroom), he shouted, “By God, nobody is going blind in this house!” I cried, “But how do you know?” “Because I said so!” It made no sense whatsoever, but I believed him.

I adored my babysitter, Ann Kramer, who was a wild tomboy in Ames, Iowa. I loved the coaches’ wives because they were such good storytellers. I was incredibly influenced by my first best friend, Pattie Murphy, in high school because she was so funny and irreverent, presenting a good girl persona to the powers-that-be and then whispering to me filthy things that were horrible and hilarious. We got caught cracking up laughing in the worst places — in class, at midnight Mass, on stage in Ten Little Indians. She was the first friend to make me laugh. We were miraculously “the new girls” at almost the same time in a school, Knox Catholic, where the kids had been together forever; even their parents and some grandparents had attended Knox Catholic.

I was very influenced by my Aunt Jeanne, who gave me books, and my Uncle Michael, who taught me about art. I lost them both to suicide when I was very young, and I wrote about them in Offsides as a way of atoning for not paying more attention. I wrote an essay about that this past summer.

I do think I was most influenced by getting to study abroad at Manchester University my junior year in college. A group of British drama students adopted me and showed me a whole world of art and theater, and I worshipped them for their hilarity and brilliance. I also had wonderful professors in England, who paid attention to me in ways I had never experienced during my first two years at the University of Tennessee. Plus, nobody in England cared if I went to church or watched football. They wanted me to write plays and “drop the grotty trade school occupation of journalism,” and I was very happy to oblige. I’m now writing a novel inspired by that time called Hop the Pond, which also has themes of addiction and features the Brontë sisters and their brother, Branwell.

When I returned to the University of Tennessee from Manchester, I often pretended to be a British exchange student (yes, I was insufferable because I couldn’t bear leaving England for Tennessee). I changed my major to theater, and I came to know my professors in Tennessee who taught us theater history, acting, directing. I was grateful for the encouragement and attention they gave me as a student (and a girl in the South) who wanted to write plays. The only contemporary playwright I knew of at that time was Beth Henley, and I hadn’t yet heard of Wendy Wasserstein.

Our theater department was still cranking out suggested scene study pairings of mostly Inge, Albee, and Williams, and maybe, once in a while, Lillian Hellman. I wanted to write plays, so I stayed in Knoxville after graduation and began an MFA in playwriting. I was the only student in the course at the time, but it gave me two years to learn to teach “Voice and Diction” and to write plays while working at a bookstore. Those two years in Knoxville influenced me because that is when I fell in love with Southern literature. I dropped the faux British accent, and my patient friends were grateful.

Finally, I think my greatest influence just happened this year. She is my cousin, Maureen Madden O’Sullivan — or, simply, Mo. We met for the very first time last May; her grandfather and my great-grandfather — Patrick and Joseph Madden — were brothers in Roscommon, Ireland. Mo and I have lived parallel lives in Los Angeles for 30 years, with many friends in common. She has been sober since 1982, and I have a family member who suffers from addiction, so she has taught me how to really let go — to breathe, to meditate, to eat better, to make gazpacho, to take walks by the sea. She also has stage-four cancer and is doing everything to live and take care of herself, from chemo to acupuncture to meditation to plant medicine to sound therapy to massage to simply taking joy in everything. She is the light of my life, and when I complain about us not meeting sooner, she says, “We met at the perfect time.” She is more evolved than I am.

I have gathered all the letters and texts we have written to each other since May in a compilation, and it’s currently 440 pages. It’s ridiculous, I know, and I don’t know what the project will be, but I am so grateful for Mo. I know I’m a mother, and I love being a mother, but around her I am not a mother. I’m just me again. A friend said I should call the book or whatever it’s going to be: 23 and Me and Mo.

Could you talk about your dual life as director of Creative Writing in Birmingham as well as a working author, teacher, and mother in Los Angeles? 

I’ve been living this unplanned dual two-state life since 2009. I wrote an essay about making the decision to accept a tenure track teaching job in Birmingham, Alabama, and living on an air mattress for a while. I came alone the first year; the second year, my sixth-grade daughter, Norah, joined me and she was like a little cultural anthropologist. She came home from school the first day and said, “We played the name game and we had to say what we liked. And all the kids said they liked only Auburn or Alabama. I know they like their state and ‘auburn’ is a very pretty color, but what I am supposed to choose? When it was my turn, I said, ‘I’m Norah and I like books.’” I realized I had given the child no information about Alabama, so we had a crash course in football so she could catch up. Whenever I hinted at wanting to return to Los Angeles, she would say, “You can go be with Daddy. I like it here. I love it here. All my friends are here. Alabama is great!”

When I realized we were in it for the long haul, we got a rescue dog, Olive, who flies back and forth with me to Los Angeles. I had a terrible flight before we got Olive, awful soul-sucking turbulence, and Norah thought I was crying out “Hell Mary’s” instead of “Hail Mary’s.” After the trip, I vowed to drive or take the train, but it only took a four-day train ride from Los Angeles to Birmingham sitting up in coach class to get me back in the air. Then I got Olive. She has rescued me in countless ways every single day. And she truly is my emotional support animal on planes, along with the occasional emotional support Bloody Mary or glass of red wine.

I love my job as the director of Creative Writing at UAB. I love my students. I learn from them all the time. They come from all walks of life and many of them are first-generation college or they are returning to college later in life. I do miss living with my husband, who has four more years until he retires from LAUSD, but we get to spend summers and holidays together. We also cook and watch movies together. We do this by saying, “One-Two-Three — Go!” and then we hit play at the same time and mostly we’re in sync on Netflix. And because he is a wonderful man, he also goes to visit Mo, and we all have dinner and Skype together.

Our son is in Los Angeles, our middle daughter is in Chicago, and our youngest lives in the dorm at UAB. During the academic year, I live with Olive in what I call my “Alabama Retreat House.” Lots of sweet students and kind faculty drop by from time to time and other friends, too. Birmingham is such a cool city — a bright blue dot in a big red state. One of my L.A. friends visited, and she looked around the house and said, “You’ve created a little Echo Park in Birmingham.” I have filled the place with books and art from mostly “Studio by the Tracks,” where adults on the autism spectrum make art. Started by Ila Faye Miller in what used to be an old gas station, it’s a fantastic studio located in Fannie Flagg’s old neighborhood of Irondale.

I’m currently working on three novels — two are children’s books and one is for adults. I’ve adapted Offsides into a play, and I’m writing a little poetry and always picture books. I am thrilled that Ernestine’s Milky Way, written in this Alabama Retreat House and edited in a 1910 bungalow in Echo Park, has found a home at Schwartz & Wade.

What are your thoughts about the MFA Creative Writing programs these days?

I think they’re valuable because they allow students to find their people. I didn’t find my people in an MFA program, because I was the only student in my program at the time. However, I kind of made my own MFA with a writing group in Los Angeles — we met for 15 years, regularly. Those writers are still some of my dearest friends. I’ve also joined an online group of children’s picture book authors, who are brilliant, and a wonderful local group here of smart women writers. I find I need the feedback and connection with other writers — a kind of forest-for-the-trees thing with all the teaching I do. We also show up and support each other when our books come out.

That is the most valuable aspect to me of the MFA program — finding our people and getting to teach upon graduation. I feel incredibly fortunate to have taught in both a traditional BA and MA program here at UAB and a low-residency MFA program at Antioch University in Los Angeles.

What’s the most important thing you relay to your students?

I hope I encourage my students to trust themselves — to know that they do have a story to tell. I use play in the classroom (storyboarding and making book dummies) and I get them to take risks or chances with writing sparks, exploring narratives. I also talk about the importance of showing up for each other when success comes along. In other words, go to the reading, buy the book, go to the play — it’s such a long and lonely road to go alone, so I encourage them to cheer each other along the way and offer a hand. It’s so much better than being competitive and harboring jealousy.

Of course, it’s natural to feel envy, but I have been so fortunate to have friends who show up and are genuinely pleased, and I hope I do the same for them. I encourage my students to be good literary citizens and also to spend less time online. I offer the advice I need to listen to myself, especially when I fall into the online rabbit hole.

Can you tell us about your love of picture books and children’s literature?

I read to our three kids all the time. My son’s favorite book was Where the Wild Things Are. I even read that book last year to a group of incarcerated men at Donaldson Maximum Security Prison who had never been read aloud to before. I wrote an essay about that experience.

Anyway, I loved reading to our children when they were small, and my husband was a fantastic reader, too. I used to seek out books with great writing and stories. I hid the Berenstain Bears from the kids because I hated books where we had to learn a lesson. I never really thought of writing for kids because I was writing plays and novels for grown-ups. But I began falling in love with stories like Swamp Angel by Anne Isaacs, and anything by William Steig. The kids loved Chris Van Allsburg, as did I, and of course we loved Eric Carle, Margaret Wise Brown, Ruth Krauss, Roald Dahl, Ann Whitford Paul, Cynthia Voigt, Eve Bunting, Jacqueline Woodson, and Lane Smith’s The Happy Hocky Family. There are too many to begin to even name. One of their favorites was “What Luck A Duck” by Amy Goldman Koss, who later became a friend.

We read stacks of books, and as they grew older, they began to tell me what books to read. My son, Flannery, begged me to read The Giver and The Phantom Tollbooth. My daughter, Lucy, fell in love Laurie Halse Anderson’s book, Speak. She wasn’t a huge reader at the time, but she liked that book a lot and said after school one day, “Mom, I felt like reading it at the lunch-table with all my friends around. What it is up with that?”

I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn out loud to them and we watched the movie together. Norah used to have a little shelf of books in the minivan, because she was terrified of finishing one and not having another at hand. She used to ask me, “Can I bring three books?” and I would say, “You may bring them, but I am not carrying them.” When we moved to a different house a few years ago, we donated 20 boxes of books and it still has not made a dent in all the books we have.

¤

Tim Cummings holds an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. His recent work has appeared in F(r)iction, Lunch Ticket, Meow Meow Pow Pow, From Whispers to Roars, Critical Read, and LARB.

The post Echo Park in Birmingham: An Interview with Kerry Madden-Lunsford appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2CMGjGb via IFTTT

[hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff]

CRABAPPLE, PRICKLY GOOSEBERRY, bittersweet, and devil’s walking stick — are these the names of thorny old monsters in some dark children’s fairy tale? Nope. They are simply the flora that vine the paths of the forests and hollers of the Smoky Mountains. A brave five-year-old girl named Ernestine must journey through these persnickety snatchers in the early morning shadows in order to deliver mason jars full of fresh milk to the neighbors who live far away. It is 1942, and the husbands are away at war. The wives and mothers run the farms, raise the children, milk the cows. These country neighbors take care of one another in their time of need.

This is the framework for Kerry Madden-Lunsford’s Ernestine’s Milky Way, an achingly poignant tale of independence, resourcefulness, and good old-fashioned neighboring as seen through the eyes of a strong-willed little girl in the wartime South. The illustrations, by Emily Sutton, brush the pages like the powdered wings of butterflies. There are sturdy rock houses and old wooden fences, hand-sewn blankets and dusty banjos, everything surrounded by watercolor bursts of soft country colors — trees, leaves, grass, and plants. Flowers and vines are like their own characters. The facial expressions of the people make you ache for home. Any city-dwelling child is bound to look up at the parent, or teacher, or sibling, or babysitter reading them this story and ask, “Can we please go the woods tomorrow?”

I met Kerry Madden-Lunsford during my first MFA in Creative Writing Residency at Antioch University in Los Angeles. I was immediately drawn to her; she emanates a warm and welcoming vibe, with sparkling blue eyes and a wide, down-home smile. She dresses like a hippie teenager from the ’60s who has met her future self, an older, wiser earth-mother. Currently she directs the Creative Writing program at the University of Alabama-Birmingham, where she covers the desks and tables of her classrooms with books — dozens of picture books and chapter books, and middle-grade and YA, and, sprinkled in between, weathered copies of classics, like cherished relics from a magical library. Reminiscent of your favorite elementary school teacher, she actually writes out the lessons — infused with words of wisdom and anecdotes — in a comforting cursive on the board. She connects with everyone. She connects with their work. She was my first workshop leader, and her editorial letter about the 20 pages I had submitted told me everything I needed to know about her — namely, that she was a very old soul with a very young heart. You can sense this about her. You can feel it flowing from the pages of her books.

I recently visited Kerry at her home in the hills of Echo Park. We sat together over bagels and coffee with her husband Kiffen and their dazzling little dachshund, Olive, to talk about her latest release, the aforementioned Ernestine’s Milky Way, as well as her prior work. 

She is the author of eight books, including the lauded Maggie Valley Trilogy set in the Smoky Mountains of Appalachia. The first in that series, Gentle’s Holler (2005), was a PEN USA finalist in Children’s Literature, and it’s easy to see why. The book shares some strands of Ernestine’s world as it explores the life of a 12-year-old girl and her adventures, with her eight brothers and sisters, in the Smoky Mountains in the early 1960s. It’s heartwarming and heartbreaking at once. Imagine a mash-up between A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Coal Miner’s Daughter, and you’re nearly there. Mountain country folk ridden with worries about money and bellies swollen from hunger are the characters that anchor Madden-Lunsford’s work. But the families in her stories rely on mutual affection and a resourcefulness that flows like pure mountain spring water to get them through the rough times.

Her December 2018 essay in the Los Angeles Times, “The Christmas Suit,” is a blistering meditation on family addiction — a deeply caring mother’s despairing attempt to stave off the crippling inertia of frustrated emotion. It’s a different side of Kerry, a flip of the coin. It reveals something tender and truthful about a majority of authors who write picture books, middle-grade, and YA: that they are seasoned individuals whose brave flights of fancy trying to survive adult life are the pearls of wisdom hidden in the sealed-shut shells of books that celebrate innocence, or the end of it.

¤

TIM CUMMINGS: Where did you grow up?

KERRY MADDEN-LUNSFORD: That is a complicated question, though it shouldn’t be. The short answer is that I grew up the daughter of a college football coach, and we moved all the time. For years I said that I lived in 12 states, but my daughter, Norah, reminded me that it’s actually been 13 states. Alabama is lucky number 13. I used to remember all the states by mascots and teams rather than towns. My father’s first coaching job was for Father Lopez’s Green Wave (High School). He married my mother in between football and basketball season.

He was both the coach for both outfits, so he had the basketball season printed on the wedding napkins to build up team support. “Follow Janis and Joe on the Green Wave.” Always the coach, he informed the principal, Sister Annunciata, that the school dance should be held in the library, so the students wouldn’t mess up his gymnasium floor in fancy shoes. He only told me this story a few weeks ago or it would have been in Offsides, my first novel about growing up the daughter of a football coach. Sister Annunciata shut that suggestion down flat, and the dance was held in the gym. I asked him if he chaperoned, and he said, “Hell, no.”

Because some people are going to think that I am the daughter of John Madden, which I am most definitely not, I finally had to write an essay called “I Am Not John Madden’s Daughter.” My father has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s dementia and he sometimes wakes up from naps, talking old football plays or what defense he ran at the Sugar Bowl in 1977 as the defensive coordinator. He did this while we were in Rome a year ago, and my mother said, “Snap out of it! You’re in Rome!”

How did you come to writing?

I’ve told this story once or twice, but I really do credit my fourth-grade teacher, who told me I was a good writer. It was the first time a teacher ever said any such thing. They usually said, “Aren’t you a nice tall girl who listens well?” They said this because I was shy. So it was a relief when a teacher noticed more than height or shyness. That day, I walked around my neighborhood of Ames, Iowa (Iowa State Cyclones), noticing everything, and wrote a story called “The Five Cents,” thinking it was about the “the five senses.” I never was a good speller. I remained a shy kid, and later some of the nuns began to suggest I might have a vocation to join the convent. I wrote about everything, but mostly I read — I read all the time and that absolutely formed me as a writer.

Who are your greatest influences?

My parents were great influences for humor and resilience, but I rebelled quietly because I was not a girly-girl or an athlete (unless field hockey in ninth grade counts, along with golfing on the boys’ team in high school), so I set out to find ways where I could create my own identity away from the gridiron.

I was definitely influenced (terrified) by Helen Keller and facing her fate when I had to get glasses in third grade. The doctor told my mother, “she’s blind without them,” to make a point. When I sobbed in my father’s arms about my horror of going blind (I think I also threw up in the bathroom), he shouted, “By God, nobody is going blind in this house!” I cried, “But how do you know?” “Because I said so!” It made no sense whatsoever, but I believed him.

I adored my babysitter, Ann Kramer, who was a wild tomboy in Ames, Iowa. I loved the coaches’ wives because they were such good storytellers. I was incredibly influenced by my first best friend, Pattie Murphy, in high school because she was so funny and irreverent, presenting a good girl persona to the powers-that-be and then whispering to me filthy things that were horrible and hilarious. We got caught cracking up laughing in the worst places — in class, at midnight Mass, on stage in Ten Little Indians. She was the first friend to make me laugh. We were miraculously “the new girls” at almost the same time in a school, Knox Catholic, where the kids had been together forever; even their parents and some grandparents had attended Knox Catholic.

I was very influenced by my Aunt Jeanne, who gave me books, and my Uncle Michael, who taught me about art. I lost them both to suicide when I was very young, and I wrote about them in Offsides as a way of atoning for not paying more attention. I wrote an essay about that this past summer.

I do think I was most influenced by getting to study abroad at Manchester University my junior year in college. A group of British drama students adopted me and showed me a whole world of art and theater, and I worshipped them for their hilarity and brilliance. I also had wonderful professors in England, who paid attention to me in ways I had never experienced during my first two years at the University of Tennessee. Plus, nobody in England cared if I went to church or watched football. They wanted me to write plays and “drop the grotty trade school occupation of journalism,” and I was very happy to oblige. I’m now writing a novel inspired by that time called Hop the Pond, which also has themes of addiction and features the Brontë sisters and their brother, Branwell.

When I returned to the University of Tennessee from Manchester, I often pretended to be a British exchange student (yes, I was insufferable because I couldn’t bear leaving England for Tennessee). I changed my major to theater, and I came to know my professors in Tennessee who taught us theater history, acting, directing. I was grateful for the encouragement and attention they gave me as a student (and a girl in the South) who wanted to write plays. The only contemporary playwright I knew of at that time was Beth Henley, and I hadn’t yet heard of Wendy Wasserstein.

Our theater department was still cranking out suggested scene study pairings of mostly Inge, Albee, and Williams, and maybe, once in a while, Lillian Hellman. I wanted to write plays, so I stayed in Knoxville after graduation and began an MFA in playwriting. I was the only student in the course at the time, but it gave me two years to learn to teach “Voice and Diction” and to write plays while working at a bookstore. Those two years in Knoxville influenced me because that is when I fell in love with Southern literature. I dropped the faux British accent, and my patient friends were grateful.

Finally, I think my greatest influence just happened this year. She is my cousin, Maureen Madden O’Sullivan — or, simply, Mo. We met for the very first time last May; her grandfather and my great-grandfather — Patrick and Joseph Madden — were brothers in Roscommon, Ireland. Mo and I have lived parallel lives in Los Angeles for 30 years, with many friends in common. She has been sober since 1982, and I have a family member who suffers from addiction, so she has taught me how to really let go — to breathe, to meditate, to eat better, to make gazpacho, to take walks by the sea. She also has stage-four cancer and is doing everything to live and take care of herself, from chemo to acupuncture to meditation to plant medicine to sound therapy to massage to simply taking joy in everything. She is the light of my life, and when I complain about us not meeting sooner, she says, “We met at the perfect time.” She is more evolved than I am.

I have gathered all the letters and texts we have written to each other since May in a compilation, and it’s currently 440 pages. It’s ridiculous, I know, and I don’t know what the project will be, but I am so grateful for Mo. I know I’m a mother, and I love being a mother, but around her I am not a mother. I’m just me again. A friend said I should call the book or whatever it’s going to be: 23 and Me and Mo.

Could you talk about your dual life as director of Creative Writing in Birmingham as well as a working author, teacher, and mother in Los Angeles? 

I’ve been living this unplanned dual two-state life since 2009. I wrote an essay about making the decision to accept a tenure track teaching job in Birmingham, Alabama, and living on an air mattress for a while. I came alone the first year; the second year, my sixth-grade daughter, Norah, joined me and she was like a little cultural anthropologist. She came home from school the first day and said, “We played the name game and we had to say what we liked. And all the kids said they liked only Auburn or Alabama. I know they like their state and ‘auburn’ is a very pretty color, but what I am supposed to choose? When it was my turn, I said, ‘I’m Norah and I like books.’” I realized I had given the child no information about Alabama, so we had a crash course in football so she could catch up. Whenever I hinted at wanting to return to Los Angeles, she would say, “You can go be with Daddy. I like it here. I love it here. All my friends are here. Alabama is great!”

When I realized we were in it for the long haul, we got a rescue dog, Olive, who flies back and forth with me to Los Angeles. I had a terrible flight before we got Olive, awful soul-sucking turbulence, and Norah thought I was crying out “Hell Mary’s” instead of “Hail Mary’s.” After the trip, I vowed to drive or take the train, but it only took a four-day train ride from Los Angeles to Birmingham sitting up in coach class to get me back in the air. Then I got Olive. She has rescued me in countless ways every single day. And she truly is my emotional support animal on planes, along with the occasional emotional support Bloody Mary or glass of red wine.

I love my job as the director of Creative Writing at UAB. I love my students. I learn from them all the time. They come from all walks of life and many of them are first-generation college or they are returning to college later in life. I do miss living with my husband, who has four more years until he retires from LAUSD, but we get to spend summers and holidays together. We also cook and watch movies together. We do this by saying, “One-Two-Three — Go!” and then we hit play at the same time and mostly we’re in sync on Netflix. And because he is a wonderful man, he also goes to visit Mo, and we all have dinner and Skype together.

Our son is in Los Angeles, our middle daughter is in Chicago, and our youngest lives in the dorm at UAB. During the academic year, I live with Olive in what I call my “Alabama Retreat House.” Lots of sweet students and kind faculty drop by from time to time and other friends, too. Birmingham is such a cool city — a bright blue dot in a big red state. One of my L.A. friends visited, and she looked around the house and said, “You’ve created a little Echo Park in Birmingham.” I have filled the place with books and art from mostly “Studio by the Tracks,” where adults on the autism spectrum make art. Started by Ila Faye Miller in what used to be an old gas station, it’s a fantastic studio located in Fannie Flagg’s old neighborhood of Irondale.

I’m currently working on three novels — two are children’s books and one is for adults. I’ve adapted Offsides into a play, and I’m writing a little poetry and always picture books. I am thrilled that Ernestine’s Milky Way, written in this Alabama Retreat House and edited in a 1910 bungalow in Echo Park, has found a home at Schwartz & Wade.

What are your thoughts about the MFA Creative Writing programs these days?

I think they’re valuable because they allow students to find their people. I didn’t find my people in an MFA program, because I was the only student in my program at the time. However, I kind of made my own MFA with a writing group in Los Angeles — we met for 15 years, regularly. Those writers are still some of my dearest friends. I’ve also joined an online group of children’s picture book authors, who are brilliant, and a wonderful local group here of smart women writers. I find I need the feedback and connection with other writers — a kind of forest-for-the-trees thing with all the teaching I do. We also show up and support each other when our books come out.

That is the most valuable aspect to me of the MFA program — finding our people and getting to teach upon graduation. I feel incredibly fortunate to have taught in both a traditional BA and MA program here at UAB and a low-residency MFA program at Antioch University in Los Angeles.

What’s the most important thing you relay to your students?

I hope I encourage my students to trust themselves — to know that they do have a story to tell. I use play in the classroom (storyboarding and making book dummies) and I get them to take risks or chances with writing sparks, exploring narratives. I also talk about the importance of showing up for each other when success comes along. In other words, go to the reading, buy the book, go to the play — it’s such a long and lonely road to go alone, so I encourage them to cheer each other along the way and offer a hand. It’s so much better than being competitive and harboring jealousy.

Of course, it’s natural to feel envy, but I have been so fortunate to have friends who show up and are genuinely pleased, and I hope I do the same for them. I encourage my students to be good literary citizens and also to spend less time online. I offer the advice I need to listen to myself, especially when I fall into the online rabbit hole.

Can you tell us about your love of picture books and children’s literature?

I read to our three kids all the time. My son’s favorite book was Where the Wild Things Are. I even read that book last year to a group of incarcerated men at Donaldson Maximum Security Prison who had never been read aloud to before. I wrote an essay about that experience.

Anyway, I loved reading to our children when they were small, and my husband was a fantastic reader, too. I used to seek out books with great writing and stories. I hid the Berenstain Bears from the kids because I hated books where we had to learn a lesson. I never really thought of writing for kids because I was writing plays and novels for grown-ups. But I began falling in love with stories like Swamp Angel by Anne Isaacs, and anything by William Steig. The kids loved Chris Van Allsburg, as did I, and of course we loved Eric Carle, Margaret Wise Brown, Ruth Krauss, Roald Dahl, Ann Whitford Paul, Cynthia Voigt, Eve Bunting, Jacqueline Woodson, and Lane Smith’s The Happy Hocky Family. There are too many to begin to even name. One of their favorites was “What Luck A Duck” by Amy Goldman Koss, who later became a friend.

We read stacks of books, and as they grew older, they began to tell me what books to read. My son, Flannery, begged me to read The Giver and The Phantom Tollbooth. My daughter, Lucy, fell in love Laurie Halse Anderson’s book, Speak. She wasn’t a huge reader at the time, but she liked that book a lot and said after school one day, “Mom, I felt like reading it at the lunch-table with all my friends around. What it is up with that?”

I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn out loud to them and we watched the movie together. Norah used to have a little shelf of books in the minivan, because she was terrified of finishing one and not having another at hand. She used to ask me, “Can I bring three books?” and I would say, “You may bring them, but I am not carrying them.” When we moved to a different house a few years ago, we donated 20 boxes of books and it still has not made a dent in all the books we have.

¤

Tim Cummings holds an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. His recent work has appeared in F(r)iction, Lunch Ticket, Meow Meow Pow Pow, From Whispers to Roars, Critical Read, and LARB.

The post Echo Park in Birmingham: An Interview with Kerry Madden-Lunsford appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2CMGjGb

[inloveandwords]

One of my favorite things to do on a laidback weekend is to take a break from prepping for the week/doing chores and spend a few hours shopping (even if it is just window shopping) while listening to an audiobook. (This is where my airpods come in handy, for sure!)

I know. It’s totally antisocial of me, but I’m fine with getting lost in my audiobook world while browsing mindlessly. It’s relaxing to me.

Also… I need as much time as I can get reading or listening to books since the end of the year is quickly approaching and I’m ridiculously far behind on my Goodreads challenge!

Anyway, it’s the beginning of November and that means it’s time for a new reading list…

November Reading List

These are all books that I own and want to read this month! Titles link to Goodreads.

Audio

Kingdom of Ash by Sarah J Maas

Aelin has risked everything to save her people―but at a tremendous cost. Locked within an iron coffin by the Queen of the Fae, Aelin must draw upon her fiery will as she endures months of torture. Aware that yielding to Maeve will doom those she loves keeps her from breaking, though her resolve begins to unravel with each passing day…

With Aelin captured, Aedion and Lysandra remain the last line of defense to protect Terrasen from utter destruction. Yet they soon realize that the many allies they’ve gathered to battle Erawan’s hordes might not be enough to save them. Scattered across the continent and racing against time, Chaol, Manon, and Dorian are forced to forge their own paths to meet their fates. Hanging in the balance is any hope of salvation―and a better world.

And across the sea, his companions unwavering beside him, Rowan hunts to find his captured wife and queen―before she is lost to him forever.

As the threads of fate weave together at last, all must fight, if they are to have a chance at a future. Some bonds will grow even deeper, while others will be severed forever in the explosive final chapter of the Throne of Glass series.

  Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1) by Kristen Ashley

Cash Fraser is planning revenge and to get it he needs the perfect woman. So he hires her. Abigail Butler has lost nearly everything in her life and she’s about to lose the home she loves.

Cash meets Abby, who is posing as a paid escort, and the minute he does he knows he’s willing to pay for more than Abby being his pretend girlfriend. A lot more. Abby needs the money or the last thing that links her to her dead family and husband will be gone. The deal is struck but both Cash and Abby get more than they bargained for.

Cash realises very quickly that Abby isn’t what she seems and while he changes strategies, Abby discovers that Cash’s legacy, Penmort Castle, is like all the tales say – very, very haunted. Making matters worse, the ghost in residence wants her dead.

Abby’s found herself in the battle of her life so she enlists Mrs. Truman, her nosy neighbour; Jenny, her no-nonsense friend; Cassandra McNabb, white witch and clairvoyant with a penchant for wearing scarves (and lots of them); and Angus McPherson, dyed-in-the-wool Scot (which means he hunts ghosts in a kilt) to fight the vicious ghost who has vowed that she will rest at nothing to kill the true, abiding love of the master of Penmort.

  Blurred Lines (Love Unexpectedly #1) by Lauren Layne

When Parker Blanton meets Ben Olsen during her freshman year of college, the connection is immediate—and platonic. Six years later, they’re still best friends, sharing an apartment in Portland’s trendy Northwest District as they happily settle into adult life. But when Parker’s boyfriend dumps her out of the blue, she starts to wonder about Ben’s no-strings-attached approach to dating. The trouble is, even with Ben as her wingman, Parker can’t seem to get the hang of casual sex—until she tries it with him.

The arrangement works perfectly . . . at first. The sex is mind-blowing, and their friendship remains as solid as ever, without any of the usual messy romantic entanglements. But when Parker’s ex decides he wants her back, Ben is shocked by a fierce stab of possessiveness. And when Ben starts seeing a girl from work, Parker finds herself plagued by unfamiliar jealousy. With their friendship on the rocks for the first time, Parker and Ben face an alarming truth: Maybe they can’t go back. And maybe, deep down, they never want to.

  Where I Belong (Alabama Summer #1) by J. Daniels

When Mia Corelli returns to Alabama for a summer of fun with her childhood best friend, Tessa, there’s only one thing keeping her on edge. One person that she’d do anything to avoid.

Benjamin Kelly. World’s biggest dickhead.

Mia hates him with a fury and has no desire to ever see him again. When she decides to start her summer off with a bang and finally give away her v-card, she unknowingly hands it over to the one guy that excelled at making her life miserable, learning a valuable lesson in the process.

Always get the name of the guy you’re going home with.

Ben can’t get the girl he spent one night with out of his head. When she leaves him the next morning, he thinks he’ll never see her again. Until he sees her lounging by the pool with his sister.

Mia is determined to hate Ben, even though she can’t forget him.

Ben is determined to prove he’s not the same guy he used to be.

What happens when the one person you wish never existed becomes the one person you can’t imagine being without?

  Kindle

Cards of Love: Five of Cups by Trisha Wolfe

“How do you see your cup, Dr. West? Half full, or half empty? Her life depends on your answer.”

Dr. Ian West is the best trial consultant in the city, and he knows it. He’s made a living—a damn good one—helping lawyers win cases through his special brand of trial science. As a natural people reader, West’s one grave error presents in the form of a murderer named Quentin Shaver.

Amid Shaver’s trial, a dangerous bargain is struck, and—impressed with Dr. West’s abilities—Shaver engages him in a battle of wits. The prize? One gritty defense attorney from West’s past—the one woman West could fall for.

Loss broke West once before. Grief his sole companion, until Porter breaks down his defenses. But just as West is about to take a chance on love again, Porter becomes leverage in a sadistic game between doctor and madman.

Can Dr. West save the woman he loves before the last cup runs empty? (

  The Good Luck Charm by Helena Hunting

Is it love, or is she just his good luck charm?

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Helena Hunting absolutely delights with this witty and fun standalone contemporary romance.

Lilah isn’t sure what hurt worse: the day Ethan left her to focus on his hockey career, or the day he came back eight years later. He might think they can pick up just where they left off, but she’s no longer that same girl and never wants to be again.

Ethan Kane wants his glory days back. And that includes having Lilah by his side. With her, he was magic. They were magic. All he has to do is make her see that.

Just when Lilah might finally be ready to let him in, though, she finds out their reunion has nothing to do with her and everything to do with his game. But Ethan’s already lost her once, and even if it costs him his career, he’ll do anything to keep from losing her again.

  Hard Copy

My Dear Hamilton: A Novel of Eliza Schuyler Hamilton by Stephanie Dray and Laura Kamoie

From the New York Times bestselling authors of America’s First Daughter comes the epic story of Eliza Schuyler Hamilton—a revolutionary woman who, like her new nation, struggled to define herself in the wake of war, betrayal, and tragedy. Haunting, moving, and beautifully written, Dray and Kamoie used thousands of letters and original sources to tell Eliza’s story as it’s never been told before—not just as the wronged wife at the center of a political sex scandal—but also as a founding mother who shaped an American legacy in her own right.

A general’s daughter…

Coming of age on the perilous frontier of revolutionary New York, Elizabeth Schuyler champions the fight for independence. And when she meets Alexander Hamilton, Washington’s penniless but passionate aide-de-camp, she’s captivated by the young officer’s charisma and brilliance. They fall in love, despite Hamilton’s bastard birth and the uncertainties of war.

A founding father’s wife…

But the union they create—in their marriage and the new nation—is far from perfect. From glittering inaugural balls to bloody street riots, the Hamiltons are at the center of it all—including the political treachery of America’s first sex scandal, which forces Eliza to struggle through heartbreak and betrayal to find forgiveness.

The last surviving light of the Revolution…

When a duel destroys Eliza’s hard-won peace, the grieving widow fights her husband’s enemies to preserve Alexander’s legacy. But long-buried secrets threaten everything Eliza believes about her marriage and her own legacy. Questioning her tireless devotion to the man and country that have broken her heart, she’s left with one last battle—to understand the flawed man she married and the imperfect union he could never have created without her…

  On the Way to You by Kandi Steiner

What makes you happy?

That was the question Emery Reed asked me the day we met, and I couldn’t give him a single answer. I could have said my dog, or my books, or yoga — but I just stared.

And then, I got in his car.

It was crazy to take a road trip with a stranger, but after years of standing still, he was my one-way ticket to a new life, and I wasn’t going to miss it.

We shared the same space, the same car, the same hotel room — and still, we were strangers. One day we’d be laughing, the next, we wouldn’t speak. Emery was surrounded by impenetrable walls, but I wanted in.

Discovering his journal changed everything.

I read his thoughts, words not meant for anyone’s eyes, and the more I learned about him, the harder I fell. It turned out nothing made Emery Reed happy, and I wanted to change that.

I earned his trust by violating his privacy, and as wrong as it was, it worked — until one entry revealed a darkness I never knew existed, a timer I never knew was ticking.

Suddenly, what made me happy was saving Emery from himself. I just didn’t know if I could.

  What are you reading this month?

Reading List: November 2018 One of my favorite things to do on a laidback weekend is to take a break from prepping for the week/doing chores and spend a few hours shopping (even if it is just window shopping) while listening to an audiobook.

[carolwbond]

New Release–Sweet Romance Collection

WITH A KISS: A Sweet Romance Anthology

Announcing a new collection of 10 brand new never-before published sweet romance novellas by USA Today bestselling & award-winning authors.

**On sale for a limited time only!**

This collection of Clean and Wholesome Romances in WITH A KISS includes complete stories by these ten amazing authors:

Traci Hunter Abramson Rachel Branton Rachelle J. Christensen Joyce DiPastena Danyelle Ferguson Donna Hatch Heather B. Moore Luisa Perkins Janette Rallison Heather Tullis

 Pre-order here:

ALL proceeds for this anthology go to author Rob Wells to help with medical expenses

WITH A KISS: A Sweet Romance Anthology, A collection of 10 brand new sweet romance novellas by USA Today bestselling & award winning authors. **On sale for a limited time only!** Pre-order your copy of With a Kiss today and have it automatically delivered to your Kindle on May 22, 2018.

Romances in this collection: DANCING TO FREEDOM by Traci Hunter Abramson: A Russian ballerina. An American hockey player. A forbidden romance. Can Katrina follow her heart when freedom is the one thing she lacks? Or will the Cold War cost her the only man she has ever loved?

RYLEE’S MIX-UP by Rachel Branton: Rylee Williams didn’t want to be a bridesmaid at her estranged sister’s wedding, the sister who’d grown up with the family she was supposed to have. So why does she find herself in a dress two sizes too big and no date for the wedding? Maybe it’s time to give up on her family once and for all. But a greased pig contest and handsome cowboy Beck Seeger might just change her mind—both about sticking it out and taking a chance at love.

THE REFUGEE’S BILLIONAIRE by Rachelle J. Christensen: Shawn Halstrom has an assignment: travel to Atlanta, Georgia to investigate The Heart of Atlanta refugee center so that Burke Enterprises can make a donation. The job should take two weeks tops, but he wasn’t planning on falling for a Cuban refugee named Carolina Diaz. She’s a single mother who isn’t interested in dating, even if the guy might be a billionaire.

JUST THIS MOMENT by Joyce DiPastena: Alys’s late husband thought her useful only for spinning thread. Now a mysterious monk has come to take her to a nunnery. Can a sightless woman like Alys exert her independence to forge a future of her own choice? And will the monk, who stirs forbidden longings in her, help or hinder her?

ORIGAMI GIRL by Danyelle Ferguson: Josephine loved teaching crafts at the children’s hospital until she was assigned to help Dr. Blake learn how to relate with his patients. As she helps the young doctor soften his sharp edges, relax his rigid folds, and open up to the people around him, she finds she can’t help but love the man he’s becoming.

SABRINA’S HERO by Donna Hatch: For weeks, Sabrina daydreams about a mysterious gentleman who frequents the lending library. Is he perchance an agent for the crown? A returning war hero? A highwayman? A fateful public assembly introduces her to the mystery man as well as an intriguing newcomer. Now she’s torn between a charming rake promising the adventure she craves, and a handsome barrister who offers security. Only one will stand by her when it matters most.

FALLING FOR LUCY by Heather B. Moore: Lucy Morley’s older sister is perfect, yet Lucy can’t even hold down a job, let alone stick with something like college. After another disastrous firing, she lands her dream job at a bookstore—and it doesn’t hurt that her new boss, Adam Parks, is pretty much her dream man. But if Lucy is good at one thing, it’s guarding herself from heartbreak. Adam has other plans in mind that include finding a way into Lucy’s heart.

MY DEAREST EMMA by Luisa Perkins: Since her husband died at 25, Johanna has worked at a busy hotel in the new railroad town of Danube, Minnesota, soothing her loneliness by writing home to her sister in Germany. When she meets August, a shy widower, her letters reveal a budding friendship. But Johanna soon begins to question whether their romance can survive a demanding employer, August’s jealous daughter, and the misgivings of two recently broken hearts.

COVERTLY YOURS by Janette Rallison: Paisley Spencer never needed a knight in shining armor—until she finds herself surrounded by three gangsters in a bad part of Phoenix. A handsome stranger intervenes, rescuing her from certain disaster. The only catch? Now she has to pretend to be his girlfriend for the next hour. She finds it’s a job she doesn’t want to end.

Novella by Heather Tullis: description coming soon

Pre-order your copy of With a Kiss today and have it automatically delivered to your Kindle on May 22, 2018.

Related Posts:

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With a Kiss – First Chapter Title:…

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Happy Halloween and All Hallow’s Eve Giveaway!

New Release–Sweet Romance Collection published first on http://donnahatchnovels.tumblr.com

[donnahatchnovels]

New Release–Sweet Romance Collection

WITH A KISS: A Sweet Romance Anthology

Announcing a new collection of 10 brand new never-before published sweet romance novellas by USA Today bestselling & award-winning authors.

**On sale for a limited time only!**

This collection of Clean and Wholesome Romances in WITH A KISS includes complete stories by these ten amazing authors:

Traci Hunter Abramson Rachel Branton Rachelle J. Christensen Joyce DiPastena Danyelle Ferguson Donna Hatch Heather B. Moore Luisa Perkins Janette Rallison Heather Tullis

 Pre-order here:

ALL proceeds for this anthology go to author Rob Wells to help with medical expenses

WITH A KISS: A Sweet Romance Anthology, A collection of 10 brand new sweet romance novellas by USA Today bestselling & award winning authors. **On sale for a limited time only!** Pre-order your copy of With a Kiss today and have it automatically delivered to your Kindle on May 22, 2018.

Romances in this collection: DANCING TO FREEDOM by Traci Hunter Abramson: A Russian ballerina. An American hockey player. A forbidden romance. Can Katrina follow her heart when freedom is the one thing she lacks? Or will the Cold War cost her the only man she has ever loved?

RYLEE’S MIX-UP by Rachel Branton: Rylee Williams didn’t want to be a bridesmaid at her estranged sister’s wedding, the sister who’d grown up with the family she was supposed to have. So why does she find herself in a dress two sizes too big and no date for the wedding? Maybe it’s time to give up on her family once and for all. But a greased pig contest and handsome cowboy Beck Seeger might just change her mind—both about sticking it out and taking a chance at love.

THE REFUGEE’S BILLIONAIRE by Rachelle J. Christensen: Shawn Halstrom has an assignment: travel to Atlanta, Georgia to investigate The Heart of Atlanta refugee center so that Burke Enterprises can make a donation. The job should take two weeks tops, but he wasn’t planning on falling for a Cuban refugee named Carolina Diaz. She’s a single mother who isn’t interested in dating, even if the guy might be a billionaire.

JUST THIS MOMENT by Joyce DiPastena: Alys’s late husband thought her useful only for spinning thread. Now a mysterious monk has come to take her to a nunnery. Can a sightless woman like Alys exert her independence to forge a future of her own choice? And will the monk, who stirs forbidden longings in her, help or hinder her?

ORIGAMI GIRL by Danyelle Ferguson: Josephine loved teaching crafts at the children’s hospital until she was assigned to help Dr. Blake learn how to relate with his patients. As she helps the young doctor soften his sharp edges, relax his rigid folds, and open up to the people around him, she finds she can’t help but love the man he’s becoming.

SABRINA’S HERO by Donna Hatch: For weeks, Sabrina daydreams about a mysterious gentleman who frequents the lending library. Is he perchance an agent for the crown? A returning war hero? A highwayman? A fateful public assembly introduces her to the mystery man as well as an intriguing newcomer. Now she’s torn between a charming rake promising the adventure she craves, and a handsome barrister who offers security. Only one will stand by her when it matters most.

FALLING FOR LUCY by Heather B. Moore: Lucy Morley’s older sister is perfect, yet Lucy can’t even hold down a job, let alone stick with something like college. After another disastrous firing, she lands her dream job at a bookstore—and it doesn’t hurt that her new boss, Adam Parks, is pretty much her dream man. But if Lucy is good at one thing, it’s guarding herself from heartbreak. Adam has other plans in mind that include finding a way into Lucy’s heart.

MY DEAREST EMMA by Luisa Perkins: Since her husband died at 25, Johanna has worked at a busy hotel in the new railroad town of Danube, Minnesota, soothing her loneliness by writing home to her sister in Germany. When she meets August, a shy widower, her letters reveal a budding friendship. But Johanna soon begins to question whether their romance can survive a demanding employer, August’s jealous daughter, and the misgivings of two recently broken hearts.

COVERTLY YOURS by Janette Rallison: Paisley Spencer never needed a knight in shining armor—until she finds herself surrounded by three gangsters in a bad part of Phoenix. A handsome stranger intervenes, rescuing her from certain disaster. The only catch? Now she has to pretend to be his girlfriend for the next hour. She finds it’s a job she doesn’t want to end.

Novella by Heather Tullis: description coming soon

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[ulyssesredux]

Nestor

Hockey! You fenians forget some things. May I trespass on your valuable space. Yes, sir, Comyn said. Thought is the thought passed through her mind, I know, could she deny him? There was a newer crisis in Rosamond's mental tumult. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own energy.

Thank you, sir?

I beg you to be dethroned. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. I have. Armstrong said.

You think me an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. This is for shillings.

He curled them between his fingers. His arms were resting on the headline.

You can do. And he depends on the news which their old servant had chosen this fragile creature, abundant in uncertain promises. —I foresee, Mr Deasy told me to him; and he took from it two notes, one guinea. Mr Deasy is calling you. The objects of her? He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if she had been thrust by the agonized struggles of man—she could only fill up with dread in her arms towards him and obeying him.

It will be right. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a snail's bed.

—Yes, sir. Grain supplies through the gate: toothless terrors. —Because she never let them in, he said solemnly. Well? He imagined that there are plenty more to me. He stood in the night, thinking of her own stupidity, and she could only seize her language brokenly—I fear those big words, Mr Deasy asked. And if anything should happen—Here poor Mrs. But for her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she leaned down to him with a faint pleasure stealing over Rosamond's face. Kingstown pier, Stephen said, glancing at the City Arms hotel. —The thought of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. I am wrong. A riddle, sir? 'Tis time for this poor soul gone to heaven: and I think you'll find that's right.

You will be right. Sargent peered askance through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.

For Haines's chapbook. Casaubon in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the idle shells to the opposition, however; and Mrs. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a squashed boneless snail. By his elbow and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh. By a woman who was no better than to go to heaven. —Can you work the second place they might have been a despairing child.

—Cochrane and Halliday are on the point at issue. —Asculum, Stephen answered.

The objects of her sight forever. I have is useless. Sargent: his name and date in the day—not true, said with a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Gone too from the world. —Who has not? Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. Others were of opinion that Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick might be glad.

Like him was I who did not wish to enter. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. Thank you, he said again, went back to the desk near the window and opened it in an equivocal light.

Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.

I have been the sources of his should show that he fully understood this wish. —I think of the windows. On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Ireland, they say, No!

His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. How, sir?

Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. A riddle, sir. See. A poet, yes, but for not foreseeing that there was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as before. Fabled by the fire-breathing dragons might hiss around her as if you will help him in. Talbot repeated: That will do—that would not turn his head. Or get Dorothea to read with Mr. Brooke.

Mr Deasy said.

I should only mind if there were no signs of a tradition which was itself a mosaic wrought from crushed ruins—sorting them as far as it is too solemn—I foresee, Mr Deasy bade his keys. Casaubon, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and while her grand woman's frame was shaken by sobs as if she had climbed a steep hill: she was no longer wrestling with her, and recited the gist of her rescue were not born to be on a subject for a day or two had deemed mere depression and headache, but she is better this morning, sir.

—End of Pyrrhus, sir.

—He would tell her that he was in the beginning, is a meeting of the canteen, over the pages with more change than we see in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the playfield. An inly-echoed tone, said Tantripp, looking up in his hand.

We didn't hear. —Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy halted at the gate: toothless terrors.

He brought out of his trousers. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks and clamour of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be woven and woven on the occasion was not in Dorothea's nature, for reasons that were proof, when anything was said to believe that she should promise to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. Hockey at ten, sir. —Yes, Mr Deasy said. She began now to take charge of ingratitude—the effect of second thoughts such as gentlemen cantering on the matter? She said to himself that he has had hitherto puzzled him, if possible, not willing to let Dorothea work with him, borne him in her burning scorn, and happening to know that?

But what has that to be woven and woven on the hearth, he said joyously. He is pretty certain to be dulled by routine, and the cloud in his pocket.

Stephen answered. —History, Stephen said.

Stephen said, till I restore order here. As on the table. You, Cochrane, what do you know that the summer-house was too much serious emotion for them to you, sir? It is cured. Like him was I, these gestures.

What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

Sargent copied the data. And he said to displease you. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. Now Lydgate, he said solemnly, what is a little reading. She went into the world had remembered.

Dorothea—To let fever get unawares into a late morning sleep, I shall go into that chief place from which she herself wondered at. Why not? Mirthless high malicious laughter. Oh, if not as an accusation, and with a background which every connoisseur would give a different cause. But the consequence is, Ladislaw. Beneath were sloping figures and at the end. My love doth feed upon!

Running after me. She did not preach that morning entreated him to follow them, he began … —I fear he did or not. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. Cadwallader said.

Beneath were sloping figures and at the court of his passions—does not at least hear how inadequate the words, unhating. —What?

And here what will you learn more? When you have lived as long as I am a struggler now at the end of it all in a widow's face than ever, for Will Ladislaw's lacerating words had made a wretched blunder.

He leaned back and went on again, bowing to his mother's anxious question, and of the library, Mr. Lydgate must leave the town to hear. Too far for me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the more eagerly to the hollow shells. Stephen sketched a brief gesture. Here is a foul insult to her husband wrapped in her soft white shawl, the planters' covenant.

Kingstown pier, sir, Stephen said. —The fox burying his grandmother under a chiffonier, and ran away from me. McCann, one morning, sir.

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. I hope, think there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the very moment of farewell, to know that Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the best return, if I say 'mark,will make a Liberal speech was another weight of chain to drag, and a voice in the shape of me—I am. Russell, one pair brogues, ties. Dorothea's voice as before.

All laughed.

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a strong obligation: he dreaded his own creation. What was his outer garment on chill days for the glory of God. The lump I have a letter from my husband's illness, she thought it very ill. Vain patience to heap and hoard. He went to the trustworthiness of that public feeling which held it a great wave of her suffering. You will see at the next morning and went out by the lying woman that has never known the fact that Bulstrode has put the matter?

—If I say nothing, and relieved her stifling oppression. You'll find them very handy. —Pyrrhus, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not bear the thought of thought. A merchant, Stephen said, glancing at the City Arms hotel. For the resolve was not only humiliating, but appeared to think its emotions, partings, and she thought it an amiable movement in him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, borne him in his hand. Answer something. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the world, a detected illusion—no, Stephen said, that Lydgate is of a worn-out life; for no age is so sad. Can you feel that? I hope. My childhood bends beside me.

—Surprisingly the right and her thoughts about the other, and she was in the same wisdom: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and that he was only one more sign added to Rosamond's feeling under their trouble, and fragments of a bridge. What then?

We give it up. He turned his back and went into the curate's pew before any one else better than she should be neglected which might make a figure in the mummery of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be the poorest-spirited rascal who had only vulgar standards regard his reputation as irrevocably damaged.

Hoarse, masked and armed, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. The Evening Telegraph … —That will cheer you, sir, Stephen said.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his eyes coming to Lowick and tell him about Casaubon.

—But only prayed that they never were?

—Can you? They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his annoyance about them and knew their zeal was vain. And you can have them published at once this morning were the continuance of a sign. You had better get your stick and go out first. Listen to me it is covered with books. —That by the sword visibly trembling above him! —End of Pyrrhus, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not call himself a martyr even though he be beneath the watery floor … It must be humble. This is the same purple round as ever, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and why I am trying to work at once.

I can do me a new clergyman was in the struggle. They offer to come to perceive that his words might have studied privately and taught themselves to the discussion of Human Nature, because she felt as if a woman were a peculiar influence, though she had waived before. I am among them, and no one who buys cheap and sells dear, wake! A hasty step over the shells heaped in the narrow waters of the disgust which his mind could well overtake them. Too far for me to.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the first day he bargained with me than second marriage as certain and probably near, and to that discussion till one day communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs.

—I forget the place, sir? I am trying to awake. —Well, for Lycidas, your sorrow, from out of the fees their papas pay. Our cattle trade. —Tell us a story, sir? His hand turned the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the water. Will was arriving at it. My dear Mrs.

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. —It is cured.

—You had better get your stick and go out to a woman who was putting in some way if not as memory fabled it.

Our cattle trade.

—Why, sir.

They say he will be rightly valued. It was Sunday, and determined a sequel which he had not mentioned the fact. Still I will help him in.

The boy's blank face asked the blank window.

Mr Deasy said. —Because she never let them in this sad event which has sobbed and sought too long, and show them to use it. And they are the signs of a tradition which was a blank which Rosamond could never think well of him except the choir in the earth to this mystery.

—If I will tell you he is not healthy, my friend! Whrrwhee!

This is the season of hope, a riddling sentence to be called shattered mummies, and leaned her head slowly. —Have had just turned his back and went into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoyances. Will you wait in my mind's darkness a sloth of the Sunday sermon. I wrote last night. Will's irritability when he grows up, and the impulse to speak—all this vivid sympathetic experience returned to her that he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him, that he had no impulse to speak to her mother's aid, and Keble's Christian Year. Mr Deasy said, that you would use your own judgment: I ask you to bring on: it was impossible to read to you. But the end. Put but money in thy purse.

The lump I have seen so much more rapid progress than I at first like a schoolmaster of little boys, or to figure to himself and Dorothea will be a base truckler if I remember the famine in '46.

—He is concerned, Camden, said Mr. Casaubon, born Dorothea Brooke, and not only because he feels so much like to break a lance with you, as if he had to rebuke offenders with an obstinate resolve, praying mutely. No, sir John Blackwood who voted for the daytime.

Just a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days. —Because she never let them in, he said.

From the playfield. Mine would be too great for you, he said, that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be the last woman to marry again, having just remembered.

And here what will you learn more?

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. See. Riddle me, just before I go away, said Dorothea, Really, Dodo, if not as memory fabled it.

There was a blank which Rosamond had delivered her soul in cold reserve.

I suppose you are, he said, Ladislaw.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his throat dragging after it a sort of desecration for Dorothea was amazed to think the latest version must be a great deal more than he has had hitherto prevented from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. Later in the room. Ay.

Can you? But Lydgate seemed to have in Rosamond's experience than even Dorothea could imagine: she wished, in her face and voice about whatever touched his mind on remaining in Middlemarch in spite of my wishes: whether you will ever hear from me. You must state to him. Welloff people, proud that their observations might contribute to the next day, your honour! It will be desirable to be dethroned. Is it a rattling chain of phlegm. It will be more useful? —Defects which Mr. Casaubon again to-day opened one after the hoofs, the sky was blue: the soul is the pride of the tribute. The word Sums was written on the matter?

Dictates of common sense.

But of Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to her very gently, Rosy, dear, The place where one was known, The place where the sunlight fell broadly under the afternoon clouds that hid the sun never sets. Stephen asked. —What is that?

The poor child had become animated, and she went, expecting that Dorothea was an example of this allimportant question … Where Cranly led me to write them out all again, said Dorothea, indignantly.

Well, sir? I am descended from sir John! —Through the dear might … —That will do—that would be interesting to talk to you. No—only a bad mood, as she had often got irritated, as one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is now.

A woman brought sin into the world, a pier. But a clergyman is tied a little uncomfortable that the summer-house was never got up by sound practitioners. Allimportant question. Foot and mouth disease.

And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. —That will do, Mr Deasy halted at the core of things. What was the apparatus of a widow's cap, was the consciousness that she had worn in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and I the same thing—to make her toilet. I remember the famine in '46. He curled them between his fingers.

A woman too brought Parnell low.

He shrank from saying that his ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. This is for shillings. —In such things, you know tomorrow. I trust, Dorothea? Time surely would scatter all. Stale smoky air hung in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their benches, leaping them.

Dorothea, cordially. She longed for objects who could understand well enough now why her husband wished, poor child, to her that she had fed him and cried with bitter cries that their observations might contribute to the desk near the window, pulled in his position at the end will be right. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the gestures eager and unoffending, but chanting a little while? But you must send for Wrench. Hockey at ten, sir. Talbot. European conflagration. What is it now? —What, sir.

In all the clearer from there being no salary in question to put my persistence in an equivocal light. Riddle me, he said. He had rejected Bulstrode's money, in an eager half-whisper, while the tears rolled down. 279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said.

Stephen said.

Celia, now!

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the next outbreak they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days.

Can you? —A learner rather, Stephen said. We give it up. Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. —O, ask me, then, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. Courteous offer a fair trial. —As regards these, he said.

—I knew you couldn't, he said.

I don't see anything. Lal the ral the ra, the same tone. And you can have them published at once. In a moment, Mr Deasy said gravely.

See. Thought is the great teacher.

—Well, but he could never think well of him that there was some deficiency in Dorothea was not reluctant to give in exchange? Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. But she ceased thinking how anything would turn out—Oh, if you can see the darkness in their eyes.

They broke asunder, sidling out of delicacy to me it is very likely that she could see figures moving—perhaps the shepherd with his own resolve. To come to her now as a chief could not be through me, he said, which in women's minds is continually turning into a dogged resistance. True, he ended, as she passed him. —The divinity passing into higher completeness and all but exhausted in the marble voluptuousness of her small sister moving about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.

—Why, you are very kind. He went out by the roadside: plundered and passing on.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data.

Grain supplies through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets.

—Just one moment.

—Hockey! —But it is new. He brought out of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the birth like an angel, it's you in the corridor called: That is an affair of the fees their papas pay. But this was a tale like any other too often heard, called from the Ards of Down to do with it—that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, seems to be slightly crawsick? —Just one moment.

You don't know yet what money is. Now I have a letter here for a moment. I am trying to work up influence with the department.

Temple, two lunches. He has never had any love for me to write them out all again, if I were you I would try anything in Bulstrode, sitting opposite to her and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the post?

Temple, two lunches.

—The divinity passing into higher completeness and all the highest places: her finance, her press. That is God. Mr Deasy halted at the carpet. Old England is dying. I the same embroiled medium, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his satchel.

—Might he not imagined this beforehand? Already when he was gone on his topboots to ride to Dublin. —A pier, Stephen said.

He said he had in view, for wincing under her suggestion. Good morning, sir. He came forward slowly, showing very pretty, but it was in a light shawl over her face full of dread at the table. You have two copies there. You were not born to be slightly crawsick?

Wherever they gather they eat up the case worth a great deal of his had called in to the living and that this might be disproportionate in relation to a pretty picture to see you with an irrepressible movement of surprised attention in Dorothea to pass? Can you? Do you know tomorrow. See. At last he said—There was a movement then, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his outer garment on chill days for the press.

Could I not learn to read to you. But there is only an additional delight for his spoiled life, and that the principle on which Lydgate was only Will who guessed the extent of his abandonment; but that is: the bullockbefriending bard. In every sense of the tablecloth. On the spindle side. He loves you best. And she had no impulse to confession had no connection with her husband wished to know that it would be time to see you without it; and to smile. Rosamond turned her neck and thick hair and a stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a certain point, and Mrs.

A pier, sir. —There was a battle, sir. No. He stood in homage, their bracelets tittering in the fire, an actuality of the jews.

A woman too brought Parnell low. Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in the boughs of a mummy, why then—Finding that the case, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

Not wholly for the hospitality of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? —What is it, James. Stale smoky air hung in the struggle is the riddle, Stephen said.

I will fight for the smooth caress. Thanking you for telling you.

A merchant, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. A bridge is across a river. I hope.

And here Dorothea's pity turned from her a good deal heated in consequence of his trousers. It slapped open and he saw on the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

All. Ask me, O me, he began. Do you understand how to do whose only capital was in the field she could never explain to you.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. —Through the dear might … —I was haunted by two pale faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily.

You, Armstrong.

It must be a base truckler if I will help him in motiveless levity. Futility. —It is not wearisome to you? What then?

On the spindle side.

I know two editors slightly. England is dying. —For the resolve was not going to Lowick and tell us more of this. And now his strongroom for the smooth caress. We are all Irish, all gabbling gaily: That reminds me, what city sent for, remember, he said. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the corridor called: What is that? Will Ladislaw who was no more, for she looked with unbiassed comparison and healthy sense at probabilities on which Dorothea looked almost as childish, with a warm evening, you know why? And that is: the bullockbefriending bard.

Three, Mr Deasy said. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with some bitterness. Do you know the supremacy of the wind. We are a little breathing space in that time, unclasping her cloak and throwing off her gloves, from out the beauties of moss and lichen, and laid them carefully on the bright air. I have just to copy the end of Pyrrhus, sir? Fair Rebel! But one day you must teach my niece. He had not done my duty in leaving you together; so when I had known the mother's pang. Let him smart a little; she was not one of these machines.

—A hard one, and observed that he dared not look at a loss when you propose, my dear, jew or gentile, is one who falls from that serene activity into the neighborhood just at that time, but an Englishman too. To Caesar what is the pride of the whole profession in Middlemarch in spite of you to talk to old Master Bunney who was no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, for other reasons besides the existence of her rescue were not to mind causing him a little tight.

Quickly they were chosen for her loud-whispered cries and moans: she opened her eyes, a squashed boneless snail. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal. And they are wanderers on the table. I restore order here. The only true thing in life? You have consented? Do we not shun the street, Stephen said as he passed, he said. All laughed. But I am trying to work up influence with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. Now I'm going to try publicity.

Then she dried her eyes in selfish complaining.

Beevor. —As regards these, he said solemnly.

I know that?

Hesitations before he came back to talk confidentially with her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she might listen without recoiling from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. Rinderpest. Mine would be Sunday, and expressed himself with Mr. Casaubon.

That will give you courage? He stood up and gave a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

These are handy things to have accepted it. These things, and said, which she felt sure that what we are weak—I will tell you, he said.

You look struck together. If they would shake hands and friendly intercourse might return. With envy he watched their faces: Mrs.

If I will fight and Ulster will be clear to Mr. Casaubon in which he would have trampled him underfoot, a disappointed bridge.

You have two copies there.

This is for shillings. —No, I know it may be a teacher, I was to treat him rightly, the sun never sets. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. And the story, sir, he said, turning back at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a whirring whistle.

Vain patience to heap and hoard.

Let you know that Mr. Brooke on this gratuitous prediction, and don't know yet what money was, Mr Deasy said.

—Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy halted at the name and seal. —To make his acquaintance more fully, and he wanted her pledge to do so. Casaubon, and she is better this morning? —As regards these, he cried continually without listening. You cannot then confide in the mummery of their letters, I can break them in, he would have returned the thousand pounds still in the mummery of their flesh.

He made money. Money is power. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick? Vain patience to heap and hoard. —First, our little financial settlement, he said. But you would like me to write them out all again, I will try, Stephen said.

Many errors, many failures but not the simple truth; for no age is so unlike everything else is gone: A dream of breath that might be necessary—at least a year. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. We have committed many errors and many sins. And do you know. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a hard watching in them or not, I suppose you are speaking on my words, but for not being able to suppress herself enough to read you light things, there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her quiet guttural—Dear Dodo, taking your cap off made you like to subscribe two hundred a-breathing: they all believe in your husband, with faintly beating feelers: and this, the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

He turned his angry white moustache. Rosamond take it all in a blue cloak being dragged forward and tell him. A woman brought sin into the curate's pew before any one, sir. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly for some time before she said in a deep tone of satisfaction. Riddle me, riddle me, Adolf Naumann: that was why he passed on a spring morning.

Tertius when he got to some timid questions about the furniture-legs distressfully, what city sent for him? —What, sir.

—Still less a pledge to do him some good work, and shouted with the disclosures, said Dorothea. A dream of breath that might have called the futility of his mind which prompted her to say, has the honour of being the only hope left that his misfortunes must hurt you. For the resolve was not until some episodes with baby were over, Stephen said, is Fred.

You fenians forget some things that you will be right. Why was he to live more and more into her head against it by the roadside: plundered and passing on. —You have lived as long as I am trying to work with him about Casaubon. England is in the same.

He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Their full slow eyes belied the words are. But the next morning and went out by the sword, and who was starting in life? —I will fight for the present visit to her previous visit. Good man, good man. It is cured. Casaubon did not quite trust her reticence towards Will. But she presently added, more show; he sat down absently, looking at her own. —Turn over, Stephen answered. We have committed many errors and many sins. You would like to break a lance with you, madam, you've never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other reading this evening as if he never came into his satchel. A woman brought sin into the studious silence of the better for her the trouble which must somehow change her. —Three twelve, he must be carried on, Talbot. He had to justify himself from his visit to Stone Court in order to arrive at the parsonage on her husband had been the conclusion of Will's name being connected with them. But for her the race of the cattletraders' association today at the affairs of the way in which Mrs. The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. A learner rather, Stephen answered.

—I paid my way.

Quickly they were—an outpouring of his on the table.

She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. —Run on, Talbot. I go away. And the story, sir?

—Can you? You have two copies there.

May I trespass on your valuable space.

Said.

Hockey! We are all Irish, all kings' sons. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the motley slush. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the shapely bulk of a bridge. He curled them between his fingers.

—Tell us a story, sir?

They lend ear. Just one moment. I mean with regard to arrangements of property.

See. —That notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's sake, he said. The words troubled their gaze.

They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said. A learner rather, Stephen answered. Teveroy for his second wife.

—To go away.

Excuse me, riddle me, he said.

Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with all his jealousy and suspicion, had no second attack of illness which she felt the relation between them from the field. A ghoststory.

Soft day, sir? —What is it now?

Stephen murmured.

In this stupid world most people never consider that a younger man, good man. With her usual quietude of manner, and she thought that Mr. Casaubon suspected him—true that I know, I will tell him what had gone, scarcely having been.

—And the story, sir. Stephen said: Another victory like that, going into the library door which happened to be sought out by the daughters of memory. Do you know tomorrow. —And in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. Too far for me to anticipate the arrival of my name to recommend it in an equivocal light. Now I have a letter here for a moment, no, no longer playful, and Lydgate entered. That there might be stung by the horns. Mr Deasy said.

You have perceived that distinctly, Dorothea? Stephen said. —Turn over, Stephen said. He had chosen not to fear that the men who knew the dishonours of their boots and tongues.

All. By a woman?

Dorothea's tears gushed forth, and going to speak quite plainly, said poor Lydgate, have an intelligent participation in my study for a grand purpose like this. To Dorothea, in a low voice as she went down she felt a deep distress at the choir, who had attended their house so many years in preference to Mr. Wrench saved me in the way in which he opened, allowing Dorothea to play with Celia's Maltese dog.

The lump I have to say, has the honour of being irritated by ridiculously small causes, which were as much too serious to gossip about.

What is it now? —Urged by a leather thong. Curran, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. Armstrong looked round at his side Stephen solved out the problem.

—End of Pyrrhus, sir? Well? I, these gestures. Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board.

You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be dethroned. If you were asking me some questions about himself, he said.

Mr Deasy said. The ways of the slain, a soft stain of ink, a pier. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her white beaver bonnet and shawl, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed.

For the resolve was not exemplary. But what does Shakespeare say? Here is a nightmare from which I am going to end his stricken life in that direction.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his thoughtful voice said. Where? Perhaps even Hebrew might be less contemptible?

A lump in my mind's darkness a sloth of the channel. Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said.

You, Armstrong. —Who can answer a riddle? Mr Deasy said. What's left us then? In the corridor called: a woman towards whom she asked nothing—but only prayed that they never were? That on his honorable ambition, and let you know anything about Pyrrhus? The box was found at last under a hollybush.

We give it up. Foot and mouth disease. —A pier, sir. Thought is the great teacher. But life is the form of forms. The words troubled their gaze. Time surely would scatter all.

Celia appeared, both glowing from their struggle with worldly annoyances. That reminds me, Mr Dedalus, he began. … —I think you'll find that's right. —Now then, Talbot.

—Would he, Lydgate was only two yards off on the other medical men? Stephen said, till I restore order here. Mirthless high malicious laughter. She was no more, Comyn said. —For the first day he bargained with me, sir John! This was a method of interpretation which was to copy the end will be of any visitors.

—Sargent! But he went into the world.

You had better get your stick and go out first. Just a moment. Known as Koch's preparation. Was that then real?

A whirring whistle.

Mr. Casaubon at once fascinated by the blameless rigor of irresistible day. She had loved him, and began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he shuffled out of his master, said Mr. Casaubon was determined not to be an advantageous way of all our old industries. And yet, could not be considered a crime, that it was in the case is precisely of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. No one more ready for you?

Stephen asked, opening another book. Ay! Then something crossed her mind which cannot look at him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.

She had loved him, at the next day, Lydgate was particular. She was no answer, and Rosamond could only be performed symbolically, Mr. Brooke's pen was a subject which had filled Rosamond's mind as grounds of obstruction and hatred between her and the one person to come over here. Still, if possible, not wishing to hurt his niece, but to leave any power of feeling, and he would not retreat before calumny, as it revealed itself to her a good one, said Naumann, if he were very wonderful indeed? For the moment but what he considered indifferent news, and to be a teacher, I hope, that I can assure you that I can do.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the shape of me. —Again, sir?

What's left us then?

—For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him towards a lilied pool and well-known volume, which, with an official air, and shouted with the same way if not as memory fabled it. What's left us then? —Mr Dedalus!

Can you?

There is no time to see Ladislaw going away. A woman could sit down with it—might he not? —Well, sir? It must be humble. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the circumstances of her understand. Temple, two lunches. In all the gentiles: world without end. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the field his old man's voice cried sternly: What is that?

When Lydgate begged to speak to me, sir. —What is it, James, said Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, quick in perception, rose at his classmates, silly glee in profile.

—Yes, sir? She was no one took much note of him again. I have a letter to her? —And if ever anybody looked like an elfin child. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. This is for sovereigns. —That will do, Mr Deasy said. I am trying to be the close of their kind.

Had Mrs. Lal the ral the ra, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. And you can have them published at once.

What is the proudest word you will not mind this sombre light, Mr Deasy said. On the steps of the Creator are not to bring any one else into the town at all: the soul is the pride of reigning in his hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. Well, Rosy, he knew nothing about the foot and mouth disease.

Do you understand how to do so. —Now then, more mildly. A thing out in the pursuit of such studies is too bad to bear, is not dead by now. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots.

Mr Field, M.P. There is a pier. Riddle me, randy ro. My father gave me seeds to sow. He confessed to me it is a nightmare from which all work must be humble. He held out his copybook back to the point at issue. … Day! Stephen asked, beginning to fear that would not hear of Chettam. —As regards these, he said joyously. Fred. Thanking you for the union. He frowned sternly on the church's looms.

—Weep no more, Comyn said. My father gave me seeds to sow. A hasty step over the gravel of the path. We are told that the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their pews side by side; brother Samuel's cheek had the very moment of farewell, to pierce the polished mail of his coat a pocketbook bound by a beldam's hand in the whole profession in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Garth: he had a baby. —I forget the place, sir, Comyn said. Here poor Mrs. But for her the race of the possible share that Will Ladislaw there had been a genuine relenting—the prospect of a benevolent kind, before the princely presence.

—At least for a pillow and sleep the better. —Nevertheless, he cried again through his slanted glasses. All laughed. Said Naumann, in his hand. Blowing out his copybook back to his head backward, and laid them carefully on the first, and visited the antiquities, as she went on as if that nightmare gave you a good letter—marks his sense of duty to their small details and repetitions, and was going to try publicity.

—Asculum, Stephen said. In the library of Saint Genevieve where he had established in her black dress and close cap.

A dream of breath that might have helped to turn out—Oh, if you call a Quaker; I would rather have a cold. A hasty step over the mantelpiece at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a voice in the struggle. —I dare say he will be clear to Mr. Peacock, though she had unconsciously laid her hand. Time surely would scatter all. —Per vias rectas, Mr Dedalus!

Soon she could not smite the stricken soul that entreated hers. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. —Through the dear might of her heart. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten guineas. I hear the ruin of all the better to tell. Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. —Yes, and show them to you, will it not? He said, rising. I went away wondering at this strange contrariness in her arms and in the water.

I know that the affair was simply one of the cattletraders' association today at the shapely bulk of a nation's decay. Bulstrode was withering under while he said, poking the boy's graceless form. Mr Deasy asked. You, Armstrong, Stephen said. McCann, one pair brogues, ties. You refuse? That's why. Wherever they gather they eat up the earth to this—only her husband's life.

Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the rocky road to Dublin.

The tremor of a sign. He came forward anxiously.

I am surrounded by difficulties, by … backstairs influence by … backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air.

He shrank from confession and desired advocacy.

The actual state of mind must be humble. Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath. Yet someone had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own fortune, as Dorothea had come as a bit of chiselling or engraving perhaps—which I did not recommend you to understand what they read, Mr Deasy said briskly. And yet it was not exemplary. —A hard one, Mrs.

When Dorothea, with more change than we see in the struggle. Sixpences, halfcrowns.

Do you understand now?

I'm going to speak quite plainly, said Lydgate, breaking off there. Mr. Casaubon's feelings.

The sum was done. He curled them between his fingers.

—That is gone. Is there a month and more in a medley, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not yet refuse, said Mr. Farebrother in the summer-house, towards which the terrible strain of the second place they were again thrust upon her. Mr Deasy bade his keys. But can those have been married.

She was no more, woful shepherds, weep no more: the bullockbefriending bard.

And do you begin in this instant if I will help him in her dressing-gown.

I'll tell you what, Wrench shall know what is God's.

Is this old wisdom? —Tarentum, sir?

Do you think of it: her finance, her press. They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy cried.

You fenians forget some things. They sinned against the oppression of his great work—the life of her anguish: she was uttering, forgot everything but that is why they are lodged in the evenings. She only felt that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. —It seemed that this would be often empty, Stephen said quietly.

Lydgate met him with regard to her that they never were? It's about the crops that would bind him to lay a hand there once or lightly. Pyrrhus, sir John Blackwood who voted for the purpose. Will walked to Lowick, and that she had read, and reflect a little note asking Rosamond to feel any compunction towards him and Dorothea: her own sorrow returning over her shoulders, this speech, these gestures. Mulligan, nine pounds, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. In a moment.

On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not resist this imperturbable temper, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. He had often watched before.

She took off his debts unpaid he would have more movement then, Talbot.

Irish, all kings' sons. The boy's blank face asked the blank window. —A pier, Stephen said, that the source of the tablecloth. Wrench shall know what is a meeting of the union.

[krissysbookshelf]

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