Can your heart belong somewhere that you’ve never called home?
When Erica gets a phone call to say her mother, Ione, is ill in St Lucia, she knows she must go to her. Though the island – the place of her mother’s birth – is somewhere that Erica has never seen as her homeland.
Even when the plane touches down in the tropical paradise, with its palm trees swaying in the island breeze, the sound of accents so like her mother’s own calling loud in the air, Erica doesn’t find herself wanting to stay a moment longer than she has to.
But stepping into her mother’s house, she is shocked by what she finds. Her mother’s memory is fading, her once-immaculate house is now dirty and messy, and she’s refusing help from anyone but family. And Erica knows she must stay with her, even though it means leaving everything else behind.
What she doesn’t know is that – even as her mother’s memories get worse – Ione still has a final gift for her daughter. Because the unspoken secrets of their past are about to emerge, changing everything Erica thought she knew about her mother, her home, and who she really is…
BOOK REVIEW
This was a heartbreaking read about a woman losing her mother to Alzheimer’s. She is also forced to confront painful truths from the past. As someone who had a parent and grandparent with dementia, I know that towards the end they live mostly in the past, and I know the pain of watching a parent forget you. The author lays this story out in a forthright way, without trying to sugarcoat the truth. Caring for a patient with Alzheimer’s/Dementia is incredibly tough, not very pretty, and you need help. Erica’s journey to get to the point where she accepts help, and the decision about what that is going to entail, is a big part of the story. It is also a journey of acceptance–acceptance of the past, and acceptance of a new future.
I found the descriptions of life in St. Lucia and the Caribbean culture interesting and I hope to learn more about it.
I received a free copy of this book from Bookouture via Netgalley. My review is voluntary and my opinions are my own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steffanie Edward was born in St Lucia, brought up in London and now straddles between the two.
Anancy, Crick-crick and other Caribbean folk stories have been a part of her life since childhood. In her late teens she enjoyed reading Susan Howatch and books on slavery. Her absolute favorite reads have been Wild Seed by Octavia E Butler, and Woman At Point Zero by Naawal El Saadawi.
Her writing career started with short stories, five of which have been published. Her first attempt at writing a novel was over twenty years ago, whilst living and working in Abu Dhabi. That novel, Yvette, didn’t make it into print, but the main protagonist, Yvette, has muscled her way into Steffanie’s debut novel, This Other Island.
This is our February story for the 2022 Short Story Challenge started by A Virginia Writer’s Diary. You can find the original post here. The theme this year is folklore and we’ve decided to set our stories in Appalachia. I say “we” because my husband Doug is writing these with me. We’re using the pen name Bonnie Douglas. This story is about the water in the mountains, and the old sayings “gift of gab,” and “there’s something in the water.”
The Gift of Gab
By Bonnie Douglas
“Blech!” erupted almost involuntarily from my mouth as I took the first sip of water fresh out of the tap. “I had almost forgotten how much I hated the taste of the water!”
I could see my Mom shaking her head and hear the laugh hiding underneath her answer.
“Well, Frances, you never were one to mince words. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Now Mom, you know I just can’t take the iron taste of that water, fresh out of the branch or not.” I huffed, exasperated. I knew it got under Mom’s skin that one of the things she loved about the mountain holler she grew up in was one of the things I disliked the most about it.
Mom shrugged. “The water is one of the things I will miss most.”
Years ago, I had decided to go to college in the city, and I had not returned permanently until now. My parents had decided to spend their retirement nearby in town, with much less lawn to mow. It also put them closer to the grocery store and hospital. By the time they offered to sell the house and land to me, I was much older and ready to make the jump from city living to the more laid-back mountain lifestyle. I was sure I could solve the water problem.
The water that intermittently trickled or flooded down the branch depending on the season was one of the reasons Grandpa had picked this holler to settle in. Mom and her whole family had grown up drinking that icy cold water, carrying it in buckets to fill the barrels that provided water to the dirt-floored cabin they grew up in, long before anyone had the means to drill a well or even think about piping water from the small town to the “country folks” houses.
“You just don’t know what you’re missing, Child,” Mom said softly. “I hope you’ll remember to bring me jugs of water ‘regular’ once I move into town. It means a lot to me. You don’t even know how much!”
“I know Mom, and I promise,” I said with determination. I remembered all the stories about the land and how hard my Grandpa had worked to not only buy it, but to keep it. It was the very definition of hard times. When most people in the little mountain enclave were lucky to have any kind of food or shelter, my Grandpa worked two jobs in town and then came home to work some more. Raising cattle and crops, cutting and hauling timber, building the little cabin and ramshackle barn, and somehow finding the time to create a family of twelve with my Grandma.
There were also whispered family rumors about certain “activities” taking place in the hidden coves and almost impenetrable stands of mountain laurel that studded the hills. These rumors involved a “special recipe” for moonshine that made it the most desired and sought after in a three-state area. That all changed after one of the younger children, Cecily, died when the rickety wagon used for illicit deliveries in the dark of night rolled over and off the edge of the mountain trail in the light of day, with Cecily playing inside.
It was then that Grandpa became a preacher. The death of his daughter brought him to his knees. The moonshine no longer flowed out of the “holler,” but the Spirit did. His sermons were famous throughout the county.
“Your Grandpa was such a good preacher he could save half the county on Sunday and the other half on Wednesday night!” Grandma used to say. “Those lawbreakers and sinners would come running down to the altar like a pack of wild dogs after a bone.”
I had always laughed at her joke, but Grandpa did have a way with words. His sermons were intertwined with stories that seemed to touch each listener personally, and they would come up the aisle, seeking the same relationship with Jesus that Grandpa enjoyed. I had admired his extraordinary ability to share God with everyone in such a personal way. Grandpa had eventually expanded that relationship, going home to Heaven.
As much as Grandpa could touch the soul of his parishioners with words, Grandma could tell a tale. When she was alive, she entertained us all with stories. Some were mountain legends, some were her own made-up tales, and some were from her life experiences. She was even part of a mountain storytelling hour at the library in Asheville, and her stories were in great demand. My favorite was The Hungry Toads, a story from her youth. I used to beg for that story as a kid. In the evenings after gardening was done, she would sit at the table with me, drinking coffee and eating pie, banana pudding, or other treats, and tell me her tales. I smiled as I thought back to this story.
“When I was 7, my socks started to go missing!” she would exclaim. “This was something of a problem, because money was scarce and socks were not free. My mother spent a lot of time darning socks to keep them wearable. It all started when one day I went to my bedroom and one of my socks was laying on the floor. Next to it was a small green toad, who hopped away when he saw me. I scrabbled after the toad, caught him and took him outside. Momma would not like a toad in the house.”
I smiled as I recalled how Grandma would sit back, sip coffee, and continue. “The next day, another sock was laying on the floor, and another toad hopped by me on his way out the door. And then I began to think the toads were stealing my socks. But where had they put them?”
I went into the kitchen and announced, “I’ve lost two socks to toads!”
Lots of giggling from my brothers and sisters followed that statement, and Momma just looked at me.
“What do you mean, Gert?” She asked.
“Two times I’ve found one of my socks on the floor, the other missing, and a toad in my room! I think they’re stealing my socks.” “Then a thought struck me as I picked up a biscuit. “Maybe they’re eating them!”
“Toads don’t eat socks!” My brother Ed scoffed. “Toads eat flies and other bugs. They don’t eat wool or cotton. I think you’re going crazy, Gert.”
“You need to find your socks, Gert,” said Momma. I promise you, the toads didn’t eat them.”
Grandma would always smile in remembrance as she thought of her Momma, then she would continue.
“This went on for two more days, as I would go into my room, find one sock, and see the inevitable toad. Eventually, I was down to one pair of matching socks, and a lot of socks without mates. This was becoming a family mystery, and Daddy was beginning to take notice, looking at me thoughtfully as I described another visit from “the hungry toads.””
“Gertie, you’re going to have to wear mismatched socks if you can’t find the missing ones,” he’d say softly. “No extra money for new socks.”
“I knew the truth of this and had not even planned to ask for new socks. When my shoe went missing, though, that was another story altogether. I went into my room on a Sunday, and one of my “Sunday best” shoes lay by itself on the floor. Next to it was an impossibly large, green toad, with a white stomach and unblinking yellow eyes.”
“Now they’re eating my shoes,” I yelled, running out into the front room. Daddy looked at me skeptically but said nothing. A missing sock was one thing, but a pair of new shoes was impossible.”
“A couple of hours later, I saw Daddy walking down the hill with my brother Rufus, his fingers clamped tightly over Rufus’s left ear. Rufus was howling, his ear redder than the embers in our woodstove. He was carrying a bundle of socks. And Daddy had in his hand my other Sunday shoe!”
“Rufus will be washing your socks, Gert, and doing your chores all next week.”
Grandma would laugh as she thought of that day. “Rufus would steal a sock, replace it with a toad, and hide the socks up in the woods. When he advanced to taking a shoe, Daddy had had enough! He followed Rufus up into the woods and caughthim trying to hide it in a hollow log. So that’s how I learned that toads can’t eat socks!”
Grandma was full of tales like this. Like many other mountain storytellers, she could keep the listener mesmerized and leave them begging for more stories.
My mother had her own way with words. She wrote poetry and short stories and submitted them to contests, often winning. She had recently finished a book of poems and submitted it to a publisher.
I did not seem to have inherited the family talent with words. Though I would have loved to have written a book, I was always more comfortable with numbers, and owned my own accounting business. I had already factored all the costs involved with getting water from somewhere that didn’t involve drinking something I simply didn’t like.
“Mom, just so you know I plan to have well-drillers out here as soon as you move to town.” My plan was to avoid that spring water by drilling deep enough to get into a completely different water supply.
“Good luck with that, Girly,” Mom almost giggled. “You think you’re the first one to try? There isn’t a well in this entire holler that produces anything but a lot of cash for the well driller. That’s just one more reason everyone drinks that branch water you turn up your nose to.”
“We’ll see Mom. We’ll see.” I answered determinedly.
Well, we did see, that’s for sure. Three months and four different drilling companies found nothing. I even hired six dowsers, all walking around with their “witching sticks,” and all claiming to find water. Not a trace, not a trickle of anything remotely resembling water fit to drink was actually found.
I’d spent every bit of the money I had earmarked for well drilling and even more besides.
Disheartened, I scrounged together some more cash and built a reservoir and all the filtering and purifying equipment I could find. I purchased advanced oxygenators, UV sanitizers, multiple stage filter systems and technical equipment I couldn’t identify. It was all sold to me by a “water adviser,” who assured me I would have nothing but the best quality H2O that human intelligence could deliver. If I had to drink that branch water I’d be darned if it was going to taste like anything but pure, fresh water.
It had taken a couple of days for the reservoir to fill from the branch and for that wretched brew to begin making its way through the convoluted intricacy of the purification system into my completely re-piped and re-plumbed little cabin.
With my hands quivering, I turned on the tap for the first time and filled one of my moon and stars patterned goblets with the first taste of the water I labored so hard to get.
Sniffing the goblet carefully, I could detect not a hint of the iron scent that generally accompanied a glass of branch water. With trepidation, I lifted the goblet to my lips and let the merest trickle of water onto my tongue. Swishing it around like a wine connoisseur, I tasted nothing. Not a hint of the dreaded iron or the tiniest fleck of grit from the rock-filled branch. Chuckling with glee, I filled a pitcher and poured a stream of delicious iron-free water into my coffee maker. This sure beat trying to get a water delivery company to make the journey up the rutted gravel path that was commonly known as a road in the holler. I finally had it made! Water I could drink, cook with, and everything else that modern life required, all without an unpleasant iron taste.
Today was the day I usually visited Mom and Dad in their rented little bungalow in town. I had a jug of Mom’s branch water already in the car. I grabbed my keys, and with a grin, I picked up an empty jug and filled it from the tap. I’d take this along with me and slip it to Mom instead of her usual branch water, just to see if she could tell the difference.
Whistling cheerfully, I jogged up the path to the house, carrying my substitute jug of water for Mom. Letting myself in I hollered into the kitchen “Mom, I’ve got your water!”
I could hear Dad plucking on his banjo on the back porch and crooning a song to Mom as she worked in her garden patch. I stepped onto the porch and listened. For as far back as I can remember, whatever house we lived in had been filled with music, jokes, and stories.
I walked up and listened as he sang “Carolina Sunshine Girl,” to the woman he adored. His voice was wonderful, and he was often in demand to sing in church. He’d never had any voice training that I know of, except from his mother. As a boy, he had had a very pronounced stutter, and his mother figured out that if he sang his thoughts instead of speaking them, the stutter was greatly reduced. Later in life, after he met Mom and came to live in the mountains, he lost the stutter completely.
“I brought Mom’s water,” I announced, after he finished his song. “And I love your singing,” I smiled.
“I have great inspiration,” he replied, gesturing at Mom. “Emily,” he called out, “Your water’s here.”
“Oh good,” Mom replied walking up to the porch. “That chlorine city water they have here in town is just not cutting it.”
I handed her the jug, watching carefully. She sipped it and smiled. “I see you’ve been trying to change the taste. It’s not quite what I remember, but it’s much better than the city water.” “And,” she grinned, her eyes twinkling at me, “You haven’t changed the soul of it.”
“Water doesn’t have a soul.” I replied.
“Oh you might be surprised!” she answered. “But time will tell.”
This was not the first time I was unable to decipher one of Mom’s cryptic statements, so I didn’t even try.
As time went on, I acclimated to the cabin and basically forgot my battle with the water, checking that off as done and won. I was operating my business right out of the cabin, having amazingly secured working internet, and my little gravel road even greeted the occasional client who wanted to talk in person.
One such client was Jeannette Crisp, who preferred to do her business face-to-face. I had been helping her settle up the estate of her late mother, who had died before I arrived back home.
Jeannette came in the door, appearing flustered.
“Well, I’m at my wit’s end,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa in my little office that used to be a spare room. “I just heard from the County. Momma left five thousand dollars in property taxes unpaid. They have extended it three times, but they can’t do it anymore.”
I was a little concerned. Jeannette’s mother had left her the house and land, but there was nothing else of value, and no money. We had used any extra cash paying off outstanding debt.
“If I can’t come up with the money by next month, I’m going to lose the house and land that’s been in my family for 100 years!” She twisted a handkerchief in her hands as she almost sobbed. “I don’t know what to do.”
We talked about options and possible items she could sell, but there was nothing that would bring anywhere near five thousand dollars.
“I guess the only option is to talk to the bank about a loan,” I replied. The house and land are paid off and worth a lot of money. You can get an equity loan and pay the taxes with that.”
Jeannette sniffled and nodded. “I was trying everything I could to avoid getting a loan against the house. Momma was so proud when she paid it off. She would hate getting a loan against it for any amount of money.”
Agreeing that it couldn’t be avoided, we looked up interest rates for some of the local banks and settled on a course of action.
As she gathered up our research and prepared to leave, Jeannette said, “Thanks, Fran. You’ve made this a little more bearable for me.”
“She kept a savings bond,” I blurted. “It’s in the house. She forgot all about it.”
Jeannette whipped around, paused, and looked at me strangely. “What!” She paused again and said, “What!”
I began to stammer. “I—I don’t…” I took a deep breath. “I don’t know where that came from. It just came out of my mouth.”
“O…Kay…” Jeannette walked slowly to the door. “Okay, Fran, I’ll talk to you later.” Her voice was falsely bright and she scurried to her car.
“Well I think I just lost a client,” I said out loud after she was gone. “What was that!” I had never lost control of my own voice before. It had taken on a life of its own. I gave up and went to lie down. Maybe I needed a rest.
A few days later, while at church, I was soaking in the sermon, still unnerved by the incident with Jeannette, and trying to find some peace. I watched the family in the pew in front of me. Clive and Mary Sanders and their three children. They were all so beautiful. Clive, son of a local banker, immediately caught the eye with his chiseled chin and brown curls, cut and pomaded into a style that models would envy. Mary’s blonde hair hung down her back and she wore the latest designs well on her trim frame. The children were all perfectly beautiful combinations of them both, and so well behaved. I was sure they didn’t blurt out inappropriate things for no reason. As the sermon wound down, I felt guilty for being distracted by my own silly predicament.
Mary came up to me, smiling, as we all began our exit after the final prayer. “Hi Fran! How are you doing?”
“Leave him,” I said. “You deserve better.”
Mary’s face paled and she stood stock still, her eyes filling up with tears.
“I’m sorry,” I began. “I don’t know why…”
She reached for my arm and pulled me into an empty corner. “How did you know?” The tears were spilling down her face now.
“I’m sorry!” I repeated, wiping at tears running down my own face now as well. “I don’t know why I would say such a horrible thing.”
“But it’s true.” Mary began to pull herself together. “It’s true, and I haven’t faced it.” She smoothed her hair and looked me in the eye. “He cheats on me over and over, and then blames me for it. I thought I should keep the family together, but your words just now seemed to shake me out of it. How did you know?”
“Would you believe I didn’t know?” I said, putting a shaking hand out to her. “It just came out of my mouth.”
Mary sighed. “Maybe the Lord works in mysterious ways after all, especially in church. Thank you, Fran, for making me face this.”
She dried her tears and had a firm look in her eye as she walked away. I, however, was a mess. I was even less prepared for Jeannette, who was waiting for me at my car.
“How did you know?” seemed to be the question of the day, and she greeted me with a smile and a hug.
“Know what?” I asked, still struggling to process my conversation with Mary.
She was waving something at me. It was a savings bond.
“After I met with you last Wednesday, I thought you were strange to say the least! But I still couldn’t resist looking around the house for a savings bond. I found it in a frame behind Grandpa’s old picture up in the attic. Momma bought a $750 savings bond when I was a little girl! I looked it up and now it’s worth $7500! I can pay off the taxes and have a little left over!”
She hugged me, ecstatic. “But I can’t figure out how you knew.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “I didn’t know!” I exclaimed. “It just came out of my mouth.”
Jeannette paused, thoughtfully. “Maybe Momma’s spirit was with us.”
“Maybe,” I said, still thinking to myself that I might be going crazy.
After Jeannette’s many thanks, and a promise to come see me at tax time, I got into my car and headed home. My mind was racing with the events of the day. Instead of heading out of town and back to my cabin, I found myself driving to Mom’s house.
“Fran!” Mom hugged me after I arrived, and then stepped back, taking in my somber face and desperate eyes.
“What’s the matter?”
“Mom, I’m going crazy! I’m blurting things out to people who are just acquaintances, things I couldn’t possibly know!”
She put her hands on my face. “Try and calm down,” Her soft whisper held so much strength that I did begin to relax.
“Now tell me, “What things?” “What do you mean.”
So I related my encounters with Jeannette and Mary, and their surprising conclusions. Her face relaxed into almost a smile as I finished.
“Well, I’ve never seen it manifest itself exactly this way before.”
I started in surprise. “Seen what!” I exclaimed.
Instead of answering, she picked up a letter. “It’s from Blankford and Dunn.”
I recognized the name of the famous publisher instantly.
“They say I’m a unique talent and they will be pleased to publish my poems. I’ve been offered a contract for four books, with the option for more.”
I forgot my own dilemma for a moment and gleefully grabbed her in my arms, jumping up and down and taking her with me. “Congratulations!” “That’s amazing!”
“Don’t you see, dear, that this family has a special talent for words?”
“Not me,” I said. I can’t write a coherent sentence or tell a story. I certainly can’t write poetry, like you. But I was balancing your checkbook at the age of 10.”
“Well, Fran,” she said cautiously, piercing me with her gaze. “Think about it and tell me what’s different about you.”
I started to feel a little self-conscious, even though I knew my mother would never insult me. I shook my head, bewildered.
“You rarely drank the water.” My father’s deep voice boomed behind me, making me jump.
He put his hand on my shoulder and came around to face me. “Sorry to startle you, but think about it. You took a couple sips when you were little, declared you didn’t like the water, and avoided it whenever you could. You drank milk, Mountain Dew, Orange Crush, and anything else that wasn’t our spring water.”
I laughed. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
In answer, he grabbed my hand. “I first met your Mom in the city, where I grew up with a pretty bad stutter. My mother, as you know, taught me to sing the words I found it difficult to get out. But I still stuttered quite a bit and I couldn’t go around singing all the time. Then Emily brought me down here.” He grinned at Mom. “In a few weeks, my stutter began to ease, and within a couple of years I found myself with a pretty good singing voice.” Then he smiled and tipped up my chin. “And what was different about being here, Fran?”
It couldn’t be. I didn’t believe it, but there was only one answer. “The water.”
Mom piped in, her voice taking on a musical quality. “You ever hear the phrase, “There’s something in the water?”
I nodded.
“Did you ever wonder why we have such a storytelling tradition and so many great tale-tellers here in the mountains, all with the “gift of gab?”
“You’re telling me it’s the spring water?” I asked. My voice had taken on a higher pitch as I struggled to take in what I was hearing.
“Well, have you ever done anything like this before?” Mom asked. “Before you began drinking the water regularly?”
I shook my head, my mind reeling.
Mom smiled. “The closest I can recall to it is my father’s gift for preaching. He had a sincere desire to help people and he always seemed to be able to say the right thing. It’s close to that with you. You have been given the gift of helping others, not with eloquent speech or writing, but you’re helping them all the same.”
“But how do I know these things?”
“Well, maybe you’ve just been given the ability to sense things that the people you are helping already knew. Jeannette may have a forgotten memory of that savings bond from her girlhood. Mary certainly knew her husband was cheating on her. You’re just helping them remember or deal with the truth. Or maybe it’s more than that.” She shrugged. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
“But I’m not consciously doing anything!”
She shrugged and smiled, putting her arm around Dad. “There’s something in the water. Filtered or not, that water is changing you. We’re living proof as well, and it’s been going on for generations. I really wasn’t sure until your Dad came down here. Some people, for some reason, have a “gift for words” that is magnified when drinking the water. Your father’s speech was healed by these waters. Your talent is different, but look what you’ve done with it! You’ve already helped two people.”
Again, without any control, I blurted, “You need to move back!” They looked at each other in surprise. I looked back at them, just as disconcerted.
“Well, the water has spoken again,” I laughed. “You don’t really want to be in town. We can build another cabin on the land and you can come back home. I can help with the shopping and take you to medical appointments. We’ll find someone to mow the grass. It will work out.”
After they promised to think about it, I once again hit the road for home. I knew when I said the words that they were the truth. My parents were moving back onto the land, and that was the right thing.
I thought about my situation. What was I going to say next? What embarrassing predicaments would I end up in? But I knew that if it helped people, it was worth it. I knew as sure as that branch traveling down the mountain, that if I could make others happy and help resolve their problems, I was all in.
Come to think of it, I felt a little thirsty.
Author’s Note: For this story, we took the tradition of mountain storytelling and combined it with the sayings “there’s something in the water” and “gift of gab.” A branch runs through our property in the Smokies, and Bonnie’s Mom drank from that branch as a girl. Bonnie’s Dad actually did have a stuttering problem as a child. He lost his Mom at the age of eight, and it was a nun in the orphanage he was sent to who helped him overcome the stutter by singing.
Self-Published Saturday is my effort to help self-published/indie authors. Self-published authors have to do it all, from editing to cover design to marketing. If I can help even a little bit with the marketing, I’m happy to do it. Below is a review of Leora’s Letters by Joy Neal Kidney. This is the heartbreaking story of a mother whose sons went off to war, and some of them did not return.
BOOK REVIEW
This is a heartbreaking look back at the real lives and losses of the family of Clabe and Leora Wilson, who were tenant farmers with seven living children at the start of the story. The prologue begins with the living family members putting flowers on the graves for “decoration day,” and we learn that they lost three sons and brothers in World War II. Photos and biographies of the Wilsons’ seven children who had lived to adulthood are also included. I had first gotten to know Leora’s family by reading book two, Leora’s Dexter Stories, which is a prequel. Leora and Clabe had already lost three of their ten children in infancy, and it broke my heart to see their additional loss and suffering in Leora’s Letters. In all, the Wilsons lost six of their ten children, three of them during World War II. But this is not just about loss. This is about a family that worked very hard to survive and always supported each other no matter what. The letters they all wrote to each other throughout the war are a testament to that love and support, as well as the closeness they all enjoyed.
Through their actual letters, we follow these sons and the entire family as the war progresses. And we see not only separation and suffering, but we witness the remaining family members doing backbreaking work, with the majority of their efforts going to the people who actually owned the farm. It is a testament to the way life was back then for working men and women. But this book is also about love and perseverance in the midst of all of the pain. It is a well-researched account of some of the significant events of World War II, and it will transport you back in time to the bloodiest war in history where over 60 million people died. Ultimately, it will introduce you to a loving and remarkable American farming family that made the ultimate sacrifice over and over and over again.
The research and writing of Joy Neal Kidney, and her willingness to share her family story with the world, are to be commended.
I downloaded a copy of this book on Kindle Unlimited, where subscribers can read it for free.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joy Neal Kidney
(In her own words) I am the keeper of family stories, letters, pictures, research, combat records, casualty reports, and terrible telegrams. Active on several history and military Facebook pages, I help administer local ones–Audubon County, Dallas County, and Guthrie County, Iowa–the places where my motherline stories originated, as well as Depression Era Iowa.
Born two days before D-Day to an Iowa farmer who became an Army Air Corps pilot, then an instructor–with orders for combat when the war ended–and an Iowa waitress who lost three of her five brothers during that war. I spent my childhood in an Iowa farmhouse with a front porch. Now I live with my husband, a Vietnam veteran, in a suburban house with a front porch.
I’ve published two books (“Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II” and “Leora’s Dexter Stories: The Scarcity Years of the Great Depression.”) I’m a regular contributor to Our American Stories.
*If you buy the book(s), please leave reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, as well as anywhere else you review books. Some people feel very daunted by writing a review. Don’t worry. You do not have to write a masterpiece. Just a couple of lines about how the book made you feel will make the author’s day and help the book succeed. The more reviews a book has, the more Amazon will promote it.
*Please click on the “share” buttons below and share these books with your Twitter, Facebook, and WordPress followers. A little bit of help from all of us will help self-published authors go a long way!
If you had to make an impossible choice to save your long-lost daughter, you would… wouldn’t you?
It’s a warm early summer’s evening when Mia’s doorbell rings. She opens the door to see a teenage girl standing in the shadow beyond the porch light—and in an instant she knows who it is. Daisy, the daughter she gave up as a baby. Daisy steps forward, as she says tearfully “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. But something happened. And I really needed… you.”
Seventeen years before, knowing she couldn’t possibly give her beautiful little girl Daisy the future she deserved, Mia made the hardest decision of her life—to give her up. And Suzanne seemed the perfect adoptive mother: calm, stable, and full of love for the daughter she’d always dreamed of having.
The two mothers promised to keep communication open, so Daisy could have Mia’s love and support along with Suzanne’s. But as the years passed, Mia moved away, and their visits happened less. Now Daisy is almost a stranger to Mia—angry, closed and broken—nothing like the tiny girl she once couldn’t bear to say goodbye to.
But now Daisy has arrived on Mia’s doorstep, and she says she has a terrible secret. One she can never tell Suzanne. And she believes the only person who can help her is Mia. Her birth mother.
Mia, however, has secrets of her own. Ones she is afraid to let Daisy or anyone else know. And while Suzanne desperately seeks a way to bring her child home, can Mia overcome her past to help the girl they both call their daughter in her darkest hour before it’s too late?
BOOK REVIEW
This is a really comprehensive look at open adoption through the eyes of the child, Daisy, the adoptive mother, Suzanne, and the birth mother Mia. Different events in their lives are seen from the point of view of each of them. Suzanne holds nagging fear that her daughter will leave her. Mia feels guilt over not staying in touch with Daisy as much as she should. And Daisy is angry at everyone. When Daisy abruptly leaves and goes to find Mia, everything comes to a head.
The story is compelling and keeps you turning the page. The characters are well developed and interesting, and the plot is complex, with a surprise at the end. There were many flashbacks, which I felt were overdone. Other than that, this was a captivating read.
I received a free copy of this book from Bookouture via Netgalley. My review is voluntary and my opinions are my own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kate Hewitt is the author of many romance and women’s fiction novels. A former New Yorker and now an American ex-pat, she lives in a small town on the Welsh border with her husband, five children, and their overly affectionate Golden Retriever. Whatever the genre, she enjoys telling stories that tackle real issues and touch people’s lives.
My husband reminded me today that this is another anniversary for me, both unpleasant and pleasant in a way. Four years ago on this day I went to the emergency room because my left leg had basically stopped working. It felt like a block of wood that I was dragging around with me. When it swelled up and turned purple, we headed to the emergency room.
What I found out then was that I had a massive blood clot, from abdomen to toes, and just barely a pulse in my foot. I was diagnosed with acute DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis). I was very blessed that the clot did not break off and go to my lungs. I was admitted to the hospital and put on blood thinners. I went to an interventional radiologist the next day, and they were able to remove most of the clot with a catheter. Afterwards, I was in extreme pain and still did not have much use of my leg. It would take three weeks for me to walk again and five weeks before I could go back to work from home. It was almost two months before I could drive again.
My husband did everything for me after I got back home from the hospital. He rearranged the furniture for a wheelchair, helped me to the bathroom and in and out of the tub, and put on the compression socks I had to wear because I could not bend my leg! This was in addition to waiting on me hand and foot! I am very blessed to have him.
There’s my Doug.
The good news, and the pleasant part, is that I have not had another clot in four years.
What caused my DVT was twofold. I had just gotten back from a long work trip in the car where I had to drive 8 hours each way, and I spent a lot of time during that trip sitting at a desk, which wasn’t normal for me. All that sedentary time helped cause the blood clot. The other cause I found out after genetic testing done by my hematologist. I have Factor 2 prothrombin, a genetic mutation which makes my blood clot more than normal. So those two things working together caused my blood clot.
Now when I have to take a long trip, I stop and walk around. I took a flight to Japan 8 months after I had that blood clot and I was fine, as I got up and walked around at least every two hours. I would advise everyone to do that on long trips, whether you’ve had problems with blood clots or not.
So here I am four years later. I am still supposed to wear compression socks daily, and if I don’t the leg will swell up again. It’s something I don’t like, but if I don’t do it, I pay the price. I definitely don’t wear them as much as I should.
My summer look. Compression sock on the left.
So that’s my “Clotiversary” story. I’m blessed to have never had another one.
Famed Hampshire restaurant, Marble’s Marvels, is struggling. Poor food, few customers. And competing with the Italian restaurant across the road is not helping either.
Kate and Aiden Marble are out of ideas. Aiden is still struggling to cope after a tragic accident split their village in half two years ago. Kate tries to hold everything together, knowing that unless things change soon, they will lose the restaurant.
Out of the blue, a chef turns up and offers to cook them the best food they’ve ever tasted, in exchange for a job as sous chef. It seems like the fortunes of the restaurant are turning around. But is it a coincidence, or is there something magical about the new, mysterious chef?
BOOK REVIEW
This story begins with a town in pain. years ago, Kate and Aiden Marble lost their son in a tragic car accident. Aiden blames the driver of the other car due to drunk driving. The other driver is also deceased, and Aiden is feuding with the boy’s father. Now the town is split apart and Aiden is in such despair. He can barely cook and is losing his restaurant. Then a mysterious visitor, a chef, shows up at the Marble’s restaurant and applies for a job.
Having a bad day? Need to relax with a heartwarming read? This is the one! The characters are so well written, especially the Chef. The story is completely captivating, as your heart will break for this town and these families in trouble, but cheer on the Chef and others who are trying to help. This is about the angels who aid us when we are down, whether those angels come from Heaven or live right down the street. It is also about the humility that is needed for reconciliation and the joy that comes with forgiveness. I recommend this book to all readers, because it will bring a smile to anyone’s face.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Duncan Brockwell writing as Katie Simpkins
Katie Simpkins is the pseudonym for crime and psychological thriller writer, Duncan Brockwell. Katie’s first publication, The Southern Belles was released in July 2019 to positive praise from readers.
Duncan then signed a 3 book contract with digital first publisher, Bloodhound Books for his thriller series, The Met Murder Investigations, starring Nasreen Maqsood. No Way Out, Bird of Prey and Bad Blood were published in July, September and November 2020.
In January 2021, Bloodhound released Mr Invisible, Duncan’s first standalone psychological thriller.
His second Katie Simpkins novel, Marble’s Marvels was published on March 19th under Fusion Press.
In April 2021, Bloodhound Books released his latest novel with them, The Hard Way.
Duncan has several projects coming up, 2 with new publisher, Spellbound Books. They are Oakwood Falls, a supernatural fantasy novel and Hellingly, a hardcore horror set in an abandoned mental asylum.
He is now writing a horror novel called The Notorious Six, a throwback to 80s horror movies such as A Nightmare on Elm Street. After that, he plans on finishing a couple of projects he started, most notably, Trailblazer, an action comedy about an aging country singer who is trying to get to know his estranged daughter while on tour and being chased by the mob, the FBI and a particularly crazy sheriff.
The old farmhouse at Tansy Falls. A little patch of paradise in the hills of Vermont. Home to happy couple Connie and Nate. And a long-buried secret that will ignite a devastating spark…
As the summer sun sets over the sleepy Vermont town of Tansy Falls, Connie is reminded of how lucky she is. Every day, when she leaves the job she loves, managing the Covered Bridge Inn with her best friend Piper, she looks forward to returning to the farmhouse she shares with her husband Nate. At home, her flowerbeds overflow with day lilies and the weathered brick walls of her beautiful house glow in the evening light. The air is filled with the scent of the puffed apple pancakes she prepared that morning.
But one night, when Nate returns home, he is distant. He and Connie have been married for a long time, and while the laughter and lingering kisses have dwindled, Connie believed they would be together forever. So when a stranger arrives on their doorstep with a shocking secret about Nate, Connie’s life changes beyond all recognition.
Connie never thought she’d need to start over and live a life without Nate by her side. But as her heart breaks, Piper and the team at the inn are ready to help stitch it back together, with thoughtful advice washed down with warm spiced cider. As Connie begins to feel whole again, distraction arrives in the form of olive-skinned, broad-shouldered newcomer James. Nate has taught Connie that she doesn’t need a man, but James’s arrival helps her discover that she can follow her own dreams too. But as more secrets come to the surface, Connie wonders if she’ll ever truly be able to leave behind her past for good…
If you love gripping, heartbreaking romantic stories by Elin Hildebrand and Robyn Carr, you will be hooked by A Secret at Tansy Falls. A completely compelling read about secrets and betrayal that will have you reaching for the tissues.
BOOK REVIEW
We are back in Tansy Falls, where the manager of the Covered Bridge Inn, Connie, has a lot of challenges going on. The biggest of those is that her once-solid marriage seems to be on shaky ground as her husband struggles with unemployment. On top of that, her father is dating someone young enough to be his granddaughter, and her son seems to be in serious trouble at college. How does she handle all of this, on top of turning 49 and trying to manage a major event at the Inn? Follow Connie and the other residents of Tansy Falls on another enjoyable and enlightening adventure, and find out. This second book in the Tansy Falls series can be read as a standalone, but I recommend reading the first book to really meet the town and its residents.
I really enjoy this town and these characters, and Cate Woods keeps things interesting by introducing new people and new situations. The Inn is delightful, and we get to see old friends we met in book one, The Inn at Tansy Falls, which I also read and reviewed. I liked that the main focus of this story is on an almost-50-year old woman and some of the challenges we face in our 50s. Tansy Falls is a place I would definitely want to visit, and the town residents are a cast of characters the reader will enjoy getting to know. This book is hard to put down, and checking into the Covered Bridge Inn again is a fun way to spend a day. Fans of small-town fiction and family stories will love this heartwarming novel.
4.5 stars, rounded up to 5 on sites without a half-star option.
I received a free copy of this book from Bookouture via Netgalley. My review is voluntary and my opinions are my own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cate Woods
Cate Woods made the most of her university degree in Anglo-Saxon Literature by embarking on a career making tea on programs, including The Big Breakfast, Who Wants to be a Millionaire, and French & Saunders. After narrowly missing out on the chance to become a Channel 5 weather girl, she moved into the world of magazine journalism, then ghostwriting and now writes novels under her own name. She has written two best-selling romantic comedies – Just Haven’t Met You Yet and More Than a Feeling – and a festive novel, The Christmas Guest, under the name Daisy Bell. Cate lives in London with her husband and two children.
Self-Published Saturday is my effort to help Indie and Self-Published authors with one of the most difficult tasks they have to do–marketing. Indie authors have to do it all, from cover design to editing, marketing, and more. If I can help even a little bit with the marketing, I’m happy to do it. This week’s feature is the wonderful Leora’s Dexter Stories: The Scarcity Years of the Great Depression. the second in the Leora Series. This is the story of an American family struggling through the depression in rural Iowa.
BOOK DESCRIPTION
The undertow of the Great Depression becomes poignantly personal as we experience the travails of Leora and Clabe Wilson, a displaced Iowa farm family. Gritty determination fuels this family’s journey of loss and hope, a reflection of what many American families endured during those challenging times.
In this true story the Wilsons slowly slide into unemployment and poverty. Leora must find ways to keep her dreams alive while making a haven for her flock of seven children in one run-down house after another.
BOOK REVIEW
This is a wonderful true story of a family of tenant farmers struggling to survive during the depression years in Iowa. Spanning from about 1927 to 1942, we follow the family as they move from farm to farm, working hard to make ends meet and put food on the table. At the same time, we learn the history of a country as it falls into the Great Depression and then tries to rise out of it. We watch the Wilson family suffer hunger, sickness, and heartbreaking loss in a time of great hardship. We watch them go from farming to odd jobs to unemployment, working hard and finding a way to survive.
When the two oldest go off to join the Navy, they put the family on their shoulders instead of leaving them behind, sending money to help keep them warm and fed. The mother, Leora Wilson, who was not allowed to go to high school, gets to see her children graduate against great odds. Through memoirs, letters, photos, and newspaper articles, we follow this family as they learn of the New Deal, finally accept some help from the government, and eventually go off to war. And through it all, we realize that despite their lack of money, they are rich in love, loyalty, grit, and fortitude. This saga of a family and a country speaks in detail of a way of life that no longer exists and documents it for all time. It is a part of American history that should not be missed.
I downloaded a copy of this book on Kindle Unlimited, where subscribers can read it for free.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (In Her Own Words)
Joy Neal Kidney
I am the keeper of family stories, letters, pictures, research, combat records, casualty reports, and terrible telegrams. Active on several history and military Facebook pages, I help administer local ones–Audubon County, Dallas County, and Guthrie County, Iowa–the places where my motherline stories originated, as well as Depression Era Iowa.
Born two days before D-Day to an Iowa farmer who became an Army Air Corps pilot, then an instructor–with orders for combat when the war ended–and an Iowa waitress who lost three of her five brothers during that war. I spent my childhood in an Iowa farmhouse with a front porch. Now I live with my husband, a Vietnam veteran, in a suburban house with a front porch.
I’ve published two books (“Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II” and “Leora’s Dexter Stories: The Scarcity Years of the Great Depression.”) I’m a regular contributor to Our American Stories.
Awards: 2021 Great American Storyteller Award by Our American Stories and WHO NEWSRADIO 1040
2021 – First place Our Iowa Stories award named for Joy Neal Kidney.
*If you buy the book(s), please leave reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, as well as anywhere else you review books. Some people feel very daunted by writing a review. Don’t worry. You do not have to write a masterpiece. Just a couple of lines about how the book made you feel will make the author’s day and help the book succeed. The more reviews a book has, the more Amazon will promote it.
*Please click on the “share” buttons below and share these books with your Twitter, Facebook, and WordPress followers. A little bit of help from all of us will help self-published authors go a long way!
Winter Solstice is a beautiful and heartbreaking poetic account of the end of life journey of the author’s mother, who was losing her memory. This made my heart ache because I went through this with my Dad as well, and watched him eventually forget us due to Dementia. It is a tough thing to experience, but Diana Howard writes about this sad journey with honesty, truth, and compassion.
Some of the poems in this collection compare this condition to nature and the winter season, and some are very matter-of-fact accounts of the effects of this disease. All of them will speak to somebody who has been affected by this in one way or another.
Anyone who has lost a loved one to Alzheimer’s or Dementia will identify with this heartfelt and very candid poetic account of a long and agonizing loss of a parent.
I received a free copy of this book from the publishers via Netgalley. My review is voluntary.
Q&A WITH DIANA HOWARD (With a bonus poem from the author!)
Winter Solstice was of course inspired by your Mother’s battle with dementia. I also lost a parent and grandparent to dementia and I want to express my deepest condolences. Was it difficult to write about or did writing help you process it all?
I think what was difficult was watching and experiencing my mother’s decline yet having very little understanding (especially early on) of what was happening to her and what she could and could not comprehend. Of course, every day was different, but I felt desperately sad for her and powerless to help her. Writing about it was comforting for me and it helped me personalize it in a way that gave her as much dignity and peace as was possible.
In some of your poems in this book, such as Winter Solstice, Taking Refuge, and Losing Memory, you related your mother’s dementia to nature, specifically the winter season. It is actually a perfect analogy. How were you first inspired to relate your mother’s passing to nature in this way?
Growing up, nature was a large part of my experiences with my parents. Hunting for morel mushrooms every spring with my dad, and looking for bittersweet in the woods with my mom in the fall. We went camping every summer and played outdoors always. I grew to love the sound of birds and also the wisdom they presented through a pair of binoculars. By the time I started writing seriously, in my late 30’s, nature seemed the perfect metaphor for so many things.
Were you writing these poems as everything was happening in real time or from memory later?
The answer to this question is both. “Departure” for example was written on a plane flying home from seeing my mom a year before she died. (I lived 10 hours away) “Taking Refuge” was written when I traveled to see my mom when she still lived in her own home but was hospitalized with abdominal issues. I could see while she was in the hospital and out of her normal familiar setting, that she was struggling more than I realized. It was still another year before we actually moved her into assisted care.
Let’s talk about the grief process. For myself, I found I was already grieving my Dad when he began to forget me. I realized after his death I was already very far along in the grief process. How has the process evolved for you?
Pretty much as you describe. I was the oldest daughter, the one designated to care for her. Even though I couldn’t do that physically because i was so far away, i definitely did it emotionally, until she could no longer comprehend, and then I still did it anyway. My two brothers and sister were also wonderful with her. I was lucky in that regard that they did what they could as well.
Many of the poems came out of the grief i was feeling and from the lonely powerless feeling that engulfed me so often. (Did I mention guilt??? I always left her. struggling to remind myself that I am doing the best I can and also what was right for me.
I love that you spoke of the realities of having dementia in such a forthright way. Those of us who have experienced this with loved ones will identify immediately with your words. I also think that those who are about to go through this with their loved ones will be helped by your candid description of the realities of this harsh disease. When you wrote Winter Solstice, did you realize the extent to which it could be of great help to others?
I didn’t realize it while I was going through it, but after she died I looked over volumes of pages of writing that I did and thought to myself, maybe I could help someone not feel so alone as they spend years saying goodbye to a loved one. Maybe I could help them with their sadness, their anger and frustration, their coping with the real challenges that occur.
What is the most important thing you want others to take away from your book?
I would hope that they would feel less alone knowing that others are going through the same thing. Even though everyone’s journey is a bit different, the key symptoms of the disease are the same. Here is a poem that is not in the book. I actually wrote it this past summer thinking that I might use it when giving a talk about my book – I’m sure it will resonate with you as it does with me.
Facing Dementia
I want to tell you what not to do how not to respond where not to go.
I learned the hard way.
I want to say it doesn’t get easier. It will take vicious turns be unforgiving break your heart.
I learned the hard way.
I want to explain how it steals personality taunts intellect preys on a sinking lucidity,
that any thought of rescue or reasoning will fail miserably punishing you in your dreams.
In closing, I just wanted to say that your poem Losing Memory really spoke to me because it’s such a great analogy comparing the loss of memory to a blizzard, and I can sadly imagine my loved one wandering, trying to find those memories again, only to have them wiped away by bitter winds. It actually made me realize I still feel the sting of those bitter winds sometimes, almost three years after my Dad passed. Thanks for sharing your thoughts about this terrible disease with the world.
Thanks so much, Bonnie!
COMMENT FROM BONNIE
*When I did the original QA questions, I didn’t know about the extra poem the author would be so gracious to send. I wanted to comment on it. It’s absolutely true. There is no way to reason with someone with dementia/Alzheimer’s, and no way to permanently rescue them. This condition and its effects will break your heart more than once .
Again, thank you Diana, for your wonderful answers and the new poem!
MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author/Poet Diana Howard
Diana Howard is a poet and children’s author living in southeastern South Dakota. She began writing for children ten years ago. Her love of nature and animals influences her storytelling as she gives both voice and character to her subject matter.
A feel-good Christmas romance about fresh starts, the importance of family and learning how to follow your heart. Perfect for fans of Mary Alice Monroe, Rachel Hanna and Carolyn Brown.
As twinkling lights go up and snowflakes begin to fall, Laurel Hanover and her eight-year-old son are going home to the Cranberry Inn in the heart of the Adirondack Mountains. Laurel can’t wait to leave New York behind to help her father run the family business, and make snow angels with her son, even if it’s just for Christmas. But when she walks through the door, she’s shocked to find the inn in disrepair, and a letter saying her father will be gone until Christmas Eve…
No one in town knows where Laurel’s father is, and she doesn’t know whether to be worried or angry – but she won’t let the inn go under, and nothing will get in the way of the perfect Christmas for her son. Seeing the worn-out wooden bannisters, bare of festive lights, she immediately recruits her childhood friend, brooding local carpenter Joel Hutcherson. They might disagree on whether any walls actually need to come down, but each rip in the carpet makes Laurel more concerned for her father, and Joel is a welcome distraction. And when he admits that Laurel was his first crush, she realises she’s falling for him.
But then Laurel uncovers a card with beautiful, ornate writing amongst her father’s things and learns the real reason he disappeared. And it changes everything. Worse still, she thinks Joel knew the truth all along.
Laurel thought this was going to be the perfect Christmas – that maybe she had found her happy. But now there’s nothing to stop her from running back to New York the moment the baubles come down… is there?
BOOK REVIEW
This is a sweet Christmas story about family, memories, and moving forward. The characters are endearing and the story is heartwarming. The reader is transported to the Christmas season in a lovely mountain town where Laurel is trying to get the Inn ready for an unexpected guest, since her father has gone away on a mysterious trip. Memories of lost loved ones and coming back home again are major themes in this story. It is also about learning what you really want in life and having the courage to start over again. This is a book to enjoy with a good cup of coffee on a chilly day, while looking forward to your own holiday celebration. I would recommend this book to anyone who loves a good Christmas read.
I received a free copy of this book from Bookouture via Netgalley. My review is voluntary and my opinions are my own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barbara Josselsohn is an award-winning journalist and novelist who loves crafting stories about strong protagonists facing a fork in the road. Her novels center around second chances, family relationships and, of course, romance. She is the author of the Lake Summers series set in the fictional town of Lake Summers, nestled in the Adirondacks Mountains, which includes the books The Lilac House and The Bluebell Girls. Before joining with Bookouture, she published The Last Dreamer, a women’s-fiction novel from Lake Union Publishing, along with hundreds of articles and essays in major and regional publications about family, home and relationships. She lives just north of New York City and enjoys escaping to the beach or the mountains whenever she can. Other than writing, her biggest passion is her family: husband, her three kids, and her indefatigable shih-poo!
You must be logged in to post a comment.