Book Review by Deirdre Tolhurst
…And the Whippoorwill Sang
by Micki Peluso
...And the Whippoorwill Sang captured my attention from the very first page and tugged at my heartstrings throughout. Whether it was to laugh or to cry, I found myself so involved with the story that I was anticipating the next chapter with unexpected zeal.
The book quickly drew me in, making me feel as if Micki and I were sitting at her kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. She is relaxed in her writing, which made me feel like I was a part of her large family. Her words are descriptive; so much so that I could see not just the curtains, but through the windows to the streets and neighborhood beyond. I love that about this book, I can visualize what the couch looks like when Micki is recuperating from having a baby. I can see Dante's mischievous face, Michael and Kim talking about leaving home with only the things their grandmother had given them, Kelly learning to talk, and Nicole wrapping her hair around her toes. I see a huge dog that doesn’t ride very well in the car!
The book begins in 1959 at Micki's wedding at age 17 to Butch. I loved how she explained the wedding night in a way that would never offend any reader. I couldn't help but laugh and smile and feel good. She brought me back to the way things used to be in the 60s and 70s. The places they lived while their family grew, the decor, the pets, so much to see with your mind's eye to make you feel a part of the story. Things were so much different back then, parents didn't worry so much about their children going out and playing, coming home when the street lights came on. Moms didn't drive, they did the wash and made clothes and did whatever they could to be sure to have enough money for groceries, and dads worked so hard to support the family. Children slept in attics, basements, and laundry rooms; wherever there was enough space to put a bed. And the children never complained. Dinners were whatever moms could throw together from leftovers, and everyone was content.
Most families at the time were large, and each child had their own personality traits which made them unique and separated them from their siblings. There were six children in the Peluso household. Noelle was independent at a very young age, broadly intelligent, and her charm captured your heart. She went through that period of time that every girl does, where hormones cause a shift in personality, but came back to being the darling that her siblings all remember. At the young age of 14, she was killed by a drunk driver while walking to the park. Before she died, her mother promised her that she wouldn't let her life be in vain, that she would let the world know that Noelle had lived.
It is so easy to relate to the stories Mrs. Peluso tells about those years, some of which had me laughing in sheer nostalgic bliss, and others that had me wanting to give her a hug and share her grief. I highly recommend this book. There are so many reasons why. It takes a baby boomer back to life in the 60s, and it is a double bonus if you are from the Northeast. It is a comfortable book, yet one the reader never loses interest in. It can definitely be read in a weekend, and it is one that you will remember. Mrs. Peluso travels in time to the early days of her family, occasionally coming back to the moment at hand, when Noelle's life is hanging in the balance. But she doesn't stay there long, only enough to fill the reader's mind with sympathy for this mother who remains strong despite the pain she is going through. Micki is the glue that is holding the family together, when she is the one who desperately needs to be hugged and loved and reassured that the choices she is making are the right ones. She wrestles with her spirituality, but knows in her heart that God is in charge and will one day remove her grief. It brings to the open the heartache that families go through when a lawless person, not caring about whom they hurt goes out reckless into the world. The devastation that is caused by drunk drivers is brought home to you between the eyes. Noelle was real, for crying out loud, she was a little girl, only 14, and minding her own business when her life was taken in a matter of moments. Is there justice for the family? The man who hit her served time, but Noelle never grew up.
There is a sweet sorrow to Noelle’s short life, but even so, her mother’s promise was met. I know that Noelle lived, and you will too if you buy this book. It is a 5-star read!
Deirdre Tolhurst, Author, A Christmas I Remember, ISBN 978-1-61346-422-9.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Review of my Book by Patricia Garcia
And The Whippoorwill Sang by Micki Peluso
The young teenager had just left home, a short, "Goodbye Mom" shattered through the house, and the door slammed. None of the family had any clue to what was about to happen. None of them had known a certain moment in time would change their lives forever. None of them had really thought about how quickly life could pass over into some other invisible form. None of them had considered it may be the last time to touch, to talk to, or to reach out and physically embraced the person one so deeply cares about, until it had happened––And The Whippoorwill Sang.
Every time I hear a new born baby cry,
Or touch a leaf or see the sky
Then I know why, I believe.(1)
A Child is born, and the world around it rejoices. It is December, almost Christmas, and the mother notates certain events and occasions in her mind that make the year unforgettable. She has developed a method for bringing her children into the world. She talks to them as they are still hidden in her wound. The baby understands, and because of its comfortableness, because of its security, because of the warmth the mother's wound offers, it thinks about whether it would like to enter into a world where it will have to deal with the changes and idiosyncrasies of people who are driven by their likes and dislikes of others––And The Whippoorwill Sang.
And The Whippoorwill Sang, the book written by Micki Peluso, begins with her fourteen year old daughter, and the accident that would change the lives of her family as one of them crossover into eternity.
The book is unusual, in that Peluso, not only enlightens us about a hideous crime, which takes place in her own family, but she also brings light upon the character of one of the most dangerous criminals that still runs amok in our society today, regardless of which country in the world we might live–– the hit and run driver that causes accidents under intoxication. The driver who inebriates his brain into dysfunction; the driver, who then steps behind the wheel of his or her weapon to reach a destination; the driver, who out of disrespect for life, hits a person, an animal or an object and keeps going, as they think through their befuddlement about how they can now hide what they have done.
Micki Peluso, however, does not only deal with the ordeal, which takes place in her family's life, but also with her confrontation with God, her lost, and the growth cycles of her maturation through out the entire book. Growth cycles that took a young woman who had gotten married at the age of seventeen through a life of loneliness and love, a life that is defined for the first fifteen years by her children.
Each child is special for Peluso. She has six of those little people we call babies, and each one renders, in her development into a woman, a certain degree of maturity that her girlfriends, who had decided to go away to school, were missing.
So it was for Noelle, the Christmas baby that Peluso talked into not being born on Christmas Day, instead to appear a few days earlier. Peluso talked to all her babies as she carried them. Maybe this is the reason why closeness developed between all of them and her, mother-child relationships that go beyond the grave into eternity–And The Whippoorwill Sang.
She writes about Noelle's cuteness and her bravery. What two-year-old kid would have thought to go to the neighbors and ask the lady to cook her some fried eggs cause her Mama was going through morning sickness from a new pregnancy.
That alone defines Noelle. She was the peacekeeper, the easy-going nature who didn't make demands. The charming baby whose first words were whish, whish, gulp, gulp, and ummmmm, because the laundry room was designated as her baby room.
Every time I hear a new born baby cry,
Or touch a leaf or see the sky
Then I know why, I believe. (2)
I followed Peluso as she struggled with finding herself in a world where she had only received a high school education, in a world where she fought for recognition from her husband, in a world where she sacrificed herself for her family. Her marriage crises forced her to be the one to change. It was she who could not carry a grudge for long, and it was she who kept her marriage going when her husband gave her the ultimatum of take me or leave me, I am the way I am. I could only applaud her in her decision. What woman would have stayed with her family after such an ultimatum? Only a woman, who cared about the destiny of her children––And The Whippoorwill Sang.
Please do not think the book is lopsided, because it is not. You don't get the impression Peluso is trying to slam her husband or to get revenge. No, this is not the case at all. She brings out beautifully the great qualities he has as a provider for her and their brood. He is the man who promise to take care of her as long as they both shall live, and thank God, he takes his promise he made on their wedding day seriously.
I laughed, and I cried with Peluso. I was born a few years later, and the cry of acknowledgement from the Women's Liberation Front, and the National Organization for Women's had loss some of its hysteria in the men's world. Thus, it was refreshing to read about some of its effects upon Peluso and her friends' lives.
All of these themes are dealt with in Peluso's book, and yet it is written in such a way that the reader laughs and cries at the events, which take place. But the laughter takes its turn in the last chapters; Peluso has to give up her Christmas Baby. The child, whose first words were whish, whish, gulp, gulp, and ummmmm–– And The Whippoorwill Sang.
After reading And The Whippoorwill Sang, my emotions were in disarray. The ten-day struggle she went through, I related to heavily. Living in a foreign country, away from family and those I love, the agony of saying goodbye is difficult. One never knows when it is the last time.
Therefore, this is a have-to-read book. It will take you on an emotional roller-coaster ride and will challenge you to rethink your drinking habits when you drive. Most importantly though, it will challenge you to rethink your relationships with those who are close too you and cause you to consider reaching out instead of pushing away, loving instead of hating, and accepting instead of rejecting, those who mean the most to you––And The Whippoorwill Sang.
Ciao,
Pat Garcia
And The Whippoorwill Sang by Micki Peluso can be bought as a book at bookstores and or as an ebook at Amazon's Kindle store to include Amazon.De for Germany.
The young teenager had just left home, a short, "Goodbye Mom" shattered through the house, and the door slammed. None of the family had any clue to what was about to happen. None of them had known a certain moment in time would change their lives forever. None of them had really thought about how quickly life could pass over into some other invisible form. None of them had considered it may be the last time to touch, to talk to, or to reach out and physically embraced the person one so deeply cares about, until it had happened––And The Whippoorwill Sang.
Every time I hear a new born baby cry,
Or touch a leaf or see the sky
Then I know why, I believe.(1)
A Child is born, and the world around it rejoices. It is December, almost Christmas, and the mother notates certain events and occasions in her mind that make the year unforgettable. She has developed a method for bringing her children into the world. She talks to them as they are still hidden in her wound. The baby understands, and because of its comfortableness, because of its security, because of the warmth the mother's wound offers, it thinks about whether it would like to enter into a world where it will have to deal with the changes and idiosyncrasies of people who are driven by their likes and dislikes of others––And The Whippoorwill Sang.
And The Whippoorwill Sang, the book written by Micki Peluso, begins with her fourteen year old daughter, and the accident that would change the lives of her family as one of them crossover into eternity.
The book is unusual, in that Peluso, not only enlightens us about a hideous crime, which takes place in her own family, but she also brings light upon the character of one of the most dangerous criminals that still runs amok in our society today, regardless of which country in the world we might live–– the hit and run driver that causes accidents under intoxication. The driver who inebriates his brain into dysfunction; the driver, who then steps behind the wheel of his or her weapon to reach a destination; the driver, who out of disrespect for life, hits a person, an animal or an object and keeps going, as they think through their befuddlement about how they can now hide what they have done.
Micki Peluso, however, does not only deal with the ordeal, which takes place in her family's life, but also with her confrontation with God, her lost, and the growth cycles of her maturation through out the entire book. Growth cycles that took a young woman who had gotten married at the age of seventeen through a life of loneliness and love, a life that is defined for the first fifteen years by her children.
Each child is special for Peluso. She has six of those little people we call babies, and each one renders, in her development into a woman, a certain degree of maturity that her girlfriends, who had decided to go away to school, were missing.
So it was for Noelle, the Christmas baby that Peluso talked into not being born on Christmas Day, instead to appear a few days earlier. Peluso talked to all her babies as she carried them. Maybe this is the reason why closeness developed between all of them and her, mother-child relationships that go beyond the grave into eternity–And The Whippoorwill Sang.
She writes about Noelle's cuteness and her bravery. What two-year-old kid would have thought to go to the neighbors and ask the lady to cook her some fried eggs cause her Mama was going through morning sickness from a new pregnancy.
That alone defines Noelle. She was the peacekeeper, the easy-going nature who didn't make demands. The charming baby whose first words were whish, whish, gulp, gulp, and ummmmm, because the laundry room was designated as her baby room.
Every time I hear a new born baby cry,
Or touch a leaf or see the sky
Then I know why, I believe. (2)
I followed Peluso as she struggled with finding herself in a world where she had only received a high school education, in a world where she fought for recognition from her husband, in a world where she sacrificed herself for her family. Her marriage crises forced her to be the one to change. It was she who could not carry a grudge for long, and it was she who kept her marriage going when her husband gave her the ultimatum of take me or leave me, I am the way I am. I could only applaud her in her decision. What woman would have stayed with her family after such an ultimatum? Only a woman, who cared about the destiny of her children––And The Whippoorwill Sang.
Please do not think the book is lopsided, because it is not. You don't get the impression Peluso is trying to slam her husband or to get revenge. No, this is not the case at all. She brings out beautifully the great qualities he has as a provider for her and their brood. He is the man who promise to take care of her as long as they both shall live, and thank God, he takes his promise he made on their wedding day seriously.
I laughed, and I cried with Peluso. I was born a few years later, and the cry of acknowledgement from the Women's Liberation Front, and the National Organization for Women's had loss some of its hysteria in the men's world. Thus, it was refreshing to read about some of its effects upon Peluso and her friends' lives.
All of these themes are dealt with in Peluso's book, and yet it is written in such a way that the reader laughs and cries at the events, which take place. But the laughter takes its turn in the last chapters; Peluso has to give up her Christmas Baby. The child, whose first words were whish, whish, gulp, gulp, and ummmmm–– And The Whippoorwill Sang.
After reading And The Whippoorwill Sang, my emotions were in disarray. The ten-day struggle she went through, I related to heavily. Living in a foreign country, away from family and those I love, the agony of saying goodbye is difficult. One never knows when it is the last time.
Therefore, this is a have-to-read book. It will take you on an emotional roller-coaster ride and will challenge you to rethink your drinking habits when you drive. Most importantly though, it will challenge you to rethink your relationships with those who are close too you and cause you to consider reaching out instead of pushing away, loving instead of hating, and accepting instead of rejecting, those who mean the most to you––And The Whippoorwill Sang.
Ciao,
Pat Garcia
And The Whippoorwill Sang by Micki Peluso can be bought as a book at bookstores and or as an ebook at Amazon's Kindle store to include Amazon.De for Germany.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
THE LAST VESTIGE OF POWER
In an age where women's liberation movements have forced much of the male population to redefine their identity, both in the workplace and in relationships with women, some men are grasping for the last vestige of power--the remote control device for television and cable.
While there is nothing inherently wrong with this harmless fixation, it can become annoying. Men unable to control the women in their lives, have turned in desperation to controlling what is watched on television. Many of the most liberated modern women still like to have car doors opened for them, learning after over two decades that it's all right to be both aggressive and feminine. Some men have trouble realizing that they can relinquish power without losing their masculinity. Proof of this lies in the number of men obsessed with the remote control--it's beginning to get out of hand at my house.
The first thing my husband says as he plops down in his recliner after a grueling day's work is, "Where's the remote?"
"I don't know," I answer. "One of your grandsons probably lost it again."
He initiates a frantic search, mumbling things under his breath that I am better off not hearing.
"You know," I mention pragmatically. "There's a button on the cable box that turns it on. That is, if it hasn't deteriorated from lack of use."
He scowls at me and continues looking, recovering the remote under a pile of throw pillows. The tension in his body visibly drains away.
"I don't know why you need the remote," I say, looking up from my book. "You have to keep getting up and down to adjust the volume each time you switch stations anyway. But then, it's the only exercise you get."
He glares at me as if that statement is too stupid to warrant a reply, and begins his nightly ritual of channel surfing until finding a cable program showing someone building a log home from scratch, or a chef demonstrating how to produce a six-course epicurean delight in ten minutes. The shows are reruns which he's seen ten times already, although he vehemently denies this.
This is why I read novels in the evening, glancing up occasionally to observe swans mating, or a lioness bring down a baby gazelle and devour it. Flick, flick, flick. It goes on all night, catching a baseball score, the weather forecast,(always wrong) or checking the progress of the log house. After all, he points out, he might want to build one himself some day.
The man can easily watch three movies at the same time and somehow get the gist of all of them. God forbid he should actually watch an entire commercial. Books have a quiet continuity about them, which is why I prefer to read, especially since I have little chance of watching anything that doesn't involve a hammer, saw, feathers, gills, fur, or exotic food.
"Are you aware that swans and crows actually mate for life?" he asks, interrupting one of the more passionate scenes in my novel.
"Yes, dear," I say, having heard this particular documentary droning in the background a dozen times. "But it's been proven by researchers that they have continual affairs."
"That's riduculous!" he says, apparently feeling some need to protect the moral reputation of bird life. "Where did you hear that?"
"I read it in the New York Science Times," I answer. "The eggs in the birds' nests were found to be sired by several different mates."
"See?" He says, with that hint of arrogance that I hate. "That's the trouble with you. You believe everything you read."
I rest my case.
Flick, flick, flick. He gets up and down again and again, adjusting the volume, until I am ready to scream.
"Can't you watch just one program until it's over?" I ask, through gritted teeth.
"No!" he answers, a little louder than necessary. "I might miss something on another channel."
"Honey, why don't you give me the remote for a little while?" I ask, rather gently.
"Not on your life," he says. "You'll just put some sappy tear-jerker on." He moves the remote to the other side of his chair, holding it down with his hand, as if he believes that I might actually get up and physically wrestle it from him. It is getting to the point where he may need professional therapy, I think to myself.
It isn't just my husband who's obsessed with the remote control. Whenever my sons and sons-in-law visit, it's the first thing they grab, after raiding the refrigerator. I even have to carefully pry it from the tight little fists of my grandsons. I thought at first, it might be a genetic problem, but most of my female friends are struggling with the same phenomena. Maybe it's one of those male bonding things. I'm not well-educated enough in the field of psychology to suggest that the little black device might be a phallic symbol.
Anyway, being the loving, understanding mate that I am, I've decided, acting out of pure altruism, to tolerate the aggrevation, and allow my husband to hold on to the remote control--a final exercise of power in a confusing world of mixed-up gender roles. He'll give it up when he's ready.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Not For Sale
True story of a most humiliating day--wasn't me , by the way. :)
My horoscope hinted that the day would not bode well. Throbbing pain from a recent sprained ankle concurred. Never being one to miss a sale on products not wanted or needed, the warnings went unheeded. I borrowed a grandchild young enough to be endearing and old enough to be helpful and drove to the store.
The discount warehouse was mobbed, prompting me to use one of the scooters provided for the disabled. How hard could it be? I thought, forgetting that technology requiring more than two buttons, preferably off and on, was most often a catastrophe. for me.
After zigzagging throughout the aisles, narrowly sideswiping young children, and leveling tall, stacked shelves, I reconsidered my mode of travel. Scowls and snide remarks from other customers influenced my decision. Eight-year-old Nicholas trailed several feet behind me, pretending to belong to someone else. It was time to leave, before the mob of people in the store got nasty.
I drove the scooter to the nearest register a little too fast, apparently, and became wedged tightly in the checkout lane. Even reverse could not budge the jammed scooter. Amidst laughter echoing through the warehouse, a strong, disgruntled male cashier lifted and unceremoniously dumped my 5’9” body onto the conveyor belt.
As I was scanned and slid down the length of the counter my grandson asked, “How much did you cost, Gram? Were you on sale?
My horoscope hinted that the day would not bode well. Throbbing pain from a recent sprained ankle concurred. Never being one to miss a sale on products not wanted or needed, the warnings went unheeded. I borrowed a grandchild young enough to be endearing and old enough to be helpful and drove to the store.
The discount warehouse was mobbed, prompting me to use one of the scooters provided for the disabled. How hard could it be? I thought, forgetting that technology requiring more than two buttons, preferably off and on, was most often a catastrophe. for me.
After zigzagging throughout the aisles, narrowly sideswiping young children, and leveling tall, stacked shelves, I reconsidered my mode of travel. Scowls and snide remarks from other customers influenced my decision. Eight-year-old Nicholas trailed several feet behind me, pretending to belong to someone else. It was time to leave, before the mob of people in the store got nasty.
I drove the scooter to the nearest register a little too fast, apparently, and became wedged tightly in the checkout lane. Even reverse could not budge the jammed scooter. Amidst laughter echoing through the warehouse, a strong, disgruntled male cashier lifted and unceremoniously dumped my 5’9” body onto the conveyor belt.
As I was scanned and slid down the length of the counter my grandson asked, “How much did you cost, Gram? Were you on sale?
Saturday, June 16, 2012
A Christmas I Remember
A Christmas I Remember
By
Deirdre Tolhurst
It’s Christmas Eve and a blizzard brings heavy, blinding deep snow to Deirdre’s town. It is beautiful to gaze upon, yet the little girl wonders if Santa can make it through the storm. She watches out her window as her dad shovels snow that keeps piling right back, but falls asleep, despite her worries, and awakens on Christmas morning.
Deirdre Tolhurst shares her own remembrance of such a Christmas storm and the miracle that transpires that Holiest of nights—one she shares only with her dad. She narrates the magical Season in a lyrical poem that will entrance young children when read to them, as well as older children, who, while reading, can learn to appreciate the beauty of both poetry and a delightful story.
The glossy, sturdy pages are firm enough to hold and withstand the attention of curious toddlers who will be fascinated by the lovely illustrations. Accompanying the book is a free audio book digital download which can lull the smallest of children to sleep with dreams of Santa’s toys on the Eve of the Christ Child’s birth. Adults reading this book will smile in remembrance of their own special Christmases past, as they share this sweet tale with children and grandchildren. This is Deirdre’s first children’s book, hopefully one of many more to follow.
Reviewer: Micki Peluso, writer, journalist and author of . . . And the Whippoorwill Sang
By
Deirdre Tolhurst
It’s Christmas Eve and a blizzard brings heavy, blinding deep snow to Deirdre’s town. It is beautiful to gaze upon, yet the little girl wonders if Santa can make it through the storm. She watches out her window as her dad shovels snow that keeps piling right back, but falls asleep, despite her worries, and awakens on Christmas morning.
Deirdre Tolhurst shares her own remembrance of such a Christmas storm and the miracle that transpires that Holiest of nights—one she shares only with her dad. She narrates the magical Season in a lyrical poem that will entrance young children when read to them, as well as older children, who, while reading, can learn to appreciate the beauty of both poetry and a delightful story.
The glossy, sturdy pages are firm enough to hold and withstand the attention of curious toddlers who will be fascinated by the lovely illustrations. Accompanying the book is a free audio book digital download which can lull the smallest of children to sleep with dreams of Santa’s toys on the Eve of the Christ Child’s birth. Adults reading this book will smile in remembrance of their own special Christmases past, as they share this sweet tale with children and grandchildren. This is Deirdre’s first children’s book, hopefully one of many more to follow.
Reviewer: Micki Peluso, writer, journalist and author of . . . And the Whippoorwill Sang
Thursday, June 14, 2012
BookMarketingBuzzBlog: How Will You Get Someone To Share Your Link?
BookMarketingBuzzBlog: How Will You Get Someone To Share Your Link?: I want this blog post to go viral and I will need your help. Perhaps after reading this you will feel inspired to help me, for that is w...
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Review: Deadly Pleasures by Mary Firmin
Megan Riley is sunbathing with her friends on a ninety-foot yacht docked at The Bayside Yacht Club. The majestic boat belongs to Alexander’s husband, Charlie Grant. Rachel Feinman makes a remark that causes Megan to sit up in amazement. Alex just laughs, never dreaming she’s seriously suggesting that they rent a timeshare boytoy. Helen Jennings, club gossip, climbs aboard to tell them that one of their own, George Fisher, has died of a heart attack while with a hooker—under, to be more precise. This sends Rachel into hysterical laughing at the imagery of the ‘unhooking’. Katherine Rosario, arriving late, boards the ‘Ecstasea’ and scolds them for laughing. The four friends all have problems; Megan’s a recovering alcoholic, Katherine suffers over her divorce from her philandering husband, Gino. Rachel catches her screen writer husband cheating on her on their own boat, and Alex’s older husband is not what she wants in a man. A boytoy starts to sound like a plan.
Detective Matt Donavan, LAPD, drops by the yacht club to investigate the murder of Sherrie Weston, the hooker who was with George when he died. Megan’s drawn to his handsome dark Irish looks—blue eyes and curly dark hair. He doesn’t garner much info from the rich who tend to protect their own. Dr. Tom Wilson, Medical Examiner, calls him to another crime scene and informs him that the slain hooker, Sherrie Weston, has the same MO as The Bondage Murder of Allison Graham. Matt’s partner, Angelle Bentley, an exotic Haitian beauty, joins the discussion, surprising the men with her professionalism in the face of such raw carnage.
Matt and Angelle check out a gruesome bondage magazine with a name written on it—Michael Harrington. While interviewing Sherrie’s neighbor, old Mrs. Zuckerman, they learn that a young man had visited Sherrie the day before her murder. She has a package the UPS driver left with her for Sherrie; full of porn DVD’s she swears she never opened. Matt has no real leads in the case until he gets wind of a similar murder in San Francisco which looks to him like a ‘serial sexual sadist’. The sad facts that all three women were hookers keep their cases from drawing much attention.
After a hilarious afternoon at the Power Workout, sizing up muscular hunks as a potential boytoy, the four friends decide Michael Harrington is perfect for their needs. They are unaware that he is the main suspect in the Bondage Murders. Michael agrees to their plan and now it’s a matter of who goes first. Megan decides it’s too much money and tears up her check, but mostly because her mind drifts to Matt Donavan. Rachel goes first without telling the others and Kathleen, shy and timid goes next on a dare from the rest—resulting in amazing, certainly unexpected results.
Author, Mary Fimin brings her heavily-plotted action-packed story to a climatic close. This story is layered with plots within plots, keeping the reader mystified right up to the ending. This is a must-read for those who enjoy unusual suspense with even more unusual characters, who bring comic relief to bizarre situations. Firmin’s sense of the ironic and ridiculous make her book a winner.
Reviewer: Micki Peluso, writer, journalist and author of . . . And The Whippoorwill Sang
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Noelle's Quilt
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A true story based on the loss of a child, written as an adjunct to . . .AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG
When I was a young mother raising six children, all a year or two apart, I sewed most of their clothing. After years of collecting scraps from their many outfits, I decided to make quilts with the leftover material. At the time, with so many children, I was always short of blankets.
The first quilt was quickly claimed by my fifteen-year-old son, Dante, who still treasures his baby blanket. It was made of mostly denim squares, and was bright, warm and practical. Now thirty-four years-old, my son will not part with that quilt.
Twelve-year-old Noelle begged me to make her a similar quilt. Her quilt, howerer, was more whimisical, filled with squares from nightgrowns and tee-shirts to party dresses, reminding me of the biblical, "Joeseph's coat of many colors," and Noelle loved it. It covered her bed ever day, accompanied her to sleep-overs with friends and was a favorite possession until the day she was struck down by a drunk driver on a lovely summer day when she was fourteen-years-old. She died of massive spinal cord injuries, after lingering in a semi-coma for the ten longest days of our lives.
Her quilt was passed on to her closest sister, Kelly. who wrapped it arround herself in an effort to retain the closeness of Noelle. I lost all desire to sew another quilt.
Now nineteen years later, with the loss of Noelle still causing a soreness within our hearts, my daughters and I take out her quilt and reminisce her life.
"Mom, see that square ? It was from the skirt and vest that she wore constantly," her oldest sister Kimber says in a soft, awed tone.
"Look Mom, that piece was from her favorite nightgown," her sister Kelly adds, in an equally subdued voice. "You made one almost like it for me."
I run my hands lovingly across a red plaid square, a piece from matching Christmas outfits that I had made for my three youngest girls, and let my mind drift back in time.
"I can't remember any of these squares," says Nicole, who was only eleven when her sister died. "Except for this one, which you made into those awful jeans that only Noelle liked."
Some of my children were embarrassed, especially during their teenage years, to wear home-made clothes instead of name-brand clothing. But not Noelle. She loved the outfits I sewed and wore them proudly
My sons Michael and Dante do not share these times with us nor does my husband. The memories are too painful for them to recall. Women, and my daughters are all women now, seem to need tangible things to cling to in times of great loss.
As we contemplate the soft, colorful squares of her quilt, we are made poignantly aware that Noelle's quilt, though somewhat tattered with age, holds a rememberance of her life. And we find comfort in this. Noelle is gone from us, but her favorite blanket is quilted with memories of her love, her essence-fabrics woven forever in time.
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