That Gunk on Your Car: A Unique Guide to the Insects of North America

Amazon.com Review That Gunk on Your Car is a seriously funny book filled with fascinating information about common insects, especially the ones you are most likely to find splattered on your windshield. Chapters are organized around the individual insects--ants, mosquitoes, grasshoppers, butterflies, crickets, midges--and include information on the natural history and life cycles of each and fun things you can do with the insects. That Gunk on Your Car would be an excellent parent/child participatory book: the lively text is easy to read and scientifically accurate.

In the Midnight Hour: The Life & Soul of Wilson Pickett

Review "Fletcher's account [...] is enthralling and rigorously researched ... [A] captivating book." --Mark Ellen, The Sunday Times "Fletcher's vibrant book brings Pickett and his music to glorious life."-- Publishers Weekly "Throughout the book, Fletcher ably explores [the] dichotomy in Pickett's character... [ In the Midnight Hour is] a layered portrait of the legendary singer."-- Kirkus "This biography of soul singer Wilson Pickett is distinctive for its voluminous and nonjudgmental accounting of his life, from early childhood on, and of the complex early days of rhythm and-blues recording... In a book remarkable for its copious family research, Fletcher, a true devotee of the music, gives us the complete Pickett, more so than Mark Ribowsky did for Otis Redding, or James McBride has done for James Brown."-- Booklist "[ In the Midnight Hour ] is biography at its best: anecdotal, comprehensive, captivating and concise."-- Shelf Awareness "Fletcher's brilliant little book shines a light on the good, bad, and ugly of Pickett's life, as it illustrates just how vital his music is to the history of soul and rock and roll."-- No Depression "Tony Fletcher has written the first full biography of Pickett, presenting his story with engaging prose rooted in solid research. "-- Shepherd Express "Journalists who write about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll often find it easier to focus on the sensational aspects of the industry than on the music itself, but Mr. Fletcher... gets it right."-- Wall Street Journal "[A] richly detailed new biography of the singer. This book is a reminder of just how powerful a presence Pickett was, especially throughout the 1960s, as African-American music migrated from churches and black radio stations into the mainstream, and as America itself underwent dramatic social changes."-- Seattle Times "Insightful and informative."-Billy Heller, New York Post "From his fiery rise to fame to his slow sips to death, Tony Fletcher's In the Midnight Hour captures the essence of soul singer Wilson Pickett and tells a tale that reads with the anticipation of a murder mystery novel... [Fletcher] sets the detailed scene of an era in musical history that is filled with racism, segregation, violence, shady business dealings, and recordings that touched the world."-- Chronogram Magazine "[Tony Fletcher] provides the most complete picture, warts and all, of this singular soul artist-and he doesn't pull any punches... [written] with clarity and a wealth of fascinating information."-- Paste Magazine "Those curious about the dynamic tension that gave one of the great American soul men his unique sound and power will enjoy Tony Fletcher's thorough [book]."-- Pittsburgh Post-Gazette "A compulsory read tinged with tragedy and triumph that resurrects the genius of a forgotten icon."-- Alive Magazine "A vivid, detailed, and insightful portrait."--Popmatters "Tony Fletcher's research is impeccable, his sources are unimpeachable, and his style is thoroughly engaging."-- Arts Fuse "The unique performer, the complicated man and the brute bully all come together in one here. Wilson Pickett gets his R-E-S-P-E-C-T in book form, finally."-- Houston Press "[In the Midnight Hour] has a subtle way with modern American history, and character, as well as great character studies of Duane Allman, James Brown, Solomon Burke, Aretha Franklin, Lloyd Price, Jerry Wexler, and the monumental Bobby Womack."-- Woodstock Times "As any good biography of a musician should, In the Midnight Hour sends us back to the recordings, the best of which have not lost one iota of their power."-- New York Times Book Review "Fletcher offers a detailed and perceptive account of Pickett's life, and his rise and fall within the world of popular music... Fletcher has given us a good understanding of this talented but a flawed man."-- IASPM Journal About the Author Tony Fletcher is the bestselling author of major biographies on Keith Moon, the Smiths, and R.E.M., as well as a memoir, a novel, and a history of the New York City music scene. Born in northern England, and raised in South London, where he started his own music magazine at the age of thirteen, he emigrated to New York City in the late 1980s. When not traveling with his family, he makes his home near Woodstock in the Catskill Mountains of upstate New York. A contributor to Salon and the Wall Street Journal , his writing has also appeared in Mojo , Rolling Stone , the New York Times , Spin , and Newsday , and he has contributed to a host of other publications, radio, and television shows worldwide.

J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert E. Howard and the Birth of Modern Fantasy (Critical Explorations in Science Fiction and Fantasy, 47)

Review “Elegant and thought provoking...recommended for readers interested in the fantasy genre, as well as those who wish to learn more about literary criticism and pop culture”― Library Journal ; “a very enjoyable read...recommend”― SFRevu ; “fascinating”― Beyond Bree . About the Author Deke Parsons has a Ph.D. in English, specializing in 20th century British literature and in film, from Claremont Graduate University. He lives in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Bullseye Breach: Anatomy of an Electronic Break-In

Review ''A Michael Crichton-like whirlwind story that's very hard to put down once you pick it up. Part mystery, part suspense, part education, part technology, and all entertainment.'' --Ken Steinhardt, computer scientist and retired former VP, EMC Corporation''A perfect foray into how things can go terribly wwrrroonnggg... And all it took to get started was One Thoughtless 'Click'.'' --Winn Schwartau, CEO of The Security Awareness Company and author of Information Warfare and Pearl Harbor Dot Com (Die Hard IV) ''After reading the book, I actually have a better idea of how a multi-vector compromise happens, and how the little signs that should have been caught were missed. Hits the nail squarely.'' --Al Gillen, program VP, Servers and System Software, IDC About the Author Greg Scott is a veteran of the tumultuous IT industry, and the founder of Infrasupport Corporation, with a laser focus on infrastructure and security. In the 1990s, he was a popular columnist for magazines ENT and Enterprise Linux . He currently lives in the Twin Cities with his wife, daughter, and two grandchildren.

The Story of Rex of White Way, The Blizzard King

Tovi the Penguin: goes trick-or-treating

Review "Another fantastic story about Tovi the Penguin! My girls really adore this series with its gorgeous colours and the cute adventures that this trio of penguins get up to. In this book, it's time to go trick or treating, but will Tovi and his friends get up to any mischief or get lots of candy?I think each book in this series has been read and reread 50 times in our household. My 8 year old reads them to her 5 year old sister and then the 4 year old pretends to read them to her stuffed animals.It's a charming series for kids with a sense of adventure and humour that parents enjoy too!"- Lizzie Harwood, author of Triumph: Collected Stories and Xamnesia: Everything I Forgot in my Search for an Unreal Life Close to Destiny "Engaging illustrations and an enjoyable and gentle story about Halloween. Guaranteed to delight young readers!"-Charlotte Debeugny, author of 5:2 Lifestyle"I'm a fan of Tovi. I used to read them for my ESL students when I was still teaching. Now I send the German versions to my niece. This one is done in the same tradition of cute dialogue and little surprises that are sure to please the young crowd. It's also a perfect seasonal book if you want to explain the concept of Halloween to little children." - Jennie Goutet is the author of romancenovel, The Viscount of Maisons-Laffitte and the award-winning memoir StarsUpside Down (formerly called A Lady in France)."Another delightful addition to the Tovi series... My daughter loves the adorable images as well as the fun adventures found in each of the Tovi books. This is absolutely a book we will be rereading on Halloween, and the rest of the year!"-Adria J. Cimino is the author of Amazon Best-Selling novel Paris, Rue des Martyrs and Close to Destiny, as well as The Creepshow and A Perfumer's Secret."Another delightful Tovi book! My kids love penguins so it's no wonder they enjoy the Tovi the Penguin series. Tovi always gets into some fun adventure, and this Halloween book is yet another great example of that. Get this book for your kids or give it as a gift! They'll definitely love it!"- Vicki Lesage, author of Confessions of a Paris Potty Trainer From the Back Cover It's autumn and Tovi and his friends are getting ready to celebrate Halloween.After Tovi's decorated his house, the friends all meet at the farm to pickpumpkins. But what a surprise they get while they're there! It givesthem a good idea for a Halloween trick! Will their trick work? And willthey get treats? Let's find out .... About the Author Amazon bestselling author Janina Rossiter loves three things: design, France and her little family. She studied communication & illustration design at university, and haslived in Germany (her home country), England (where she met herhusband), and now France (where she vows to stay). After graduating with a degree from university she worked as a packaging designer for a fewyears before setting off on her own and expanding into freelance design. She enjoys the creative energy of Paris, where she lives with herEnglish husband and her two daughters.With the arrival ofher first daughter, Janina's love for painting and drawing found a newlease on life and, before long, she combined her passion forillustration with the wonderfully inspiring world of children. Afterthat, it was simply a matter of time before Tovi the Penguin was born... . Read more

Sorrows Fall

Designing Gifted Education Programs and Services: From Purpose to Implementation

Review Prufrock Press has once again published another [g]reat work to assist educators in doing their jobs in educating students . . . This work should be in every district resource library and in every school media center for educators to gather information from.,Lewie Dunn,Georgia Military College, 2/1/18Rather than being a compendium of all possible topics, this slim volume provides high-level perspective with encouragement for further study. That makes it particularly helpful to administrators new in their roles or to those who serve in multiple roles within their districts and cannot devote their full time and energies to improving their district's gifted services.,Kay Shurtleff And Anne N. Rinn,Teachers College Record, 3/22/18 About the Author Scott J. Peters, Ph.D., is assistant professor of educational foundations at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, where he teaches courses related to measurement and assessment, research methodology, and gifted education. He received his Ph.D. from Purdue University specializing in gifted and talented education with secondary areas in applied research methodology and English education. His research work focuses on educational assessment with regard to policy and practice, identification of student exceptionalities―particularly those from low-income or underrepresented groups―and gifted and talented programming outcomes. He has published in Teaching for High Potential , Gifted Child Quarterly , Journal of Advanced Academics , Gifted and Talented International , Gifted Children , Journal of Career and Technical Education Research , Ed Leadership , and Pedagogies . He is the past recipient of the Feldhusen Doctoral Fellowship in Gifted Education, the NAGC Research and Evaluation Network Dissertation Award, the NAGC Doctoral Student of the Year Award, and the UW-Whitewater College of Education Innovation Award. He has served as the assistant program chair and program chair of the AERA Research on Giftedness, Creativity, and Talent SIG, on the board of directors of the Wisconsin Association for Talented and Gifted, and as the National Association for Gifted Children Research and Evaluation network secretary. Dina Brulles, Ph.D., is the Director of Gifted Education at Paradise Valley Unified School District, Gifted Program Coordinator at Arizona State University, and serves on the National Association for Gifted Children (NAGC) Board of Directors.

Buying Time: An Aspen Moore Novel

Review "In Buying Time, author Kelly Cochran manages to keep her readers on the edge of their seats and in stitches as they laugh their way through this fun, fast-paced murder mystery novel. Ms. Cochran's wry sense of humor is perfect for Aspen, the main character who shows just the right combination of strength and vulnerability to make this story seem real. Cochran's tone is similar to Carol Higgins Clark, author of Snagged (murder at a pantyhose convention) and the rest of the Regan Reilly mystery series. - Judge, 22nd Annual Writer's Digest Self-Published Book Awards. FINALIST - 2013 Next Generation Indie Book Award, Mystery QUARTER FINALIST - 2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award About the Author A geographic mutt, Kelly Cochran has lived on the East Coast, the West Coast, and in many places in between. During her childhood, she attended thirteen different schools, in twelve years, all before going off to college at the age of seventeen. To her surprise, she turned out somewhat normal and went on to have a 20-year career in information technology.Currently she lives in Austin, Texas with her husband and three dogs. Her son lives in the Washington, D.C. area where he never tires of Kelly's efforts to get him to move closer.When she isn't writing, she divides her time between managing Internet-based retail businesses, talking to her mother, using her mini iPad to play MonkeyWrench and Candy Crush, and wondering why she doesn't have enough time to finish writing her next novel.Kelly is a member of Sisters in Crime. Find out more at KellyCochran.com

Eye for Murder, An: An Ellie Foreman Mystery (Ellie Foreman Series)

Review "Libby Fischer Hellmann has written a wonderful thriller. Triggered by a seemingly trivial exchange of intelligence in Prague near the end of World War II, the story quickly moves to contemporary Chicago, where the already harried life of Ellie Foreman is turned upside down by the death of an elderly man she can't recall ever even meeting. An Eye For Murder is a clever mystery puzzle within a beautifully wrought novel." -Jeremiah Healy author of the John Francis Cuddy mysteries                                                                                "A masterful blend of politics, history, and suspense, this novel is well worth reading." -Publishers Weekly                                                                                "Complicated, fascinating. Hellmann has a beautifully tuned ear, which makes many of her scenes seriously funny. Her film-editor instincts tell her when to let a scene run on and when to cut away." -Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune From the Author An Eye For Murder was a personal journey for me. Not so much because it was the first Ellie Foreman mystery, but because of its backstory which involves my late mother and father in law.My husband's parents were "off the boat" from Germany-- his mother, Lucy, in 1938, his father, Fred, in 1939. His mother cleaned houses in New York while she learned English. She used to tell us how she scrubbed Danny Kaye's floors.Fred, the sole survivor of his family, was drafted six months after he arrived in the US. But instead of going to boot camp, he was shipped up to Canada where he trained with William Stephenson ( A Man Called Intrepid ) who, as many of you know, was one of the founders of the OSS. Then Fred was sent back behind German lines to do intelligence work for the Allies. He came home in 1945.Their story was so remarkable I knew I had to write about it. I hope you enjoy the result.

Resorting to Murder: A Collection of Holiday Mysteries (British Library Crime Classics)

Review It is rare to find a Golden Age anthology in which the majority of the short stories have not been published, multiple times, in other sources. I was delighted to find that this collection was completely fresh, to me, and full of lovely surprises; the humor of Helen Simpson's "A Posteriori" was an especial treat. Highly recommended for all lovers of British mysteries, particularly if planning a holiday! ( NetGalley ) What a fun book! Fourteen stories focused on the Golden Age of British crime writing, the series includes works by both recognized authors such as Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle and G. K. Chesterton. Many of the stories are quite rare, seldom reprinted, including those by Phyllis Bentley and Helen Simpson. Holidays seem to call for new mystery books, whether it's a trip to the beach in the summer or a trip to grandparents for Christmas. Holiday mysteries were a great love of Christie and an excellent way to get away whether by train, boat, or a comfortable chair by the fire....The settings for these stories reveal the unexpected ways in which crime writers use holidays as a theme. Markedly different from each other, the stories range from a golf course in the English seaside, a pension (budget friendly accommodation) in Paris, and a Swiss mountain resort, to the cliffs of Normandy....This special book follows on the footsteps of two others in the Crime Classics series published by Poisoned Pen Press: Murder in Piccadilly by Charles Kingston and The Sussex Downs Murder by John Bude. Eleven additional titles are set for release in late 2015. And if that isn't exciting enough, beginning in 2016, one title is slated to be released each month! ( The Book Breeze ) Fourteen reprints from England's golden age of detection (here, 1910-1953) show that although favorite sleuths may go on vacation, murder never does. The very first story, Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot," sets the pattern: rarely reprinted lesser tales that have been neglected for good reason. After Sherlock Holmes untangles "the Cornish horror," Doyle's brother-in-law E.W. Hornung sends Dr. John Dollar to Switzerland to determine why a doctor prescribed his patient a lethal dose of strychnine in "A Schoolmaster Abroad"; Paul Beck, closer to home, confronts the killer of a man unlucky in love in M. McDonnell Bodkin's "The Murder on the Golf Links"; G.K. Chesterton sends poet Gabriel Gale to southern France to reveal the fate of a heterodox fossil scientist in "The Finger of Stone"; H.C. Bailey's Reggie Fortune is on hand to unravel a double attack in the Swiss Alps in "The Hazel Ice"; Dr. John Thorndyke minutely reconstructs the appearance of a seaside victim and his killer in R. Austin Freeman's "A Mystery of the Sand-Hills"; Anthony Berkeley shows Roger Sheringham performing remarkably similar offices on Penhampton Beach in "Razor Edge"; and Sgt. Beef divines how the new governor of a Normandy prison was killed in his car without ever getting clocked out of his office in Leo Bruce's "Holiday Task." Less formulaic but equally routine are Arnold Bennett's "Murder!," set on the Channel Coast, and a pair of stories - Basil Thomson's "The Vanishing of Mrs. Fraser" and Michael Gilbert's businesslike "Cousin Once Removed" - that rehash well-worn patterns. The most original entries here are Gerald Findler's haunted-house tale "The House of Screams"; Phyllis Bentley's spooky, twisty "Where is Mr. Manetot?"; and, best of all, "A Posteriori," Helen Simpson's unexpectedly funny crossing of prim Miss Charters with a spy whose work leaves unforgettable traces. One truth emerges unchallenged: when English detectives go on holiday, they really do seem to relax a bit, or at least their creators do. ( Kirkus Reviews ) For anyone who is a fan of stories set in the era of top hats and long dresses would love it. Short stories that are ideal reading for a summer's day. It is of course not very difficult to figure out the endings but it is the language and the nuances of these gems that bring a smile to your face. ( NetGalley ) About the Author Martin Edwards is an award-winning crime writer best known for two series of novels set in Liverpool and the Lake District. He is series consultant for British Library Crime Classics, the Vice Chair of the Crime Writers' Association, and President of the Detection Club. The Golden Age of Murder, his study of the Detection Club, was published in 2015 to international acclaim, and has been nominated for both the Edgar and Agatha awards for the year's best book about the genre. He received the CWA 2020 Diamond Dagger Award for sustained excellence in crime writing and significant contributions to the genre, joining the ranks of Sue Grafton, Ian Rankin, and Lee Child.

Novel Explosives

From the Back Cover "An amazing novel, a literary masterpiece that reads like a thriller, propelled by its narrative ingenuity, outlandish erudition, and jacked-up prose style.. the most fun reading I've had in ages."   -- Steven Moore, author of The Novel: An Alternative History About the Author Jim Gauer is a mathematician, poet, and possibly the world's only Marxist Venture Capitalist. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Novel Explosives A Novel in 3 Parts By Jim Gauer Zerogram Press Copyright © 2016 Jim GauerAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-55713-433-2 CHAPTER 1 The story of how I came to live in Guanajuato, Guanajuato, is a fascinating one, fascinating. It is not, however, it should be noted, right up front, a story that I am in any way well-equipped to tell, in the sense, in the very real sense, in the I'm sorry to be the one to break this to you sense, that I myself have no idea how I came to live in Guanajuato. In some such sense of the word, I found myself one day, living in Guanajuato, as though I'd picked up a curious object while walking a mountain trail, with no conception whatsoever of how I'd come to be living here, apparently some time ago, no recollection of whatever chain of events I was myself at the end of, and no sense at all of having led a prior life. I certainly had a prior life; I am, after all, in all probability, somewhere in my mid-fifties, and no one comes to be living somewhere in his mid-fifties without having had a prior life; it takes time in any case to become of a certain age, time in which events would no doubt have taken place, even if one can't recall them, and these events would have made up what amounts to my prior life, so I had no doubt that I had one, whatever it had amounted to. The fine lines and wrinkles that appear on one's face, with the passage of time and exposure to sunlight and the gradual accumulation of certain habitual facial expressions, don't just appear out of nowhere one day, and assume their positions around the downturned mouth, or the worry-furrowed eyebrow, or the scrutinizing eyes; I had no doubt that time, and the pressure of events, and the long narrative chain of time-sensitive circumstance, had produced these lines and wrinkles I could read on my own face, even if I myself was unable to recreate them. Somewhere along the way, however, the narrative chain had come unlinked, the chain of cause and effect by which one set of circumstances gives rise to the next set of circumstances. I myself was a link that was both the end of one chain, one I had no recollection of, and the beginning of another chain, of whatever would happen next. While I don't doubt for a moment that my story must be a fascinating one, I, to put it bluntly, do not know a word of it; I found myself one day, like finding a link of anchor chain in the mountains of central Mexico, and not only was this chain link me, but I had no way on earth of explaining how I'd come to be here; as far as I could tell, as I stood there trailside, I might as well have appeared out of thin mountain air. I woke up one morning in a room, as it would soon turn out, in a small hotel, with no clue at all as to my identity or whereabouts. I showered, shaved, dressed, using clothing I found lying in a comfortable-looking chair, went down to what was recognizably a hotel lobby, and was told by the desk clerk, a man almost certainly of Indian and perhaps Spanish descent, that the town I was in was called Guanajuato. I looked around the room, at its warm terracotta flooring tiles, covered with blue, yellow, magenta, purple, and white woven rugs, at its rough-hewn wooden seating, its paintings, of wildly colored mythic birds, hung somewhat erratically on whitewashed plaster walls, its glassed-in display cases of hand-painted ceramic plates, its front door facing a narrow cobblestone street, a street I almost certainly must have walked upon previously, and found nothing at all that I recognized, nothing that served to trigger even the faintest of memories, of drinking too late, say, at a local bar, of a wild night of revelry, of buying one too many rounds for newfound companions who were enjoying my company, of discovering to my amazement the lateness of the hour, my state of inebriation, my need for a good night's sleep, and having to seek therefore shelter from the cool air of the night. Nothing, as they say, came back to me. There was nothing whatsoever here in this room, however warm and authentic it appeared to be when I looked around at the room's belongings, which reminded me of anything of a personal nature; as far as personal reminders go, the room might as well have been empty. The room itself, however, far from being empty, held beautiful weavings and hand-painted ceramics and rough-hewn wooden furniture and wild mythic birds, things that I could see with my own two eyes, or perhaps I should say the eyes that, for the sake of simplicity, would need be thought of as my very own two eyes. To be clear, it's not that these objects lacked associations; they were not in any way cut off from the rest of history and somehow stranded here. I knew, for example, that one of the painted mythic birds was Quetzalcoatl, sacred god of the Aztecs, god of sky and creation, patron of the priesthood, of learning and knowledge, this bird had lost nothing of its history and associations, but this had nothing to do with me, there was nothing about the bird that I could associate with personally, it was the same bird to me that it would have been to any other man, any man with a knowledge of Quetzalcoatl, except that any other man would find, in addition to his knowledge, a connection to himself, a set of associations he took personally and therefore regarded as properly his. These associations did not, in any sense, belong to me; they belonged, properly, to the bird. I don't want to convey the impression that I was uninformed or ignorant. To the contrary, I seemed to know quite a lot of things, it's just that none of the things I knew belonged to me; my own knowledge was not in any way a personal possession, it could just as well have belonged to anyone. I knew, to give another example, simply by looking at them, that the colorful rugs on the square-tiled floor were hand-woven on a loom, as was indicated by the manner in which they lay on the floor, not quite flat, with small bubbles and waves caused by the uneven weaving, an effect that is not normally produced by a machine. I also knew that they were, in all likelihood, colored with natural dyes, indigo from the Anil plant, deep magenta from the cochineal insect, the yellow of rock moss, the sea snail purple, the very sea snail, purpura pansa, from the Pacific Coast of Oaxaca that was so prized by the Europeans after their invasion of the New World, these were all things I knew, I just didn't know them personally, they could just as well have been known by someone else. I had knowledge, in other words, I was clearly the sort of man in possession of a set of facts, but there are, after all, all sorts of men in possession of facts, so what sort of man was I? I had no idea. I left the front desk, climbed the stairs back up to my room on the third floor, used the key that I had somehow acquired to enter the room, and made a conscious decision to take a good look around. The room itself was spacious and light-filled, once I'd opened the shutters, situated as it was at the front of the building, with two tall windows sunk deep into thick whitewashed walls, overlooking what appeared to be a large town or small city, set between steep hillsides in an undulating ravine, filled with church spires topped with crosses and weathervanes, and the basilica domes of nearby cathedrals, and closer to the earth, a winding maze of narrow streets. From my perspective, on first sight, I mean really and truly on first sight, since I had no impressions at all that would have preceded these first impressions, I appeared to be situated on a hillside just above the center of the city, a conclusion I drew no doubt tentatively from the evidence gathered by my eyes, evidence that the buildings grew more dense and somewhat taller around a plaza just below me and perhaps twenty degrees to my left. The hillside opposite was jammed with box-shaped houses in every imaginable hue, forest green and royal purple and orange and pink flamingo, stacked up the slope above the city center, with a large stone statue at the hill's highest point. The heart of the city, I concluded, lay at the bottom of a valley between these two hillsides, the one I resided on, and the one rising opposite me, with a statue at its peak. The city center itself struck me as genuinely beautiful, though in fact I had nothing other than impersonal images, like pictures in books, to compare it to, deep yellow and pale green and dusty-rose-colored buildings, interspersed with townhouses with wrought-iron balconies and window boxes filled with red and yellow flowers, and here and there, laundry hung out on a balcony railing to dry; the sun was out, as might be expected, on the sort of day when people put out laundry on a railing, at least assuming they were expecting their laundry to dry. The narrow streets were filled with scores of people, walking from one place to another, on their own two feet, the way people could be expected to walk, on a day when the sun is out, in order to get from here to there, from one point to another point, from where, in some sense, they are already, to somewhere, altogether, elsewhere instead. The first order of business, now that I had my physical bearings, though to tell the truth, I had been uncomfortable with the idea, when speaking with the desk clerk, of asking him directly "What is Guanajuato?" as it seemed to me that such a question might have struck him as somewhat odd, as odd perhaps as asking him a question like "Who am I?" and I was not as yet convinced that it was a good idea to begin striking people as odd; I mean, let's face it, at this point, while I had my physical bearings, I had no idea where I was, since it was apparent, if the clerk could be believed, that I was in Guanajuato, but the truth is I had no idea where or what Guanajuato was, it was almost certainly in Mexico, if Quetzalcoatl could be relied upon, but otherwise, what and where was it? ... in any case, to get to the point, the first order of business was to examine my belongings, or at least to look at the things in my room, assuming that they belonged to me, assuming that I was the one to whom they could best be said to belong. In the closet of the room, I found several linen shirts hung neatly on hangers, two pairs of well-pressed slacks, a pair of dark loafers, and a large green duffel bag that I could only assume was mine. In a chest of drawers along one wall, I found boxer shorts, pairs of black dress socks and clean white athletic socks, two pairs of folded jeans, and a stack of short-sleeved knit shirts, clothing that I would, from this point forward, unless and until someone else came forward to claim them, regard as belonging to me, and therefore among my belongings. The bathroom proved to be a far easier undertaking: it contained a hairbrush, toothbrush, razor, and toothpaste, things that could have belonged to anyone; frankly, if someone had come forward to claim them, I would have simply handed them over, I really didn't care to whom they in fact belonged; if someone had identified them as theirs, I was prepared to identify them as theirs. With the possible exception, then, of the items in the bathroom, I now had a set of personal belongings, whether borrowed or owned, I had certain things to begin with, it was a good place to start, and I clearly needed to start somewhere, so I began right here, by assuming that I was the sort of man who would be in possession of just these items. At least for now, these things were mine, they were already taking on this association, and if turned out later I had borrowed them, I would have to deal with that when the time came. I sat down on the edge of the bed, taking stock of my situation. I had, on the one hand, a roof over my head, clothing to wear, toiletry items, at least for the time being, and the name of a location. I had a native tongue, American-accented English; when speaking with the desk clerk, it had quickly become apparent that I possessed only the most rudimentary knowledge of Spanish, the sort of Spanish one might acquire from a few carelessly attended courses in secondary school, words of basic courtesy to be used in initiating and concluding a brief conversation conducted primarily in English, words for where and why, words for how much, the ability to conjugate the verb "to be" in the present tense, and a miscellaneous collection of curse words like "puta" and "swate" and "ojete" and "pendejo," words that would indicate some previous association with native language speakers under circumstances outside the boundaries of basic human courtesy. A brief review of my facial features while shaving had revealed that I was deeply tanned and therefore dark-skinned from sun exposure, my face was in fact as dark as the desk clerk's, and judged by color alone, I could have passed for a Native American, I was in fact so deeply tanned that it was something to be accounted for, I looked like a man who might have washed ashore on a beach and found no place to take shelter from the sun for quite some time, perhaps the victim of a shipwreck, or some foul play at sea, it was apparent that left unchecked my mind was prone to wandering off into romantic and adventuresome fantasies, I took note of this propensity, and brought these speculations to a halt. I was an American with little Spanish and a deep, inexplicable, tan. I was slightly taller than medium height for an American. I was lean, whether from some hardship or natural body-type. I wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses. My hair, bleached from the sun, had not been recently cut. And I had a large painful knot, the size of a baseball cut in half, on the back right center of the top of my head. And on the other hand, I seemed to be in possession of a large collection of facts, none of them personal, and I seemed to be capable of producing, as I sat there taking inventory, a great many thoughts on a variety of subjects, but had no personal context for any of these thoughts. Other than their variety, there was nothing to distinguish them from the thoughts of any number of reasonably well-educated men. I could, for example, explain to myself how Riemannian geometry laid the foundations for General Relativity, I could briefly describe Green's Theorem, and place it as the two-dimensional limited case of Stokes' Theorem, but I couldn't tell myself if any of this mattered to me, and it was apparent that beyond a certain point, my knowledge of Riemannian geometry became vague and unstable. I could recite quite a number of poems, the way a man might do when attempting to distract himself from some uncomfortable dental procedure, but I identified more with the man seeking distraction from the drilling of teeth than with anything to do with the poetry itself. If I'd been told that I was the sort of man who had memorized poetry as a means of distracting himself from some sort of unpleasantness, I couldn't have disputed this. I seemed to know the names and models of a great many automobiles. Did this mean I'd been an auto salesman? And so on. Without any organizing principle, my thoughts were just thoughts. When I searched around in my thinking for something I took pride in, for example, as a means of providing context, and organizing my thoughts, I could find nothing at all that gave me a sense of pride. I went category by category among a large number of subjects, looking for something that might signal a growing sense of self-esteem, and nothing I could think of gave rise to a sense of esteem, all of my thoughts seemed more or less equivalent, they didn't seem to be organized around the rising and falling of some sense of myself as someone to be esteemed. Perhaps I'd done nothing in my prior life that I was proud of, perhaps I was the sort of person for whom knowledge itself was a form of distraction from unpleasantness, but one might think, under the circumstances, that I'd at least feel some sense of pride regarding the depth and variety of the knowledge I could make use of in order to distract myself. I was like a man sitting in the attic of another man's home, finding objects that have been stored away, as having value for another day, and feeling only a mild sense of amusement over what the other finds valuable. It was with some difficulty, I must admit, that I came to recognize that I was, evidently, precisely that other, and that while I might find him amusing, he was, after all, evidently me. (Continues...) Excerpted from Novel Explosives by Jim Gauer . Copyright © 2016 Jim Gauer. Excerpted by permission of Zerogram Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

Up To My Armpits: Adventures Of A West Texas Veterinarian

About the Author Doc Edwards graduated from Texas A&M in 1949 with his degree in veterinary medicine. He set up practice in Marfa, Texas later that year. He worked out of his clinic there in the heart of Big Bend country for over 50 years, ranging far an wide to serve his clients, mostly cattlemen operators of large ranches in the beautiful rangeland of West Texas. Doc served in the Marine Corps in WWII. He was wounded in Iwo Jima and spent the last several months of the War recovering from his wounds. In 2005 Doc Edwards was honored as a distinguished alumnus of the School of Veterinary Medicine at Texas A&M University. After retirement, Doc lived with his wife, JoAnn, in Marfa until his death in early 2006.

Frontier Grit: The Unlikely True Stories of Daring Pioneer Women

Review Nominated for the 2017 American Library Association Amelia Bloomer Award recognizing books that ''affirm positive roles for girls and women.'' - Amelia Bloomer Project An invaluable contribution to American History shelves and utterly absorbing from cover to cover. Highly recommended, especially for public and college library collections. -Midwest Book Review --Amelia Bloomer Project''Worthy compilation...Many sources and references listed for those who wish to discover more.'' -Historical Novel Society ''This little nugget is a delightful find and carries quite a punch for a small book. The stories of 12 fascinating women will captivate you while exposing you to the history they did not teach us in school. The author purposefully chose 12 women of different nationalities, ethnic backgrounds, and socioeconomic status, to illustrate the diversity of the American West. Contrary to what our history textbooks and the Hollywood movies claim, white males were not even half the true story of the West much less the whole story. Monson wants to help correct that distortion. She hopes that by understanding the severe restrictions on women in the 19th century, modern women will understand how much we owe those who came before us, and understand what they were risking by pursuing their goals.'' -- -Coastal Breeze News, Florida ''Monson reimagines the campfire tall tale by introducing readers to overlooked talks of many forgotten heroines of the American West. Each biographical story defines perseverance, and there are inspiring examples of courage on each page as well as new lessons in how to live. Monson succinctly portrays a pioneering suffragette, a Sioux writer, and the most celebrated stagecoach driver in the West, who hid her gender most of her life. Another impressive pioneer is Clara Brown, a former slave who helped others make their ways from bondage to a better life in Colorado. Monson's accounts of these women who defied gender roles, who lived and breathed feminism, will resonate with all interested in the long-hidden chapters in American history. A compact, informative, briskly paced, emotionally rich, and eye-opening set of micro-biographies that will change truncated views of the West.'' - --Booklist About the Author Marianne Monson is a writer and professor of English with a strong interest in the relationship between literature and history. She teaches Creative Writing at Portland Community College and regularly speaks at writing conferences.

Founding Myths: Stories That Hide Our Patriotic Past

Review Praise for the tenth-anniversary edition of Founding Myths :"A persuasive argument in favor of evidence-based history, even if it means surrendering some of our cherished fabrications."― Kirkus Reviews Praise for the original edition :"Ray Raphael's engaging and eye-opening book doesn't merely debunk historical fallacies. Using the best modern historical writing and his own research, the author also explains why and to what purpose these myths were created and then offers well-argued alternative explanations."― Sacramento Bee "Raphael relays so much forgotten or never-known history and argues so well why it, not the legends, should be remembered that virtually any Americans will profit from reading this lively, intelligent book."― Booklist "All students of American history will find Raphael's correction of the historical record instructive and enjoyable."― Publishers Weekly About the Author Ray Raphael has taught at a one-room public high school, Humboldt State University, and College of the Redwoods. His seventeen books include A People's History of the American Revolution , The First American Revolution , Founders , and Constitutional Myths (all available from The New Press). Currently a senior research fellow at Humboldt State University, he lives in northern California, where he hikes and kayaks.

Mehendi Tides

Review From BlueInk Reviews-Author Siobhan Malany's first novel Mehendi Tides relates a multi-cultural story of friendship, romance and personal growth.The novel is told from the perspective Kate, who, at 16, accompanies her two friends, a Muslim-American and a Hindu-American, as they visit their extended families in Pakistan and India. The trip introduces Kate to their familial customs and spiritual practices--and to an intoxicating male cousin, Tariq, who Kate becomes romantically involved with. The experiences the girls share on their trip and at home shape the women they become.Chapters of their teenage adventure are intertwined with passages set a decade later, as Kate is driven to pursue a PhD in biochemistry by her mother's death from breast cancer, experiences ongoing tension over her situation with Tariq, and watches as her friends make their own difficult choices in balancing career and family, guided by different cultural expectations and internal conflicts.Malany's story has some drawbacks: Characters are too frequently depicted as shocked, startled or surprised, reducing the emotional impact when details of higher importance (such as a hidden rape or medical emergency) are disclosed. Also, plot points are often revisited--including Kate's recent breakup or difficulties in graduate school--without any added nuance. And the arc of the central romance is rather predictable.Nonetheless, Kate's search for a meaningful life carries readers right to the end, and Malany beautifully depicts cultural landmarks and traditions, interweaving her familiarity with Asia throughout. For example, she vividly details the preparation of paan from betel nuts, a mixture chewed for its stimulating effects, and explores attractions in the city Hyderabad. For readers planning to travel in India, this narrative serves as an enjoyable guide, including a map of Hyderabad in the front, while also telling a layered story.A novel that would be of most interest to Indiaphiles, this book is a pleasant read filled with generally credible characters and richly depicted settings.From Kirkus Reviews-A debut novel tells the story of three friends growing into themselves across two timelines.Hyderabad, India, 1987: 16-year-old Kate McKenna is on an eight-week trip with her friends Nasreen Abdel, a Muslim, and Krishna Desai, a Hindu. On the cusp of adulthood, the three Americans are acutely aware of their new sexuality, particularly as the older women of Nasreen's family attempt to arrange marriages for the next generation. Nasreen is heartbroken by the fact that her beloved cousin is about to get married and ashamed that she slept with him not long before finding out. Kate, whose own mother is dead and who feels disconnected from her family, finds herself drawn to another of Nasreen's cousins, the adventurous Tariq. Cut to Chicago, 1998: Kate, now a 27-year-old graduate student,has recently been dumped by her boyfriend and is beginning to regret the decisions she's made in her life. Nasreen is married but has found out she can't have children, and she is plagued by the trauma of a sexual assault that she's kept hidden for years. Krishna doubts her decision to go to medical school even before her doctor mother slips into acoma and is also coming into a sexuality much different than that of her friends. In chapters alternating between the timelines, the three girls--and three women--attempt to navigate love, family, tradition, and independence while remaining true to themselves and one another. The story is told from Kate's perspective, and it is through her outsider'seyes that the reader encounters the Indian culture of Hyderabad; Karachi, Pakistan; and the immigrant community in Chicago. Malany writes in a lush, detailed prose that captures Kate's wonder: "The older women were already surrounded by flowing waves of silk and chiffon as the shop owners spun bolt after bolt in a fly-fishing motion. Each bolt of material streamed in a wave of illuminated elegance." While Malany does not completely nail the two-timeline structure--the 1998 sections suck most of the mystery and urgency out of the 1987 parts--the friendship of Kate,Nasreen, and Krishna is well drawn and genuinely affecting.An uneven but engaging tale of cross-cultural bonds About the Author Siobhan Malany is a Ph.D. molecular pharmacologist. She has published over 40 peer-reviewed scientific articles and has been featured in the Orlando Sentinel, Upward Magazine and Faces of Technology. Mehendi Tides is her debut novel inspired by her experience in India and Pakistan as a teenager.

WATERSHED - a novel

About the Author Colin Dodds is a writer. He grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education in New York City. He is the author of several novels, including WINDFALL and The Last Bad Job, which the late Norman Mailer touted as showing "something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people." His poetry has appeared in more than two hundred seventy publications, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology. The poet and songwriter David Berman (Silver Jews, Actual Air) said of Dodds' poetry: "These are very good poems. For moments I could even feel the old feelings when I read them." His book-length poem That Happy Captive was named a finalist in both the Trio House Press Louise Bogan Award and the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award. And his screenplay, Refreshment, was named a semi-finalist in the 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. Colin lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife and daughter. You can find more of his work at thecolindodds.com.

A Bucket of Bones: Stories from a Game Warden

Confidential Source Ninety-Six: The Making of America's Preeminent Confidential Informant

Review "Reads like a breathless, big-hearted, high-stakes, life-or-death thriller--and it's all absolutely true."― Lee Child Normal0falsefalsefalseEN-USX-NONEX-NONEMicrosoftInternetExplorer4 "In this thrilling firsthand look at the drug underworld, Roman Caribe doesn't just expose how the Cartels have wreaked havoc on our nation; he also shows the incredible lengths that Americans go to every day to end their lethal game. Make Confidential Source Ninety-Six your own informant and have the ride of your life."― Charles Brandt, #1 NewYork Times bestselling author of I Heard You Paint Houses "Whether you're an undercover agent or a confidential informant, the path you walk is dangerous-and not just for you, but for your whole family. You're going to root for Roman Caribe at every turn, and you're going to hold your breath and thank God that you will never have to walk the incredible path he has."― William "Billy" Queen, ATF Special Agent ret. and New York Times bestsellingauthor of Under and Alone "It is hard to imagine a more dangerous job than being a high-level confidential informant....[T]hey are integral to law enforcement in solving crimes, seizing narcotics, infiltrating gangs and preventing terrorist attacks. This book takes us into a world of darkness, danger, skullduggery, and betrayal that few people could fathom, much less believe. It is a wild ride; certainly not for the faint of heart."― Robert Mladinich, former NYPD detective, authorof From the Mouth of the Monster: The Joel Rifkin Story, and coauthor ofUndisclosed Files of the Police: Cases from the Archives of the NYPD from1831 to the Present " Confidential Source Ninety-Six takes the reader on a scary ride into the dark underworld of high level drug kingpins and their henchmen. This is real life drama that is fast paced, informative, and entertaining."― Charles Campisi, former Chief of NYPD's Internal Affairs Bureau andauthor of Blue on Blue: An Insider's Story of Good Cops Catching Bad Cops "This book combines the adrenaline-rush pacing of pulp fiction with a memoir's grounding in truth....a suitably grim inside look at the front lines of the drug war."― Kirkus Reviews "Roman Caribe's success as an informant is astonishing--until, that is, you see what he and his law enforcement partners did to crack every case they worked on and track down the crooks funneling drugs into our country. You've got to read this to believe it."― Tommy Dades, coauthor of Friends of the Family: The Inside Story of the Mafia Cops Case About the Author Roman Caribe is the most successful confidential informant in U.S. law enforcement history in terms of dollars of narcotics whose seizure he has helped facilitate. The onetime mastermind of an illegal drug distribution ring, he abandoned the drug trade after being given an opportunity to flip in the wake of a drug bust. He is an ordained Christian minister. Robert Cea , a former New York City police officer and detective who was the recipient of 136 commendations for bravery, courage under fire, and meritorious police actions, is the author of the memoir No Lights, No Sirens: The Corruption and Redemption of an Inner City Cop . He has worked as the writer and producer for television series including Discovery Channel's Flipped: A Mobster Tells All and feature films including The Day the Ponies Come Back .

A Deer Gets Revenge (Stories from a Game Warden)

Believe Me: A Memoir of Love, Death, and Jazz Chickens

Review “If you are a fan of Eddie Izzard, then you will love this book. If you are not a fan of Eddie Izzard, then there is a good chance that this book will make you one. The experience is akin to him sitting down and having a chat with you, which, we can all agree, sounds delightful.” —Thomas Burns Scully, Popdust.com “[A] candid new book...The comedic tour de force [Eddie Izzard] opens up about his mother's death, coming out as transgender, and his quest for romantic love.” —Catie Lazarus, Out Magazine “Beloved British comedian Eddie Izzard [writes] with the same wit and candor that characterizes his stand-up [and] tackles his sexuality, his troubled childhood, and the tumultuous early days of his career, even as he recounts his many excellent roles, albums, and tours.” —Maris Kreizman, Vulture “What [ Believe Me ] adds is the larger context of the life—not just what thrills [Eddie Izzard], but what wounds him and what drives him...There is more to it than sadness, however. Izzard’s chronicle is reminiscent of his shows, a stream of surprising associations, full of footnotes and copious asides on subjects like NASA and Action Man.” —Nick A. Zaino III, The Boston Globe “Getting a peek behind the curtain with regards to a guy like this is a rare treat. Believe Me is that peek, a glimpse at the inner workings, the gears and cogs that make a unique personality such as Eddie Izzard tick...All of it is engaging and heartfelt and unwaveringly honest. And oh yeah—it’s pretty freaking funny too.” — The Maine Edge “Laughter trumps sorrow in candid comedian Eddie Izzard’s Believe Me .” —Sloane Crosley, Vanity Fair “Beloved comedian, actor, and writer Izzard…shares intimate details about his life and is emotionally transparent throughout this splendid memoir…The book is both funny and painful, and ultimately uplifting.”— Publishers Weekly “A wicked, beautiful man has written a wicked, beautiful book about his (kind of?) messed up life and it’s...perfect.” —Patton Oswalt “This book is a raw, honest exploration of what it means to live your truth, to be unapologetically ambitious, and to walk through fear over and over again. It’s about being brave. And hilarious. It reminded me that walking through fear almost always leads to happiness.” —Chelsea Handler “I had never heard of Eddie Izzard before, but judging by this delightful memoir, he has a glittering career ahead of him. I particularly enjoyed his descriptions of working in a Vatican slaughterhouse, acting as Deputy Foreign Minister in Gladstone’s first administration, his whacky exploits at his uncle’s Taxidermy Cafe, and his tragic death at the age of only eight at the Morris Dancing Finals in Bruges.” —John Cleese “Eddie Izzard is my favorite stand-up chameleon.” —Eric Idle About the Author Eddie Izzard is a world-renowned comedian, actor, writer, runner, and activist. He made his West End debut in 1993 in a one-man show called Live at the Ambassadors , for which he received an Olivier Award nomination for Outstanding Achievement. He recently appeared on television as Dr. Abel Gideon in Hannibal , and he produced and starred in the FX Networks series The Riches . His films include Valkyrie ; Ocean’s Thirteen and Ocean’s Twelve ; Across the Universe ; Mystery Men ; Shadow of the Vampire ; The Cat’s Meow ; Lost Christmas ; Castles in the Sky ; and Whisky Galore . His stage appearances include David Mamet’s Race and The Cryptogram ; the title role in Marlowe’s Edward II ; 900 Oneonta ; and A Day in the Death of Joe Egg in London and on Broadway, which garnered him a Tony nomination for Best Actor. Izzard’s hit one-man shows include Dress to Kill , Stripped , and Force Majeure . His performance in Dress to Kill earned him two Emmy Awards. In 2010, the documentary Believe: The Eddie Izzard Story received an Emmy nomination. In 2009, Izzard ran forty-three marathons in fifty-one days throughout the United Kingdom, and in 2016, he ran twenty-seven marathons in twenty-seven days across South Africa in honor of Nelson Mandela’s twenty-seven years in prison. By running these seventy marathons he has helped raise £4.8 million ($6 million) for the UK charity Sport Relief. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2017 Eddie Izzard I N T R O D U C T I O N I always thought I’d write a book about my life toward the end of my life, like Ulysses S. Grant did. Or Chaplin did. But I have noticed that a number of people (maybe lots of people) have done autobiographies in the middle of their lives, or even several autobiographies over different slices of their lives. I came to the conclusion that I don’t really know what the rules are for this. I think I’m a really boring person. I think I am naturally boring. Probably most of us are. Interesting people, too, probably decided at some point in life that they were boring and wanted to be more interesting. Like Che Guevara, who was a medical student, then threw on a beret, became a revolutionary, and became way more interesting. Billy Connolly, the Scottish comedian, who really influenced my work, used to say in his stand‑up material that he did certain things to make him‑ self “windswept and interesting.” I identify with that. It’s bonkers that in this world some people are just trying to live and exist while I’m sit‑ ting here thinking, Ooh! I’ve done some interesting things and now I’m going to write an autobiography! But that is the situation I find myself in. I’ve done a certain number of things in my life and have now reached an age and a state of mind where I’ve come to reflect on those things. And some people want me to write them down. It was at the end of the documentary Believe: The Eddie Izzard Story when Sarah Townsend, the director, who had been shooting interviews with me for some time, said that I never really “say” anything. I thought, Well, I’m up for saying lots of things. But maybe I was being guarded, or trying to make everything very palatable, or funny, and therefore I never seemed to say anything that really cut through the mist of being a performer, an actor, and a personality of some sort. Then, toward the end of the film, I started talking about my mother, who died when I was six. And that’s when I said something revelatory: “I know why I’m doing all this,” I said. “Everything I do in life is trying to get her back. I think if I do enough things . . . that maybe she’ll come back.” I remember that when I said those words in the film it didn’t feel like it was really me talking. Because it wasn’t my conscious brain talking. It was my subconscious brain. And for some reason it was saying: Here’s what’s really going on. Here’s a note to yourself . Something like that. I think it’s true. I think trying to bring my mother back is at the base of everything I’m doing, and everything I’ve ever done. On top of that, of course, there is also ego and a love of adventure and trying to be, as Billy C. would say, “windswept and interesting.” But it’s quite a moment in the film. And it was quite a moment in my life. So this book is intended to give you a chance to sit inside my head, behind my eyes, for a bit. I’m trying to share thoughts and feelings that I may not have covered in the documentary and that I don’t normally talk about in my stand‑up. In a way, I’ve tried to live my life like a film. I’m trying to do interesting things so that somebody notices or so that maybe my mother notices, from beyond the mists of the living. Real life is actually a lot of boring things with occasional spikes of interest. If you look at films of people’s lives, they tend to focus on only one aspect of it because the whole life doesn’t quite work as a story. We know how we like our stories, and they have to go down to the bottom at the end of the second act, and then come back up and win at the end of the third act. Stories don’t really have to be like that, but that does get our motors going. Real life doesn’t play that way, which is why I’d like to thank Sarah Townsend for making my life look interesting in the documentary, even though my life is lots of boring bits with occasional spikes of interestingness. She took all the boring bits out. She got an Emmy nomination for Best Documentary for the film. Which means that my life story got a nomination for trying to be “interesting,” even though I know the truth. So this is it—an autobiography—a walk through my life—in a non‑linear way. Belief or, more likely, self‑belief, is central to what I have done, and that probably applies to anyone whose life could be deemed “unusual.” But I do also know self‑belief can be used in a good or a bad way: Some people with tremendous self‑belief are complete psychotic mass murderers. So if you have a negative heart, then please don’t read this book. But if you have a positive heart, then please do read this book. Because I have worked certain things out in life. I think there are certain patterns to the way human beings behave and I believe if you have analysis in one hand and instinct in the other hand, you can go a long way and live a life that is truly memorable. Anyway. Have a read. Here we go. Read more

These Shallow Graves

From School Library Journal Gr 9 Up—It's September 1890, and Josephine "Jo" Montfort has been called home from Miss Sparkwell's School for Young Ladies upon her father's death. The police said it was an accident, but Jo knows her father would never have been so careless as to clean a loaded gun. When rumors of suicide reach her ears, she feels compelled to discover the truth of what happened that night in her father's study. Risking her reputation, the teen searches for answers wherever the clues take her, even to the dangerous slums and docks of New York City. With a handsome and nosy newsman as her reluctant guide, Jo begins to learn more about her family's murky history. Each secret she uncovers leads to another, stirring up her past and threatening her future. Donnelly's latest is a glimpse into the changing societal structure of turn-of-the-century New York City, personified by Jo Montfort. She is a girl trapped by her family's expectations and yearning for a different life, sentiments that will resound with today's teens. She and her co-amateur detective and forbidden romantic interest, Eddie Gallagher, are likable, well-drawn, and interesting. While there may not be many surprises for discerning readers, interest is maintained as they unravel the puzzle through Jo's naive eyes. The plot moves forward at steady pace and short chapters break the novel up into easily devourable pieces. VERDICT A beautifully written mystery that will appeal to a variety of readers.—Heather Miller Cover, Homewood Public Library, AL Review Praise for These Shallow Graves : An Amelia Bloomer Project Award Book ★ “ These Shallow Graves succeeds as a wonderfully paced thriller, a heart-pounding romance and an unflinching look at the hard choices one young woman must make when society disparages her dreams.” - Shelf Awareness , Starred Review★ "Fast-paced and thrilling... a smart, insightful, timely depiction of a young woman poised on the brink of a new world after the shattering of another."- Booklist , Starred Review ★ " Action-packed chapters propel this compelling mystery ...[and] the injustices Donnelly highlights remain all too relevant."- Publishers Weekly , Starred Review " A beautifully written mystery. "- SLJ "[A] fast-paced thriller...the story races to its surprising conclusion ."- Kirkus Reviews " A heroine you can't help cheering on. "- The Horn Book " A twisted tale of secrets, murder, love, and revenge. This historical thriller delivers. ..[and] Donnelly will keep you on the edge of your seat with this fast-paced, tightly written page turner."-USAToday.com"Donnelly returns with a powerhouse of a whodunit. Her eighth novel strikes hard against poverty, sexism, classism, and gree, driving as relentlessly as Jo in her pursuit of truth and freedom."-BookPage.com " These Shallow Graves delivered all that I adore: lovely prose, historical intrigue, unique characters and setting . I devoured this book!"-Ruta Sepetys, New York Times bestselling author of Between Shades of Gray and Salt to the Sea " An intelligent, personable heroine -Jo Montfort's hopes for an enlightened future uncover a dark past, resulting in a splendidly hair-raising tour of the brightest and darkest corners of Victorian New York."-Elizabeth Wein, New York Times bestselling author of Code Name Verity and Black Dove, White Raven "Jo Montfort is a gutsy modern heroine in a beguiling tale of old New York . Money, murder, betrayal, and family secrets....I loved spending time in this world!"-Elizabeth Ross, author of William C. Morris Award finalist Belle Epoque " A fast-paced Gilded Age crime thriller that plunges its intrepid investigative-journalist heroine into the sordid underworld of nineteenth-century New York City and into her own family's dark secrets."-Julie Berry, award-winning author of All the Truth That's In Me About the Author Jennifer Donnelly is the author of three adult novels, The Tea Rose , The Winter Rose , and The Wild Rose , as well as the young adult novels These Shallow Graves , Revolution , and A Northern Light , winner of Britain's prestigious Carnegie Medal, the L.A. Times Book Prize for Young Adult Literature, and a Michael L. Printz Honor Book Award. She lives and writes full-time in upstate New York. You can visit her at jenniferdonnelly.com or find @JenWritesBooks on Twitter. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Miss Sparkwell’s School for Young LadiesFarmington, ConnecticutSeptember 17, 1890“Trudy, be a dear and read these stories for me,” said Jo Montfort, laying out articles for her school’s newspaper on a tea table. “I can’t abide errors.”Gertrude Van Eyck, all blond curls and dimples, stopped dead in the middle of the common room. “How did you know it was me? You didn’t even look up!”“Duke told me,” Jo replied. Duke’s Cameos were Trudy’s favorite brand of cigarette.Trudy sniffed her sleeve. “Do I smell?”“You positively reek. What does Gilbert Grosvenor think of you smoking cigarettes?”“Gilbert Grosvenor doesn’t know. Not about the ciggies, or the bottle of gin under my bed, or that utterly swell boy who delivers apples,” Trudy said, winking.“Slang does not become a Farmington girl, Gertrude,” sniffed Libba Newland, seated nearby with her friend, May Delano.“Neither does that fringe, Lib,” said Trudy, eyeing Libba’s badly curled bangs.“Well, I never!” Libba huffed.“And I’m sure you never will,” Trudy said archly.“Stop being awful and read these, Tru,” Jo scolded. “My deadline’s tomorrow.”Trudy sat down at the table and helped herself to a jam tart from Jo’s plate. It was three o’clock--teatime at Miss Sparkwell’s--and the common room was crowded with students on break. Everyone was chatting and eating except Jo, who was busy finalizing the layout for the second edition of the Jonquil.“What do we have this week?” Trudy asked. “The usual tripe?”Jo sighed. “I’m afraid so,” she said. “There’s a piece on the proper way to brew tea, a poem about kittens, Miss Sparkwell’s impressions of the Louvre, and advice on how to fade freckles.”“Ye gads. Anything else?”Jo hesitated, working up her nerve. “As a matter of fact, yes. A story on the abuse of girl laborers at Fenton’s Textile Mill,” she said, handing one of the articles to her friend.“Ha! So funny, my darling!” Trudy said, smiling. Her smile faded as she read the first lines. “Oh dear God. You’re serious.”Trudy kept reading, riveted, and Jo watched her, thrilled. Jo was a senior at Miss Sparkwell’s and had written for the Jonquil during her three previous years at the school, but this was the first important story she’d written. She’d worked hard to get it. She’d taken risks. Just like a real reporter.“What do you think?” she asked eagerly when Trudy finished reading.“I think you’ve lost your mind,” Trudy replied.“But do you think it’s good?” Jo pressed.“Very.”Jo, who’d been perched on the edge of her seat, shot forward and hugged Trudy, a huge grin on her face.“But that’s entirely beside the point,” Trudy said sternly as Jo sat down again. “If you hand in the layout to Sparky with that story in it, you’re done for. Detention for a week and a letter home.”“It’s not that bad. Nellie Bly’s pieces are far more provocative,” said Jo.“You’re comparing yourself to Nellie Bly?” Trudy asked, incredulous. “Need I remind you that she’s a scandalous lady reporter who meddles in other people’s business and has no hope of marrying a decent man? You, in contrast, are a Montfort, and Montforts marry. Early and well. And that is all.”“Well, this Montfort’s going to do a bit more,” Jo declared. “Like write stories for newspapers.”Trudy raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Is that so? Have you informed your mother?”“Actually, no. Not yet,” Jo admitted.Trudy laughed. “Not ever, you mean. Unless you want to find yourself locked away in a convent until you’re fifty.”“Tru, this is a story that must be told,” Jo said, her passion clear in her voice. “Those poor girls are being mistreated. They’re worked hard and paid little. They’re practically slaves.”“Jo. How on earth do you know this?”“I spoke with some of them.”“You didn’t,” Trudy said.“I did. On Sunday. After services.”“But you went straight to your room after services. You said you had a headache.”“And then I climbed out of my window and went down to the river. To one of the boardinghouses there,” Jo said, lowering her voice. She didn’t want anyone to overhear her. “A farmer gave me a ride in his wagon. I spoke with three girls. One was seventeen. Our age, Tru. The others were younger. They work ten-hour days standing at these hellish looms. Injuries are common. So is exposure to coarse language and . . . and situations. I was told that some of the girls fall in with bad sorts and become wayward.”Trudy’s eyes widened. “Josephine Montfort. Do you really think that Mr. Abraham Aldrich wants his future wife to even know that wayward girls exist, much less write about them? The future Mrs. Aldrich must be pure in mind as well as body. Only men are supposed to know about”--Trudy lowered her voice, too--“about sex. If news of what you’ve done gets around, not only will you lose your place here, you’ll lose the most eligible bachelor in New York. For goodness’ sake, be sensible! No mill girl, wayward or otherwise, is worth the Aldrich millions!”May Delano looked up from her book. “What’s a wayward girl?” she asked.Jo groaned.“Never mind,” Trudy said.“Tell me,” May whined.“Very well,” Trudy replied, turning to look at May. “A girl who is with child but without a husband.”May laughed. “Shows what you know, Trudy Van Eyck. The stork brings babies after you’re married, not before.”“Come, May, we’re leaving” said Libba Newland, shooting Trudy a dirty look. “The common room is getting a bit too common.”“I’ll bet you a dollar Lib tattles to Sparky,” Trudy said darkly, watching them go. “I just finished my detention for smoking. Now you’ve earned me some more!”Disappointed by Trudy’s lack of enthusiasm for her story, Jo snatched it back. She wished Trudy understood her. Wished someone did. She’d read Bly’s Ten Days in a Mad-House and Jacob Riis’s How the Other Half Lives, and they’d touched her deeply. She’d been appalled to learn how the poor suffered and felt compelled to follow the examples those two reporters set, if only in some small way.She thought about the mill girls she’d spoken with. They’d looked so crushingly tired. Their faces were as pale as milk, except for the dark smudges under their eyes. They’d been taken out of school and made to work. They weren’t allowed to talk or to go to the bathroom until their lunch breaks. One told her she could barely walk home at the end of the day, her legs hurt so badly from standing.Their stories had made Jo sad--and blisteringly angry. “Trudy, why did I become editor of the Jonquil?” she suddenly asked.“I have no idea,” Trudy replied. “You should’ve joined the glee club. Even you can’t get into trouble singing ‘Come into the Garden, Maud.’ ”“I shall tell you.”“I had a feeling you would,” Trudy said dryly.“I did it because I want to inform my readers. Because I wish to draw back the veil that hides the injustices that surround us,” Jo said, her voice rising. “We who have means and a voice must use them to help those who have neither. Yet how can we help them if we don’t even know about them? And how can we know about them if no one writes about them? Is it so wrong to want to know things?”Heads turned as Jo finished speaking. Girls stared. She glared back at them until they turned away. “They suffer, those mill girls,” she said, her voice quieter, but her heart still full of emotion. “They are so terribly unfortunate.”Trudy took her hand. “My darling Jo, there is no one more unfortunate than we ourselves,” she said. “We are not engaged yet, you and I. We’re spinsters. Pathetic nobodies. We can go nowhere on our own. We must not be too forward in speech, dress, or emotion lest we put off a potential suitor. We are allowed no funds of our own, and most of all”--she squeezed Jo’s hand for emphasis--“no opinions.”“Doesn’t it bother you, Tru?” Jo asked, frustrated.“Of course it does! Which is why I intend to marry as soon as I can,” Trudy said.She jumped up, snapped open an imaginary fan, and strode about the room imitating a society lady. “When I am Mrs. Gilbert Grosvenor and happily installed in my grand Fifth Avenue mansion, I shall do exactly as I please. I shall say what I like, read what I like, and go out every evening in silks and diamonds to smile at my beaux from my box at the Met.”It was Jo’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “And Mr. Gilbert Grosvenor? Where will he be?” she asked.“At home. Sulking by the fire with a copy of The Wall Street Journal,” Trudy said, imitating Gilbert’s eternally disapproving expression.Jo laughed despite herself. “I’ll never understand how you were passed over for the lead in the school play. You belong on stage,” she said.“I wasn’t passed over, thank you. I was offered the lead and declined it. Mr. Gilbert Grosvenor frowns upon theatricals.”For a moment, Jo forgot about her own worries. She knew Gilbert. He was smug and disapproving, an old man at twenty. He was also stinking rich.“Will you really marry him?” she asked. She could no more see beautiful, lively Trudy married to Gilbert than she could picture a hummingbird paired with a toad.“I mean to. Why shouldn’t I?”“Because you . . . You’ll have to . . .” She couldn’t say it.“Go to bed with him?” Trudy finished.Jo blushed. “That is not what I was going to say!”“But it’s what you meant.”Trudy looked out of a nearby window. Her eyes traveled over the lawns to the meadows, then farther still, to a place--a future--only she could see.“A bit of nightly unpleasantness in exchange for days of ease. Not such a bad bargain,” Trudy said, with a rueful smile. “Some of us are not as well off as others. My papa can barely manage my school fees, never mind the dressmaker’s bills. And anyway, it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.” Trudy turned her attention back to Jo. “You know the rules: get yourself hitched, then do what you like. But for heaven’s sake, until you get the man, smile like a dolt and talk about tulips, not mill girls!”Disappointment settled on Jo like a heavy woolen cloak. She knew Trudy was right. Sparky would be appalled if she ever found out what Jo had done. So would her parents, the Aldriches, and the rest of New York. Her New York, at least--old New York. Well-bred girls from old families came out, got engaged, and then went back--back to drawing rooms, dinner parties, and dances. They did not venture into the dangerous, dirty world to become reporters, or anything else.The boys got to, though. They couldn’t become reporters either--that was too grubby an occupation for a gentleman--but they could own a newspaper, run a business, practice law, breed horses, have agricultural interests, or do something in government like the Jays and the Roosevelts. Jo knew this but couldn’t accept it. It chafed at her spirit, as surely as the stays of her corset chafed her body.Why is it, she wondered now, that boys get to do things and be things and girls only get to watch?“Jo?”Jo looked up. It was Arabella Paulding, a classmate.“Sparky wants to see you in her office,” she said. “Right away.”“Why?” Jo asked.“She didn’t say. She told me to find you and fetch you. I’ve found you, so go.”“Libba tattled,” Trudy said ominously.Jo gathered up her papers, dreading her interview with the headmistress.“Don’t worry, my darling,” Trudy said. “You’ll only get a few days’ detention, I’m sure. Unless Sparky expels you.”“You’re such a comfort,” said Jo.Trudy smiled ruefully. “What can I say? I merely wish to smoke. Sparky can forgive that. You, on the other hand, wish to know things. And no one can forgive a girl for that.”Chapter Two Jo hurried out of Hollister Hall, crossed the grassy quad, and entered Slocum, where the headmistress’s office was. A tall gilt mirror stood in the foyer. It caught her image as she rushed by it--a slender girl wearing a long brown skirt, a pin-striped blouse, and lace‑up boots. Wavy black hair formed a widow’s peak over a high forehead, and a pair of lively gray eyes stared out from an uncommonly pretty face.“You’d be a beauty,” her mother often told her, “if only you’d stop scowling.”“I’m not scowling, Mama, I’m thinking,” Jo always replied.“Well, stop. It’s unappealing,” her mother would say.Jo reached the door to Miss Sparkwell’s office and paused, steeling herself for a thorough dressing down. She knocked.“Enter!” a voice called out.Jo turned the knob and pushed the door open, prepared to see the headmistress wearing a grave expression. She was not prepared, however, to see her standing by a window dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Had the mill girls story upset her that much?“Miss Sparkwell, I don’t know what Libba said to you, but the story has merit,” Jo said, launching a preemptive strike. “It’s high time the Jonquil offered its readers something weightier than poems about kittens.”“My dear, I did not summon you here to talk about the Jonquil.”“You didn’t?” Jo said, surprised.Miss Sparkwell passed a hand over her brow. “Mr. Aldrich, would you? I--I find I cannot,” she said, her voice catching.Jo turned around and was astonished to see two of her oldest friends--Abraham Aldrich and his sister, Adelaide--seated on a divan. She’d been so preoccupied with defending her story, she hadn’t even noticed them.“Bram! Addie!” she exclaimed, rushing to her friends. “What a lovely surprise! But I wish you’d have let me know you were coming. I would’ve changed out of my uniform. I would have . . .” Her words trailed off as she realized they were both dressed entirely in black. A cold dread gripped her.“I’m afraid we have some bad news, Jo,” Bram said, rising.“Oh, Jo. Be brave, my darling,” Addie whispered, joining him.Jo looked from one to the other, her dread growing. “You’re frightening me,” she said. “For goodness’ sake, what is it?” And then she knew. Mr. Aldrich had been in poor health for some time. “Oh, no. It’s your father, isn’t it?”“No, Jo, not ours,” said Addie quietly. She took Jo’s hand.“Not yours? I--I don’t understand.”“Jo, your father is dead,” Bram said. “It was an accident. He was cleaning a revolver in his study last night and it went off. Addie and I have come to fetch you home. We’ll get your things, and then . . .” Read more

As Far as My Feet Will Carry Me: The Extraordinary True Story of One Man's Escape from a Siberian Labor Camp and His 3-Year Trek to Freedom

About the Author was a seminary student, editor, and writer. He produced stories, a radio play, and seven novels in a career spanning forty years.

Once Upon A Time It Was Now: The Art & Craft of Writing Historical Fiction

About the Author James Alexander Thom is an Indiana-born Marine veteran, and was a newspaperman, magazine freelance writer, and Indiana University Journalism School lecturer before he became a full-time historical novelist, known for his thorough research in archives and in the field. His American frontier and Indian war novels have won national awards and sold more than two million copies. Two were made into television films, by Hallmark and Ted Turner. Thom's family history drew him to the Civil War era. His namesake was killed in the Battle of Fredericksburg, and his great grandfather survived the deathly Andersonville prisoner-of-war camp. Several years as Ohio River historical lecturer for the Delta Queen line provided technical knowledge and riverboat lore for this book. The author is also an artist and sculptor. James and his wife Dark Rain live in a 170-year-old log house near Bloomington, Indiana.

White Line Fever

The Hidden Kingdom: The Nocturnals Book 4 (4)

Review “Wacky illustrations and another plot that twists and turns and teeters with cliff-hangers will keep fans enthralled. Check out the website (NocturnalsWorld.com) for extensive activities for kids and support materials for educators.”  ― Booklist “Featuring spirited animal characters who deal with real-life scenarios in a relatable way...the books celebrate the very meaningful idea of friendship and what it means to forge positive relationships.” ― Amy Poehler's Smart Girls “The series addresses bullying and empathy in an easy, accessible way, and the books are meant to be read aloud.” ― New York Post “ The Nocturnals is an enchanting story about a group of animals who band together to protect their friends and find adventure. The characters are delightful and the nighttime landscape is captivating. It was just as I expected—because the best stories always take place in the dark!” -- R.L. Stine, Author of Goosebumps“ The Hidden Kingdom is one of those books that children read without realizing how much they are actually learning.” ― Children’s Book and Media Review About the Author Tracey Hecht is a writer and entrepreneur who created The Nocturnals , the critically acclaimed middle grade and early reader series. The American Booksellers Association chose her first book, The Nocturnals: The Mysterious Abductions , as a Kids’ Indie Next List pick. In addition, her Grow & Read early reader book, The Chestnut Challenge , was given a Mom’s Choice Gold Award. With the New York Public Library, she has also created a Read Aloud Writing Program that has since been conducted in over 150 schools, libraries, and bookstores. Other books in the Nocturnals middle grade series include The Ominous Eye, The Fallen Star , and The Hidden Kingdom . Tracey currently splits her time between New York City and Oquossoc, Maine, with her husband and four children. Kate Liebman is an artist who lives and works in New York City. She graduated from Yale University, contributes to the Brooklyn Rail, and has shown her work at multiple galleries. She grew up in Santa Monica, California.

Gimme-Jimmy

Review A delightful children's book...teach young children good manners...not to be selfish. Jimmy is a bully and demanding towards others...a great tool for teaching manners and get a point across to young children...this book will be a memorable story to help children remember not to be "gimmes" and follow the polite rule. - Readers FavoriteGimme-Jimmy had no friends...His favorite word was gimme...takes on Jimmy the bully, but concentrates more on his selfishness, it's-mine attitude, and his I-want-it-now greediness. To add to the fun, Elisabeth from The Magic Word appears on a page, as do the covers for two of the author's earlier books...This book is a keeper. -Kid-Lit Reviews From "Gimme-Jimmy" I learned to be nice to other people, otherwise you won't have very many friends and you will be kind of lonely. My favorite part...was when Jimmy started to be nice and when his hand got to be the same size as the other hand...and also the illustration of his new 'Polite Rule.' -  Cayden Aures (age 7.5) Reader ViewsDelightful, adorable and hilarious. .. will want to read them and have them read to them, time and time again. If you are looking for the best possible story books for your child or grandchildren you must look for her books! - GMTA, Kitty Bullard Delightful, adorable and hilarious. .. will want to read them and have them read to them, time and time again. If you are looking for the best possible story books for your child or grandchildren you must look for her books! - GMTA, Kitty Bullard From the Author Gimme-Jimmy is my fourth published rhyming book, and it also deals with manners and consideration for others. It's about how a bully learns to share. Jimmy and his father work together to help Jimmy learn to be polite, (since my previous book, The Magic Word, was about a mother and daughter). I hope children learn the value of thinking of others, and learning to make friends. Gimme-Jimmy has won five awards:  2012 Readers Favorite Silver Medal, 2012 NABE Pinnacle Achievement Award, Third Place in the 2013 Reader Views Awards, 2013 Global eBook Silver Medal, and National Indie Excellence Finalist. About the Author Sherrill S. Cannon is a former teacher, mother of four and a grandmother of ten, who is also an Award-Winning Best-Selling Author! In less than five years, her books My Fingerpaint Masterpiece , Manner-Man , Gimme-Jimmy, The Magic Word, Peter and the Whimper-Whineys and Santa's Birthday Gift have received twenty-eight 2011-14 National awards. She is also the author of seven published and internationally performed plays for elementary school children, produced in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom as well as Australia, Austria, Botswana, Cambodia, France, Germany, Ireland, Japan, Poland, Singapore, Spain, and the United Arab Emirates (so far).  She is a resident of New Hope, PA and travels with her husband of 54 years throughout North America in their RV, sharing her books along the way! Read more

On The Black

The New Biographical Dictionary of Film: Fifth Edition, Completely Updated and Expanded

Review "America has given the world Emily Dickinson, "Moby-Dick," jazz, Faulkner, Hollywood, rock 'n' roll, and this book." --Michael Robbins, Chicago Tribune "The best book on the movies ever written in English." —The New Republic “Thomson proves anew that he is irreplaceable . . . His monologue has blossomed into an unlikely, searching dialogue about what to value in the movies—how to love what’s come before without nostalgia, and how to find the courage to demand more from the stuff being made right now . . . Deservedly treasured . . . One of the most probing accounts ever written of a human being’s engagement with the movies.” —Sarah Kerr, The New York Times Book Review “Delicious. One of the best and most useful books written about the movies.” —Edward Guthmann, San Francisco Chronicle “ The Dictionary is not only an indispensable book about cinema, but one of the most absurdly ambitious literary achievements of our time.”  —Geoff Dyer, Sight & Sound “A marvel . . . Eccentric, audacious, sparkling . . . Probably the greatest living film critic and historian, Thomson writes the most fun and enthralling prose about the movies since Pauline Kael.” —Benjamin Schwarz, The Atlantic “From Abbott and Costello to Crumb’s Terry Zwigoff, David Thomson expertly caters the banquet of film history in the latest edition of this classic. One critics’ poll called it the best movie book ever; it also has some of the finest, orneriest writing in the English language.”— Time “Truly, maddeningly, gloriously subjective . . . Buy this book for a friend, and bask in the pleasure of knowing that you have incalculably enriched his life. Buy it for yourself, and book some quality time with one of the finest writers the story of film has ever had.”—Saul Austerlitz, San Francisco Chronicle “[A] mad and magnificent opus . . . Thomson is a great rhapsodist of how film acts on his, and therefore our, imagination. . . . Close viewing, and the insights that spring from rapt attention, are what Thomson’s criticism is all about. Despite its seemingly straitlaced A-to-Z format, the ‘Dictionary’ is oddball and Borgesian, finding imaginative ecstasy in its encyclopedic tendency. The book crackles with epigram while often reaching for meanings that endow familiar subjects with a new reality. . . . It’s an essential, loony, irresistible book, and scarcely a week passes when I don’t submerge myself for an hour or two in its labyrinthine marvels.”—Richard Rayner, Los Angeles Times “Essential . . . Razor-sharp reviews are often commentaries on both the filmmaker and the audience. . . . We’re always aware that we’re engaging with a passionate educated human being. Isn’t that more interesting and rewarding than marketing-driven Netflix summaries? Great critics are cinema’s most inspiring enthusiasts. Four stars.”            —Jeffrey Overstreet, Books & Culture “Witty, expasive, convincing, honest, more than a little mischievous and, so often, absolutely on the money. Thomson’s voice is one of the most distinctive and enjoyable in film criticism. It leaps from the pages of this spruced up classic like flames from a bonfire. . . . Almost every page contains at least one unexpected nugget of information that you would struggle to come across by any other means. . . . However, the real value of this book lies not in facts, but in opinions. Thomson’s views are so shrewd, so exquisitely stated that, more often than not, they feel like thoughts you already held but were never quite sure how to put into words. . .  In a world awash with amateur pundits, the value of a genuine expert who knows his own mind has never been higher. . . . Dip into any entry and you will find irrefutable proof that his gaze remains as sharp as ever. For as long as there are films worth writing about, Thomson’s opinions will remain worth reading.”            —Benjamin Secher, The Telegraph “The newest edition of David Thomson’s New Biographical Dictionary of Film is 1,076 pages long. It weighs a ton. And yet, it’s almost impossible to put down.”— The New York Observer “Invaluable and occasionally maddening.”          —Steven Rea, The Kansas City Star “Skip the movie; read David Thomson instead. Addictive . . . his landmark work. You’ll see how erudite, generous, cheeky, elegant and fascinating Thomson’s writing is. Take any entry and it’s impossible not to want to read to the finish.” —Kyle Smith, New York Post About the Author David Thomson has taught film studies at Dartmouth College, has served on the selection committee for the New York Film Festival, and has been a regular contributor to The Guardian, The Independent, The New York Times, The Nation, Movieline, The New Republic, and Salon. His other books include “Have You Seen . . . ?”: A Personal Introduction to 1,000 Films; Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick; and three works of fiction: Suspects, Silver Light, and Warren Beatty and Desert Eyes. Thomson lives in San Francisco with his family. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER ONEAAbbott and Costello:Bud (William A.) Abbott (1895-74),b. Asbury Park, New Jersey; andLou Costello (Louis Francis Cristillo) (1906-59), b. Paterson, New JerseyThe marital chemistry (or the weird mix of blunt instrument and black hole) in coupling is one of the most persistent themes in tragedy and comedy. At their best, you can't have one without the other. More than fifty years after they first tried it, Abbott and Costello's "Who's On First?" sketch is about the best remedy I know for raising laughter in a mixed bag of nuts-or for making the collection of forlorn individuals a merry mob.Many people know the routine (written, like most of their stuff, by John Grant) by heart. Amateurs can get a good laugh out of it. But Bud and Lou achieve something lyrical, hysterical, and mythic. Watch them do the sketch and you feel the energy and hope of not just every comedian there ever was. You feel Beckett, Freud, and Wittgenstein (try it!). You see every marriage there ever was. You rejoice and despair at the impossibility of language. You wonder whether God believed in harmony, or in meetings that eternally proved our loneliness.Lou is the one who has blood pressure, and Bud hasn't. So they are together in the world, yet together alone, doomed to explain things to each other. They are companions, halves of a whole, chums, lovers if you like. But they are a raw display of hatred, opposition, and implacable difference. They are also far better than all the amateurs. And if Lou is the performer, the valiant seeker of order, while Bud is the dumb square peg, the one who seems oblivious of audience, still, nobody did it better. If I were asked to assemble a collection of things to manifest America for the stranger, "Who's On First?" would be there-and it might be the first piece of film I'd use.At the same time, they are not very good, rather silly, not really that far above the ocean of comedians. It isn't even that one can separate their good work from the poor. Nor is it that "Who's On First?" is simply and mysteriously superior to all the rest of their stuff. No, it's only that that routine feels an inner circle of dismay within all the others, the suffocating mantle next to Lou's heart. It isn't good, or superior; it's divine. Which is why no amount of repetition dulls it at all. I think I could watch it every day and feel the thrills and the dread as if for the first time.They bumped into each other. Bud was a theatre cashier where Lou was playing (around 1930), and he grudgingly took the job when Lou's partner was sick. They were doing vaudeville and radio for ten years before they got their movie break at Universal: One Night in the Tropics (40, A. Edward Sutherland) was their first film, but Buck Privates (41, Arthur Lubin) was the picture that made them. There were twenty-three more films in the forties, a period for which they were steadily in the top five box-office attractions. Buck Privates, and their whole appeal, reflected the unexpected intimacies of army life.They broke up in 1957, long since outmoded by the likes of Martin and Lewis. But there again, Abbott and Costello are the all-talking model (as opposed to the semi-silence of Laurel and Hardy) of two guys trapped in one tent.Costello made one film on his own-for he had great creative yearnings-The 30-Foot Bride of Candy Rock (59, Sidney Miller). He died of a heart attack, which had always seemed about to happen. Bud lived on, doing next to nothing.Ken (Klaus) Adam, b. Berlin, Germany, 1921At the age of thirteen, Adam came to Britain, and stayed: he would be educated as an architect at London University and the Bartlett School of Architecture, and he served in the RAF during the war. It was in 1947 that he entered the British picture business, doing set drawings for This Was a Woman (48, Tim Whelan). Thereafter, he rose steadily as an assistant art director on The Queen of Spades (48, Thorold Dickinson); The Hidden Room (49, Edward Dmytryk); Your Witness (50, Robert Montgomery); Captain Horatio Hornblower (51, Raoul Walsh); The Crimson Pirate (52, Robert Siodmak); Helen of Troy (56, Robert Wise); he did uncredited work on Around the World in 80 Days (56, Michael Anderson), and assistant work on Ben-Hur (59, William Wyler).Clearly, he was adept at getting hired by American directors, or on Hollywood productions, yet he did not seem overly interested in going to Hollywood. Indeed, he built a career as art director and then production designer in Britain, and he would be vitally associated with the design look and the huge, hi-tech interiors of the James Bond films: Soho Incident (56, Vernon Sewell); Night of the Demon (57, Jacques Tourneur); The Angry Hills (59, Robert Aldrich); The Rough and the Smooth (59, Siodmak); The Trials of Oscar Wilde (60, Ken Hughes); Dr. No (62, Terence Young); Sodom and Gomorrah (62, Aldrich); Dr. Strangelove (64, Stanley Kubrick); Woman of Straw (64, Basil Dearden); Goldfinger (64, Guy Hamilton); The Ipcress File (65, Sidney J. Furie); Thunderball (65, Young); Funeral in Berlin (66, Hamilton); You Only Live Twice (67, Lewis Gilbert); Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (68, Hughes); Goodbye, Mr. Chips (69, Herbert Ross); to America for The Owl and the Pussycat (70, Ross).An international figure now, he worked increasingly in America, while keeping his British attachment to Bond and Kubrick: Diamonds Are Forever (71, Hamilton); Sleuth (72, Joseph L. Mankiewicz); The Last of Sheila (73, Ross); winning an Oscar for Barry Lyndon (75, Kubrick); Madam Kitty (76, Tinto Brass); The Seven-Per-Cent Solution (76, Ross); The Spy Who Loved Me (77, Gilbert); Moonraker (79, Gilbert).Illness caused a significant gap in his work in the early eighties, at which time his only credit was as design consultant on Pennies from Heaven (81, Ross). Since his return, he has been based in America and Bond-less. He also seems to work on more modest projects, while staying loyal to Herb Ross: King David (85, Bruce Beresford); Crimes of the Heart (86, Beresford); The Deceivers (88, Nicholas Meyer); Dead Bang (89, John Frankenheimer); The Freshman (90, Andrew Bergman); The Doctor (91, Randa Haines); Undercover Blues (93, Ross); Addams Family Values (93, Barry Sonnenfeld); then back to Britain, with another Oscar, on The Madness of King George (94, Nicholas Hytner); Boys on the Side (95, Ross); Bogus (96, Norman Jewison); In & Out (97, Frank Oz); The Out-of-Towners (99, Sam Weisman).Isabelle Adjani, b. Paris, 1955There is something so frank, so modern in her feelings, yet so classical in her aura, so passionate and so wounded, that Isabelle Adjani seems made to play Sarah Bernhardt one day. Why not? She is a natural wearer of costume capable of making us believe that the "period" world we are watching is happening now. She is bold, a mistress of her career, and has been a fiercely equal partner in her romantic relationships with Bruno Nuytten, Warren Beatty, and Daniel Day-Lewis.Her mother was German, and her father Algerian and Turkish. When only a teenager, she was invited to join the Comédie Française, playing to great praise in Lorca and Molière. She has been making movies since the age of fourteen: Le Petit Bougnat (69, Bernard T. Michel); Faustine ou le Bel été (71, Nina Companeez); La Gifle (74, Claude Pinoteau); and made an international impact as the love-crazed girl in L'Histoire d'Adèle H. (75, François Truffaut), for which she won an Oscar nomination.She was on the brink again in The Tenant (76, Roman Polanski); Barocco (76, André Téchiné); Violette et François (76, Jacques Rouffio); made an uneasy American debut in The Driver (78, Walter Hill); as a woman infatuated with the vampire in Nosferatu, Phantom der Nacht (79, Werner Herzog); as Emily in The Bronté Sisters (79, Téchiné); Possession (80, Andrzej Zulawski); and Clara et les Chics Types (80, Jacques Monnet).She played the central victim, a version of Jean Rhys, in Quartet (81, James Ivory); L'Année Prochaine si tout va bien (81, Jean-Loup Hubert); Tout Feu, Toute Flamme (82, Jean-Paul Rappeneau); Mortelle Randonnée (82, Claude Miller); Doktor Faustus (82, Frank Seitz); as Antonieta Rivas Mercadi, a melodramatic arts patron, in Antonieta (82, Carlos Saura); was stark naked for much of L'été Meurtrier (82, Jean Becker), something between an erotic force of nature and a village idiot; Subway (85, Luc Besson); entirely wasted in Ishtar (87, Elaine May).She was the producer as well as the star of Camille Claudel (88, Bruno Nuytten), her most overwhelming and characteristic performance, as a woman in love with art, exhilaration, and danger. Once more, she was nominated for the Oscar. If only Warren Beatty could have given her a role as strong. After four years, she made La Reine Margot (94, Patrice Chéreau). Granted that she does films so seldom, why do Diabolique (96, Jeremiah S. Chechik), with Sharon Stone, or La Repentie (02, Laetitia Masson)?Ben (Benjamin Geza) Affleck, b. Berkeley, California, 1972Here is a test of critical responsibility. On the one hand, I have a soft spot for Mr. Affleck in that he is the only actor who has played, or is ever likely to play, the man who founded the school I attended. I refer to Edward (or Ned) Alleyne, the Shakespearian actor-manager and founder of Dulwich College, as offered in Shakespeare in Love (98, John Madden). I daresay I would be joined in this sentiment by other Old Alleynians-Michael Powell, Clive Brook, Leslie Howard, Raymond Chandler, P. G. Wodehouse, Michael Ondaatje, and Paul Mayersberg, among others. But I have heard not one word from any of them, or from anyone, come to that, to dispute my other view that Mr. Affleck is boring, complacent, and criminally lucky to have got away with everything so far. If there was any doubt in my mind it was settled by the mere presence-and it wasn't anything more than mere-of Affleck in the travesty called Pearl Harbor (01, Michael Bay).Yet look what he has gotten away with: The Dark End of the Street (81, Jan Egleson); playing basketball in Buffy the Vampire Slayer (92, Fran Rubel Kuzui); School Ties (92, Robert Mandel); Dazed and Confused (93, Richard Linklater); Mallrats (95, Kevin Smith); the lead in Chasing Amy (97, Smith); Going All the Way (97, Mark Pellington); sharing in the script, and an Oscar, for Good Will Hunting (97, Gus Van Sant); Phantoms (98, Joe Chappelle); Armageddon (98, Michael Bay); 200 Cigarettes (99, Risa Bramon Garcia); Forces of Nature (99, Bronwen Hughes); Dogma (99, Smith); Boiler Room (00, Ben Younger); Reindeer Games (00, John Frankenheimer); Bounce (00, Don Roos); Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back (00, Smith); Changing Lanes (02, Roger Michell); taking over as Jack Ryan in The Sum of All Fears (02, Phil Aldon Robinson).I note that, into his early thirties, he is still playing one of the lads, just as in Pearl Harbor he was too old to be the boyhood pal of Josh Hartnett.James Agee (1909-55), b. Knoxville, TennesseeJames Agee looked a lot like a young Robert Ryan; he behaved as self-destructively as Nicholas Ray; but he was only himself as a writer on film. As one of his biographers, Laurence Bergreen, has written, "To Agee movies were not primarily a form of entertainment . . . they were . . . the indigenous art form. Good or bad, vulgar or exquisite, they were, more than any literary form, the mirror of American life. They were cheap, rude, hypocritical, democratic, occasionally inspired, usually humdrum-in short, they were American. For this reason he longed to find his way, however roundabout, into them."I take that last remark at face value: I think it was Agee's wish, not just to be involved with film people, in the making of the work, but-literally-to be in movies. That doesn't refer to some masked urge to act. It's something far more extensive: Agee wished to be perceived like a character from the best movies-intensely romantic, darkly handsome, and desirable, yet aloof, tough, moody, and doomed. Plainly, even if you know, intellectually, that some films are foolish, still, it follows that anyone wanting to live on the screen has to have faith in the grandeur and gravity of film. And so it follows that Agee's adult life coincides with the great age of self-belief in American cinema. Indeed, in 1945, he could write, in candor, "I can think of very few contemporary books that are worth the jackets they are wrapped in; I can think of very few movies, contemporary or otherwise, which fail to show that somebody who has worked on them . . . has real life or energy or intensity or intelligence or talent."Happy days-even if from this moment in time it is easier to have more respect for books.Agee went to Harvard, edited the Advocate, and took up booze and poetry in quantity. He was always a womanizer, and a mess personally, but he found a journalistic voice that lasted for about twenty years. It extended to the text for Let Us Now Praise Famous Men (1941), that classic of the rural Depression and hard lives, where Agee's text went with the photographs of Walker Evans-and in which Evans's photography shines with a sensuality that Agee delivered personally to some of the poor women. It also equipped him to be a film critic at Time and The Nation for much of the forties.He was far from reliable-he could write off Kane as a reservoir of hackneyed tricks, and he was of the opinion that Chaplin and Huston were without equal in America. But he wrote like someone who had not just viewed the movie but been in it-out with it, as if it were a girl; drinking with it; driving in the night with it. That direct physical response was new, it was done with terrific dash and insight, and it surely intuited the way people responded to movies in the forties. It was also, it seems to me, a powerful influence on Pauline Kael-I have a fond dream of the two of them snarling at each other, like the characters in The African Queen.Which brings us to the vexed matter of Agee's scripts. From the mid forties on, Agee made a set at Huston-it was authentic admiration, or hero worship, but it was also a pioneering case of the movie critic lusting to sit at the all-night dinner with the big guys and walk away with a writing job. Agee worked on the script and commentary of The Quiet One (49, Sidney Meyers); he did a script for The African Queen (51, Huston), which was substantially redone by others; he did the "Bride Comes to Yellow Sky" episode from Face to Face (52, John Brahm and Bretaigne Windust), and he wrote the first screenplay for The Night of the Hunter (55, Charles Laughton). Read more

Fish Tank: A Fable for Our Times (The Critter Chronicles)

Review FISH TANK is the ANIMAL FARM for our times. --Dr. Pete Coppolillo, Ecologist FISH TANK is a clever and fascinating fable that provides an insightful mirror on the folly of current human attitudes concerning climate change and global degradation. --Dr. Steven W. Running, Nobel Laureate as a member of the IPCC, University of Montana FISH TANK is a throw back to the times of Aesop...  Take it as a great story, but know that it is real. --Conrad Anker, elite mountaineer Just as the "Occupy" movement has shouted its intolerance for corporate greed and corruption, it's time we do the same when it comes to climate. We need a revelation. FISH TANK forces you to realize just that. --Kelly Matheson, Program Manager for the Americas, WITNESS, New York City FISH TANK could benefit young adults in the same way LORD OF THE FLIES benefitted previous generations, helping them understand that bad things can happen when self interested people are not kept in check. --Peter Cook, high school teacher, Melbourne Australia From the Author I am most hopeful that you enjoy the book, and that it gives you pause to reflect.  If you enjoy FISHK TANK and believe it has a message for our society, I would be honored if you let other folks know.  Best regards, Scott Bischke From the Inside Flap MORE REVIEWS I liked [FISH TANK] ALOT. One of the things I saw was the school culture that exists both at the middle school and the high school--the bully behavior--the trust issues--the respect that is given and missing. It was all there.  And on another level, I could see the whole creation, God care, expectation, loss and recovery. It would make a great book club read! Thanks for offering so many ways to reflect. --Nancy Jordheim, Assistant Superintendent, Fargo ND Public Schools I was really able to relate the issues and characters in FISH  TANK to issues and people that I deal with in my life.  FISH TANK leaves you thinking about the role you play in our society and challenging yourself do better. --Tessa Exley, student, age 14 I think that [FISH TANK] was a great read.  The storyline was great and the conflict was interesting and made you think about what the creatures could've or should've done....For me the moral/message of the book was not to be greedy, to be aware of your surroundings. Greediness can never lead to happiness and if you're self centered it affects the people around you.  To me, the book said that you need to listen to people.  Being a know-it-all is never the way to go.  Sometimes you're not always right. --Annie Lee, student, age 13 This is a great allegory--I can really see the political stereotypes and how they parallel our society.  The characters are universally western, not just American. We all know people like the fish in FISH TANK.  I really liked that the book did not leave you hopeless, that there is good that will last.  I read the book very quickly because I could not put it down!  I would love my friends to read it and think the book would be a good book club book. --Gwen Laurie, former book store owner from Canada, age 78 FISH TANK is an honest portrayal of the social dynamics that prevent us from confronting the problem of climate change.  The events in FISH TANK demonstrate that our instinct to survive as individuals is much stronger than our instinct to survive as a species.  The story challenges readers to rise above these base instincts and make the choice to face the problem together. --Natalie Meyer, Sustainability Director, City of Bozeman Montana I loved FISH TANK; I read it in one day!  The message is at once hopeful while realizing its impending tragedy.  It is regretful that everything must be so polarized, good versus evil with no room for cooperation.  Perhaps the children of the 21st century will usher in a renewed sense of collaboration between environmentalists and industry. --Hattie Baker, Climate Change and Sustainability Consultant From the Back Cover MORE REVIEWS Bischke serves up a cautionary tale both entertaining and dire--a cast of characters we recognize, and a message we ignore at our peril. --Alan Kesselheim, author of LET THEM PADDLE: Coming of Age on the Water and ten other books An important story for our times.  Let he who doesn't live in a glass aquarium cast the first stone! --Otto Pohl, entrepreneur and international journalist FISH TANK is a real eye opener!  It depicts today's current social and environmental issues in a simplified way eliminating the confusing political and economic jargon which clouds the urgency of these concerns.  It truly is a book for all ages because the future of our planet depends on everyone, not just a single generation. --Brittney Iverson, Marine Biologist Not only is FISH TANK a page turner, it is an important wake-up call as we head towards catastrophe with our heads in the sand.  Even sea-creatures have conflicts of interest, and in FISH TANK we see a story about how those that stood to make short-term gains endangered all life--surely this is the most important story of our modern society.  By telling it as an allegory, and encouraging readers to see the parallels with humanity, Bischke's book could have a profound impact. --Dr. Raina Plowright, DVM and PhD Ecologist A fun, poignant exploration of human nature!  Scott's allegory reaches beyond the story of climate change and invites readers to look at the human dynamics that drive so many of the challenges faced by society. --Kate Burnaby Wright, Ecologist While I was well aware of them, I found the political undertones of FISH TANK less important--I just liked the story and the emotions it brought forth.  I found myself caught up in the story, saying things like, "How selfish!" when the [xxx] were screwing things up! --Chris Coppolillo, Consulting Teacher Trainer So Nina LOVED your book!  Read the first little bit on her own, then wanted to read it out loud with me. Which we did for a couple of chapters.  And then this morning she just got INTO it and she read it every chance she got today (and yes, she did have to go to school) and tonight she FINISHED it.  The allegory is mostly missed on her, but she loved the animal characters and said things like, "Well people just believe what they want to believe, that's for sure!" while reading it. --Nina Coppolillo, student, age 10 (as told by her Mom) About the Author SCOTT BISCHKE lives with his wife, Katie Gibson, in Bozeman, MT.  He previously published three books, allnon-fiction:   o TrumpelStiltskin -- A Fairy Tale (MountainWorks Press 2016)o Good Camel, Good Life -- Finding Enlightenment One Drop of Sweat at a Time (MountainWorks Press 2010);o Crossing Divides -- A Couples' Story of Cancer, Hope, and HikingMontana's Continental Divide (American Cancer Society 2002); and o Two Wheels Around New Zealand -- A Bicycle Journey on Friendly Roads (Pruett Publishing hardback 1992; Ecopress paperback 1996). Along with his writing career, Scott has worked as a chemicalengineering science researcher at 3 national laboratories, as anenvironmental engineer for HP, as the lab director for theYellowstone Ecological Research Center, & as a science and technology writer&facilitator specializing in Greater Yellowstone Area science topics.  Scott's professional life has touched broadly on issues of resource management& climate change.  He has led programsfor materials reduction &recycling for a manufacturing plant, helped draftresearch plans &science agendas dealing with natural resource constraints & climate change, & completed projects scoped at reducing global warminggases from wafer fabrication processes.Most recently Scott served on the Mayor's Task Force to draft Bozeman'sClimate Action Plan.More personally, Scott & Katie have hiked, biked, and canoed in interestingplaces far & wide, including backpacking the length of the Continental Dividefrom Canada to Mexico, & hiking and canoeing the length of the YellowstoneRiver.  A common thread in all of Scottand Katie's travels has been their desire to immerse themselves in the peace,solitude, and tranquility of the natural world.  The couple seeks out people, places, andactivities that reinforce their desire to live a life filled with positiveenergy.  Perhaps more simply, they seekto live a life that reflects their gratitude for being alive each and everyday. Read more

Joni: The Anthology

Review Selected by Harper's Bazaar as one of the "Best New Books of 2017 (So Far)"A Library Journal Fall Editors' Pick "Nearly 50 years’ worth of critical efforts to solve Mitchell’s mysteries have now been rounded up in Barney Hoskyns’s Joni: The Anthology ....what comes through most consistently is a possessive impulse, a desire to really know an artist whose fierce privacy has often seemed at odds with the impression of intimacy conveyed by her music." -- Jack Hamilton, The Atlantic "Gemlike...true gold." -- O, The Oprah Magazine "Amazing." --Noisey "Some might say that the talent and virtuosity of Joni Mitchell are magical, even smacking of wizardry. For those of us who came upon her early works, when strong female voices were demanded and treasured, it seems only right to see her as editor Barney Hoskyns does: 'a towering troubadour and sometimes reckless daughter of America’s folk-rock revolution.' We’ve fallen in love with her." -- Library Journal "A fascinating compendium of interviews with a legend, many never read before." --Sheila Weller, author of Girls Like Us: Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon--And the Journey of a Generation “Legendary music critic and archivist Barney Hosyns’s JONI: The Anthology is a comprehensive, sensitive compilation.”― Elle "The least a reader can reasonably expect from the presentation of an anthology collecting criticism of and interviews with a legendary artist is a clear narrative path about the personality in question. Barney Hoskyn’s Joni: The Anthology certainly provides that and much more in this compelling, highly readable, and at times emotionally gripping tale of this singular, idiosyncratic, determined musical and visual artist." -- PopMatters" Joni: The Anthology celebrates the musical pioneer spirit that Mitchell exudes. This book...leaves no stone unturned, especially with early essays when Mitchell was coming onto the scene...One may want to read Joni more like a poetry book, experiencing different emotional beats within its articles." -- Edge Media Network "A must for music lovers." -- Booklist "Just when you think you know Joni Mitchell, you find such rare gems in Joni: the Anthology : 'It’s good to be exposed to politics and what’s going down here [the US], but it does damage to me. Too much of it can cripple me. And if I really let myself think about it - the violence, the sickness, all of it ― I think I’d flip out.' Joni Mitchell 1969." --Malka Marom, author of Joni Mitchell: In Her Own Words "The book inevitably creates a desire to hear Mitchell's music and perhaps try to track down some of her artwork, which at the end of the day are the reason the book exists in the first place." -- Kirkus Review "Thorough...a solid introduction to listeners new to Mitchell." -- Publishers Weekly "Joni: The Anthology invites you to sit in on a photoshoot as Mitchell, dressed in all black, mourns the loss of Bluebird, her stolen Mercedes Benz, which she bought with her first royalty check in 1969; learn why she snubbed the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s invitation for her own induction, or why she chose to not play her hits on that 1998 tour with Bob Dylan and Van Morrison; understand just why her most appreciated compliment from a blind black piano player was that her music was raceless and genderless―a corroboration to why American jazz pianist Charles Mingus invited Mitchell to pen words to his chops on Mingus ." -- Elmore Magazine About the Author Barney Hoskyns is the cofounder and editorial director of the online rock-journalism library Rock’s Backpages, and author of several books including Hotel California: the True-Life Adventures of Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young, Mitchell, Taylor, Browne, Ronstadt, Geffen, the Eagles, and their Many Friends (2005), Lowside of the Road: A Life of Tom Waits (2009), Small Town Talk: Bob Dylan, The Band, Van Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and friends in the Wild Years of Woodstock (2016), and Never Enough: A Way through Addiction (2017). A former U.S. correspondent for MOJO , Hoskyns has contributed to Vogue , Rolling Stone , The Guardian, GQ, and Uncut . Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Joni The Anthology By Barney Hoskyns Picador Copyright © 2017 Backpages Ltd.All rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-250-14862-9 Contents Title Page, Copyright Notice, Acknowledgements, Our Lady of Sorrows: An Introduction, Barney Hoskyns, Part One: Urges for Going (1943–1967), Part Two: Our Lady of the Canyon (1968–1972), Part Three: A Dream to Fly (1972–1977), Part Four: Singing Clear Notes Without Fear (1978–1988), Part Five: Doomsday Joan (1991–1998), Part Six: Both Sides, Then (2000–2014), Contributors, Index, About the Editor, Copyright, CHAPTER 1 Beginnings Nicholas Jennings, from Before the Gold Rush: Flashbacks to the Dawn of the Canadian Sound (Toronto: Penguin Canada, 1997) In 1958, Joni Mitchell was still Joan Anderson, a fifteen-year-old living in Saskatoon. That year, she purchased her first instrument – a $36 baritone ukulele – with money she earned from modelling. The ukulele was an alternative to a guitar, which her mother had strictly forbidden. But it enabled her to accompany herself singing Kingston Trio songs and other folk material of the day. Coincidentally, Neil Young also received a ukulele from his parents around the same time, while living in Pickering, Ontario. The thirteen-year-old Young, who, like Mitchell, also suffered a childhood case of polio, had been inspired by seeing Elvis perform on TV's Ed Sullivan Show. As the only child born to William and Myrtle Anderson in Fort McLeod, Alberta, Roberta Joan had grown up in Saskatoon – not far from [Buffy] Sainte-Marie's own birthplace on the Cree Indian Piapot Reserve in the Qu'Appelle Valley. A self-described 'good-time Charlie', Joni first wrecked her stockings dancing to the jukebox jive of Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley and the Coasters. But at a certain point, like many teenagers in the early '60s, she traded rock's 'jungle rhythms' for the more cerebral qualities of folk music. 'Rock'n'roll went through a really dumb, vanilla period,' she recalled. 'And during that period, folk came in to fill the hole.' At parties, Anderson began to lead singalongs, accompanying herself on baritone ukulele with chords she'd learned from a Pete Seeger instruction record. While performing at a local wiener roast in 1961, the eighteen-year-old caught the fancy of some people connected with Prince Albert's TV station who promptly booked her as a onetime replacement for a late-night moose-hunting show. Two years later, while working as a waitress at Saskatoon's Louis Riel coffee house, Anderson ventured to the stage during one of the Riel's weekly 'hoot nights'. Sitting on a stool, the pigtailed performer screeched into the microphone and plunked away on her ukulele for some puzzled onlookers. Indeed, her developing taste for folk music left more than a few people bewildered. 'My friends who knew me as a rock'n'roll dancer found this change kind of hard to relate to,' she admitted recently. 'The songs at that time [were] folk songs and English ballads, and English ballads are always [about] "the cruel mother" and there's a lot of sorrow in them. But they had beautiful melodies, that was the thing, and I always loved melody. Melody is generally melancholy and sad and the text that accompanies it must be the same.' In the fall of '63, Anderson enrolled at the Alberta College of Art in Calgary to pursue her interest in painting. But she continued to entertain thoughts of becoming a folk singer and was soon showing up at Calgary's Depression coffee house. Will Millar, then a budding folk singer and later the leader of the Irish Rovers, recalls: 'Joni came with her uke and tormented us all with a shrill "Sloop John B" and "I With I Wath an Apple on a Twee".' But by the following year, Anderson had improved enough that the Depression paid her $15 to entertain weekend audiences of mostly fellow art students. She even got hired to perform at Edmonton's Yardbird Suite coffee house, which, along with the Depression and Vancouver's Bunkhouse, was a major stop on the folk circuit in Western Canada. With a guitar now in hand, Joni Anderson purchased a one-way train ticket from Calgary to Toronto and set out to attend Mariposa in July '64. She'd quit art college and, whether she knew it yet or not, was a couple of months pregnant – the result of a love affair with fellow art student Brad MacMath. Somewhere between the Prairies and the Lakehead, she penned her first song, 'Day by Day', a bluesy piece written to the rhythm of the train wheels that she later described as a 'feeling-sorry-for-myself' song. Joni arrived in Toronto and took a bus up to Orillia only to find that Mariposa was in trouble. The previous year's festival had attracted such an unexpected flood of people that the town of Orillia had been overwhelmed. Although it was hardly a disaster of Woodstock proportions, there had been complaints of traffic jams, inadequate facilities and well-publicised acts of drunken debauchery. The local police chief claimed that the festival had given Orillia 'the worst forty-eight hours in its history'. So even though Mariposa had been granted permission to use nearby farmland for the '64 festival, a nervous town council blocked the move at the last minute – and the courts upheld the decision just one day before the festival was scheduled to open. When Anderson and other early birds showed up, organisers were in complete chaos, faced with the monumental task of packing up and moving several tons of equipment and supplies back to Toronto, where the Maple Leaf baseball stadium had been lined up as a last-minute venue. According to the festival's Martin Onrot, Joni helped to load trucks along with other volunteers. Then, at the stadium by Lake Ontario, she and others braved the rain and cold temperatures to watch performances by blues legends Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, Mississippi John Hurt and others. In particular, Anderson studied the distinctive vibrato style of Sainte-Marie, who enjoyed no fewer than four standing ovations. After the festival, the new girl in town had to find a place to crash. She discovered a rooming house in the Annex neighbourhood of the city and to make ends meet landed herself a sales job in ladies' wear at the Simpson's department store. Although Anderson must have figured it out by then, her pregnancy was still not evident. Eventually, her weekly wage would enable her to pay the dues required to join the Musicians' Union. In the meantime, she settled for playing several non-union coffee houses in Yorkville. The first to hire her was the Penny Farthing, which featured novice folk singers in its basement. That same month, February '65, Joni Anderson gave birth to a daughter. A month earlier, she had moved out of the Annex rooming house and into an apartment above the nearby Lickin' Chicken restaurant with Vicky Taylor, another folk singer. Taylor remembers that Joni brought the baby girl home for a couple of weeks. But when she realised she could neither support the child financially nor get on with her singing career, she made the wrenching decision to place her daughter with foster parents. 'That really tore her apart,' recalls Taylor. 'She knew that she couldn't be a single mum and do anything with her music. It was a really hard decision for her to make.' The decision haunted Joni for many years. She left clues about the baby, whom she had named Kelly, in some of her songs, including 'Little Green' from her Blue album. In a fairy-tale ending worthy of a Disney movie, Mitchell and her daughter, whose adoptive name is Kilauren Gibb, met each other again in March 1997 in an extraordinary, media-hyped reunion. Above the Lickin' Chicken Joni began writing songs in earnest. Taylor remembers her getting up in the middle of the night and working, sometimes until dawn. 'One morning,' says Taylor, 'she told me that she'd woken up with a tune going around in her head and couldn't go back to sleep until she worked it all out.' That song turned out to be 'Here Today and Gone Tomorrow', one of several that she later described as 'lost-love pieces for a wandering Australian who really did me in'. By the spring of '65, Joni Anderson was back struggling to find work as a folk singer. She landed gigs at the Half Beat and the New Gate of Cleve, where Mariposa's Estelle Klein saw her for the first time. 'She wasn't doing all her own material,' recalled Klein, 'but she was a nice singer and had a very charming manner.' Bernie Fiedler [owner of the Riverboat coffeehouse] was not so quickly impressed, offering the folk singer a job in the kitchen when she first inquired about work at the Riverboat. She turned it down. (Fiedler has always denied this story, but she insists it's true.) Fiedler says he does remember saying to Joni, 'So, Miss Anderson, I see you're going for the Baez sound,' a comment that surely must have rankled her. Truth was, the more she wrote her own material, the less derivative she sounded. 'Once I began to write,' she admitted, 'my vocal style changed. My Joan Baez/Judy Collins influence disappeared. Almost immediately, when I had my own words to sing, my own voice appeared.' You might say Joni Anderson was on the rebound from losing her daughter or maybe it was the wandering Australian. But when the older and wiser Chuck Mitchell blew into town that June she was clearly vulnerable. He was the 'star' folk singer from Detroit, performing upstairs at the Penny Farthing while she was the local girl on the basement stage. When he turned on the charm, the impressionable Joni found him hard to resist. 'I was at an indecisive time in my life,' she later admitted, 'and he was a strong force. He decided he was gonna marry me. So he dragged me across the border, got me some work and we were quickly married.' Quickly is right. Vicky Taylor remembers the courtship as lasting all of thirty-six hours. The two were married in Mitchell's parents' backyard in Rochester, Michigan. 'I was totally shocked,' says Taylor, 'but I figured Joni knew what she was doing.' She and Chuck moved into a cheap fifth-floor apartment on Detroit's Wayne university campus and Joni moved into her husband's world. Chuck was well known on the coffee house circuit and soon their apartment became a crash pad for visiting folkies, from Gordon Lightfoot and Buffy Sainte-Marie to Tom Rush and Eric Andersen. Andersen taught Joni some unusual open tunings on the guitar, which she quickly used to write new songs. Chuck and Joni began touring together, playing Detroit's Chess Mate coffee house and New York's Gaslight Café. Recalled Joni, 'I wasn't very good, and I had a lot of trouble with the audience booing and hissing and saying, "Take your clothes off, sweetheart." Things like that really shook me up because I didn't know how to counter or act. I thought I'd bombed.' Larry LeBlanc, writing in Rolling Stone in 1971, described the Chuck and Joni show as a variety act, with him performing very theatrical Brechtian shtick and Joni doing her own folky thing. When they did team up on duets the songs they sang were often Lightfoot's. During the spring of '65, while Chuck and Joni were touring the 4D Club circuit, Joni started adding some of her own material into her sets, including 'Both Sides Now', a song she'd written about growing up. One night, after playing at Winnipeg's 4D, a tall kid with a Beatle haircut shuffled up, introduced himself as Neil Young and told her he'd written his own coming-of-age song. Later, as the café was closing, Neil played Joni the bittersweet 'Sugar Mountain', which he'd written on his nineteenth birthday. Moved by its tale of a boy too old for the fairground, Joni wrote a response – 'The Circle Game'. In her song, which cleverly echoes the carnival imagery of 'Sugar Mountain', she assures the boy that 'there'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty'. In August 1965 Joni took her new material to Mariposa, held for the first time at Innis Lake north-west of Toronto. On a weekend hit by heavy thunderstorms, she made her last appearance as Joni Anderson, sharing the stage with Ian & Sylvia, Phil Ochs, bluesman Son House and the Dirty Shames (during a power failure one night, Ochs had to sing through a megaphone while illuminated by car headlights). Joni went over well, both in concert and at a songwriters' workshop. But she insisted on singing only her own songs, which at that point were precious few apart from 'Both Sides Now' and 'The Circle Game'. Some people complained, Estelle Klein recalled. 'They said, "She's really nice, but she's singing the same thing over and over again." So when I invited her back for the next year, I said, "Joni, I really like what you do, but could you expand your repertoire a little?"' In the car ride back to Toronto from Mariposa in August 1965, Joni wrote a new lyric: 'It's like running for a train that left the station hours ago/I've got the urge for going.' Although she has explained that the song was written about the changing folk scene and the need for moving on, it also reflected what was happening in her relationship with Chuck. 'It was not a marriage made in heaven,' she admitted. 'He was relatively well-educated and in contempt of my lack of education. I was developing as an original, unschooled thinker [with] the gift of the blarney [and] the gift of metaphor. But he ridiculed me in the same way that Pierre Trudeau ridiculed his wife Margaret when she wrote her book. [Trudeau] said, "My wife is the only writer I know who's written more books than she's read." So there was this educated pride versus the uneducated and the marriage didn't last very long.' Still, Chuck did give Joni something other than a married name. He advised her to protect her songwriting by forming her own publishing company, something she still gives him credit for. Her marriage on the rocks, Mitchell ran into more chauvinism in October when she appeared on CTV's Let's Sing Out program with US folk singers Dave Van Ronk and Patrick Sky. Mitchell felt inferior alongside these experienced performers and was looking to them for encouragement. But as she recalled, she didn't get it. 'Van Ronk was saying things like, "Joni, you've got groovy taste in clothes, why don't you become a fashion model?"' she said. 'And Sky was saying, "It sucks."' But, she added, 'David did like "Urge for Going" and he asked me for it, I remember. I wondered what ulterior motive he had in mind after saying all those dreadful things to me. I thought, he must just want to laugh at it or something. I was that insecure about my writing.' Despite that insecurity – or maybe because of it – Mitchell threw herself into songwriting with a vengeance. At the same time, other artists began recording her songs. First 'Urge for Going' got a country treatment by George Hamilton IV, followed by versions by Tom Rush, Judy Collins and Van Ronk. Then Ian & Sylvia and Buffy Sainte-Marie covered 'The Circle Game'. Suddenly, Joni Mitchell's name was known on the US coffee house circuit and her songs were earning her a tidy income to boot. Joni Mitchell faced a much more receptive crowd at Mariposa that summer (1966). In fact, Mitchell returned to the festival as one of its most popular attractions, joining a line-up that included Gordon Lightfoot, Doc Watson and the New Lost City Ramblers. Dressed in paisley and accompanied by guitarist David Rea, Mitchell captivated audiences at both her evening and afternoon performances. This time she brought a suitcase full of new songs, including 'Both Sides Now' and 'Night in the City', which she told her audience was inspired by Yorkville. 'Music comes spilling out into the street,' she sang. 'Colours go flashing in time.' Mitchell's appearance was a resounding triumph. 'This girl has everything,' enthused Ruth Jones (the Mariposa founder) in Hoot, the Canadian folk magazine; 'looks, charm, personality, an inventive mind, excellent guitar and, above all, a voice which ranges from gutsy to sublime. My guess is that she will be a name to reckon with – and soon.' Only two years earlier, Mitchell had come to Mariposa to hear her heroine Buffy Sainte-Marie. Now she was one of the festival's major stars. In November '66, Joni Mitchell made her debut at Bernie Fiedler's Riverboat – on the stage, not in the kitchen. It was a triumphant performance, establishing Mitchell as an artist in her own right and a songwriter whose material possessed a distinct Canadian quality. Songs like 'Urge for Going', 'Winter Lady' and 'Come to the Sunshine' that she performed that week were rich in imagery. Each painted a vivid portrait of the changing seasons and owed much to her origins on the Saskatchewan Prairies. Like Tyson and Lightfoot before her, Mitchell was writing songs with a unique sense of place. Her Riverboat performance was a turning point. Afterwards, Mitchell left her husband and moved to New York where, she hoped, bigger things lay in store. Settling in Manhattan's Chelsea district, she turned her one-bedroom apartment into what she called her 'magic princess' retreat, with bedroom walls covered in tinfoil and door frames lined with crepe paper. There she began writing as many as four songs a week, including the buoyant 'Chelsea Morning' (for which US president Bill Clinton and his wife Hillary later named their daughter). 'I Had a King' detailed her marriage break-up with its lines about the man who 'carried me off to his country for marriage too soon'. With $400 in the bank, she told Rolling Stone she thought she was 'filthy rich'. (Continues...) Excerpted from Joni by Barney Hoskyns . Copyright © 2017 Backpages Ltd.. Excerpted by permission of Picador. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

A Hundred Small Lessons: A Novel

Review Praise for A Hundred Small Lessons : “A reflective, mystical meditation on interconnectedness and shared experiences…that will prompt readers to reflect on how one life can be commingled with the past as well as be a first draft of the future.” ― Shelf Awareness, starred review “Numerous scenes in this thoughtful novel will linger in the reader’s memory …A lyrically written portrayal of the lives of two women tied together by memories and the house they share, A Hundred Small Lessons is sure to be enjoyed by readers of Kate Morton.” ― BookPage (Top Pick) “Hay’s prose is stunningly, shatteringly beautiful , and the emotional punch she delivers as the women’s paths ultimately converge makes this seemingly quiet novel a breathless and powerful read .” ― San Francisco Book Review “Hay truly encapsulates how our lives are interwoven . We are sent on a journey through the decades as small events and echoes of memories overlap, intersect and suddenly converge into a beautiful portrait spanning the past, present and future. Every word has a purpose and resonates …Readers will fall in love with the vivid landscapes of Brisbane and the impeccable, lyrical language that seeps from the pages.”  ― RT Book Reviews "If you haven’t read anything by Ashley Hay, you are in for a treat : her language is lyrical, the lives she creates are authentic, her words are a delight to read. This is another delightful book from a very talented writer ." ― WAMC Radio “This contemplative novel explores the emotions of saying goodbye to a life of familiarity and embracing the unknown …Readers who loved the quiet introspection of Anita Shreve’s The Pilot’s Wife and Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge will enjoy the detailed emotional journeys of Hay’s characters. Their stories will linger long after the final page is turned.” ― Library Journal “If home is where the heart is, when does a house become a home—or, conversely, stop being one? Two women struggle to find the answer…Elsie’s aging memories give the book a timeless sense of marriage and motherhood and perhaps a flicker of what Lucy may find in her future. The home that Elsie must give up with regret, Lucy must learn to love. This is typical of Hay who slowly weaves a tale of past and present lives, exploring the sense that the gap between the two women is not impervious to sensitive souls. Both Elsie and Lucy are finely and sympathetically drawn , and their lives highlight issues that affect many women. A cerebral tale, slow-moving but profound .”  -- Kirkus“Her intricately layered story, bolstered by perspectives of an old mother and a young one, tackles the thorny questions of what it means to become a parent and how it feels to be no longer needed as one. Lyrical and tenderhearted , this will delight fans of Liane Moriarty and Kate Hewitt.” ― Booklist “Engaging…Hay’s perceptive prose illuminates both Elsie’s and Lucy’s lives, resulting in a rich dual character study that spans generations .” ― Publishers Weekly “A book that overflows with gratitude for the hard, beautiful things of this world , and for the saving worlds of our imagination.” -- Helen Garner, award-winning author of Everywhere I Look"An emotional and satisfying read about navigating life's many phases and how place can transform who we are." ― Hello! Canada “Hay renders the small details of an undramatic, decent life with tenderness that is touching and compelling …a measured piece of writing that works carefully to create pensive and evocative images of time and place and people.” ― The Australian “ A Hundred Small Lessons explores notions of home, family, identity, creativity, aging and our relationship with cities and the natural world .…Hay explores the ways in which we inhabit spaces: building homes and filling them with our possessions, dreams, regrets, fears and secrets. This graceful novel, with its unflinching approach to reality and its gentle undercurrents of sadness, nostalgia and hope, is a highly recommended read for fans of literary fiction.” ― Books + Publishing (Australia), five stars “Hay’s intelligent scrutiny of the human psyche gives depth to this neatly constructed story.”  ― Sydney Morning Herald (Australia) “ Deeply affecting …Hay’s unique novel glides like a swan and only after the last page do you realize how deeply you’ve dived.” ― Country Style (Australia) “Hay creates a compelling story, charting what it is to be human.” ― Mindfood (Australia) “Hay explores with considerable empathy and insight the everyday lives of two very different generations…With a lovely attention to the detail of things and feelings, Hay enlists our concern for her characters and an appreciation for the revealing echoes they call up in our own lives.” ― The Advertiser (Australia) "A luminous evocation of ordinary lives and the city that shapes them. Ashley Hay brings a pointillist eye to the daily miracles of love, of chance, of belonging ." -- Kristina Olsson ― award-winning author of Boy, Lost Praise for The Railwayman's Wife : “Exquisitely written and deeply felt, The Railwayman's Wife is limpid and deep as the rock pools on the coastline beloved by this book’s characters and just as teeming with vibrant life. Ashley Hay’s novel of love and pain is a true book of wonders.” -- Geraldine Brooks, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Secret Chord“ The Railwayman’s Wife is a fine evocation of place and time - a vivid love letter to a particular corner of post-war Australia. Ashley Hay writes with subtle insight about grief and loss and the heart's voyage through and beyond them. It's a lovely, absorbing, and uplifting read.” -- M.L. Stedman, author of The Light Between Oceans “The Railwayman's Wife is a beautifully attentive study of what comes after - after a funeral, after a war - and Ashley Hay is a wise and gracious guide through this fascinating territory. This is a book in which grief and love are so entwined they make a new and wonderful kind of sense.” -- Fiona McFarlane, author of The Night Guest“Ashley Hay weaves a moving tale of love, loss and hope.” ― Us Weekly “Hay’s poetic gifts are evident in her descriptions of the wild coastal landscape and Roy’s measured verse. This poignant, elegant novel delves into the depth of tragedy, the shaky ground of recovery, and the bittersweet memories of lost love.” ― Booklist “Multilayered, graceful, couched in poetry, supremely honest, gentle yet jarring, Hay's thought-provoking novel pulls you along slowly, like a deep river that is deceptively calm but full of hidden rapids. Much to ponder.” ― Kirkus Reviews “Significant moments are described with astoundingly solid writing, and the coastal setting is beautifully depicted. Previously released to critical acclaim in Australia in 2013 and a 2014 winner of the Colin Roderick Prize in the UK, this second novel from Hay is the kind of slow, ruminative, evocative story that will appeal to devotees of literary fiction.” ― Library Journal “After wow-ing European audiences, this book is coming stateside to dazzle you…Beautifully written, and featuring some excellent passages about writing and reading itself, this book will have you feeling every emotion at once.” ― Bustle “Hay has lovingly crafted a poignant, character-driven novel filled with heartache and hope, which is transferred to the reader through lyrical prose, poetic dialogue and stunning imagery.” ― RT Magazine “A literary and literate gem of a book that leaves you with a set of emotions that I suspect last for a long, long time.” ― Psychology Today "This story is a study in emotion: grief, hope, love, redemption, and yearning. The prose is so elegant that it seems to glide.” ― Historical Novel Society "Hay delicately threads together the lives of a widowed librarian, an unproductive poet, and a guilt-ridden doctor as they grapple with life after loss in post-World War II Thirroul, a small seaside village in New South Wales, Australia." ― Coastal Living About the Author Ashley Hay is the internationally acclaimed author of the novels A Hundred Small Lessons , The Body in the Clouds , and The Railwayman’s Wife , which was honored with the Colin Roderick Award by the Foundation for Australian Literary Studies and longlisted for the Miles Franklin Literary Award, the most prestigious literary prize in Australia, among numerous other accolades. She has also written four nonfiction books. She lives in Brisbane, Australia. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. A Hundred Small Lessons 1 Elsie’s house IT WAS early on a winter’s morning when she fell—the shortest day of 2010, the woman on the radio said. From where Elsie lay, quite still and curled comfortably on the thick green carpet between the sofa and the sideboard, she could see how the sun coming in through the back door made a triangle on the kitchen floor. The light caught the pattern on the linoleum and touched the little nests of dust that her broom had missed under the lip of the kitchen cupboards. The bright triangle changed as the minutes passed, disappearing from the kitchen to pop up first in the back bedroom, then across the busy pattern of Nile green and white tiles in the bathroom. Later, in her own bedroom, it reached almost all the way across the floor to the thick rose-colored chenille of her bedspread, before it swung around further towards the west in search of the sunroom. The pile of the carpet, from where she lay, looked like neatly sheared blades of grass, the tidy job of mowing that Clem would have done. There was something comforting about being this close to the topography of the house. She knew this place so well. She wasn’t sure if it was an extension of her, or she of it. So this was a new kind of exploration, noticing the way the floor sloped a little into the spare room, and how the beading sagged slightly on one segment of the ceiling. Topography: she counted through the letters—ten. Geography; landscape. The answer to fourteen down in that morning’s crossword, where she’d been trying to make “projection” fit. She was losing her touch. From outside, she could hear the kookaburra; he’d be looking for his food. You could set your watch by him, she thought. There were cars on the road, the squeak of the swing in the park, the rich buzz of aeroplanes climbing up from the airport, the chatter of lorikeets, corellas. All that activity; it was nice to lie still among it—although the kookaburra would be disappointed she’d put nothing out today. And then the house muttered a little too, its boards creaking and stretching as the day warmed. It was a consoling sound. They’d had a long chat, Elsie Gormley and this house, more than sixty years of it. It had witnessed all her tempers, all her moods, and usually improved them. It held her voice, her husband’s, her children’s, and now their children’s in turn—echoes and repetitions lodged in around the baseboards, around the window frames like those pale motes of dust that had wedged at the edge of the kitchen floor. “Reverb,” one of Don’s young boys had told her—Don’s own grandson, she supposed: her great-grandson then. The one with the noisy guitar. “Imagine it like this, Nan: layers of echoes arranged to make it sound like you’re in a great big space.” Well, ‘reverb,’ she thought clearly. A nice word. She liked to keep abreast of what they knew, how they lived—their magic gadgets, their shiny new phones. Like this, Nan: one swipe and it turns on. She swiped her fingers now against the thick green carpet. Yes, she could almost hear it. All those voices; all those years. It was lunchtime, and then afternoon, and as the sun sank lower, she wondered how cold it might get, there on the floor, overnight. She was eighty-nine years old, and her bones were brittle and tired. The neighbors came then, one to the front door, one to the back. “Elsie,” they called, “are you there, love? Are you right?” “I’m not here,” she said, and lay still, wondering if she could turn her head far enough to see the fiery clouds of the sunset through the windows at the front of the house. There were sirens in the street—she could see the reflections of blue and red flashing lights on the wallpaper above her head—and then a policeman broke in through the door. By whose authority, she thought she said, but no one seemed to hear and she was onto a stretcher and into an ambulance before she had time to realize she didn’t have her shoes. Imagine leaving home without your shoes. It was cold in the back of the ambulance and too bright. She wanted her cardigan. She wanted to sleep. If she could move her head slightly, she might see the steps, the porch, the battered front door. If she could lever herself up a bit more. But she couldn’t. “Rightio, love.” The uniformed man was far too cheerful for his job. Elsie closed her eyes. “I don’t think I’m ready to go.” Her voice, this time, quite loud and clear. In the hospital, a fortnight later on, she thought they said she was going home, but it wasn’t her home they took her to. Some other place, with a bright new apartment for her, a view down to the river, a bell she could press for attention, and meals, if she preferred it, in a hall. She had her shoes now, and her cardigan—they were bringing her mountains of stuff for such a short stay. “What’s that word? ‘Respite?’?” she said to Donny when he came one day at lunch. “Sort of, Mum,” he said. “In a way.” She’d signed some papers about some people she’d never heard of, a pair called Ben Carter and Lucy Kiss. Donny’s wife Carol said they had a little boy. But what was that to do with her? Were they tenants for her house while she was here? “Sort of, Mum,” said Don again. “Yes. In a way.” “Well, make sure they keep up the garden. Your father will never forgive me if that rockery goes wrong.” Clem Gormley. Now, where was he? When did they say he’d be here? “Ben Carter,” said Don, squaring the papers. “Lucy Kiss. I think we’ve made the right choice.” Of course, she knew what was happening; she knew where she was. The facility, she’d always called it, with its apartments for the well ones, and rooms—then wards—for those who weren’t. It was just a stop or so on the bus along from her place, and its back fence butted the sports fields where Donny’s grandkids played. She could walk home from here, she thought. Be back in no time. She’d lived in that house more than sixty years—nearly sixty-three, she worked out as she lay the first night in her new room in her old bed and her old, cold sheets. She could remember the day they moved in, the size of their loan so cripplingly vast that she never dared to speak of it to Clem. To even put it into words. Back when the house was fresh and new. The house whose lawns her husband had so carefully tended. Rest his soul: yes. That was it. And yet in spite of so many years, the day she fell, the day she lay there on the floor, was the first time she’d seen the way the light moved from one room to another, tracking from the back of the house to the front, calling into corners, illuminating space. Such a lovely thing to have seen, she thought. Such a lovely day to have spent. The modest house was sold, as the real estate agent had promised, in next to no time. “A big block like this, with the park at the back, and the shops, and so close to the city—no trouble at all,” the agent had said. Elsie’s children, the twins, Don and Elaine, came to empty the house for the sale. Elaine swept shelves of items into bags, disposing of them in the gaping maw of a dumpster emptied once, emptied twice. Don went through things piece by piece: cutlery drawers, button boxes, the old letter rack from the high kitchen shelf. Some of its receipts and notes dated from decades before. There were photos in there too: a gallery of grandkids, an image of Elsie before her own children were born, and the house up to its windows in water during the ’74 flood. He stood a while, wiping the dust off this last image. “That bloody flood—you know, I don’t think she ever got over it. We should have made her sell the house back then.” “And made no money on it—who’d have bought here, after that? We’re lucky that people forget.” Elaine had the fridge door open and shoveled jars and packets into a garbage bag. “Look at this—all out of date.” “Carol used to take her shopping once a week; some of it should be all right.” Don slipped the flood photo underneath the other pictures, and stared a while at a tiny black and white of his mother, taken almost seventy years ago. “She was so pretty, wasn’t she, when she first married Dad? This must have been when she was working at that chemist’s in the city, before we were born. She always said she felt important, behind the counter in her starched white coat.” He turned the photo over: “January 1941,” he read. “The year we were born—and that’ll be seventy years ago, soon.” He shook his head at this impossible thought. “So strange that she’ll never come home. Do you mind if I take these?” “This milk’s two months past its date.” Elaine dropped it into the bag, bursting the carton so that the room filled with a terrible, sour smell. “I wonder why she never went back to work—she must have been so bored. God, we should have got a cleaner in and—oh!” Her hand at her throat as a crow, big and shiny black, landed on the threshold, cocking its head to look through the door. “You don’t mind if I take these, Elaine?” Elaine tied the bag with a savage twist. “Whatever you like.” She glanced across at him. “You were always more sentimental than me—here.” One of the pictures had dropped on the floor. “Here’s another.” She reached down and passed it across. It was a photo of a portrait, and Don frowned. “It’s a painting, but it almost looks like Mum.” He held it close to get a better look. “A painting of Mum? Let me see.” His sister took it from him and went out onto the deck, studying it in the sun. “It can hardly have been her,” she said at last, folding the print—in half, then half again—and stuffing it into her pocket. “As if she’d get a portrait done like that.” Most of the furniture went to a thrift store, along with the clothes and almost everything from the glass-fronted kitchen cupboards: the crystal, the crockery, the pots and the pans. “Of course, she’s not dead yet,” said Elaine, which made Don wince as he set aside a painted vase he thought was his mother’s favorite and a book he remembered her reading, years ago, around the time that his father had died. She looked small in the new place, he thought. She looked lost. “I must get back to reading to your father,” she said when he next visited, patting the old paperback with its spotted pages and crumbly cover. “And did you bring my house keys? How will I get in when I go home?” In each room, there was something Don balked at removing. The sideboard in the lounge where his own school sports trophies still sat arranged on one end. A plastic fern in the sunroom. The velvet-covered stool in front of his mother’s dressing table. “Your father did that upholstery—lovely rose-colored velvet; a present one birthday,” Elsie said when he mentioned it. “He said it was fit for a queen.” She smiled. “But you’re right: I won’t need it while I’m here.” She’d watched her reflection change through the decades as she’d sat on that elegant stool, her hair fading from a warm chestnut brown down to grey and the skin under her fine chin loosening. All those crystal canisters on the dressing table; the vials of perfume she’d never quite finished. Who was keeping up the dusting and the sweeping while she was away? Was Elaine chipping her nail polish pulling out the little weeds that grew between the white pebbles in the front garden? She doubted it. When she visualized her daughter, she saw a younger version of herself. She was always astonished when the real Elaine arrived and looked, and was, so very different.  When the new people came, they put the stool and the fern into a dumpster along with all the wallpaper—“a different pattern in every room,” said the husband, Ben, laughing—and the thick green carpet. “Last vacuumed . . .” He shrugged, glancing down at his small son. “I think Tom’s found a cockroach to eat.” Ben was taller than he stood, his shoulders curled from years hunched over writing. His dark hair was greying and he kept his glasses on top of his head, ready to read things at a moment’s notice. He looked down at his son, his hands busy with the desiccated insect, with a detached kind of appraisal. “But these floorboards are going to look lovely,” said his wife, Lucy, taking the cockroach out of the boy’s hand. “It’s such beautiful wood. And look, they’ve left a pile of pretty doilies.” They were bundled together behind the door, and she paused for a moment, stroking the patterns on the delicate white linen runners and mats—a suite of flowers and fruit and elaborate twirling curls. “Look at this—” holding up a star-shaped doily for her husband to admire. “So fine: the stitching’s as neat on the back as it is on the front. I wonder if they meant to take them; seems a shame that no one wanted them. Or maybe they meant them for us.” Sitting on the floor, Tom unpacked small white pebbles from the back of a brightly colored plastic truck. “Star,” he said, pointing to the shape his mother held. “Star.” “That’s a beautiful word—and a whole new one.” Lucy smiled so much she was crying. “See, Lu?” said Ben, brushing her deep red hair away from her forehead. “I knew we’d be all right here.”  They spent three weeks stripping, painting, moving. The first night they slept in the house, Lucy woke at three, disoriented by the map made by the beading on the ceiling. Which house was this? Which city, which country? In the past years they’d been all over the place—to Washington, to London, back to Sydney, and now to Brisbane. Where they seemed to have bought a house. “First step to feeling settled,” Ben had declared—and Lucy thought she ought to trust that he was right. Brisbane: the place where he’d grown up. Now it was where Tom would grow up too, while Ben went off to his new job with the paper. Gadgets, inventions, and discoveries had always been the things that piqued his interest (Lucy preferred more seriously to describe it as science or technology), and he’d at last been approached to cover that round. “I’d be mad not to give it a go—all those magnificent stories,” he’d said in Sydney when the offer was first made. “We’ll stay here until Tom turns one, then we’ll go. Come on—the next adventure!” She had jobs that she did—administration, management. He had a job that he loved. That was how they both defined their working lives. “You’re mad to go,” her sisters had said. “Tom’s so tiny. You need your networks.” “Get back to work,” her mother had said. “Best way to settle into a new place.” “You’ll have a ball,” her father had said. “A whole new city—and take your time.” Their standard difference of opinion, thought Lucy, and here I am. She stared at the ceiling. Old bed, new house. It was the first house they’d ever bought. They’d been in Brisbane a month or so—and back in Sydney barely a year before that. She was unpacking boxes in this house that she’d packed in London, in Washington before that. She’d never thought of it as moving but as arriving, and there was a trick to arriving somewhere new—a person or a place that made it easy, or a sliver of coincidence that made her think they’d landed precisely where they ought to be. “And now, the great Australian dream,” Ben had joked. “The kid, the house, the mortgage.” How very fast they’d made that real. Now, in the night’s light, she looked at her husband’s face as he slept—he was always smiling, home each night with some great story, some great new moment from his day. While she made spaceships for Tom as she emptied their boxes, and began to work out where they were. Their names had looked so slight against the weight of all that mortgage. “In at the deep end,” she’d said to her sisters, trying to laugh. And they’d laughed too. The floorboards felt warm as she walked to the kitchen. She liked the rich glow of the newly polished jarrah, and she liked how they felt underfoot. There was something warm about the whole house at night—perhaps it was the soft light from the streetlamps. She stood by the kitchen window, filling a glass with water, and watched as rain started to fall, smudging the reflection of the lamps in the park into patches of brightness on its concrete path. She walked into the living room with her glass, patting a doily that she’d left on the arm of a chair. “I know we’re not really doily people,” she’d said to Ben, “but it seems wrong not to keep some of these—they’re exquisite.” Now, as her fingers felt the stitching, she knew the tiny mats would probably hang around for as long as they lived in this house. Elsie’s house, thought Lucy. Elsie Veronica Gormley. She’d seen the woman’s name on the contract, and she’d pressed the neighbors for any more details. Elsie must have been around ninety, they’d said, and she’d lived here a very long time. She and her husband had bought the house when it was built, back in the forties, and they’d lived here with their twins, a boy and a girl. Her husband had died—no one could quite remember when; no one had been here that long. And then she’d fallen. And then she’d gone. “I think they chose to sell to you because you’re a family,” the estate agent had said as she’d slid the contracts across her cluttered desk. “We’ll look after it,” Lucy said as she signed her name and passed them on to Ben. “Meant to be,” he said, squinting through his glasses as he signed. There was a tiny whisper in the darkness from some of the seventeen circles they’d found drilled into the different rooms’ floors when the carpet had been taken up. “Circumference of a broom handle,” Ben had said. “We should stopper them up.” But he hadn’t done that yet, and the wind sometimes caught at them, stirring puffs of air like little breaths. Lucy checked on Tom and headed back to bed, rattling the front doorknob as she went by. “We should change the locks,” she’d said to Ben earlier that day. “You should always change the locks when you buy a house.” “What?” Ben had laughed. “What do you think is going to happen? Elsie’s going to let herself in?” “Elsie’s family—how many keys might there be in the world?” Now, in the darkness, her fingers fiddled with the door lock’s button. Safe and sound, safe and sound, safe and sound. It was like a line from a lullaby. In the quietness of the middle of the night, she turned these words end over end in her head, dropping back into sleep beside her husband and his warmth.  Elsie woke at three, disoriented by the hum of an air conditioner nearby. Three in the afternoon, she thought, looking at her watch. How could they have let me sleep so long—I’ve missed breakfast and lunch, and there was a bus I wanted to catch. She buttoned her cardigan, and as she felt around for her shoes, her handbag, her hat, she knocked the vase that Don had brought for her, cracking it into four or five pieces as it smashed against the floor. She’d never liked it—it had been a present from one of Clem’s friends when they were first married. She dropped the pieces into the rubbish bin, wondering why it was so dark. Then she heard the rain against the window and nodded. This time of year, you could expect a thundery shower on a Brisbane afternoon. She looked into the street: it was very quiet, and although she watched and watched, no cars or buses came. Perhaps there was a strike she didn’t know about. Still, it wasn’t far to walk: through the park towards the river and then along the road. She’d see her garden, her lilies, her hydrangeas, her azaleas. She’d see how they’d fixed the front door—Donny said it was bright red now, which she wasn’t sure about—and how the walls inside had all been stripped of their carefully papered patterns. She smiled: there and back in an hour. She’d feel like herself again once she was home. She’d let this strange dark rain ease up before she went.  The next morning, taking Tom into the garden, Lucy paused at the top of the stairs, registering the stray flecks of the new front-door paint spattered on the porch’s balustrade. Such a strong color, somewhere between vermilion and scarlet. Fire engine, Lucy had called it, but Ben revised it—“lipstick”—with a smile. Lucy loved how brazenly bright it was. She scratched at a splatter, then levered the color from under her fingernail and rolled it into a ball. Their new place. Leaning out from the top of the stairs, she saw the park, the busy through road beyond that, the streaks of shiny color as the cars zoomed by. Hours of entertainment: Tom would love it. There was a shimmer of movement and a kookaburra landed on the power line, its feathers soft and furry and its head tilted to one side, expectant. “Hello,” said Lucy. “Are you a regular here? Look, sweetheart, isn’t he beautiful?” She turned Tom around to see the bird’s smooth feathers, its still trust. A car came around the corner then and the bird took flight, before settling itself farther along the wire. Lucy raised her hand, uncertain if she was waving to the car, to the bird, to the house, or the morning itself. Then she helped Tom down each step. The kookaburra sat, watching. “Well done, love,” Lucy said as Tom reached the last tread. “The first step in being somewhere new.” She smiled. “And later, we’ll head out and explore.” As she turned to herd his steps across the lawn, she saw footprints, smaller than her own and closely set, already pressed into the still-wet grass. Read more

Nobody Has to Know

Review "A haunting, briskly-paced page turner that explores the darkest recesses of the human psyche while propelling the reader through an intricate series of hair-raising twists and turns. Nobody Has to Know is a masterfully written tale that is expertly told. Frank Nappi knows how to entertain the reader from start to finish." -- #1 New York Times Bestselling Author Nelson DeMille A contemporary reimagining of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita with a Fatal Attraction twist, Nappi's latest is a fast-paced thriller. Cameron Baldridge -a young, handsome high school English teacher-seemingly has it all...But underneath the perfect facade is a deeply scarred man still trying to come to grips with the tragic death of his first love...He pines for an attractive student named Nikki...and ultimately tastes the "forbidden fruit"-with disastrous consequences...The story's pacing is brisk, the narrative generally fluid and the conclusion an absolute jaw-dropper...- Kirkus Reviews Thrilling story about the harrowing repercussions that occur when a young teacher sleeps with one of his high school students...packs a powerful warning about how dangerous it is to cross social and sexual boundaries...Nobody Has To Know is both a guilty pleasure and intellectually pleasing...sheds insight into the psychology, behavior and history of why people delve into dangerous sexual relationships.  -- The Rockford Review From the Author "Nobody Has To Know represented for me a formidable challenge -- venturing into a completely new genre," Nappi says. "I really wanted to see if I could create a work that had inherent integrity with regard to theme as well as entertain readers with the usual elements present in this sort of novel. Consequently, because this endeavor represented such a leap and challenge, this book more than the other three I have published, is imbued with a very special quality for me as an author. It took years t perfect, but I am most pleased with the results, including Mr. DeMille's effusive praise, which has made for one of the most special moments of my career as an author." From the Inside Flap One doesn't simply read a Frank Nappi story, one lives and breathes it. In this gripping tale of a teacher's forbidden obsession, Nappi's artful language catapults the reader into his story as few writers can. This nationally-acclaimed author keeps pulling out surprises and pulling us in.  -Betty Dravis & Chase Von, co-authors of Dream Reachers Nappi's prose tells a beautifully chaotic story of love and lust, suspense and madness - some of the greatest elements of truly powerful, absolutely moving drama.  - Christy Tillery French, author of The Bodyguard series A powerful, page-turning thriller that will leave readers riveted and wanting more. - Armand Mastroianni, producer/director of A Dark Plan Frank Nappi is a master wordsmith of many genres. Hugely successful with his first three novels, he now takes the plunge into the dark literary waters with Nobody Has to Know... everything a thriller should be.- Susan Alcott Jardine, author of THE CHANNEL: Stories From L.A .   From award winning author Frank Nappi comes a roller-coaster ride into the anarchy of a personal inferno... A nightmarish and terrifying tale. Nobody Has To Know is a bewitching thriller that will keep you guessing until the final act!  - Barbara Watkins, author of award-winning Hollowing Screams About the Author Frank Nappi has taught high school English and Creative Writing for over twenty years. His debut novel, Echoes From The Infantry, received national attention, including MWSA's silver medal for outstanding fiction. His follow-up novel, The Legend of Mickey Tussler, garnered rave reviews as well, including a movie adaptation of the touching story "A Mile in His Shoes" starring Dean Cain and Luke Schroder. Frank continues to produce quality work, including Sophomore Campaign, the intriguing sequel to the much heralded original story and the just released thriller, NOBODY HAS TO KNOW, which received an endorsement from #1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille. Frank is presently at work on a third installment of his Mickey Tussler series and his next thriller. He lives on Long Island with his wife Julia and their two sons, Nicholas and Anthony. Read more

Frankie: A Novel

Review ALA’s Best Fiction for Young Adults List YALSA Teens’ Top 10 Pick Shortlisted for the Australian Children’s Book Council Book of the Year Award, the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award, and the 2017 Gold Inky Award Winner of the 2017 Sisters in Crime Davitt Award (YA) “Readers will love Frankie for her courage, passion, and honesty as a narrator, and supporting characters are equally well-drawn. A powerful debut about a girl learning to love despite the dangers.” ― ALA Booklist “Frankie's a great, gutsy character, full of heart.” ― Printz Award winner Melina Marchetta, author of Jellicoe Road and Saving Francesca “ Frankie will make you laugh till it hurts and then she’ll break your heart. Spoiler alert: it may be with a welding gun or the collected works of Shakespeare. But no matter what she throws at you, you’ll want to keep rooting her on to the bitter end.” ― Morris Award Finalist Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock , author of The Smell of Other People's Houses “A gritty, darkly witty debut.” ― Kirkus Reviews “Original, and often obscenely funny. I frequently laughed aloud while reading Frankie .” ― Australian Book Review “This is a great debut novel from a fantastic new Australian author. It has everything YA fiction needs to be captivating: mystery, tough women, annoyingly cute bad boys, sarcasm, and humor. Highly recommended.” ― Readings Monthly About the Author Shivaun Plozza is an award-winning Children’s and YA writer. Her critically acclaimed debut novel, Frankie , was a CBCA Notable Book, shortlisted for the Inky Awards, Highly Commended at the Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards and won the YA category of the Davitt Awards. Her second novel is Tin Heart , which Jennifer Niven called “swoon-worthy, moving, deep, and funny.” When she’s not writing, Shivaun works as an editor and manuscript assessor. She lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Death Comes to the Fair (A Kurland St. Mary Mystery)

About the Author Catherine Lloyd was born just outside London, England, into a large family of dreamers, artists, and history lovers. She completed her education with a master’s degree in history at the University College of Wales, Aberystwyth, and uses the skills she gained there to research and write her historical mysteries. Catherine currently lives in Hawaii with her husband and four children. Her website is located at www.catherine-lloyd.com.

searching among the dead a coroner's tale

The Road to Dune

Into the North Wind: A thousand-mile bicycle adventure across frozen Alaska

Review "Into the North Wind" is a great book, and it's a challenge to cross the finish line with Homer and not get choked up. She has a way of winning you over. Readers who decide they now need to do this for themselves will have an inkling of what's involved. It's quite an accomplishment, and there are good reasons why so few people have done it.-- Anchorage Daily News About the Author Jill Homer is an outdoor adventure enthusiast, freelance writer and designer living in Boulder, Colorado. She was a community news journalist - pale-faced and risk-adverse, with a body better suited to shelving library books than scaling mountains - when her then-boyfriend convinced her to move to Homer, Alaska, in 2005. There she discovered the unique and obscure sport of snow biking, which launched her into a whirlwind lifestyle of endurance racing, travel, and adventure sports. Her athletic accomplishments include a women's bicycle record for the 1,000-mile Iditarod Trail in Alaska, a former women's record for the 2,740-mile Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, and nearly fifty ultramarathon finishes. Deep down, she's still the awkward, timid girl she was while growing up in the suburbs of Sandy, Utah. She has authored three memoirs, a compilation of personal essays, and co-authored a biography about a man who has walked across Alaska eight (now nine) times. --This text refers to the paperback edition.

Deadly Lode

Review " Deadly Lode is a great fiction read." Daryn Watson, Reader Views "Deadly Lode is an unconventional but thoroughly entertaining book." Julia Zurcher - Spokane Coeur d'Alene Living About the Author Randall Reneau is the author of six novels, including Diamond Fields, a Royal Dragonfly Book Awards grand prize winner, and Deadly Lode, a Richard Boes Memorial Award winner. He is also a two-time winner of the Pinnacle Book Achievement Award. A former international geologist and Vietnam veteran, he lives with his wife, Lynne, in Austin, Texas.

SAT Prep 2017-2018: Study Guide & Practice Test Questions for the Reading, Writing & Language, Math, & Essay Sections on the College Board SAT Exam

Death Before Swine

Vet Tails

Field of Bones: A Brady Novel of Suspense (Joanna Brady Mysteries)

From the Back Cover While on maternity leave, Sheriff Joanna Brady is dragged into a far-reaching investigation to bring down a sadistic killer in this chilling tale of suspense from beloved New York Times bestselling author J. A. Jance Though she’s still recovering from a series of tragedies, Joanna Brady’s life has never been busier.  Her older daughter is off to college, her five-year-old son is full of energy and boundless curiosity, and she’s just given birth to a new daughter—on the same night she won her third election as Cochise County sheriff in a squeaker of a race.  In addition, her husband, Butch, is away on an exhausting book tour. Despite her devotion to her work, Joanna is determined to see her maternity leave through this time. But in this beautiful desert landscape, home of Wyatt Earp, Tombstone, and the shoot-out at the OK Corral, a monster is roaming free—a serial killer who has transformed Joanna’s small corner of the Southwest into a field of bones. When a teenager turns in a human skull found on the far side of the San Bernardino Valley in the Peloncillo Mountains between Arizona and New Mexico, it is the beginning of a multiple homicide case. As much as she would rather stay home with her newborn and lose herself in the cold cases to be found in her father’s long- unread diaries, Joanna instead finds herself overseeing a complex investigation involving multiple jurisdictions and an FBI profiler. Filled with the beloved characters, small-town charm, vivid history, intriguing mystery, and the scenic Arizona desert backdrop that have made the Joanna Brady books perennial bestsellers, this latest entry featuring the popular sheriff is sure to please J. A. Jance’s legions of fans. About the Author J.A. Jance is the New York Times Bestselling author of more than sixty books. Born in South Dakota and raised in Bisbee, Arizona, she and her husband live in the Seattle area with their two longhaired dachshunds, Mary and Jojo.

Brother Wars

About the Author Steven K. Smith writes the middle grade series The Virginia Mysteries, adventures with a twist of history, and Brother Wars. Steven lives in Richmond, Virginia, with his wife and three sons. Born and raised in rural northwestern New Jersey, he moved to Virginia in 2011 and quickly fell in love with its history and charm. Visit his website at www.VirginiaMysteries.com. He also writes contemporary fiction for grownups as Steven Sawyer. When he's not writing, Steven enjoys coaching his boys in sports, hiking, kayaking, photography, and taking naps. Some of his favorite children's books include Where the Red Fern Grows, Rascal, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Bridge to Terabithia, and the Chronicles of Narnia series.

Sea of Crises

Review "Steere's high-octane suspense tale takes off with all the intrigue and honor of the best space-age Westerns and political thrillers." - Kirkus Reviews (starred review) "Author Marty Steere is brilliant!... The action is non-stop and fast-paced and is mixed with just the right amount of mystery to make a perfect thriller.... [The] plot is plausible, the characters are realistic, and the writing is superb...so stunning a read that you will be unable to stop reading until the very end." - Readers Favorite "Attention grabbing from start to finish, this novel is filled with non-stop action and suspense. Enjoyable, entertaining, and original, readers will fly through the pages." - Publishers Weekly From the Back Cover "That shouldn't be here."  Those are the last words uttered by Commander Bob Cartwright in September 1976, just before all communication with the crew of Apollo 18 is inexplicably lost during the astronauts' first moonwalk. Frantic attempts to re-establish communications with the astronauts are unsuccessful. Three days later, however, as NASA is scrambling to put together a rescue mission, astronomers detect a burn of the service propulsion system, and, on schedule, but still in eerie silence, the command module begins its return transit, culminating in the welcome sight of the capsule descending majestically beneath a trio of parachutes into the South Pacific. But when the hatch is opened, the navy divers tasked with assisting the astronauts into the recovery helicopter make a gruesome discovery. The bodies of the three men inside have been burned beyond recognition, victims of a failed heat shield. And with them has died any chance of learning the meaning of Cartwright's enigmatic last statement or what transpired during those three blacked out days in the Mare Crisium, or Sea of Crises. Unfortunately, unless and until man returns to the moon, it's a mystery that will remain forever unsolved.  Or will it?   Thirty-six years later, Cartwright's sons make a shocking discovery: The capsule that came down in the Pacific Ocean with three charred remains was not their father's capsule. And the body they buried all those years before was not their father. What they've uncovered puts the three brothers on the run, chased by a ruthless group who will stop at nothing to preserve the secret behind the fate of the Apollo 18 astronauts. The brothers will need to set aside past differences and pool their talents if they are to stay alive and unravel the mystery behind what really happened in the Sea of Crises.

BRAVE AND FUNNY MEMORIES OF WWII: By a P-38 Fighter Pilot

Review 5-Star Review By Jack Magnus for Readers' Favorite .....Lyndon Shubert's historical military memoir, Brave and Funny Memories of WWII by a P-38 Fighter Pilot , is a marvelous collection of war yarns that just happen to be true. While I was saddened to realize that this gifted and very funny man is in the late stages of Alzheimer's, his voice is still so loud and clear in these stories about his wartime service. While I've read many World War II memoirs, Shubert's resonated so strongly, and I appreciated learning about the P-38 fighter pilots and the role the 154th played during the war. The photographs Betty Shubert includes in this book go so far in showing the reader the real Shubert, the daredevil goof whose bravery was so exceptional and who excelled at self-deprecation. Each picture gives us more insight into that kind and funny man who sacrificed so much. I had a grand time getting to know Lyndon Shubert and hear him tell his war stories, and I'm hoping Betty gets his unpublished manuscript, The Misadventures of the Testosterone Kid , published soon. I'm looking forward to reading it. Brave and Funny Memories of WWII by a P-38 Fighter Pilot is most highly recommended. 5-Star Review By Divine Zape for Readers' Favorite .....Your heart will pound as you read this compelling memoir and you will feel the author's emotions as he takes you through the different episodes of his flying experience. The writing is laced with symbolism and poetry and the author's unique voice comes across powerfully. It is hard to not fall in love with the writing and the themes. I loved the fact that the author could weave the themes of facing fears, family, war, and friendship so seamlessly into the narrative. The humor is genuine and it hits the reader swiftly in their minds and hearts. Brave and Funny Memories of WWII by a P-38 Fighter Pilot is a hugely entertaining read and Lyndon Shubert surely has a rare gift for storytelling. 5-Star Review By Arya Fomonyuy for Readers' Favorite .....Lyndon Shubert has a unique style of writing and a phraseology that is equally unique, communicating the suspense, the sense of incertitude and the paralysis that often gripped the pilot. The language is smooth and it is punctuated by witty and humorous lines. In this slim memoir, the author takes readers along with him and allows them to have a sense of what it felt like to fly in the midst of danger during WWII. The photos offer delightful sights captured by the author while stationed in Bari, Italy. I found this book to be informative, educative, and downright entertaining. 4-Star Review By Caitlin Lyle Farley for Readers' Favorite ..... Brave and Funny Memories of WWII by a P-38 Fighter Pilot makes the hours spent reading fly by like minutes. Shubert's memoir has a refreshing lack of the depressing accounts that usually feature in memoirs of war. Lyndon Shubert writes in a conversational style that promotes a sense of intimacy with the reader. One negative side effect of this is that the narrative tends to stray back and forth on a topic, much like it would in an actual conversation. Some of the nuances behind the author's choices and behaviour, particularly in the Azores, were lost to me as pertinent details were only revealed later. Clear photos spaced throughout the text add to the story as Lyndon Shubert takes the reader from the USA to Italy, and through the skies of Europe. While the denouement is bittersweet, Brave and Funny Memories of WWII by a P-38 Fighter Pilot remains the ideal book for anyone looking for a light, entertaining read about WWII. MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW-James A. Cox, Editor-in-Chief ....Synopsis: "Memories of WWII" is the intensely personal story of Lyndon Shubert and his experience as a young fighter pilot operating a P-38 in the skies of Europe during World War II. A simply riveting read that includes such encounters as when he was attacked by four Messerschmitts, "Memories of WWII" underscores the reality that no matter how much you prepare, no matter how much you read, how much you train, no matter how much you think of yourself as a 'Hot Shot Pilot,' you are never truly ready for experiencing life and death aerial combat! Of special note is Lyndon Shubert's memories of how it felt to say a 'last goodbye' to his bride believing he would never see her again, as he left to fight WWII. Critique: Exceptionally well written, "Memories of WWII: By a P-38 Fighter Pilot" will prove to be an valued and appreciated contribution to the growing library of World War II histories, memoirs and biographies. While unreservedly recommended for both community and academic library World War II Military History collections and supplemental studies reading lists, it should be noted for students, academics, and non-specialist general readers with an interest in the subject that 'Memories of WWII: By a P-38 Fighter Pilot" is also available in a digital book format (Kindle, $5.49). From the Author Please see my new Facebook page at: facebook.com/P38Flyer/ From the Inside Flap They all say BRAVO!Accolades from the Experts Lyndon Shubert has a well-deserved reputation as a raconteur . He draws the reader with him into the dangerous skies of wartime Europe and then shares his experiences as an actor on Broadway with Spencer Tracy. I am certain readers will enjoy his true-life stories as much as I; especially those with an interest in WWII aerial combat.     H Steve Blake, WWII Aviation Historian     Author-Editor of Lightning Strikes, the official magazine of the P-38 National Association Author Lyndon Shubert's stories of bravery and heroism are combined with touching memories. Having heard him speak publicly on many occasions and having also met the author, I can say that his writing style equals his ability to hold an audience spellbound! ... I highly recommend this entertaining read for aviation buffs as well as WWII historians.     H Kevin Thompson, Historian     Planes of Fame Air Museum - Chino, California     Guest Editor of Brave & Funny Memories Lynn Shubert was a founding member of our Veterans Club where he often spoke at meetings. It was exciting to hear stories directly from one so close to combat. Our group traveled to places where he spoke. At Planes of Fame Air Museum, a rebuilt P-38 was on display. Lynn explained all the intricate parts to us. I know you will find this book an excellent read.     H Bruce G. Hunt     Past President of the Palmia Veterans Club     Chairperson of the Mission Viejo Marines & Sailors Adoption Committee I have known Lynn Shubert for 15 years as a good friend and consummate story teller: an art that has been largely lost. We share a common interest in flying. We used to meet for lunch regularly where he shared his exciting exploits in WWII ... If you love good aviation stories, you will love Lynn's book: it is like being there with him as he reminisces.     H Michael Heath     Financial Advisor - Western International Securities, Inc. From the Back Cover *  If you want to know how a young fighter pilot felt in his head and his heart as he was about to fly the enemy skies of WWII, this book is for you. Always afraid he was about to die, he climbed into the cockpit anyway... and lived to tell you about it.*  How would you feel if you were a new guy in the sky ... attacked by four Messerschmitts?*  Let me tell you, no matter how much you prepare, no matter how much you read, how much you train, no matter how much you think of yourself as a 'Hot Shot Pilot.' You are never ready for life and death combat!*  How did it feel to say a 'last goodbye' to your bride believing you would never see her again as you left to fight WWII?                                Lyndon Shubert, awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross at age 24, had a fascinating, colorful and often glamorous career. He was a writer and actor in early television and performed on Broadway with Spencer Tracy. As a pioneering executive of the teleprompter industry in the USA and Europe, he taught three presidents, as well as actors Orson Welles and Ronald Reagan, and many other top celebrities and politicians how to use the teleprompter. Shubert wrote and produced movies including a feature film about the young Marilyn Monroe, and has been published in numerous aviation history magazines. He became a successful film executive known all over the world as president of the International Theater Equipment Association (ITEA) where he earned his reputation as a raconteur at Hollywood celebrity packed banquettes. After retirement he was a popular guest speaker at various air shows and museums including the Planes of Fame Air Museum in Chino, California and other places where fans of the P-38 and aviation history gathered. Read more

The Ominous Eye: The Nocturnals Book 2 (2)

Review “Returning fans will be rewarded with the expected engaging plot twists, plenty of humor…and reaffirmation of the trio’s mutual loyalty and friendship.” ― Booklist “Featuring spirited animal characters who deal with real-life scenarios in a relatable way...the books celebrate the very meaningful idea of friendship and what it means to forge positive relationships.”  ― Amy Poehler's Smart Girls “The series addresses bullying and empathy in an easy, accessible way, and the books are meant to be read aloud.” ― New York Post “ The Nocturnals is an enchanting story about a group of animals who band together to protect their friends and find adventure. The characters are delightful and the nighttime landscape is captivating. It was just as I expected—because the best stories always take place in the dark!” -- R.L. Stine, Author of Goosebumps“Hecht continues to charm readers with delightfully drawn characters and consistent suspense…A welcome return of the colorful and curious trio—their next can't arrive soon enough.” ― Kirkus Reviews About the Author Tracey Hecht is a writer and entrepreneur who created The Nocturnals , the critically acclaimed middle grade and early reader series. The American Booksellers Association chose her first book, The Nocturnals: The Mysterious Abductions , as a Kids’ Indie Next List pick. In addition, her Grow & Read early reader book, The Chestnut Challenge , was given a Mom’s Choice Gold Award. With the New York Public Library, she has also created a Read Aloud Writing Program that has since been conducted in over 150 schools, libraries, and bookstores. Other books in the Nocturnals middle grade series include The Ominous Eye, The Fallen Star , and The Hidden Kingdom . Tracey currently splits her time between New York City and Oquossoc, Maine, with her husband and four children. Kate Liebman is an artist who lives and works in New York City. She graduated from Yale University, contributes to the Brooklyn Rail, and has shown her work at multiple galleries. She grew up in Santa Monica, California.

The Chocolate Clown Corpse: A Chocoholic Mystery

Review Praise for the Chocoholic Mystery series “I’m proud to stand up and say, ‘My name is Charlaine, and I’m a Chocoholic!’”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris“Keeps you guessing all the way to the end.”— Kirkus Reviews “JoAnna Carl satisfies your sweet tooth along with your craving for a tasty whodunit.”—Cleo Coyle, author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries“A deft mix of truffles and trouble. Chocaholics—this book is for you!”—Laura Childs, author of the Tea Shop mysteries“A real page-turner, and I got chocolate on every one!”—Tamar Myers, author of Butter Safe Than Sorry“[A] delectable treat starring a heroine impossible to dislike.”— Midwest Book Review “Anyone who loves chocolate—and who doesn’t?—will love this delicious, fast-paced addition to the Chocoholic Mystery series. It has more twists and turns than a chocolate-covered pretzel!”—Leslie Meier, author of Wicked Witch Murder “Dollops of chocolate lore add to the cozy fun.”— Publishers Weekly “Deliciously cozy…richly entertaining and has no calories.” —Elaine Viets, author of the Dead-End Job mysteries“JoAnna Carl’s books are delicious treats, from the characters to the snippets of chocolate trivia.”— Roundtable Reviews About the Author JoAnna Carl is the pseudonym for a multipublished author.  She spent more than twenty-five years in the newspaper business as a reporter, feature writer, editor, and columnist. She holds a degree in journalism from the University of Oklahoma and also studied in the OU Professional Writing Program, and is the author of the Chocoholic Mystery series which includes The Chocloate Book Bandit. . She lives in Oklahoma but summers in Michigan, where the Chocoholic Mystery series is set. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. ALSO BY JOANNA CARL OBSIDIAN ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Chapter 1 I don’t usually answer the telephone at the Warner Pier police station. Warner Pier is a small town, true, and my aunt is married to the police chief, true, and somehow I wind up at the station now and then. But the PD has staff—the chief, four patrolmen, and a clerical assistant. The 9-1-1 calls go to a county system twenty-four hours a day, and after the office closes at five o’clock, ordinary business calls are caught by an answering machine after two rings. They don’t need a volunteer to answer the phone in Warner Pier, Lake Michigan’s most picturesque resort. But that day I was sitting around the station at five fifteen, the only person there, waiting for my aunt and uncle and my husband so we could all go out to dinner. I had plopped into a chair next to the empty desk usually occupied by the secretary. When the phone rang my mind was in three other places, and after just one ring I automatically picked it up. “TenHuis Chocolade,” I said. I’d not only answered a phone I shouldn’t have, I’d answered it the way I do for my job. The caller, a woman, gasped. “Oh! I was calling the Warner Pier Police Department.” “And you reached it. I’m not the regular person who answers the phone, so I said the wrong thing. But I’ll try to help you.” “Oh. Well . . .” The caller had an odd, whispery voice. “I wanted to ask about a crime that happened about a month ago.” “I can refer your question to the right person.” “It was a violent death.” Hmmm. Warner Pier doesn’t have all that many killings. Or did she mean an accident? “Yes?” “The murder of Morris Davidson. The clown. A month ago. Do you remember it?” “Oh yes. It caused quite a stir around town.” I looked at the caller ID on the secretary’s phone. The little screen held a number with an area code I didn’t recognize. “Where are you calling from? I’m surprised the Davidson killing got any attention outside of Warner County, since it was not too unusual.” She didn’t answer my question. “Not unusual? Why do you say that?” “It was the proverbial break-in with the burglar reacting violently when surprised by the homeowner.” The caller gasped. “Is that what people think happened?” “After the confession, there wasn’t much else to think.” “Confession? Confession! You mean someone confessed to the murder?” “Yes. He’s now in jail.” “Oh.” I could barely hear her. The woman’s voice was more than surprised. It was amazed. Maybe beyond amazed. “Who is this?” I asked. She spoke but again didn’t answer my question. “In jail! But that’s awful!” “It’s pretty standard procedure,” I said. “If you confess to killing someone, you are sent to jail. Can you give me your name?” The only answer was a click as the woman hung up. I stared at the silent receiver. “Weird,” I said. There was a knock at the door, and I looked up to see my husband, Joe, through its window. I let him in and immediately told him about the phone call. “Isn’t that strange?” I asked. Joe shrugged. “You say there was no name on the caller ID?” “Right. There was a number, but no name. Is that suspicious?” “Not necessarily.” Joe is a lawyer who has some experience as a defense attorney. Plus, he served as city attorney of our little town for a couple of years, and his office was in the same building with the police station. So he’s drunk a lot of coffee with cops. “The call was probably made from a pay phone,” he said. “There are still a few around.” “But the woman sounded so amazed to learn a burglar had confessed to killing Moe Davidson.” “We were all astonished, as I recall.” “I admit I was.” Joe grinned. “Lee, when the guy everybody loves to hate is murdered, every single person in town is a suspect. So finding out that Moe was taken out by someone who didn’t even know him—well, Agatha Christie wouldn’t have approved.” He sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs and picked up a magazine. “So I tend to agree with your caller.” “What do you mean?” “Just that the whole situation was astonishing. Not satisfying.” Joe looked into space for a moment before he spoke again. “Frankly, I don’t think the guy—Hollis? Is that his name? I don’t think he has good representation. If I were his attorney, that confession would never have been made, much less accepted as true.” He gave a short laugh. “Although he’d probably still be right where he is now. In jail. And he may yet be sent for a decent mental examination.” My uncle and aunt Hogan and Nettie Jones arrived then, and the four of us went out to dinner. I told Hogan about the odd phone call, but he simply shrugged. “Some curious person. But Davidson’s death was surprising all around. His whole life was surprising.” “Surprising how?” “First off, how could such an annoying guy be so funny?” When the caller had called Moe Davidson a clown, she hadn’t been slamming his intelligence or personality. Moe had literally been a clown. He’d dressed up in a comic hobo outfit and marched in parades under the name Hobo Moe. He had done pantomime jokes. He’d pulled quarters out of kids’ ears. He’d walked an invisible dog. He’d bragged that his makeup—including the row of painted teardrops near his left eye—was registered with a national listing of clowns and could not legally be copied by any other clown. Moe had even run a clown business, Clowning Around, which happened to be located in the shop next door to TenHuis Chocolade, where I’m business manager. Moe’s store offered clown paraphernalia and collectibles—dolls, games, costumes, DVDs, figurines, notepaper, and a million other items. He provided a clown act for parties. Anything to do with clowns was available at his store. But Moe was equally well-known in Warner Pier for his nonclown activities. When he wasn’t being funny, Moe was one of the most annoying cranks in town. At one time or another—when he wasn’t wearing his clown outfit—all of us could cheerfully have killed him, or at least yelled at him. As far as I know, Moe Davidson never hit, stabbed, shot, drowned, or otherwise physically attacked anyone. But, by golly, he hurt a lot of people. Moe’s weapon was his tongue. He could figure out where anyone’s sensitive spot was, and he knew just what to say to make that sensitive spot hurt. He whacked my ego with a verbal crowbar every time he walked into TenHuis Chocolade, and he seemed to walk in there a lot more than I wanted him to. I have this problem talking. I mix up my words. The highfalutin name for it is “malapropism,” named after a Mrs. Malaprop in an eighteenth-century play by Sheridan. She made Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations for describing a fellow character as “headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile.” I once remarked that an unusually kind person had “lots of apathy.” Personally, I don’t find Mrs. Malaprop very funny. To me the condition is embarrassing, not humorous. I control this most of the time; it comes out mainly when I’m nervous. And I never once spoke to Moe Davidson without feeling nervous. He laughed whenever he saw me. That made me nervous, and I misspoke. Once he came into TenHuis Chocolade for a pound of truffles, and I recommended the “Asexual Spice—I mean, Asian Spice!” Another time, he approached me with a formal document he wanted to present to the Warner Pier City Council, and I said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I make it a rule not to sign petit fours—I mean, petitions!” Moe would laugh at me and tell everybody in town what I’d said. He became the only person in Warner Pier I actively tried to avoid. And I couldn’t avoid him, since he worked next door. When he wasn’t too busy with civic affairs to open the store. When Joe was serving as city attorney, he couldn’t avoid him either. Moe Davidson was that annoying citizen who got up at every civic meeting and opposed something. He also frequently telephoned Joe to gripe, and he wrote letters to the local newspaper. He even gave money to the causes he supported. At a public meeting, the most maddening thing about Moe was that he always started out by saying, “My family has been in business in Warner Pier since my great-great-grandfather came here in 1845.” Joe said he always had an awful time not breaking in to comment, “So has my family, Moe, and none of us was ever very successful either.” Because despite the Davidson family’s long history in southwest Michigan, no one in the clan ever became very prominent. They were farmers who didn’t own much land, operators of barbershops and dry cleaning establishments, managers and clerks for small retail businesses. None of them was in “the professions”—law, medicine, theology, engineering, and such. Joe could never understand why Moe thought an ordinary middle- and working-class background—even one covering one hundred seventy-five years—qualified him as an authority on civic affairs. A civics class would have been more impressive, and Moe didn’t even have that in his background. Both Joe and I also found Moe lacking in common sense. His positions on the city’s doings seemed to come out of left field, or sometimes right field. One time he’d be strongly pro-environment. When the next issue came up, he’d take the position that government was putting environmental issues in front of individual rights. No one could ever predict if he was going to be pro or con on any particular issue until they saw his name on the list of donors. But despite his fanatic and sometimes fantastic views on how to run the city, Moe never ran for office; he lived outside the city limits. He remained simply an interested local businessman and public-spirited citizen who always got up and spoke his piece. By doing this, he managed to infuriate everybody at one time or another. Moe might have been run out of town if it weren’t for his clown act. At every community parade, carnival, or celebration, he painted on a smile and a row of tears, put on his Hobo Moe costume, and made all the children—and most of the adults—laugh. As long as he kept his mouth shut he was hilarious. Moe Davidson was a strange combination of qualities, so maybe it was poetic justice that he died strangely and that his death led to a strange phone call. I probably would have forgotten the whole thing—call, killing, and clown—if three things hadn’t happened. First, Aunt Nettie and Hogan took their dream trip to the South Sea Islands. Second, a For Sale sign went up next door. Third, Joe was dragged into the case. Or maybe he jumped in willingly. Chapter 2 In midwinter in Michigan, we all dream of the South Seas. Snow usually starts here in November. In December it’s fun—skiing, snowmobiling, skating, and Christmas. January . . . Well, by then the winter routine has set in, and we can live with it. February is a good time to catch up with your reading and to watch a bunch of DVDs; plus, I’m usually busy then because Warner Pier holds its annual winter tourism promotion that month, and I serve on the tourism committee. But when March starts, and the snow and cold seem to have no end, that’s when most of us are ready for the funny farm—as long as that farm is located someplace warm. Joe and I usually take a vacation in December or January. I need to check in with my parents in Texas, and from there we go on down to the Gulf of Mexico or over to Phoenix or someplace else that is warm and sunny for a couple of weeks. Then we can face February or March, when Aunt Nettie and Hogan try to get away. It’s best for TenHuis Chocolade if Aunt Nettie and I don’t leave town at the same time. This winter Aunt Nettie and Hogan had decided to splurge on Samoa and Tahiti—and they were going in late February. They were even booked for a week on a sailing ship, completely out of touch with civilization. No phones. Limited e-mail. Hogan found a retired sheriff’s deputy to stand in as police chief, and they began to pack lightweight clothes in flowery patterns. As usual, TenHuis Chocolade and I were both up to our ears in the annual winter promotion of the Chamber of Commerce tourism committee. This year the theme was Clown Week, so our shop was full of foil-wrapped molded clowns and molded clown hats in one-inch, two-inch, and four-inch sizes. Not only was I heavily involved, but my best friend Lindy and her whole family had also been sucked in. Lindy and I have been friends for half our lives, and we’re an example of how small-town lives can become entangled. Lindy and I worked together at TenHuis Chocolade when we were both sixteen. At eighteen she married Tony Herrera, who just happened to have a close friend named Joe Woodyard. Twelve years later I married Joe Woodyard. (It gets even more complicated.) Lindy and Tony have three kids. Tony’s dad, Mike Herrera, is a successful restaurant owner, and Lindy is catering manager for her father-in-law. Mike was elected mayor of Warner Pier, and in the middle of his third term he married my mother-in-law, Mercy Woodyard. Anybody who can understand all this without drawing a diagram is a genius. And it largely came about because Joe and Tony both went out for high school wrestling. So I wondered what was going to happen when Lindy told me her son, Tony Junior, now in ninth grade, had signed up for the wrestling team at Warner Pier High School. “I’m almost surprised,” I said. “His dad will be a hard act to follow, after competing on the team that won State . . .” “Oh sure. Haven’t you and I heard about that glorious event a million times?” “At least half a million, anyway.” I laughed. “Is Tony Senior excited about Tony Junior—” “Puh-leeze! There is no more ‘Tony Junior.’” “What’s happened to him?” “Now that he’s a high school athlete, he’s known as T.J.” “Hmmm. It’s a good enough nickname, but how is Tony Senior taking it?” “About like you’d expect. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t know whether he should be angry or hurt. Anyway, he accidentally pushed Ton—I mean T.J.—toward wrestling because they’re having a long-term hassle.” “What about?” “Wrestling! Professional wrestling.” “I’m under the impression that all amateur wrestlers hate the pros.” “You’re pretty close to right. Tony—Tony Senior—froths at the mouth when he catches T.J. watching those shows. Uses words like ‘stupid’ and ‘phony.’ It’s caused some homemade matches I haven’t enjoyed. The kind that include yelling and pouting.” “Doesn’t Tony see that if he’d drop it, T.J. would probably lose interest?” “Heavens! I wish one of them would lose interest. They’re driving me nuts. That’s why I talked both of them into working on Clown Week. But not together.” “What are they going to do?” “Tony has agreed to supervise the skating rink.” “Oh good! Joe says he was always the best skater in their gang, growing up. And he’s big enough to keep any rambunctious skaters in line.” Lindy nodded. “And T.J. is going to work on the sledding hill.” “Learning to handle the public, huh? His grandfather will have him working as a waiter PDQ.” “Oh, Marcia’s already going to work at the Sidewalk Café during Clown Week.” Marcia was Lindy’s older daughter, now sixteen. I laughed. “Send her around if she wants some hints on how to get good tips. Waiting tables saved my bacon several times before I landed in the chocolate business.” *   *   * Between Clown Week and Aunt Nettie and Hogan’s trip, I nearly forgot that odd phone call to the police station. A few days after it came, Joe and I drove Hogan and Aunt Nettie to the Grand Rapids airport and enviously waved as they lugged their carry-ons down to the departure gate. When they reached Sydney they e-mailed to let us know they arrived safely and were about to set sail. Their first day at sea was the day Moe Davidson’s store went on the market. As business manager of TenHuis Chocolade, I had long lusted after the building next door. Moe Davidson had owned that building, but I didn’t know who inherited it. He was survived by a wife, Emma, and he had two grown children from a previous marriage. The Warner Pier gossip mill reported that Moe and the kids had hardly spoken for years. Both son and daughter were in their early thirties. I hadn’t ever seen Moe’s daughter, but I had heard that her name was Lorraine. I had met the son, Chuck, briefly, when he visited the shop. Emma and Moe had been married about two years, and she had occasionally worked in the Clowning Around shop, but nobody in Warner Pier knew her well. The Davidsons hadn’t spent the past two winters in Warner Pier; lots of tourist-oriented businesses close up in the off-season. Emma and Moe had gone to her home in Indiana. In addition, Emma hadn’t taken much part in local affairs when she was there. I’d never met her, and I’d heard she didn’t have much to say for herself. In September Moe had closed the store for the winter, though he had originally planned to reopen for Clown Week. None of us knew if that would work out now. The apartment over the store, a common facility in downtown Warner Pier, had been vacant for a couple of years. Even though I didn’t know just who now owned the building next door, I knew I wanted to buy it from them. So the new For Sale sign got my attention fast. Nearly forty years earlier Aunt Nettie and her first husband, Phil TenHuis—my mother’s brother—had spent a year in the Netherlands learning to make luxury, European-style chocolates. They then rented a shop in their hometown and opened a business catering to the tourists who visited one of Lake Michigan’s prime resorts, Warner Pier. Due to Aunt Nettie’s and Uncle Phil’s hard work and expertise, plus the good business climate of Warner Pier, TenHuis Chocolade had prospered. As time went by they had bought the original building, the shop had expanded to fill its whole downstairs, and they had remodeled several times. Five years earlier Uncle Phil had been killed in a traffic accident. By then I was a five-foot-eleven blond divorcee with an accounting degree, so I moved up from Texas and joined TenHuis as business manager. I met Joe, got married, and settled into the community. I was proud of being part of TenHuis Chocolade and proud because we had tripled the mail-order side of the business. Today the business depends on mail order as much as on tourism. This keeps us busy year-round, unlike the Warner Pier merchants who depend solely on summer visitors. I thought TenHuis had lots of potential for even more expansion, and to expand we needed more space. I needed a larger office staff, but we had no place to put desks or people. We needed at least one sales rep out there calling on corporations and convention planners. We needed a larger shipping department. We needed a catalog and direct-mail department, a catering specialist, a larger workroom for producing truffles and bonbons, and a dozen other things that we couldn’t have because we had no place to house them. So I’d had my eye on the store next door as an investment for TenHuis Chocolade ever since I came to work for Aunt Nettie. It would double our available space while keeping TenHuis in its prime location, in the heart of Warner Pier’s picturesque business district. We could expand without the inconvenience of changing our address. However, I had always thought of the building as a purchase for TenHuis as a company. But the company couldn’t buy a pricy piece of property—and I’m happy to say that downtown Warner Pier property is expensive—without Aunt Nettie’s approval. She is president of the company. But if the building went on sale while Aunt Nettie was out of the country, and I had to move quickly to get it—well, I might have to buy it on my own. The thought was terrifying. I’d have to talk to Joe, of course, since he’d be linked to me as a purchaser. I’d also have to consult my banker. But a sale was probably doable. I fought down a panic attack, took two deep breaths, and called the Realtor. That the sign even went up showed how out of touch Moe Davidson’s kids—or wife, or whoever was handling his estate—were. Warner Pier is small enough to rely on word of mouth. If a piece of property in the business district goes on the market, the rest of the business community gets advance warning in the post office line or the drugstore or the coffee shop. Rarely do we find out something’s for sale by seeing a sign. At least the name of the real estate firm was familiar. I’d served on a Chamber of Commerce committee with the local agent, Tilda VanAust. I saw the sign at ten thirty and was on the phone with Tilda by ten thirty-five. “How did the Davidsons get the store on the market so fast?” I asked. “Actually,” Tilda said, “Moe had signed the property over to Emma for tax reasons, so it didn’t have to go through probate. Emma’s signing it back to Chuck and Lorraine. She’s here to help them close the building out, but she won’t share in the proceeds.” “Interesting. How much are they asking?” I held my breath. The asking price she mentioned was, of course, way too high, but I told her I’d definitely like to view the property. I tried to sound cool. “Of course, Tilda, you know that business was not so hot this year in Warner Pier. But my aunt and I would like to consider expansion at some future date. So we might look at it as an investment.” “Lee, you know that this property is in a prime location. There’s been a lot of interest in it already. I’m expecting an offer this week.” Sure. As if I believed that, since nobody had known it was going on the market. But now that it was officially for sale, I expected Tilda would be getting some calls. I definitely wanted to be first in line, but I didn’t want to act so eager that Tilda saw me as a sucker. Tilda said she had some time that very day, so we agreed to tour the building at three o’clock. As soon as I hung up I tried to figure out what time it was for Aunt Nettie and Hogan. Actually, I decided, it didn’t matter. The best way to reach them was by e-mail. Hogan had said he’d check that whenever he had access to it. I fired off an electronic message. Then I sat back and faced facts. I was on my own. It was unlikely that I’d be able to reach Aunt Nettie to get her approval in the next few days. If I wanted advice, I had a perfectly good husband who had a law degree and also knew a lot about construction. Joe would be glad to advise me. Besides, if I had to act on my own, any buying I did would involve him legally, so he’d have to go along with it anyway. Joe works three days a week for an agency similar to the Legal Aid Society. It’s located in Holland, thirty miles away, and specializes in poverty law. I picked up the phone and called his office. “Sorry, Lee,” the administrative assistant said. “He had to go see a judge down in Warner County.” “In our county? But nearly all his cases are in Holland.” “I know. He was surprised by the call. But he went. You could call his cell.” “I don’t want to do that. Either he’d have it turned off or I’d interrupt something he doesn’t want interrupted. I’ll send him a text. But if you hear from him, ask him to call me.” I hung up and began to chew my nails and consider the possibilities. I might not be able to talk the Davidson family down to a figure I thought was fair, and I’d have to give the whole project up. But even if we did reach an agreement, Aunt Nettie might not think it was a good idea. Or if I couldn’t reach Aunt Nettie, I could decide to buy it on my own, only to find that Aunt Nettie didn’t want it. Joe and I would wind up owning a downtown building we didn’t really want. Then we could either resell it or rent it out. It might be a good financial investment. Or we could fail to find a buyer or a leaser and lose a lot of money we couldn’t afford to lose. Looking at the purchase from several angles, it could be either a real winner or a serious loser. I bit another nail. When the time came to meet Tilda, I asked one of the ladies who make the chocolate to watch the counter. I also told her where I’d be and asked her to pass that news on to Joe if he showed up. Then I took a deep breath, put on my jacket, and headed next door. The entrance to Clowning Around was ajar, so I walked right in, then came to a complete stop. All I could see were clowns. Clown dolls, clown masks, clown puppets, clown pictures, clown books. They hung from the ceiling and were stacked in shelves along both side walls. They were piled on tables in the middle of the room. There were white-faced clowns, hobo clowns, even a mannequin of a dog wearing a clown costume. There were girl clowns and boy clowns. Harlequins and Pierrots. And the centerpiece was a large portrait of Moe himself, wearing his Hobo Moe outfit. Crazy colors and wild shapes were everywhere. The bizarre decor of the shop made the first sound I heard fit right in. It was a loud, piercing whine. The noise sounded like a siren, but I quickly realized it was a human voice of the high-pitched and annoying sort. “Honestly! The mess! This place is nowhere near ready to show to potential buyers. That agent must be crazy.” A deep and melodious male voice replied, “Cleaning is our responsibility, Lorraine. It’s not up to the Realtor. And I’m not getting rid of anything until we get through this Clown Week promotion and see if we can’t sell most of the stock.” “Nobody would buy those idiotic clowns! God! I’ve gotten to the point where I hate these things. They’re just reminders of what a jerk we had for a dad. And nobody will be interested in the building in the shape it’s in. It needs to be staged.” “Staged?” The deep voice chuckled. “You’ve been watching too much HGTV.” “You haven’t been watching enough, Chuck. Things have to look attractive if they’re going to sell.” I’d apparently interrupted a family quarrel. I quickly slammed the door behind me, just to make a noise, then called out, “Hello! Anybody here?” I heard a gasp from the back room, and the face of a blond woman appeared between two clown masks. The light was so lousy I couldn’t see her clearly, but when she spoke the voice was the one I’d heard earlier. “Hi, there! Are you Mrs. Woodyard?” “Yes, I’m Lee Woodyard, your next-door neighbor. I was supposed to meet Tilda VanAust.” “She got held up, so she sent us to open up. I’m Lorraine Davidson.” The woman edged out of a curtained door that obviously led to the back room. She hit a switch and light flooded over her. The effect was that one of the clowns had come to life. Lorraine was one of those women who apparently believe that if a little makeup enhances her appearance, then a lot will make her a raving beauty. She wore heavy blue eye shadow, and blush was slathered on in exactly the wrong part of her cheeks. Her eyebrows looked as if they’d been painted on with a Magic Marker. Her hair had been bleached until it would have tempted any healthy horse to have a bite, and she wore it in a fluffy, “big hair” style. In other words, her appearance matched her voice. Loud, brassy, and unpleasant. I blinked. Then I saw a man behind her and realized it must be the guy with the voice as melodious as Lorraine’s was raucous. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Chuck Davidson.” Chuck matched his voice, too. He was tall, nice-looking, and neatly dressed, with dark hair and even features. He came forward and we shook hands. He had a pleasant smile. “And this,” Chuck said, “is our stepmother, Emma.” For a moment I couldn’t figure out who he was talking about. There was no other person present. Then there was movement among the clowns, and a small woman came from behind the counter. Mrs. Davidson couldn’t have offered a greater contrast to her stepdaughter. Lorraine was tall. Emma Davidson was short. Lorraine was thin, almost skinny. Mrs. Davidson was plump. Lorraine had long, bleached hair. Her stepmom’s hair was a mousy brown and was short and straight. Mrs. Davidson didn’t speak, but simply nodded. I hadn’t come to talk to these people. I hope I greeted them pleasantly, but I was there to look around. So we looked. I told the three of them that I wanted to get an idea of the building and to visualize the changes that would be required if we expanded into that space. I led the way, looking at the shelving, then going into the back to judge the amount of room. I had brought a flashlight, and I investigated the basement, making sure there were no damp spots and taking a look at the furnace. Chuck accompanied me. I addressed questions to him, but he was vague about details such as utility bills and taxes. I’d have to get those figures from Tilda. I wasn’t paying him much mind, actually, until he caught my attention with a strange remark. “Of course, I know that cost is no object to you, Lee.” I turned to look at him, and I’m sure my amazement showed. But I tried to turn my reply into a joke. “Chuck! I’m an accountant! I assure you that even if my last name were Rockefeller, cost would matter to me.” He smiled. “I know you and your husband are major benefactors of Warner Pier.” For a moment I felt more amazed than ever. Then I got it. “Oh. Someone has told you that Joe donated the Warner Point Conference Center to the city.” “It was a terrific gift.” “Joe inherited that property unexpectedly, and he didn’t want to own it. In fact, because of the taxes and upkeep he couldn’t afford to own it. He says he gained financially by giving it away. And he donated it with the understanding that his name would never appear publicly in connection with the center.” “I’m sorry! I didn’t know the background.” “That’s quite all right. There’s no secret about any of this. But I assure you that Joe and I personally are like most people. We live paycheck to paycheck. As for the possible purchase of this building, that would be a business decision for TenHuis Chocolade. I certainly have no interest in becoming a downtown landowner myself.” I had to admire Chuck. Although I had tried to speak pleasantly, I had definitely told him where to get off. A lot of people would have been crushed by my little speech. Chuck didn’t turn a hair. “I’m sorry I misunderstood the situation. I guess I’m used to my dad.” “Your dad?” “Oh yes. I’m sure you know he was always giving money for community projects. But he would want full credit and a picture in the newspaper.” I’d observed that particular trait in Moe myself. But I decided I’d better not comment. “I guess I’m ready to look around upstairs,” I said. “Is the stairway near the rear entrance?” Chuck followed me to the back. I had stopped for a look at the staff bathroom when I heard the front door open. Good, I thought, it’s Tilda. Now we can get down to cases. Instead, I heard Lorraine’s raucous croak. “Of all the nerve!” The voice that replied to her was deep and familiar. “I beg your pardon?” “You’ve got gall, coming here to harass us!” “I’m sorry—I was told I would find my wife here.” It was Joe, and for some reason Lorraine Davidson was angry with him. I headed for the front of the store. Chuck called out. “Lorraine! Calm down.” Read more

Promises of Like Souls (A Julie Madigan Thriller)

About the Author Being squeamish is not a good characteristic for anyone outside of emergency services. It's not helpful for thriller writers, either, says Val Conrad. She loves being able to blend the reality of the places she has lived with actual history, adding the complexities of medicine, and setting a story against a background and bone-chilling crime and the challenge of solving it. From paramedic to nurse to teacher, Val most recently took time away from writing to finish her third degree and become a family nurse practitioner. She lives in the Texas Panhandle with her husband Bill, serving her hometown and making time to write.

King & Kayla and the Case of the Mysterious Mouse

From School Library Journal Gr 1–3—King and Kayla return in a new mystery for the early elementary crowd. This time King's ball goes over the fence, but it is not in the neighbor's backyard when they look for it. Can this clever dog and his human find the missing ball? The author has a knack for writing humorous stories from a canine perspective. Youngsters will laugh at King's enthusiasm as each new thing becomes his favorite—playing fetch, running after his ball, eating grilled cheese, and making new friends. Young puppy Thor provides more laughs as he is constantly distracted by butterflies and birds. The digitally-colored and pencil illustrations have a lightness that matches the tone of the story, while the expressive faces of the characters add depth. Readers can see King's disgusted look as he smells something "BAD." The illustrations makes it clear what King means when he says that "Kayla makes mad eyes at" him. Budding detectives will have the benefit of both King's discoveries and Kayla's reasoning as they piece together the clues. VERDICT A welcome addition to collections supporting the transition from picture books to chapter books, this title will appeal to both dog lovers and mystery buffs.—Suzanne Costner, Fairview Elementary School, Maryville, TN Review "Confusion, mischief, and silliness abound. Kids who don't always have the vocabulary to express themselves will sympathize with this waggish pup and his earnest desire to be understood by his human." —Kirkus Reviews "Budding detectives will have the benefit of both King's discoveries and Kayla's reasoning as they piece together the clues. . . . A welcome addition to collections supporting the transition from picture books to chapter books, this title will appeal to both dog lovers and mystery buffs." —School Library Journal About the Author Dori Hillestad Butler has published magazine stories, educational materials, plays, book reviews, characters for a board game, and over sixty children's books. A two-time Geisel Honor Book winner for King & Kayla and the Case of the Missing Dog Treats and King & Kayla and the Case of the Lost Tooth , she has also been nominated for children's choice awards in nineteen different states and won the 2011 Edgar Award for the best juvenile mystery for Buddy Files: Case of the Lost Boy . She lives in Washington. Read more

J.K. Rowling: A Bibliography 1997-2013

Review “A descriptive bibliography is often a labor of love; to write one for all the works of J. K. Rowling (including some ephemera, proof copies, and articles) in UK and US editions (excluding Braille and large type) from 1997 to 2013 is an act of heroism scarcely exceeded by the boy wizard himself, and worthy of this unique publishing phenomenon. Rowling herself describes the result as ‘slavishly thorough’ and ‘mind-boggling,’ and professes to be ‘humbled and deeply flattered’ by it. Most might see the uses of this type of work as professional (for auctioneers) or financial (for collectors). But one may also chart textual changes, illustration history, or marketing practices of the series, thanks to the significant level of detail used for each edition of each work. Printed books and manuscripts expert Errington (Sotheby's) includes descriptions of title pages, collation, construction, size, spacing, illustration, binding, jacket, pricing, and special comments for all the books, though the other materials are less thoroughly described. The author's notes are of particular value, providing insights into the publishing history of a series and an author whose effect on publishing, popular culture, and the world at large can hardly be overstated. Summing Up : Highly recommended. All academic levels; professionals/practitioners.” –M. R. Pukkila, Colby College, USA, CHOICE “Rowling's books are covered in exquisite detail ... Many of the notes read like good stories in themselves and there are some fascinating snippets of information to be had.” ― The Bookbag Book Description The first descriptive bibliography of the published work of J.K. Rowling. About the Author Philip Errington is Director for Children's Books within the Department of Printed Books and Manuscripts at Sotheby's. He is the author of John Masefield : The 'Great Auk' of English Literature: A Bibliography (2004), and the editor of several new editions of Masefield's work. Read more

OSS Operation Black Mail: One Woman’s Covert War Against the Imperial Japanese Army

Review "…for those interested in WWII history, intelligence efforts, and women agents, every page has something fascinating to offer." - Criminal Element.com and WildMooBooks "The terms 'fake news' and 'alternative facts' are very much in vogue in the modern political era (2016-2017). More than seventy years ago, during World War II, fake news was the handiwork of Elizabeth P. 'Betty' McIntosh and her colleagues in the Morale Operations (MO) branch of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), America's forerunner to the Central Intelligence Agency. Their aim was to undermine the individual enemy fighting man's will to win, in the case of McIntosh and her confreres, the Japanese soldier in Southeast Asia…. Ann Todd has written a colorful account of the life of a remarkable Woman…. All readers will enjoy this fast-paced and fascinating biography." -- The Journal of America's Military Past "Todd has created a book that should be required reading for anyone interested in the Allied war against Japan, U.S. intelligence operations in the 1940s, and the critical role of women in the OSS and the U.S. intelligence community . . . . There are few books that cover the same ground in Asia, and very few that offer the insight Todd provides on how it feels to work to erode enemy morale as part of a larger war zone effort . . . . Every page is filled with information that practitioners of the espionage trade, historians of World War II, and the common reader will want to read and re-read."-- Studies in Intelligence "It's well worth a read by people who read your blog and who are interested in World War II history and espionage. It's quite a remarkable book." -- Center for International Maritime Security "In OSS Operation Black Mail , Ann Todd provides the reader with an integrated discussion of the strategic role of the OSS in Asia, the tactical missions of the various units of OSS assigned to CBI, and the personal insights of one of the most important OSS and CIA officers, Elizabeth P. McIntosh. Any one of these aspects would make this book recommended reading for intelligence professionals; by combining all three, though, Todd has created a book that should be required reading for anyone interested in the Allied war against Japan, US intelligence operations in the 1940s, and the critical role of women in the OSS and the US intelligence community." -- Soldier of Fortune" "If read back to back, first, ' Sisterhood of Spies ,' immediately followed by ' OSS Operation Black Mail ,' every scene almost ever paragraph, add to the cumulative creation of a single new definition that combines honor, bravery, and courage in America's wars." -- Leatherneck Magazine "Every page is filled with information that practitioners of the espionage trade, historians of World War II, and the common reader will want to read and re-read." - Center for the Study of Intelligence "Todd not only tells Elizabeth's story, but she informs us about the little-known, but hugely important role of OSS in the East, in a tale full of colourful characters, such as Paul Child (Julia's husband) and Jane Foster, who led a tragic life. She also fills the book with the vivid atmosphere of the East, and she has a thorough knowledge of history." --Bookaddiction "This is a fascinating look at the use of implacable and harsh psychological operations against a mortal enemy, conducted without restraint or remorse. The author delves into Elizabeth's story in a way that makes it seem almost fictional, but the book is obviously well researched. Her subject is a real-life hero who is still acknowledged for her skill and work by the present-day intelligence community. It is a tribute to the accomplishments of a legendary American spy who started in the OSS and continued her career in the postwar CIA." -- WWII History Magazine "A readable book that is a tribute to an inventive 'woman of intelligence' and an important OSS success story." -- The Washington Times "Ann Todd has made an invaluable contribution to the intelligence literature. Her portrait of OSS officer Betty McIntosh, a personal hero and role model for many of us in the intelligence profession, brings Betty's amazing story to life. This is a beautifully researched and written book. It is a wonderfully fitting tribute to a legendary American spy."-- James M. Olson, senior lecturer, George Bush School of Government and Public Service, and former Chief of CIA Counterintelligence."A fascinating account of a remarkable woman in extraordinary circumstances. War and spycraft as they have seldom been portrayed. And a wonderful match between author and subject."--H. W. Brands, New York Times bestselling author of The First American and Traitor to His Class "Today as 'fake news' and 'disinformation' muddy our news media and roil our political discourse, this colorful account of an adventurous and deeply patriotic young woman shows what powerful weapons these can be against a wartime adversary. Former reporter Betty McIntosh emerges from these pages as one of OSS General 'Wild Bill' Donovan's most creative shadow warriors." --Peter Earnest, Executive Director of the International Spy Museum " OSS Operation Black Mail is the fascinating story of Betty McIntosh, whose real-life World War II exploits with the OSS sound like the product of a Hollywood screenwriter's imagination. Betty was a trailblazer in American intelligence, both in the OSS and later the CIA. Her story is not to be missed." --Bill Harlow, former Chief Spokesman, Central Intelligence Agency About the Author ANN TODD has been a contributing author and consultant for the National Geographic Society, given presentations in national parks about OSS operations, and worked as a historian for the National Museum of the Marine Corps. She served in the U.S. Coast Guard, and now lives in Dripping Springs, Texas.

My West Side Story: A Grand Adventure

Thank You for Being Late

Review "Thomas L. Friedman is a self-confessed 'explanatory journalist'―whose goal is to be a 'translator from English to English.' And he is extremely good at it . . . it is hard to think of any other journalist who has explained as many complicated subjects to so many people . . . Now he has written his most ambitious book―part personal odyssey, part commonsense manifesto . . . As a guide for perplexed Westerners, this book is very hard to beat." ―John Micklethwait, The New York Times Book Review "[An] ambitious book . . . In a country torn by a divisive election, technological change and globalization, reconstructing social ties so that people feel respected and welcomed is more important than ever . . . Rather than build walls, [healthy communities] face their problems and solve them. In [Friedman's] telling, this is the way to make America great." ―Laura Vanderkam, The Wall Street Journal "Engaging . . . in some senses Thank You For Being Late is an extension of [Friedman's] previous works, woven in with wonderful personal stories (including admirably honest discussions about the nature of being a columnist). What gives Friedman’s book a new twist is his belief that upheaval in 2016 is actually far more dramatic than earlier phases . . . Friedman also argues that Americans need to discover their sense of 'community,' and uses his home town of Minneapolis to demonstrate this." ―Gillian Tett, Financial Times "The globe-trotting New York Times columnist’s most famous book was about the world being flat. This one is all about the world being fast . . . His main piece of advice for individuals, corporations, and countries is clear: Take a deep breath and adapt. This world isn’t going to wait for you." ― Fortune "[A] humane and empathetic book." ―David Henkin, The Washington Post "[Friedman's] latest engrossingly descriptive analysis of epic trends and their consequences . . . Friedman offers tonic suggestions for fostering 'moral innovation' and a commitment to the common good in this detailed and clarion inquiry, which, like washing dirty windows, allows us to see far more clearly what we’ve been looking at all along . . . his latest must-read." ― Booklist (starred review) "The three-time Pulitzer winner puts his familiar methodology―extensive travel, thorough reporting, interviews with the high-placed movers and shakers, conversations with the lowly moved and shaken―to especially good use here . . . He prescribes nothing less than a redesign of our workplaces, politics, geopolitics, ethics, and communities . . . Required reading for a generation that's 'going to be asked to dance in a hurricane.'" ― Kirkus Reviews (starred review) About the Author Thomas L. Friedman is an internationally renowned author, reporter, and columnist-the recipient of three Pulitzer Prizes and the author of six bestselling books, among them From Beirut to Jerusalem and The World Is Flat .He was born in Minneapolis in 1953, and grew up in the middle-class Minneapolis suburb of St. Louis Park. He graduated from Brandeis University in 1975 with a degree in Mediterranean studies, attended St. Antony's College, Oxford, on a Marshall Scholarship, and received an M.Phil. degree in modern Middle East studies from Oxford. After three years with United Press International, he joined The New York Times , where he has worked ever since as a reporter, correspondent, bureau chief, and columnist. At the Times , he has won three Pulitzer Prizes: in 1983 for international reporting (from Lebanon), in 1988 for international reporting (from Israel), and in 2002 for his columns after the September 11th attacks. Friedman's first book, From Beirut to Jerusalem , won the National Book Award in 1989. His second book, The Lexus and the Olive Tree: Understanding Globalization (1999), won the Overseas Press Club Award for best book on foreign policy in 2000. In 2002 FSG published a collection of his Pulitzer Prize-winning columns, along with a diary he kept after 9/11, as Longitudes and Attitudes: Exploring the World After September 11 . His fourth book, The World Is Flat: A Brief History of the Twenty-first Century (2005) became a #1 New York Times bestseller and received the inaugural Financial Times/Goldman Sachs Business Book of the Year Award in November 2005. A revised and expanded edition was published in hardcover in 2006 and in 2007. The World Is Flat has sold more than 4 million copies in thirty-seven languages. In 2008 he brought out Hot, Flat, and Crowded , which was published in a revised edition a year later. His sixth book, That Used to Be Us: How American Fell Behind in the World We Invented and How We Can Come Back , co-written with Michael Mandelbaum, was published in 2011.Thomas L. Friedman lives in Bethesda, Maryland, with his family.

Hero of the Empire: The Boer War, a Daring Escape, and the Making of Winston Churchill

Amazon.com Review An Amazon Best Book of September 2016: It should come as no surprise that Winston Churchill was an ambitious, young go-getter long before he became Sir Winston Churchill—but you might be surprised by how interesting his young life was. The son of Lord Randolph Churchill—who ascended to the position of leader of the House of Commons and Chancellor of the Exchequer before dying at the age of forty five—Winston Churchill set off as a young man to find glory on the battlefield, with an eye toward ultimately emulating his father’s success in politics. The young Winston played a part in four wars on three different continents, the last of which was the Boer War. His experience as a prisoner in that war is the jumping off point of this book, and author Millard puts her narrative gifts to work as she describes his harrowing escape, setting the man in his time, and illustrating the man to describe his times. – Chris Schluep, The Amazon Book Review Review NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER Chosen as a Washington Post and New York Times Book Review Notable Book of 2016 "A thrilling account...This book is an awesome nail-biter and top-notch character study rolled into one...Could someone be persuaded to make a movie about this episode of his life? I’d watch." — New York Times Critic Jennifer Senior's Top Ten Books of 2016 “Gripping…tremendously readable and enjoyable…” — Alex von Tunzelmann, The New York Times Book Review "[A] truly fascinating book." — Financial Times "A gripping story...It's a thrilling journey and Millard tells it with gusto." — The Guardian “Millard’s tome is a slam-bang study of Churchill’s wit and wile as he navigates the Boer War like [a] proto-James Bond.” — USA Today About the Author CANDICE MILLARD is the author of the New York Times bestsellers The River of Doubt and Destiny of the Republic . She lives in Kansas City with her husband and three children. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Prologue Crouching in darkness outside the prison fence in wartime southern Africa, Winston Churchill could still hear the voices of the guards on the other side. Seizing his chance an hour earlier, the twenty-five-year-old had scaled the high, corrugated-iron paling that enclosed the prison yard. But now he was trapped in a new dilemma. He could not remain where he was. At any moment, he could be discovered and shot by the guards or by the soldiers who patrolled the dark, surrounding streets of Pretoria, the capital of the enemy Boer republic. Yet neither could he run. His hopes for survival depended on two other prisoners, who were still inside the wall. In the long minutes since he had dropped down into the darkness, they had not appeared. From the moment he had been taken as a prisoner of war, Churchill had dreamed of reclaiming his freedom, hatching scheme after scheme, each more elaborate than the last. In the end, however, the plan that had actually brought him over the fence was not his own. The two other English prisoners had plotted the escape, and agreed only with great reluctance to bring him along. They also carried the provisions that were supposed to sustain all three of them as they tried to cross nearly three hundred miles of enemy territory. Unable even to climb back into his hated captivity, Churchill found himself alone, hiding in the low, ragged shrubs that lined the fence, with no idea what to do next.  Although he was still a very young man, Churchill was no stranger to situations of great personal peril. He had already taken part in four wars on three different continents, and had come close to death in each one. He had felt bullets whistling by his head in Cuba, seen friends hacked to death in British India, been separated from his regiment in the deserts of the Sudan and, just a month earlier, in November 1899, at the start of the Boer War, led the resistance against a devastating attack on an armored train. Several men had died in that attack, blown to pieces by shells and a deafening barrage of bullets, many more had been horribly wounded, and Churchill had barely escaped with his life. To his fury and deep frustration, however, he had not eluded capture. He, along with dozens of British officers and soldiers, had been taken prisoner by the Boers—the tough, largely Dutch-speaking settlers who had been living in southern Africa for centuries and were not about to let the British Empire take their land without a fight. When the Boers had realized that they had captured the son of Lord Randolph Churchill, a former Chancellor of the Exchequer and a member of the highest ranks of the British aristocracy, they had been thrilled. Churchill had been quickly transported to a POW camp in Pretoria, the Boer capital, where he had been imprisoned with about a hundred other men. Since that day, he had been able to think of nothing but escape, and returning to the war. The Boer War had turned out to be far more difficult and more devastating than the amusing colonial war the British had expected. Their army, one of the most admired and feared fighting forces in the world, was astonished to find itself struggling to hold its own against a little-known republic on a continent that most Europeans considered to be theirs for the taking. Already, the British had learned more from this war than almost any other. Slowly, they were realizing that they had entered a new age of warfare. The days of gallant young soldiers wearing bright red coats had suddenly disappeared, leaving the vaunted British army to face an invisible enemy with weapons so powerful they could wreak carnage without ever getting close enough to look their victims in the eye. Long before it was over, the war would also change the empire in another, equally indelible way: It would bring to the attention of a rapt British public a young man named Winston Churchill. Although he had tried again and again, in war after war, to win glory, Churchill had returned home every time without the medals that mattered, no more distinguished or famous than he had been when he set out. The Boer War, he believed, was his best chance to change that, to prove that he was not just the son of a famous man. He was special, even extraordinary, and he was meant not just to fight for his country but one day lead it. Although he believed this without question, he still had to convince everyone else, something he would never be able to do from a POW camp in Pretoria. When Churchill had scrambled over the prison fence, seizing his chance after a nearby guard had turned his back, he felt elated. Now, as he kneeled in the shrubs just outside, waiting helplessly for the other men, his desperation mounted with each passing minute. Finally, he heard a British voice. Churchill realized with a surge of relief that it was one of his co-conspirators. “It’s all up,” the man whispered. The guard was suspicious, watching their every move. They could not get out. “Can you get back in?” the other prisoner asked. Both men knew the answer. As they stood on opposite sides of the fence, one still in captivity, the other achingly close to freedom, it was painfully apparent that Churchill could not undo what had already been done. It would have been impossible for him to climb back into the prison enclosure without being caught, and the punishment for his escape would have been immediate and possibly fatal.     In all the time he had spent thinking about his escape since arriving in Pretoria, the one scenario that Churchill had not envisioned was crossing enemy territory alone without companions or provisions of any kind. He didn’t have a weapon, a map, a compass, or, aside from a few bars of chocolate in his pocket, any food. He didn’t speak the language, either that of the Boers or that of the Africans. Beyond the vaguest of outlines, he didn’t even have a plan—just the unshakable conviction that he was destined for greatness. Part OnePushful, the YoungerChapter 1 - Death by Inches From earliest childhood, Churchill had been fascinated by war, and dreamed of gallantry in battle. “There is no ambition I cherish so keenly,” he had confided to his younger brother, Jack, “as to gain a reputation for personal courage.”As a boy, he had collected a miniature army of fifteen hundred toy soldiers and spent hours sending them into combat. “From very early youth I had brooded about soldiers and war, and often I had imagined in dreams and day-dreams the sensations attendant upon being for the first time under fire,” he wrote. “It seemed to my youthful mind that it must be a thrilling and immense experience to hear the whistle of bullets all around and to play at hazard from moment to moment with death and wounds.” At Sandhurst, the Royal Military College, from which he had graduated in 1894, Churchill had loved nothing more than to participate in war games, regretting only “that it all had to be make-believe.”To be an aristocratic Englishman in the late nineteenth century meant being surrounded not merely by the lavish benefits of imperial power but by its equally vast responsibilities. Covering more than a fifth of the world’s land surface, the British Empire had come to rule about a quarter of the human race—more than 450 million people living on every continent and on the islands of every ocean. It was the largest empire ever known, easily outranking the once mighty Spanish Empire, which had been the original object of the awe-filled description “the empire on which the sun never sets.” It was five times the size of the Roman Empire at its zenith, and its influence—over people, language, money, even time, for the clocks in every time zone were set to Greenwich mean time—was unrivaled.By the time Churchill reached adulthood, the greatest threat to the empire no longer came from the other major powers—Spain, Portugal, Germany or France—but from the ever-expanding burden of ruling its own colonies. Although long the object of admiration, envy and fear, the British army had been stretched impossibly thin as it struggled to keep the empire intact, crisscrossing continents and oceans to put down revolts everywhere from Egypt to Ireland.To Churchill, such far-flung conflicts offered an irresistible opportunity for personal glory and advancement. When he entered the British army and finally became a soldier, with the real possibility of dying in combat, Churchill’s enthusiasm for war did not waver. On the contrary, he had written to his mother that he looked forward to battle “not so much in spite of as because of the risks I run.” What he wanted most from his life as a soldier was not adventure or even battlefield experience but a chance to prove himself. He wanted not simply to fight but to be noticed while fighting.For a member of Churchill’s high social class, such bold, unabashed ambition was a novelty, if not an outright scandal. He had been born a British nobleman, a direct descendant of John Churchill, the 1st Duke of Marlborough, his parents personal friends of the Prince of Wales, Queen Victoria’s oldest son and heir. Yet in his open pursuit of fame and popular favor, Churchill seemed far less Victorian than Rooseveltian. “The immortal Barnum himself had not a greater gift for making himself and his affairs the talk of the world,” his first biographer, Alexander MacCallum Scott, would write just a few years later. “Winston advertises himself as simply and unconsciously as he breathes.”In a world in which men were praised not just for their stiff upper lip but for extreme modesty when it came to their own achievements, Churchill was widely criticized for being that most offensive of creatures, the medal hunter. He was called a “self-advertiser,” a “young whippersnapper,” even, by a reporter for the Daily Chronicle, “Pushful, the Younger.” He was not unaware of these criticisms and even years later, bewildered by the viciousness with which he was attacked, would admit that it was “melancholy to be forced to record these less amiable aspects of human nature, which by a most curious and indeed unaccountable coincidence have always seemed to present themselves in the wake of my innocent footsteps.” He was not, however, about to let them slow him down.Churchill knew that the surest and quickest route to recognition, success and perhaps, if he was lucky, fame was a military medal. It was “the swift road to promotion and advancement in every arm,” he wrote, “the glittering gateway to distinction.” Distinction, in turn, could be parlayed into political clout, opening a door onto the kind of public life that he longed for, and which he believed was his destiny. So while the military was not, for Churchill, an end in itself, it was certainly a very useful means to an end. What he needed was a battle, a serious battle, one that would be talked about, would be remembered, and, with a good dose of courage and a little showmanship on his part, might propel him to the forefront of the military stage. For that, he was willing to risk anything, even his life.Churchill had seen real fighting for the first time in 1895. Instead of spending his leave playing polo or foxhunting like most young officers, he had gone to Cuba as a military observer, joining a fighting column of the Spanish army during an uprising that was a prelude to the Spanish-American War. It was here that he began smoking cigars, giving birth to a lifelong habit and a distinct preference for Cubanos. It was also here that on his twenty-first birthday he heard for the first time “bullets strike flesh.” In fact, he had very nearly been killed by a bullet that, by the capriciousness of fate, had sailed just a foot past his head, striking and killing the horse standing next to him. In Cuba, however, he had been only an observer, not an active participant, and for Churchill that would never be enough.Churchill’s true education in the harsh realities of Britain’s colonial wars began the next year, in the remote mountains of British India’s North-West Frontier, modern-day Pakistan, whose sweeping vistas, unforgiving beauty and lethal conflicts would later suggest powerful parallels to those of southern Africa. For the British army, no colony had been more difficult to subdue than India, the jewel in the empire’s crown, and no part of India had proved more deadly for British soldiers than the tribal lands of the Pashtun, an ethnic group renowned for their military skill and unyielding resistance to outside control.It was, in fact, the Pashtun’s unmatched ferocity in battle that drew Churchill to India, and to the Pashtun heartland known as Malakand. In October 1896, Churchill had arrived in India with his regiment, the Fourth Queen’s Own Hussars. He had come hoping to find himself quickly at the center of action. Instead, he had spent month after frustrating month in Bangalore, which he irritably described to his mother as a “3rd rate watering place.”The incredible luxury in which he lived had made little difference. Left to find their own lodgings, Churchill and two fellow officers had chosen what Churchill described to his mother as “a magnificent pink and white stucco palace in the middle of a large and beautiful garden.” They paid for this lavish abode by combining their salaries, given to them in silver rupees poured into a string net bag “as big as a prize turnip,” with any allowance they managed to pry from dwindling family fortunes.Like some of his fellow officers, Churchill came from a family that was rich in titles and grand estates, but little else. The Churchill family palace, Blenheim, was, like most great houses in England at the end of the nineteenth century, hovering on the brink of collapse. The 5th and 6th Dukes of Marlborough had lived lives of such extravagance that when Churchill’s grandfather inherited the title and the palace, he had been forced to sell not just land but some of the treasures that the family held most dear. In 1875, when Churchill was not yet a year old, the 7th Duke sold the Marlborough Gems, a stunning assortment of more than 730 carved gemstones, for more than £36,000. A few years later, despite the protestations of his family, he sold the Sunderland Library, a vast and historically significant collection.The most effective means the Churchills had found of keeping the palace from going under, however, had been to marry the successive dukes off to “dollar princesses,” enormously wealthy heiresses whose families longed for an old British title to burnish their new American money. Soon after becoming the 8th Duke, Churchill’s uncle George Spencer-Churchill, whose first wife divorced him in the wake of an affair, married a wealthy New York widow named Lillian Warren Hamersley. His son, now the 9th Duke, dutifully followed in his footsteps, marrying a dollar princess of his own, the American railroad heiress Consuelo Vanderbilt, in 1895.Despite his family’s financial failings, Churchill was accustomed to a lavish lifestyle, and he hired a veritable army of servants while in India. “We each have a ‘Butler’ whose duties are to wait at table—to manage the household and to supervise the stables: A First Dressing Boy or valet who is assisted by a second DB: and a sais [syce] to every horse or pony,” Churchill had coolly explained to his mother. “Besides this we share the services of 2 gardenders [sic]—3 Bhistis or water carriers—4 Dhobies or washermen & 1 watchman. Such is our ménage.”When a Pashtun revolt began in the mountains of Malakand the next year, Churchill, bored and restless, had been on leave in London, at the world-famous Goodwood Racecourse. It was a perfect day, the racecourse was so beautiful that the Prince of Wales referred to it as a “garden party with racing tacked on,” and Churchill was “winning my money.” As soon as he learned of the revolt, however, Churchill knew that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for, and he was not about to waste a moment or wait for an invitation. Read more

The Infamous Harry Hayward: A True Account of Murder and Mesmerism in Gilded Age Minneapolis

Review "The story of Harry Hayward is a portrait both of a genuinely chilling nineteenth-century killer and of a golden American city—Minneapolis in the 1800s—that provides a home to the darkness within us. Shawn Francis Peters does full justice to both light and shadow in this murderous tale."—Deborah Blum, author of The Poisoner’s Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York "At last, a great nonfiction storyteller has given this terrifying murderer the well-researched and vividly written treatment he deserves. The Infamous Harry Hayward places readers inside the disordered mind of a Victorian era killer—and won’t let them go."—Jack El-Hai, author of The Nazi and the Psychiatrist and The Lobotomist " The Infamous Harry Hayward is a riveting account of a dark chapter in Minnesota history—the murder-for-hire of a dressmaker, ‘Kittie’ Ging. The 1895 trial of Harry Hayward, a Victorian Era gambler and the murder’s criminal mastermind, grabbed lurid newspaper headlines in a case that pitted one brother against another."—John Bessler, author of Legacy of Violence: Lynch Mobs and Executions in Minnesota "The book unfolds as a play-by-play of the seven-week trial and reads much like the sensationalist reporting of the events at the time. The end result is an entertaining tale of crime and punishment from Minnesota’s gilded age and a great episode from the annals of yellow journalism."— Publishers Weekly "Peters’ scholarly, yet accessible, prose takes readers into the shadowy corners of Minneapolis and the sinister mind of a “man without a soul”."— Isthmus "If you’ve never heard of Harry Hayward you’ll love reading about this serial seducer, con man, gambler and crook. This nonfiction evocation of a sensational life reads like a thriller."— St. Paul Pioneer Press About the Author Shawn Francis Peters teaches in the Integrated Liberal Studies Program at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. He has written five books, most recently The Catonsville Nine: A Story of Faith and Resistance in the Vietnam Era .

Tea in Tripoli: A Memoir

Alone at Dawn: Medal of Honor Recipient John Chapman and the Untold Story of the World's Deadliest Special Operations Force

High Country Nocturne: A David Mapstone Mystery (David Mapstone Mysteries, 7)

About the Author Jon Talton is a fourth-generation Arizonan, the author of 12 novels, and a former columnist for the Arizona Republic. Talton now lives in Seattle, where he is the economics columnist for the Seattle Times and writes the blog Rogue Columnist. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. High Country Nocturne A David Mapstone Mystery By Jon Talton Poisoned Pen Press Copyright © 2015 Jon TaltonAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4642-0400-5 CHAPTER 1 In the end, the truth was almost beside the point. CHAPTER 2 Ten o'clock. Two o'clock. I knew the drill. It had been many years since I had been pulled over by the police, almost as many years since I was a young deputy sheriff doing traffic stops myself. When I did, I wanted to see the driver's hands right where mine rested now. Ten o'clock and two o'clock on the steering wheel. Left hand at ten. Right hand at two. Where I could be sure he wasn't concealing a gun. Extra points if he had shut down the engine and held his driver's license and vehicle registration. Unless the driver was being extra careful because he was a bad guy. Then I would be on extra guard. Traffic stops were scary, especially if they were on lonely roads after midnight. It was you and the driver and anybody else in the car and the darkness. Backup might be miles away. You might think you were pulling over a driver to tell him his taillight was out. Unless the driver had killed his girlfriend or robbed a Circle K five minutes before and didn't know you were only being Deputy Helpful. When I was a rookie, these stops were the only part of the job that scared me. Now I was the driver and Sharon Peralta, my partner's wife, sat beside me. My hands rested at ten and two, and the digital clock read one o'clock in the morning. I had taken a chance roaring north out of Phoenix on Interstate 17 in her silver Lexus IS 250C convertible. I took a chance doing ninety-five when the posted speed limit was twenty miles-per-hour lower. With budget cuts, traffic stops by the Department of Public Safety—the highway patrol—had plummeted so low that people started calling it the "shadow patrol." But the shadow patrol nailed me as I climbed out of Camp Verde. Red lights and blue lights followed me as I took an exit that led down a cut to a crossroads. I pulled off the pavement onto the dirt ten yards before a stop sign. A spotlight swept the inside of the car, then focused on our rearview mirror. That was standard procedure to keep the occupants of the stopped vehicle from seeing into the police car behind them. I had already used the button to roll down the window when I heard the officer's voice. "Do you know why I stopped you, sir?" A Southern accent washed through my ear canal. "I was speeding." A flashlight beam flashed across the interior, lingering on our laps and our feet. She asked for my driver's license and registration. I handed them over. She stood to the rear of the door so I couldn't see her. Her tactics were sound. "Please stay inside your vehicle, sir. And please shut off your lights." One didn't hear many Southern accents in Arizona today, even though many of Phoenix's early settlers were ex-Confederates. That accent had two broad and mutually exclusive presentations, hick and high-class magnolia. She was definitely the latter. I said, "I'm sorry, Sharon." As if she hadn't been through enough already. All the lights on the DPS cruiser shut down. Just a few years ago, we would have been left in profound darkness, with only the highway, miraculously blasted through the rugged country, as a reminder of modernity. This was the exit to Montezuma's Castle National Monument, seven-hundred-year-old cliff dwellings. At night, nobody would be here. The darkness would be primeval. Now a tribal casino sat on a bluff to the east, polluting the high desert sky. If you asked me, it was a monstrosity. But nobody asked me. Nobody had asked me about adding five million people to the state since I was a child. I shook my head. "Who is Sharon Peralta?" The cop had returned, stepping lightly. "I am." Sharon leaned forward and squinted into the flashlight beam. Her eyes were tired. "Is this your vehicle, ma'am?" She said that it was. "Do you know this man?" "Yes, he's a friend." "Sir, please step out of the car. Ma'am, you stay here." I had been afraid this might happen, so I came out with it. "I'm armed." "Why is that, sir?" The magnolia debutante voice didn't seem stressed. And it was not as if she could ask to see my permit. Not in Arizona, which had some of the most liberal gun laws in the country. "I'm a private investigator." She asked me where the gun was and I told her it was in a holster on my belt. Then she told me to place it slowly on the dash and I did, carefully, barrel forward, hand away from the trigger. My familiar Colt Python .357 magnum revolver. But with the four-inch ribbed barrel, it was a mean-looking firearm. Her flashlight beam lingered on it. "Anything else?" Be respectful. That was another part of the drill. "No, ma'am." It was even the truth. I didn't take time to bring Speedloaders with extra ammunition or a backup piece after the phone call woke me at nine minutes after midnight Saturday morning. I was sleepy and in a hurry and on the drive up into the High Country, I thought this had been a rash move. Now, I was glad to have only one firearm to explain. The flashlight clicked off. "Please step out of the car." Now her voice had lost its lilt. Or maybe I was being nervous. One thing was sure; I was wide-awake. I opened the door and slid out, dropping my feet onto the hard-packed dirt and getting my first look at the DPS cop. She was more than a head shorter than me, dressed in the standard uniform: tan slacks, tan long-sleeved shirt, shoulder patch in the shape of the state and colors of the state flag, seven-point gold star above her left pocket. Thanks to the casino's neon, I could see that her hair was strawberry blond, tied back in a bun. Her features seemed attractive, even the slightly weak chin. Her expression was camouflaged by shadows. Age? Around thirty. "Walk to the back of the car and put your hands on the trunk, please, palms down." I did as she asked. The cold made me shiver. We were three thousand feet higher than Phoenix, where it was resort weather and the wrecking ball of summer only a bad memory. That was why Lindsey had given me my leather jacket. But it was in the back seat and I only had on a T-shirt, jeans, and athletic shoes. The metal of the trunk conducted the cold through my hands, adding to the discomfort. It must have been a quiet night for her to take this much time. Or she recognized Sharon's last name. That might be problematic. I wished she would write the ticket, give me the lecture, and send me away with a "drive safely, sir." Instead, I heard a discomfiting snap and she told me to turn around. Her gun was out, aimed at me. It was pointed at my face. In the academy, they call this aiming at "the lethal T" or the "fatal T." The T consisted of the eyes and nose, a shot guaranteed to kill instantly. Officers are usually trained to shoot at a suspect's "body of mass," the torso. That is an easier, surer target. But more criminals are wearing body armor. She was not in a combat shooting stance, with both hands on the weapon for stability. Instead, she held it confidently in one hand, her right. That was unusual. Seeing her finger on the trigger heightened my concern. This was something definitely not taught at the academy. Officers learn to keep the trigger finger aligned with the side of the gun's lower receiver and slide—"ready to engage," as the instructors put it. This prevents an accidental discharge. But there it was, the pistol staring me in the eyes, the officer's finger on the trigger. This situation left me one cough or involuntary nerve spasm away from being shot and I wouldn't live more than a few seconds. No time for last words. Words like, "Tell my wife I love her." Or, "Why did you shoot me? I was unarmed." It is impossible to speak after your face has been torn apart and a bullet acts out the laws of physics inside your skull. Impossible, when you are already dead. This is your brain, Mapstone. This is your brain blown out of the back of your head all over the bumper of Sharon's fancy convertible. "I'm not armed," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm, its cadence slow, as I raised my hands. "I am not posing any threat to you. Please take your finger off the trigger." She didn't do as I suggested. I studied the gun. It was a semi-automatic, black with intimidating lines. I couldn't identify the maker. It wasn't the Glock that was standard with police. A tractor-trailer rig approached on the Interstate, grinding uphill toward Flagstaff. If only the truck driver needed to pull off and came down the cut and somehow broke the spell that had this officer in its grasp. But then the semi was gone and the world around us was quiet. Not a single gambler came or went from the casino. The nation's sixth-largest city was only ninety miles south but it might as well have been on a different planet. I had the tactical solutions of a can of cat food. When I went through the academy too many years ago, I had learned how to disarm a shooter without having a gun myself. This involved stepping close inside her reach and doing a hard, straight-arm bar to dislodge the weapon. But she was too far away and I had never tried this desperate move in real life. She seemed to read this thought and took one more step back, then crooked her arm close to her side, the gun still perfectly aimed. If the barrel were an eye, it could have winked at me. I raised my empty hands higher, feeling the slick between the T-shirt and my skin. "Why are you doing this?" My mouth was so dry it had trouble forming the words. She cocked her head as if about to answer, then thought better of it. "I used to be a cop," I said. "I know how stressful a traffic stop can be." The strawberry blond Sphinx stared at me. "Maybe you read about me. David Mapstone. I solved cold cases for the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office." She said, "I know who you are." The way she said it told me she meant more than a name she'd read on my driver's license. And my self-possession started to crack. "Do we know each other? What's your name?" I couldn't make out her nametag or badge number. Then she lowered pistol in the direction of my groin and smiled. "Where ...?" That was as far as she got. A pair of headlights on high beams. A car coming off the Interstate, headed toward us. I squinted and turned my head aside as the glare grew more intense. The car stopped behind her cruiser and kept its lights on. More than a few beats passed in silence, her hair a halo in the backlights. I prayed it was another DPS unit and that an officer would talk her down. She continued to face me. "Friends of yours?" Now it was my turn to say nothing. She slipped the gun back into its holster with one clean move and snapped it in place. The pleasant drawl returned to her voice, as if the past five minutes had never happened. She handed back my license and registration. "You drive safely, sir." Within thirty seconds, she was gone, spewing dirt and rocks. My savior behind the high beams remained. My tongue tasted dust as wobbly legs conveyed me to the car and I put the Python back in its holster. One last time, I turned and stared at the headlights. After a few minutes, once we were back on the highway, I found the same headlights following us a quarter mile behind. I didn't know who was inside, although I had a good guess. But I was certain they had saved my life. Sharon looked me over. Sweat was coming through the T-shirt. "Are you all right, David?" "Sure." "Really?" "She let me off with a warning." And how. I set the cruise control at seventy-five as the Interstate climbed and climbed toward Flagstaff. Sharon stared at her lap, dark hair curtaining off her face, and said nothing more. This was unusual. Sharon was a master conversationalist. Weren't all shrinks talkers? And they wanted you to talk. We had much to discuss, in fact. But I didn't speak either, about what had happened minutes before at the traffic stop, about the telephone call that had brought us here, or everything that had come at us in the previous day. The silence was so profound that my breathing sounded like screams. I silently replayed the scene by the side of the road. It was late. I had been awakened and forced to drive after a stressful day. The mind plays tricks. But the finger on the trigger was no illusion. And I replayed the angry metal click of the woman's holster. It bothered me for more reasons than the gun in my face. The old Galco High-Ride holster that held my Python had a strip of leather that wrapped around the frame of the gun. It is called a retention strap, meant to keep an attacker from grabbing the gun and using it on you. I could get to the revolver easily by grasping the handle and moving my hand against the place the retention strap connected to the rest of the holster. It would come loose with a snap and I'd be ready to rock. But that was old school. I cursed aloud. "What it is, David?" "It's some inside baseball cop stuff. Probably nothing." She didn't push it. It wasn't inside baseball. Inside cop world. Snap. No. Most law-enforcement officers didn't use those retention straps now. Manufacturers had advanced the security of holsters substantially so that it was much more difficult for the weapon to be taken in a struggle. It helped that the semiautomatic pistols cops carried had smooth butts, no exposed hammer like the Python's to accommodate. I stared into the red lights of a truck several car-lengths ahead, then signaled and moved to pass. Now cops carried holsters classified as Level 2, Level 3, and even Level 4, based on the degree of protection they provided. But almost all had one element in common—to unholster the gun, the officer moved the strap forward. In the more advanced holsters, the pistol must be properly gripped and a lever switched. None of these regulation holsters made a snap. "She wasn't ..." I absently let the car slow down against the gravity of the mountain it needed to climb. "What?" Sharon asked. I pushed down the accelerator and we surged forward. "I was thinking. Always a surprising thing when I do it." She laughed and I kept silent. I was thinking that perhaps the DPS officer was old school like me and refused to adopt a new holster. Thinking perhaps she was not a police officer. She pointed the gun at my crotch and said, "Where ...?" Where, what? Where were we going? Where was Peralta? As the cold sweat stayed with me, another thought came. If I saw her again, it would once more be in darkness and I wouldn't get a second chance. Sharon said, "Do you still get panic attacks, David?" I ignored her and held my iPhone against the steering wheel, shakily texting Lindsey one character, an asterisk. I watched the iPhone screen as the message was delivered. After a few tense seconds, Lindsey texted back. Another asterisk. In our personal code, it meant one thing: leave the house immediately. Go. CHAPTER 3 The blue and red police lights were visible even before I took the Ash Fork exit off Interstate 40—the vision of Dwight David Eisenhower flowing from Barstow, California, to Wilmington, North Carolina. We descended onto a two-lane road, crossed a wash, and I pulled the car into a broad, flat lot surrounding what had once been a gas station. All that was left was a rectangular streamline moderne building, long-abandoned, with an office on one end and two garage doors on the other, with a single yellow streetlight burning above. I pulled in behind a Yavapai County Sheriff's Department cruiser with its light bar flashing. Nobody seemed to notice us. The cops were on the other side of yellow crime-scene tape, milling around a pickup truck illuminated by multiple spotlights. It was a new Ford F-150, extended cab. Mike Peralta's truck. "David." Sharon touched my hand. The poor lighting couldn't conceal the agony in her eyes. "If he's ..." She stopped, squeezed my hand hard. "It's going to be fine." I gently disentangled her hand, took off my gun, slid on my leather jacket, and stepped out into the chill. The wind was coming hard from the west and the air smelled of pines. My stomach was tight, but after the encounter with the woman in the DPS uniform, I was focused and calm. Thanks to some fluke of brain chemistry, I usually excel in these situations. Panic only hits me later, when I am safe and alone. But I had no confidence that it would be fine, as I had assured Sharon. He might have come up here and blown his brains out. He might have been murdered. His body might be in the truck awaiting me. (Continues...) Excerpted from High Country Nocturne by Jon Talton . Copyright © 2015 Jon Talton. Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Deep Black: A Tom Locke Novel (Tom Locke Series, 2)

Review “Locke is another strong hero in the growing subgenre of black-ops thrillers, and Deep Black is a maze of treachery and intrigue to the very end.” — Booklist Online “McFate knows his way around bold, riveting stories, fascinating characters and ground-level combat that are sure to please fans of Brad Thor, Tom Clancy, and Daniel Silva.” — Mark Greaney, #1 New York Times bestselling author of One Minute Out “Has an enjoyable, realistic feeling…will appeal to action junkies and armchair diplomats alike.” — Kirkus Reviews From the Back Cover TOM LOCKE MUST TRACK A MISSING SAUDI PRINCE HOLDING DEVASTATING SECRETS WHO HAS FLED DEEP INSIDE ISIS TERRITORY IN THIS SECOND SIZZLING MILITARY ACTION THRILLER FROM THE AUTHORS OF SHADOW WAR In Paris, a motorcade is attacked by masked men who corner a Saudi prince and steal the case handcuffed to his wrist. A thousand miles away in Istanbul, the prince’s brother receives a mysterious phone call, and moments later narrowly escapes a black ops ambush after a dash through the grand bazaar. Meanwhile, military contractor Tom Locke is working undercover on the frontlines of ISIS-infected Iraq. He’s on the run from Apollo Outcomes, a private military corporation run by the treacherous Brad Winters, when he’s approached by a Saudi middleman who offers good money to find the missing son of a high-ranking government official. What Locke doesn’t know is that multiple sides of a clandestine war are scrambling to find the young prince, that he may be holding the key to a new world order, and that his father may or may not be using him to topple the Saudi government. As he pushes deeper into ISIS territory, Locke must navigate both the on-the-ground battle lines and the larger “deep state” war he has stumbled into yet again. To complete the mission and keep his men safe, the battle-hardened Locke must use his considerable skill to combat a fanatical enemy on the ground—while a duplicitous adversary much closer to home waits for his chance to strike. . . . Once again, Sean McFate lends his rare expertise to this riveting, fast-paced tale of enigmatic warriors and international treachery, proving that he’s one of the most captivating new thriller writers of recent years. About the Author Sean McFate is a professor of strategy at the National Defense University and Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service. He is also a Senior Fellow at the Atlantic Council, a think tank. He served as a paratrooper in the US Army’s 82nd Airborne Division and then worked for a major private military corporation, where he ran operations similar to those in this book. He is the author of The Modern Mercenary: Private Armies and What They Mean for World Order , and holds a BA from Brown University, a MA from Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government, and a PhD in international relations from the London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE). He lives with his wife in Washington, DC. Bret Witter has co-authored eight New York Times bestsellers, including the #1 bestseller The Monuments Men . He lives with his family in Decatur, Georgia. Read more

Liberation: New Works on Freedom from Internationally Renowned Poets

About the Author Mark Ludwig is the founding executive director of the Terezín Music Foundation (TMF), dedicated to preserving and performing the musical legacy of composers imprisoned in the Terezín concentration camp and all artists lost in the Holocaust. By commissioning new works of composers and poets, TMF strives to fill the silence these great artists left and to use their legacy as a vehicle promoting dialogue and freedom of expression. Mark lives in Boston, where he is also a member of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

Tara's Treasures

Library and Information Science: A Guide to Key Literature and Sources

Review "Every librarian takes on new responsibilities for which no previous experience is adequate for the unfamiliar task at hand. In these situations what is often needed is a source that gives step-by-step directions with examples, templates, and outlines. Library and Information Science: A Guide to Key Literature and Sources addresses this individual need and fills this particular niche in the professional literature." -- Journal of Academic Libraries "As a research starter on a topic in librarianship, I'd say this will be useful for many, especially beginners and librarians in the field who may not have extensive access to LIS sources. For me, I'd keep it on my shelf to check on things now and then as part of keeping up or for my areas of interest. This is one I am suggesting for librarians to at least look over." --The Itinerant Librarian BlogWhat Bemis has succeeded in doing is creating a book that is packed with a lot of interesting and useful information for library and information science faculty and students, as well as for working academic, public and school librarians in various stages of their careers ... a useful and worthwhile tool to keep within reach. --Reference Reviews About the Author Michael F. Bemis has written reference book reviews for American Reference Books Annual , Library Journal , Reference and User Services Quarterly , and other professional librarian publications. He reviews book proposals for Praeger Press and is a member of the National Book Critics Circle. He recently completed a two-year term as chair of the Materials Reviewing Committee of ALA's Reference and User Services Association (RUSA).

The Books That Changed My Life: Reflections by 100 Authors, Actors, Musicians, and Other Remarkable People

Review “'How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!' Thoreau only says 'a book,' but Bethanne Patrick had the excellent idea of asking notable figures in the arts, business, media and politics to be more specific. The result is a collection of lively brief essays extolling the power of the printed word while also providing an appealingly idiosyncratic reading list. Be prepared for surprises!" — Michael Dirda , Pulitzer Prize-winning literary journalist and author of Browsings: A Year of Reading, Collecting, and Living with Books "Turns out great writers are also great readers. Or at least the ones in this book are. Their essays will entertain you and move you—and also add several dozen titles to your reading list. So beware." — A.J. Jacobs , New York Times bestselling author of The Know-It-All and The Year of Living Biblically "An inspiring collection that will make a perfect gift for an aspiring writer or devoted reader." — Kirkus "When people claim that books changed their lives, if you look at them closely, their lives rarely seem to have actually changed. That's not the case with the bibliomaniacs in this masterfully curated anthology. Not only have these books changed their lives, they tell you how, when, and why. Your to-read pile is about to grow by leaps and bounds." — Josh Hanagarne , author of The World's Strongest Librarian: A Book Lover's Adventures "Lively, addictive . . . The short entries are like literary snack food: once readers start consuming them, they may find it difficult to stop. Book lovers will recognize themselves in these portraits and feel among friends. Perhaps the most valuable takeaway from this joyous volume is that, in an increasingly digital world, the printed word still matters." — Publishers Weekly About the Author Bethanne Patrick is the author of An Uncommon History of Common Things (with John Thompson) and An Uncommon History of Common Courtesy . She is a contributing editor at The Literary Hub. Her essays, reviews, and interviews appear in publications including The Washington Post , Virginia Quarterly Review , O the Oprah Magazine , The Mid.com, and many more. In 2009, she created the #FridayReads hashtag, which continues to attract thousands of readers around the world.

Dyno Don: The Cars and Career of Dyno Don Nicholson

Review "This book is an excellent tribute to one of drag racing's very best, No. 18 on NHRA's Top 50 Drivers list." (D. Randy Riggs Vintage Motorsport 2018-08-20)"Boyce's 174-page softcover book is a work worthy of Nicholson's legacy." ( Old Cars Weekly 2018-11-09)"This book is sure to please fans of the man and followers of the sport." (Mark J. McCourt Hemmings Muscle Machines 2019-12-12) From the Back Cover Many fans of drag racing consider the most interesting era to be from the 1950s through the 1970s, the years when the sport really took off. During that period, so much changed from a speed and technology standpoint that people often refer to this time as the golden age of drag racing. Fans followed their favorite drivers and their favorite brands through the ranks as mildly modified door slammers from Junior Stock turned into Super Stock, Funny Cars, and Pro Stock. Drivers often became associated with a particular manufacturer, such as Chevy, Ford, or Chrysler through sponsorship, factory team rides, or sometimes simply their own preference. The more successful drivers became household names in the drag racing community. Chevy had Grumpy Jenkins, Pontiac had Arnie "the Farmer" Beswick, Mopar had Sox & Martin and “Dandy” Dick Landy, and Ford’s most successful driver of the era was the legendary "Dyno Don" Nicholson. Nicholson'' first wins on a national level were actually in the early 1960s in Chevrolet products. He became extremely successful on the match-race circuit. Then, in 1964, he switched over to Mercury with the new Comet after General Motors enacted a factory ban on racing activities. He won 90 percent of his match races that year. He stuck with Ford and Mercury products and won throughout the 1960s and 1970s, even after Ford also pulled the plug on factory team sponsorship. He made it to the final rounds in nearly 50 national events during that period, in addition to winning championships, awards, and match races along the way. Innovator, hard worker, pioneer, hard racer, tough competitor, a true gentleman, and a man you couldn’t dislike . . . These descriptions are shared by his colleagues and competitors throughout the course of his hall of fame career. About the Author Doug Boyce has had a lifelong addiction to drag racing. He turned his first wrench at age 8 and attended his first race at age 10. The essence of burning rubber and screaming open pipes filled his head and by his early teens, he was elbow deep in building classic Chevys. He continued to fuel the fire while working 9 to 5 in the automotive field. Doug has filled what little spare time he has had writing numerous club and magazine articles related to drag racing's golden years. He has an on going love of drag racing and the way it used to be. He is the author of Grumpy's Toys and Junior Stock , both best-selling CarTech titles. Read more

The Clock Of Life

Review "This is not only a fine read, this is an important novel by an important new voice in the art of blending fiction and fact and making sense of it all." Grady Harp, Literary Aficionado " The Clock Of Life by Nancy Klann-Moren is one of those books where everything about it feels right." Candi Sary, Underground Book Review "Brought to life by a first-class storyteller, The Clock Of Life is one of those books I was sad to see end. Edie Crabtree, Newport Beach Independent. "Klann-Moren gives a true history lesson, and her inclusion of historical events in her novel make the book more vivid.  I personally loved it and recommend it to anyone looking for a light, fresh, and cultural (historical) read". Reviewed by Kelly Santana for Readers' Favorite. "Narrative and dialogue contain picturesque dialogue that opens the story in the mind of the reader. Highly talented and skilled writer." Judge, Writer's Digest Self-Published e-Bood Awards

Burnt Edges

Hamakua Hero

From Publishers Weekly In the late 19th century, a shortage of labor for the sugar plantations on the islands of Hawaii and difficult economic circumstances in Japan made for a synergistic coupling: thousands of Japanese (mostly young men) left for Hawaii. According to Iwasaki's young adult history tale, those immigrant workers didn't exactly find an immigrants' paradise. Relegated to the most grueling plantation work under frequently cruel bosses, the young Katsu Goto, like other workers, tried to get off the treadmill by opening a store and becoming a businessman. Goto's success, and status as a leader of immigrant workers agitating against miserable working conditions, unfortunately enrages some of the white locals, who look for retribution. Iwasaki's story, though told in vividly juvenile style by artist Berido, is a straight history lesson, with all the attendant pluses and minuses of the genre--fascinating subtext being one of the former, and a tendency toward excessive literalness and footnotes being one of the latter. Although very local in its focus, this is a smart piece of immigrant history. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved. Review In the late 19th century, a shortage of labor for the sugar plantations on the islands of Hawaii and difficult economic circumstances in Japan made for a synergistic coupling: thousands of Japanese (mostly young men) left for Hawaii. According to Iwasaki's young adult history tale, those immigrant workers didn't exactly find an immigrants' paradise. Relegated to the most grueling plantation work under frequently cruel bosses, the young Katsu Goto, like other workers, tried to get off the treadmill by opening a store and becoming a businessman. Goto's success, and status as a leader of immigrant workers agitating against miserable working conditions, unfortunately enrages some of the white locals, who look for retribution. Iwasaki's story, though told in vividly juvenile style by artist Berido, is a straight history lesson, with all the attendant pluses and minuses of the genre--fascinating subtext being one of the former, and a tendency toward excessive literalness and footnotes being one of the latter. Although very local in its focus, this is a smart piece of immigrant history. (Oct.) <BR>(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved. --From Publishers Weekly About the Author Patsy Y. Iwasaki was born and raised on Kauaʻi, surrounded by sugar cane and plantations. Her grandparents immigrated to Hawai‘i from Hiroshima and worked on the Lihue Sugar Plantation. Iwasaki is currently a lecturer at the University of Hawai‘i at Hilo in the Communication and English departments. Read more

Pebbles and Izzy: The Shells Are Talking to Me

The Traitor (British Library Spy Classics)

About the Author SYDNEY HORLER (1888-1954) began his career as a journalist. During the First World War he worked as an official propagandist. From the 1920s until his death he was a prolific and popular author of thriller novels which were famously advertised under the slogan "Horler for excitement!"

The Veterinarian's Touch: Profiles of Life Among Animals

Review "Vivid portraits of an extraordinary group of doctors. "-Kirkus Reviews"Gutkind sensitively reveals the many challenges and satisfactions of a noble calling. "-Diane Ackerman About the Author Lee Gutkind, editor of the popular new journal Creative Nonfiction, is the award-winning author of eight books. He writes for the New York Times Magazine and teaches at the University of Pittsbugh. He lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

From the Cop Shop: Weird and Wonderful Tales from Our Men and Women of the Badge

Choke

Review “Sheer, anarchic fierceness of imagination. . . . Raw and vital.”— The New York Times “Puts a bleakly humorous spin on self-help, addiction recovery, and childhood trauma. . . . Funny mantra-like prose plows toward the mayhem it portends from the get-go.”— The Village Voice “Palahniuk has a vision that's distinctive. Like it or loathe it, Choke cannot be dismissed. Nor can its creator.”— Houston Chronicle “Few contemporary writers mix the outrageous and the hilarious with greater zest. . . . Chuck Palahniuk's splenetic, anarchic glee makes him a worthy heir to Ken Kesey.”— Newsday About the Author Chuck Palahniuk's novels are the bestselling Fight Club , which was made into a film by director David Fincher, Diary , Lullaby , Survivor , Haunted , and Invisible Monsters . Portions of Choke have appeared in Playboy , and Palahniuk's nonfiction work has been published by Gear , Black Book , The Stranger , and the Los Angeles Times . He lives in the Pacific Northwest.www.chuckpalahniuk.net Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. In the summer of 1642 in Plymouth, Massachusetts, a teenage boy was accused of buggering a mare, a cow, two goats, five sheep, two calves, and a turkey. This is real history on the books. In accordance with the Biblical laws of Leviticus, after the boy confessed he was forced to watch each animal being slaughtered. Then he was killed and his body heaped with the dead animals and buried in an unmarked pit. This was before there were sexaholic talk therapy meetings. This teenager, writing his fourth step must've been a whole barnyard tell-all. I ask, "Any questions?" The fourth-graders just look at me. A girl in the second row says, "What's buggering?" I say, ask your teacher. Every half hour, I'm supposed to teach another herd of fourth-graders some shit nobody wants to learn, like how to start a fire. How to carve an apple-head doll. How to make ink out of black walnuts. As if this is going to get any of them into a good college. Besides deforming the poor chickens, these fourth-graders, they all walk in here carrying some germ. It's no mystery why Denny's always wiping his nose and coughing. Head lice, pinworms, chlamydia, ringworm?for serious, these field trip kids are the pint-sized horsemen of the apocalypse. Instead of useful Pilgrim crap, I tell them how their playground game ring-around-a-rosy is based on the bubonic plague of 1665. The Black Death gave people hard, swollen, black spots they called "plague roses," or buboes, surrounded by a pale ring. Hence "bubonic." Infected people were locked inside their houses to die. In six months, a hundred thousand people were buried in the huge mass graves. The "pocket full of posies" was what people of London carried so they wouldn't smell the corpses. To build a fire, all you do is pile up some sticks and dry grass. You strike a spark with a flint. You work the bellows. Don't think for a second this fire-starting routine makes their little eyes sparkle. Nobody's impressed by a spark. Kids crouch in the front row, huddling over their little video games. Kids yawn right in your face. All of them giggle and pinch, rolling their eyes at me in my breeches and dirty shirt. Instead, I tell them how in 1672, the Black Plague hit Naples, Italy, killing some four hundred thousand people. In 1711, in the Holy Roman Empire, the Black Plague killed five hundred thousand people. In 1781, millions died worldwide from the flu. In 1792, another plague killed eight hundred thousand people in Egypt. In 1793, mosquitoes spread yellow fever to Philadelphia, where it killed thousands. One kid in the back whispers, "This is worse than the spinning wheel." Other kids open their box lunches and look inside their sandwiches. Outside the window, Denny's bent over in the stocks. This time just out of habit. The town council has announced he'll be banished right after lunch. The stocks are just where he feels most safe from himself. Nothing's locked or even closed, but he's bent over with his hands and neck where they've been for months. On their way here from the weaver's, one kid was poking a stick in Denny's nose and then trying to poke the stick in his mouth. Other kids rub his shaved head for luck. Starting the fire only kills about fifteen minutes, so after that I'm supposed to show each herd of kids the big cooking pots and twig brooms and bed warmers and shit. Children always look bigger in a room with a six-foot ceiling. A kid in the back says, "They gave us fucking egg salad again." Here in the eighteenth century, I'm sitting beside the hearth of the big open fireplace equipped with the regular torture chamber relics, the big iron pothooks, the pokers, andirons, branding irons. My big fire blazing. This is a perfect moment to take the iron pincers out of the coals and pretend to study their pitted white-hot points. All the kids step back. And I ask them, hey kids, can anybody here tell me how people in the eighteenth century used to abuse naked little boys to death. This always gets their attention. No hands go up. Still studying the pincers, I say, "Anybody?" Still no hands. "For real," I say and start working the hot pincers open and shut. "Your teacher must've told you about how they used to kill little boys back then." Their teacher's outside, waiting. How it worked was, a couple hours ago, while her class was carding wool, this teacher and me wasted some sperm in the smokehouse, and for sure she thought it would turn into something romantic, but hey. Me being face deep in her wonderful rubbery butt, it's amazing what a woman will read into it if you by accident say, I love you. Ten times out of ten, a guy means I love this. You wear a foofy linen shirt, a cravat, and some breeches, and the whole world wants to sit on your face. The two of you sharing ends of your fat hot slider, you could be on the cover of some paperback bodice-ripper. I tell her, "Oh, baby, cleave thy flesh unto mine. Oh yeah, cleave for me, baby." Eighteenth-century dirty talk. Their teacher, her name's Amanda or Allison or Amy. Some name with a vowel in it. Just keep asking yourself: "What would Jesus not do?" Now in front of her class, with my hands good and black, I stick the pincers back into the fire, then wiggle two of my black fingers at the kids, international sign language for come closer. The kids in the back push the ones in the front. The ones in the front look around, and one kid calls out, "Miss Lacey?" A shadow in the window means Miss Lacey's watching, but the minute I look at her she ducks out of sight. I motion to the kids, closer. The old rhyme about Georgie Porgie, I tell them, is really about England's King George the Fourth, who could just never get enough. "Enough what?" a kid says. And I say, "Ask your teacher." Miss Lacey continues to lurk. I say, "You like the fire I got here?" and nod at the flames. "Well, people need to clean the chimney all the time, only the chimneys are really small inside and they run all over the place, so people used to force little boys to climb up in them and scrape the insides." And since this was such a tight place, I tell them, the boys would get stuck if they wore any clothes. "So just like Santa Claus . . ." I say, "they climbed up the chimney . . ." I say, and lift a hot poker from the fire, "naked." I spit on the red end of the poker and the spit sizzles, loud, in the quiet room. "And you know how they died?" I say. "Anybody?" No hands go up. I say, "You know what a scrotum is?" Nobody says yes or even nods, so I tell them, "Ask Miss Lacey." Our special morning in the smokehouse, Miss Lacey was bobbing on my dog with a good mouthful of spit. Then we were sucking tongues, sweating hard and trading drool, and she pulled back for a good look at me. In the dim smoky light, those big fake plastic hams were hanging all around us. She's just swamped and riding my hand, hard, and breathing between each word. She wipes her mouth and asks me if I have any protection. "It's cool," I tell her. "It's 1734, remember? Fifty percent of all children died at birth." She puffs a limp strand of hair off her face and says, "That's not what I mean." I lick her right up the middle of her chest, up her throat, and then stretch my mouth around her ear. Still jacking her with my swamped fingers, I say, "So, you have any evil afflictions I should know about?" She's pulling me apart behind and wets a finger in her mouth, and says, "I believe in protecting myself." And I go, "That's cool." I say, "I could get canned for this," and roll a rubber down my dog. She worms her wet finger up my pucker and slaps my ass with her other hand and says, "How do you think I feel?" To keep from triggering, I'm thinking of dead rats and rotten cabbage and pit toilets, and I say, "What I mean is, latex won't be invented for another century." With the poker, I point at the fourth-graders, and I say, "These little boys used to come out of the chimneys covered with the black soot. And the soot used to grind into their hands and knees and elbows and nobody had soap so they stayed black all the time." This was their whole lives back then. Every day, somebody forced them up a chimney and they spent all day crawling along in the darkness with the soot getting in their mouths and noses and they never went to school and they didn't have television or video games or mango-papaya juice boxes, and they didn't have music or remote-controlled anything or shoes and every day was the same. "These little boys," I say and wave the poker across the crowd of kids, "these were little boys just like you. They were exactly like you." My eyes go from each kid to each kid, touching all their eyes for a moment. "And one day, each little boy would wake up with a sore place on his private parts. And these sore places didn't heal. And then they metastasized and followed the seminal vesicles up into the abdomen of each little boy, and by then," I say, "it was too late." Here's the flotsam and jetsam of my med school education. And I tell how sometimes they tried to save the little boy by cutting off his scrotum, but this was before hospitals and drugs. In the eighteenth century, they still called these kind of tumors "soot warts." "And those soot warts," I tell the kids, "were the first form of cancer ever invented." Then I ask, does anybody know why they call it c... Read more

Ignite! The 4 Essential Rules for Emerging Leaders (People-First Leadership)

Review I believe the time to change is now. Ignite! sets leaders on course to make a significant difference in themselves, their people, and their teams. - Marshall Goldsmith, author of New York Times best sellers MOJO and What Got You Here Won't Get You There Whether you are a veteran leader or a first-time leader, this book will help you rethink the way you lead in every aspect of your life.- Matthew Kelly, New York Times bestselling author of The Dream Manager and Off Balance About the Author Sal Silvester is an author, speaker and consultant who works with leaders and their teams to accelerate culture change and business results. He is founder and president of 5.12 Solutions Consulting Group and author of the popular book Ignite! The 4 Essential Rules for Emerging Leaders.Since 2001, 5.12 Solutions Consulting Group has worked with teams and leaders from a variety of mid-sized and large organizations to make shifts in how they collaborate and lead to achieve positive business results. Sal Silvester and his team lead client engagements in Executive Coaching, Leadership Development, Team Building and Corporate Training. Sal knows what it means to be a team member and a leader. He is a graduate of the US Army Ranger and Airborne schools; he has managed consulting engagements, and competed on Adventure Racing Teams. He is an avid rock climber and mountain biker, and has competed in 6 marathons and is an Ironman Triathalon finisher.

The Moonlight Meeting: The Nocturnals Grow & Read Early Reader, Level 2

Review “This banter-filled early reader describes the initial meeting between shy Tobin the pangolin, brash Bismark the sugar glider, and kindhearted Dawn the fox…the pared-down narration and dialogue quickly establish their personalities...Hecht successfully set the stage for more adventurous outings down the road.” ― Publishers Weekly “Physical characteristics, personality quirks, and the beginnings of their mutual trust and friendship are aptly portrayed through both words and pictures. A few ‘Nocturnals Fun Facts’ at the end should help with any factual queries. Whether listening, reading along, or launching individual attempts, satisfied readers will be ready and waiting for the next installment.” ― Booklist “An entertaining story of friendship and sharing, and educates us about those who are different from us.” ― Story Monsters Inc. “Very highly recommended for family, daycare center, preschool, elementary school, and community library collections.” ― Midwest Book Review “The series addresses bullying and empathy in an easy, accessible way, and the books are meant to be read aloud.” ― New York Post About the Author Tracey Hecht is a writer and entrepreneur. The American Booksellers Association chose the first book in her critically acclaimed middle grade series, The Nocturnals: The Mysterious Abductions , as a Kids’ Indie Next List pick. In addition, her Grow & Read early reader book, The Chestnut Challenge , was given a Mom’s Choice Gold Award. In partnership with the New York Public Library, Tracey created a Read Aloud Writing Program that she has since conducted―both in person and virtually―in over 150 schools, libraries, and bookstores across the country. Other books in the Nocturnals Grow & Read early reader collection include The Tasty Treat, The Moonlight Meeting, The Peculiar Possum, The Slithery Shakedown, The Kooky Kinkajou, The Best Burp and The Weeping Wombat . Tracey currently splits her time between New York City and Oquossoc, Maine, with her husband and four children. Rumur Dowling is a writer who graduated from Harvard College and studied eighteenth-century poetry in Oxford as a Henry Fellow. He now lives in his hometown of New York City. This is his first children's book. Waymond Singleton is an illustrator and animator with an adoration for stories depicting quirky characters and daring adventures. He received his BFA in Animation from Savannah College of Art and Design. He lives in Burbank where he spends his free time making short films.

Barge Pilot

About the Author R. Lee Barrett lives with his wife Shareen and most of their six children near Ft. Worth, Texas. Lee has been a practicing attorney for more than ten years, often bartering legal services for premium cigars. Although Lee has published numerous legal articles, and maintained a blog for bankruptcy practitioners, Barge Pilot is his first novel.

The Burning Sky: Halcyon #1: A Steampunk Fantasy

Review "The Burning Sky kept me guessing, right up to its dramatic conclusion." -- Big Al's Books and Pals "If someone were to ask me where to start with steampunk, I would point them here." -- Opinions of a Wolf "Superbly written, tightly woven, and packed full of action scenes. The Burning Sky is quality writing with great characters..." -- The Alternative "A steampunk book where the entire power structure of the world as we know it is subverted? I very nearly wept with joy. I hadn't realized how dearly I needed a book like this and now it will be painful to go back to the same old stuff." -- Linda Ghio About the Author Joseph Robert Lewis enjoys creating heroines that his daughter can respect, as well as worlds in which history, mythology, and fantasy collide in unpredictable ways. Joe was born in Annapolis and went to the University of Maryland, where he took not one but two classes on Viking poetry. He lives in Maryland with his family.

Strands of Fate

Betty Ford: First Lady, Women's Advocate, Survivor, Trailblazer

Review "A warmly sympathetic biography of a spirited woman." ― KIRKUS REVIEWS "[A] meticulously researched and delightful biography… McCubbin writes with great tact and sensitivity in this insightful and beautifully told look into the life of one of the most public and admired first ladies.” ― Publishers Weekly "This fast-moving book reveals a lively, independent, and indomitable woman who influenced both the women’s movement and America’s perception of addiction." ― Booklist "Lisa McCubbin’s insightful portrait is admiring without being fawning, candid without a whiff of tabloid salaciousness...The result is a vivid picture of a singularly influential woman." ― Bookpage "McCubbin's engaging style brings Betty Ford vividly to life, presenting a must-read for fans of presidential biography and history." ― Library Journal About the Author Lisa McCubbin Hill is an award-winning journalist and New York Times bestselling author. She is the author of the acclaimed biography Betty Ford: First Lady Women’s Advocate, Survivor, Trailblazer and coauthor (with Clint Hill) of the New York Times bestsellers Mrs. Kennedy and Me ; Five Days in November ; Five Presidents: My Extraordinary Journey with Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, and Ford ; and My Travels with Mrs. Kennedy. She met Clint Hill while writing her first book, The Kennedy Detail : JFK’s Secret Service Agents Break Their Silence (with Gerald Blaine). Previously, Lisa was a television news anchor, reporter, and talk-radio host. In 2021, Lisa McCubbin married coauthor Clint Hill. Visit her at LisaMcCubbin.com.

The Walls Around Us

From School Library Journal Gr 9 Up—This haunting and evocative tale of magical realism immerses readers in two settings that seem worlds apart. The book is told in alternating first-person voices from the perspective of two teenagers: lonely Amber, who at age 13 was convicted of murdering her abusive stepfather and sent to Aurora Hills, a juvenile detention facility, and Vee, an insecure yet ruthlessly ambitious Julliard-bound ballerina. Through Vee's and Amber's recollections, readers learn about talented, kind-hearted Ori, Vee's former best friend and a dancer herself, who after being convicted of a heinous crime is sent to Aurora Hills, where she becomes Amber's roommate—and where soon after a strange tragedy occurs. Though the plotting of this taut, gripping suspense leans heavily on ghosts and murder and will easily attract teens, this is no mere thriller. The prose is mesmerizing, laced with visceral, gorgeous figurative language, and draws subtle parallels between the disciplined, constricting world of ballet and the literal prison in which Amber and Ori find themselves. Believable and well developed, Vee and Amber have strong, unforgettable voices that ring true. Suma's unflinchingly honest depiction of the potentially destructive force of female friendship and skillful blending of gritty realism with supernatural elements is reminiscent of Laurie Halse Anderson's Wintergirls (Viking, 2009), and the eerie mood she evokes is unnervingly potent. VERDICT A powerful story that will linger with readers.—Mahnaz Dar, School Library Journal Review "With evocative language, a shifting timeline and more than one unreliable narrator, Suma subtly explores the balance of power between the talented and the mediocre, the rich and the poor, the brave and the cowardly… To reveal more would be to uncover the bloody heart that beats beneath the floorboards of this urban-legend-tinged tale." — The New York Times " The Walls Around Us passionately testifies to the ways in which girls are walled up, held down, fenced in. It's a gorgeously written, spellbinding ghost story. . . Nova Ren Suma's prose hums with such power and fury that when the explosions do happen, they seem unavoidable." — Chicago Tribune "Unputdownable . . . the well-paced plot reveals guilt, innocence, and dark truths that will not stay hidden." — The Boston Globe "Mixing mystery and supernatural elements, this book is ridden with lyrical prose and will keep you guessing the truth right up until the very end." — Bustle.com "Intense and haunting . . . This story is told in line after line of beautifully crafted prose that sear themselves into the reader's mind. Revelations seep out in an almost abstract way that sneaks up on you, then suddenly the truth is out and knocking you sideways. A stunning, unforgettable, and ghostly tale from start to finish." — San Francisco Book Review "Suma excels in creating surreal, unsettling stories with vivid language, and this psychological thriller is no exception. Along the way, Suma also makes a powerful statement about the ease with which guilt can be assumed and innocence awarded, not only in the criminal justice system, but in our hearts—in the stories we tell ourselves. A fabulous, frightening read." — Booklist , starred review "The wholly realistic view of adolescents meeting the criminal justice system is touched at first with the slimmest twist of an otherworldly creepiness, escalating finally to the truly hair-raising and macabre. Eerie, painful and beautifully spine-chilling." — Kirkus Reviews , starred review "This haunting and evocative tale of magical realism immerses readers in two settings that seem worlds apart . . . Suma’s unflinchingly honest depiction of the potentially destructive force of female friendship and skillful blending of gritty realism with supernatural elements is reminiscent of Laurie Halse Anderson’s Wintergirls, and the eerie mood she evokes is unnervingly potent." — School Library Journal , starred review "In lyrical, authoritative prose, Suma weaves the disparate lives of [the] three girls into a single, spellbinding narrative that explores guilt, privilege, and complicity with fearless acuity. . . The twisting, ghostly tale of Ori’s life, death, and redemption is unsettling and entirely engrossing." — The Horn Book Magazine , starred review "Gratifyingly disturbing . . . Suma craftily sets the two stories against one another, moving between Violet’s fiercely grounded account and Amber’s hauntingly destabilized one, enticing readers to figure out how the pieces go together." — Bulletin for the Center for Children’s Books , starred review "Powerful . . . The compelling narrative, written in scintillating prose and featuring incredibly real characters, brings the two stories together in an explosive finale with a supernatural twist that results in a satisfying resolution." — VOYA , starred review "Gripping. . . Just try to put this down." — Shelf Awareness for Readers , starred review "A suspenseful tour de force, a ghost story of the best sort, the kind that creeps into your soul and haunts you." — Libba Bray, author of The Diviners and A Great and Terrible Beauty "Fearlessly imagined and deliciously sinister, The Walls Around Us is hypnotic, luring the reader deeper and deeper into its original, shocking narrative." — Michelle Hodkin, The Mara Dyer Trilogy "Written in luscious and deliciously creepy prose not easy to forget…This is a story about guilt and innocence, about secrets and how deep we let people into those places within us, and it’s a story about how the past can define our present, even if we try desperately to keep that past under wraps. Put it on your radars now; this is an outstanding literary young adult novel more than worth the wait." — Book Riot From the Back Cover “Ori’s dead because of what happened out behind the theater, in the tunnel made out of trees. She’s dead because she got sent to that place upstate, locked up with those monsters. And she got sent there because of me.” On the outside, there’s Violet, a dancer days away from the life of her dreams when something threatens to expose the shocking truth of her achievement. On the inside, within the walls of Aurora Hills juvenile detention center, there’s Amber, imprisoned for so long she can’t imagine freedom. Tying their two worlds together is Orianna, who holds the key to unlocking all the girls’ darkest mysteries . . . The Walls Around Us is a ghostly story of suspense told in two voices--one still living and one long dead. “Unputdownable . . . The well-paced plot reveals guilt, innocence, and dark truths that will not stay hidden.” — The Boston Globe “With evocative language, a shifting timeline and more than one unreliable narrator, Suma subtly explores the balance of power between the talented and the mediocre, the rich and the poor, the brave and the cowardly . . . To reveal more would be to uncover the bloody heart that beats beneath the floorboards of this urban-legend-tinged tale.” —The New York Times “A suspenseful tour de force, a ghost story of the best sort, the kind that creeps into your soul and haunts you.” —Libba Bray, author of The Diviners and A Great and Terrible Beauty “A gorgeously written, spellbinding ghost story.” —Chicago Tribune About the Author Nova Ren Suma is the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling The Walls Around Us , which was an Edgar Award finalist. She also wrote Imaginary Girls and 17 & Gone and is co-creator of FORESHADOW: A Serial YA Anthology . She has an MFA in fiction from Columbia University and teaches writing at Vermont College of Fine Arts and the University of Pennsylvania. Originally from the Hudson Valley, she spent most of her adult life in New York City and now lives in Philadelphia. Read more

Genius Hour: Passion Projects That Ignite Innovation and Student Inquiry

From School Library Journal "Genius Hour" is an educational trend that focuses on the individual learner and allots regular class time for students to pursue a personal passion. The idea is based on the assumption that young people learn collaboration, communication, critical thinking, and creativity when allowed to explore their interests. McNair lays out the six phases of Genius Hour in detail, with chapters devoted to "Passion," "Plan," "Pitch," "Project," "Product," and "Presentation." She also addresses troubleshooting and assessment. Each chapter ends with reflection questions and a list of technological resources that were discussed in the prior pages. Sample planning documents for students and teachers are included, too. In addition to offering a typical annotated bibliography, the book provides Genius Hour—related Twitter handles and hashtags. One drawback of the text is that McNair appears to have implemented this concept primarily with gifted students, so educators working with a wider variety of learning levels and styles may need to look elsewhere. Though the volume mentions standards, it doesn't get specific about them. VERDICT Best for educators whose school administrators are already on board with Genius Hour, but anyone interested in the concept will find useful material within.—Deidre Winterhalter, Oak Park Public Library, IL Review Andi McNair's Genius Hour is a great resource for those who want to release potential in students but do not know how or where to start. The processes and tools provided are a great foundation for students (and their teachers) to use as they pursue projects they are passionate about . . . . Whether the reader is a novice or veteran, I feel that everyone will gain something of value from reading Genius Hour.,Terry Carter,MiddleWeb, 6/15/17This book is a fantastic guide for teachers to implement student-directed passion projects in the classroom . . .. Although aimed at educators, this book can also be useful for parents. It includes great tips on how to discover and encourage the passions of children. This is certainly valuable information for parents. It also provides a clear and concise understanding of what the goals of education should be in our modern age. It definitely challenges the norm, but in an inspiring and energizing way.,Sarah Perry,Manhattan Book Review, 6/1/17The book takes what could be a very open-ended process and provides an organizational framework so teachers and students can make the time productive . . . A very practical and good reference as teachers work to optimize the process in their individual classrooms. Mindprint Learning, 12/1/17 About the Author Andi McNair is the Digital Innovation Specialist at ESC Region 12 in Waco, TX. Before working at the center, she taught elementary and gifted/talented students at a small rural school in Texas. Andi was in the classroom for a total of 16 years before pursuing her passion to change education by giving educators practical ways to create experiences that will engage and empower this generation of learners. Read more

This Is What a Librarian Looks Like: A Celebration of Libraries, Communities, and Access to Information

About the Author Kyle Cassidy is an author and photographer whose work includes the forthcoming Where I Write: Fantasy & Science Fiction Authors in Their Creative Spaces . His work has appeared in the New York Times, Vanity Fair , the Sunday Times of London, Marie Claire , NPR, and elsewhere. He lives in Philadelphia, PA.

The Kindness Of Ravens

From Publishers Weekly "Gifted novelist Bardessono offers this relentlessly raw and, often, darkly humorous account of youth and young manhood set in the gritty, neon-colored Los Angeles of the 1980s. Bardessono's novel is idiosyncratic, hilarious, deeply emotional, and an excellent representation of the time in which it's set." - Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) Review "Bardessono expertly captures the hedonism of the 1980s...wryly observant, equally comfortable with the sacred and the scatological." - Foreword Reviews "A witty, touching tale of an extraordinary young man's love for an older woman...poignantly depicts Daren's struggles to reconcile his strange visions with the world around him, giving way to an exploration of love, addiction and maturity...with a fresh, offbeat style, full of cleverness and humor.  An original, quirky love story." - Kirkus Book Reviews "The Kindness of Ravens is a heartrending look at a young man's search for hope, true love, and meaning in a world that doesn't make that search easy." - IndieReader About the Author Frank Bardessono is an award winning, critically acclaimed author who graduated from California State University, Chico with bachelor's degrees in psychology and philosophy. He is a passionate advocate for the disabled and the unhoused in Southern California. He dabbles in the zen of Dudeness and occasionally writes novels in multiple genres including literary fiction, philosophy, and YA fiction. Read more

Hillsider: Snapshots of a Curious Political Journey

Mortar and Murder (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery)

About the Author Jennie Bentley is the New York Times bestselling author of the Do-It-Yourself Mysteries. The Prime Crime home renovation series features textile designer Avery Baker and her handyman boyfriend, Derek Ellis, who renovate houses in Maine. She also writes under the name Jenna Bennett.

As Bright as Heaven

Review Praise for As Bright as Heaven “A story of one family’s heartbreak and hope. Strong [and] resilient, Meissner’s characters step off the page and into history.”—Lisa Wingate, New York Times bestselling author of Before We Were Yours “A family saga, coming-of-age tale, and riveting historical fiction all in one. A must read!”—Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of The Orphan's Tale “A thoughtful examination of life...somber, gripping, and illuminated with hope.”—Kate Quinn, USA Today bestselling author of The Alice Network “Traces of Little Women in the trials and fortitude of the Bright women. An affirmation of the power of love and duty.”—Helen Simonson, author of Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand and The Summer Before the War “A fascinating historical novel and a beautifully written story of love, loss, and family. A gorgeous, unforgettable book.”—Jillian Cantor, author of Margot and The Lost Letter About the Author Susan Meissner is a former managing editor of a weekly newspaper and an award-winning columnist. She is the award-winning author of A Bridge Across the Ocean , Secrets of a Charmed Life , A Fall of Marigolds , and Stars Over Sunset Boulevard , among other novels. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 ¥January 1918¥ Pauline Morning light shimmers on the apricot horizon as I stand at the place where my baby boy rests. Stouthearted chickadees are singing in the day, just like they have done every other winter's dawn, but when this same sun sets tonight, I will be miles away from them, and inside an unfamiliar house. There will be no reminders anywhere that Henry was ever mine. Not visible ones, anyway. I kneel on the dead grass, brittle with icy moisture. The fabric of my skirt draws in the chilled damp, as if it is parched with thirst. The growing wetness at my knees is unhurried and easy, like a clean, slow blade. I look at the little marble slab that bears Henry's name and the carving of a sweet lamb curled up among lilies, and I'm reminded again that he was my angel child, even before he flew away to heaven. From the moment I held my boy, glistening and new, I knew that he wasn't like the other babies I'd given birth to. He wasn't like my girls. They'd slipped out annoyed by the noise and chill and sharp edges of this world. Not Henry. He didn't cry. He didn't curl his tiny hands into fists. He didn't shout his displeasure at being pulled out of the only safe place he knew. When the doctor placed him in my arms, Henry merely looked at me with eyes so blue they could've been sapphires. He held my gaze like he knew who I was. Knew everything about me. Like he still had the breath of eternity in his lungs. He didn't care when I parted the folds of his blanket to look at his maleness and marvel at the pearly sheen of his skin against mine. I could scarcely believe I'd given birth to a boy after three girls and so many years since the last one. I just kept staring at Henry and he just let me. When Thomas was let into the room, he was as astonished that we had a son as I was. The girls were, too. They followed in right after their father, even though it was the middle of the night, and we all gazed and grinned at the little man-child, the quiet lad who did not cry. My father-in-law came over the next morning, as did Thomas's brothers and their wives, all of them smelling of dried tobacco leaves and spice. My parents came, too, and my sister, Jane, who was newly pregnant with her own child after several years of hoping and praying for a baby. They all marveled at how beautiful Henry was, how calm, how enchanting his gaze and how sweet his temperament. My mother and Thomas's sisters-in-law stared at him like I'd done the night before, amazed as I had been at how serene this baby was. They had known, too, without knowing, that something wasn't right. The few months we had with Henry were wonder filled and happy. He did all the things a baby does that make you smile and laugh and want to kiss his downy head. When he needed something, like my breast or a clean diaper or affection, he didn't wail; he merely sighed a sweet little sound that if it were made of words would have started with "If it's not too much trouble . . ." We didn't know he didn't have the physical strength to exert himself. His perfectly formed outsides hid the too-small, too-weak heart that my body had made for him. And yet had God asked me ahead of time if I wanted this sweet child for just shy of half a year, I still would have said yes. Even now, eight weeks after Henry's passing, and even when I hold Jane's sweet little newborn, Curtis, I would still say yes. I don't know if Thomas feels this way, and I know the girls don't. Evelyn is still sad, Maggie is still angry, and Willa is still bewildered that Henry was taken from us. I can't say why I am none of those things anymore. What I feel inside, I'm not sure there are words to describe. I should still be sad, angry, and bewildered, but instead I feel a numbness regarding Death that I've told no one about. Not even Thomas. I no longer fear Death, though I know that I should. I'm strangely at peace with what I used to think of as my enemy. Living seems more the taskmaster of the two, doesn't it? Life is wonderful and beautiful but oh, how hard it can be. Dying, by contrast, is easy and simple, almost gentle. But who can I tell such a thing to? No one. I am troubled by how remarkable this feeling is. This is why I changed my mind about moving to Philadelphia. I'd said no the first time Thomas's uncle made his offer even though I could tell my husband was interested. Back then I couldn't imagine leaving this sleepy little town where I've lived all my life, couldn't imagine leaving my parents, though I've never been especially dependent on their subtle shows of affection. I didn't want to move to the city, where the war in Europe would somehow seem closer, didn't want to uproot the girls from the only home they've ever known. Didn't want to tear myself away from all that was familiar. Uncle Fred wrote again a couple months after Henry was born, and Thomas had said we needed to think carefully before turning down a second invitation. "Uncle Fred might take his offer to one of my brothers," Thomas had told me. I truly would have given the matter more serious thought if Henry hadn't begun his slow ascent away from us right about the same time. When my son's fragile heart finally began to number his days, nothing else mattered but holding on to him as long as we could. Thomas didn't bring up the matter again when the third letter from Uncle Fred arrived last week. My husband thinks I cannot leave this little mound of grass. But the truth is, I have come out from under the shroud of sorrow a different person. I no longer want to stay in this place where Henry spent such a short time. I don't want Thomas shading a view of the wide horizon with hands calloused from binder leaves. I don't want the girls to end up mirroring this life of mine, in a place where nothing truly changes but the contours of your heart. More than that, I want to know why Death seems to walk beside me like a companion now rather than prowling behind like a shadowy specter. Surely the answers await me in Uncle Fred's funeral parlor, where he readies the deceased for their journeys home. Thomas would've gone to his grave rolling cigars for other men to smoke, but now he will one day inherit Uncle Fred's mortuary business and then he won't be under the thumb of anyone. I don't know what it is like to be the wife of an undertaker. I only know that I need to remember how it was to keep Death at a distance. I kneel, kiss my fingertips, and brush them against the H carved into the cold stone. And I rise from the wet ground without saying good-bye. Chapter 2 Maggie I will miss the curing barn in autumn, when the tobacco leaves hang from the laths like golden skirts in a wardrobe. I've always loved how in October the papery leaves smell like cedar, molasses, and tree bark. There won't be anything like them in Philadelphia. And we'll be long gone by the time October comes around again. The curing barn is my favorite place because it's either as busy as a beehive or as still as a painting. After that first killing frost it's like the painting, so still and quiet you can forget there's a changing world outside. No one has to do anything in the curing barn in the fall except have a look-see now and then to make sure none of the tobacco leaves are getting moldy. In the fall, we're all in the rolling room. I'm twelve but I've the delicate hands of a young woman, Grandad says, so I roll a nice cigar. Evie just turned fifteen and doesn't like rolling; she'd rather be reading under the locust tree when the weather's nice, but she likes to buy books with the money she earns. Our younger sister, Willa, is only six. It would've been a long while before Grandad told her she had hands as graceful as a dancer and rolled a cigar better than a man did. I don't usually spend much time in the barn when the tobacco leaves are finished with their curing, but that was where I was when Mama told Papa she'd seen Uncle Fred's letter. I'd come home from school, done my chores, and then walked across the snowy field from our house to lie among the few remaining wooden slats that still held their toast-colored leaves. I'd been going to the curing barn a lot since my baby brother died, but Papa had forgotten I was there. "I've been thinking about Philadelphia," Mama said. Papa had been checking the empty laths for rot and weak spots. He was a couple rows over from me, and I was on my back on the dirt behind a crate, looking up at the leafy ball gowns. The last time Mama had been to Philadelphia was when Henry was still alive. She and Evie had taken him to see a doctor, and they'd come home with the awful news that he wasn't going to get better. There was no doctor in the city or on the face of the whole earth who could cure Henry. "I think we should go," Mama had said. At first I thought Willa must be sick now, and that was why Mama wanted to go to Philadelphia again. Or Evie. Or maybe I was the sick one and I didn't even know it yet. But then Mama added she'd seen Uncle Fred's latest letter asking Papa to come work for him in Philadelphia, and now she was thinking it was a good idea after all. "What made you change your mind?" Papa sounded surprised. A second or two went by before Mama answered him. "Everything." Papa paused a moment, too, before he said, "If we do this, I don't think we can undo it." "I know." "We won't be able to get back here that often, Pauline. Not at first." "I know that, too," Mama said. "If I can bring the girls back to see the family for a week or two in the summer, I can be content with that." "I don't suppose your parents will be too keen about this. Especially your mother." "No, maybe not. But you know how she is. She'll quietly stew on it a bit, and then she'll be done. I think in the end she wants us to be happy. I know that's what I'd want for us if I were her." A funny, spirally feeling had started to wind its way inside me as my parents talked to each other. Papa and Mama were talking about moving to the city to live with Uncle Fred, a man I had only met once. He came out to Quakertown when Granny died. Not Mama's mama, Papa's. When I was eight. Papa had said, "Are you sure now? Are you sure this is what you want to do?" "It's what you want to do, isn't it?" Mama replied. "It will mean a good life for you and the girls. A much better life than what I'm giving you here." "You've given us a good life, Tom," Mama said. "I want to give you a better one." Then Papa said he needed to tell Grandad and break the news to the family and they'd need to sell the house. They talked for a few more minutes, but I wasn't listening to everything they said. I was thinking about leaving my friends and the other family members and the curing barn. I couldn't remember what Uncle Fred's business was, but I was positive it wasn't growing tobacco and rolling cigars. Not in the city. It was so strange to me that my parents could just decide we were leaving and we'd leave. How could we move away from where we'd buried Henry? When Mama left, I stood up slowly so that I would see Papa before he saw me. But he was looking my direction and he saw my head clear the laths. I'm not afraid of my father. He doesn't yell or curse or storm about when he's angry, but he can look like he wants to. He's tall like Grandad and has the same coffee brown eyes that glitter like stars both when he's happy and when he's sad. And I guess when he's surprised, too. "I didn't know you were still in here," he said. "I know." "Did you hear everything?" I nodded. He gave me a very serious look. "You can't say anything to anybody, not even your sisters, until I talk to Grandad first. You understand?" "Are we moving to Philadelphia?" He hesitated a second or two before answering, like he almost couldn't believe it was true himself. "Yes," he said. "Why? What's wrong with where we live right now?" Papa moved from his row to mine. "There's nothing wrong with where we live right now. I just have a chance to give you girls a much better home. Better schooling. Better everything. My uncle Fred doesn't have any children. He has no one to leave his home and business to. He wants to leave them to me when he dies. To us. He has a very nice house, Mags. Electric lights in every room. Hot water from the tap." "And so just like that, we're going?" "Mama and I've been thinking on it awhile." "All my friends are here." "You will make new ones. I promise you will." "Henry's here." My throat felt hot and thick as I said Henry's name. I looked away from Papa, and in the direction of the cemetery, even though I couldn't see it from inside the curing barn. Papa put his hands gently on my shoulders so that I would turn my head to face him again. "Henry's in heaven. He's not in the graveyard here-you know that. We're not leaving him; we're taking him with us in our hearts." I reached up to flick away a couple tears that wanted to trail down my face. "I need you to promise you won't say anything. Not yet," Papa said. I didn't answer. "Maggie, I want your word now." "I promise," I finally whispered. "All right, then." He took one hand off my shoulders, but left the other one as he began to lead us toward the big door that led outside. "When I tell your sisters, that's when you'll know it's okay to tell other people. Not until then." Read more

The War I Finally Won

From School Library Journal Gr 4–6—Eleven-year-old Ada picks up her story shortly after The War That Saved My Life left off. She's in the hospital, nervously awaiting the surgery that will fix her club foot, when Susan receives a letter from Lady Thornton that obviously upsets her. Turns out, Ada's mother was killed in a bombing. Ada does not know how to feel about that, but, ever practical, she worries about where that leaves her and brother Jamie now that they are war orphans instead of child evacuees. Despite Susan's assurances that the three of them are family now, Ada remains prickly and irritable, particularly when Jamie falls easily into calling Susan "Mum." The three move into a cottage on the Thornton estate and are soon joined by Lady Thornton when the big house is needed for the war effort. Ada is leery of Lady Thornton, but living in close quarters brings out the best and worst in everyone, especially when Lord Thornton arrives with a German Jewish girl named Ruth whom he wishes Susan to tutor. Ada's unique voice helps evoke the novel's vivid setting and numerous complex characters. There is destitution but plenty of humor. There is also plenty of heartbreak and loss, so readers will want to keep a box of tissues handy. VERDICT Fans of the first book will love the sequel even more; truly a first purchase. While it stands alone, encourage readers to read both books to fully appreciate Ada's remarkable and wholly believable triumph.—Brenda Kahn, Tenakill Middle School, Closter, NJ Review A New York Times bestsellerA Washington Post Best Book of the YearA Boston Globe Best Book of the YearA Kirkus Best Book of the YearA Horn Book Fanfare Best Book of the YearA Southern Living Best Book of the YearA BookPage Best Book of the YearAn Indie Next List selectionA CCBC Choices book "Stunning . . . By turns tough and tender, this novel leavens complex themes with moments of wonder and joy." — The Washington Post "Rarely is a children’s book so honest [and] daring. But there is comfort too, in Ada’s desire to love and grow. . . . The power of this book is that it describes, slowly and sometimes painfully, that it is possible not just to live through pain, but to live with it.” — The New York Times ★ "Thoughtful, brave, true, and wise beyond her years, Ada is for the ages—as is this book. Wonderful." — Kirkus , starred review"It’s rare when a sequel is just as beautifully written and just as touching (maybe even more so) than the first book. . . . Bradley writes the story in such a way that the reader is by turns both touched and then, pages later, heartbroken. Over and over.” —HuffPost★ "Fans of the first book will love the sequel even more; truly a first purchase. While it stands alone, encourage readers to read both books to fully appreciate Ada’s remarkable and wholly believable triumph." — School Library Journal , starred review"Harrowing and heartening." — San Francisco Chronicle ★ "Bradley sweeps us up in the story she’s telling and at the same time raises hard questions and makes us think—even as she moves us to tears." — The Horn Book , starred review★ "A perceptive look into othering . . . Bradley sensitively portrays Ada’s journey to accept selfless kindness and love after years of neglect in a poignant and satisfying story of found family that will stay with readers." — Publishers Weekly , starred review"Ada . . . is one of the most unforgettable characters in modern children’s literature." — The Washington Post "In a hard times, complicated people do the best they can. That’s what we see in this bittersweet moving story . . . (Be prepared for both tears and smiles with this one!)" —ImaginationSoup"Ada’s story is a winning combination of history and healing, and fans may hope that Bradley isn’t quite finished with her just yet." — Booklist About the Author Kimberly Brubaker Bradley lives on a forty-two-acre farm in Bristol, Tennessee. She is the author of several books for children, including Leap of Faith , Jefferson’s Sons , the New York Times bestselling The War I Finally Won , and the #1 New York Times bestselling, Newbery Honor book The War that Saved My Life . Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 You can know things all you like, but that doesn’t mean you believe them. “Ada! You need to drink something!” Susan’s voice, scolding. Susan’s hands, pushing a cup of cold tea into mine. “I don’t want to,” I said. “Really I don’t.” Susan curled my fingers around the teacup. “I understand,” she said, “but please try. It’s the last thing they’re going to let you have. You’ll be thirsty in the morning.” My right foot was twisted sideways at the ankle. It had been all my life. My ankle bones grew curled, so my toenails scraped the ground and what should have been the bottom of my foot faced the sky. Walking hurt like anything. Despite the calluses, the skin on my foot tore and bled. This night in the hospital—nearly three years ago now—was September 16, 1940. A Monday. It was a little over a year into the war between Hitler and most of the rest of the world. Eleven years into the war between the rest of the world and me. The very next day surgeons were going to chop my curled ankle bones up and rearrange them. Maybe into something like a functional foot. I put the teacup Susan gave me to my lips. I forced myself to sip. My throat closed. I choked. Tea splattered across the bedcovers and my tray. Susan sighed. She mopped up the spilled tea, then motioned for one of the nurses that was putting up the blackout to come take away my tray. Since the start of the war, we covered our windows with blackout screens every night, so that German bombers wouldn’t be able to aim at our lights. My hospital wasn’t in London, which was getting bombed every night right now, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be hit. You never could tell what Germans would do. “Letter for you, Mum,” the nurse said, handing Susan an envelope as she scooped up the tray. “Delivered to the hospital? How odd.” Susan opened it. “It’s from Lady Thorton.” She unfolded the letter inside. “She must have sent it before she got my note with the boardinghouse’s address. Ada, are you quite sure you don’t want something to eat? Toast?” I shook my head. The mouthful of tea I’d swallowed swirled in my stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Susan gasped. She looked up at me, snatched a basin from the bottom shelf of my bedside table, and thrust it beneath my chin. I clenched my teeth and held everything in. Susan’s hand shook. The basin shook too. I looked at her face. She’d gone pale, her eyes dark and wide. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “What does that letter say?” “Nothing,” she said. “Breathe deep. That’s it.” She put the basin down, folded Lady Thorton’s letter, and tucked it into her handbag. Something was wrong. I could see it on her face. “Is it Butter?” I asked. “What?” “Has something happened to Butter?” Butter was Susan’s pony. I loved him. He was staying in Lady Thorton’s stables while I was in hospital. “Oh,” Susan said. “No. That is, Lady Thorton didn’t mention Butter, but she would have if anything were wrong.” “Maggie?” Maggie was Lady Thorton’s daughter, my best friend. “Maggie’s fine,” Susan said. Her hands still shook very slightly. Her eyes didn’t look right. “Everyone’s fine in the village.” “And Jamie’s fine,” I said. It was a statement, not a question, because it had to be true. My brother Jamie wasn’t in the village—he was here with us. Susan and Jamie and Bovril, Jamie’s cat, were staying in a rented room in a boardinghouse near the hospital. Jamie was there with the landlady now. Jamie was six years old. We’d guessed he was seven, but we had his birth certificate now and he wasn’t, not quite. I was eleven. I had my birth certificate too. I’d known my real birthday for just over a week. Susan nodded. “Jamie’s fine.” I took a deep breath. “Is something stopping my surgery?” Before last week, when Mam tried to snatch us away from her, Susan had said she couldn’t give permission for me to have surgery. She still couldn’t give permission, but she didn’t care anymore. She said that what was right and what was permitted were sometimes different things. I needed surgery and I was going to have it. I didn’t ask questions. Susan smoothed my hair back from my forehead. I pulled away. “I won’t let anything stop your surgery,” she said. There was still something off about her voice and expression. I knew it had to do with Lady Thorton’s letter. Lady Thorton could upset just about anyone. When I’d first met her, before I knew her name, I called her the iron-faced woman. She was sharp like an ax. Lady Thorton couldn’t meddle with us here. We’d lost everything inside Susan’s house, but I still had Jamie, Susan, Bovril, and Butter. And surgery tomorrow. It was more than enough. You can know things all you like, but that doesn’t mean you believe them. A little over a year ago, I’d taught myself to walk in Mam’s one-room London flat. I kept it secret, wiping up the blood before Mam came home every day. I’d only wanted to be able to leave the flat, not the city, but learning to walk saved me. When Mam sent Jamie away from London with all the other kids, because of Hitler’s bombs, I snuck out too. We ended up with Susan and Butter in a seaside village, in Kent. Susan didn’t want us then. We didn’t want her either, but I wanted her pony, and Jamie and I both liked her food and eventually we all three wanted to stay with each other. Of course that was when Mam showed up to take us back. Only a week ago, that was. Susan decided to fight for us. She followed us to London, which meant we were all away from Susan’s house the night German bombers destroyed it entirely. So the worst thing—Mam’s return—became the best thing—not dying from the bombs. Now everyone was acting like my surgery tomorrow would be the best thing ever, which made me worry it might turn out bad. Susan said it couldn’t be bad. She said she hoped my foot would work properly after the surgery, but if it didn’t I would be fine. I was fine now and I would be fine afterward, no matter what. Maybe. Depended entirely on what you meant by fine. We were still in a war. The nurses claimed they’d be able to get all the patients into the basement quickly enough if the air raid sirens went off. They hadn’t had to do it yet, so who knew if they really could. Susan leaned forward. She hugged me. It was awkward for us both. I let out my breath. My stomach still churned. “Don’t worry,” Susan said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Go to sleep.” I couldn’t sleep but the night passed anyhow. In the morning Susan held my hand while a nurse wheeled my bed down the hall. We stopped outside a heavy white door. The nurse said to Susan, “This is as far as you can go.” I hadn’t realized Susan would have to leave me. I clung to her. “What if it doesn’t work?” For a moment her fingers tightened around mine. “Courage,” she said, and let go. In the operating theater a man in a long gown held a mask in front of my face. “When I put this over your mouth,” he said, “I want you to very slowly count to ten.” I only made it to four before I fell asleep. Coming out of the ether was harder. My right leg was pinned, trapped. I couldn’t move. I broke into a sweat struggling to pull myself free. I’d been caught in a bombing, buried in rubble. I couldn’t move my leg. Then somehow I was trapped again in the dank cabinet beneath the sink, in our old flat in London. Mam had locked me inside. The cockroaches— “Shh.” Susan’s voice, soft in my ear. “Settle down. It’s over. You’re fine.” I was not fine. Not in the cabinet, not with Mam— Someone pinned my arms. Threw a blanket over me, tucked it tightly around my sides. “Open your eyes,” Susan’s voice said, still gentle. “The surgery’s over.” I opened my eyes. Susan’s face swam blurrily in front of me. “You’re safe,” she said. I swallowed hard. I said, “You’re lying.” “I’m not.” “I can’t move my leg. My right leg. My clubfoot leg—” “You haven’t got a clubfoot,” Susan said. “Not anymore.” I woke properly in the middle of the night. Screens surrounded my bed. A dim light shone behind them. “Susan?” I whispered. One of the night nurses came to my bedside. “Thirsty?” she asked. I nodded. She poured me water and I drank. “How badly does it hurt?” I couldn’t move my right leg because the doctors had put a cast on it after the surgery. I remembered that now. Beneath the plaster, a strong dull ache centered around my right ankle and pulsed toward my knee. “I don’t know,” I said. “It always hurts.” “More than you can bear?” I shook my head. I could bear almost anything. The nurse smiled. “That’s right,” she said. “Your mother said you were a tough one.” She handed me a pill. “Swallow this.” I said, “Susan’s not my mother.” Thank God for that. I swallowed the pill and fell back asleep. When I opened my eyes again Jamie’s face was inches from mine. His hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks. His eyes were red and swollen. He was crying. I pushed myself up in a panic. “What’s wrong?” Jamie launched himself onto the bed. He banged into my cast. I winced. “Easy,” Susan said, pulling him back. Jamie burrowed against me. I put my arms around him and looked over his head to Susan. “Tell me what’s wrong,” I said. “It was in Lady Thorton’s letter,” Susan answered. I nodded. I knew that. Jamie said, “Our mam’s dead.” You can know things all you like, but that doesn’t mean you believe them. Chapter 2 I knew my mother—Mam—worked nights in a munitions factory in London. I knew bombs were falling on London now, every single night in fierce, horrendous waves. I knew the Germans targeted factories, especially munitions ones. I’d been caught in a bombing raid myself. Brick walls exploded above my head. Afterward shattered glass drifted across the streets like snow. So I knew Mam could die. I just didn’t believe it. Even despite all the bombs. I thought Mam would live forever. I thought Jamie and I would never be free. I hugged Jamie. He sobbed. He thunked my cast again. I managed not to scream. Susan tucked a pillow between Jamie and my cast. She eased herself onto the corner of the bed. She rubbed Jamie’s back. “Is it real?” I asked. “It’s real,” she said. “Really real?” “I’m sorry,” Susan said. I said, “ Are you sorry?” Was I sorry? I supposed I was. Maybe? My mother hated me. You’ll never see us again, I’d said to her, a week ago in London. She’d said back, Is that a promise? Now it was. “This isn’t a happy ending,” Susan said. “It’s not the worst possible ending, but it isn’t happy, and I’m sorry for that. I am grateful to have an ending, though. Your mother can’t hurt you anymore.” “No.” I don’t know whether Mam and I could have had a happy ending. I always hoped so—of course I did, she was my mother—but it was another thing I didn’t fully believe. I turned to Jamie. “Why are you sad? Mam hated us. She said so.” Jamie sobbed harder. “I loved her,” he said. Jamie was nicer than me. He probably did love Mam. I didn’t. I wished I did. I wished like anything she loved me. I looked at Susan again. “How am I supposed to feel?” A good daughter would feel sad, I supposed. But if Mam was dead, then I was no longer anyone’s daughter. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t happy. Or angry. Or anything. Susan’s hand clasped mine over Jamie’s narrow back. “However you feel is fine.” “Is there a word for feeling nothing?” “Yes,” Susan said. “Stunned. I felt stunned when I first heard my mother died.” I looked at her. “When did your mam die?” “A few years ago. Several months before Becky.” Becky, Susan’s very best friend, died of pneumonia three years before the war. I knew that. They had lived together; Susan’s bombed house had belonged to Becky first, and it was Becky who gave Susan Butter. “Both deaths were hard,” Susan said. “My feelings about my mother’s were more complicated.” I let go of Susan’s hand. “How did Lady Thorton know about Mam?” Before last week, we’d heard nothing from Mam for an entire year, not one word despite all the letters Susan and I wrote her, until she showed up in person to drag me and Jamie back to London. “I’d given the WVS your mother’s new address,” Susan said. “One of the WVS groups in London contacted Lady Thorton. I suppose they’re monitoring casualty lists.” The WVS was the Women’s Volunteer Service. They did war work. Susan was part of our village’s WVS. Lady Thorton was its head, which made her in charge of evacuees like Jamie and me. Susan reached for my hand again. I pulled it away. Jamie kept crying. I wanted to comfort him, but my insides felt hollow. I didn’t know what Jamie and I were, if Mam was dead. Could we still stay with Susan? Were we still evacuees? “What happens next?” I asked. Susan paused. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll ask Lady Thorton about the arrangements.” I blinked. My heart stuttered. It wasn’t the answer I expected. It wasn’t the answer I wanted. Arrangements. The word came ringed with worry. It arrived on a wave of panic. It fell to the pit of my stomach. Where had I heard that word before? Susan didn’t say, Don’t worry. She didn’t say, Of course you’ll live with me. She didn’t say, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. She had said all those things the day she rescued us from Mam for the second time, the day her house was bombed. She said we’d stay together always. I’d believed her. Had she been lying? Or did everything change because Mam died? “Is there a word that means children with dead parents?” I asked. Susan swallowed. She said, “Orphans.” Orphans. Jamie and I were orphans now, not evacuees. We wouldn’t stay under Lady Thorton’s protection. Susan wouldn’t be able to keep us. Something different happened to orphans. Pain gripped my gut. It hurt worse than my foot ever had. I tightened my arms around Jamie. I would hang on to him no matter what. I would never let us be separated. “I’ll be walking soon,” I said. “I’ll be very useful then.” Susan blinked. “Your recovery will take a few months,” she said. “You know that.” I said, “I’m very hardworking.” “Yes, you are,” Susan said. “But you won’t heal faster because of it. I don’t know if you’ll be allowed to leave the hospital, whatever else happens.” “Do I have to leave right away?” This day grew worse and worse. “No, no, of course not.” Susan sounded distracted. “I only mean for the funeral. If we have one. Whatever we do.” Funeral. Another word I didn’t understand. Even after a year of living with Susan there were so many things I didn’t understand. Mam hadn’t been much for words, and there was a limit to how much I could teach myself, looking out the one window of our flat. Arrangements. “Line up against that wall,” Lady Thorton had said last September, in her crisp head-of-the-WVS voice. “We’re going to make arrangements.” We’d just come off the train that had evacuated us to the village from London. A whole herd of dirty, shabby children, and Jamie and me the most wretched-looking of all. I was nearly done in from the effort of getting away, my clubfoot oozing blood and hurting so badly my knees shook. The villagers filed past us, looking us up and down. No one wanted Jamie and me. I was back to that place now, only cleaner and with my right foot in plaster. “You’d better go,” I said, turning my back on Susan. “You’ll need to start making arrangements.” Read more

Agile Scrum: Your Quick Start Guide with Step-by-Step Instructions

Review "One of the best Scrum books of all time" ― BookAuthority "The book highlights the versatility of Scrum beautifully."― Literary Titan "A superbly written and presented guide to team-based project management that is applicable across a broad range of businesses from consumer products to high-tech."― IndieBRAG "Recommended."― The US Review of Books "The book is excellent." ― Readers' Favorite " Agile Scrum: Your Quick Start Guide with Step-by-Step Instructions is an all-inclusive instruction guide that is impressively 'user-friendly' in tone, content, clarity, organization, and presentation."― Midwest Book Review "A-type personalities (those inclined to avoid instruction manuals) and non-readers will rejoice upon discovering this guide which makes getting started with Agile Scrum a breeze."― Literary Classics Book Reviews " Agile Scrum: Your Quick Start Guide with Step-by-Step Instructions is a must-have for a project manager wanting to introduce Scrum to the organization."― PM World Journal "A clear and authoritative roadmap for successful implementation, Agile Scrum: Your Quick Start Guide with Step-by-Step Instructions is strongly recommended."― BookViral From the Back Cover Agile Scrum: Your Quick Start Guide with Step-by-Step Instructions will show you how to easily and quickly employ Scrum, the most popular agile project development and delivery framework. About the Author Scott M. Graffius is an agile project management consultant, practitioner, award-winning author, and keynote speaker. Content from his books, speaking engagements, and more has been used by businesses, governments, and universities including Gartner, Cisco, RSA, Ford, LITE-ON Technology Corporation, Liberty Mutual Group, Atlassian, the United States Department of Energy, the United States Army, the State of Wisconsin, the New Zealand Ministry of Education, Tufts University, James Madison University, Santa Clara University, Brigham Young University, Texas A&M University, The Open University, Asia Pacific University of Technology and Innovation, and others. Thinkers360 named Scott a global top thought leader and influencer. He can be reached at ScottGraffius.com. Read more

The Storybook Knight: A Rhyming Story About Dragons For Kids

Together We Empower: Rekindling Hope in Rural India

Review "A roadmap for development workers and organizations engaged in initiatives to bring about sustained long-term social change in partnership with communities."  ~Deep Shikha, PhD, Department of Economics, St. Catherine University, Minnesota"Educating and mobilizing citizens to invoke democratic processes to access justice is what the rule of law demands and what Sehgal Foundation is doing in India's rural villages."  ~N. R. Madhava Menon, LLD, IBA chair of Continuing Legal Education, National Law School of India University"A well-documented and well-written publication illustrating the rich contributions made by S M Sehgal Foundation to transform the lives of the poor."   ~D. R. Prasada Raju, PhD, FNAE, advisor and head, retd, Dept. of Science and Technology, Government of India, New Delhi From the Author Together We Empower: Rekindling Hope in Rural India is the winner in the "Social Change" category of the  2016 International Book Awards (IBA) About the Author Marly Cornell is an award-winning author, artist, and social justice advocate. She is the author of Seeds for Change: The Lives and Work of Suri and Edda Sehgal (Sehgal Foundation, 2014) and The Able Life of Cody Jane: Still Celebrating (LightaLight Publications, 2011). Read more

Mindfulness for Teens in 10 Minutes a Day: Exercises to Feel Calm, Stay Focused & Be Your Best Self

Review "I enthusiastically recommend this book. I think that using these exercises in the classroom would aid in creating a more enriching teaching environment. A mindful student becomes a successful student." —Mary Jane Heater, M.Ed, Co-author of Team Teaching Science: Success for All Learners "This book is a great tool for teens and adults alike—whether they’re in therapy or not. The exercises are simple, quick, and well-organized into easily-digestible sections. With world stress levels at an all-time high and attention-spans at an all-time low, mindfulness has never been more important to have. Especially useful for our teens and young adults who are under increasing pressure to achieve at all costs and navigate an ever-changing social and technological landscape, this book serves up bite-sized morsels to help sooth stress, forge focus, and prevail in the present." —Julia Young, MA, LMFT, LPCC, Founder & CEO of Caring Connected "Navigating the day-to-day stress and anxiety of teens can be a challenge! As a junior high school teacher and mom of two, I found Jennie Marie's practical daily mindfulness exercises to be the perfect complement to my work both at home and school. 'Procrastination Pit' and 'Show Me the Love' are just two examples of relatable exercises that have proven to reduce stress and help my students and me become more productive. This is a must-read for all parents, teachers, and teens!" —Aimee Bastin, Department of Exceptional Learners Chairperson and Resource Teacher in Fishers, Indiana "Teens live at the heart of the digital age, bombarded with images that only compound the natural developmental stressors and pressure that come with adolescence. In this straightforward guide to mindful ways of being, Jennie Marie Battistin has taken the mystery out of mindfulness and compiled an easy-to-read and utilize guide to informing everyday activities with awareness, self-regulation, and increased calm—the counterbalance to stress. This is a ‘must-read’ for teens and parents alike!" —Rhea Harris-Junge, MFT, Certified EMDR Therapist, Certified Havening Practitioner, Eating Disorder Specialist About the Author JENNIE MARIE BATTISTIN MA, LMFT , is a licensed marriage family therapist and the founding director of Hope Therapy Center. As a mother of five grown children, she has a passion for helping teens and parents develop tools and resources to navigate challenges and mental health concerns.

The Big Bad Fox

From School Library Journal Gr 3–6—The proverbial fox may be a menace to the henhouse—but not the hero of this work. The titular character lacks gumption, guile, or cunning, and the chickens send him running each time he ventures into the farmyard. Taking pity on the fox, the wolf proposes playing the long game: stealing eggs and eventually eating the hatched chickens. The fox successfully makes off with the eggs, but things get complicated when the chicks emerge and (surprise, surprise!) assume that the fox is their mother. Though this work is similar in look and tone to typical comic strips (bulging-eyed, caricaturelike characters with exaggerated expressions; occasional slapstick violence; motion lines), there's a sophistication to the art that recalls the author/illustrator's roots as a celebrated filmmaker and cartoonist. Renner sets the individual scenes against a white backdrop, free of borders, resulting in a clean design, and the use of color, texture, and shading is top-notch. While much of the humor derives from somewhat predictable setups, such as the fox's botched attempts at proving that he can be just as intimidating as the wolf, it's sure to tickle young funny bones, and the author injects the narrative with a sly, edgy sensibility that sets this title apart from more typical fare. This one has heart, too, depicting the fox's burgeoning feelings of affection toward his unlikely ward. VERDICT Bound to keep adults and kids alike laughing, this is a winning selection for comic book fans, reluctant readers, and those who enjoy subversive comedy.—Mahnaz Dar, School Library Journal Review "Bound to keep adults and kids alike laughing, this is a winning selection for comic book fans, reluctant readers, and those who enjoy subversive comedy." ― School Library Journal, starred review"Graphic novels fans from grades three and up are all going to find some- thing to like here from the art to the humor to the tender underbelly... In a celebratory era of powerful, memorable, visually significant graphic novels, this one happily joins the mountain near the top."― Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books, starred review"Although this concept of role reversal may be well-trod, Renner handles it deftly, making the predictable feel satisfying. A comically charming underfox tale." ― Kirkus " Renner’s tone hits the sweet spot between snarkiness and sentimentality." ― Horn Book About the Author Benjamin Renner is an award-winning French cartoonist, animator, and filmmaker. He received a 2014 Academy Awards nomination in the category of Best Animated Feature for the film Ernest & Celestine. Look for the animated adaptation of his comic, Le grand mechant renard ( The Big Bad Fox ). Read more

Holy Cow It's Me (An Autobiography of Dr. Landau's Experiences As a Veterinarian in Southwestern Wisconsin)

MCAT Prep 2018-2019: Test Prep & Practice Test Questions for the Medical College Admission Test

The prairie practitioners: 20th century South Dakota veterinarians

The Candidate (A Newsmakers Novel)

Review “. . . there is plenty of suspense, exciting twists and complex characters that make it hard to put down.” -- RT Book Reviews, 4-star review About the Author New York Times bestselling author Lis Wiehl is the former legal analyst for Fox News and the O ’ Reilly Factor and has appeared regularly on Your World with Neil Cavuto , Lou Dobbs Tonight , and the Imus morning shows. The former cohost of WOR radio's WOR Tonight with Joe Concha and Lis Wiehl , she has served as legal analyst and reporter for NBC News and NPR's All Things Considered , as a federal prosecutor in the United States Attorney's office, and as a tenured professor of law at the University of Washington. She appears frequently on CNN as a legal analyst. Sebastian Stuart has published four novels under his own name, including The Hour Between, winner of the Ferro-Grumley Award and an NPR Season’s Readings selection. He has also co-written national and New York Times bestselling books. As senior editor of e-book publisher New Word City, Stuart has written over two dozen original non-fiction e-books.

Terminal Impact (Jack Valentine Marine Sniper)

Review Praise for Terminal Impact “The dialogue—salty, irreverent, demeaning, profane—rings true of men at war.”— Publishers Weekly “Powerful and compelling...Delivers the goods.”—The Real Book Spy About the Author Charles Henderson is a veteran of more than twenty-three years in the United States Marine Corps, with a distinguished career spanning from Vietnam to the Gulf War, after which he retired as a Chief Warrant Officer. He is the author of the critically acclaimed military classics Marine Sniper and Silent Warrior , which first chronicled the exploits of USMC sniper Carlos Hathcock. He is also the author of Marshalling the Faithful , Goodnight Saigon , Jungle Rules , and the fictional Jack Valentine Marine Sniper series. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1Eight, seven, six. The second hand on Jack Valentine's watch ticked.Five . . . Snuggle into the rifle, Jack. Like she's the woman you love. Yeah, baby. Breathe. Relax.Four . . . Close your eyes, bro. That's it. Go inside the bubble.Three . . . Now open up. Natural point of aim. Solid. Center mass.Two . . . Focus. Crosshairs sharp, clear. Target fuzzy.One . . . Hold that half breath. Ease the trigger roll. Squeeze.Burlap fringe from his Ghillie-suit bonnet tickled Jack ValentineÕs face as a dry January breeze rustled the fuzzy strips of light green, dark green, and various shades of brown camouflage tied on netting that hid his face. Slowly, careful to not rustle the growth of dry dead foliage that hid him, he eased his fingers up and gave his itching cheek a rub.The newly promoted Marine corporal and his spotter partner, Staff Sergeant Walter Gillespie, affectionately known as Hacksaw, likewise Ghillied up, lay tucked beneath a weed crop on the raised border of a set of long and narrow farm fields. From this hide, they watched the main entrance of what appeared to be a Republican Guard command center, across a highway, nearly a thousand yards ahead of them.Elmore Snow's special operations team had parachuted into position from a high-altitude low-opening jump the night before, two-man teams landing in three zones on the northwest side of the city of Hillah, Iraq, along Highway 84, which led to Hindiya and Karbala. Early that morning, January 17, 1991, Allied aircraft and sea-launched cruise missiles had begun the bombardment of Iraqi command and control centers, and antiaircraft-missile positions. The Persian Gulf War had now begun.The mustang captain and his team's senior noncommissioned officer, Gunny Ray Ambrose, whom Snow had named Mutt during South American drug-war deployments, had moved northeast, edging around the outskirts of the city, past the palace that Saddam Hussein had built on a promontory hill overlooking the ruins of ancient Babylon, that he had also renovated into a new museum, honoring himself and ancient King Nebuchadnezzar. Saddam had even had his name carved in the bricks, boasting the lie saddam hussein, son of nebuchadnezzar.Sergeants Kermit The Frog Alexander and Cory Habu Webster had skirted eastward, well past the captain and gunny's position while Jack and Hacksaw went west, then bent their trek southward toward a curious ring of lights that turned out to be the suspected Republican Guard command center that all three teams had sought.They found a spot close enough to see what went on but far enough away to not draw attention to themselves. The sniper team had Ghillied up and lay in a hide because of random farmers and goatherds wandering by uncomfortably close. The Marines planned to stay put until nightfall, then move out west, beyond searching eyes, and find a place to eat, rest, and await next orders for movement.Captain Snow reported the grid coordinates of the military targets to higher command over satellite-linked radio, and told the operations staff that neither Saddam Hussein nor anyone else important appeared to occupy the Summer Palace. The only people they saw there were caretakers.As for Jack and Hacksaw, military traffic constantly streamed in and out of the Republican Guard headquarters, and only moments ago they had seen a dark blue Rolls-Royce sedan enter the complex and park by the building with the flagpole flying the Iraqi colors.Two soldiers in desert-camouflage uniforms and burgundy berets hurried to the rear passenger-side door as the driver opened it. A trim, slight man in a dark green uniform with a bald head and a short beard got out, put on his burgundy beret, exchanged salutes with the soldiers, and followed them inside the building."He's got to be a regional commander. Flag rank, judging from the car," Captain Snow told his team on their heavily encrypted sat-link headsets."Shall we dance when he exits, sir?" Hacksaw asked."If you took the shot, do you have adequate egress?" Elmore asked in return."Once it's dark we do," Jack broke in. "Right now, sir, we take the shot, we best sit tight. We might get away with one shot. We're off in the boonies, where they likely won't look for us.""What's the distance?" Snow asked."Range finder says 812 meters to the sedan," Gillespie reported."How do you feel about it, Jack?" Elmore asked."Quartering breeze off my right leg, nice and steady at three clicks, I can't ask for better shooting conditions. I'm all in, sir," Jack answered."One shot, one kill, it's all you've got," the captain said. "How about it, Staff Sergeant Gillespie?""We need to take the shot, sir," Hacksaw came back. "Even if Corporal V misses, just think how it will fuck with these dudes' heads. They won't know whether to shit or go blind, paranoia fucking up their dope.""Bear in mind, Staff Sergeant, lots of important ears might be listening to you at the national command center as well as Riyadh," Elmore cautioned his swarthy Marine. Then added, "Stand by while I clear the mission."An hour had passed, and Hacksaw began to grumble, "I got a brick crawled straight up my ass and parked. What I wouldn't give to take a leisurely shit and read the newspaper with a hot cup of black coffee.""Scoot down behind us and pinch off a loaf. Nothing's stirring," Jack grumbled back. "Just make sure you drop your turds where I won't crawl in them.""You got it, bro," Hacksaw said, and inched himself backwards, off the two-foot-high raised berm overgrown with weeds. "I hate taking a shit lying down, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Sure glad I don't wear panties. This might leave a stain."Jack fought the urge to laugh and focused on what he saw through his rifle's twelve-power scope sight.Just as Hacksaw farted and released a steaming load, Elmore Snow came on the sat-link."We're a go on the shot, but as a stopgap, should the target decide to depart the area," the captain said."What'd ya mean, stopgap, Skipper?" Jack asked."We've got a Nighthawk inbound with a GBU-27 to deliver on that Iraqi command center," the captain answered."That's like a mark 84 laser-guided smart bomb, isn't it? Two thousand pounds of high explosive, sir?" Jack came back."Roger that, a bunker buster," Elmore said."Just checking, sir," Jack answered. Then he added, "Seems like I recall the lethal blast radius of a two-grand bomb throws fragmentation four hundred meters up and out.""Roger that," the captain confirmed."Won't it get just a touch breezy out here, across the flats, Staff Sergeant Gillespie and me lying on this two-foot-high berm eight hundred meters away from the target? Just weeds for protection?" Jack asked, worried."You should be fine," the captain replied. "I've called it in closer, but not much. You'll get some dust up your snot locker."Jack Valentine shrank over his rifle and looked through the scope again, watching the headquarters main door and the blue Rolls-Royce parked in front."Hacksaw back at you, sir," the staff sergeant said over his sat-link as he eased alongside Jack and put his eye back on the high-power spotting scope equipped with infrared and night-vision technology. "Had to scatter a little rat bait out in this farmer's tater crop if you know what I mean.""Did you copy my com?" Snow asked."Roger," Gillespie answered. "Why the mark 84? Last I checked, that bomb puts down a thirty-foot-deep crater, fifty feet across, and blows through sixteen feet of concrete or fifteen inches of solid steel. Kind of overkill for a two-story spread-out office complex.""Wizards in the head shed think this headquarters may sit atop a good-size bunker system," Elmore explained. "Obviously a flag officer inside, the one you spotted, and maybe more."Given the war began before daylight this morning, we believe they could have a command and control center underground. You said lots of traffic in and out, and that blue Rolls-Royce has our G-two people convinced you happened upon a major honeypot.""Does this mean we can come home early?" Hacksaw joked."Maybe you're half-right, Walter. We may get to bust out of this burg and redeploy," Snow answered. "As soon as I know anything, I'll let you boys know, too. We'll all likely beat feet to the rally point and await pickup there.""Anything going with Frogman and Habu?" Gillespie asked."They've got a flight of four Tomcats loaded with mark 82s inbound on targets. We're trying to coordinate those strikes with yours. How about your laser? It set up? We need to get that target painted," the captain followed."Just pulled it from the drag bag and setting up as we speak," Hacksaw answered."While you're in the bag, go ahead and pull out the camera and put on the long lens," Snow told him. "If this commander with the blue Rolls emerges from the headquarters, I want pictures of him.""If he comes out of the building, he's probably leaving, sir," Jack said."That's where you have the green light to splash him," Elmore replied. "I want Walter to snap his pictures, nonetheless, and you take your shot. Be nice to identify this guy.""Got you covered, Skipper," Hacksaw broke in. "Laser is up and painting the target. I'm on the camera with a nice view of the car and front door. Awesome lens. Very clear. By the way, sir, it looks like the driver is talking on a radio.""Now he's stepping out," Jack added, seeing the driver's door open."What's the ETA on that Nighthawk?" Walter asked."I just checked, and the pilot says he's less than two mikes out," Elmore came back."May be too late," Jack said, seeing the general emerge through the front doors, square away his burgundy beret, and jog down the steps. Instead of escorting the senior officer, the driver ran to his station, started the car, and left the general to let himself in the backseat."Your range is hot, corporal. Wind unchanged. You've got your dope. Fire at will," Hacksaw said, snapping the camera as fast as the motor drive could run the film past the shutter.Jack Valentine took a breath, watching the Iraqi commander in the dark green uniform run to the car, his scope sight's reticle center mass on the man. He let out his breath halfway, held it, and relaxed, crosshairs dead on target. Then he added pressure to his trigger finger.Boom! The rifle bucked against Jack's shoulder, and he watched through the scope.Two steps from the back door of his Rolls-Royce sedan, the shot took the Iraqi commander off his feet and drove him backwards to the ground. As the bullet struck his upper chest, red spray and debris exploded from his body.Calm and cool, Jack drew back his bolt, ejected the spent cartridge slowly into his hand, never taking his eye off the rifle scope, watching the crowd of Iraqi officers pour out of the building, handguns and rifles drawn."Report," Elmore said on the satellite radio.Sirens began wailing, and Iraqi soldiers, rifles ready, poured from every wing of the command complex."You ever piss in an ant bed, Skipper?" Hacksaw laughed, still snapping pictures. "Corporal Valentine just broke his cherry. Score him one kill. A general at that! Nice. Real nice.""Your laser still painting the target?" Elmore asked."Yes, sir," Hacksaw replied, just as a whistling whining screaming sound from the sky came down and the entire command-center complex suddenly erupted in a massive, ground-shaking, deafening explosion. Dirt, debris, bodies, cars, trucks tumbled in the air as a great brown-and-gray cloud rose a thousand feet into the late-afternoon sky."We best di di mau, Boo-Boo," Hacksaw said, gathering equipment into the drag bag and rolling down the back side of the berm. Jack slid out, too, hot on his partner's heels.On February 24, 1991, Allied ground forces rolled across the line of departure into Iraq. SaddamÕs three-hundred-thousand-man force occupying Kuwait fled the land. Many of them surrendered to the Americans, while others faced death from their own Republican Guard, who shot deserting Iraqi soldiers on sight. In four days, Allied forces conquered the Iraqi army and restored Kuwait to its rightful owners. General Walter Boomer and his Marines waded through Kuwait the first day. Carl von Clausewitz and Sun Tzu would have been proud.On the second day of March, Elmore Snow and his team of five Marines sat at a table on the mess deck of the USS Iwo Jima. Like a family admiring baby pictures, they passed around copies of choice reconnaissance photographs they had taken during their deep special operations mission."What do we do?" Hacksaw asked, holding up a photo he snapped of the dirtball mushroom cloud that used to be the Republican Guard headquarters."We fuck shit up!" Jack laughed."And the pi?ce de rŽsistance," Gillespie added, holding up a photograph of the Iraqi general just as Jack's bullet struck him. Stop-action death. The center of his chest exploding as the bullet lifted him off his feet.Hacksaw grinned at Jack. "Corporal Valentine put the hammer of justice on this sand flea. Fucked him up!""Hammer." Raymond Ambrose smiled over his cup of coffee, looking at Jack. "I name you, Hammer."Elmore Snow raised his coffee mug with his men and toasted their new addition. "Here's to Hammer," he said."And here's to the loss of virginity," Jack added."So, Corporal Valentine, what do you think of South America?" Elmore asked the young Marine."I'm fluent in Spanish," the corporal said, and smiled back. "Mexican, I should say. My mom, you know.""I read that in your SRB," the captain said, nodding."Did you also see where I put in for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training?" Jack came back. "I'd really like to go, Skipper."Everyone at the table looked at the green young corporal sideways."What the fuck, over?" Hacksaw said. "BUD/S is redundant, shitstain. You done done it. What's those deck apes gonna teach a badass Para-Frog Scout-Sniper Force-Recon hard-baked little bitch like you?"Then the staff sergeant scooted close to Jack and wrapped his tattooed, muscled arm around the corporal's neck. "Listen to me," Walter said, wrinkling his brow, "this is your daddy talkin' to ya. A Navy SEAL ain't nothin' but a sailor tryin' to be like a Marine. You got that?"Fuck me to tears, boy. Stop thinking such silly thoughts. You need to pack your trash and go down to South America with us men and kill yourself some of them cocaine cowboys we been huntin'. You got the good eye, the trigger, and the Hammer!" Read more

Digital Transformation: Survive and Thrive in an Era of Mass Extinction

Review “Urgent doesn’t begin to describe the insights contained in Tom Siebel's Digital Transformation . His combination of historic perspective and an incisive approach to the specific technologies reshaping our world should be essential reading for any leader." — Eric Schmidt , Former CEO of Google Inc. “Tom Siebel has laid out in simple terms how to understand and thrive in today’s new information economy. Digital Transformation is a must read for today’s business leaders.” — Charles Schwab , Founder and Chairman, The Charles Schwab Corporation “Siebel skillfully describes the new technologies that you must understand to give you confidence to ask the right questions and drive change that delivers both short-term results and long-term competitive advantage.” — Robert Simons , Professor, Harvard Business School “Digital Transformation delivers a detailed look at the big picture, explaining not only what is happening now, but what companies must do and why. Instead of being fearful, read this book and learn how human leadership, strategy, and risk-taking can make the most of it.” — Garry Kasparov , Former World Chess Champion “In this book, Tom Siebel offers compelling insights from a practitioner’s point of view—he cuts through the hype and offers practical advice for CEOs and other leaders. In doing so, Tom paints an inspiring vision for an inevitable future.” — George Roberts , Co-Chairman and Co-CEO, KKR “Tom Siebel’s Digital Transformation should alarm every CEO and government leader about the simultaneous arrival of an existential technological threat—and an historic opportunity. A must-read for every leader in business and government.” — Robert M. Gates , Former U.S. Secretary of Defense Siebel explains why business evolution is speeding up, ushering in a new era of real-time data analysis and prediction. Digital Transformation is a top-priority read for CEOs and boards in every large organization in the world.” — Rich Karlgaard , Publisher and Futurist, Forbes “Digital technology is changing the world with breath-taking speed. In a clearly written book that combines market-tested experience and piercing insight, Tom Siebel provides leaders with the advice they need to guide organizations.” — Christopher L. Eisgruber, President, Princeton University “Everyone talks about digital transformation and here is our chance to actually understand and execute it well.” — Jay Crotts, Chief Information Officer, Royal Dutch Shell “In Digital Transformation , Tom Siebel describes how the disruptive technologies of artificial intelligence, cloud computing, big, data, and the internet of things are propelling massive changes in how nations, industries, and corporations function. Throughout the book, he offers valuable advice to corporations and individuals working in this transforming landscape.” — Robert J. Zimmer , President, University of Chicago About the Author Thomas M. Siebel is CEO of C3.ai, a leading provider of enterprise artificial intelligence software. A globally renowned leader in information technology, Mr. Siebel has been at the forefront of several major innovation cycles, including relational databases, enterprise application software, Internet computing, AI, and the Internet of things. He pioneered the customer relationship management (CRM) category with the founding of Siebel Systems. Recognized by Businessweek as one of the top 25 managers in global business, Mr. Siebel is a three-time recipient of the EY Entrepreneur of the Year award and was named a Glassdoor Top CEO in 2018. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 2013.

Fireflies, Glow-worms, and Lightning Bugs: Identification and Natural History of the Fireflies of the Eastern and Central United States and Canada (Wormsloe Foundation Nature Books)

Review This is a true gem of a book, a celebration of fireflies in all their diversity. With her unique combination of expert knowledge, boundless enthusiasm, superb photography and above all her love of these magical creatures, Lynn Faust leads us through every aspect of their lives and emphasizes the need to enjoy, study, cherish and protect them. She has created a supremely authoritative yet wonderfully accessible guide that is sure to inspire and inform the next generation of firefly-researchers. This book will draw you into the world of fireflies and make you want to go out into the night to discover and enjoy them for yourself. -- John Tyler ― Past Fellow of the Royal Entomological Society, and author of The Glow-Worm Lynn Faust's Fireflies, Glow-worms and Lightning Bugs is overflowing with contagious enthusiasm for Lampyridae and other bioluminescent insects, but you won't want to spill a drop. It is a perfect brew of natural history, anecdote and careful taxonomy, sparkling with accessible-but-authoritative text and saturated with superb photography. Fireflies, Glow-worms and Lightning Bugs promises to be a natural history classic, and is a perfect guide to the "magical world of fireflies" in eastern and central North America. -- Stephen A. Marshall ― author of Flies: The Natural History and Diversity of Diptera This is a book for all of us, from nature enthusiasts and backyard entomologists to beetle experts to theoretical biologists. The guide, as the author modestly calls it, packs a wealth of information and wit. Rigorous but simple, and fun to read. Decades worth of original field observations make Lynn Faust's book a priceless contribution to the study of a charismatic but poorly understood group of insects, nothing short of a scientific monograph. It will be extensively cited in research papers, no doubt―and leave you with a striking impression that fireflies are relevant to the entirety of human experience. Only someone of Lynn's insight and dedication can put humble bugs in a context that wide. She says this is the book she wanted when she first got interested in fireflies. What she came up with is exactly the kind of treatment we want for every group of organisms, to boost and nurture our fascination with nature, to show us how those tiny parts of our world work. I'm afraid, though, this book will remain a unique example for quite a while; people with skill, energy, and expertise matching Lynn's are few and far between. -- Vassili Belov ― Contributing Editor, BugGuide.net Do you call them fireflies or lightning bugs? Or do you have another name for these insects that are neither bugs nor flies but bioluminescent beetles? A new book, Fireflies, Glow-worms, and Lightning Bugs , by Lynn Frierson Faust takes an in-depth look at the biology and allure of these familiar night visitors. Faust is the first to offer a comprehensive look at species of the eastern and central United States. The book is unequivocally the best ever written on North American lightning bugs. . . . Faust’s excellent book answers a multitude of questions about these twinkling night travelers. What do they eat? The adults of most species never eat. They only mate. Can fireflies bite us or attack plants in our gardens? Easy answer to both – absolutely not. . . . If nothing else, this book will spark memories of the childhood delight you felt when you caught lightning bugs in a jar – and then let them go. It may also encourage you to turn off the front porch light unless you’re expecting visitors. -- Whit Gibbons ― Aiken Standard But if Faust’s book doesn’t make the task simple―getting down to species is not a simple job, she admits―having the Lightning Bug Lady by your side, with her graceful, wise, and witty advice, coupled with a plethora of incredible pictures (the cover photo, by David Hughes, of a Big Dipper firefly, a species found in our area, rocketing upward is itself worth the retail price of the guide), makes the job both doable and downright pleasant. -- Bruce Fellman ― Naturalist's Journal For the last twenty-six years, Lynn Faust has been working to catalog and decipher the bioluminescent Morse Code each species flickers out come spring and summer. 'Lightning bug flashes are works of art,' says Faust, a naturalist who recently penned the definitive book on the topic, Fireflies, Glow-worms, and Lightning Bugs . -- Jason Bittel ― Smithsonian Everyone who’s seen fireflies aglow is pleased, comforted, or amazed with what they’ve seen. Who dislikes fireflies? This book will be with you outside at night, with your book light attached, while you try to identify your first flashing firefly to species. -- Randy Lauff ― Canadian Field-Naturalist Review This is a true gem of a book, a celebration of fireflies in all their diversity. With her unique combination of expert knowledge, boundless enthusiasm, superb photography and above all her love of these magical creatures, Lynn Faust leads us through every aspect of their lives and emphasizes the need to enjoy, study, cherish and protect them. She has created a supremely authoritative yet wonderfully accessible guide that is sure to inspire and inform the next generation of firefly-researchers. This book will draw you into the world of fireflies and make you want to go out into the night to discover and enjoy them for yourself.Lynn Faust's Fireflies, Glow-worms and Lightning Bugs is overflowing with contagious enthusiasm for Lampyridae and other bioluminescent insects, but you won't want to spill a drop. It is a perfect brew of natural history, anecdote and careful taxonomy, sparkling with accessible-but-authoritative text and saturated with superb photography. Fireflies, Glow-worms and Lightning Bugs promises to be a natural history classic, and is a perfect guide to the "magical world of fireflies" in eastern and central North America.This is a book for all of us, from nature enthusiasts and backyard entomologists to beetle experts to theoretical biologists. The guide, as the author modestly calls it, packs a wealth of information and wit. Rigorous but simple, and fun to read. Decades worth of original field observations make Lynn Faust's book a priceless contribution to the study of a charismatic but poorly understood group of insects, nothing short of a scientific monograph. It will be extensively cited in research papers, no doubt—and leave you with a striking impression that fireflies are relevant to the entirety of human experience. Only someone of Lynn's insight and dedication can put humble bugs in a context that wide. She says this is the book she wanted when she first got interested in fireflies. What she came up with is exactly the kind of treatment we want for every group of organisms, to boost and nurture our fascination with nature, to show us how those tiny parts of our world work. I'm afraid, though, this book will remain a unique example for quite a while; people with skill, energy, and expertise matching Lynn's are few and far between.Do you call them fireflies or lightning bugs? Or do you have another name for these insects that are neither bugs nor flies but bioluminescent beetles? A new book, Fireflies, Glow-worms, and Lightning Bugs , by Lynn Frierson Faust takes an in-depth look at the biology and allure of these familiar night visitors. Faust is the first to offer a comprehensive look at species of the eastern and central United States. The book is unequivocally the best ever written on North American lightning bugs. . . . Faust’s excellent book answers a multitude of questions about these twinkling night travelers. What do they eat? The adults of most species never eat. They only mate. Can fireflies bite us or attack plants in our gardens? Easy answer to both – absolutely not. . . . If nothing else, this book will spark memories of the childhood delight you felt when you caught lightning bugs in a jar – and then let them go. It may also encourage you to turn off the front porch light unless you’re expecting visitors.But if Faust’s book doesn’t make the task simple—getting down to species is not a simple job, she admits—having the Lightning Bug Lady by your side, with her graceful, wise, and witty advice, coupled with a plethora of incredible pictures (the cover photo, by David Hughes, of a Big Dipper firefly, a species found in our area, rocketing upward is itself worth the retail price of the guide), makes the job both doable and downright pleasant.For the last twenty-six years, Lynn Faust has been working to catalog and decipher the bioluminescent Morse Code each species flickers out come spring and summer. 'Lightning bug flashes are works of art,' says Faust, a naturalist who recently penned the definitive book on the topic, Fireflies, Glow-worms, and Lightning Bugs .Everyone who’s seen fireflies aglow is pleased, comforted, or amazed with what they’ve seen. Who dislikes fireflies? This book will be with you outside at night, with your book light attached, while you try to identify your first flashing firefly to species. Review Get better acquainted with the performers of your own backyard ?light show? Book Description Get better acquainted with the performers of your own backyard “light show” About the Author LYNN FRIERSON FAUST is an advisory consultant on firefly studies with state and national parks in Tennessee, South Carolina, Mississippi, Pennsylvania, and New York and an on-site scientific consultant with BBC Nature, the Discovery Channel, and National Geographic, among many other media outlets. She has also aided in identification and educational advisement for the Cincinnati Museum Center and published surveys of the fireflies of Mammoth Cave National Park, Congaree National Park, and the Allegheny National Forest. Faust has presented around the world on the topic of fireflies and published numerous scientific papers. She lives in Knoxville, Tennessee. Read more

The Christmas Boutique: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (The Elm Creek Quilts Series Book 21)

Review “Celebrating the 20th anniversary of the first novel in her extensive Elm Creek Quilts series, Chiaverini’s latest installment is rich with detail...telling the tale of a particular woman’s motivation to design and craft a particular quilt. Whether inspired by love or grief, the resulting artwork is described with astonishing attention to design, workmanship, and symbolism. Chiaverini also explores how the practice of her craft transforms each woman’s emotional life, each stitch bringing her closer to a sense of peace… A warm portrait of women bound by craft—perfect for fireside reading.” -- Kirkus Reviews --This text refers to the hardcover edition. About the Author Jennifer Chiaverini is the New York Times bestselling author of several acclaimed historical novels, including Mrs. Lincoln’s Sisters and Resistance Women , as well as the beloved Elm Creek Quilts series. A graduate of the University of Notre Dame and the University of Chicago, she lives with her husband and two sons in Madison, Wisconsin. --This text refers to the hardcover edition.

Edentown

About the Author Daniel Edmiston is an actor, director, and author of nine produced plays, including "Coyote Point," winner of the 2007 Pillars Prize in Playwriting at Georgia College and State University. He resides in Idaho with his wife and two young daughters. "Edentown" is his first novel.

Birth in a Chicken House: A Collection of Stories

From the Publisher Dr Lucas kept notes of his experiences about the people and animals he worked with throughout his career. For several years he has been busy transforming those notes into stories. Stories, which he wanted to leave to his children and grandchildren about his life. The humorous tales are true and the chapter title depict their nature. It's time to laugh and Birth in a Chicken House will do just that! Remember the time you tried to help pull another person's vehicle? How about the first dent in your brand new car? All you needed was a good night's sleep and those dogs across the way won't hush for even a second! From large animals to small and people of all walks of life, you will be able to relate to the stories. Birth in a Chicken House is a very descriptive book regarding the characteristics of animals and culture. Dr. Lucas not only explains the veterinary process, but he describes the beauty and history of Southern Iowa. As the pages are turned readers will laugh, cry and start planning their next vacation to this unforgettable land. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Doc Anderson's portfolio was full of quips. He used to say that Southern Iowa, as far as weather is concerned, is the hottest, the coldest, the wettest and the driest place on earth. We got it all and all in between. Northern Iowans expected cold winters with lots of snow and they seemed to love it. In Southern Iowa, we enjoyed, on the average, mostly milder winters. Still, blasts of cold from the North did not escape us entirely. Winter could blow in bitter cold and beautiful scenic snow. Early mornings of extremely cold temperatures presented a rapture of sparkling frost and atmospheric sundogs could light up a daytime sky. This was a frigid winter that followed the summer of heat and drought in the early 70's. It was amazing that a few months earlier it had been scorching hot. The crops had burned up in the field. Now it was colder than a penguin's behind. The ground water level was at an all-time low and many wells had dried up. The well I used to water the cattle herd was dry and I had to devise a method to winter water them. I put a pump on the power take-off of my little B Farmall tractor. Then, I drove the tractor down to the pond, chopped a hole in the ice, stuck a hose down in the pond and pumped water up. It was an interesting operation. My cows needed five to ten gallons of water a day to keep nutritional balance in their huge paunches. That winter they'd drink by licking the layer of ice and snow covering the ground. It was nowhere near the amount of water they required. When the supplemental water I pumped came flowing from the hose, the cows would crowd in to be first at the fresh supply. The more aggressive cows would push their way in. The more timid creatures would slink back and wait their turn. It was a very frigid morning. I had gone to pump water for my cows but my faithful little B Farmall refused to start. I woke my wife, Kay, to ask for her help. I knew that we could start the tractor by pulling it with another vehicle. A short, sharp tug should do the trick. Kay was more than willing to assist. Kay jumped out of bed, dressed, got a cup of coffee and away we went. We spoke on the way of the winter's dazzling beauty. Alongside the road, a cock rooster pheasant strutted in the sun. His beautifully colored feathers and long tail gleamed brightly against the sparkling frost on the fences and shrubs. Amazing, I thought, how Mother Nature equipped pheasants with the ability to withstand cold temperatures when they had only shrubs and overlaying frozen grass for protection. The little tractor was sitting in a shed. I backed my 4-wheel-drive veterinary truck into the building until I was about three feet from the tractor's front wheels. I got out of the truck and attached one end of a 15-foot heavy log chain to the front spindle of the tractor. The other end I attached to the back of the truck. I stood back and looked the situation over. The driveway to the shed was covered with ice and snow. To pull start a vehicle, dry ground was required. Traction was needed to turn the tractor's wheels, to subsequently turn the piston over for the start. The little tractor needed to turn over before we hit the ice and snow I had concluded. Kay's job was to drive the vet truck. I said to her, "We'll try to pull start it right in the shed where the traction is good. So, when I tell you to go, give it hell, so it'll turn over quickly while on dry footing." Kay got behind the wheel of the truck. I got on the B Farmall with its triangle front end. I turned on the ignition, put it in the proper gear to start, and said to her, "OK, give it hell!" What I had forgotten to say was, "Be sure to tighten the chain first." When I heard Kay put the truck in gear and stomp on the accelerator, I knew I was in deep trouble. When the slack came out of the chain, the tractor (with me holding on pale-faced and frozen to the seat) ejected from the building like a rocket from a launch pad. Kay headed for the road and took a sharp left. I followed on the tractor, swinging at a 90 to 180 degree pendulum, sliding on the ice. Kay never looked back. She continued toward the road at a galloping pace. When she got to the road she hesitated while she checked for oncoming traffic. The hesitation put slack back in the chain and the tractor rolled up on it. Kay cautiously looked in both directions but didn't see anything coming on the highway. She floor boarded the truck. The chain's slack quickly dwindled as she jerked and pulled me along. Kay picked up speed. There was one last lurch before the front end of the tractor completely broke away. I came to an abrupt halt. Kay looked back after hearing the terrible noise. She stopped the truck and sheepishly walked back to see the tractor in two pieces. She said, "Oh, oh, did I do something wrong?" "Oh, hell no," I said, feeling slightly upset. I was too relieved to be alive to be angry. "This happens all the time," I added. It was a story I would tell our grandchildren. During the ride back to town I reminded Kay of another time her driving about did us in. We were chasing a cow in my veterinary truck at Dwight Lovitt's. Kay was about nine months pregnant. I was holding on to the back of the truck with one hand, trying to throw the lariat with the other. The cow was fast, but Kay was faster. She must have had a lapse in memory, forgetting I was in the back. Kay drove off lickety-split into a mud seep and became stuck. This time, her poor driving actually saved me from toppling out. This was a story I would tell at the coffee shop. Amazingly enough, the whole episode didn't even start Kay in labor.

The Oxford Companion to the Earth

Mighty Miss: A Mississippi River Experience

About the Author Gary brings over forty years of guiding canoe trips and story telling to Mighy Miss. He has been a Boy Scout Executive, Outward Bound Instructor, English teacher, Play Director and Minister before turning to writing.

Deadhouse: Life in a Coroner s Office

From Booklist In 2000 Pittsburgh journalist Temple spent time in the Allegheny County Coroner's Office, riding out with its personnel on calls to collect bodies and returning to watch the autopsies. Temple imparts a general impression of forensic pathology, and his accounts of two female interns' reactions to the sights and smells provide a reality check for readers considering the career. Tracy and Carey learn the ropes and the lingo of the macabre from a staff that has seen it all--murders, suicides, overdoses. The newbies absorb from the veterans the necessary distance to perform the job, especially on "floaters and stinkers," described here in unsparing detail. Occasionally, the chief of the office glides past the dissection tables dispensing advice, and since he is the nationally famous Dr. Cyril Wecht, his employees pay attention. In between specific cases, Temple provides minihistories of the office of coroner, how it differs from that of a medical examiner, and the techniques of forensics. Writing evenly and efficiently, Temple will enlighten fans of the CSI television shows. Gilbert Taylor Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Review In 2000, Pittsburgh journalist Temple spent time in the Allegheny County Coroner's Office, riding out with its personnel on calls to collect bodies and returning to watch the autopsies. Temple imparts a general impression of forensic pathology, and his accounts of two female interns' reactions to the sights and smells provide a reality check for readers considering the career. Tracy and Carey learn the ropes and the lingo of the macabre from a staff that has seen it all―murders, suicides, overdoses. The newbies absorb from the veterans the necessary distance to perform the job, especially on “floaters and stinkers,” described here in unsparing detail. Occasionally, the chief of the office glides past the dissection tables dispensing advice, and since he is the nationally famous Dr. Cyril Wecht, his employees pay attention. In between specific cases, Temple provides mini-histories of the office of coroner, how it differs from that of a medical examiner, and the techniques of forensics. Writing evenly and efficiently, Temple will enlighten fans of the CSI television shows. (Gilbert Taylor Booklist ) From the Publisher An inside look at a big city coroner's office where three investigators probe the mysteries of death From the Inside Flap An inside look at a big city coroner's office where investigators probe the mysteries of death About the Author John Temple is author of The Last Lawyer: The Fight to Save Death Row Inmates , published by University Press of Mississippi. His book American Pain was named a "Best Book of 2015" in the True Crime category by Suspense Magazine . He is associate professor of journalism at the Reed College of Media at West Virginia University. Prior to teaching, Temple was a newspaper reporter in Pittsburgh, Greensboro, and Tampa. More information about Temple and his books can be found at www.johntemplebooks.com. Read more

You're Dead―So What?: Media, Police, and the Invisibility of Black Women as Victims of Homicide

Review “Heartbreaking and insightful . . . an important reminder that there is a long history of silencing and/or ignoring the victims of violent crimes, especially when they are women of color. Neely’s research exposes the media bias that renders them unworthy of our attention, empathy, and ultimately of justice. Her careful attention makes their lives and deaths visible and restores their humanity.” — Danielle L. McGuire, author of At the Dark End of the Street About the Author Cheryl L. Neely is Professor of Sociology at Oakland Community College where she teaches courses in Sociology and Criminology.

Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide

Review "Be Brave, Be Strong" is a book both simple and enormously complex, a story both nuanced and quick-reading, and an adventure narrative of both personal and cultural significance. Most of all, it elevates the joy of suffering on a bike to high intrapersonal art. -- David Chenault, Bedrock and Paradox We're given fascinating views into the internal struggle and psychological influences that allow some people to push their mind and body to the edge and actually achieve heightened awareness and ability that forever creates in them a craving to experience it again and again. -- "Flying With Red Haircrow" I am in awe of this woman... not only can she write a good yarn, but her story is amazing. I mean how many of us would ride a mountain bike from Canada to Mexico in rain and over 11,000 foot mountains in just 24 days? With only two outfits and a bag of junk food and a sleeping bag? -- Tara Chevrestt, "Book Babe" Another great adventure story from Jill. If you enjoy adventure and cycling, you'll enjoy this book. And be careful because you might just develop dreams of one day riding the Tour Divide yourself. -- Andy Amick Jill Homer grants us plenty of personal insights into the background to her Tour Divide ride, and her feelings during the ride itself. This is a very open, female perspective on what I assume is normally the predominantly macho and insular world of extreme bike racing, and means the book is never just a dry account of a bike ride. -- Jim Speakman About the Author Jill Homer grew up in Sandy, Utah, and graduated from the University of Utah with a degree in journalism in 2000. She began her career working for weekly and daily newspapers in Utah and Idaho. In 2005, she moved to Homer, Alaska, to pursue adventure in the Last Frontier. She never viewed herself as an athlete, but she was searching for a unique kind of outlet that provided both physical and psychological challenges. Endurance cycling fit that description. Two years of (mainly mis)adventures landed her in one of the most difficult endurance races in North America, a 350-mile winter traverse of Alaska wilderness called the Iditarod Trail Invitational. The unforgettable experience was the genesis of her first book, Ghost Trails: Journeys Through a Lifetime. Her second book, Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide is a continuation of her ongoing adventures. She currently works as a freelance writer and editor in Los Altos, California.

The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse: A Cats in Trouble Mystery

From Publishers Weekly Sweeney (Pick Your Poison) launches the Cats in Trouble mystery series with a meandering whodunit. Jillian Hart is content making and selling cat quilts and living quietly in Mercy, S.C., with her three cats, Syrah, Chablis and Merlot. When Syrah is catnapped, Jillian finds not only the thief-thanks to a state-of-the-art alarm system installed by charming PI Tom Stewart-but also a murder mystery to solve. The cats are entertaining four-legged assistants, with traits like Chablis's human allergy and Merlot's ninja-style defensive tactics. Jillian's quirky neighbors also liven up the thin plot, particularly Tom, whose knack with alarms and computers comes in handy, and flamboyant deputy coroner Lydia Monk. Kitty-lovers will enjoy the feline trivia, but readers looking for a complex mystery will chafe at the slow pace and last-minute revelations. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Review "A welcome new voice in mystery fiction." -- Jeff Abbott"An intriguing puzzle which has buried layers that must be uncovered.""The most likable sleuth to come along in years." -- Rick Riordan About the Author Leann Sweeney is the New York Times bestselling author of the Cats in Trouble Mysteries, including The Cat, The Sneak and the Secret and The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim . Leann was born and raised in Niagara Falls, and educated at St. Joseph’s Hospital and Lemoyne College in Syracuse, New York. She also has a degree in behavioral science from the University of Houston. A retired registered nurse, she has been writing in the mystery genre for many years and also writes the Yellow Rose Mystery series. Read more

The World of Laura Ingalls Wilder: The Frontier Landscapes that Inspired the Little House Books

Review Winner of the Garden Writers Association 2018 Silver Medal of Achievement “This well-researched, sweeping book details the life of Laura Ingalls Wilder and those who came before her. It is clear that the different landscapes shaped them, particularly Laura and ‘Pa.’ The original are of Garth Williams and Helen Sewell deepens the poignancy and power of Laura’s prairie, since today only one percent of it survives. Laura’s work has preserved it for us. This book preserves it for us.” —Patricia MacLachlan, author of Sarah, Plain and Tall , winner of the Newbery Medal   “Lavishly illustrated with photographs, drawings, maps, and, notably, a selection of Helen Sewell and Garth Williams’ illustrations from the Little House books. . . . the book is a feast of opportunity for dedicated Wilder fans and enthusiastic gardeners everywhere.” — Booklist “McDowell commemorates the 150th birthday of Laura Ingalls Wilder with a captivating look at the beloved Little House on the Prairie author’s relationship with nature. . . . McDowell’s warm descriptions of the author, her times, and the plants she loved provide a wonderful companion to Wilder’s books, while instructions on growing a Little House–inspired garden add an interactive component. Gardeners, botanists, and fans of Wilder will love this book.” — Publishers Weekly “Readers who fondly remember Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books will delight in this biography. . . . A well-researched, beautifully illustrated title that entwines the natural world depicted in Wilder’s books with her life as a settler, farmer, and writer.” — Library Journal “[With] historical maps, photographs, botanical drawings, original illustrations by Helen Sewell and Garth Williams, and the ample descriptions of scenery in the series. . . Marta McDowell provides a snapshot of the gardens, plants and land that influenced Laura Ingalls Wilder's frontier life in the Little House books.” — Shelf Awareness “A narrative that is accessible to advanced younger and seasoned readers alike. . . this work is a lovely gift for anyone who loves or has loved the Little House books.” — NYBG’s Plant Talk “After reading the descriptions of ground cherries and green-pumpkin pie, you may be inspired to grow a pioneer garden in the 21st century.” — Country Gardens “Marta McDowell’s charmingly enthusiastic glossary of the plants so integral to settler survival is just the kind of folksy vade mecum that book-loving Laura and her family would have relished.” — Country Life “Like the ‘Little House’ books themselves, [this is] a story of a slice of garden history, and an evolving American landscape of the imprint the pioneers had on it, and it had on them too. A tale of their intimate connection with the natural world, and of what McDowell calls Laura’s wild and beautiful life.” — A Way to Garden “A lively, detailed look at Wilder's plant, farm and garden interests in the many places she lived.” — Milwaukee Journal Sentinel “It's a beautifully produced book on quality paper. Marvelous illustrations, maps and photographs, illuminate McDowell's well-researched, engaging text. There are plenty of detailed descriptions of the plants and landscapes Wilder loved.” — New Jersey Herald “Readers have cause for real celebration. The book provides both beauty and substance. . . a treasure.”— South Dakota Historical Society Press “Wilder buffs and nature enthusiasts will revel in the details McDowell reveals.”— Green Bay Press Gazette From the Back Cover “This well-researched, sweeping book details the life of Laura Ingalls Wilder and those who came before her. It is clear that the different landscapes—Wisconsin, Kansas, the Ozarks—shaped them, particularly Laura and ‘Pa.’ The original art of Garth Williams and Helen Sewell deepens the poignancy and power of Laura’s prairie, since today only one percent of it survives. Laura’s work has preserved it for us. This book preserves it for us.” —Patricia MacLachlan, author of Sarah, Plain and Tall , winner of the Newbery Medal “One morning the whole world was delicately silvered. Every blade of grass was silvery and the path had a thin sheen. . . . When the sun came up, the whole prairie sparkled. Millions of tiny, tiny sparks of color blazed on the grasses.” —from On The Banks of Plum Creek , by Laura Ingalls Wilder About the Author Marta McDowell’s writing has appeared in The New York Times , Woman’s Day, Country Gardening , and elsewhere . Her previous books include Beatrix Potter’s Gardening Life , All the Presidents’ Gardens , The World of Laura Ingalls Wilder , Emily Dickinson’s Gardening Life , and Unearthing The Secret Garden . She consults for public gardens and private clients, writes and lectures on gardening topics, and teaches landscape history and horticulture at the New York Botanical Garden, where she studied landscape design. She lives, writes, and gardens in Chatham, New Jersey. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Preface Some decades ago when I fit the criteria of Young Adult reader, I was Laura Ingalls. That is, when I wasn’t Nancy Drew or, somewhat later, a foot-stamping Scarlett O’Hara. Laura spoke her mind, rode black ponies bareback, helped Pa with the haying, and pushed off her sunbonnet. Besides, I had the genetic creds for Laura. My mother grew up in the middle of the Illinois prairie, became a teacher, and taught in a one-room country schoolhouse, just like Laura and Ma Ingalls. Her family inspired my love of gardening and my confidence with canning jars. My father was a farm boy from Henry County, Kentucky, whose stories included the Christmas crate of oranges—the single gift shared among his family of nine—and walking to school unless the creek was too high, in which case they rode the mule. It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I realized that the first family car of my memory, a mammoth black Hudson sedan dubbed “Old Jenny,” had been named after a mule of his youth. Born in 1867, Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote a bumper crop of books for young readers. Farming, gardening, and nature were backdrops and key plot elements for every volume in the series. Originally published between 1932 and 1943, the eight novels chronicle growing up in the Wisconsin woods and on the prairies of Kansas, Minnesota, and South Dakota over a twenty-year period starting in the late 1860s. It was a coming of age story for a girl and reflected the coming of age of a nation, as homesteaders spread west from the Mississippi. Beyond history, her books were about natural history. Laura discussed weather and land forms. She observed plants and the animals that depended on them. She foraged wild berries and picked wildflowers. And long before she was a writer, Laura Ingalls Wilder was a gardener and farmer, growing food for the table and raising crops for sale. She lived the farmer’s covenant with the wider natural world, tending soil, plants, and animals to sustain herself and her family. For many of us, Wilder’s books introduced us to a life in and dependent on nature. Never was germination so eagerly awaited or crop failure so devastating. Her stories, predating reality TV by decades, often read like some sort of Survivor: Prairie Edition . Yet despite grasshopper plague, drought, fire, twister, and blizzard, her love of nature shines through, buoyant with optimism. Nature, in her world, is its own character, one with a definite if sometimes unstable personality. It isn’t too much of a stretch to group Laura Ingalls Wilder with America’s nature writers. Nature was her home, as well as little houses. Readers of her books become budding naturalists. The actions of the Ingalls and Wilder families take place in different parts of the country with different ecosystems, and the stories demonstrate the results of changes to the land. The series sows a deep appreciation for the world outside one’s own door. Now that I am approaching the age at which Laura Ingalls Wilder started writing her memoir and novels, I found that exploring her works became a personal time machine. She opened a portal into my own melting pot of memory as I explored the places and plants of her life. I’ve organized this book in two parts. After a short prologue, “A Life on the Land” follows the trail of Wilder’s plant, farm, and garden interests intertwined with her life story. If you’re a Wilder fan, you will find a familiar order, as it follows the sequence of the Little House books chronologically and geographically. I urge you to read or reread them alongside. Three additional chapters cover the Wilders at Rocky Ridge Farm in Mansfield, Missouri, and the other places that her daughter, Rose Wilder Lane, gardened. The second part of the book, “Wilder Gardens,” is for the traveler who wants to hop into the wagon and travel to Wilder and “wilder” gardens across America, and for the gardener—aspirational or experienced—who would like to grow the plants that Laura grew and knew, with a catalog of specifics including botanical names. And speaking of “Laura,” I hope she would excuse the familiarity. In her day, even Almanzo did not address her by her first name until after they were engaged. After that, Miss Ingalls became Mrs. Wilder. But because she shared herself with so many who got to know her character first-hand, a chapter at a time, Laura is the name I will use when referring to her as a person, reserving Wilder for her professional name as a writer. Read more

Risking It All: A Novel

Review Praise for Risking It All :"Fans of Jodi Picoult and Janelle Brown will enjoy this poignant and thought-provoking novel.” ― Booklist “Thoughtfully written and thoroughly engaging―a tale of compromise, tough decisions...and love.” ― Kirkus "Nina Darnton explores the nuances of surrogacy and marriage as well as the meaning of family and parenting, all the while illuminating that life ― even in its saddest, messiest moments ― can still be wonderous where there is hope and love." ―Viola Shipman “A fascinating glimpse into a marriage after tragedy strikes. Once you start Risking It All , you won’t put it down.” ―Catherine Coulter, New York Times , USA Today , and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of The Devil's Triangle “With understanding and insight, Nina Darnton’s Risking it All is a poignant depiction of marriage in a time of unforeseen hardship. It is also an inspiring example of what having one person believing in you can do for a child. The story so compelling that the pages seemed to turn themselves until the very end.” ―Sally Hepworth, bestselling author of The Mother's Promise Praise for Nina Darnton:“A fast-paced thriller with the kind of emotional impact that transcends a simple whodunit." ― Kirkus Reviews on The Perfect Mother “This haunting page-turner will keep you up all night and be long remembered after the last page has been read." ―Mary Higgins Clark on The Perfect Mother "A vivid portrait of a troubled country." ― The New York Times on An Africa Affair "A smart and diverting…international thriller that will satisfy readers looking for new talent and a brisk read." ― Booklist on An Africa Affair About the Author NINA DARNTON is the author of the critically acclaimed novels An African Affair and The Perfect Mother as well as Risking It All . She has written for The New York Times , Elle , House and Garden , Travel and Leisure , the New York Post , and Newsweek . She has a BA from the University of Wisconsin, an MS in Psychology from the New School of Social Research, and an MFA from Columbia University. Nina and her husband John Darnton have three children and four grandchildren and live in New York City and New Paltz, New York. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Risking It All By Nina Darnton St. Martin's Press Copyright © 2017 Nina DarntonAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-250-07525-3 CHAPTER 1 Marcia was sopping wet when she entered the lobby of her building on West End Avenue. She kicked off her soaked shoes in the doorway. They were probably ruined, she thought, but she was too excited to care. She went straight to her bedroom, dripping little rain puddles onto the Oriental rug in the entry hallway, changed out of her clothes and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Catching a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror, she noticed her wet hair plastered around her face and towel-dried it with one hand while opening her briefcase. She ignored the manuscript she had brought home to edit and extracted three pamphlets she'd picked up in her doctor's office that afternoon. Clutching them in her hand, she curled up on her bed to read them again. Surrogacy. Her last chance, her last hope. She had tried everything else. Surely this would work. But she knew getting Jeff to accept it would be an uphill fight. At least it wasn't adoption; she knew he would never give in on that. But he'd also been resistant to every form of conception other than as a by-product of their lovemaking. She would have preferred it to have happened naturally too, but it hadn't. They had tried to conceive a baby for three years with nothing to show for it but a less spontaneous and thus less exciting sex life. She had taken her temperature every day for months to determine when she was ovulating. She'd rush home when she was and miss dinner dates or parties required for her work. Making love became so separated from seduction it began to seem like a job. They'd been to doctors and they'd had every test anyone could think of and nothing explained why she couldn't conceive. Yes, they'd told her, he had a slightly low sperm count, but others with the condition still had children. Whether that was the problem or it was something else entirely, she remained barren and it had become the heartbreak of her life. Convincing Jeff to try any medical intervention hadn't been easy. After the first two years of disappointments he was ready to give up. That had been a year ago but she remembered every detail of their conversation as if it were yesterday. She had just emerged from the bathroom, fighting tears. "I got my period," she'd said disconsolately. She'd climbed into bed, pulled up the blanket and turned away from him, staring silently into space. "Don't react like this, Marcia. It's only one time." "One more time after two years of only one more time. I feel so sad and so stressed I don't know what to do." "Maybe it's the stress that's stopping it from happening," he said. "I don't know, that sounds vaguely like it's my fault somehow." "No, I'm not saying that. We're both tense." "Look, if being tense prevented conception, rape victims would never get pregnant." He paused for what seemed like a long time before venturing his next suggestion. "Listen, honey, please, turn around. I want to say something." She sighed and turned to face him. "Maybe we just can't do this," he said gently. She didn't look at him. Her thoughts were far away. "Maybe not like this," she said quietly. "But there are other ways." He looked perplexed. "We could try IUI," she said. "What's that?" "It's intrauterine insemination." He looked puzzled. "You know," she added with a little smile, "the turkey baster method." He withdrew his arm from her shoulder. "That's a turn-on," he said. "It's not supposed to be a turn-on," she countered. "It's not about sex. It's about conception." "I thought those two went together." "Well, I guess this is for when they don't," she said softly, getting out of bed and leaving the room. He'd gone along with it after that, but she knew he did so grudgingly. He hated the idea and he hated the process, and she knew, and appreciated, that he submitted only because he understood how important it was to her. But when that method also repeatedly failed, he was more than ready to give up. She'd begged him to talk to her doctor about another possibility and so, reluctantly, he went with her to discuss the next step with her gynecologist. The doctor had suggested in-vitro fertilization: Marcia's egg would be harvested in a minor surgical procedure and then fertilized by Jeff's sperm outside her body. It would then be inserted into her uterus. The doctor explained that to increase the odds of success she would insert several fertilized eggs at the same time. The process, she said, would cost about $15,000. They were shocked. Insurance wouldn't pay any of it and although they could afford it — Jeff had a good job in a law firm and Marcia was a senior editor at a publishing house — this was not a price they could shrug off. Besides, they realized that it might not take the first time around. Each cycle would multiply the cost by the same amount. How far were they ready to go? "What if more than one egg takes?" Jeff had asked one night as they were lying in bed talking about it. "That's very rare," Marcia answered. "Not so rare. I can just imagine it. The Naiman Quintuplets," he said. He pretended to roll up his sleeves like a circus barker. "Come and see them. A modern miracle." Marcia laughed. "Well, we'd be sure to get lots of presents. And five of each. Can't you just see them lined up in their cribs, all of them with your chin dimple?" "It's not funny, Marcia. What if we did have twins? That's not rare at all in this procedure." "We'd be done, then," she whispered. "There'd be a few tough years, but we wouldn't have to do this part ever again." They had gone through with it. There had been no way to turn back — Marcia wanted a baby too much. She'd have tried anything, paid anything, borrowed if she had to. And Jeff had gotten into the spirit of it. It had become a challenge, a kind of high-stakes game and, as usual, he simply didn't want to lose. He seemed equally devastated when it didn't work, Marcia thought. But when she insisted they try it again, he balked. And when she'd convinced him, promising this would be the last time, and once again failed to conceive, he refused to try a third time. The subject had been dropped. They stopped taking her temperature and consciously trying to conceive. But Marcia never really let it go. She was painfully aware that her thirty-ninth birthday was approaching and that soon she might lose her chance completely. She'd taken her temperature without telling him and made sure they made love when she thought she was ovulating. Still, nothing had happened and she felt bereft every month when she got her period. Continually disappointed, her usual optimism failed her and she fell into a depression from which she couldn't seem to emerge. Now hope slowly stirred again, like a cat stretching after a long sleep. She felt a renewed sense of possibility and purpose, and resolved to research the subject thoroughly starting tomorrow. She knew Jeff would be against it — they had discussed surrogacy early on and both had rejected the idea — but that was before it was clear it was their only chance. She'd taken it up with her doctor today, and she believed that she had finally hit upon the right solution and that nothing now could stand in her way. Nothing, that is, except Jeff. CHAPTER 2 She spent the next two hours reading about surrogacy on the Internet, pulling up articles, criticisms, and testimonials from happy parents. She learned there were agencies that provided guidance through the process of surrogacy, companies with names like Conceptual Options and Growing Generations, and she made a note of their numbers, resolving to speak to their representatives. Maybe there is a book in it, she thought, featuring different couples talking about their experience. If not, there should be, she noted mechanically — she was an editor, after all. She heard the door open and close — Jeff coming home. She decided not to discuss it with him right away. It would be prudent to wait until she had more hard facts with which to counter his arguments. But she was so excited that she was barely able to wait until they finished dinner. She fidgeted and fussed around the kitchen and when he started to tell her about a run-in he'd had with a colleague, he noticed she hardly heard a word he said. Seeing that something was preoccupying her, he asked what was going on. He didn't need to ask twice. "Jeff, I saw Dr. Gordon today," she blurted, barely restraining her excitement. Dr. Gordon was her gynecologist and Jeff stiffened. "Is everything okay?" "Yes, everything's fine. It was just a checkup. But we discussed something I really want to talk to you about." "Sure." "She thinks maybe we should try surrogacy." He let out an exasperated sigh. "Marcia, we already discussed surrogacy. That was one area I thought we agreed on. It's wrong. It's exploitive. It's rich people renting the wombs of poor people who do it only because they need the money." "I've been reading up on it. Some women say they do it to help people who can't have children." "I think that's bullshit." She bristled. He was already turning this into an argument. "Why is the only scenario you can accept a selfish one? Believe it or not some people actually get pleasure from helping others." "You used to say it was all about class," Jeff countered. She nodded. "I did and I still see that," she said evenly, "but I have to admit I'm open to a different interpretation now. I mean, if there's psychological testing, if the birth mother really knows what she's getting into — maybe it should only be allowed for women who already have children of their own, for example. And if the birth mother or family really need the added income, maybe it's a way of doing something good for both families." He looked at her with feigned admiration. "It's amazing how you can adapt your principles to your needs," he said. "No, I'm just able to let go of my prejudices when I have more information," she snapped. He got up to get a beer. He hesitated at the refrigerator, clearly deciding whether to come back and resume the conversation, or settle down in the living room and look for a game on ESPN. She knew he didn't want to return, but he finally came back to the table and sat down heavily. "It just feels wrong, Marcia. Unnatural. A woman isn't an incubator; she has feelings. You can't predict how she'll feel if she bonds with the child during her pregnancy and then has to give it away. What if she changes her mind? Remember that case you used to talk about? That woman who went through the whole surrogacy, signed a contract and everything, and then backed out when the baby was born? What was her name?" "Mary Beth Whitehead. I followed that story compulsively." She frowned. "I was very much on her side at the time. But things have changed. When she did it, they used her egg. The baby really was her baby, biologically as well as emotionally. Whatever she thought before, whatever she signed up for, she was that baby's mother and it was heartbreaking to watch her pain." "I know. And I don't think any woman can know how she'll feel about giving up her baby until she actually experiences childbirth," Jeff answered, grateful for even this slight concession. "That's not something you can just sign away without the option to change your mind. I mean, think about it. What if we did this and at the last minute, the mother changed her mind?" "I don't know. But I'd like to find out how often something like that happens. One of the articles said that now it's not usually the surrogate's egg that's used. That's one of the good things that came out of the Whitehead case. If we did this, the baby would be genetically ours. We need to do more research. There are lots of families who have done it. I think the odds of success are knowable." "I don't know. It just involves three people when it should involve two — like adoption, which I also never wanted." "I've always known how you feel about adoption and that's why I never pushed it. But maybe we should revisit it. Would it really bother you so much to not have the baby come from us?" "Come from us? You mean you think it comes from us when it's born to another mother? I'd call that the definition of not coming from us." "Not really. But if you can't stand that idea, what is it actually about adoption that makes you so against it?" "It's not about the genes. For me the worst part in adoption and in surrogacy too is the complications and intrusions it makes in your life. These days you don't just adopt a baby. You have to have a 'relationship' with the birth mother. Even if you don't, the child has a right to know who she is. Families become more complicated. I don't want any of that." "Jeff, you're confusing things. If the surrogate gives birth to our baby there wouldn't be any reason to maintain a relationship with her after the pregnancy and delivery." "Who knows? All I know is that our child should come from us in a normal way. I agreed to try to increase our chances and that didn't work. So maybe we're just not meant to have kids." That stopped her. "Not meant to have kids," she repeated slowly. "Not meant by whom? God? Fate? Destiny? You don't even believe in any of those. We make our own destiny, you've said that a hundred times." She stopped talking and turned away, trying to stop her tears, but they came in spite of her resolve. He softened immediately, reaching out to take her hand. "Honey, I just think it would be good to try to focus on other aspects of our lives. We're pretty lucky in so many ways. We love each other. We have a great marriage. We can make a good life together even if we never have children." She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and got up to get a tissue to blow her nose. When she returned, he reached over to stroke her hair and gently pulled her into an embrace. "I love you so much, Marcia. I'm happy now. As we are. Aren't you happy with me?" She kissed his neck. "You know I am. Of course I am. But I always wanted us to be a family. And I'm just not ready to give up on that, not yet." "Would it be so terrible if we did? I mean, giving up isn't always a defeat. Sometimes it's more like just giving in." "Giving in to what?" "To reality." She shrugged, lifted her chin and pursed her lips, a gesture he recognized as her stubborn refusal to hear him. He got up and stretched his legs before pulling the chair out and sitting down again. "We're all raised to think having kids is what couples have to do. There's this myth we're all fed of the perfect happy family," he said. "It's a portrait we have in our minds. But it doesn't always turn out that way and when that happens it's like someone erased the two children that were supposed to replace us. We can't help feeling there's something wrong. But it's not always so wonderful. Think of Nick and Sarah — really, Marcia, does their life seem so enviable?" She couldn't help smiling just a little thinking of the chaos she'd noticed the last time she'd visited their friends. Encouraged, he went on, "Their apartment is cramped. The couch is stained. There are toys all over — you can't walk through the living room without crunching some plastic action figure underfoot. The kids can be cute, but they also scream and cry and have tantrums when they don't get what they want. Nick says it's almost impossible to work at home. It takes so long to put the kids to bed that Sarah says she usually just goes straight to sleep when they do. No more wine and cheese before dinner as they tell each other about their day. And that's a couple with normal kids. What if there are problems?" Marcia seemed to be listening so he continued. "And think of Ben and Kathy. They decided not to have kids and they're living an incredible life. They have money for anything they want. They have an amazing apartment filled with designer furniture and antiques. They have elegant dinner parties using their wedding silver and china, and the place always looks beautiful. She dresses like a fashion model. They do things together and fill their lives with activities and travel and fun." Marcia gave a desultory shrug. "Their life just seems so empty and shallow and narcissistic," she said. "I can't believe they chose it. It makes me so mad that they had the ability to have a family and turned it down. Did you know she got pregnant?" Jeff frowned; she hadn't been listening after all, he realized. "Well, she did. And she had an abortion," Marcia said, ignoring Jeff's expression. "And I, who want it so much, can't get pregnant. It's not fair." He raised his voice in frustration. "I know. It's not fair. But we've tried everything. Maybe it's time to start accepting it." (Continues...) Excerpted from Risking It All by Nina Darnton . Copyright © 2017 Nina Darnton. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

While You're Here, Doc: Farmyard Adventures of a Maine Veterinarian

From Booklist Tales of animal doctoring in a small coastal town in 1950s Maine fill this new addition to the ranks of veterinary memoirs. Since he charged his clients by the miles that he had to drive to deliver his services, Brown often heard the "while you're here, Doc" line as farmers would add on "just one more" patient once the veterinarian had showed up. Whether chasing a stallion through a blizzard so his torn ear could be stitched--surgery done on the floor of the general store whose plate glass window the stallion had crashed through--or checking the sore tooth of a pet monkey after a merry chase in and out of the house (not to mention all the bite wounds), Brown pretty much saw it all in his years in practice. Full of laconic farmers, hysterical owners, and more feisty animal patients than one can imagine, these stories of backwoods veterinary care are sure to be popular among James Herriot lovers. Nancy Bent Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Review "Stuffed with hilarious recollections of nearly a quarter century of dealing with all kinds of animals and their owners." ― Yankee Magazine "Mixes veterinary know-how with Down East storytelling, and each of his stories is a stand-alone gem." ― Maine In Print "Full of laconic farmers, hysterical owners, and more feisty animal patients than one can imagine, these stories of backwoods veterinary care are sure to be popular among James Herriot lovers." ― Booklist "Brown’s medical skills, physical stamina, courage, and especially his strong senses of perspective and humor made him ideally suited to the rigors of his chosen profession. They also make him the perfect narrator of a volume that succeeds as an All Creatures Great and Small, Maine-style." ― Bangor Daily News "Do not leave this book unattended by the bedside of any summer visitor. It will vanish, and they will look innocent. (Check their luggage.)" ― Courier-Gazette About the Author Bradford B. Brown, DVM, grew up on a farm in Vasselboro, Maine, and like two of his brothers, graduated from the Cornell University College of Veterinary Medicine. He joined his brother Phil's veterinary practice in Belfast, Maine, where they worked together for thirteen years, and then continued on his own for ten more, running a small-animal hospital and making hundreds of farm calls. After he retired to the family farm in Vasselboro, he began writing about the people and animals and many adventures he had enjoyed. Read more

Pep Talks for Writers: 52 Insights and Actions to Boost Your Creative Mojo (Novel and Creative Writing Book, National Novel Writing Month NaNoWriMo Guide)

Review "Are you feeling...stuck? Unmotivated? Uninspired? Are you trapped inthe middle-novel swamp, or did you find all your plot threads wound upin one big knot? Grant Faulkner, executive director of National Novel Writing Month(NaNoWriMo), has a new book to help wordsmiths find momentum again: Pep Talks for Writers: 52 Insights and Actions to Boost Your Creative Mojo. Divided into 52 encouraging, actionable chapters, Faulkner walks writersthrough problems like imposter syndrome, creative blocks, overcomingrejection, and author envy."- The Writer Pep Talks for Writer' does exactly as the title suggests. This features 52 short essays to kick-start creativity and motivate your writer's mojo, and is suitable for any writer on any stage of their creative journey. This is a complete guide to mentally motivating yourself for the chaotic month to come but, with timelessly solid advice suitable for any creative individual, this is also a good resource to be pored over at any time of the year. - United by Pop About the Author Grant Faulkner is the Executive Director of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and the co-founder of 100 Word Story. He's published Pep Talks for Writers: 52 Insights and Actions to Boost Your Creative Mojo; Brave the Page, a teen writing guide; Fissures, a collection of 100-word stories; and Nothing Short of 100: Selected Tales from 100 Word Story.  His stories have appeared in dozens of literary magazines, including Tin House, The Southwest Review, and The Gettysburg Review, as well as in anthologies such as Best Small Fictions and Norton's New Micro: Exceptionally Short Fiction. His essays on creativity have been published in The New York Times, Poets & Writers, LitHub, Writer's Digest, and The Writer. He also co-hosts Write-minded, a weekly podcast on writing and publishing.  Additionally, Grant is co-founder of the Flash Fiction Collective, a member of the National Writing Project Writers Council, Aspen Words' Creative Council, and Lit Camp's Advisory Council. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Pep Talks for Writers 52 Insights And Actions To Boost Your Creative Mojo By Grant Faulkner Chronicle Books LLC Copyright © 2017 Grant FaulknerAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4521-6108-2 Contents Introduction: A Creative Manifesto, 8, 1 You Don't Need Permission to Be a Creator, 12, 2 How Do You Create?, 16, 3 Finding Your Muse, 21, 4 Be a Beginner, 25, 5 Make Your Creativity into a Routine, 30, 6 Goal + Deadline = Magic, 34, 7 Embrace Constraints, 39, 8 The Art of Boredom, 43, 9 Getting Ideas: A Writing Rorschach Test, 48, 10 Building a Creative Community, 52, 11 An Artistic Apprenticeship, 56, 12 Getting Feedback, 60, 13 Channel Your Super Heroic Observational Powers, 65, 14 Cavort Wander Play, 70, 15 Using Your Life in Your Story, 74, 16 Overcoming Creativity Wounds, 79, 17 Make Your Inner Editor Work for You, 84, 18 Accept the Mess, 89, 19 Pull Yourself Out of the Comparison Trap, 93, 20 Put Your Life Struggles in Perspective, 98, 21 Treating Impostor Syndrome, 103, 22 Embrace Vulnerability, 108, 23 Fail Often Fail Better, 114, 24 Creativity as an Act of Defiance, 118, 25 You Are What You Wear, 123, 26 Where You Work Matters, 126, 27 Artistic Thievery, or the Art of Remixing, 130, 28 Take a Story Field Trip, 135, 29 Looking through Your Character Kaleidoscope, 139, 30 On Finding Creative Flow, 144, 31 Say, "Yes, and ...": The Secrets of Improve, 149, 32 Think Fast to Outpace Writer's Block, 154, 33 An Exercise in Extreme Writing, 158, 34 Sleep, Sleeplessness, and Creativity, 162, 35 Be Deluded Be Grand, 166, 36 Nurturing Awe through Darkness, Solitude, and Silence, 169, 37 New Experiences = New Thoughts, 174, 38 The Magical Sprites of Creativity: Distractions, 179, 39 Trusting in The Absurd, 184, 40 Move Differently to Think Differently, 188, 41 Specialize (but Not Too Much), 192, 42 The Art of Melancholy, 196, 43 Thank Your Muse, 201, 44 Writing with a Persona, 205, 45 Persisting through Rejection, 210, 46 Know Thyself, 215, 47 Make Irritants into a Symphony, 220, 48 Hold Things Lightly, 224, 49 Intuition versus Logic, 227, 50 Vanquishing Fear with Curiosity, 232, 51 Logging the Hours: Mastery Equals Perseverance, 236, 52 What Is "Success"?, 241, In Review, 246, CHAPTER 1 YOU DON'T NEED PERMISSION TO BE A CREATOR Each year , I talk to hundreds of people who have perfected a peculiar and disturbing art: the art of telling themselves why they can't jump in and write the novel of their dreams. "I've never taken any classes. I don't have an MFA." "I have a lot of ideas for stories, but I'm not a real writer." Or, worst of all, they say, "I'm not a creative type." I call this the other syndrome — as in "other people do this, but not me." We've all been there, right? We open up the pages of a magazine, and we read a profile of a magnificently cloaked and coiffed artistic being — a twirling scarf, moody eyes, locks of hair falling over a pensive brow. We read the witticisms and wisdom the celebrated artistic being dispenses while drinking a bottle of wine with a reporter one afternoon in a charming hamlet in Italy. The artistic being tells of creative challenges and victories achieved, and then drops in an anecdote or two about a conversation with a famous author, a good friend. There's a joke about a movie deal that fell through, and then an aside about the one that won an Oscar. There's talk about a recently published book, which called to them and gave them artistic fulfillment like no other book ever has. And, as we sit in our house that is so very far from Italy, and we look across the kitchen, over the dishes on the counter, to the cheap bottle of wine from Safeway, and the phone rings with a call from a telemarketer, just as a bill slides off the stack of bills, we tell ourselves, "Other people are writers. Other people get the good fortune to have been born with a twirling scarf around their neck. Other people get to traipse through Italy to find a fantastic novel calling them. Other people get to be who they want to be — whether it's through family connections, blessed luck, or natural talent. But that's not me. That's other people." And you know what, we're right. The life of an artist is for others — because we just said so, and in saying so, we make it true. But here's the rub. Even after negating our creative potential, we're bound to wake up the next day to a tickle of an idea dancing in a far corner of our mind, a memory that is trying to push a door open, a strange other world that is calling us. We wash those dishes, we pay that stack of bills, we drink that cheap bottle of wine, but we know there's something else — we know there's something more. And there is something more. There's the creative life. You don't need a certificate for it; you don't need to apply to do it; you don't even need to ask permission to do it. You just have to claim it. You might not wear scarves in Italy, but you can make your own version of the artistic life, no matter where you live or what demands of life you face. It's not always easy, of course. There will be naysayers, those people who think it's silly or trivial to be a "creative type," those who think it's audacious and pretentious for you to write a novel, those who think you can't do it because you lack the qualifications. You've decided to escape the mire of your creative slough, and sometimes that threatens others. But you're not embracing your creativity because it's an easy path. You're doing it because you have something to say. And no one gets to tell you that what you have to say doesn't matter, because it matters to you. The arts don't belong to a chosen few. Quite the opposite: every one of us is chosen to be a creator by virtue of being human. If you're not convinced of this, just step into any preschool and observe the unbridled creative energy of kids as they immerse themselves in finger painting, telling wild stories, banging on drums, and dancing just for the sake of dancing. They're creative types because they breathe. And you're a writer because you write. There's no other definition. Don't fall into the common trap of hesitating to call yourself a writer if you haven't published a book. It can easily happen. Agatha Christie said that even after she'd written ten books, she didn't really consider herself a "bona fide author." You earn your bona fides each time you pick up a pen and write your story. So start by telling yourself you're a writer. Then tell the world. Don't mumble it, be proud of it, because to be a writer takes moxie and verve. Your task as a human being and as an artist is to find that maker within, to decide that you're not "other," you're a creator. Honor the impetus that bids you to write — revere it, bow to it, hug it, bathe in it, nurture it. That impetus is what makes life meaningful. It's what makes you, you. CHAPTER 2 HOW DO YOU CREATE? Despite the plethora of how-to-write books that promise surefire recipes for writing success, there is no right way to write. The way a person creates is a mysterious thing, similar to a person's favorite color. Why do some people like a certain color and not another one? Blue has been my favorite color for as long as I can imagine. Yet some people like red, others prefer periwinkle, and then there are those who like fulvous (a brownish yellow). Why? It just is. And it's a good thing, right? We need the world to be painted a variety of colors. We need to walk through rooms with different hues, to feel life as a celebration of color in its many forms, to make life, well, colorful. When I begin a story, I sit down with an itch of a story idea stirring in my mind, and I write a sentence, without too much thought, without any maps of logic, and then I write another sentence, and then another, one thing leading to the next, writing in pursuit of faint inklings and distant whispers, writing to discover, writing just to write. It's as if I'm lost in a foreign city, and I'm trying to find my way home, but I can only follow hunches, scents in the air, touches of memory. I'll eventually find my way home, or I believe I will, but I know I'll take wrong turns and end up in places I might not know how to get out of. I know there will be moments I'm scared or frustrated or desperate, but I also know I'll wander into magical places I couldn't have possibly found in any guidebook. It's a fun way to write — to write as a quest. I get to walk through a dark forest and discover something new each time I write. No one tells me where to go. If I get a sudden and impulsive idea, then I can indulge that story line and explore all its tentacles and tributaries. If I want to include a character's diary entries to add a layer of characterization — yes, why not? The downside to this approach is that I tend to explore my characters' worlds and meander down their highways and byways more than I stitch everything together into a tight and suspenseful plot. I'm not especially adept at writing the kind of novel where everything is there for a well-considered reason, where one thing leads to the next and the dramatic trajectory is always rising with taut tension. In some ways, I tend to plot after the novel has been written. So my constant question has been whether I should abandon my loosey-goosey ways and buckle down and outline my novel ahead of time. And not just with a sketchy outline, but a tightly orchestrated game plan. I wonder this when I begin every novel, and then I wonder it more and more as I proceed. Here's the thing, though. I have outlined stories and novels. While it's fun for me to think through a narrative arc and plot it out, if I write with an outline — with so much of the story already formed in my brain — the joy and meaning of writing is diminished. With an outline, I write to determine, not to explore. Instead of walking through a foreign city without a map and looking all around to find my way, I look at the map more than I look at the world around me. For me, planning a novel — at least in any deep and meticulous way — violates the very spirit of why I write. Now I'm not arrogant enough to assert that my way is the right way. I often question it myself — even now, I wonder if I don't outline because of a character flaw or a lack of discipline. I deeply respect writers who use outlines, spreadsheets, Post-it notes, and white boards to delineate their stories. But I also know that every writer creates in a different and mysterious way, so I try not to chastise myself too much. I often think of "The Hedgehog and the Fox," an essay by the philosopher Isaiah Berlin that addresses different creative types. The title is a reference to a phrase attributed to the ancient Greek poet Archilochus who wrote, "A fox knows many things, but a hedgehog one important thing." Berlin used this idea to divide writers and thinkers into two categories: hedgehogs, who view the world through the lens of a single defining idea, and foxes who draw on a wide variety of experiences, and for whom the world cannot be boiled down to a single idea. I write like a fox. Others write like a hedgehog. And then others write like another animal, let's say an anteater, and whatever defining characteristic an anteater has guides them to create their stories in their way. There's no such thing as the way to create good work; you just have to find your way. There's no such thing as the way to create good work; you just have to find your way. Ann Beattie's favorite hours to write are from midnight to three in the morning. James Baldwin liked to rise before dawn, before there were sounds of anyone in the house. Legend has it that Edith Sitwell used to lie in an open coffin before she began her day's writing because a foretaste of the grave was supposed to inspire her macabre sensibility. Some writers thrive in solitude, while others seek to write with others. Some writers are vitalized by background noise, while others are horribly distracted by it. The most creative people often contain contradictory extremes, inhabiting a multitudinous personality. I did NaNoWriMo the first time because I'm such a slow, plodding writer and wanted to experience my imagination at a different pace. I'm an early morning writer, but sometimes on a Saturday night, I'll make a pot of coffee at 10 and plan to write into the dark silence of the night. I might just write my next novel on note cards, as Vladimir Nabokov did. And I'll never quit dallying with different types of outlines (and chastising myself for pantsing [winging it] anyway). So find your way, embrace your way, but don't become too rigid. Experimenting with your process is a way to open yourself up to new possibilities. CHAPTER 3 FINDING YOUR MUSE Inspiration is a funny thing. It's powerful enough to move mountains. When it strikes, it carries an author forward like the rushing torrents of a flooded river. And yet, if you wait for it, nothing happens. The irony is that so much is actually created — mountains moved, sagas written, grand murals painted — by those who might not even describe themselves as particularly inspired. Instead, they show up every day and put their hands on the keyboard, their pen to paper, and they move their stories forward, bit by bit, word by word, perhaps not even recognizing that inspiration is striking in hundreds of tiny, microscopic ways as they push through another sentence, another page, another chapter. "I write when the spirit moves me, and the spirit moves me every day," said William Faulkner. This is the principle way writers finish 50,000 words of a novel each year during National Novel Writing Month — by showing up — and it applies to being creative the rest of the year as well. Inspiration is often characterized as a thunderbolt — a brilliant flash that strikes from the heavens, a eureka moment, and that metaphor certainly holds truth, because inspiration can be a sudden igniting force, random and illuminating and otherworldly (and even a bit dangerous). Yet I think of inspiration, at least the big, gobsmacking moments of inspiration, as more like Bigfoot. Sightings of Bigfoot are rare, and he's so elusive that he can't be captured physically, or even truly on film, so his very existence is in question. It's wonderful to believe he exists, because it's nice to think of the world as strange and beautiful enough to spawn such a creature, but if you go out into the woods and look for Bigfoot, you're not likely to find him, just as you can't force sweeping gusts of inspiration to appear on any given day. The muse of Greek mythology — that creature depicted in a beautiful flowing gown, playing a harp — was invoked by authors to sing stories into their ears, but I'd like to recast this muse. The muse doesn't sing the words of a story to you; the muse is conjured in the telling — in overcoming those lulls that strike with willpower, grit, and as much caffeine as it takes. I see the muse as hundreds of invisible sprites that sleep in the whispery spaces between each word. These sprites are enlivened only by the breath of a churning imagination, by the stirrings of a story moving forward. The muse of inspiration appears when you plop your heart onto the beautiful blank page that awaits your words. Such a muse is ineffable, so miniature that she often goes unnoticed, yet an author must trust that the responsibility for bringing those story sprites to life resides in creating a spool of words that spins onto the page. "A writer is either compelled to write or not," said Toni Morrison. "If I waited for inspiration I wouldn't really be a writer." The urge to wait for inspiration has killed many a wonderful story. Now, of course, you'll have lulls. Your willpower will face the crippling doldrums of self-doubt. You'll tell yourself no one wants to read your story. You'll tell yourself your characters are clichés, your plot unremarkable. And you — you! — are not a writer. You are a person with silly dreams who should know better, and you should just return to a life where you sit and simply be entertained by other people's imaginative creations. A life of binge-watching TV series isn't all bad, is it? Here's what you must know: Every single creator throughout history has experienced such moments. Keep trusting that the muse of inspiration appears when you plop your heart onto the beautiful blank page that awaits your words. The words you create every day are each fruit-bearing ker- nels of inspiration. Each word wants more and more words to follow. And you are the all-powerful God that sends those words — those story-igniting lightning bolts — into a world that's coming to life before your own eyes. You are your own muse. Let the blank page be a spigot for all of the dramatic, ornery, lyrical, and shocking thoughts in your head that are eager to come out. CHAPTER 4 BE A BEGINNER So much of our emphasis in life is to be the one who knows. When we embark seriously on any new endeavor, we look up to the masters and gurus and yearn to match their expertise someday. They're the ones who have it all figured out, after all. When they walk into rooms, people tilt their heads up in admiration. People ask them questions and hang on their every word. The experts move through life with surety, certainty, and maybe even a good paycheck, or so it seems from the outside. They dash off novels, speak with aplomb, and take exotic vacations. When you're a beginner, it's easy to feel awkward and clumsy. We want to be graceful; we want it all to be effortless; or we just want to move. Paradoxically, though, it can be more exciting to be the one who doesn't know — the one who is beginning the search, the one immersed in the pursuit of answers, the one who has the humility to be open to learning all possibilities. When my son was learning to walk, I paused one afternoon to simply watch his attempts. We're accustomed to think that falling causes frustration, but Jules didn't furrow his brow or cry out as he plopped on his behind again and again. He got up, swaying back and forth, wrestling with gravity, noticing the tenuous shifts coursing throughout his body, and he worked on his strength to stay steady, as if putting the pieces of a puzzle together. As I watched him, I listed the lessons of his practice: 1. He didn't care if anyone was watching. 2. He approached every attempt in a spirit of inquiry. 3. He didn't mind failure. 4. He took pleasure in each new step/milestone. 5. He didn't imitate another person's walk; he was just intent on finding his own way. He was quite naturally immersed in shoshin, or beginner's mind, a notion from Zen Buddhism that emphasizes the benefits of being open to whatever occurs and being observant and curious in each effort. "In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert's there are few," said the Zen master Shunryu Suzuki. The idea is that in the beginner's mind there are no considerations of that very confining box called achievement, because the true beginner is always learning. A beginner's mind is innocent of preconceptions, expectations, judgments, and prejudices. Devise a way to stay in the mindset of a beginner, to be naïve and wholly open to the world. (Continues...) Excerpted from Pep Talks for Writers by Grant Faulkner . Copyright © 2017 Grant Faulkner. Excerpted by permission of Chronicle Books LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

Out of Circulation (Cat in the Stacks Mystery)

Review Praise for the New York Times bestselling Cat in the Stacks Mysteries “Courtly librarian Charlie Harris and his Maine Coon cat, Diesel, are an endearing detective duo. Warm, charming, and Southern as the tastiest grits.”—Carolyn Hart, New York Times bestselling author of the Death on Demand Mysteries“Combines a kindhearted librarian hero, family secrets in a sleepy Southern town, and a gentle giant of a cat that will steal your heart.”—Lorna Barrett, New York Times bestselling author of the Booktown Mysteries“Ideal for Christie fans who enjoy a good puzzle.”— Library Journal “[A] pleasing blend of crime and charm.”— Richmond Times-Dispatch “James just keeps getting better and better...It's an intelligent read, so well-written that I couldn't stop reading it. Every single time I turned out my light for the night, I found myself thinking about the story, flipping the light switch again and reading just ‘one more chapter.’”—MyShelf.com About the Author Miranda James is the New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries and the Southern Ladies Mysteries.

Mop Men: Inside the World of Crime Scene Cleaners

From Publishers Weekly Who cleans up when a killer leaves a really big bloody mess? In a chatty, tongue-in-cheek profile of Neal Smither, chief of Crime Scene Cleaners Inc., journalist Emmins lets the Boss Cleaner speak passionately of how he tackles spills and splotches resulting from the San Francisco Bay area's murders, suicides and other deaths. Emmins delves into the zany character of Smither, a loving family man who puts on a coarsely humorous persona as protective armor as he surrounds himself with the dark realm of death, monitoring his multimillion-dollar business in a highly competitive field. Hanging around with Smither means a grisly experience of suicide surrounded by transgender porn, bodies splattered by gunfire or the decayed corpses of those ruined by meth or contagious disease. For a totally gonzo way of looking at the crime scene cleaning business, try this engrossing, wisecracking assessment (of Smither, Emmins writes, [I]f not actually one of Death's litter, he must be at barest minimum a cousin) of a world we know exists but ignore as we go on about our lives. (Jan.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Review Who cleans up when a killer leaves a really big bloody mess? In a chatty, tongue-in-cheek profile of Neal Smither, chief of Crime Scene Cleaners Inc., journalist Emmins lets the "Boss Cleaner" speak passionately of how he tackles spills and splotches resulting from the San Francisco Bay area's murders, suicides and other deaths. Emmins delves into the zany character of Smither, a loving family man who puts on a coarsely humorous persona as "protective armor" as he surrounds himself with the dark realm of death, monitoring his multimillion-dollar business in a highly competitive field. Hanging around with Smither means a grisly experience of suicide surrounded by transgender porn, bodies splattered by gunfire or the decayed corpses of those ruined by meth or contagious disease. For a totally gonzo way of looking at the crime scene cleaning business, try this engrossing, wisecracking assessment (of Smither, Emmins writes, "[I]f not actually one of Death's litter, he must be at barest min ( Publishers Weekly ) About the Author ALAN EMMINS has written for GQ , The New York Post , Dazed & Confused , FHM , Playboy , and The New York Daily News . He is also managing editor of the fiction magazine and website Edit Red. Emmins is British, but has worked mainly in New York. He now lives in Denmark. Read more

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Caroline: Little House, Revisited

Review “Peeling back the layers of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie series allows Miller to reveal the real Caroline Ingalls, Wilder’s mother. Not to be missed by Wilder’s grown-up fans or those who enjoy historical fiction about the settling of the American West in the late 1800s.” — Library Journal “Through assured prose, Miller puts us in those conversations, showing us the fear and uncertainty behind Wilder’s implacable, unflappable “Ma,” but also her strength and devotion to her husband and children... this is a stunning novel. Miller’s research is impeccable and her writing exquisite...” — Historical Novels Review, Editors’ Choice “Comforting, inspiring and beautifully written, Caroline is a precious addition to the story of the Ingalls family but stands on its own as a testament to the spirit, grit and courage that built America.” — Mary Jane Clark “A master of historical fiction, Miller forges Caroline Ingalls into a formidable, complex pioneer woman, and adult fans of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series will delight in this portrayal of “Ma.” Beguiling, pulse-pounding historical fiction.” — Kirkus Reviews “I was entertained, transported, and inspired by Sarah Miller’s CAROLINE. Each passage was written with so much care and love, I now can’t imagine reading Laura Ingalls Wilder’s series without a copy of CAROLINE close at hand.” — New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Shelley Shepard Gray “Readers who grew up cherishing the stories of Laura Ingalls Wilder will find much to savor in Caroline...Full of lyrical descriptions of the wild beauty of the Kansas countryside, Caroline is a well-researched and thoughtful look at the inner life of one of America’s most famous frontier women.” — BookPage “Now, Miller draws her [Caroline Ingalls] onto center stage, gifting readers with a beautiful portrait of a remarkable, true pioneer. This is a beautiful tribute to a mother and a family who followed their dreams and a tale that is as uplifting and real as the original Little House books.” — RT Book Reviews “A stunning and sentimental novel brimming with historical detail, Caroline grants readers a chance at a new experience with an old familiar story.” — Bustle About the Author Sarah Miller began writing her first novel at ten years old and has spent half her life working in libraries and bookstores. She is the author of Caroline: Little House, Revisited, and Miss Spitfire: Reaching Helen Keller , which was named an ALA Best Book for Young Adults and nominated for numerous state award lists. Sarah lives in Michigan.

The Hungry Coast: Fables from the North Shore of Minnesota

About the Author Noah Prinsen grew up in Grand Marais and has lived on the North Shore of Lake Superior most of his life. The woodcuts in this book were carved from pine and hand-printed on an antique Line-O-Scribe press. More of his artwork can be viewed at noahprinsen.com. Marlais Olmstead Brand lives and writes in the Great Frozen North that mere mortals know as Minnesota. She is the recipient of the Katherine Anne Porter Fiction Prize and her work has appeared in the Best New American Voices collections by Scribner’s and Harvest Books. The Hungry Coast: Fables from the North Shore of Minnesota is Brand's first collection of short stories.

Tough Customers : True Adventures of Game Wardens and the Outlaws They Pursue

Review "Lieutenant Terry Hodges is to wildlife protectors what Joseph Wambaugh is to big-city cops. His book, TOUGH CUSTOMERS, is evocative story-telling . . ." -- Paul Dean, Los Angeles Times About the Author Author Terry Hodges is the winner of the Outdoor Writers Association of California's Writer of the Year award. He is a 26 year veteran California Fish and Game Warden and his true warden adventure stories appear in every issue of the magazine Outdoor California. He also writes for California Game and Fish Magazine, Oregon and Washington Game and Fish Magazine, California Waterfowl Association Magazine and California Hunter Magazine.

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Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned: Stories

From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. The stories in this outstanding debut collection explore the troubled relationships of men down on their luck, in failed marriages, estranged from family, caught in imbroglios between sons and their fathers and stepfathers, and even, in Wild America, the subtle and ferocious competition between teenage girls. Bob Monroe, the protagonist of The Brown Coast, loses his job, his inheritance and his wife after the death of his father. The narrator of Down Through the Valley, meanwhile, is persuaded to drive his ex-wife's boyfriend home from an ashram after he injures himself. In Leopard, the threat of a missing pet leopard lurking in the woods hints at a troubled 11-year-old's rage toward his stepfather. The narrator of Down Through the Valley has a savage freak-out that terrifies him. The strange and magnificent title story, in which Vikings set off again toward an oft-raided island, beautifully ties the collection together in its heartbreaking final paragraph. Tower's uncommon mastery of tone and wide-ranging sympathy creates a fine tension between wry humor and the primal rage that seethes just below the surface of each of his characters. (Mar.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Bookmarks Magazine Critics described this collection as visceral, contemplative, and inappropriately side-splitting, and were captivated by tales of men and their roles as fathers, stepfathers, brothers, sons, husbands, and ex-husbands (only one story featured a female protagonist). Reviewers further marveled at Tower’s ability to take readers from gut-clutching hilarity to gloomy introspection and back again in compact, descriptive language. Although critics disagreed about which stories were the best, only the Boston Globe cited “weaker,” “choppy,” and “overlong” entries. Overall, Tower has created a stunning collection of stories that will linger in the hearts and minds of readers.Copyright 2009 Bookmarks Publishing LLC Review “Remarkable . . . [Tower’s] syntax, though always easy to follow, is supple enough to wrap itself around several shades of meaning in the same sentence. His understanding of previously under-recognized feelings . . . is rich in detail and passionate in utterance. And his familiarity with the whole ghastly world of malls and ‘cute’ commercial culture is serious, even plangent, certainly not merely satirical. Every one of the stories in Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned is polished and distinctive. Though he’s intrigued by the painful experiences of men much older than he is, Tower can write with equal power about young women and boys; about hell-raising, skull-bashing ancient Vikings and an observant housebound old man of the 21st century, even about a cheerful, insouciant pedophile. His range is wide and his language impeccable, never strained or fussy. His grasp of human psychology is fresh and un-Freudianizing . . . Tower’s dialogue is as crisp and contemporary and offbeat as Lorrie Moore’s and his vision of America as despairing as Joy Williams’s (to cite just two of our greatest short story writers).” —Edmund White, The New York Times Book Review “In Wells Tower’s sad-funny-disturbing stories, the world is a precarious place, where the innocent have bad dreams, and even the not-so-innocent worry about ‘the things the world will do to them’ and their loved ones . . . This arresting debut collection of stories decisively establishes Mr. Tower—a magazine journalist who has also won two Pushcart Prizes—as a writer of uncommon talent, a writer with Sam Shepard’s radar for the violent, surreal convolutions of American society; Frederick Barthelme’s keen ear for contemporary slang; and David Foster Wallace’s eye for the often hilarious absurdities of contemporary life . . . As ‘Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned’ demonstrates, Mr. Tower has an instinctive gift for creating characters with finely calibrated interior lives and an almost Dickensian physical immediacy. His writing can be darkly hilarious and grotesque and yet simultaneously attuned to his people’s sense of loss and bewilderment and frustration . . . We eagerly devour these tales not for their story lines but for Mr. Tower’s masterly conjuring of his people’s daily existence, his understanding of their emotional dilemmas, his controlled but dazzling language and his effortless ability to turn snapshots of misfits and malcontents into a panoramic cavalcade of American life.” —Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times “[An] incredible talent . . . It sometimes feels as if there’s nothing Tower can’t render in arresting fashion . . . Tower’s prose is a welcome reminder that the first job of the fiction writer is to introduce the reader to worlds both new and familiar in ways they wouldn’t have arrived at on their own . . . Tower writes with spellbinding virtuosity . . . One suspects we’ll be hearing his name—which invokes prose that is both soaring and deep—for a long time to come.” —Jim Ruland, Los Angeles Times Book Review “Consistently artful and funny and empathetic . . . Tower, who grew up in North Carolina, has been seeding these stories patiently across magazines and literary journals over the last ten years or so, quietly building a reputation as a painstaking stylist devoted to the near-impossible art of highly polished colloquialism. Reading his work piecemeal as it emerged, what stood out most was the lovely warmth of his voice. His sentences are strenuously musical, full of careful detail and surprising metaphors . . . He has a special talent for channeling the idiosyncrasies of lower-middle-class speech, and his plots often weave around bright little bursts of incidental dialogue . . . It also feels like something slightly new in the canon of maleness—a little glade or clearing, where the air is slightly different.” —Sam Anderson, New York “We need books like Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned . . . What [Tower’s] portraits lack in grandeur, they compensate for in their accuracy . . . [The characters] live the way we Americans do.” —Benjamin Alsup, Esquire “ Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned . . . is a triumph of a debut—not just believably generous, but revelatory in its rendering of all the different kinds of hurt that a human being can sustain in the course of a life.” —Leon Neyfakh, The New York Observer “In his debut collection, Tower writes about raggedy men, neglected boys, and quarrelsome Vikings who are down on their luck (if they ever had any). But the stories are very funny, and surprising, and possess a rugged beauty.” —Vendela Vida, Vanity Fair “Wells Tower is a ferociously talented writer, author of one of the most powerful and entertaining books you’re likely to come across this year . . . Tower’s families and hapless men are bent and broken in a multitude of surprising and delightful ways.” —Justin Taylor, Paste “Bittersweet, beautiful, and ardently conflicted . . . As evidenced by the emotional punch packed into such brief tales—nine stories in about 250 pages—Tower is almost incapable of overloading a sentence with an unnecessary word. His style is perfectly suited to short fiction: ‘Down Through the Valley,’ in less than twenty pages, is jammed with more pathos than a four-hundred-page potboiler.” —Kevin Canfield, Bookforum “The stories in Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned are the most arresting I’ve read in some time. Tower is adept at capturing the many ways men can be unhappy, lonely, stymied or adrift, and his language has the virtuoso inventiveness of Barry Hannah, that magic-trick quality that can make a description of an overcast sky feel new and strange . . . His characters come across like aliens, possessing the kind of maverick weirdness that marks them as real people rather than types . . . He’s also got a knack for pacing and a hell of a sense of humor. I so enjoyed ‘The Brown Coast,’ the collection’s first story, I read it twice before proceeding through the rest of the book.” —Taylor Antrim, The Daily Beast “I had fun reading these stories. I laughed out loud eight times during the first one . . . and had a silly smile on my face throughout most of them.” —Charles E. May, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel “[An] outstanding debut collection . . . The strange and magnificent title story, in which Vikings set off again toward an oft-raided island, beautifully ties the collection together in its heartbreaking final paragraph. Tower’s uncommon mastery of tone and wide-ranging sympathy creates a fine tension between wry humor and the primal rage that seethes just below the surface of each of his characters.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review and Pick of the Week)“The title barely hints at the scorched-earth, take-no-prisoners power of the stories.” — Kirkus Reviews (starred review)“Tower’s debut story collection confirms what readers of Harper’s , McSweeney’s , The Paris Review , and other major publications have known for some time: Tower is a serious talent . . . Tower’s voice is honest and strange, humorous and insightful.”—Kevin Clouther, Booklist “Outstanding . . . Tower has crafted a powerful and assured debut collection.” —Lawrence Rungren, Library Journal “Sharply funny, obliquely devastating.” —Grady McFerrin, Best Life “Wells Tower’s stories are written, thrillingly, in authentic American vernacular—violent, funny, bleak, and beautiful. You need to read them, now.” —Michael Chabon, author of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union and The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay “These are lurid, ingenious, beautiful, delicate, and very funny stories. Full of pity and terror, they are also great fun to read. Wells Tower has written a brilliant book.” —Benjamin Kunkel, author of Indecision “Wells Tower is a blindingly brilliant writer who does more than raise the bar for debut fiction: he hurls it into space. With the oversized heart of George Saunders, the demon tongue of Barry Hannah, and his very own conjuring tools that cannot here be named, Tower writes stories of aching beauty that are as crushingly funny and sad as any on the planet.” —Ben Marcus, author of Notable American Women and The Age of Wire and String About the Author Wells Tower’s short stories and journalism have appeared in The New Yorker , Harper’s Magazine , McSweeney’s , The Paris Review , The Anchor Book of New American Short Stories , The Washington Post Magazine , and elsewhere. He received two Pushcart Prizes and the Plimpton Prize from The Paris Review . He divides his time between Chapel Hill, North Carolina and Brooklyn, New York. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Everything Ravaged, Everything BurnedJust as we were all getting back into the mainland domestic groove, somebody started in with dragons and crop blights from across the North Sea. We all knew who it was. A turncoat Norwegian monk named Naddod had been big medicine on the dragon-and-blight circuit for the last decade or so, and was known to bring heavy ordnance for whoever could lay out some silver. Scuttlebutt had it that Naddod was operating out of a monastery on Lindisfarne, whose people we’d troubled on a pillage-and-consternation tour through Northumbria after Corn Harvesting Month last fall. Now bitter winds were screaming in from the west, searing the land and ripping the grass from the soil. Salmon were turning up spattered with sores, and grasshoppers clung to the wheat in rapacious buzzing bunches. I tried to put these things out of my mind. We’d been away three long months harrying the Hibernian shores, and now I was back with Pila, my common-law, and thinking that home was very close to paradise in these endless summer days. We’d built our house together, Pila and me. It was a fine little wattleand- daub cabin on a pretty bit of plain where a wide blue fjord stabbed into the land. On summer evenings my young wife and I would sit out front, high on potato wine, and watch the sun stitch its orange skirt across the horizon. At times such as these, you get a good, humble feeling, like the gods made this place, this moment, first and concocted you as an afterthought just to be there to enjoy it. I was doing a lot of enjoying and relishing and laying around the rack with Pila, though I knew what it meant when I heard those flint-edged winds howling past the house. Some individuals three weeks’ boat ride off were messing up our summer and would probably need their asses whipped over it. Of course, DjarfFairhair had his stinger out even before his wife spotted those dragons winging it inland from the coast. He was boss on our ship and a fool for warfare. His appetite for action was so terrifying and infectious, he’d once riled up a gang of Frankish slaves and led them south to afflict and maim their own countrymen. He’d gotten in four days of decent sacking when the slaves began to see the situation for what it was and underwent a sudden change of attitude. Djarf had been fighting his way up the Rhine Valley, making steady progress through a half-assed citizens’ militia of children and farmers, when the slaves closed in behind him. People who were there say he turned absolutely feral and began berserking with a pair of broadaxes, chewing through the lines like corn kernels on a cob, and that when the axes broke, he took up someone’s severed leg and used it as a club, so horrifying those gentle provincials that they fell back and gave him wide berth to the ship. Djarf was from Hedeby-Slesvig up the Sli fjord, a foul and rocky locality whose people take a worrisome pleasure in the gruesome sides of life. They have a habit down there if they don’t like a child’s looks when he slides from the womb, they pitch him into the deep and wait for the next one. Djarf himself was supposedly a colicky baby, and it was only the beneficence of the tides and his own vicious tenacity that got him to the far beach when his father tried to wash him from the world. He’d been campaigning for payback ever since. I guess I was with him on a search-and-destroy tour against Louis the Pious, and with my own eyes watched him climb up over the soldiers’ backs and stride across their shoulders, scything skulls as he went. On that same trip, we ran low on food, and it was Djarf who decided to throw our own dead on the fire and have at last night’s mutton when their stomachs burst. He’d been the only one of us to dig in, apart from a deranged Arab along as a spellbuster. He reached right in there, scooping out chewed-up victuals with a shank of pine bark. “Greenhorns,” he called us, the firelight twitching on his face. “Food’s food. If these boys hadn’t gotten their threads snipped, they’d tell you the same thing.” So Djarf, whose wife was a sour, carp-mouthed thing and little argument for staying home, was agitating to hop back in the ship and go straighten things out in Northumbria. My buddy Gnut, who lived just over the stony moraine our wheat field backed up on, came down the hill one day and admitted that he, too, was giving it some thought. Like me, he wasn’t big on warrioring. He was just crazy for boat. He’d have rowed from his shack to his shithouse if somebody would invent a ship whose prow could cut sod. His wife had passed years ago, dead from bad milk, and now that she was gone, the part of Gnut that felt peaceful in a place that didn’t move beneath him had sickened and died as well. Pila saw him coming down the hill and scowled. “Don’t need to guess what he’ll be wanting,” she said, and headed back indoors. Gnut ambled down over the hummocky earth and stopped at the pair of stump chairs Pila and I had put up on the hill where the view was so fine. From there, the fjord shone like poured silver, and sometimes you could spot a seal poking his head up through the waves. Gnut’s wool coat was stiff with filth and his long hair so heavy and unclean that even the raw wind was having a hard time getting it to move. He had a good crust of snot going in his mustache, not a pleasant thing to look at, but then, he had no one around to find it disagreeable. He tore a sprig of heather from the ground and chewed at its sweet roots. “Djarf get at you yet?” he asked. “No, not yet, but I’m not worried he’ll forget.” He took the sprig from his teeth and briefly jammed it into his ear before tossing it away. “You gonna go?” “Not until I hear the particulars, I won’t.” “You can bet I’m going. Ahydra flew in last night and ran off Rolf Hierdal’s sheep. We can’t be putting up with this shit. It comes down to pride, is what it comes down to.” “Hell, Gnut, when’d you get to be such a gung-ho motherfucker? I don’t recall you being so proud and thin-skinned before Astrud went off to her good place. Anyhow, Lindisfarne is probably sacked-out already. If you don’t recall, we pillaged the tar out of those people on the last swing through, and I doubt they’ve come up with much in the meantime to justify a trip.” I wished Gnut would go ahead and own up to the fact that his life out here was making him lonely and miserable instead of laying on with this warrior-man routine. I could tell just to look at him that most days he was thinking of walking into the water and not bothering to turn back. It wasn’t combat he was after. He wanted back on the boat among company. Not that I was all that averse to a job myself, speaking in the abstract, but I was needing more sweet time with Pila. I cared more for that girl than even she probably knew, and I was hoping to get in some thorough lovemaking before the Haycutting Month was under way and see if I couldn’t make us a little monkey. But the days wore on and the weather worsened. Pila watched it closely, and the sadness welled up in her, as it often did when I’d be leaving. She cussed me on some days, and others she’d hold me to her and weep. And late one evening, far toward dawn, the hail started. It came suddenly, with the rasping sound a ship makes when its keel scrapes stone. We hunkered down in the sheepskins, and I whispered soothing things to Pila, trying to drown out the clatter. The sun was not yet full up in the sky when Djarf came and knocked. I rose and stepped across the floor, which was damp with cold dew. Djarf stood in the doorway wearing a mail jacket and shield and breathing like he’d jogged the whole way over. He chucked a handful of hail at my feet. “Today’s the day,” he said with a wild grin. “We got to get it on.” Sure, I could have told him thanks anyway, but once you back down from one job, you’re lucky if they’ll even let you put in for a flat-fee trade escort. I had to think long-term, me and Pila, and any little jits we might produce. Still, she didn’t like to hear it. When I got back in bed, she tucked the covers over her face, hoping I’d think she was angry instead of crying. The clouds were spilling out low across the sky when we shoved off. Thirty of us on board, Gnut rowing with me at the bow and behind us a lot of other men I’d been in some shit with before. Some of their families came down to watch us go. ØrlStender fucked up the cadence waving to his son, who stood on the beach waving back. He was a tiny one, not four or five, standing there with no pants on, holding a baby pig on a hide leash. Some of the others on board weren’t a whole lot older, rash and violent children, so innocent about the world they would just as soon stick a knife in you as shake your hand. Gnut was overjoyed. He laughed and sang and put a lot of muscle into the oar, me just holding my hands on it to keep up appearances. I was missing Pila already. I watched the beach for her and her bright red hair. She hadn’t come down to see me off, too mad and sad about me leaving to get up out of bed. But I looked for her anyway, the land scooting away with every jerk of the oars. If Gnut knew I was hurting, he didn’t say so. He nudged me and joked, and kept up a steady flow of dull, merry chatter, as though this whole thing was a private vacation the two of us had cooked up together. Djarf stood at hi... Read more

Medals in the Attic

My Life with Bob: Flawed Heroine Keeps Book of Books, Plot Ensues

Review “[Pamela Paul] is reflective, open and at times achingly funny. My Life with Bob is the book that she was put on this Earth to write.” ― The Economist "Pamela Paul recalls the stories that have given shape to her own narrative in her appealingly roving memoir.... which includes...undersung marvels that boldly take measure of the world―and challenge us to write our own story." ― Vogue “An engaging and…funny memoir…. a delightfully gushing love letter to books ― books as a medium that can connect us, transport us and transform us.”― Washington Post "Bob becomes a memory keeper, not so much of the books...as of the personal associations they hold for her, such as the place where she read them or the people she was with at the time. Paul approaches books with tenderness, desire, insecurity, and, always, ambition."― The New Yorker “A rollicking, intimate expedition through a brilliant booklover’s heart, mind, and life…. ‘My Life With Bob’ is a fun, accessible, well-written bookalogue; the kind of memoir Pamela Paul would have raved about in the venerable New York Times Book Review if she hadn’t written it.”― The Christian Science Monitor “A heartwarming reminiscence of the books that reflected and shaped her state of mind at every stage of life. By the end, you’ll be hard pressed to not start keeping a ‘Bob’…of your own.”― Harper’s Bazaar “A bibliophile’s treasure trove of insights.”― O, The Oprah Magazine “Reading Paul, I began to see how much the books you gravitate towards reveal about your truest loves, your most instinctive urges, as well as more thoughtful, curated appetites…. She displays true bravery by listing all of the books she’s finished reading… [it’s] a baring of one’s soul that merits respect.”― Financial Times "The ultimate book about reading books.... an intimate look into [Paul's] interior life and the ways in which the stories she has read have changed her own story. Clever and heartfelt, My Life With Bob will appeal to anyone with a deep love for reading."― Buzzfeed "Downright delightful.... a thoroughly agreeable voice to spend time with: energetic, resolute, self-ironic and always passionate about books.... A plot really does ensue ― and it’s not strained for ― in the form of Paul’s life. And what a life that has been."― San Francisco Chronicle "A smart, beautifully written memoir about the relationship we have with books and how the books we read frame our lives. This charmer is a must for every beach bag this Summer."― PopSugar "Compelling, authentic, and every dream of every woman who puts reading before eating, the stories offer a perspective on life.... Perfection in a book, My Life with Bob is a love story for readers and woman who love books too much!"― The Review Broads "Pamela Paul's My Life with Bob is absolutely essential for those of us to whombooks are more or less everything. This is a book I was born to read!" ―Robert Gottlieb “My Life with Bob is a sweet and heady book that casts a serious charm. Our lively and fetching heroine’s journey becomes more thrilling by the page as Pamela Paul perfectly captures the joys of a lifetime devoted to books, as well as the attendant pressure, doubt, and insecurity. Reading this memoir is pure pleasure ― funny, brainy, far-reaching― but more than anything, it feels like a call to arms to recommit to our best self: the book person.”― Maria Semple “In this hilarious, wise, and elegiac account of a life led half in the world and half in books, Pamela Paul writes with courage and exuberance about the bumpy road to maturity. Her voice―tender, moral, madcap, nostalgic, generous―will captivate all but the most stony reader. My Life with Bob is full of hope, full of love, a joyful and poignant reflection on the well-written sentence and the well-lived life.”― Andrew Solomon "Any book that helps me remember reading the Betsy-Tacy-Tib series as well as A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man , is a book I like. Pamela Paul's My Life With Bob is an absorbing, delightful amalgam ― it's a recommended reading list, a personal reflection, and a paean to reading. I’m sorry I never wrote down all the books I read (or even practically any), but I’m so glad Pamela Paul did."― Meg Wolitzer “Paul is inspired to question why we read, how we read, what we read, and how reading helps us create our own narratives. Readers will be drawn to this witty and authentic tribute to the extraordinary power of books.”― Publishers Weekly (starred review) "A witty, heartfelt, deeply optimistic narrative...Titles about reading and books abound, but this memoir stands in a class by itself. Bibliophiles will treasure, but the addictive storytelling and high-quality writing will vastly increase its audience."― Library Journal (starred review) "Intelligent, unique, and wise, Paul's book not only remembers a life lived among and influenced by books. It also reveals how the most interesting stories existless as words printed on pages and more as 'stories that lie between book and reader.' A thoughtfully engaging memoir of a life in books."― Kirkus Reviews “What makes Paul’s narrative absorbing and resonant is her determination: we observe her journeying towards the life she always wanted to have, by reading her way through it.” ― The Times Literary Supplement --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Pamela Paul is the editor of The New York Times Book Review and oversees books coverage at The New York Times. She is also the host of the weekly podcast, Inside The New York Times Book Review. Prior to joining the Times , she was a contributor to Time magazine and The Economist; her work has appeared in The Atlantic, The Washington Post , Slate , and Vogue .She is the author of My Life with Bob: Flawed Heroine Keeps Book of Books, Plot Ensues ; By the Book ; Parenting, Inc. ; Pornified ; and The Starter Marriage and the Future of Matrimony . --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

An Elm Creek Quilts Companion: New Fiction, Traditions, Quilts, and Favorite Moments from the Beloved Series

Review Praise for Jennifer Chiaverini and the Elm Creek Quilts series “Chiaverini’s themes of love, loss, and healing will resonate with many, and her characters’ stories are inspiring.” — Publishers Weekly “Chiaverini has an impressive ability to bring a time and place alive.” —Romantic Times Book Reviews “Emotionally compelling.” —Chicago Tribune on Sonoma Rose “Jennifer Chiaverini has made quite a name for herself with her bestselling Elm Creek Quilts series. From the Civil War to the Roaring Twenties to contemporary settings, these novels have offered suspense, romance, and, at times, in-depth looks into the social, political, and cultural differences that helped shape a nation.” — BookPage “Chiaverini excels at weaving stories and at character development. We can relate to the residents of Elm Creek Valley because they remind us of folks we know—a cousin, an aunt, or a grandmother.” — Standard-Examiner (Utah) About the Author Jennifer Chiaverini is the New York Times bestselling author of Enchantress of Numbers , Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker , Fates and Traitors , and other acclaimed works of historical fiction, as well as the beloved Elm Creek Quilts series. She lives with her husband and two sons in Madison, Wisconsin.

The Tower, the Monster, and the Tree

From the Author 0 From the Inside Flap Empty From the Back Cover 0 About the Author 0 Read more

In Such Good Company: Eleven Years of Laughter, Mayhem, and Fun in the Sandbox

Review “In this light, behind-the-scenes memoir, [Burnett] pays tribute to the many talented individuals responsible for the show's enduring success, [sharing] some of the hilarious impromptu moments on the set and sheds light on the many memorable sketches, including the movie parodies that have become classic TV.” — Kirkus Reviews "The great comedian [Carol Burnett] filled America’s living rooms with pratfalls and Tarzan yells.... Carol Burnett’s new memoir, In Such Good Company , captures this zaniness with relish. Written in Burnett’s laughing voice, the book chronicles how she prepared her weekly dose of mayhem.... Resonating with Burnett’s lively enthusiasm, In Such Good Company captures the excitement of being there once again, and it’s a joyous addition to her earlier memoirs." — The Washington Post About the Author CAROL BURNETT has been an actor on Broadway, on television, and in the movies.  She has been awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, The Mark Twain Prize for Humor and the Kennedy Center Honors, among other singular achievements of a woman comedian who was nothing less than a pioneer and a role model for stars like Tina Fey, Amy Pohler and Amy Schumer. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. INTRODUCTIONI recently had the extreme pleasure of receiving the Screen Actors Guild Life Achievement Award, and in accepting the honor I talked about how much I loved going to the movies with my grandmother, Nanny, as a kid. My favorites were the comedies and the musicals. I think that’s when I fell in love with the idea of, someday, being a musical comedy performer. Since there wasn’t television “back in the covered wagon days,” when I was growing up, I never imagined that my dream would be realized by having my own weekly musical comedy variety show on the small screen. But that’s exactly what happened.I’ve been thinking about that time a lot, and since my memory is pretty good, I decided to put my thoughts down on paper for anybody who might be interested in what we did and how we did it.In doing the research for this book, I watched all 276 shows, even though at times I felt like Norma Desmond watching herself on the screen in Sunset Boulevard!When I was watching the first few episodes, the first thing I noticed was how I looked. I laughed out loud at my various hairdos, with different shades of red, remembering that I (amateurishly) dyed my hair myself every week using Miss Clairol, because I hated to waste my time sitting in a beauty parlor.What really stand out are the changes that evolved. Of course the hairstyles, makeup, and costumes were constantly changing. Remember, this was the late sixties into the seventies . . . bell-bottoms, miniskirts, etc. The makeup was exaggerated—heavy eyeliner and large Minnie Mouse false eyelashes . . . upper and lower! Even Bob Mackie, our brilliant costume designer, who surprised us every week with his creations, both beautiful and comedic, would admit that he missed the mark on some occasions. But they were rare.One of the things I noticed was how I evolved over those eleven years. I went from the “zany, kooky, man-hungry, big-mouthed goofball,” which was who I had fashioned myself into during my early years, including my time as a regular on the Garry Moore television show, into a somewhat more “mature kook.”I always loved doing the physical comedy—falling down, jumping out of windows, getting pies in the face—however, around thirty-seven, thirty-eight years old, three or four years into the show, I found myself enjoying tackling more sophisticated and complex satires and some of the sketches that had a tinge of pathos. “The Family” scenes with Eunice, Mama, and Ed always touched me deeply, because as crazy as they could get, there was always an element of reality—these were people suffering disappointment and regret, raging against fate, doing the best they could.Naturally, there were a lot of sketches and musical numbers I had completely forgotten. Some of them made me laugh, and some, I admit, made me cringe! But overall, I was transported back to the most wonderful and pleasurable phase of my career.What follows are many outstanding memories of what occurred during a “regular show week.” I’ll share anecdotes about our cast members, many of our guests, recurring characters, favorite movie parodies, some of the funny and off-the-cuff questions from our audience and my responses—basically how we all played together in the sandbox—hilariously—from 1967 to 1978.Some of these stories may be familiar to those of you who know me best, but they needed to be retold in order to give you the whole picture of those eleven wonderful years!But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start over at the very beginning . . . IN THE SANDBOXWhen I was growing up, theater and music were my first loves, so my original show business goals revolved around being in musical comedies on Broadway, like Ethel Merman and Mary Martin. My stage break came in the spring of 1959, when I was cast as “Winnifred the Woebegone” in the musical comedy Once Upon a Mattress, a takeoff on Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale “The Princess and the Pea.” It was an Off-Broadway production at the Phoenix Theatre, directed by none other than the iconic George Abbott, “Mr. Broadway” himself!The show was originally scheduled for a limited run of six weeks, but it was so popular that it was moved to Broadway and ran for over a year. I got my wish; I was on Broadway! Because no one had expected the production to be so successful, there were numerous booking issues that caused our little show to be bounced from theater to theater—from the Phoenix to the Alvin to the Winter Garden to the Cort and, finally, to the St. James. There were a couple of jokes going around the business about the production during this period. I remember Neil Simon quipped, “It’s the most moving musical on Broadway! If you haven’t seen Once Upon a Mattress yet, don’t worry, it’ll soon be at your neighborhood theater.”My second big break came in the fall of 1959 when I was asked to be a regular performer on The Garry Moore Show, a terrifically popular TV comedy-variety series. For almost a year, until the summer of 1960, I doubled up and did both shows. I would perform in Mattress on Tuesdays through Fridays at 8:30 p.m. and then do two shows a day on Saturdays and Sundays.I would rehearse for Garry’s show eight to nine hours a day Monday through Friday, and then we would tape his show on Friday, in the early evening, which gave me just enough time to hop the subway and head downtown to arrive at Mattress in time for the 8:30 curtain!I had no days off. Hey, I was young, I told myself—but evidently not that young, because one Sunday, during a matinee, I fell asleep . . . in front of the audience!Normally, the scene involved Princess Winnifred trying her best to get a good night’s sleep on top of twenty mattresses, but she couldn’t. The mattresses were highly uncomfortable and lumpy, resulting in a very active pantomime in which I jumped up and down, pounding on the offending lumps, and finally wound up sitting on the edge of the bed wide awake, desperately counting sheep as the scene ended. Not this Sunday. As I lay there on top of twenty mattresses, I simply drifted off to dreamland. Our stage manager, who was in the wings, called, “Carol?” And then louder, “Carol!” I woke up with a start and nearly fell off the very tall bed. The audience howled, but the producers changed the schedule after that and moved the Sunday performance to Monday, so I could have Sundays off.By that time The Garry Moore Show had switched to tape, like everyone else, but we still performed in front of a live audience as if it were a live show—no retakes, no stops. We wanted the excitement and spontaneity that went with the feeling of live theater—which was exactly what made the show so good, every Tuesday night on CBS.The musical numbers and the writing were certainly worthy of being on the Great White Way; in fact, our junior writer was Neil Simon, whom we called “Doc.” He had worked for Sid Caesar on Your Show of Shows. It’s a little-known fact that Neil wrote Come Blow Your Horn, his first play, while he was working for Garry, who was one of his first investors!Garry’s show was a great learning experience for me. I remember sitting around the table reading the script the week that the famous vaudeville performer Ed Wynn was the guest. Then in his seventies, he had begun his career in vaudeville in 1903 and had starred in the Ziegfeld Follies beginning in 1914. He told great stories about those days. He got on the subject of “comics vs. comedic actors.”Garry asked him what the difference was.“Well,” Ed said, “a comic says ‘funny things,’ like Bob Hope, and a comedic actor says things funny, like Jack Benny.”That’s what I wanted to be . . . someone who “says things funny.”I left Mattress in June of 1960, while I was still a regular on Garry’s show, but I really never dreamed television was going to be my “thing,” even though I found myself falling in love more and more with the small screen. Garry’s show allowed me to be different characters every week, as opposed to doing one role over and over again in the theater. In essence we mounted a distinct musical comedy revue every week—week in and week out—in front of a live studio audience, just like in summer stock.However, I still harbored my dream of starring again on BROADWAY and being the next Ethel Merman.CBS asked me to sign a contract with them after I had been on Garry’s show for a few seasons. The deal I was offered was for ten years, from 1962 to 1972, paying me a decent amount to do a one-hour TV special each year, as well as two guest appearances on any of their regular series. However, if I wanted to do an hour-long variety show of my own during the first five years of the contract, they would guarantee me thirty one-hour shows!In other words, it would be my option! CBS would have to say yes, whether they wanted to or not!They called this “pay or play” because they would have to pay me for thirty shows, even if they didn’t put them on the air. “Just push the button!” was the phrase the programming executives used. This was an unheard-of deal, but I didn’t pay much attention to it, because I had no plans to host my own show—never dreamed I’d ever want to. I was going to focus all of my energy on Broadway.A MAN’S GAMEBy 1966 I had married Joe Hamilton, who had produced Garry’s show, and we had our adorable daughter, Carrie, and another baby on the way. My Broadway career had not panned out, which was why we were in Hollywood to begin with, and I was as in demand as a carton of sour milk. We were sitting on orange crates and packing boxes in the living room of a Beverly Hills home we had somehow managed to scrape together the down payment to buy.We had to do something to earn some money. It was the week between Christmas and New Year’s; 1967 was a few days away and our five-year deadline on the pay-or-play clause was about to expire. Joe and I looked at each other, looked around the furniture-less living room, and picked up the phone.Mike Dann, one of the top executives at CBS in New York City, took the call and sounded happy to hear from me. He asked about our holidays and I said they had been lovely, but I was calling to “push the button” on the thirty one-hour comedy-variety shows they had promised me in my contract five years ago.Mike honestly didn’t remember any of this. He was completely in the dark. Joe took the phone and reminded him in great detail. My guess is that more than a few lawyers were called away from their holiday parties that night to review my contract.When Mike called the next day, he said, “Well, yes, I can see why you called, but I don’t think the hour is the best way to go. Comedy-variety shows are traditionally hosted by men: Gleason, Caesar, Benny, Berle, and now Dean . . . it’s really not for a gal. Dinah Shore’s show was mostly music.”“But comedy-variety is what I do best! It’s what I learned doing Garry’s show—comedy sketches. We can have a rep company like Garry’s, and like Caesar’s Hour. We can have guest stars! Music!”“Honey, we’ve got a great half-hour sitcom script that would fit you like a glove. It’s called Here’s Agnes! It’s a sure thing!”Here’s Agnes? No thanks . . . we pushed the button.PLAY!CBS scheduled our show’s premiere for Monday, September 11, 1967, opposite I Spy and The Big Valley, both of which were among the top-watched shows on TV. It was pretty obvious the network didn’t think we’d last the whole season; otherwise they would have given us a more forgiving slot where we’d have had more of a chance to get some traction. In truth, we weren’t sure we’d last, either. We sighed and decided we’d at least get our thirty shows. We could start unpacking, because, for a year, the bills would get paid.It was all a gamble, but despite everything, many of the original staff members from Garry’s show, like head writer Arnie Rosen, director Clark Jones, choreographer Ernie Flatt, lead dancer Don Crichton, and many more, took the plunge and followed us to California.Lyle Waggoner came on board to be my handsome foil—I winced in embarrassment while rewatching the shows when I saw myself going gaga and swooning over him, which was a running gag for the first few seasons. Eventually, much to my relief, we deep-sixed the “swooning over Lyle” bit and he morphed from just being the show’s good-looking announcer to getting laughs as different nuanced characters. He turned into a very good sketch performer.Vicki Lawrence had no professional experience when we brought her on. It was fascinating to watch her grow out of her awkward, young teenage stage and into a very clever and confident comedienne and singer/dancer.Harvey Korman was a consummate comedic actor from the get-go, but I also saw him evolve over the years in ways that were astonishing. He never fancied himself a singer or a dancer. If our choreographer, Ernie Flatt, tried to give him a dance step to execute, he would freeze in his tracks, but if you gave Harvey the role of a dancer, he would improvise dance steps that made him look like Gene Kelly . . . well, I won’t go that far, but you’d swear the guy was born to move. It worked the same way with singing; he could sing up a storm if he was playing the part of someone who could sing!We did a lot of movie takeoffs on the show, and I swear he seemed to channel those famous actors—Ronald Colman in our version of Random Harvest, Zachary Scott in Mildred Pierce, and who could ever forget his Clark Gable in our Gone With the Wind parody?Tim Conway was a frequent guest in the early years and joined us every week in the ninth season! Much more about him—and the rest of our gang—later . . . We all played together in our crazy, creative sandbox and delivered a fresh, Broadway-like musical comedy review each week, and boy did we have fun . . . for eleven years! Read more

The Lies We Tell

About the Author Theresa Schwegel is a Loyola University graduate and the recipient of an MFA in screenwriting at Chapman University. Her debut novel, Officer Down , won the Edgar Award for Best First Novel and was short-listed for the Anthony Award. In 2008, she received the 21st Century Award from the Chicago Public Library Foundation. She lives in Chicago.

The Berlin Enigma: Memories - From Boy to Spy

About the Author As a commercial pilot for twenty-three years in Northwestern Ontario, Darlene Harrington's experiences ranged from being the captain of a King Air to writing newsletters for the local flying club and column for the Kenora Daily Miner & News. It was an exciting career with a different adventure every day, at times flying an injured child from a remote location in Canada's far north to Toronto's SickKids Hospital. Now retired from aviation, Darlene is sharing the many stories she has collected, starting with her debut novel. The Berlin Enigma is a memoir based on her father's extraordinary life and heartfelt memories from both world wars, first as a soldier and then as a British spy. Darlene and her spouse, Rob, divide their time between Drayton Valley, Alberta and Kenora, Ontario, Canada. Darlene also enjoys painting, playing piano, gardening, and spending time with friends and family.

Unnatural Death: Confessions of a Medical Examiner

Amazon.com Review Forensic pathologist Michael Baden was a medical examiner in New York City for more than 25 years. Now he works for the New York State Police and teaches forensic medicine. This engrossing book covers: (1) several famous cases, including Baden's personal re-examination of the autopsy findings for Martin Luther King and John F. Kennedy; (2) unusual cases Baden had as medical examiner for NYC, such as an autopsy on a dining room table at the Plaza Hotel; (3) how medical examiners decide on means of death, with a section on poisons; (4) the history of coroners and medical examiners since 12th century England; (5) disturbing politics involved in the office of the Chief Medical Examiner of NYC; (6) identification of the dead; (7) time of death; (8) multiple-murder cases; (9) an almost perfect murder; (10) close calls, including near deaths during sex; (11) cases of mistaken diagnosis; and (12) autopsy findings that shed light on what happened in the Attica uprising. From Publishers Weekly The function of medical examiners is to perform pk autopsies and determine causes of death; examiners must be expert in forensic pathology. Baden here "delivers a sobering indictment of a system in which, he claims, fewer than a thousand physicians nationwide are qualified to conduct this work," maintained PW. Copyright 1990 Reed Business Information, Inc. From the Inside Flap * JFK's autopsy failed to disclose crucial evidence.* The deaths of John Belushi and Elvis Presley were far more complex than anyone has let on.* Decisive medical findings in the von Bulow affair were consistently overlooked.These are but three of the shocking revelations in Dr. Michael Baden's first-person, no-holds-barred account of his distinguished career in forensic pathology. In determining the causes of tens of thousands of deaths, from those of presidents and rock stars to victims of serial killings, exotic sex rituals, mass disasters, child abuse and drug abuse, Baden has come to the unavoidable conclusion that the search for scientific truth is often sullied by the pressures of expediency. He produces dramatic evidence to demonstrate that political intrigue, influence peddling, and professional incompetence have created a national crisis in forensic medicine."A fascinating look into the mechanics of forensics and a disconcerting lesson in the politics of death." -- The New York Times Book Review From the Back Cover * JFK's autopsy failed to disclose crucial evidence.* The deaths of John Belushi and Elvis Presley were far more complex than anyone has let on.* Decisive medical findings in the von Bulow affair were consistently overlooked.These are but three of the shocking revelations in Dr. Michael Baden's first-person, no-holds-barred account of his distinguished career in forensic pathology. In determining the causes of tens of thousands of deaths, from those of presidents and rock stars to victims of serial killings, exotic sex rituals, mass disasters, child abuse and drug abuse, Baden has come to the unavoidable conclusion that the search for scientific truth is often sullied by the pressures of expediency. He produces dramatic evidence to demonstrate that political intrigue, influence peddling, and professional incompetence have created a national crisis in forensic medicine."A fascinating look into the mechanics of forensics and a disconcerting lesson in the politics of death." -- The New York Times Book Review Read more

Pockets of Joy: Deciding to Be Happy, Choosing to Be Free

Review In this delightfully honest book, we cheer for Roxane as she makes difficult and wise choices--and willingly pays the price professionally--in an effort to forge work-life balance and maintain the God-honoring priorities of being a great parent. Her refreshing example in our success-crazed culture is an inspiration to women and men everywhere! --Deborah Smith Pegues, international speaker and best-selling author, 30 Days To Taming Your Tongue Pockets of Joy is candid, beautifully written, and easy to read. It is Roxane's story of finding those pockets of joy during an extremely difficult season in her life. Whether you're a single mom or not, you will find yourself quickly drawn in, and learning invaluable life lessons along the way. --Pastor Janet Conley, Cottonwood Church Pockets of Joy is for anyone who has experienced that deep--and often dark--realization that your life hasn't gone the way they planned. It's for anyone who never expected to end up where they are. It's for anyone who's thinking about giving up. If that's you, then this book is what you need right now. --Kathleen Cooke, cofounder, Cooke Pictures and Influence Lab From the Inside Flap "In this delightfully honest book, we cheer for Roxane as she makes difficult and wise choices--and willingly pays the price professionally--in an effort to forge work-life balance and maintain the God-honoring priorities of being a great parent. Her refreshing example in our success-crazed culture is an inspiration to women and men everywhere!" --Deborah Smith Pegues, international speaker and best-selling author, "30 Days To Taming Your Tongue" "'Pockets of Joy' is candid, beautifully written, and easy to read. It is Roxane's story of finding those pockets of joy during an extremely difficult season in her life. Whether you're a single mom or not, you will find yourself quickly drawn in, and learning invaluable life lessons along the way." --Pastor Janet Conley, Cottonwood Church "'Pockets of Joy' is for anyone who has experienced that deepand often darkrealization that your life hasn't gone the way they planned. It's for anyone who never expected to end up where they are. It's for anyone who's thinking about giving up. If that's you, then this book is what you need right now." --Kathleen Cooke, cofounder, Cooke Pictures and Influence Lab About the Author Roxane Battle is an award-winning television personality and writer with a passion for telling stories. With more than twenty-five years of on-air experience, Roxane has appeared on major market network affiliates as a top-rated news anchor, reporter, and talk show host. Best known for her humor and masterful storytelling, Roxane speaks locally and internationally to both secular and faith-based audiences on the topic of work-life balance, sharing candidly from her own experience as a former single mother in the workforce. Roxane has won numerous awards for her writing and producing and has been the subject of national feature stories in Working Mother and Ebony magazines. Roxane currently lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she dodges snowplows, runs 5Ks for fun, and feeds homemade mac and cheese to her family and friends. Read more

Death of a Dancer (Beldon Magna Mysteries Book 3)

When the English Fall: A Novel

Amazon.com Review An Amazon Best Book of July 2017: When the English Fall is a fascinating, dystopian novel that uses journal entries to recount the unraveling of present day society from the point of view of an outsider community. The journal’s author is an Amish man named Jacob, who firmly believes in his religion’s dedication to peace, family, and community. It is in his words that the story begins and ends, as day by day Jacob records his family’s life on their Pennsylvania farm and their interactions with the English. When an unprecedented disaster brings nearby cities to a grinding halt, the cities’ inhabitants turn to the Amish farmers for help; but they also intrude upon them with violence. As lawlessness and acts of savagery intensify, Jacob’s peaceful community is forced to make hard decisions. Author David Williams grants us access into a closed society, a reminder of how reliant the rest of us are on technology to sustain our way of life—and that even the most steadfast will struggle in the face of chaos. When the English Fall is a gripping story, with an ending that made me want to go back and read it all again… --Seira Wilson Review New York Times Book Review Editor's Choice • A July 2017 Indie Next Pick • LibraryReads Selection • July 2017 Amazon Top 10 Best Book of the Month “An apt and original spin on the genre of ‘prepper fiction.’” — New York Times Book Review "It’s rare to find a debut novel as finely crafted as When the English Fall ." — Los Angeles Times “Entrancing [and] deceptively simple, lulling, holding, at times, the power of prayer.” — Boston Globe “Williams’ use of tension, suspense, and compression is masterful, calling to mind the distilled prose of Ron Rash. In the past decade, pop culture may have become oversaturated with post-apocalyptic stories, but this one is fresh, unique and unforgettable . . . A quiet, brilliant little novel.” — Minneapolis Star Tribune “An unusually good post-apocalyptic novel.” — Christian Science Monitor “A quirky addition to the growing volume of novels that imagine the repercussions of climate change . . . Williams is brilliant at creating a plausible Amish narrator in Jacob.” — Financial Times “Clever . . . the totality of When the English Fall is surprisingly moving, and Jacob a sympathetic and compelling guide to a world that feels closer every day.” —Newsday “A standout among post-apocalyptic novels, as simply and perfectly crafted as an Amish quilt or table. Lyrical and weirdly believable.”— Kirkus Reviews , starred review “A quiet, ideas-focused dystopian novel that will stay with readers long after they have turned the final page.”— Library Journal , starred review “[A] satisfying post-apocalyptic novel . . . The unique spin draws readers into an alarmingly plausible story of contemporary civilization’s demise.” — Publishers Weekly “Told in the quiet, simple prose of a quiet, pious man, this is an intriguing take on the dystopian novel.” — Booklist “Fascinating . . . When the English Fall is a gripping story, with an ending that made me want to go back and read it all again…” — Seira Wilson for Omnivoracious: The Amazon Book Review "A fascinating debut." — B&N Sci-Fi blog “ When the English Fall takes its place in the landscape of post-collapse survivalist fiction as satisfyingly as a puzzle piece clicking into a gap. You'll read it and wonder how you never realized it was missing. Jacob's determination to remain true to his faith, his struggle to protect his family and aid his neighbors while chaos gathers around him, is both convincing and affecting, and gradually, without ever seeming to grasp for it, his humble, questing voice accrues a surprising power.”— Kevin Brockmeier, author of The Brief History of the Dead From the Back Cover “A standout among post-apocalyptic novels, as simply and perfectly crafted as an Amish quilt or table.” — Kirkus Reviews (starred review) “ When the English Fall takes its place in the landscape of post-collapse survivalist fiction as satisfyingly as a puzzle piece clicking into a gap. You’ll read it and wonder how you never realized it was missing.” —Kevin Brockmeier, author of The Brief History of the Dead “She talks about the lights, and about the darkness. The skies are bright with angel wings, she will shout, suddenly. The English fall! The English fall! Again and again she says this.” After a huge celestial storm sends out magnetic waves so powerful that planes fall out of the sky, phones stop working, and computers go dead, all the ties that hold together modern society begin to unravel. But amid the confusion and panic—and imminent, encroaching violence—there remains one group of people untouched by the spectacular events: the Amish. Thrifty and steadfast, they have remained true to the traditions they have followed for generations, completely independent from technology. How long can this peaceful people stay safe from the disintegrating society around them? About the Author David Williams is a teaching elder in the Presbyterian Church. He lives in Annandale, Virginia. When the English Fall is his first novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. September 6 Hannah tells me it was not so good with Sadie today, not good at all. She did not sleep last night, that I know. And she was so distressed today, Hannah says. There were no seizures, but she is so unhappy.   She broods, and will only sleep, or talk in strange circles, as she has since it got worse.   But now it is only one thing she can seem to think about. She talks about the lights, and about the darkness. The skies are bright with angel wings, she will shout, suddenly. The English fall! The English fall! Again and again she says this. The skies filled with angel wings, about the English, and about the fall. We give her the medicine, and it quiets her, but the quiet passes more quickly.   I confess I am troubled, and I am praying much over it.   Sadie was always different. Before the doctors told us there was something wrong, before the seizures, she was different. She was born with a caul, which means nothing. I have seen calves born with cauls, and there is no magic I can see in them. They get eaten, just like all of the other calves. Their jerky tastes no different from regular jerky. But sometimes the old women still talk, Hannah tells me.   The angel’s touch, some said she had. And the folk still remember what she said about Bishop Beiler, before even the first signs of the cancer. And about the Hostetler girl. And about that calf. It was strange, and Bishop Schrock had many talks with me about the whisperings that should not be part of the order.   “There is no Christ in this,” he said. “This seems the Devil’s work,” he said.   I nodded, but told him she was a good girl, because she was, even if she did say strange things. I felt anger, too, for Bishop Schrock can be a hard man. Of the bishops in this district, his heart turns most quickly to discipline. But prayer and more prayer returned my heart to the grace of Christ.   And now she moans in the night, and I hear her whisper. Every night, every night for a month, as I read back.   And every night, it is the same thing.   The angel wings, and the sky, and the English. And the fall.   Though she is my little girl, barely more than a child, the hairs rise on my arms as I write this. It is just a sickness, I say to my soul. Just a sickness of the mind.   But I do not believe myself when I say it. I cannot but worry that something bad will happen. September 16 This early morning, after the milking, Jacob and I slaughtered a pig, the big one. Much of the morning was cutting and preparing, and setting the meat into the freezer.   There will be more, but it was the whole work of our morning. It took longer than anticipated, and our breakfast was no longer warm, but Hannah was forgiving, even as she chided us.   After breakfast, we finished building the last of the order. Mike will be pleased. I sent Jacob to the community phone, so that we could tell Mike.   Hannah prepared simple food, slaw and some meat pies, and Sadie helped, as the Fishers were to come in the late afternoon. Joseph and Rachel and their five, plus Rachel pregnant again, they have been blessed and fruitful. And they are still not old. There will be more children, a larger family.   Their oldest, also Rachel, is fourteen just like our Sadie, then Fritz and Hosheah, then Mariam, then Micah.   It was a lively afternoon. The Fishers came in their wagon and a buggy, and Jacob was at once off with the boys to play. Sadie was calm, and she and Rachel went to talking and walking for a while, as Hannah and the older Rachel rested with lemonade before cooking for the evening.   Joseph and I sat, and we talked. He was worried about the Johansons, who operate the 375 acres just to the south of his own. They had always had problems, and always been the sort of family that struggles, even in the good times when the harvest was good and the money was plentiful. Even the best blessings of Providence cannot turn a soul from sorrow if it has set itself down that path.   But with the terrible weather, and the power outages, and the trouble, they were suffering. The hot and dry summer stunted their corn, and all they grew was corn. When the fierce rains began again, their fields were much damaged. Some rains, they can handle, but two or three inches an hour?   Joseph shook his head as he spoke. The Johansons had seen almost no yield this year. The herbicide-treated soil had no quackgrass, nothing to hold it, and the slight incline of much of that property meant that much corn and soil were washed away. I had seen it, the washes cutting across what had been good earth.   The Johansons also had several chicken coops, long flat structures with hens by the tens of thousands, all packed into crates. That had been a good cash yield, from one of the big companies that puts chicken into the stores in the cities. But then the power failed midsummer, not one of the storm outages, but when one power company wouldn’t provide to another. The fans failed, and the coops became ovens. Most of the hens died.   Mr. Johanson was beside himself, deep in debt to the bank, and the loans and loan guarantees and payments from the government that used to tide English farmers over no longer came through. Something about China, and austerity measures. Mike has told me about these things, too.   Joseph was worried, because his neighbor had taken to drinking more and more. Two nights before, there had been angry shouting in the distance. It was just drunkenness and rage, as he stumbled through the fields shouting with a bottle in his hand, cursing uselessly at his own fields, blasting the sun-blasted earth with his hate. The police came, called by another neighbor. Very sad thing, we both thought.   So we prayed together for his neighbor, for the family. And then we ate, and gave thanks. It was good, to be together. A blessing.   I WAS LOOKING OUT ACROSS our little farm, in the halfdarkness of the night, and giving thanks for the blessing we had been given, when she was suddenly by my side without my knowing it. Like a wraith, she moves sometimes, my Sadie.   I asked her how she had enjoyed her time with Rachel, and she smiled and said it was good to see her.   She looked at the night sky, dimming at the cool of day. She said that the angels were coming soon. The sky will be filled with their wings. She was not upset, as she had been before. There was no seizure. She was very calm. But she was still saying it.   “We will be all right, when they come,” she said. “But it will not be easy, Dadi.”   And then she went inside. “It’s late, Dadi,” she called to me. “Come in.” September 22 And on the third night, the angels came and filled the heavens.   It began in early evening, as I watched, sitting with Sadie again, just as she had asked.   It was just darking, the last colors of the sun vanishing, the first stars showing, the light of the town brightening. It had been a beautiful sunset.   And then they came. A flicker here, and a flicker there, color danced in the sky. Then sheets of it, brighter and brighter, dancing wild sheets cast across the skies, beautiful purples and blues and pinks.   The sky became full of them, dancing, waving, and pulsing. They would fade a little, and strengthen, and then grow stronger and stronger.   So beautiful. But terrible. What was this? Angels? It was not as I would have thought. So bright and silent. I do not know. I do not yet know.   Hannah came, and Jacob, and we watched together, as the wings of angels lit the skies, and the earth glowed under the warm light. Jacob laughed and pointed and jumped around at the joy of it.   Then it grew so bright that it was brighter than midnight under a full moon, bright enough to see my hand, to see the house. Angel wings dipped, radiant with color, and touched the earth. There was a feeling of strangeness in the air, I do not know what it was, but the hairs on my arm rose. From fear, perhaps, because it was strange, but also because the air seemed sharp with . . . something. I do not know. But the smell changed.   “Dadi, it’s so bright, what is that smell?” asked Jacob, suddenly stilled, his voice filled with awe and alarm. Hannah pulled in close, but Sadie stood separate, looking up, rocking back and forth a little.   It went on, radiant and terrible and beautiful. We stood silent.   And then Jacob said, “Dadi, look, there are no lights in the town now,” he said, “and there are no lights on the road.”   It was true. And he was excited and frightened, and looking everywhere and talking, and then he pointed up.   “Look at the plane,” he called out, and there it was, an airplane, a big one. It was not where the planes normally fly, high and moving north or south. The silhouette was low and large. There were no lights on it, or in it, just the beautiful light dancing on and behind it.   It was sideways. It was coming down.   I could see both wings, bent back dark like a broken cross, and it was floating downward, downward, very slow. It was very wrong. I began to pray.   The plane moved down, southward, like a dark, windblown leaf against the color-splashed sky. We lost it to view behind the trees.   And then there was a faint flash, and a few seconds later, a crump like a short peal of thunder.   “Oh blessed Jesus, all those people,” said Hannah, and she began to pray softly and in earnest, her whispered prayers melding with mine.   Still, the skies danced, so bright, so silent.   And a few seconds later, another flash, to the north. And a minute later, another to the southwest.   Sadie turned to us, and her eyes were huge and wet with tears.   “The English fall,” she said.   And then she went inside, away from the light that filled the sky over the darkened earth. Read more

Baby You're a Rich Man: Suing the Beatles for Fun and Profit

Review “[T]his accessible and well-written book [is] a worthwhile read for serious Beatles fans interested in the legal and financial details of the world’s most popular band.” ―Library Journal“Fab! Soocher’s cast of mobbed-up producers, cut-out shilling managers, and opera-composing judges reads like Elmore Leonard in the Sky with Diamonds.”―Steven Lee Beeber, author of The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB’s: A Secret History of Jewish Punk,“As mega-successful but legally clueless young men, the Beatles―both as a group and individually―collected more lawsuits than gold records. Stan Soocher, painstakingly and accessibly, sorts it all out in the fascinating, entertaining, and meticulously researched Baby You’re a Rich Man. The book should serve as a cautionary tale for anyone even thinking of entering show business."―Jeff Tamarkin, author of Got a Revolution!: The Turbulent Flight of Jefferson Airplane,“[Soocher’s] work is relevant to both Beatles maniacs from back in the day and modern musicians alike.” ―Colorado Music Buzz"Baby You're a Rich Man foregrounds lost or little-known details to provide a kind of alternative biography. [Soocher's] achievement is to present detailed analysis of dry legal material in a manner that is as enjoyable as a thriller. In daily newspaper-ese, Baby You're a Rich Man is unputdownable."--Times Higher Education (U.K.) Review “As mega-successful but legally clueless young men, the Beatles—both as a group and individually—collected more lawsuits than gold records. Stan Soocher, painstakingly and accessibly, sorts it all out in the fascinating, entertaining, and meticulously researched Baby You’re a Rich Man. The book should serve as a cautionary tale for anyone even thinking of entering show business." (Jeff Tamarkin, author of Got a Revolution!: The Turbulent Flight of Jefferson Airplane) About the Author STAN SOOCHER is associate professor of music and entertainment industry studies at the University of Colorado’s Denver Campus. In addition, he is an entertainment attorney and has served as Editor-in-Chief of Entertainment Law & Finance. The recipient of the Texas Star Award from the State Bar of Texas, Soocher has written for Rolling Stone and the National Law Journal and is previously the author of They Fought the Law: Rock Music Goes to Court. Read more

Dryland: One Woman's Swim to Sobriety

Review “A brave, honest, adventurous memoir that keeps you turning pages as Bercaw travels around the world and rediscovers what it really means to win…at life.” ―Leigh Newman, author of Still Points North About the Author Writer and national champion swimmer Nancy Stearns Bercaw is a seventeen-time NCAA All-American athlete and was inducted into the University of South Florida’s Athletic Hall of Fame in 2009. Her writing has appeared in publications around the world, including the New York Times , the Huffington Post , the Korea Herald , U.S. News & World Report , Abu Dhabi’s Tempo magazine, and ScaryMommy.com. She is the author of Brain in a Jar: A Daughter’s Journey Through Her Father’s Memory and a contributor to Chicken Soup for the Soul: Living with Alzheimer’s and Other Dementias . She lives in Vermont with her husband and son.

Quackery: A Brief History of the Worst Ways to Cure Everything

Review “[A]n insightful look at human hubris in the story of would-be cures of all our ailments.” — NPR’s Science Friday “Much more than simply an overview of radioactive suppositories and mummy powder, Quackery is a thrilling dive into the human desire to live, to thrive, and the incredible power of belief. Delightful, disturbing, and delightfully disturbing, Quackery shares fascinating medical tales from throughout the ages, including the age we live in. It astonishes with the history of what patients once did in the name of ‘health’ and makes you wonder what we will one day look back on with equal shock.” —Dylan Thuras, coauthor of Atlas Obscura “Fascinating, fun, and occasionally infuriating. . . . a cautionary tale that should resonate even today—a reminder that when it comes to health care, being an informed consumer may indeed save your life.”   —Deborah Blum, author of The Poisoner’s Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz-Age New York “ Quackery brilliantly educates and entertains through the errors of doctors and scientists of the past. An entertaining read that will shock you and change how you view the health claims on products that we see daily.”   —David B. Agus, MD, author of the New York Times #1 bestseller The End of Illness and Professor of Medicine and Engineering, University of Southern California   “A bubbling elixir of the comically useless, the wildly hyped, and the just plain weird in would-be cures through history. Peel away those quaint old patent medicine labels and add some modern buzzwords, and marvel at how much has (and yet hasn’t really) changed.”   —Paul Collins, author of The Murder of the Century: The Gilded Age Crime That Scandalized a City and Sparked the Tabloid Wars “Next time someone reminisces to you about the good old days, remind them how people used to wash their faces with arsenic, rub on radium liniment, and give each other tobacco smoke enemas. This compulsively readable compendium is a great reminder that medicine in the old days was often worse than the disease—and that there’s always reason to be wary of ‘miracle cures.’”   —Bess Lovejoy, author of Rest in Pieces: The Curious Fates of Famous Corpses “Entertaining and informative.” — Publishers Weekly "[A] fantastical (and morbidly funny) glimpse into the history of medicine.' — Buzzfeed.com About the Author Lydia Kang, MD, is a practicing internal medicine physician and author of young adult fiction and adult fiction. Her YA novels include Control, Catalyst , and the upcoming The November Girl . Her adult fiction debut is entitled A Beautiful Poison . Her nonfiction has been published in JAMA , the Annals of Internal Medicine , and the Journal of General Internal Medicine . This author is represented by the Hachette Speakers Bureau. Nate Pedersen is a librarian, historian, and freelance journalist with over 400 publications in print and online, including in the Guardian , the Believer , the San Francisco Chronicle , and the Art of Manliness .

Junior

Review At times comical, at times thoughtful, this novel is packed with memorable moments and refreshing insights on some of the more serious parts of life. A highly readable account of one man's journey from suspected terrorist to sought-after celebrity. -- Kirkus Reviews This book provides a light-hearted take on matter we often take too seriously for our own good -- politics, religion, and sports! -- San Francisco Book Review About the Author Ray Donley's childhood dream was to play point guard in the NBA. When that dream died, he became a lawyer, a profession in which foot speed and fast twitch muscles are not a prerequisite to gainful employment. After writing factually accurate and mostly boring legal briefs for thirty years, Ray decided to write a novel so he could just make stuff up. He researched, as lawyers do, and determined that what the world needed was a novel that combined his interests in the Bible, sports, cosmic cause and effect, silly religiosity, and movies where things get blown up. Ray lives in Austin, Texas with his wife, who is also an attorney. Their two wonderful daughters attend college.

The Great Sympathetic: Walt Whitman and the North American Review

Augie's Secrets: The Minneapolis Mob and the King of the Hennepin Strip

Review "Karlen offers a loving, page turning...colorful and impressively researched account of the Midwest underworld and his fascinating great-uncle that feels right out of Damon Runyon. He serves up innumerable subplots about the Minneapolis Mob's crucial role in the nation's bootlegging, bookmaking and other illicit activities....entertaining and nostalgic, it's a lost world revived by Karlen in all is eccentric swagger and hard-boiled madcap edginess."- The Minneapolis Star Tribune,

Space, Structure, and Story: Integrated Science and ELA Lessons for Gifted and Advanced Learners in Grades 4-6 (Advanced Cirriculum From Vanderbilt University's Program for Talented Youth)

Review "A great guide for educators that lack the experience of designing entire units of work, [it] could be used to help write other units as well. A work to be considered for placement in media centers to assist new educators in the production of good lesson plans and those ever popular rubrics." Lewie Dunn, Georgia Military College, 2/3/18 About the Author Tamra Stambaugh, Ph.D., is an assistant research professor in special education and Executive Director for Talented Youth at Vanderbilt University. Emily Mofield, Ed.D., is an assistant professor in the College of Education at Lipscomb University. Her background includes 15 years experience teaching gifted students and leading gifted services.

Can Your Conversations Change the World? (PopActivism, 3)

Review "A good jumping-off point for budding feminists searching for an upbeat place to start. Idealistic and hopeful." ― Kirkus Reviews "As in Can You Smartphone Change the World? and Can Your Outfit Change the World? , the information presented here is engaging, conversational, and encourages reflection...Highly Recommended." ― CM: Canadian Review of Materials "The book's focus on the importance of conversation is a particularly admirable choice for this huge topic…This is an accessible book for young girls and it is armed with enough concrete information to begin this important conversation." ― Resource Links Book Description We need to talk about feminism. From the Inside Flap feminism, activism, communication, intersectionality, openness From the Back Cover feminism, activism, communication, intersectionality, openness About the Author Erinne Paisley is an activist, public speaker, youth content developer and writer. She was awarded one of ten University of Toronto National Scholarships and graduated with a BA in Peace, Conflict, and Justice & Book and Media Studies from the University of Toronto, Trinity College. She has since gone on to study and lecture at the University of Amsterdam. She is also the author of the PopActivism series. Read more

Living Black: Social Life in an African American Neighborhood

Review “Goes against the common notion that American ghettos are broken places. . . . Brief, accessible . . . suitable for a general readership.”— Kirkus Reviews “A very engaging account of fieldwork among gang members, their families, and their community, in line with ethnographies like Tally’s Corner , Code of the Street , or Gang Leader for a Day .”—Jeffrey Ian Ross, coauthor of Beyond Bars “A human story, not necessarily an account of white vs black or haves vs have nots. . . . Living Black should be required reading for anyone who could benefit from a look outside their own world into the world of others. Which is most of us.”— Chicago Book Review “An accessible introduction to ethnographic fieldwork, a window into a deeply textured community . . . and an illustration of the myriad ways that poverty and racism have cascading implications for communities, families, and individuals.”— Michigan Historical Review About the Author Mark S. Fleisher is a research professor in the Jack, Joseph, and Morton Mandel School of Applied Social Sciences at Case Western Reserve University. He formerly worked at the Federal Bureau of Prisons and at Illinois State University. He is the author of Beggars and Thieves , Dead End Kids , and Warehousing Violence .

Resurrection America

Review Nominated for 2017 Thriller Award from International Thriller Writers.  " Resurrection America does touching work , tying together a portrait of rural America in crisis. Without pulling any punches, Gunhus delivers an unforgettable thriller that is thought-provoking, honest, and true-blue ." -- Foreword Reviews Gunhus...adroitly designs a frightening world upended by geopolitical chaos ; the United States, the victim of catastrophic terrorists attacks, struggles to bring order to global madness... Johnson is a memorable and relatable hero, hardened by war and loss but astonishingly hopeful. This tale offers a deliciously creepy vision of a grim tomorrow rendered harrowingly plausible. A terrifying account of global disorder and American decline. --Kirkus Reviews Jeff Gunhus paints a chillingly plausible vision of a not-too-distant future in which the United States and the world has been shaken by terrorism, war and economic disaster. Resurrection America is a must-read, tautly written, moving at times at an almost breathless pace , filled with twists and turns that will keep readers guessing until the last page. - Charlotte Miller" A roller coaster read which had me up to the early hours to read 'just one more chapter'". - Kaye Nutman"Absolutely stunning thriller!" - Anima"Many twists and surprises kept the suspense level high ..." - Jay Williams "Wow!! I just finished reading Resurrection America and it was great!" - Shari Armon "And the ending was terrifying perfec t. I'm a sucker for an unexpected ending , and Gunhus really delivers." - Jo"It was an exciting storyline, right from the start. Overall a thrilling read !" -Michelle Shealy"A page turner . I couldn'tread it fast enough." - Norma"An excellent exciting book." - Sam Borrelli"This book is excellent and well-writte n. The plot is entirely believable. I've done some research into bio-hacking and cyber possibilities: this storyline is only a few years away from being very rea l." Kent Larson"This story is an amazing thriller mixed with science-fiction --exactly the type of genre that I love to read!" - Marianna Maquire"I loved this action packed book .The author does a great job with characterization as well. This novel held my interest all the way ! - Penny Cockrell"Resurrection America gets off to a roaring start shrouded in a mystery or is it a thriller or maybe science fiction? It turns out to be a little of each with a touch of horror thrown in for good measure." - Paul" A real page turner with well developed characters. Scary, but believable ." - Quanita" Reader beware ~ there are twists and turns in the story and an ending that won't go away " -Sandra King"Jeff Gunhus does not disappoint. The mystery begins right away , making it easy to "get into" the story quickly." - Alicia Owen"If you like a good dystopian story with a little bit of conspiracy theory thrown in, if you harbor just a little concern about computers working their tendrils into every facet of our lives, and if you appreciate a story with little guys standing up to bullies... this is a book for you ." Bartski Van Badbarto"Resurrection America moves along at a good pace and keeps you strapped to your seat the entire time." - Alicia Huxtable"This is a great read and has a brilliant twist at the end . I enjoyed reading this book." -Sharon Hoskins".. .will make you think about the possibilities of not only man but the whole of existence. I would highly recommend this book to anyone that likes sci fi, especially the kind that is not so far in the future." - Berney" I loved this nove l, I will not tell anything about the story I will say hold on and enjoy the ride, he has a way of getting you all excited then he pulls back and starts to build the tension up again." - Edward"Jeff Gunhus has put together in a book what we all are afraid to put into words and speak out loud. Horrifying and apocalyptic . Great read." - Kay"In this taut, thought-provoking apocalyptic thriller from Gunhus ( Night Chill ), hard times have hit the little hamlet of Resurrection, Colo., and the mayor has reinstated the local fall festival in the hope that the food, music, crafts, and fun will lift the community's spirits. When someone erects a high electric fence in front of the entrance to a long-abandoned mine, Sheriff Rick Johnson is concerned. A series of small, easily dismissed incidents niggle at his mind, but he decides to let things ride until after the festival. Soon, grave problems develop that directly involve every citizen of Resurrection and eventually spiral into a technological threat so cataclysmic that Rick can hardly comprehend its significance. Will Rick and his allies, including AI expert Cassandra Baker, be able to thwart the mad plans of Hank Keefer, the mine's new owner, and the unbridled greed of Cassandra's narcissistic billionaire boss, Brandon Morris? Readers will keep turning the pages to find out as the action builds to a surprising conclusion." -- Publishers Weekly

Chicks with Sticks (Knitwise)

About the Author Elizabeth Lenhard lives with her family in Atlanta, Georgia.

Plaster and Poison (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery)

About the Author Jennie Bentley is the New York Times bestselling author of the Do-It-Yourself Mysteries. The Prime Crime home renovation series features textile designer Avery Baker and her handyman boyfriend, Derek Ellis, who renovate houses in Maine. She also writes under the name Jenna Bennett.

Day of the Dead: A Novel (A Frieda Klein Novel, 8)

Review Praise for Sunday Silence : “Complex...intriguing...truly unique.” — Tami Hoag “Fabulous, unsettling, and riveting.” — Louise Penny “Unforgettable. Psychological dynamite.” — Alan Bradley “The husband-and-wife team of Nicci Gerrard and Sean French combine psychological suspense with a form of police procedural in a brilliant cat-and-mouse game that provides the perfect finale for this concluding entry in the celebrated Frieda Klein series.” — Booklist (starred review) From the Back Cover Now the final book in this extraordinary series is here. And it’s an ending you’ll never forget. A decade ago, psychologist Frieda Klein was sucked into the orbit of Dean Reeve—a killer able to impersonate almost anyone, a man who can disappear without a trace, a psychopath obsessed with Frieda herself. In the years since, Frieda has worked with—and sometimes against—the London police in solving their most baffling cases. But now she’s in hiding, driven to isolation by Reeve. When a series of murders announces his return, Frieda must emerge from the shadows to confront her nemesis. And it’s a showdown she might not survive. Criminology student Lola Hayes has tracked Frieda down with a single-minded pursuit: She wants to delve inside the mind of a woman besieged by darkness. But in following every move Frieda makes, Lola is exposing herself to the same terrors—and the same twisted fixation of a diabolical psychopath. This gripping cat-and-mouse thriller pits one of the most fascinating characters in contemporary fiction against an enemy like none other. Smart, sophisticated, and spellbinding, Day of the Dead will leave you breathless. About the Author Nicci French is the pseudonym of English wife-and-husband team Nicci Gerrard and Sean French. Their acclaimed novels of psychological suspense have sold more than 16 million copies around the world. Read more

The Company of Demons

Review The plot, the characters, and the details all conspire to give the reader a book that is excruciating to put down because of the craving to see what happens next. -- Cleveland Sun News "Jordan is a cross between John Grisham and Stephen King." -- Cleveland Scene "A well-written and complexly plotted crime thriller." --Caroline McCullagh, Mensa Bulletin ''The terror of the Torso Murderer returns in this gritty, Cleveland-centrictale. Jordan delights with crackling dialogue, true-to-life characters,an intensely paced plot, and an explosive finale. A must-read for fans of Lecter, Dexter, and the Ripper.'' -- John Keyse-Walker, Author of Sun, Sand, Murder and Beach, Breeze, Bloodshed ; winner of Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel Award ''Michael Jordan brings characters and scenes to life in this emotionally gripping and compelling breakout novel. Brilliantly crafted.''-- Rick Porrello, author of To Kill the Irishman (adapted into a major motion picture), Superthief! , and The Rise and Fall of the Cleveland Mafia Corn, Sugar, and Blood "In this intense novel--gory at times, but flecked with humor-- lawyer John Coleman struggles to keep his life in order as his situation becomes increasingly precarious. The writer (no, not that Michael Jordan) weaves dramatic, Law & Order -worthy courtroom scenes as part of a page-turner about deception, betrayal, addiction and mystery, in which nearly every poor decision comes back to haunt." --The George Washington University Magazine "...enough twists and turns that many readers will be surprised by the ending of this book that is part serial killer thriller and part legal drama." --Sarasota Scene Magazine The Company of Demons by Michael Jordan is a wonderful blend of crime and mystery, a riveting story with sophisticated characters. [...] Michael Jordan is a great storyteller and he has the ability to keep the narrative emotionally intense and psychologically disturbing. The Company of Demons is a real page-turner. -- Reader's Favorite About the Author Michael Jordan obtained his undergraduate degree from Ohio Wesleyan University with highest honors, and his law degree from George Washington University, where he was a member of the Law Review. A trial lawyer and arbitrator for over three decades, he has been recognized as an Ohio Super Lawyer® and named to Best Lawyers in America®. The Company of Demons is his first novel.  A native of Saginaw, Michigan, Michael and his wife, Linda Gross Brown, a soft pastel artist, divide their time between homes in Rocky River, Ohio, and Longboat Key, Florida. They enjoy traveling, pleasure boating, and very cold martinis.

Squirrel Wars: Backyard Wildlife Battles & How to Win Them

From Library Journal Addressing far more than squirrel problems, the author thoroughly understands the dilemmas of homeowners wishing to enjoy backyard wildlife without encouraging pest species. A respected nature writer also known for his public television specials on bird watching, Harrison deftly describes the mammals, birds, and insects considered common backyard pests. He entertainingly documents problems homeowners have experienced, relates their quirky methods of coping, and offers sound advice to minimize the nuisances. Harrison addresses such topics as raccoons in chimneys, rabbits in the garden, and rats around birdfeeders, but there are some surprising exclusions; bats, coyotes, and snakes aren't mentioned, though Bill Adler Jr. included them in Outwitting Critters: A Surefire Manual for Confronting Devious Animals and Winning (LJ 9/1/92). Overall, this is highly readable and informative. Recommended for all public libraries. -Bonnie Poquette, Shorewood P.L., WI Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. Review "This is a fine book and for the price, a steal! Every gardener should have a copy." -- Richmond Times - Dispatch, May 14, 2000 George Harrison describes squirrels as public enemy #1 and backs up this criticism with incredible, often comic, human-vs-squirrel stores. -- The Times-Picayune, February 15, 2000 I found this book very interesting. I'll be putting the tips and tactics to work soon, and I'm sure you will too, if you have any backyard problems. -- Northern Virginia Daily, May 13, 2000 It's filled with ideas for those who want to rid themselves of various pests without resorting to firearms. It has good info and is well-written. -- The Virginia Gazette, May 3, 2000 Personally, I found the book informative and interesting reading. -- Tri-County Sunday, May 1, 2000 About the Author George H. Harrison is an award-winning author, photographer, and Television producer. George, along with his wife Kit, has written many books on nature and the outdoors along with several videos. They produced and hosted three PBS specials on backyard birds and are writers for Sports Afield and National Wildlife magazines. Read more

Ironsides' Peril: A Zach Colt Adventure (The Zach Colt Adventures Book 2)

Review WINNER:  SUSPENSE/THRILLER -- 2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards HONORABLE MENTION:  FICTION - THRILLER - TERRORIST -- 2013 Readers' Favorite International Book Awards"A first-rate thriller."  William Martin, author of The Lincoln Letter "Thisis a fun read; it could easily be the premise for a feature film.  The author clearly knows the style and pace of modern international thrillers coupled with a milieu he knows and has researched well....  [I]t's an adventuretale for nearly all ages." Judge, Writer's Digest 21st Annual Self-Published Book Awards "When [O]ld Ironsides turns 215, the 200th anniversary of the War of 1812 and the Fourth of July all happen to fallwithin the s ame time frame . . . the city of Boston is poised to celebrate . . . until a series of terrorist attacks strike . . . the beginning of what will turn out to be one of the most terrifying and harrowing days in American history.  There are not many authors who will takeyou inside the mind of a terrorist, but Urban takes us into the minds of three. Not only that, he provides captivating details about the history of Old Ironsides, the military and his main characters  . . . every single one of them comes alive and seem extremely real . . . I really enjoyed this book."             5- Star Review, Readers' Favorite "A terrorist with roots to the original Barbary pirates and his ruthless band have hijacked the USS Constitution....  As thrillers go, this one benefits from anunusual setting ... as well as a likable hero in Zach Colt, a combination ofBruce Willis and Batman,....  I suspect Urban has the making of a ... series that can be successful ....  A good read." 6/13 Jack Quick, Stacey Alesi's Bookbitch.com From the Author Welcome to Adventure! About the Author Mike Urban is an Ivy League graduate, an ex- cop, a former federal prosecutor and currently a trial attorney.  For nearly a decade he lived in and explored Panama. Read more

Cutting Back: My Apprenticeship in the Gardens of Kyoto

Review “An unusual and entertaining memoir . . . . she learns—about durability and resilience. She learns to prune trees exquisitely. Most of all, she learns that ‘an apprentice must . . . be the good student.’ Not a bad lesson for any gardener.” — New York Times Book Review “Her writings, inevitably, are a reflection on the contrasts between the roles of the gardener in two very different cultures.” — The Washington Post “Buck has as good an eye for cultural dissonance as she does for pines that need pruning. . . . This is an absorbing read about the formative interplay of humans, cultures, and gardens.” — Publishers Weekly starred review “The descriptions of the gardens the author tends while in Japan will transport readers; it is an armchair tourist’s treat to wander the temple gardens as she describes them.” — Library Journal “Read Cutting Back for insight into Japanese gardening culture, for descriptions of naturalistic Japanese gardens, or if you enjoy travel memoirs.” — NYBG’s Plant Talk “If you love losing yourself in natural settings, this memoir is definitely for you. . . . the life lessons Buck learns away from her pruning shears will appeal to any reader.” — Bustle “Leslie Buck’s compelling story bring together three themes—a woman’s journey in life, adaptation to a new and strange culture, and discovery of a career that fulfills through its challenges. The connecting threads are Japanese gardens and gardening. Gardening is both Buck’s profession and a metaphor for Buck’s reflection on her life as a cycle of planting, nourishing, and pruning to achieve rich yet balanced growth. These familiar themes feel fresh in Buck’s light yet sensitive prose that transmits her adventurous spirit yet reflective soul. Japanese gardens have long been recognized as special, almost magical, places that inspire and nourish. Leslie Buck’s memoir gives them a human dimension.” —Kendal H. Brown, author of Quiet Beauty: The Japanese Gardens of North America “Leslie Buck offers a graciously pruned story about learning garden care in Japan, where no-one-telling-you-how leads to intimately discovering for yourself what’s what--a learning that is “entrenched in your body.” Leslie tells her story with charm and good-humor.” —Edward Espe Brown, author of Tassajara Bread Book “Gardening in Japan is traditionally a male-dominated occupation. It is awkward and certainly not easy for Japanese women to enter, let alone a young woman from a foreign country.  Leslie’s strong conviction to learn Japanese pruning enabled her to dive into this uncharted world. Most impressive of all, however, was her bold move to select Uetoh Zoen in Kyoto, one of the oldest and most highly acclaimed landscape companies in Japan, as her host gardener. The “secrets” of Japanese gardening are subtly yet evidently revealed throughout the memoir, in describing such things as the way we handle pine tree branches, and the way we examine and correct the performance of a novice gardener. Her undeterred enthusiasm has opened a new door for her and for her followers.” —Sadafumi Uchiyama, head curator at the Portland Japanese Garden , and third generation Japanese gardener “She learns to sweep with a twiggy traditional hoki and takes her first steps to becoming a senteishi, or tree pruner.” — The Financial Times “Told with beautiful, carefully crafted language and a perceptively candid voice. . . . the book’s core is its intuitive appreciation for nature.” — Forward Magazine “As much a story of bravery and the challenge of adapting to an unfamiliar culture as it is of horticulture. Anyone contemplating a brave career gamble will learn from it.” — San Francisco Chronicle “Informative and inspiring. . . . the book will appeal to both gardeners and non-gardeners. As much as Buck’s story is about Japanese garden aesthetics, it is also about stepping out of your comfort zone and taking a chance.” — The American Gardener “This should be on the reading lists of university Japanese studies courses because of its insights into the country’s apprenticeship systems.” — Post Magazine  “A fascinating personal account, and not just for gardeners.” — The Irish Garden “A book based on direct experience and encounter, stemming as much from the heart as from backbreaking toil, aching joints and calloused hands.” — The Japan Times “Buck is a fine guide…Reading Cutting Back taught my untrained eye to more fully appreciate the complexities of Japanese formal gardens and the folks who are entrusted to maintain them.” — Kyoto Journal  “An unusual and entertaining memoir . . . . she learns—about durability and resilience. She learns to prune trees exquisitely. Most of all, she learns that ‘an apprentice must . . . be the good student.’ Not a bad lesson for any gardener.” — New York Times Book Review “Her writings, inevitably, are a reflection on the contrasts between the roles of the gardener in two very different cultures.” — The Washington Post “Buck has as good an eye for cultural dissonance as she does for pines that need pruning. . . . This is an absorbing read about the formative interplay of humans, cultures, and gardens.” — Publishers Weekly starred review “The descriptions of the gardens the author tends while in Japan will transport readers; it is an armchair tourist’s treat to wander the temple gardens as she describes them.” — Library Journal “Read Cutting Back for insight into Japanese gardening culture, for descriptions of naturalistic Japanese gardens, or if you enjoy travel memoirs.” — NYBG’s Plant Talk “If you love losing yourself in natural settings, this memoir is definitely for you. . . . the life lessons Buck learns away from her pruning shears will appeal to any reader.” — Bustle “Leslie Buck’s compelling story bring together three themes—a woman’s journey in life, adaptation to a new and strange culture, and discovery of a career that fulfills through its challenges. The connecting threads are Japanese gardens and gardening. Gardening is both Buck’s profession and a metaphor for Buck’s reflection on her life as a cycle of planting, nourishing, and pruning to achieve rich yet balanced growth. These familiar themes feel fresh in Buck’s light yet sensitive prose that transmits her adventurous spirit yet reflective soul. Japanese gardens have long been recognized as special, almost magical, places that inspire and nourish. Leslie Buck’s memoir gives them a human dimension.” —Kendal H. Brown, author of Quiet Beauty: The Japanese Gardens of North America “Leslie Buck offers a graciously pruned story about learning garden care in Japan, where no-one-telling-you-how leads to intimately discovering for yourself what’s what--a learning that is “entrenched in your body.” Leslie tells her story with charm and good-humor.” —Edward Espe Brown, author of Tassajara Bread Book “Gardening in Japan is traditionally a male-dominated occupation. It is awkward and certainly not easy for Japanese women to enter, let alone a young woman from a foreign country.  Leslie’s strong conviction to learn Japanese pruning enabled her to dive into this uncharted world. Most impressive of all, however, was her bold move to select Uetoh Zoen in Kyoto, one of the oldest and most highly acclaimed landscape companies in Japan, as her host gardener. The “secrets” of Japanese gardening are subtly yet evidently revealed throughout the memoir, in describing such things as the way we handle pine tree branches, and the way we examine and correct the performance of a novice gardener. Her undeterred enthusiasm has opened a new door for her and for her followers.” —Sadafumi Uchiyama, head curator at the Portland Japanese Garden , and third generation Japanese gardener “She learns to sweep with a twiggy traditional hoki and takes her first steps to becoming a senteishi, or tree pruner.” — The Financial Times “Told with beautiful, carefully crafted language and a perceptively candid voice. . . . the book’s core is its intuitive appreciation for nature.” — Forward Magazine “As much a story of bravery and the challenge of adapting to an unfamiliar culture as it is of horticulture. Anyone contemplating a brave career gamble will learn from it.” — San Francisco Chronicle “Informative and inspiring. . . . the book will appeal to both gardeners and non-gardeners. As much as Buck’s story is about Japanese garden aesthetics, it is also about stepping out of your comfort zone and taking a chance.” — The American Gardener “This should be on the reading lists of university Japanese studies courses because of its insights into the country’s apprenticeship systems.” — Post Magazine  “A fascinating personal account, and not just for gardeners.” — The Irish Garden “A book based on direct experience and encounter, stemming as much from the heart as from backbreaking toil, aching joints and calloused hands.” — The Japan Times “Buck is a fine guide…Reading Cutting Back taught my untrained eye to more fully appreciate the complexities of Japanese formal gardens and the folks who are entrusted to maintain them.” — Kyoto Journal  From the Back Cover “Leslie goes all the way, immersing herself in Japan’s gardening culture to master a craft to its fullest. I admire her dedication and this beautiful book is a testimony to her success.” —Alice Waters, owner of Chez Panisse restaurant and founder of the Edible Schoolyard Project “In well-pruned prose, Buck has written in turns a hilarious, informative, and culturally revealing tale of coming of age as a gardener.” —Liza Dalby, author of Geisha and The Tale of Murasaki: A Novel “Gardening in Japan is traditionally a male-dominated occupation. It is awkward and certainly not easy for Japanese women to enter, let alone a young woman from a foreign country. Leslie’s strong conviction to learn Japanese pruning enabled her to dive into this uncharted world. Her undeterred enthusiasm has opened a new door for her and for her followers.” — Sadafumi Uchiyama, garden curator at the Portland Japanese Garden and third-generation Japanese gardener “Leslie Buck’s compelling story brings together three themes—a woman’s journey in life, adaptation to a new and strange culture, and discovery of a career that fulfills through its challenges.” —Kendall H. Brown, author of Quiet Beauty: The Japanese Gardens of North America , and professor of Asian Art History, California State University, Long Beach “Leslie Buck offers a graciously pruned story about learning garden care in Japan, where no one telling you how leads to intimately discovering for yourself what’s what.” —Edward Espe Brown, American Zen teacher and writer About the Author Leslie Buck is a garden designer and aesthetic pruner who specializes in natural design in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has over two decades of gardening experience, and a fine art degree from U.C. Berkeley and the Bordeaux School of Fine Arts in France. In 2000, Buck studied with Uetoh Zoen, one of the oldest and most highly acclaimed landscape companies in Japan. She has worked, taught, and volunteered in hundreds of private landscapes and as well as dozens of public gardens including the Portland Japanese Garden, Hakone Japanese Garden, Tassajara Zen Center, and Merritt College. Read more

Forgiving Waters

Review : A book that stays with you. It deals with friendship, prejudice , coming of age, family, and death. --Patrice Summers, NetGallery About the Author Born in Houston, Texas, in 1959, Kenneth L. Capps joined the US Marine Corps in 1979 for a thirteen-year career. He started a tree removal company is 1993. In 2009, Ken won honorable mention in nonfiction in the New Bern Literary Symposium in North Carolina. The next year, in 2010, he placed second in fiction in the same contest. Ken's writing career started at 50 years of age in what he considers to be the best years of his life.

Educating Milwaukee: How One City’s History of Segregation and Struggle Shaped Its Schools

Review Educating Milwaukee: How One City's History of Segregation and Struggle Shaped its Schools examines the educational history of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the birthplace of the school voucher movement, and an innovator in programs that offer school choice. Paradoxically, a wider range of options does not guarantee a better education for children, an especially corrosive problem given Milwaukee's problems of concentrated poverty and de facto segregation. Author, teacher, and urban history expert offers a close examination of the many different school choice initiatives that have been attempted in Milwaukee from 1967 to 2013, and explains why Milwaukee's children as a whole continue to struggle with academic achievement today. Educating Milwaukee discusses why constructing new schools in the inner city has sometimes compounded its educational woes (the burdensome cost often leads to harsh budget cuts forced upon existing schools, without addressing many of their biggest problems), how "magnet schools" attracting the best and brightest students compounds declining enrollment in general public schools, the problems of outright incompetence and scandals in underperforming charter schools, and more. "...magnet schools and private schools may want to enroll only the intelligent, motivated students and may try to prevent students with disabilities, behavior problems, and low test scores from enrolling... These practices also raise questions about the fairness of setting up a hierarchy of schools - a hierarchy that runs counter to the notion of equal educational opportunity - and about the political motivations behind choice. Surely that was not what reformers intended." Extensive notes and an index round out this thought-provoking, sharply critical history. (Midwest Book Review, Social Issues Bookshelf, February 2016) About the Author James K. Nelsen has a PhD in urban history from the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee and teaches high school social studies at Golda Meir School in Milwaukee, a public magnet school for college-bound students in grades 3 through 12. As a lifelong resident of Milwaukee, he finds the history of the city fascinating, from its early days in the mid-nineteenth century to the modern challenges of urban life today. As a teacher, he enjoys researching the history of education from colonial times to the present. When not teaching or researching, he enjoys volunteering with youth groups, exploring his city, and following his beloved Milwaukee Brewers baseball team.

Zigzagging in the Pacific

Pancakes in Paris: Living the American Dream in France

Review Pancakes in Paris is a funny, inspiring, moving, and provocative story...no less than fascinating. -- "Huffington Post" [A] refreshingly honest memoir about...the Kafkaesque ordeal he went through to make his dreams come true here. -- "Heather Stimmler-Hall, founder and editor of the Secrets of Paris newsletter and website" Carlson does an admirable job of recounting his rocky childhood, the numerous strange connections to France during his early life, and what these events ultimately revealed to him about his life...Carlson's narrative is an inspirational, tasty trip through one man's delightful and hard-won success. -- "Publishers Weekly" Carlson tells his story with an openness and an ironic sense of humor. Pancakes in Paris is a great success story and will inspire readers to never stop trying to achieve their goals. -- "Roger S. Christiansen, television director of Friends and Hannah Montana" Craig's book is cheerful as his diners and as satisfying as his pancake breakfasts. -- "Stephen Clarke, author of A Year in the Merde and Paris Revealed" Donald Corren's engaging performance highlights Carlson's roller-coaster experience of getting Breakfast In America, a diner in Paris, from concept to actuality. Corren's spirited narration captures Carlson's struggle not only with French bureaucracy and other cultural differences but also with creating a following for the diner. While most of the accents and pronunciations are spot-on and capture the nuances of the French people in the book, some deliberately imperfect pronunciations add an authentic flavor of an American trying to fit in. Ever entertaining are Corren's perfectly delivered comments on the sometimes passionate, sometimes laissez-faire Gallic responses to the various situations that make Carlson's journey both difficult and rewarding. -- "AudioFile" His adventures are full of interesting characters, delicious food, and charming sites. -- "Bustle" With nonstop enthusiasm, the author details the many obstacles he faced to make his dream a reality...A light, entertaining. -- "Kirkus Reviews" With Carlson recounting hurdles from amusing to serious, this memoir makes for a delicious read. -- "Booklist" --This text refers to the audioCD edition. About the Author Craig Carlson is the owner and founder of Breakfast in America, the first American-style diner in Paris, which has been featured in the Lonely Planet and Frommer's travel guides. Donald Corren is a stage, television, and voice actor whose work has been featured on and off Broadway, in regional theaters, behind animated characters, and on television for the past three decades. Trained in the theater division at Juilliard, he is also a writer whose credits include the original Martha Stewart Living television series and the medals ceremonies of the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City, Utah. --This text refers to the audioCD edition.

All's Fair: A Personal History of War and Love

The Complete Cursive Handwriting Workbook for Kids: Laugh, Learn, and Practice the Alphabet with Silly Jokes

Review “As a pediatric occupational therapist, I work with a wide variety of students who are unable to write in print, but are very successful with writing in cursive as writing in cursive activates a different part of our brains. Crystal Radke’s The Complete Cursive Handwriting Workbook For Kids is a vital, essential, and beautifully done tool. I will be using it consistently in my daily sessions working with students.” —Samantha Adkins, Registered Occupational Therapist, OTR "As a mother of five, I was disappointed when our local public school system chose to eliminate cursive handwriting from the curriculum. There are so many benefits to teaching our children the cursive, from teaching fine motor skills and patience to developing a strong worth ethic. Thankfully, Crystal Radke fills in the gap and offers a fun, creative tool for teaching our children the necessary life skill of writing in cursive. My 11-year-old daughter loved the vibrant colors and cute jokes throughout the book. I give The Complete Cursive Handwriting Workbook for Kids an A+." —Elizabeth Oates, author, speaker, and founder of Collab Conference for Writers ”Wow! Crystal Radke takes the task of learning cursive handwriting and turns it into a fun and creative exercise for kids. The practice lessons in the second half of the book with jokes is quite humorous and, most importantly, effective!” —Tammy Schulte, mother and educator specializing in dyslexia About the Author CRYSTAL RADKE is an educator, speaker, writer, and mother. Her personal mission is to help children learn and grow. She runs a consulting business where she mentors educators and promotes professional development.

Dissecting Death: Secrets of a Medical Examiner

From Publishers Weekly While not a household name, Zugibe, who was chief medical examiner of Rockland County, N.Y., for 35 years, has the experience and credentials to write meaningfully about his field: he developed numerous new techniques for forensic pathology and presided over an amazing variety of investigations. In this readable account, the doctor presents 10 challenging cases he encountered, as well as his insights as a self-described Monday-morning quarterback on two of the most notorious crimes of the 1990s: the brutal slaying of JonBenét Ramsey and the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman. As Zugibe's own work is intriguing enough, the inclusion of those sensations seems like a ploy to widen appeal, and the authors' decision to include a section on the scientific accuracy of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ may strike some as odd. The writing is sometimes flat, and the book would have had more depth and resonance had Zugibe presented instances where, despite his skills and instincts, he was led astray. Nonetheless, Zugibe's detections in the 1981 Brinks robbery case and his pro bono work in the case of a young journalist who disappeared in El Salvador make compelling reading for fans of insider accounts of forensics. (Aug.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Former Rockland County, New York, chief medical examiner Zugibe reveals how he helped solve some of the most complex murders in the county over the course of his 35-year career. Zugibe unwraps a body from 20 plastic bags and must determine what happened to the man's body after he died. In another case, he points out key evidence from a gunshot wound to disprove a suspect's claim that the victim was stabbed to death before being shot. He uses maggots found on a body to narrow down the time of death. Along the way he dispels assumptions about forensics and even delves into two of the most famous cases of the last 15 years, the JonBenet Ramsey murder and the O. J. Simpson trial, to show how the forensic evidence in those cases was mishandled or overlooked. Zugibe and Carroll's straightforward style makes for clear and fascinating reading, and the cases chosen are intriguing. With the popularity of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and other forensic science dramas on television, expect wide interest in this gripping book. Kristine Huntley Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Review Advance Praise for Dissecting Death “Dr. Frederick Zugibe has once again proven that real-life events can be stranger than fiction. DISSECTING DEATH is a fascinating compilation of ten cases in which the author, an outstanding and highly experienced forensic pathologist, played a key role in solving complex and controversial crimes.  Readers will be enthralled with these dramatic stories and learn a great deal about how a modern-day medical examiner’s office should properly function.” —   Cyril H. Wecht, M.D., J.D., Coroner, Allegheny Countyauthor of Mortal Evidence and Tales from the Morgue “As a homicide and forensic expert I thoroughly enjoyed reading Dr. Zugibe’s DISSECTING DEATH . Sophisticated forensic enthusiasts will be thrilled to have this book as their reference as they delve into the intricacies of the medicolegal mysteries presented in television programming such as CSI, Law & Order, and Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.” — Vernon J. Gerbeth, NYPD Lieutenant-Commander (ret.), Commanding Officer of the Bronx Homicide Task Force (ret.) “I was delighted to read Dissecting Death by such an extraordinary, talented forensic pathologist.  Dr. Zugibe’s Sherlock Holmesian analysis of difficult cases has solved the most ‘insoluble’ cases.  This book is a thrilling drama.”  — Enid Gilbert-Barness, M.D About the Author FREDERICK ZUGIBE, M.D., Ph.D., is the former chief medical examiner of Rockland County and remains one of the nation’s most respected forensics experts. DAVID L. CARROLL has cowritten thirty-one books and produced twelve network television films. Both men live in Rockland County, New York. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER1Of Ice Men and the Lure of ForensicsThe great and constant need of those who investigate homicide and practice forensic pathology or criminal law is a warm humanism.--RAMSEY CLARK, FORMER U.S. ATTORNEY GENERALSeeking truth to protect life.--MOTTO OF THE ROCKLAND COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICECORPSE BY THE WALLNyack, new york, is a historic hudson river valley town famous for its antique stores and sensible restaurants. People frequently make the twenty-mile drive up from New York City to spend a lazy afternoon drifting in and out of the town's quaint shops, or walking Nyack's network of shore trails that fronts the mighty Palisades. The house of the painter Edward Hopper is now a museum and a major tourist attraction. The cottage where the writer Carson McCullers died is frequently visited.Small Town, USA, but with a lot of polish. Not a neighborhood for gruesome frolics.Yet on a warm September day in 1983, along the heavily forested Clausland Mountain Road a quarter mile out of town, Patrolman Edwin Gonzalez, a Palisades Park police officer on morning patrol, spies a woman's blouse crumpled up near an old stone wall along the south side of the road.Patrolman Gonzalez gets out of his car to investigate.As he walks toward the blouse he notices an even more suspicious-looking object, a stuffed, heavy-duty garbage bag, the type contractors use to dispose of construction materials. The bag was apparently dumped over the wall, then rolled down a slight incline before stopping between two rocks. It is wrapped with a great deal of tape and rope. It gives off a rank odor and displays bulges where arms and feet and heads might be.The officer surveys the bag for several minutes, senses trouble, but knows how risky it can be, forensically speaking, to touch a suspicious piece of evidence. Since he is in the Orangetown district of Rockland County, he calls Lieutenant Youngman from the Orangetown Police to come over and investigate.Lieutenant Youngman is quickly on the scene.And he agrees, unwrapping the bag would be unsound procedure at this point. Nor is it necessary: circling the bundle, he notices a human foot jutting out from a hole in the bottom of the wrapping.Lieutenant Youngman calls the Rockland County Medical Examiner's Office. Since I am the chief medical examiner for the County of Rockland, it is my duty to examine the body on site, then transport it to the morgue for autopsy. I drive directly to the scene of the crime.The first sight that greets me as I approach the foul-smelling sack is a spotted garden snake slithering out from a hole in the bottom. Flies buzz around it crazily, and an army of carrion beetles marches in and out of small holes in the plastic, some carrying tiny packets of decomposed flesh.Now as most people know from media hullabaloos such as the O. J. Simpson trial, when police and medical examiners arrive at a crime scene the first few minutes spent examining a corpse and collecting evidence can make or break a case. Certainly, this scene is no exception. This body must be handled gingerly, or important evidence will be contaminated.Slowly, slowly is the watchword.STRANGE WRAPPINGS"Slowly," it turns out, is an understatement.First, the County Sheriff's Bureau of Criminal Investigation (BCI) arrives and sets to work taking pictures of the bag and of the wooded area surrounding it. As they position themselves here and there, snapping the crime scene from various angles, I stand nearby and study the bag. There is, every official at the site agrees, something puzzling about the way it is packaged.For starters, when a murdered body is dropped off, it is usually loosely trussed, unceremoniously stuffed into a cardboard box or barrel, then heaved into a deserted corner of the world such as a culvert or secluded woods.This bag, however, has been handled with extraordinary care. There is even a whimsical quality to the wrapping, almost as if it were a gift package. The person who performed the wrapping obviously did so with a great deal of flair, and this fact already provides clues concerning the perpetrator's personality.The murderer appears to be a careful, thorough person, who takes a kind of punctilious pride in his work--or perhaps her work; a person with deft hands and thus, perhaps, some manual or artistic skills; a person who knows, as a trained and alert professional killer might know, the importance of small details and the fact that one small, foolish mistake can tip your hand and lead to your arrest.Since photos are still being taken of the crime scene, it is too soon to touch the evidence or remove the body. It is apparent, though, that inside this bag are more bags, like boxes in boxes. Perhaps a number of them.Why so many? One bag is usually enough.And another singular fact. Over the years I have looked into many open graves and closets and metal drums, where there lay corpses in every conceivable stage of decay. The body invariably emits exactly the same noxious stench. Just as cedar wood always smells the same and cow dung always smells the same, so a dead body unfailingly puts forth the same recognizable odor.But though the stench emanating from this bag is offensive, it is different from the smell of any decomposing body I have ever encountered. Actually, I have never smelled anything quite like it in my entire career.All very puzzling.MORE STRANGE WRAPPINGSThe bundle is carefully lifted and driven back to the medical examiner's office, where we lay it out on the table and take X rays.The pictures confirm what we already know, that the bag contains a human body, entirely intact. They also reveal metallic fragments inside the skull.We now begin the slow, tedious process of unwrapping. Indeed, there are a number of bags inside the main bag--a staggering twenty of them, one inside the other. The inner bags appear older than the outer bags, and each sack has been secured with two-inch-wide plastic tape, then tied with small segments of clothesline. Beetles and other insects emerge from the packing as the plastic is unfolded. I see also that one arm on the corpse is taped tightly to the chest; the other has come loose, probably during the bagging and wrapping. The corpse's hands have been exposed to the elements or to some type of harsh environment, and both are dried and hardened--"mummified," in forensic language.Finally, the last bag is removed, revealing the body of a heavyset Caucasian male. He is wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt with "Royal Knight permanent press USA" on the label. Also Haggar slacks and argyle socks. In his right front pants pocket he has $15 and a few coins. We carefully launder all his clothing and meticulously describe each item: its color, size, style, and labels. In the event that someone comes forward in the future to identify the remains, these clothes can be compared with the clothing the missing man was reportedly wearing when last seen alive.The victim in question appears to be middle-aged. Though his frame is shrunken, he probably stood around six feet tall when alive and weighed 200 pounds or more. While there are a number of forensic inconsistencies in his appearance, external observation suggests that he has been dead for three or four weeks.He also has a single bullet hole in the back of his head.THE ANATOMY OF AUTOPSYBefore I describe the autopsy that follows, some background information on autopsies in general is in order: how they provide us with useful information, the sequence of surgical and laboratory procedures we follow, and our pre-established goals. Autopsies have often played an important role, sometimes a central role, in helping me to understand and, we hope, solve a case. For people interested in forensic science and its sometimes esoteric methodologies, knowing a bit about the mechanics of body examination helps.During an autopsy, of course, a medical examiner's first mission is to identify the corpse on the table. But while our multibagged cadaver does not reveal his secrets so easily, as you will see, eventually his identity becomes the central axis around which this entire bizarre homicide turns.In general, I attempt to ID a corpse by recording a number of critical physical features that the victim's friends, family, and/or witnesses will recognize. These features include the victim's weight, height, build, sex, age, race, facial features, hair configuration and color, eye color, muscular development, skin color, clothing, jewelry, scars, tattoos, and physical malformations such as a clubfoot or a missing toe. When possible, fingerprints are also taken and matched with those in government and law enforcement fingerprint databases.Minute inspection of certain body parts often reveals vital information. Weatherworn, craggy hands, for instance, may belong to a laborer, especially one who works outdoors. Pink, smooth hands are indicative of nonmanual professions, often desk jobs. Dirty, unkempt hands tell one story; manicured, meticulously clean ones quite another. A large callus on the first and second knuckles of one or both hands usually belongs to a person who trains in the martial arts, especially karate. Calluses on the fingertips of the left hand mean this person plays the guitar or other stringed instrument; if the calluses are thick, this person may be a professional musician.If a body arrives in the morgue stripped of its flesh, I often call in specialists such as odontologists--forensic dentists--to examine and compare the victim's teeth against dental photographs listed in databases around the country. We may consult anthropologists adept at using skeletal remains to establish race, sex, age, size, body type, and so forth. When no other method of identification succeeds, forensic sculptors, studying what remains of the victim's cranial architecture, are... Read more

Raking Light from Ashes

The Sting of the Wild

Review Schmidt's tales will prove infectiously engaging even to entomophobes.― Publishers Weekly On Schmidt's pain scale, this book rates a zero―painless. On the pleasure scale, it rates a ten, a highly enjoyable read.― Natural History Readers who share my fascination with the natural world, and particularly those who revel in unusual animal facts, will love The Sting of the Wild .― Between the Covers An excellent book.― Newsweek A good read, with valuable evolutionary context for bees and their insect relatives interwoven with entertaining travel tales of an engaged entomologist.― American Bee Journal Even though the pain-laced topic might leave you wincing, Schmidt’s engaging and entertaining writing makes for a tale worth reading.― Scientific American [Schmidt's] low-down on sting biochemistry and physiology is relentlessly zestful, even as he recounts the swelling, burning consequences of his curiosity.― Nature The Sting of the Wild is full of the stories of science of stings. Schmidt is an engaging writer, and his youthful enthusiasm for scary critters makes for a book that will sometimes scare you and sometimes make you double over with laughter . . . It’s a masterpiece of nature writing.― Nature's Cool Green Science If you’re interested in bugs of any kind, and especially the notorious ones, this book will entertain, educate, and excite.― Discover Magazine Not only does he explain his Schmidt Sting Pain Index, wherein he rates the pain of numerous stings on a scale of one to four, but he also relates the fascinating natural histories of these animals.― National Geographic Totally fascinating.― FiveThirtyEight The arms race that created the stinger hypodermic, and its biochemical warfare toxins, was a direct result of communal nesting, because the greater risk of predation demanded a formidable defensive strategy. This is the evolutionary theme through which the author lovingly interjects his own personal anecdotes.― BBC Wildlife Magazine It's hard to imagine a nature book being more fascinating and fun.― Virgin Radio UK In addition to providing colorful, connoisseur-grade descriptions of the pain caused by stings, The Sting of the Wild provides all sorts of information about stinging insects.― Newser Beautifully written . . . like nothing else you have ever read.― NPR's Science Friday Full of adventure, humor and Schmidt's impressive scholarship.― Redlands Daily Facts Schmidt, an entomologist at the Southwestern Biological Institute, is an excellent writer. He can write clear, engaging explanations of sting evolution and venom chemistry, as well as spin a good yarn about his adventures collecting stinging insects. I enjoyed his dry, judiciously applied, wit.― Pica Hudsonia The Sting of the Wild weaves [Schmidt's] theories about stinging insects through a narrative of his personal experiences digging in the dirt. For many readers, the highlight of the book will be the appendix, his celebrated Pain Scale for Stinging Insects, which rates the pain level of dozens of insect stings, an index he created mostly by firsthand experience, either by suffering stings incidentally during field research or, in some cases, by inducing them. Because stings of the same magnitude don’t necessarily feel the same, Schmidt has written haiku-like descriptions for each of the 83 sting entries.― New York Times Magazine The Sting of the Wild is a delicate and highly refreshing glimpse into the private mind of a professional scientist.  ― Times Literary Supplement Schmidt’s story is really new, refreshing, and thoroughly entertaining.― Journal of Natural History This is an informative and engaging story about the fascinating lives behind the insects that you may just think of as very annoying visitors at picnics.― The Biologist [A] surprisingly joyful book. . . Schmidt does a good job of passing on his boundless enthusiasm for insects. The sting of the wild is an easy read, packed with chemistry and anecdotes.― Chemistry World The Sting of the Wild sheds light on the mysteries of stinging insects in a delightful and humorous narration. I recommend the book to every entomologist, ecologist, and naturalist interested in exploring the impressive world of Hymenoptera.― American Entomologist Anecdotes of field encounters with research subjects (and some incidentally encountered forest and desert coinhabitants) are woven throughout and bring readers close to what it feels like to be a field biologist. I will not spoil these dispatches fromthe front lines of venom, other than tomention that amongmy favorites were the author’s adventures with a large Bushmaster snake (a tropical viper) at night in the rain forest, a venomspraying species of wasp nesting above a tropical cliff, and the giant Asian honey bee (again at night) with a team of lucky (?) coworkers. If this cast of animal characters piques your curiosity, I am confident you will thoroughly enjoy The Sting of the Wild.This volume represents the best kind of natural history writing―a treasure trove of solid and fascinating biology cleverly disguised as a good read.― The Quarterly Review of Biology The Sting of the Wild is a great book for lay readers. Think of it as insect gossip, though verified gossip, of course. It has that convivial tone of sharing what's going on with the Jones, but the Jones are killer bees... You don't have to be a bug lover to enjoy The Sting of the Wild . I sure am not one, but nature is endlessly inventive and Schmidt knows how to make her inventions interesting and enjoyable.― Tonstant Weader You’ll feel only pleasure and no pain when you read this captivating, accessible, and sometimes humorous account of Justin Schmidt’s life with stinging insects; the wasps, ants, and bees. Schmidt recounts fascinating adventures and encounters of the stinging kind. Expect to be both informed and delighted as you read about his tales from the field and laboratory. This book is a must-read for naturalists, hikers, entomologists, and everyone who enjoys being outdoors.―Stephen Buchmann, author of The Reason for Flowers: Their History, Culture, Biology, and How They Change Our Lives It's no wonder Justin Schmidt is known as the 'Connoisseur of Pain' and 'The King of Sting.' As an entomologist who has savored the stings of insects from all over the world, from the bullet ant to the yellow jacket, Schmidt serves as the perfect guide to these tiny and exquisitely painful creatures. A fascinating blend of science, storytelling, and adventure, Sting of the Wild is a must-read for anyone who has ever looked at a wasp with wonder, but not dared to get too close. Justin Schmidt dared to get close, and, fortunately for us, he lived to tell the tale.―Amy Stewart, New York Times bestselling author of Wicked Bugs: The Louse that Conquered Napoleon's Army and Other Diabolical Insects It is impossible to read this book without feeling things crawl up your leg or hearing angry buzzing. The world’s greatest expert on insect stings describes his experiences with cow-killers, fire ants, yellow jackets, killer bees, giant hornets, and all those other pain-inflicting creatures, while offering an evolutionary account of their defenses.―Frans de Waal, author of Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are? Review It is impossible to read this book without feeling things crawl up your leg or hearing angry buzzing. The world’s greatest expert on insect stings describes his experiences with cow-killers, fire ants, yellow jackets, killer bees, giant hornets, and all those other pain-inflicting creatures, while offering an evolutionary account of their defenses. -- Frans de Waal Book Description The “King of Sting” describes his adventures with insects and the pain scale that’s made him a scientific celebrity. From the Inside Flap Entomologist Justin O. Schmidt is on a mission. Some say it's a brave exploration, others shake their heads in disbelief. His goal? To compare the impacts of stinging insects on humans, mainly using himself as the test case. In The Sting of the Wild , the colorful Dr. Schmidt takes us on a journey inside the lives of stinging insects. He explains how and why they attack and reveals the powerful punch they can deliver with a small venom gland and a "sting," the name for the apparatus that delivers the venom. We learn which insects are the worst to encounter and why some are barely worth considering. The Sting of the Wild includes the complete Schmidt Sting Pain Index, published here for the first time. In addition to a numerical ranking of the agony of each of the eighty-three stings he's sampled so far, Schmidt describes them in prose worthy of a professional wine critic: "Looks deceive. Rich and full-bodied in appearance, but flavorless" and "Pure, intense, brilliant pain. Like walking over flaming charcoal with a three-inch nail embedded in your heel." Schmidt explains that, for some insects, stinging is used for hunting: small wasps, for example, can paralyze huge caterpillars for long enough to lay eggs inside them, so that their larvae emerge within a living feast. Others are used to kill competing insects, even members of their own species. Humans usually experience stings as defensive maneuvers used by insects to protect their nest mates. With colorful descriptions of each venom's sensation and a story that leaves you tingling with awe, The Sting of the Wild 's one-of-a-kind style will fire your imagination. Schmidt's tales will prove infectiously engaging even to entomophobes.-- Publishers Weekly Even though the pain-laced topic might leave you wincing, Schmidt's engaging and entertaining writing makes for a tale worth reading.-- Scientific American [Schmidt's] low-down on sting biochemistry and physiology is relentlessly zestful, even as he recounts the swelling, burning consequences of his curiosity.-- Nature On Schmidt's pain scale, this book rates a zero--painless. On the pleasure scale, it rates a ten, a highly enjoyable read.-- Natural History Readers who share my fascination with the natural world, and particularly those who revel in unusual animal facts, will love The Sting of the Wild .-- Between the Covers An excellent book.-- Newsweek The Sting of the Wild is full of the stories of science of stings. Schmidt is an engaging writer, and his youthful enthusiasm for scary critters makes for a book that will sometimes scare you and sometimes make you double over with laughter . . . It's a masterpiece of nature writing.-- Nature's Cool Green Science If you're interested in bugs of any kind, and especially the notorious ones, this book will entertain, educate, and excite.-- Discover Magazine Not only does he explain his Schmidt Sting Pain Index, wherein he rates the pain of numerous stings on a scale of one to four, but he also relates the fascinating natural histories of these animals.-- National Geographic Totally fascinating.-- FiveThirtyEight It's hard to imagine a nature book being more fascinating and fun.-- Virgin Radio UK In addition to providing colorful, connoisseur-grade descriptions of the pain caused by stings, The Sting of the Wild provides all sorts of information about stinging insects.-- Newser Beautifully written . . . like nothing else you have ever read.--NPR's Science Friday Full of adventure, humor and Schmidt's impressive scholarship.--Redlands Daily Facts Schmidt, an entomologist at the Southwestern Biological Institute, is an excellent writer. He can write clear, engaging explanations of sting evolution and venom chemistry, as well as spin a good yarn about his adventures collecting stinging insects. I enjoyed his dry, judiciously applied, wit.-- Pica Hudsonia The Sting of the Wild weaves [Schmidt's] theories about stinging insects through a narrative of his personal experiences digging in the dirt. For many readers, the highlight of the book will be the appendix, his celebrated Pain Scale for Stinging Insects, which rates the pain level of dozens of insect stings, an index he created mostly by firsthand experience, either by suffering stings incidentally during field research or, in some cases, by inducing them. Because stings of the same magnitude don't necessarily feel the same, Schmidt has written haiku-like descriptions for each of the 83 sting entries.-- New York Times Magazine A delicate and highly refreshing glimpse into the private mind of a professional scientist.-- Times Literary Supplement Schmidt's story is really new, refreshing, and thoroughly entertaining.-- Journal of Natural History This is an informative and engaging story about the fascinating lives behind the insects that you may just think of as very annoying visitors at picnics.-- The Biologist [A] surprisingly joyful book . . . Schmidt does a good job of passing on his boundless enthusiasm for insects. The Sting of the Wild is an easy read, packed with chemistry and anecdotes.-- Chemistry World The Sting of the Wild s heds light on the mysteries of stinging insects in a delightful and humorous narration. I recommend the book to every entomologist, ecologist, and naturalist interested in exploring the impressive world of Hymenoptera.-- American Entomologist A good read, with valuable evolutionary context for bees and their insect relatives interwoven with entertaining travel tales of an engaged entomologist.-- American Bee Journal Justin O. Schmidt is a biologist at Southwestern Biological Institute and is associated with the Department of Entomology at the University of Arizona. He is the coeditor of Insect Defenses: Adaptive Mechanisms and Strategies of Prey and Predators . --Amy Stewart, New York Times bestselling author of Wicked Bugs: The Louse that Conquered Napoleon's Army and Other Diabolical Insects "Tonstant Weader" From the Back Cover Entomologist Justin O. Schmidt is on a mission. Some say it’s a brave exploration, others shake their heads in disbelief. His goal? To compare the impacts of stinging insects on humans, mainly using himself as the test case. In The Sting of the Wild , the colorful Dr. Schmidt takes us on a journey inside the lives of stinging insects. He explains how and why they attack and reveals the powerful punch they can deliver with a small venom gland and a “sting,” the name for the apparatus that delivers the venom. We learn which insects are the worst to encounter and why some are barely worth considering. The Sting of the Wild includes the complete Schmidt Sting Pain Index, published here for the first time. In addition to a numerical ranking of the agony of each of the eighty-three stings he’s sampled so far, Schmidt describes them in prose worthy of a professional wine critic: “Looks deceive. Rich and full-bodied in appearance, but flavorless” and “Pure, intense, brilliant pain. Like walking over flaming charcoal with a three-inch nail embedded in your heel.” Schmidt explains that, for some insects, stinging is used for hunting: small wasps, for example, can paralyze huge caterpillars for long enough to lay eggs inside them, so that their larvae emerge within a living feast. Others are used to kill competing insects, even members of their own species. Humans usually experience stings as defensive maneuvers used by insects to protect their nest mates. With colorful descriptions of each venom’s sensation and a story that leaves you tingling with awe, The Sting of the Wild ’s one-of-a-kind style will fire your imagination. "Schmidt's tales will prove infectiously engaging even to entomophobes."― Publishers Weekly "Even though the pain-laced topic might leave you wincing, Schmidt’s engaging and entertaining writing makes for a tale worth reading."― Scientific American "[Schmidt's] low-down on sting biochemistry and physiology is relentlessly zestful, even as he recounts the swelling, burning consequences of his curiosity."― Nature "On Schmidt's pain scale, this book rates a zero―painless. On the pleasure scale, it rates a ten, a highly enjoyable read."― Natural History "Readers who share my fascination with the natural world, and particularly those who revel in unusual animal facts, will love The Sting of the Wild ."― Between the Covers "An excellent book."― Newsweek " The Sting of the Wild is full of the stories of science of stings. Schmidt is an engaging writer, and his youthful enthusiasm for scary critters makes for a book that will sometimes scare you and sometimes make you double over with laughter . . . It’s a masterpiece of nature writing."― Nature's Cool Green Science "If you’re interested in bugs of any kind, and especially the notorious ones, this book will entertain, educate, and excite."― Discover Magazine "Not only does he explain his Schmidt Sting Pain Index, wherein he rates the pain of numerous stings on a scale of one to four, but he also relates the fascinating natural histories of these animals."― National Geographic "Totally fascinating."― FiveThirtyEight "It's hard to imagine a nature book being more fascinating and fun."― Virgin Radio UK "In addition to providing colorful, connoisseur-grade descriptions of the pain caused by stings, The Sting of the Wild provides all sorts of information about stinging insects."― Newser "Beautifully written . . . like nothing else you have ever read."―NPR's Science Friday "Full of adventure, humor and Schmidt's impressive scholarship."―Redlands Daily Facts "Schmidt, an entomologist at the Southwestern Biological Institute, is an excellent writer. He can write clear, engaging explanations of sting evolution and venom chemistry, as well as spin a good yarn about his adventures collecting stinging insects. I enjoyed his dry, judiciously applied, wit."― Pica Hudsonia " The Sting of the Wild weaves [Schmidt's] theories about stinging insects through a narrative of his personal experiences digging in the dirt. For many readers, the highlight of the book will be the appendix, his celebrated Pain Scale for Stinging Insects, which rates the pain level of dozens of insect stings, an index he created mostly by firsthand experience, either by suffering stings incidentally during field research or, in some cases, by inducing them. Because stings of the same magnitude don’t necessarily feel the same, Schmidt has written haiku-like descriptions for each of the 83 sting entries."― New York Times Magazine "A delicate and highly refreshing glimpse into the private mind of a professional scientist."― Times Literary Supplement "Schmidt’s story is really new, refreshing, and thoroughly entertaining."― Journal of Natural History "This is an informative and engaging story about the fascinating lives behind the insects that you may just think of as very annoying visitors at picnics."― The Biologist "[A] surprisingly joyful book . . . Schmidt does a good job of passing on his boundless enthusiasm for insects. The Sting of the Wild is an easy read, packed with chemistry and anecdotes."― Chemistry World " The Sting of the Wild s heds light on the mysteries of stinging insects in a delightful and humorous narration. I recommend the book to every entomologist, ecologist, and naturalist interested in exploring the impressive world of Hymenoptera."― American Entomologist "A good read, with valuable evolutionary context for bees and their insect relatives interwoven with entertaining travel tales of an engaged entomologist."― American Bee Journal Justin O. Schmidt is a biologist at Southwestern Biological Institute and is associated with the Department of Entomology at the University of Arizona. He is the coeditor of Insect Defenses: Adaptive Mechanisms and Strategies of Prey and Predators . About the Author Justin O. Schmidt was a biologist at the Southwestern Biological Institute and is associated with the Department of Entomology at the University of Arizona. He is the coeditor of Insect Defenses: Adaptive Mechanisms and Strategies of Prey and Predators. Read more

Creatures of the Rock: A Veterinarian's Adventures in Newfoundland

Review Winner of the Newfoundland and Labrador Non-Fiction AwardFinalist for the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour “ Creatures of the Rock is a truly great read about an astounding life-long adventure. Funny, heartfelt and so insightful I think I have a good shot at birthing a cow if called upon in an emergency.” —Rick Mercer"Peacock writes with charm." — Toronto Star “Peacock’s keen ear for dialogue draws readers in and makes the stories come alive. . . . Peacock’s wry humour contributes greatly to his storytelling. . . . An ode to his adopted province and the creatures he serves in his practice. Creatures of the Rock provides readers with the opportunity to learn something new and be entertained at the same time.” —Winnipeg Free Press “Poignant and well-told.” — Publishers Weekly "Since 1970, when Alf Wight, under the pen name James Herriot, began his enormously successful All Creatures Great and Small series. . . others have tried to emulate his folksy, self-deprecating style. Peacock succeeds. His humorous anecdotes flow with an effortlessness that marks a true storyteller. . . . Downright hilarious." — Maclean's “His stories show the dark side of life as well as the charmingly light. . . . Readers will also enjoy the author’s self-deprecating humour and fondness for colourful detail in stories that illuminate his deep regard and warmth for the people and places—and animals—of his adopted province.” — Guelph Mercury "Peacock uses humour, real-life drama to share rural Newfoundland with the world.” — The Southern Gazette (Newfoundland)“Wondrous funny. Creatures of the Rock is a book for anyone who has ever loved an animal. These are astonishing stories, told with self-deprecating humour and deep affection for Newfoundland’s creatures, great and small. Andrew Peacock inspires us to be curious, renews our sense of wonder, and reminds us that home is where the creatures are. A marvel of a book.” —Jessica Grant, author of Come, Thou Tortoise About the Author ANDREW PEACOCK was born in Toronto and raised in the town of Kapuskasing in northern Ontario. After finishing degrees in biology at Trent University and veterinary medicine at the University of Guelph he moved with his wife to the small fishing village of Freshwater on the island of Newfoundland. As a veterinarian he worked in a mixed animal practice in rural Newfoundland from 1982 until 2010. He is now retired from clinical practice and works for the Newfoundland and Labrador College of Veterinarians. Andrew and his wife previously owned an independent bookstore named "Waterwords" in the town of Carbonear. His family, writing, music, photography and love of the outdoors keep him very busy and happy.

Canyon Sacrifice (National Park Mystery Series)

Review "Graham has created a beautifully balanced book, incorporating intense action scenes, depth of characterization, realistic landscapes, and historical perspective." — REVIEWING THE EVIDENCE "This riveting series debut showcases Graham's love of nature and archeology, simultaneously interjecting some serious excitement. Graham is to be commended for weaving together several cultures into one story. Recommend to readers who enjoy Tony Hillerman, Nevada Barr, and C.J. Box's Joe Pickett series." — LIBRARY JOURNAL "A gripping tale of kidnapping and murder…in a style similar to mysteries by Tony Hillerman." — ALBUQUERQUE JOURNAL "Graham has created a story of richness and depth…Graham's comfort and familiarity with his subject make the story an enjoyable read." — DURANGO HERALD "A riveting mystery…Graham takes readers intimately into the setting, his knowledge of the places he writes about apparent at every turn." — DURANGO TELEGRAPH "A terrific debut novel." — C.J. BOX , New York Times bestselling author of Stone Cold "The real star of this engrossing mystery novel is the Grand Canyon itself. Scott Graham clearly knows the territory. Graham delivers a glorious portrait of one of the most compelling landscapes on earth, a place that can kill just as easily as it thrills. This is a topnotch read." — WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER , New York Times bestselling author of Tamarack County " Canyon Sacrifice delivers it all and then some." — MARGARET COEL , New York Times bestselling author of Killing Custer "Bring an extra–large bowl of popcorn while you read Sacrifice in one sitting." — C.M. WENDELBOE , author of Death on the Greasy Grass "In this gripping, imaginative mystery set in Grand Canyon National Park, ancient Anasazi culture collides with the modern world in the most unexpected of ways. Like Tony Hillerman, Scott Graham uses his deep knowledge of the region to fashion a thrilling, compulsively readable story." — FRANK HUYLER , author of The Blood of Strangers "As unpredictable and twisty as a switchback trail plummeting into its depths, Graham's thriller sucks you into the mysteries of the canyon and the story of an unsuspecting family whose lives will never be the same." — TED BOTHA , author of The Girl With the Crooked Nose "Graham deftly weaves a first–rate mystery through the caves and canyons and winding roads of the Grand Canyon. If you've been, you'll immediately be drawn into the story. If you've never been, this may be your motivation to buy the ticket! I can't wait to read which national park he tackles next!" — TRICIA FIELDS , Hillerman Prize–winning author of Scratchgravel Road About the Author SCOTT GRAHAM is the author of the acclaimed National Park Mystery series, featuring archaeologist Chuck Bender and Chuck's spouse, Janelle Ortega. In addition to the National Park Mystery series, Scott is the author of five nonfiction books, including Extreme Kids , winner of the National Outdoor Book Award. Scott is an avid outdoorsman who enjoys backpacking, river rafting, skiing, and mountaineering. He has made a living as a newspaper reporter, magazine editor, radio disk jockey, and coal–shoveling fireman on the steam–powered Durango–Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad. He lives with his spouse, who is an emergency physician, in Durango, Colorado.

The Little Free Library Book (Books in Action)

Review “ The Little Free Library Book , a 200-page hardcover published by Minneapolis-based Coffee House Press and written by Twin Cities author Margret Aldrich, explains the history and the philosophy of LFL creator Todd Bol, stories of stewards around the world, tips for starting and curating a Little Library, building plans and 350 color photos of the most creative libraries.” ― Pioneer Press “ The Little Free Library Book is both an entertaining read and an inspiring one. Aldrich writes with a clear, journalistic ease. The prose is informative but shot through with an obvious affection for her subject.” ― Star Tribune “[ The Little Free Library Book ] is the definitive guide to a phenomenon.” ― MinnPost "In April, Coffee House Press in Minneapolis will publish The Little Free Library Book , a book that documents library owners from all over the world." ― Chicago Tribune “Both primer and inspiration, a history & a guide for how to get involved" ― Los Angeles Times “A charming book.” ― Isthmus “[Margret Aldrich] profiles Little Free Libraries with distinct creative flair and the citizen librarians behind them.” ― The Capital Times " The Little Free Library Book , is something entirely unique and exciting to read. . . . The Little Free Library Book has pictures galore for inspiration, how-to instructions for those looking to start their own LFL, and first hand experiences from Aldrich herself, as well as from founder Todd Bol, and from LFL stewards around the world.” ― Hazel & Wren “Bol’s grassroots story and those of many Little Free Library caretakers are told in Margret Aldrich’s delightful new book, The Little Free Library Book ” ― SF Gate “A beautiful coffee table book.” ― Book Riot "Stewards across the globe can be found within the [Little Free Library Book's] pages, along with helpful how-to's for any question you can conjure, professional blueprints for building your own LFL, and photos of some of the coolest Libraries around." ― Loft “Say what you will about the current state of American society, we’ve still got some small pockets of democratic beauty around our country.” ― Secrets of the City “The organization is also celebrating the launch of the The Little Free Library Book , which highlights the people behind the movement, written by Minneapolis-based author and Little Free Library steward Margaret Aldrich.” ― Bring Me The News “Now that movement has it’s own book chronicling the history of the idea, along with a collection of unusual and poignant firsthand stories from owners, and a resource guide for how to get the most out of your own Little Free Library. There are also a plethora of photos of unique and and inspired Little Free Libraries to spark your creative juices." ― L'etoile “ Book Riot contributor Margret Aldrich‘s The Little Free Library Book , available for preorder, comes out from Coffee House Press. Isn’t the cover beautiful? I need this book!” ― Book Riot "Lovers of books and libraries will adore this title, as will readers interested in folk art or successful grassroots movements. Be warned, Little Free Libraries are sure to spring up wherever this book is available." ― Library Journal, *starred review* “The Little Free Library Book is a colorful book that’s nearly as charming as the tiny libraries themselves.” ― Isthmus “Twenty-five thousand Little Free Libraries later, there’s a handy coffee table book, The Little Free Library Book, that details some 300 colorful examples and blueprints for building your own.” ― Milwaukee Magazine “Margret Aldrich chronicles the movement that began in 2009 with the simple concept of “take a book, return a book” in The Little Free Library Book, which includes photos, helpful how-tos, and professional blueprints.” ― Experience Life Magazine “Well-conceived and delightfully accessible . . . It’s not a simple story, but Aldrich captures its idiosyncratic contours simply by telling the stories of stewards from around the world.” ― Public Art Review “ The Little Free Library Book offers a wonderful collection of stories and pictures of Libraries around the world―why people got involved and how they have benefited. It also offers tips for builders, sponsors, organizers and users, and other projects that capitalize on the same values that make Little Free Libraries so successful.” ― Little Observationist “[ The Little Free Library Book ] has wonderful photos, tells the history of the idea, and gives you some ideas to create your own little free library.” ― Tales from an Open Book About the Author Margret Aldrich is a freelance writer and editor. Her articles have appeared in the Utne Reader, Experience Life! , and elsewhere. She lives in Minneapolis with her family.

A Surgeon in the Village: An American Doctor Teaches Brain Surgery in Africa

Review “Bartelme writes knowingly of the dedication of a valiant doctor determined to change how modern medicine interacts with the world.”— Publishers Weekly “Problem solving, improvising, and expressing compassion permeate this unusual and fascinating chronicle.”— Booklist “A lyrical, inspirational and altogether rewarding account of first- and third-world surgeons working together to perform neurosurgery miracles in the heart of Africa.”—Tom Brokaw, author of The Greatest Generation “ A Surgeon in the Village turns the modern philanthropic paradigm on its head. In this inspiring story of cultivating medical sustainability, Tony Bartelme teases out the human dimensions of neurosurgery and illustrates how connection and mentoring have the power to transform entire nations.”—Danielle Ofri, MD, PhD, author of What Patients Say, What Doctors Hear “This exceptionally well-written book, a compelling tribute to the human spirit and to generosity, brings into sharp focus the shortage of surgeons in sub-Saharan Africa. In poetic prose, Bartelme describes how a dedicated and caring mentor can transfer knowledge and neurosurgical skills to a Tanzanian clinician with little formal training so that the latter can perform simple neurosurgical procedures that save lives. This is a book that every student and practitioner of global surgery will find enjoyable and inspiring reading.”—Haile Debas, founding director of the University of California Global Health Institute“In A Surgeon in the Village , Tony Bartelme deftly weaves history and current affairs into a powerful story of redemption and hope. This book is a page-turner that will leave you transfixed and transformed.”—James M. Scott, 2016 Pulitzer Prize finalist for Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor About the Author Tony Bartelme has received numerous national awards for his investigative reports, including honors by the Scripps Foundation, Sigma Delta Chi, and Gerald Loeb Foundation. He has been a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize three times, including the series that is the basis for A Surgeon in the Village , which he spent four years researching and writing. He was the recipient of a 2011 Harvard University Nieman Fellowship and is a graduate of Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism. He is senior projects reporter for the Post and Courier , in Charleston, South Carolina, where he lives.

The Field of Blood: Violence in Congress and the Road to Civil War

Review A New York Times Notable Book of 2018 An NPR Best Book of 2018 One of Smithsonian's Best History Books of 2018 Finalist for the Gilder Lehrman Lincoln Prize Semifinalist for the PEN/ John Kenneth Galbraith Award "Given the enormous literature on the Civil War era, it’s difficult for a historian to say something genuinely new, but Freeman has managed to do just that . . . Freeman is a meticulous researcher and a vivid writer, and The Field of Blood makes for entertaining reading." ―Eric Foner, The London Review of Books "An impressive feat of research . . . Freeman's story [. . .] has elements of both horror and slapstick . . . The Field of Blood [. . . ] feels current. The political discourse it documents, if not the level of political violence, is alarmingly familiar in our own time . . ." ―Andrew Delbanco, The Nation "Superb . . . Freeman has written a smartly argued, diligently researched, even groundbreaking book." ―Eric Herschtal, The New Republic "Absorbing, scrupulously researched . . . Freeman uncovers the brawls, stabbings, pummelings, and duel threats that occurred among United States congressmen during the three decades just before the Civil War.... Men and women crowded the Congressional galleries with the expectation of seeing entertaining outbreaks, much the way fans of professional wrestling or hockey do today . . . But Freeman never loses sight of the fact that fighting in Congress was far more than a sport." ―David S. Reynolds, The New York Times Book Review “A superb, serious, authoritative, lively, occasionally amusing work of scholarly bravura . . . Freeman’s research is prodigious, her scholarship unimpeachable. By shifting her gaze from the conventionally cited causes of the Civil War, she has deepened our understanding of its coming. ” ―James M. Banner, Jr., The Weekly Standard "Fascinating . . . [ Field of Blood ] demonstrates the historic truth of an observation by black activist H. Rap Brown in the 1960s: ‘Violence is a part of America’s culture; it is as American as cherrypie.’ . . . [Joanne B.] Freeman’s book goes far toward explaining why there was a Civil War." ― H.W. Brands, The Wall Street Journal "In her vivid and remarkable new book . . . Joanne B. Freeman puts dozens of forgotten episodes of political violence into stark context . . . Freeman's wry touch and appreciation for the absurdities of politics – and politicians – give the book a burst of energy and readability. Most vitally, the story she tells has heightened relevance in our own tumultuous era." ―Randy Dotinga, Christian Science Monitor "Freeman's research, both archival and secondary, is stunning ... [her] prose is clear and accessible ... [a] superb volume, which should stand for years as one of the most important books on the antebellum era." ―Douglas R. Egerton, Civil War Book Review “Compelling and enlightening . . . Freeman’s pathbreaking book should be read by anyone interested in Congress, the Civil War or American history in general.” ―Roger Bishop, BookPage “Leavened by the author’s wry wit, the book is a page turning triumph of narrative history, deeply researched and persuasively argued. It explains, more lucidly than ever before, “the wrenching experience of plotting a political path in a nation behind torn in two.” ―Brian Matthew Jordan, New York Journal of Books “With narrative flair and scholarly gravitas, Joanne Freeman has given us a powerful and original account of a ferociously divided America. For readers who think things in the first decades of the 21st century have never been worse, Freeman’s portrait of a tempestuous and tumultuous U.S. Congress offers a sobering and illuminating corrective. She shows us that the battles of the Civil War began not at Fort Sumter but in the U.S. Capitol, providing a new and compelling angle of vision on the origins of what Lincoln called our ‘fiery trial.’” ―Jon Meacham, author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning The American Lion “In 1861, Americans grimly set to slaughtering the better part of a million of their fellow citizens. It was the most extraordinary break in the nation’s history―and Joanne Freeman charts its approach in an extraordinary new way. With insightful analysis and vivid detail, she explores the human relationships among congressmen before the Civil War, and finds a culture of astonishing violence. In fistfights, duels, and mass brawls, her innovative account detects steps toward disunion―and changes how we think about political history.” ―T.J. Stiles, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Custer’s Trials “Joanne B. Freeman’s erudition―and humor―are their own accomplishment, but it’s remarkable a masterful work on the disruptive state of the Union arrives precisely at this time. There could be no better guide. I’m left wondering whether America is in a state of disrepair or still in the process of being born.” ―Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, author of Random Family “Those who deplore the hyperpartisanship and decline of civility in contemporary American politics as unprecedented need to know more history. As Joanne Freeman makes clear in this compelling account, party strife, personal honor, and above all the slavery controversy brought unparalleled mayhem to the floors of Congress in the generation before the Civil War. Southern bullying and growing Northern resistance in the House and Senate foreshadowed the battlefields of 1861-1865.” ― James McPherson, emeritus professor of history Princeton University and author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning Battle Cry of Freedom “Joanne Freeman puts us on the tumultuous and touchy floor of Congress during its most contentious and momentous years. In a story researched and written with bold energy, she chronicles a young America brawling its way toward war. The personalities and conflicts of long-forgotten duels and fights leap to life, speaking to our own time with surprising relevance.” ―Edward L. Ayers, author of The Thin Light of Freedom , winner of the Lincoln Prize “Joanne Freeman of Yale calls attention to the scandalously frequent role of violence in the United States Congress across 28 tense years culminating in the Civil War. She describes many varieties of Congressional violence, including bullying, fighting in the halls of Congress, fisticuffs, guns, knives, duels and threats of duels. With painstaking research, she penetrates the conspiracy of silence imposed by sources frequently reluctant to publicize the embarrassing truth. The reader is surprised that such an important story should have waited so long to be told.” ―Daniel Walker Howe, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of What Hath God Wrought “Congress in the 19th Century was a violent place to work. Legislators let out their sectional rage on each other, throwing punches and wielding weapons, in an institution that made our current politics look downright tame. In her riveting narrative, Joanne Freeman unpacks this volatile world to explain why the relations between elected officials became so brutal.” ―Julian Zelizer is a political historian at Princeton University and author of The Fierce Urgency of Now "[Freeman] excavates a little-discussed aspect of American history in this scholarly but brisk and accessible account . . . French’s long-standing friendship with the unmemorable Franklin Pierce provides fresh insight into the political culture of the time, and the descriptions of the tragicomic Cilley-Graves duel and the horrific caning of Charles Sumner are detailed and thoughtful . . . Freeman grants followers of modern politics a look back at another fascinating, impassioned period of change in which Congress became full of 'distrust, defensiveness, and degradation,' mimicking the constituents at home." ― Publisher's Weekly "A finely researched and well-written examination of the often overlooked legislative breakdown that preceded the Civil War." ― Booklist "A thought-provoking and insightful read for anybody interested in American politics in the lead up to the Civil War." ― Library Journal (Starred Review) About the Author Joanne B. Freeman , a professor of history and American studies at Yale University, is a leading authority on early national politics and political culture. Author of the award-winning Affairs of Honor: National Politics in the New Republic and editor of The Essential Hamilton and Alexander Hamilton: Writings , she is a cohost of the popular history podcast BackStory .

What a Picture's Worth (Creative Woman Mysteries)

The Woman Who Couldn't Scream: A Novel (The Virtue Falls Series, 4)

Review Praise for The Woman Who Couldn't Scream: "Dodd's new title delivers complex storytelling, a rollicking pace, and surprising twists and turns, plus sly humor, a touch of the supernatural, and a full cast of interesting and diverse characters. Readers will be thrilled to get back to Virtue Falls." ― Kirkus Reviews "Tense, taut, and beautifully paced, this latest addition to Dodd's series is another stunner; it will appeal to romance and suspense fans alike." ― Library Journal ( starred review) Praise for Because I’m Watching: “ Two emotionally damaged characters find hope, self-forgiveness, and love in this exquisitely crafted, modern version of Gaslight that hooks readers and keeps them mesmerized until the end. A chilling and gripping tale, beautifully done.” ― Library Journal (starred review) "Romantic suspense favorite Dodd heads back to Virtue Falls for another smart, dramatic mystery that will keep readers flipping pages until the very end, with unexpected twists, psychological tension, and emotional depth...Another Virtue Falls winner." ― Kirkus Reviews (starred review) Praise for Obsession Falls: “Dodd delivers another white-knuckle tale of romantic suspense...The plot’s twists and turns are handled with a positively Hitchcockian touch, while the brilliantly etched characters, polished writing, and unexpected flashes of sharp humor are pure Dodd.” ― Booklist (starred review) “This one is impossible to put down. A remarkable, mesmerizing series.” ― Library Journal (starred review) Praise for Virtue Falls: "A winning read. Intense and suspenseful, with touches of romance, humor and mysticism." ― Kirkus Reviews "Mega talent Dodd returns with a truly stunning work of mystery, danger and romance." ― Romantic Times (Top Pick)“Dodd slowly ratchets up the suspense level to the breaking point, while introducing readers to the diverse and quirky characters…a nail-biting book.” ― Booklist From the Author Connect with Christina Dodd Amazon - Follow me at the Christina Dodd page amazon.com/-/e/B001H6TZG6 About the Author New York Times bestseller Christina Dodd writes "Edge-of-the-seat suspense." --(Iris Johansen) with "brilliantly etched characters, polished writing, and unexpected flashes of sharp humor that are pure Dodd." (ALA Booklist) Her 55+ books have been called "Scary, sexy, and smartly written" by Booklist, and much to her mother's delight, Dodd was once a clue in the Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle. Enter Christina's worlds at christinadodd.com and join her mailing list for humor, book sales and entertainment (yes, she's the proud author with the infamous three-armed cover.) Read more

Fatal Fixer-Upper (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery)

From Publishers Weekly Like an ornate Victorian house, Bentley's debut mystery is built on a solid foundation but winds up laden with gewgaws and light on practical basics. New York textile designer Avery Marie Baker inherits a run-down New England manse from a reclusive aunt who died under mysterious circumstances. Avery is little and cunning and pouts a lot, and she's about as bright as her boy friend's crowbar. She instantly suspects dislikable people of having a hand in her aunt's death, while completely missing blatant clues pointing to the killer. Avery soon winds up in predictable anticlimactic peril, waiting for buff handyman Derek Ellis to rescue her. The characters and the town are charming, but without any real suspense—except whether Avery can convince Derek to let her mosaic tile the kitchen counter—there's no substance to the mystery. (Nov.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Review "A terrific new series."—Diana Killian, author of Death in a Difficult Position "Original, adorable, fast-paced and fun...Jennie Bentley is a charming new voice."—Hank Phillippi Ryan, author of Say No More Review Nashville author Jennie Bentley's new novel Fatal Fixer-upper offers the first adventure of arguably the most unlikely sleuth imaginable. Crime solving isn't exactly Avery Baker's forte. Not only is she not a former or current police officer, detective or private investigator, but Baker's not even interested in reading mystery fiction, let alone being in the center of a case. She's been a New York textile designer, but now her passion is home renovation. The current target is her aunt's crumbling home, which she first has to clean up before putting it on the market. While she'd prefer to just unload the property, and has even found someone who will buy it immediately, her motivation changes once she discovers how much its value will increase with just a few strategic repairs. But just as things get moving regarding the renovation, and Baker's found a new ally in handyman Derek Ellis, her life gets turned upside down. It seems that there's more to her aunt's dilapidated dwelling than just a house falling apart. There's a connection between her aunt's property and a professor who disappeared under questionable circumstances. Baker becomes more curious as she begins finding clues linking the house and the missing man, even though she sometimes just stumbles on them because she's far from a polished investigator. However, Baker is good enough to soon begin unraveling the truth, and that subsequently gets her life threatened. Fatal Fixer-upper doesn't unfold like a standard mystery yarn. Bentley develops the character of Ellis while supplying a solid and clever crime caper. Baker can be impulsive, shrewd, stubborn or misguided, and her sense of adventure can be a plus one minute and a major detriment the next. Bentley also offers plenty of detail and information about the personalities of home renovators, showing that often fixing a home can be an exasperating, difficult task. Baker's already uncertain about handling a property in her family, and once other problems begin surfacing, she's even more concerned. Billed as a "do-it-yourself mystery," Fatal Fixer-upper smartly blends investigative drama, sexual tension and romantic comedy elements, and marks the start of what looks like an outstanding series of Avery Baker cases.Billed as a "do-it-yourself mystery," Fatal Fixer-upper smartly blends investigative drama, sexual tension and romantic comedy elements, and marks the start of what looks like an outstanding series of Avery Baker cases. Review 4 1/2 stars ...the mystery is unusually strong. Home renovation and design tips are skillfully worked into the story, the characters are developed and sympathetic, and the setting is charming. The climax leads to a bang-up ending in which the intelligent heroine has to either save herself or lose all... A missing professor, disappearing antiques and old secrets all combine for a first-rate mystery and a frightening surprise ending. Review Avery Baker has an idyllic life: great job, great guy, rent-controlled apartment in New York City. When she gets a letter from a 90-something relative in Maine - it mentions family secrets and the need to set things right - Avery isn't eager to head north. But her boss/beau gives her time off and she heads to main in a rented car. Upon arrival in Waterfield, however, Avery discovers that Great Aunt Inga is dead and a handwritten will names Avery as sole heir - heir to a Victorian monstrosity that needs lots of TLC to enhance its marketability. Avery strikes a deal with a local renovator (a real hunk and single) to work with her to restore Aunt Inga's home. In between removing wallpaper and old linoleum, Avery uncovers what may be the family secrets Aunt Inga's letter referred to. Soon Avery comes to believe the old lady's death was something other than the accident it was ruled. She also discovers a link between Aunt Inga and a missing college professor. Like many heroines in cozy mystery series, Avery begins her adventure in detection upon receiving a surprise inheritance - in that way it's reminiscent of Nancy Atherton's Aunt Dimity mysteries. And like them, Fatal Fixer-Upper is definitely in super-cozy territory with no real "on-screen" violence. Fatal Fixer-Upper's polished writing and well-paced story set it a notch or two above many first novels. Some books take awhile to get into - but I was hooked on Fatal Fixer-Upper from page one. I particularly appreciate the author's ability to make do with a small cast -- so many first-time authors overpopulate their books. Fatal Fixer-Upper is a fun read that's just the ticket when readers crave escapism.If you find yourself renting Miss Marple DVDs or you still get chills when you hear the Mystery theme song, Nashvillian Jennie Bentley has written a book for you. Fatal Fixer-Upper is a cozy whodunit with many elements familiar to fans of Agatha Christie or Murder, She Wrote. Spooky old house? Check. A professor's mysterious disappearance? Check. Romance with a strapping handyman? Check. About the Author Jennie Bentley is the New York Times bestselling author of the Do-It-Yourself Mysteries. The Prime Crime home renovation series features textile designer Avery Baker and her handyman boyfriend, Derek Ellis, who renovate houses in Maine. She also writes under the name Jenna Bennett. Read more

Eminent Dogs, Dangerous Men

From the Back Cover There is a Scottish saying: "There is no good flock without a good shepherd, and there is no good shepherd without a good dog." Eminent Dogs, Dangerous Men is the story of Donald McCaig's search through rural Scotland for just the right sheepdog to bring back to his farm in America. Beyond the vivid stories of his Scottish travels, McCaig delves into the mysterious pact between dog and man, which involves trust and deep communication. Traveling from town to town to competitions and farms, meeting shepherds and trainers, McCaig introduces us to unforgettable animal and human characters. This is a book not only for dog lovers, but for anyone interest in the communication and trust between animal and human. (6 X 9, 240 pages, b&w photos)

The Big Ones: How Natural Disasters Have Shaped Us (and What We Can Do About Them)

Review *An Amazon Best Science Book of 2018* “In The Big Ones , Jones presents the history of natural disasters as the history of ourselves; looking back as a way to look forward.” — Los Angeles Times “This incredible book by leading seismologist Dr. Lucy Jones shows just how influential natural disasters are on life as we know it.” — Chicago Review of Books (The Best Nature Writing of 2018 So Far) “[A] bracing examination…This work could prove beneficial to all who live in an area prone to natural disasters, which is just about everyone.” — Publishers Weekly “For all her impressive expertise, Jones delivers a very accessible book—without sacrificing the scientific content, the text is sprinkled with relatable analogies to help readers better understand some of the more technical geological processes...Touching on environmental science, history, sustainability, plate tectonics, engineering, and design, this book is sure to have broad appeal.” — Library Journal “Lively and provocative.” — Los Angeles Review of Books “Jones is a gifted storyteller, making complex geologic concepts accessible and having fun along the way . . . And she provides hope that, when disaster strikes, communities will persevere.” — Shelf Awareness “Jones’ fascinating book takes a long view at natural events in order to help us understand our environment and to prepare for and survive natural disasters.” — BookPage “Seismologist Lucy Jones deploys arresting details to brilliant effect throughout The Big Ones .” — Maclean’s " The Big Ones is a timely and essential remembrance of how natural disasters have changed the world in dramatic ways. Lucy Jones is a first-rate storyteller and fine researcher." — Douglas Brinkley , New York Times bestselling author of Rightful Heritage and The Great Deluge “Nobody does a better job of explaining the science of disasters and the psychology of humans than Lucy Jones. This book is priceless—both as a history and a prophecy.” — Amanda Ripley , New York Times bestselling author of The Smartest Kids in the World and The Unthinkable About the Author DR. LUCY JONES was a seismologist for the U.S. Geological Survey for thirty years, most recently as Science Advisor for Risk Reduction. She created the Great ShakeOut Drill, an earthquake preparation experiment that by 2016 included 53 million participants around the world. A research associate at Caltech, she holds a PhD in geophysics from MIT and a BA in Chinese language and literature from Brown University. She lives in Southern California. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Brimstone and Fire from out of Heaven Pompeii, Roman Empire, AD 79 The earth rocked and shook, the bases of the mountains trembled and reeled because of God’s anger. —Psalm 18 We all know the story of Pompeii. An eruption of poisonous gases and heavy ash covered the Roman city some two thousand years ago, burying people in their houses, completely wiping out the city in a matter of days. We look back and see the inevitability of the destruction and pity the inhabitants for not knowing better. Who would build a city on the side of an active volcano? Tourists today visit what might be considered a parable for what happens when you build a community without regard for the threats around you, preserved for our edification and amusement. We assure ourselves we wouldn’t make the same mistake.Mount Vesuvius is a classic conical volcano rising over four thousand feet above the Bay of Naples. Its shape tells geologists much of what is going on inside. The massive cone demonstrates that lava comes out faster than erosion can wash it away, so it is active now and future eruptions are a certainty on the scale of geologic time. To rise up and form a mountain as it has, and not just flow as a liquid over the landscape, the lava must be fairly sticky (or viscous, to use the technical term). The sticky lava can hold in gases, at least for a while. That means that eruptions can be explosive. Alternating layers of volcanic ash, the result of explosive eruptions, and cooled lava are needed to grow the tallest mountains—a type called stratovolcanoes.So why build a city here, where the danger is so great? For the same reason that Seattle lies in the shadow of Mount Rainier, Tokyo looks up to Mount Fuji, and Jakarta is encircled by five active volcanoes, including Krakatau: when they aren’t erupting, volcanoes make great homes. Volcanic soils are porous with good drainage and lots of fresh nutrients, producing fertile crops. Deformation of the rocks around a volcano often creates good natural harbors and defensible valleys. Plate tectonics might guarantee that the next event will happen, but which generation will experience the extreme event is determined by chance. And to most human beings, as to the inhabitants of Pompeii in AD 79: if it hasn’t happened to me, it simply hasn’t happened.*Vesuvius’s eruption in the sixth century BC led the Osci tribes of that region, and the Roman conquerors who followed, to declare it the home of the god Vulcan. The periodic steam rising from it was a reminder that Vulcan was the smith of the gods, forging their weapons in a celestial furnace. But the volcanic soil was fertile, holding water and supporting some of the richest agriculture of the Roman empire, and so civilization flourished. Six hundred years without an eruption had made Vesuvius seem the definition of safe.By the beginning of the first century AD, several towns had been built on the side of the volcano, including Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Misenum. The region had been conquered by Rome in the third century BC, and it had become a flourishing, prosperous community. Excavations have found the remains of a thriving commercial center. Frescoes celebrate the craftsmen who wove and dyed cloth, a major local industry. A sprawling, open-air marketplace has been uncovered, complete with restaurants and snack bars. Tax records show that Pompeii’s vineyards were much more productive than those around Rome and their wine was sold across the Empire. (The first known product brand based on a pun is from Pompeii, a jar of wine labeled “Vesuvinum.”)Wealthy Romans had villas constructed in the area to come enjoy the seaside. Large public markets, houses of worship, and government buildings reflect a community living well above simple subsistence. Many of the houses excavated in Pompeii are spacious and elegant. Beds were found carved out of marble. Some houses had their own baths, and public baths served the community with water brought in from the Roman aqueduct system. Situated at the end of the Amalfi Coast, Pompeii, even then, hosted the glitterati.It is from this culture that we get our word disaster —literally, “ill-starred.” To Romans, disasters happened because their fate had been written in the stars. The random nature of disasters, relative to the scale of one human lifetime, creates such a level of fear that all human cultures have come up with some means for ascribing meaning to them. When Shakespeare, in Julius Caesar , gives Cassius the line “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves,” he is speaking against a cultural norm that finds explanation of the unexpected in our fates.Romans were in the hands not just of destiny but of their capricious gods. Like the Greek before it, Roman mythology portrayed the gods as selfish, careless entities, albeit very powerful ones. Disasters happened to an individual because he got in the way of a spat between these powerful beings. Vulcan, the god of fire, was not physically attractive, but he had been given Venus, the goddess of love, to be his wife. Volcanic eruptions, then, were a sign of his anger when he found out about one of Venus’s infidelities.This may have provided an explanation for volcanic episodes, but it was not a particularly reassuring one. It left the people powerless in the face of petty gods and their tantrums. So they attempted to soothe Vulcan—to reclaim a sense of control—in their annual feast honoring him. Vulcan represented fire both in its beneficial uses, such as metalsmithing, and in its destructive power, such as in volcanoes and wildfires (the more common threat to grain storage in the heat of the summer). So with the Vulcanalia, held every year on August 23, they placated the god, offering bonfires and sacrifices to keep destruction from being visited upon their harvest.In AD 79, as the Vulcanalia was being celebrated by unwitting residents of Pompeii, Vesuvius was entering the final phase of what would be one of its largest eruptions. Our knowledge of the eruption comes from two sources. One is, of course, the evidence preserved in the city of Pompeii itself, fifteen miles outside Naples. The ash from the eruption buried the city over the course of a few weeks, completely destroying the community. Ninety percent of the residents escaped alive, but they abandoned the region, and the existence of the city was almost forgotten. The site was rediscovered and excavated in the eighteenth century, including the corpses of the residents who did not escape.The second source is a young Roman scholar, Pliny, called the Younger, who wrote letters that have come down to us describing the death of his uncle, Pliny the Elder, during the eruption. The younger and elder Plinys were part of Rome’s minor aristocracy, both holding the rank of equestrian , entitled to be a knight in the army, and were originally from the Lake Como region in northern Italy. Pliny the Elder served in the Roman army, primarily in Germany, for the first two decades of his adulthood. He never married, but his widowed sister came to live with him after he left the army, along with her young son. The son was adopted by his uncle and took his name, and thus came to be called Pliny the Younger. Pliny the Elder was famous in Rome both for his writings and for his close relationship with the emperor Vespasian. While in the army, he wrote a history of the German wars, with details like how to use a horse’s movements to fight with a javelin more effectively. In his later diplomatic career as a ruler of various provinces, he collected information about the history of the regions and their natural features.Two years before the eruption, Pliny the Elder published his thirty-seven-volume Naturalis Historiae , “On Natural History,” often called the first encyclopedia. It represented his observations as he traveled the Empire, creating one of the largest literary works to come down to us from Roman times. In the preface, he says that “to be alive is to be watchful,” and we see that passion in the breadth of topics he catalogs. From a modern scientist’s perspective, he may seem a bit credulous (as in, for example, his description of monstrous races of people with the heads of dogs). But he also shows a scientist’s passion for knowledge. He finishes his final volume with the words “Greetings, Nature, mother of all creation, show me your favor in that I alone of Rome’s citizens have praised you in all your aspects.” He seems to have been obsessive about his work, often choosing writing over sleep.In AD 77, in addition to the release of his On Natural History , Pliny the Elder was appointed by the emperor to be head of the Roman fleet berthed in the Bay of Naples. The Pliny household moved to Misenum, at the mouth of the Bay of Naples. From their villa, they had a commanding view of Mount Vesuvius on the other side of the bay. Pliny the Elder directed fleet operations as he worked on revisions to his Natural History . Pliny the Younger was completing his legal training, studying with his uncle, and becoming a prolific chronicler himself.After the centuries of quiet, the latter part of the first century had seen an increase in earthquakes, with a particularly severe one in AD 62. That earthquake had damaged quite a few houses in Pompeii (even in AD 79, some of them were still being repaired).Numerous earthquakes were felt and recorded in the next decade, and people began accepting them as a normal part of life. At the Vulcanalia celebrations on August 23, AD 79, Pliny the Younger’s journal entry noted several earthquakes occurring during the day, but he thought nothing of them, “as earthquakes are common in [the region of] Campagnia.” We now know that magma must move from the magma chamber, often several miles deep in the earth, to the surface for an eruption to occur. That movement can be marked by earthquakes, bulging of the earth’s surface, and gas emissions. It can take months, years, or even decades before enough pressure has been built to cause an eruption. (This makes volcanic eruptions more likely to be predicted than many other geological phenomena.)The next day, August 24, the lives of everyone in Campagnia were turned on end. A little after noon, Vesuvius exploded violently, sending a column of gas and ash high into the sky. Both Plinys observed this from across the Bay of Naples. The Younger wrote, “I cannot give you a more exact description of its appearance than by comparing to a pine tree; for it shot up to a great height in the form of a tall trunk, which spread out at the top as though into branches.”True to form, Pliny the Elder wanted to see the eruption more closely. He started arranging for vessels of the fleet to help with evacuations and to take him across the bay to make more detailed observations. Pliny the Younger wisely chose to stay at the villa and continue with his schoolwork. As preparations were under way, the Elder received a message from a noblewoman friend whose villa sat in Stabiae at the foot of Vesuvius, begging him to help them escape. He dispatched the galleys to Herculaneum, but he himself took a “fast-sailing cutter.” As they approached Herculaneum, cinders and ash fell so heavily that the ship’s pilot advised returning to Misenum. Pliny replied that “fortune favors the brave,” ordering the pilot to sail for Stabiae, where his friend lived. Winds whipped up by the eruption brought the cutter into port but then made it impossible to leave.Pliny’s friend and her household were terrified by the eruption and the inability of the ship to navigate the rough seas roiled by the turmoil of the eruption. In her villa, Pliny tried to reassure his friends by feasting, bathing, and sleeping while waiting for the winds to abate. But as the eruption grew worse, it became clear that the winds were not dying down. (They were in fact being generated by the eruption itself, although Pliny obviously did not know that.) They decided to try again to get the ship to sea. They ventured back to the shore with pillows tied to their heads to protect them from the falling volcanic ash and molten rock. The sea was still too rough to board the ships, and the air was so foul as to make breathing difficult. Pliny the Elder was overcome and fell to the ground, unable to rise. His friends finally abandoned him and boarded the ship. They were able to escape and thus give the tale to Pliny the Younger. The friends returned three days later and found the body of Pliny the Elder under ash but with no obvious injury. Most scholars have decided he died from a heart attack, perhaps triggered by noxious gases. Read more

Airplanes in the Garden: Monarch Butterflies Take Flight (A Mom's Choice Award Recipient)

Review Thumbs up! A delightful story with splendid illustrations, sure to delight and intrigue all young monarch lovers. --Dr. Robert Michael Pyle, author of Chasing Monarchs: Migrating with the Butterflies of PassageA story that will entertain while it educates children about the magic and mysterious world of monarch butterflies. Creating awareness and empathy at an early age is our best bet for the protection of these fragile wonders of nature. --Nick de Pencier, Director, PBS's NOVA: The Incredible Journey of the ButterfliesQuiel's beautifully designed illustrations are fresh, vibrant, playful, and eye-catching perfect for capturing the imagination of children of all ages. --Nita Leland, author of Exploring Color and The New Creative Artist From the Inside Flap Airplanes in the Garden: Monarch Butterflies Take Flight sees the world through the eyes of an imaginative young girl who adopts two monarch caterpillars in her family garden, and lets her imagination fly as she follows them through metamorphosis. The tale of Sergio and Stanley, transforming from caterpillars into colorful butterflies, promises to entertain readers of all ages.  The book includes an informative section, with maps of the amazing monarch migration, helpful tips to grow your own butterfly-friendly garden, and a lovely song by Rebecca Troon. About the Author Joan Z. Calder, author, horticulturist, and garden designer, manages the campus greenhouse at the University of California, Santa Barbara, where she also nurtures a butterfly garden. She grew up learning about gardening on a dairy farm in Cato, Wisconsin. Calder travels the U.S. to educate the public about monarch migration and the importance of conserving their habitat. The author currently resides in Santa Barbara, California, with her husband, John, and many caterpillars. Read more

Forty Martyrs

Review ''Philip F. Deaver is one of my favorite writers, and readers have been waiting a long time for Forty Martyrs . It's good to finally have this book in my hands.'' -- Kyle Minor, author of Praying Drunk ''I have deeply admired, for many years, the work of Philip F. Deaver, a writer unparalleled in his examination of lost souls longing to be found. In prose that is quietly lyric, and sharp with truth, his stories are kinetic with heartbreak and magic. His work is a triumph, and I would follow it anywhere.'' -- Laura van den Berg, author of Find Me ''We learn more about the people around us and about our own interior lives when we venture into the stories and human landscapes of Philip F. Deaver's work. Deaver's hand is always deft, always nuanced, always steeped in the storyteller's craft. The book you hold in your hands is made to be read alone on a quiet porch--just as much as it's meant to be read aloud to someone you love. Filled with tenderness and pain, intimacy and clarity, Forty Martyrs resounds with Deaver's bright signature--a clear-eyed curiosity and wonder for all that travels through the human heart.'' -- Brian Turner, author of My Life as a Foreign Country ''Philip F. Deaver is a writer after my own heart. This is a funny, haunted, and haunting work of fiction, the kind of book that makes you shake your head in baffled wonder and give thanks.'' -- David James Poissant, author of The Heaven of Animals ''I could hardly stop reading, from first to last. These piercingly direct stories contain endless subtleties and subtexts, uniting and dividing them in the most convincing and intricate way. And they're so full of recognizable emotion concerning our interactions with the people who comprise our worlds, public and private--the relationships we've forged while climbing the frail scaffolding of human interaction that we can only hope will support us.'' -- Ann Beattie, author of The State We're In -- Praise for Forty Martyrs ''Written in vivid, spare prose, the best of these stories linger, sad and profound, like songs you sing to yourself.'' --New York Times ''A triumph . . . a noteworthy introduction.'' --Kirkus Reviews ''Permeated with finely crafted writing, grounded in the solidity of objects and places realized through well-textured description and resonant dialogue, this debut makes a wise, quietly provocative statement about commonplace tragedy and the ironies and fragility of relationships.'' --Publishers Weekly ''Like all good fiction, the stories in this first collection are true. . . . The language, especially the dialogue, is clean and well-lit; the narration is seemly. This is a fine debut'' --Virginia Quarterly Review ''This collection . . . is quite impressive.'' --Chicago Tribune -- Praise for Silent Retreats : From the Inside Flap Praise for Silent Retreats: "Written in vivid, spare prose, the best of these stories linger, sad and profound, like songs you sing to yourself." -- New York Times "Permeated with finely crafted writing, grounded in the solidity of objects and places realized through well-textured description and resonant dialogue, this debut makes a wise, quietly provocative statement about commonplace tragedy and the ironies and fragility of relationships." -- Publishers Weekly "Like all good fiction, the stories in this first collection are true. . . . The language, especially the dialogue, is clean and well-lit; the narration is seemly. This is a fine debut." -- Virginia Quarterly Review "This collection . . . is quite impressive." -- Chicago Tribune About the Author Philip F. Deaver was born in Chicago, IL, and grew up in the Midwest. He is the author of the Flannery O'Connor Award-winning story collection Silent Retreats, and the poetry collection How Men Pray. His poems have been featured several times on The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor. His stories have appeared in The Missouri Review, The Kenyon Review, The New England Review, and elsewhere; and have been anthologized in O. Henry Prize Stories, Best American Catholic Short Stories, and the baseball anthologies Anatomy of Baseball and Bottom of the Ninth. He is a Professor of English at Rollins College in Winter Park, FL. Read more

Do Or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery

From Booklist Trixie Matkowski buys her aunt’s diner, cottage, and bait business in a small Maine town. But from the start, things go wrong. Trixie has to fill in as the overnight cook; then the local health inspector dies in the diner from poisonous mushrooms, prompting most of the customers to abandon the place. Trixie sets out to restore the diner’s reputation and determine what really happened to the health inspector. She finds lots of people who would like to see her out of the picture: the mayor, who is desperate to buy the diner, and Trixie’s competitors in the restaurant business, among them. Meanwhile, the attentions of attractive Deputy Ty Brisco prove distracting. Although the bad guys may be a little too apparent, the frame story about a woman trying to save her business is engaging. Readers who enjoy B. B. Haywood’s small-town Maine mysteries may also enjoy this series. Includes recipes. --Amy Alessio About the Author Christine Wenger has worked in the criminal justice field and written romances for Harlequin. She’s always loved to read cozy mysteries, and is thrilled to bring the beauty of upstate New York to life in this series.

Deadliest in Show (Creative Woman Mysteries)

The Able Life of Cody Jane - Still Celebrating

From Publishers Weekly As a young woman, Cornell (Walks on the Beach with Angie co-written with Don Warner) experienced the horror of hearing, moments after giving birth to a baby, that her daughter "might not live." Cody Jane had spina bifida, a congenital birth defect that can lead to infection, paralysis, brain damage, or death. But Cornell had looked into her newborn's eyes, had seen that, "whatever physical problems she might have, she was fine," and was determined to be a good mother and fought for Cody Jane on numerous fronts, including advocating for the right doctors and surgeries, and ensuring that her daughter wasn't forced into a school for mentally handicapped children. Much space is devoted to the medical and psychological reality of mothering someone living with a shunt, but what also emerges is Cody Jane's growth into a unique, funny, and independent young woman involved in a romantic relationship (Cornell doesn't gloss over the fact that her own relationships, including two marriages, crumbled; Cody Jane's biological father left to become a monk). Cornell couldn't do everything for and be everything to Cody Jane, and her guilt is apparent. Her perspective on raising a child with severe disabilities (which includes reminders of the importance of counseling) is important, and stands as a loving tribute. Published with the support of the Spina Bifida Association. (May) Review As a young woman, Cornell ( Walks on the Beach with Angie co-written with Don Warner) experienced the horror of hearing, moments after giving birth to a baby, that her daughter ''might not live.'' Cody Jane had spina bifida, a congenital birth defect that can lead to infection, paralysis, brain damage, or death. But Cornell had looked into her newborn's eyes, had seen that, ''whatever physical problems she might have, she was fine,'' and was determined to be a good mother and fought for Cody Jane on numerous fronts, including advocating for the right doctors and surgeries, and ensuring that her daughter wasn't forced into a school for mentally handicapped children. Much space is devoted to the medical and psychological reality of mothering someone living with a shunt, but what also emerges is Cody Jane's growth into a unique, funny, and independent young woman involved in a romantic relationship (Cornell doesn't gloss over the fact that her own relationships, including two marriages, crumbled; Cody Jane's biological father left to become a monk). Her perspective on raising a child with severe disabilities (which includes reminders of the importance of counseling) is important, and stands as a loving tribute. Published with the support of the Spina Bifida Association. (May) -- Publishers Weekly 4/4/2011 The Natural Order In the natural order of life, children outlive their parents. But when the order is reversed, parents can be caught between the bitterness of their loss and the sweet celebration of a life. Marly Cornell is firmly committed to the celebration. When her daughter Cody was born with the most severe form of spina bifida, doctors told the young mother that if Cody survived at all, she might be paralyzed and/or brain damaged. But Marly experienced something different when she looked down at the newborn. She remembers, ''Somehow as I looked at those wide eyes and felt the grip of her little fingers around my thumb, I knew she was fine -- no matter what else might be wrong.'' Eight infants a day in the U.S. are born with spina bifida (166,000 Americans, according to the Spina Bifida Association) and it remains the most common permanently-disabling birth defect. As it turned out, Cody did survive but there were plenty of difficulties along the way -- dozens of surgeries, a wheelchair for her mobility and various changes in her family -- but her mother never changed her mind -- Cody was fine, more than fine. Cornell treasures her daughter's joyride of a life in a new book called The Able Life of Cody Jane: Still Celebrating (LightaLight Publications, May 2011). She describes a person who was, from her earliest years, a sensitive kid with a droll sense of humor who did not allow her physical limitations to define her or get in the way of her fun. A staunch defender of the vulnerable, Cody stepped up to advocate for others who were treated unfairly, and for herself when necessary -- and, as every person with a disability knows, that can be a daily occurrence. The chemistry between mother and daughter pops off the page as their close relationship grows into an enduring friendship that balances Cody's adult life of independence with inevitable dependencies. Marly's eyes light up as she explains, ''Stories about people with disabilities or chronic medical conditions are framed so often in tragedy and pity instead of recognizing the powerful spirit, joy and humor that is often part of daily life for so many people who confront difficult and genuine barriers.'' Cody died in 2004 at 32 years old, but she still got the last laugh. Marly reflects, ''Looking back, it seemed like Cody had a tough life in many ways, but that was not how we experienced it at the time. That wasn't how either of us felt. We laughed every day and sometimes more when situations were scariest.'' It's a safe bet that Cody, ever the witty one, is yukking it up with the angels. The Able Life of Cody Jane was published with the support of the Spina Bifida Association. For more about this, go to theablelife.com. --Cheryl Wills Author, Anchor/Reporter for NY1 News, Author of Die Free: A Heroic Family Tale , Huffington Post 05/13/11 01:44 PM ET From the Author The Able Life of Cody Jane was the winner of a Midwest Book Award. About the Author Marly Cornell is an artist, writer, and editor with a BFA from Moore College of Art in Philadelphia and an MA from St. Mary's University of Minnesota. She has maintained a painting and writing studio, spoken publicly on art and social justice issues (nationally and internationally as well as radio and TV interviews), contributed magazine articles on a freelance basis, edited and ghostwritten author manuscripts, and created art throughout her daughter Cody's life. However, this work remained secondary as she worked in the corporate nonprofit sector in healthcare, behavioral services, mental health law, and physician recruitment. For thirty years, this afforded her the opportunity to be in close proximity to many of the systems and people that had life-and-death influences on her daughter and their family. Cornell now works full time as a freelance writer and editor, with occasional art commissions. Cornell also cowrote Walks on the Beach With Angie with Don Warner (2008) on the topic of the loss of a child. The book won two Midwest Book Awards and was a finalist for two Indie Excellence Awards and a Ben Franklin Award. She has served on several nonprofit boards and, for four years was the chair of the Midwest Book Awards program. She maintains affiliations with several writing, editing, and social justice and advocacy organizations. The author is interested in providing support and encouragement for, and shedding light upon, the hundreds of thousands of children, adults, and families living with disabilities and/or chronic medical conditions who often confront challenging and difficult real-life situations with great courage, humor, and spirit. Read more

Hemingway in Africa

From Publishers Weekly The gap of Hemingway's African excursions in books about "Papa" is partly filled by this copiously illustrated if casually written work from British explorer-biographer Ondaatje ( Journey to the Source of the Nile ). Hemingway went on only two safaris in a lifetime of traveling (1933-1934 and 1953-1954), but both were vivid, pivotal experiences. The first inspired his famous stories "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" and "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber" and his bestseller Green Hills of Africa ; the latter trip inspired two posthumous works, the less well-received The Garden of Eden and True at First Light. Ondaatje follows the faded trail of Hemingway's safaris in Kenya and Tanzania (then Tanganyika) and puts them in the context of his works and those of other African writers, such as Isak Dinesen and Beryl Markham (whose work Hemingway championed). Although Papa's tracks are fainter in contemporary Africa than in Cuba and Paris, Ondaatje, an old hand on sub-Saharan Africa, has as observant an eye as Hemingway's for the land's beauty and a better one for its residents-which he complements with his photography. By the time of Hemingway's second visit, the era of the traditional colonial safari was closing, just as his own career was. While the opening description in "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" of a leopard carcass on the mountain's highest slopes concluded, "No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude," Ondaatje possesses a sympathetic insight into what Hemingway was without falling prey to the myth. 98 color photos, 3 maps not seen by PW . Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Ondaatje, author of seven books (including Sindh Revisited , 1996, and Journey to the Sources of the Nile , 1998), follows in the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway's two African safaris, undertaken in the mid-1930s and mid-1950s in Kenya, Tanzania, and Uganda, to uncover new insights into Hemingway's life and writings. Thanks to a wealth of photographs of Hemingway on safari as well as of modern photos of East Africa, the reader is offered glimpses of the ambience and environment with which the great author surrounded himself in his egotistical quest for manhood and for artistic immortality. He was always dependent on and jealous of more accomplished hunters on his safaris--such as Bror Blixen (Isak Dinesen's husband) or Philip Percival, who was coaxed out of retirement to guide Hemingway's second safari in 1954. Ondaatje is as much of a romantic as his subject, and in uncovering various letters and early influences, he fleshes out a picture of the great author as an adventurer in spirit, though flawed by his own ego and alcoholism. Allen Weakland Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Murder of a Stacked Librarian: A Scumble River Mystery

From Booklist A wedding is on the agenda in Swanson’s long-running Scumble River series. School psychologist Skye Denison and police chief Wally Boyd will marry in less than a week (right after Christmas), and there is plenty still to do—even before librarian Yvonne Osborne is killed, apparently having been forced off a bridge in her car. Now Wally is missing holiday celebrations, and Skye has a vision of what being married to a cop is going to be like. She perseveres, however, continuing with the wedding preparations while helping Wally question suspects in her role as police psychologist consultant. Swanson effectively mixes the ongoing investigation with plenty of humorous slices of Skye’s daily life. Series fans will enjoy both the crime solving and the small-town high jinks—and, of course, they get a wedding at the end! --Amy Alessio Review Praise for the New York Times Bestselling Series “I enjoy every minute of every book of this series.”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris“Top-notch storytelling with truly unique and wonderful characters.”— CrimeSpree Magazine “Endearing…quirky…a delight.”— Chicago Tribune “The folks of Scumble River will tickle the fancy of cozy fans.”— Publishers Weekly About the Author Denise Swanson is the New York Times bestselling author of the Scumble River and Devereaux’s Dime Store mystery series. She worked as a school psychologist for twenty-two years before quitting to write full-time. She lives in Illinois with her husband, classical composer David Stybr, and their cool black cat, Boomerang. Read more

Eat the Beetles!: An Exploration into Our Conflicted Relationship with Insects

Review “Waltner-Toews punctuates this serious subject with his quirky humour … Eat the Beetles! is an essential part of a growing buzz?.” ― Toronto Star “ Eat the Beetles provides a sturdy literary exoskeleton to the field of human insectivory. An in-depth look at the science behind the movement, it entertains as it enlightens.” ― Daniella Martin, author of Edible: An Adventure into the World of Eating Insects and the Last Great Hope to Save the Planet “When it comes to the future of insects as food for humans and livestock, Waltner-Toews walks the line between skepticism and optimism in an intelligent, witty, and provocative analysis that should be a model for any clear-headed discussion of non-traditional solutions to the world’s problems.” ― Jeff Lockwood, author of The Infested Mind: Why Humans Fear, Loathe and Love Insects and Poisoned Justice “This will inform and fascinate readers of food history, gastronomy, epidemiology, and ecology, as we begin to understand more about the lives of insects and the important roles they play in our society.” ― Booklist “While Eat the Beetles! covers serious topics, including the world’s food scarcity issues, it’s also entertaining, with amusing stories and thoughtful reflection.” ― University of Guelph News From the Inside Flap Will eating insects change the world for the better? Meet the beetles: there are millions and millions of them and many fewer of the rest of us ― mammals, birds, and reptiles. Since before recorded history, humans have eaten insects. While many get squeamish at the idea, entomophagy ― people eating insects ― is a possible way to ensure a sustainable and secure food supply for the eight billion of us on the planet. Once seen as the great enemy of human civilization, destroying our crops and spreading plagues, we now see insects as marvellous pollinators of our food crops and a potential source of commercial food supply. From upscale restaurants where black ants garnish raw salmon to grubs as pub snacks in Paris and Tokyo, from backyard cricket farming to high-tech businesses, Eat the Beetles! weaves these cultural, ecological, and evolutionary narratives to provide an accessible and humorous exploration of entomophagy. From the Back Cover Will eating insects change the world for the better? Meet the beetles: there are millions and millions of them and many fewer of the rest of us ― mammals, birds, and reptiles. Since before recorded history, humans have eaten insects. While many get squeamish at the idea, entomophagy ― people eating insects ― is a possible way to ensure a sustainable and secure food supply for the eight billion of us on the planet. Once seen as the great enemy of human civilization, destroying our crops and spreading plagues, we now see insects as marvellous pollinators of our food crops and a potential source of commercial food supply. From upscale restaurants where black ants garnish raw salmon to grubs as pub snacks in Paris and Tokyo, from backyard cricket farming to high-tech businesses, Eat the Beetles! weaves these cultural, ecological, and evolutionary narratives to provide an accessible and humorous exploration of entomophagy. About the Author David Waltner-Toews is an epidemiologist, veterinarian, and writer specializing in ecosystem approaches to health and disease. He is the founding president of Veterinarians without Borders. Previous books include The Origin of Feces , The Chickens Fight Back , and Food, Sex and Salmonella . He has also published fiction and poetry. He lives in Kitchener, Ontario. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Selected Excerpts from Eat the Beetles! So, even before I’d sampled the bar snacks at le Festin Nu, my head was in turmoil. All around me, bugs were changing everything I thought I knew about food, feed, and agriculture. How could I have missed this? The Festin Nu bar was a room just a few meters wide, clad in dark, weathered wood with handwritten notices taped on the plate glass windows framing a darkened doorway. On a couple of low stools out on the sidewalk, a man and a woman were leaning against the glass, sipping beer, and chatting quietly in the warm, late afternoon haze of the day. The stores on either side had metal shutters pulled down. Inside, a reverse-J-shaped bar took up the far end of the small room. Beyond that, through a dimly lit doorway, a dozen or so people were sitting on church basement chairs, drinking beer and watching Romancing the Stone with French subtitles: how young Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner looked! (Danny DeVito never changes.) The bartender, Alex Cabrol, with his wry almost-smile, dark, wavy hair, and ragged straw fedora with a hole in it, reminded me of a 1967-vintage “Motorcycle Song” Arlo Guthrie. When I asked for insects, he waved at the menu board and asked which ones. “All of them,” I said, hoping I did not sound too much like a bug-eating version of Monty Python’s Mr. Creosote. “We could go two ways with insect-eating,” le Festin Nu’s chef, Elie Daviron, said in that BBC report. “The agro-industry would just churn them into protein flour. I want to keep the notion that the insects are real, whole animals.” Real, whole animals. I tried to imagine them and then decided that would be a bad strategy. Brace yourself, order, and eat , I told myself. It’s just food . August being vacation season for many Parisians, Cabrol explained, Daviron was unavailable, and the kitchen was not fully stocked. Of the six insects listed on the menu, only five were available. They didn’t have any of the giant water bugs left in stock. He poured me one of the craft beers for which they are known, and I sipped it, wondering if I would be able to convince my brain that eating worms and crickets was okay. I asked Alex where the bugs came from. He said that some came from Southeast Asia ― he was leaving the next day for Cambodia to check out new possibilities ― but they also sourced crickets and mealworms from a French breeder and distributor called Dimini Cricket. My first thought was that the name was a too-cute reference to Jiminy Cricket, the talking insect in Disney’s Pinocchio . I recalled that in Carlo Collodi’s original story, the young, wooden-brained vandal, in a fit of annoyance, had killed the cricket by throwing a mallet at him. In Disney’s version, the cricket was a funny, wise, tag-along, apparently insufficiently annoying to incite murder. But would you eat him? In Disney’s moral universe, I wondered, would it be as bad to eat crickets as to eat Bambi? I later discovered that the name of the breeder was based on the surname of one of the farm’s founders, which is a cautionary tale about the perils of cross-cultural branding. After about twenty minutes, Alex brought out five small plates, presented like tapas. The insects were artfully arranged, each species accompanied by figs, sun-dried tomatoes, raisins, and chopped, dried tropical fruits. I quaffed my beer and considered the fare before me: buffalo worms, crickets, large grasshoppers, small black ants, and fat grubs with beaks, which I later identified as palm weevil larvae. I called for another beer, and then, bite by mindful, methodical bite, I ate them all. The crickets and grasshoppers were crunchy, with no strong flavor, the ants sour, tangy. The palm weevil larvae were a bit chewy, like dried figs. In the manner of pub food the world around, the dishes were on the greasy side. I guessed that with a couple of pitchers of craft beer, and a group of friends, these bugs would be just fine. But were they the future of global food security? Later, strolling the packed alleys and streets among the tourists in and around Montmartre, I was chuffed that I’d passed my Paris pub bug challenge without having suffered any hallucinatory visions of giant cockroaches. Ever since I’d heard the name of this pub, I couldn’t get out of my head images of those human-sized insects from David Cronenberg’s adaptation of Naked Lunch . I wondered why I thought of eating insects as strange, even revolting. What made eating bugs in a pub any different than eating deep-fried chicken wings? Was this mix of beer, dare, and disgust the future of eating insects? Or would eating insects morph from the queasy adventures of “bug-eating” into the more neutral, sanitized cuisine of entomophagy , the term used for insect-eating by many of its proponents? In 2007, I was part of a mission sponsored by the World Organisation for Animal Health, also known as the OIE. 56 Three of us ― all of European descent ― were to assess the animal health capacities in Cambodia. In less than a week, we drove between flat fields of rice in the south, pondered the flocks of ducks bobbing around in rickety enclosures that extended from the fields into one of the many tributaries of the Mekong, and nosed through offices from the Vietnamese–Cambodian border in the south to the north end of Tonlé Sap, a thriving lake that occupies much of the center of the country. From pre-dawn to after dark, we visited Spartan government and lush private laboratories, hole-in-the-wall pharmacies, makeshift autopsy rooms, research centers, colleges and universities still struggling to reinvent themselves after the Pol Pot regime all but destroyed them with its brutal anti-intellectualism, outdoor slaughtering “slabs” where Brahman cattle could die breathing the sun-filled air, and half-hidden slaughterhouses where little boys in torn, bloodied shorts scrambled with plastic buckets after gushes of pigs’ blood, gut-splatters, and bits of discarded flesh. We saw chickens, ducks, pigs, and cattle, free-range and caged, from scruffy to fat to dead and hung up on hooks. On the road trip between Phnom Penh and Siem Reap I saw something else ― and yet, in some Douglas Adams, if-it-doesn’t-make-sense-it’s-invisible, sort of way, I didn’t see it. Scattered across the green rice paddies and along gray, water-filled ditches and ponds were structures from which flapped sheets of translucent plastic. Below each sail was a rectangular “boat” constructed of the same materials. In the daylight they were usually rolled up, but at night the sails were unfurled into vertical rectangles. More intriguing to me, they were lit up at night, like ghostly square-faced scarecrows rattling and flapping in the wind and rain. When I asked about these, our guide smiled. At the next roadside market, he showed me large baskets heaped full of walnut-sized water bugs. The beetles, attracted to the light, flew into the sheets, and then dropped into the containers below. They were food. For people. At the time, I thought this a slightly unsettling curiosity and recalled how, in 1968, lugging a heavy, frameless, green canvas backpack through the same region, the back of my shirt so soaked with sweat it would later peel off in shredded pieces, I had declined to nosh on the beetle “shish ke-bugs” proffered up to my open window by eager boys at Thai bus stops. Now, again, I found the very idea of biting into these cockroach-like bugs revolting. I did not know, in 1968, or in 2007, that giant water bugs were grilled or fried in Thailand, Lao PDR, and Cambodia, or that the Thais ate so many that they were importing them from neighboring countries, that wild populations were declining because of habitat change and pollution, that prices were going up and that they were difficult to farm because the bugs started eating each other when they were crowded. It had never crossed my mind that caring for these bugs might be part of my veterinary job, or that the OIE and the Cambodian Ministry of Agriculture should be interested in this. Or even that these insects might hold one of the diverse keys to local food security around the world. Why did these things never cross my mind? I suspect it was because I was distracted by an immediate concern for the well-being of my own species. What I did see were the effects of people being food for insects. I saw a motorbike, man in front, woman behind, infant in between. This is not an unusual sight in Southeast Asia. Often you can see two or three children along with their parents and full shopping bags on a tiny motorbike. The difference here, in Phnom Penh, in 2007, was that the woman was holding up a bag of intravenous fluid, and the thin tube from that bag was inserted into the arm of the infant. Cambodia was in the throes of an epidemic of hemorrhagic dengue fever that, in 2007, sickened 40,000 people and killed more than 400, many of them children. Dengue fever viruses ― like those that cause Zika and yellow fever ― are spread by mosquitoes. The female mosquitoes are the ones that feed on mammalian blood, and hence the ones that transfer the virus from one bloody lunch buffet to the next. Ironically (if one can see past the obvious species barriers), the female mosquitoes are drinking human blood in order to ensure that their own offspring live. Mosquitoes are manifesting that fierce mothering instinct that has enabled many species to survive these many centuries in the face of the incalculable odds against them. They are not “out to get us.” Like the Maasai who drink the blood of cattle, and the French who eat blood sausage, the mosquitoes, lice, and ticks that use our blood are simply nourishing themselves and their babies. Cricket farming might improve household nutrition and increase income for smallholder farmers in Southeast Asia, and improve the lot of rural women there, but what roles could it have in North America, where industrialized livestock systems were well entrenched? Canada’s Entomo Farms offers an example of what might be done. Rather than starting from the wants of consumers, Entomo Farms started from the farm and decided to take a more direct approach to putting insects on the dinner table. Ecologists Tim Allen and his colleagues Joe Tainter and Tom Hoekstra have called this approach ― starting from the resource base rather than the consumer ― “supply-side sustainability.” Marketing themselves as “the future of food,” Entomo declares that they are producing the “world’s most sustainable superfood.” Having started out as “reptile feeders,” producing insects for reptiles and fish, they had made the cross-species leap just a year before my 2015 visit. Dedicated, enthusiastic, smart, and media-savvy, the owners have been profiled in Canadian newspapers and radio programs and celebrated their innovative fare with politicians at the Royal Winter Fair in Toronto. In a Canadian Business article on Entomo, reportedly “North America’s largest cricket farm,” journalist Carol Toller marvels at how easily and delightedly nine-year-old Kayla Goldin, daughter of one of the three brothers who operate the business, scarfs down a handful of waxworms. Toller parades out the usual rational arguments in favor of eating insects: on a weight-for-weight basis, they use a lot less land and water than other domestic livestock, and on a per-weight basis, they convert feed inputs into meat more efficiently than, say, cattle. The title and subtitle of the article get at the primary challenge in scaling up, however. “How a New Wave of Food Entrepreneurs Hope to Persuade Us to Eat Bugs,” announces the title. The text beneath reads, “Crickets might just be the miracle food for a hungry 21st century. The only catch? Convincing squeamish shoppers.” Entomo is just a few hours down the road from where I live, near the small city of Peterborough, Ontario, so, in the summer of 2015, before I set off on my entomophagical world travels, I drove over to see for myself what was happening. On my way, I noticed a sign beside the road that read “This land is our land. Back off government.” If I didn’t know rural Ontario better, I might have started worrying about rural survivalist gangs and whether insects were a menu item for them: Cormac McCarthy meets the Organic Prepper? 87 I don’t know what I was expecting, but there was nothing special that would broadcast this as a cricket farm, the way one might recognize a dairy farm or a feedlot by the sight of it, or a pig farm by the smell of it. The farm building looks like what it is ― a converted, warehouse-like chicken barn, about ten thousand square feet, set in a very lightly rolling countryside, a patchwork of boreal forest, corn, and pastures. The business was started by Darren Goldin along with his two brothers, Ryan and Jarrod; partners Caryn Goldin (culinary manager) and Stacie Goldin (media specialist) are also clearly important members of the team. Darren greeted me as I pulled up to the large open door of the building, a windrow of frass bags along one side of the asphalt parking lot. The former occupant, a now-retired chicken farmer, lives on the neighboring farm and is apparently happy with what these new insect farmers are doing. Darren Goldin had almost finished his undergrad degree in environmental studies at York University in Toronto when he decided to head west to join a protest against the clearing of old-growth forests in Clayoquot Sound, British Columbia. After that, he and a friend decided to build a cabin in the Kootenay mountains and live off the grid. Finally concluding that he was missing social and family connections, Darren returned to Ontario. He and his partner, Caryn, made percussion instruments and then got into producing insects for pet reptiles and amphibians. Then came the 2013 FAO report on insects as the future of food. That was also the year that the Aspire group from McGill got their million-dollar prize. Darren talked to his brothers. “Hey, we didn’t get any prizes,” they said, “but we already know how to do this. What’s stopping us?” For Darren and his brothers and their partners, Entomo became a way to translate concerns about environmental degradation into useful action, creating ecologically sustainable alternatives to big-eco-footprint agriculture. I have been on a lot of livestock farms ― beef and dairy cattle, chickens, turkeys, ducks. I like the companionship of cows, their low-voiced coughing and grunting, and am happy to sometimes enable them to fulfill their ecological job descriptions, but a cricket farm ― the chorus of male crickets singing for a mate ― was a whole new experience for me. Darren walked me through the process. Eggs were grown on clean, slightly moist peat moss. Set on top of this was a cardboard structure of interlocking columns that looked like the kind of thing one would pack wine bottles in to keep them from breaking. The hatchlings would climb upward as soon as they were born, an instinct that seems to be unrelated to light. From the “nursery,” the hatchlings were moved (in their interlocking columns) to blue storage boxes, which were stacked on shelves in a long, narrow room. They were fed a mix of ground corn and soy (grown on the farm), which was spread on the bottom of the blue plastic tubs. For two weeks, as they went through a couple of molts, this was their home: condos for crickets. Darren then guided me into a much larger room, where the crickets were taken out of their blue boxes, and the cardboard columns were set in rows on either side of long, rubberized water troughs, fed by a drip system. In this room, warmer than the rest of the building (about 30 degrees Celsius), the crickets would stay for four weeks, growing to maturity. I watched them lining up along the thin stream of water, like any other animal, sipping. I felt at home here, amidst the quiet skittering of tiny animals. They were being fed the same feed mix as before. As they matured, the males would begin to chirp out for mates and then (assuming they found a willing female) to breed. Pregnant females would then look for places to deposit their fertilized eggs. Egg-laying places were provided in the form of shallow trays with slopes at either end and a bed of soft peat moss. The eggs would be harvested for use in starting a new generation. If you put the whole tray into a bucket of water, the moss rises to the top and the eggs sink to the bottom. These eggs can then be put into the nursery, where they hatch. Shortly after mating and laying eggs, crickets die. Just before this happens, between breeding and death, it is time to harvest. The crickets are shaken from their cardboard towers into blue boxes and then dumped through a metal funnel into bags on a weigh-scale ― five pounds at a time. Dry ice is added, and the crickets quickly die from a combination of cold and lack of oxygen. Once the crickets are harvested, Darren said, the water troughs are flushed first with chlorinated water and then with fresh, clean water. The frass is swept up from the floor and kept in sacks. The few crickets that are left run for a “hotel” (one of the cardboard interlocking arrangements) from which they are shaken out into a bag. Back outside, Darren waved at the bags of frass stacked up next to a fence. The frass, he said, was excellent fertilizer, high in phosphorus and potassium. He has been using it on their own crops and selling to area farmers, and he told me that I could take as much as I wanted for my garden. They didn’t yet have a marketing plan, and he wished someone would pick it up as a business venture. They were already so busy just keeping up with the demand for their primary products. The crickets were processed at a different site, a building in the nearby town of Norwood. Just around the corner from some restaurants and other businesses, there was no smell emanating from the small building, and the neighbors appeared to be just fine with Entomo being there. Inside, beyond a reception room and some offices with computers, was a room with stainless steel ovens like pizza ovens (many drawers, crickets on large cookie sheets). Derek Delahaye, Entomo’s processing manager, was washing off batches of crickets in the sink and spreading them on the cookie sheets. If the crickets are to be flavored, that will happen at this point. Otherwise they are toasted and then ground up for “flour.” The biggest market for this flour is companies that produce energy bars and protein bars. Derek rattled off a list of at least half a dozen such companies. Besides Derek, two other people were in and around the kitchen area, a young man and a young woman about high-school student age. For a while they sat at computers, then they moved around the room packing things. As with the other insect businesses that I’d visited in Canada and Europe, I was struck by the fact that this phenomenon seems largely driven by people in their twenties, thirties, and forties. Given that this is the generation inheriting the unsustainable agri-food mess we Boomers have created, it seems appropriate that they are the ones coming up with innovative solutions. Standing there looking over the cozy kitchen, I popped a few crickets into my mouth: my first bona fide cricket snack. Then, as we talked, I tried more, some straight from the ovens and others that were flavored (BBQ, Honey Mustard, Moroccan) before roasting. Once I got past the eyes and legs, and the idea of bugs, and popped them into my mouth, I concluded that they tasted, as Darren had warned me, like food. A little nutty. I had expected the legs to stick in my teeth, or trigger my gag reflex, but it all crunched up nicely. Healthy snack food, Darren informed me, crickets were high in protein, omega 3 fatty acids, B vitamins, calcium, and iron. The mealworms, higher in (good) fat, had a slightly richer flavor, like potato chips. In the summer of 2015, Entomo was producing 4,000 pounds (about 1,800 kilograms) per week of crickets and 1,500 pounds (700 kilograms) of frass, and using about 30 gallons (just over 100 liters) of water per day. I asked Darren if crickets ― like pigs, chicken, and cows ― had any disease problems. He nodded. Cricket farmers in North America used to raise Acheta domesticus , which grow quickly to maturity and have a good feed conversion ratio. In 2009, an epidemic of Acheta domesticus densovirus put half of the cricket producers in North America out of business or forced them to select different species. Darren knew of one farm in Alberta with the virus, and the farmer almost dismantled his barn, did a thorough cleaning, and got fresh crickets; in nine weeks, they were all dead again. They now use a different species of cricket, Gryllodes sigillatus (the banded cricket), which is resistant to the virus but doesn’t grow as large. Why crickets? The rationale, not only for Entomo but also for other similar companies, is that these are the insects most likely to appeal to North American palates and preferences. If entomophagists wanted to make a big difference, normalizing insects for the North American palate, it wasn’t going to happen in $500-a-plate upscale restaurants. As whole animals, crickets and mealworms are like pub food ― popcorn, peanuts, chicken wings. They can easily be made into protein powder and used to fortify soups, breads, and energy bars. Read more

Cleo: The Cat Who Mended a Family

About the Author Helen Brown was born and brought up in New Zealand, where she first worked as a journalist, TV presenter, and scriptwriter. A multi‑award‑winning columnist, Helen now lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her family and feline, the internationally beloved Jonah. Cleo rose to the top of the bestseller lists in its first weeks in the United States, United Kingdom, New Zealand, France, and Australia, and has been translated into more than sixteen languages. Cats & Daughters entertained her readers with publication in six countries, and her novel Tumbledown Manor showed her storytelling talents at their best. You are invited to visit Helen at www.helenbrown.com and follow her on Facebook. The author will donate a portion of her earnings from this book to BideaWee animal shelter and hospital. Learn what you can do to help at www.bideawee.org. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist Grace can come in deceptively small packages. For Brown, it arrived in the form of a runt-of-the-litter kitten whom her two young sons, Sam and Rob, adored on sight. Promised as an upcoming present for Sam’s tenth birthday, it was a gift the boy never received. While the kitten was being weaned from its mother, Sam was taken from his. Just weeks after his birthday, Sam was killed in an auto accident, and Brown’s world changed forever. Yet when the kitten was delivered to her new home right on schedule, Brown’s heart first broke with the unfairness of it all, then gradually began to mend as little Cleo did what all kittens do: mounted a charm offensive like no other. Over the next 23 years, as Brown’s marriage ended and career blossomed, the spunky Cleo remained her constant source of comfort and inspiration. Heartfelt and open, Brown’s buoyant tale of loss and recovery celebrates the resilient patience and restorative powers of animal compassion. --Carol Haggas --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review " A remarkable memoir... I realized that Helen Brown didn't break my heart at all - she opened it." --Beth Hoffman, New York Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt"An absolute must." --Cat World"The next Marley & Me. Even non cat-lovers will be moved." --Good Housekeeping --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Mountain Rampage: A National Park Mystery (National Park Mystery Series, 2)

Review "A fast–paced mystery set in the majestic country around Estes Park, with dozens of quirks and turns…Graham brings his knowledge of mountains and climbing into play as his hero, Bender, scales mountains and rappels down mine shafts."— THE DENVER POST "Graham's clever tale is tailor–made for those who prefer their mysteries under blue skies." — KIRKUS REVIEWS "Description and dialogue balance to bring both the rounded characters and the Rocky Mountain setting alive in this tale of danger, death, and intrigue…Scott Graham has created a satisfying and suspenseful adventure." — FOREWORD REVIEWS " Mountain Rampage combines archaeology education, family relationships, outdoor adventure and taut mystery." — ROUNDUP MAGAZINE "Filled with murder and mayhem, jealousy and good detective work—set against a stunning Colorado backdrop— Mountain Rampage is an exciting, nonstop read." — ANNE HILLERMAN , New York Times bestselling author of Spider Woman's Daughter "In Mountain Rampage , Scott Graham delivers taut writing, solid plot twists, a cast of interesting characters, and an appealing protagonist both men and women will love. Get ready for a leave–you–breathless high country southwestern adventure." — MICHAEL MCGARRITY , New York Times bestselling author of Hard Country "Move over Nevada Barr—clean prose and confident storytelling combine to make Scott Graham's second National Park Mystery Series novel a must–read for fans of Western outdoor fiction and for mystery lovers everywhere." — CHUCK GREAVES , author of Hush Money "In archaeologist Chuck Bender, Scott Graham has created a flawed, all–too–human, and memorable investigator who had me rooting for him to the end." — MARGARET COEL , author of Night of the White Buffalo About the Author SCOTT GRAHAM is the author of the acclaimed National Park Mystery series, featuring archaeologist Chuck Bender and Chuck's spouse Janelle Ortega. In addition to the National Park Mystery series, Scott is the author of five nonfiction books, including Extreme Kids , winner of the National Outdoor Book Award. Scott is an avid outdoorsman who enjoys backpacking, river rafting, skiing, and mountaineering. He has made a living as a newspaper reporter, magazine editor, radio disk jockey, and coal–shoveling fireman on the steam–powered Durango–Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad. He lives with his spouse, who is an emergency physician, in Durango, Colorado.

"HURLEY: From the Beginning!" Book Autographed by Hurley Haywood

When Breath Becomes Air

Amazon.com Review An Amazon Best Book of January 2016: When Breath Becomes Air is a powerful look at a stage IV lung cancer diagnosis through the eyes of a neurosurgeon. When Paul Kalanithi is given his diagnosis he is forced to see this disease, and the process of being sick, as a patient rather than a doctor--the result of his experience is not just a look at what living is and how it works from a scientific perspective, but the ins and outs of what makes life matter. This heart-wrenching book will capture you from page one and still have you thinking long after the final sentence. –Penny Mann Review “I guarantee that finishing this book and then forgetting about it is simply not an option. . . . Part of this book’s tremendous impact comes from the obvious fact that its author was such a brilliant polymath. And part comes from the way he conveys what happened to him—passionately working and striving, deferring gratification, waiting to live, learning to die—so well. None of it is maudlin. Nothing is exaggerated. As he wrote to a friend: ‘It’s just tragic enough and just imaginable enough.’ And just important enough to be unmissable.” —Janet Maslin, The New York Times “Paul Kalanithi’s memoir, When Breath Becomes Air, written as he faced a terminal cancer diagnosis, is inherently sad. But it’s an emotional investment well worth making: a moving and thoughtful memoir of family, medicine and literature. It is, despite its grim undertone, accidentally inspiring.” — The Washington Post “Paul Kalanithi’s posthumous memoir, When Breath Becomes Air, possesses the gravity and wisdom of an ancient Greek tragedy. . . . [Kalanithi] delivers his chronicle in austere, beautiful prose. The book brims with insightful reflections on mortality that are especially poignant coming from a trained physician familiar with what lies ahead. . . . The narrative voice is so assured and powerful that you almost expect him to survive his own death and carry on describing what happened to his friends and family after he is gone.” — The Boston Globe “Devastating and spectacular . . . [Kalanithi] is so likeable, so relatable, and so humble, that you become immersed in his world and forget where it’s all heading.” — USA Today “It’s [Kalanithi’s] unsentimental approach that makes When Breath Becomes Air so original—and so devastating. . . . Its only fault is that the book, like his life, ends much too early.” — Entertainment Weekly “[ When Breath Becomes Air ] split my head open with its beauty.” —Cheryl Strayed “Rattling, heartbreaking, and ultimately beautiful, the too-young Dr. Kalanithi’s memoir is proof that the dying are the ones who have the most to teach us about life.” —Atul Gawande “Thanks to When Breath Becomes Air, those of us who never met Paul Kalanithi will both mourn his death and benefit from his life. This is one of a handful of books I consider to be a universal donor—I would recommend it to anyone, everyone.” —Ann Patchett “Dr. Kalanithi describes, clearly and simply, and entirely without self-pity, his journey from innocent medical student to professionally detached and all-powerful neurosurgeon to helpless patient, dying from cancer. Every doctor should read this book—written by a member of our own tribe, it helps us understand and overcome the barriers we all erect between ourselves and our patients as soon as we are out of medical school.” —Henry Marsh, author of Do No Harm: Stories of Life, Death, and Brain Surgery About the Author Paul Kalanithi was a neurosurgeon and writer. He grew up in Kingman, Arizona, and graduated from Stanford University with a BA and MA in English literature and a BA in human biology. He earned an MPhil in history and philosophy of science and medicine from the University of Cambridge and graduated cum laude from the Yale School of Medicine, where he was inducted into the Alpha Omega Alpha national medical honor society. He returned to Stanford to complete his residency training in neurological surgery and a postdoctoral fellowship in neuroscience, during which he received the American Academy of Neurological Surgery’s highest award for research. He died in March 2015. He is survived by his large, loving family, including his wife, Lucy, and their daughter, Elizabeth Acadia. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Part IIn Perfect Health I BeginThe hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones,And caused me to pass by them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the open valley; and, lo, they were very dry.And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live?—Ezekiel 37:1–3, King James translationI knew with certainty that I would never be a doctor. I stretched out in the sun, relaxing on a desert plateau just above our house. My uncle, a doctor, like so many of my relatives, had asked me earlier that day what I planned on doing for a career, now that I was heading off to college, and the question barely registered. If you had forced me to answer, I suppose I would have said a writer, but frankly, thoughts of any career at this point seemed absurd. I was leaving this small Arizona town in a few weeks, and I felt less like someone preparing to climb a career ladder than a buzzing electron about to achieve escape velocity, flinging out into a strange and sparkling universe.I lay there in the dirt, awash in sunlight and memory, feeling the shrinking size of this town of fifteen thousand, six hundred miles from my new college dormitory at Stanford and all its promise.I knew medicine only by its absence—specifically, the absence of a father growing up, one who went to work before dawn and returned in the dark to a plate of reheated dinner. When I was ten, my father had moved us—three boys, ages fourteen, ten, and eight—from Bronxville, New York, a compact, affluent suburb just north of Manhattan, to Kingman, Arizona, in a desert valley ringed by two mountain ranges, known primarily to the outside world as a place to get gas en route to somewhere else. He was drawn by the sun, by the cost of living—how else would he pay for his sons to attend the colleges he aspired to?—and by the opportunity to establish a regional cardiology practice of his own. His unyielding dedication to his patients soon made him a respected member of the community. When we did see him, late at night or on weekends, he was an amalgam of sweet affections and austere diktats, hugs and kisses mixed with stony pronouncements: “It’s very easy to be number one: find the guy who is number one, and score one point higher than he does.” He had reached some compromise in his mind that fatherhood could be distilled; short, concentrated (but sincere) bursts of high intensity could equal . . . whatever it was that other fathers did. All I knew was, if that was the price of medicine, it was simply too high.From my desert plateau, I could see our house, just beyond the city limits, at the base of the Cerbat Mountains, amid red-rock desert speckled with mesquite, tumbleweeds, and paddle-shaped cacti. Out here, dust devils swirled up from nothing, blurring your vision, then disappeared. Spaces stretched on, then fell away into the distance. Our two dogs, Max and Nip, never grew tired of the freedom. Every day, they’d venture forth and bring home some new desert treasure: the leg of a deer, unfinished bits of jackrabbit to eat later, the sun-bleached skull of a horse, the jawbone of a coyote.My friends and I loved the freedom, too, and we spent our afternoons exploring, walking, scavenging for bones and rare desert creeks. Having spent my previous years in a lightly forested suburb in the Northeast, with a tree-lined main street and a candy store, I found the wild, windy desert alien and alluring. On my first trek alone, as a ten-year-old, I discovered an old irrigation grate. I pried it open with my fingers, lifted it up, and there, a few inches from my face, were three white silken webs, and in each, marching along on spindled legs, was a glistening black bulbous body, bearing in its shine the dreaded blood-red hourglass. Near to each spider a pale, pulsating sac breathed with the imminent birth of countless more black widows. Horror let the grate crash shut. I stumbled back. The horror came in a mix of “country facts” (Nothing is more deadly than the bite of the black widow spider) and the inhuman posture and the black shine and the red hourglass. I had nightmares for years.The desert offered a pantheon of terrors: tarantulas, wolf spiders, fiddlebacks, bark scorpions, whip scorpions, centipedes, diamondbacks, sidewinders, Mojave greens. Eventually we grew familiar, even comfortable, with these creatures. For fun, when my friends and I discovered a wolf spider’s nest, we’d drop an ant onto its outer limits and watch as its entangled escape attempts sent quivers down the silk strands, into the spider’s dark central hole, anticipating that fatal moment when the spider would burst from its hollows and seize the doomed ant in its mandibles. “Country facts” became my term for the rural cousin of the urban legend. As I first learned them, country facts granted fairy powers to desert creatures, making, say, the Gila monster no less an actual monster than the Gorgon. Only after living out in the desert for a while did we realize that some country facts, like the existence of the jackalope, had been deliberately created to confuse city folk and amuse the locals. I once spent an hour convincing a group of exchange students from Berlin that, yes, there was a particular species of coyote that lived inside cacti and could leap ten yards to attack its prey (like, well, unsuspecting Germans). Yet no one precisely knew where the truth lay amid the whirling sand; for every country fact that seemed preposterous, there was one that felt solid and true. Always check your shoes for scorpions, for example, seemed plain good sense.When I was sixteen, I was supposed to drive my younger brother, Jeevan, to school. One morning, as usual, I was running late, and as Jeevan was standing impatiently in the foyer, yelling that he didn’t want to get detention again because of my tardiness, so could I please hurry the hell up, I raced down the stairs, threw open the front door . . . and nearly stepped on a snoozing six-foot rattlesnake. It was another country fact that if you killed a rattlesnake on your doorstep, its mate and offspring would come and make a permanent nest there, like Grendel’s mother seeking her revenge. So Jeevan and I drew straws: the lucky one grabbed a shovel, the unlucky one a pair of thick gardening gloves and a pillowcase, and through a seriocomic dance, we managed to get the snake into the pillowcase. Then, like an Olympic hammer thrower, I hurled the whole out into the desert, with plans to retrieve the pillowcase later that afternoon, so as not to get in trouble with our mother.Of our many childhood mysteries, chief among them was not why our father decided to bring his family to the desert town of Kingman, Arizona, which we grew to cherish, but how he ever convinced my mother to join him there. They had eloped, in love, across the world, from southern India to New York City (he a Christian, she a Hindu, their marriage was condemned on both sides, and led to years of familial rifts—my mother’s mother never acknowledged my name, Paul, instead insisting I be called by my middle name, Sudhir) to Arizona, where my mother was forced to confront an intractable mortal fear of snakes. Even the smallest, cutest, most harmless red racer would send her screaming into the house, where she’d lock the doors and arm herself with the nearest large, sharp implement—rake, cleaver, ax. Read more

The Athlete's Guide to Sports Supplements

Review “ The Athlete’s Guide to Sports Supplements includes the latest information on a variety of popular supplements. For athletes and sport professionals, it is the most credible evidence-based guide available.“ Tom Myslinski-- Strength and Conditioning Coach Jacksonville Jaguars “ The Athlete’s Guide to Sports Supplements offers grounded insight for athletes." Dave Ellis, RD, CSCS-- Past President Collegiate and Professional Sports Dietitians Association Ambassador " The Athlete’s Guide to Sports Supplements is an indispensable resource for any athlete considering the use of supplements." Matt Fitzgerald-- Author of The Runner’s Edge About the Author Kimberly Mueller, MS, RD, CSSD is a registered dietitian and board-certified specialist in sportdietetics with immense experience working with athletes competing within the endurance and team-sport arena. She grew up competing in club-level soccer before focusing her attention on the sport of running as a Division I collegiate cross-country and track-and-field athlete. She has also earned accolades as an All-American Triathlete, as well as an elite runner chasing after the Olympic trials standard for the marathon. Kim enjoys using her own practical sport experiences and knowledge of nutrition science to help fellow athletes achieve optimal health and peak fitness performance via creation of custom menu plans and personalized nutrition coaching with her company, Fuel Factor (www.Fuel-Factor.com). Kim’s passion for customized nutrition also led her to help develop and launch Infinit Nutrition (www.infinitnutrition.com), a company that custom-blends functional ingredients to address the performance and health goals of recreational and professional athletes, including those competing in such prestigious events as Tour de France and Formula 500. She is well known for her nutrition clinics and as a contributor to books such as The Performance Zone, The Woman Triathlete, Triathlon Revolution, Racing Weight, The New Rules of Marathon, and Half Marathon Nutrition. As a nutrition coach for Infinite Running (www.infiniterunning.org), Kim helps elite runners develop daily and race-day nutrition strategies that enhance endurance, facilitate optimal recovery, and protect against performance staleness. Kim lives in San Diego, where she is actively involved with several athletic groups, including the San Diego Track Club and Triathlon Club of San Diego. In 2013, she began a new journey as mom to her beautiful baby girl, Kaia Lyn. Josh Hingst, MS, RD, CSCS, head strength coach with the Philadelphia Eagles, is a specialist in the fields of nutrition and strength and conditioning, giving him unique expertise in understanding how nutrition and supplementation can complement strength training. He has worked extensively with strength and power athletes in sports such as Olympic weightlifting, powerlifting, bodybuilding, football, basketball, and baseball. His professional licenses and certifications include registered dietitian and certified strength and conditioning specialist. Prior to his work with the Philadelphia Eagles, Hingst was assistant strength and conditioning coach of the Jacksonville Jaguars. He also spent three years as the director of sport nutrition at the University of Nebraska. In that role he directed programs in body composition analysis, nutrition education, performance fueling strategies, eating disorder prevention and counseling, and sport supplements and hydration. Before joining the Nebraska Cornhuskers, Hingst served as team nutritionist for the Atlanta Falcons during their 2008 season, after spending five years in strength and conditioning and sport nutrition capacities at Florida State. During his time at FSU, Hingst earned his master's degree in clinical nutrition with an emphasis in sport nutrition. He received bachelor's degrees in nutrition sciences and dietetics and exercise science from Nebraska in 2001.

Prairie Home Companion 40th Anniversary Collection

About the Author Garrison Keillor, born in Anoka, Minnesota, is an essayist, columnist, blogger, and writer of sonnets, songs, and limericks. Keillor wrote and hosted the radio show A Prairie Home Companion for forty years. He and his wife, Jenny Lind Nilsson, live in Minneapolis and New York.As the host of A Prairie Home Companion for over forty years, Garrison Keillor has captivated millions of listeners with his News from Lake Wobegon monologues. He has been honored with Grammy, ACE, and George Foster Peabody awards, the National Humanities Medal, and election to the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Work It!: Veterinarian at Seaside Zoo (Work It! Book Collection)

Review Bella Santi and Sierra Christmas are two lucky girls who receive an internship with a veterinarian at the local Seaside Zoo in San Francisco through the Work It Club internship program for girls. Sierra is bold and confident, Bella is shy and less sure of herself because of a tragic event in her family months earlier. The girls work with the veterinarian, Dr. Lopez, as she saves a baby wolf, feeds a snow leopard cub, grooms a rare pony from Sweden, and even cares for a giraffe. They also work together to solve a mystery at the zoo. This book is full of real details about the day-to-day job of being a zoo veterinarian. It contains Action Notes at the back of the book full of resources for readers who want to take the next step and find out more about taking care of zoo animals. For girls who are animal lovers or just curious about them, this book will quickly become a favorite. A bonus for all of us who have daughters is that this book is part of a series designed to inspire girls about career choices, think big about their lives and take action. I give this first book in the series my highest recommendation! --Darryl L. Mobley, Founder & Publisher of Family Digest Magazine

5-Minute Book Marketing for Authors: Easy and effective ways to market your book every single day!

Be Prepared

Review A New York Times Book Reiview Notable Children's Book of 2018A Boston Globe Best Children's Book of 2018Selected as the Best Graphic Novel of 2018 by Parents Magazine "Beautifully drawn, brutally funny, brilliantly honest. Vera is such a good cartoonist I almost can’t stand it.” ―Raina Telgemeier, author of Smile "Perfect for fans of Shannon Hale’s Real Friends (2017), this will easily lodge a place in readers’ hearts, even as it has them rolling in the aisles."― Booklist , starred "The story, both culturally specific and universal, is a welcome addition to the growing canon of comics tales by talented women cartoonists (Raina Telgemeier, Tillie Walden, Zeina Abirached, Cece Bell, and many others) based on their own lives."― Horn Book, starred "The dialogue rings true, the pace is seamless, and the panel artwork, in woodsy browns and greens, conveys feelings with clean, assured lines. By turns sardonic, adorable, and noble, Vera is a beguiling hero who learns how to recognize who's really on her side."― Publishers Weekly, starred "A gorgeous, emotional memoir worthy of any graphic novel collection."― School Library Journal, starred "While the culturally specific references will particularly resonate with kids of Russian heritage, the larger story will strike chords with any kid who has ever struggled to find a place to belong."― Kirkus "There’s no real villainy here, just the quotidian slings and arrows carelessly shot by kids more concerned with fun than empathy. That makes Vera a character with appeal to every tween who’s ever felt disappointed by peers―or by a fulfilled wish that didn’t live up to its bright, shiny promise."― The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books About the Author Vera Brosgol was born in Moscow, Russia, in 1984 and moved to the United States when she was five. Her first graphic novel, Anya's Ghost , was published in 2011 by First Second. Her picture book Leave Me Alone! was a 2017 Caldecott Honor book. She was a storyboard artist at Laika Inc. for ten years, working on films including Coraline and Kubo and the Two Strings. She lives in Portland, Oregon, and at last count has knit twenty-five sweaters.

Come Sundown: A Novel

Review “Roberts always tells a good story that balances romance and suspense, but in this title, the narrative is deeper, the mystery is more layered, and with Alice, Roberts moves into another level of exploring physical and emotional trauma and the powerful balm of family and love. [Roberts] is moving into more complex and darker storytelling, to terrific effect.” -- Kirkus Starred Review"With its take-no-guff heroine, who understands the importance of family and friends, and a compelling plot peppered with domestic details and composed of equal measures of spine-tingling suspense and sexy romance, this is quintessential Roberts."-- Booklist Rave Review“What makes this novel most engaging is Roberts’s ability to suffuse her story with rich details of one family’s life, as well as sizzling doses of romance and mystery.”-- Publishers Weekly About the Author NORA ROBERTS is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than 230 novels, including Legacy, The Awakening, Hideaway, Under Currents, The Chronicles of The One trilogy, and many more. She is also the author of the bestselling In Death series written under the pen name J.D. Robb. There are more than 500 million copies of her books in print. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Come Sundown By Nora Roberts St. Martin's Press Copyright © 2017 Nora RobertsAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-250-12307-7 Contents Title Page, Copyright Notice, Begin Reading, About the Author, Copyright, CHAPTER 1 — Present Day — Dawn bloomed, pink as a rose, tinting the snow-drenched mountains with delicate color. Elk bugled as they swam through mists on their morning pilgrimage, and the rooster crowed his insistent alarm. Savoring the last of her coffee, Bodine Longbow stood at the kitchen door to look and listen to what she considered the perfect start of a November day. The only thing that could make it better was one additional hour. Since childhood she's wished for a twenty-five-hour day, had even written down all she could accomplish with just sixty minutes more. Since Earth's rotation didn't accommodate her, she made up for it, rarely sleeping beyond five-thirty. When dawn broke, she had already completed her morning workout — a precise sixty minutes — showered, groomed, dressed for the day, checked e-mails and texts, eaten a breakfast of yogurt, which she was trying to convince herself to like with granola that she didn't like any better than yogurt, while she checked her schedule on her tablet. Since her schedule already lived in her head, the check wasn't necessary. But Bodine believed in being thorough. Now, with the predawn portion of the day in the bag, she could take a few moments to enjoy her morning latte — double espresso, whole milk, and a squirt of the caramel she promised her inner critic she'd wean herself off of eventually. The rest of the household would pile in soon, her father and brothers from checking on the stock, getting the ranch hands going. Since it was Clementine's day off, Bodine knew her mother would sail into the kitchen, cheerfully and perfectly produce a Montana ranch breakfast. After feeding three men, Maureen would put the kitchen to rights before sailing off to the Bodine Resort where she served as the head of sales. Maureen Bodine Longbow was a constant wonder to her daughter. Not only was Bodine dead sure her mother didn't actively wish for that extra hour a day, she obviously didn't need it to get everything done, to maintain a solid marriage, help run two complex businesses — the ranch and the resort — while continuing to enjoy life to the fullest. Even as she thought it, Maureen breezed in. Her short, roasted-chestnut hair crowned a face pretty as rosebud. Lively green eyes smiled at Bodine. "Morning, my baby." "Morning. You look great." Maureen skimmed a hand down a narrow hip and the trim, forest green dress. "I've got meetings on top of meetings today. Gotta make an impression." She slid open the old barn door that led to the pantry, took a white butcher's apron from the hook. Not that a pop of bacon grease would dare to land on that dress, Bodine thought. "Make me one of those lattes, would you?" Maureen asked as she fastened the apron. "Nobody makes them as good as you." "Sure. I've got a meeting straight off this morning with Jessie," Bodine said, referring to the resort's events manager of three months, Jessica Baazov. "About Linda-Sue Jackson's wedding. Linda-Sue's coming in at ten." "Mmm. Your daddy tells me Roy Jackson's crying in his beer over the cost of marrying off his girl, but I know for a fact Linda-Sue's ma's determined to pull out every stop, and then some. She'd send that girl down the aisle to a celestial chorus of angels if we could provide it." Bodine meticulously steamed the milk for the latte. "For the right price, Jessie'd probably manage it." "She's working out real well, isn't she?" With an enormous skillet on the eight-burner range, Maureen began frying up bacon. "I like that girl." "You like everybody." Bodine handed her mother the latte. "Life's happier if you do. If you look for it, you can find something good about anybody." "Adolf Hitler," Bodine challenged. "Well, being what he was, he gave us a line in the sand most never want to cross again. That's a good thing." "Nobody's like you, Mom." Bodine bent from her superior height — she'd passed her mother's five-three at twelve, and had kept going another five inches — kissed Maureen's cheek. "I've got enough time to set the table for you before I go." "Oh, honey, you need breakfast, too." "I had some yogurt." "You hate that stuff." "I only hate it when I'm eating it, and it's good for me." Maureen sighed, lifting the bacon out to drain, adding more. "I swear, sometimes I think you're a better ma to yourself than I ever was." "Best mom ever," Bodine countered, taking a stack of the everyday plates from the cabinet. She heard the racket seconds before the back door opened. The men in her life piled in along with a pair of dogs. "Mind you wipe your boots." "Oh, now, Reenie, as if we'd forget." Sam Longbow took off his hat — nobody ate at Maureen's table wearing a hat. He stood six-three, most of it leg, a raw-boned, handsome man with silver wings sweeping through his black hair, with character lines fanning out from the corners of deep brown eyes. He had a crooked left incisor, which Bodine thought added charm to his smile. Chase, two years Bodine's senior hung his cattleman's hat on the peg, shrugged out of his barn jacket. He'd gotten his height and build from his father — all the Longbow siblings had — but in face and in coloring, he favored his mother. Rory, three years her junior, combined the two with deep brown hair, lively green eyes in a twenty-two-year-old version of Sam Longbow's face. "Can you make enough for one more, Mom?" Maureen arched her eyebrows at Chase. "I can always make enough for one more. Who's the one?" "I asked Cal to breakfast." "Well, set another plate," Maureen ordered. "It's been too long since Callen Skinner's been at our table." "He's back?" Chase nodded at Bodine, headed to the coffee machine. "Got here last night. He's settling into the shack, like we talked about. A hot breakfast'll help that along." While Chase downed black coffee, Rory added generous doses of milk and sugar to his own. "He doesn't look like some Hollywood cowboy." "A disappointment to our youngest," Sam said as he washed his hands in the farmhouse sink. "Rory hoped he'd walk around with jangling spurs, a silver band around his hat and polished-up boots." "Didn't have any of them." Rory snagged some bacon. "Doesn't look much different than when he left. Older, I guess." "Not a full year older than me. Save some of that bacon for the rest of us," Chase added. "I've got more," Maureen said placidly and lifted her face when Sam bent down to kiss her. "You look pretty as a candy box, Reenie. Smell just as pretty, too." "I've got a morning full of meetings." "Speaking of meetings." Bodine checked her watch. "I have to go." "Oh, honey, can't you stay to say hey to Callen? You haven't seen that boy in near to ten years." Eight years, Bodine thought, and had to admit she was curious to see him again. But ... "I just can't, sorry. I'll see him around — and you, too," she said, kissing her father. "Rory, I need to go over some things with you at the office." "I'll be there, boss." She snorted at that, aimed for the mudroom where she'd already put her packed-for-the-day briefcase. "Snow's coming by afternoon," she called, bundling into her coat, hat, scarf, and, pulling on gloves, walked out into the cold morning. She was running a minute behind, so she walked briskly to her truck. She'd known Callen was coming back, had been at the family meeting about hiring him on as head horseman for the ranch. He'd been Chase's closest friend as long as she could remember, and had wavered between being the bane of her existence to her first secret crush, back to bane, back to crush. She couldn't quite remember which category he'd been in when he'd left Montana. Now, as she drove over the corrugated snowpack of the ranch road, it occurred to her he'd been younger than Rory when he'd left home. About twenty, she calculated, no doubt pissed and frustrated at losing the bulk of his birthright. Land, she thought now, her father had bought from the Skinners when — if you said it politely — his father had fallen on hard times. He'd fallen on hard times because he gambled any good times away. Dead crap as a gambler, she'd heard her father say once, and as addicted to it as some are to the bottle. So with the land he'd surely loved down to less than fifty acres, the house, and a few outbuildings, Callen Skinner had set off to make his own way. According to Chase, Cal had done just fine, ending up wrangling horses for the movies. Now, with his father dead, his mother a widow, his sister married with a toddler and another baby on the way, he'd come back. She'd heard enough to know that what Skinner land remained wasn't worth what was owed on it from mortgages and loans. And the house stood empty as Mrs. Skinner had moved in with her daughter and family in a pretty house in Missoula where Savannah and her husband owned a craft shop. Bodine expected another meeting soon about buying the last fifty acres, and as she drove she weighed whether that parcel would work better for the ranch or resort. Fix up the house, she mused, rent it to groups. Or for events. Smaller weddings, corporate parties, family reunions. Or save that time and expense, tear it down, build from there. She entertained herself with possibilities as she drove under the arching Bodine Resort sign with its shamrock logo. She circled around, noting the lights on in the Trading Post as whoever caught the first shift prepared to open for the day. They had a trunk show this week with leather goods and crafts, and that would lure in some of the late-fall guests. Or with Rory's teams' marketing blast, draw in non-guests who'd stay for lunch at the Feed Bag. She pulled up in front of the long, low building with its wide front porch that housed reception. It always made her proud. The resort was born before she was, at a gathering with her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmother — with her grandmother, Cora Riley Bodine, driving the train. What had started as a bare-bones dude ranch had grown into a luxury resort that offered five-star cuisine, personalized service, adventure, pampering, events, entertainment, and more, all spread over more than thirty thousand acres, including the working ranch. And all, she thought as she got out of the truck, with the priceless beauty of western Montana. She hurried inside where a couple of guests were enjoying coffee in front of the massive, roaring fire. She caught the fall scents of pumpkin and cloves, approved, as she waved a hand toward the desk, intent on reaching to her office and getting organized. Detoured to the desk when Sal, the perky redhead Bodine had known since grade school, signaled her. "Wanted you to know Linda-Sue just called to say she'd be a little late." "She always is." "Yeah, but this time she's saying it instead of just being it. She's going by to pick up her mother." The solid foundation of Bodine's day suffered its first crack. "Her mother's coming to the meeting?" "Sorry." Sal offered a sorrowful smile. "That's mostly Jessie's problem, but thanks for the heads-up." "Jessie's not in yet." "That's all right, I'm early for the meeting." "You always are," Sal called out as Bodine veered off, taking the turn that led back to the resort manager's office. Her office. She liked the size of it. Big enough to hold meetings with staff or managers, small enough to keep those meetings intimate and personal. She had a double window looking out on stone paths, a portion of the building that held the Feed Bag and the more exclusive Dining Hall, and fields rolling toward the mountains. She had deliberately arranged her grandmother's old desk with her back to that window, avoiding distractions. She had two high-backed leather chairs that had once graced the office in the ranch house, and a small sofa — once her mother's and now reupholstered with a sturdy weave in a strong summer blue. She hung her coat, hat, and scarf on the coatrack in the corner, smoothed a hand over her hair — black as her father's, worn in a long, straight tail down her back. She had the look of her grandfather — so his widow always said. Bodine had seen photographs, and acknowledged her resemblance to the young, doomed Rory Bodine who'd died in Vietnam before his twenty-third birthday. He'd had bold green eyes and a wide, top-heavy mouth. His black hair had had a wave to it while hers ran ruler straight, but she had his high cheekbones, his small, pugnacious nose, and the white Irish skin that required oceans of sunscreen. But she liked to think she'd inherited her grandmother's canny business sense. She went to the counter that held the pod machine that made tolerable coffee, took a mug to her desk to go over her notes for her first two meetings of the day. As she finished up a phone call and an e-mail simultaneously, Jessica came in. Like Maureen, Jessie wore a dress — a sharp red in this case paired with a short leather jacket the color of top cream. The short, high-heeled boots wouldn't last five minutes in the snow, but they matched the red dress as if they'd been dyed in the same batch. Bodine had to admire the slick, unassailable style. Jessica wore her streaked blond hair pulled back in a sleek coil as she often did on workdays. Like the boots, her lips matched the dress perfectly and suited her slashing cheekbones, her slim, straight nose, and her eyes of clear, glacier blue. She sat as Bodine finished the call, taking her own phone out of her jacket pocket and scrolling through something. Bodine hung up, sat back. "The coordinator for the Western Writers Association's going to contact you about a three-day retreat and farewell banquet." "Do they have dates? Numbers?" "Projected number ninety-eight. Dates are January nine arrival, departure on January twelve." "This January?" Bodine smiled. "Their other venue fell through, so they're scrambling. I checked and we can work this. We slow down right after the holidays. We'll hold the Mill for them, for the meeting rooms and banquet, and the number of cabins she requested for forty-eight hours. The coordinator — Mandy — seemed organized, if a little desperate. I've just now sent you, my mother, and Rory an e-mail on the particulars. Their budget should work." "All right. I'll talk to her, get a meal plan, transportation, activities, and so on. Writers?" "Yep." "I'll alert the Saloon." Jessica made another note on her phone. "I've never organized an event for writers that doesn't run a big bar tab." "Good for us." Bodine wagged a thumb at the little coffeemaker. "Help yourself." Jessica simply lifted the Irish green Bodine Resort insulated cup of water she carried habitually. "How do you live without coffee?" Bodine wondered, sincerely. "Or Coke. How do you live on water?" "Because there's also wine. And there's yoga, meditation." "All of those things put you to sleep." "Not if they're done right. You really should do more yoga. And meditation would probably help you cut back on the caffeine." "Meditation just makes me think about all the other things I'd rather be doing." Leaning back, Bodine swiveled her chair side to side. "I really like that jacket." "Thanks. I went into Missoula on my day off, splurged. Which is nearly as good as yoga for the mind and spirit. Sal tells me Linda-Sue's going to be a little late — newsflash — and her mother's coming with her." "That's the latest. We'll deal. They're booking fifty-four cabins for three days. Rehearsal dinner, wedding, wedding reception, basically taking over Zen Town the day before the wedding in addition to the other activities." "The wedding's only four weeks away, so that's not much time to change their minds, add more fluff." Bodine's wide mouth tipped into a smirk. "You've met Dolly Jackson, right?" "I can handle Dolly." "Better you than ... anybody," Bodine decided. "Let's go over what we've got." They went over the list top to bottom, and had moved on to a smaller holiday party event the week before Christmas when Sal stuck her head in the door. "Linda-Sue and her mom." "Be right there. Wait, Sal? Order up some mimosas." "Now you're talking." "Smart," Jessica said, after Sal popped out again. "Fuss over them and soften them up." "Linda-Sue's not so bad. Chase dated her for about five minutes in high school." Bodine rose, tugged her dark brown vest into place. "But mimosas never hurt. Let's soldier up." Pretty, curvy, easily flustered Linda-Sue paced the lobby with her hands clasped between her breasts. "Can't you just see it, Mom? Everything decorated for Christmas, the trees, the lights, a fire going like now. And Jessica said the Mill's just going to sparkle." "It better. I'm telling you we need those big candle stands, Linda-Sue, at least a dozen. Gold ones, like I saw in that magazine. Not the shiny gold, the classy gold." (Continues...) Excerpted from Come Sundown by Nora Roberts . Copyright © 2017 Nora Roberts. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

Spackled and Spooked (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery)

About the Author Jennie Bentley is the New York Times bestselling author of the Do-It-Yourself Mysteries. The Prime Crime home renovation series features textile designer Avery Baker and her handyman boyfriend, Derek Ellis, who renovate houses in Maine. She also writes under the name Jenna Bennett.

The Fevers of Reason: New and Selected Essays

Review Praise for The Fevers of Reason "A rich layering of past, present, science, and literature to present diverse takes on the issue at hand. . . . Weissmann not only endeavors to connect the realms of literature and medicine, but also to create community among readers in light of class, race, religion, and age." ― Glassworks Magazine "Essays that brim with knowledge and bubble with attitude." ― Kirkus Reviews "Highly accessible, entertaining. . . . Every current theme, including buzz about free radicals and the 2014 Ebola outbreak, is tempered with a historical anecdote. Here, too, are cautionary concerns about henna tattoos, reminders to beware of 'alternative science,' and lots of humor. Weissmann's science writing is juicy and conversational." ― Booklist "Expertly hopscotch[es] across all sorts of topics. . . . Weissmann's humanist, sometimes sardonic, voice binds together disparate strands to show how all human endeavor is linked. . . . Weissmann clearly sees how history obfuscates the work of women, people of color and immigrants, and tries to alter that. . . . Anyone with an interest in American scientific or literary history will enjoy this collection." ― Shelf Awareness for Readers "Weissmann's project is to show how science and culture aren't as distant as often thought, and the best of the essays are wonderfully stimulating and exciting in how they make this point. . . . Admirers will be captivated anew." ― Publishers Weekly Select Praise for Gerald Weissmann "Gerald Weissmann is Lewis Thomas's heir." ― Robert Coles "Weissmann has a strong and well-informed interest, unusual for a scientist, both in poetry and in art." ― Freeman Dyson "[Weissmann] bridges the space between science and the humanities, and particularly between medicine and the muses, with wit, erudition, and, most important, wisdom." ― Adam Gopnik "America's most interesting and important essayist." ― Eric Kandel "How I envy the reader coming upon Dr. Weissmann's elegant, entertaining essays for the first time!" ― Jonas Salk "Dr. Weissmann's juggling with the balls of global politics, biology, medicine, and culture in the framework of history is breathtaking." ― Bengt Samuelsson , Nobel Laureate and former chairman of the Nobel Foundation "The premier essayist of our time, Weissmann writes with grace and style." ― Richard Selzer "An absolutely first-rate writer." ― Kurt Vonnegut "[Weissmann] is a man of wide culture, a captivating and graceful writer." ― New Yorker "Weissmann introduces us to a new way of thinking about the connections between art and medicine." ― New York Times Book Review "Oliver Sacks, Richard Selzer, Lewis Thomas . . . Weissmann is in this noble tradition."― Los Angeles Times "As a belles-letterist, Weissmann is the inheritor of the late Lewis Thomas . . . Like Thomas, he's a gifted researcher and clinician who writes beautifully. Unlike Thomas, he is an original and indefatigable social historian as well." ― Boston Globe "He writes as a doctor, a medical scientist, a knowing lover of art and literature and a modern liberal skeptic. But more than anything else, Weissmann writes as a passionate and wise reader." ― New Republic "Weissmann is a master of the essay form. His witty and elegant prose makes the toughest subject matter not only accessible but entertaining." ― Barnes and Noble Review "[Weissmann] is a Renaissance Man. . . . He'll stretch your mind's hamstrings." ― Christian Science Monitor "[Weissmann's essays] intertwine the profound connections of science and art in the context of our modern era . . . to illuminate the ongoing challenges scientists face in dealing with scrutiny and criticism, from colleagues and from our broader society." ― Science "Erudite, engaging, and accessible." ― Library Journal "Weissmann models his work after that of his mentor, Lewis Thomas. . . . His ideas . . . are every bit as important." ― Publishers Weekly About the Author Gerald Weissmann (August 7, 1930 – July 10, 2019) was a physician, scientist, editor, and essayist whose collections include The Fevers of Reason: New and Selected Essays ; Epigenetics in the Age of Twitter: Pop Culture and Modern Science ; Mortal and Immortal DNA: Science and the Lure of Myth ; and Galileo's Gout: Science in an Age of Endarkenment .

The Risk of a Fall

Welcome Home, Beaver

Review "The illustrations are detailed and make it fun for children to explore animal life underground. The rhyming text is perfect for read-alouds and a map showing the locations of each animal’s habitat is given at the back of the book. Readers will have fun finally finding Beaver’s home in North America. Recommended.” ― School Library Connection “The play between word and text perfectly weave together. … There is so much to discover at each animal's home, fun things. There's always something new to discover every time kids flip through, which will definitely keep them coming back for more. These animal homes aren't the common well-known ones, but rather introduce young listeners/readers to some 'homes' they haven't necessarily run across before. Warm feelings of security and comfort close off the tale as Beaver finally finds his own home and is glad to be there. But this isn't a book that will be set down after that last page and forgotten. It's one to flip through and read time and again.” ― BOOKWORM FOR KIDS About the Author Perhaps it was inevitable that Magnus Weightman (Sunderland, 1974) would one day illustrate his own children's book. Drawing has been a passion since his childhood and it was also the reason he chose to become an architect and urban designer. Becoming a father inspired him to bring his love for drawing, architecture, nature and travel together in his first book. Welcome Home, Beaver is both a journey of discovery of amazing animal houses and an epic search for home. From his English/Norwegian roots Magnus has now made his family home in Rotterdam.

Murder, Served Simply (Amish Quilt Shop Mystery)

Review Praise for the Amish Quilt Shop Mysteries “Isabella Alan captures Holmes County and the Amish life in a mystery that is nothing close to plain and simple, all stitched together with heart.”—Avery Aames, Agatha Award–winning author of the Cheese Shop Mysteries“A dead-certain hit with devotees of cozy mysteries.”—P. L. Gaus, author of the Amish-Country Mysteries“Isabella Alan captures the spirit of the Amish perfectly.”—Cozy Mystery Book Review“An adventure for which the pages seem to turn themselves.”—Open Book Society About the Author Isabella Alan is the national bestselling author of the Amish Quilt Shop Mysteries, including Murder, Handcrafted ; Murder, Plainly Read ; Murder, Served Simply ; Murder, Simply Stitched ; and Murder, Plain and Simple . An academic librarian for a small college in Ohio, she grew up visiting the state’s Amish country with her family. As Amanda Flower, she is the author of the Agatha Award–nominated Maid of Murder as well as the Magical Bookshop Mysteries. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Water fell from the faucet into the old porcelain sink in Running Stitch’s tiny bathroom. Through the closed door, I heard the cheerful Pennsylvania Dutch chatter of the ladies from my quilting circle. Normally, the sound would have made me smile. Today, any noise was certain to cause an instant migraine. I dabbed my face with a damp paper towel, careful not to mar my eye makeup. When Ryan Dickinson showed up at my door, I wanted to look my best. Not for him but for me. Didn’t every girl feel like that when confronted with her ex-fiancé? Of course, most girls don’t have their parents to blame for the reunion. I rested my forehead on the mirror and willed myself to get a grip. A tap came at the door. “Angie, are you okay in there?” asked Anna, who had been my aunt Eleanor’s closest friend. I opened the door. My kitten, Dodger, and French bulldog, Oliver, sat on either side of her. Concern was plastered on all three of their faces. “I’m fine,” I said, forcing some Christmas cheer into my voice. None of them bought my act. “ Ya , you sound like it.” If you had asked me before my move from Dallas to Ohio’s Amish Country whether Amish women were sarcastic, I would have said no. Boy, did Anna prove me wrong. “I am fine.” She stepped back to give me enough space to exit the bathroom. “You didn’t seem that way earlier today. When your parents and Ryan arrived, you practically threw them onto the progressive-dinner sleigh. You barely gave Mattie and me enough time to introduce ourselves.” I crossed the shop to the long table lined with tureens of soup, each made by a lady from my quilting circle, and chili made by me. I had to bring a little of Texas to this Christmas in Ohio. “The sleigh was leaving,” I said as I stirred my chili. “I didn’t want them to miss this important event in Rolling Brook. It’s not like they will have another chance to have an Amish progressive dinner.” “They will if they come next Christmas,” Anna said. I shivered. “Mom and Dad are welcome back, but this will be the last Christmas Ryan Dickinson spends in Rolling Brook if I can help it.” Mattie Miller, my young assistant in the shop, said, “Ryan is very handsome.” I scowled at the chili. Maybe I should add some more hot sauce and show them how we really do chili in Texas. “He’s no more handsome than the sheriff. The sheriff is distinguished,” Anna said. I flinched. There lay the heart of the problem. Ryan Dickinson, my ex-fiancé, and Sheriff James Mitchell, my kind-of boyfriend, were together in the same county for Christmas. I never thought I would see the day, not even in my worst nightmares. And it was all thanks to my mother, the mastermind behind the drama. Suddenly, the chili didn’t seem all that appetizing. I debated going back to the bathroom in case I needed to toss the half dozen Christmas cookies I had pilfered from the tray Mattie had brought across the street from her family’s bakery. I placed the glass lid back on the Crock-Pot. Mattie’s thin eyebrows wrinkled. “Angie, you don’t look so good. Are you ill?” “I’ll be fine. The holidays are always stressful, right?” Anna sniffed. “The Englisch make it stressful. It’s not that way in the Amish world. We know Christmas is a time of reflection on our faith, and to be with family.” “I think most English folks know that too,” I said. “But there are also credit cards involved.” Anna shook her head as if I’d hit her with yet another mysterious English riddle. Mattie unwrapped a third stack of plastic bowls from their packaging and set them on the edge of the table. “The progressive dinner is across the street at the bakery.” “Already?” I swallowed hard. The next stop would be Running Stitch. I hurried to the front window. Sure enough, the progressive-dinner sleigh was off-loading customers, most of whom were local English folks, with the exception of Ryan and my parents. Before the cold could seep through their heavy winter coats and parkas, they dashed into the bakery. My best friend and Mattie’s sister-in-law, Rachel Miller, would warm them up with hot coffee and some of her prizewinning friendship bread. Maybe if Mom and Ryan overeat, they will be too ill to talk to me about whatever brought them to Ohio this Christmas, I thought, feeling more cheerful. Then I could spend the rest of the week avoiding talking to them about it. I wouldn’t mind talking with my dad though. I suspected he was on my side. Plus, Dad had the ability to pack away a couple of pies single-handedly. The progressive dinner wouldn’t even be a challenge for him. Mattie patted my arm as she carried a tray of crackers to the second long table along the quilt shop’s front window. “Angie, don’t worry so much. It will all be fine.” When had Mattie become the calm, reassuring one? When she’d started working for me four months ago, she’d been a quiet, unassuming Amish girl. I liked the new Mattie, but I wasn’t sure how her conservative brother felt about her new confidence. I peered out through Running Stitch’s display window. One of my favorite quilts, a double wedding ring pattern done in Christmas red and green, hung over the quilt stand next to a five-foot Christmas tree decorated with white lights and pincushions as ornaments. The Amish don’t have Christmas trees in their homes. Like everything else, their Christmas decorations are modest—some greenery and maybe a string of popcorn at most. I shuddered at what my Amish friends would think of the nine-foot glitzed-and-glittered tree that sat in the front hall of my parents’ home back in Dallas. There were enough electric bulbs on it to light up an aircraft carrier. Dad always said it wasn’t worth putting up a Christmas tree unless you could see it from space. Thinking of the tree made me nostalgic and happy that both of my parents were in Rolling Brook for Christmas. The sleigh shifted forward a foot as the two draft horses shuffled in place. Steam escaped from their nostrils as they stamped the snow-covered road. Jonah, Anna’s son and my childhood friend, sat on the driver’s seat of the sleigh. He spied me in the window and waved. He arched his sandy-colored eyebrows as if to ask a question. Great, I thought, even Jonah wonders how I’m going to handle Ryan. Does the entire town know my ex-fiancé is here for Christmas? I already knew the answer to that one. Behind me, Anna and Mattie spoke in hushed tones. I walked across the room in time to hear Mattie say, “Aaron said it’s wrong for the Englischers to portray the Amish that way.” Ahh, I thought, the play. An Amish Christmas was the second hot topic in town, and I was happy to have it. At least it took some of the heat off me. “Did you hear what it’s about?” Mattie asked. “Judging from the title,” Anna said, “something about the Amish and Christmas.” “Nee.” Mattie put her hands on her hips. “I mean yes, but it’s mostly about an Amish girl who falls in love with an Englischer and leaves the community. My brother says that it belittles our way of life.” Anna snorted. “Let the Englisch have their fun.” “If it were just Englischers .” Mattie lowered her voice until I could barely hear her. “Eve Shetler is in the play.” Anna clicked her tongue. “ Ya, I heard that. Eve is an Englischer now. It’s not our concern what she does now that she has left the community.” “Many don’t feel that way. It’s fine she left the community, but why would she come back and mock it?” “I don’t think the play is meant to mock anything,” I said, jumping in for the first time. “Have you seen it?” Mattie asked. “No, I heard bits and pieces when I was at the inn setting up for the Christmas quilt show. Tonight will be the first time I’ll see it run all the way through.” The progressive dinner would end at the Swiss Valley Hotel on Rolling Brook’s border with Berlin. The grand finale of the evening would be the opening of An Amish Christmas . Perhaps now was not the best time to mention the musical numbers in the production. Mattie smoothed the pile of napkins on the table. “Then you can’t say for sure.” I opened my mouth to protest, but the bell over the front door rang. Progressive diners poured into the quilt shop. Cheerful chatter quickly filled the small shop. The women raved over the quilts, and the men made a beeline for the tureens of soup. Anna and Mattie took up their posts behind the soup table and began dishing hot soup and chili into bowls. Mom, Dad, and Ryan were in the back of the pack. My father gave me a huge grin, and it took all my willpower not to run over to him and give him a big bear hug like I had when I was a little girl. The man behind him, Ryan, stopped me. Ryan had a pained expression on his face as he rubbed his arms, as if to get blood circulating. Clearly, spending the night freezing in an Amish sleigh as it moved from business to business in Rolling Brook and eating heavy Amish food were not what he expected when he arrived in Ohio. I knew Ryan, the fitness fanatic, was already calculating the number of calories he’d consumed since his plane landed and how many hours it would take in the gym to burn them off. His gaze zeroed in on me. Could I be wrong, but did his expression soften? My stomach did a little flip. I wouldn’t let Ryan’s chocolate puppy-dog eyes work their magic on me. I wasn’t going to be fooled this time. Never again. I broke eye contact, and I took a deep breath. It was just a week. What could possibly happen to ruin Christmas in a week? I glanced down at my beloved Frenchie, Oliver. He covered his nose with his white paw. Oliver knew better. He knew all the players on and off the stage. Read more

Junk Raft: An Ocean Voyage and a Rising Tide of Activism to Fight Plastic Pollution

Review “Eriksen succeeds in dramatizing a significant problem and enlisting popular support, noting some immediate steps that can be taken to create recyclable products...The thrills and chills of rafting packaged with a compelling call to action.”— Kirkus Reviews “Eriksen’s work is a much-needed wake-up call for the public to pressure politicians to finally tackle an often-overlooked but deadly form of pollution.”— Booklist “ Junk Raft is a stimulating, thought-provoking and factually grounded read.”— Nature “This book combines many of my favorite things—adventure far from shore, the spirit of exploration, and the fight to save our oceans—all in a gripping narrative that’s also a parable for our time. In the battle for the future of our living world, Marcus Eriksen is a true warrior.”—James Cameron, filmmaker and deep-ocean explorer“Navigating between an epic seafaring adventure and an activist’s environmental distress call, Junk Raft serves as a reflection of the choices and journeys that each of us makes and helps us understand how plastic in the oceans is deeply intertwined with the future of human life. Eriksen gets at the heart of what it means to respond to environmental catastrophe on our imperiled planet. As Marcus’s wife, Anna, puts it so memorably, ‘Love creates justice.’”—Céline Cousteau, documentary filmmaker, artist, and environmental activist“Marcus Eriksen and I share the same struggle, namely, to draw back the plastic curtain in order to subdue the monster that the plastics industry created. Junk Raft is filled with adventure, romance, and important truths that will be needed by the thousands of groups who will eventually overcome the beast. This book heralds the beginning of a new field of scientific research, adding fuel to movements dedicated to the survival and liberation of the natural and human worlds.”—Captain Charles Moore, author of Plastic Ocean and founder of Algalita Marine Research and Education“When the junk raft was originally making its crossing from California to Hawaii, it was big news for ocean lovers around the world. It’s exciting to now be able to read such a personal account of these adventures, exploring the thoughts that were going through Marcus’s mind, and the daily challenges that arise when taking a journey as monumental as this one.”—Jack Johnson, musician and clean-ocean activist“ Junk Raft takes us on an exciting and quixotic voyage of exploration, adventure, and activism, and along the way, Marcus Eriksen somehow manages to turn his cutting-edge research into an engaging love story. Don’t be fooled by the title—Eriksen’s Junk Raft carries a treasure chest full of adventurous stories, wise insights, and valuable lessons on how to protect our oceans.”—Stuart H. Coleman, author of Eddie Would Go and Hawaii manager of the Surfrider Foundation About the Author Marcus Eriksen is the cofounder and director of research for the 5 Gyres Institute, with firsthand experience from more than twenty ocean-crossing expeditions, and he has written and published research on the impact of plastic pollution in the world’s oceans. He is the author of Junk Raft and My River Home: A Journey from the Gulf War to the Gulf of Mexico .

Dust Between My Toes: An Amish Boy's Journey

House Calls and Hitching Posts: Stories from Dr. Elton Lehmans Career Among the Amish

Out of Focus (3) (Chosen Paths)

About the Author After graduating from Texas A&M University, L.B. Simmons did what any biomedical science major could do. She entered the workforce as a full-time chemist. Years later, never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined herself a USA Today Bestselling contemporary romance author as well. What began as a memoir for her children, ended up being her first self-published book, Running on Empty . Soon after, her girls were given reoccurring roles in the remainder of what became the Mending Hearts series. L.B. Simmons doesn’t just write books. With each new work, she attempts to compose journeys of love and self-discovery so she may impart life lessons to readers. She’s tackled suicide, depression, bullying, eating disorders, as well as physical and sexual abuse, all the while weaving elements of humor into the storylines in effort to balance the difficult topics. Often described as roller coaster rides, her novels are known for eliciting a wide range of emotions in each story she tells.

Hidden Figures: The American Dream and the Untold Story of the Black Women Mathematicians Who Helped Win the Space Race

Jockeys and Jewels

From the Author Jockeys and Jewels is the first book in the Dangerous Odds Series which also includes Color My Horse and Fillies and Females. All three books may be enjoyed as standalones. From the Inside Flap An undercover cop investigates the murder of his ex-partner and falls in love with the dedicated jockey he has deceived. His lies thrust them into the crosshairs of a killer...and now much more than their love is at stake. From the Back Cover "Jockeys and Jewels is a sparkling jewel of a romance--clever, entertaining, and touching."-- Julianne MacLean, USA Today Bestselling Author "Bev Pettersen is firmly on my must-buy list. Her books sweep you away to the world of Thoroughbred racing, and her cast of jockeys, horse trainers, and grooms are lovable and unforgettable." - Hope Ramsay, Bestselling Author of Home At Last Chance. "Bev Pettersen brings complex characters and a riveting story to life through engaging dialogue, a well crafted plot, and a budding love story centered around a crackling good murder mystery. Not just for fans of horse racing, (think Dick Francis with romance), there is something in this exciting and original well-told tale for everyone. Highly recommended!" -- Judith James, IPPY Awards Gold Medal Winner Praise for Bev Pettersen's Riding For Redemption:"The latest romantic mystery from Pettersen...enlivened by amiable characters and a robust setting." - Kirkus Reviews "Packed with both mystery and romance, conspiracy and emotion, with story lines centered on the polar opposites of horses and the Mexican drug cartel, this award-winning romantic mystery novel is a thrill throughout...a great read all around!" - Pacific Book Reviews About the Author USA Today Bestselling Author Bev Pettersen is a three-time nominee in the National Readers Choice Award as well as a two-time finalist in the Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart® Contest. She competed for five years on the Alberta Thoroughbred race circuit and is an Equine Canada certified coach. She lives in Nova Scotia with her family, and when she's not writing novels, she's riding. Visit her at bevpettersen.com Read more

Running for Women

Review "Using meticulous research, Karp and Smith have created a practical and intriguing masterpiece for female runners of all ages and abilities. Highly recommended!" Lorraine Moller-- Boston Marathon Winner, Olympic Marathon Medalist, Cofounder of the Lydiard Foundation, Author of On the Wings of Mercury “In Running for Women, Carolyn Smith and Jason Karp combine scientific research with realistic guidelines that all women can follow to combat the effects of aging.” Meghan Arbogast-- Four-Time Qualifier to the Olympic Marathon Trials, Team USA Leader at World 100K Championships, World-Record Holder for 50+ Age Group in the 100K “In Running for Women, Dr. Karp and Dr. Smith provide women and their coaches a clear path to success and enjoyment in training and racing." Joe Compagni-- Director and Head Coach, Men's and Women's Track and Field and Cross Country Monmouth University About the Author Jason Karp, PhD, MBA, is a running coach, exercise physiologist, author, speaker, and creator of the REVO₂LUTION RUNNING™ certification for coaches and fitness professionals.A TEDx speaker, Dr. Karp has given hundreds of international lectures at the world's top fitness conferences and coaching clinics. He has been an instructor for USA Track & Field's level 3 coaching certification and for coaching camps at the U.S. Olympic Training Center.Jason was awarded the 2011 IDEA Personal Trainer of the Year, is a two-time recipient of the President's Council on Sports, Fitness, & Nutrition Community Leadership Award (2014, 2019), and was a 2019 finalist for Personal Fitness Professional Trainer of the Year and 2020 finalist for Association of Fitness Studios Influencer of the Year.Dr. Karp received his PhD in exercise physiology with a physiology minor from Indiana University, his MBA at San Diego State University, his master's degree in kinesiology from the University of Calgary, and his bachelor's degree in exercise and sport science with an English minor from Penn State University.. Carolyn Smith, MD, is the head medical team physician and medical director in the department of intercollegiate athletics and athletic training educational program at Marquette University. She is also the executive director of the Marquette University Medical Clinic, an adjunct faculty member in the College of Health Sciences, and a member of the Board of Directors for Special Olympics Wisconsin. A lifelong runner, Carolyn competed for the University of Wisconsin and ran in the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials. She is a national age-group record holder, 100-kilometer and 24-hour national ultramarathon champion, and 7-time member of the U.S. 100K National Team.

Boxed In (Annie's Attic Mysteries)

Arthur: The Dog who Crossed the Jungle to Find a Home

Review A Sunday Times Bestseller "An incredible journey."—Daily Telegraph "Arthur latched onto an extreme sports team during the Amazon race - and what happened next will melt the hardest heart"—Daily Mail About the Author Mikael Lindnord is the author of the books Arthur and its follow-up Rescue Dog Tales . Arthur is soon to be made into a major motion picture starring Mark Wahlberg. When he's not writing books, Lindnord is an adventure racer, race planner, and motivational speaker. A former aspiring professional hockey player, today he travels the world as an adventure racer. When not racing he lives with his wife, children, and, of course, his dog Arthur. Arthur is a mongrel from somewhere in Ecuador. He likes meatballs, long runs with Mikael, and relaxing with his family in Sweden.

Clutch

Review "Joey narrates his own tale with all the fear and bravado he is feeling moment to moment. Camlot weaves the elements together seamlessly and naturally while never losing sight of Joey at the center of it all. All the characters, including the city itself, are fully developed and play important roles in Joey's journey, as when Mr. Friedman speaks to Joey about his Holocaust experiences and losses. Yiddish phrases and traditions are defined as they occur. Woven through it all is the story of Jackie Robinson's first season of professional baseball in Montreal, captivating Joey and his friends, with actual quotes from sports reporters placed at the beginning of each chapter. Readers will be completely enthralled with Joey's world and root for him all the way. Powerful, moving, and wonderful."— Kirkus Star Review "A superb story. Joey is a fully developed, complex character one can't help but love. His friends and family are all believable and interesting. The fast-paced plot is never dull and never predictable. Tension steadily mounts when Joey, in his desperate search for money, unwittingly aligns himself with a gangster who just happens to be the father of his best friend, Ben. Serious trouble looms. "By the end of Clutch , Joey has learned some important life lessons, but he is still 13. One can only hope Camlot writes a sequel — Joey surely has many great adventures ahead."— Quill & Quire "Heather Camlot's characters are people you'd like to know. In writing Clutch , she has scored a home run. Highly Recommended ".— CM Magazine "This Toronto author's debut novel is a wonderful read, with a compelling plot, plenty of unpredictable twists and an engaging protagonist who learns some important life lessons."— City Parent "Heather Camlot has hit a home run with this debut novel! Chapters are short, the plot moves along at a great pace and she has created endearing characters that are easy for kids to relate to. Both reluctant and proficient readers will want to keep turning the pages to reach the end, and whether they're baseball crazed or not, they'll love this heartfelt and moving story about a young Jewish kid who just wants a better life for himself and his family."— Canadian Children's Book News " Clutch is a close and compelling look at one small family within a small community, part of a larger community still struggling to find its feet after the horrors of the Second World War and the Holocaust, finding meaning in the triumphs of an underdog hero and in embracing the connections that make us who we are. The author's interview at the end of the story is lovely. Recommended." — thebookwars.ca blog "Short chapters that keep the intriguing plot moving quickly forward, a feeling of ever-growing tension, terrific secondary characters worthy of our admiration and having their own stories to tell, together teach a memorable history lesson for readers. Joey's first person narration is poignant, brave, and desperate. You will not forget him. I hope to meet him again one day."— Sal's Fiction Addiction "A meticulously researched and lovingly crafted debut novel. . . The story dazzles with tight, pithy writing and accurate historical details that are smoothly woven in."— Montreal Review of Books "Heather Camlot hits it out of the ballpark with this wise, tender and often funny story about friendship, loss and post-World War II Montreal."— Monique Polak , author of Bullies Rule "Life, death, love and baseball! What more could a reader want? A home run."— Kevin Sylvester , author of MiNRS Book Description On Kirkus Reviews Best Books of 2017 list in the Middle-Grade Historical Fiction category On the 2018 Skipping Stones Honor Awards list Nominated for the 2018 Silver Birch Fiction Award 2019 Manitoba Young Readers' Choice Award Sundogs nominee A Starred selection on the CCBC Best Books for Kids & Teens list for spring 2018 Finalist for the 2018 Geoffrey Bilson Award for Historical Fiction for Young People On Resource Links' list of The Year's Best in 2018 About the Author Heather Camlot is an editor and translator who has written for The New York Times , The Globe and Mail and Canadian Living . She lives in Toronto. Read more

Recipe for Deception

Expired Listings: Revenge Begins at Home

Review “A buoyant, commendable mystery that piles on red herrings with ferocity and glee...the spiraling final act, culminating with the killer's staggering reveal, is an exhilarating ride." -- Kirkus Reviews “Exceptionally well written...a consistently compelling read from beginning to end...a masterfully crafted suspense thriller that will prove to be an enduringly popular addition to personal reading lists and community library collections.” -- Midwest Book Review Expired Listings is a sumptuous and starkly original mystery in which real estate agent Dana Black finds herself chasing a killer instead of just a listing. D.M. Barr's debut effort mimes the best from Sue Grafton, Susan Isaacs and Judith Krantz with an aplomb normally reserved for a far more seasoned writer in a tale that satisfies at every level. Splendid, searing, and sensational!"-- Jon Land , USA Today bestselling author of The Rising “Expired Listings is smart, funny, and sexy - a wild romp through the (oddly compatible) worlds of high stakes real estate and the "kink" subculture...it's funny and scary, fast and furious when it needs to be. An enjoyable and titillating ride into hidden worlds - and the mind of a ruthless killer.”-- Carole Bugge/C.E. Lawrence , author of Lee Campbell Mystery Series (Silent Stalker, etc) and Claire Rawlings Mystery Series A lot of twists and turns along with red herrings. A fast-paced mystery with a bit of romance. Thoroughly enjoyable! --Janet Lane Walters, prolific author of 30+ novels including Seducing a Pair of Blakefield Friends: Double Feature. There is everything anybody could ask for in a cracking good suspense novel - red herrings, a possibly unreliable narrator, some sex and romance, and a pace that builds to breakneck speed before a surprising revelation. -- Kathryn Guare , author of Where a Wave Meets the Shore I love it when a book defies my expectation. DM Barr crafted a mystery that has just the right amount of racy sex, humor and kept me guessing. Definitely a fun read and well worth the time. Looking forward to seeing what's next from Barr. -- BJ Knapp , author of Beside the Music Great Read, Well Written! This book keeps its promise of fun, suspense and just plain enjoyable reading. Highly recommended! -- S.A. Stolinsky , author of Hot Shot So suspenseful! I couldn't put the book down, and OMG, finding out who the killer is was a shock! Can't wait for the next offering by D.M. Barr.— Elf Ahearn , author of A Rogue in Sheep's Clothing From the Author Reviews are the lifeblood of any author, especially in today's world of social proof. Please don't forget to let other readers know of your experience reading "Expired Listings." And I certainly hope that it's a pleasant one! -- D.M. Barr About the Author WHO IS D.M. BARR?By day, a mild-mannered salesperson, wife, mother, rescuer of senior shelter dogs, happily living just north of New York City. By night, an author of novels of sex, suspense and satire, such as Expired Listings, Murder Worth the Weight, The Queen of Second Chances, Saving Grace-A Psychological Thriller, and Simple Tryst of Fate . I was also the co-editor of the Sisters in Crime-New York/Tri-State anthology, Justice for All: Murder New York Style 5 . My background includes stints in travel marketing, travel journalism, meeting planning, public relations and real estate. I was, for a long and happy time, an award-winning magazine writer and editor.  Then kids happened. And I needed to actually make money. Now they're off doing whatever it is they do (of which I have no idea since they won't friend me on Facebook) and I can spend my spare time weaving tales of debauchery and whatever else tickles my fancy. The main thing to remember about my work is that I am NOT one of my characters. For example, as a real estate broker, I've never played Bondage Bingo in one of my empty listings or offed one of my problem clients. I've never plotted against the administrators of my local weight loss clinic, or worried that my husband was planning to murder me for my inheritance. Well, that's not entirely true, but let's go with that for now. And I've never mastered the hula hoop to impress a group of senior citizens. But that's not to say I haven't wanted to... Read more

ER Vets: Life in an Animal Emergency Room

From School Library Journal Starred Review. Grade 5-8–With plentiful, excellent-quality photographs, this highly visual book offers a behind-the-scenes look at an emergency animal hospital in Colorado. While a German shepherd's life is saved, a snake could not be resuscitated. The pictures work well with the smallish-print text. Photographs range from heartbreaking (the saddest-ever Basset hound) to heartwarming (Shelley, a dog recovering from HBC, or hit by a car in vet-speak) to somewhat graphic. There are examples of X-rays and action shots of surgeries. In a chapter on the history of vets and pets, readers learns about how, in 15th-century France, a sow and her piglets were put on trial for murdering a child. Source notes are appended. A section on grief counseling for families with critically ill pets and a spread on how to put together a pet first-aid kit are included. Well-researched and well-written, ER Vets is an engaging book on a hot topic. –Anne Chapman Callaghan, Racine Public Library, WI Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Gr. 5-8. A veteran nonfiction author as well as a pet owner, Jackson doesn't sidestep the emotional and physical demands of working in an emergency clinic, but her sensitive, behind-the-scenes look at emergency care also clearly shows the rewards of the profession and the bonds between owner and pet. To get the facts, she spent time in a-state-of-the-art facility, talking with vets, vet techs, pet owners, and even grief counselors, and observing a variety of animal patients--from a ball python, Lucy, that can't be saved, to a foal, Paco, born weak and tiny, that lives. The book's organization seems a little haphazard: while some chapters focus on particular animals, others are fairly general, and a few insets are sandwiched between the sections (for example, one discussing foods humans eat that can harm an animal). Still, Jackson gives both pets and their caregivers their due, and numerous, excellent photos, including a look at a surgery in progress, make this not only intriguing browsing material but also an honest initiation to a worthwhile career. A list of items for a pet first-aid kit is appended. Stephanie Zvirin Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Review A Junior Library Guild Selection About the Author Donna M. Jackson is an award-winning author of many nonfiction books for young readers.  Her work includes The Bone Detectives, The Name Game and, most recently, The Elephant Scientist -- named a 2012 Robert F. Sibert Honor book, a 2012 Boston Globe-Horn Book Nonfiction Honor Book, and an NSTA/CBC Outstanding Science Trade book. She lives with her husband, Charlie, and their family near the Colorado's Rocky Mountains. Read more

Changers' Summer: Changers Trilogy

A Presence of Power

The Vulture (Ike Schwartz Series)

Review The basic story flows smoothly, with parallel themes of terrorism and child abuse. Ike, and his wife, Ruth, are delightful characters, and Ikes CIA friend, Charlie Garland, proves as resourceful as ever. (Theodore Feit Midwest Book Review )The hero is a unconventional small-town Virginia sheriff named Ike Schwartz. His wife, Ruth, is cut from a different cloth, too. She's a college president fond of talking about her lingerie and making sheetmusic. The book begins when a car bomb explodes, and we learn what series followers have known all along: Sheriff Ike is a former CIA spook, crammed with dark skills. The search for the car bomber begins with Ike's colleagues at the Picketsville, Virginia, sheriff's office and widens to include FBI suits and Ike's raffish former CIA pal, Charlie. The detective plot is engrossing, and confrontations and assassinations make up the liveliest part of this uneven novel, almost carrying it past yards of windy sentences and a married couple's bantering that isn't as witty as it's meant to be. When the evil mastermind is paralyzed below the neck, we get a disquisition on the difference between tetraplegic and paraplegic. "Imagine the potential damage to our youth mixing our classic languages could have." Nick and Nora wept. (Don Crinklaw Booklist )Marry new technology to old-fashioned policing and readers have something special. And that's what they have in The Vulture. ( SirReadaLot )Ike Schwartzs car is a smoking ruin on a Picketsville, VA, street. As a former CIA operative and the current sheriff, Ike has his share of enemies, but who could be responsible for the bombing? Picketsville launches an all-out investigation aided by Ikes CIA colleague Charlie Garland. This is the tenth in this terrific police procedural series (after Drowning Barbie). ( Library Journal )Were it not for a manufacturing fluke that created matching keys for identical cars, Sheriff Ike Schwartz would be a pile of ashes. Instead, it is an undercover officer who exploded in his car after meeting the Picketsville, Virginia Sheriff, but only a few are in on the mix-up. The atomization of the law enforcement officer is more of a declaration of war than a simple hit, and to that end Ike will use his CIA background and connections to discover who attempted to wipe him off of the planet. Ike is a man of principles and who always believes in doing the right thing, and this has garnered him no shortage of enemies. Now though, they have endangered the life of his wife Ruth Harris, and that infuriates him into a ruthlessly homicidal rage that is all the more terrifying for his calmness.~~~While Ike and Ruth take on new identities to maintain the pretense of his death and chase those who are chasing them, back in Picketsville the Sheriffs department is instigating its own investigation into the attack on their beloved leader. Used to be underestimated by State and federal agencies, acting Sheriff Frank Sutherlin more than capably utilizes the department to discover a threat that endangers the nation. A man who believes in Capitalism as Darwinism is intent on ruthlessly taking over the country financially, and he has the resources and magnetism to achieve his goals.~~~An actual coincidence that occurred with the authors own vehicle inspired the start of this novel, and from there it ratchets into high gear with suspense, action-packed scenes, and fun antics of Ike and his allies. Ikes relationship with his wife Ruth, the very liberal president of the local college, continues to be a highlight with banter that is as quick-witted as it is funny. Neither has yet to be swayed to the others opposing political viewpoints, but somehow they completely match as a couple. Ikes CIA nemesis/friend Charlie continues to lend support even as he draws Ike back into black ops, and with Ruth as a surrogate for the reader we are introduced to a shady world of complex technological spying and covert warfare. This tenth in the series continues to maintain is high standard of writing with compelling intrigue, sardonic humor, and a stoic hero for the ages. ( NetGalley )The sheriff of Picketsville, Virginia, has seen a lot of trouble over the years. But who hates him enough to try to blow him to kingdom come? When Ike Schwartz's car is reduced to a twisted mass of metal on the main street of Picketsville, his wife, Ruth, and his team at the sheriff's office are devastated. Luckily for Ike, a former CIA agent, he drove off in the wrong car by mistake and is still alive and in hiding. Initially, only Ruth and his old CIA pal Charlie Garland know the truth, and they try to keep it that way, especially after Ike and Ruth's getaway cabin in the woods is also destroyed by a bomb. The bomber is caught but keeps mum. But Ike's network of friends in the CIA, FBI, and local police are eager to catch his would-be killer. The clues point to wealthy, politically connected Martin Pangborn, a man with a grudge against the government who has no use for any minorities, including Jewish sheriffs. So Ike and Ruth disguise themselves and head off to Idaho, where Pangborn's New Star Ranch trains anti-government troops and hides an even more sinister secret. Back home, Ike's team continues to look for answers while maintaining the fiction that he's dead. It takes a lot of high-tech tricks to uncover the truth. Ike's 10th (Drowning Barbie, 2014, etc.) uses themes cut from current headlines to ramp up the excitement. ( Kirkus )A remote Shropshire town is beset by wartime demons even more insidious than the Third Reich. It's 1941. American widower Edwin Carpenter is retired from his job as a university professor, and he's made the arduous trip to England to study a stone circle just outside the town of Noddweir. He's corresponded with Vicar Timothy Wilson and arranged to lodge with Grace Baxter, whose father, the village constable, has gone off to war. The village is of two minds over the disappearance of Issy Chapman, the teenage daughter of the village blacksmith. On one hand, Issy is considered a troublemaker and a slut; on the other, her father is rumored to mistreat her. Quite a few children have been removed from their city homes and sent to the country for their safety, billeted among many families in and around Noddweir, and inevitably their numbers include quite a few tough troublemakers. As more children vanish, suspicion runs rife among the villagers. An outsider like Edwin is naturally high on the list of suspects. Then the ineffectual special constable sent to replace Grace's father is found murdered, and several other villagers die in suspicious circumstances as rumors of strange sightings occur. Grace's grandmother, a student of the old ways, folk cures, and magic, insists that the stone circle known as the Guardian Stones is responsible for all the horrifying events. Edwin, unpersuaded, tries to help Grace do her father's job and protect the town from whatever modern evil is plaguing it. A fascinating look at a small town mired in the past and confronting the future with a bombshell ending. ( Kirkus )This fourth mystery featuring animal-loving zookeeper Teddy Bentley continues to highlight fascinating and compelling lore about animals and their care. Teddy loves her charges for their uncomplicated goals and purity; humans are far more deceptive and confusing. Along with the charming polar bear cub Magnus, are two Icelandic foxes, gorgeous horses, and many, many puffins.~~~The land is as beautiful as it is dangerous, as very active volcanoes continue to emit bumps. The complacent Icelanders dont worry about anything that they cant control. Their language is as unfathomable as their cuisinerotted shark, anyone?but the author does an admirable job attempting to explain the languages origin, usage, and use in family names. In such a small country, of course they need an app to prevent inconvenient incest dating.~~~Teddys cynical humor with humans is never present with her animals, but fortunately she has enough numerous entertaining interactions with the Geronimo Birders to make this a delightfully funny mystery. The neighboring movie sets of a Berserker Viking film and science fiction movie only add to absurdity. The authors mix of devotion to animals, clever dialogue, and travelogue details will have readers booking their next flight to Iceland, along with their orders of future installments of this always original and enjoyable mystery series. ( Kings River Life Magazine ) About the Author Frederick Ramsay has published fourteen books that range from historicals (The Jerusalem Mysteries), to Africa (The Botswana Mysteries), to police procedurals (The Ike Schwartz Mysteries). In addition, his stand-alone Impulse was named one of the Best 100 Books of the Year in 2006 by Publishers Weekly. He is an iconographer and an accomplished public speaker. He lives and writes in Arizona.

We the People: The Modern-Day Figures Who Have Reshaped and Affirmed the Founding Fathers' Vision of America

Review Advance Praise for We the People   "American democracy is continually being reborn, and Juan Williams brings alive the impact of some of the modern-day leaders of this renewal. By portraying people of different backgrounds and ideologies, he has created a series of narratives that are both inspiring and thought provoking." -- Walter Isaacson   “In a Washington boiling with anger, some of it real and some of it synthetic, Juan Williams is a rarity. He combines strong beliefs with a cheerful ability to see how disparate people, including some with whom he disagrees, have enriched the American mosaic. From Robert Moses to Robert Ball, and from George Meany to Charlton Heston, this book will remind readers of some strong men and women who made the nation strong.” --George F. Will   "The Founders of our nation, politically bold and intellectually adventurous, would be appalled at the idea that their revolutionary work would be used as a trump card against change, creative thinking, or social progress. The genius of Juan Williams' We the People is that it shows how subsequent generations kept the promise of those who created our republic by building on their work rather than sitting back complacently, advancing the rights of excluded groups, and facing new problems squarely. Williams' moving portraits of key figures in our national story show why the American gift for self-criticism and self-correction will always be one of our greatest assets."  -- E. J. Dionne Jr., author, Why the Right Went Wrong "Juan Williams' We the People is a fascinating intellectual romp through American history.  All sorts of burning current event issues— the Gun Lobby, immigration, evangelical politics, sexual revolution— are brilliantly explored by Williams.  Only a first rate mind could have written such a wide ranging and original survey.  Highly recommended!" --Douglas Brinkley, Professor of History at Rice University and author of Rightful Heritage:  Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Land of America "The Founders themselves would have approved of this ambitious and endlessly fascinating book. With his customary acumen, Juan Williams weaves together a rich montage of the people shaping a diverse and dynamic modern America. We the People is social history at its very finest, and belongs on the bookshelf of all history buffs. What a daring book! What a triumph!" -- Jay Winik, author of 1944 and April 1865 "Juan Williams has penned a rich, fascinating, and zesty tour among the men and women who have helped shape what we think of today when we think of America.  The book is provocative, fun, and nonpartisan, all at the same time.  Just what we need to explain how we got here, and where we might be headed."  -- Stephen L. Carter, William Nelson Cromwell Professor of Law at Yale University"The battle over the Constitution and how the USA should be run rages on. For Americans who want an informed view of the great debate, there is no better book than We the People . I thank Juan Williams for writing it."-- Bill O’Reilly, Anchor, Fox News Channel About the Author Juan Williams is a top political analyst for Fox News Channel, co-host of the daily news show “The Five,” and a columnist for The Hill. Previously, he worked for two decades at The Washington Post as White House correspondent and a prize-winning columnist. He has won an Emmy for TV documentary writing. For ten years, he was a daily talk show host and senior political correspondent for NPR. His written work includes such critically acclaimed, bestselling books as Eyes on the Prize , Enough , and Thurgood Marshall . Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 The Founding Fathers and Modern America "What happened to my America?” “Why don’t those people speak English?” And “Mr. Williams, don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . you know, at the donut shop, at the gas station, in the schoolyard--have you ever seen so many immigrants, especially the Latinos everywhere?” “These kids are so thuggish. . . . Do you see any reason to be confident in this country’s future?” After the 2012 presidential election I heard those kinds of urgent questions from older white conservatives. They seemed disoriented. With obvious anxiety they felt the cycle of history spinning away from them, leaving them dizzy and angry at being pushed away from the center of politics and culture by the emerging “New America.” One poll found 53 percent of white Americans saying the changes in culture, economics, demographics, and politics were coming too quickly and damaging America’s “character and values.” This sense of disillusionment is not limited to older white conservatives. In the same 2011 poll, done by Heartland Monitor, the National Journal, and Allstate, 51 percent of African Americans said they too felt all the demographic and political churning was too much and the “trends are troubling.” A 2015 poll done by Reuters and Ipsos found that 62 percent of Republicans, 53 percent of Independents, and 37 percent of Democrats “feel like a stranger in [their] own country.” Another 72 percent of Republicans, 58 percent of Independents, and 45 percent of Democrats “don’t identify with what America has become.” I myself am hardly immune from this national anxiety over change, and it hit me personally eight years before the 2012 election, in 2004. That year I turned fifty and felt the new realities of life pushing against me everywhere. Just think about how much the world changed during my first fifty years on Earth. When I was born, in 1954, people who looked like me sat at the back of the bus, drank out of separate water fountains, and went to separate schools. Eighty-nine years after the end of the Civil War, my father, an immigrant black man, could not get anything but a low-end job in most American companies. He could not go to most American schools, could not live in most American neighborhoods, and was not allowed to swim in most pools, golf on most courses, or go to most amusement parks. My mother, who was born in Panama, did not see Latinos as a major force in American life. The census did not even bother to count the number of Latinos in the United States during the 1950s. In 1970 Latinos in the United States added up to less than 5 percent of the population. Today Latinos make up over 17 percent of the U.S. population, outnumbering blacks as the largest minority group. In 1954 abortion was not a critical political issue. The idea of women controlling the rights to their own fertility and their bodies was not a “culture war” argument splitting conservatives and liberals. Fifty years ago U.S. government policy, supported by conservatives, promoted family planning. It was seen as a boon to parents, allowing them to better provide for a smaller number of children. In the 1950s there was no controversy over homosexuality, largely because society was not willing to have the conversation. My mom had a gay male friend who came by the apartment regularly to design and sew dresses. Yet I never heard him or anyone else talk about gay rights. Gays remained in the closet for fear of persecution. What a different America I saw in 2004. The leaps in the nation’s demographics, economy, and culture made it feel to me like hundreds of years had passed. America went from allowing smoking everywhere to banning smoking everywhere. Gambling went from the street corner “numbers man” to government-run lotteries. The rising presence and influence of women in corporate America, the military, and the media shifted the power equation between the sexes, as more women decided they did not need a man to support themselves, to live a full life, or even to have a child. In fact, women began to outnumber men in colleges and graduate schools. They became the majority of the workforce as male-dominated blue-collar jobs went to Asia. Conversations about gay rights morphed into court cases about the right of gays to have legal, state-approved marriages. Essential fibers of the social fabric--public schools, for example--began to fray, leading to calls for reform (charter schools, magnet schools, and vouchers) that would allow parents and students greater choice to find the best school for their needs. America experienced its first major gun control movement, saw the rise of a national gun lobby, and endured a spike in mass shootings in schools around the country. And there was wholesale change in the federal government in the decades following World War II. We saw postwar America become the global “arsenal of democracy” that President Franklin D. Roosevelt had promised it would back in 1940, protecting far-flung regions of the world from Soviet communism. We witnessed the South become a Republican stronghold. That led to a conservative political revolution that culminated in the presidency of Ronald Reagan. New technology emerged, changing the way Americans communicate, process information, and form relationships. It seemed that within just a few years suddenly everyone had a cell phone. New cable television channels, hundreds of them, appeared in everyone’s home. Internet and podcast programming moved entertainment to new platforms. And today we can use apps such as OkCupid and Tinder to find people to date in our local area. The economy got hot in 2004, thanks to revolutions in finance, high-tech companies, hedge fund investments, and ever-higher housing prices. The bubble, of course, would soon burst. As the economic ways of the past unraveled early in the twenty-first century, the white working class, though buoyed for a while by rising home prices and cheap credit, has faced a rude reality of stagnant wages due to a dim job market, an end to pensions, and the decline of unions. The same has been true for African Americans. Despite the rise of the black middle class in the 1970s, after the 2008 recession the African American unemployment rate soared as high as it had been in the 1960s. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina blew the cover off ingrained black poverty in New Orleans, exposing nationwide roots of black poverty tied to record high rates of unwed mothers and failing schools. The big racial arguments of the latter half of the twentieth century, which had focused on the continuing impact of the history of segregation and the need for affirmative action in college admission and hiring, faded. The focus on black poverty shifted to questions about family structure. And at the same time, ironically, the promise of equality under the law had come ever closer to being fully realized for educated blacks, Latinos, and Asians. That is why immigrants kept coming to America in waves. Change was hitting the country from multiple directions. During these years I traveled the country as part of a National Public Radio (NPR) series called The Changing Face of America. The shows examined issues ranging from the increased use of personal technology on a daily basis to changes in how Americans worshiped to the increased acceptance of legal, state-supported gambling across the country. For the series I met with Mexican immigrants who had been given amnesty under President Reagan’s 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act. I talked with the first generation of Americans who grew up using cell phones and the Internet after the 1996 Telecommunications Act. I reported on poor people, especially young minorities, who lost the right to welfare support because of the welfare-to-work laws crafted by Republican House Speaker Newt Gingrich and President Clinton in the 1990s. Looking back, it seems that the folks I met through The Changing Face of America were living out the theories of Buckminster Fuller and Ray Kurzweil, two futurists who have argued that because of exponential leaps in technology and our understanding of biology, change is coming at a faster rate now than ever before in human history. Kurzweil calls it the “law of accelerating returns.” In a 2001 essay he wrote, “We won’t experience 100 years of progress in the 21st century--it will be more like 20,000 years of progress (at today’s rate).” So how long ago and far away is the America of 1776? How distant is the Founding Fathers’ America from the reality of twenty-first-century America? I can only imagine how different the people I met while working on that show would be if I reconnected with them today. Imagine the dizziness the Founding Fathers would experience. The NPR series won critical acclaim. These stories of change in American life from east to west, from urban to rural, and among young and old reminded me that American life was being transformed in exponential leaps. As a journalist, I was particularly alert to the new reality of fragmented politics and niche media. Experiences that at one time served to unify large segments of the population, such as watching one of the three network evening news programs, began to dissolve, with audiences for news programs breaking into politically separate groups, listening to their preferred views on talk radio or watching politically tilted cable news shows. Even the surge of American nationalism following the 9/11 attacks and the decision to go into two wars faded quickly. At first flags flew everywhere and people stood to applaud the troops at sporting events. But as time passed the wars didn’t feel so real anymore. No one was drafted. College campus protests like those that emerged in opposition to the war in Vietnam never took place because the professional force fighting the war and dying generally did not come from elite colleges--or colleges at all, for that matter. Similarly, the once widespread trust in institutions began to slide. The public schools suffered because of poor performance, the Catholic Church because of pedophile scandals. Baseball stars found themselves before Congress, accused of cheating with performance-enhancing steroids. Our confidence in the goodwill of Wall Street bankers and other financial leaders eroded. Trust in the word of government officials fell when people found out they had been misled about the presence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, and later when the government was shown to be have been asleep at the switch when the economic crash came in 2008. As a black man, I was particularly struck that the once reliable framework of racial identity in America--white majority and black minority dealing with the aftermath of slavery and legal segregation--began to blur as Latinos and Asians began to exercise new cultural and economic influence on the nation. For the next few years I continued filing away stories that fit the pattern of these foundational shifts in American life. I wanted to weave this collection of colorful threads into a vivid tapestry that revealed the new look of modern American life. What became clear to me was that America was engaged in a new beginning. This was not the country where I grew up. America has been reborn any number of times over the course of its existence. The westward expansion, the Civil War, the New Deal--all had their turn at reinventing the country. Here, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, I found myself looking at one of those extraordinary moments of national transformation. A new America had emerged, at times painfully bursting from past realities and shedding cultural norms, as it entered stage after stage of uncertain change. To me, this radical transformation was something to celebrate. Yes, political polarization and fear of rapid change were making people anxious. But overall, middle-class Americans continued to enjoy a high standard of living compared to other people around the globe. Plus the policies that forced people of color and women into subservience have all but vanished. And we Americans have a chance to create, like artists with an untouched canvas, a new, potentially better reality for ourselves. Then, in 2010, I had an epiphany that forced me to look deeper at the radical changes taking place in the structure of the country. It began with that year’s U.S. census report--an unlikely starting point for an epiphany. The census results on the age of the American people jumped out at me. They showed that over a quarter of the American population was younger than the age of eighteen. At first I didn’t believe it. But the census graphs indicated that children, high school age or younger, made up the largest single cohort of any of the demographic categories. I had thought people my age, baby boomers, accounted for the lion’s share of the population. I had believed that the declining birth rate among whites should be shrinking the number of young people. But the census told a different story. The influx of immigrants with sky-high birth rates had created an incredibly young nation with a total population of over 300 million American citizens. I remember expressing my shock at the young age of the population to friends and fellow journalists and having them react with surprise at my surprise. “Have you gone to the movies lately?” one fellow journalist asked. “Every other movie is about vampires or zombie hunters. Whom do you think they’re being marketed to? They’re not making movies for you and me, buddy. They’re made for those young people.” My wife asked me if I had gone to the mall lately. The businesses that were bustling, even during the recession, she informed me, sold clothing and accessories to young people--stores like J.Crew, H&M, and Urban Outfitters. To my embarrassment, she told me that I’d have a hard time buying a pair of jeans. The newer denim styles are designed to fit tight young bodies, she said with laughter; older people have to shop for “comfort” jeans. And, she added, it’s obvious that merchants understand how family life is changing. Busy moms no longer take charge of buying clothes for their teenage children. Instead, parents give money to their children and let them go to the mall. It occurred to me that to be a good journalist early in the twenty-first century I needed to better understand young Americans. I wasn’t totally in the dark. I did know that younger voters, especially first-time voters, constituted a crucial part of the coalition that elected Barack Obama in 2008. According to exit polls, Obama carried two-thirds of the youth vote against Republican John McCain--about 15 million ballots. Both Obama’s supporters and his critics described him as a “rock star” because of his ability to connect with younger votes who had previously been written off by politicians as too lazy and disengaged to show up at the polls on election day. Obama attracted thousands of them at a time to his rallies and enthralled them, surrounding himself with the kind of adoration you’d sooner associate with Taylor Swift. But I also had a hunch that America’s youth-heavy population had affected more than Obama’s 2008 victory. I needed to meet with these young people and listen to them to hear in their own words how they see their role in this new American story. The rising social and economic power of young people was intersecting with their growing political power. Read more

The H-Spot: The Feminist Pursuit of Happiness

Review "There's a subtle radicalism to Filipovic's vision of politicized pleasure...She's proposing a thorough remodeling of the house that white men built."― Megan Garber, The Atlantic "Filipovic creates an accurate and complex portrait of the struggles facing working women-and the collective effort necessary to remedy them."― Mic "Filipovic dives deep into the machinery of American culture and politics to uncover the underlying causes of continuing inequality, demonstrating the necessity of reframing our deeply held cultural beliefs."― Bust "A wonderfully intersectional work."― Bustle " The H-Spot is the feminist book we've all been waiting for. Filipovic is a brilliant and engaging writer, and offers a necessary new way to think about gender, politics, and happiness. In the current political moment, The H-Spot couldn't be better timed."― Jessica Valenti, author of Sex Object "Jill Fillipovic consistently captures the modern zeitgeist and I rely on her fresh perspective. Read her book; she will give us hope for the future like no one else can."― Sally Kohn "Part feminist history, part memoir, and part call to action, this engaging volume presents a sound argument for shifting both policy and cultural attitudes toward a prioritization of female happiness. Filipovic gives a comprehensive look into what makes American women happy-and why so many aren't-in a system that seems set up to limit them. Using detailed research and thoughtful analysis, as well as numerous interviews with women of varied backgrounds, Filipovic discusses some of the most significant points of female happiness (or lack thereof)-from female friendship to motherhood to equal pay, and more-in all their complexity and through an intersectional feminist lens. Filipovic, who writes for the New York Times, Cosmopolitan.com, among other publications, is unflinchingly honest in her analysis of what it means to be female in America, both in 2017 and throughout history. VERDICT Thought provoking and sure to spark discussion, this title will appeal to fans of Roxane Gay and other feminist writers, as well as readers seeking well-researched works that speak to today's political climate."― Library Journal "A sound analysis of what really makes women happy. . . . An assertive, eye-opening investigation of women's happiness. [Filipovic's] research and analysis are spot-on, and she provides readers with plenty of useful information to drive deep and necessary discussions for years to come. A timely, enlightening exploration of what American women truly want and need to live purposeful, fulfilling, happy lives."― Kirkus Reviews "Women have come a long way, but the idea that women deserve to feel pleasure is still a third rail in American society. Jill Filipovic asks, instead, what if we stopped talking about women solely as wives, mothers, and workers, and started to think of women as people who have a right to pursue happiness-for themselves. The idea makes many people squirm, but the result would be a better society, for everyone."― Amanda Marcotte, author of It's a Jungle Out There "By politicizing the question 'What makes women happy?' Jill Filipovic turns us away from the world of self-help and self-improvement to focus on the systems that deny women the right to fulfillment. The H-Spot is a deeply researched and cogently argued book that demands a radical reimagining of policy to ensure not only an end to gender oppression, but the establishment of new systems where women's happiness is not sidelined or ignored, and is instead central to our understanding of freedom."― Mychal Denzel Smith, author of Invisible Man, Got the Whole World Watching "Jill's book is a much-needed examination of the intersection of two issues we rarely see discussed together: feminism and happiness. For too long, critics of feminism have used the happiness argument to belittle the importance of the cause and argue that female emancipation somehow makes women unhappy. It couldn't be further from the truth. Empowered women are happier women. We should all have a right to happiness and for far too long, women have been excluded from that pursuit. In her book, Jill makes an eloquent case for women's right to be truly happy. It's about damn time someone said it, women deserve and have earned their happiness, and they are going to take it!"― Liz Plank, senior correspondent, Vox "Sexism and misogyny may be humankind's primary flaws, and Jill Filipovic offers a searing and sanguine look at how they block the happiness of women and men alike. Her debut is a guide to better living through an emancipatory mindset. If you thought feminism's goal was gender equality alone, The H-Spot demands that we expect more."― Jamil Smith, journalist and cultural critic "This is a damn good book that is filling in blank spots I didn't know I had about sex, about women, about history, and about how much better our lives, relationships, and societies could be if we opened up our imaginations as Jill has so courageously, generously, and effectively done. Men, women, and everyone on the spectrum in between should read and talk about this book."― Baratunde Thurston, author of How to Be Black "What if, instead of relying on women to self-sacrifice and man-please, society valued women's happiness? What would have to change-in our social and political arrangements, at work, at home, in bed? Widely known for her shrewd and searching journalism on contemporary feminist issues, Jill Filipovic is the perfect writer to raise these provocative questions-and point the way to some answers."― Katha Pollitt, author of Pro: Reclaiming Abortion Rights "Filipovic frames happiness as a political question-one that goes back to the Declaration of Independence itself...She shows her subject is crucial, and the political changes needed to close the 'happiness gap' between American men and women would be revolutionary. If, as the old adage has it, no one is free until we are all free, Filipovic shows the same may be true of being happy."― New York Times Book Review "A practical, carefully researched modern-life primer for everywoman. Through chapters about motherhood, friendship, sex, work and relationships, she uses her own experience and that of others to navigate the structural problems facing women in a patriarchal society - and to explain how they can be happier."― Financial Times About the Author Jill Filipovic is a contributing opinion writer for the New York Times and a regular columnist for Cosmopolitan.com, where she was previously a senior political writer. A former columnist for the Guardian , she is also an attorney. Her work on law, politics, gender, and foreign affairs has appeared in the Washington Post, Time, Nation, Foreign Policy , and others. Follow her on Twitter @JillFilipovic.

This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

Review “Intricately structured… Evison resists every neat resolution, every unearned epiphany. And as fanciful as his prose can be…he’s not afraid to depict the dark side of aging as it is, and not as we wish it were…. The result is a book that speaks to all of us, whether we’re young enough to check Facebook 50 times a day, or old enough only to have a vague idea what the Internet is. The themes Evison presents – disappointment, delusion, redemption – are universal, and he deals with them beautifully in this wonderful novel. This is your life, Harriet Chance, but it’s ours, too.” —New York Times Book Review “Evison’s rollicking novel is a close-up up of the life of 78-year-old Harriet Chance, whose Alaskan cruise highlights include indulging in endless seafood buffets, acquiring touristy tribal knickknackery, and discovering the secret of her deceased husband’s decades-long affair with her best friend.” —O, The Oprah Magazine “Openhearted, effervescent . . . Evison handles the jaunty tone with aplomb.” —Washington Post “[ This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! ] is infused with Evison's characteristic empathy and heart and humor. Its tension emanates from the relationships Harriet has botched and from our changing understanding of who she is and what's at risk. As a writer, [Evison’s] got a talent for character, emotion and pacing.” —Los Angeles Times “Thank heaven for surprises, especially of the Jonathan Evison variety . . . Sure to become a book club favourite this fall, This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is a pleasurable mix of the crazy escapades, changing relationships and thoughtful reflections that make up a life. It shows us that whatever age we are, the delightful surprises never stop, but neither do the growing pains. It reminds us too that when it comes to forgiveness, often the hardest person to forgive is ourselves.”— Toronto Star “Evison writes with his typical unflinching honesty about a life that is not what it seems . . . poignant reflections on aging, parenting, friendship and marriage constantly surprise with their quiet truthfulness.” — The Globe and Mail “Slowly, and with admirable, dark precision, Evison lays Harriet bare...With a touch of snark and a lashing of perfectly affected irony, he flenses her to the bone and, somehow, seems kind in doing it. It is Evison’s timing—the slow burn and perfect pacing of the reveals — that makes This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! hang together. And with Harriet Chance — poor, frustrated, flummoxed Harriet — Evison has found his ideal foil.” —NPR Books “Jonathan Evison charms with This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! ” —Vanity Fair “Bittersweet but buoyant, with a heart-tugging finish.” —Good Housekeeping “A quirky, fun writing style pulls you through this wonderful tale . . .” — Sunset Magazine “It’s hard to imagine a family member of any family who won’t see something familiar in Harriet's quest to understand her spouse, her children and herself. And when the expected but still jarring ending unfolds, it’s hard to imagine the reader who won’t be moved by this lively, lovely work.” —Denver Post “ This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is a terrific novel, funny and moving, wistful and wise. Jonathan Evison’s writing crackles on the page.” —Jess Walter, author of Beautiful Ruins “A generous and wise tale, told with Evison’s trademark verve and charisma, This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is a deeply felt and deeply comforting novel.” —Patrick Dewitt, author of The Sisters Brothers “[A] treasure of a book . . . This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! [is] a novel that has it all, humor and pathos, and a main character named Harriet who’ll wend her way into your heart . . . You’ll root for Harriet, embrace her and empathize with her, a sinewy tough, but sweet natured heroine, if ever there was one. She’s a character you’ll not soon forget in a novel that’s charming from beginning to end.” —Washington Missourian “In every situation, poor Harriet draws the short straw. But This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is anything but a drag: Evison . . . makes Harriet’s sad story sing . . . [Evison’s] over-the-top commentary conveys the pathos of Harriet’s misadventures with just the right blend of snark and sympathy, and it’s tremendously fun to read . . . Harriet’s character emerges in fascinating detail, as if from a chrysalis . . . She’s much more interesting than we thought. So, for that matter, is Evison’s novel . . .” — Commentary “ This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! has all the wonderful snap and sizzle we've come to expect from Jonathan Evison’s work, and as much heart as any novel I’ve read in recent years.  Jonathan packs an entire life--many lives--into this fine book, and does so with the empathy and insight of a writer at the top of his game.” —Ben Fountain, author of Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk “[T]he book’s lesson is more an affirmation than revelation: Life is hard and complicated; everyone has secrets, and even that unassuming old woman you see standing quietly at the bow of the boat has endured drama and betrayal and passion. In the end, the sweetness overrides the sorrows. This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is a lively, entertaining read, funny and poignant.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune “Jonathan Evison is a ridiculously gifted storyteller: racing, breathless, and vibrant with his prose, hungry for personal truths, and clearly in love with the world around us all. That compassion and those writerly charms are deeply felt in This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! , an irresistible, inventive novel full of important ideas about how we live our lives as parents, children, partners, and human beings.” —Jami Attenberg, author of The Middlesteins “I can’t get enough of the work of this Bainbridge Island writer, who has the gift of combining humor and tragedy and making it all wildly entertaining.” —Seattle Times “[The] blend of the light and the lacerating is close to seamless in his new novel, This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! . . . This fast-paced novel is both penetrating and persuasive in the complexities it uncovers in Harriet's tamped-down character and lifetime of compromises.” —The Oregonian (Portland, OR) “Once again, Jonathan Evison dazzles. This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is as sweet as it is inventive, profound as it is hilarious, unflinching as it is big-hearted.  Step right up, don't be shy!  Take the hand of Evison's delightfully menacing master of ceremonies and let him lead you into the kaleidoscopic journey of your life.” —Maria Semple, author of Where’d You Go, Bernadette “Insightful, richly entertaining look at a woman who, very late in the game, finds that life remains full of surprises…Evison writes humanely and with good humor of his characters, who, like the rest of us, muddle through, too often without giving ourselves much of a break. A lovely, forgiving character study that's a pleasure to read.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review “Trust me: this is not schmaltzy or treacly. Rather, This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is a cheeky, smart, and incisively observed work of literary fiction that fans of Maria Semple, Jami Attenberg, and Jonathan Tropper will adore.” —Bustle.com “Evison is a talented writer that is capable of making the reader think beyond the book with his candid character conversations and dialogues and his thought-provoking subject matter. Through humor and seriousness, Evison will almost force the reader to consume this book in one sitting!”— Portland Book Review “Fun and snappy . . . a breezy page-turner.” —Deseret News (Salt Lake City) “Luckily for readers, there is This is Your Life, Harriet Chance, by Jonathan Evison, to provide a contemplative, funny and sensitive take on the polychromatic journey of life . . . a patchwork of moments, both large and small, that are, in turns, amusing, heartbreaking and recognizable in their universality . . . At its core, Evison’s book is an examination of human identity and what that means as a person grows older and begins to entwine and interact with other people . . . [Harriet is faced] with rediscovering her own individuality and with moving beyond the dysfunctional relationship she has had with her adult daughter. Written with both humor and pathos, This is Your Life, Harriet Chance probes the juncture where those two intersect, where the beautiful melancholy of life is the sweetest.” — Summit Daily (Vail, Colorado) “Such is the mastery of Evison’s storytelling . . . Evison tackles aging characters’ laments while also capturing the scope of change in the transition from the 20th to 21st centuries. This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! gives a nod to present-day woes, ranging from global warming to upside-down mortgages, but doesn’t gloss over angst from bygone days . . . Evison succeeds in giving Harriet’s life story the satisfying send-off it deserves.” —Washington Independent Review of Books “Evison’s voice is buoyant and cheeky as he unveils the deep traumas that form Harriet’s sense of herself . . . Evison succeeds in crafting a believable and gut-wrenching story, particularly Harriet’s relationship with her daughter and their efforts to accept and love one another.” —Publishers Weekly “Both uplifting and melancholy, funny and thought-provoking, this entertaining read speaks directly to the importance of acceptance and healing.” —Booklist “Novels about postmodern women tend to fall flat or reach too far in their attempts to be poignant. Evison takes a different approach, modeling Harriet after your favorite crazy aunt. She isn’t perfect, nor is she a complete hot mess. The result is a relatable, likable, often wine-filled wrecking ball of a woman . . . She’s an unlikely heroine, but those are always the most compelling. She is not only everywoman’s woman, she is downright delightful. It’s a dysfunctional love story with a heap of redemption and forgiveness thrown in . . . Evison’s way of storytelling is smooth, inventive, charming and hits the mark for readers of all ages.” —Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, Miss.) “Evison’s fourth novel is witty, not bland; knowing rather than saccharine sweet; wise instead of clichéd . . . In spite of its honesty—an honesty that, at times, you might even call brutal—Evison’s is a bright book, not a dark one. Never weighed down by its topicality or lacking in humor, This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! puts off a sort of freeing energy, a feeling of peace for its characters and readers. Wit and empathy, easy lyricality and elegant construction—these are Jonathan Evison’s strengths as a writer. They’re all here. But there’s truth here, too; lest we forget we live in the real world, not the kindly-lit soundstage of some American faerie tale.” —Electric Literature “Evison alternates between a cheeky narration of Harriet’s past and present . . . It echoes the cinematic approach of Evison’s previous work, painting a vivid picture that’s easy for a reader to immerse him or herself in . . . A book of secrets, This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! reveals how one or two choices can dramatically alter not only the course of your life, but the lives of many others.” —BookPage “A heart-bursting, wonderful story that will make you want to give everyone in your life a big hug.” —Hello Giggles “This novel works from every angle. . . I laughed, giggled, cried and held Harriet close as the pages of her life opened to me. Then I started over again not ready to let her go. I not only recommend you read this one, I urge you to read it. The life you come to understand may well be your own.” — Roanoke Times “The narration is fresh and effective … Harriet Chance is an out-of-the-ordinary but believable protagonist who, like all of us, has a mixture of victories and disappointments behind her. This is a charming novel about learning how to reckon with the past.” — BookBrowse.com From the Back Cover “Once again, Jonathan Evison dazzles . . . This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is as sweet as it is inventive, profound as it is hilarious, unflinching as it is bighearted. Step right up, don’t be shy! Take the hand of Evison’s delightfully menacing master of ceremonies and let him lead you into the kaleidoscopic journey of your life.” — Maria Semple, author of Where’d You Go, Bernadette “A generous and wise tale, told with Evison’s trademark verve and charisma, This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! is a deeply felt and deeply comforting novel.” — Patrick deWitt, author of The Sisters Brothers “ This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! has all the wonderful snap and sizzle we’ve come to expect from Jonathan Evison’s work, and as much heart as any novel I’ve read in recent years. Evison packs an entire life--many lives--into this fine book, and does so with the empathy and insight of a writer at the top of his game.” — Ben Fountain, author of Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk “Insightful, richly entertaining . . . Evison writes humanely and with good humor of his characters, who, like the rest of us, muddle through, too often without giving ourselves much of a break. A lovely, forgiving character study that’s a pleasure to read.” — Kirkus Reviews, starred review About the Author Jonathan Evison is the author of the novels All About Lulu , West of Here , The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving , This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! , Lawn Boy , and Legends of the North Cascades . He lives with his wife and family in Washington State. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. November 4, 1936 (HARRIET AT ZERO) Here you come, Harriet Nathan, tiny face pinched, eyes squinting fiercely against the glare of surgical lamps, at a newly renovated Swedish hospital high on Seattle’s First Hill. It’s an unseasonably chilly Wednesday in autumn, and the papers are calling for snow. Roosevelt by a landslide! they proclaim. Workers grumbling in Flint, Michigan! In Spain, a civil war rages. Meanwhile, out in the corridor, your father paces the floor, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. Clutching an unlit Cuban cigar, he checks his wristwatch. He’s got a three-o’clock downtown. By the end of the week, Harriet, you’ll leave the hospital wrapped in a goose-down swaddler knit by your ailing grandmother. Your father will miss his three-o’clock today. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. They don’t call it labor for nothing. Let’s not forget the grit and determination of your mother. All that panting and pushing, all that clenching and straining, eyes bulging, forehead slick with sweat. Let’s take a moment to appreciate the fact that she won’t begrudge you any of it, though you’ll always be your father’s girl. Here you come, better late than never: a face presentation. Not the boy your father so desperately wanted, but here you come, anyway, all six pounds three ounces of you. Button nose, conical head, good color. A swirl of dark hair atop your little crown. And a healthy pair of lungs, too. Listen to you wail as the doctor slaps your fanny: your cries phlegmy and protracted. Hear them? These are virtually the last sounds you will utter until well after your second birthday. Yes, Harriet, you were an exceptionally quiet child. Too quiet. Exhibit A: December 31, 1936. For the rest of their lives, your parents will regale you, and anyone who will listen, with a rollicking story about a certain New Year’s Eve party on the north end. The story involves a bassinet into which your father, in a moment of stoned clarity and admirable foresight, fastened you by your ankles and armpits for safety, using his own necktie and a leather belt from the host’s closet. The party is a triumph, as the story goes, with Bacchus leading the charge. The music is brassy, the walls are thrumming. So frenzied the celebration, in fact, that amid their merrymaking, revelers fail to notice the upended bassinet in the corner. That is, until whiz kid Charlie Fitzsimmons, the firm’s youngest partner, lipstick on his collar, ladies’ underpants adorning the crown of his head, nearly trips on you on his way back from the punch bowl. It will not be the last time Charlie Fitzsimmons takes notice of you. “Would you look at that glass of milk?” he shouts. For an instant, the party is struck dumb as everyone turns their attention to the corner. Look at Harriman Nathan’s girl! “She’ll make a hell of a judge,” observes Charlie. And of course, hilarity ensues. The story never fails, and you’re the punch line, Harriet. There you are, for God only knows how long, upside down, your poker face turning from red to blue to purple, your little gray eyes gazing impassively at the world, as your parents ring in a prosperous 1937. You never made a peep. This is your life, Harriet. The beginning, anyway. August 11, 2015 (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT) Harriet finds Father Mullinix in his stuffy office behind the chapel, his reading glasses roosting halfway down the bridge of his nose, his laptop propped open in front of him. He’s on his feet before she can cross the threshold. “Harriet, you’re shivering. Sit.” He lowers her into a straight-backed chair. “My goodness, you’re sopping wet.” “He’s here, Father,” she says. “I found his slippers this morning next to mine in the breakfast nook.” Father Mullinix smiles patiently, setting his big hands on the desktop. “We’ve talked about this several times recently, Harriet. There’s but one ghost in the Bible, and we both know who that is.” “But last week, the WD-40. And now this.” Drawing a weary breath, Father Mullinix holds it in. “You don’t understand,” says Harriet. “The WD-40, that was him, telling me to quiet those hinges on the dishwasher. He hated the squeaking.” Slowly, Father Mullinix releases his breath. Clasping his hands together on the desktop, he proceeds expertly in a measured tone. “Perhaps it is possible he’s trying to speak to you through God,” he concedes. “But certainly I wouldn’t take the WD-40 as a sign. Perhaps you left it there on the chair, a lapse in memory. It happens to me daily. Yesterday I found these very glasses in the pantry. We’re all so busy in these times, so preoccupied. And you of all people, Harriet, you are so diligent in all things, particularly for someone of your . . . experience.” “But I know I didn’t leave it there. And the slippers.” “Well, I’m sure there’s an explanation.” “I saw him Father, I felt him. Last night, we were at the Continental Buffet. He was eating corned beef.” “Ah, I see. You’ve had another dream.” “I wasn’t dreaming. He was an actual presence.” Father Mullinix smiles sadly, but Harriet can tell his patience is wearing thin. For months, she’s been eating up his time, unloading her grief on him, bludgeoning him with the details of her dream life and, most recently, trying in vain to convince him that Bernard still lingered somehow in the earthly realm. Perhaps she was mistaken in confiding in him this time, though he’d never failed her in the past. “Do you think I’m, oh, Father . . . you don’t think I’m . . . ?” “I think, perhaps, you could use some rest, Harriet.” “But Father, I assure you I’m—” “Please, let me drive you home, Harriet.” September 9, 1957 (HARRIET AT TWENTY) Look at you, Harriet, a grown woman! No longer a glass of milk but a tall drink of water. Okay, not so tall. Maybe a little on the squat side, maybe a little pudgy, to hear your mother tell it. But your hygiene is fastidious, your bouffant is formidable. And you’re still quiet, which makes you popular among lawyers and men alike. But you’ve no time for men. You’re a professional. Marriage is one negotiation that can wait. First, your own apartment. An automobile. A promotion. The sky is the limit! Here you are, at Fourth and Union, top floor, just three months removed from your associate’s degree. And not your father’s firm, either. Sure, you had a push, a few advantages in life, but you got here on your own. No, you’ll never be a lawyer, but a crack legal assistant is not out of the question. You love your job. Okay, maybe love is a bit strong. But prepping documents, writing summaries, filing motions, all of it agrees with you. Look at you, downtown girl: chic but pragmatic. Shopping at Frederick & Nelson! Lunching at the Continental Buffet! Let’s be honest, though. Let’s talk about the problem that has no name. All these months later, they’re still slapping your fanny around the office. Your salary doesn’t stretch that far. The work is exhausting. As both a woman and an assistant, you’re expected to work harder. And for what? A string of pearls? A sleek automobile? A slap on the can from a junior partner? It will be six more years before Friedan exposes the “feminine mystique,” twelve more before Yoko Ono proclaims woman as “the nigger of the world.” But by God, Harriet Nathan, you’re determined to buck your disadvantages. Okay, maybe determined is a bit strong; how about resigned to them? The least you can do is achieve independence. Tackle adulthood on your own terms. Put that associate’s degree to some purpose. Make a name for yourself, Harriet Nathan. The truth you’re not telling anyone, especially not your father, is that amid the administrative whirlwind of the office, the hustle and bustle of downtown, the ceaseless tedium of legal research, you yearn for something less exhausting: for stability, predictability, and yes, a Christmas hearth festooned with stockings. You yearn, too, Harriet, for a man. C’mon, admit it. So, what is it about this new young building superintendent that catches your attention in the hallway upon your return from lunch, as he explains to your boss, in layman’s terms even you can understand, the difference between AC and DC? Surely, it’s not his stature. He’s two inches shorter than you. And it turns out, he’s not all that young, at thirty-three. There is, however, a squareness to his shoulders, a symmetry to his face, a quiet confidence in his bearing. Not just the firm, but the whole building—all that concrete and steel, all that electricity, all that plumbing—is reliant upon his capability. You’re not alone. The whole office is impressed by his confidence, charmed by his forthrightness. Even the partners, those pompous autocrats, bulging at the waist, those experts who defer to no one, treat this man as an equal. But here’s the thing: tending an elevator, a fan, a heating duct, in his neatly creased work trousers, penlight clutched between his teeth, as he reaches for his tool belt, exposing the gray Semper Fi tattoo on his inside wrist, he strikes you as more than their equal. Harriet Nathan, meet Bernard Chance, your valentine for 1957. Read more

Differentiating Instruction With Menus for the Inclusive Classroom: Math (Grades 3-5)

Review This publication for grades 3-5 is designed to address the needs of a classroom that includes special needs or limited English-proficient students. The activities included on the menus are engaging and appropriate. Most of the menus contain wide-ranging choices, with some options involving art, technology, drama, and experiments. In addition, many activities contain real-world applications. ,Jennifer Orr,Teaching Children Mathematics, 2/1/14 About the Author After teaching science for more than 15 years, both overseas and in the U.S., Laurie E. Westphal now works as an independent gifted education and science consultant. She enjoys developing and presenting staff development on differentiation for various districts and conferences, working with teachers to assist them in planning and developing lessons to meet the needs of their advanced students.

In the Water They Can't See You Cry: A Memoir

About the Author Amanda Beard is a seven-time Olympic medalist. She lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, the photographer Sacha Brown, and her son, Blaise. Visit her at AmandaBeard.net. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. chapter 1 I wanted to get to the pool so badly, I was practically running. The July sun had already dried all the dew on our neighbors’ matching green lawns, and I was hot. Why were they taking so long? I turned around to watch my family, almost half a block behind me. Mom and Dad, laughing as usual about some story, carried all the junk. They had packed a cooler filled with drinks, sandwiches, and chips that’d last us the whole day of hanging out in the pool and on the surrounding soft, grassy hills. Though we lived only two blocks away, my mom had enough towels, books, and blankets that we looked as if we were moving to the pool. Okay, I could understand my parents’ slow speed, but what were my sisters’ problems? Lagging even farther behind, Leah and Taryn had their heads close together the way they always did when they were gossiping, which was a lot of the time. The three of us were like variations on the same theme. Despite the age differences (Leah was two years older than Taryn, who was five years older than me), we were all beanpoles with olive skin, dark brown hair, bright blue almond-shaped eyes, and huge California-girl smiles. But we couldn’t have looked more different. Leah’s hair was feathered as it always was, and even though we were headed for the pool, she had put on the blue eyeliner that was her current style obsession. I had to admit, she looked really good. Taryn was just as pretty. Her short hairstyle made her neck look graceful like a dancer’s. It was so different from the long, mostly blonde hair that practically every girl in our town had. But she hated doing her hair so much that Mom had threatened to cut it all off if she didn’t brush it. Taryn didn’t brush it, and my mom didn’t make idle threats. So Taryn had hair like a boy’s, which was fine with her. However, I was the real tomboy. I never heard of a sport I didn’t want to play, and I never wavered from my uniform of shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers. Today I had jazzed it up with my acid-washed shorts and New Kids on the Block tank top. But the heat was beginning to make my bathing suit underneath stick to my torso. “Come on!” I shouted at my family. They just ignored me. I could have run ahead without them. I knew the site—the pool (nine feet at one end, four feet at the other), the grassy hills, the showers, the covered area with picnic tables—like I knew the back of my hand. And I loved everything about the place: the buttery smell of sunscreen, the feel of hot concrete under my feet, the shock of the first jump into the pool. It didn’t matter that I spent all day, every day of the week, around the same pool during swim team practice. On the weekends, it was different; I had to be with my family. Instead of bolting ahead, I waited for my sisters, who agreed to play Marco Polo with me as soon as we arrived. After they grew bored, my dad chucked me across the pool a few times before he had to get out and help my mom set up the chairs and cooler near the encampment of parents. Luckily a group of neighborhood kids started a fierce game of sharks and minnows that went on until we were starved and our skin was puckered and white. I hopped out of the pool and bolted toward my mom, who greeted me with a clean towel, a turkey sandwich, and a cold Dr Pepper. After gobbling down lunch, I went straight back into the water. And that’s where I stayed, where we all stayed, until the sun started to go down on that perfect summer day. Perfect . That’s the word that describes where I grew up. Irvine, California, had cul-de-sacs and identically manicured lawns, kids on bikes and parents who let us do pretty much as we wanted in what seemed like the safest town in the world. It was straight out of a John Hughes movie where the biggest problem is a fight with your best friend. You never saw a single piece of litter on the streets. Even the bright blue sky was straight out of a Hollywood set. Located in Orange County (not exactly known as a land of hardship), my hometown was sunny, on average, 325 days a year. And because it’s on the coast, the average temperature is a comfortable seventy degrees. We never had to worry about the town’s Easter Egg Hunt or Fourth of July Bike Parade getting rained out. As I said—perfect. My parents fit right in. High school sweethearts from the Puget Sound region in Washington State, they got married when my mother, Gayle, was twenty and my dad, Dan, was twenty-one. He had been the captain of the football team, and she had been captain of the cheerleading squad. I made fun of them for their cheesy perfection (my mom was homecoming queen), but secretly I was proud to have them as parents. With his dark skin, black hair, and blue eyes, I thought my dad was the most handsome guy in the world. A basketball player at Washington State, he kept his six-one frame in great shape by continuing to play lots of sports. My petite mom, a lighter beauty with sandy-blonde hair and pale-blue eyes, fit right into my dad’s side. You couldn’t have asked for better parents. They were like best friends who never fought. Because they were both teachers—my dad taught hotel and restaurant management at Orange Coast College, and my mom taught art at various local schools—they always seemed to be around. Over boring, balanced breakfasts and dinners prepared by my mother, which we ate together every day, my siblings and I competed to see who could be the goofiest and get the most attention. Whether it was acting out Annie during a family camping trip or telling the best fart joke over chicken and broccoli, Mom and Dad encouraged us to have fun. Everything was about having a good time. There was always something crazy going on in our house. That’s why all the neighborhood kids gravitated to our four-bedroom tract home in a development called the Colony. My parents, in their very laid-back way, welcomed every single one of our friends. They kept the fridge and cabinets stocked with all the best junk food and allowed us to act young and silly. That meant not freaking out if someone spilled soda on the carpet, hit a lawn ornament with a hockey puck, or lay around watching MTV all afternoon. Some kids liked it so much, they hardly ever left. One summer, Bobby Lanza, a boy I was really close to from the age of two on, spent every minute that he wasn’t sleeping at our house. That wasn’t such a big deal; lots of kids did that. But Bobby, who was eight at the time, wore his Speedo for every single one of those minutes. “Jeez, Bobby, give that thing a rest,” my sister Taryn said by early July. “Maybe you should give it a wash and wear something else,” Leah said. “Do you sleep in your Speedo too?” Taryn laughed. Bobby was unfazed, and so was I. Teasing was the price we happily paid to hang out with (or at least around) my older sisters and their friends. Although we were on the fringes—listening to the new Huey Lewis and the News album through an open door to the living room or using the terms face! or bitchin’ even if we had no idea what they meant—it was still an exciting place to be. Growing up, I thought Leah and Taryn were the coolest people on earth. Anything they did, I wanted to do too. When they started wearing huge socks scrunched down by their ankles, I begged my mom for a pair and wore them piled around my toothpick ankles. They used mousse to get their bangs to stand straight up, then so would I—well, at least once before I decided hair was a waste of time. I even posed the same way they did in photos, with their head tilted way over to one side. Taryn wasn’t tolerant of my copycat ways. To her, I was nothing more than the annoying little sister. If my parents ever left her to babysit me, we’d both cry to try to get out of the arrangement. Leah, on the other hand, treated me like her special little baby. She would do anything for me, including play endless sessions of Barbie. If Leah had jumped off a bridge, I would have followed in a heartbeat. While I didn’t leap off Golden Gate, I did take tap, jazz, and ballet because Leah was a big dancer. I stuck with it for several years until it was obvious to me and everyone else that I wasn’t very good at it. While I adored Leah, the best times were when the entire family was together. And there was no better time in our family than Christmas. In our house, Christmas was not a subtle affair. We were those guys who got our tree the minute after the Thanksgiving dishes had been cleared. We played Christmas music and Christmas movies nonstop, decorated the house like crazy, and drank hot cocoa even though it was Southern California. I lived for our traditions, which included my mother and grandma baking trays of fattigman , an exotic savory cookie popular in Sweden and Norway, and my dad reading the children’s book The Polar Express to all the kids at our annual holiday party. We also used the holiday as an excuse to sneak in a few practical jokes, like the time we gave our grandfather—my dad’s dad, who had been a strict high school principal—a black lace thong for Christmas just to see his reaction when he opened his present. My mom, dad, sisters, and I all wound up laughing too hard to see the expression of shock on his face. While I recognized that my parents, my town, our home, the pool, and my sisters (even Taryn) were perfect because of their natural, easygoing, and carefree ways, for me perfection could be achieved only through a kind of vigilance I had known ever since I could remember. Hyperorganized, a neat freak, kind of compulsive: call it what you like, I needed order. All my stuff was perfect. In my sixth-grade classroom, my little desktop stood out like an empty island in a sea of chaos. My pencils were lined up in descending height order next to my pens at the top of the desk, schoolwork and notes to the left, books to the right. When kids knocked my display askew with their backpacks, the disorder sent a cold feeling directly to the pit of my stomach. Until I righted it again. No one ever had to tell me to clean my room; it was always clean. That was no small feat considering I had two parakeets (Goldie and Zeba), two lovebirds (Peaches and Big Mouth), and our family cats (Angel and Dodger), who used my room as their hangout. Those birds were a mess, constantly throwing their food out of their cages and all over my floor. The vacuum was practically attached to my hand, I used it so much. They were worth it though. I spent hours with my animals, dressing up the cats in outfits and teaching the birds to sit on my finger, which I thought was so cool. They were like best friends. It wasn’t just my room that I cleaned. I would have sooner died than have my human friends come over to a dirty house. Before a playdate, I cleaned the house—and I don’t mean tidy but what my mom called a “deep clean.” I busted out the wood cleaner for the coffee table, dusted the bookshelves, put all the dishes away, Windexed the sliding glass doors, and made sure my Chipmunks record collection was nicely organized. My sisters—whose rooms appeared to have been hit by bombs that sent their Huey Lewis and Andre Agassi posters askew and their clothes across the floor—looked at me like I was crazy. My mom, on the other hand, thought her youngest daughter giving her house a good scrub-down was hilarious. “When I grow up, Mom, I want to be your maid,” I said. It was my fantasy job because I could live with my mom and clean. “Fantastic,” she said. I didn’t know my Windexing was weird—my parents certainly never made me feel that way. In fact, they made me feel as if anything I did was okay. Limitations never crossed my mind, especially when it came to the physical. Rambunctious to the extreme, I loved a goal, a competition, a challenge of any kind. There’s an old family video from one of our hiking trips to Yosemite where my sisters stop at a soggy, moss-covered log to discuss whether they can use it to cross a rushing creek. Suddenly the camera pans to me; with tall alpine trees as my backdrop, I flip my hair brazenly and then start to run across the log. No contemplation, no strategy, no taking it slow—just going for it. In the next scene, I fall off the log like a cartoon character and land smack in the gooey mud. I was completely humiliated, but no fall could erode my fearlessness. Nothing bad was ever going to happen to me. I was sure of that. My combined fearlessness and high energy made for a lot of showing off. To expend a little bit of the energy that drove my parents nuts, they enrolled me in every activity under the sun. By the time I was four years old, I was taking swimming, soccer, gymnastics, and dance. And still, I had enough steam left over to play endless roller hockey with the neighbors. When it came to sports, I wanted to do it all. And in Irvine that was a completely realistic goal. Everything was at our fingertips, with pristine basketball and tennis courts, fields, and pools that anybody in the community could use for free. I didn’t care if they were “boys’ sports” or not, I played softball, football, and basketball—you name it. Dad couldn’t have been happier; I was the son he never had. Even when my dad and I rode our bikes to the basketball court to play horse, I felt the rush of competition and pedaled hard to keep up with him. On the court, he towered over me, his broad shoulders, lean torso, and powerful legs completely eclipsing my spaghetti-thin frame. But I thought I still had a shot. I’m faster, smarter. I can beat this giant. We both had the squinted look of people taking a game really, really seriously. For hours we played horse (there was no way I could out-dribble my six-foot dad), forgetting about the time of day, trying crazier and crazier shots. My dad didn’t let me win. I had to really win. That hardly happened, but when it did, I bragged to my family how I had schooled Dad on the court. In the whirlwind of activities that I did on any of the trim fields or bright, shining facilities in our town, swimming held a special place. Swimming was major in Orange County. Every kid did it, and every rich kid tried to do it well. For me, the love was real. From my earliest memories, the pool was the place of long, happy summer days having fun surrounded by everyone I knew. It was also the only sport shared by my oldest, girlie-girl sister; my middle, rebellious one; and me. Before I had even turned two years old, my parents toted me to the community pool to watch my sisters’ practices and swim meets with their team, the Colony Red Hots. Hanging from my father’s arm or toddling with the help of my mother’s hand, I thrust my hands out, trying to reach the moving shapes in a spray of blue. By three, I was a full-on water baby who longed to be a part of the team, even though I wasn’t eligible to join the summer league until the following year. I was such a pest that the coaches got me a tiny black swimsuit with red piping, the uniform of a Red Hot. It was official (at least to me!): I was part of the team. My parents and the coaches let me spend all summer pretending. I followed swimmers alongside the pool during races as if I and not they were swimming. During free swim, I dove like a dolphin between the legs of the older kids horsing around and challenged my sisters to see who could hold our breath underwater the longest. I stayed in the pool until my lips were blue and someone finally yanked me out. In the summer of 1986, it was truly official. Old enough to really be in the league, I curled my toes around the edge of the starting block, as I had been taught, and stared at the long stretch of shining blue in front of me. In the periphery of my goggles I could detect the movements of my competitors, but I didn’t look at them. Just straight ahead. Bang! A shot announced the start of the race. I pushed off the block, trying to fly as far as I could through the air, and plunged into the water. In a flurry of reaching and kicking, my brain repeating every instruction again and again, I moved like a fish through the water. No, that’s too slow. More like a speeding bullet. Definitely. My heart pounded with the effort and my four-year-old muscles began to strain. How much longer could I go? Then, bam , my hands hit the hard wall, and I shot up out of the water. An entire lap! And I had done it. I won! I scanned the crowd through the watery view of my goggles and found my family cheering wildly. My sisters, in their Red Hot suits, were making whooping sounds while my mom clapped happily. But my dad was the most excited, pumping his fist into the air. I felt as if I had won the Olympics. I was hooked. That summer I practiced for a half hour in the morning every day of the week with the other kids my age and then spent the rest of the day hanging around the pool, watching the older team members work out, or playing games until the sun had finally ducked behind the hills, which meant it was time to go home for dinner. The pool was the place to be. Mom and Dad, who had the summers off from teaching, were always waiting alongside the other parents at picnic tables covered in sandwiches and drinks for their ravenous kids. When my sisters weren’t in the pool, they joked around and gossiped with their friends in the shade of the trees or moved to the grassy hills for more serious discussions. Out of the whole week, Saturdays were my favorite. That’s when we had swim meets. My three or four races were each only a lap long, which I knew wasn’t as hard as what the older kids did, but it didn’t matter. They were races and I was going to win. I put everything I knew how to put into those fifty-second bursts of crazy energy, and it usually paid off. If anyone singled me out as a swimmer, it wasn’t for talent. It was for love and belonging. With the sun shining, my sisters as teammates, and my parents as cheerleaders, I would have been happy to stay in the water forever. Life would always be like this, because why change what’s perfect?

Pet ER : Memoirs of an Animal Doctor

About the Author George A. "Tad" Porter graduated from the University of California at Davis in 1962 in the field of small animal medicine. His first practice was in Torrance, California, until he contracted with eleven different hospitals as the emergency veterinarian. In 1970, he opened his own practice in Redondo Beach and continued to do emergency calls from 1967 to 1974. In 1974 he helped fouind the Emergency Pet Clinic of South Bay, Inc., in Torrance.

Me, Me, Me

From School Library Journal PreS-Gr 2—Three young girls are preparing for a school talent show. Annie suggests that they create an all-girl singing group. Lillemor and Lilianne love the idea—that is, until Annie starts to monopolize all of the decisions for the group. This book adeptly depicts characters' frustration through illustration. As Annie increases her dominance over the girls, her friends go from perplexed to annoyed. The warm-toned pastel palette gives the images an inviting look and feel. Dunklee employs colored word bubbles to distinguish dialogue from narrator commentary. The word bubbles shift to a white color against vibrant backgrounds. Different fonts used in word bubbles help emphasize phrases that are particularly important to the characters. VERDICT This title will resonate with kids and encourage them to embrace teamwork and inclusiveness in their daily lives. A solid addition.—Deanna Smith, Mamaroneck Public Library, NY Review A pleasing morality tale on the importance of friendship and teamwork.― Kirkus Reviews This title will resonate with kids and encourage them to embrace teamwork and inclusiveness in their daily lives.― School Library Journal About the Author Annika Dunklee was born in Uppsala, Sweden, to a Scottish father and a Swedish mother. She bases a lot of her stories on her own childhood memories. My Name Is Elizabeth! was inspired by anyone who dislikes having his or her name shortened, lengthened, mispronounced or mangled in some way. Lori Joy Smith is an illustrator and fine artist whose work has been exhibited in galleries across Canada and the United States. Her illustrations have appeared on greeting cards and in Chirp, American Girl, Teen and Today's Parent magazines, among other places. Lori enjoys knitting, drawing and sewing. She lives with her family in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. Read more

The Many Lives of Catwoman: The Felonious History of a Feline Fatale

Review "Feed your kitty now, because once you start reading, you won't be able to stop. Tim's words are as mesmerizing as Catwoman herself." ---Adrienne Barbeau, actress and voice of Catwoman in Batman: The Animated Series

The Sweet Smell of Murder (A Chocolate Centered Cozy Mystery)

Last of the Summer Wine: The Inside Story of the World's Longest-Running Comedy Programme

Review ‘An authoritative history of the show’ 'Thorough, affectionate and well-written, this is a must-have for all fans of the show' 'Celebrate the final series of this television classic with this superb book' â??An authoritative history of the showâ?? 'Thorough, affectionate and well-written, this is a must-have for all fans of the show' 'Celebrate the final series of this television classic with this superb book' About the Author Andrew Vine is an award-winning journalist and assistant editor of the Yorkshire Post. He is author of 'Last of the Summer Wine: The Story of the World's Longest Running Comedy Series', and of 'A Very Strange Way to Go To War: The Canberra in the Falklands'. He lives in Leeds.

MASH Angels: Tales of the First Air Evac Helicopters

SECRETS FLIGHT

Review “A delightful novel: warm, wry, smart and very funny.” — Irina Reyn, author of What Happened to Anna K. on The Goodbye Cousins “An excellent summer read.” — Publishers Weekly on The Goodbye Cousins Praise for The Diagnosis of Love: “I loved this book and loved its voice. How often is one both charmed and intrigued on page one and ever onward? Maggie Leffler’s writing accomplishes that thing I enjoy the most: lively storytelling that is in equal parts wryly witty and touching.” — Elinor Lipman, author of My Latest Grievance and Then She Found Me “This novel celebrates the support system that family and friends can offer in difficult times. Leffler…writes with warmth and confidence about new beginnings.” — Booklist on The Diagnosis of Love “The ageless, timeless themes of friendship and family run deeply through Leffler’s heart-wrenching novel. Beautifully and sensitively told in alternating viewpoints, this easy-to-read tale is thought-provoking and memorable.” — RT Book Reviews “Through this heartwarming, one-of-a kind tale, author Maggie Leffler reminds us that the most improbable friendships can transform us in the most unexpected ways. A must read!” — Pam Jenoff, international bestselling author of The Last Summer at Chelsea Beach From the Back Cover A captivating breakout novel that brings readers from the skies of World War II to the present day, when a woman is prepared to tell her secrets at last Estranged from her family since just after World War II, Mary Browning has spent her entire adult life hiding from her past. Now eighty-seven years old and a widow, she is still haunted by secrets and fading memories of the family she left behind. Her one outlet is the writing group she’s presided over for a decade, though she’s never written a word herself. When a new member walks in—a fifteen-year-old girl who reminds her so much of her beloved sister, Sarah—Mary is certain fate delivered Elyse Strickler to her for a reason. Mary hires the serious-eyed teenager to type her story about a daring female pilot who left home for the sky and gambled everything for her dreams—including her own identity. As they begin to unravel the web of Mary’s past, Mary and Elyse form an unlikely friendship. Together they discover it’s never too late for second chances and that sometimes forgiveness is all it takes for life to take flight in the most unexpected ways. “Through this heartwarming, one-of-a kind tale, author Maggie Leffler reminds us that the most improbable friendships can transform us in the most unexpected ways. A must-read!”—Pam Jenoff, internationally bestselling author About the Author Maggie Leffler is an American novelist and a family medicine physician. A native of Columbia, Maryland, she graduated from the University of Delaware and volunteered with AmeriCorps before attending St. George’s University School of Medicine. She practices medicine in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where she lives with her husband and sons. The Secrets of Flight is her third novel. Read more

Invisible Cat Activities: A Complete-the-Drawing Book (Cat Coloring Book, Book for Cat Lovers)

A New England Country Veterinarian

Christmas in London: A Novel

Review "Hughes has romance readers’ mouths watering and hearts melting with this food-and holiday-themed novel. A quick read with a friendly, familiar tone, Hughes’ latest brings her characters to life with real-life heartbreak and the charm of London during the most magical time of year." ― Booklist "Reading Christmas in London you’ll feel magically transported!" ― Mary Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author of A Lowcountry Christmas "Anita Hughes' charming characters and sweet romance transported me to London during the most festive time of year. Enjoy!" ― Brenda Novak, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Heart of Christmas "What's better than being home for the holidays? Christmas in London ! In this romantic novel, Anita Hughes gifts readers with London landmarks, fabulous food, British history, Christmas shopping at Harrods, star-crossed characters and the best holiday present of all ― love." ― Viola Shipman, author of The Charm Bracelet and The Hope Chest "Why you should read it: This is a very interesting writing style, with two romances in one book. I loved it...fantastic foods and fashions." ― HappyEverAfter, USAToday.com Praise for Christmas in Paris : "Christmas. Paris. Star-crossed lovers. Yup, it’s the perfect holiday read!" ―Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Dashing Through the Snow "Gorgeously festive and evocative, this is a compelling story filled with characters you truly care about. I adored it." ―Melissa Hill, USA Today bestselling author of The Charm Bracelet "I was instantly transported back to France, once again strolling the Champs-Élysées, taking in the scents, the sights, the taste of Paris. It doesn’t get any better than falling in love in La Ville-Lumiére , the City of Light, during the most magical time of year. Delicious, delectable, and delightful!" ―Donna Kauffman, USA Today bestselling author of Starfish Moon "Hughes bring her signature combination of haute couture and high-society romance to Paris, adding a touch of magic and allowing us to live vicariously through Isabel as she falls in love in the most glamorous city in the world―and buys labels most women can only dream about. A charming modern-day fairy-tale romance."― Kirkus Reviews "Anita Hughes does it again in her latest novel: a love affair with Paris during the most magical time of year, starring a likable, slightly naive heroine everyone is rooting for." ― Booklist About the Author ANITA HUGHES is the author of Rome in Love (adapted into a Hallmark movie in 2019), and Christmas in Vermont (adapted into a Lifetime movie in 2019). She is also the author of Market Street, Lake Como, Santorini Sunsets , Christmas in Paris , Monarch Beach, and other titles. She attended UC Berkeley's Masters in Creative Writing Program, and lives in Dana Point, California. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Christmas in London By Anita Hughes St. Martin's Press Copyright © 2017 Anita HughesAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-250-14579-6 CHAPTER 1 Louisa nudged open the industrial-sized oven and thought nothing smelled as wonderful as cinnamon and nutmeg nine days before Christmas. Everything about the bakery's smooth wooden counters thrilled her: the buttery pie crusts waiting for crisp Granny Smith apple slices and scoops of whipped cream, the eggnog custard nestled in white cups, the cupcakes topped with cream cheese frosting and shaped liked Christmas trees. And she especially loved the croquembouche she had convinced Ellie, the bakery's owner, to let her make on her own time. She learned the recipe for croquembouche at a cooking course in Normandy and never forgot the cream-filled pastry puffs dipped in caramel and laced with spun sugar. She examined it now and thought the puffs were a little crooked and the cream may not be as rich as she used in Normandy, but when she popped one in her mouth she tasted vanilla and a crust so airy it was like a single fat snowflake drifting down from the sky. That was one of the things people didn't realize about being a pastry chef. It wasn't just about baking a delicious cheesecake or whisking eggs and flour so a soufflé was firm and delicate at the same time. It was about exploring other cultures. She loved to make lamingtons from Australia with their gooey centers and coconut flakes and panettones from Italy topped with powdered sugar and citrus rinds and toffee pudding from England so thick it stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her phone lit up with texts and she brushed aside a stray hair and picked it up. Her friends urged her to join them doing all the things twenty-something New Yorkers enjoyed a week before Christmas: ice-skating in Central Park or sipping champagne cobblers at the Monkey Bar or braving Christmas shoppers at Bloomingdale's to pick out the perfect party dress. But there was always the possibility of falling and spraining her wrist when she ice-skated and champagne gave her a headache and even though she loved Bloomingdale's with its decorated Christmas tree and scents of expensive perfumes, she couldn't afford a pair of silk stockings let alone a whole dress. And besides, every extra hour she worked brought her closer to her goal. She had been saving for four years and by next Christmas she was determined to open her own restaurant specializing in homemade desserts. She'd already started scouting locations — roaming the trendy streets of Chelsea and venturing to the Upper West Side with its leafy sidewalks and elegant brownstones. In the summer there would be blueberry tarts and upside-down cake with plums the color of lipstick and almond ice cream torte. And at the Christmas holidays! She would serve Baked Alaska and gingerbread trifle with cognac custard and sliced pears. She stretched like a cat that had been sitting too long in front of the fire and noticed the rain drizzling on the pavement. If she had brought a proper raincoat she would almost look forward to the six blocks' walk to her apartment. She thought of all the things she planned to do when she got home: read the chapter on chocolate ganache in Gordon Ramsay's new cookbook, try out a new recipe for key lime pie with limes she bought at the corner market, take a bath before her roommate prepared for a date and spent hours in the bathroom doing her hair and makeup. Every day for the last week Louisa had staggered up the stairs to her apartment and unlocked the door. She'd flipped through the mail and brewed a cup of orange hibiscus tea. Then she'd lain down on her bed fully clothed just to close her eyes. Hours later she would wake with a crick in her neck and her jacket digging uncomfortably into her side. A bell tinkled and Louisa realized she'd forgotten to lock the bakery door and change the sign to CLOSED. The kitchen door opened and a man of about thirty appeared. He wore a rain-splattered leather jacket and had short light-brown hair. "I'm sorry, we're closed." She took the cinnamon rolls out of the oven and placed them on the island in the middle of the room. "You're not closed, actually." He entered the kitchen. "The door of the bakery was unlocked and the red blinking sign said OPEN." "The sign is new and I always forget to unplug it," Louisa said. "The cash register is empty and the desserts are put away. I'm afraid you'll have to leave." "Are these cinnamon rolls any good?" He inspected the tray. "I really couldn't say," she answered. "I just took them out of the oven." "They smell delicious." He picked one up. "Do you mind if I try one?" "You can't just help yourself!" she protested, wiping her hands on her apron. "I spent hours baking them." The man inhaled deeply and took a small bite. He finished chewing and looked at Louisa. "Excellent! Not too gooey and with just the right amount of sweetness," he announced. "Possibly the best cinnamon roll I've ever tasted." "Do you think so?" she asked, suddenly happy despite herself. "I've been working on the recipe for ages. I use a secret ingredient I can't tell anyone about. And the brown sugar has to have just the right amount of molasses." "Is that all there is?" He waved at the two trays of cinnamon rolls. "Or are there more in the oven?" "That's two dozen cinnamon rolls! It took me all afternoon." She suddenly remembered that it was 7:00 p.m. and she'd been at the bakery since early morning. "I'll take the lot." He picked up a tray. "Do you have any boxes? I can't have them getting ruined in the rain." "Put that down!" she said hotly. "You can't just waltz in here and help yourself to what's on the counter." "I wasn't going to help myself, I was going to pay you." He reached into his pocket and took out a wallet. "How much are they?" "They're not for sale." She shook her head. "Of course they're for sale," he countered. "This is a bakery. You didn't make twenty-four cinnamon rolls to eat before bed." "They're not for sale now. They're for the morning," she clarified. "They're our most popular item the week before Christmas. People love them with a cup of coffee or hot chocolate." "I need them now." He riffled through his wallet. "Will one hundred dollars be enough? I can't imagine you charge more than six dollars a cinnamon roll even if this is the East Village." "One hundred dollars for twenty-four cinnamon rolls!" Louisa gasped. Ellie had asked Louisa what they should charge and Louisa suggested three dollars apiece. She was terrible at pricing her own desserts. It was a tug-of-war between being grateful people liked them enough to pay for them and wanting Ellie to make a profit. "I'm sorry, you can't have them. I'm not the owner and I'm not allowed to sell the products after hours. I'd be happy to hold them for you when we open tomorrow morning, if you'd like to come back then." "Two hundred dollars, then." He handed her two hundred-dollar bills. "And an extra fifty if you find me a box." "That's very generous, but then I wouldn't have any left for the morning rush hour," she explained. "We have to sell cinnamon rolls the week before Christmas. It's our most requested item." "You have other pastries. They can buy Danish or croissants," he suggested. "Any other time of the year perhaps, but not now." She shook her head. "People allow an extra fifteen minutes to get to work just so they can pick up a cinnamon roll. It's the high point of their day." "Have you heard of the cooking show Baking with Bianca ?" he asked. "We're filming a Christmas special in a brownstone nearby and there was a small fire in the kitchen. The snowball cupcakes look like they were roasted over a campfire and the fig crumble bars are burnt to a crisp. There isn't time to bake anything else and the other bakeries are closed. I need something for Bianca to hold in front of the camera." "It's the most watched cooking show in New York." She nodded. "At first I was a little put off by Bianca's lipstick. How could you taste your own desserts without getting bright-red lipstick all over the spoon? But I've tried some of the recipes and the steamed gingerbread pudding is delicious." "Bianca wears waterproof lipstick, it wouldn't come off during a monsoon," he murmured. Louisa noticed that the man's eyes were blue and there was an ink smudge on his cheek. His cheeks were smooth and when he smiled crinkles formed around his mouth. "I'm sorry, they're not mine to sell," she insisted. "Ellie, the owner, is at The Nutcracker with her daughter, Chloe, and I can't interrupt her. You can try again tomorrow." "I've got a stylist and a lighting guy and a camera operator who will report this to the union if we go a minute overtime," he pleaded. "And think of the viewers. They're going to tune in to learn how to bake something special for Santa Claus or bring the perfect Christmas gift to Aunt Mary in the hospital and be disappointed." Christmas was Louisa's favorite time of year because people were so nice to each other. All month the spirit of doing the right thing was intoxicating. People jostled to give up their seat on the subway and when she walked down Fifth Avenue she heard the sound of coins dropping into Salvation Army cans. She wanted to help him, and in exchange Bianca could mention the bakery on the show. It would be wonderful publicity and Ellie would be thrilled. "I have an idea," she suggested. "What if Bianca says on air that the bakery is one of her favorite spots in Manhattan? Ellie would get free publicity and you would get your cinnamon rolls." She paused. "I will have to come in early and make more, but I don't mind. I'll do anything to help the bakery succeed." "You're a lifesaver," he said and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that but you've made me so happy." He stepped back and grinned. "My job is to make everything on the set run smoothly and Bianca was roaming around like a lion with an injured paw. Even our producer, Kate, couldn't placate her. Kate is usually as soothing as a warm brandy before bed." "That sounds perfect right about now," she said with a sigh. "I arrived so early this morning the homeless man was still asleep. Every evening I give him a stack of blankets and every morning when he wakes up he returns them." "You give a homeless man blankets?" He stopped. "Doesn't that encourage him to hang around? I'm sure your customers don't want to see him when they're ordering their morning cappuccino." "No one sees him, he sleeps in the covered alley in the back. Even Ellie doesn't know he comes," she said. "The shelters are so crowded, sometimes it's hard to get a blanket at all. I give him a cup of leftover coffee and blankets I keep in the storeroom." She paused. "No one knows, please don't say anything." "My lips are sealed. I have to go, or I'll be fired and looking for a handout." He picked up the trays. "I'm Noah, it's a pleasure doing business with you." "I'm Louisa." She nodded. "I hope it all works out." He walked to the door and turned around. "You've saved my job, I don't know how to thank you." Louisa watched Noah cross the street and thought she shouldn't have said yes. Now she'd have to be back at the bakery at 5:00 a.m. Her shoes would barely have time to dry and she wouldn't be able to wash her hair before work. But it was too late now. The cinnamon rolls were gone and she had to get home before the soft rain became a downpour. She closed the front door and studied the white Christmas tree decorated with gumdrops and peppermints in the bakery window. The red sign still flashed OPEN and she laughed. She unlocked the door and unplugged it. Then she covered her head with her hands and hurried down the street. CHAPTER 2 Louisa poured a cup of coffee from the bakery's silver coffeepot and added cream and sugar. She took a sip and stared at the cup blankly. She had been there so long she couldn't remember how many cups she'd already consumed. There was the shot of espresso she gulped down when she arrived. The stone floor was freezing under her moccasins and the coffeepot took too long to heat up. She made an espresso in the espresso machine and drank it while she assembled brown sugar and cinnamon. Then there had been the cup of coffee with a splash of vanilla she sipped after she handed the cinnamon rolls to Danielle, who worked the bakery's counter. That was the best cup of the day. It was fresh and hot, and she could savor it slowly. But then Danielle needed a tray of pecan crescent cookies and Louisa groaned and returned to work. Now it was early afternoon, and the coffee was so stale it needed a large dose of cream and two packets of sugar just to swallow it. The kitchen door opened and Louisa looked up. Noah wore a long wool coat and blue jeans. "Not you again!" she exclaimed. "Because of you I woke up so early, I banged my foot on the radiator in the dark. I had to hobble six blocks and when I arrived the bakery was like the inside of an igloo. I made two trays of cinnamon rolls and three cranberry logs and a persimmon pudding. If you have any designs on my pecan crescent cookies, you better think again. They're for the evening rush, and I'm not going to make more." "They look excellent but I'm not hungry." Noah glanced at the tray. "And I'm sorry you hurt your foot. I'm in a bit of trouble and need your help." "I'm a firm believer in helping others, especially at Christmas." She poured the coffee in the sink. "But everyone has their limits. I was about to drink coffee that is so stiff you could put it behind a frame and hang it on the wall. I'm afraid this time you'll have to solve your own problems." "The cinnamon rolls were a huge hit. The crew fought over who took them home and the producer, Kate, said they were the best she ever tasted," he began. "Kate is very particular, she's worked with Anthony Bourdain." "Anthony Bourdain!" Louisa's eyes were wide. "Did she really say they were good?" "Her exact words were 'they are so rich and flaky they should be served at afternoon tea at the Waldorf.'" He paused. "Are you happy?" "Very happy." Louisa imagined getting a plug on national television for her restaurant when it opened. Then she studied Noah suspiciously. "But I'm exhausted. If you need more cinnamon rolls you'll have to wait until tomorrow. As soon as I finish these crescent cookies I'm going home." "The only person who didn't react favorably to the cinnamon rolls was Bianca." He lifted the lid of the coffeepot and inhaled. "She took a few bites to show the camera how delicious they were and an hour later her lips blew up like a blowfish. Whatever you used, she was allergic." "It must have been the nutmeg, that's my secret ingredient!" she gasped. "Some people are allergic. I should have told you. I'm sorry, it's my fault." "Unfortunately she has an extreme case," he finished. "Her doctor said she'd look like that for a week." "I feel terrible. Should I send an apology note or a fruit basket?" She stopped. "But why do you need my help? I'm the last person Bianca wants to see." "Tonight the whole crew is flying to London to prepare to film Christmas Dinner at Claridge's. Top chefs from around the world are going to prepare Christmas Eve dinner at one of the most famous hotel restaurants." His eyes darkened. "Bianca was supposed to bake her layered fruitcake with crème fraîche frosting. Except now she's going to be lying in a dark room watching Scandal and drinking milkshakes with a straw." Louisa's cheeks paled and a shiver ran down her spine. "Oh, I see," she breathed. "That does create a problem." He glanced at the clock above the oven. "In four hours and thirty-six minutes I have to be at the British Airways lounge at JFK. Before I hand over my boarding pass and receive my complimentary glass of champagne, you're going to help me find Bianca's replacement." "How would I do that?" Louisa demanded. "I'm a twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef at a bakery on the Lower East Side. I don't know any famous chefs and I've never been invited to a restaurant opening." She turned back to the crescent cookies. "I'm happy to write an apology, but I can't find a replacement." "You don't understand," he urged. "I'm the one who brought the cinnamon rolls to the set. If I don't show up with Bianca's replacement, I'll be fired." "Aren't you overreacting?" she offered. "You didn't mean to make Bianca's lips blow up like a blowfish. She must have insurance for these situations." "Insurance doesn't cover the press releases that have been sent out, and the promotional ads that have been filmed, and the fact that working alongside those chefs will be a huge boost for Bianca's career," he spluttered. "Someone has to take the blame, that's how television works. It will be my head rolling around the network floor like a cabbage at Trader Joe's." (Continues...) Excerpted from Christmas in London by Anita Hughes . Copyright © 2017 Anita Hughes. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

Fear City: New York's Fiscal Crisis and the Rise of Austerity Politics

Review “A powerful and involving work of narrative history… You come away from Fear City with a clear sense of what was lost as New York left behind one set of priorities and embraced another.… This is a book that deserves an audience beyond New York City history buffs, and all the more so because of its relevance to our political moment. The young Donald Trump makes a brief cameo appearance as an icon of the new New York, a real estate mogul who leveraged his father’s connections and the city’s desperation into massive tax breaks, starving the city of badly needed revenues for education and other basic municipal functions as he developed properties for the rich. ―Jonathan Mahler, The New York Times Book Review “ Fear City is the best account of the New York City fiscal crisis of the 1970s and, more than that, an indispensable contribution to understanding the rise of austerity economics and the long decline of the public sector. This is a history with huge implications for the remaking of American politics and economics in our time.” ―Thomas J. Sugrue, author of Origins of the Urban Crisis “The remaking of New York City under cover of crisis was a prelude to what would become a global economic tidal wave. In zeroing in on this little-understood chapter of urban history, Fear City helps sheds much-needed light on a range of contemporary crises, from the starvation of public services amidst enormous private wealth to the rise of Donald Trump. Kim Phillips-Fein is a historian of the first order.” ―Naomi Klein, author of The Shock Doctrine and This Changes Everything “Fair, thorough, incisive, and stylish, this is the best book to read not just on New York’s fiscal crisis of the 1970s, but about how bankers became our unacknowledged legislators ever since.” ―Rick Perlstein, author of Nixonland and The Invisible Bridge “Before there was Reagan, before there was Thatcher, there was New York City’s fiscal crisis. Here we can see the blueprint for what has since been done to the entire world. This is the story of how the gears were shifted and the age of liberalism put into reverse, told with all the engrossing details, all the forgotten characters, and a memorable style.” ―Thomas Frank, author of What’s the Matter with Kansas? and Listen, Liberal “A tour de force. If you want to find the roots of modern conservatism, don’t look in Louisiana, Arizona, or rural Wisconsin. Look in New York, and read Kim Phillips-Fein’s superb Fear City . New York in the 1970s, as Phillips-Fein compellingly shows, was the first sustained victory in the New Right’s long war against the New Deal. Extremely well written and impressively researched, Fear City is essential reading to understand how finance capital, real estate speculation, austerity budgeting, and punitive policing first came together to create the toxic politics of today.” ―Greg Grandin, author of Fordlandia and Kissinger’s Shadow “ Fear City provides the definitive account of the moment when New York City liberalism ran out of momentum and money, and the conservative reaction that has culminated in Donald Trump began. Phillips-Fein chronicles not only the tense dance with municipal bankruptcy but the largely forgotten efforts by ordinary New Yorkers to stop the legal coup by local and national elites. Lucid, elegantly written, full of new information, it belongs on the shelf of key books about the city, alongside The Power Broker , Gotham , and their like.” ―Joshua B. Freeman, author of American Empire and Working-Class New York “This revealing narrative of New York’s transformation from working-class social democracy to the glittering home of fancy finance reminds us that behind the mask of austerity there always lurks a bitter politics of class.” ―James K. Galbraith, author of The Predator State and Welcome to the Poisoned Chalice “The story of New York’s financial crisis in the seventies is really a story about the role of cities in America today. New Yorkers pride themselves on being cosmopolitan, on welcoming immigrants, on being willing to spend money on education, healthcare, and infrastructure. Kim Philips-Fein convincingly explains why that caused problems for the city in the past and why now we need New York values more than ever." ―Joseph E. Stiglitz, author of Globalization and Its Discontents and The Price of Inequality “Paced like a thriller and extremely well written . . . Phillips-Fein narrates with almost cinematic flair, and by the time the credits roll, the significance of her accomplishment becomes clear. The book should be required reading for all those interested in the past, present, and future of democratic politics.” ―Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Deftly recounts the clash between government entities and vested interests as New York struggled to cope with slashed social service . . . Given events since, New York’s crisis―and the author’s astute account of it―seems oddly timely . . . Sobering, smart reading with many pointed lessons for activists.” ―Kirkus Reviews (starred review) About the Author Kim Phillips-Fein is a professor of history at New York University and the author of Invisible Hands: The Businessmen's Crusade Against the New Deal . A recipient of grants from the New York Public Library's Cullman Center and the National Endowment for the Humanities, she has written for The Nation , Dissent , The Baffler , The Atlantic , and The New York Times , among other publications.

Don't Throw In the Trowel!: Vegetable Gardening Month by Month (Easy-Growing Gardening)

Review A simple and well laid out guide to vegetable gardening."What a delightful read this is! This lady certainly knows her onions!There is a wealth of practical knowledge to be had in this book. Nothaving kept a veggie garden for a number of years, It both remindedthings I already knew and informed me of many things I didn't. It is anideal guide for both new-comers to the gardening world, as well asestablished gardeners." -- Ty from Wales"Loved her style -- almost felt like having her right here chatting with me or in a very small, friendly classroom -- a quick & easy read. I also liked her month by month approach -- I am never thinking in February when it is cold& wet that I really should be getting seeds started for setting out in spring & that to do so, I'd better have gotten the stuff ready even sooner. She also covers square foot gardening, maintenance of equipment, etc. I have been making veggie gardens since I was a kid & even swapped an engine out in my 4x4 truck myself years ago, so I am not a novice, but still found the book useful & interesting. She also gives links to other useful resources, seed & info sites, etc."Let me start out by clarifying that my thumb has never been green whatsoever,yet I still try to garden every year. Despite my clear lack of skills, I always have grandiose ideas for a beautiful vegetable garden. It turns out that perhaps my biggest room for improvement was just learning from my previous mistakes! This year, I have started to keep a journal so I can see next year what went wrong and what not to do again. Who knew you could forget what you did an entire year ago?I'm certainly nowhere near where I would like to be, but I wish I had had this book years ago, if only to make me feel a little better to know that "plants are very forgiving" and to just keep trying through trial and error.I can't recommend this book enough. Other gardening books are intimidating, but this one is practical and often times pretty funny. From the Author Two things:First: You know more about gardening than you think.Second: A garden - the soil - the plants - all of these are very forgiving.When it comes down to it, you can do pretty much anything to these.(Though, actually, bulldozer races through the garden are out of thequestion.)A garden is forgiving. Plants are built to put up with a lot of nonsene. It's part of their nature. They obviously can't getup and walk away, so they're made to endure. But some plants are betterat getting along than others are. The trick is finding out which onesthese are.That was part of my outlook, as city horticulturist:If it won't grow for you, why then, it can go away somewhere and wilt.Life is too short to spend on fighting with plants that you don't like.I carried that over into my work in my vegetable garden. I went afterplants that were easy to grow and take care of, and I used methods thatgot results with as little work as possible. I mean, there is alwayswork to be done around the garden. You've got to pull weeds and squashaphids and dump soapy water over the eggplant when it catches fleabeetles and try to keep up with all the strawberries. But I found thatthere are ways to make the work less backbreaking, and I outline them in the book. Also I included neat illustrations from old seed catalogs,just for fun.I enjoyed writing this book, and I hope you get a lot of good out of it and even learn something while having fun. From the Back Cover Vegetable gardening is an enterprise fraught with adventure and peril.Well, okay, that's only true when you pull up a weed and a cloud ofbumblebees boils up from a nest underground. Otherwise, gardening is apretty good way to spend your time, and you get tomatoes. Don't Throw In the Trowel!: Vegetable Gardening Month by Month guides the Midwest gardener, month by month, through the many gardening tasks that need to be done.This book helps you be more effective, plots out your month-by-month to-do list, and keeps you up to speed. Melinda R. Cordell has worked in horticulture half her life, including a stint as city horticulturist in St. Joseph, Missouri. About the Author Melinda R. Cordell worked in most all aspects of horticulture - in garden centers, in wholesale greenhouses, as a landscape designer, and finally as city horticulturist, where she took care of who-knows-how-many-gardens around the city as well as the Krug Park rose garden and the 300 roses there. She fought the rose rosette virus,which killed off over 50 roses during her very first year, and planted both old and new varieties, using mostly organic methods. She lives in northwest Missouri with her husband and kids, the best little family that ever walked the earth,as well as two hens and a couple roses and a lot of weeds. She hates weeding so much. You can't even imagine. Rose to the Occasion:An Easy-Growing Guide to Rose Gardening is the second of the Easy-Growing Garden series, which will include Annuals and Perennials, Soilbuilding, Houseplants, and Trees and Shrubs, and many others. The first book in the series is Don't Throw in the Trowel!: Vegetable Gardening Month by Month. Check it out. She's also published Butterfly Chaos , a novel about cousins, a ghost, and a tornado; and Chicago Review Press has published her nonfiction book Courageous Women of the Civil War: Soldiers, Spies, Medics, and More . She earned her Master's in Writing for Children from Hamline University, and her fiction and articles have appeared in Cricket, Highlights, The Horn Book, Organic Gardening, Birds and Blooms , and Grit . Read more

Curiosity Thrilled the Cat (Magical Cats)

Review Praise for the New York Times Bestselling Magical Cat Mysteries “Owen and Hercules are a delight.”—Kings River Life Magazine   “If you are a fan of Miranda James’s Cat in the Stacks mysteries, you will want to read [this series].”—MyShelf.com   “Coziness at its finest. I adore those magical cats!”—Socrates’ Book Reviews    “With great characters and an interesting story, readers will be in for a treat with this classic whodunit.”— RT Book Reviews “Small-town charm and a charming cat duo make this every cat fancier’s dream.”—The Mystery Reader About the Author Sofie Kelly is a New York Times bestselling author and mixed-media artist who lives on the East Coast with her husband and daughter. She writes the New York Times bestselling Magical Cats mysteries and, as Sofie Ryan, writes the New York Times bestselling Second Chance Cat mysteries.

The Driver: A Thriller

Review Praise for Hart Hanson and The Driver “Hanson's storytelling voice is off the charts: blunt, morbid, morally indignant and furiously funny.”— The New York Times Book Review “It is so hard to be unique in crime fiction and Hart Hanson has done it big time with The Driver . It’s got all the ingredients: high risks, strong momentum, unseen turns and a set of gripping characters. You can’t ask for more!”—Michael Connelly“An outstanding debut thriller. Readers of Scott Turow and Harlan Coben will appreciate the intricate plot and rich character development.”— Library Journal (starred review) “The Driver is an action-packed, humor-infused novel that doesn’t disappoint. Hart Hanson’s debut is chock full of eccentric characters, from soldiers with a cause to crooked cops to diva wannabes. This is a book that is sure to fly from the shelves to the bedside tables.”— The San Francisco Book Review “The first chapter delivers an entertainment smack upside the head that will keep readers rapt to the story's end....Wryly funny and whip-smart, Hanson's narrative seamlessly weaves in serious themes, pop culture and a bit of a love letter to Los Angeles.”—Shelf Awareness “[A] remarkable debut… The dialogue is crisp and street-tough, and the action redefines relentless . Expect lots of buzz for what is sure to be one of the season’s hottest first novels.”— Booklist (starred review) “Hanson, creator of the long-running TV series Bones, takes to crime fiction in high style. Like Carl Hiaasen, he shows great pleasure in combining nasty violence with an arch comic sensibility...[a] fresh-voiced first novel.”— Kirkus Reviews “Hanson, creator of the TV series Bones , melds well-placed bits of humor with a serious look at the emotional trials of returning veterans. The energetic plot demands a sequel.”— Publishers Weekly “Riveting, smart, and funny, The Driver is a masterfully crafted debut. Michael Skellig is the hero we’ve been waiting for—a wry war veteran who doesn’t take anything (or anyone) too seriously, even while staring down the face of a sawed-off shotgun.”—Harlan Coben “Funny and smart.”—Dallas Morning News “[A] hugely entertaining thriller...Infused with dark humor.” —The Oklahoman “ The Driver has it all—crisp dialogue, complex characters, anda plot that zips at breathtaking speed. I see the beginning of a great career in thriller fiction.”—Kathy Reichs “ The Driver is packed with action...tightly plotted...The characters [are] sharply drawn and sympathetic (the heroes) or scary (the villains). Good or bad, they all come alive on the page.”— St. Louis Post-Dispatch “[A] page turner.”— New York Post “ The Driver is everything a great thriller should be—always smart, often funny, and relentlessly exciting. The novel features imaginative mayhem from the first pages, a terrific twisting plot, and countless fresh elements, starting with its hip, witty, limo-driver hero, who deals with the eccentric world of high-profile skateboarding and the lingering sadness of many of our vets. I loved every page.”—Scott Turow “Hart Hanson has given us a wonderful debut novel in The Driver . Former Army Special Forces Sergeant Michael Skellig runs a limousine service in Los Angeles, staffed by his hand-picked team of former war companions. Skellig and his people are living casualties of America's wars—damaged in different ways but clinging to their lives with determination, anger, and resourcefulness. Set in an LA of narcissistic celebrity, corrupt law enforcement, and limitless greed, The Driver is grim, funny, violent, and moving—all on the same page.”—T. Jefferson Parker “The Driver is smart, brash, and funny, with characters who strut right out of an Elmore Leonard novel.  For thrills, chills, and plenty of laughs, Hart Hanson is your man.”—Tess Gerritsen “The ghost of Raymond Chandler is apparently alive and well and living inside Hart Hanson. I felt as though I was reading a 21st century reboot of The Long Goodbye . Brutal, gripping and funny. A dazzling debut.”—Charles Cumming About the Author Hart Hanson wrote for Canadian television before moving to Los Angeles, where he worked on various TV programs before creating the series Bones , the longest-running scripted hour-long series on the FOX network. Married with two sons, Hart lives with his wife, Brigitte, in Venice, California. The Driver is his first novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Something Gets in My Eye Five minutes before a pair of overconfident, underaged, undercooked, tweaked-out, teenage-skater-boy assassins swagger through the front door of an upscale bar in a tourist hotel just south of the Santa Monica Pier, I'm innocently killing time in the manner of all limo drivers since the invention of the wheel: wiping down my vehicle with a chamois while listening to a less car-proud driver complain about the weather. He isn't wrong to complain, considering how the two of us are being sandblasted by Santa Ana winds in the limos-wait-here alley behind the hotel. "Fuckin' Santa Anas," he said, squinting into the grit. "White people freak the fuck out, level a black man the evil eye." Black man referred to him; white people referred to me. Which was fair because I am, in fact, an astoundingly vanilla man: brown hair, brown eyes, five foot eleven, medium build-your average kind of white man, milquetoast invisible average-but while I admit to regarding him with interest, "leveling the evil eye" parlayed too much spin on it. (Yet . . .) There was something about the guy that didn't ring true. He wore a dark-blue limo-driver's suit made for somebody maybe two inches shorter than himself unless he'd recently undergone a growth spurt, which seemed unlikely given that he was pushing thirty. His shoes were not the standard black wingtips or cap-toed oxfords; they were patent leather laceless boots, sporting flashy silver toe and heel caps (though whether gaudy-cheap or conspicuous-expensive was beyond me). His hair was rusty colored in a way that said beach bum more than limo driver. As did his cigarillo packed with primo weed. Plus, he checked his phone with manic regularity. Normally, I'd have written him off as a moonlighting soul surfer obsessively checking an app that tracked storm waves from across the ocean. Except the Santa Anas blow out any kind of decent surfing; even junk surfers don't need an app for that. Most likely Mr. Chelsea Boots was new to the limo business, nervous, checking for texts from a particularly demanding client-but if that was the case, then why was he getting high? To calm his jitters? So yeah, come to think of it, maybe Chelsea Boots was right and I was leveling him the evil eye. Or maybe he was paranoid from the weed. Maybe a little of both. My mobile buzzed. I removed my sunglasses, shaded the screen from the setting sun and gusts of grit with my body. It was my mechanic, Tinkertoy, calling. I answered in my most soothing voice. "It's me." Dead silence (not unexpected). Sonic blackouts are a quirk of Tinkertoy's post-traumatic stress paranoia, an awkward unwanted intermission as she evaluates whether or not the person on the other end of the call is for reals the person she herself just dialed. "It's you who?" Tinkertoy asked. "This is Michael Skellig," I answered. Crickets. "Your boss." Silence. In college, in addition to required math and engineering classes, I took an elective survey course in Great Thinkers in which we studied the birth of medicine, featuring protodoctors, half scientist / half magician, starting with a Greek named Hippocrates. (You've heard of his oath.) Hippocrates set out to label and categorize human beings by separating us into four basic groups based upon (I shit you not) a personal predominance of the following: snot, black bile, yellow bile, and blood. He labeled these Humors. We all have one, a humor, like a sign of the zodiac. Hippocrates would have diagnosed Tinkertoy as a Melancholic, meaning she suffered from a surfeit of black bile. Eventually, Tinkertoy decided that I was, in fact, who I claimed to be and, in the jerky, tumbledown telegram way she speaks once she decides it's safe, she said, "Two is ready. Fuel injector was fucked. Not like from sabotage. Nuh-uh. Just old. So I replaced it. Hundred seventy-five bucks. Secondhand. Could not. Be rebuilt." Two referred to the second of the three limos I own. I was currently leaning on our flagship: Number One. "Good job," I said, and waited for Tinkertoy to analyze that controversial response for hidden meaning. You're wondering where I get the patience to deal with Tinkertoy, and the answer is that I appreciate the way she fends off her PTSD demons by immersing herself in the minutiae of all things mechanical (typewriters, binoculars, clocks and compasses, fuel injectors, air-conditioning units, cameras, whirligigs, toys, guns, stereos, computers, lawn mowers, and anything else you can think of with spinning, clicking, percolating, conducting, gyrating, or ambulatory properties). The Veterans Health Administration psych wizards categorize Tinkertoy not as Melancholic but as Ego-syntonic suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder derived from Post-Traumatic Stress with Serotonergic Imbalance Resulting in Adjustment Disorder with Anxious Features-indicating, to me at least, that shrinks could learn a thing or two from Hippocrates and his humors. Chelsea Boots huffed noisily on his doctored Black & Mild blunt, quick, shallow, urgent puffs like trying to keep something alight that wants to go out. The major limo companies do not sanction that kind of behavior. They maybe look the other way if a driver is obliged to take a friendly hit off a doobie (I know, but that's what I call it) to assuage the nerves of a pot-paranoid client who worries about off-duty cops moonlighting as limo drivers. But Chelsea Boots sucked back on his shit with Snoop Dogg levels of enthusiasm, the end of his cigar glowing red even through all this crashing sunlight. Tinkertoy finally ticked the last box on her exasperating mental list and said, "Ripple says should he call in Lucky since Two is ready?" Ripple's another employee Army vet with issues. I hired him to handle scheduling and dispatch for my company, Oasis Limo Services. The other full-time driver is named Lucky. Lucky owns a ten percent stake in the company but he has to trust me on that because he's an illegal alien coasting along on forged documents (yes, another veteran-we all have our tribes). I named our company Oasis Limo Services on the advice of my mother, who, as a politician, knows a lot about branding. Mom said that if I called it Stars and Stripes Limo Services it would scare the limousine liberals on the west side of Los Angeles, who happen to be my target clientele. Plus, according to Mom, the word oasis works on the subliminal level to seduce prospective clients into feeling "like Bedouins eating dates in a tent near a cool water hole after crossing the Sahara." (Like everyone else who doesn't know better, Mom views Los Angeles as both a literal and a figurative desert.) "Ripple needs to do his job," I told Tinkertoy, which resulted in the muffle of Tinkertoy covering the phone with her grease-stained palm, ostensibly repeating to Ripple what I'd just said. Ripple is barely nineteen years old and looks younger, a luminously pale freckled boy with crazy hair like copper wires. He draws cartoons all day, all of them horrifically violent in the way that sets off alarms for the VA wizards. Just over a year ago, Private Second Class (E-2) Ripple had a bad day in a shithole called Walakan, southwest of Kandahar, Afghanistan, when he lost his right leg from just above the knee to a sniper and his left leg at the hip when an HMMWV (which was rushing to block a second kill shot) accidentally ran him over. Hippocrates would label Ripple Sanguine, which means his predominant humor is blood, which tells you just about everything you need to know about the kid. I heard Ripple's voice in the background, a jumble of words followed by a clearly discernible, "Tell Skellig to go fuck himself!" followed by Tinkertoy's muffled, "Why don't you? Go fuck? Yourself?" followed by escalating classic Sanguine-versus-Melancholic insults. I hung up to let the two of them work it out. "Famous poem about the Santa Anas," Chelsea Boots continued, as though our conversation had never been interrupted, "concerning a wife and a knife. You got a wife?" I shook my head. "Why not?" How do you answer a question like that? I'm single for all the usual reasons plus a couple of ancillary snags and detriments, for example: an eye-catching scar on my forearm left by an obstinate pit bull whose windpipe I was forced to (honest to God!) wrench out in panicked self-defense-please, no grief about the humane treatment of animals. Killing a dog is not a meet-cute anecdote on a first date (especially if the woman in question is an animal lover), and yet due to the prominence of the dimpled scars on my arm it has never not come up, unless I wear long sleeves, in which case, this being Los Angeles, the woman in question assumes I'm a junkie. I could go for Gila monster attack as an explanation, but then I'm lying on a first date, which, as any relationship expert will tell you, does not bode well for the future of the relationship. Putting aside the dog-killer excuse, the main reason I do not have a wife is that I'm hopelessly in love with a woman who not only refuses to marry me but decided that the fact that I'd asked (and she'd refused) meant that we should take our whole relationship to a much more casual level. Instead of admitting all that to baked Mr. Chelsea Boots, I changed the subject. "It's not a poem." "What's not a poem? Wife with a knife? What is it, then? Doesn't sound like no kind of joke." "It's a story." Which is when a speck of grit blew into my eye and burned like an ember. Santa Anas are the katabatic devil winds that blow no good from the high deserts-everybody knows that, not only wives and knives, poets and surfers and limo drivers, especially getting late in the afternoon, after twenty-eight hours of no sleep, driving around a client who obviously does not ever want to go home, the sun banging on your eyeballs from both the sky and the reflection off the ocean. I heard a burst of calliope music from the Santa Monica Pier amusement park, blown up the alley behind the hotel on a back eddy of the Santa Anas, and my eye watered and stung and the wind spoke to me in the guttural accent of a Chechen jihadist torturer I shot through the eye in Yemen a decade ago. What the Chechen said was Troubletroubletrouble. Yes, yes, I know, on top of the dog story now you're going to be all freaked-out about my mental health, but those ghostly wind warnings have saved my life a dozen times, always keening in the spectral voice of somebody I'd killed. Of course I've never admitted that to the wizards. I tell them that I experience an overwhelming sense of dŽjˆ vu and disconnection from the world. They tell me I suffer from a form of PTSD-induced protomigraine known as an aura. Why don't I tell the wizards about my whispering ghost voices? Because they will take it much too seriously and plunge a needle full of Thorazine in my ass. . . . troubletroubletroublebadtrouble . . . "What up?" Chelsea Boots asks, because I'm tossing the chamois onto the limo's hood, tucking my sunglasses into the breast pocket of my shirt, and turning to trot along the broken asphalt of the alley, instinctively reaching for a phantom sidearm that isn't there and hasn't been there for three years. I slam into the dented metal door at the rear of the hotel like I'm trying to escape a burning building, then thump on it with my elbow until it opens a crack. I shove my way past the shocked Malaysian dishwasher kid wearing eyeliner and rubber gloves, moving fast and low, like I'm leading a strike team, through the coolness of the corridor, smelling cleaning fluids and raw refrigerated beef, olive oil, spilled liquor, antiseptic. I zigzag through the kitchen, scanning, scanning, ignoring the whoops and hollers of the Mexicans and Guatemalans who work there-"Hey! Choo can be dere!"-bursting from behind the bar into a cool place of wood warmth and air-conditioning and mirrors and an infinity of bottles and indirect light and people and music throbbing at 180 beats per minute (like the heart of panic). "Jesus Christ!" grunts a barback; then there's a bouncer who plants himself in front of me, chanting, "Stop. Stop. Stop!" in the singsong, patronizing, faux-weary voice bouncers affect to hide their own anxieties in a physical confrontation. When I outzig his zag, he tucks in behind and chases me. "Buddy? Buddy?" This bouncer moves well but his nose has never been broken, which indicates that he's a martial arts type, which means that, unlike a boxer or a cop, he cannot take a hit and keep coming, so when he grabs my shoulder I spin, elbow him once, solar plexus, and keep going. I consider shouting my client's name, which is Bismarck Avila (that's right, the wunderkind skateboarding hip-hop mogul from the reality show), but then I see Avila rising as the culminating sound of the disturbance I'm causing roils over my head and breaks over him like a wave, so I jostle my way through the evening drinks crowd, managers and agents and call girls and tourists, muttering "'Scuse me, 'scuse me, 'scuse me . . ." in a way that really means, Get the fuck out of my way or I will hurt you. Two three-hundred-pound bodyguards rise in front of me like darkness looming, twins, buttoning their Hugo Boss suits in the way large African American men do in order to intimidate average-size Caucasian men like me, the same monumental bookends who followed my limo in a tricked-out black Navigator as I drove their boss from club to club to sex club to hotel suite to restaurant to private party to bar-a different woman or women in the back servicing the client on each leg. "Get him out," I advise the twins, pointing at Avila but scanning, scanning, for the threat that the Chechen had warned me about but had not yet presented itself in reality. "I don't think so," Tweedledee says. "Who you talkin'?" Tweedledum asks. "That's the limo driver," says Tweedledee just before the bullet slaps his gut, right through his Hugo Boss buttonhole, the crack of a nine millimeter following a microsecond later and the awful wet-clap sound of bullet meets flesh, and for the two seconds before hysteria and panic hit, the whole place goes as silent as Antarctica. Read more

The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt

Review "Edgar Dewitt is an adventurous and smart boy who just moved from a small fishing town in Alabama to Mount Lanier, Washington. As Edgar was exploring the woods behind his new backyard, he ran into something quite mysterious: a shack, with a very deep hole in the middle of the floor. This hole is the entrance to Edgar’s double life, with math tests by day and adventures by night. During his adventures he makes friends, and enemies. It was a great book, well written and full of adventures. It had some really interesting characters with some great personalities, making it a wonderful book for anyone over the age of ten. It was a good-sized book, and I couldn’t stop reading it. I could really visualize the story. Although the story was a fantasy and not based off of real science, you feel like it could really happen. It was suspenseful. I think it would make a great movie." - Charlie, Age 13 ( Kids' BookBuzz ) From the Back Cover Edgar Dewitt is the new kid in town. Moving from Alabama to Mount Lanier, Washington has been quite the change, and Edgar quickly realizes making new friends won't be as easy as he thought. On his first day in town, he meets one of Mount Lanier's best: the incorrigible Chris Weedy, who's as bright as a sack of socks and as mean as you can get.One day while exploring the woods behind his new house, Edgar discovers something mysterious: an old abandoned cabin. But the real magic happens when he finds something even more magnificent inside the cabin itself: a dark and ominous hole. After studying the hole for a few days, Edgar musters his courage and jumps in feet first. It takes him straight through the center of the earth to a tiny island in the middle of the Indian ocean, and Edgar knows he's stumbled upon something ancient. Something secret--a seemingly impossible way to journey to the other side of the world. For the next several weeks, the island becomes a sanctuary where Edgar can escape Chris Weedy's cruel taunting and his parents' constant questions. But a sudden, nearby wildfire threatens to engulf the town in flames and take Edgar's volunteer firefighter father along with it. Edgar must act fast and decide between saving his new town or keeping his newly found safe haven. About the Author Ferrill Gibbs is a writer and singer/songwriter from the Alabama Gulf Coast, whose songs have been featured in American Songwriter Magazine and CMJ, material that iTunes has called, ". . . fully arranged pop songs that literate and mature music fans could enjoy."He graduated a touch beneath summa cum laude in English at Auburn University, widely regarded as the off-off-Ivy League of the South. Clinging to the oft repeated axiom that C students rule the world, Ferrill wakes each day in gleeful expectation of the profits to start rolling in, and has a blog that is highly trafficked by his mother, Linnie.  Having worked in several industries including food service and construction, Ferrill now manages a chain of family-owned convenience stores with his wife, "Fish," in his hometown of Mobile, Alabama, where they live with two wonderful dogs and one feisty kitten. The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt is his first novel. Read more

Love, Miracles, and Animal Healing

Amazon.com Review Dr. Schoen shares his holistic view of animal healing in the form of instruction and example: loving tales of the animals and people he has known. If you loved All Creatures Great and Small, this book will take you one step further, from compassion to knowledge. A practical guide for living with and caring for our animal companions. From Library Journal Examples from Schoen's veterinary practice describe the value of bonding between owner and pet and between animals of different species (love), the usefulness of alternative methods of treatment (miracles), and the (healing) effects of compassion, gratitude, and companionship. Acupuncture, acupressure, and herbal remedies are described in detail, but the author frequently points out the importance of proper diagnosis and application of alternative treatments either by or at the direction of a veterinarian because of the possible need for concurrent antibiotic or other standard therapy and the dangers of using some herbal remedies at incorrect doses. Schoen's heartwarming bonding stories and his presentation of alternative methods of treatment in their proper perspectives makes this a good choice for pet collections.?A. Louis Shor, DVM, Veterinary Consultant, Mt. Laurel, N.J.Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist Schoen is an American James Herriot with a difference: instead of gradually growing into the use of antibiotics and the wonders of technology (as Herriot did), Schoen was taught all about powerful healing drugs in school. But he believed that what was missing in modern veterinary education was the caring and spiritual understanding. He mastered all the technology, then, through his practice, gradually learned that, at times, folk remedies, affection, acupuncture, and other holistic methods are more effective than a jar of pills or surgery. Denise Perry Donavin Read more

Raven Threads

Mission: Jimmy Stewart and the Fight for Europe

Review “Even before Hollywood legend Jimmy Stewart went off to war, he was a fighter, working hard to prove his passion for military aviation to the U.S. government. In this meticulously researched book, film historian Matzen ( Fireball: Carole Lombard and the Mystery of Flight 3) provides the rich, detailed backstory of Stewart’s time as a WWII bomber pilot. He delves deep into Stewart’s restless spirit, chronicling his family’s legacy of war service, his rise to movie stardom, the many women in his life, and his struggles to fly and serve his country. Matzen paints a revealing picture of a man who defied bureaucratic and health obstacles to become a U.S. Army Air Force squadron commander. He depicts the excitement and horror of life in a bomber crew as Stewart commanded a series of missions over Germany, interspersing his story with those of other WWII survivors, such as radio operator Clem Leone and Gertrud Siepmann, who was a young child in Germany during Hitler’s rise to power. He also shows that, although considered a war hero, Stewart had difficulty getting reestablished as an actor until Frank Capra cast him in It’s a Wonderful Life . Military and movie buffs alike will revel in this vivid portrayal of a man who successfully straddled two worlds.”  — Publishers Weekly “Unlike many Hollywood stars, James Stewart (1908–97) didn't make morale-boosting combat films during World War II; he was busy flying combat missions over Europe. Like many veterans, he preferred not to talk about his experiences when the conflict was over. One of the first major studies of the actor's risky missions over Nazi Germany, this title chronicles Stewart's improbable rise from small-town life in Indiana, PA, to his college years at Princeton, where he acquired his love for acting and befriended Henry Fonda, Joshua Logan, and Margaret Sullavan. His shy persona attracted the likes of actresses Marlene Dietrich, Olivia de Havilland, Norma Shearer, and Loretta Young. The bulk of this book covers Stewart's stay in England, his relationships with fellow crew members, who dealt daily with fear, loneliness, mud, and bitter cold. Stewart returned from Europe a changed man, reflected in his edgy, sometimes angry antihero roles in 1950s westerns and Alfred Hitchcock films. Author Matzen relies on extensive research and the cooperation of surviving crew members; however, as in his Fireball: Carole Lombard and the Mystery of Flight 3 , small details and comments about the subject's thoughts must be taken on faith. VERDICT: Overall, an illuminating, recommended look at a hidden chapter in Stewart's life."  — Library Journal “Exhaustively researched, exceptionally well written, Mission: Jimmy Stewart and the Fight for Europe is as informed and informative as it is thoroughly 'reader friendly' in organization and presentation. While certain to be an enduringly popular addition to community and academic library American Biography collections and a 'must' for all Jimmy Stewart fans, it should be noted for personal reading lists that Mission: Jimmy Stewart and the Fight for Europe is also available in a Kindle format."  — Midwest Book Review "Great gift for anybody like me who just loves Jimmy Stewart and loves a good story of history that you've never heard before."—Glenn Beck"This week's must-read books...A revealing look at the wartime service of one of America's most beloved actors."  — New York Post “As Jimmy Stewart’s children, we have always known that our father’s service during the war was the most significant event of his life, although he rarely spoke of it. This book gives us the best glimpse we will ever have of what that experience was like for him and the men he flew with. Thank you, Robert Matzen.” —Kelly Stewart, daughter of Jimmy Stewart About the Author Robert Matzen is an American author who specializes in Hollywood history. He spent 10 years with NASA and his avid interest in aviation-related topics resulted in the bestsellers Mission: Jimmy Stewart and the Fight for Europe and Fireball: Carole Lombard and the Mystery of Flight 3 . He lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Leonard Maltin is a film critic and historian who can be regularly seen on ReelzChannel and Turner Classic Movies. He is the author of the long-running Leonard Maltin's Movie Guide and its companion, Leonard Maltin's Classic Movie Guide . He lives in Los Angeles, California.

All the Presidents' Gardens: Madison’s Cabbages to Kennedy’s Roses―How the White House Grounds Have Grown with America

Review “McDowell’s entertaining look at the gardens at America’s premier residence illustrates the nation’s horticultural aspirations, trends, and history. . . . A thorough researcher, McDowell unearths little-known stories and vivid details to illuminate important personalities and provide insight into our gardening past. Often injecting wit, she explains how the White House has dealt with typical garden pests (raccoons who fish in water gardens) as well as atypical problems (e.g., helicopter winds or hosting 1,000 guests at a time). Resplendent with historical images, the work also includes plant lists and short bios of key White House gardeners. . . . [An] informative gem of a book.” — Library Journal “History is often best learned from stories, and there are plenty of anecdotes here. . . . The writing is conversational and inviting, as one might find when visiting a garden with someone who knows it well. Photographs, line drawings, paintings, maps, and other documents add to the interesting stories. . . . a delightful and elucidating work.” — Booklist starred review "A delightful dig through White House gardens. [McDowell] plots their history from the Washington administration to the Obamas. . . . Her descriptions of the grounds and evolving garden tastes are complemented with a colorful array of illustrations. McDowell fills the book with juicy tidbits: the last cow to graze on the White House lawn (1912) was named Pauline Wayne; Herbert Hoover wanted ‘the help’ to seem invisible, so they hid behind hedges when he passed by." — Publishers Weekly “Given its timeless grace, the visitor today might think that the Rose Garden was always a part of the grounds of America’s first garden, but as Marta McDowell’s absorbing book drives home, the 18 acres around the executive mansion have been constantly tweaked, changed and replanted over the past two centuries.” — The Washington Post “Long may there be erudite and entertaining books like All the Presidents’ Gardens to enlighten and educate about American garden history.” — The American Gardener “Marta’s ‘voice’ creates a sense of fascination within the reader. Her wit and insight shines through as she describes the White House Gardens, sometimes utilitarian and spare, and other times lush and extravagant. . . . The greatest achievement of Marta’s book, though, isn’t the precise documentation of the history of The First Garden, if you will, but in the way she weaves the tales of American ingenuity and preservation into it.” —NYBG's Plant Talk “A well-presented history of the White House garden, which doubles as a companion to early American garden history.” — Gardens Illustrated “This book’s deeply researched material is impressive. . . . The book is a kind of TMZ of presidential horticultural history that will delight gardeners and history buffs alike.” — Country Gardens “A really fun book. . . . It’s also very well-researched by author Marta McDowell and exhaustively covers every administration from George Washington to Barack Obama, complete with lists of head gardeners and plants.” — Garden Rant “A refreshing change from the onslaught of political memoirs. .  . . Through the lens of the White House gardens, one can get a sense of America’s rich horticultural and garden history.” — Hortus “Post-election rehabilitation for gardeners” — The Triangle Gardener “Rife with well-researched anecdotes that illuminate the past as well as contemporary and historical photographs and illustrations, the book presents a fresh “nonpartisan” perspective on American life. . . . The book will be equally appealing to the horticulturalist and the history enthusiast.” — Coastal Home “it’s full of fascinating archival photos and illustrations, and the stories and each garden offer glimpses of life in America (and the White House) through history.” — Houston Chronicle “This charming, copiously illustrated book is a treasure trove for historians and horticulturalists alike.” —Elle Décor “A fascinating insight for gardeners and historians of one of the world’s most famous homes.” — RHS Garden Magazine “From the moment a spade first broke ground for construction of the White House, the 18 acres of presidential gardens have served as a backdrop to history: a social commentary, fashion statement and a lesson in agriculture for the nation. All the Presidents’ Gardens by historian Marta McDowell is U.S. history in full bloom.” — California Bountiful From the Back Cover Hail to the red, white, and blue—and green! From the most momentous events in our nation’s history to our fleeting cultural obsessions, the White House grounds have been a mirror of America. With wit and insight, garden historian Marta McDowell traces the fascinating story of how our presidents and their families have left their imprint upon the eighteen acres surrounding the executive mansion. Far more than just an account of Lincoln’s goats, Ike’s putting green, and Kennedy’s roses, All the Presidents’ Gardens delves into the thrilling and the heart-breaking events that have shaped our national consciousness. About the Author Marta McDowell’s writing has appeared in The New York Times , Woman’s Day, Country Gardening , and elsewhere . Her previous books include Beatrix Potter’s Gardening Life , All the Presidents’ Gardens , The World of Laura Ingalls Wilder , Emily Dickinson’s Gardening Life , and Unearthing The Secret Garden . She consults for public gardens and private clients, writes and lectures on gardening topics, and teaches landscape history and horticulture at the New York Botanical Garden, where she studied landscape design. She lives, writes, and gardens in Chatham, New Jersey. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Preface The United States was too big. For a topic, that is. When my editor suggested I might write a history of American gardening, I sat at my desk. Stunned. It seemed a subject broad as a sea of grass, long and muddy as the Mississippi, elusive as a white whale that would, after a mad, obsessed chase, drag me under. Regional differences are vast. What grows happily for friends in Denver sulks, then dies, in my humid New Jersey garden. Then there are questions of influence that vary across the wide waist of the continent: the Spanish with their patio and courtyard gardens from Florida to California, the tidy colonial gardens of New England, the immense plantations of the antebellum South. And with more than five-plus centuries, depending on how you count, the players involved in American horticulture and landscape design are legion. Two people convinced me to take on this quest—one dead, one alive. The reason I study, teach, and write about garden history is because of Beatrix Jones Farrand (1872–1959). On my first visit to the grounds of Dumbarton Oaks in Georgetown in the 1980s, I was smitten with it and Farrand, its designer, one of the country’s first landscape architects. It was about Beatrix Farrand that I taught my first class at the New York Botanical Garden. Some years later one of my landscape history students, Seamus Maclennan, chose the White House grounds as the topic for his final project. It was riveting, a fifteen-minute chronicle of change in one of America’s most recognizable landscapes. There were victory gardens and flowerbeds, glasshouses and putting greens, all set in the context of American history. For the problem now before me, it would set bounds, but also pull in a cast of characters and a VIP setting. Before I embarked on this undertaking Seamus graciously gave me leave to use his idea, proving once again, if you want to hum along with the Rodgers and Hammerstein tune, “that if you become a teacher, by your pupils you’ll be taught.” Even with this approach, given the number of presidents plus first ladies, gardeners, architects, and the like, I’ve had to impose some economies in terms of scope. If, for example, Zachary Taylor is your favorite president, you will be disappointed. As neither he nor his wife were involved in the White House gardens, they do not appear in the narrative. “Summer White Houses” were eliminated, though I was sorely tempted by places like Warm Springs, Georgia, Franklin Roosevelt’s retreat south of Atlanta, and Rancho del Cielo, Reagan’s Western White House. The fourteen White House head gardeners’ biographies tell an interesting story in their own right so we see them together in “First Gardeners” at the back of the book. I have defaulted to common names of plants in the body of the book. For those who prefer proper botanical nomenclature, you will find it in a back section, “All the Presidents’ Plants”—a look at White House plantings over the past two centuries—and the index. If you had hoped for a complete list of plants named for presidents and first ladies, I did too. Unfortunately in most cases these cultivars have not stood the test of time, at least in terms of the marketplace. A rhododendron named ‘Mrs. Grover Cleveland’ might have been a big seller in the 1890s but soon disappeared from the nursery trade. Long-term White House head gardener Irvin Williams once said, “What’s great about the job is that our trees, our plants, our shrubs, know nothing about politics.” Despite the presidential focus of the book, I have attempted to emulate the politics of plants. Because whether gardeners lean right or left, blue or red, we are united by a love of green growing things and the land in which they grow. Read more

x0 (46. Ascending)

The Bridge to Brilliance: How One Principal in a Tough Community Is Inspiring the World

Review “The story of Mott Hall Bridges Academy is the story of American education. Nadia Lopez stands on the front line of the fight to educate America’s children."  — Brandon Stanton, author of Humans of New York "Essential...the key to academic excellence begins with an open mind." —Essence" A valuable depiction of what it takes for principals and teachers to reach children in the most troubled communities...will give readers even more reasons to ask what we as a society are doing to support the thousands of educators who labor in obscurity, trying to help the nation's most vulnerable children." —Dale Russakoff, The New York Times Book Review “Nadia Lopez’s efforts to support the needs of children in one of the most under-resourced communities in the country should serve as a reminder to all that what’s required to open pathways to excellence are educators who unlock potential. We should all be committed to living Nadia’s legacy. She founded a school to strengthen a community and our country . . . what will you do?” ―David J. Johns, Executive Director, White House Initiative on Educational Excellence for African Americans "For anyone in education who thinks a student is beyond learning, Lopez's story will prove them wrong. The narrative demonstrates a clear progression from a woman's dream for a model school to that reality, which has made a huge impact in its neighborhood and across the country." — Kirkus Reviews About the Author Nadia Lopez is the founding principal of Mott Hall Bridges Academy, a model for quality education that includes a safe, nurturing, and innovative learning environment. Since being featured on Humans of New York in February of 2015, she has been profiled in countless national media outlets, has been invited to speak at Harvard, and was invited to the White House, and delivered a TED Talk on the “Revolution of Education.” She is the recipient of the 2015 Black Girls Rock Change Agent Award and the 2015 Barnard College Medal of Distinction Awardee. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Sitting at my desk, I contemplated all the paperwork that had piled up since my school, Mott Hall Bridges Academy, was thrust into the spotlight a few months before. A small public middle school in one of the poorest and most underserved neighborhoods of Brooklyn was an unlikely candidate for an international press sensation. But ever since one of my boys brought attention to Mott Hall through a comment he made on the popular blog Humans of New York, ordinary people around the world had been captivated by what I was trying to do— which was simply to take care of kids everyone else seemed to want to forget. I had barely started on the stack of performance reviews awaiting my attention when Malik walked in and sat down in one of the chairs across from my desk. The kids in this building know my door is open to them anytime. “I need to have a talk,” the sixth grader said in such a soft voice I could hardly hear him. “Talk about what?” I asked. “About me.” “What about you?” “My work.” “What about it?” “It’s hard.” “Okay, which classes are hard for you?” “Every class. Except PE. It’s too hard. I’m failing. I always fail.” His problems had begun back in his elementary school when his fourth- grade teachers, who couldn’t tolerate his angry demeanor, let him fall behind. Malik, with chubby cheeks from baby fat he’d soon lose and sad eyes that he kept downcast, was typical of a kid from a failing elementary school; he was two years older than most of the children in his grade because he’d been held back a couple of times. The first thing people notice about him is that he looks like he’s angry— all the time. His expression makes it seem like he can’t be bothered, like he doesn’t want to hear what you have to say. That couldn’t be further from the truth, but you would never know it unless you speak to him, which his expression keeps people from doing. I always tell my kids, “You need to understand there are teachers in this world who, if they don’t like you, have that power to derail you. Even if you don’t feel like they’re invested, you can’t stop doing your work. Because they will be fine with you failing and repeating the grade.” I understood how Malik’s demeanor could deflate a whole room and how frustrating that might be for a teacher just trying to get through a curriculum that was necessary to prepare a class to take state exams. But it wasn’t that he didn’t care; he acted like he didn’t care. Some teachers in his elementary school, however, took his negative behavior personally. Instead of supporting him and working with him until he understood the material, they just held him over. That started a trajectory from which it would be very hard for Malik to deviate. Making kids repeat grades unfortunately is rarely about remediation and more about punishment. So when Malik came to us, not only did he still lack the academic skills he should have had by sixth grade but, as a thirteen- year-old in class with mostly eleven- year- olds, he was also disconnected from his peers. He would become agitated by how loud the other children in his class, who were at a different maturity and energy level, would get. Don’t mistake me, Malik was not innocent. Soon after he arrived at Mott Hall, he had to call his mother from my office because he was talking back to his teacher and arguing with his peers. He got on the phone and said, “Yeah. So I’m told I need to call you because, like, I was rude. Yeah. Uh- huh. Uh- huh. Yeah, a’ight.” Then he hung up. “Who were you talking to?” I asked. “My mother.” “No, no. I know I told you to call your mother. But I’m going to tell you, don’t ever talk to your mother like that. You can’t ‘a’ight’ her or dismiss her.” “She ain’t have a problem with it.” “But I do, and I am a mother. So maybe she doesn’t want to have that type of conversation with you, but I will. Don’t you ever in your life, as long as I’m in your space, talk to your mother like that.” “A’ight. A’ight.” “Malik! What did I just say?” Malik wasn’t a bad kid or even a troublemaker; he was just always in trouble. It was heavy as he sat across from my desk and admitted he “always” failed, not least of all because this wasn’t the first hard conversation he and I had had that week. Two days earlier, I had let him know he wasn’t going on the big Harvard trip with the rest of the school. In a much- publicized event, people from all over the world had funded the trip once they learned that there was a principal who wanted her underserved students to experience what it was like at one of America’s elite institutions of higher learning. Everyone at Mott Hall was excited beyond words to go, but Malik and a handful of other stu- dents wouldn’t be invited to participate. He wasn’t going because of his defiance toward adults, although he tried to argue, “I can act right on a trip.” “First,” I told him, “you have to remember that acting right starts in school. If you don’t behave yourself here and respect the adults who love you, then you don’t get the privilege of choosing when it will be convenient for you to do so. I don’t prepare you for trips. I prepare you for life,” I said. “You need to identify how we can help you become the best scholar. Because if you think the only way of surviving life is going on a Harvard trip, then your priorities are not in the right place.” Now that he had come into my office to explain the source of his attitude and anger, I knew it was genuine. He wasn’t trying to ingratiate himself, because Malik and all the kids at Mott Hall knew me better than that. My expectations are high and I never waver from them. He wasn’t going on the trip, which hadn’t been an easy decision for me. I didn’t enter education to punish children. In the last few days, though, something in Malik had clicked, a nebulous connection between attitude, trust, and opportunity. He was in my office to finally talk about what was keeping him from succeeding in school. This was a moment of great achievement, at least in my school. By all accounts— economic, social, academic— the State of education in America for children of color living in disadvantaged communities is extremely poor, while the con- sequences for them if they don’t make it in school are severe. Many issues contribute to the devastating difference between education for white children and education for those of color, including poverty, inequitable distribution of resources, and lower parental involvement and education levels. But the punitive way the system deals with children of color can’t be underestimated. The so- called school- to-prison pipeline starts early. According to the latest numbers available from the U.S. Department of Education’s Civil Rights Data Collection, black students, who represented 18 percent of preschoolers between 2011 and 2012, made up 48 percent of preschool students who received more than one suspension. Compare that to white students, comprising 43 percent of all preschool students, who made up only 23 percent of the suspensions— in other words, children of color are suspended at twice the rate of white children in preschool. That’s just the start. Nationwide, black students— whose teachers on the whole have less experience and are paid less than those in majority- white schools— are suspended or expelled at three times the rate of white ones. Integration has proven in study after study to offer the best outcomes in terms of bringing up test scores for children of color. But after the initial commitment to desegregation through court orders and thirty- five years of enforcement of the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision, around 1989, schools began reverting to levels of seg- regation not seen since the sixties. There are a number of reasons that this is so, including the fact that many federal agencies no longer take an active role in enforcement of integration. The proportion of black students in schools with a majority of white students, 23.2 percent, was lower in 2011 that it was in 1968. Today’s answer to the problems of students who aren’t learning has been to create higher standards under the rubric Common Core, a blanket measure against which all schools nationwide— impoverished or wealthy— are judged. The other solution is to offer school choice, by way of charter schools, where public money goes to schools that don’t have to follow public school guidelines. There are all kinds of charters, but the innovation that most of them feature focuses on high test scores as the only measure of success. In that context, Mott Hall is a different kind of place. First of all, we’re not a charter school (which I’ll explain in more detail later). My goal for my students, who are primarily economically disadvantaged and of color, is twofold. First, in the short time that I have them, I want them to be what they are— children—and second, I want to give them the skills to be confident as students when they leave. I want them to play, learn, build resiliency, take risks, become compassionate— all without worry about failure. I’m hard on the adults in this building, because there are no second chances with our children. Once they leave us, few people will ever pour into them the love and belief in their abilities that we do. Those are high stakes. Disheartening circumstances in no way reduce my expectations for excellence from my students. We have many inspirational sayings at our school, but one of my favorites is the name we’ve given to our kids: Brownsville Brilliance. This title turns the perceptions about them and their community on their heads. When I ask the scholars what the word brilliance makes them think of, they answer “intelligence,” “radiance,” and “diamonds.” Yes, and what are diamonds but precious gems created when a large amount of pressure and force is exerted, just as it is on my scholars in life. In this way, we speak into existence how we find the positive in a place that has been discarded. I, and the rest of the staff at Mott Hall Bridges Academy, who have committed to working with the most challenging communities, understand that, just as it takes a long time for carbon to become a diamond, change for our students is not an event, it is a process. So when Malik, a boy who has to be defiant to survive on the streets of Brownsville, was able to make himself vulnerable enough to admit to me he was having trouble, yes, that was a big achievement. I came around my desk and sat down next to Malik. “One, I want to thank you for coming into my office and admitting you’re struggling. That is half the battle,” I said. “What are you doing next week for spring break?” “Nothing.” “You can come to school. I’ll be here anyway, and I will sit with you and go through your work. Bring your books, so I can see exactly where you are struggling. You become angry and give attitude because you don’t understand. Yes or no?” “Yes.” “Then you need to promise me something. Use your words and let the adults know how we can help you. Got it?” “Yes.” “Okay, then we’re going to get through this together.” Read more

MASH: An Army Surgeon in Korea

From Library Journal The popular television series M*A*S*H owes its historical accuracy in part to Apel, chief surgeon of the 8076th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital in 1951 and consultant on the show. Here Apel (with son Pat) expands on the themes common to the television episodes and familiar to viewers: the severe working conditions, the irreverence hospital staff often had for army protocol, and the insufficiency of necessary supplies. Apel outlines the historical and political forces that created these conditions and, ironically, the considerable advances in emergency medical care made during the Korean War. Although his work is heavily autobiographical, Apel draws from primary and secondary Korean War literature to provide statistics and documentation. Personal photos appear throughout the text. Well written and researched, this book provides entertainment as well as historical value and is appropriate for both public and academic settings.AAndy Wickens, Univ. of Illinois, Lib. of the Health Sciences, ChicagoCopyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist The 1951 doctors' draft took Otto Apel out of surgical residency and sent him to Korea. He felt obligated to serve but now deplores his lack of military training before being placed at the battlefront. In contrast to his preparation was that of the other subject of his account, the Mobile Army Surgical Hospital (MASH), developed to meet the special needs of the Korean War. Aided by his son, Apel writes in particular about the formation and daily activities of the 8076th MASH, to which he was assigned. He began operating the moment he reached the unit, stationed near the 38th parallel, and learned military surgery from the muddy or dusty ground up. Improvisation was essential every day, as was teamwork among the surgeons, nurses, and support staff, who, Apel shows, provided exemplary care for the wounded soldiers. The great difference between the MASH on TV and the MASH at the battlefield, Apel and his colleagues later felt, was that the latter had casualties. William Beatty Review "The reader is spared nothing, and at times I shared with the authors an understanding of the emotional effect medical work in a war zone can cause."― BMJ "The great difference between the MASH on TV and the MASH on the battlefield, Apel and his collegues later felt, was that the latter had casualties"― Booklist review "A superb book. . . . Reading this fine nonfiction account of an army surgeon in the Korean War will make you wish you had been there treating casualties. It did me!"― Journal of the American Medical Association "Well written and researched, this book provides entertainment as well as historical value."― Library Journal "Most readers will find Apel's memoirs fascinating, horrifying, humorous, and heartbreaking."― Library Lane "One of the most readable memoirs that I have come across. A real contribution to the history of the Korean War."― Mac Coffman "This memoir is about war, but it addresses a different aspect of war: the struggle of men and women in the U.S. Army who were called upon to expend their efforts and their lives preserving human life during this vicious combat."― McCormick (SC) Messenger "His descriptions are full of detail, often vivid, regularly most critical of the US Medical Corps."― Medicine, Conflict, and Survival "The authors have skillfully blended the surgeon's personal experiences into the bigger picture of military medicine, providing the reader with an informative and interesting account of the MASH and its impact during the Korean War."― Military "Exposes the true nature of the Korean conflict from a medical perspective. . . . An excellent account of the history of MASH units and how they operated in Korea."― Navy Medicine "Apel shows the true side of the Army hospitals."― Ohio Today "The book is a wonderful paean to all our men and women who served in Korea."― Ohioana Quarterly "Provides a close look at the way a MASH functioned. . . . The Apels have produced a well written and useful book."― Southern Historian From the Publisher "This memoir is about war, but it addresses a different aspect of war: the struggle of men and women in the U.S. Army who were called upon to expend their efforts and their lives preserving human life during this vicious combat."--McCormick (SC) Messenger "The reader is spared nothing, and at times I shared with the authors an understanding of the emotional effect medical work in a war zone can cause."--BMJ "Provides a close look at the way a MASH functioned. . . . The Apels have produced a well written and useful book."--Southern Historian "A superb book. . . . Reading this fine nonfiction account of an army surgeon in the Korean War will make you wish you had been there treating casualties. It did me!"--Journal of the American Medical Association The authors have skillfully blended the surgeons personal experiences into the bigger picture of military medicine, providing the reader with an informative and interesting account of the MASH and its impact during the Korean War.Military Exposes the true nature of the Korean conflict from a medical perspective. . . . An excellent account of the history of MASH units and how they operated in Korea.Navy Medicine His descriptions are full of detail, often vivid, regularly most critical of the US Medical Corps.Medicine, Conflict, and Survival About the Author Otto F. Apel, M.D., who has been in private practice for forty-four years as a surgeon, served as a consultant to the producers of the television series M*A*S*H. His son, Pat Apel, is an attorney. Read more

Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel (Kevin Kerney Novels, 13)

Review "Complex, entirely original, and whip-smart, Residue is all but impossible to put down. And Michael McGarrity once again proves himself a master." ― John Lescroart, New York Times best-selling author of the Dismas Hardy series About the Author Michael McGarrity is the author of the nationally best-selling Kevin Kerney crime novels, which he concluded in Head Wounds , and the acclaimed American West historical trilogy. A former psychotherapist and deputy sheriff, he lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

It Ain't Rock & Roll: The biography of drummer John Kerrison

1, 2, 3, SÍ!: Numbers in English y Español (ArteKids)

Review “The bold, bilingual 10-page board book (suitable for chewing for the toothless set as well) should make teaching numbers to kids a little easier―and a lot more fun.”― San Antonio Express-News “Perceptive readers will likely be drawn toward the diverse images and media.”― Publishers Weekly About the Author Madeleine Budnick is the author, series editor, and designer of the ArteKids books . Budnick got her start designing books twenty-plus years ago and has of late been getting involved in written content as well. She brings to the series a passion for the arts (she holds a degree in art history and drawing) and a commitment to creating books that aim to inspire and enrich a child’s world. In addition, she is deeply committed to language education and celebrating cultural richness. Her two young daughters―who knowingly and unknowingly act as consultants on the project―are in a language immersion school. Creating books that combine all these interests makes Budnick's work for ArteKids books as much like play as the law allows. She lives in Portland, Oregon.The San Antonio Museum of Art dates its history to 1925. Located in the former Lone Star Brewery complex, its collections position it as one of the preeminent city museums in the nation.

First Russian Reader for the Family: Bilingual for Speakers of English Level A1 and A2 (Graded Russian Readers) (Russian Edition)

From Freezer to Table: 75+ Simple, Whole Foods Recipes for Gathering, Cooking, and Sharing: A Cookbook

About the Author Rachel Tiemeyer and Polly Conner are the creators of Thriving Home, a food and lifestyle blog sharing the freezer cooking lifestyle, whole food recipes, and encouragement for families on the parenting journey. With three kids each and constantly strapped for time, Rachel and Polly are self-proclaimed “freezer cooking evangelists” who are passionate about equipping families to enjoy healthy, homemade meals around the table together. They live with their husbands and children in Columbia, Missouri. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Part I MAKING FREEZER COOKING A LIFESTYLE Congratulations on taking your first freezer cooking quiz ever! If you're like we once were, you noticed a few gaps in your freezer cooking knowledge. No prob. As self-proclaimed (and tongue-in-cheek!) "freezer cooking evangelists," we're passionate about resourcing you for this lifestyle change that will benefit you and your family over the long haul. In this section, we'll quickly motivate and set you up for success before you dive into filling that cold chest, addressing questions like: What are the advantages of freezer cooking? How should you freeze and thaw meals? What foods should you avoid freezing? How long can you freeze foods? Do I need a deep freezer? FREEZER COOKING PART Y: A one-time event where a group gathers together to cook, assemble, and package a variety of freezer meals. FREEZER CLUB: An ongoing small group of friends who commit to regularly cooking freezer-friendly meals for one another. Members prepare recipes at home on their own time and then swap at a meeting. We'll also equip you with two ways to share the freezer stocking load with friends, both at one-time Freezer Cooking Parties and in an ongoing Freezer Club. Learning to freezer cook on our own and with friends has positively transformed how we prepare food, shop, eat, and spend our time and money. We think this lifestyle shift will do the same for you, too. Let's get started on a change you won't regret! CHAPTER 1 A Deep Dive into the Cold Chest Freezer cooking pays off over time, but there is a little bit of a learning curve. That's why, in this chapter, we're aiming to motivate you with the big picture of this lifestyle. Then, we'll walk you through six essential steps to making successful freezer meals, as well as address all your burning questions. From the very basics to the very specific, we are diving in and sharing everything we know. WHAT ARE THE BENEFITS OF FREEZER COOKING? As we mentioned in our own stories in the introduction, freezer cooking can help you and your family in so many ways. Wow, isn't it motivating to know that it provides all of the following benefits? 1. Saves money because you'll be buying in bulk and eating at home. It's no secret that when you buy food in bulk quantities, it is usually cheaper. By planning your meals, especially in a Freezer Club (see page 25), and cooking in large quantities, you'll see your grocery bill go down significantly. We've found that when we cook this way, a four-serving meal tends to cost around $8 to $12 depending on the ingredients needed. This translates to about $2 to $3 per person for a wholesome, healthy meal. Plus, having ready-to-go meals within reach reduces the temptation to spend cash eating out. Who needs to wait for takeout when you have Turkey Pesto Paninis or Parmesan and Herb Chicken Tenders in the freezer, just a few minutes away from being piping hot? 2. Cuts down on prep and cooking time, leaving you with more freedom to relax and spend time with loved ones. Let's be honest. Cooking a well-rounded, healthy dinner every night is a daunting task for anyone. Deciding what to make, shopping, prepping, cooking, and cleaning up can sap the last bit of physical and mental energy you have after a long day. Add a few tired, grumpy kids to the mix, and the dinner hour can be quite a challenge. By having meals that you doubled from a previous meal or made with a group of friends (see Chapters 2 and 3) ready to go in the freezer, you'll cut down on all those extra little trips to the store during the week. Even more importantly, you'll reduce your prep, cooking, and cleanup time regularly, leaving weeknights freer to relax, spend time with your family, exercise, enjoy hobbies, or whatever else has been crowded out of your life by the daily cooking grind! 3. Provides a wide variety of wholesome, nutrient-dense meals to help you eat more healthfully. Freezer cooking, especially using the recipes in this book, makes homemade food full of real, wholesome ingredients readily available. We believe eating a healthy diet means consuming a variety of whole foods, ones that are closest to their natural state. Through research and our own experience, we've learned that when we consume real food-with an emphasis on lots of produce, whole grains, organic or local meats and dairy, wild- caught seafood, and healthy fats-our bodies tend to do what they are supposed to do. We have more energy, sleep better, avoid headaches and stomachaches, and feel comfortably full and stop from overeating more easily. Whole foods are the fuel our bodies are made to run on. The good news is that freezer cooking can help you eat more whole foods in two main ways. First, cooking from scratch allows you to control what goes into your food, thus avoiding loads of extra sodium, sugar, unhealthy fats, preservatives, additives, and food dyes that are packed into fast food and other processed, store-bought foods. Second, freezer cooking also means you will have nutritious, easy-to-prepare meals at your fingertips all the time, which results in fewer fast-food runs or prepackaged meal purchases. Once you learn how easy it is to stock your freezer, your family will be well on their way to eating a wide range of nutritious foods every day. 4. Allows you to always have meals on hand to take to a friend in need. With freezer cooking, it's easy to have meals ready to go to take to new parents or others in need. Over the years, we have given many new moms, people in crisis, grandparents, college students, and even a man recently released from prison some extra freezer meals to bake or warm up at their convenience. With meals in the freezer, you can be that friend who shows up at someone's doorstep with a healthy dinner and a few words of encouragement. It's a simple act of caring and thoughtfulness that can make a bigger impact than you may realize. If you choose to freezer cook with friends, there are even more advantages to reap. 5. Expands your family's palette. It's easy to fall into a rut and make the same meals on a regular rotation, isn't it? A Freezer Cooking Party or Freezer Club allows you to experience different kinds of cuisines, flavors, and ingredients that you may not normally prepare at home. This has been a great palate-expanding experience for our children (and husbands!). Even better, it has also allowed us to get more nutritional variety into our bodies and the bodies of our families. 6. Helps you become a better cook. Among other things, freezer cooking with friends can stretch you as a home cook. It has forced us to try our hand at all kinds of new recipes. As a result, our recipe repertoire and cooking skills have grown beyond anything we could have accomplished on our own. It's almost like taking a cooking class with your friends, but at the end you all leave as savvier, more experienced cooks with stocked freezers! 7. It's fun. Last and certainly not least, we think freezer cooking with our friends is simply fun! At our Freezer Club meetings and Freezer Cooking Parties, we often have coffee, wine, snacks, and a great time hanging out together. To top it all off, you get to come home and fill your freezer to the brim with already-prepared healthy meals. It's the perfect night out, if you ask us! WHAT ARE THE STEPS TO SUCCESSFULLY FREEZING MEALS? Freezer cooking isn't especially hard, but there are a few keys to success. To get the tastiest results, keep these six simple steps in mind. STEP 1 Use high-quality fresh ingredients that stand up well to freezing and thawing. Rule #1 of freezer cooking is that what you put in is what you get out. Be sure to select only the freshest, high-quality foods to use in your freezer meals. If an ingredient didn't taste good to begin with, it certainly won't be better after freezing. Also keep in mind that some foods freeze and thaw much better than others. While it's safe to freeze most foods, the texture and taste of some are extremely compromised after being frozen and thawed, as the box on page 5 shows. Additionally, seasoning and spices can tend to get stronger when they sit in the freezer in a meal. Season lightly before freezing, and add additional seasonings when reheating or serving.FOODS THAT TYPICALLY DON'T FREEZE AND THAW WELLNote: Some of these ingredients will freeze well within a recipe. However, the texture may change if frozen as a single ingredient. VEGETABLES: celery, cucumbers, lettuce, onions, bell peppers, potatoes, radishes, sprouts FRUITS: apples, citrus fruits, grapes, melons DAIRY: soft cheeses, cottage cheese, cream cheese, cream, custard, mayonnaise, sour cream, yogurt OTHER: canned food still in cans, eggs in shells, fried foods, pasta cooked beyond al dente STEP 2 Chill cooked dishes before freezing. It's important to let freshly cooked dishes cool before placing them in the freezer. There are a number of reasons for this. First, putting foods that are still warm in the freezer can raise the freezer's temperature. This can cause surrounding frozen items to partially thaw and refreeze, which can alter the taste and texture of those foods. Second, placing hot food in a plastic freezer bag or container can result in the plastic releasing chemicals into the food. Third, warm food freezes so slowly that ice crystals form on top, which can also alter the texture of the freezer meal. To avoid contamination while allowing food to cool, never let perishable food sit out on the counter for longer than 2 hours. To bring down the temperature more quickly, place partially cooled food in a shallow, wide container and refrigerate it, uncovered, until cold. Or, to chill soup or stew quickly, pour it into a metal bowl and set it in a larger bowl filled halfway with ice water. Stir occasionally. STEP 3 Freeze in an airtight, freezable container. There are multiple ways that meals can be stored in the freezer. Your freezing method will likely depend on the space in your freezer, the types of meals you make, and what containers you have on hand. Whatever method you choose, the goal is to prevent the food from being exposed to air, which can result in freezer burn. Freezer burn occurs when the moisture in the outer layers evaporates, leaving behind "dry" pockets. While it isn't harmful to eat freezer-burned food, the texture and flavor can be adversely affected. Wrapping food tightly and using the four freezing methods we recommend on page 8 will help keep freezer burn at bay. It's also helpful to label your meals so you know exactly what they are and how long they have been in the freezer. Affix a label to each container with the name of the dish, number of servings (or volume/weight), and the date you put it in the freezer. STEP 4 Freeze quickly and at the right temperature. The faster food freezes, the better its quality will be once it's defrosted. Slowly frozen food forms large ice crystals that may turn the food mushy. Here are some tips for freezing food quickly and at the right temperature: Store all foods at 0°F or lower to retain vitamin content, flavor, texture, and color. Use a freezer thermometer to ensure this. Do not crowd the freezer, so that there is enough room for air to circulate around food, allowing it to freeze rapidly. Never stack packages to be frozen. Instead, spread them out in one layer on various shelves, stacking them only after they're frozen solid. Store soups and stews in freezer bags, which can be placed flat and will freeze quickly. Store foods in small servings, when possible, to help them freeze quickly. This also allows you to defrost only what you need. A secondary freezer is not a necessity for freezer cooking, but it can be helpful if you want to make freezer cooking a lifestyle. It can actually store food at a more constant, lower temperature than a refrigerator's freezer, protecting the taste and texture of food longer. Plus, it provides room for stocking up on ingredients when they are on sale, saving produce when it is in season, and stacking up all of those freezer meals you'll be accumulating soon. A secondary freezer doesn't have to be huge and expensive, though. Simply start with a standard chest freezer. If you want something bigger, both of us have the Frigidaire Gallery 2-in-1 Upright Freezer and love it. STEP 5 Follow recommended storage times for freezing meals. From a safety standpoint, food that is properly packaged and safely frozen (kept at a constant temperature of 0°F or lower) can be frozen indefinitely. Yes, indefinitely! However, even though something may be safe to eat, that doesn't mean it will taste its best after a long time in the freezer. The chart on page 10 provides some general guidelines for how long to freeze particular foods and still maintain their quality. These recommendations are conservative and somewhat subjective, to be honest. We have frozen food much longer than some of these times with good results. There are many variables that affect the amount of time food can be frozen (type of freezer, ingredients in the recipe, quality of the packaging, etc.), so it's hard to say exactly when a freezer meal will go "bad." Regardless, it is good to have a rough idea of how long something can hang out in your freezer.

Leadership: In Turbulent Times

Amazon.com Review An Amazon Best Book of September 2018: Pulitzer Prize-winning author Doris Kearns Goodwin demonstrates how leaders are made, not born, as she thoughtfully explores the highs and lows of four U.S. presidents who faced moments of horrific national crisis. Goodwin's clean, assured sentences set the stage as each future president discovers within himself the desire to enter politics, the calamitous blows that knocked each one down, and how they tackled the struggles that tore at the sinews of the country. Most fascinating is Goodwin's revelations about how very differently Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Lyndon B. Johnson approached not only their political careers but how they developed the character traits that helped them see—or make—a path toward a critical response that many others disagreed with. Lincoln's delivery of the Emancipation Proclamation, Theodore Roosevelt's handling of labor strikes, FDR's battle against the Great Depression in his first 100 days, and Johnson's prioritization of civil rights while a nation mourned were actions that could have ripped the country further apart but eventually bound it together and strengthened its democratic foundations. The rare weakness within Leadership: In Turbulent Times is the outlining of specific qualities, such as "Take the measure of the man" and "Set a deadline and drive full-bore to meet it," that are meant to distill leadership wisdom into bullet points, like contemporary business books. Goodwin's strength is in the rich context she provides as she shows that great leaders develop in dissimilar ways but ultimately have a vision they reach for and rely on when times are at their most turbulent. —Adrian Liang, Amazon Book Review Review “Written in the companionable prose that makes Goodwin’s books surefire best sellers. . . . We can benefit from reminders that even flawed mortals can, in times of national emergency, achieve great things. We can only hope that a few of Goodwin’s many readers will find in her subjects’ examples a margin of inspiration and a resolve to steer the country to a better place.”— The New York Times Book Review “A book like Leadership should help us raise our expectations of our national leaders, our country and ourselves.”— The Washington Post “Goodwin’s volume deserves much praise — it is insightful, readable, compelling even — but the strongest compliment might be this: Her book arrives just in time.”— The Boston Globe “After five decades of magisterial output, matching Pulitzer Prize-winning quality with best-selling appeal, Doris Kearns Goodwin leads the league of presidential historians. Insight is her imprint . . . Elegantly, she gathers the deeply researched strands of her big books to focus on the formative qualities of her White House heroes . . . The result is a fascinating study in contrasts, beautifully structured, as Goodwin alternates case studies of each president to examine the youthful roots of their ambition, their growth amid adversity, and their ultimate challenges.”— USA Today “An inspiring read.”— Christian Science Monitor “Published at a turbulent time, her book is a rich source of information and inspiration. . . . Most important, Goodwin reminds us that a democracy leadership is a two-way street, a mirror in which people, for better and worse, see their collective reflection.”— Minneapolis Star Tribune “A masterwork on how good leaders become great leaders, how burning personal ambition can be elevated into driving ambition for a cause greater than self.  Riveting, uplifting, and incisive, Leadership is a culminating work of a true intellectual artist.”— Jim Collins, author of “Good to Great,” co-author “Built to Last” “Business students invariably ask me: 'With what historical figure would you like to have lunch?' Doris Kearns Goodwin has prepared a marvelous banquet with four leaders whose lives provide lessons for all of us. Pull up a chair.”— Warren Buffett “A must read.”— Morning Joe co-host Mika Brzezinski “[An] expert, extremely relevant study.”— Booklist “With Leadership , Pulitzer Prize winner Goodwin cements her reputation as a scholar with a remarkable ability to bring the complexities of our past to life for everyday readers. It’s a welcome gift indeed.”— Bookpage “ Leadership is a bravura performance by Doris Kearns Goodwin, an artist who writes today with the same level of excellence that she’s demonstrated for more than 40 years.”— Washington Independent Review of Books “It’s as if she spent her entire career simply preparing to write this one volume. It was worth the wait. And well timed: If ever our nation needed a short course on presidential leadership, it is now.”— Seattle Times About the Author Doris Kearns Goodwin’s interest in leadership began more than half a century ago as a professor at Harvard. Her experiences working for Lyndon B. Johnson in the White House and later assisting him on his memoirs led to her bestselling Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream . She followed up with the Pulitzer Prize–winning No Ordinary Time: Franklin & Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II . She earned the Lincoln Prize for the runaway bestseller Team of Rivals , the basis for Steven Spielberg’s Academy Award–winning film Lincoln , and the Carnegie Medal for The Bully Pulpit , the New York Times bestselling chronicle of the friendship between Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft. She lives in Concord, Massachusetts. Visit her at DorisKearnsGoodwin.com or @DorisKGoodwin. Read more

American Radicals: How Nineteenth-Century Protest Shaped the Nation

Review “In this electric debut, Jackson . . . eschews presidents and generals to construct a mesmerizing story of people who committed themselves to a vision of the United States based on ‘collectivity, equality, and freedom.’ . . . This is essential reading for anyone interested in how the U.S. became what it is today.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Jackson adeptly interweaves all these stories, connecting one radical thinker to another to show the sweep of progressive thought in the nineteenth century that continues to echo today. Abundantly detailing political movements and the characters who led them, this history appeals to a broad spectrum of readers.” — Booklist (starred review) “Magnificent . . . This incisive and well-written overview of Americans who protested wrongs in their society deserves a wide readership. Many fine academic studies have covered the subjects here, but this account, written for a general audience, is authoritative and fast-paced and vividly portrays a crucial period.” — BookPage “The author’s account moves swiftly and interestingly. . . . Jackson’s book merits attention as a study in what she calls ‘slow-release radicalism,’ with seeming failures that eventually turned into successes. A useful survey of American activism and its lasting repercussions.” — Kirkus Reviews “A forcefully argued and lyrical account . . . Readers interested in the history of social and radical movements, along with antebellum history, will find much to enjoy.” — Library Journal “By recovering the passionate lives and words of idealistic radicals and reformers, Holly Jackson reveals the better angels of nineteenth-century America. Telling a powerful story in lucid prose, she reminds us of what people of courage and conviction can achieve against long odds and powerful foes.” —Alan Taylor, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of American Revolutions: A Continental History, 1750–1804 “ American Radicals is a brilliant and timely firecracker of a book. Following the lives and activism of a diverse and fascinating cast of characters—men and women, black and white, all of them fearless—Holly Jackson has crafted a tale as dynamic and lively as America itself.” —Karen Abbott, author of The Ghosts of Eden Park and Liar, Temptress, Soldier, Spy “A masterful history and a profound meditation on the limits of protest, American Radicals is immensely useful for today’s activists.” —Micah White, author of The End of Protest: A New Playbook for Revolution “Teeming with colorful and long-forgotten characters, Holly Jackson’s dazzling new history—at once wide-ranging and fine-grained—recovers anew the restless and improbable spirit of reform that animated America in the nineteenth century. American Radicals is a timely and powerful reminder that America has always been a work in progress—and that voices of protest echo with purpose and urgency across the generations. Amid the din of our daunting times, here is a history lined with hope.” —Brian Matthew Jordan, finalist for the 2016 Pulitzer Prize in History for Marching Home: Union Veterans and Their Unending Civil War “ American Radicals is a wise and vivid history of the women and men who imagined a nation that would live up the ideals of untrammeled personal liberty and direct democracy and then dared to build movements and communities dedicated to that purpose. This is a book that will educate and thrill progressives of all ages.” —Michael Kazin, author of War Against War: The American Fight for Peace, 1914–1918 and professor of history at Georgetown University “Jackson gives readers stories that are inspiring, infuriating, hilarious, frustrating, and meaningful for our complicated present. An outstanding book that any modern radical should read.” —Erik Loomis, associate professor of history at the University of Rhode Island and author of A History of America in Ten Strikes About the Author Holly Jackson is an associate professor of English at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Boston Globe, as well as a number of scholarly venues. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PART IFoul Oppression in the Wind of Freedom, 1817–1840CHAPTER 1A Tremendous NOOn the morning of August 16, 1824, a majestic flotilla appeared on the water in New York harbor: a series of ships decorated like floating palaces, all in the service of escorting one man safely to port. The Marquis de Lafayette stepped ashore to the sound of fifty thousand people cheering wildly, among them the vice president of the United States and two hundred of the city’s leading citizens. After a month at sea, the cacophony must have been overwhelming: cannons booming, bells ringing, flags flapping, the West Point band in full swing. Militias stood at attention, wearing Lafayette’s portrait over their hearts. Elderly veterans embraced him, openly weeping. Mothers thrust their children into his arms. Men and women fainted. Others approached him so choked with emotion they could not speak. They placed a crown of fresh cypress and laurel boughs on his head and ushered him into a grand carriage drawn by four white horses. The parade proceeded up Broadway to city hall, passing flag-draped buildings and banners stamped with the name of the returning hero, fresh flowers raining down from the windows. The shops were all closed, the business of New York City standing still for the day.1As a mere teenager, the Frenchman had joined the Americans in their War for Independence, not only risking his life in battle, but volunteering his own money to feed, clothe, and pay his battalion. His leading role in the Battle of Yorktown had earned him a place in the pantheon of military heroes whose victory brought into being a new nation. Now that nation was nearing its fiftieth anniversary, and Lafayette was back to help celebrate: the only general from the Revolutionary army alive, and still a robust presence a month before his sixty-seventh birthday. But underneath all the patriotic pride was an undeniable note of anxiety.The election year of 1824 was the very first in which no founding father appeared on the ticket. From Washington to Monroe, the first five presidents had been active participants in the conception of the new republic, but the country would soon outlive the men who had created it. To survive, it would need to transition from an experimental republic steered and administered directly by its makers to a permanent state, which would require a particular interpretation of its history. Thomas Jefferson had argued that every generation ought to be able to remake American society and all of its laws so that they would not be tyrannically ruled by his generation’s dead hand. But by 1824, Americans were looking not for constant reinvention but for stability. Most wanted to believe that the words and deeds of the founders were final and the era of insurrection closed. France loomed as a cautionary tale, having torn up a number of constitutions by this time, its revolution followed by periods of terrible violence, a dictatorship, and finally the restoration of the monarchy in 1814. American society bolstered itself in this troubling changing-of-the-guard moment with a near-religious commemoration of the founding generation—a worshipful attitude that Ralph Waldo Emerson would denounce as the tendency to “build the sepulcres of the fathers,” to be “retrospective,” or conservative of what had been, rather than following the lead of the founders in daring to imagine what else might be. In short, revolutionary iconoclasm had been replaced with filial piety in American political culture.2Lafayette’s return was a landmark event in this culture of commemoration. He and his compatriots were to be remembered no longer as militant radicals, high on Enlightenment theory and ready to die for untried ideals, but as patriarchs of a static lineage that must be revered and preserved. While most of the other founders were dead or nearly so, Lafayette still had the physical wherewithal to reassure the American people at a moment when a certain crucial thread threatened to snap. Congress felt it was so important for him to visit at this time that it offered to send a ship to any port in France to convey him to the United States, to live on America’s dime for two years, and receive payments in stock and land for his contributions to the revolution, a show of largesse that made the young nation feel strong and rich as its semicentennial Jubilee approached.So they rolled out a welcome like no other. Before he left New York, Lafayette was honored by “the fete” at Castle Garden, which one attendee described as “the most brilliant and magnificent scene ever witnessed in the United States.” This seems to have been the actual party of the century, a dazzling visual spectacle more lavish than anything anyone present could remember, surpassing even royal coronations. Six thousand partiers with two hundred servants in tow danced the cotillion under an arrangement of chandeliers reflecting the light of a thousand torches. Lafayette went on to tour all twenty-four of the states, paraded around in fine style as the “guest of the nation.” Wherever he went, he was greeted with festivals, dances, and speeches. Maidens robed in white and wearing crowns of myrtle marched under newly constructed triumphal arches in choreographed formation with engraved lances aloft. They named streets, towns, counties, and city squares for him; at least one newborn was saddled with the name “Welcome Lafayette.” On one occasion, a young army officer sang some verses he had composed, but when he came to the climax of the song, his voice faltered with emotion and he was unable to say the general’s name. He fell at Lafayette’s feet crying and rushed away.But on the day of his arrival, Lafayette’s mind was occupied with thoughts of one woman, who was at that moment still in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean en route to the United States. From the center of the celebratory hubbub, he wrote to a friend how eagerly he awaited the coming ship that would reunite him with his “beloved.” A month behind his hero’s welcome in New York, a far less distinguished vessel pulled in to the harbor with no fanfare, with a woman aboard who was too indispensable to Lafayette to be left out of his American tour but already too controversial to have arrived by the same boat or to be mentioned in any of the official accounts of his visit. As the general’s intimate friend, she would soon be entertained in the homes of the nation’s first families, only to be regarded in the years to come as the most notorious radical in its history.Lafayette was the revolutionary past, but she was the revolutionary future; the press would call her “the female Tom Paine.” No one worshipped the founders more than she did, and for that very reason she refused to regard their accomplishment as mere symbolism, their rhetoric as empty, or their project complete. In 1824, she was the hushed-up younger woman behind the man who was bringing the country they both idolized to its feet. But within five years, her name would be denounced from pulpits and splashed across the front pages of newspapers, shorthand for a festering fusion of interracial sex, Free Love, gender-bending, and atheism that threatened to bring down the Republic: “that she-demon and unprincipled profligate, FANNY WRIGHT.”3Frances Wright was an orphaned Scottish aristocrat who had been raised, along with her younger sister, Camilla, by a string of relatives in England. She spent most of her youth with an aunt who lived in a twenty-room mansion in a tiny town called Dawlish, on the southern seacoast of Devonshire. When she was seventeen, Wright happened upon a history of the American Revolution in the library of a family member’s estate, later recalling how strange it had been to find a “subject so politically heterodox” in that patrician context. Opening the book had awoken her to “a new existence” in an instant. “From that moment my attention became riveted on this country,” she would later write, “as on the theater where man might first awake to the full knowledge and the full exercise of his powers.” Restless and bored with the limited round of activities available to a genteel young lady under the watch of a persnickety aunt, she began to dream of the United States as a nearly magical new world “consecrated to liberty,” where traditional constraints and distinctions had been abandoned, and vowed to see it in person one day.4Wright went off to live with one of her father’s relatives, James Mylne, a professor of moral philosophy at the University of Glasgow, a hotbed of the Scottish Enlightenment; her uncle held the faculty position that had once been occupied by Adam Smith. In this environment, Wright imbibed a devotion to reason and empiricism, a suspicion of received wisdom, traditions, and religious authority that would animate her activist career. Women would not be admitted as students at Glasgow until 1883, so Wright’s free access to the university library enabled an education that would remain unavailable to other women for generations. She wrote poetry, a philosophical treatise, later a play. Read more

Speaking of Murder: A Milan Jacovich Mystery (Milan Jacovich Mysteries)

About the Author Les Roberts is the author of 16 mystery novels featuring Cleveland detective Milan Jacovich, as well as 11 other books of fiction. The past president of both the Private Eye Writers of America and the American Crime Writer’s League, he came to mystery writing after a 24-year career in Hollywood. He was the first producer and head writer of the Hollywood Squares and wrote for The Andy Griffith Show, The Jackie Gleason Show, and The Man from U.N.C.L.E., among others. He has been a professional actor, a singer, a jazz musician, a teacher, and a film critic. In 2003 he received the Sherwood Anderson Literary Award. A native of Chicago, he now lives in Northeast Ohio.Dan S. Kennedy is a strategic business and marketing advisor and consultant. As a professional speaker, he has repeatedly appeared with former U.S. presidents, legendary entrepreneurs, and Hollywood celebrities, addressing audiences as large as 35,000. The author of more than twenty business books (www.NoBSBooks.com), he was born, raised, and lives in the Cleveland area.

Missing Emily: Croatian Life Letters

Open Line

From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Everything changes for late-night radio talk show host Annette Majoris after she jokingly tells her Twin Cities audience that the Vietnam War was a government hoax. Where Annette had been struggling, careerwise and financially, she quickly finds herself grappling with a multiplying caller-base, national syndication and the romantic attentions of wealthy Republican Party mover-and-shaker Walter Bishop. Guided by Walter, who co-opts Annette's message to launch a presidential hopeful, and supported by Stan Marlin, the erstwhile leader of a radical conservative organization, Annette persists on the air that Vietnam never really happened, provoking outrage and disgust and attracting a following among veterans who, haunted for decades by their participation in the war, find in Annette's questioning the possibility for closure and healing. While Annette defends her argument persuasively for a time, it's a house of cards that comes crashing down. Hawley's characters are fully realized people, with their own set of ambitions, insecurities and competing desires, and her great achievement is to have constructed out of their lives a deft and hilarious sendup of the media and political culture. (May) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Twentysomething Minnesota talk-radio host Annette Majoris becomes the talk of the town when, to spice up a sluggish broadcast, she suggests that the Vietnam War didn’t happen. Then she starts to wonder: Could such a seemingly preposterous proposition be possible? Soon she has the attention of Stan Marlin, an edgy right-wing activist just itching for a new cause. Then romantic sparks fly between Annette and Walter Bishop, a Republican Party mover-and-shaker who has money, charm, and the state’s very ambitious governor on his speed dial. Overeager Stan sends Annette fat folders full of “facts” supporting her precarious thesis. Her following grows, as does the anxiety of her producer, who doesn’t like what she’s doing, but can’t deny that her listener base is larger than ever. Annette has detractors, to be sure, but she’s also received calls from Vietnam vets who say she’s helped them come to terms with their angst. Hawley (Trip Sheets, 1998) shrewdly skewers the media and popular culture as she catalogs Annette’s journey from no-name to fame. --Allison Block About the Author Ellen Hawley is the author of the novel Trip Sheets, which won a Writer's Voice Capricorn Award. She has moonlighted as a radio host, driven a cab, taught creative writing, and was the editor of the Loft Literary Center's magazine for eighteen years. A native New Yorker, she now divides her time between homes in Minnesota and Cornwall. Read more

The Topless Widow of Herkimer Street

Review "Jacob Appel's wonderful stories crystallize the moments in life that make us doubt everything we thought was true about our loves, fears, and regrets."--Dallas Hudgens author of Wake Up, We're Here and Drive Like Hell. "To read [Jacob Appel] is to be schooled in his unique and refreshing brand of literary mastery. Appel is at the top of his game in THE TOPLESS WIDOW OF HERKIMER STREET, his delightfully quirky, ever smart, funny, and moving new collection. In these eight keenly observed stories, Appel's endearing if flawed characters find themselves in the throes of tough choices where there are no easy answers. Circumstances may skew absurd...but Appel's humanity is real and unwavering, particularly in matters of the heart. Crackling with detail and bursting with irresistible tidbits ranging from medicine to bioethics to property law, Appel's stories seamlessly draw from his deep well of knowledge to deliver a result not only worthy of study, but that will make your belly ache with laughter."--Sara Lippmann, author of Doll Palace. "Eight more superb stories from atalented pen."--Kirkus Review"Appel is a master of the dilemma,and each of these stories hooks the reader with a stunner. But the seeminglyabsurd--a mail-order house delivered to the wrong address, an uncle promisingto show his two nephews the true edge of the world--soon gives way to dark,harsh truths for Appel's characters. None of the answers are easy, and thatmakes these stories a rich, satisfying read."--Ben Stroud, author of Byzantium ."There is no one in American letters quite like Jacob Appel. His wise tales remind me of some of John Cheever's short stories, but only if those stories had been reimagined through the dreamy vision of Mark Helprin and then improved with a 21st Century sensibility. The Topless Widow of Herkimer Street is by turns strange, familiar, funny, and philosophically engaged, and never for a moment disappointing."--Hugh Sheehy, author of The Invisibles . About the Author Jacob M. Appel is a doctor, lawyer, medical bioethicist, and a widely published fiction writer. In addition to THE TOPLESS WIDOW OF HERKIMER STREET (Howling Bird Press, 2016), he has written nine books, including, most recently, MIRACLES AND CONUNDRUMS OF THE SECONDARY PLANET (Black Lawrence Press, 2015). His first novel, The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up , won the Dundee International Book Award in 2012. His short story collection SCOUTING FOR THE REAPER (Black Lawrence Press, 2014) won the 2012 Hudson Prize. He has won the Boston Review Short Fiction Competition, the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Award for the Short Story, the Dana Award, and many other honors. He has published short fiction in more than two hundred literary journals, including Agni , Conjunctions , The Gettysburg Review , Prairie Schooner , The Virginia Quarterly Review , and West Branch . Appel holds graduate degrees from Brown University, where he also taught for many years, Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons, Harvard Law School, New York University's MFA program in fiction, and Albany Medical College's Alden March Institute of Bioethics. A resident of New York, he currently teaches at the Gotham Writer's Workshop and the Mount Sinai School of Medicine.

The Hog's Back Mystery (British Library Crime Classics)

Review This wasn't my first foray into the world of British mysteries; I have been a long time fan of the great Agatha Christie. This book had good points and bad points for me. It was told from the perspective of the Scotland Yard inspector working the case. There was very minimal action it was definitely written to be a brain buster to see if you could work out what had happened BEFORE the last two chapters of the book where they spell it all out for you. It was definitely a book to take you back to a much, much simpler time which I appreciated. I would have to say that the best aspect of this book was the complete lack of forensic options due to the time period, I loved the fact that it was all brain power on the part of the inspector. ( Netgalley ) A delightful British Crime Book. This is a strong police procedural with a dose of a cozy mystery. This is a good mystery with crusty characters of Britain and beautiful location. The plot is complex and intelligent. It is a fun read one that does lend itself toward escape for a afternoon of reading. Well Done. ( Netgalley ) About the Author FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS (1879-1957) was one of the pre-eminent writers in the golden age of British crime fiction. He was the author of more than thirty detective novels, and was greatly acclaimed by peers such as Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler.

The Deed in the Attic (Annie's Attic Mysteries)

Unlimited: Conquering the Myth of the Glass Ceiling

About the Author Dr. Cortney Baker is a speech therapist, business owner, entrepreneur, speaker, wife, mother of three, and proud native Texan. She received her doctoral degree at Pepperdine University in Organizational Leadership, and she has a passion for helping others develop their leadership potential. She is owner and CEO of KidsCare Therapy, a pediatric home healthcare agency employing hundreds of Texans. Dr. Baker also opened Baker Management Group, an organization where she enjoys consulting and speaking nation-wide. Cortney is the author of the #1 Amazon Best-Selling book The 10 Dos and Don’ts for Business: Lessons to Lead Effectively, and she was honored to be named a finalist for Texas Business Woman of the Year in 2014 and 2015.

They Call Me Buddy: The World Traveler

Review ''We really enjoyed reading this book and we are sure the other children that read this will enjoy it too!'' --Ava and Toby Mercer, Dublin, Ireland ''The book is awesome and the illustrations are fantastic.'' --Joanna Mai, Minneapolis, Minnesota ''I think this book is great for children to learn about the world.'' --Lilli Duff, Houston, Texas ''I really enjoyed learning about all the different countries that Buddy visited. I think it would be fun to travel with Buddy.'' --Josh Puckett, Mooresville, North Carolina ''I love this book about Buddy. I've read it four times today and learned facts I never knew.'' --Sophie Firek, Sydney, Australia -- Reviews About the Author Dave Harrison is an international finance executive, corporate board director, and serves on several nonprofit boards. He and his wife have lived and worked in three countries outside the United States. Family, education, travel, and photography top the list of Dave's interests. In addition to the Buddy book series that he and illustrator Gladys Tripp are working on, he is writing an economics primer for adults and has a scientific religious book in the works. Dave is the father of two adult children, grandfather to five children, and lives with his wife, Susan, a United Methodist Minister, near Charlotte, North Carolina.

Threads of Evidence: A Mainely Needlepoint Mystery

The Traveler's Guide to Space: For One-Way Settlers and Round-Trip Tourists

Review There is no other book for the popular reader that addresses the many serious challenges involved in deep space travel. Understanding these issues is essential for anyone with an interest in space exploration. The Traveler's Guide to Space does an excellent job at looking at the whole picture, from space tourists to one-way colonization; from physical to psychological challenges. -- Robert Geller, University of California, Santa Barbara The Traveler's Guide to Space takes you on an amazing adventure and gives you the perspective that only a seasoned scientist can. Neil Comins presents a thorough and timely account of the incredible sights that await any solar system traveler, as well as scientific insight into the sensations, pitfalls, and wonders both geological and astronomical that he or she will encounter along the way. -- Andrew West, astronomerNeil F. Comins has written the go-to book for anyone interested in space exploration. ― Uncovered Books This makes an excellent primer for anyone, especially astronomy enthusiasts and budding astronauts, who can't afford a ticket to space and wish to visit in spirit. ― Booklist The Traveler's Guide to Space is a delight... don't leave Earth without it. ― New Scientist Reading The Traveler’s Guide to Space will help the reader have a better grasp on what is happening in current events. -- Steve Canipe ― National Science Teachers Association Recommended. -- J. Z. Kiss, UNC-Greensboro ― Choice Recommended for space fans with active imaginations! ― Read Well About the Author Neil F. Comins is professor of physics and astronomy at the University of Maine. His books include Discovering the Universe , tenth edition (2014), What If the Earth Had Two Moons? (2010), Heavenly Errors: Misconceptions About the Real Nature of the Universe (Columbia, 2003), and What If the Moon Didn't Exist? (1993).

Murder of a Bookstore Babe: A Scumble River Mystery

From Publishers Weekly Tales and Treats, a new independent bookstore in the small town of Scumble River, Ill., arouses passions even before it opens in Swanson's lackluster 13th mystery featuring school psychologist Skye Denison (after 2010's Murder of a Wedding Belle). Conservative protesters as well as local business owners like Skye's used-car dealer cousin, Hugo Leofanti, view Tales and Treats as a threat. Soon after the bookstore's controversial opening, Skye discovers a woman crushed under a bookcase of rare books. Improbably even for a cozy, Skye's fiancé, police chief Wally Boyd, allows her to take the lead in interviewing suspects, many of whom are related to her. The efforts of Skye's former boyfriend, Simon Reid, to win her back add some romantic tension, but weak humor and plotting make this a forgettable entry in the series. (Mar.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved. About the Author Denise Swanson has worked as a school psychologist for 17 years. This is her second novel featuring Skye Denison and Scumble River. Her first book, Murder of a Small-Town Honey , debuted to advance praise from the Charlotte Austin Review, Meritorious Mysteries , and BookBrowser . She is currently working on the next Scumble River mystery, Murder of a Sleeping Beauty . Denise lives in Illinois with her husband, Dave, and their cool black cat, Boomerang. For more information, visit her website: www.deniseswanson.com

Mind Game: A Novel (Eve Duncan, 22)

Review Praise for Mind Game: "Johansen returns to the world of Eve Duncan, Joe Quinn, and Jane MacGuire― suspense with a touch of supernatural ―to resounding success and ties up some loose ends and romantic possibilities from past books. The final scene will be especially enjoyable to series fans. Enthralling, entertaining, and completely satisfying ." ― Kirkus “Bestseller Johansen convincingly mixes mystical elements with a rapid-fire plot in her 21st Eve Duncan novel …The sexual attraction between Jane and Seth simmers in the background as the action builds to a stunning climax in Dubai.” ― Publishers Weekly "Johansen is a true master of building in the right amount of complexity spiced with danger, thrills and engrossing characters! " ― RT Book Reviews (Top Pick) Praise for Iris Johansen: No Easy Target “Mega-star Johansen is a true master of building complex plotlines while developing immensely intriguing characters…This book, like others before it, not only provides an amazing thrill-ride but also sets up the promise of future adventures with these characters.” ― RT Book Reviews Night and Day “Full of mysticism and mystery , this fast-paced novel is sure to appeal to all fans of romantic suspense.” ― Publishers Weekly Hide Away "This first-rate novel of romantic suspense will please Johansen’s many fans and newcomers alike." ― Publishers Weekly (starred review) Shadow Play “Eve Duncan novels by Johansen are so good that, supernatural or not, readers and fans remain completely engaged. ” ― Suspense Magazine Your Next Breath “Delivering gut-wrenching emotion and spine-tingling suspense is what Johansen does best, and when you add in a touch of the supernatural...you get the perfect storm of a thriller! Johansen never disappoints!” ― RT Book Reviews “ Gripping …Iris Johansen’s talent in character development , impeccable plotting, and remarkable depiction is nonpareil.” ― Reader to Reader About the Author Iris Johansen is the New York Times bestselling author of Chasing the Night , Blood Game , Eve , and Eight Days to Live , among others. She began writing after her children left home for college, and first achieved success in the early 1980s writing category romances. In 1991, she began writing suspense historical romance novels, and in 1996 she turned to crime fiction, with which she has had great success. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia.

SURLY BONDS (Jason Conrad Thriller Series Book 2)

Review The Bottom Line: Guaranteed to please Brad Thor fans, this terrific military thriller finds Moscow hardliners plotting to assassinate the next U.S. president...Thanks to author Michael Byars Lewis' gift for creating well-drawn characters, Surly Bonds is more than a story about espionage and geopolitics - it's also a coming of age story with a touch of romance...every piece of Jason's story - and all military aspects - feels both earned and authentic. What's more, given the aggressive geopolitics played in today's Kremlin, the plot feels remarkably timely. Read it. -BestThrillers.com --This text refers to the paperback edition. About the Author SURLY BONDS is an Award Winner! 2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards - FINALIST - First Novel Category! 2013 READER'S FAVORITE Book Awards - FINALIST - Fiction Intrigue Category Michael Byars Lewis grew up in the Air Force and graduated from Louisiana State University. A professional pilot, he has accumulated over 5,000 flying hours in military and civilian flying, including his time as an airline pilot flying the 737-200 and the 737-800. Michael's adventures have given him the opportunity to travel around the world but now he lives in Florida with his wife Kim and their two children, Lydia and Derek. SURLY BONDS is his first novel. Reviews: " . . . a suspenseful and well-crafted thriller that delivers . . ." - Jack Magnus for Reader's Favorite " . . . Michael Byars Lewis is an author to watch out for in this genre . . ." - Maria Beltran for Reader's Favorite --This text refers to the paperback edition.

A Death in Eden: A Sean Stranahan Mystery

Review Praise for Keith McCafferty and the Sean Stranahan mystery series “Keith McCafferty gets the West just right... an impressive writer.” — Margaret Coel , New York Times bestselling author of The Man Who Fell From the Sky and Winter’s Child "If you’re not reading Keith McCafferty because you don’t fly fish or because you don’t like mysteries or westerns, you need to get started because he’s just flat-out terrific." — Craig Johnson , author of the Walt Longmire novels, the basis for the Netflix drama Longmire "Like Brad Smith and Elmore Leonard, McCafferty does a marvelous job of manipulating mood… A must for Craig Johnson and C.J. Box fans." — Booklist (starred) “[Keith McCafferty] writes with heart and command of the story that sparkles on every page.” — Michael McGarrity , New York Times bestselling author of Backlands "Fresh, quirky, and yet utterly believable." — Nevada Barr , New York Times bestselling author of the Anna Pigeon mysteries “McCafferty nails the delicate balance between humor and heft in a genuine way.” — P.J. Tracy , New York Times bestselling author of Off the Grid "Rich in history, local color, and unique characters." — Kirkus Reviews About the Author Keith McCafferty is the survival and outdoor skills editor of Field & Stream , and the author of The Royal Wulff Murders , The Gray Ghost Murders , Dead Man's Fancy , Crazy Mountain Kiss , which won the 2016 Spur Award for Best Western Contemporary Novel, Buffalo Jump Blues , and Cold Hearted River . Winner of the Traver Award for angling literature, he is a two-time National Magazine awards finalist. He lives with his wife in Bozeman, Montana. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Object of Desire Harold Little Feather lifted his hand from the wheel to scratch at the tattoo of wolverine tracks that circled the lower biceps of his left arm. The tattoo was recent and ran underneath the elk tracks that circled the upper arm, which he’d had inked more than twenty years before. On his right arm, badger tracks circling below wolf tracks. Like the wolverine tracks, the badger tracks were new, but they didn’t itch. When his sister had caught him scratching at his arm at the kitchen table that morning, she’d said, “Somebody has too many spirit animals if you ask me. That might have been okay when you worked for the sheriff, but you’re a state investigator now. Tattoos are unbecoming for someone of your stature.”“I know,” he’d said. “It must be an Indian thing.”She’d smiled, but hadn’t laughed. Harold and his sister were Blackfeet, though Janice had been called Snowflake by her own people, and could have passed if her orbital bones weren’t so pronounced. She hadn’t put a foot onto the reservation more than a half a dozen times since marrying a white boy out of high school, the last occasion being her mother’s memorial the year before.But Harold straddled the two worlds. In the one, he braided his hair and wore khakis and a badge, newly issued, with Montana Division of Criminal Investigation lettered inside a blue circle. In the other, he let his hair fall down his back and wore shit-kicker boots, jeans, and one of his three flannel shirts, the long-sleeved one for winter, the two with the arms cut off the rest of the year.That’s the way he dressed whenever he drove up through Browning. Browning was Blackfeet tribal headquarters, at the foot of the peaks that girded Glacier National Park. It was where his ex lived, where a bunch of relatives lived, and where, he’d recently learned, he had a son, born from a liaison with a Chippewa Cree woman. The union had taken place on the Rocky Boy Reservation eighteen years, four months, and some small change ago, a figure he knew down to the day not because of the woman—he recalled little beyond that her eyes were green—but because it was the last time he’d ever drunk alcohol. That was a long time for a Montanan of any skin color to go without a drink, and except for Harold’s grandfather, whom he had worshipped, probably a record for anyone in his family.He placed his hand back on the wheel and thought about his son, whom he’d made the acquaintance of only because his mother had died in a car accident and his mother’s brother, who had taken custody, had decided to divulge to Harold the family secret. Probably, Harold thought, because the man knew Harold had a job in the outside world and figured there could be money coming his way. Not a charitable way to look at it, but it had made Harold bitter, being kepti n the dark all those years. Bitter, then mad, finally, only sad. How could you ever make up for the lost time?He tapped at the Bluetooth in the truck and saw he was out of cell range. It didn’t matter. He’d only be leaving the same message that he’d left yesterday and the day before, when he first learned that he’d be heading north to that part the state.“I’ll be canoeing the Smith for five days starting the morning of the sixth and could use another hand on a paddle. I’ve got the food and the gear. Just get yourself to Camp Baker by ten Wednesday and pack your rod and your raincoat.”No “I love you, son.” They weren’t at that point and might never be, but nonetheless, the words sent through the ether on a bent bow with his heart riding on the string.Harold geared down to cross the one-lane bridge and found himself in a tent camp populated by the floaters who’d drawn a permit to launch. Camp Baker was run by Fish, Wildlife, and Parks, and the ranger, one of those always-smiling men who make you question their sincerity, was busy assigning campsites and getting the floaters ontheir way. He could use a little help, but the department wouldn’t pony up for another position. A shake of his head, a downward pout of his mouth. The sad state of state affairs. Could Harold give him half an hour? The steady stream would dry to a trickle then.Harold changed his clothes and carried his canoe down to the river’s edge. His two dry bags of gear were already packed, his rifle in its case, fly rod, fishing vest, binoculars, ax. He leaned back against a fence post to watch the spectacle. A man with a Jell‑O stomach and a face like abeet was loading cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon into an Avon raft, while a woman wearing a camo bikini top raised a pirate flag on the bow. She wore a University of Montana Grizzlies ball cap; he wore a Montana State Bobcats T‑shirt. Another couple were helping them load.“Things might get dicey, huh?”Harold turned his head. Two young women who looked enough alike to be sisters were carrying a canoe up alongside his. The taller of the two, her hair darker by a shade, slapped at her hip, indicating Harold’s gun belt.Harold patted the grips of his holstered revolver.He looked back over his shoulder at the two couples pushing off their raft.“You let a mixed marriage like that onto the river,” he said, “the claws have to come out sometime. Never know when you might need some law and order.”“Well, we won’t cause any trouble,” the woman said. She held two fingers together in a mock salute. “Scout’s honor.”“You want a hand with your gear?”“Sure. A big strong man comes in handy when you’re just a bitty little girl.” The words sarcastic, her smile anything but. She was openly flirting with him and Harold decided to play along. Why not? He had nothing but time.The women introduced themselves as Carol Ann McManus and Jeanine Regulio, old college roommates from Duke University, separated now by distance and family commitments. They’d kept in touch, though, and had independently put in for a Smith permit for seven years. Jeanine had finally drawn, and now they found themselves in the doghouse because their husbands, Jeanine’s in particular, refused to understand why they hadn’t been invited.“He just doesn’t get it,” Jeanine said. She was the one who’d done the talking to this point. “He thinks I must be turning lesbo. You understand, don’t you?”“Sure,” Harold said. “You just need girl time.”“That’s exactly what I told him.”“So why are you here?” she said. “Is it because of the scarecrows?”A perplexed expression must have shown on Harold’s face.“You don’t know?”“Guess not.”It was Carol Ann’s turn to speak. A lanky blonde, she had a sunburn-peeled, not quite straight nose and a space between herfront teeth. Her voice had a tinkling quality, like a creek that’s polished between ice banks. “Yeah. Floaters are seeing scarecrows up in the cliffs. The ranger gave us a number to call after the float. You know. If we saw one. To report it so they could take it down. Spooky, huh?”She told Harold that they’d been talking to some of the other floaters the night before around a campfire and had learned that a couple of the parties had got launch dates because of last-minute cancellations.“Backed out because they were afraid?” Harold said.“Yeah. Spooked. The ranger told us they might shut the river down. We could be putting in just under the wire. It is sort of weird.”Harold saw the river ranger approaching. “My cue,” he told the women.“Thanks for helping us load,” Jeanine said. “Where are you camping tonight?”“That’s up to the man.” He gestured toward the ranger.“We’re going to be at Lower Indian Spring. If you want to stop by, we have a beer for you.”“I might take you up on that.”“We don’t bite or anything,” Carol said.“Speak for yourself,” Jeanine said. “I’m not making any promises.”Harold pushed their canoe off, all of them laughing. He heard Carol Ann, say, “I can’t believe you said that.” And turning her head, her paddle lifted, water beaded on the blade, dripping, said to Harold, “I can’t believe she said  that.”The canoe grew smaller as it turned downriver.  Jeanine, in the stern, waved backwards over her shoulder.“Did you see those arms? I could climb him like a totem pole.” The words floated over the water.“Sssh,” he heard Carol Ann say. “Sound carries. That’s racist.”“I’m just saying . . .” And they were around the bend out of sight, their laughter still carrying above the bickering of the current.“I think I’ve been objectified,” Harold said. “Must be the gun.”The ranger nodded. “Must be,” he said. Then, to himself, under his breath, “Yeah, the gun. I’ve only been packing open carry for ten years. Nobody ever offered to climb me like a totem pole.”“The braid then,” Harold said. “Women, they like a braid.”The ranger, whose shrinking island of forelock hair had separated from the mainland nodded, sucking in his cheeks and then puffing them out. “I wouldn’t know about that. But what the hey? We took your land. Least we can do is lend you our women.”Harold thought, Or maybe it’s because you got a 295 70R 18 around your middle . Something about the man beyond his offensive remark rubbed Harold the wrong way.“You want to come on up to my abode, I’ll show you our sit‑u‑a‑tion.”“I was told it had something to do with pictographs. Now I’m hearing scarecrows.”The ranger nodded. “May be one. May be the other. May be both. You’ve been out of the loop, huh?”“Something like that.”For six weeks that spring Harold had been aiding an investigation into a poaching ring inside Yellowstone Park, working undercover ina sting operation as a tracker and middleman buyer of grizzly bear gall bladders. Bear gall bladders were worth a fortune in Chinese and Korean traditional medicines markets, and out of the loop didn’t begin to describe the isolation of living the daily terror of being found out by the two men who were the trigger fingers of the ring, brothers‑in‑law who called themselves “Rural Free Montanans,” which, as far as Harold could discern, meant they didn’t hold jobs, not ones that could stand legal scrutiny anyway, they didn’t pay taxes, and they didn’t believe the laws of the land applied.As a test, Harold had been forced to shoot at a grizzly bear, a light phase boar with dark lower legs and a cream chest patch, in the Hayden Valley. He had missed, deliberately, blaming his aim on flinching upon being stung by a wasp. In fact he had been stung by a wasp a half hour earlier and could show the men the welt. That had drawn a long, assessing stare from the elder man, who had cold black eyes and a long face under a graying beard, who wore a headscarf likea pirate and had a claw of a right hand dating to the time when he’d set a rifle butt on the ground with his hand resting over the muzzle, accidentally tripping the sear. The hand had healed with a starburst of raised scar tissue across the palm and cockeyed fingers, the little one no more than a flipper.When the man clenched the hand, a habit he had like a hiccup, the little finger drooped from his fist like a comma. He’d listened as Haroldg ave his excuse, then finally nodded, and said, “Shit happens.”Then he’d said, “Charlie,”— Charlie Two Bear was the name Harold had gone by—“thing is, Char-lie,” separating and drawing out the syllables, “if you were to have missed, say, on purpose, I’d have been forced to take the diamond stone to the knife. Wouldn’t have no choice.” He had drawn a drop-point hunter from his belt scabbard, a whetstone from his pants pocket, and began to run the blade across it. “I take pride in being able to separate out the bladder, Charlie. Why, it’s like a’ art, and me, a natural righty turned southpaw. Right-handed, left-handed, I never seen no one could work a blade to compare, except maybe Dewey here.” He nodded toward his brother‑in‑law, who looked like a garden gnome, short with a barrel chest and few words. His talents, as Harold had witnessed, lay elsewhere.“Never done it on a man, though,” he continued. “I’d know the general lay of the land—once you get under the skin, a man, he can’t be that much different—but I’d have to feel around with the blade, could be some co‑lateral damage. Puncture the aorta, something like that. Oops . First time for everything though, huh? Next bear, I’m going to count on your aim being better.”The man went by Job, as pronounced in the King James Bible, which he often quoted, having claimed to have once been a preacher. Preacher or not, he was one scary son of a bitch. But there had been no next test because there had been no next bear. The wind had changed and the brothers‑in‑law had disappeared back into the folds of the Little Belt Mountains—it was at a bar in Belt where Harold first met them—though Job was light on the specifics, mentioning only a compound. Harold envisioned one of the nameless under-the-radar shantytowns, where men who held grudges against the government lived among like-minded individuals who took the rifle off the wall any time they spotted a state vehicle.The official line, the one Harold had been fed by his supervisor, was that thanks to him they had had plenty to make an arrest, but they were after the men behind the knives rather than the ones drawing them, and they were going to bide their time to find just the right one. That was as much explanation as Harold was given, though it was true that when you busted a ring, you brought everybody in at once or not at all. The brothers‑in‑law would resurface, they were the kind who always did, and Harold would be called back into the sting. It hadn’t been his cover that was blown, and he still had their trust, as far as it went. Not something he was looking forward to, though, not at all.Harold found his eyes wandering and refocused, his ears picking up the sound of the current.“Out of the loop’s one way to put it,” he told the ranger.“Well, then, what do you know?” Read more

Morningstar: Growing Up with Books

Review "Poignant, touching, and enlightening. . . . Hood provides a new rich glimpse into an Italian American childhood. A treat for bibliophiles and readers of all genres." ― Library Journal "Not many people could point with such specificity to books that have imparted valuable life lessons, and Hood shares beloved works with an affecting and inspiring reverence." ― Booklist "Charming. . . [an] homage to the power of books." ― Kirkus " Morningstar is a love letter to the very act of reading and the power of books to light the way. I can think of no better guide than Ann Hood, whose generosity of spirit, courage, humor, gumption, and grace are a powerful reminder that language and story have the capacity to heal, to instruct, and to change our lives. What a mighty little book, so full of heart." ― Dani Shapiro, author of Devotion and Slow Motion "As a childhood reader myself, I loved this enchanting journey through Ann Hood’s early fascination with reading and how it shaped her life and sensibility. Hood is a delightful writer, wise, charming, and lucid, and book lovers will find Morningstar irresistible." ― Lynne Sharon Schwartz, author of Ruined by Reading About the Author Ann Hood is the author of eleven books, including the best-selling novels The Book That Matters Most and The Knitting Circle , and the memoirs Comfort: A Journey Through Grief and Kitchen Yarns: Notes on Life, Love, and Food . She lives in Providence, Rhode Island, and New York City.

The Folk and Their Fauna

The Philosopher and the Golem: A novel

Gifted Program Evaluation: A Handbook for Administrators and Coordinators

About the Author The National Association for Gifted Children’s mission is to support those who enhance the growth and development of gifted and talented children through education, advocacy, community building, and research. NAGC aims to help parents and families, K–12 education professionals including support service personnel, and members of the research and higher education community who work to help gifted and talented children as they strive to achieve their personal best and contribute to their communities. Virginia H. Burney, Ph.D., is a long-time advocate for gifted students and consults with teachers, districts, and state departments across the U.S. in the development of high-quality services for gifted learners.

Gorinjas: The beginning

The Audit: How an Honest Mistake Became a Federal Crime

The Triumph & Tragedy of Lyndon Johnson: The White House Years

Review "Frank, detailed and nuanced story of [Califano’s] four years as one of Lyndon Johnson’s chief advisors [which] deserves more attention than it ever received.”    -- Michael Bechloss ― The Wall Street Journal "Taking on a character like LBJ was as daunting asone might imagine. This book helped me shape the role in a way that onlysomeone who actually knew the 36th president could. The book containsinsightful and honest details of this larger-than-life character, and allowedme to see the greatness of his impassioned hope, and the minutia of histroubled soul. He was indeed a Triumph and a Tragedy. Thank you Joe, forbringing him to life for me and millions of others." -- Bryan Cranston, Tony Award-winning actor portraying LBJ in the play ALL THE WAY“Wonderful book...What makes this memoir of… his Presidency stand out is its vividness. Johnson leaps out of the pages in all his raw and earthy glory.” ― The New York Times Book Review “A joy to read. A walk through the [most tumultuous] half-decade from 1964 to 1969 ... Oh what anecdotes. Johnson leaves you breathless, disbelieving, aghast…recommended without reservation.” -- Stephen Ambrose ― The Washington Post Book World “As close as we'll ever come to seeing Johnson in action with our mind's eye, thanks to Califano's descriptions and care… Not many will give you a better tour of political Washington or such an intimate look at the big, flawed man who was Lyndon B. Johnson.” ― Los Angeles Times “An insider’s view of the inside, [this] memoir spares no aspect of its complex subject.…Readable, forthcoming, and shrewd.” ― The New York Review of Books “A sparkling memoir…Califano’s riveting accounts of Johnson’s willingness to take the lead on difficult issues…could well serve as a guide today’s timid politicians.” ― San Antonio Express “As personal a picture as has yet emerged of Lyndon Johnson the man….[A] fascinating behind-the-scenes report.” ― San Francisco Chronicle “Superbly written and riveting reading. It is an enormously significant contribution to the public record.” ― New York Law Journal “Anyone who wishes to feel what it was really like to be in the trenches with Johnson must read this account….The author’s details are graphic, intimate, sometimes scatological. They bring the Johnson manner alive and glowing….Nobody who loves our system of government should fail to turn to Califano for instruction and inspiration.” -- Henry F. Graff ― The New Leader "Joe Califano’s gripping memoir of life with LBJ is one of my favorite books. No aide to this Texas President was closer to him than the Brooklyn-born Califano, who saw almost everything and ardently shared his domestic purposes, yet—and this is so rare among White House memoirs—writes about the boss he served, after decades of hindsight, with surprising detachment and analytical brilliance. Triumph and Tragedy is funny, poignant and unforgettable. Future generations who wish to know what it was really like to work, day to day, alongside this towering, incomparable President during some of the most consequential moments in American history would be well advised to start here.” -- Presidential historian and author Michael Beschloss“Terrific…. The best insider account I’ve read of the LBJ administration to date.” -- Robert Dallek, author of LONE STAR RISING and LYNDON B. JOHNSHON: PORTRAIT OF A PRESIDENT"Just watching Johnson wheel and deal through Califano's eyes makes a rousing good story. Johnson's successors in the White House must still salivate at the kind of arm-twisting, ball-busting tactics that permitted the President to sweep through his legislative package." -- Ellen Dahnke ― The Nashville Tennessean "Joe Califano...had a ringside seat for LBJ's amazing success and dizzying descent. His highly entertaining and thoughtful memoir is the best description of the inner workings of the Johnson White House I have ever read and LBJ--inspiring, terrifying, funny and tragic--comes alive in a way no other writer has managed." -- Robert Schenkkan, Pultizer Prize winner, Tony Award-winning author of ALL THE WAY“A hugely entertaining narrative—by turns exhilarating, somber, hilarious, touching…[has] an immediacy and intimacy that no other biography has captured.” ― America Magazine “Few books radically change my opinion, but Joseph A. Califano, Jr.’s The Triumph and Tragedy of Lyndon Johnson has….Anyone reading Mr. Califano will realize, wow, how he got things done….Johnson’s legislative program was dazzling, with its historic measures in civil rights, Medicare, Medicaid and Federal Aid to education....” -- Ken Adelman ― Washington Times “Rich with Johnson anecdotes… The Triumph and Tragedy of Lyndon Johnson reminds us all of what it was like to have a president who tried to do something.” -- Kim Eisler ― Legal Times “A revealing anecdote-laden work…Califano…can really write. Four stars.” -- Larry King ― USA Today “One of the very best presidential memoirs I have ever read.” -- Liz Smith ― Newsday About the Author Joseph A. Califano, Jr. spent thirty years in Washington at the top of the Pentagon, on the White House staff as chief domestic advisor to the President, and in the Cabinet. He worked as an attorney for The Washington Post during Watergate and has represented clients as varied as the Black Panthers and Coca Cola. He also spent years on Wall Street and served on more than fifteen public company boards and numerous not-for-profit boards. He is founder of The National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University (CASA). He has written fourteen books, including Our Damaged Democracy . He lives in Westport, Connecticut.

Tovi the Penguin: goes to the seaside

Review "I adore this charming series following theinquisitive penguin, Tovi,and his two buddies. They always discoversomething a little bit out ofthe ordinary in their outings and thisseaside story is no exception.Beautiful illustrations and winsomecharacters make this series a bighit with my youngest daughter who isfour and the humor appeals to myolder daughter who is eight and readsthe books to her little sister."- Lizzie Harwood, author of Triumph: Collected Stories and Xamnesia: Everything I Forgot in my Search for an Unreal Life Close to Destiny "A fun, educational adventure with an adorable penguin! My kids (age 11/2 and 3) love the Tovi the Penguin books, and this newest book is noexception. They love pointing out the ladybug on each page, and thelanguage is easy for them to understand. They know certain parts byheart already and repeat as I read out loud. The illustrations arebeautiful, and there are lots of tiny details for them to pick out,name, talk about... they really get a lot out of just one book!"- Vicki Lesage, author of Confessions of a Paris Potty Trainer About the Author Amazon bestselling author Janina Rossiter loves three things: design, France and her little family. She studied communication & illustration design at university, and haslived in Germany (her home country), England (where she met herhusband), and now France (where she vows to stay). After graduating with a degree from university she worked as a packaging designer for a fewyears before setting off on her own and expanding into freelance design. She enjoys the creative energy of Paris, where she lives with herEnglish husband and her two daughters.With the arrival ofher first daughter, Janina's love for painting and drawing found a newlease on life and, before long, she combined her passion forillustration with the wonderfully inspiring world of children. Afterthat, it was simply a matter of time before Tovi the Penguin was born... .

Game Wardens Vs Poachers: Tickets Still Available

My Father's Ashes: A Young Man's Journey Through His Father's Life

About the Author Bruce Jenvey was raised in rural Michigan with a great interest in history, popular culture, and the paranormal. After twenty years in the advertising industry, he founded Great Lakes Cruiser Magazine and spent the next decade traveling the region as both historian and journalist. Today, Bruce is the award-winning author of Angela's Coven, and the Cabbottown Witch Novels as well as other tales of the paranormal. Visit our site for the latest releases in digital and paperback: www.covenbooks.com

The Abyss: A Max Austin Thriller, Book #5 (The Russian Assassin)

The Shoemaker's Wife: A Novel

About the Author Adriana Trigiani is beloved by millions of readers around the world for fifteen bestsellers, including the blockbuster epic The Shoemaker's Wife ; the Big Stone Gap series; Lucia, Lucia ; the Valentine series; the Viola series for young adults; and the bestselling memoir Don't Sing at the Table . Trigiani reaches new heights with All the Stars in the Heavens , an epic tale from the golden age of Hollywood. She is the award-winning filmmaker of the documentary Queens of the Big Time . Trigiani wrote and directed the major motion picture Big Stone Gap , based on her debut novel and filmed entirely on location in her Virginia hometown, to be released nationwide on October 9th, 2015. She lives in Greenwich Village with her family. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review “Within the pages of this novel, Trigiani’s 10th, is a gloriously romantic yet sensible world that seamlessly blends practicality and beauty…built around the staggering cultural and social changes the war years swept in…. Trigiani’s very best…exquisite writing and a story enriched by the power of abiding love.” ( USA Today )“I’ve always loved reading Trigiani, but [this] is something totally new and completely wonderful: a rich, sweeping epic which tells the story of the women and men who built America dream by dream. If you’re meeting her work for the first time, get ready for a lifelong love affair. Splendid.” ( Kathryn Stockett, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Help )“The breathtaking… historical novel sparkles in exquisite details and vivid descriptions.” ( Huffington Post )“[A] great read….Bella.” ( People )“Pure pleasure . . . full-bodied and elegantly written.” ( Washington Post Book World )“You’ll have trouble putting this novel down.” ( Richmond Times-Dispatch )“The novel is a sweeping epic, but at its heart, it’s a love story. It speaks to an era of possibilities.” ( Providence Journal )“Trigiani’s page-turning newest… is a sweeping saga… More than an epic romance, Trigiani’s work pays homage to the tribulations of the immigrant experience, and the love that makes the journey and hardships worthwhile.” ( Publishers Weekly )“This expansive epic, which seems tailor-made for a miniseries, manages to feel both old-fashioned and thoroughly contemporary…[an] irresistible love story.” ( Booklist )“Trigiani’s gift for using vivid details to create a strong sense of place and her warm affection for her characters will make this a satisfying read for her many fans.” ( Library Journal )…an old-fashioned, romantic tale of two star-tangled lovers...but also a paean to artisanal work, food, friendship and family…Trigiani is a master of palpable and visual detail. ( Washington Post ) --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review “Within the pages of this novel, Trigiani’s 10th, is a gloriously romantic yet sensible world that seamlessly blends practicality and beauty…built around the staggering cultural and social changes the war years swept in…. Trigiani’s very best…exquisite writing and a story enriched by the power of abiding love.” (USA Today )“I’ve always loved reading Trigiani, but [this] is something totally new and completely wonderful: a rich, sweeping epic which tells the story of the women and men who built America dream by dream. If you’re meeting her work for the first time, get ready for a lifelong love affair. Splendid.” (Kathryn Stockett, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Help )“The breathtaking… historical novel sparkles in exquisite details and vivid descriptions.” (Huffington Post )“[A] great read….Bella.” (People )“You’ll have trouble putting this novel down.” (Richmond Times-Dispatch )“The novel is a sweeping epic, but at its heart, it’s a love story. It speaks to an era of possibilities.” (Providence Journal )“Trigiani’s page-turning newest… is a sweeping saga… More than an epic romance, Trigiani’s work pays homage to the tribulations of the immigrant experience, and the love that makes the journey and hardships worthwhile.” (Publishers Weekly )“This expansive epic, which seems tailor-made for a miniseries, manages to feel both old-fashioned and thoroughly contemporary…[an] irresistible love story.” (Booklist )“Trigiani’s gift for using vivid details to create a strong sense of place and her warm affection for her characters will make this a satisfying read for her many fans.” (Library Journal ) --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Amazon.com Review Kathryn Stockett Interviews Adriana Trigiani Kathryn Stockett was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi. After graduating from the University of Alabama with a degree in English and Creative Writing, she moved to New York City, where she worked in magazine publishing and marketing for nine years. The Help is her first novel. Kathryn Stockett: This is by far your most epic novel to date. How long did it take you to write The Shoemaker’s Wife ? Adriana Trigiani: I worked on this story for over 20 years as I wrote scripts and novels and had my own family. There are scraps of paper, dinner napkins, and bills with timelines and notes scrawled across them. There are old notebooks filled with my grandmother’s musings from 1985. I collected train tickets, copies of ships’ manifests, and a silk tag with my grandmother’s name from garments she had created. I traveled as far as the Italian Alps and as close as the few blocks it takes me to walk to Little Italy in New York City to capture the historical aspects of the story. All of this went into the novel. It was a delicious gestation period. Stockett: This is a novel, but it is inspired by a true story—a family story, right? Trigiani: Yes—my grandparents, Lucia and Carlo. Their love was a dance with fate. It is riddled with near misses against a landscape of such massive world events that it’s a wonder they got together at all . My challenge was to present their world to the reader so it might feel it was happening in the moment. I wanted the reader to have the experience I had when stories were told to me by the woman who lived them. Stockett: The novel takes place during the first half of the twentieth century--what is so compelling about this period of time to you? Trigiani: The cusp of the twentieth century was a time everything was new—cars, phones, planes, electricity, even sportswear, and in each innovation was a kind of explosive potential. No one could predict where all the inventions would lead, people only knew that change was unavoidable. My grandparents were delighted every time America presented them with something they had never seen before. And my grandparents’ sense of wonder never left them, so I tried not to let it leave the page, be it a cross-country train ride or the first snap of the bobbin on an electric Singer sewing machine. Stockett: Through the remarkable story of Enza and Ciro, your novel tells the larger story of the immigrant experience in America. Trigiani: What a gift immigrants were and are to this country! They bring their talents and loyalty and make our country even greater. My grandparents were proud to be new Americans. Assimilation was not about copying an American ideal, but aspiring to their own version of it. The highest compliment you could pay a fellow immigrant was: he (or she) was a hard worker . I hear the phrase work like an immigrant said, but really, it’s bigger than that—we must also dream like immigrants . Stockett: The Shoemaker’s Wife seamlessly brings together fictional characters and historical figures—how did the wonderful Caruso enter the novel? Trigiani: It started with a three-foot stack of vinyl records—my grandmother Lucia’s collection of Caruso. Her absolute devotion to The Great Voice lasted her whole life long. I knew, in order to write this novel, I had to fall in love with Caruso too, because he sang the score of my grandparents’ love affair. When Lucia passed, I went to my first opera, seeking understanding and comfort. As the music washed over me, I began to understand why my grandmother was such a fan. The words were Italian, and the emotions were big; nothing was left unexpressed in the music. If only life were that way. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Inside Flap High in the Italian Alps at the turn of the twentieth century, Ciro, a strapping mountain boy, meets Enza, a practical beauty. But when scandal rocks Ciro's tiny village, unbeknownst to Enza, he is sent to hide in America. When disaster strikes Enza's family, she, too, is forced to go to America. Ciro and Enza build fledgling lives--until fate intervenes and reunites them. But it is too late: Ciro has volunteered to serve in World War I and Enza finds success in the costume department of the Metropolitan Opera House. Over time, these star-crossed lovers meet and separate, until the power of their love changes both of their lives forever. Inspired by Trigiani's own family history, The Shoemaker's Wife defines an era with operatic scope that will live on in the imagina-tions of readers for years to come. -- Booklist --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Back Cover High in the Italian Alps at the turn of the twentieth century, Ciro, a strapping mountain boy, meets Enza, a practical beauty. But when scandal rocks Ciro's tiny village, unbeknownst to Enza, he is sent to hide in America. When disaster strikes Enza's family, she, too, is forced to go to America. Ciro and Enza build fledgling lives—until fate intervenes and reunites them. But it is too late: Ciro has volunteered to serve in World War I and Enza finds success in the costume department of the Metropolitan Opera House. Over time, these star-crossed lovers meet and separate, until the power of their love changes both of their lives forever. Inspired by Trigiani's own family history, The Shoemaker's Wife defines an era with operatic scope that will live on in the imagina-tions of readers for years to come. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Shoemaker's Wife By Adriana Trigiani HarperCollins Publishers Copyright © 2012 Adriana TrigianiAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-06-125710-0 Excerpt CHAPTER 1 A GOLD RING Un Anello d'oro The scalloped hem of Caterina Lazzari's blue velvet coat grazed the freshfallen snow, leaving a pale pink path on the bricks as she walked acrossthe empty piazza. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic sweep of herfootsteps, like hands dusting flour across an old wooden cutting board.All around her, the Italian Alps loomed like silver daggers against apewter sky. The rising winter sun, a pinprick of gold buried in the expanseof gray, barely flickered. In the first light of morning, dressed inblue, Caterina looked like a bird. She turned, exhaling a long breath into the cold winter air. "Ciro?" she called out. "Eduardo!" She heard her sons' laughter echo across the empty colonnade, butcouldn't place them. She surveyed the columns of the open portico. Thiswasn't a morning for hide and seek, or for playing games. She called tothem again. Her mind swam with all she had accomplished, big choresand small errands, attending to a slew of overwhelming details, documentsfiled and keys returned, all the while stretching the few lire shehad left to meet her obligations. The first stage of widowhood is paperwork. Caterina had never imagined she would be standing here alone, onthe first day of 1905, with nothing before her but the small hope of eventualreinvention. Every single promise made to her had been broken. Caterina looked up as a window on the second floor of the shoe shopopened and an old woman shook a rag rug out into the cold air. Caterinacaught her eye. The woman looked away, pulled the rug back inside, andslammed the window shut. Her younger son, Ciro, peered around one of the columns. His blue-greeneyes were the exact color of his father's, as deep and clear as thewater of Sestri Levante. At ten years old, he was a replica of Carlo Lazzari,with big hands and feet and thick sandy brown hair. He was thestrongest boy in Vilminore. When the village children went down intothe valley to collect sticks bundled to sell for kindling, Ciro always hadthe heaviest haul strapped to his back because he could carry it. Caterina felt a pang whenever she looked at him; in Ciro's face wasall she had lost and would never recover. "Here." She pointed to theground beside her black leather boot. "Now." Ciro picked up his father's leather duffel and, running to his mother,called to his brother, who hid behind the statuary. Eduardo, at eleven, resembled his mother's people, the Montini family,dark eyed, tall, and willowy. He too picked up his satchel andran to join them. At the foot of the mountain, in the city of Bergamo, where Caterinahad been born thirty-two years ago, the Montini family had set up aprinting press that churned out linen writing paper, engraved callingcards, and small books in a shop on Via Borgo Palazzo. They had ahouse and a garden. As she closed her eyes, she saw her parents sittingat an alfresco table under their grape arbor, eating ricotta and honeysandwiches on thick, fresh bread. Caterina remembered all they wereand all they had. The boys dropped their suitcases in the snow. "Sorry, Mama," Ciro said. He looked up at his mother and knew forcertain that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her skinhad the scent of peaches and felt like satin. His mother's long hair fellinto soft, romantic waves, and ever since he could remember, as he layin her arms, he had twisted a lock until it became a single shiny blackrope. "You look pretty," Ciro said earnestly. Whenever Caterina was sad,he tried to cheer her up with compliments. Caterina smiled. "Every son thinks his mother is beautiful." Hercheeks turned pink in the cold as the tip of her aquiline nose turnedbright red. "Even when she isn't." Caterina fished in her purse for a small mirror and a chamois puff.The tip of red disappeared as she powdered it. She pursed her lips andlooked down at her boys with a critical eye. She straightened Eduardo'scollar, and pulled Ciro's coat sleeve over his wrist. The coat was toosmall for him, and no amount of pulling would add the two inches atthe cuff to make it fit properly. "You just keep growing, Ciro." "I'm sorry, Mama." She remembered when she had their coats made for them, alongwith pin-cord trousers and white cotton shirts. There had been tuftedblankets in their cribs when they were born, a layette of soft cottongowns with pearl buttons. Wooden toys. Picture books. Her sons hadlong outgrown the clothes, and there was no replacing them. Eduardo had one pair of wool pants and a coat given to him by aneighbor. Ciro wore the clean but ill-fitting clothes of his father, thehems on the work pants three inches deep, tacked with ragged stitchesbecause sewing was not one of Caterina's talents. Ciro's belt wastightened on the last grommet, but still too loose to function properly."Where are we going, Mama?" Ciro asked as he followed his mother."She told you a hundred times. You don't listen." Eduardo lifted hisbrother's duffel and carried it. "You must listen for him," Caterina reminded Eduardo. "We're going to stay at the convent of San Nicola." "Why do we have to live with nuns?" Ciro complained. Caterina turned and faced her sons. They looked up at her, hopingfor an explanation that would make sense of all the mysterious goings-onof the past few days. They weren't even sure what questions to ask,or what information they needed to know, but they were certain theremust have been some reason behind Mama's strange behavior. She hadbeen anxious. She wept through the night when she thought her sonswere asleep. She had written lots of letters, more in the last week thanthey could ever remember her writing. Caterina knew that if she shared the truth, she would have failedthem. A good mother should never knowingly fail her children, notwhen she is all they have left in the world. Besides, in the years to come,Ciro would remember only the facts, while Eduardo would paint themwith a soft brush. Neither version would be true, so what did it matter?Caterina could not bear the responsibility of making every decisionalone. In the fog of grief, she had to be sensible, and think of every possiblealternative for her boys. In her mental state, she could not take careof her sons, and she knew it. She made lists of names, recalling everycontact in her family's past and her husband's, any name that might behelpful. She scanned the list, knowing many of them probably neededas much help as she did. Years of poverty had depleted the region, andforced many to move down to Bergamo and Milan in search of work. After much thought, she remembered that her father had printedmissals for every parish in the Lombardy region, and as far south asMilan. He had donated his services as an indulgence to the Holy RomanChurch, expecting no payment in return. Caterina used the old favor tosecure a place for her sons with the sisters of San Nicola. Caterina placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "Listen to me. This is the most important thing I will ever tell you.Do as you're told. Do whatever the nuns ask you to do. Do it well. Youmust also do more than they ask of you. Anticipate. Look around. Dochores before the sisters ask. "When Sister asks you to gather wood, do it immediately. Nocomplaining! Help one another - make yourselves indispensable."Chop the wood, carry it inside, and build the fire without asking.Check the damper before lighting the kindling. And when the fire isout, clean the ash pit and close the flue. Sweep up so it looks like a picture.Prepare the hearth for the next fire with dry logs and kindling. Putthe broom and the dustpan and the poker away. Don't wait for Sister toremind you. "Make yourselves useful and stay out of trouble. Be pious and pray.Sit in the front pew during mass and sit at the farthest end of the benchduring dinner. Take your portions last, and never seconds. You arethere because of their kindness, not because I could pay them to keepyou. Do you understand?" "Yes, Mama," Eduardo said. Caterina placed her hand on Eduardo's face and smiled. He put hisarm around his mother's waist and held on tight. Then she pulled Cairoclose. Her soft coat felt good against his face. "I know you can be good.""I can't," Ciro sputtered, as he pulled away from his mother's embrace,"and I won't." "Ciro." "This is a bad idea, Mama. We don't belong there," Ciro pleaded. "We have no place to stay," Eduardo said practically. "We belongwherever Mama puts us." "Listen to your brother. This is the best I can do right now. Whensummer comes, I will come up the mountain and take you home." "Back to our house?" Ciro asked. "No. Somewhere new. Maybe we'll move up the mountain to Endine." "Papa took us to the lake there." "Yes, the town with the lake. Remember?" The boys nodded that they did. Eduardo rubbed his hands togetherto warm them. They were rough and pink from the cold. "Here. Take my gloves." Caterina removed her elbow length black gloves. She helped Eduardo's hands into them, pulling them up andunder his short sleeves. "Better?" Eduardo closed his eyes; the heat from his mother's gloves traveledup his arms and through his entire body until he was envelopedin her warmth. He pushed his hair back with his hand, the scent of thebrushed cotton, clean lemon and freesia, reassuring him. "What do you have for me, Mama?" Ciro asked. "You have Papa's gloves to keep you warm." She smiled. "But youwant something of Mama's too?" "Please." "Give me your hand." Ciro pulled his father's leather glove off with his teeth. Caterina slid a gold signet ring off her smallest finger and placed iton Ciro's ring finger. "This was given to me by my papa." Ciro looked down at the ring. A swirling, artful C in an oval of heavyyellow gold gleamed in the early morning light. He closed his fist, thegold band still warm from his mother's hand. The stone facade of the convent of San Nicola was forbidding. Grandpilasters topped with statues of saints wearing expressions of hollowgrief towered over the walkway. The thick walnut door had a sharp peaklike a bishop's hat, Eduardo observed as he pushed the door open. Caterinaand Ciro followed him inside into a small vestibule. They stompedthe snow off their shoes on a mat made of woven driftwood branches. Caterina reached up and rang a small brass bell on a chain. "They're probably praying. That's all they do in here. Pray all day,"Ciro said as he peered through a crack in the door. "How do you know what they do?" Eduardo asked. The door opened. Sister Domenica looked down at the boys, sizingthem up. She was short and shaped like a dinner bell. Her black and whitehabit with a full skirt made her seem wider still. She placed her handson her hips. "I'm Signora Lazzari," Caterina said. "These are my sons. Eduardo and Ciro."Eduardo bowed to the nun. Ciro ducked his head quickly asif saying a fast prayer. Really, it was the mole on Sister's chin he wishedto pray away. "Follow me," the nun said. Sister Domenica pointed to a bench, indicating where the boysshould sit and wait. Caterina followed Sister into another room behinda thick wooden door, closing it behind her. Eduardo stared straightahead while Ciro craned his neck, looking around. "She's signing us away," Ciro whispered. "Just like Papa's saddle." "That's not true," his brother whispered back. Ciro inspected the foyer, a round room with two deep alcoves, oneholding a shrine to Mary, the Blessed Mother, and the other, to SaintFrancis of Assisi. Mary definitely had more votive candles lit at her feet.Ciro figured it meant you could always count on a woman. He took adeep breath. "I'm hungry." "You're always hungry." "I can't help it." "Don't think about it." "It's all I think about." "You have a simple mind." "No, I don't. Just because I'm strong, doesn't mean I'm stupid." "I didn't say you were stupid. You're simple." The scent of fresh vanilla and sweet butter filled the convent. Ciro closed his eyes and inhaled. He really was hungry. "Is this like the storyMama told us about the soldiers who got lost in the desert and saw awaterfall where there was none?" Ciro stood to follow the scent. Hepeered around the wall. "Or is there a cake baking somewhere?" "Sit down," Eduardo ordered. Ciro ignored him and walked down the long corridor. "Get back here!" Eduardo whispered. The walnut doors along the arcade were closed, and streams offaint light came through the overhead transoms. At the far end of thehallway, through a glass door, Ciro saw a cloister connecting the mainconvent to the workhouses. He ran down the arcade toward the light.When he made it to the door, he looked through the glass and saw abarren patch of earth, probably a garden, hemmed by a dense gnarl ofgray fig trees dusted with snow. (Continues...) Excerpted from The Shoemaker's Wife by Adriana Trigiani . Copyright © 2012 by Adriana Trigiani. Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Squaring the Circle: The War between Hobbes and Wallis (Science and Its Conceptual Foundations series)

About the Author Douglas M. Jesseph is assistant professor of philosophy at North Carolina State University.