Review: Pope Joan by Donna Woolfolk Cross

Was there a female pope as has been claimed in several historical books about her reign or is Pope Joan merely a hoax perpetrated on the Catholic church for some unknown reason? Donna Woolfolk Cross took what little she could find and turned the information into a novel.

Pope Joan is a historical novel about Joan from Ingelheim, a young girl who hungered for learning and was denied by her father, and the time in which she lived, because she was female. A Greek teacher recognized her intelligence and refused to teach Joan's brother John unless Joan was included, and this pattern continued until fate offered her a chance to change things by assuming her brother's name and gender. John was massacred during a Viking raid on the day of Joan's contracted marriage. Since she was the ward of a local landowner, whose wife was jealous of Joan's relationship with her husband, Joan had to go and in a way that would destroy all her hopes of a different life as an educated woman.

The 9th century was the darkest of the Middle Ages. Few people, even among the clergy, could read or write and women were meant to cook, sew, clean, and bear children, as many children as their bodies would accommodate. Many women, from the age of 14, were given in marriage and were pregnant every year. Many children were stillborn and even more never grew up to become productive citizens. It was believed that a female who could read and write used up all her fertile energy and could not bear children. It is the reverse of the modern joke that men have only enough blood in their bodies to run one brain at a time, except this was no joke, but the way society perceived women as chattel and baby factories.

Donna Woolfolk Cross uses her research skills and her background in writing nonfiction to infuse Pope Joan with as much fast as was available and considerable fictional skills to bring the times and Joan to life. The longing to be able to read and write and knowing the only obstacle in the way is one's gender is one that will resonate with many women even in today's world. To be hampered by biology is unthinkable to someone who hungers for more -- more books, more languages, more learning, and more life as a being with reason and intelligence. In this, Cross has hit all the right notes, even down to the internal war of wanting physical love at the peril of being unmasked as a fraud.

Pope Joan is a novel that encompassed the historical truths while offering a glimpse of the sacrifices made in the name of equality and knowledge. Pope Joan is the story of female empowerment at a time when women had no power and the only way to realize such lofty dreams was to hide what they were in order to choose knowledge and freedom. Many women throughout this period, and in other times in the history of the world, have donned masculine disguise to hide their perceived inadequacies and prove that the only inadequate thing about them is the society in which they live. Although Joan lived more than a thousand years ago, her story is as powerful today as it ever was.

The Catholic church has long denied the existence of a female pope, even while many of the popes who followed her acknowledge her existence and her contributions. I find it most telling that it was not until after Pope Joan's sex was undeniably proven that future popes must be publicly examined in order to prove they are male. There was no need before Pope Joan since no other woman had made it so far.

Cross's historical novel is as wonderful as it is shocking and all the more timely when women's rights and place in society is at peril. How many women in today's world are willing to sacrifice everything to realize their dreams? After reading Pope Joan, they may find the sacrifice worth the prize. With solid historical details and an understanding of the complexities of the human heart, Pope Joan is an outstanding novel for our times.

Review: The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova

Who has not thought about Dracula, Vlad Tepes III, killer of Turks and purported vampire? Bram Stoker certainly did when he wrote his novel, Dracula, and that book has inspired the legions of writers currently churning out vampire novels by the thousands. There are vampires conflicted about their undead and unholy state, vampires seeking redemption and trying to find a way back to the light, vampire rock stars, vampires of every stripe and depth of evil, and Dracula even makes cameo appearances in some of these fantasies. The Historian is not that kind of novel.

Like Bram Stoker's Dracula, Elizabeth Kostova's venture into Vlad III's past is also an epistolary novel. All the action centers on a family: the father, a historian writing his dissertation, and Helen, a woman seeking revenge on the man who left her mother alone and pregnant in Transylvania. Helen Rossi is also a historian who began as an anthropologist and then decided to outdo her famous father in his own field of history, and their daughter searching for her missing father through his work. In Kostova's realm, there are stories within stories within stories.

At the heart of the tale is Vlad Tepes III, King of Wallachia and knight of the Order of the Dragon. The Historian is an adventure that takes the reader through history's archives and libraries to find his resting place before he finds them. In some ways, The Historian is much like The da Vinci Code, taking its cues from actual historical documents, but with a much darker purpose. Ancient books with a dragon woodcut at the center of each appears to Rossi, Paul, and several other historians, bringing with it a challenge and a threat. Each of the books is an invitation from Vlad, a historical come hither that begs to be answered.

Bartholomew Rossi's disappearance brings Paul and Helen together for very different reasons. Helen wants to face the father that left her mother and Paul wants to find his mentor and his friend. The search for Rossi is also the search for Vlad, for Dracula's final resting place and time is of the essence.

Paul and Helen's travels begin in America and follow the footsteps of history to Constantinople, Wallachia, Transylvania, Hungary, France, Italy, England, Bulgaria and use actual historical documents. The chase is thrilling and the tales of loss, love, and horror palpably real. History has never been so dangerous or thrilling.

If you're looking for vampire sex and conflicted heroes, this is not the book for you. If you are a  student of history or find dusty archives and clues hidden in folk songs and crumbling vellum or fancy yourself an adventurer with a detective's keen insight, The Historian is the book for you. As a debut novel, Elizabeth Kostova has set the bar very high for every book that follows, and I think she is equal to the task.

I will add that I began the book last year and had to put it down because I was so affected by the scene in Turgut Bora's room. The descriptions left me with nightmares for days and I decided to take a break. When the E-book finally became available in a more realistic (and cheaper) cost, I decided to buy it and take the story from there. The Historian is one of those books in which one more chapter becomes half the book. There is nothing dull or lethargic at any point in the novel. This is literary art with fangs that sink deeply and will not let go--even at the end of the tale.

Review: The Life of Cesare Borgia by Rafael Sabatini

Since there are now a couple of cable series about the Borgias, The Borgias on Showtime and Borgia: Faith and Fear, I have had a look at what most of the world thinks about the Borgias. Everyone knows that Lucrezia Borgia was a poisoner without peer and I seem to remember she was involved The Shaggy Dog, something about a painting of her and a ring that turned a teenage boy into a shaggy dog and eventually into a shaggy D.A., but that is as far as my knowledge went.

Cesare Borgia intrigued me, not only because he was a handsome and charismatic man, at least on The Borgias, but because he died so young. Yes, I do surf Wikipedia while watching shows because I want to know the truth. I did it quite often while caught up in The Tudors. I chose The Life of Cesare Borgia by Rafael Sabatini and I'm glad I did -- mostly. There was so much about Roderigo (Pope Alexander VI) than about Cesare, but Cesare was in there.

Sabatini goes to great lengths to provide proof for his history and dispells the myths and bad press the Borgias have had at the hands of historians over the centuries. Someone died and immediately, even if the death was a month or more later and the Borgias far from the scene of the death on their own business, the murdered was slain by the Borgias' special poison. Right, get that one through a court of law, except there was no court of law and no charges were brought, just a lot of innuendo and carping.

Cesare Borgia was a handsome, athletic, well formed man with tons of charisma, much like his father, Roderigo. He chafed at being a cardinal and gave up the religious life for a life of the warrior, the position his brother held until he died. Roderigo meant Cesare for the church and Juan for soldiering, and he mostly got his way, except in the end with Cesare.

Sabatini lays all the accusations of murder to rest, as much as possible, and paints a very different picture of Cesare and the rest of the Borgias. Cesare was a man of quick intelligence and a master of warfare. The people loved him and many of his conquests welcomed him with open arms and the keys to the cities. He helped his father bring most of Italy back under the control of the papal state and did so with dispatch and ingenuity. He wasn't above mercy and many of the tyrants he overthrew were allowed to leave the area with their portable wealth and goods, except in a couple of cases. The Life of Cesare Borgia is a well researched look at the Borgias that puts the family and their actions in the perspective of the times and shows that they indeed were good people whose ambitions led them to the highest levels of society with a trail of jealous and vengeful colleagues and detractors bent on destroying the Spanish pope and his family.

I found The Life of Cesare Borgia heavy on proof and history and a bit light on anything more than fact about Cesare. This is a book for those interested in the history of the time and its people who aren't looking for a book with lots of action and characterization. These are the facts, just the facts, with strong proofs that paint a very different picture of the family and Cesare. I find I like Cesare and all the Borgias much better even with my gut instinct that the Borgias have been the victims of a centuries long smear campaign.

Review: Rules of Civility by Amor Towles

A depression era novel that is chaotic and joyful.

 Katya “Katey” Kontent (that’s Kon-TENT as in content as a purring cat) comes from a Russian family and seems to be the only one of her family to have made it to the Great Depression intact. She has a partner in crime, one Evelyn “Eve” Ross, who is blonde perfection from the Midwest running away from her wealthy family and their expectations (marriage, kids, farm) and determined to make it on her own.

 When Katey and Eve descend on a low rent club New Year’s Eve 1937, they cross paths with Theodore “Tinker” Grey, ostensibly looking for his brother Hank, and begin a threesome that will change all their lives.

 It would seem to be a strange choice to base a novel on George Washington’s 110 Rules of Civility, but this is a strange novel, a comedy of errors with little comedy and quite a few errors. Amor Towles takes his characters through the tail end of the Great Depression when booze flowed freely, everyone smoked, and no one really knew where they were headed . . . at first. Take two poor young women (one by choice and the other by birth) determined to have a good time during one of the most chaotic and free wheeling times of the early twentieth century and add one rich and handsome young man from old money and a secret in his past, that is not so secret, and errors will follow.

Gate crashing at wealthy homes where the booze is free, jazz clubs in the wee hours, car crashes, blighted romantic triangles, sex and the single wealthy woman with unusual tastes, and love doing someone wrong and those are just the high points of Rules of Civility. A handy guide at the end of the book lists the rules that Washington tried to live his life by, and a handy guide it is for Tinker and for Katey, both of whom seem not to be able to get out of their own way.

Towles infuses jazz age novel with the brash and carefree attitude that the twenty-something on their madcap way to something different from what their parents intended for them much like the movies during that pre-war era when Prohibition was out and the frantic life was in. Katey and Eve are one half of the famous foursome of Sex and the City and they did it first. It is as if Towles intended to show New York City as it is and has always been with youth at the helm.

 Men come and go, but Tinker remains, at least on the sidelines and in Katey’s heart, like a thread of melody in a symphony reminiscent of its humbler origins.

 “Some people are born with the ability to appreciate the serene and formally structured music like Bach and Handel. They can sense the abstract beauty of the music’s mathematical relationships, its symmetries and motifs. But Dicky wasn’t one of them.”

It is through Dicky and his affinity for the seeming chaos of jazz and his inability, despite his money and opportunities, to toe the upper crust line, that Katey faces the reality of what she wanted from the beginning and threw aside.

Rules of Civility isn’t Handel or Bach. It is jazz and booze and free love and the desire to be something better, something more, something new, in a New York City that changes its face but never its heart. This is the Great Depression of jazz babies cruising through the morass of youth to the next summit 

Guest Post: D. Kai Wilson-VIola

Reading and writing – hand in hand, refilling the well
One of the major things that I’ve discovered is that if I don’t read, I can’t write.  So it’s absolutely mystifying when I speak to writers who tell me they don’t have time to read any more.  Or even more astounding – those that don’t read ‘at all’.  And while I respect that there are probably good reasons for it, I can’t get my head around the idea that writers aren’t reading – beyond the obvious stuff on social networking and blogs and newspapers and more.
Reading when you don’t have time
There’s no such thing as ‘no time’, unless, from the moment you open your eyes, until you fall into bed in a heap, you’re on the go.  Many writers that I speak to tell me that they’re picking up their kids, and then talk about the half an hour they waited for their children – or the ten minutes in the queue at the post office.  I read!  I’ve got an app on my phone, and if I know I’m going to be somewhere with any wait, I grab one of my tablets.  I’m lucky – I have a Kindle Fire and an iPad, plus the Kindle app on my phone (and Audible too!)  so I’ve always got something to read (and something to amuse my kids if we’re travelling), but if you can’t do that for any reason, there’s nothing wrong with taking a paperback with you – it’s the act of reading itself that’s important. 
Why?  Because directing your imagination and actually experiencing the events that someone else has created is the single best way to formulate and understand how to do something similar yourself.
Really dissecting a piece, to see why it works, and why it might not is good for your critical skills  and most importantly – it gives you a chance to experience and enjoy something else.
Studies show….
Reading fiction is good for you – not only does it lower stress levels (yes, I know; it doesn’t always feel like that when we’re rooting for a character!) but it teaches you to cope with and explore ambiguity – at least according to a study by two researchers from Toronto.  Literary short stories in this case, but I’m sure it extends to reading in general.
Anecdotally, but those that read more in class on my degree in Creative Writing seemed to cope better with the workload and create the best stories, and, at the end of the day, got the best grades.  I’m not sure what would have happened if we’d have said that we don’t read on the course, but we were encouraged to devour books whole, and so we did.  I held down a full time job as a copywriter, parented two children, ran a house AND did a 40 hour a week degree, and still fit in reading time – it might not have been much (in the bath, or in bed in the morning before everyone else got up) but it was doable.
Never have, never will?  Seriously?
I totally get the idea that we’ve got to make sure that our time is allotted properly, but aside from considering reading as a downtime pursuit, you can also make it double duty – research your genre, relax your mind, learn and find things that resonate with your voice.  It doesn’t have to be a chore – reading is fun.  And yet, I still encounter writers, all the time, who say that it’s not something they’re interested in even doing.
At the end of the day though, if all you’re doing is writing, and not refilling your writerly well (however you do it) you’re going to struggle – but I do think that anyone that isn’t reading isn’t doing themselves any favors.  And as writers, we have to make sure we’re preserving and protecting everything we can, and giving ourselves every tool and opportunity to be a success.
And if you really can’t face reading – Audible is about the same cost as a couple of eBooks a month  and you can listen to that anywhere, with the right equipment.  Most phones support it now, as do all of the major tablets/computers.

D Kai Wilson-Viola is a long-time blogger, writer, parent, photographer, graduate, mental health advocate and cat lover.  When not writing, editing or holding down a day job in Public Relations, she can be found offering advice on her groups and sites, reading or chasing her teen and tween and two cats.  You can read all about her adventures in publishing and writing at Author Interrupted or Language and Print.
Image credit – Mourgefile - http://mrg.bz/Pz2WNc

Review: Travels in Elysium by William Azuski

When someone tells you nothing is as it seems, believe them. They are telling you the truth.

Nicholas Pedrosa comes to Santorini on an archaeological dig, his first dig fresh out of university. Greece is under the control of dictators, the Colonels, but Santorini and the work done there is far from their control -- or so the archaeologists believe. Marcus Huxley is leading the dig and has surrounded himself with a group of like-minded individuals, emotional and spiritual orphans, following Huxley's lead from Sais to Santorini to find the answer to Plato's Conundrum.

Did Atlantis exist and has Huxley found it on Santorini? Only time will tell and Nico Pedrosa tells the story from his point of view. There could be a different reason for Huxley's disregard for archaeological protocol and his race to find the reason behind the empty homes found on one of the hills.

A volcano exploded in antiquity and the homes emerged from the pumice and ash in pristine shape. The paintings on the walls were as fresh as the day they were painted. Kitchens were neatly arranged with pots and pans stowed away. There were no signs that anyone lived in the homes during the eruption. Why were they empty? Where were the bones and the ash entombed bodies? Where were the people?

Nothing is as it seems.

The search for Atlantis is at the center of every culture and time since Plato's Dialogue with Critias.  At the heart of Travels in Elysium it is Plato's Conundrum that is at the center of the story.  Why did Plato end the dialogue in the middle of the sentence? William Azuski offers a running debate on that very question throughout his book.

While the story is off like a rocket at the beginning, it slows down to a crawl like a snail frozen in its slime trail at the middle and continues on, picking up again at the last third of the book and rushing to its conclusion. It helps to keep in mind that nothing about Travels in Elysium is what it seems just as it is also true of Marcus Huxley and the search for Atlantis, except that Huxley is not searching for Atlantis. He has another prize in mind.

What Azuski does very well is create a compelling premise, peopled with memorable characters (living and dead), and sets forth his own dialogue as a philosophical treatise disguised as an adventure. Travels in Elysium is as frustrating as it is rewarding and, despite the need to go haring off after White Lighters -- people who were clinically dead and returned to life -- everything has its place in the story. It is, however, easier to understand Huxley's obsession with finding his truth than to find the key that unlocks Azuski's fantasy until the final page.

Azuski's writing is steeped in philosophy, embroidered with metaphor, and suffers from middle of the book doldrums. Travels in Elysium is surprising and engaging -- and very frustrating at points -- but well worth the read.

Keep one thing in mind: Nothing -- and no one -- is what it seems.

Review: The Night Buffalo by Guillermo Arriaga

When the earwigs swim through your blood, the night buffalo isn’t far behind.

 Gregorio was just released from the hospital again. Manuel went to see him, unsure whether or not their friendship remained, and went home again certain he had been forgiven. That night Gregorio’s sister, Margarita, called Manuel. Gregorio was dead. Suicide. And Tania had disappeared.

Throughout their school years, Gregorio, Tania and Manuel were close. They were friends and more than friends. Tania was the glue that kept them together and the chisel and hammer that tore them apart. Tania was Gregorio’s girlfriend. Tania was also Manuel’s lover, although she could not be Gregorio’s lover. Gregorio was unable to perform with her, afraid to infect her with his madness, with his disease.

Manuel needs to find understanding. He needs to find comfort. He needs to find the sense of Gregorio’s senseless suicide and make sense of Gregorio’s message from beyond the grave. He needs to find Tania.

Guillermo Arriaga is primarily a film maker and his ventures into fiction showcase his cinematic sensibilities.  In The Night Buffalo he uses language in visual long shots and close-ups that define and refine the idea and the definition of madness in relationships.

In each scene Arriaga both informs and confuses the tangled relationships of the central characters, offering conclusions that never quite bridge the gap between sanity and insanity, imparting a sense of surreal hyper reality. Although the characters seem at first glance ordinary and nothing special, their stories and relationships common clay, throughout the narrative there runs a subtext that dances the razor’s edge of insanity until the fine line between reality and fantasy is so blurred as to be unrecognizable. In between is a no man’s land that reaches out and pulls the reader closer. The Night Buffalo is a stark and engaging tale of madness that leaves the reader wondering about the true nature of sanity and love and the nature of existence. 

Review: In the Valley of the Kings by Terrence Holt

A collection of confusing, wondrous and breathtaking stories.

Drawing from Greek mythology, Egyptian archaeology, science fiction and apocalyptic flights of fancy, Terrence Holt stories delve into the hearts and minds of what it means to be human. Among the eight stories, Holt weaves the threads of loss and fear and takes them from dusty and arid Egypt to the rings of Saturn. No matter where the stories lead, one thing is evident: humanity is a constant.

A viral plague born from a word begins the collected tales and shows the inadequacy and mystery of newspapers and the words that bring people to the brink of destruction and set them free.

Charybdis subjects an outbound spaceship crew to the dangers and uncertainties of space culminating in three men dealing with impending doom in three very different ways. In what could have been a maudlin tale, Holt makes each man’s choice not only logical, but also right.

I expected In the Valley of the Kings to be a straightforward archaeological mystery and was rewarded with obsession, immortality, and the price of intelligence. The story is infused with a subtle horror that thrills as it chills the blood.

 

There is nothing more unexpected than science fiction elevated to a search for the soul and the meaning of what it is to be human. Aurora and Eurydike are sublime in their exploration of death and resurrection. The writing transcends genre labeling with poetic precision and a sense of the macabre that is as fascinating as it is mesmerizing.

Of all the stories, my favorite was Apocalypse. Although the reason for the End isn’t clearly stated, the sense of impending doom and the indomitable capacity for hope had me riveted. The beginning of the story is slow and almost desultory, building to a climax that has nothing to do with catastrophe. Holt’s storytelling skills are magical, sounding a deep resonant chord that left me with tears and smiles.

The stories are complex and masterful, making use of repetitive phrases and swirling flights of lyrical prose that borders on poetry, windows into the psyche that exhibit the basics of storytelling—to fascinate and enlighten.

The Politics of Wrestling

When we first came back to America from 3 years in Panama, I sat in my grandfather's living room and watched wrestling with him. I was introduced to the spectacle and the emotionalism of men battling men in the squared circle, which is what they called the wrestling ring. I saw Flying Fred Curry take down Ivan the Terrible Koloff and Ray "The Blonde Bomber" Stevens take down Ed "The Iron Sheikh" Farhat. World politics fought on TV every Saturday night. As international politics changed, so did the names of the wrestlers, but it was always Americans taking on the world -- and sometimes losing because of dirty tricks.

I was caught up in the spectacle and the cheered loudly for my heroes. I fell in and out of the wrestling scene as puberty and dating and marriage took first place in my life, but on long lonely nights when my husband was overseas or working nights, I found wrestling again. The names had changed, but there were always villains to boo and heroes to root for.

The Hulk was one of my favorites and, despite his flash, Randy "The Macho Man" Savage took my fancy. The Freebirds, a tag team wrestling trio, spawned love and hate, and the grudge matches always got attention. The name keep changing, but the tactics are the same. There are villains and heroes large as life on the screen, but it's all a fake. It's entertainment. Of course, I don't say that out loud where the World Wrestling Federation is popular among the people. I'd be booed and hissed at, possibly beaten about the head and ears, and maybe ridden out of town on a rail. I would hope the people would think me an elitist bitch and maybe pelt me with rotten fruit and vegetables as they urged me to get back into my car and drive as fast as possible for the state line.

I know it's all a fake. I know that the canvas the battle on isn't going to damage anyone. Necks will not be broken and heads will not be cracked. Wrestlers that perfected the back breaker don't break anyone's back. It's all an act. I've seen some of these mortal enemies having a drink after the match. They're friends. They'd have to be to hold up their part of the deals struck behind the scenes. But don't tell the rubes. They believe in all of that.

And so do we to a certain extent. We want to believe it's all true, that those men in the ring are fighting for truth, justice, and the American way -- just like Superman. Wrestling is the modern myth, the new age fairy tale, and it's not much different from politics.

I remember the screaming rage that sounded around the country when it was revealed that John McCain, Obama's political opposite, had had dinner at the White House with the President. How is that possible? They're enemies? They fought each other on TV and radio and in political rallies all across the country. They threw down and drew lines in the sand and dared each other to cross them.

Even more bitterly fought was the war that has been battled in streets all around the country since Obama first tossed his political hat in the ring. People believed in Obama's "Yes, we can!" speeches and they believe in them still, in spite of what has happened in the 5 years since he took office. People still believe that Obama is on their side and working against his political enemies in a no holds barred fight to the death and they support him all the way.

It's all a sham. It's entertainment for the masses while the real deals are brokered behind the scenes as each side takes their cues from the deals being struck. Today it's the Far Right Republicans taking the fall and tomorrow, or even later today, it will be Obama's political tag team taking their licks as news about how our freedoms and rights are being undermined as wire tapping and the IRS investigate groups in secret. It's all wrestling good enough for the WWF title belts.

It's no longer about what is good for the country or the people who elected these people. It's about power and prestige and money, lots of money. Where else could you see evil like Ivan "the Terrible" Koloff" or The Iron Sheikh attack Flying Fred Curry or The Hulk from behind and get away with it? We accept that evil exists in the wrestling ring and it will win sometimes, usually by playing dirty, but we know in our hearts the good guys will eventually beat the evil back and walk away victorious.

Not so in the Congressional and Oval Office wrestling ring. In that ring, Wall Street can drive the Dow Jones up to the sky and then pull out the pins and watch it fall while they rake in the billions, and then walk away with the money after having trashed the ring. They may lose their jobs, but they will still be wealthy and the little people who took them at their word will still be broke and their houses gone. The IRS will make sure of it as they sell it all off to pay the taxes.

What Obama and the rest of the politicians want you to think is that it's about health care and fiscal cliffs and national debt. It's not. All of that is part of the show. It's about keeping the people fighting each other while they make their back room deals and keep the audience high on righteous rage and fear that. It's about keeping all eyes on the men in the ring when the outcome is a foregone conclusion.

And few people will believe it.

I can already feel the rotten fruit and vegetables being readied as I run the gauntlet for the line.

Don't be fooled. It's all entertainment. And we are the ones paying for the tickets while the wrestlers take their bows and the villains this week snarl and bare their teeth in their fiercest villainous sneers. You may hate them today, but they will turn up in a few months or next year as the good guys. Villains come and go, but Congress and the Oval Office are here to stay.

How long before the American people wise up and realize it's all bitter rivalries in the wrestling ring and champagne after the match between these friends?

The Thing About Time

Forty years ago today I officially graduated from high school. Forty years ago. Today. I graduated high school.

No matter how many times I say those words -- or write them -- it doesn't seem quite real. It's more real to be 40 years old and looking at pictures of myself as a child, but not this.

I've never had a problem telling people how old I am. I am 58 years old. It's a number. My oldest son will be 40 in November on Veterans Day. My boys are on the down side of 30 and sliding head first into 40. None of that gives me pause or makes me feel older, so why does this day that is 40 years from the day I graduated from high school throw me for a loop? I would've thought that children who are middle-aged would have done the trick, but no. It didn't.

One of my school friends told me that he fears the mirror. Seeing pictures of our classmates then and now is also unnerving. I see those pictures with the women in orthopedics sandals and wearing white socks frightneing. When did they get so old? Men going blad doesn't bother me; I like bald men. Well, most bald men. It's like sex. There are men who should sprint over to the toupee maker or Hair for Men and cover that up. They don't have the head for it.

Pot bellies, sagging breasts, breasts that look like the prow of a battle ship (and that's on the men), and all the changes that time and living have wrought over my classmates shocks me to my core. When I look in the mirror I don't see those ravages, but then I don't mind having gray hair or a few wrinkles around my eyes -- crow's feet -- or any of the other changes that have left their marks on me. I also don't have to see me from the outside. It's probably best I don't. I've no idea what traumascars that would leave me with and I'm not as resilient as I once was. 

Forty years ago I left high school behind and faced boldly into the winds of change, shouldering the welcome burden of adulthood, and smilig that smile I always smile when I'm unsure of my ground. I kept thinking, "This is what I wanted to give up my childhood for? What was I thinking?"

Childbirth was easy, but easy the way the first time you jump out of an airplane with a silk parachute strapped to you back and lived is easy. The second time around is always harder and I remember how much I wanted to get up off the labor bed and walk away without giving birth a second or a third time. I wanted the parasite struggling to rip through me to go away, much like John Hurt wished the alien ripping through his chest would go away. The fourth time was easy; I was out and the doctor left me with a tiny hairline silver scar and my hip bones didn't ache with the memory of pushing that basketball through a Meyer lemon-sized hole behind. I woke up and a few hours later I had another son. What could be easier? My body healed and the scar was virtually invisible. It was a walk in the park. Two o'clock feedings were a breeze and I went back to work within a week. I was tougher in those days. Now I just think I'm tougher.

The results are much less tough. I have to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom at least once and I haven't slept 8 solid hours in far too long. My feet swell, my joints crack, and I ache some mornings when I've slept wrong. But how can I sleep wrong? I sleep on a pillow on the same side of the bed I've always slept on and the bed is comfortable. What was wrong about that? Oh, yes, I'm older now and things don't spring back the way they once did.

Then I listen to Beanie whingeing about how she can't hold a cross stitch needle any more because of her arthritis. She has ulcers and her scotty dogs (the vertebrae at the base of her spine) don't line up, which may be incipient scoliosis (curvature of the spine -- Gram and Aunt Joan had it), and she has another migraine to top it off. She's 10 years younger than I am and she's a whole lot worse off.

Or maybe she's not.

I think I may handle pain better than she does. I've had lots of practice -- basketballs and Meyer lemon sized holes. I had 2 more children than she did and I fell from a very high tree into a jungle, ripped open the back of my left arm, and walked away. Talk about resilient.

But I can't put my legs behind my head any more. I can only get one leg up to my shoulder. I can't lie on my stomach or the hernia the hysterectomy left behind, which was fixed and recurred, will end up twisting my intestines into knots and surgery will be my next stop.

At least I don't get migraines -- or headaches very often. The Achilles tendons at my heels are stiff first thing in the morning, but that soon goes away the more I walk. I waddle until the stiffness and the pain go away, but then my gait is smooth again.

Okay, so I judge the length of the walk before I take it. I don't run around doing errands the way I once did, not before figure out how many of them I can lump together to save myself time  -- and energy. I'm more willing to hire someone to clean out the gutters (I haven't been good with heights since I fell out of that tree in Panama) and clip the hedge and rake the leaves (good thing I live surrounding by a parking lot). I think before I look and then reconsider the leap. That's not getting older. That's being smart -- for a change.

The good thing is that I no longer worry about who I piss off. No matter what I do or how carefully I phrase things, I know I am going to make someoen angry. So what? They'll be angry no matter what or how I say it, so I say, "Damn! the torpedoes. Full speed ahead." I have finally achieved my ultimate goal. I am a salty old broad. (Broad being the operative word.)

Okay, so 40 years ago I graduated high school. My hair went silver and then began going back to brown. It's in the middle ground between brown and gray. I've learned a lot, lived a lot, and earned some crow's feet and scars. I'm less inclined to be gullible and have become a touch more cynical. I move carefully first thing in the morning and don't sleep all night. But I have traveled and seen life and experienced much of what is out there.

I have lived.

And that's the trick. I'm still here. In another 40 years, I may be the only person showing up for my 80th high school class reunion. At least I will be even more comfortable with myself by then.

Life has a way of surprising us. The biggest surprise is that when you reach the 40th high school class reunion, inside you feel much the same. You're trapped by time and maybe infirmity, but inside you're still the taut-skinned, full haired, lithe, and flexible you that walked across the stage and accepted the paper that meant you had graduated. You survived the high school years and were ready to embark on the journey of adult life.

Yep, we were taken for a ride.

Where Are the Women?

Unless a top 10 list is derived from actual statistics, it's not worth worrying about, especially when it comes to books.

The latest top 10 is 10 science fiction novels you pretend to have read.... The compilers of this list go on to list their reasons why you should have read these books. The basic premise is that if you pretend to have read these books and haven't it's because you are trying to be something you're not. The last time I saw an illustration of this elitist philosophy was in the remake of Born Yesterday in which Melanie Griffith (before all the cosmetic surgery that left her needing a mask that covered her from head to toe) actually read a huge tome that was all the rage in Washington D.C. At a party, she began discussing the book with people who hadn't read the book but pretended they did because it was the in thing to do. And here she comes to the party to discuss this most essential book on politics or economics or something very Washington D.C. and she was alone without anyone to discuss what she read. Isn't that always the way?

The link above lists books I've not heard of, although there are books I have read, like Dune by Frank Herbert (and I read the entire series), 1984 by George Orwell, which I recently read and am willing to discuss -- and often do), and Jonathan Strange & Dr. Norrell, which I began and just could not get into. What was the point of the book? I couldn't figure out whether or not there was a story or how far into the massive doorstop I'd have to tunnel before I got to it and gave up. Good thing it was a library book and all I had to do was return it and pay the fines. The other books I don't think I've ever heard about.

The list is arbitrary. How about my own list of 10 books you should read? How about any of Andre Norton's books, especially her Witch World series where the war between the sexes really was fought and a society that was essentially equal, until all the men went and ruined it, split apart and women took over rule after fleeing their native country over the mountains and sealing the mountains behind them and setting spells to make sure no one could even think about that direction? Now that is a great trick. People know north, south, and west, but there was no east and no one thought about it or considered it strange until Simon Tregarth came through the Siege Perilous and found himself in the midst of their world. Oh, Karsten and Alizon were still mostly male ruled, but the Witches of Estcarp kept them at bay. Then there were the Falconers who resemble a more militant and misogynistic society where the the females ran their villages and male children were taken away when they came of age to join the men in their mountain eyries and bond with a falcon that would be their mate, except for time to go to the villages to breed, for the rest of their lives. Now that is a separatist society. Add magic and the evils of technology that brings a loss of self and soul and which the Witches constantly battled and you have a complex and intricate world where the coming of triplets from a Witch forsworn who lost her virginity but did not lose her power mated with Simon Tregarth and you have interesting times coming.

Then there is the Pliocine Exile books by Julian May who weaves a world of telepaths and telekinetics that jumps time back and forth and creates a future that sees a time where you can be Unified or not and how that affects the worlds that bind their minds together in harmony. This is a universe filled with anomalies and possibilities that bred Bodiless Jack and Diamond Mask and it all began with a group of telepaths that fled to the Pliocine era of Earth to escape Unity. Lots of complexities and adventures there, not to mention a great deal about politics, science, technology, and minds capable of massacre and beauty.

Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover series is another good choice. The world of Darkover was a world in chaos and at the mercy of minds and telepathic/telekinetic abilities that nearly destroyed them until they signed the pact and chose to fight each other eye to eye and hand to hand with swords. Seeing a world where power was used for good until some bright group of powerful individuals decided to see how far they could go and how it nearly destroyed them, and then their climb back from the brink until discovered by humans is a masterful work. The people of Darkover living side by side with humans and their advanced technology is a lesson in human and humanoid nature.

That's just the start of my list. Yes, there are three women there, something that was missing from the 10 science fiction novels you pretend to read to fit into some elitist group of society. Let's not forget Ursula K. Le Guin and the many worlds and civilizations and worlds she created and continues to create. My first thought is The Left Hand of Darkness and Madeleine L'Engle and A Wrinkle in Time for starters. There's also C. J. Cherryh. The first of her books I read was Down Below Station and it was very good. How about the Petaybee series by Anne McCaffrey and Elizabeth Ann Scarborough? Anne McCaffrey created the world where dragons and human riders were paired and fought Thread and then added smaller dragons that everyone could join with and later on included dolphins. Now that was a world to be explored and enjoyed and the intricacies of their society as it devolved from a technological world to a world more like medieval times where dragons and humans protected all is a study in politics and economics that cannot be easily forgotten.

Elizabeth Ann Scarborough also wrote some wonderful fantasies based on Scandinavian myths and folklore very much like Terry Brooks and his Shannara series and just as good, and sometimes better, although I enjoyed Brooks's books as well, cutting my teeth on Sword of Shannara.

I'd have to say that my top 10 list would be mostly composed of female writers, not because they're better or more inventive, but because they have been slighted by the people who think they matter. There is a world full of wonderful science fiction, hard and soft, written by women, many of whom chose to go by their initials or take on male names to be recognized and accepted, as if having a penis is the only real criteria for who and what are best in science fiction.

Here are a few names for you: Octavia Butler, Doris Lessing, Margaret Atwood (although she prefers not to be called a science fiction author), Nancy Kress, Lois Bujold, and Catherine Asaro to name a few.

Take another look and try some of these books. You won't be sorry. The real test is in stretching the limits of one's mind -- or prejudices -- and realizing there is no need to go back to a more myopic and less rich view of science fiction and the world.

Mediocre in Comparison

Ben Hur was on my movie watching list this weekend and I relived the days of yore when William Wyler directed Charlton Heston and Stephen Boyd in their epic grudge match. Aside from realizing that Charlton Heston was wearing a really bad wig and beard as a rower in the bowels of Roman galleys, the movie still thrilled me. Maybe it was the music. It could've been knowing that the villa where Heston and his family stayed during the filming of Ben Hur was crawling with lice, as the Italian scandal sheets claims, or that Stephen Boyd nearly went blind during the filming because he had to wear two pairs of brown contacts to hide his brilliant blue eyes. It was mainly because the musical score stirred my emotions almost as much as watching Judah ben Hur and Messala fight it out in the circus as they took their grudge match to the circus and fought it out with their chariots. The movie holds up even after more than 50 years.

As Amazon always does, they suggested more movies for me to watch and I was surprised to find a remake of Ben Hur of a more recent vintage. The remake starred Joseph Morgan (The Vampire Diaries) and Stephen Campbell Moore (Hunted and He Knew He Was Right) and was a miniseries made for TV in 2010, which is probably how I missed it before. I don't watch TV. I haven't even turned on my TV in 3 or 4 years. I do dust it infrequently, but I don't turn it on. I think the batteries in the remote are likely corroded as well. Oh, well.

Anyway, I watched the remake. There is a grittier look to the movie and it is a much smaller scale in terms of story and scenery. There are also a lot of changes made to Lew Wallace's 1883 novel, which I am in the process of reading. I want to know exactly what was changed and how. I do know that Cecil B. DeMille's version of the book with Heston and Boyd was much closer to the original story, and to the first time DeMille made the movie with Ramon Novarro. (Yes, I have seen the older version.)

For starters, there was lots of nudity, male and female, and there was sex, quite a bit of sex, but only with Messala's father's personal whore, Athene, who was also adept at the art of poisoning. After all, how is a senator like Marcellus Agrippa supposed to ascend to power without poison adept whores who  gain access to a rival's bed so he can whisper state secrets in the afterglow of sex? A man is less able to think clearly once his interest has been aroused -- and sated.

Where Heston's Judah was chaste and focused on revenge, Morgan's Judah loses his virginity to Athene and continues to bed her, especially since she taught him how to please her so fully.

Instead of Esther being a slave and Judah's property, she is the daughter of the merchant Simonides. Simonides wishes to form a more lasting alliance by betrothing Esther to Judah. Big difference there, and one I'm sure was not in Wallace's book, not to mention Simonides being crucified in Judah's place after the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, played simperingly by Hugh Bonneville (Downton Abbey), who is struck by the falling tile Judah knocked from the roof of his home. Oops! I thought it was Tirzah who knocked loose the tile while Judah took the blame. Guess not -- at least not in the miniseries.

I could go on for at least another 10,000 words explaining the differences between the 1959 and the 2010 versions of the movie. What I noticed most is that Morgan and Moore looked more like boys playing the parts of Judah ben Hur and Messala while Heston and Boyd brought not only their stardom to the parts, but gravitas and power that Morgan and Moore lacked, even though Morgan and Moore were nude more often. After all, everyone knows that nudity and sex make a story more real and popular when on the screen -- little or big. And I don't mean the size of breasts or penises either.

Morgan simpered and pursed his full lips in place of real acting and Moore was marginally better in his close cropped hair and shining bronze armor. Where Boyd had smiling and venomous villainy, Moore was conflicted and weak in his bitter rivalry, which amounted to little more than constipated pique. About the only truly villainous character was David, played by Marc Warren (Hogfather as Teatime), who traded his overseer's position for ownership of Judah ben Hur's vast fortunes and coveted Esther. His lying, scheming, back-stabbing best nearly eclipsed Moore's vengeful Messala, who turned out to be Marcellus Agrippa's bastard son and a man who felt he didn't measure up to his Roman father's high standards. After all, his mother, who died when Messala was a boy, was another of Marcellus's personal poisoning whores. A slave.

There was far too much modern psychology in place of real characters with real motives in the remake that will appeal to audiences who haven't seen the 1959 version of Ben Hur on the big screen. The pretty boys and sex did nothing to enhance the remake and the only stand
out performance wasn't by Ben Cross, who played the frightened tyrant, Emperor Tiberius, but by Art Malik, the Sheikh Ildarim. Malik's mischievous sheikh was a match for Hugh Griffith's smoldering and lightning tempered sheikh bent on proving the 4:1 odds were more in favor of the Jew -- and Arab -- than the Romans.

I'd give the 2010 remake of Ben Hur a mediocre 3/5 stars on its own de-merits. It is an admirable attempt at reimagining Lew Wallace's sweeping epic that succeeded only in gritty and realistic scenery and pretty much failed in elevating these boys to the larger than life characters and heart of the story. It was, at best, amusing at times, and quite mediocre the rest of the time.

Review: Blood Moon by Alexandra Sokoloff

Ever since a friend recommended The Gift by Alexandra Sokoloff, I've been intrigued by Sokoloff's gift for creeping horror and surprising stories. I didn't know then that she was also a screenwriter, which explains how she is able to pain scenes that jump off the page. That is no less true for Blood Moon the second book in the FBI Thriller series that began with Huntress Moon. 

Blood Moon begins where Huntress Moon ended with Special Agent Matt Roarke chasing Cara Lindstrom, the only survivor of The Reaper's bloody family murders. Baptized in blood, Cara is that rarest of serial murders, a female serial killer. Roarke isn't quite convinced that Cara is a serial killer, rather more a vigilante, which is in keeping with who she kills -- men who have wronged women by rape, murder, incest, and violence. That is how Roarke first becmae involved with Cara; she said something to his undercover agent before pushing him into the path of oncoming traffic until the agent was a bloodied, broken smear on the highway.

In Blood Moon, Roarke is expressly forbidden to continue investigating Cara Lindstrom and ordered to get back to work on his organized crime take-down, but Roarke is emotionally invested in pursuing Cara. Good thing there is a holiday coming up and he and his team have a good plan for moving on Cara by tricking her into believing they are after The Reaper, a case they know will get her attention so they can get her.

While searching for a similar murder to pretend to investigate as if The Reaper was active again, Roarke and his team stumble into the midst of The Reaper's latest killing -- or so they think. All the signs are there, but Cara is nowhere to be found. She's off on business of her own, working from an apartment in the Haight in San Francisco. Cara kills again and Roarke is two steps behind The Reaper who is actually killing again in a small community in the mountains.

Alexandra Sokoloff has created a very realistic set of characters with easily recognizable quirks and talents, a team that works well together -- most of the time. Roarke's second is a dapper man who prefers the good things in life and is close enough to Roarke to realize his friend and colleague has mixed feelings about Cara Lindstrom, especially when it comes to catching her. Roarke isn't acting at all like his efficient self and that has Epps frustrated and angry. Epps doesn't want to lose his friend or see him in jail.

The relationship between Cara and Roarke has its ups and downs, but there is a noticeable pull between them that is not only understandable but makes sense -- inside and outside of the book. They are bound together by forces stronger than cop chasing criminal, forces forged when Cara was found alive in the wake of The Reaper's bloody spree. Both were forged in the blood of The Reaper's kills but took different paths.

Although the creepy horror that infused Huntress Moon is not a part of Blood Moon, the boogey man -- or woman -- have been unmasked, there remains a strong sense of purpose and excitement when it is revelaed that The Reaper has returned and is hunting families again. As clue by clue Roarke gets closer to understanding The Reaper's motives and his methods, the sense of purpose grows stronger.

Sokoloff sets up scene after scene of horror made more horrific by the idyllic surroundings and placid, happy lives that are touched by the Evil of The Reaper's evolving pattern. Blood Moon is horrifying at moments, but at it's heart is an exciting chase after Evil as Evil is being redefined and refined. Justice becomes less clearly defined and more satisfying when reached.

One question remains. How do you define justice?

Enter to Win

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Release Day Blitz for the 5th and Final Book in The Pipe Woman Chronicles by Lynne Cantwell

Naomi Witherspoon lives in interesting times.  At the winter solstice, she was Seized by a Native American goddess to mediate a power-sharing agreement between all the pagan gods and goddesses and the Christian God.  Then, as her relationship with her new boyfriend Fissured, she Tapped a wellspring of strength – her Native American heritage.

Now, Gravid and due any day, she must conduct the mediation of her life.  Will she succeed?  Or will it all go up in smoke?

The answers to those questions, and more, can be found in Annealed, the final installment in the Pipe Woman Chronicles, an urban fantasy series by Lynne Cantwell.

It began at the winter solstice And it ends Now. 

It’s zero hour…

Naomi has just two weeks to find a new home for Joseph's grandfather. The old Ute shaman is fighting for his life against a mysterious injection of toxin he received at the hands of the Norse Trickster god Loki. If Naomi is to defeat Loki once and for all, she must learn what it is he seeks under the old man's wickiup. 

She has just one week before she must mediate between the Earth's pagan gods and goddesses and the Christian God. If her efforts fail, all of humankind will suffer the consequences.

And her baby is due any day.

In this, the fifth and final book of the Pipe Woman Chronicles, Naomi is in a race against the clock to balance the demands of her body, her family, and her friends – and she must do it while the whole world is watching.

PAPERBACK | KINDLE

A taste of chapter 10: Jehovah sighed. "White Buffalo Calf Pipe Woman, I concede that much of what You have said here is true. Humanity wrestles still with its baser impulses, even as it reaches for the pinnacle of its potential. Math, the sciences, engineering. I never thought they would figure out fractal theory." He chuckled. "I love My children dearly. Soon they will reach the stars. They are ever a surprise and a delight to Me." Lynne Cantwell's take on the excerpt: "Naomi has finally reached the Big Mediation -- the one between the Christian God and all the pagan gods and goddesses that the whole series has been driving toward. In this scene, White Buffalo Calf Pipe Woman has just outlined all the ways humanity has trashed God's Creation: ruining the environment, using Scripture as an excuse to treat other human races like animals, and so on. God acknowledges all of that. But it's also clear that He takes great delight in what He has created -- and He has a sense of humor, too."

About the Author: Lynne Cantwell

Lynne Cantwell has been writing fiction since the second grade, when the kid who sat in front of her showed her a book he had written, and she thought, "I could do that." The result was Susie and the Talking Doll, a picture book, illustrated by the author, about a girl who owned a doll that not only could talk, but could carry on conversations. The book had dialogue but no paragraph breaks. Today, after a twenty-year career in broadcast journalism and a master's degree in fiction writing from Johns Hopkins University (or perhaps despite the master's degree), Lynne is still writing fantasy. In addition, she is a contributing author at Indies Unlimited and writes a monthly post for The Indie Exchange.

TWITTER | FACEBOOK | BLOG | GOODREADS | AMAZON

Strum the Heart Strings

Struggling to write a new book is just that -- a struggle. It is worth it, or at least that's what I tell myself as I slog on through days when it feels like I'm prying the words out one by one with a toothpick or pair of eyebrow tweezers. There are days, however, when the words flow and time ceases to have meaning. I often stop when the light goes to turn on a lamp and realize I've been writing nonstop for 12 hours or more. Those are the days I look forward to.

When my father died, I decided to put myself out there and began writing a series of stories about myself and my family for various anthologies. The words came easily then. I felt like I was writing for my father, showing him the world of our family through my eyes and experiences. I amassed a lot of contracts in those, a few of which fell through just before publishing because the publishers needed to cut a few stories to make the anthology just the right size. I accepted their last minute rejections with equanimity. After all, it was only one book and I could sell the story elsewhere, and I usually did.

It seemed during those days that a new anthology came out every couple of months containing one or two of my stories. Those were heady days as I decided who would get a copy from my box of author's copies. I always had more names than books, but people decided to buy the books instead.

I get excited even now when I put out a new book. It's that sigh of relief that all the fussing, editing, and frustration are behind me and the fussing, frustration, and review ahead that energize me to keep moving forward. Getting bogged down in the work-a-day world is a problem, but I manage to slog through most of the time without resorting to playing games or picking up my latest cross-stitch project.

Today is another one of those heady and exciting days because I have put out another book. This time the book is a collection of the anthologized stories I wrote mostly for Dad. Instead of buying a whole lot of books, readers can now pick up Heart Strings and read them in one place, with a little something at the end of each story about its history.

So, without further ado, I offer Heart Strings: A Collection of Memories. Buy it here on Red Room or at Amazon or through Smashwords for $1.99 and share the good times and the bad, the laughter and the tears.

Review: Huntress Moon by Alexandra Sokoloff

There's nothing new about FBI staking out organized crime in San Francisco, but Alexandra Sokoloff adds a twist. The head of the organized crimes division, Special Agent Roarke, is on his way to meet Greer, an undercover operative. Greer has used the signal that means he has either been made or there is something of dire importance he needs to communicate to Roarke. On his way to meet Greer, Roarke is across the street from the undercover operative and he spots a slim, striking woman all in black wearing a sleeveless turtleneck sweater behind Greer. She and Roarke lock eyes just before a truck passes. In its wake, the woman is gone and Greer is roadkill.

Stunned by what seems like an accident, Roarke is even more shocked by the feeling that he recognized the woman, but he isn't sure from where. As the reports from eye witnesses come in, it becomes more apparent that the woman was involved in Greer's death, an assumption that becomes fact when they trace the woman back to her hotel and discovered the whole place has been wiped clean of trace evidence and reeks of bleach.

The woman could be that rarest of individuals, a female contract killer hired by the organized crime bosses in San Francisco to terminate Greer. Was that why Greer needed to talk?  That can't be since an organization that traffics in women wouldn't hire a female assassin. A search reveals two more murders within the past year and a half tied to the woman and Roarke is on the hunt. He must find the woman and stop her from killing anyone else. And Roarke is intrigued, a female serial killer is rare.

Huntress Moon is riveting. Alexandra Sokoloff dives right into the action and spins a tale that becomes more exciting and confounding with each page. The story proceeds at a fast pace and gets more complex and more exciting as Roarke peels back the layers of the mystery woman's past. Here is a murderer which is neither black nor white with considerable shadowy gray in her personality that turns this FBI thriller into something darker. Sokoloff blurs the line between right and wrong where justice is seen through a glass darkly.

There are no wasted words in this razor's edge tale of suspense and horror in Sokoloff's signature style. Huntress Moon is just the beginning of what sets a new benchmark in thrillers. Very seldom do I award 5 stars, but Sokoloff's Huntress Moon deserves no less.

Just a Breath Away

During the years that one stroke after another took my grandmother away by inches, as she changed from a vibrant, sassy, intelligent, and loving woman into a shell that looked like her but whose eyes lacked the sparkle and simple joy of life. I went to see her less and less often. It’s hard to lose someone in a senseless accident or after a protracted illness, but to watch the lighthouse of their mind dim slowly is worse.

Strokes took my grandmother’s physical functions first, and each succeeding stroke took a little more of her mind until her body was reforged into a tightening fetal ball that could not be straightened. The gentlest and most loving touch tore her fragile skin and brought screams of pain. During the six years my grandmother existed in the nursing home, my mother went every evening to see her and sit and talk with her and I often went along. Age-dimmed blue eyes looked back at us with no recognition, on her face the smile of an infant to whom our faces and voices were a soft blur of colors and sounds. We reached out to her but she could not reach back to us, a prisoner of her deteriorating mind and weakening body.

The strokes continued to kill half of her brain and the doctors intervened time and again with tubes and medication, cutting holes in her body to force-feed her when the muscles in her throat ceased working, so they could keep her alive a little longer. Finally, when her body could take no more of their interventions, the doctors decided to take my grandmother off all the machines and let her die.

“My brother will be there,” my mother said. “I think your grandmother would like it if you were there.”

I could hardly keep the tears back as I answered, “My grandmother isn’t there any more. She’s gone.

“Well, I want you there.”

I thought it over, trying to match the painfully thin and angular body with the strong and vibrant woman I had known all my life. “I don’t want to be there. You’re treating her death like some sort of circus attraction. I can’t be there to watch.”

“All right. Suit yourself,” my mother’s favorite final words. Suit myself. If I had suited myself I would never have let the doctors forced-feed her or keep bringing her back from the brink of death to lie in a lonely bed among strangers.

The day the doctors took my grandmother off all the machines and took out all the wires and tubes, I stayed home and cried, unsure if I had made the right decision of if I was being selfish and disrespectful. What did Granny Good Witch, my name for my grandmother, want?

She wanted a quiet and simple funeral, and she made and paid for all the arrangements before her first stroke, right after my grandfather died. She wanted love and respect, and what was happening in the nursing home room wasn’t loving or respectful, at least as far as I could see.

When the phone rang later that afternoon, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I knew before I picked up the phone who was calling.

“Mom slipped away peacefully. She’s gone,” my mother said, her voice breaking through her usually iron control.

“Thanks, “I said and hung up, my word lost in the sound of muffled sobs. I knew my mother missed Granny Good Witch terribly and she always would. They had always been close and that was never more evident than watching my mother hold my grandmother’s hand while grandma looked up at her with unfocused innocent eyes, a sweet smile on her face, while Mom cried and said, “Mama, please don’t leave me alone.”

I didn’t feel alone, but I had let my grandmother go many months before when she no longer recognized any of us. I felt that what had died that afternoon was the shell of my grandmother, not the woman with whom I spent so many happy afternoons together laughing and talking and cooking. I clung to those moments like a drowning woman clinging to a bit of wreck-age in a storm-wracked sea.

I went to bed early that night, worn out from crying and unable to concentrate long enough to do anything productive. I tossed and turned, tried to read, and finally, a little after midnight by the nightstand clock, I fell asleep.

I don’t remember any dreams. What I do remember is a light burning brighter and brighter against my eyelids. I sat up on the side of the bed, thinking I forgotten to turn out the hall light, and went to bedroom door. Groggily, I fumbled to open the door wider, reaching around the doorframe for the light, but it was off. I flipped the switch on and then off again, but the light persisted. I walked into the hall and saw a figured dressed in blue. It was my grandmother. She was wearing her favorite ankle-length smocked blue robe with the quilted mandarin collar. Shining with a soft white light, she stood there as if waiting for me to recognize her.

I couldn’t stop the tears running down my cheeks as I reached out to her. She took my hands and held me closely, my chin grazing the soft halo of her silver hair, and patted my back while I cried.

“I’m sorry,” I said between sobs,” but I couldn’t stand to be there today. I just couldn’t watch.”

“It’s all right,” she murmured. “I knew you were there for me even if you weren’t in the room. It’s all right.”

Still holding her hand, I stepped back, and looked down at her as she smiled up at me. I didn’t know what to say and I didn’t want to let her go, but I knew I must, just as I had let her go when she no longer recognized me and I knew she wasn’t coming back.

“I wanted to tell you something,” she said. “I have always believed in you even though you don’t believe in yourself. Believe in yourself and follow your heart and remember I’ll always be just a breath away.” And then she was gone.

When I woke the next morning I wasn’t sure at first if I had dreamed that my grandmother was standing in the hall or if it had been real, but it didn’t matter. I still felt her around me.

I went to the funeral three days later and went up to the coffin, not because it was expected but because I wanted to touch her one last time. Her body was straight again and she wore her favorite blue dress. I touched her cold cheek, but I knew she wasn’t lying in the box; she was just a breath away.