Thursday, April 27, 2017

A Reblog During 2017 National Poetry Month...From One Man's Madness:Living With Aids by Joseph Michael Fortney...

The following poem was written and used as the Foreword of Joe's Book, for which I did all the work to get his book published... It was a wonderful way to meet and know Joe for a short time and thinking about death over the last few weeks, made me think of one of my own poems written years ago... Excerpts from Joe's poems have been interspersed with mine...

You may remember that Tom Hanks played in Philadelphia many years ago, and I chose him to represent Joe...

Joe sat there, looking just a little bit pale,
watching my face, seeking an answering smile.
 I looked closely and "saw" him coming down a hill;
It was when he was a teen but it seemed just a while.

This young man is dying, much younger than myself;
But his spirit rings aloud, he tries nothing to hide.
We didn't talk of death then, we left it on the shelf.
We talked as new friends about this and that,
the other would abide:

The Unwanted Visitor

(HIV attacks the entire body; it lives within, The virus becomes a living thing; continuity consuming my body...)

I came upon a visitor who was quite unusual to stay the least.
He was charming his way into my soul.

So as he was learning my weaknesses, and strengths,
he began his journey into those places...
and settled in...for a lifetime.

But whose life...his or mine?

I told him how I came to call, about my urge to reach him.
He told me of his need for me, for what he did not know.
I told him chances of publishing a book were very, very slim.
But still, I knew, word after word, from his heart and mind did flow.


I awoke one morning
no longer being naive
and quickly became wiser.

For you see,
I was violated.

But I, too, had to understand,
Against all efforts to keep this from happening.
I was silently violated...without warning!

His inner life--thoughts, fears and pain, were placed upon those sheets.
I typed them all, delving in deeper and deeper, and then would go back again.
He told of a stranger, frozen, cold and feeding, who stole his body's heat.
I couldn't relate, yet knew how to help, checking his words with my pen.


...This silent killer's choice is to take...
no matter who or what...
So who has a choice?
or accepting the choices that have already been made.

Choice, how can you define it...
so I can understand it better?

He thanked his "Higher Power;" I asked, do you mean God?"
He shared a male preacher abused him when young,
after that, attending church had been hard.
Many who would hear of my work, would consider it to be strange or odd...
But I knew that his words, from his heart had been wrung, so I
neither stopped nor paused.

Pain,  Pain, Pain

As I try to put into words how I am feeling today,
all I can come up with is PAIN, PAIN, PAIN...
I have been hurting more lately and, by rights, 
this should have
driven a normal man to total madness...

We both knew and agreed, this book must be shared.
For whatever reason, we two had been paired.
God brings folks together, as part of His great plan.
In this case, a single, Christian woman,
and a homosexual man.


I feel at times like a candle...
Tall and strong, burning brightly in a window,
Letting others know where the life and warm awaits.

I, as well as the candle, know its fears
Just as a candle can grow dark against a strong wind,
so I do my best to stay strong
in hopes that "my" fear never comes...

AIDS is the stranger, killer of lives
Nobody is safe from it; everyone dies.
This young man named Joe fights daily to win
Though his legs now carries him, in a chair, one day, he'll be penned.

Each Day

I feel a chill in my bones
and a smell in the air,
that I haven't smelled in a long time.

My energy is being tapped,
each day as I fight to keep strong.
But it's hard at times when the realities
of this world are cold and cruel...

But the fight and courage keeps him going and going;
How can we not fight, then along side of him?
And if, when needed, we must share God's great love,
For, sometimes, the fire inside the infected grows dim.


I feel like a mad man...with pen and paper in hand. Writing wilds, putting down all my thoughts no matter how crazy they may be.
So that in some way to let others know how a man's mind goes when living and facing all areas of reality and life being "positive."
My mind races faster than my hand can write because I feel there may not be enough time to tell you everything...then again "Nothing."
If you can understand this simple man's madness, then you are by far a better one that I.
The inner pain almost overrides the Joy I carry. But Love--the one true gift we all have--carries me through the rough times...

Then hug him tight; hold him, as Jesus would.
It's bound to be what God would have you do.
Remember, friend, right now there isn't a cure.
As with the lepers, from His love--take your cue.


Whisper, whisper, whisper. Can't you hear them?
I can
I'm still here, but they treat me as if I'm gone...

What does this mean?
Am I less than I was when I came into see what was wrong?...

Will somebody please hug me?
They claim they care,
but why do they whisper?

AIDS victims are God's children, too;
their lives may be different than yours, friend, or mine
But He sees inside where hearts seek Him true.
And His Love we must offer--the Virus to bind!

  • 15.8 million people accessing antiretroviral therapy (June 2015)
  • 36.9 million [34.3 million–41.4 million] people globally were living with HIV (end 2014)
  • 2 million [1.9 million–2.2 million] people became newly infected with HIV (end 2014)
  • 1.2 million [980 000–1.6 million] people died from AIDS-related illnesses (end 2014)

Angie Fox's Southern Ghost Hunter Mysteries Series - The Beginning...

There's a basic background story for the Southern Ghost Hunter Mysteries Series. Each of the books easily stands on their own because the author makes sure that, in one way or another, she includes needed basic information.

But for my review of the entire series, I thought it would be best to pull out that background and the main characters, so that each will be familiar as I write...

I lived in a gorgeous antebellum house. Not too large. Certainly not too small. The white columns out front were tasteful, even though they had chipped in places. The porch was welcoming, if a little weathered. Over the years, my family had sold the estate around the house, piece by piece, so that the sprawling peach orchard and even the grand front drive had given way to tidy bungalows lining the long road to the main house. 
Grandma had said it made gossip travel even faster, the way they built houses so close together these days. I always told her that the good citizens of Sugarland, Tennessee, needed no help. Still, I loved the place. And I absolutely despised letting it go. "Anyone home?" my best friend, Lauralee, called from the front of the house. "Verity, are you in here?" She added a few knocks on the front door, out of politeness rather than practicality, since the door already stood open. 
We'd endured a stifling hot afternoon, and I couldn't afford to run the air-conditioning. I needed any breeze I could get. "In the back parlor," I called. "Mourning," I added, since there was nothing left in the once-stately room, save for a cooler filled with ice, my tea jug, and a lopsided futon I inherited from a roommate back at Ole Miss. The pink-papered walls and elegant wood accents appeared so strange without rugs and furniture, like a queen stripped of her jewels.
The estate sale was yesterday and the place had been picked clean. The vultures. 
"I'm sorry." Lauralee's voice echoed in the empty room. She let her purse and a cloth grocery sack slip from her shoulder to the floor; then she wrapped an arm around me and squeezed, the curled end of her ponytail tickling my cheek. 
I gazed up at the ugly black hole where the crystal chandelier had hung for more than one hundred years. "Thanks." I'd come to terms with this. I really had. I turned and looked her straight in the baby blues. "I'd live in a paper bag if it meant I didn't have to marry that bastard." 
My friend drew back and tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. "Seems like he's trying to make you good on your word." "True. But I'm not done yet." I refused to even entertain the thought. This past May, I'd scandalized the town when I jilted the most eligible bachelor in three counties— at the altar, no less. It was a disaster. Two old ladies fainted straight out of the pew reserved for the Southern Heritage Club. Then Beau's own mother collapsed, taking down a lovely hydrangea arrangement. I secretly wondered if Mrs. Leland Herworth Wydell III didn't want to be upstaged, even at her own son's ultimate humiliation. 
Truth was, he'd brought it upon himself. But I suppose it was quite shocking if you didn't know the details. I hadn't told a lot of people. I'd wanted to spare my sister. 
Lauralee chewed on her lip as she surveyed what little remained in my home. "Tell me you at least made some decent money yesterday." 
"I did." I'd sold everything I could lay my hands on and kept only the absolute necessities, namely my futon, my grandmother's pearl wedding ring, and the quilts she'd made for me. It had hurt like a physical pain. I'd had to remind myself that it was only furniture, clothes. Stuff. I still had my health. And my friends. Not to mention my family. 
I brought a hand to my throat, where I used to wear my grandmother's cross from when she was about my age. The delicate gold and silver filigree antique now belonged to my not-quite-mother-in-law. "I still owe more than twenty thousand dollars." I gazed across the once-grand, now empty back parlor turned family room. I tried to ignore the hollow place in my stomach. Tomorrow, my ancestral home would go on the market. I let out a ragged sigh. 
"It's dumb, but I keep hoping for a miracle." A hidden treasure in the attic. Gold under the stairs. Stranger things had happened, right? All I knew was that I couldn't lose this house. I just couldn't. 
Lauralee wrapped an arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. "You'll make it. You always do," she said, in a way that made me think she actually believed it. She took in the fourteen-foot ceilings, the crown moldings. "With the money you have left over from the sale, you can make a fresh go of things." 
A new start. I certainly needed something to change. And yet… "I can't believe it's all gone." What had taken more than a century to accumulate had become fractured history in the space of a day. "Except for that," I said, pointing to a god-awful vase on the mantel. 
My friend made a face. "I never even noticed that before." It would have been hard to ignore. 
"It was in the attic," I explained. "Where it belongs." The green stones that circled the top were sort of pretty, but a crude, hand-painted scene marred the copper exterior and a healthy dent gouged the lower half. The dotty old relic looked completely out of place on an ornate marble mantel with flowers and hummingbirds carved into the corners. 
"Yeek." Lauralee crossed the room for a better look. She attempted to lift the monstrosity and then changed her mind. It was heavier than it looked, wider at the top and tapered down to a flared base at the bottom. In fact, it reminded me more of an antique Grecian urn. She turned to me. "Is it a spittoon?" 
"I think it's a vase," I said, joining her. "Beau gave it to me. He called it an historic heirloom. Looking back, I think he just needed to get rid of it." 
In the beginning of our relationship, Beau had given me heartfelt gifts— a pressed flower from the picnic we took on our first date, a little notebook with one of our private jokes written on the inside cover. Later, it was last-minute gas station flowers. And objects like this. 
"It's hideous," Lauralee said. "A true monstrosity," I agreed. Or else he would have let me return it when I gave him back the ring. 
"You want it?" I asked, turning the dented side toward her. My friend let out a snort. "Not unless I can thunk your ex over the head with it." I shot her a conspiratorial grin. "You'd do that for me?" 
She raised her delicate brows. "Nothing would give me more pleasure," she said in a sweet, Southern tone that would make you think I'd offered mint juleps on the verandah. 
"I suppose I could toss it," I said. I still had one trash can left. She waved me off. "Keep it out. It's a focal piece. The only one you have. 
Here." She scooted it over toward the pale shadow where my mother's crystal swan used to be. "It'll draw people's eyes to the fireplace instead of that hideous futon." 
"Way to remind me that I'm sleeping in the parlor." No way was I going to try dragging a futon up a flight of stairs. 
She crossed over to the opposite wall to retrieve her hemp grocery bag from the floor. "Maybe this will help you forget," she said, holding up a bottle of Malbec. 
"Mine," I said, on her in an instant. Although I'd have to tell her Beau took the stemware...

Verity, our ghost hunter was was an artist and had her own business, making business logos, etc., but she had lost her prestige when she refused to marry the most eligible bachelor in town... Her picture appears on the front cover of each book!

I'm sure Beau, Beauregard Buford Wydell, was probably an attractive Southern... man... but he sure wasn't a gentleman! He had cheated on his fiancee, including hitting on her own sister... I think I would have told the world why I backed out of the wedding. I, of course, cast him as the least one of them...

Instead, Beau took advantage of Verity not saying anything, and never cancelled the wedding, went to the church, and allowed everybody to think she had left him standing at the altar... Of course, she had, but nobody knew why! And she was mad enough that she went to the reception and, shall I say, made a big fool of herself!

That might have been fun and a little payback. But Beau's mother was a vicious, spiteful woman who laid the blame directly on the bride...and sued her to pay for the wedding that she'd elaborately created for her son!

Verity was losing everything!

Lucy is Verity's roommate and best friend, fortunately with scent glands removed. She's a wonderful addition to the books and brings a light touch to the situation, especially since she is not willing to make friends with Frankie the German...

Frankie the German is also a main character... you might say he is the one who brings spirit to the stories! Actually, Frankie came to meet Verity by an accident on her part. Beau had brought over and given Verify an old vase, she thought. Nobody would buy it at the estate sale, so Lauralee, Verity's friend suggested she leave it on the mantle during the house sale, mainly to draw their eyes away from a battered old futon...

The problem arose when Verity looked down into the vase and saw how dirty it was. She took it outside and dumped the contents out in the dirt around her rosebush, and then watered it thoroughly...

Merging the remains of Frankie the German with the dirt surrounding the house... Of course, the vase had actually been the funeral urn of an old relative of Beau's family! And now Frankie was grounded, forever to stay on the property of Verity's home... Hate to say, but as of the latest book, they still haven't figured out how to solve that problem...

So, when a man who appears only in black and white appears in Verity's house...well...they are still arguing in each book as well!👻

This is Verity's new love interest...You'll learn more about him as we begin one of the stories...

And you'll learn about a certain purple Cadillac
which was in such bad shape that Verity didn't have to sell him either...

Reviews start tomorrow!

Read-A-Thon - A Needed Spring Break! With Author Angie Fox!

I was looking out the window of my little office, seeing the sun shining, here and there flowers popping up, shouting that Spring was here... And I found I couldn't do it--I couldn't pick up another book to read and review. Wasn't it Spring Break time? Well, some outside time did come into play. But, a reader is a reader is a reader... So when I want a break, I looked for a book that looked like fun...

I came across a book that is now free by Angie Fox. It definitely looked like fun, but it was also the first in a mystery series--my favorite. I had not read this author but I enjoyed the cover art that made me feel like this was an author who liked making people happy... I wanted a little light "happy" right then...

And you know what, I finished that first book and went online and downloaded every single book in the series, including the latest one just out! After reading many, I read a note from the author about her taking time off from writing to take on a new series and read through them until finished before she went back to work... Wow! I new I'd found a kindred spirit so, of course, she's now on my "top favorite author" list! If that means anything to anybody else besides me...😍

So, during Easter week, I went on a Read-A-Thon with Angie Fox! Nothing else but moving from one book to another, and enjoying every single one of them!

Do you ever feel like you just need a break from your routine? I can tell you that if you need laughs, smiles, plus meeting lots and lots of ghosts that are also fun to get to know...try your own Read-A-Thon! Just sit back and enjoy and you don't even have to write a review, if you don't feel like it... This lady gets lots of them... Still, I couldn't really stand NOT to share about each one! But that's just me...👻

Before I start telling you about the books, meet Angie!

New York Times bestselling author Angie Fox writes sweet, fun, action-packed mysteries. Her characters are clever and fearless, but in real life, Angie is afraid of basements, bees, and going up stairs when it is dark behind her. Let’s face it. Angie wouldn’t last five minutes in one of her books.
Angie is best known for her SOUTHERN SPIRITS™ mysteries and for her ACCIDENTAL DEMON SLAYER series.
Angie is a graduate of the University of Missouri School of Journalism. She lives in St. Louis with her football-addicted husband, two kids, and Moxie the dog.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Portrait of Death - An Extremely Violent Novel Not Recommended

Art came from death. That is what she always believed. She was obsessed with paintings, art sculptures, any form of art. Not the kind of art one would see in an art museum, art galleries, or art exhibits. To her, that was not art. She was not impressed by it and every single one of those famous painters and their work should be removed from society. Mona Pruitt was in the back room of her art studio reviewing a portrait she recently painted. The portrait was of a dead man she killed, sitting at his desk with his head resting on his arms. Blood was coming down his head. Mona took her eyes off the portrait and glanced at her student, Jonathon Wade, a young man who was staring at the knife in his hands that Mona gave him. He kept looking at it. Back and forth between it and Mona. His eyes filled with fear and confusion. Mona stood from her seat, grabbed the chair, brought it with her and sat directly across from Jonathon. She did not look happy. 
“What’s it going to be?” Mona asked.
“I changed my mind.” He said with strong doubt. “I can’t do it.” “I thought you were prepared to give me a new portrait? I thought you wanted to be the focus of that portrait? To prove where art really comes from.” 
“I do.” 
“Then take the knife and open your throat with it. Your portrait will be very important to many of us.” 
“I want to go.” 
“No. You assured me you shared my vision of art. You promised you would be my next portrait.” 
“I made a mistake.” 
“Do it!” 
“Please don’t make me.” 
“Cut your throat!” 
Jonathon started shaking, on the verge of crying and shouted, “Why are you doing this? Everything was fine before.”
“Jonathon,” Mona said strongly. Losing her patience. Letting her voice take on a more serious tone. “You have five seconds to take your own life or I will take it for you.” 
“Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.” 
“One.” Jonathon started crying now and said, “Oh god.”
“Two.” Jonathon gripped the knife in his hands right above his lap with the blade sticking straight up. His shaking became uncontrollable as he prepared himself to take his own life. “Three! Don’t you want to be the star of my next portrait?” Mona shouted. Jonathon raised the knife closer to his face. Aiming at the side of his throat. 
“Four!” Jonathon had trouble moving the knife any closer to his face. To actually have what it took to drive a sharp blade into your own body. That thought was horrifying. To be the one responsible for inflicting pain on yourself. Making it a slow death. 
“Five!” Jonathon’s face got hot red and angry. The decision was now or never. Seconds away from a life-altering situation. Then, he turned the knife around and aimed it at Mona. He got up out of his seat screaming, aiming at her face. 
Mona shot up out of her seat, stopped his arm in mid-swing, grabbing it and forced him to drop the knife. He then stepped back in shock as Mona bent down to pick up the knife. Stared at him with a much smarter and cunning look. “I thought you were with me on this,” Mona said. “I guess I was wrong.” With no warning, Mona stabbed the knife into Jonathon’s throat and held it in there as blood came out of the new wound. Then she gripped it tighter and slit his throat. Slicing through his neck from left to right. Then she took the knife out and watched as he clutched at his throat, in an attempt to stop the bleeding and collapsed to the floor and died.

Note: I was given an ebook for my review; if I had not been asked for a review, I would not have finished the book. It is extreme in violent, graphic death scenes, far more than I've read before...and, in my opinion, totally gratuitous. While the author indicated he wanted something new, I have personally read quite a few books based upon serial killing on the basis of art. 

For instance, I remember one where, after the victim was dead, they were dressed in fairy tale costumes and the bodies were displayed in public places. At the time I thought this was original at least. This book, however, has no depth, nothing to make the killings artistic. They are merely killed, and then set in place to perhaps continue their job, such as a yoga instructor. But this was not consistent. Additionally, the lead villain had created a cult following of students who were doing the same, but some had little "vision" in presentation and, in fact, the whole thing became boring--it certainly is not thrilling or suspenseful...

On the other hand, Mona has some type of charisma that draws certain types of people to her and she certainly engenders loyalty--a sick kind of obsession that one assumes only means that each of the individuals have psychological problems...

In fact, every single major and minor character (outside of single scene individuals) are shown with some type of deficiency in personality. Yes, that includes, supposedly, the good guys. Whatever the author meant to show through this character development did not work at all for me...Other than to confirm that the entire book is not plausible, and, for the most part, not even slightly believable. If anything, it reads like a slasher story lacking in depth of story line.

But that is not totally true. Apparently this book is a debut for an earlier screen writer. It is very apparent that he has no experience in character development, setting the scenes, and, even, in basic writing. Especially at the beginning, sentences are repetitive, though said with different words. The writing style is consistent throughout the book, no matter that different characters are involved. One of the most noticeable of errors is the introduction of a new character, together with an immediate description of what the individual is wearing... The main problem is that the reader is in the midst of a somewhat taut, heavy matter and all of the sudden is jarred by detailed description of, duh, who cares? The reader has been totally pulled away from the story for no apparent reason and certainly reveals the writer's lack of experience...

Again, there is an opposite side, because the continuity of the book moving from the beginning to the end is quite good. While the revelation of what is going on becomes so convoluted and complicated that it got to a point where the whole story was falling apart when one person after another is pulled in and then ignored for the rest of the book.

While the two main characters, one an FBI agent and the other a cop who recently resigned, are fairly well drawn, there is no ability to consider them the traditional good cop. They have been drawn to appear unable to handle their emotions and quite often become violent as well... 

The cop character had been physically involved with Mona, and is now involved with the sister, the latter being place in a ridiculous situation that boggles the imagination, truthfully.

While some of the ending made sense, again too many characters were added to create a satisfactory ending...and, in fact, it is not the ending, but a lead-in to the sequel. It was, though, a satisfactory break off point.

Bottom line for me, the book had potential, but it was extremely overplayed in the amount of violence, especially since it was the same acts over and over. It needs a major content editing to eliminate the superfluous words that are repetitive or do not move the story forward.  But the most offensive was the number of characters, the outlandish, bizarre introduction of scenarios that just could not be believed and the failure to effectively differentiate the good characters from the bad characters...Hopefully, in the real world, we still have both, even if the lines blur from time to time.

Sorry, I cannot recommend this book.


Adolfo Caso Presents Fount Clitumnus During National Poetry Month...

Fount Clitumnus 

The Single swan
proudly breaks
the lustral waters
of Fount Clitumnus
at the foot of the mountain
surrounded by tall poplars
who leaves patter
to the light breeze
of a June meridian wind,
the quietness in the air
by the hum of a distant car
by the trout
sprung to surface
quickly disappearing
amidst the multiplying ripples
that slowly face
into infinity.
The blue sky
to the bottom of the pool
with the suspended weeks
along the edge:
nymphs from ancient Rome
moving to the rhythm
of woodwind sounds
scanning the trees,

the leaves pattering
to a definite beat,
their shimmering green 
reflected down deep
                           to the floating weeds
ritually dancing
                           in my imagination.
the mind inebriated of wine
the sight
lingering over breasts of nymphs
in the transparent waters
for ages
to animal and man
under the cool shadows
of the poplars 
in which Silenus,
with his magic reeds,
hides his bearded face
while the single swan
of life or death
eats and drinks
as though 
                         I nor Silenus
will ever be.


Author, Poet, Publisher, Friend...

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Meeting Moses by Robert Chasin and Matt Roussel Found to be Misleading...

Meet Max and his father, Professor Harold Praze. Professor Praze has invented a time-traveling machine.

"Wow!" says Max. "Can I go back in time?"
"Sorry, Max. I need to do more testing with Lazlo first."
On Max's birthday, his father has a big surprise.
"Who wants to take a test ride around the backyard?"
Max jumps up in the air "Me, me, me!"
His mother Lynn says, "Hop in, Max.
Just remember this is not for you to go time traveling. If you want to go somewhere, how about your grandparents house?"
"But Mom, we could go back in time and meet the real Moses. That's way better than watching him on TV tonight...


I had an immediate reaction to this book that I couldn't change. So I took it to our Easter family get-together and spent time talking about it... Only one out of six did not totally agree. You see, the book looks like a great book, with a beautiful cover and excellent inside visuals. And the story is good, except...

First, the book is titled, "Meeting Moses." In fact, it is the debut in the Meeting Bible Heroes Series. The front cover also says, Have fun learning about the Old Testament.

All of that meant, for me, that Moses would be the main character and we would learn about his life...

Instead, we find that Max, a young boy living today, really is the main character, who uses his father's time-machine invention, to travel back in time.

We arrive on page 8 and only then meet Moses who is a boy about the same age as Max at that time. The Princess of Egypt he first meets along with two boys, assumes he is a flying 


While Max claims to be just a boy from far away, even the Pharaoh asks Max what the gods want... 

At that point, Max proceeds to use not only electronic gadgets that are available today, but also futuristic tools, such as the time machine, to share and show Moses, including that he is Jewish, and what he will do in the future... You know, just like a child would say to his friend, I've already seen the movies, I'll tell you all about it!

I could only have one interpretation. One could assume that Max is indeed God or an angel; and he is telling Moses what his life requirements will be... Now we all know that this is not true, but...will children understand this? I doubt it.

The individual who I talked to Easter weekend pointed out that Max turned some magical button at the end and that all that had happened would disappear, not be remembered, thus the book came out alright. Given the long memory children have for books/movies like Frozen, Beauty and the Beast, etc., I find this, really, an unacceptable assumption. That is, the children, who read the book, will remember that Max was the one who told Moses everything Moses would be doing in the future!

In fact, Moses played what you would call a minor character. He was not presented to the readers as a Bible Hero. He was presented as a little boy that had his future foretold by a boy who flew in on a time machine... And, when you finish the book, again with Max and his family, you will have learned little about Moses as a hero, except through Max's words.

I was not only disappointed; I felt the book cover--title--series title--and the statement about learning about the Old Testament, was totally misleading.  I would not have accepted the book for review had I known that Moses would not be the "hero" of the book. I don't normally add this, but I fully expected to learn the story from the beginning of Moses being found in the water, and moving forth... There could have been someone, perhaps his mother, who told about why she had to give him up, and then through his early years, until Moses was able to tell his own story... My best comparison for expectation was the series from Carole Roman, who has taken thousands if not millions of children around the world, in either present or historical times, during which we learn as a visitor to the time/place, not as the main character of the book.

I will not recommend this book to those who wish to have your children learn about Moses... If you want a cute story with nice pictures, without too much concern about Meeting Moses and learning about his heroic life in the Old Testament, then go other reviews... and check it out...