Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
“A grapevine has been planted outside the father. And because it is not sound, it will be plucked out by the root and will perish.”
Once you begin to notice the pattern within the Gospel of Thomas, in which essentially every saying is something about the illusion of separation, the oneness of all things, or perhaps sometimes about our ability to see for ourselves without requiring a guru or a guide to lead us around, you’ll start to realize how simple most of these sayings actually are to decipher.
In this case, the saying presents a scenario where something is “planted outside the Father,” which, to those who are starting to catch on, is an impossibility, because nothing can exist outside of God. Therefore, this saying gives us an illustration of how foolish it is to imagine anything thriving “outside” of the Father since there is no possibility of being anywhere the Father is not. As the Psalmist said, “Where can I go to escape from your presence, Lord? If I descend to the depths of the grave you are there. If I ascend to the highest heavens, there you are with me.” [See Psalm 139]
The Apostle Paul went one step further to affirm to unbelieving pagans in Athens that God was “the One in whom we all live and move and have our being.” So, to imagine anything—a person, a plant, a kingdom, a planet, a galaxy, etc.—existing “outside” of God is to speak of nonsensical gibberish like a square circle or a hot ice cube. There are no such things in existence.
Here Jesus uses this parable to make that point: Nothing “planted outside the father” can survive. To be separated from God is to cease to exist, and since there is nothing outside of God there can never be anything “planted” in that imaginary space to begin with. All that there is, is in Christ. Everything that is, is within the field of God’s being. Without God, nothing exists.
Apart from the Father there is no life, no existence, no possible place to plant anything. Reality is completely defined by God, surrounded by God, and sustained by God. All things were made by him, for him, and through him, and nothing has been made apart from him. Christ holds all things together: You, me, the moon, the stars, the universe itself and everything that was or ever will be. The sooner we embrace this as the ground of all being and the basis for all reality, the sooner we will begin to live in the Kingdom of God where Christ is all and is in all; where we are filled with the fullness of Christ who fills everything in every possible way.
~~~
I'm getting close to the end of this book... It has been a learning experience for me since, as we all know, our God is an Awesome God, and we cannot possibly know all that He will provide for his children...
I try to be a good wordsmith, but I'm am learning that even in our thousands of beautiful songs, we still see that the full offerings to us, as our Father God is more and more being revealed... I am happy that Giles has included in his commentary, words from the Bible, for many words given to people throughout the 2000+ years since Christ died for us, we can realize that it is intended that we begin as children eating food that children can digest... And as we grow, we can "chew" on more and more of His words, to absorb, learn, and marvel at what He is sharing... To come nearer to Him...
Living in this world, we are distracted often by confusion, turmoil and fears that we cannot rid our hearts of... Yet if we pull ourselves away from that distress, and pull nearer to God, we can find strength, assurance, in His presence and in the warmth of His Love... One of the sayings alludes to the fact that some of us may not even start to come close to God before we leave our bodies and pass on... Eternity is a long time, so I find myself not being pressured to be other than Me... I am His child and know that He loves me, just as I am...
Have you realized yet that God loves you just the way you are? But did you know that He also will never force you to return His Love? In fact, the only thing you need to do is ask him to come to be with you... Yes, he is already a part of each of us, but, imagine, He will never force you to change; even more, He will be with you always even if you never acknowledge Him as your God and Savior! Now that, in my opinion, is just about the most humble expression of True Love that any of we humans could never be capable of giving!
Sometimes, when you're reading something like these words of Jesus or another story that speaks of God as part of your life, or listen to a song of praise, do you ever become warm--something inside of you is different... You may feel warm, or feel chills, or, just know that something else--Someone else is inside of your body? If you haven't, maybe, just maybe, then that means that you've never asked him to open the door of your Heart, your Mind and invited Him...
I've been having a tough time dealing with the world as it now is... Your thoughts, and prayers, would be appreciated... One thing helps, escaping into a book and then coming and talking to all of you and sometimes sharing what Jesus is all about... You see, I do Speak Jesus, as the song says... and have found Him, just by opening my heart... Just as I Am...
May peace fall across the World... Pray that with Me???
Can the sudden deprivation of normalcy lead to similar symptoms as the sudden loss of blood and oxygen to the brain? Blood was lost, to be sure, but it was not lost from my body. It was all of the other blood that mattered to me that drained away far too quickly for me to be able to process what had happened. People disappeared from my life in, from my perspective, an instant.
There is always more to every story than the part that gets told or written down.
In any case, I have no idea how to characterize the change within my own psyche at the moment I heard the news, nor do I know what to say about my state of mind all these years later when I consider everything that happened on that day and the days immediately following. I know that things have changed over the years between that day and this one, dramatically from my point of view. Exactly how and when these changes took place is not particularly interesting to me. My life now is almost nothing like my life before I received the phone call. Everything about which I once cared so deeply was simply taken from me at that moment. It did not all disappear a little bit at a time, in a manner that allowed me to adjust gradually. What I thought of as my entire life just “went away” all at once. I “had it all,” and then I had nothing, as far as I was concerned. What would that do to any man? It played a central role, I am fairly confident, in turning me into a killer. Of that, I am almost grateful on some occasions. At other times, it feels like a corollary injustice or, at the very least, an additional facet of the crushing misfortune of losing my family. If my wife and kids were still alive, then I would probably not endanger them by doing the things I have done since I lost them. As things stand, they are in no danger. They are safely dead. I cannot speak for any man other than myself regarding the impact of this type of event. The phone call whereby I learned that my family had all died at once left me feeling like I was suspended in mid-air.
I felt like a cartoon character who has run off of a cliff, but not yet fallen because he has just looked down. In the Road Runner cartoons, gravity only takes effect when the character looks down to see that he is now standing on nothing. Like Wile E. Coyote, I experienced that instant when I realized that the ground had dropped away and there was now nothing but the abyss beneath my feet. I felt the abyss yawning beneath me, but there was no experience of plummeting to the ground. Feeling as if I had touched something beneath me might have been comforting. I felt absolutely nothing beneath me or supporting my body. I just “hung there,” suspended above the nothingness where my family had been. Plummeting into the abyss and finally hitting something would have been preferable, I think. That would have felt like something, at least. The coyote in the cartoons falls, crashes, makes sounds like an accordion, re-establishes bodily integrity, as if by magic, and then goes back about the business of trying to chase down the Road Runner. He still has the same purpose he always had. He recovers quickly. Cartoon characters can do that. The coyote still knows what he is supposed to do. His purpose is written for him. He has a script, after all. Wile E. Coyote exists only for the sake of chasing the Road Runner. All of his efforts serve that endeavor. He is lucky that way. I envy him in that way. His “character” is fixed by the script in which he exists. He has no need to try to make sense of his life. He does not struggle to find a meaning for his existence. Everything is quite obvious for Wile E. Coyote. It must be nice to be a cartoon character existing within the confines of a script in which nobody ever really dies. After the crash in my life, there was no obvious purpose for me to pursue. Nobody showed me a script...
There were, to be sure, things that had to be done. Funerals do not organize themselves, after all. I have vague and indistinct memories of phone calls, visits from people who “wanted to help,” but who also knew that there was nothing really that they could do about anything other than helping to handle trivial formalities and fairly meaningless rituals. The relevant rituals are intended to be comforting, I suppose. Those rituals are also more lucrative than is decent, are they not? The sickness and death industries are the most reliable sectors of any economy, I suppose. People die more consistently than they do just about anything else. The old quip about “death and taxes” is no joke. The death part is a certainty indeed. When the caskets have to be closed for an entire family, then the whole affair is somewhat less comforting, I think. People just show up to “pay their respects” to boxes with photographs standing next to them on easels. They do this because they have been taught that they are supposed to do this. I did not need them to show up. Frankly, I would have preferred to dispense with the whole funeral. Of course, I have also been taught what one is supposed to do in such cases. There are cultural customs that must be observed, for reasons I simply do not understand. Why can we not leave the dead alone, for God’s sake? No family member wants to attend the funeral and perform the rituals. In any case, I hope nobody wants that. There is something positively ghoulish about a funeral. The show, however, must go on, I guess. There can be no dispute about whether the dead people are truly gone when the caskets are closed. Nothing says “gone” quite like a closed box, a photograph, and an expressionless erstwhile husband and father who has just ceased to be anything that matters to him anymore. My wife and children were not present at the funeral. Their mangled bodies were in those boxes, as far as I was aware anyway. A mangled, lifeless body cannot be my wife or child. My family was composed of living people. Those living people did not show up at the funeral. Where that left me was entirely unclear. What is a middle-aged man who, suddenly, no longer has a wife or children? Is there even a word for that? Children who lose their parents are orphans. A parent who loses his children is nothing-in-particular. There is, to the best of my knowledge, no word for that in the English language. I think I probably still am a nothing-in-particular, in many respects. No term is necessary, I guess. A husband who loses his wife is a widower, but he is no longer a husband, is he? What the hell is a husband the moment his wife dies? When, exactly, does he stop being a husband? This is an interesting question that makes precisely no difference at the moment it arises in a man’s life. No man wonders, at the funeral, “am I still married, or am I now a bachelor?” as he stares at a casket. Well, I hope no man wonders about such matters at that moment. Who the hell knows what other people may or may not think about at any given time? Frankly, I do not care.
~~~
If I can ponder semantics and motives at the funeral, then I guess other men can wonder if they are still husbands. There is something ludicrous about all of this, is there not?
In less than 20 of the 137 pages pages, I had already questiond the premise of this book. It is supposedly an anonymous memoir that was found by a server at a diner when he had finished his meal and left his money on the table...with the book I just finished reading...
Normally, I would play along with the author who chooses to create such a scenario. But the writing prevented me. I immediately did a bio search for the author of the book and discovered that what I had felt about the book was correct. I believe this might be the first fiction book written by the author... He has a number of nonfiction books available as well.While it is an interesting book, and certainly is fiction, I don't consider it a novel...
I took a course in university level philosophy many years ago... The one thing I remember was a question: If a tree falls in the deep forest where nobody lived, can it be heard... Of course, I said "Yes." Let's face it, there are many things in this world we live in about which we know nothing... On the other hand, I have personally heard and seen a tree fall in my 13 acres of forest, so even if other trees fall that I do not hear, I am confident that it can be heard, if somebody who could hear, such as an animal, was nearby... I decided that I wasn't interested in any further study of philosophy even though I had received an A in the course...
I decided to share this information because, if you choose to read this book, you will immediately realize that it is not a normally written book. The author claims that he can't write, yet proceeds on writing almostad nauseam...Yes, that means there is much repetition, much more than the normal fiction novel. One phrase in particular, for example, is "Time Will Tell..." It is used throughout the book as a, perhaps, closing to a paragraph (?). Or is it to request that the reader pay attention to his arguments?
For that is exactly what the book is about... It is a beginning (stated to be a trilogy) of the story of a man who has become an Assassin after his entire family was killed in a car accident. After I realized that the author taught philosophy in higher education, I was interested enough to read the book--I don't call it a novel; in fact, it defies genre identification in my own experience...Except maybe as a nonfiction book of philosophical debate on important issues... The one and only character who talks is obviously biased related to facts...
That is not to say that the book itself was not interesting, but my first thought about any book is what is the author trying to tell us? I knew immediately that he did not know how to write a novel, even if he had written nonfiction. The writing is indeed different... But, as I read, I felt like the author had much to talk about... Or, even better, wonder, about...
Several times while reading I thought of this book. Although I had never taken the time to read it, by the time it came out, I was fairly certain what it would say, LOL But there were several issues that came to light in this book that were, shall I say, surprising?
First of all, there is little attention to an overall concept of the book except maybe chronologically. However, it is very clear that the man who became an assassin, even though he loved his wife(?) that he also blamed his wife for his losing his entire family...Notice that the entire book is from a man's point of view...
Let's explore how the accident happened. His wife became squeamish when an animal had been killed on the road, so much so that she didn't want to run over it and automatically swerved. This resulted in her driving off the road and down a hillside. Now, the husband knew about her problem... He had chastized her over and over about what could happen by her swerving... Readers, not once in this book did the husband ask her why it so upset her, or even offer that she get help in getting over this obsession. Now, me, a woman, immediately thought that she might have had a special animal in her early life who was beloved as well as loving to her when she greatly needed it... And, taking it a step further, she immdiately had a flashback of having that animal accidentally killed as she watched...and, for just a second was back in her childhood... Readers don't know, do we? But what I determined by the end of this book was that this Assassin was not only a possible sociopath but also, not an ethical, but fearful, Vigilante... And he had never really made any effort to know his wife...
One clue was given to arrive at this feeling... Whether that was intentional by the writer, or not, it was a telling point of what followed... You see, quite often the memoir reveals that what he had done was because He Wanted To Do It Himself! Just as he had done to a bully in school! The point of view was even debated from both sides of the coin. That is, he recognized that he realized that murdering a few would not do much for saving the world, but, it had given him a sense of personal satisfaction in doing it... The word retribution came to my mind... He had used a knife but didn't kill the bully, now he had graduated to murder...
Readers will then learn of how he discovered the men he felt needed to be killed. They included child molestors--in fact, anything that affected children would set him off... Now here's where we get into the philosophical part of the story... Anybody reading the book will undoubtedly want to also get rid of anybody who chose to abuse children, in any way. I, of course, have written about this many times... So, the philosophical question would be... "If you thought you could get away with it, would you kill a child molestor, pedophile, etc.?"
Now the thing is that we are all human and have thoughts and free will... I willingly acknowledge that I have many times thought of having a life taken because of their pure evilness... That's why I'm so concerned about losing the Rule of Law... Especially at this time, those thoughts are directed every day as I see the damage being done to America... In fact, this book "kinda" included a section on these issues, but it was lacking in any type of emotional feelings, other than to acknowledge that his fear prevented him from even considering assassinating somebody who had power, money, and an evil spirit, but was protected... I wasn't impressed with his coverage of the issue...
What you will be reading is a somewhat close analysis of most of the issues that are facing each of us in our daily living... and deciding how you are going to respond... When I was working and then supervising a staff, I prepared in advance for mistakes to be made. When a simple mistake was made, it usually can be easily solved and I wanted to develop the decision-making skills needed for most jobs in my office... However, throughout the book, there is occasional references to believing in God...but then later arguing the option "if" there is a God, or "if" there is not a God, then there could be no punishment internally. My thought was that the question being posed was "Can you be a moral person without believing in a God who is known to provide judgment?" At this point, I didn't see any significant response, other than to believe he was an "ethical" assassin, and that if he wre ever caught, although he went to great lengths to ensure that didn't happen, he would acknowledge his "kills" to prevent a necessary trial... Seriously?
Now, most of my readers will know that I am a "God Lives" person, while at the same time, also questioning what is happening now, using God's name often as a reason as "Christian Nationalism" is spreading...The question then is, would I be willing to read two more books like this?
This is a book where I am going to leave it up to potential readers... I found the book interesting from a purely academic exercise. Normally I would expect a fiction novel to at least provide some type of completion rather than "Time Will Tell..." which says nothing about the most important part of that phrase: When? will time tell...
No, I am certainly no “avenging angel,” or anything remotely like one. It seems that I am just another bit of human detritus polluting the planet with my weakness and selfishness. Hoorah for the human race.
Bottom Line for me was this: It confirmed my opinion that has existed for the latter part of my life, especially, that women, by nature, are more effective decision makers than men... More specifically, we are prone to be empathic, sympathetic towards others unless something has happened in their lives as well... I went into job burnout working to cover the work that should have been done by men in my office... At no time did I ever NOT responded truthfully to what was being worked on... Also, while the men were telling me to act as they said, no matter I knew that they didn't know what they were talking about... I did the job I was hired to do, as defined...
This man, who blamed his wife for leaving him helpless in all the things that his wife had naturally performed without requiring his assistance, suddenly resented the fact that he had to think to make decisions--normal decisions... He couldn't handle that. Women make decisions daily about small and large issues... To give you the best example that everybody would know about--consider that Kamala Harris unexpectedly was called upon to run for president... She immediately acted in response! Yes, she lost, I think, for a variety of reasons, but it was NOT for being unable to take on any task and riding the wave as far as she could go in a limited time... And, personally, I must add, that if her opponent hadn't lied through his entire campaign as the world is now discovering, I believe she would have won... Whether you agree about winning is not the point. Rather that, instead of continuing to lie over and over, and then pulling the stunts he has done this term, we know that his decisions were based on hate, retribution, prejudice and a desire for self-aggrandizement and power....
In his timid, fearful way, the vigilate assassin has done something very similar, because, let's face it, Trump's first action taking away USAID has already resulted in many children's deaths... Will the Ethical Assassin proceed to this next step? Frankly, in my opinion, he will do just that in his fearful, hidden way... but will be because he now admits he likes killing people...
Finally, I have reviewed this book as nonfiction even if the author presented it as fiction... There is no storyline...there is no introduction of characters... etc. this is a presentation of one person's opinions set against a few examples... I've evaluated that presentation as I understood it...as a debate within himself... You might say a Memoir Journal...
Garrison knew more than anyone how vast sums could be diverted from worthy causes to greedy pockets. He did not intend that his ministry fall into the hands of anyone of that ilk. He also knew that by its very nature a television ministry needed a man in the pulpit who could not only inspire and lead his flock but also preach a rousing good sermon.
“We must choose a man with showmanship but not a showman,” Garrison cautioned the members of the Church of the Airways Council. Nevertheless in late October, after Reverend Bobby Hawkins’s third appearance as guest preacher, the council voted to invite him to accept the pulpit.
Garrison had the power of veto over council decisions. “I am not sure of that man,” he told the members angrily. “There’s something about him that troubles me. There’s no need to rush into a commitment.” “He has a messianic quality,” one of them protested. “The Messiah Himself was the one who warned us to beware of false prophets.”
Rutland Garrison saw from the tolerant but somewhat irritated expressions on the faces of the men around him that they all believed his objections were based solely on his unwillingness to retire. He got up. “Do what you want,” he said wearily. “I’m going home.” That night Reverend Rutland Garrison died in his sleep.
September 12, 1991
Ridgewood, New Jersey
DURING THE MASS, Sarah kept glancing sideways at Laurie. The sight of the two caskets at the steps of the sanctuary had clearly mesmerized her. She was staring at them, tearless now, seemingly unaware of the music, the prayers, the eulogy. Sarah had to put a hand under Laurie’s elbow to remind her to stand or kneel. At the end of the mass, as Monsignor Fisher blessed the coffins, Laurie whispered, “Mommy, Daddy, I’m sorry. I won’t go out front alone again.” “Laurie,” Sarah whispered. Laurie looked at her with unseeing eyes, then turned and with a puzzled expression studied the crowded church. “So many people.” Her voice sounded timid and young. The closing hymn was “Amazing Grace.” With the rest of the congregation, a couple near the back of the church began to sing, softly at first, but he was used to leading the music. As always he got carried away, his pure baritone becoming louder, soaring above the others, swelling over the thinner voice of the soloist. People turned distracted, admiring. “ ‘I once was lost but now am found . . .’ ” Through the pain and grief, Laurie felt icy terror. The voice. Ringing through her head, through her being. I am lost, she wailed silently. I am lost. They were moving the caskets. The wheels of the bier holding her mother’s casket squealed. She heard the measured steps of the pallbearers. Then the clattering of the typewriter. “ ‘. . . was blind but now I see.’ ” “No! No!” Laurie shrieked as she crumpled into merciful darkness.
* * *
Several dozen of Laurie’s classmates from Clinton College had attended the mass, along with a sprinkling of faculty. Allan Grant, Professor of English, was there and with shocked eyes watched Laurie collapse. Grant was one of the most popular teachers at Clinton. Just turned forty, he had thick, somewhat unruly brown hair, liberally streaked with gray. Large dark brown eyes that expressed humor and intelligence were the best feature in his somewhat long face. His lanky body and casual dress completed an appearance that many young women undergraduates found irresistible. Grant was genuinely interested in his students. Laurie had been in one of his classes every year since she entered Clinton. He knew her personal history and had been curious to see if there might be any observable aftereffects of her abduction. The only time he’d picked up anything had been in his creative writing class. Laurie was incapable of writing a personal memoir. On the other hand, her critiques of books, authors and plays were insightful and thought-provoking. Three days ago she had been in his class when the word came for her to go to the office immediately. The class was ending and, sensing trouble, he had accompanied her. As they hurried across the campus, she’d told him that her mother and father were driving down to switch cars with her. She’d forgotten to have her convertible inspected and had returned to college in her mother’s sedan. “They’re probably just running late,” she’d said, obviously trying to reassure herself. “My mother says I’m too much of a worrier about them. But she hasn’t been that well and Dad is almost seventy-two.” Somberly the dean told them that there had been a multivehicle accident on Route 78. Allan Grant drove Laurie to the hospital. Her sister, Sarah, was already there, her cloud of dark red hair framing a face dominated by large gray eyes that were filled with grief. Grant had met Sarah at a number of college functions and been impressed with the young assistant prosecutor’s protective attitude toward Laurie. One look at her sister’s face was enough to make Laurie realize that her parents were dead. Over and over she kept moaning “my fault, my fault,” seeming not to hear Sarah’s tearful insistence that she must not blame herself.
* * *
Distressed, Grant watched as an usher carried Laurie from the nave of the church, Sarah beside him. The organist began to play the recessional hymn. The pallbearers, led by the monsignor, started to walk slowly down the aisle. In the row in front of him, Grant saw a man making his way to the end of the pew. “Please excuse me. I’m a doctor,” he was saying, his voice low but authoritative. Some instinct made Allan Grant slip into the aisle and follow him to the small room off the vestibule where Laurie had been taken. She was lying on two chairs that had been pushed together. Sarah, her face chalk white, was bending over her. “Let me . . .” The doctor touched Sarah’s arm. Laurie stirred and moaned. The doctor raised her eyelids, felt her pulse. “She’s coming around but she must be taken home. She’s in no condition to go to the cemetery.” “I know.” Allan saw how desperately Sarah was trying to keep her own composure. “Sarah,” he said. She turned, seemingly aware of him for the first time. “Sarah, let me go back to the house with Laurie. She’ll be okay with me.” “Oh, would you?” For an instant gratitude replaced the strain and grief in her expression. “Some of the neighbors are there preparing food, but Laurie trusts you so much. I’d be so relieved.”
* * * “ ‘I once was lost but now am found. . .’ ” A hand was coming at her holding the knife, the knife dripping with blood, slashing through the air. Her shirt and overalls were soaked with blood. She could feel the sticky warmth on her face. Something was flopping at her feet. The knife was coming. . . Laurie opened her eyes. She was in bed in her own room. It was dark. What happened? She remembered. The church. The caskets. The singing. “Sarah!” she shrieked, “Sarah! Where are you?”
~~~
Laurie had been outside, playing with her new music box... She knew some of the words now... "Boys and Girls together..." Suddenly a row of cars was going by her house; she saw people in those cars and she moved closer, even waving at some of those who were looking at her and smiling... She was wearing her pink bathing suit and had forgotten her mother's strict rule not to play near the road... She was turning back when a car stopped and she was picked up and taken into the car which quickly pulled away and soon was on the main road heading for anywhere out of town...
They drove and drove and she had fallen asleep until they arrived at a place out in the country (see book cover). A woman carried her into the house where they had clothes for her to change into. Laurie was only 4 and didn't understand what was going on. She only knew one thing--these people were not her parents! And she wanted her sister, Sarah, calling out for her, asking where she was, crying that she wanted to go home...
But she was not to go home for a very long time--two years... It might have been longer but the circumstances of the man had changed... Laurie lived in fear, even though there were short periods when the couple was nice to her... She had been assigned to help on the farm, collecting eggs from the hens... One day Bic, the man, had even picked up one of the chicks and said she could have it as a pet...
Until sometime later he killed that chick in front of her, enjoying her screaming... But Bic loved her... He would put his big burly arms around her while he rocked her, holding her tightly to his body, while he sang hymns--one of his favorites was Amazing Grace... But as the evening went by, he would tell her that it was time to go to bed... After the first night she learned what was coming and lived in fear of what he did to her in the night... Soon she learned to just go away from what he was doing... She would dream of the girls and boys from her music box--he played it for her each night to fall asleep--and in her dream a little, older boy told her what to do while Bic was touching her...
Bic and Opal had earned money singing in bars and then, because he sang hymns often, he was offered a change to be on the radio...As you read, it will become very clear that Bic believed that all that he did was done at the command of God.
After two years she was returned home, but there was never a time when he didn't keep track of his lovely girl... He loved her deeply, so much so that even Opal became jealous. Bic told her once and had to remind her often that there was no way that she could feel jealousy, at least so much so that she outwardly spoke of her feelings. Opal had learned to do exactly what Bic told her to do...
Laurie was changed when she returned. Her family and the church helped as much as possible to ensure she knew she was loved and so happy she was back home... Slowly she returned to their daughter, Laurie; but, within her, she was just as frightened as before... Years went by--she finished school and was in college when both parents were killed in a car accident...
Maybe she won’t. The Lord is warning me it’s time to remind her of what will happen if she talks about us.”
It was at the funeral, when she heard from the back of the church a deep voice, his voice rising above everybody as he sang... She could feel the strong arms coming around her and she was once more a 4-year-old little girl crying and afraid...She passed out...
Her hair. A cloud of curls . . . no, a mass of frizz. Impatiently she brushed it. “The sun will come out tomorrow . . .” she sang softly. All I need is a red dress with a white collar and a dopey-looking dog.
Sarah was by then a successful Assistant District Attorney, but it soon became evident to everybody that Laurie had relapsed in some way. Sarah immediately quit her job and became dedicatd to helping her sister get through all that she was facing... A Happy note: Both Sarah and Laurie had connected to a male friend by the end of the book.... In the meantime, Sarah arranged for her to begin sessions with a psychologist, but Laurie made no effort to even talk initially, although she accepted that she would have to follow her big sister's advice now that her parents were gone... But soon, that man began to notice things that did not fit with what he had been told of her background... He decided to contact a psychiatrist who was totally involved in the study of individuals--girls, mostly, but also boys who had been abused when they were very young... Which had resulted in their creation of somebody(s) who could help them when there was no other help... Clark uses the older medical name, which I prefer because I think it is more understandable to patients and family, of MPD--Multiple Personality Disorder... While they have included this within the broader dissociative disorders, the definition continues to be the same--even if some readers have scorned this book for including the issue...
Readers will be totally involved with everything that happens for all characters... Especially, at the point when a professor who had Laurie in his classes, was murdered... And evidence pointed to Laurie having been involved... Although she remembered nothing...
I hadn't read Mary Higgins Clark for over 20 years during my time when I reviewed upon request. So when I saw this book on sale at Book Bub, which is where I get deals on most of my books purchased these days, I immediately selected it to read one of a former favorite author's book...
I found it somewhat disconcerting when the book was talking about child abuse and church involvement, when I had just posted my thoughts on the evolution of this terrible situation related to the treatment of children and females in particular, becoming more and more prevalent these days. This book certainly reveals what can happen to children during their very early years. For this reason alone, I call it a must-read...
But aside from reality, this is a fascinating, intensely developed multi-mystery that has your attention through to the very last page... Although I haven't read this author recently, I believe this one has to be considered as one of her greatest accomplishments. Taking on a sensitive subject that should be more often addressed publicly, pushing efforts to...do... something!
GABixlerReviews
And just for fun:
Since I had to look for a music box sound for Laurie
(I'm a collector)
I decided to close with these two types of the more elite of music boxes
(I have one similar to the first with much smaller records)
(Don't you just love the sound of thousands of notes?)
apparently the song in this excerpt doesn't exist...LOL
Norwegian Point Beach, Hansville, WA
Sarah knew she shouldn’t be here. She’d told Benny she couldn’t come, wouldn’t come. But by his third text, she’d agreed. And now he was the one running late. She’d been sitting on the massive driftwood log for ten minutes, staring out at the Puget Sound, as a light drizzle began. It was the kind of rain she’d grown up with, the sort she could be out in all day long and never get wet through her thin buffalo plaid fleece. She’d broken up with Benny three or four times now and had assured herself—not to mention her parents—that they would not be getting back together. But Benny had the best weed in Kitsap County—his cousin worked at one of the shops—and after the stress of finals and college applications, she needed to laugh and to green out. Finally. She smiled when she saw him coming down the beach. He wore a black hoodie and blue jeans, and walked with more swagger than he’d earned. They were never getting back together, she assured herself, but she did like his swagger. It was exaggerated, as though he was doing an impression of someone swaggering. Ironic, which somehow made it endearing. Maybe she could take him back, just for the Christmas break, which started in a couple weeks. He caught her eye and flashed a big smile. She smiled back. She ran her hands over her damp jeans and let out a long breath. “Hey,” she said as he plopped down on the log next to her, stretching his long legs. “Hey.” His voice was deep and sleepy, like he’d just rolled out of bed, which he probably had. What the hell was she doing? She’d told herself there was no way they were getting back together and yet here she was, sitting on the log where they’d first kissed, flashing a newly-tightened-braces smile at him. She should leave. Then again, the semester was almost over, and she’d already finished her essays. She deserved a break. Sarah jumped down from the log. “You wanna walk?” “We can blaze one right here.” He glanced up and down the deserted beach. Everything was shades of gray: the blue-gray water lapping against green-gray beach stones and brown-gray driftwood. Even the sand looked dull and lifeless under the dark gray sky. “Who the hell comes to the beach on a rainy day the week after Thanksgiving?” He chuckled. “Besides a former couple who are still madly in love and want to smoke a little.” Sarah slapped his arm, then looked toward the little café and general store, its entryway decorated with faint blue and white Christmas lights. It was the only business in town besides the post office, and there were two cars in the parking lot, and one was Benny’s. In the other direction, there were the abandoned shacks of Norwegian Point. December in Hansville was a dreary affair, most of the time. She doubted anyone would show up on the beach, but still. “Let’s go to the bluff,” she insisted. Benny shrugged and followed her down from the log. They took their usual route, following a mile-long stretch of beach that led past a row of waterfront homes and into the Point No Point Park. There were a few cars in the parking lot and a pair of kayakers in wetsuits trudged toward the water. In silence they walked just along the water’s edge and rounded the tip of the peninsula past the lighthouse. The water swayed gently in front of them. On a clear day, she would have been able to see Edmonds and Seattle across the water and all the way to Mount Rainier, hundreds of miles to the southeast. Sarah nodded toward the trail that led away from the beach, through the marshlands, and up to the bluff. Benny followed, hands in his pockets. “You think we’ll stay friends when you go away to college?” “Sure we will,” Sarah said, but she didn’t know if it was true. She didn’t even know where she’d go to college, and they both knew Benny wouldn’t be going at all. He caught her eye. “You’re humming that song again.” “No, I’m not,” she protested. “I’ve literally been listening to it for like two minutes.” Had she been? It popped back into her head. Da-da-dee-da-da-deeeeee-da, Da-da-dee-da-da-deeeeee. It was an old indie rock song about a girl who was never getting back together with her boyfriend. The first time they’d broken up she’d played it on repeat, and they’d laughed about it when they’d gotten back together a few weeks later. Now that they’d broken up three or four times—she’d lost track—it was more than a running joke. Benny dropped to his knees in the sand, holding up a stick as a microphone as he belted the chorus. “The last time I saw your briiiight eyes… The last time we said gooooood bye.” He’d been in a mediocre band for a little over a year and had a pretty decent voice for a guy who put in next to no effort. “Enough,” Sarah said, laughing and pulling him up by his elbow. They continued up the trail, leaving behind the famous lighthouse and the plaque commemorating the treaty signed by the local tribes and the state government in 1855. When they reached the top of the stairs, they sat on a bench that offered a narrow view of the beach through a cutout in the blackberry bushes.
Benny pulled a joint out of a little glass vial and held it out, lighter poised in the other hand. “Ladies first.” She was about to take it when she saw a figure down on the beach, walking close to the water. “Hold on.” She pointed. “Dude, she can’t see us from there. Not to mention, weed is legal now.” “Not for seventeen-year-olds. And if I can see her, then she can see us. And don’t call me dude. I mean, why do boys your age call everyone dude?” Benny smirked. “Fine, bro.” Sarah squinted. The woman was slight, with sandy brown hair and a quick, purposeful walk, but she couldn’t make out much about her face. “You recognize her?” Benny put the joint and lighter on his lap and held his hands in front of his eyes like they were binoculars. “Nope.” He went to light the joint and Sarah swatted his hands down. “No. She'll smell it. Just wait ’til she goes by.” They watched in silence as the woman walked along the beach, jutting up from the Sound toward a patch of driftwood thirty feet from the waterline. “What’s she carrying?” Sarah asked. “Picnic lunch?” Benny laughed, but Sarah ignored him. He was always making jokes. Or trying to. Moving with purpose, the woman stopped about halfway between the lighthouse and the bottom of the trail that led up the bluff. After a quick glance around, she set something on a log. From the bluff, it looked like a green bag. Next, the woman pulled out her phone and appeared to take a few pictures of the bag. Then she turned around and hurried back to the parking lot near the lighthouse, leaving the bag behind. “What the hell?” Sarah asked. Benny seemed unconcerned. “Maybe she’s doin’ one of those online treasure hunts or somethin’? Seen ‘em on Insta.” Sarah looked at him skeptically. “In Hansville, population, like, two thousand? In December?” Benny lit the joint and took a long drag, the sweet smell of high-end marijuana mingling with the moist, salty air. Sarah pulled up the collar on her jacket. Benny offered her the joint and, when she declined, he took another puff and put it out on the bench, then stowed it back in the vial.
“Only one thing to do.” He leapt up and bolted down the stairs toward the beach, flapping his arms like the wings of a bird in flight and belting the breakup song. “The last time I saw your briiiight eyes The last time we said gooooood bye.” Sarah followed, smiling in spite of herself. He was funny when he was high. She was definitely not getting back together with him, but maybe they could have a little Christmas Break fling. Benny skidded to a stop in the sand. Dropping to his knees in front of the bag, he leaned back, wiggling his fingers in a trance-like, prayerful gesture, an impression of the famous Jimi Hendrix moment when he’d lit his guitar on fire and implored the flames to rise. Benny knew this one always got a laugh out of Sarah. The sack was roughly the size of a plastic grocery bag but made of green felt in the style of a holiday gift bag. It was decorated with cheesy cutouts of Thanksgiving turkeys and cranberries. Benny reached for it. “Don’t touch it!” He offered a dumb smile. “She clearly meant for us to have whatever is in here.” Sarah crouched next to him. “What if it’s a bomb or something?” “Ahh yes, because terrorists always want to blow up logs on empty beaches on mostly empty peninsulas at the edge of the known world.” He reached for it again. “How could we not look inside?” She glanced up and down the beach. Not a person in sight. “Why would she just leave it here?” “The world is a strange place, Sarah.” He looked up at the sky. “Why does anyone do anything?” “You’re sooooooo high.” Benny laughed and rolled into a patch of sand, spreading his arms and legs wide and flailing like he was trying to make a snow angel. Sarah took one more look around her, then reached for the bag. Bang! A thunderous pop cut the silence. Sarah’s shoulders tightened. Benny sat up, looking in the direction of the parking lot. “Was that a gunshot?” Sarah asked. Benny laughed. “Pro’lly a car backfiring.” She heard the quiet whooshing of a car passing on the road behind them. “You were so freaked out.” Benny spoke in a high-pitched mimic. “Was that a gunshot?” “Shut up, asshole.” He continued rolling in the sand, laughing. “This is some good shit.” Gently, Sarah inched the red drawstring between her fingers. The contents of the bag rattled softly as she tugged it open. At first, she saw only shadow. Then, angling her body so the light filtering through the cloud cover seeped into the bag, she gasped. “What?” Benny was looking over her shoulder now. “Is it a prize? Christmas come early? Cash? Oh, please tell me it’s cash.” He whipped out his phone. “Smile.” Before she could object, before she could turn, he snapped a picture. “You’re a jerk, Benny.” Sarah looked down, shaking the bag slightly. Maybe she hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. Maybe they were plastic or something. Maybe they were…
She peered inside, opening the bag a little wider. Bones. A hundred, maybe two hundred. Scattered at random as though fighting for space in the bag. Tiny. Bones. She rolled down the edges of the cloth, letting more light into the bag, and then she saw it. A human skull, the tiniest she’d ever seen. Jumping back, Sarah dropped the bag and screamed, causing the birds to rise from the marshland and take flight for safer ground...
This turned out to be a book for which I had mixed feelings. I didn't like the concept, but the mystery and suspense kept me reading. I think I've said befor that I'm to a point that some stories I just can't deal with due to the what I consider evil content... In this case, children are being kidnapped, cared for a few days and then murdred in an insane way... thus I won't be talking about the story itself... It is written as a thriller but it was more of a horror where the villain celebrated various holidays with the child--in this case, Thanksgiving, with appropriate food, decorations and loving care... until... bones were the only thing remaining upon which a poem was scratched:
the killer had written twelve lines using the baby’s twelve rib bones, the first line written on the top rib and the rest descending from there.
Thanksgiving is A time to praise
To love each other
And cherish each day
To gather around
A feast fit for a king
To laugh and toast
To love and sing
So come ye all
To our table this fall
And savor each moment
And love one and all
It was one of those situations where I had to know "Why?" so I kept on reading... But I'm just going to say that a reader will have to decide; I don't recommend for all...
~~~
In the moment before she died, Eleanor Johnson gripped a single thought long enough to fill her last breath with bitterness: which one of those scheming bastards poisoned me?
Austin excused himself and quietly left the living room, wandering down the hallway and loitering by the bathrooms long enough to be sure no one was inside. He peered into the kitchen, where two dishwashers were scrubbing pots and pans over twin sinks. Mack and the cooks had gathered in the living room to keep the Champagne glasses full. At the end of the hallway, a door opened into an office, which was empty. Outside, a ball bounced rhythmically on cement. Thwap-thwap-thwap. Following the sound, Austin cut through the kitchen and walked along the side of the house. Kyon was no longer there. But the little girl was still playing basketball. She was good, too, cutting and weaving and making more than half the shots she took. “Mind if I play?” Austin asked. “My name’s Austin.” She shrugged. “How come you’re not inside with everyone?” “My mom said I could stay outside and play.” Austin held out his hands for a pass. “You like basketball?” She tossed him the ball. “Duh!” Austin laughed as he caught the pass. She was right. It had been a stupid question. He didn’t have a lot of experience with kids. “Who’s your mom?” “Susan.” He passed the ball back. So this little girl was one of the grandchildren who was there the night Eleanor died. “Where’s your cousin who you were playing with before?” “Kyon left.” She passed him the ball, a single bounce right into his hands. “Good pass.” He threw it gently back. “Do you know where he went?” “That was a basic bounce pass.” She began dribbling, between her legs, around her back.
Suddenly she stopped and held the ball close to her chest. “I don’t think he liked Nanna very much.” “Nanna, is that what you called your grandma Eleanor?” She nodded. “And why do you say he didn’t like her?” “They got in a fight.” “Oh, when?” “Christmas. He makes loud music and she didn’t like it. She liked the Beatles. He said the Beatles were trash.” “That’s what they were arguing about?” She nodded. He held out his hands and she rifled him a chest pass. “I am a friend of the family. Do you mind telling me what you heard?” “Are you trying to find out what happened to Nanna?” “What do you mean?” Austin had assumed that no one told the children she was murdered. “I heard my uncle talking on the phone. He said she was poisoned. Is that true?” Austin passed her the ball. “I’m sorry.” She looked at the ground for a long time. “I like Kyon. He’s my favorite cousin. Mom says he shouldn’t dress like he does, he’s embarrassing the family. But I don’t care.” “I don’t care either,” Austin said. “When he fought with Nanna, he said rock and roll was dead. She said his music was bad. He said EDM was forever. That’s when he said the Beatles were trash.” Austin suppressed a laugh. It was as clichè a fight as there was. Most likely, Eleanor had had the same fight with her parents in the sixties, except she’d been saying jazz standards were dead and that rock and roll was forever. “Were they really mad?” Austin asked. She nodded, then looked up and passed him the ball. “But they must have made up.” “Why do you say that?” “Because. The night Nanna died we were playing video games, and they were sitting next to each other on the couch, sharing a box of chocolates.”
By the time Austin made it back to the living room, the toasts had ended and everyone had broken up into small groups, chatting and sipping Champagne. Classical music played gently through hidden speakers. The mood of the room, though still somber, had lightened. He found Anna lingering by one of the large bay windows and told her about the conversation on the basketball court. “So far, I’m not loving any of our suspects. Kyon and Sasha are the only adults present that night who we haven’t spoken with.” Anna was already on her phone. “Hold on.” “What are you doing?” “I overheard Junior saying something about a DJ thing Kyon was doing today. He was badmouthing his own kid at his mother’s memorial.” She leaned in, whispering. “Junior may not be a killer, but he’s an absolute jerk.” “So what are you looking up?” “Hold on… yeah, got it. Let’s go.” “Where?” Austin asked, following her across the room. “Without saying goodbye?” “Yeah, this party’s dead anyway.” She didn’t even wait for him to ask about the reference. “Swingers. Another nineties movie you should have been watching instead of poring over police procedure manuals as a teenager.” “Okay, but where are we going?” “Kyon is DJ’ing a twenty-four-hour party in a warehouse downtown.” She smiled. “The nineties are back, baby.” She led them through the front door and out onto the lawn. The gentle sound of the string quartet followed them, and Austin noticed tiny speakers mounted on the side of the house. “As you know, I kinda missed the nineties,” Austin said. “What do you mean?” “Raves, all that stuff. They’re back, just with different music. Different clothes. And it’s not even that different.” “I’m sure it will surprise exactly no one that I didn’t get invited to any raves.” “Neither did I. I was more of a grunge girl. But at least I knew they existed.” She tapped her phone to call an Uber. “So how ‘bout it? Want to go to your first rave?” “Why not?” “Only, don’t call it that. I don’t think they call them that anymore.” “Noted.”
~~~
I decided to try the next book to see if it continued in the same type of dark plot... It did not, although it is still a traditional murder mystery... A Thomas Austin Crime Thriller and I came to appreciate the main character much more as I started this book. It is set in the midst of a wealthy family where there is just the matriarch remaining with the family and who is quite tight with the purse strings. On the other hand, the family in toto is so rich that they have an annual budget set aside for projects based upon an annual budget. But this year, there was quite a change in that group meeting where each family member old enough to participate, plus the family cook had been with them so long that he had been added... This year each request was funded for a limit of $1M because it was discovered that the matriarch had her own project which she deemed much more important to her upcoming retirement...
It was that same night as all the family members were gathered that she died painfully...from poison...
I asked her what her favorite food was and she looked at me like I was insane. Said something like, ‘In a world as big as ours, why would I ever have a favorite?’”
Eleanor had become somewhat of a food snob as she had gained the head of household position. Their cook was quite willing to participate and she would suggest a type of food or food from a country and each occasion's menu would be based upon that choice... It was later shown that she had died from oleander poisoning--a single leaf may kill an adult!
The investigation, of course, begins with talking with all of the family members who had attended that event about use of charitable funds--would anybody kill because they didn't get the projected budgt they wanted for their own idea? Bottom line, however, is that an unexpected twist near the end of the book blows the entire investigation into a much more broader look at just who this family really was...
For those who like to be kept guessing...this one is for you! I enjoyed it, especially with the teammate of the main character who becomes involved when she was first asked to write Eleanor's memoir--and then lost the job... Tension between her and the new writer adds a turn that can't be ignored by anybody!
GABixlerReviews
Beginning to Share Project 2025 as Promised, today on my sister blog... Just my Personal Opinion...
