Alaska Homeschool | |
UpdateWhew. It was about time. You would think I had taken another break. I am starting a new category. I have decided to start a series about what I am doing for school this year. I hope I don't bore anyone. Because doesn't it kind of seem like a homeschooling mom kind of thing to post what their kids are doing for school this year? You certainly won't be forced to read it, especially if it makes you want to conk out. But on the other hand, maybe I am doing something for school that sounds really fun to you, and maybe you could do it too and have more fun with school. Or... something like that... Hee hee. So I will be starting that up soon. Other things... I turned 14 last Saturday (October 4th). It was a nice birthday. My sisters and I made Brittany's Pineapple Cake. It was good! And we also had mango ice cream. I got some nice presents, one of which was the Violin One part to the Messiah music!!!! (Yes, Mom, I really am still excited about this gift, even though I haven't played it in a week. That's because I keep wasting so much time every day that I'm not getting all my other things done in order to have some "free time" to go play.) I have the recordings for almost all of it, and it's very fun to play along with the CD. Some other nice things I got were some candy (which I keep sneaking all day long -- well, not exactly.  ), a backpack which matches my sister Amy's (can't wait until we both wear them somewhere!), and a beautiful new journal (for when I fill this one up, of course). I have somewhat of a strange memory to associate with this birthday. I had put just about all my birthday presents in my backpack, and the backpack was sitting right next to my desk, UNZIPPED. Big mistake!! I don't know why it wasn't zipped. I usually had it zipped, I guess I just forgot. So on Sunday night, I came into my room in a big hurry and knocked a nearly-full glass of water into my open backpack.  !! Needless to say, I was NOT happy. I soaked (okay, not quite, that damage wasn't that bad) my new books and things. Thankfully, my Messiah music was on my music stand, so it escaped! Whew!! Not to worry, except for a few spots on a couple of my books and my new journal, you would not be able to tell. Hopefully I learned my lesson about haste making waste... or at least a disaster. LOL! I don't think it did much good. I'm still doing things in a hurry.We're going on a trip coming up very soon... I'm planning on posting about that when we get back. It should be fun! Stay tuned. Finding Father Christmas & Engaging Father Christmas by Robin Jones Gunn It is time to play a Wild Card! And this time I'm doubling the score; you can preview not one, but two books by this amazing author. Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter! You never know when I might play a wild card on you! Today's Wild Card author is:
Robin Jones Gunn
and the books: Finding Father Christmas FaithWords (October 11, 2007) Engaging Father Christmas FaithWords (October 30, 2008)  Robin Jones Gunn is the bestselling author of sixty books, representing 3.5 million copies sold. A dozen of her novels have appeared on the top of the CBA bestseller list, including her wildly successful Sisterchicks series. Thousands of teens from around the world have written letters to Robin sharing how God used the Christy Miller and Sierra Jensen series to bring them to Christ as well as lead them to make life changing decisions regarding purity. Robin and her husband of thirty years live near Portland, OR, where they are members of Imago Dei Community along with other Christian authors.Visit the author's website. Product Details for Finding Father Christmas: List Price: $13.99 Hardcover: 176 pages Publisher: FaithWords (October 11, 2007) Language: English ISBN-10: 0446526290 ISBN-13: 978-0446526296 Product Details for Engaging Father Christmas: List Price: $ Hardcover: 176 pages Publisher: FaithWords (October 30, 2008) Language: English ISBN-10: 0446179469 ISBN-13: 978-0446179461 AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: 
A string of merry silver bells jumped and jingled as the north wind shook the evergreen wreath on the heavy wooden door. Overhead a painted shingle swung from two metal arms, declaring this place of business to be the Tea Cosy.
As I peered inside through the thick-paned window, I could see a cheerful amber fire in the hearth. Tables were set for two with china cups neatly positioned on crimson tablecloths. Swags of green foliage trimmed the mantel. Dotted across the room, on the tables and on shelves, were a dozen red votive candles. Each tiny light flickered, sending out promises of warmth and cheer, inviting me to step inside. Another more determined gust made a swoop down the lane, this time taking my breath with it into the darkness of the December night. This trip was a mistake. A huge mistake. What was I thinking? I knew the answer as it rode off on the mocking wind. The answer was, I wasn’t thinking. I was feeling. Pure emotion last Friday nudged me to book the round-trip ticket to London. Blind passion convinced me that the answer to my twenty-year question would be revealed once I reached the Carlton Photography Studio on Bexley Lane. Sadly, I was wrong. I had come all this way only to hit a dead end. I took another look inside the teahouse and told myself to keep walking, back to the train station, back to the hotel in London where I had left my luggage. This exercise in futility was over. I might as well change my ticket and fly back to San Francisco in the morning. My chilled and weary feet refused to obey. They wanted to go inside and be warmed by the fire. I couldn’t deny that my poor legs did deserve a little kindness after all I had put them through when I folded them into the last seat in coach class. The middle seat, by the lavatories, in the row that didn’t recline. A cup of tea at a moment like this might be the only blissful memory I would take with me from this fiasco. Reaching for the oddly shaped metal latch on the door, I stepped inside and set the silver bells jingling again. “Come in, come in, and know me better, friend!” The unexpected greeting came from a kilt-wearing man with a valiant face. His profoundly wide sideburns had the look of white lamb’s wool and softened the resoluteness in his jaw. “Have you brought the snowflakes with you, then?” “The snowflakes?” I repeated. “Aye! The snowflakes. It’s cold enough for snow, wouldn’t you say?” I nodded my reluctant agreement, feeling my nose and cheeks going rosy in the small room’s warmth. I assumed the gentleman who opened the door was the proprietor. Looking around, I asked, “Is it okay if I take the table by the fire? All I’d like is a cup of tea.” “I don’t see why not. Katharine!” He waited for a response and then tried again. “Katharine!” No answer came. “She must have gone upstairs. She’ll be back around.” His grin was engaging, his eyes clear. “I would put the kettle on for you myself, if it weren’t for the case of my being on my way out at the moment.” “That’s okay. I don’t mind waiting.” “Of course you don’t mind waiting. A young woman such as yourself has the time to wait, do you not? Whereas, for a person such as myself . . .” He leaned closer and with a wink confided in me, “I’m Christmas Present, you see. I can’t wait.” What sort of “present” he supposed himself to be and to whom, I wasn’t sure. With a nod, the man drew back the heavy door and strode into the frosty air. From a set of narrow stairs a striking woman descended. She looked as surprised at my appearance as I was at hers. She wore a stunning red, floor-length evening dress. Around her neck hung a sparkling silver necklace, and dangling from under her dark hair were matching silver earrings. She stood tall with careful posture and tilted her head, waiting for me to speak. “I wasn’t sure if you were still open.” “Yes, on an ordinary day we would be open for another little while, until five thirty. . . .” Her voice drifted off. “Five thirty,” I repeated, checking my watch. The time read 11:58. The exact time I’d adjusted it to when I had deplaned at Heathrow Airport late that morning. I tapped on the face of my watch as if that would make it run again. “I can see you have plans for the evening and that you’re ready to close. I’ll just—” “Che-che-che.” The sound that came from her was the sort used to call a squirrel to come find the peanuts left for it on a park bench. It wasn’t a real word from a real language, but I understood the meaning. I was being invited to stay and not to run off. “Take any seat you want. Would you like a scone with your tea or perhaps some rum cake?” “Just the tea, thank you.” I moved toward the fire and realized that a scone sounded pretty good. I hadn’t eaten anything since the undercooked breakfast omelet served on the plane. “Actually, I would like to have a scone, too. If it’s not too much trouble.” “No trouble at all.” Her smile was tender, motherly. I guessed her to be in her midfifties or maybe older. She turned without any corners or edges to her motions. I soon heard the clinking of dishes as she prepared the necessary items in the kitchen. Making my way to a steady looking table by the fire, I tried to tuck my large shoulder bag under the spindle leg of the chair. The stones along the front of the hearth were permanently blackened from what I imagined to be centuries of soot. The charm of the room increased as I sat down and felt the coziness of the close quarters. This was a place of serenity. A place where trust between friends had been established and kept for many years. A sense of safety and comfort called to the deepest part of my spirit and begged me to set free a fountain of tears. But I capped them off. It was that same wellspring of emotion that had instigated this journey. Settling back, I blinked and let the steady heat from the fire warm me. Katharine returned carrying a tray. The steaming pot of tea took center stage, wearing a chintzquilted dressing gown, gathered at the top. Even the china teapots are treated to coziness here. “I’ve warmed two scones for you, and this, of course, is your clotted cream. I’ve given you raspberry jam, but if you would prefer strawberry, I do have some.” “No, this is fine. Perfect. Thank you.” Katharine lifted the festooned teapot and poured the steaming liquid into my waiting china cup. I felt for a moment as if I had stumbled into an odd sort of parallel world to Narnia. As a young child I had read C. S. Lewis’s Narnia tales a number of times. In the many hours alone, I had played out the fairy tales in my imagination, pretending I was Lucy, stepping through the wardrobe into an imaginary world. Here, in the real country of Narnia’s author, I considered how similar my surroundings were to Lewis’s descriptions of that imaginary world. A warming fire welcomed me in from the cold. But instead of a fawn inviting me to tea, it had been a kilted clansman. Instead of Mrs. Beaver pouring a cup of cheer for me by the fire, it was a tall, unhurried woman in a red evening gown. An unwelcome thought came and settled on me as clearly as if I had heard a whisper. Miranda, how much longer will you believe it is “always winter and never Christmas”? Copyright © 2007 by Robin’s Ink, LLC This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Robin Jones Gunn. All rights reserved. 
Around me swarms of Londoners rushed by, intent on their destinations and sure of their plans. My destination was the small town of Carlton Heath, and my plans revolved around a certain Scotsman who was now officially late.
I tried to call Ian again. His voice mail picked up for the third time. “It’s me again,” I said to the phone. “I’m here at Paddington station and —” Before I finished the message, my phone beeped, and the screen showed me it was Ian. “Hi! I was just leaving you another message.” I brushed back my shoulder-length brown hair and stood a little straighter, just as I would have if Ian were standing in front of me. “You made it to the station, then?” “Yes. Although I was about to put on a pair of red rain boots and a tag on my coat that read, ‘Please look after this bear.’ ” I was pretty sure Ian would catch my reference to the original Paddington Bear in the floppy hat since that was what he had given to my niece, Julia, for Christmas last year. “Don’t go hangin’ any tags on your coat,” Ian said with an unmistakable grin in his voice. “I’m nearly there. The shops were crammed this morning, and traffic is awful. I should have taken the tube, but I’m in a taxi now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops. Maybe less if I get out and run the last few blocks.” “Don’t run. I’ll wait. It’s only been, what? Seven weeks and three days since we were last together? What’s another fifteen minutes?” “I’ll tell you what another fifteen minutes is. It’s just about the longest fifteen minutes of my life.” “Mine too.” I felt my face warming. “You’re at track five, then, as we planned?” “Yes. Track five.” “Good. No troubles coming in from the airport?” “No. Everything went fine at Heathrow. The fog delayed my flight when we left San Francisco, but the pilot somehow managed to make up time in the air. We landed on schedule.” “Let’s hope my cabbie can find the same tailwind your pilot did and deliver me to the station on schedule.” I looked up at the large electronic schedule board overhead, just to make sure my watch was in sync with local time. “We have about twenty minutes before the 1:37 train leaves for Carlton Heath. I think we can still make it.” “I have no doubt. Looks like we have a break in the traffic jam at the moment. Don’t go anywhere, Miranda. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” “I’ll be here.” I closed my phone and smiled. Whenever Ian said my name, with a rolling of the r, he promptly melted my heart. Every single time. His native Scottish accent had become distilled during the past decade as a result of his two years of grad school in Canada and working in an architect office with coworkers from around the world. But Ian knew how to put on the “heather in the highlands” lilt whenever he wanted. And I loved it, just as I loved everything about this indomitable man. I looked around the landing between the train tracks for an open seat on one of the benches. Since none were available, I moved closer to the nearest bench just in case someone decided to leave. Balancing my large, wheeled suitcase against a pole so it wouldn’t tip over, I carefully leaned my second bag next to the beast. This was my third trip to England since my visit last Christmas and the first time I had come with two suitcases. This time I needed an extra bag for all the gifts I had with me, wrapped and ready to go under the Christmas tree at the Whitcombe manor. Last Christmas and for many Christmases before that, the only gift I bought and gave was the one expected for the exchange at the accounting office where I worked in downtown San Francisco. Up until last Christmas I had no family to speak of — no parents, no siblings, no roommate. I didn’t even have a cat. My life had fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm of work and weekends alone, which is probably why I found the courage to make that first trip to Carlton Heath last December. In those brief, snow-kissed, extraordinary few days, I was gifted with blood relatives, new friends, and sweetest of all, Ian. Christmas shopping this year had been a new experience. While my coworkers complained about the crowds and hassle, I quietly reveled in the thought that I actually had someone — many someones — in my life to go gift hunting for. I had a feeling some last-minute shopping was the reason Ian was late. He told me yesterday he had a final gift to pick up this morning on his way to the station. He hadn’t explained what the gift was or whom it was for. His silence on the matter led me to wonder as I wandered along a familiar path in my imagination. That path led straight to my heart, and along that path I saw nothing but hope for our future together — hope and maybe a little something shiny that came in a small box and fit on a certain rather available finger on my left hand. Before my mind could sufficiently detour to the happy land of “What’s next?”, I heard someone call my name. It was a familiar male voice, but not Ian’s. I looked into the passing stream of travelers, and there he stood, only a few feet away. Josh. The last person I ever expected to see again. Especially in England. “Miranda, I thought that was you! Hey, how are you?” With a large travel bag strapped over his shoulder, Josh gave me an awkward, clunking and bumping sort of hug. His glasses smashed against the side of my head. He quickly introduced me as his “old girlfriend” to the three guys with him. “What are you doing here?” He unstrapped the bag and dropped it at his feet. One of the guys tagged his shoulder and said, “We’ll be at the sandwich stand over there.” “Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Josh turned back to me. “You look great. What’s been happening with you?” “I’m good,” I said. “What about you? What are you doing here?” I was still too flustered at the unexpected encounter to jump right into a catch-up sort of conversation after the almost three-year gap. “Just returned from a ski trip to Austria with a group from work. Incredible trip. I’m in a counseling practice now. Child psychologist. I don’t know if you knew that.” “No. That’s great, Josh. I know that’s what you wanted to do.” “Yes, it’s going well so far.” He seemed at ease. None of the stiltedness that had been there right after I broke up with him came across in his voice or demeanor. “And what about you? What are you doing in England?” Before I could put together an answer, Josh snapped his fingers. “Wait! Are you here because you’re looking for your birth father?” “You remembered.” Once again he surprised me. “Of course I remembered. You had that picture of some guy dressed as Father Christmas, and it had the name of the photography studio on the back. That was your only clue.” I nodded. “So? What happened?” “I followed the clue last Christmas, and it led me here, to my birth father, just like you thought it would.” “No way! Did it really?” I nodded, knowing Josh would appreciate this next part of the story. “The man in the photo dressed like Father Christmas was my father. And the boy on his lap is my brother, or I guess I should say my half brother, Edward.” “Incredible,” Josh said with a satisfied, Sherlock Holmes expression on his unshaven face. “What happened when you met him?” I hesitated. Having not repeated this story to anyone since it all unfolded a year ago, I didn’t realize how much the answer to Josh’s question would catch in my spirit and feel sharply painful when it was spoken aloud. “I didn’t meet him. He passed away a few years ago.” “Oh.” Josh’s expression softened. “You know, Josh, I always wanted to thank you for the way you urged me to follow that one small clue. I’ve wished more than once that I would have come to England when you first suggested it four years ago. He was still alive then. That’s what I should have done.” “And I should have gone with you,” he said in a low voice. “Why do you say that?” Josh’s eyebrows furrowed, his counselor mode kicking in. “I felt you needed that piece in your life. By that I mean the paternal piece of your life puzzle. I didn’t like you being so alone in the world. I wish you could have met him.” “I do, too, but I actually think things turned out better this way. It’s less complicated that I didn’t meet him while he was still alive.” “Why do you say that?” Josh asked. I hesitated before giving Josh the next piece of information. In an odd way, it felt as if he needed the final piece of the puzzle the same way I had. “It’s less complicated this way because my father was . . .” I lowered my voice and looked at him so he could read the truth in my clear blue eyes. “My father was Sir James Whitcombe.” Copyright © 2008 by Robin’s Ink, LLC. This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Robin Jones Gunn. All rights reserved.
Photography BlogI love taking pictures. i still remember my first "real" camera - I got it as a Christmas gift - it was a fairly expensive 35mm and I was instantly hooked. Looking back, though, I wish I had taken some classes, maybe at the local community college. That camera still sits in its case, in my bedroom; and, I must admit, I never learned to use all it's bells and whistles features. It became easier and quicker, as a young mother, to get a simple automatic camera and not have to mess with an settings, etc. Let me tell you, I've been through my fair share of those types of cameras. Believe it or not, I was even resistent to move into the world of digital photography. Now, though, I'm so glad that my dad introduced me to the digital camera. It's opened up a whole new world - and is especially fun for bloggers! Enter the photography blog. I've been thinking lately how much fun it would be for Ashley and I to take some online photography courses. She, too, loves taking pictures - she's always experimenting with black & white, etc. and, like a typical teenager, she loves taking pictures of herself! But, I'd love for us to learn how to take better quality pictures, to know how to shoot things like fireworks, etc. If you know of a good online photography course, please let me know. in the meantime, I'll enjoy reading the photography tips blog. Help Support One Family's AdoptionI am a big supporter of adoption - I have 2 brothers adopted from Korea and 2 children adopted from Vietnam. I LOVE adoption! Our family has been richly blessed by adoption. So, when I saw this on my friend Michele's blog, I had to check it out.
This is a magnet (heavy-duty for outdoor use) that was designed by an adoptive mom who is waiting for a precious little baby from Russia. You can see him here. Please pray for this family as they wait to bring this little guy home. Also, if you are so inclined, you can order a magnet for yourself - they're only $6 (which includes shipping). I can't wait to put mine on my van and proclaim this message to the world! National Adoption Day is coming up (November 15th) - these magnets would make great gifts for anyone who know whose life has been touched by the miracle of adoption. Buy in bulk! #93 1. One of the best concerts/plays/movies I ever saw that I really didn't think I'd like was The Jonas Brothers. (actually, I knew I'd like them - I just thought I might be the only old person there! LOL) 2. Deli Pizza from Wal-mart is a recipe I recently made (or meal I recently ordered) that was delicious! 3. It's time for grocery shopping. 4. Sunshine is quite refreshing. 5. If I never hear the word "random" again, it'll be too soon. (hey, I've got a teenager and it's her current favorite word) 6. To one side of the curving road was a tree in all its autumn splendor, and on the other was a and old one-room schoolhouse. 7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to relaxing with my family after an afternoon of grocery shopping, tomorrow my plans include (not exactly sure yet - I need to make some plans!) and Sunday, I want to go to church for Rally Day and enjoy a carry-in-meal afterwards! I've been tagged.
Posted by Mom of Three Little Ladies and one Little Blessing Boy
7:24 PM, Oct. 9, 2008 .. 1 comments .. Link Tina of Solid Rock tagged me: The Rules: Link to the person who tagged you. Post the rules on your blog. Write six random things about yourself. Tag six people at the end of your post. Let each person know he or she has been tagged. Let the tagger know when your entry is up. 1. My dad was 7 feet tall. 2. My grandmother was 1/2 Native American, but besides her first name, that is all I know about her. 3. I hate to go barefoot, even in the house! 4. I like dark chocolate. 5. I was born in Oregon, grew up in Kansas, visited most of the US states, and visited 14 countries, including two in Europe that I lived in more than 8 months each. 6. Sometimes having four children makes me insane, but I love them and would take more any day. I tag: Belinda, Nikowa, Jenn, Sally, and anyone else who wants to do this, but don't feel obligated! A hidden agenda??Those that know me well, know I am not into politics. In fact, God gave me verses about the election that indicated I was to pray that his power might be shown. Romans 9:17-18. Go read and join me in prayer. If you are considering voting for Obama, go read this on his website. For you history buffs does it sound like anything else you ever studied? http://www.barackobama.com/pdf/NationalServicePlanFactSheet.pdf - everyone, regardless of age, should volunteer - schools will train kids to be volunteers - plan to track volunteer hours and experiences - inspire our youth to be in the military - make our military bigger and better Why do we need a bigger military if the Democrats want us out of wars? Teenage Girls ~ ugh!I've always known that teenage girls can be "petty" and "catty". I used to be one, after all! However, I think maybe I thought I could somehow keep my daughters from going through some of the pettiness and nastiness often associated with teenage girls. However, we have recently encountered a few "situations" that have led us to believe that homeschoolers are not exempt from these things...... One of Ashley's very best friends (and a fellow homeschooled student) has recently said some very nasty things to her, things that best friends shouldn't say, things that acquaintances shouldn't even say. This friend has told Ashley (on more than one occasion) that she doesn't like her style, that she thinks she has a horrible singing voice, and that she hates her hairstyle. Now, seriously, would you say these types of things to someone you profess to really like?! Would you even say them to someone that you don't like?! When Ashley tried to explain that these are hurtful things, her friend came back with the excuse that you SHOULD tell your friends things like this. WHAT?! Did I miss something? Did, somewhere along the lines, etiquette change? When did it become acceptable, or even necessary, to hurt your friends by saying unkind things? She even went so far as to quote a verse from Proverbs that says you should accept "criticism". After some research, Ashley and I have discovered that only the New Living Translation uses that word, instead of what it really means, which is "correction" or "discipline". I tried talking to this girl. Now, before you think I'm a meddling parent who can't let my child "fight her own battles", let me explain that I am also this girl's Sunday School teacher. When I tried explaining about the verse, and her quoting it out of context to make excuses for her rudeness, she got rude with me! Please! Again, maybe I'm missing something, but if my daughter would disrespect an adult like this girl did to me, she'd be facing some serious discipline! If it's not enough that Ashley is dealing with this "issue", last night she got some nasty messages on her Facebook, from a former HSB blogger, no less. What that means is there is another homeschooled teenage girl out there who is trying to stri up trouble. Ashley ended up deleting her Facebook. So, tell me......why can't they just be nice?
Goodbye Hollywood Nobody by Lisa SampsonIt is October 11th, and FIRST is doing a special tour to 'Say Goodbye to Hollywood Nobody'.Today's feature author is: LISA SAMSON and her book: Goodbye Hollywood Nobody NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008)
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER: Monday, July 11, 6:30 a.m. I awaken to a tap on my shoulder and open my eye. My right eye. See, these days it could be one of four people: Charley, Dad, Grampie, or Grammie. “’Morning, dear!” Grammie. Oh well, might as well go for broke. I open the other eye. “Did you sleep well?” I shake my head and reach for my cat glasses. “Nope. I kept dreaming about Charley in Scotland.” We sent her off with her new beau, the amazing Anthony Harris, two days ago. “I imagined a road full of sheep chasing her down.” “That would be silly. They would have to know she hates lamb chops.” Grammie sits on my bed. Yes, my bed. In their fabulous house. In my own wonderful room, complete with reproductions of the Barcelona chair and a platform bed of gleaming sanded mahogany. I burrow further into my white down comforter. I sweat like a pig at night, but I don’t care. A real bed, a bona fide comforter, and four pillows. Feather pillows deep enough to sink the Titanic in. She pats my shoulder, her bangled wrists emitting the music of wooden jewelry. “Up and at ’em, Scotty. Your dad wants to be on the road by seven thirty.” “I need a shower.” “Hop to it then.” Several minutes later, I revel in the glories of a real shower. Not the crazy little stall we have in the TrailMama, which Dad gassed up last night for our trip to Maine. Our trip to find Babette, my mother. Is she dead or alive? That’s what we’re going to find out. It’s complicated. The warm water slides over me from the top of my head on down, and I’ve found the coolest shampoo. It smells like limeade. I kid you not. It’s the greatest stuff ever. Over breakfast, Grampie sits down with us and goes over the map to make certain Dad knows the best route. My father sits patiently, nodding as words like turnpike, bypass, and scenic route roll like a convoy out of Grampie’s mouth. Poor Grampie. Dad is just the best at navigation and knows everything about getting from point A to point B, but I think Grampie wants to be a part of it. He hinted at us all going in the Beaver Marquis, their Luxury-with-a-capital-L RV, but Dad pretended not to get it. Later, Dad said to me, “It’s got to be just us, Scotty. I love my mother and father, but some things just aren’t complete-family affairs.” “I know. I think you’re right. And if it’s bad . . .” He nods. “I’d just as soon they not be there while we fall apart.” Right. So then, I hop up into our RV, affectionately known as the TrailMama, Dad’s black pickup already hitched behind. (Charley’s kitchen trailer is sitting on a lot in storage at a nearby RV dealership, and good riddance. I’m hoping Charley never needs to use that thing again.) “Want me to drive?” He laughs. Yep. I still don’t have my license. Man. But it’s been such a great month or so at the beach. So, okay, I don’t tan much really, but I do have a nice peachy glow. I’ll take it. And Grampie grilled a lot, and Grammie helped me sew a couple of vintage-looking skirts, and I’ve learned the basics of my harp. I jump into the passenger’s seat, buckle in, and look over at my dad. “You really ready for this?” My heart speeds up. This is the final leg of a very long journey, and what’s at the end of the path will determine the rest of our lives. He looks into my eyes. “Are you?” “I don’t know,” I whisper. “But we don’t really have a choice, do we?” “I can go alone.” I shake my head. “No, Dad. Whatever we do, whatever happens from here on out, we do it together.” “Deal.”
Lisa Samson has a real talent for writing books that are appealing to a wide age range of readers. My 14-year old daughter has read these books and loves them as much (or maybe even more, if that's possible) as I do. She definitely writes in such a way to attract teens; but us moms and young-at-hearts will enjoy these books as well. If you haven't yet met Scotty Dawn, I would highly encourage you to get to know her through these books. I hope that Lisa will continue writing to this age, and that we'll see more Young Adult Fiction series by her in the near future. Otherwise, I will totally go into Scotty Withdrawal. Having read all 4 books in this series, I have become extremely attached to Scotty and I can't believe this series of books has come to an end. I feel like I've lost a best friend, though I'm so happy for the life that Scotty has found for herself, and the fact that she is no longer a "nobody". I'm just really, really going to miss her. I'm just sayin'....... Hometown Favorite by Bill Barton & Henry O. Arnold
First of all, I had trouble getting into this book. And, once I did get a bit into it, it took me so long to read it all. I actually just finished it last night. Though I liked the main character and his mom and wife, there just seemed to be too much going on, too many characters to keep up with, too much drama and tragedy. It wasn't until I finished it, put the book down, and turned off the light that it finally hit me (call me "dense") - this was a modern-day Job story. My recommendation for a future printing of this book is to describe it as such on the book cover. That might help others who are having my same issues with this book to understand it more going into it. { Last Page } { Page 1 of 5 } { Next Page } |
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