Don Charisma (http://doncharisma.org/2015/01/06/my-adoption-story/) kindly asked me to do a guest post on his blog. It appeared today and told the story of the adoption of my children and a few words on adoption in general. I hope if you visit his site, you will like what I wrote. On another note, Luccia Gray, the author of All Hallows at Eyre Hall, also did a post on the Epiphany. I hope you will visit her (http://lucciagray.com/2015/01/06/6th-january-the-epiphany-and-the-end-of-christmastide/). Do visit her site; the post is really interesting! 0 0
Ever since I heard a soaring sermon by the late Reverend Peter Gomes on the Feast of the Epiphany, the three Wise Men have fascinated me. (Peter was an African American minister, theologian and author who announced he was gay a generation ago and who became one of America’s most prominent spiritual voices against intolerance. He was also a friend of mine from childhood.) He opened this particular sermon by saying that he had a lot in common with the Wise Men: he too was always late. So who were the Wise Men? The Bible doesn’t name them and traditions and legends have given them a variety of names, but in Western Christianity they are commonly known as Melchior, a Persian scholar, Caspar, and Indian scholar, and Balthazar, an Arabian scholar. These names come from a Greek manuscript probably composed in Alexandria circa 500 AD, which was translated into Latin. They have also been called the Kings of their respective lands with these same names in a Greek document from the 8th century, of presumed Irish origin and also translated into Latin. When you consider the written word was not common in those times and books were handmade and exceedingly rare, this is pretty amazing. Were they real? Here’s where it gets a bit confusing. One theory is that the Gospel story of the Magi was influenced by an Iranian legend concerning magi and a star, which was connected with Persian beliefs in the rise of a star predicting the birth of a ruler. Another source for the story of the homage of the Magi might have come from the journey to Rome of King of Armenia, to pay homage to the Emperor Nero, which took place in 66 AD, a few years before the composition of the Gospel of Matthew. In other words, you have to take it as gospel that the three Kings actually existed. Where might they have come from? The Bible only says they came from the East. They were initially considered to be Babylonians, Persians or Jews from Yemen; the Armenian tradition is the one having them come from Arabia, Persia and India. Most likely they all came from Persia, a journey of 800-900 miles. It is assumed they traveled by camel, so it is not a mystery why they arrived late to pay homage to the Christ Child. And why were they called wise? These men are also called the three Magi. From Ancient Greek and old Persian, the term magi refers to practitioners of magic, to include astrology, alchemy and other forms of esoteric knowledge; it was only in the first century AD that magi came to be known as wise men and soothsayers. But the practice of astrology would explain how these three men started on their journey to what is now Israel. They were supposedly guided by a miraculous stellar event, the “Star of Bethlehem.” In the Gospel of Matthew, the Magi follow the star and arrive at the court of Herod in Jerusalem. There they told the king of the appearance of a star which signified the birth of the King of the Jews; Herod then directs them to Bethlehem, on the basis of information from his advisers, based on the Prophet Micah. Many scholars regard the Star of Bethlehem as a pious fiction, created to establish the child as the Messiah. Linking a birth to the first appearance of a star was a popular belief at the time, and interestingly, the miracles and portents surrounding the birth of Jesus are very similar to those described for the birth of the Emperor Augustus in 63 BC. Why only three Wise Men? It appears that no one is even sure there were only three; this number has been inferred from the Biblical reference to the three gifts they brought: gold, frankincense and myrrh. There could have been more. In Eastern Christianity, the Magi often number twelve, so the visitors could have been a crowd. How late were the Wise Men? The Greek word in the Gospel of Matthew describing Jesus translates as “young child,” so Jesus could have been a day old when the Magi visited or as old as two years. Joseph and Mary almost surely stayed in Bethlehem until Mary could travel again, at least for the 40 days necessary to complete Mary’s purification following the birth, making the five mile trip to Jerusalem easily. The Magi came to a “house” according to Matthew, and it makes sense that Joseph would have removed his family from the stable as soon as possible. Herod, who was Jewish by choice only so he could consider himself to be King of the Jews, must have been threatened by the Wise Men asking where they could find the child born King of the Jews. When he ordered hundreds of innocent children to be slaughtered in an attempt to have this new Messiah killed, he sentenced all male children under the age of two. So it is quite possible that the Magi did not arrive until Jesus was close to two years old. Where did the Wise Men go after their visit to the Christ Child? Christian Scriptures report them going back to their own country but returning by another way, having been warned in a dream to avoid Herod. One of the many traditional stories about what happened to the Magi has them baptized as Christians by St. Thomas on his way to India, so moved were they by their encounter with Jesus. The Epiphany, which is the 12th day after Christmas, celebrates the visit of the three kings or wise men to the Christ Child. It falls this year on Tuesday, January 6, today. Whatever you believe about the Three Wise Men, and this humble blogger does believe they existed, I hope you will find this short description informative. 0 0
Trisha Surgarek, is in my opinion, one of the best cozy writers around. She recently sent me a copy of The Taste of Murder, book five in her World of Murder series, and it didn’t disappoint. The time the murder takes place on the set of a televised cooking competition show, when someone with a serious ax to grind poisons the food of Executive Chef Jeff Kirikos. The killer is never found and Detectives Jack O’Roarke, tall and second generation Irish, and Stella Garcia, petite and with a Cuban husband and children, get it as a cold case three year later. They get the directive with an order to solve it from their commander. Turns out Kirikos is the brother-in-law of the new mayor, so they have to overcome their aversion to cold cases on the spot. O’Roarke and Garcia have featured in the previous four books, and their relationship is easy. The reader gets a view of Garcia’s family life and the detectives’ interaction with the grandmotherly, gray-haired Chief Medical Examiner, Ruby Crutchner. Ms. Sugarek takes us backstage into the world of cooking shows – how they are run and how they are filmed — as O’Roarke and Garcia maneuver through the politics of investigating the mayor’s relative and taking over another investigator’s case. There are plenty of suspects; the chef’s widow, the man for whom the chef left her, people fired from the show, and obsessed fans. The reader has no clue right up to the last chapter. I highly recommend The Taste of Murder for a short, enjoyable read to curl up with on a rainy or snowy day, and I look forward to the next in the World of Murder series. Trisha Sugarek is a talented writer of several genres, including The Secret Language of Women a spirited journal/handbook intended specifically for men, and most recently Women Outside the Walls, a tasty piece of fiction about women whose husbands are all in the same prison. Ms. Sugarek reaches over a million viewers on social media and can be found at http://www.writeratplay.com and The Taste of Murder can be purchased at http://www.writeratplay.com/shop/the-taste-of-murder-book-5-in-the-world-of-murder-series/. 0 0
This is part of a launch tour for Jo Robinson’s new book Echoes of Narcissus in the Gardens of Delight. Jo was born in Port Elizabeth, South Africa and still lives in SA with her husband Angus, a dog with an odd sense of humour, four birds, and some chickens. Her stories are mostly about people, in the genre of science fiction / fantasy, but also literature and she is an accomplished short story writer. I’m delighted to join in her launch party! The story of Echos of Narcissus in the Gardens of Delight: Donna thought there was something wrong with her. That she was suffering from a mental illness that has caused her husband to despise her, distance himself from her, and cheat on her. She blames herself for the desolate, miserable thing that is her marriage and her life. Then she comes across a book that will change everything for her, and reading it, she discovers that there’s nothing wrong with her mind at all, but that there is something very wrong with her husband instead. Marco, she realises, is a malignant narcissist. A text book case. He has a real and documented mental disorder, and that he’s been controlling, manipulating, and abusing her for decades. The sudden full knowledge of all that he’s purposely done to her enrages her. Not sure how to leave after thirty years of what she finally knows has been intentional mental and emotional abuse from him, and believing that she has nowhere to turn, being so physically isolated, she bides her time. Then she meets and befriends a group of unusual people who share her passion for gardening, and so begins her journey to escape. She joins her new friends in their project to assist elderly people in old age homes care for their small gardens, as well as secretly supplying those suffering from painful and terminal illnesses with medicinal herb and plant remedies, including illegal plants such as cannabis. As weeks go by, she delves into her memories, relearns what it is to be respected, liked, and loved again, and slowly she formulates a plan to safely leave her dangerous husband. But unbeknownst to Donna, Marco is in serious trouble, and has desperate plans of his own, and absolutely no regard for her safety. This is a work of fiction, but malignant narcissists really do exist, and it is a recognized mental illness. Unfortunately, many people never realize that they are involved with a narcissist, because their actions are so demonically bad as to be unimaginable and unbelievable, and so they spend their lives in misery, depression, fear, and isolation. If only by the accidental reading of a fictional story, I hope that this book will help even one person, unknowingly suffering narcissistic abuse, to realize that they don’t have to, and that it’s never too late to start over, be happy, be fulfilled, to love and care for yourself, and be truly loved and respected by others. Do check out Jo and her other books on her blog:https://africolonialstories.wordpress.com. 0 0
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!” Best wishes for a wonderful holiday season to all the amazing people I have met through blogging this year. Here are just a few of the many, many: Rosie Amber Stepheny Houghtlin Bodicia Irene Waters Sue Vincent Trisha Sugarek Luccia Gray Terry Tyler Don Charisma Kate Loveton Sylvia (Writes) Jemima Pett Chris, the Story Reading Ape Becky Due Katherine of I Wished I Lived in a Library A Star on the Forehead Blessings of the season to you all! 0 0
At 7:30 PM, with two tickets to the movie of Liz Alexander’s choice, Liz and her husband Ed bought a large Diet Coke and some popcorn and headed into the theater at the Pequod Mall. Two hours later, they came out and headed to the rest rooms. “Meet you right here,” Liz called to him as they separated. A few minutes later Liz emerged and was surprised Ed was not there to meet her. He always took less time. She looked around the theater lobby, and not seeing him, sat down on one of the padded benches. Craning her neck, she searched around the lobby and still did not see him. After five minutes, she started to worry and walked around looking for him. Why had she left her cell phone at home? Did Ed have his? After ten minutes, she went up to the gangly teenager taking tickets and asked, “My husband left me to use the rest room. He hasn’t come back. Can you look in the rest room and make sure he isn’t sick or something? His name is Ed Alexander.” When the kid came out, he spread his hands and said. “I called for a Mr. Alexander but no one in there answered. Sorry.” “Do you have a cell phone I could use? I can call him.” “Okay, I guess,” the kid replied with an annoyed tone, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. Liz dialed Ed’s cell phone number, but it immediately went to voice mail. Damn. His phone is off. Where IS he? Liz sat down again. Where could he have gone? Maybe he’s waiting outside instead of in here. She stood up and headed out the main doors, looking around as she did. When she didn’t see him in the plaza area outside the theater, she though, Maybe he’s getting the car. I’ll go out to the drive and wait until he pulls around. After standing by the side of the drive for another ten minutes, Liz became totally panicked. I don’t even know where he parked, he dropped me off to get the tickets. What the hell do I do now? She decided to check one more time in the theater and talked her way back inside by asking for the manager. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, with smarmy concern and a check of his comb-over with his hand. “Well, I seem to have lost my husband,” Liz answered, trying to keep her tone light and not betray her overwhelming anxiety. “I had the bathroom checked. Could you check in the other movies?” “That would be very disruptive to our customers, don’t you think? You could just wait until each movie lets out, see if he comes out with the crowd. I’m sure he’s here somewhere. Of course, it’s not allowed to attend more than one movie on a single ticket, so if he’s gone into another movie, we’ll have to charge him.” Liz exploded. “Don’t you understand? My husband has disappeared! Gone! I cannot reach him!” “Have you tried calling home?” “I don’t have my cell phone, but I borrowed one and called him. His phone is off.” “Let me call security for you. Perhaps they can straighten this out.” A caricature of an overweight mall cop finally came and took down her information and listened patiently while Liz explained one more time what had happened. By this time, she was hyperventilating and had to sit down on the theater bench again. “He didn’t say anything to you when he left for the restroom?” asked the cop. “No, nothing!” “Have you and your husband been having any difficulties lately?” “What? Why would you ask that? No, of course not. I love my husband and he loves me. There’s nothing wrong.” “Can you tell me what kind of car you drive?” “It’s a Jeep Grand Cherokee, about five years old, dark green, license plate HVN 405,” Liz answered automatically, without waiting for more specific questions. After a few more agonizing minutes of interrogation, the cop did go into each theater and ask the patrons if there was an Ed Alexander in the audience. There wasn’t. In the meantime, more security was called to search the parking lot for the car but didn’t find it. Finally, the Pequod police were called. The man who arrived introduced himself as John Smith. Liz looked him over and decided he was the most unremarkable man she’s ever seen: brown hair, brown eyes, medium height and weight, plain Jane facial features. The two things that did impress her was his voice – a deep, rich bass – and the intelligence and thoughtfulness with which he interviewed her, taking down every detail. He took Liz home, suggesting with some hope in his voice her that husband would be waiting for her when she got there. But he wasn’t. Officer Smith came in with her and made a thorough search of the house. Finding nothing suspicious, he asked Liz, “Look, there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of foul play here. Is there anything missing?” Liz had already looked in the closets and drawers to see if anything obvious was missing. “No, everything seems to be fine,” she replied. “Well, you can file a missing person’s report in 24 hours if your husband doesn’t show up. I can see how much you’re worried, but he’s probably just off having a night with the boys or taking a break. It’s been my experience when this happens, the spouse always comes home.” Haven’t had that experience, thought Liz. Ed had come into her life four years earlier, at a time when she’d been divorced for two years. Her first marriage never should have happened; she was too young and her husband became a stranger who liked alcohol better than her and beating her even more. Without a college degree, she had been stuck in part-time, menial jobs. It was nothing less than a miracle she
From a friend of mine: When four of Santa’s elves got sick, the trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as the regular ones, and Santa began to feel the Christmas pressure. Then, Mrs. Claus told Santa her mother was coming to visit, which stressed Santa even more. He went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the fence and were out, Heaven knows where. The reindeer herder was on vacation When he began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and all the toys were scattered. Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a glass of cider and a shot of rum. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it broke into hundreds of little glass pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found the mice had eaten all the straw off the end of the broom. Just then the doorbell rang, and an irritated Santa marched to the door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big Christmas tree. The angel said very cheerfully, ‘Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn’t this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?’ And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree. Not a lot of people know this. 0 0
I am reposting this as part of the Deja Vu Blogfest! One of the last times my Dad applied a switch to my rear end with any degree of force happened after what my brother and I later called the lemon cookie catastrophe. My father was addicted to lemon frosting-filled cookies, and every other week my mother would bring home a package of the sweet treats with the groceries, which would go into the metal bread box on the counter. The catastrophe began with the fact that both Jay and I loved cookies and tended to sneak them when no one was looking. As a result, the number of lemon cookies in the bag would diminish rapidly in just a few days, much to my father’s displeasure. “Who ate the lemon cookies?” Dad would ask in exasperation each time. “Noelle did,” Jay would answer. “Jay did,” I would reply. Finally, Dad’s patience wore out. Tired of never knowing who was to be punished for eating his cookies, he found a solution. “The next time I find that anyone has been eating my cookies, you will both be switched.” Sure enough, the following week he went to grab a cookie after dinner and found the bag had only one. “That’s it,” he roared and asked Jay and me who ate his cookies. “I didn’t, I swear,” I vowed. “I didn’t eat your cookies this time,” answered Jay tearfully, knowing what was coming. Nevertheless, Dad cut a green switch from the back yard forsythia, returned to the kitchen and gave both Jay and me a thorough licking, energized by the fact that he was tired of our lying. I was sitting on the back steps, crying, when Mom came in from the drying area with a pile of clothes in her arms. I followed her into the kitchen, wailing about being punished for something I didn’t do. “What’s going on here, John?” Mom asked. “I’m tired of those kids lying about eating the lemon cookies,” he answered, “so this time they both got switched.” “Oh dear,” Mom sighed. “I forgot to tell you that the bridge club was here this afternoon and I served them the lemon cookies.” I remember wailing even louder about the unfairness of it all and not surprisingly, I was ordered to my room. I left, but not before I heard Dad say, “Well, shit.” Many years later, Dad said to me, “Life is inherently unfair.” I couldn’t help myself. I reminded him of the lemon cookies. 0 0
Home for Christmas is a compendium of Christmas stories from years gone by, assembled by Margaret Jean Langstaff and the Editors at Cedar Press. These editors intended the collection to be a reminder to its readers of what Christmas really means and what every Christmas gives to the human heart. I will tell you about a few. How could you not like a book with a wonderful cover illustration of a horse-drawn buggy wending its way past snow-covered cottages of Christmas stories and then opens with O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi? That story tugged at my heart strings when I first read it in high school. In Christmas Day in the Morning by Grace S. Richmond, older parents are facing another Christmas alone because their children are too preoccupied with their own lives. But this year one of their sons decides to plan a surprise Christmas for his mother and father, an old-fashioned one with just their children and all of their old traditions. How will he pull it off? Christmas with Grandma Elsie by Martha Finley, author of the Elsie Dinsmore series, dates from before the Civil War, so the customs, attitudes and traditions are somewhat strange and clash with current norms. However, it provides a peek into our past, and even though I would say the writing is treacly and spun-candy sweet, it draws you into the innocence, simplicity and unbridled joy of the Christmas season. Uncle Noah’s Christmas Inspiration by Leona Dalrymple is set on a plantation just after the Civil War and tells the story of Uncle Noah, an elderly slave whose only friend is a turkey named Job. When his master, who has fallen on hard times, asks him to kill the turkey for Christmas dinner, Noah must find a way to save his feathered friend and at the same time give his master and mistress a traditional Christmas with plenty of food for a change. The story is touching, although the master’s demeaning references to Uncle Noah and other slaves can bring the reader up short, reminding us all how far this country has come since that time. The Mouse and the Moonbeam by Eugene Field, is a children’s story dating from Victorian times, but perfect for adults. You probably know Mr. Field, humorist and author of poetry for children, from his work Wynken, Blynken and Nod. The Mouse and the Moonbeam is populated by wonderful characters: Miss Mauve Mouse, Squeaknibble, the Old Clock, and of course the moonbeam, who relates what it saw on the night of Christ’s birth. How can you not fall in love with a story that begins “While you were sleeping, little Dear-my-soul, strange things happened…” The Christmas Angel by Abbie Farwell Brown, who co-wrote the song “On the Trail”, which became the official song of the Girl Scouts of the USA, is a story of a female Ebenezer Scrooge, who for many years has not celebrated Christmas and has refused to let her brother visit her. When she finds a box of her old toys in the attic, Miss Terry tosses the toys one by one onto her snow sidewalk and then watches to see what happens, to prove to herself that the people who find them are selfish and uncaring. But when the Christmas Angel, which graced her home for many years, is kicked aside, she rushes to rescue it. The Angel then comes to life to show her the real destiny of each toy. The results reveal the true meaning of Christmas. Each of these stories is about loss and redemption and provides a new and often different look into the heart of Christmas. I enjoyed reading them, not only from a historical perspective but because they lifted my spirit. This book is available on Amazon and GoodReads. 0 0
A few weeks ago, I posted something a blogging sister had written from prison – Rara, who is doing hard time in California. Rara is currently struggling, and it shows in this piece from October. However, it is written in her typically beautiful prose. You can visit her blog, Rarasaur, at http://rarasaur.wordpress.com/ Originally written 10/10/2014 They say she is property. They say the world is better without her. She absorbs it all. Leashed by time, she makes the motions of the living, fully invested in the moment, knowing there is pain any other way. Each step forward must be taken without a backwards glance—or the collar pulls and the seconds solidify. She wants malleable minutes. Liquid hours. She never wanted to experience hard time. The caged shell cannot hold in her seeping, melting soul. IT is escaping—leaving her empty, but emotionally free. From the outside, she is. On the inside, she merely… was. 0 0
