Review of Rosamunde Pilcher's The Shell Seekers

I loved this book and can't wait to read her next, September. Rosamunde Pilcher is faultless in description of London and Cornwall, development of character and authenticity of emotions. The novel opens in the Cotswolds as Penelope returns to her cottage from the hospital after suffering a mild heart attack. We are then introduced to her three children, Nancy married to a stuffy solicitor and living in an old vicarage, Olivia, a magazine editor at Venus, and Noel, a dashing young man living in a tiny apartment only because it is in a good section of town. They are all concerned about their mother living alone after she checked herself out of the hospital against the doctor's wishes. Then we realize there is much jealousy and rivalry between the children on two accounts, Olivia being the only one truly concerned with her mother's health, and interest in Victorian paintings done by Penelope's father and suddenly escalated in price. Nancy wants money for her two children to attend expensive prep schools and Noel wants to leave his poor-paying job and become a broker. Lawrence Stern's paintings had all been sold to pay for their daily living expenses and only two remained, the Shell Seekers and two unfinished panels belonging to Penelope. The Sterns spend winters in London and summers in Cornwall. The descriptions of Cornwall with its bright sun, white, sheer cliffs and dazzling blue waters of the Atlantic are so detailed the reader feels as if they have personally experienced it.
There is an intricate plot with three generations being influenced by World War 11. Mainly, the plot follows Penelope with her marriage to a man she realizes she doesn't love, meeting one she does, and trying to hold her family together. There is the undercurrent of her daughter Nancy and son Noel pestering her to sell her father's paintings and Olivia who buffers their greed.
A visit to Italy adds a subplot that turns out to have lasting effect for Penelope and ultimately her children.
Flashbacks are seamlessly used to give depth and understanding to three generations of family. An excellent novel.

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Review of Mo Hayder's thriller Gone

Gone by Mo Hayder is so good I read it practically at one sitting.  I kept thinking, "I need to savor this because I might not find another book I enjoy as much." But, I just kept reading until I finished.  She is the author of six other books and I will definitely be checking them out.  Okay, now for the review. 
The protagonist is Inspector Jack Caffery Of Bristol's Crime Investigation Unit. The plot begins with Jack looking at video of a carjacking.  A man wearing a rubber Santa Claus mask rushed to a woman as she placed packages in the boot of her car, slammed into her, climbed into the driver's seat of her car and sped off with the blur of a small girl's head in the back seat.  Jack assured the parents that two other girls had been taken in similar circumstances and released later, unharmed.  This is the beginning of a well-thought out, brilliant mystery that doesn't let up until the final pages. 
Jack works with a lady diver named Flea Marley and a detective named Prody who transferred in from Traffic.  When the eleven year-old Martha doesn't return and another child is abducted, Jack knows
they are probably searching for a pedophile.  The plot takes twists and turns never letting up on the adrenalin as the families are tortured, almost beyond belief.  Hayder is especially adept at describing the two mothers' feelings of helplessness.  The setting switches to a tunnel under the Cotswold where Flea rationalizes the girls might be hidden.  Her exploits ratchets up the suspense while Jack keeps looking for a commonality connecting the two families.  The ending is unexpected and highly explosive.  I'm looking for the next Mo Hayder thriller. 

The Trip to Yellowstone

"On your first card try to think of a specific person, place or event that's special to you. I'm leaving your first writing assignment wide-open." So said the writing instructor. Well, after an entire year of trying to get my own students to write, the last thing I want to do is write. I'd like to be out in the wide-open instead of sitting inside writing about it. Wide-open outdoors, that is. My mind tries to click into gear as I hear a cohort murmur, "Just the bare facts." Click! I started to write "Yellowstone Park" as memories rushed in. Or is that "Fools rush in"?
In describing the beauty of the park, incidents kept crowding in and they were not serene, soul-satisfying ones, but, oddly, the times when itineraries went awry, times were tough, plans didn't "pan out," "the best-laid schemes gang aft agley." I found myself chuckling now as I chuckled then, though, admittedly, not as freely then and realized something about myself: missteps are more memorable. The beauty and majesty of Yellowstone only slightly outweighs the misadventures of my first trip there.
Yellowstone Park can be reached from four main entrances. The east has the flattest terrain while the north is the most beautiful. The road winds through the Big Horn Mountains and is one of the most scenic roads in the United States. After ascending to heights of 13,000 feet, it passes numerous lakes and rushing waterfalls, passes the Red Lodge Skiing area, and delivers the traveller to the front door of a quaint trading-post town. Meadows covered in yellow, purple, pink, and white wildflowers border lakes of dark blue and invite meditation. Grass covered fields are dotted with coyotes, elk and deer while streams sport an absurd looking animal with what appears to be a coat rack on his head. Startled by the sound of the motor, the moose looks up as if to comment, "I know it looks ridiculous, but it comes in so handy in improving posture." Of course, the park is noted for bears, especially Ursus horribilis, or grizzly.
As my husband, his parents and our two-year old son and I drove through the north entrance, Memaw kept spotting bears motor, the moose looks up as if to comment, "I know it looks ridiculous, but it comes in so handy in improving posture." Of course, the park is noted for bears, especially Ursus horribilis, or grizzly.

As my husband, his parents and our two-year old son and I drove through the north entrance, Memaw kept spotting bears every few miles. "Oh, there's another one behind the tree." The first seven or eight times our heads swivelled in unison only to see where a tree had been cut.
"Memaw, there's no bears over there," my husband said.
"What?" she replied.
"He said there's no bears over there." Grandfather reiterated.
Memaw was hard-of-hearing and this dialogue set the tone for the entire trip. While walking on slippery, wooden walkways built over the mud pot area, my husband and Grandfather took one route while Memaw, my son and I took another. When we merged on the mist-whitened path, my husband and I were stifling laughter. Grandfather had slipped on wet boards and performed a complete backward flip. So had Memaw.
Thankfully, they were not injured.
The pattern that started with Memaw seeing a bear behind every tree continued. The first night we camped at Fishing Creek and were awakened by the sounds of coolers being shaken and bare feet pounding the ground running. Next, we heard a low guttural grunting circling our tent. My husband looked out the front flap of our tent and spoke the oft-repeated words, "It's a bear!" Are hallucinations inherited?
"Are you sure?" I squeaked.
"Yes, it's a bear." Those words again.
"What's he doing?"
"Nothing. He's just standing in front of our tent looking at our picnic table."
"Oh, my Gosh. Did we cover the food? Maybe he'll leave and go somewhere else where there's food." I offered.
"There's food here. He's eating something."
"Oh, my gosh. We ate cookies in the tent!"
"Ssh. Don't wake the baby," he warned.
"What?" This from Memaw.
"He said don't wake the baby," Grandfather intoned.
"He's going to find those crumbs we brushed out last night and follow them in here."
"Bonnie, just calm down." His voice assumed male dominance.
Pleas for a knife to cut another exit produced no result and four terrified people sat and waited for the bear to leave the picnic so we could make it to the safety of our car. Steel is more secure than canvas. Finally, he wandered off and we grabbed the baby and dashed to the car. As we waited for dawn, it began to snow. Huge, white flakes floating downward soon cascaded over everything--car, tent, picnic table. We grew colder and periodically turned on the car engine and heater to warm ourselves and clear the windshield. At last,(good song title?) light began to filter into the car and we opened doors to look out on a white paradise. Trees were laden with clumps of snow, the tent sagged to the ground and every article on the table was blanketed and camouflaged.
We drove to a local store/restaurant to warm up and eat breakfast. Music was playing over loudspeakers--Christmas music! When we checked out, the cashier put our purchases in bags with Santa's face.
"What's going on? Why the music?" I asked the girl.
"Oh, we always celebrate Christmas in August. The weather gets so bad the park closes to the public at the end of the month. Merry Christmas."
This tone of anguished hilarity continued with a broken radio antenna and grand-finaled with the car's radiator bubbling over on the way up a mountain and having to be pulled down what we had cringed at on the way up at breakneck sped by a wrecker in the pouring rain.While stranded at the exact apex of the mountain , an old rattletrap of a car sputtered up and an old man peered at us. After querying us on the cause of our trouble, he offered this condemnation of our new Pontiac: "Why, just the other day I pushed one car and pulled another up this here mountain."
I looked at him trying not to hiss in his face.
"What did he say?" asked Memaw.
"Never mind," we chorused.

 

Book review of Bent Road
Bent Road's setting, Kansas, evokes loneliness and isolation. Celia, Arthur,and three children
drive to Arthur's home in Kansas to escape threats in 1967 riots from racially divided Detroit. They move into a house near his mother and start a new life. Celia and Evie, the youngest, have difficulty accepting the very different lifestyle where the local Catholic church is the only social contact. Reesa, the mother-in-law, is dominating and belittling to Celia. In a memorable scene, Reesa is frying chicken and making dumplings when she is called outside, leaving Celia in charge. Celia turns up the fire under the cast iron skillet simmering with chicken and walks out. When Reesa returns, the kitchen is filled with smoke and dinner is ruined.
The antagonist is Ray, Arthur's sister's husband who beats Ruth until one day when Arthur sees the bruises. He moves Ruth into his house creating the conflict that will eventually bring to light the reason Arthur has not been back to Kansas in twenty years, his sister, Eve's unexplained death. Daniel the eldest son is striving to become the man his father expects him to be, Evie is friendless and dressing in her dead aunt's clothes, Ruth finds out she is pregnant and Elaine the oldest daughter plans to marry. The landscape is achingly depicted with tumbleweeds blowing down Bent Tree road and snow trapping characters inside while Ray threatens Ruth, Evie and Celia.
This novel is Lori Roy's first with a suspenseful Gothic center whose mystery is not solved until the final page.

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My blog will, hopefully, serve two purposes.  The first is to describe the various travels I have enjoyed, survived, recommended.  The second is the love of books I have enjoyed, survived, recommended.  My two favorite activities  have given immeasurable benefits in pleasurable education.  When I taught Senior English, my favorite mantra for learning new vocabulary was read, read, read.  Reading can also teach geography, history, religion, social mores as well as give enjoyment. Emily Dickinson never left her small hometown of Amherst, Massachusetts, yet, says, "I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be." John Keats believed anticipation better than reality in Ode on a Grecian Urn: "Hear melodies are sweet but those unheard are sweeter."  But, I disagree when it comes to seeing what you have been reading about. Like a seeing movie after reading a book(if it is done properly and follows the plot faithfully).  If you have read a great book like To Kill a Mockingbird, then seen it translated into Gregory Peck facing a rabid dog coming toward his family with his shotgun, knowing he has time for only one shot, firing and seeing the dog drop, or reading The Help and watching the Oscar nominated Octavia Spencer, as a black maid who loses her job, getting revenge and assuring Miss Hilly will never reveal the novel is about her and her friends by taking a chocolate pie to Miss Hilly, the town racist and snooty ringleader.  We watch as Miss Hilly has two pieces .  Priceless! 
 
Of course, the reverse order is equally effective.  Visiting a location spurs interest in reading authors or listening to music from the location.  "Yes, you say. I have seen the beauty of Jamaica and listened to the reggae music pouring forth from every open doorway, and now I listen to Bob Marley and know where he comes from and what influenced him."  Reading and travelling.  What two better ways to learn and enjoy the process.