Just Fine the Way They Are by Connie Nordhielm Wooldridge

Learn how the world of transportation has changed from dirt roads to rail roads to interstates.   This was a very fun book to read.  Travel cross country as you see the world open wide before your eyes in this children's book Just Fine the Way They Are by Connie Nordhielm Wooldridge.  This book will not only entertain, but educate your child as you read how the stuck-in-the-mud dirt road evolves into a busy lane of interstate across the country.  Can horses, bikes, cars and trains all travel on the same road?  Must they each have their own road?  How can we get there faster?  It's all in this wonderful book by Wooldridge.  The illustrations are just as eye catching as the method of how the road system came into being.

Book blurb~

"But most folks didn't agree with John Slack's bad opinion of the National Road. Most folks thought it was a real fine thing. They thought it was the Main Street of America, where ideas and people and things to sell moved back and forth across the country. Living near the National Road was pure excitement."

This is more than a story about transportation. Just Fine The Way They Are: From Dirt Roads to Rail Roads to Interstates is also a story about change and resistance, progress and protest, innovation and the American entrepreneurial spirit. Author Connie Nordhielm Wooldridge and artist Richard Walz worked closely with experts and firsthand accounts to tell a "just fine and accurate" illustrated story of how dirt roads of the 1800s turned into the U.S. highway system of today. Just Fine The Way They Are is the fifth picture book by Wooldridge who also earned critical acclaim for her young adult biography of Edith Wharton, The Brave Escape of Edith Wharton (Clarion 2010).

A special plus for educators and home school instructors are three sets of lesson plans and teacher resources Wooldridge developed with two elementary school teachers. These are available to download from her website at no cost.

Critics agree on the importance of engaging children in discussing the subject of transportation -"a fine philosophical debate to introduce to budding environmentalists" (Los Angeles Times, July 3, 2011). Roundtable Reviews for Kids writes, "As young readers follow the development of these basic ground transportation systems, they'll discover the importance of those people who not only invent new ways of doing things, but also refuse to give in when obstacles are placed in their way." The author, who lives near the National Road, now I-40, in Richmond, Indiana, provides resources for those readers who want to learn more, including a timeline, bibliography, websites, historic landmarks and places to visit.

The story begins with Mr. John Slack, the keeper of a tavern beside a rutted dirt road in the early 1800s, who thought things were just fine the way they were. Lucius Stockton, who ran the National Road Stage Company in the mid 1800s agreed, and so too did the owners of the railroads when the first Model T appeared in 1908. Yet with each new innovation, driven by Americans need to move around the country more quickly, efficiently, comfortably, and now more "greenly," means things will never be just fine the way they are. Richard Walz, who has illustrated numerous non-fiction titles for children, "provides heroic imagery with a Thomas Hart Benton twang" (Kirkus Reviews, February 11, 2011).

learn more about the book here

Connie Nordhielm Wooldridge's vivid imagination and spirited storytelling are fueled by her love of travel, adventure, and the unconventional way she embraces all life has to offer. She's lived in seven states, Washington, D.C., Athens, Greece and Seoul; was a Latin major, a flight attendant for a major airline, raised four children who are five years apart in age, and worked at a job she'd dreamed of having as a little girl - a librarian in an elementary school. While attending the University of Chicago graduate school, where she received a double Masters degree in library science and education, she was recommended by Zena Sutherland, children's literature professor and editor of The Bulletin for the Center of Children's Books, to serve first on the American Library Association's Newbery-Caldecott Committee and then on the Notable Books Committee. In addition to her five non-fiction picture books for children and a young adult biography The Brave Escape of Edith Wharton (Clarion Books, August 2010), she's written numerous articles and stories for Highlights for Children and Cricket. Her first book, Wicked Jack (Holiday House 1995) won the Irma S. and James H. Black Book Award and North Carolina Children's Book Award, and The Legend of Strap Buckner (Holiday House 2001) earned the Spur Award from the Western Writers of America.

visit the author's web site here.

A copy of this book was provided by the author and Bostick Communications for the purpose of this review.

New Birth or Rebirth? by Ravi Zacharias

It is time to play a Wild Card! 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:

Ravi Zacharias

and his/her book:

New Birth or Rebirth?: Jesus Talks with Krishna

Multnomah Books (June 17, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Born in India, Ravi Zacharias earned a master of divinity degree at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School before he began an international speaking ministry as a recognized authority on comparative religions, cults, and philosophy. Zacharias holds three doctoral degrees and is the author of numerous award-winning books, including Can Man Live without God? He also hosts a weekly international radio program called Let My People Think. Zacharias lives with his wife, Margaret, in Atlanta. They have three grown children.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $11.99
Hardcover: 96 pages
Publisher: Multnomah Books (June 17, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1590527259
ISBN-13: 978-1590527252

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Chapter One

Excerpt used with permission of Multnomah Books © 2008


PROLOGUE


Richard: Subra—look out! That car is coming straight at us!


Subramaniam: Relax, my friend. This is how people here drive all the time.


Richard: Ooooh! Here comes another one—watch out! Is that guy drunk or something?


Subra: Just hang on. We will be there shortly.


Richard: I thought this was a divided highway… Where did all these cars come from all of a sudden? There are more coming!


Subra: It is a divided highway. I’m sure that guy is just dropping off workers who live on this side of the village. To drive another several kilometers to turn around is a waste of money and time. You see, in England they drive on the left, in America on the right. But here in India we drive in the shade…or wherever else is convenient.


Richard: I don’t believe it! I simply don’t believe it! This could kill a fellow…


Subra: [Laughing] Now you know why we don’t need a Disneyland in India. Driving provides all the scary rides we could ever want. What were we talking about a few minutes ago anyway?


Richard: Uh…let me unclench my fists first. You were telling me about your background. It’s hard to pray and listen at the same time, but I’ll try. Please carry on with what you were saying…


Subra: Ah yes, now I remember. It was the hardest thing I ever did, Richard—to question what was so deeply ingrained in my family’s faith. Everything in my family was built around our faith. On the most important day of my childhood, it was hard to see my mother absent from the ceremony.


Richard: The most important day of your childhood? I think in such Western terms that I hesitate to even ask what you mean. What day are you talking about? You certainly don’t mean the day you were

born.


Subra: Well almost, but not quite. Let me explain…


As you know, society in India is built on the caste system. There are four main castes: Brahmans (priests); Kshatriyas (warriors); Vaisyas (merchants); and Sudras (servants). Beyond these four castes is actually a fifth, the Panchamas, the outcasts.


I was born in the south of India into the highest caste, the Brahmans. But until the defining day I am referring to, I was considered the lowest caste, a Sudra. On this day—a day that is as auspicious as auspicious can be—an initiation ceremony called the Upanayana was performed with the investiture of the sacred thread. It was only at this point that I formally became a Brahman.


Richard: Sacred thread? Why would a piece of string be considered sacred?


Subra: Hmm. This might be tougher than I thought. Let me back up for a moment. How much do you really want to know?


Richard: Well, everything, Subra. How am I ever going to understand Hinduism unless we go deeper?


Subra: Ah, wisely spoken.


You see, Richard, it’s like this: every Brahman longs for a son. We believe that unless there is a son to perform the annual ceremonies in honor of our ancestors, all six previous generations will fall into infernal misery, or hell. That’s what I had always been taught anyway.


So when I was born, my father was very happy. But my mother, like every Hindu woman who gives birth, was considered defiled.


On the eleventh day after my birth, a time of purification began for my mother. She was allowed to bathe for the first time since I was born, and at a formal ceremony I was given a name.


It is a very important ceremony. In it, an object is brought to the ceremony that symbolizes the boy’s future. In my case, it was a silver plate holding some palm leaves. This was to suggest that my life was to be devoted to sacred studies. My mother couldn’t even attend the ceremony because she was considered unclean for another thirty days.


I had been considered impure also until this eleventh day. And it was not until this ceremony that my father could hold or touch me for the first time.


Richard: You know, I’m fascinated by custom and ceremony. Sometimes I think that we in the West have lost out by having so little ceremony and custom in our culture. At the same time, these customs create a lot of questions. But that’s an aside.


You didn’t have a name until you were eleven days old? What did they call you until then? And your mother wasn’t even present at your naming? That seems quite chauvinistic…


Subra: Please, Richard. Let me finish before you jump to conclusions. Few things are ever as straightforward as they first appear.


According to tradition, my name was actually chosen by my aunt, my father’s eldest sister. It had to include the name of a god, and the first letter needed to belong to the constellation under which I was born. The ceremony itself was performed by a priest who had the power to change my name if he felt the astrological charts indicated that he should do so.


Richard: Wow! That’s quite a process.


Subra: Indeed—it’s quite a ceremony. Relatives brought me gifts and sweets, and we had a big celebration.


Richard: Does every family follow that?


Subra: The devout do. Anyway, the ceremony was to commemorate my first birth. Then I had my second birth. Or actually…let me correct that. Really it was considered my first and second birth in this incarnation…


Richard: First and second birth in this incarnation? This conversation is beginning to sound a bit like a Hindu version of the American “Who’s on First?” comedy routine. Hey, there’s a shop up ahead. Let’s stop and have a cup of coffee, Subra.


Subra: Sounds good. [Slowing car down] Would you like American coffee, Richard, South Indian coffee, or masala tea?


Richard: Mmm, it’s hard to decide. You’ve spoiled me here on my visit to your country, Subra. Coffee and tea back home lack imagination unless you’re willing to pay three dollars for something foreign sounding. You know what sounds good is some chai tea—would they have that here?


Subra: Funny you should ask, Richard.


Chai tea is really only a term marketers have chosen to make tea sound fancy. Chai is actually the Hindi word for “tea.” So saying chai tea is like saying tea tea.


Richard: Oh. Well, maybe we should have some masala chai then…I love the spicy taste. And, oh… Let’s have some of that…what do you call that dessert we had awhile back? Pukey?


Subra: [Laughing] Not pukey, Richard! But close. It’s called barfi ! Remember? I can’t tell you exactly why it is named as it is, but it’s delicious—delicately made with milk, sugar, saffron, pistachios, and silver paper.


Richard: Sorry, I tried to remember it by making a word association. Barfi it is, but why don’t they change the name? Barfi just doesn’t sound appetizing.


Subra: You’re right. But think about it, my friend. I could list all the American food that does not sound appetizing to an Indian—hot dogs, chicken fingers, hush puppies.


Richard: Okay, I get your point. Let’s just keep this conversation to names and customs. So back to the second birth of your first incarnation…


Subra: Yes, the second birth of the… You know, Richard, this really is very good pukey… Ah, now you’ve got me saying it! Honestly! So we come to my second birth, called Upanayana, which is really the thread investiture ceremony. It is a very sacred ritual, even more so

than the naming ceremony. Indeed, no Brahman can get married without this installation.


Richard: Upanayana, is it? An American would have a hard time even pronouncing that word.


Subra: It’s not easy for a twelve-year-old Indian boy either.


You see, the night before the ceremony, total silence is in effect. The young boy has to be absolutely, totally silent. Have you ever tried to be completely silent for any length of time?


Richard: Not really. But come to think of it, total silence sounds like a good thing for some of the kids I know…


Subra: It was very hard for me. I could not utter a sound.


In the morning my parents took me to a special booth prepared for the occasion. A sacrificial fire was burning on an altar. I was completely clean-shaven—totally bald—which is never fun for a young boy. Then I was bathed. Then they gave me some sweet food to eat—I liked that part just fine—rice, clarified butter (we call it ghee), sugar, milk, and fruit.


Richard: Hmm, butter, sugar, milk—a real cholesterol booster shot.


Subra: It is considered food in its very purest form. My mother ate with me, which is an important point to note because this was the last time I would ever eat with her.


Richard: You mean she died shortly after?


Subra: No, no, no—nothing like that. In my strict orthodox upbringing, I was considered a man from this point on. As such, I would only eat with the men of the family, separate from all women, even my mother.


After we ate, the formal ceremony commenced. A teacher who conducted the ceremony called on the nine planets to be witnesses then questioned me as to my desire to become an initiate.


Once the teacher was satisfied with my answers, he entrusted me to the gods of water, herbs, sky, and earth. Then he prayed to all the gods and demons to protect me from every kind of evil. He then commanded me to walk as a Brahman from then on. That was now my new identity.


Richard: That ceremony sounds amazing! It’s almost like an Indian version of a bar mitzvah, when a Jewish boy officially becomes a “son of the commandment.”


Subra: Yes, it is, isn’t it?


The climax of my ceremony involved a liturgical spell, or prayer, that was whispered by the priest to my father, who whispered it into my right ear. This prayer was so sacred that my right ear, into which it was breathed, was now considered sacred. And whenever I repeated that prayer, I was cleansed from sin. No woman and no low-caste person were ever to hear it. I repeated this mantra to myself every day. I was instructed to do so for the rest of my life.


Richard: So do you still?


Subra: Do I what?


Richard: Do you repeat your mantra every day?


Subra: Oh, Richard… It’s a long story. Yes, I did. For quite some time anyway. But I don’t anymore. But I am ahead of myself in the story. Look, we are finished with our tea. Let’s get back in the car and keep driving. We are almost at Mathura, the holy city. Sometimes I think all of this is too complicated to understand…


Richard: I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how emotional a subject this is to you.


Subra: It is. It has always been, Richard. Hinduism used to be my life. The memories and emotional attachments of Indian family life are very strong. It’s what keeps us together. It’s part of our rich heritage…


[The two fall silent for some time as the car hurtles down the road.]


Subra: Ah…here we are at last in Mathura, Richard. Let me just pay a few rupees to this fellow to keep an eye on the car while we are gone. If we don’t, I fear the hubcaps will be gone by the time we return.


Richard: Stolen hubcaps here? Even in a sacred city—the birthplace of Krishna?


Subra: Yes, and then down the road they will be sold back to us by the fellow’s father. Indians are born capitalists!


Richard: Sounds to me like exploitation. That seems to happen quite a bit in any religious city. Have you ever seen all the haggling that goes on in Rome or Jerusalem?


Subra: Never been there myself. Mathura was always held out to me as the place to be. “Mathura, Mathura, fair Mathura.” Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna, so it is believed.


Before Mathura was regarded as Krishna’s birthplace, it was sacred to the Buddhists also. It was actually a Buddhist monastic center at one time, comprised of twenty Buddhist monasteries and about three thousand monks who resided here. But as Buddhism declined in India, Mathura became a sacred spot to the Hindus.


Richard: You don’t see many traces of Buddhism here today?


Subra: Funny you should ask. Courtesy of an Afghan warlord, most all of the Buddhist and Hindu shrines were leveled sometime around AD 1018. Within the next few centuries, the city was determined to be Krishna’s birthplace, and then the Muslim Mughal Aurangzeb flattened the Hindu temple that had been built here and put up a mosque in its place.


So over the actual birthplace, there is now a mosque. A parcel of ground protruding from the barrier of the mosque is now revered as the spot of Krishna’s birth. It is a situation a little similar to the mosque that exists on the site of the temple in Jerusalem—the only place the Jews have to worship is at the Western Wall of the temple.


And like Jerusalem, this has not been a place of peace. Even now, we will be searched as we enter the main temple. And by the way, there are over five thousand temples in this small city.


Richard: Human nature is the same everywhere, isn’t it? Who are these women here chanting?


Subra: This is a worship center for widows. There are about two thousand widows who come here every day to chant “Hare Ram, Hare Krishna” for four hours each morning and four hours each evening. In exchange, they are given a cup of rice at noon with some lentils and two rupees, which is about five cents, and a cup of rice and lentils at dinner. If they also chant in the evening, they are paid five rupees. Four times a year they are given a change of clothes.


Richard: Sounds like quite a life. Where do these widows live?

Subra: They have a threadbare existence, Richard. But that’s considered their karmic debt being paid. You know about karma, yes? It’s the belief that all of one’s actions in life, both good and bad, determine one’s next rebirth after death. It’s too much to go into in depth right now.


Richard: Yes, I’ve heard of karma before. Hey…what the…? Stop that!


Subra: Watch out, Richard! I warned you not to pull out your sunglasses!


Richard: Holy cow! That monkey just snatched the sunglasses right off my face. Oh, I’m sorry…maybe I shouldn’t have said “holy cow.”


Subra: Well, I suppose this is the right place to say those words. Here’s my handkerchief—the monkey scratched you.


Richard: Any chance of getting my sunglasses back?


Subra: I doubt it. Your glasses are probably on the roof of the temple now. The monkey is looking at his reflection in the lenses. You just have to be careful here. There are monkeys by the hundreds, cows by the thousands, and, as you see, donkeys as well. They all wander freely.


Richard: Monkeys, cows, donkeys—without religion, there would be no businesses here.


Subra: [Laughing] You might be right about that. By the way, the tastiest barfis in the country are also made here. They are called pedas. It is the same basic recipe but just a little bit sweeter and richer. You can’t eat too many—it’s a sure mouthful on the road to diabetes. But I could think of worse ways to go!


Richard: Hmm, sounds inviting, but I think I’ll pass this time.


Back to what we were talking about. How was your religious thinking shaped, Subra? You seem to know so much about Hinduism from an insider’s point of view.


Subra: Richard, it’s hard to tell the whole story. It cost me so much. As you know, my family does not talk to me anymore, and it has been so painful.


When I was in college, I started to question what I had always believed. I asked simple questions at first: Why? Who said so? Where is it written?


But simple questions have a way of leading to much greater things. Religion is so important in our cultural experience—India is the most religious country in the world. And you don’t easily question what everybody around you believes.


Richard: Religion just seems to be everywhere here.


Subra: Yes. In more ways than you might think. We commonly use many words and expressions that come from our religion, seldom asking where they originated.


For example, the word avatar, which means a divine manifestation, is not even used in the Gita, one of the scriptures of Hinduism. Yet the idea of avatar is fondly believed throughout India because of its implications.


An avatar is a bodily manifestation of a higher being, even the supreme being, on planet Earth. The term is primarily used for incarnations of Vishnu, the preserver god, but it’s also used of highly influential teachers in other religions, including Jesus and Mohammed. Oh! I can say so much.


Richard: The Gita? I know I’ve heard of that before. What is it exactly, and how does it differ from the Vedas?


Subra: The Bhagavad Gita, or “Song of God,” is the most sacred book of the Hindus. It’s a long narrative poem, about seven hundred verses, that tells the story of a discussion between Krishna and the warrior Arjuna, who is about to fight his cousins. The flow of the Gita revolves around man’s duty, which if carried out will bring nothing but sorrow. But the poem also offers hope through the way of devotion.


The Vedas, or wisdom books, are the oldest scriptures we possess—they contain everything from teachings to ceremonial instructions in detail. The Vedas are actually a collection of four books. Each book has three parts: mantras, hymns of praise to the gods; Brahmanas, a guide for practicing rituals; and the Upanishads, the most important part, which deals with teaching on religious truth and doctrines.


In a different category to them are the Epics—two major tales of India. The principal one is the Mahabharata, which contains the famed Ramayana, and the Gita. Technically, these are not considered to be on the same philosophical plane as the Vedas, but practically, they are the books most loved by Hindus. It all sounds confusing at first. The Hindu scriptures are voluminous indeed.


Here, let’s sit down awhile in the shade and look at the temple.


Richard: Sounds complicated. I don’t know how you ever keep all the scriptures straight. Hey, did you see that?


Subra: What?


Richard: When that cow wandered into the temple, the pilgrim over there touched it and then touched his own forehead and his heart.


Subra: That practice comes right out of the Gita. From early times, the Hindus have revered cows because of their alleged great power. There’s also a verse in the Atharva Veda that identifies the cow with the entire visible universe:


Worship, O Cow, to thy tail-hair, and to thy hooves, and to thy form!… The Cow is Heaven, the Cow is Earth, the Cow is Vishnu, Lord of Life.


Anyhow, let me continue with my story. When I started to question what I had been taught, I decided to leave home. I had no money and no place to go, so I wandered for days and weeks, finally ending up in front of a cave.


I couldn’t see anything inside the cave—it was all dark and shadowy—but as I began to walk into the cave I could feel a presence there. I walked farther and farther. Some time later I was shocked to stumble upon an emaciated swami, a mystic clad in a saffron robe,

sitting in silence.


The swami had taken a vow of silence and had been there a long time. There was just enough light to see that his eyes were shut. He was reflecting. Seeing him there turned my heart toward the ultimate questions as nothing else had.


Richard: How did the swami survive inside the cave?


Subra: Barely. Every now and then the villagers who lived nearby brought him meager rations.


I stayed with the swami for several weeks, and we developed a close relationship. I kept his living quarters clean and spent many hours with him just sitting and meditating.


Finally, for my sake, he wrote a few brief words, telling me that I must leave him and that I would find the answers I was seeking elsewhere. I was devastated, but he was leaving to go on a trip himself, so I couldn’t stay with him.


Weeks later I returned to the cave, still seeking spiritual illumination, and I heard a voice in the night—but it wasn’t the swami’s voice this time.


The voice was clear and calm, breathtaking and true. It said simply, “Follow me.” I heard it, Richard. I really heard it.


I didn’t know exactly where to go after that, but somehow I knew that the same voice that spoke to me there in the cave would guide me along my way.


I left the cave and met a man walking down the road who shared with me the strange and beautiful story of a babe born in a straw manger. The babe was the incarnation of the true God and had come to connect us to the true Supreme Being.


It was the first time I had ever heard the gospel of Jesus Christ. I had always been taught that there is no such thing as sin against a holy God. I always thought that acts of wrongdoing were mainly a result of ignorance and that these evils could be overcome by following the guidelines of one’s caste and way of salvation.


But there on the road I saw my sin as a real act of rebellion against a perfect and holy God. And, surprisingly, I discovered who it was I was searching for—the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. My life…has never been the same.


Richard: And your family?


Subra: They would have nothing to do with me after that. Neither would my community.


Richard: I’m so sorry for you.


Subra: Converting to another belief system is never easy—even when you convert to the truth. With my new faith, I had a deep and lasting joy I had never known before, but I was also troubled for my family and country—so many who had grown up believing exactly as I had believed.


I sometimes imagined what it would be like for Jesus to simply sit down with Krishna so they could hash it all out between them. Others would hear of the conversation and decide for themselves where truth lay.


It wouldn’t be that far-fetched, you know. What I heard in the cave was a real voice. If Jesus has a voice, perhaps the historic Krishna has a voice also.


Perhaps if I leaned hard enough—you know, leaned into the curtain behind time—I could hear what Jesus and Krishna would say to each other.


Can you imagine that, Richard—Jesus and Krishna talking? What would each say to the other?


The image of these two great figures deep in conversation stayed with me for some time. I could not shake the picture no matter how hard I tried.


So one day I gave in. I sat down in a cow pasture and leaned in.


Richard: You “leaned in”?


Subra: As I sat in the pasture and closed my eyes, it was like a new world became visible to me. Suddenly I could see things I had never seen before.


In the distance I saw a few saffron robes hanging from a tree and two figures standing in shadows talking. It was noon, already very hot and humid for the day—one of those steamy days you encounter only in India.


As I strained to glimpse the men’s faces, their identities became apparent. It was Jesus, clothed in a white robe, with sandaled feet and scars on his hands; and Krishna, the youthful prince with his ever-present flute. Can you see them, Richard, in your own mind’s eye?


Let me tell you in detail about the conversation. Listen! I strained to hear what was being said…

Abby finds her Calling by Naomi King

 I've read many Amish books but this one has a new twist to it.  I don't want to tell the twist or it would give the whole story away.  The author used Zanna a secondary character as a highlight and focused on her as much if not more than Abby the main character.   I love reading Amish books.  They come across with a simple life, but yet they are still faced with living realities.  They still face struggles and life the same as we do.

You can find more information about this book here

Book Excerpt

Home at Cedar Creek
Book 1
Abby Finds Her Calling
By
Naomi King 1
James Graber inhaled the crisp October air and grinned up at the rising sun: his wedding day! All his life he’d lived in anticipation of something grand, something beyond the immense satisfaction of his carriage making, and finally, in about an hour, Suzanna Lambright would become his wife. As he gazed across the road, where the carriages were entering in a steady stream, the clip-clop! clip-clop! of the horses’ hooves made his heart sing to their ageless rhythm.
ZAN-na! ZAN-na! he heard in that beat. Silly, the things he thought of when he envisioned her pretty face gazing up at him in that playful way she had. Lord, please help me make her happy, every single day of our lives! he prayed as he continued watching their guests drive down the Lambrights’ lane. His mother and Zanna’s mamm, Treva, had been heading up the cooking and table setting all week, for the nearly four hundred friends and family members who would gather with them for this occasion–some from as far away as Holmes County, Ohio and Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He was glad to be marrying on a perfect autumn day, because it meant these folks from back East had a chance to celebrate with them: here in Missouri, Old Order Amish married any time during the year, not just in November. And what a backdrop for their day, all the sweet gum and maple trees ablaze in their red and orange glory, with a hint of frost to make them sparkle in the sunrise!
“That’s a mighty fine smile you’re wearin’, brother. I hope to see it gracin’ your ugly face every day now!”
James cocked an eyebrow. His younger sister Emma smoothed the front of her new blue dress as her snapping brown eyes challenged him to respond. “And what would ya have to make fun of if I were a handsome man, Emma?” he countered with a laugh. “Zanna thinks I’m downright perfect, ya know.”
“Gut thing, too. Old as you’re gettin’, none of the other girls’d have ya.”
“We’ll see what ya say about that when you’re spittin’ distance from thirty!” James shot back. Then, with a welling-up of love for this sister who kept their household running–as well as anyone could–he slipped his arm around her. “Denki for keepin’ Mamm’s head from spinnin’ off these last couple weeks, gettin’ ready for this wedding,” he murmured as he hugged her. “A lot of the weight falls on your shoulders, takin’ care of ‘em–”
“They’re our parents, James. They’ve been takin’ care of us all our lives.”
“Of course they are, Emmie, but–” James sobered, focusing on the window of Zanna’s upstairs room, in the tidy white farmhouse across the road. He couldn’t see inside, of course, but he liked to imagine her there . . . probably putting on her new dress and apron about now, with Treva and Abby, her mother and sister, helping her get ready. “Not my place to ask Mamm and Dat to move into the dawdi haus but I can’t help wonderin’ . . . do ya think it’ll go all right, when Zanna moves in with us? Mamm’s tongue cuts kinda sharp, and we all know how Dat’s hearin’ gets worse when he doesn’t want to listen to all her carryin’ on.”
“Zanna’s known them all her life, same as everybody hereabouts. Not like she’s walkin’ in blind.” Emma rested her head on his shoulder, a rare moment of affection from the girl who was usually busy at the stove or the sink or the washer, or looking after their parents while he built custom carriages. “Truth be told, brother, Zanna’s nothin’ but smiles when she talks about ya. Her eyes light up and she’s been a different girl these last few months since ya asked for her hand. I’m real happy for the both of ya.”
James smiled. His sister hadn’t been as generous with her praise when she’d talked about other young women he’d courted over the years. Maybe he was making up things to worry about–which wasn’t normally his way–because all in all, his times with Zanna had been the happiest he’d known. He looked forward to a long life with many children to bless them. Even Sam, Zanna’s older brother and the owner of the Cedar Creek Mercantile, had remarked about what a fine couple they made–how he thought James would be the steadying influence his impetuous youngest sister needed.
Imagine that! Sam Lambright, a stickler for the proper order of things, thought he could fashion Suzanna into a fine wife and mother. James suspected that would take some doing: Zanna wasn’t one who took to being molded into anyone else’s ideal. But what a happy challenge this presented! And what a fine-looking woman she’d grown to be. Truth be told, he secretly admired her tendency to think and speak for herself rather than to say jah and submit to the men in her life.
“I’m thinkin’ that with the next several weekends you’ll spend visitin’ the kin and collectin’ your presents,” his sister continued, “we’ll all have time to adjust to Zanna’s bein’ in the house. Same kind of change every family goes through after a wedding.”
“Jah, but change has never been Dat’s favorite thing. And ever since his stroke–”
“Mamm’s gotten crankier, keepin’ after him. Jah, there’s that,” Emma agreed with a sigh. “But Lord love ‘em, they’re gettin’ by as best they can. I’ll work on ‘em while you and Zanna’re out makin’ your family calls these comin’ weeks. They may as well get used to the fact that their last two kids have lives of their own.”
And what will we do when ya marry, Emma? James breathed deeply and then exhaled the tightness this thought caused in his belly. The day would come when his sweet, capable sister would leave them to cleave to her own husband, just as all their older sisters had done . . . which would leave him, as the only son, and Zanna to care for his parents. As well they should.
But it was no time for such downhearted thinking: his bride awaited him! Quickly kissing Emma’s temple, James released her. “I’m thinkin’ what with all the hens cacklin’ across the way, I’d best go over and help Sam with the last-minute details.”
“I’m sure they’re all missin’ Leroy about now,” Emma agreed wistfully. “Too bad he couldn’t’ve lived to see his little girl marryin’ the boy from across the road.”
“Just have to do the best we can with who we’ve got, ain’t so?” James smiled, determined that none of these fretting points would dampen his day. “Seeya in a few. Or would ya rather I helped ya get Dat over to–”
“Get outta here! Why do ya think I invited our big, burly carpenter cousins to stay with us last night?” Emma shook her white apron at him to send him on his way.
“Jah, you’re right about that. But don’t let it swell your head!”
“If ya dare to poke your face in that kitchen fulla women, ya might see how Mamm’s doin’. Tell her and Abby I’ll be there directly.”
James strode down the gravel lane, smiling at the pie pumpkins in the garden . . . waving at Zeke and Eva Detweiler and the two buggies of younger Detweilers following them–including the carriage he’d designed to accommodate young Joel’s wheelchair.
It struck him, how many of the parked, tipped-up buggies behind the Lambright barn had come from Graber Custom Carriages . . . how every family in Cedar Creek depended upon his vehicles and repair work. It was a gift, indeed, to live among the friends he served and to be entrusted with getting their families where they needed to go–and today, it seemed every man, woman, and child for miles around was showing up to wish him and Zanna well. Men in their black hats and suits chatted in clusters near the barn while their women entered the house to help with the wedding feast.
His gaze fluttered up to that bedroom window again as he trotted across the county road. Had Zanna come downstairs yet? Did she feel as frisky and excited as a new foal, like he did? In his black vest, trousers, and high-topped shoes, with a shirt so white it radiated its own light, James trotted eagerly past the Cedar Creek Mercantile building and down the long lane that led toward the Lambright house. In less than an hour, Zanna would be seated at his side, trying not to wiggle during Bishop Gingerich’s long sermon before they got called to stand before this gathering of family and friends–
James paused when a familiar figure stepped out the front door. Ordinarily folks came and went through the kitchen entry, but something about Abby Lambright’s expression announced she was on no ordinary mission. And she was headed straight for him.
“Gut mornin’ to ya!” he called out, hoping to dispel her gloomy frown as she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Abby was a maidel, a few years older than he, and in his entire life he’d never known her to raise her voice or lose her temper–even when her willful little sister Zanna had gotten her in trouble while they were all growing up.
“James,” she replied with a stiff nod. Her eyes looked puffy yet her gaze didn’t waver as she stopped a few feet in front of him. “There’s something I’ve gotta tell ya, James, and–well, there’s no easy way to say it.”
Frowning, he stepped closer. “Somebody fall sick? Or get hurt carryin’ all those tables and pews and–”
“I wish it were as simple as that.” Abby nipped her lip, sniffling. “Zanna’s nowhere to be found. Didn’t sleep in her bed last night, and–and we have no idea where she might’ve gone or . . . why.”
2
Oh, but she felt horrible, being the bearer of tidings that had kicked James in the chest like a startled horse. As he crushed the brim of his hat in his sturdy hands, Abby ached for this man–in ways he would never imagine. How many years had she dreamed of being his bride? How many beaux had she discouraged because none of them measured up to James Graber, the handsome, soft-spoken carriage maker who lived within sight of her lonely room?
But James had no idea. Had eyes only for other girls. Saw her as a friend but never as a woman he could want.
Just as well, considering what I have to tell him right now, she mused. Never had she felt more embarrassed or sickened or worried, but she was the Lambright who’d been elected to break their news because she could do it without wailing like a fire siren. She hoped.
“What do ya mean, Zanna’s nowhere to be found?” James echoed. They could’ve been talking in a cavernous empty room, the way their voices had hollowed with shock.
Abby cleared her throat. “I spent the night in my new house–makin’ more room for outta town kin here at Sam’s–so I’m not sure what-all was said and done,” she hastened to explain. “But when Phoebe and Ruth heard Zanna slippin’ downstairs in the wee hours, they thought she was meetin’ up with you!”
He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed above his black bow tie. “But I was home last night, keepin’ Dat and Mamm settled so they’d be rested for today’s–”
“I know that James, and–and I’m so sorry this has happened.” She gazed at him with as much compassion . . . as much empathy as she dared. This was no time to pour out her personal feelings: her little sister had done something outrageously foolish, and now two families–and their four hundred dearest friends–were about to suffer for it. “Matt and Sam drove out lookin’ for her earlier, soon as they realized she was missin’–”
James crammed his hat on his head and then yanked it off again. “Missin’?” he demanded hoarsely. “How does a girl in a house full of kin–and a brother who lets no one get away with any shenanigans–”
“If we knew the answer to that, maybe we’d know where to look. Or what she was thinkin’, to disappear this way.”
Abby wrapped her arms around herself, glancing back at the house. She simply couldn’t burden this poor man with the fact that they’d found Zanna’s pretty blue wedding dress snipped to ribbons on the floor of her closet. If that sight had torn her heart in two, what might the implications do to their lifelong friend, who looked more devastated by the second? “Mama’s fit to be tied–same as your Mamm,” she remarked sadly, “while Barbara and the girls’re frettin’ over all the food that’s been fixed. And now people are gettin’ here, expectin’ a wedding–”
“But ya can’t have a wedding without a bride. Is that what you’re tellin’ me, Abby?” he demanded curtly.
Tears spilled from her eyes. Of course James was more upset than she’d ever seen him, asking her questions no one could answer! What man wouldn’t be? But that didn’t help either one of them deal with this sticky situation, did it? “Jah, that’s the way of it, James. I’m sorry,” she murmured as she turned toward the house. “Truly I am.”
The aroma of roasted chicken and creamed celery mocked her as she headed for the kitchen entry, hugging herself to hold body and soul together. She’d said what had to be said, not that either of them felt the better for it. There was nothing to do but let the pieces fall where they may, and wonder if her runaway sister had any inkling of the feelings she’d hurt . . . the lives she’d changed before this day had even gotten started. And now that she’d informed James of the situation, there was still a kitchen full of women in tears, worried sick about what had happened to Zanna–not to mention about what they’d tell their many guests.
Behind her, men spoke in urgent tones, too. Her brother sounded even more irate than he had when they first discovered the bride was missing.
“ . . . knew it was just wrong for Suzanna to go by that ridiculous nickname–and wrong for us to allow it, but–”
“Seems a common part of rumspringa–tame enough–to see how we feel with a different name. I myself went by–”
“But Vernon, you surely never ran the roads in a car–we caught her at that once! With a cell phone and English friends who–”
“Tested my parents at every turn, Sam,” came the bishop’s spritely reply. “But none of this second-guessin’ solves our present problem, does it? Four hundred folks here, and a feast prepared. And a bride in hiding.”
The men’s conversation came to a halt a few yards behind her. Abby didn’t have to look to know Sam was raking his steel-gray hair with his hand, exhaling like an angered stallion. Then he cleared his throat pointedly. “Abby? The bishop wants a word.”
Sighing . . . aware that her older brother’s clipped, authoritarian tone had often inspired Zanna’s resentment, she glanced back: Sam stood stiffly alongside Vernon Gingerich, who appeared more stooped than usual. The bishop’s beard, salt sprinkled with pepper, brushed the top of his black vest as he fixed his gaze on her: his eyesight might not be so sharp anymore, but this man saw through to the heart of a matter better than most.
“Mornin’ to ya, Vernon,” Abby said with a sad nod. “But not one of our better mornin’s, ain’t so?”
“It’s another day our Lord’s given us to celebrate, no matter how we choose to glory in it–or to make a mess of things.” Vernon’s expression remained unruffled. “Heard of this happenin’ once, long ago, over in the Willow Ridge district. Case of cold feet on the groom’s part,” he added wryly. “But we’ve gathered here to worship God, and worship Him we shall. Tell your mamm and the other women to join us for the service, after which we’ll proceed with the meal, as planned.”
Abby’s jaw dropped. “But if the bride doesn’t come home–”
“Suzanna has made a choice, and she must eventually deal with its consequences,” the bishop pointed out.
“And we can’t just send folks home, after they’ve traveled days to get here, some of ‘em,” her brother Sam insisted. The lines around his eyes were etched more deeply now: his youngest daughter would indeed deal with the humiliation and worry she’d caused these past few hours . . . along with the ongoing speculation of every person in Cedar Creek, because they all did business in his store. “So we’ll be startin’ in ten minutes. Better you tell ‘em that than me, ain’t so?”
Abby closed her eyes against a retort. Surely Sam wasn’t afraid to enter that kitchen filled with clucking hens–was he? Raising four daughters and a son had taught him a talent for quelling arguments and protests with a single, purposeful look . . . but then, he’d never dealt with the mother of a runaway bride, nor the sympathetic friends who’d banded together to help his wife Barbara–and James’s mother, Eunice Graber–get through this horrendous event.
“Jah, there’s that,” she replied. “We’ll all be over directly, then.”
She gripped the doorknob, studying the familiar faces through the glass: some stood near the stove to comfort Barbara while others clustered around Eunice, near the long table laden with serving bowls, platters, and pitchers needed for the noon meal. Their eyes were wide, their kapps bobbing as they discussed today’s dilemma in strident voices that came through the sturdy Dutch door. It wouldn’t be proper to get their attention with a shrill whistle between her fingers, but it just might take that.
The rapid-fire clatter of horses’ hooves made her look up, just in time to see James racing down the road in his open buggy. Even from this distance, his urgent posture and focus on the road told Abby he wouldn’t be attending the church service.
And why would he? What groom would sit humiliated on the pew, the object of everyone’s curiosity, after his bride-to-be hadn’t shown up? He’s probably looking for Zanna, and dear Lord, please help him find her . . . help us all find answers to questions we never dreamed we’d be asking on their wedding day.
Abby opened the kitchen door and stepped inside the noisy room. Best to inform her mother and Barbara first, and proceed from there: thank goodness the two of them stood together at the stove, pulling large covered casseroles from the oven to hand over to their friends. “Mama! Barbara!” she spoke above the chatter. “The bishop’s made a decision!”
As the two of them looked up at her, the kitchen suddenly got quiet. All eyes were on Abby, all conversations suspended.
She clasped her hands, hoping all these women wouldn’t challenge what she was about to say. “We’re all to go over for the service–”
“Zanna’s come home then?” Barbara asked stiffly. She straightened to her full height, her face registering disapproval and then hope. “So the ceremony’ll go on as though nothin’–?”
“And she’s not come in here to explain to me first?”
Abby sighed. Her mother looked worse for the wear, eager for news of her runaway daughter yet prepared to give Zanna a piece of her mind for the way things had played out this morning. And wouldn’t it be just like her little sister to slip in and smooth things over with benign Bishop Gingerich rather than face their mamm and Sam’s wife, who’d worked just as hard at preparing for their four hundred guests? “No, it’s not like that. Vernon’s decided worship should go on, followed by the meal, rather than wastin’ everybody’s time and all this gut food we’ve cooked. We’d better get ourselves seated now, so he can start.”
“And does James know about this?” someone across the crowded kitchen demanded.
“Jah! Poor fella’s gonna be none too happy to find out–”
“And what of our poor Eunice here? She’s never been that keen on her boy marryin’–”
“Please–we shouldn’t make the others wait!” Abby spoke above the chatter. She looked sharply at Beulah Mae Nissley, their neighbor from down the road. Nobody needed the clatter of her gossip’s tongue when Mama’s feelings were unraveling and Eunice looked ready to explode. It wasn’t good that the bride’s mother and the groom’s stood in the same kitchen yet seemed miles apart, each with her own little band of supporters. “Be sure the stove’s off, and we’ll finish our cookin’ after we think on whatever wisdom the bishop might offer us.”
Thank goodness Phoebe, Barbara’s eldest daughter, took her mother by the elbow and the rest of the women fell into step behind them as they started for the barn. Abby remained behind, checking the stove burners and looking to be sure any perishable food was in the fridge. Her other nieces, Ruthie and Gail–her namesake–finished draping clean dish towels over the hot casseroles and then filed outside ahead of her with their heads bowed. It felt more like they were going to a funeral, even though their new dresses were the rich colors of fall foliage rather than black.
Abby gazed past Matt’s sheep sheds, scanning the pastures for a lone female figure, but only the ewes and their lambs grazed there, peacefully unaware of the turmoil inside the largest barn. The trees along Cedar Creek sparkled gold and yellow and orange in the sunrise, the most striking panorama of color they’d displayed in years–as though they’d known only a beautiful day would do for this wedding. Autumn always stirred something deep inside her, but Abby felt oddly bereft . . . ferhoodled about the day’s details and the way she couldn’t make them right and mend hurt feelings.
Why had Zanna run off, when she’d appeared so happy to be marrying James? And what would the poor man say to her if he found her?
“Abby! Abby, wait–what’s goin’ on now?”
James’s sister broke into a trot as she came down the long lane. Emma was to be one of Zanna’s newehockers, so she wore a new dress the same shade of royal blue the bride had chosen. When she sprinted to a breathless halt, Emma reached for Abby’s hand. “What’s this we hear about Zanna not bein’–”
“Jah, she slipped out durin’ the night, far as we can tell.”
“But how can that be, Abby?” Her best friend’s face looked splotchy beneath her fresh pleated kapp. “She and James had planned out all their visits to the aunts and uncles and–”
Abby had asked the same questions and gone over the same details a dozen times, and still she searched for answers. “When I got here this mornin’, Mama was carryin’ on about how the two of ‘em must’ve slipped off to elope–knowin’ how Zanna gets twitchy during the long services.”
“Jah, there’s that–even though both mamms know better.” Emma’s expression sobered as she glanced at the women filing into the barn. “Ya don’t think somethin’ . . . dangerous or nasty happened to her, do ya?”
Abby sighed as they walked toward the end of the line. “Thought of that, jah. But findin’ her perty new dress cut up on her closet floor–”
“Oh, Abby! And ya made all our dresses so perfect, too!”
“–and then hearin’ Matt say Zanna’s mare was gone sorta told the tale.” Abby gripped her friend’s slender hand, callused from doing all the cleaning and yard work her mamm could no longer manage. “And what of James? I felt so horrible, havin’ to tell him–”
“Ach, he was ready to throw things and have a hollerin’ fit. As upset as I’ve ever seen him, but worried, too,” Emma replied in a tight voice. “Truth be told, after James stormed outta the house Dat got so rattled my two cousins said they’d stay with him, so’s he wouldn’t fall and hurt himself–or pitch a fit during church, if Zanna showed up after all.”
“She’s gotten a lotta threads in a tangle, for sure and for certain. I’m sorry your dat’s not takin’ it so well.”
Emma smiled ruefully. “Better be checkin’ on Mamm before we get settled. No doubt she’s been stirrin’ the pot over here amongst all the women, and she might just walk right out of the service when she sees that Dat’s stayed home. You let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, Abby.”
As though you’ve not got enough to do, keepin’ track of your parents and brother, Abby mused as Emma slipped between the women in the doorway. Lord, be with us all as we figure out what to do next . . . and especially be with Zanna, wherever she’s gotten herself off to.

 Drawing upon her experiences in Jamesport, the largest Old Order Amish community west of the Mississippi, longtime Missourian Naomi King writes of simpler times and a faith-based lifestyle in her new Home at Cedar Creek series. Like her series heroine, Abby Lambright, Naomi considers it her personal mission to be a listener—to heal broken hearts and wounded souls—and to share her hearth and home. Faith and family, farming and frugality are hallmarks of her lifestyle: like Abby, she made her wedding dress and the one her mom wore, too! She’s a deacon, a dedicated church musician and choir member, and when she’s not writing, she loves to travel, try new recipes, crochet, and sew. Naomi now lives in Minnesota with her husband and their border collie, Ramona.

To find out more about Naomi or her work please visit http://www.naomikingauthor.com

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A copy of this book was provided for  this review by Pump up your Book tours

The Ice Cream Theory by Steff Deschenes

This was a very unique book to read.  Who would have ever thunk of comparing people with ice cream.  Only a genuine ice cream lover, which is what the author claims to be.  This is the author's own thoughts and creativity.  Creative the author is in bringing people and ice cream together.  It is an original and one-of-a kind book.  Only a  psychologist and an author with a great imagination could dream up this Ice Cream Theory. Each chapter covers a person in the author's life, then an ice cream flavor the author has associated with this person and finally the ice cream is personified.  Only a devoted ice cream eater could personify ice cream.  Between each chapter the author has shared with the reader a quote that someone, sometime has made concerning ice cream.  This book is written in plain easy words.  No big long words that need to be defined.  The author tells you about the relationship with each person in plain terms and sometimes gives more information than I cared to know.  (example:  if she slept with the guy or not).  only thing I really didn't care to know about the relationship.  But I must say this book was a nice COOL, ReFreshing read; I could taste each flavor if Ice Cream as it was described. 

 

About the Book:

The Ice Cream Theory is ice-cream guru Steff Deschenes’s charming exploration of the parallels between human personalities and ice-cream flavors, a tongue-in-cheek celebration of the variety inherent in a well-lived life. The Theory was hatched when Deschenes was trying to make sense of her first heartbreak. In the midst of that grief, she realized that, in the same way humans have ice-cream preferences, humans have people preferences. Like ice cream flavors, social preferences shift based on age, experience, even mood. There are exotic flavors that one craves when feeling daring, comforting flavors to fall back on, flavors long-enjoyed that eventually wear out their welcome, and those unique flavors that require an acquired taste. Like people, no ice cream flavor is perfect every single time . . . and it is in this realization that the crux of Deschenes’s theory lies. Deschenes neatly brings together anecdotes from her own adventures with broader-reaching social commentary to help others recognize the wisdom and joy inherent in a beloved dessert. With its cheeky self-help slant, The Ice Cream Theory is an endearing and light-hearted addition to any bookshelf. It’s a must read for anyone bruised by life’s tough lessons and in need of a cheerful pick me up!
You can visit her website at www.steffdeschenes.com or www.theicecreamtheory.com.

Read the Excerpt!

“There are loads of different flavors of ice cream: Almond, Amaretto, Banana Nut, Black Raspberry, Blueberry, Bubblegum, Butter Crunch, Butter Pecan, Cake, Caramel, Cashew Turtle, Cheesecake, Cherry Chip, Cherry Vanilla, Chocolate, Chocolate Chip, Chocolate Raspberry Truffle, Cinnamon, Coconut, Coffee, Cookie Dough, Cookies ‘n Cream, Cotton Candy, Dulce de Leche, Egg Nog, German Chocolate Cake, Ginger, Grapenut, Green Tea, Honeycomb, Irish Cream, Key Lime Pie, Lemon, Maple Nut, Orange Pineapple, Peach, Peanut Butter Cup, Peppermint, Piña Colada, Pistachio, Pumpkin, Rocky Road, Rum Raisin, S’more, Straccaitella, Strawberry, Sweet Cream, Teaberry, Toffee, Vanilla, White Chocolate. Just to name a few.
Nobody likes them all. Everyone I’ve ever met has eaten flavors that they couldn’t stand; flavors that they liked when they were younger and hated as adults, or hated when they were younger and loved when they were adults; flavors that they could eat all the time; flavors that they ate all the time and got sick of; flavors that they’ve never tried and haven’t had the opportunity to; flavors they’ve recommended to friends; flavors that are exotic and daring and out of the norm; flavors that are comfortable and common; flavors that they had only once because they could never find it again; flavors that they eat just because it’s there; flavors that remind them of a person, place, or time.
Because of this, to me, people are like ice cream flavors.
We get along with certain people because we have common ground with them, or they bring something new to our lives, or perhaps they balance us out. We don’t get along with certain people because we have no similarities. Or perhaps that one thing you can’t stand about yourself, you see in them.
People like or dislike certain ice cream flavors for one reason or another.
People like or dislike other people for one reason or another, too.
Once when I was at one of those ice cream parlors that make your ice cream treat on marble slats right in front of you, I had tiramisu ice cream with marshmallows and gummy bears.
Yes, it sounds disgusting. And, yes, it was disgusting.
But here’s the thing: someone, somewhere, adores tiramisu ice cream with marshmallows and gummy bears.
Just not me.
But, see, I had to try it. It seemed interesting; something new that I had never sampled before. I tried it, didn’t like it, and moved on. But I had to know what it was like because, if I didn’t, than I would have never known if I was missing out on something extraordinary.
You need to try different flavors to find out what it is you like and don’t like; what it is you don’t care if you never have again, or want to have more of immediately. If you never try any new flavors you don’t know what you could potentially be missing out on. If you stick to the same flavor over and over and over then how do you know there isn’t something better out there? Something unique to you and you alone?
I’ve tried lots of flavors of ice cream in my life, and I mean both literally and metaphorically.
I digress: many moons ago, my parents put me to the task of trying every flavor a certain ice cream company made. The prize? They would take me to this ice cream company’s factory. Understand that at the time, this company was putting out roughly thirty-six different flavors of ice cream.
That meant thirty-six different pints of ice cream.
Or one thousand one hundred-twenty tablespoonfuls.
I gained ten pounds.
I was so proud of those ten pounds, though. Who else in my world could say that they had tried every current flavor of that company’s ice cream? I strutted down the halls of the ice cream factory knowing that I had achieved a level of professional ice cream eating that no one else around me could touch.
I was invincible.
At the end of the tour, my parents bought me shirt to mark this momentous and historical moment in my life. Standing in front of the cashier, I confidently told the young college student ringing us up, “I tried every flavor your company makes.”
She looked down at me, grimaced, and said, “Wow. That’s absolutely disgusting.”
Crestfallen? Just a tad.
Regardless that my little bubble had burst and I had not gained the respect that I thought I deserved for my feat, I still got a t-shirt, ten extra pounds, and a very knowledgeable lesson in life and romance from my ice cream project.
It appeared that my ice cream experiment, at the time, paralleled my love life: I went through a lot of different flavors/boys, some that didn’t get more than a fraction of my attention, some that I thought I liked but made me nauseous in the end, some that I wish I could have had more of, and some that I learned to simply appreciate.
And thus the Ice Cream Theory was born.
**
I’ve stumbled over myself for years trying to explain exactly how the Ice Cream Theory works. Usually conversations about the Theory go something like this:
Me: “I’m writing a book.”
Them: “What’re you writing a book on?”
Me: “Ice cream.”
Them: *enormous awkward pause* “Oh.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Them: “Like how it’s made?”
Me: “No. Not really.”
Them: “Oh, then the history of it?”
Me: “Nope. Not so much.”
Them: “Oh.”
Me: “It’s hard to explain, but, basically, I feel like everyone in my life is comparable to a flavor of ice cream that I love or have loved. And so, I don’t know, it’s sorta one part social commentary, one part satirical commentary on personality traits in comparison to ice cream. Which, I hope, explains why there are some people we get on with so well, and why there are some people we could just do without.”
And then, every single time, the next thing out of that person’s mouth is: “Oh! What flavor am I?!”
And, every single time, I have to tell that person, “Well, I wouldn’t know, would I? I just met you—I don’t know you well enough yet. We’d have to hang out some.”
“Oh,” they dejectedly say. “Well, then, what flavor are you?”
“Well,” I begin to patiently explain, “that would be different from person to person, wouldn’t it be? What I am or would be to an ex-flame wouldn’t be the same to, say, my mom. So while to one person I could be a hearty, faithful friend like a good, solid chocolate ice cream, to others I could be fickle and flighty like, I don’t know, cherry vanilla.”
And that, friend, is the best way I can explain it.
**
There are three basic types of ice cream: vanilla, chocolate, and all the other flavors that aren’t one of those two.
What happens if you leave a carton of Neapolitan ice cream (that vanilla-chocolate-strawberry trio) sitting out? After it melts the only color left in the cardboard container is brown from the chocolate. There is no hidden metaphor here or secret meaning, it’s just simple science. After a while, chocolate and vanilla (or strawberry) cannot cohabitate successfully, without chocolate taking over.
Now metaphorically: because of that, people who represent chocolate ice cream can never be with people who represent vanilla ice cream long term. And vice versa.
At least not successfully.
So, in this Theory, just as it is traditionally in Neapolitan ice cream, there are three flavors that everyone falls under; you’re either: a chocolate person, a vanilla person, or anything that’s not one of those two.
Everybody plays a different role in everyone else’s life. People who I love have been people my friends couldn’t stand. As previously mentioned, the boys I’ve been on dates with are probably going to see me a little differently than my parents see me. As it is with the Theory. I like chocolate more than I like vanilla. I find chocolate to be comforting and sincere, while I find vanilla to be mainstream and too straightforward. The people I love or get along with the best generally tend to be comforting and sincere, like how I feel about chocolate. Whereas the people I’ve butted heads with over the years have been very conservative and no-nonsense folks, like, in my opinion, vanilla.
Anyway, what I consider characteristics of a “chocolate” type of person may be different than what you consider. Maybe you hate chocolate, maybe you think it’s too overbearing. Maybe you like the honesty of a simple vanilla.
It’s all speculation according to your own life, your own trials and tribulations, your own personal experiences.
Again, this Ice Cream Theory is just a platform. Take it and run with it, by all means.
Each Ice Cream Theory chapter represents a person from my life that has a very distinct flavor. Perhaps you’ll see, or draw, some parallels for people in your own life.
The Theory is broken down in three different storytelling parts: by the ice cream, by the person, and then, according to me, how the two are alike. You should be able to draw parallels on your own just fine; I trust you’re smartish, but I have laid it out as uncomplicated as I could just in case. Less for you, I think, and more for my own hard head and heart to be reminded of anyway.
As much as it may seem like it, this book is not about me. It’s about the people in my world. It’s about them as individuals, their important roles in my life, and how I’ve been affected and shaped as a person as a result of it.
Not everyone in my life got a chapter. Sometimes the best stories of life and of growing up and of self-discovery don’t make good stories to recount for whatever reason, and thus have their place safely tucked away in one’s heart. Some of the absolute closest people to me don’t have chapters. I have flavors for them, sure, but nothing I could say would or could ever justify their importance in my life.
I’ll make it up to them by taking them out for ice cream.”

About the Author: 
Despite a failed attempt at majoring in ice cream in college, Steff Deschenes is a self-taught ice-cream guru. After publishing the now twelve-time award-winning The Ice Cream Theory, she began exploring food on a more universal level. As a result, she now photo blogs daily herself at dinner and the challenges of being a vegetarian in a predominantly seafood-oriented state. Steff also writes two articles a week entitled “Maybe It’s Me” (personal essays and reflection on life and the living of it) and “Fact Is Better” (real life conversations she couldn’t make up if she tried); all of which can be found at www.steffdeschenes.com. You can also visit her at www.theicecreamtheory.com.

Read an author interview with Pump up Your Books here.

A copy of this book was provided for review by Virtual Book tours

Diamond Duo by Marcia Gruver

It is time to play a Wild Card! 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:

Marcia Gruver

and the book:

Diamond Duo

Barbour Publishing, Inc (October 1, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Marcia Gruver is a full time writer who hails from Southeast Texas. Inordinately enamored by the past, Marcia delights in writing historical fiction. Her deep south-central roots lend a Southern-comfortable style and a touch of humor to her writing.

Awarded a three book contract by Barbour Publishing for full-length historical fiction, Marcia is busy these days pounding on the keyboard and watching the deadline clock. Diamond Duo, the first installment in the trilogy entitled Texas Fortunes, is scheduled for release in October 2008.

Marcia won third place in the 2007 ACFW Genesis contest and third in the 2004 ACFW Noble Theme contest. Another entry in 2004 finished in the top ten. She placed second in the 2002 Colorado Christian Writer’s contest for new authors, securing a spot in an upcoming compilation book. “I Will Never Leave Thee,” in For Better, For Worse—Devotional Thoughts for Married Couples, was released by Christian Publications in January 2004.

She’s a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, Fellowship of Christian Writers, and The Writers View—and a longstanding member of ACFW Crit3 and Seared Hearts, her brilliant and insightful critique groups.

Lifelong Texans, Marcia and her husband, Lee, have one daughter and four sons. Collectively, this motley crew has graced them with ten grandchildren and one great-granddaughter—so far.


Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $ 10.97
Paperback: 288 pages
Publisher: Barbour Publishing, Inc (October 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602602050
ISBN-13: 978-1602602052

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Diamond Duo by Marcia Gruver, Chapter One


Jefferson, Texas, Friday, January 19, 1877


With the tip of a satin shoe, the graceful turn of an ankle, the woman poured herself like cream from the northbound train out of Marshall and let the tomcats lap her up. In the beginning, an upraised parasol blocked her visage, but no lingering look at her features could erase the impression already established by pleasing carriage, a lavish blue gown, and slender fingers covered in diamonds.

Bertha Biddie waited with stilted breath for the moment when the umbrella might tip and give up its secret. All about her most of Jefferson had come to a halt, as if the whole town waited with her. Without warning, the woman lowered and closed the sunshade.

Enchanted, Bertha followed the graceful lines of her form to her striking and memorable face. At first sight of her, Bertha thought she was the devil’s daughter. She bore no obvious mark of evil. Just smoldering eyes and a knowing glance that said life held mysteries young Bertha had yet to glimpse.

Her hair sparkled like sunrays dancing on Big Cypress Creek. Her lashes were as black as the bottom of a hole, and her lids seemed smudged with coal. Delicate features perched below a dark halo of hair, and a pink flush lit her fair cheeks. Her expression teemed with mischief, and her full ruby lips curled up at the corners as if recalling a bawdy yarn. She turned slightly, evidently aware of the gathering horde for the first time. With a tilt of her chin and barely perceptible sway, she cast a wide net over the men in the crowd and dragged them to shore.

Bertha watched them respond to her and realized Mama had been less than forthcoming about the real and true nature of things. Forgetting themselves and the women at their sides, they stared open-mouthed, some in spite of jealous claws that gripped their arms. Even the ladies stared, the looks on their faces ranging from admiration to envy.

The reaction of the men only slightly altered when the lady’s escort stepped out of the Texas & Pacific passenger car behind her. Though his clothes were just as spiffy and he carried himself well, the man who accompanied that gilded bird lacked her allure, bore none of her charm. Yet despite her confident display of tail feathers, the bluebird at his side clearly deferred to him as though he’d found a way to clip her wings.

With great care, the porter handed down the couple’s baggage, the matched set a rare sight in those parts, then held out his hand. Her companion tipped the man, gathered the bags, and walked away from the platform without offering a single word in the bluebird’s direction. She cast a quick glance after him but stood her ground, her demeanor unruffled in the face of his rebuke.

As was the custom, The Commercial Hotel, Haywood House, and Brooks House, three reputable hotels in town, each had transport standing by to haul incoming passengers from the station. Dr. J. H. Turner, landlord of Brooks House, waited on hand in the conveyance he called an omnibus.

The woman’s friend secured passage with Dr. Turner and helped him load their belongings then turned and crooked a finger in her direction. She pretended not to notice.

“Bessie!” he barked. “For pity’s sake.”

She lifted her head, reopened the parasol, and strolled his way without saying a word—giving in but taking all the time she pleased to do so. He handed her up onto the carriage, climbed in beside her, and settled back to rest a possessive arm around her shoulders.

Dr. Turner eased onto Alley Street and trundled away from the station, breaking the spell cast over the denizens of Jefferson. In slow motion they awoke from their stupor and returned to their lives.

Bertha released the breath she’d held and gripped her best friend’s arm. “What was she, Magda? I’ve never seen anything like her.”

When Magda shook her head, her curls danced the fandango. “Me neither. And we never will again. Not around here, anyway.”

She leaned past Magda trying to catch another glimpse. “She’s no earthbound creature, that’s for sure. But devil or angel? I couldn’t tell.”

Magda laughed. “She’s human all right, just not ordinary folk.” She pressed her finger to her lips. “Could be one of those actresses from a New York burletta.”

Bertha gasped. “From the Broadway stage? You really think so?”

“She’s certainly stylish enough.”

Bertha squinted down Alley Street at the back of the tall carriage. “That man called her Bessie. She doesn’t look like a Bessie to me.”

“Further proof that beneath all her fluff, she’s a vessel of clay like the rest of us.”

“How so?”

“Who ever heard of an angel named Bessie?”

Grinning, Bertha leaned and tweaked Magda’s nose. “Oh, go on with you.”

Of all the souls wandering the earth—in Jefferson, Texas, at least—Bertha Maye Biddie’s heart had knit with Magdalena Hayes’ from the start. They were a year apart, Magda being the oldest, but age wasn’t the only difference between them. Magda easily reached the top shelves in the kitchen, where Bertha required a stool. And while big-boned Magda took up one and a half spaces on a church pew, Bertha barely filled the remaining half. Magda’s russet mop coiled as tight as tumbleweed. Bertha’s black hair fell to her waist in silken waves and gave her fits trying to keep it pinned up. Nothing fazed self-possessed Magda. Bertha greeted life with her heart.

Magda nudged Bertha with her elbow. “Earthbound or not, I can tell you one thing about her. . .”

“What’s that?”

The look in Magda’s big brown eyes said whatever the one thing was it was bound to be naughty. She leaned in to whisper. “She knows a thing or two about the fellas.”

Bertha raised her brows. “You can tell that just by looking at her, can you?”

“Not looking at her, smart britches. I can tell by the way she looks at them.” She fussed with her curls, her eyes pious slants. “No decent woman goes eye to eye with strange men in the street, and you know it.”

“I guess some decent woman told you that?”

“Bertha Maye Biddie! Don’t get fresh with me.”

Bertha tucked in her chin and busied herself straightening her gloves. “Maybe she’s fed up with their scandalous fawning. Ever think of that?”

“Any hound will track his supper.”

The words made Bertha mad enough to spit, but she didn’t know why. “A pie set out on a windowsill may be a fine display of good cooking, but not necessarily an invitation.”

Magda narrowed her eyes. “What on earth are you talking about?” Before Bertha could answer, she stiffened and settled back for a pout. “Why are you siding up with that woman anyway? You don’t even know her.”

The truth was, Bertha’s head still reeled from the first sight of Bessie. And the way men reacted to her flooded Bertha’s young heart with hope and provided an opportunity, if she played her cards right, to fix a private matter that sorely needed fixing.

She knew a few things by instinct, like how to toss her long hair or tilt her chin just so. Enough to mop the grin off Thaddeus Bloom’s handsome face and light a fire in those dark eyes. But she was done with turning to mush in his presence and watching him revel in it. If Bertha could learn a few of the bluebird’s tricks, she’d have that rascal wagging his tail. Then the shoe would be laced to the proper foot, and Thad could wear it up her front stoop when he came to ask for her hand.

One thing was certain. Whatever Bessie knew, Bertha needed to know it.

She tugged on Magda’s arm. “Come on.”

“Come on where?”

Already a wagon-length ahead, Bertha called back over her shoulder. “To the hotel. We’re going to find her.”

“What? Why?”

“Save your questions for later. Now hurry!”

Bertha dashed to the steps at the end of the boardwalk and scurried into the street.

“You planning to run clear to Vale Street?” Magda huffed, rushing to catch up. “Slow down. It ain’t ladylike.”

“Oh, pooh. Neither am I. Look, there’s Mose. He’ll take us.”

Just ahead, Moses Pharr’s rig, piled high with knobby cypress, turned onto Alley Street headed the opposite way. The rickety wagon, pulled by one broken-down horse, bore such a burden of wood it looked set to pop like a bloated tick. When Bertha whistled, the boy’s drowsy head jerked up. He turned around and saw her, and a grin lit his freckled face.

“Bertha!” Magda hustled up beside her. “If your pa gets word of you whistling in town, he’ll take a strap to your legs.”

“Papa doesn’t own a strap. Come on, Mose is waiting.”

She ran up even with the wagon and saw that the mountain of wood had blocked her view of Mose’s sister sitting beside him on the seat. They both grinned down at her, Rhodie’s long red hair the only visible difference between the two.

“Hey, Rhodie.”

“Hey, Bert. Where you going?”

“To Brooks House. I was hoping to hitch a ride.”

Mose leaned over, still grinning. “We always got room for you, Bertha. Hop on.”

Magda closed the distance between them and came to stand beside Bertha, breathing hard. When Bertha pulled herself onto the seat beside Rhodie, Magda started to follow. Mose raised his hand to stop her.

“Hold up there.” He looked over at Bertha. “Her, too?”

Bertha nodded.

Mose cut his eyes back at the wood and then shrugged. “Guess one more can’t hurt. But she’ll have to sit atop that stump. Ain’t no more room on the seat.”

Magda adjusted her shawl around her shoulders and sniffed. “I refuse to straddle a cypress stump all the way to Vale Street.”

“Suit yourself,” Bertha said. “But it’s a long walk. Let’s go, Mose.”

Mose lifted the reins and clucked at the horse. Magda grabbed the wooden handgrip and pulled herself onto the wagon just as it started to move. Arranging her skirts about her, she perched on the tall stump like Miss Muffet. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked. “Let’s go.”

Laughing, they rolled through Jefferson listing and creaking, ignoring the stares and whispers. When the rig pulled up across from Brooks House, even the spectacle they made couldn’t compete with Bessie and her traveling companion.

The couple stood on the street beside their luggage, the carriage nowhere in sight. They seemed at the end of a heated discussion, given his mottled face and her missing smile.

When Bertha noticed the same sick-cow expression on the faces of the gathered men and the same threatened look on the women’s, she became more determined than ever to learn Bessie’s secret.

The man with Bessie growled one more angry word then hefted their bags and set off up the path. Not until Bessie followed him and disappeared through the shadowy door did the town resume its pace.

Mose gulped and found his voice. “She looked as soft as a goose-hair pillow. Who is she?”

Bertha scooted to the edge of her seat and climbed down. She dusted her hands and smoothed her skirt before she answered. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

“Roll up your tongue, Moses Pharr,” Magda said from the back, “and get me off this stump.”

Mose hopped to the ground and hurried around to help Magda.

Rhodie, twirling her copper braid, grinned down at Bertha. “What are you going to do, Bert?”

Magda answered for her. “She’s going to get us into trouble, that’s what.”

Bertha took her by the hand. “Stop flapping your jaws and come on.”

They waved goodbye to Mose and Rhodie then hurried across the street, dodging horses, wagons, and men—though their town wasn’t nearly as crowded as it had once been.

Jefferson, Queen City of the Cypress, lost its former glory in 1873, when the United States Corps of Engineers blew the natural dam to kingdom come, rerouting the water from Big Cypress Bayou down the Red River to Shreveport. Once a thriving port alive with steamboat traffic, when the water level fell, activity in Jefferson, the river port town that had earned the title “Gateway to Texas” dwindled. To that very day, in fits of Irish temper, Bertha’s papa cursed the responsible politicians.

But through it all, Jefferson had lost none of its charm. Brooks House was a prime example of the best the town had to offer, so it seemed only right that someone like Bessie might wind up staying there.

Bertha and Magda positioned themselves outside the hotel and hunkered down to wait—the former on a mission, the latter under duress. It didn’t take long for the girls to learn a good bit about the captivating woman and her cohort. Talk swirled out the door of the hotel soon after the couple sashayed to the front desk to register under the name of A. Monroe and wife, out of Cincinnati, Ohio.

The gentleman, if he could be counted as such, addressed the woman as Annie or Bessie, when he didn’t call her something worse. The two quarreled openly, scratching and spitting like cats, and didn’t care who might be listening. By the time the story drifted outside, the locals had dubbed her Diamond Bessie due to her jewel-encrusted hands, and it seemed the name would stick.

Bertha shaded her eyes with her hands and pressed her face close to the window. “I don’t see her anymore, Magda. I guess they took a room.”

“Of course they took a room. Why else would they come to a hotel?”

Bertha ignored her sarcasm and continued to search the lobby for Bessie. Still catching no sight of her, she turned around. “Isn’t she the most glorious thing? And even prettier close up.”

“That she is.”

“Did you see the way men look at her? I never saw that many roosters on the prowl at one time.”

“And all for squat,” Magda said. “That chicken’s been plucked. The little banty she strutted into town with has already staked a claim.” She grinned. “He wasn’t all that hard on the eyes himself.”

Bertha frowned. “That strutting peacock? Besides his flashy clothes, she was the only thing special about him. Don’t see how he managed to snare a woman like that. He must be rich.”

Magda arched one tapered brow. “Did you see the rings on her fingers?”

“I reckon so. I’m not blind.”

Magda stretched her back and heaved a sigh. “I guess that’s it then. Let’s go.”

Bertha grabbed her arm. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“Home. This show’s over. They’ve settled upstairs by now.”

Lacing her fingers under her chin, Bertha planted herself in Magda’s path. “Won’t you wait with me just a mite longer?”

“She’s not coming out here, Bertha. Besides, you’ve seen enough for today.”

“I don’t want to see her. I need to talk to her.”

Magda drew herself back and stared. “Are you tetched? We can’t just walk up and talk to someone like her. Why would she fool with the likes of us?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of a way. I’ve got to.” She bit her bottom lip—three words too late.

Looking wary now, Magda crossed her arms. “Got to? Why?”

“Just do.” Bertha met her look head-on. She wouldn’t be bullied out of it. Not even by Magda.

Resting chubby fists on rounded hips, Magda sized her up. “All right, what does this have to do with Thad?”

No one knew her like Magda. Still, the chance she might stumble onto Bertha’s motives were as likely as hatching a three-headed guinea hen. Struggling to hold her jaw off the ground, she lifted one shoulder. “Who said it did?”

Magda had the gall to laugh. “Because, dearie,” she leaned to tap Bertha’s forehead, “everything inside there lately has something to do with Thad.”

“Humph! Think what you like. I am going to talk to her.”

Magda glared. “Go ahead then. I can see there’s no changing your mind. But I don’t fancy being humiliated by another of your rattlebrained schemes, thank you.”

Bertha caught hold of her skirt. “Don’t you dare go. I can’t do this on my own.”

“Let go of me. I said I’m going home.”

“Please, Magdalena! I need you.”

Magda pulled her skirt free and took another backward step. “No, ma’am. You just count me out this time.”

She turned to go and Bertha lunged, catching her in front of the hotel door. They grappled, tugging sleeves and pulling hair, both red-faced and close to tears. Just when Bertha got set to squeal like a pestered pig, from what seemed only a handbreadth away a woman cleared her throat. Bertha froze, hands still locked in Magda’s hair, and turned to find the bluebird beaming from the threshold—though canary seemed more fitting now that she’d traded her blue frock for a pale yellow dress.

“What fun!” Bessie cried, clasping her hands. “I feared this town might be as dull as dirt, but it seems I was mistaken.”