Tag: book reviews

Into The Fog: The Sweetheart Murders

Posted on November 6, 2013 by

Fog

Fog (Photo credit: rchughta)

They disappeared into the fog that night.

Months of preparation for the play culminated on a foggy night on December 20, 1980. I hadn’t really noticed how in love they were with each other-we were too busy with the mice, party guests, Chinese and Russian dancers running about backstage. Just turned 15, I felt the delicious taste of freedom that comes with a job and being out at night.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we’d traded places that night…if instead of climbing into our warm old Volvo  with my mom in the parking lot, what if I had been Sabrina? No one in our tiny town would think twice about stopping to pick up ice cream with your boyfriend and heading off in the tule fog to a birthday party.

Our town is safe.

Was safe.

They named them the ‘Sweetheart Murders’ after they found their bodies a few days later, 30 miles away in a ravine. They died together, tragically, painfully, unnecessarily. I remember seeing his sister at school; she was a normal kid. Just like everyone else, except for this one thing. I wasn’t sure what happens to you when you die, but I knew what happened to everyone else.

John and Sabrina, Sweetheart Murders

Only 18 and full of life and love and promise, they left our little college town absolutely shattered. For years we lived in the shadow of their memory, wondering who among us could have the capacity to snuff out two lives so gentle and innocent. We settled back into our lives, and we picked up the bits and pieces of our memories and went on. We endured the theories, the false leads, the abrupt endings to arrests we thought would show us the answers to that night and bring us back to that time of innocence, the time of well-being, when all our parents felt safe letting us out on a foggy night. Their families never recovered.

Thirty years later, their killer has been tried and convicted. The children still gather on the same stage to celebrate the season, unaware of the love that was lost that night. Volvos still rumble through the parking lot, scooping up Clara, the Mouse King and flower dancers after rehearsal. We have our own children now, and watch them find their way through the world with a caution we never knew before that night. We think of John and Sabrina and hug each other a little closer, remembering how easy it is to disappear into the fog at night.

This post was inspired by The Last Winter of Dani Lancing, a novel by P.D. Viner. Twenty years ago, college student Dani was murdered but her killer was never found.  Now a promising new lead may change everything. Join From Left to Write on November 7 as we discuss The Last Winter of Dani Lancing.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

 

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Mother, Mothering, Motherhood

Posted on September 18, 2013 by

My babies

My babies

I rode my bike home at dusk today, far too late for mothers and children to be playing at the park. From a distance I could hear the pee wee football players running their plays as the coach barked inspirational suggestions of improvement. Nearby, the pee wee cheerleaders pivoted and jumped in unison to some hip hop song I couldn’t quite make out. As I rode the familiar path towards home, my mind ticked through the mental checklist that pops up far too frequently: dinner? homework? lessons? laundry? I wondered what my teens had been doing all afternoon while I was at work, and hoped for the best. My heart felt that tinge of loneliness that happens only when I’ve been away from them too long. His birthday is tomorrow. Fourteen years of blissfully mothering him. Crossing the bike overpass, I dipped down towards Sycamore Park as images flashed in my mind; we’ve been mothering together for 15 years. How could that be possible? Two thirty-something moms, both bulging from the last trimester of pregnancy in the scorching summer heat, we dreamed of a few moments of shade while our three-year olds dared each other down slides and monkey bars. We chased them down, secretly hoping the jostling would push us into labor. Juice boxes and goldfish marked our territory, shared stories and sympathy sealed our hearts. We searched the pages of the parenting handbook, sure that the advice we sought must be somewhere out there. Mothering toddlers together helped us feel less alone, less unsure, and more hopeful that just maybe we’d get it right.

My teenagers.

My teenagers.

I see now what they meant -those women who said, “Someday you’ll understand when you have your own.” Funny how that pops into my mind these days. I remember standing in our blue and white kitchen, my two teenage brothers pulling food out of the refrigerator like bears just out of hibernation. I couldn’t understand why my mother always complained that she had just gone to the store, and lamented about the empty cupboards left at the end of the day.Suddenly, with my own two teenagers I get it. I hear her voice when I pick up the towels from the bedroom floors, when I straighten their unmade beds, and when I wash the peanut butter crusted knife left drying in the sink. ‘Season the chicken more than you think you should’, and ‘Don’t work too hard’ ring through my mind when I find myself alone, silent in the moment. Mothering teens often feels treacherous, as if I’m teetering on the next big catastrophe. I breathe deeply, and Motherhood pulses through my veins, bringing forth all those lessons passed down from one to the next.

She couldn’t have been more than a few months old. Curled in her kangaroo sac, snug against her mother’s chest, Fiona coiled her chubby little legs tight against her torso, happy just to be pressed securely against the most important person in her world. I felt the weight on my chest, just looking at her, remembering my own first months of motherhood. I’m not sure I would have had the courage-or confidence-to bring my newborn into a work meeting. Life then had very separate lines, motherhood and teaching. Like flipping a light switch, I would move in and out of my roles with intentional distinction, not yet knowing that that movement was truly impossible.Not realizing that, like Fiona, my children would be forever on my chest, eternally positioned over my heart. I didn’t realize that, yes, I would make mistakes and wish words could fly back into my mouth and yes, I would occasionally miss a page from the parenting handbook. I didn’t understand that as my children aged and moved away from my reach that I would have to stretch my arms to reach out to them, never wanting them to leave and yet simultaneously thrilled to see them go out on their own.

Motherhood. Something learned, yet innate all the same. An experience to be cherished, not squandered. A gift to safeguard, not consume with personal neediness. Meant to be shared. Meant to be savored, every last second.

A controlling mother, a missing daughter, and a family who is desperate for love. This post was inspired by the the psychological thriller Mother, Mother by Koren Zailckas. Join From Left to Write on September 19 as we discuss Mother, Mother.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Powerful or Powerless: The Execution of Noa P. Singleton

Posted on July 29, 2013 by

“it’s that sense of powerlessness that destroyed my soul. i cannot be as good as i would like to be.nor as bad as i think i need to be.i think you have the same doubts that your goodness was not rewarded.”
Paulo Coelho

Powerless Structures Fig.101

Powerless Structures (Photo credit: failing_angel)

“Like all great stories, mine begins with classic Greek lore. With Persephone, the daughter of Zeus, wife of Hades, queen of the underworld, goddess of death, and my closest friend when I was twelve years old.”
– from The Execution of Noa P. Singleton by Elizabeth L. Silver
As a Child:
“You may feel powerless as a child, but the world will one day be yours. And you’re responsible for it. So, seize the day and take charge of it.”
Harvey Fierstein
It wasn’t far from my 6th grade classroom to our cozy little house on the tree lined street. Classic Americana small town living; our family of six squished into the brown shingled house with the cork tree out front. We played on the street, kicking the can or legendary games of hide and seek nearly every summer night.
But this afternoon the street was eerily quiet as I pedaled my green Schwinn one speed down the lane and pulled into the driveway. Walking up the curved, hedge lined front path I was surprised at the lack of activity. Cautiously, I opened the front door and stepped inside. My footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors as I slowly stepped down the hall, gazing into each empty room.
“Mom?” I called to no one.
I walked past the bathroom, sterile in its emptiness, and towards the cozy room I shared with my younger sister. Empty. And my brother’s room looked sad, empty of trucks, Legos and Lincoln Logs. I continued down to my parent’s room, realizing what I would find wasn’t there, but hoping it was.
As I retraced my steps, I found myself whispering goodbye to each room. I wandered through the living room with the picture window facing the garden where our Christmas tree used to stand, the family room where Sesame Street, Julia Child and Sonny and Cher broadcast out of our black and white, and into the kitchen. Empty.
Returning to the front hall, I paused, looked back, and wiped the tear from my face. “Goodbye, house,” I mouthed as I shut the door, climbed on my bike, and rode away. Powerless, I never looked back.
As a Young Woman:

“Being tall is an advantage, especially in business. People will always remember you. And if you’re in a crowd, you’ll always have some clean air to breathe.”

-Julia Child

It was Bastille Day in Paris, 1989. We were young, in love, and spending the summer with packs on our backs and Eurail passes in our pockets. Fresh from the Louvre, we ambitiously boarded the train back to our hostel. Feeling relieved to find a seat, I carefully clutched my recent purchase: two Monet reproduction posters, just waiting to be framed and hung on our bedroom wall.

“S’il vous plaît quitter le train. Il ya un autre venant en rapide derrière nous. S’il vous plaît quitter le train,” the announcer broadcast in rapid fire French. My brain processed as quickly as I could;all I could translate was ‘Please exit the train!” before dozens of Parisians began climbing over each other, terror on their faces. That, we understood.

I felt myself getting squished down in the melee, my Monets still tightly in my grasp. Panic had set in, and the announcer continued to blare his message of terror.

Suddenly, I felt someone grab my arm. In an instant I was swept off my feet, powerless to the crowd. I sailed over subway seats, moving to the exit with amazing speed. My other arm still clutching my Monets, I somehow landed on my feet and gazed up at my boyfriend with great relief.

“Run!” he shouted, and we dashed for the stairs leading up and out of the Metro, panic coursing through our bodies. As we reached the stairs, suddenly the tension eased and the crowd began to laugh.

“Pas besoin de s’inquiéter. Le prochain train arrivera sous peu. Nous vous remercions de votre coopération.”

This time, my college level French completely left me. Language fail had left me powerless, but as I watched the next train calmly pull up behind us I realized we were safe.

As a Mother:

“It is for us to pray not for tasks equal to our powers, but for powers equal to our tasks, to go forward with a great desire forever beating at the door of our hearts as we travel toward our distant goal.”

– Helen Keller

It just seemed like the right thing to do, for some crazy reason. A leap of faith, maybe, that my children and I would be safe. Months of preparation led up to this point; immunizations, packing, fund raising and studying the Nicaraguan culture and finally, we were ready to leave.

As we gathered together in the airport, I was seized with anxiety. What was I doing? Taking my kids to a country I’d never been to, with people I didn’t know, to spend two weeks of hard work building a school in uncertain circumstances?

Sleep wasn’t an option on the red eye flight to Managua. As we gently descended my anxiety ebbed, then released. We were here. I could do this, even alone.

It was a few days later when we met him; a doe eyed, nine year old boy with closely shaved hair and no shoes. His name was Victor, and he wore the same red jersey and yellow shorts to the work site each day, darting out of the bushes as our Toyota truck clambered up the dirt road. He became our only real reason for going to the work site – his smile was that powerful. Cameron and he bonded, spending hours together scampering around the school site, finger knitting friendship bracelets and conversing easily in Spanish.

When the last day came, my tears flowed freely. Cameron hugged me as we drove away, assuring me it would be ok. And actually, in some way I knew he was right. It would be ok. We would be ok. This powerful experience would forever be etched in our heart, and his smile forever on my mind. We did this. I did this for my kids, and nothing could quite compare.

Execution-of-Noa-P-Singleton-by-Elizabeth-Silver-Cover-197x300

This post was inspired by the novel The Execution of Noa P. Singleton by Elizabeth L. Silver. Mere months before Noa’s execution, her victim’s mother changed her mind Noa’s sentence and vows to help stay the execution. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes. Grab your copy of The Execution of Noa P. Singleton and join From Left to Write on July 30 when we discuss the book.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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