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Dear Reader,
Wade Rouse, today's guest author, is the internationally bestselling author of eight books, which have been translated into nearly 15 languages. Wade's novels include The Charm Bracelet, The Hope Chest, and his current novel, The Recipe Box, about a woman who rediscovers her family--and herself--through the recipes that connected generations. The book was inspired by the author's grandmothers' recipe boxes, and it includes their cherished family recipes.
Wade chose his grandmother's name, Viola Shipman, as a pen name for his fiction to honor the woman whose heirlooms, life, love and lessons inspire his fiction.
Please welcome author Wade Rouse to our book club. Email [email protected]
"Hoppy" Holidays
Think your family holidays weren't normal? My father used to bury our Easter eggs. He believed that it was just too easy to put the eggs in a basket or place them at the base of some tulips. He thought the after-church hunt should be more of a challenge, say akin to The Hunger Games. On Easter, my father would give me and my big brother little spades and hand-drawn maps and send us on our way to dig up the yard. An engineer and child of the Depression, my dad believed in precision and hard work over frivolity.
My mother knew our Easter hunt wasn't typical, but she was none too innocent herself in our holiday dysfunction. A busy nurse who was often on call, my mom once hurriedly dressed me up as a pirate, covering an eye with duct tape and handing me a fondue fork as a sword (she did stuff a wine cork on the end to protect me and other trick-or-treaters).
In fact, all of my family holidays should have been called family "hell-idays": My great-uncle used to dress as Santa every year, carrying around a six-pack of Hamm's beer instead of a sack of presents. Like most kids, all I wanted growing up was to be like everyone else. I relished spending time with other relatives and friends, whose Christmas trees didn't have to be flocked in a foot of fake snow, or whose 4th of July fireworks celebration didn't have to be grander than our nation's.
But as I and my parents grew older, and we began spending holidays with in-laws, I suddenly missed the way my mother smothered our Thanksgiving sweet potatoes in a cloud of marshmallows, and the way my dad sang Irish songs at the top of his lungs on St. Patrick's Day even though we weren't Irish.
My family wasn't "normal," I realized, and that was okay, perhaps even a gift for a writer. More than anything, my family made me realize that being myself was important, that listening to my own voice would take me far, and that once I gave up what made me unique I'd be just like everyone else. My parents are now gone, but their love, memories and influence remain.
Which is why in a couple of weeks--in honor of my father--a few eggs will be buried in my yard, and guests will be given spades and maps. Because that's how my family does Easter and always will.
--Wade Rouse
Please say hello to wade. Email [email protected]
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]
** AUTHORBUZZ **
GODS OF HOWL MOUNTAIN (Fiction) by Taylor Brown
This new novel transports you into a world of folk healers, moonshine runners, and serpent-handlers in the high country of 1950s North Carolina. Upon returning home from the Korean War, whiskey bootlegger Rory Docherty and his legendary healer grandmother Granny May must pit themselves against dangerous mountain clans, revenue agents, and the secrets of their own dark past.
Go to: AUTHORBUZZ click on GODS OF HOWL MOUNTAIN to read more and to email author Taylor Brown, you'll get a reply.
* This month's Penguin Classics book is PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK, by Joan Lindsay. Start reading now and enter the drawing for your chance to win a Penguin tote bag.
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