Patti Lacy's "The Rhythm of Secrets" (Book Review)

About the book: Since 1955, Sheila Franklin, a talented musician, has perfectly performed the role of devout pastor’s wife, locking away her past as Sheba Alexander and Sylvia Allen. Her carefully constructed façade crumbles with a single phone call from a young Marine named Samuel, the illegitimate son she secretly put up for adoption. Samuel begs Sheila to use her government contacts to get his fiancé, Mali, a Thai prostitute, into America. A dangerous mixture of love and guilt spurs her to help her only child even though it devastates her husband Edward and exposes her questionable past. After a quarrel with Edward, Sheila and Samuel board a C-130 for Thailand and then search Bangkok’s steamy streets for a Madonna-faced prostitute. The two whisk Mali from a brothel but are seized by a warlord who considers Mali his “number one girl.” In a teak “ghost house,” Sheila discovers God’s grace and gains the freedom she needs to find her own identity—Sheila, Sylvia, and Sheba. A framed story, this novel has roots in the bohemian 1940s New Orleans French Quarter and spans three decades, including the turbulent Vietnam era.


Link to Buy the book: Rhythm of Secrets, The: A Novel
 
About Patti: Baylor graduate, taught community college humanities until God called her to span seas and secrets in her novels, An Irishwoman's Tale and What the Bayou Saw. She has two grown children and a dog named Laura. She and her husband can be seen jog-walking the streets of Normal, Illinois, an amazing place to live for a woman born in a car. For more information, visit Patti's website at www.pattilacy.com, her blog at www.pattilacy.com/blog, and her Facebook daily Artbites. Patti's longer bio here

My Review:

With one phone call, a prim and proper pastor’s wife comes face to face with her secret and painful past. The son she was forced to give up at birth has found her and wants to meet her. Suddenly her life is filled with possibilities. Thus begins the revealing of secrets.

Sheila Franklin’s story begins in 1940’s New Orleans when she was a carefree fourteen-year-old girl named Sheba. It takes a crazy journey to a Catholic home for unwed mothers in St Paul, Minnesota, and from there, loops over to Chicago, during the heyday of D.L. Moody’s Bible Institute.

The author’s use of musical titles for each chapter and threading musical literature through the story was sort of lost on me, but was a large part of Sheba’s life and personality. She was raised on jazz and the life-beat of New Orleans and even though everyone tried to tamp it down or stomp it out of her in later years, she held it close, because it made her feel connected to the parents she’d lost, and her true self hidden away behind a mask of respectability.

It took me a few chapters to really get into this story. The initial meeting with her son is almost painful to read. He has ulterior motives, she has unrealistic dreams of a happy reunion, and the fancy restaurant scene is so cold and formal as to leave you detached from the underlying story. But the author soon brought me in close to feel a young girl’s loneliness—wrenched from everything she knew and loved, a young woman’s losing struggle with a world that despised her for something she couldn’t change, and a middle-aged woman’s desperate need to make up to her son for leaving him, even if it meant losing everything she now has.

The Rhythm of Secrets deals with bigotry, hypocrisy, and hatred, but mostly it’s a story of the search for redemption and the final realization that it can only be found in Christ.

(I received a copy of Rhythm of Secrets in exchange for writing an honest review.)


Enter the Rhythm of Secrets NOOK eReader Giveaway:

Patti and her publisher, Kregel, are giving away a NOOK prize package worth over $150 to one lucky winner!!!!

Enter the Nook eReader Giveaway and you could win:
* A brand new Nook eReader with Wi-Fi
* $25 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble

To enter, simply click here to enter, then tell 5 or more friends about the contest. Oh, and enter soon! Winner will be announced on February 16th at Patti's Rhythm of Secrets Facebook Party
  But, wait there’s more! Come to the Rhythm of Secrets Facebook Party on December 16th! Patti will be announcing the winner of The Rhythm of Secrets NOOK giveaway at her Party on FB February 16th! She’ll be hosting a book club discussion of The Rhythm of Secrets and giving away other fun prizes! (signed copies of her books and gift certificates to Barnes & Noble, Starbucks, & iTunes!). Don’t miss the fun at Patti’s FB Author Page on February 16th at 5pm PST ( 6 pm MST, 7 pm CST, & 8 pm EST)!
  Blog Tour Schedule: here

A Younger You in Fifty Years

Growing old must have been a real bummer fifty-plus years ago. They didn’t have all the great products we have now. They were still using plain old aspirin for flu and colds and smashed fingers and headaches and fevers and cramps. It was the miracle drug. 

Now we have over-the-counter medications pinpointing our exact symptoms. One for backache, another for headache, one for coughs with fever, one for coughs with sore throat, and one for cramps, bloating and irritability. (Which makes me wonder why those women in the fifties always looked so happy in heels and pearls, scrubbing their floors with the latest in technology boar-bristle scrub brushes when they didn’t even have access to Midol!) But I digress.

I know everyone spouts that bologna about 50 being the new 40 and how people today live longer, look younger, and feel better than those that came before. But I don’t know if I’m buying it.

Our lives today are padded with government safety regulations. Maybe that prolongs lives. Fifty years ago people were probably falling off their bicycles, right and left, and landing on their unprotected heads. But more than safety, I think comfort has extended lives. Never mind seatbelts—here in Minnesota, heated car seats alone have probably extended life expectancy by five to seven years.

As for looking younger—that can come from better makeup and hair color, and/or being married to a plastic surgeon.

Feeling better…really depends on the moment, right?

I was looking at all the stuff I use these days to keep from feeling old and decrepit.

On my bathroom counter I have:

Sensitive toothpaste – because the older I get, even inanimate objects must be sensitive to my feelings or get out of the way.

Artificial tears – because my eyeballs are drying up along with my patience.

Aspercreme – because life is a lot shorter now and I don’t have time for some tablet to dissolve in my stomach and work its way to my muscles.

Face cream – because apparently the sandman has been a little too liberal in sprinkling his crusty merchandise around at night.

Tylenol PM – because lying next to my husband and listening to him snore at three in the morning is a precarious situation for a pre-menopausal woman with an extra pillow at hand.

What are some things you use to look and feel younger than your ancestors—besides photoshopping your double chin out of the picture?

Tips by Gwenyth; Sarcasm by Barbara

Total makeover today. Okay, maybe not total as in—I look twenty years younger and had my back waxed—but semi total. (besides, some men prefer women with hairy backs) I did have my hair cut, and I signed up at a fitness club that will eventually give my body a makeover—in time. Hopefully less time than it takes for summer to arrive in Minnesota. That gives me a few months leeway.

I wish there were a magic pill to take that would give me flat abs and a firmer body in less time. I’m not asking for an overnight miracle, just something that works in say—five to six days. I have no problem exercising for a week. It’s the thought of always—for the rest of my life going to a public building where other people are groaning and sweating, pretending I can’t see, smell, or hear them, and trying to concentrate on my music while staring out the window into a grey parking lot—that makes me want to give up.

Now if I were Gwenyth Paltrow I would have a workout gym in my home, a personal trainer, and possibly a stunt double to do the actual sweating for me.

Gwenyth, the movie star, was recently criticized for trying to help out working mothers save time and energy in their busy day to day lives. She interviewed other “real” moms, such as her fashion designer friend and her venture capitalist friend, for a list of tips on how they balanced working and motherhood and compiled these great ideas, along with her own, to help make working mom’s lives easier and more manageable. Then I suppose she had her stunt-double write it up and post it online at GOOP where you can get the scoop on everything Paltrow.

I’m personally excited to try out Dr. Junger’s Clean Program that Gwenyth raves about. I don’t know the last time I had a good detox, found mental clarity, and lost a few pounds all at one time. It’s probably worth flying to Los Angeles for. I’ll put it on my to-do list for Spring cleaning.

I don’t know why people can’t just love each other and accept one another for who they are. Gwenyth was only trying to help, but many people slammed her with a taste of vitriol, up to now, reserved only for Sarah Palin. (Those are two names you never thought you’d hear in the same sentence, huh?)

I thought Gwenyth’s suggestions and tips were A+ awesome. Who doesn’t need a fish monger who makes home deliveries? And a personal assistant would be a lovely addition to our family, along with a nanny for the dogs, and a cook to whip up that healthy fish dinner. But the best tip of all was her use of bundling. You’ve heard of bundling with the cable company: cable, Internet, and phone all in one bill, saving time and money. Well, Gwenyth one-upped that. She suggested we should bundle our spa treatments. Don’t spread them out and waste time going back every day. Just have your facial, pedicure, and manicure all at once. You will save so much time and still look and feel your best.

A happy mom makes happy children. I think. I’m not really sure. If I named my kids Apple and Moses I think they may have been teased a bit. How many times can a boy be asked to part the Red Sea and not be accused of anger management problems? And I’m pretty sure my daughter wouldn’t like being referred to as a fruit—healthy or not. 

I don’t know any moms quite like Gwenyth Paltrow—at least not in my neighborhood. Most of the working moms I know are more like Patricia Heaton’s character on “The Middle.” They’re more likely to pick up dinner in a sack through a drive-through window than have a fish monger visit them with his finest cut of Salmon. Of course, maybe that’s just because we don’t live near the ocean.

So, for all you Gwenyth haters, leaving mean spirited comments on her blog, just remember that bad vibrations going out into the internet is only going to come back and bite you in the butt someday. Cause, as the Beach Boys sang, "good, good, good, good vibrations" are what make happy people. 

Parenting Grown Children 101

College daughter left yesterday afternoon to return to the land of dorms and classes, in pursuit of a degree and eventual career. She had a four-hour drive ahead of her, a packed car to unload once there, and a chance to excel at Ballroom Dancing and Kick Boxing. Yes—she is taking both of those classes as well as her Graphic Design stuff.  How dancing and kicking fit into designing—I have no idea. But I guess you call that a well-rounded education.

All I know is that colleges and universities have managed to turn every four-year degree into a five or six year degree and still raise tuition annually. Giving parents something to work longer for while we worry about the future job market for our offspring. But why worry? With that kind of an exceptional education, my daughter should be able to find work as a bouncer, a P.E. teacher, or a starving artist who draws portraits of ex-celebrities who’ve been on Dances With the Stars.

On the other hand, our “living on his own” son is doing just great without a college education. As long as the 1996 pickup we gave him in 2003 continues to run, Santa comes yearly to replenish his socks, underwear, and jeans, and he never has to go to the dentist—he’ll be just fine.

I’ve come to the conclusion that parents worry needlessly. We have to stop this nonsense. It only gives us worry lines and ulcers, while our children blithely go on their merry way, completely oblivious to the danger, stupidity, or wastefulness of their lives. Let them figure it out for themselves, I say! They’ve been warned. Now, let it go…but we can’t—because we’re parents—and parents are like that. Clinging to the hope that someday our words will not fall on deaf ears or into an abyss of ingratitude.

Regardless of what it may look like now, I’m still pretty sure that someday our kids will understand and appreciate our inadequate parenting methods, our seemingly ineffectual attempt to keep them safe and from having to learn the hard way. Because we all learned the hard way and most of us are here to tell about it. The only difference is, some of us have forgotten most of what we had to tell and therefore only remember the good and none of the bad and ugly. That is one of God’s greatest gifts to parents. Memory loss.

What was I saying?

Thin Skin and a Runny Nose

It may be because I’m sick and I can’t stand any more pressure, (sinus or otherwise), that caused me to take a recent criticism of my book so personally. I have no problem with an honest critique/review, or individuals telling me what they like or dislike about my writing and characters. Opinions vary, tastes in fiction are diverse, and I certainly don’t expect everyone to agree. But someone randomly picking my book to rag on in a writer’s forum because they read three pages and didn’t find it Hemingway-ish is a little annoying.

Some people are not happy unless they can show their superior intellect by picking apart someone else’s work. This type of critic always refers back to some dead writer who killed himself with alcohol and angst, pointing out the superiority of their writing over your illegitimate drivel.

My writing may be drivel, it may not have secret meanings behind every sentence, it may not shine with prose from heaven, and it may not include the character of a depressed old fisherman, but most people seem to like it. (If they actually read more than the first three pages.) If they aren’t bigoted, egotistical, snobs who think no one has written anything worth reading since the last lush shot himself in the head.

Speaking of Hemingway: Is there anyone who can say with complete sincerity that they enjoyed reading his work? That they weren’t bored to tears? That if the teacher didn’t make them, they would have been reading a book of drivel that was a heck of a lot more fun and interesting? If you said yes to any of these questions, you are obviously more literary than I, or you’re a really sad liar. But at least my books don't need multiple self-professed interpreters for normal people to enjoy.

So the critic basically said, after reading the first three pages of my book, that he liked my style but he stopped reading because, unlike Hemingway, I put in a useless page of unnecessary writing before I jumped to the second chapter. I also used the word “heir” instead of beneficiary, which proves I’m not a real lawyer. Not only that, but my author bio said I was from Minnesota. Obviously I couldn’t know anything about wineries or vineyards.

I noticed this online critic also wrote a book that he touted as being the most awesome mystery ever, and in the title was the word MURDER. I innocently wondered if he had actually murdered people so his writing would be more authentic, or if he just made it up. I wonder if Hemingway was really an angry, depressed drunk like characters in his books? Actually, yes, I think he was. You don't get the Nobel prize in literature for faking it.

So, I’m going to go take some more cold medicine, drink some hot tea, and hope to clear my head enough to continue writing the sequel to my first book of drivel. I’m sure it’s a wasted effort. After all, I still live in Minnesota and never went to law school. But it gives me something to do during my convalescence.   

Don't worry: No critics were killed or injured during the writing of this diatribe. But they may become a victim of random violence in my next book.