Thursday, January 30, 2020

There and Back Again



I was a fresh faced tween-ager when I read “The Hobbit” for the first time. My mind was filled with the rapture of Middle Earth. Elves, trolls, dragons and adventure.  And a very relatable hobbit in the Burrow who took an incredible journey to there and back again.

Sunday, I sat at the kitchen table and played Chicken Foot with a couple of my kids.It’s a tradition passed down from my grandparents. One Sunday a month, mom would prepare a nice dinner and load it in a cooler in the back of the green station wagon. Then, as soon as Dad came home from church, we’d share foot space in the backward facing seat of the “green machine” and make the hour long drive around the point of the mountain to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Orem.

After dinner was served and cleared, the domino tiles were dumped on the table and we’d all draw seven.  The double zero was placed in the center and the game began--dominoes branching out like chicken feet in all directions.

Grandma Winnie’s sharp pink fingernails tapped the table, inching their way to the draw pile like a one-handed percussion solo. Once there, she fiddled with the tiles, clandestinely peeking for the perfect play maker to win the round.

Play rotation rounded the table and each of us rapped the table with our knuckles, indicating that our turn was over. This was to help Grandpa, who had long since turned off his hearing aids to silence the rowdy, yet beloved, crowd of his seven grandchildren.

Though his hearing was impaired, Grandpa’s eyesight and focus were sharp. Sometime during play, the game would be stalled with an outburst:

“Dammit Winnie! Stop cheating!”

Grandma would protest in a volume that didn’t need a hearing aid and pull her hand innocently from the tiles she’d been peeking at. Dad tried to calm his parents with flustered reason. Mom stayed safe in the kitchen where no one had the kind thought to help her wash the dishes. And we, as young children, watched with shock and guilty amusement.

Years later, at my own kitchen table, last Sunday night, I placed my last tile and won yet another round. I recorded our scores, just like Grandpa had years ago, in long columns stretching the length of a page. We had played from zero to nine and back again. That’s twenty rounds, if you’re counting.

And I thought about the adventures I share with the people I love, that stretch and play though generations. Dinners and holidays. Illness and aging. Chores and vacations. Summer night games and winter fires. And everything in between. All the leftover bits and pieces.

It’s all a great adventure, isn’t it? Full of danger, doubt and fear. Courage and failure. Wonder and amazement at the journey we travel. And sometimes we cheat. Sometimes we cuss. And there’s no one else I’d rather adventure with--to there and back again. 

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

Second place Santiago

Allow me to reminisce-
A quick look back at the submission fiasco of SANTIAGO for the Storymakers First Chapter Contest.
————————————————————————

The deadline was months and months in advance of the actual conference. Although I had written and re-written and taken this chapter to both of my critique groups for deep cleaning, I put off making the actual changes until the day it was due.
Stupid.
I also asked Brenda from my weekly writing group to do a thorough edit. She also did it that night. I was ready to submit but when I saw her edits start coming through, it was so much better. The problem was, it was late. And I was slow making changes. 
By 11:30pm, I was still toggling between documents trying to make the changes. I called Brenda. “HELP!” 
“Just accept the change in the comment box,” she said. 
Duh, Why didn’t I think of that? Uh, because I wasn’t exactly sure how that worked. 
“Do you want me to do it for you?” Brenda asked.
“Yes, please. I love all your changes. Just accept them all.”
So she went to work and I waited, watching the clock.
Ten minutes.
Seven.
“Done.” Brenda’s encouragement flooded through my cellphone.
“What do I put in the cover letter? What do I put in the body of the email? What do I put on the subject line!?!?”
“I’ll have Cindy call you.”
Click. 
The mouse jumped around the computer screen, jittery with nerves, as I tried to find the instructions on the website. 
Cindy called.
“HELP!” I nearly cried.
“OK, type this.” Cindy was calm and confident. She walked me through each line of the email and submission guidelines. I typed like a robot, filling in the blank spaces on the screen until I pushed send. 
“11:58.” Cindy said. “You made it.”
“Thank you.” I could hardly form the words. Nerves and brain synapses were colliding like a train wreck during rush hour. I was in full-on fight or flight mode, adrenaline bouncing through my body like a pinball machine. I stood and walked around the kitchen. My hands shook as I placed them over my heart which was pounding as if the house was on fire and the flames were licking at my feet. 
I looked around the kitchen. I was alone. Everyone was sleeping. No one was there was witness the trauma of my procrastination except two voices on a phone. 

It wasn’t until the next day when I dared to look at the email I sent.  I was devastated to find I’d probably sent the wrong one in. It had many of the editorial marks on it. 
 But what’s a girl to do? The deadline was past and the email was sent. So I waited it out. I waited three long month, the regret passing through my mind periodically. 

When the awards luncheon began, I had already resolved myself to rejection. So when they called my name and posted my title on the screen as Second Place winner of the Adult Fiction category, I was surprised and elated and quite frankly, in shock. And soooo HAPPY! 


Only one of the four judges mentioned the editorial markings. :)
Here is the first page of the chapter-

SANTIAGO

            Santi pulled his blanket over his shoulder and shrugged it up to his chin. It was October, and even in Fairfield, California, the mornings were beginning to chill. The apartment floor provided little comfort, but Santi was too tired to care. With his eyes closed, he turned to lie flat on his back. Careful not to bump any of his cousins sleeping like sardines in the small bedroom, he reached his hands over his head in a long stretch. The rising sun teased the window curtains with the promise of morning.
            Strawberries were the worst to harvest, he decided. Being bent over at the waist for row after row was painful, even with the advantage of being nine years old and closer to the ground. Santi and his cousins would often lie down right on the dirt between the rows of strawberries just to give their backs a break. But when Mama and Abuela gave the order, they were up and picking again, with barely a siesta in between. Santi didn’t mind the hard work too much though. Being with his cousins was worth it, although he did miss his dad, who was hard at work at home in Stockton.
            The door opened to the small bedroom where he lay, and a shaft of light slipped past the figure in the doorway. Dust danced around Aunt Concha, stopping at the dark outline of her wide hips and sloping shoulders. 
            She tiptoed over sleeping cousins and put her hand on Santi’s leg. Motioning to the door, she reached out to help him from the floor. Aunt Concha was a worker, and a good one. She could have lifted Santi’s nine-year-old body up and carried him across the room with one hand if she’d wanted to. Every fall she and her children worked the fields in Fairfield for extra money. And every fall she opened her home to Santi’s family to join in too. Santi followed his aunt through the minefield of sleeping bodies into the living room. 
            Aunt Concha cupped his face with her hands. “An officer is coming to take you to your grandfather. Don’t worry, Santi. I’ll pack you some food.” 

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Writing groups


I am a firm believer in writing groups. 
When I first started writing, I was a lone wolf. I sat at my computer in the kitchen while half my children were at school and the other half were napping. I typed away, creating word pictures on the page and hoped they were good. When my first essay, “Typical,” was published in Segullah, I was assigned an editor to work with to clean it up and make it shine. That was one of the most instructive writing experiences I have ever had. I will never forget it. Each editorial comment was a lesson in writing and I learned so much from the critique.

That’s when I knew I needed #1- more instruction on writing. #2- a writing group.
So I started attending writing classes available at local libraries and eventually began attending conferences. Through the conferences, I found friends who would become my critiquing cohorts!

This is a picture of some of the members of REALITY WRITERS- a creative nonfiction group. I met them two years ago at the Storymakers Conference in Provo. We meet monthly and they offer invaluable help on my personal narrative essays.

(Steve, me, Carmen, Rena, Jessilyn)

Tanya is a friend from my neighborhood (who has since moved but not far so I forgive her). She’s a scientist. For a long time, I had no idea she also enjoyed writing. She and I attended our first writing conference together, Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers (WIFYR). We were so naive and had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, jumping right into intensive classes we were not completely prepared for. But it turned out to be a fantastic experience. Now we talk writing all the time and read each other’s stuff.  And we trade manuscripts with another friend from our WIFYR group who lives in Colorado. So writing groups can even work over email. It’s great!


And this is my most recent writing group. This one came about in a very unconventional, creepy stalker-ish way. I was at the pool with my kids and saw a woman sitting on a lounging chair on her laptop. Leaning against the chair was a Storymakers bag that they give out at every conference. So, I took a picture of her because I thought it was cool that she was so dedicated to her writing to bring it to the pool. Then I approached her and showed her the picture and told her I’d text it to her to remind herself how awesome she is. We talked for a little bit about writing and her writing group. Before it got too awkward, I left. Well, a week later, she texted and invited me to attend her writing group and see if I was interested in joining and if they were interested back. Like dating. We each brought our first chapters and read and critiqued and then they said they’d give me a call back if they wanted me to join. Luckily they said yes and we meet weekly and its been great motivation for me to keep  writing my fiction pieces.
Keri, Brenda, me, Cindy (from the pool), Angie

With the help of all these groups, I was able to polish up a great first chapter for the Storymakers first chapter contest and won 2nd place in the Adult Fiction category!

Writing groups are a must-have in my opinion if you really want to improve your writing craft. It’s also such a gift to have a group of people who believe in you and who can commiserate or celebrate with you! I’m lucky to have found such great groups to be part of. 

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Book Review: Steelheart

I finally jumped on the band wagon and read a Brandon Sanderson. I know I’m super late to the party!

A review almost seems unwarranted. Everyone knows what a great writer he is but here goes...

Despite all the superhero movies and tv shows that are everywhere nowadays, Steelheart feels fresh. The main character, David, is every kids’ kid. He has a tragic background and wants to right the wrong he survived. He is daring, smart and resourceful and he won’t give up.

Setting the story in a future filled with super-villains yet void of super-heroes is awesome. What greater odds can you face? It turns the super-hero trope on its head and sets the stage for an amazing underdog story.

The characters and setting are believable. The story is intriguing and the action never stops. The twists and turns along the way kept me engaged the whole way through. And its a series so the fun doesn’t end here.

This is a great series for the summer. Anytime really.

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Book Review: The Kitchen House

"The Kitchen House" by Kathleen Grissom is a great “escape” read. You will be transported and completely immersed in the story. But its also an intimate look into the life or death details of living with slavery.

“The Kitchen House” follows the life of a young Irish orphan, Lavinia, who is made a slave to a wealthy plantation owner in Virginia.

The colored slaves take her in as one of their own, even though they know she can never really be one of them because she is white and that is enough to make a difference. But she grows up blind to the difference of skin color. And therein lies the crux of the story. Society eventually tries to separate her and teach her where she belongs but nobody is quite sure where that is.

She feels a deep kinship with her slave family and they for her. But she is eventually assigned to the house to care for the ailing mistress. The master is a kind man but is often absent, leaving responsibility for the house and slaves to an abusive field manager, and his children to an abusive tutor. 

The characters are compelling. Every one of them. There is a large cast, running the risk of stereotypes which does happen to some degree. There is enough character growth in the main characters to forgive the flat characters. 

By the end, it almost begins to feel like a soap opera with all the inter-connections of slaves and owners and the traps of misunderstanding and crossed paths. And perhaps it really was that way?

One of the most painful parts for me to read was how trapped everyone was in their roles. Even with good intentions, good peopled were forced to be silent and pressed to inaction. And the evils of slavery persisted. I found myself even feeling sympathy for one of the antagonists. That’s good storytelling. And its tragic and heart wrenching and hard to put down. 

I really enjoyed thinking about and trying to understand the motivation of the characters, why they chose to do certain things. What would I have done in the situation? Would I be strong or weak? And what really is strong or weak when faced with a situation like they were in? Being led to these reflections and discussions with friends in our book club is what made this book so great!

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

SANTIAGO chapter 1

This is my chapter that won 2nd place in Adult General Fiction at the Storymakers Conference contest 2018. I'm very pleased with it and excited to share it with you!

SANTIAGO
Chapter 1       
            Santi pulled his blanket over his shoulder and shrugged it up to his chin. It was October and even in Fairfield, California, the mornings were beginning to chill. The apartment floor provided little comfort, but Santi was too tired to care. With his eyes closed, he turned to lie flat on his back. Careful not to bump any of his cousins sleeping like sardines in the small bedroom, he reached his hands over his head in a long stretch. The rising sun teased the window curtains with the promise of morning.
            Strawberries were the worst to harvest, he decided. Bending at the waist, row after row, was painful, even with the advantage of being nine years old and closer to the ground. Santi and his cousins would often lie down on the dirt between the rows of strawberries just to give their backs a break. But when Mama and Aunt Concha gave the order, they were up and picking again, with barely a siesta in between. Santi didn’t mind the hard work too much though. Being with his cousins was worth it.
            The door opened to the small bedroom where he lay, and a shaft of light slipped past the figure in the doorway. Dust danced around Aunt Concha, stopping at the dark outline of her wide hips and sloping shoulders.
            She tiptoed over sleeping cousins and put her hand on Santi’s leg. Motioning to the door, she reached out to help him from the floor. Aunt Concha was a worker, and a good one. She could have lifted Santi’s nine-year-old body up and carried him across the room with one hand if she’d wanted to. Every fall she and her children worked the harvest in Fairfield for extra money. And every fall she opened her home to Santi’s family to join in too. Santi followed his aunt through the minefield of sleeping bodies into the living room.
            Aunt Concha cupped his face with her hands. “An officer is coming to take you to your grandfather. Don’t worry, Santi. I’ll pack you some food.”
            “What’s wrong?” He pulled back. “Are the officers taking us away?” He was scared. He’d seen enough of his friends and their families deported back to Mexico.
            “No Santi. It’s not immigration. We are legal citizens.” She pulled him into a bear hug. “You are needed at home.”
            Aunt Concha was not an affectionate person, and Santi pulled against this sudden change in behavior. A knock at the ground level apartment door released him from the suffocating hug.
            “Officer,” Aunt Concha greeted.
            “Ma’am.” A police officer stepped through the front door. His hat was in one hand and the other hand was raised to his face where his fingers fiddled with a bushy mustache. He was tall and thin with a pronounced slouch.
            Santi looked around for his mother and then remembered she had gone home during the night to pick up some more clothes and other items they needed. Mama would be home when he got there and everything would be fine. He reached for Aunt Concha’s hand.
            “Santi, this is Officer… What was your name again?” Aunt Concha held Santi’s hand like a kite string in a strong wind. He tried to adjust his pinched fingers.
            “Uh, Officer Roberts.” The policeman traded his hat back and forth between his hands. His skittish eyes darted from Aunt Concha’s to the floor and back.
            “Officer Roberts is here to take you home.” She released her grip on Santi and turned to the kitchen.
            Officer Roberts raised a hand and motioned as if to speak to her as she left. His lips mumbled a silent conversation with himself and he shook his head, his hat still spinning in his hands. Aunt Concha returned with a brown paper bag bulging with the round outline of an apple and a water bottle. If Santi was lucky, she’d have thrown in one of her secret-recipe empanadas. She thrust the bag into Santi’s hands and pushed him toward the officer.
            “I’m leaving now? Alone?” Santi looked at his aunt, confused. She bit her lip and nodded.
            “You’ll be okay. Go with the officer, Santi.” She ran her fingers through Santi’s hair and gave him a final squeeze then nodded to the officer. He reached for Santi and directed him out the door. As the police car pulled away, Santi watched his aunt through the back window. She stood in the open door, hands clenched over her chest.
            It was a long drive and the sun burned through the car window. His cousins would be hard at work in the fields by now and Santi envied them. By the time they crossed the Sacramento River, Santi had already seen enough field and asphalt to put him in a scenic coma. Everything looked the same but he knew something had changed. Every dashed line on the road seemed to whisper “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
            When Officer Roberts pulled into his neighborhood, Santi released his seatbelt and sat up next to the window. He pressed his nose and forehead into the glass until it fogged up. He wiped and pressed again. The car slowed to a crawl a couple of houses before Santi’s.
            “My house is further up there.” Santi pointed and knocked on the back of the driver’s seat. They were so close and all he could think about was seeing Mama. Then things would feel right again.
            “Yeah, so, we can’t get too close. I’m just going to park somewhere around here.” Officer Roberts picked up the speed a little and weaved between a few of the neighbors’ cars parked on the street until they were one house away. Then he pulled over and parked behind another police car.
            Santi squinted and stared. There had to be ten other police cars parked all over the street and in his driveway. He opened the door and stepped out, eyes trained on his house. Yellow ‘caution’ tape stretched from the back of his house, across the front and up the driveway on the other side. The house looked like the center of a boxing arena.
            “Hey, kid. You stay here in the car and I’ll be right back.” Officer Roberts walked away, his voice trailing behind him.
            Santi stared through the window like it was a movie screen. A man in a suit greeted Officer Roberts and they both walked into the house through the front door. Santi waited until the door closed and then climbed out of the car and followed the yellow tape up the driveway. At first he didn’t dare walk too closely to it. Stay away, it warned. Danger. But Santi had never been able to stay away from trouble, even when he tried. He reached out and touched the tape, muscles tense. The tape felt like wet plastic and he realized his hands were sweating. He trailed his fingers on the tape as he continued up the driveway.
            Closer to the house now, Santi heard a buzz of activity from inside. It sounded like the hornet nest he had found with his brother in one of the dirt baseball fields last summer. Santi knew what might happen when he threw a tomato at the hive but the air attack that followed was enough to scar him for life. Santi was a fast runner but his younger brother was not. Pushing Luis in front of him, he could not stay ahead of the mass of hornets. By the time they reached home, Santi’s back was a bumpy mass of swelling stings and his breathing was no more than a wheezing gasp. Although he was back to playing baseball with the neighbor boys the next day, he never touched another hive.
            Santi stepped away from the tape, shaking. His breath was quick and shallow. Feeling dizzy he turned away and bent to balance his elbows on his knees. The buzz from the house echoed in his head. Danger.
            “Santiago,” someone whispered.
            Santi looked up and saw his neighbor, motioning for him to come to the far side of the driveway. She was the neighborhood Abuela, hard of hearing and nosy, but always sincere.
            “Santiago. What’s going on? What happened?” Stooped with old age, she was nearly the same height as Santi.
            Santi didn’t know how to answer. Something had happened but he didn’t know what. All he knew was that his house was buzzing like a hornet’s nest and he didn’t want anything to do with it.
            “They will ruin your mother’s flowers. They search all through them. And the noise. They make so much noise.” Abuela clicked her tongue and motioned again for Santi to come closer.
            Just as he stood to move toward her, Officer Roberts appeared at his side and pulled on his elbow. “Come with me, boy,” he said. The officer hustled back to the house, dragging Santi behind. Together, they ducked under the tape and entered through the back door, leaving Abuela shaking her head after them.
            The kitchen was cast in shadow as Santi’s eyes adjusted from the outside morning light. He made out the shape of the dining table through the doorway, in the dining room. The vase of fresh flowers his mother always kept was missing. That made sense though, because she’d been with Aunt Concha and the rest of us for a week. The flowers would have wilted by now. Mama probably tossed them out when she came home last night to pack a few more clothes and things. Where was Mama? Santi rubbed his palms on his pant legs. He looked behind him. Two men in suits were talking, making notes on small pads of paper.
            In place of the flowers were a bunch of grapes and a bundle of asparagus. Two shades of green contrasting with the wooden table. Next to the produce was another pile. Also green. Santi squinted and stepped forward. It was money. Piles of it. Bundles of bills falling off of each other like a landslide. Santi had never seen so much money in his life, except in the movies. Is this why they called for him to come home? Had they found a treasure or won an award? Maybe he had it wrong and this feeling he had, like a bomb ready to explode, was because something good had happened.
            Santi stepped forward. He had touched the tape. He had entered the buzzing house. And he was still standing. He stepped into the dining room and reached for the money. With the next step, his foot slipped and Officer Roberts grabbed him under his arms before he fell to the floor.  Santi looked down to see his foot in a pool of red. He slid his toe back, revealing a streak of linoleum before the blood pooled back together. Instantly the smell hit him. Not the coppery smell, like when he cut his finger helping Abuela with dinner or banged up his knee in a bike crash. It smelled like body odor only worse—rancid and dirty.           
            His stomach turned and he pushed his way through the door into the dining room. His arm burned as he twisted out of Officer Roberts’ grasp. Reaching for the table, he held on with all the strength he had left. The officer followed him. Everyone stopped talking and the hive went silent, noticing him for the first time. Santi focused on the green; the asparagus, the grapes, the money in front of him on the table. But all he could see was red.
            “Jeez, kid. Hold on,” said Officer Roberts.
            Santi turned to stare at the officer. He screamed in his head. Why did you bring me here? Officer Roberts avoided eye contact and stood over him, like a sorry excuse for shelter. He glanced at the wall next to the doorway. Santi followed his gaze and saw two names written on the wall in fat, black marker. Rosa and Maria. Mama and Abuela. Beneath the names the wall was streaked with blood. The room spun and Santi stood still, fixated on the wall. Nothing made sense.
            “Roberts!” A man in a suit stood between Santi and the officer, blocking the view of the wall. “What in the…” he glanced at Santi and cut his curse words short. “When I said bring the boy in, I meant to the office where his grandfather is waiting. Get out of here!” He shoved Officer Roberts toward the door then kneeled in front of Santi.
            “What’s your name, young man?” he asked.
            “Santi. Santiago Juarez, sir.” Santi looked around to see who else might be talking because the voice that came out of his mouth did not sound like his own. It warbled and echoed in his ears.
            “Santiago, I’m Detective Allred. You should not be here. I’m going to send you to see your grandfather.” He waved a hand in the air and another policeman rushed over. “This officer will drive you.”
            Santi nodded. “What about Officer Roberts?”
            “Officer Roberts is no longer working this case.” The detective shook his head and stood. He placed a heavy hand on Santi’s shoulder. “Let’s get you back with family.”
            “What about my mom?” As Santi said the words his stomach turned and his throat went tight like he was choking. “And my dad?”
            The new officer looked at the detective, his mouth stretched across his face so tight it might break. Detective Allred knelt again and stared at Santiago. “This officer is going to take you to the station. You should ask your grandfather these questions.”
            At the police station, Santi walked past cubicles like he was on parade. On-looking officers stood to see him and whispered behind their hands. He lowered his eyes and trudged ahead. Grandfather stood in the middle of a glass room at the end of the hall, rigid as a brick wall with his back to the door. Mama’s two brothers were sitting around a table. One held Santi’s little sister on his lap and the other had his arm around Santi’s brother, Luis.
            The officer stood in the doorway and cleared his throat.
            “Mr. Juarez…”
            Grandfather turned and looked at the officer. His eyes were wet and swollen. “Any more news?” He held his hands out as if to receive something and they shook.
            “No.” The officer shook his head. “Santiago is here.”
            Santi took one step forward, hoping his legs would carry him all the way to his Grandfather’s arms before he fell. He scanned the room, trying to make eye contact but all eyes were on the officer and Grandfather. It was like no one knew he was there.
            “Santiago Juarez is no longer my family.” Spit laced Grandfather’s words and his eyes bore into the officer.
            The officer raised one hand to calm the old man and clarify. “I’ve brought your grandson, Santi.” Santi walked into the room and his brother and sister surrounded him with hugs. His uncles sat at the table, thrumming fingers and watching through lowered eyes.
            “Thank you, officer,” Grandfather said.
            When the siblings finished hugging, Santi turned to his Grandfather. ”Where is my dad?”
            “You won’t ever see him again.” The blood vessels on Grandfather’s neck bulged and pulsed. “He’s dead.”

            Santi’s face flushed and the room swung around him like a giant bell. “And Mama and Abuela?”  He knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it. As his Grandfather ranted about death, hell and Santiago Juarez, Santi covered his ears and crawled under the table with his siblings. He held his brother and sister on either side and rocked as his. 

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Book Review: The Day The World Came to Town


There are many stories about 9/11 told through movie, book and personal experience. A story less known are the stories in Gander, New Foundland retold in Jim DeFede’s book “The Day the World Came to Town.” When hundreds of planes were stranded in the air on the morning of Sept, 11, with no place to land, Gander opened its airfield and welcomed the panes and the thousands of passengers with open arms. 

Though the heavy feeling of loss and insecurity is still present throughout this telling, the book focuses on how this town opened their homes, hearts, kitchens, linen closers—their lives—to the unexpected visitors. 

I enjoyed seeing the experience and reaction fo such varied groups of people from all over the world. Parents of a New York firefighter, high-fashion NY executives, high-level business leaders, pilots and crew, young tourists and even animal passengers. Each person on those planes had a story to tell, as did the New Foundlanders who helped them.

By spending a good amount of time in Gander, the author was able to get personal with the folks who live there and gather amazing stories. He shares them in an honest and touching way. My only complaint is that with such a large cast, it was hard for me to keep everyone straight. He does a relatively good job but there were just so many people. Perhaps that is part of the magnitude of the event and the story he is telling.

Overall, this is a fantastic story of unity and an inspiring community reaching out to help others in need. This book shows a heart warming side of a harrowing piece of American history.