This is to announce the momentous (or mountainous) news that my novel Hailstone Mountain is at last available in corporeal, paperback form.
I’m working at getting all my books incarnated, but this is a start.
‘Hailstone Mountain’ in Paperback
‘The Forest of Lost Souls,’ by Dean Koontz
He owns four billion dollars’ worth of abstract expressionist paintings so meaningless and ugly that, displayed in one gallery, they would render connoisseurs of such art suicidal with delight.
Dean Koontz’ colossal success as a novelist, combined with his quirky Catholic faith, have made it possible for him to take risks most writers wouldn’t. The Forest of Lost Souls is clearly experimental in nature. Although I enjoyed it, I’m not entirely sure how successful the experiment is.
Vida, the heroine of the book, is a young woman of rare beauty and even rarer gifts. Orphaned young and raised by a kindly uncle in his mountain cabin in Colorado, she makes her living mining and polishing precious stones for sale. She has a strange gift for finding gems, but that’s only one of her talents. She sees hidden beauty everywhere, and lives in harmony with nature and its animals, who do not fear her.
She recently lost the love of her life, a local schoolteacher and activist who was trying to stop a development plan for a mountain meadow near her home. Supposedly he died in a freak accident, but it was murder. Anyone who gets in the way of the plan will be targeted for similar murder.
Author Koontz performs a very neat maneuver in this story – he enlists all the reader’s sympathies for nature under threat from ruthless capitalists, but then turns that sympathy against the progressive policies that actually drive much of that threat (wind power in this case). He introduces us to close-to-the-soil, spiritually sensitive Native Americans, and then uses them in a way we hadn’t looked for.
And he does not neglect to include a couple of heartwarming love stories.
But I wasn’t sure it all worked in the end. This is a story about Heaven taking a hand in human affairs, providing rescue through supernatural powers. If that’s what it’s gonna take to save us, I’m not sure we’re likely to be so favored.
Also, I found the love stories (both of them) too good to be true (here speaks the bitter old bachelor).
But The Forest of Lost Souls is certainly an enjoyable book. I do recommend it.
A good Hostfest for Vikings
I think I can do my promised post on Høstfest tonight, before time and senescence wipe all recollection from my mind. I’m gradually recovering from the rigors of travel, and expect to be fit for duty on Thursday, when I have to drive four hours to Green Bay, for the Midwest Viking Festival on Friday and Saturday.
How was Høstfest 2024? From my point of view (and I think I speak for all the Vikings), it was a smash. Among the highlights were these:
First of all, we were in a new location. Over the years (and a lot of years it’s been in my case) the festival has shoehorned the Viking encampment into any space they could find after the really important exhibitors had been accommodated. But now at last they placed us next to the Log Cabin (used, I understand, for Fur Trapper rendezvouses), right across from the main entrance to the exhibition/entertainment building.
This meant, first of all, that people could find us. The chief complaint we’ve gotten from Viking afficionados over the years is that nobody ever seemed to know where we were. This year we were front and center – and the visitor numbers were correspondingly gratifying.
It also meant that we were in the fresh air, where – strictly speaking – Vikings belong. An American log cabin isn’t so different from a Scandinavian one after all (Swedish immigrants invented them), and the weather was pleasant (sometimes, in fact, pretty darn warm).
Now if you know me at all, you know that I’m not numbered among the Great Outdoorsmen of this world. But even a couch tuber like me could feel the difference, spending four days in God’s sunshine and fresh air, as opposed to four days on concrete under fluorescent lights (often breathing the dust of a horse barn). I was tired at the end, but I didn’t feel as if I’d spent the time confined to a jail cell, as in the past.
I also sold a good number of books. And the local hosts who gave me a bed for four nights were extremely pleasant and congenial.
Each day, at 2:45 p.m., I went to an inside stage to sit on a stool next to a very beautiful woman who interviewed me about my writing and translating, as well as Viking history. I could tell she was in awe of me, but retained my dignity.
I even found a vendor who sold me some Norwegian Kvikk Lunsj candy bars, which are like Kit Kat except really, really good.
I drove home weary in body but quite fizzy in spirit, as Bertie Wooster might have put it. And as usual I stopped for lunch on the way with my friend (and commenter on this blog) Dale Nelson, which is always a pleasure.
I suppose Høstfest 2024 could have gone better for me, but offhand I can’t think how.
‘A New Prospect,’ by Wayne Zurl
I have returned safely from my annual pilgrimage to Minot, North Dakota for Norsk Høstfest. I’d planned to post a report tonight, but my slow computer is taking time uploading my photos, and I want you to enjoy the full splendor and pageantry of the spectacle. So I’ll try to do that tomorrow.
I will tell you that it went very well, and I have only good things to say about the festival.
Tonight’s review, then, will be A New Prospect, by Wayne Zurl.
Sam Jenkins, our hero, is former New York City police detective, now retired the town of Prospect, in the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. He’s found retirement a little boring, so when the current chief of police retires under pressure, Sam applies for the job, for which he’s (theoretically) overqualified. Obviously he doesn’t expect the kind of action he used to see in the Big Apple. Except that, on his very first day on the job, there’s a puzzling murder.
The victim is a rich local resident, a nasty drunk who was widely hated. He was stabbed to death in his folding chair, next to his vintage Rolls Royce, during a classic auto show. It soon becomes apparent that a lot of people – including the not-so-grieving widow – do not appreciate having an “outsider” investigating the murder, and pressure is put on Sam to hand the case off to the state police or the FBI. But this is just the sort of mystery Sam has always been best at, and he keeps at it.
The writing was okay. This is an older book, and I assume author Zurl had to actually satisfy a publisher’s proofreaders. But the book never really grabbed me. I thought Sam, as narrator, revealed a somewhat condescending attitude to the southern people he’s dealing with. Especially annoying was the heavy use of dialect in the dialogue. The occasional “y’all,” and such, is plenty to suggest an accent. You don’t have to spread it on thick.
All in all, I could take or leave A New Prospect.
A Touching Tribute to an Intellectual Woman
Author and economist Glenn Loury lost his wife, Dr. Linda Datcher Loury, in September 2011. “Around this time every year, I reflect on how lucky I was to know her at all,” he says. He wrote this tribute for a memorial service in November of that year.
You see, I suffered from the theorists’ disease of glossing too quickly over the facts in my rush to find an elegant, abstract formulation of some issue. “An idea so beautiful it must be true,” was my attitude. Linda, with feet planted firmly on the ground, would invariably say something like, “How could you possibly know that?”; “What evidence is there for this assumption?”; “How would you test that implication?”; “How could we, even in principle, take this to the data?” She helped keep me grounded. She had terrifically good commonsense. In matters of economic research, Linda was a wise woman.
Loury published a memoir earlier this year, entitled, Late Admissions: Confessions of a Black Conservative. Deseret News called it a book “about telling the truth, not just to readers, but to himself.“
Sunday Singing: Eternal Father, Strong to Save
Events of this week put me this hymn in mind. “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” was written by William Whiting in the 1860s. In 1879, Charles Jackson Train, then Lieutenant Commander and director of the Midshipmen’s Choir, took up singing this hymn at the close of Sunday services at the U.S. Naval Academy. In this way, it became the Navy’s traditional hymn.
“And he said to them, ‘Why are you afraid, O you of little faith?’ Then he rose and rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm.” (Matthew 8:26 ESV)
1. Eternal Father, strong to save,
whose arm doth bind the restless wave,
who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep
its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to thee
for those in peril on the sea.
2. O Savior, whose almighty word
the winds and waves submissive heard,
who walkedst on the foaming deep
and calm amid its rage didst sleep:
O hear us when we cry to thee
for those in peril on the sea.
3. O sacred Spirit, who didst brood
upon the chaos dark and rude,
who badd’st its angry tumult cease,
and gavest light and life and peace:
O hear us when we cry to thee
for those in peril on the sea.
4. O Trinity of love and pow’r,
our brethren shield in danger’s hour;
from rock and tempest, fire and foe,
protect them wheresoe’er they go;
and ever let there rise to thee
glad hymns of praise from land and sea.
Common Phrases for English Learners
As an experienced English speaker, I thought I’d offer this list to beginners and those wanting useful phrases for conversational English.
- Yankee Doodle — This is any American, especially a silly one
- If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life. — This is how Americans encourage others to make good decisions and live their best life now.
- I have two guns, one for each of ya. — A friendly greeting for border patrol agents
- Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here. This is the war room! — A way of asking someone to repeat themselves, typically said forcefully
- You know how to whistle, don’t you? Just put your lips together and blow. — One of many compliments for American women
- Yellow-bellied, toffee-hearted, lily-livered — Also compliments
- Why, Johnny Ringo, you look like somebody just walked over your grave. — A friendly greeting for any pastor, parson, or priest
- We’re going to need a bigger boat — Americans often say this when food is placed before them.
All right. That’s all you get for today. Go have fun and don’t drive on flooded roads.
‘Now You See Me,’ by Chris McGeorge
Impossible crimes are an interesting mystery subgenre. I’m fond of them. That was one of the things that kept me reading Chris McGeorge’s Now You See Me.
Robin Ferringham, hero of the story, is the author of a successful memoir about the disappearance of his much-loved wife Samantha, whose body has never been found. One day he receives a call from a young man named Matthew, who has been arrested for the murders of five of his young friends. They went into a canal tunnel in the town of Marsden, a tourist attraction, in a long boat, and when the boat was found later, only Matthew was in it, claiming to have no memory of what happened to the others. Everyone is convinced of his guilt (though I find it hard to understand what kind of a case the prosecution could make). Robin is inclined to dismiss the young man’s pleas, except that he claims to have gotten his name from Samantha, who “called him” around the time she disappeared. And he knows things that only she could have told him.
So Robin must go to Marsden, where (in classic mystery style) he finds the locals hostile. But he also finds an ally. Together they get close enough to an incredible conspiracy to put their lives in danger.
And when I say “an incredible conspiracy” I mean just that. This is one of those fictional criminal schemes that is so complex and has so many moving parts that it’s impossible to believe in it. I think the author shows some potential as a writer, but his plotting is uneven, and his writing only fair. The story showed signs of his coercing the characters into actions that don’t seem quite natural to them.
And the violence was more graphic than it needed to be.
In the end, in spite of the author’s apparent potential, I found Now You See Me disappointing.
‘The Late Lord Thorpe,’ by Peter Grainger
Over the years I have become very fond of Peter Grainger’s DC Smith novels, set in England’s Norfolk. Smith was a police detective in the fictional town of King’s Lake. But he grew old, and some years back author Grainger made the decision not to defy real-world time, and allowed Smith to retire – more or less. He now lives in a marsh-side house with his partner, a (female) author and fellow former police detective. He keeps his hand in by working as an investigator for the security firm of Diver and Diver, run by a young brother and sister team whom he met on the job.
I’ve got to confess – I’m not enjoying Smith’s retirement as much as I hoped. But more about that later.
As The Late Lord Thorpe opens, Smith accepts a new assignment. Lady Caroline Thorpe, a member of the landed aristocracy, wife of a member of parliament, has asked Diver and Diver to look into the death of her brother, Lord Thorpe, some time earlier. He was found drowned in a swimming pool after a wild party at an estate famous for scandalous goings-on. A witness reported he’d been taking drugs, and drugs and alcohol were found in his blood.
But now she has heard rumors from some of her brother’s friends, who have a different story to tell. Her brother had been trying to clean his life up, and if something nefarious happened, she wants to know about it.
The investigation will involve dealing with some powerful and dangerous people. But the final outcome is really no great surprise, and I have to admit I found the story a little slow.
I don’t know why Smith has lost so much of his charm for me. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t surprise me much anymore. As a cop he was always showing unexpected talents and capacities.
Also – I think I have to admit that I’m finding the books increasingly conventional in terms of its political correctness. It’s gotten to the point where most of the professionals we encounter in these stories are female, and most of the competent ones are female as well. The few dullards we encounter are uniformly male. You’d think the book was written by television script writers.
As always, the book was well-written (though the author was guilty of misplaced modifiers on two different occasions – a disappointment). But not a scintillating read in my opinion.
Sunday Singing: O Lord, I Love You, My Shield, My Tower
Edmund P. Clowney (1917-2005) taught practical theology and was the first president of Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia. He wrote this adaptation of Psalm 18 in 1989 using a tune by the great French composer Camille Saint-Saëns.
It’s not a common hymn. Perhaps it’s completely new to you.
“I love you, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer,
my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge,
my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.” (Ps 18:1-2 ESV)
The text is still under copyright, but I think I can copy the first verse here to help our understanding.
- O Lord, I love you, my shield, my tow’r,
my stronghold, my rock, my saving pow’r,
I worship you! Bless your holy name!
What unceasing praise your mercies claim!