“Bruno Courréges, chief of police of the small French town of St. Denis, awoke a few seconds before six, just last he dawn was breaking.”
~ The Templars’ Last Secret by Martin Walker
“Vanessa dreams she is a grown woman, heavy with flesh and care.”
~ Gather the Daughters by Jennie Melamed
This weeks Old But Not Forgotten title is The Golden Tulip by Rosalind Laker.
An historical novel recreating the golden age of Dutch art. Johannes Vermeer, is the teacher, Francesca is the student. Pieter van Doorne, a tulip merchant the love interest. Will Francesca be able to follow her heart and her talent? What happens to Pieter as the tulip craze hits.
Read The Golden Tulip and compare it to Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier.
This weeks Old But Not Forgotten book is by an Australian writer.
The Idea of Perfection by Kate Grenville. Set in a town with a fun name – Karakarook – it follows the story of two people who find what they didn’t think they were looking for (as is usually the case) – Love.
Opposites attract – Harley Savage, part-time museum curator, 3 failed marriages and a heart condition goes to Karakarook to help build a heritage museum. Douglas Cheeseman a gawky engineer is there to demolish a bridge. Once there who knows where things will lead.
Kate Grenville writes wonderful characters and descriptions. You feel a part of the places she describes and the characters are quirky but real.
The Traveller by Maya Angelou
Byways and bygone
And lone nights long
Sun rays and sea waves
And star and stone
Manless and friendless
No cave my home
This is my torture
My long nights, lone
The Rule of Opulence
Bamboo shoots on my grandmother’s side path
grow denser every year they’re harvested for nuisance.
Breezes peel blush and white petals from her magnolia,
lacing unruly roots in the spring grass. For nine decades
she has seen every season stretch out of shape, this past
Connecticut winter slow to relinquish cold. As a girl
she herded slow turkeys on her Aunt Nettie’s farm, fifty acres
in a Maryland county that didn’t plumb until midcentury,
plucking chickens and pheasants from pre-dawn
into the late night, scratching dough
for neighbors, relatives stopping by for biscuits, and the view
from my window changes. It’s Mother’s Day
and I’d always disbelieved permanence—newness a habit,
change an addiction—but the difficulty of staying put
lies not in the discipline of upkeep, as when my uncle
hurricane-felled birches blocking the down-sloped driveway,
not in the inconvenience of well water
slowing showers and night flushes, not in yellowjackets
colonizing the basement, nuzzling into a hole
so small only a faint buzz announces their invasion
when violin solos on vinyl end, but in the opulence of acres
surrounding a tough house, twice repaired from fires, a kitchen
drawer that hasn’t opened properly in thirty years marked
nothing more permanent than the cracked flagstone
path to the door, the uneven earth shifting invisibly beneath it.
Langston Hughes, 1902 – 1967
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
“The long hours Margot works at the hotel are never documented.”
~from Here Comes the Sun by Nicole Dennis-Benn