Rebecca Moll's Blog, page 5
November 30, 2021
Winter White by Rebecca Moll
Winter white
throughout the night
wrapped up tight
a shroud of fog adorns.
All foam and loam
a deep white sea
we dwell beneath
entangled sleep
sweet and deep
repeat, repeat, repeat.
Then peeks the sun
bright like ice
a slice device
a morning sliver scree,
No time to tarry
nor to parry
the days demands of thee.
But if to stop and drink it in
body, soul, and mind
that winter white
that silent night
that shroud of fog adorns,
What peace abounds, surrounds, astounds
waiting there for thee?
A moment makes a memory
a memory the man,
For like the sea
that deep white sea
they dwell beneath and sleep and sleep
repeat, repeat, repeat.
So, stop and stare
and drink it in
before the day’s aborne,
Make memories
feed your soul
that winter white
that silent night
that shroud of fog adorns,
Foam and loam
will bring you home
to body, soul, and mind,
Creation’s gift
sweet and swift
free for all mankind.
Rebecca Moll
throughout the night
wrapped up tight
a shroud of fog adorns.
All foam and loam
a deep white sea
we dwell beneath
entangled sleep
sweet and deep
repeat, repeat, repeat.
Then peeks the sun
bright like ice
a slice device
a morning sliver scree,
No time to tarry
nor to parry
the days demands of thee.
But if to stop and drink it in
body, soul, and mind
that winter white
that silent night
that shroud of fog adorns,
What peace abounds, surrounds, astounds
waiting there for thee?
A moment makes a memory
a memory the man,
For like the sea
that deep white sea
they dwell beneath and sleep and sleep
repeat, repeat, repeat.
So, stop and stare
and drink it in
before the day’s aborne,
Make memories
feed your soul
that winter white
that silent night
that shroud of fog adorns,
Foam and loam
will bring you home
to body, soul, and mind,
Creation’s gift
sweet and swift
free for all mankind.
Rebecca Moll
November 23, 2021
The Reason for Ann & Other stories, by Myles Connolly, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
The Reason for Ann & Other stories, a collection of short stories by Myles Connolly, leaves you with hope that there is a reason, that we don't know everything, and that our understanding and how we define our world falls short of the truth.
I have always felt, no matter how well you explain things away, how much data you compile to support your ideas, how adept you argue your point, how vividly you show cause and effect, somewhere outside the door is the truth, waiting, patiently waiting.
Clever and engaging, Myles brings you into the lives of his characters, much like a fly on the wall. Humorous and heart-wrenching, events unfold, and lives transform in ways you never thought possible. And outside the door is the truth, waiting, patiently waiting.
I find comfort in a loving creator, but platitudes are not for me. Myles Connolly does not serve faith upon a platter, lecture from a pulpit, or shove chapter and verse down your throat. Through people, place, and time, he stages a play, a play of life where good, bad, love, hate, regret, and compassion cocktail together, much like our very own lives. Only Myles gives you a glimpse, a tiny sliver of a glimpse into what we cannot see, find so hard to believe, have little data or proof to support, into what lies outside the door.
Train your mind to consider, “What lies outside the door?” and, then “What if?”
I’ve heard the truth will set you free.
The Reason for Ann and Other Stories
A good read for busy lives looking for something more than mainstream fiction. I will return to The Reason for Ann and Other Stories I am sure, as well as, the truth outside my door.
I have always felt, no matter how well you explain things away, how much data you compile to support your ideas, how adept you argue your point, how vividly you show cause and effect, somewhere outside the door is the truth, waiting, patiently waiting.
Clever and engaging, Myles brings you into the lives of his characters, much like a fly on the wall. Humorous and heart-wrenching, events unfold, and lives transform in ways you never thought possible. And outside the door is the truth, waiting, patiently waiting.
I find comfort in a loving creator, but platitudes are not for me. Myles Connolly does not serve faith upon a platter, lecture from a pulpit, or shove chapter and verse down your throat. Through people, place, and time, he stages a play, a play of life where good, bad, love, hate, regret, and compassion cocktail together, much like our very own lives. Only Myles gives you a glimpse, a tiny sliver of a glimpse into what we cannot see, find so hard to believe, have little data or proof to support, into what lies outside the door.
Train your mind to consider, “What lies outside the door?” and, then “What if?”
I’ve heard the truth will set you free.
The Reason for Ann and Other Stories
A good read for busy lives looking for something more than mainstream fiction. I will return to The Reason for Ann and Other Stories I am sure, as well as, the truth outside my door.
November 13, 2021
Thoughts upon completing The Grass Crown by Colleen McCullough by Rebecca Moll
A book review of such a masterfully written historical fiction work of art, The Grass Crown and the 2nd in Colleen McCullough’s Masters of Rome novel series 97-86 BC, would be like my challenging Gaius Marius’ loyal and gigantic Germanic slave, Burgundus, to an arm wrestle. Need I say, I am but a little more than a little on the little side?
However, the thoughts do come at the completion of such a novel. And as this is my third of the series, a bit of a rebel, I read the 4th book in the series first, Caesar’s Women 67-59 BC, a baptism by fire of sorts for a first foray into Roman history, I feel a familiarity with the author, her style, whit, humor much like picking up with a lifelong friend after a long absence. In stride in no time.
For me, it is the dialogue that brings the period, culture, and characters to life and McCullough is a genius at revealing her story through secondary characterization. Dialogue, letters, and the reactionary behavior, verbal and non-verbal, of a cast of characters paint a moving picture. I chuckle, laugh, grimace, and sigh as history plays out over 815 pages, always something around the corner, my thoughts traveling to the next page, and the next, and the next.
A bookend book for sure, yet, I find myself reaching for the next in the series, Fortune’s Favorites 83-69 BC.
We all know the true hues of history fade with time and, in life, rarely is it an absolute matter of good against evil. Roman culture is no different. From infancy to the Republic, Empire, to its devastating fall, Roman culture has memorized generation after generation with both light and dark, heights and depths, good and evil. And while, as a whole, the culture may be idolized or hated, it is the intimacy with which McCullough tells her story that I find myself identifying and commiserating with characters and culture that walk off the page and into your life. Oh, to have a sip of wine with Julia, to listen to Young Caesar in the other room, to hide from the evil eyes of Sulla, to stand on the Rostra and feel your purpose, to wander and recognize faces, names, temples, shops, and roads, those Roman roads, those old Roman roads still standing the test of time today.
I find myself contemplating how, no matter time or place, mankind, at its very core, is still much the same.
I am thankful McCullough’s passion for the ancient world has presented such a palatable presentation for those of us whom dabble with infantile skills into the realm of scholars. Her love of the period and everything Roman shines through, basking the reader in a warm glow, a true legacy to a writer of immense talent and accomplishment.
Do not be daunted by the size or breath of this series. Like any journey worth traveling, take one step at a time, one page, one chapter, one book. Carry those you’ve come to know and walk on. Consider the Appian Way and the Via Appia will not disappoint, each stone a foothold as your toes find purchase and eyes seek the horizon, soaking in the colors of a culture, vivid and riveting, burgeoning, unfolding. As we all know, “Rome was not built in a day.”
And perhaps, along the way, we shall meet, side by side, somewhere between Pompey and Sulla or Caesar and Quintus. Let’s head for the Crossroads College, the one by Aurelia’s insula and the home of Julius Caesar’s youth. Perhaps, Lucius Decumius will offer his protection, for I hear Ancient Rome is a dangerous place to be. “When in Rome…”
May the road rise up to meet you and may the sun set before you. Travel like a true Roman, “Veni, vidi, vici,” and the spoils will leave you rich in body, mind, and spirit.
Safe travels my friends.
However, the thoughts do come at the completion of such a novel. And as this is my third of the series, a bit of a rebel, I read the 4th book in the series first, Caesar’s Women 67-59 BC, a baptism by fire of sorts for a first foray into Roman history, I feel a familiarity with the author, her style, whit, humor much like picking up with a lifelong friend after a long absence. In stride in no time.
For me, it is the dialogue that brings the period, culture, and characters to life and McCullough is a genius at revealing her story through secondary characterization. Dialogue, letters, and the reactionary behavior, verbal and non-verbal, of a cast of characters paint a moving picture. I chuckle, laugh, grimace, and sigh as history plays out over 815 pages, always something around the corner, my thoughts traveling to the next page, and the next, and the next.
A bookend book for sure, yet, I find myself reaching for the next in the series, Fortune’s Favorites 83-69 BC.
We all know the true hues of history fade with time and, in life, rarely is it an absolute matter of good against evil. Roman culture is no different. From infancy to the Republic, Empire, to its devastating fall, Roman culture has memorized generation after generation with both light and dark, heights and depths, good and evil. And while, as a whole, the culture may be idolized or hated, it is the intimacy with which McCullough tells her story that I find myself identifying and commiserating with characters and culture that walk off the page and into your life. Oh, to have a sip of wine with Julia, to listen to Young Caesar in the other room, to hide from the evil eyes of Sulla, to stand on the Rostra and feel your purpose, to wander and recognize faces, names, temples, shops, and roads, those Roman roads, those old Roman roads still standing the test of time today.
I find myself contemplating how, no matter time or place, mankind, at its very core, is still much the same.
I am thankful McCullough’s passion for the ancient world has presented such a palatable presentation for those of us whom dabble with infantile skills into the realm of scholars. Her love of the period and everything Roman shines through, basking the reader in a warm glow, a true legacy to a writer of immense talent and accomplishment.
Do not be daunted by the size or breath of this series. Like any journey worth traveling, take one step at a time, one page, one chapter, one book. Carry those you’ve come to know and walk on. Consider the Appian Way and the Via Appia will not disappoint, each stone a foothold as your toes find purchase and eyes seek the horizon, soaking in the colors of a culture, vivid and riveting, burgeoning, unfolding. As we all know, “Rome was not built in a day.”
And perhaps, along the way, we shall meet, side by side, somewhere between Pompey and Sulla or Caesar and Quintus. Let’s head for the Crossroads College, the one by Aurelia’s insula and the home of Julius Caesar’s youth. Perhaps, Lucius Decumius will offer his protection, for I hear Ancient Rome is a dangerous place to be. “When in Rome…”
May the road rise up to meet you and may the sun set before you. Travel like a true Roman, “Veni, vidi, vici,” and the spoils will leave you rich in body, mind, and spirit.
Safe travels my friends.
November 12, 2021
The Last of These by Rebecca Moll
I wish I could remember
Picture in my mind
The last of these, those moments
Lost at sea to time.
Your little arms outstretched
Your eyes a deep implore
Gather you close I would
Never knowing what was in store.
Tears that welled and fell
A scrape upon your knee
A hug, a kiss, or two
Traded lovingly.
Snug within a chair
A book to read and share
We wiled away the time
Each word, each phrase, each rhyme.
Little league or soccer
Prom or meets or more
Trick-or-Treat or Christmas morn,
The kicks before you’re born.
A mother knows the moments fleet
Swaddled babes soon patter feet
Yet, milestones passed unaware
I wish I stopped to store, to stare
The last of these, those precious stones
I didn’t realize soon lost to loam.
I do not wish to go back
Repeat a life that’s past
All grown up, smart, and wonderful
You’re more than I’d have asked.
Yet, looking back somewhat wistfully,
I daydream I can find
The last of these, those moments
Those fleeting, precious moments
Adrift, at sea, so far from me,
Forever lost to time.
Rebecca Moll
Picture in my mind
The last of these, those moments
Lost at sea to time.
Your little arms outstretched
Your eyes a deep implore
Gather you close I would
Never knowing what was in store.
Tears that welled and fell
A scrape upon your knee
A hug, a kiss, or two
Traded lovingly.
Snug within a chair
A book to read and share
We wiled away the time
Each word, each phrase, each rhyme.
Little league or soccer
Prom or meets or more
Trick-or-Treat or Christmas morn,
The kicks before you’re born.
A mother knows the moments fleet
Swaddled babes soon patter feet
Yet, milestones passed unaware
I wish I stopped to store, to stare
The last of these, those precious stones
I didn’t realize soon lost to loam.
I do not wish to go back
Repeat a life that’s past
All grown up, smart, and wonderful
You’re more than I’d have asked.
Yet, looking back somewhat wistfully,
I daydream I can find
The last of these, those moments
Those fleeting, precious moments
Adrift, at sea, so far from me,
Forever lost to time.
Rebecca Moll
Red Sky in Morning by Paul Lynch, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
The first time I had Indian food, an authentic Indian restaurant I am told, was such a unique experience that other than the tandoori chicken and the warm naan bread, I honestly wasn’t sure if I liked the food. A real cacophony of taste sensations. Since then, I have come to love the cuisine.
Paul Lynch wields his way with words in a unique, almost incongruous way, like clashing symbols and screeching birds, an unlikely blending, but, somehow, it works, more than works. And like my first experience with Indian food, I honestly wasn’t sure whether I’d finish the book. Breaking all the rules, my 9th grade English teacher Sister Rose of Assisi would have had much to say about Lynch’s writing and in red pen at that, he drowns you in adjectives that often, altruistically, make you stop, your mental gears grinding. But, before long I began to hear the music, Lynch’s pairing all sharps, flats, and 7ths blending into a score that sets the mood, that meets the story. Sometimes a dark, masculine, full-blast overture, fear inducing music. Sometimes as sweet as a child’s ribbon, pure and pink, soft and lost.
No rose-colored glasses with Lynch in throwing you into the Irish American immigrant story, abject poverty, crime riddled cities and two-bit towns, swarthy and cruel are the people, as harsh as the land, the very place in their world and those around them they sought to dominate. It is the worst of man marring a clear blue sky. It is the dream of a new life, better and bolder than the one before.
“Night sky was black and then there was blood, morning crack of light on the edge of the earth. The crimson spill sent the bright stars to fade, hills stepping out of shadow and finding flesh.”
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
Foreboding and fetid, the plot develops, a
pustulant dark mass that builds and builds.
Yet, there are those for whom you pine, your heart in-step as they race against time. A light that shines, redeeming mankind.
Lynch’s language rivets a story as old as the ages, opera, and drama, light and dark, good and evil in a style as unique as his DNA. For a writer, an interesting respite from the rules of the road. This story is best read with wild abandon. Let the pages fly and I promise you’ll hear the music for the very first time.
And in the end, “The land is old and tremulous and turns slowly away from the falling sun.”
Paul Lynch wields his way with words in a unique, almost incongruous way, like clashing symbols and screeching birds, an unlikely blending, but, somehow, it works, more than works. And like my first experience with Indian food, I honestly wasn’t sure whether I’d finish the book. Breaking all the rules, my 9th grade English teacher Sister Rose of Assisi would have had much to say about Lynch’s writing and in red pen at that, he drowns you in adjectives that often, altruistically, make you stop, your mental gears grinding. But, before long I began to hear the music, Lynch’s pairing all sharps, flats, and 7ths blending into a score that sets the mood, that meets the story. Sometimes a dark, masculine, full-blast overture, fear inducing music. Sometimes as sweet as a child’s ribbon, pure and pink, soft and lost.
No rose-colored glasses with Lynch in throwing you into the Irish American immigrant story, abject poverty, crime riddled cities and two-bit towns, swarthy and cruel are the people, as harsh as the land, the very place in their world and those around them they sought to dominate. It is the worst of man marring a clear blue sky. It is the dream of a new life, better and bolder than the one before.
“Night sky was black and then there was blood, morning crack of light on the edge of the earth. The crimson spill sent the bright stars to fade, hills stepping out of shadow and finding flesh.”
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
Foreboding and fetid, the plot develops, a
pustulant dark mass that builds and builds.Yet, there are those for whom you pine, your heart in-step as they race against time. A light that shines, redeeming mankind.
Lynch’s language rivets a story as old as the ages, opera, and drama, light and dark, good and evil in a style as unique as his DNA. For a writer, an interesting respite from the rules of the road. This story is best read with wild abandon. Let the pages fly and I promise you’ll hear the music for the very first time.
And in the end, “The land is old and tremulous and turns slowly away from the falling sun.”
November 5, 2021
Free e-book Offer!
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am offering my e-books, FREE, for 5 days.
Wednesday 11.24.21 to Sunday 11.28.21
The Beauty of Digging Deep
Nadia Knows
In the Absence of Absolution
North South, A Short Story Collection
For the Love of Charlie
To download your free copy, visit "Rebecca Moll Amazon" on the web.
https://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-Moll/e...
Feel free to share *Happy Thanksgiving*
Rebecca Moll
Rebecca Moll
Wednesday 11.24.21 to Sunday 11.28.21
The Beauty of Digging Deep
Nadia Knows
In the Absence of Absolution
North South, A Short Story Collection
For the Love of Charlie
To download your free copy, visit "Rebecca Moll Amazon" on the web.
https://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-Moll/e...
Feel free to share *Happy Thanksgiving*
Rebecca Moll
Rebecca Moll
Inspirational Quotes
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there. ~Rumi
November 1, 2021
A Day like This by Kelley McNeil, A book Review by Rebecca Moll
String Theory. Parallel Lives. Quantum and Schrödinger's cat. Remember freshman physics? Committed to memory only to regurgitate. The stuff of stars. Thus, the precursor, Theoretical.But what if it was more than just theory, other than some far off galaxy, other than some laboratory nano reality, some research electron particle behavior invisible to normal, everyday life? What if we do actually lead parallel lives?
Kelley McNeil, in A Day like This, drops you into a vortex of possibilities, spins you around, tearing off the blindfold to reveal an alternate reality. Yes, this is fiction. Yet, it begs just enough to make you ask, "What if?"
Parallel lives? Nah. The duplicity is too much, the dimensions of such thought beyond the parameters in which most of us, non-theoretical physicists, define our world.
And even if parallel lives are a reality, the modifier itself implies that never shall the two meet. How would you even know?
Knowledge is the product of asking questions, the product of thought. Reconsider the equation. Think, outside the box.
Have you ever considered those moments in life when faced with a decision you said no instead of yes, went east instead of west? Where would you be if you chose a. instead of b.? Happier than now or pine to turn around?
And what if what led you to this juxtaposition was more than a series of thought and action? What if unknown outside forces influenced invisibly, much like electron particle behavior?
“To be or not to be? He he,” chuckled the cagey cat.
Picture two parallel lines grounded in what we call reality. A pair of high-speed trains barreling down the tracks. The life when you said no. The life when you said yes. We can consider, maybe even dream, about the possibilities. Each train filled with the people you know, love, hate, passing through places and events past, present, heading towards what’s yet to be. It’s a crazy ride, full of emotion and commotion, all forward motion. So close and yet, each life but a blur to the other.
Now, consider the train tracks cross. Converge, then diverge. Where? An event that occurs identically in both lives. A level junction for the railroad engineer and an everyday occurrence in the world of transportation. But, here, in the world of theoretical physics, the trains are neck and neck. No rules of the road, no safety protocol or “ladies first.” As your two lives intersect, cross over, same place, same time, you choose a, not b and find an alternate reality.
Kelley McNeil explores such possibilities in a malleable medium: fiction. Creative, enticing, thought provoking, and just scary enough to be real, you turn the pages faster than a pair of parallel high-speed trains, your heart leaping at each crossing, hoping, wishing, Annie Beyers finds the answers she so desperately seeks. It’s a full-in-the-face look at that other train, the one when you said no instead of yes, went east instead of west, time slows and you take a step, bittersweet, full of regret.
And in crossing over the metaphysical realm of duplicity you expand your understanding of what we call life, you feel the thrust of invisible indiscernible influence, the weight of alternate possibilities, and the terrifying freedom of the unknown.
Well, if you can cross once, what about twice? What’s fiction without a little redemption? Sound nice?
I, for one, hope to never explore the possibility of a parallel life, not for a moment, nor forevermore. Yet, when I think of reams of knowledge unknown, I look to the right for a fast-moving train and the woman within, within, within some alternate vein, a forsaken domain, and wonder, What if? If only in vain.
A worthy read, a rainy-day detour, a train ride - destination unknown. Grab a hot beverage and a comfy chair, prop up your feet and say a little prayer, that fiction is fiction and dreams are sweet, and that parallel lines never shall meet.
October 23, 2021
The Last of These by Rebecca Moll
I wish I could remember
Picture in my mind
The last of these, those moments
Lost at sea to time.
Your little arms outstretched
Your eyes a deep implore
Gather you close I would
Never knowing what was in store.
Tears that welled and fell
A scrape upon your knee
A hug, a kiss, or two
Traded lovingly.
Snug within a chair
A book to read and share
We wiled away the time
Each word, each phrase, each rhyme.
Little league or soccer
Prom or meets or more
Trick-or-Treat or Christmas morn,
The kicks before you’re born.
A mother knows the moments fleet
Swaddled babes soon patter feet
Yet, milestones passed unaware
I wish I stopped to store, to stare
The last of these, those precious stones
I didn’t realize soon lost to loam.
I do not wish to go back
Repeat a life that’s past
All grown up, smart, and wonderful
You’re more than I’d have asked.
Yet, looking back somewhat wistfully,
I daydream I can find
The last of these, those moments
Those fleeting, precious moments
Adrift, at sea, so far from me,
Forever lost to time.
Picture in my mind
The last of these, those moments
Lost at sea to time.
Your little arms outstretched
Your eyes a deep implore
Gather you close I would
Never knowing what was in store.
Tears that welled and fell
A scrape upon your knee
A hug, a kiss, or two
Traded lovingly.
Snug within a chair
A book to read and share
We wiled away the time
Each word, each phrase, each rhyme.
Little league or soccer
Prom or meets or more
Trick-or-Treat or Christmas morn,
The kicks before you’re born.
A mother knows the moments fleet
Swaddled babes soon patter feet
Yet, milestones passed unaware
I wish I stopped to store, to stare
The last of these, those precious stones
I didn’t realize soon lost to loam.
I do not wish to go back
Repeat a life that’s past
All grown up, smart, and wonderful
You’re more than I’d have asked.
Yet, looking back somewhat wistfully,
I daydream I can find
The last of these, those moments
Those fleeting, precious moments
Adrift, at sea, so far from me,
Forever lost to time.
October 8, 2021
Open House by Elizabeth Berg, A Book Review by Rebecca Moll
Open House, now there's an idea. Lay open your life in hospitable fashion, fork on the left, spoon on the right, tea sandwiches crammed with mayo and pretty relishes, diagonal by design, dust off the crystal, polish the silver, iron the napkins and tablecloth, don the fancy apron and a quick once over just before the bell rings. A pinch of the cheeks and fresh lipstick. Everything in its place, precisely positioned, presentable.
Cringing or grinning are you?
That was Samantha before David dropped the bomb, walking out on her and their marriage, blowing to bits what Samantha loved, what she thought was a presentable house, an acceptable home, mostly wrinkle free, everything pretty much in its place.
In an attempt to afford to keep the house, Samantha puts up an ad for a roommate. The door opens and closes and opens and closes, each one that steps across her threshold illuminating what was, is and could be the real Samantha.
Yet, when faced with assessing the wreckage, Samantha finds disturbing things behind the sofa, deceptive dust in the corners, and more questions than answers as she ventures into picking up the pieces, creating a life out of this new and scary terrain.
Elizabeth Berg in Open House doesn't ring the bell and come through the front door, she blows the roof off and gives you the birds eye experience, a watch the mice run through the maze sort of view, full of dead-end allies and backtrack corridors. It pains to watch Samantha stumble along and, still you hope, wait, and wish she finds her way.
Travis, her son running his own growing up way too fast hormonally charged pre-teen life. Rita, her lifelong BFF who offers well intended on-point honesty and advice with the back of her hand. Veronica, her way too forward and bossy, stylish and too sexy/too available to date widowed mother. Lydia, a genteel friend and roommate, the mother Veronica never could be. Lavender Blue, a disturbed and depressed young woman, a glaring portent of dead-end corridors and giving up. Edward, the third roommate who comes with wash of colors, hues Samantha sees for the very first time. And King, enormous and yet, not big enough to hold all that he was, is and could be, offering friendship and maybe more, simplicity and reprieve in the face of dirty laundry, messy floors, and a home far from presentable.
With naked honesty Berg brings Samantha round to realization, a sort of understanding that place and time are just one moment, that what was is not what is, nor has to be what will be. And that sometimes, you have to open the door regardless of the mess.
Open House is a lovely story of triumph in all the things that will never be presentable, the mixed-up emotions and trials of life, and the understanding that it must start with the heart, that it is self-love that truly opens the house and the home.
Cringing or grinning are you?
That was Samantha before David dropped the bomb, walking out on her and their marriage, blowing to bits what Samantha loved, what she thought was a presentable house, an acceptable home, mostly wrinkle free, everything pretty much in its place.
In an attempt to afford to keep the house, Samantha puts up an ad for a roommate. The door opens and closes and opens and closes, each one that steps across her threshold illuminating what was, is and could be the real Samantha.
Yet, when faced with assessing the wreckage, Samantha finds disturbing things behind the sofa, deceptive dust in the corners, and more questions than answers as she ventures into picking up the pieces, creating a life out of this new and scary terrain.
Elizabeth Berg in Open House doesn't ring the bell and come through the front door, she blows the roof off and gives you the birds eye experience, a watch the mice run through the maze sort of view, full of dead-end allies and backtrack corridors. It pains to watch Samantha stumble along and, still you hope, wait, and wish she finds her way.
Travis, her son running his own growing up way too fast hormonally charged pre-teen life. Rita, her lifelong BFF who offers well intended on-point honesty and advice with the back of her hand. Veronica, her way too forward and bossy, stylish and too sexy/too available to date widowed mother. Lydia, a genteel friend and roommate, the mother Veronica never could be. Lavender Blue, a disturbed and depressed young woman, a glaring portent of dead-end corridors and giving up. Edward, the third roommate who comes with wash of colors, hues Samantha sees for the very first time. And King, enormous and yet, not big enough to hold all that he was, is and could be, offering friendship and maybe more, simplicity and reprieve in the face of dirty laundry, messy floors, and a home far from presentable.
With naked honesty Berg brings Samantha round to realization, a sort of understanding that place and time are just one moment, that what was is not what is, nor has to be what will be. And that sometimes, you have to open the door regardless of the mess.
Open House is a lovely story of triumph in all the things that will never be presentable, the mixed-up emotions and trials of life, and the understanding that it must start with the heart, that it is self-love that truly opens the house and the home.
