Fall Family Birthdays, by Jammy

In light of this beautiful and festive season, I wanted to share a delightful work by my favorite poet: my daughter.  Sure, there is a hint of nepotism here, but isn't like you're paying to read anything we write at The Surly Bookworm.  So swallow that complaint.

Known here by her nom de plume, Jammy is quite a prolific writer.  She produces original poems, essays, short stories, and comics by the dozens, and has done so since she could speak.  What can I say?  This apple didn't fall far.  (Awww, all the hearts!!!)  She has actively chosen here to incorporate repetition, free verse, and onomatopoeia.

Without further introduction, please enjoy

FALL FAMILY BIRTHDAYS
by Jammy

September, October, November,
it spells the word
son.

September, October, November,
it spells the word
son.

My brother's in October,

My grampa's in September,

My dad's in November.

Me, my mom, dad, and brother
drive to [my home town],

To celebrate their birthdays,
Vroom, vroom, vroom.

My November Guest, Robert Frost

We have had a really nice November.  Halloween was frigid but, in the week since then, the temperatures have risen, the sun has shone, and I've even left the house in shorts.  It's weird.

The weather for the coming week or so is forecasted to continue this unusual trend, and you will certainly not find me complaining.  Nevertheless, I do reflect upon past Novembers where Old Man Winter has made an earlier appearance.  I don't miss him, but I do anticipate his coming with some measure of excitement.

In a splendid burst of melancholia -the type that usually accompanies this time of year- our homeboy Robert Frost reminds us of what we are missing (or perhaps what we aren't missing) this month.

MY NOVEMBER GUEST

My Sorrow, when she's here with  me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted tree,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Death Comes to the Fair, by Catherine Lloyd

I promised I'd be back with more contrived murder mysteries and here.I.am.  

After the torrent of self-reflection, diligent note-taking, and general brain bogglement of More Than A Body, I needed a "beach book" and indeed I found one in Death Comes to the Fair by Catherine Lloyd.

Both of my longtime readers may recall a couple of reviews I posted this summer of books by Catherine Lloyd:  Miss Morton and the English House Party Murder and Death Comes to Kurland Hall.  The latter of these two titles was actually the third installment of Lloyd's Kurland St. Mary Mystery series.  (Miss Morton is the first of a separate series by the same author.)  Death Comes to the Fair is book number four in the Kurland St. Mary series and immediately follows the events of Death Comes to Kurland Hall.

As with its predecessor, I found Death Comes to the Fair at my library's used book store for a quarter.  (Sure, why not?)  Also like its predecessor, it serves up sizable portions of English stereotypes and obnoxiously proper conventions -- all in only 281 pages!  Without spoilers, I will say that I called this one early on and pegged the murderer and his/her cohorts.  Still, knowing this didn't make it any less fun openly laughing at the ridiculous antics of Regency England:  sending notes with the fast servant that we all have (our wealthy ancestors' equivalent to texting), insisting a grown-ass woman be "chaperoned" on an outing with her equally grown-ass fiancé (heaven forbid they hold eye contact longer than sanctioned), consuming copious amounts of brandy in lieu of breakfast (as we all would if we lived in early 19th century England), slut shaming veiled as public concern with a woman's virtue (Gracious, Amelia!  Observe how her bonnet is askew.  What promiscuity!).  This book has it all!

It was a simpler time.

As with all of these types of novels, I can't exactly say that I'd recommend them to anyone.  They aren't particularly thought provoking or meaningful, but not everything has to be, right?  Yet there are aspects within that are entirely too cringey, preventing me from offering them as suggestions to friends and family.  Nevertheless, they do provide a fun escape into another world where I get to watch other people deal with their problems (while I avoid my own).

A fun read, an ideal "beach book"...and just what I needed.