Here's . . . Billy!

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My new novel, Billy of the Tulips, was released yesterday by TouchPoint Press. It’s been called “ . . . a realistic depiction of young adulthood and coming of age . . . it’s My Side of the Mountain meets Hoboken, New Jersey.”

Lots of people ask what the book is about, where the idea came from, are the characters based on real people.

Here are some answers . . .

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In the right

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You can’t call America a nation anymore, because that word comes from the Latin born and is defined by Oxford as a body of people united by common descent, history, culture, or language.

This was made clear to me last year during Thanksgiving dinner at a friend’s home. As he set the steaming turkey on the table, he issued orders to his two dozen guests—all of us either family or close friends—that we all were so divided over politics that the subject was off-limits for discussion. 

Our societal brokenness smacked me in the face a second time the other day when I got into a political argument with my youngest grandson—over Bernie Sanders, of all things!

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Billy of the Tulips

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When he is put onto the street by his abusive father, fifteen-year-old Billy never dreams that he is embarking on a journey that will force him to choose his place in an intimidating world. Set in 1957, Billy’s story of fending for himself unfolds in letters to his younger sister. He speaks for a generation fascinated with UFOs and Elvis Presley. But his letters also record the clash of innocence and iniquity, including a first sexual skirmish, until a confrontation with a band of menacing hunters forces him to take a stand—a dangerous one.

My new novel, Billy of the Tulips, is scheduled for release by TouchPoint Press in two weeks. Its story has been called “...a realistic depiction of young adulthood and coming of age... it’s My Side of the Mountain meets Hoboken, New Jersey.”

I invite you to sample the first pages . . .

 

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Celebrating the departed

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With Memorial Day upon us, our American culture prompts us toward thoughts of the heroic dead.

So why, then, do we “celebrate” Memorial Day with parades and barbecues when we should be praying?

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What is this thing called love?

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Ah, love is in the air this weekend. The Prince and his new Princess entering wedded bliss in London on Saturday . . . and on Sunday what would have been my parents’ seventy-ninth wedding anniversary had they lived.

Demographers project that at least eighty percent of Americans marry at some point in their lives. And forty to fifty percent of them call it quits after about eight years. The divorce rate for subsequent marriages is even higher.

So why do we keep at it?

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Paradise found

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I’ve moved households almost ten times over the years, acquiring driver’s licenses in New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, California, Puerto Rico, and Massachusetts.

But the move I made a week ago was different from all the rest.

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It Must Be Spring

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Those of us who live year-round on Cape Cod don’t pay much attention to spring, because we seldom actually see one. We maintain our winter rawness until at some point we start to sweat—and then we know it must be summer.

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When Mom comes up short

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Is it a sin to compare your mother to someone else’s, and deem your Mom wanting?

I did that last week, and, because of it, I discovered an unrealized part of myself.

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We are our recipes

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The gabbing old women were waiting for me outside the Ukrainian church on Easter morning like harpies intent on eating my insides for breakfast.

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Will time tell?

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“How did it get so late so soon?”

This whimsical question attributed to Dr. Seuss grows less whimsical as we grow older and stake out our place in the geography of time.

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