Return to Silver Creek by Chuck Tyrell, a Review

Chuck Tyrell is a great western writer. He knows the country, and he lets the reader see the vistas, smell the wood smoke, hear the creak of leather, and feel the grit of sand in the beans. He tells stories of hard people in a hard land, and he lets you feel the bite of the wind as the world slides into winter with only a couple layers’ protection against the cold.

I live in and love the Pacific Northwest, but dang, his book Return to Silver Creek made me homesick for the high desert.

Return to Silver Creek is the story of Garet Havelock and his new bride, Laura, and the aftermath of an attack on her at their cabin on their homestead. It’s also the story of the eternal conflict in the west between cattlemen and sheepmen, between old settlers and new, and between those who have water and those who want it.

Chuck Tyrell turns a nice phrase, too. Listen as he tells about Laura’s state of mind as she takes refuge with neighbors at their hacienda,

Laura dreaded ever having to leave her room at the Pilar hacienda. The unyielding walls, the dim interior, and the solid oak bar across the door made her feel safe, or as safe as any violated woman could ever feel.


Her ears had become as sensitive as a fox’s. She heard murmuring voices from distant parts of the sprawling hacienda, the click of boots on the stone floors, the brush of clothing against the walls. She thought she could hear spiders spinning webs in the rafters at night.

Garet Havelock sets out to find out who did this to his wife. It takes him months to do so, and in the meanwhile he has several other near-death adventures and rights a few wrongs along the way. He’s not a man of steel. He has an old war wound that necessitates him wearing an iron brace on his knee—and mounting a horse on the off side. That is a bit of a metaphor for Garet Havelock. He has his own way of doing things, but he gets ‘em done.

If you like a good adventure. If you like westerns. If you like strong, flawed heroes. If you like writing where the setting is like another character, then you’ll like Chuck Tyrell’s Return to Silver Creek. It is available in Kindle edition at Amazon . At $3.99, it's a bargain.

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Bonnie Harris is Giving Away a Copy of COLD RIVER

My forgetter is working overtime, and even though I've got post it notes all over the house, I keep forgetting to mention that Bonnie Harris is giving away a copy of COLD RIVER on her blog tomorrow.

One of the things you have to do to get your name in the pot is to follow my blog, so you might as well click on the 'Join This Blog' button on the left side bar before you hop over to her blog.

Here's the link to Bonnie's blog: http://bonnieharris.blogspot.com/2012/03/cold-river-book-review-and-giveaway-us.html

Good luck!

Poems by Marie Fischer and Eunice J. Miles

I was recently going through my mother's scrapbook, and I found two poems that I thought I'd like to share. I don't know how much exposure these two poets had during their lifetimes, but I'd like to extend their reach a bit.

The first was published in the Salt Lake Tribune, I would guess in the late 1950's.  I know why my mother kept it, as it reminds me of my grandmother and tugs at my heart reading it now.



THE FINAL GIFT
by Eunice J. Miles

This lace-trimmed, printed apron,
With a pocket and a bow,
Was made for me by Mother
From a bit of calico.
She fashioned it so neatly,
Her smile, as always, cheery,
I could not know her heartbreak,
Nor guess herr feet were weary.
I took the gift so carelessly,
As if it were my due.
That it would prove a final one
From her, I never knew.
Now Mother's hands are quiet.
They can no longer sew
A dainty lace-trimmed apron
Of printed calico.

The second poem is one my mother typed out.  I love the character the old manual typewriters gave to the printing. They were like fingerprints, as no two typewriters printed the letters exactly the same. On this one, the lower case o doesn't print on the bottom of the arc. You can see it in the picture at the bottom.

Before I begin, I need to define the word samite as it's used in the second stanza.  According to Wikipedia, Samite was a luxurious and heavy silk fabric worn in the Middle Ages, of a twill- type weave, often including gold or silver thread. I didn't know the word before today.

PINES IN THE WIND
By Marie Fischer

The pines are reeling galleons
Tossed on windy nights,
Their singing masts strung with stars
For swinging signal lights.

The pines are phantom galleons
Adrift through samite mists,
Their wriath-like sails the floating clouds
By ghostly moonbeams kissed.

The pines are pirate galleon,
Their chant a weird rune;
Their treasure-holds with silver filled
Stolen from the moon.

The pines are cargoed galleon
Laden with sweet spices;
The God of the trees built them so
And launched with beauty thrice--

With music, fragrance, form,
Pine galleons ride the storm.

I can almost hear my mother reading each of these poems, even though she's been gone over twenty years.













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And...be sure you don't miss out on the next recipe, review, scrap of wisdom or pithy thought. Become a follower on this blog by clicking on the Join this Site button on the sidebar. Check out my books behind the Liz's Books tab at the top, or read reviews of my latest book under the Reviews tab.