Steel Valley: Coming of Age in the Ohio Valley in the 1960s
By Jerry Madden
Publication Date: January 20, 2023
Publisher: Potomac Publishing Company
Page Length: 350 pages
Genre: Historical Fiction
For readers of The World Played Chess by Robert Dugoni and Last Summer Boys by Bill Rivers.
Love is never easy...even in easier times, like the 1950s and 1960s in the Ohio Valley with the steel industry booming.
Second-generation immigrant families were reaching for the American middle class. And Catholic schools-made feasible by selfless Catholic nuns-promised bigger lives for everyone, including Jack Clark and Laurie Carmine. As they spent years searching for their separate futures, though, they were also stumbling toward love just as their world came crashing down.
Steel Valley depicts a story of love longed for, lost, and perhaps still within reach, just as our nation's mythic yesterday became our troubled today, our last summer of innocence.
Jerry Madden grew up in the Upper Ohio Valley in the 1960s. He holds a B.A. from the College of Steubenville and law degrees from the University of Dayton School of Law and the Georgetown University Law Center. After law school, Jerry served as the sole law clerk to the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Ohio, C. William O'Neill. He served in the United States Marine Corps (R) between 1970 and 1976.
Jerry has practiced law in Washington, D.C., since 1979, including fourteen years at the Department of Justice as a trial and appellate attorney. He is the principal of The Madden Law Group PLLC in Washington, D.C.
He lives in Northern Virginia with his wife, Cyndi, a retired educator. They have two children, Kelsey and Jack, both of whom hold M.Ed. degrees. They have one grandchild, Jamie Maclennan.
A Grave Every Mile: A Pioneer Western Adventure By David Fitz-Gerald
Publication Date: December 24th, 2023
Publisher: David Fitz-Gerald
Page Length: 204
Genre: Western, Historical Fiction
Embark on a harrowing trek across the rugged American frontier in 1850. Your wagon awaits, and the untamed wilderness calls. This epic western adventure will test the mettle of even the bravest souls.
Dorcas Moon and her family set forth in search of opportunity and a brighter future. Yet, what awaits them is a relentless gauntlet of life-threatening challenges: miserable weather, ravenous insects, scorching sunburns, and unforgiving terrain. It's not merely a battle for survival but a test of their unity and sanity.
Amidst the chaos, Dorcas faces ceaseless trials: her husband's unending bickering, her daughter's descent into madness, and the ever-present danger of lethal rattlesnakes, intensifying the peril with each step. The specter of death looms large, with diseases spreading and the eerie howls of rabid wolves piercing the night. Will the haunting image of wolves desecrating a grave push Dorcas over the edge?
With each mile, the migration poses a haunting question: Who will endure the relentless quest to cross the continent, and who will leave their bones to rest beside the trail? The pathway is bordered by graves, a chilling reminder of the steep cost of dreams.
A Grave Every Mile marks the commencement of an unforgettable saga. Start reading Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail now to immerse yourself in an expedition where every decision carries the weight of life, death, and the pursuit of a brighter future along the Oregon Trail.
Excerpt
Lone Elm, April 16, 1850
The unrelenting rain makes everything invisible, and I am surprised when the wagon in front of us finally comes to a halt. The wagons have circled, and I didn’t even know we had reached our destination.
It is still pouring, and Larkin insists that the boys grease the axles. I plead with him to let the boys alone. “Climb in the wagon and rest. We need a break, Larkin.”
“No, Dorcas. It doesn’t matter how miserable or sick we are. We must take care of the wagon. I’ll get the wagon jack.” We share it between our five wagons, and since Stillman and Carter’s wagon has the lightest load, they carry it in their rig.
Like everything else today, the task is more challenging than usual. The wagon jack sinks and tilts in the mushy earth. The boys place thick saplings underneath the jack and crank the wagon up enough to remove the wheels. Though they must be tired, they take the jack and muddy saplings to Cobb and Jennie’s wagon and help them. Finally, Larkin and the boys return. I have nothing but hard biscuits, cold ham, and water for their supper. It is hard to cheer up a miserable family with cold food.
We’re eager to get out of the rain, whereas Rose and Dahlia Jane have spent all day in the wagon. They are impatient to get out, even though it is wet.
I walk with the girls a short distance from the wagon to answer the call of nature. It is enough of a challenge as a lady, even under the best of circumstances. Typically, we would pay more attention to who might be watching or where we might be in relation to other people. Instead, we hurry when we should be careful.
After the girls finish, I attempt a squat. At the worst possible moment, my feet slip. I fall backward, and my naked rump lands in thick, squishy mud. I am unspeakably soiled and miserable to my core. I grit my teeth, trying not to complain. I’ll have to go back to the wagon and get a towel.
Ten feet from the wagon stands a cross, fashioned out of tree branches, strapped together with twine where they join. A pile of earth and stones lay in front of the crude crucifix. The weathered sticks tilt slightly to the left. The dirt pile doesn’t look large enough to be an adult’s final resting place. I think of the poor traveling family that must have lost a child here. Perhaps it was last year. I say a quick prayer in my head and continue to the wagon. I turn to help Dahlia Jane up, and she’s missing. Rose is gone too.
Doubling back, I find them standing beside the grave, hand in hand. The hood on Rose’s raincoat rests on her back. Her head lolls forward, and her stringy wet hair dangles all about, obstructing the view of her face. I prod, “Come along, girls.”
Rose drops Dahlia Jane’s hand and waves me away without looking up. Rose sniffles as I rush the toddler away and lift her into the dry wagon. I rifle around, find a small towel, and shove it into the pocket of my skirt. Rose still stands beside the child’s grave. I drape my arm across her shoulder, and she twists away from me. “I’m sorry, Rose. I know it is awful to imagine such a tragedy.”
Larkin appears beside me with the boys.
Rose says, “Leave me alone,” turning her back to us.
I turn toward Larkin and gesture toward Rose with open hands, imploring him to do something.
Larkin says, “Let her be. She’ll learn to deal with the idea of death on her own. We all do, someday.”
I protest. “I’m sure that Rose has many questions. I think we need to talk about this.”
He responds, “This is not the time or place.”
Rose turns halfway back toward us. She says, “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to be alone for a while.”
Nevertheless, I step forward. Larkin raises his voice. “Let her be, Dorcas.”
I want to shout back at him, but think better of it. I say, “Rose, honey. Let me know if you need me. I’m happy to listen if you want to talk.”
Rose squats in front of the child’s grave like she’s about to warm her hands near a campfire. I look at Larkin. I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. My child needs something, I’m powerless to help her, and I haven’t the slightest idea what’s bothering her. It has been this way ever since she turned twelve.
Larkin points to the wagon with his chin, again telling me to leave Rose here, alone in the rain. I say, “I’ll be along in a few minutes.” Thick fog swallows me as I walk away from camp. I will not feel clean until I have a proper bath. I picture myself squatting on the prairie as I clean myself the best I can with a small towel and pray for an end to the rain.
When I return to camp, I see Rose waltzing about near the child’s grave. She leans down and forward like she is dancing with an imaginary friend. I cover my mouth with my hand. I can’t help thinking that Rose is losing her mind, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Larkin says to ignore her. I know he’s wrong, but I can’t think of anything that will work, and every time I try, Rose pushes me further away. I back away toward the wagon and shiver, thinking of my poor child, obliviously dancing in the icy rain.
I climb into the back of the wagon, which was never intended to house a large family. We huddle inside, glad to be out of the rain, snuggling together under blankets.
It's hard to leave a child alone in the wilderness, exposed to the elements. I plead, “Larkin, Rose is out there, and I couldn’t get her to come in. I don’t know why she doesn’t have the sense to come in out of the rain. I think you should go get her.”
Larkin shakes his head in disagreement. In an even tone, he says, “I’m sure she will return soon. We can’t let her ride in the wagon all day, even during bad weather. She’ll come in when she gets cold enough. You can’t coddle the children all the time, Dorcas.”
Do all men say such things? I counter, “But Larkin, there’s something wrong with Rose, isn’t there? Can’t you see that?” I don’t want to say more with the other children listening.
Dismissively, he replies, “I’m sure it’s just a phase she’s going through. You mustn’t worry so.”
I pass out biscuits and dried apples. Dahlia Jane asks Larkin to read to her. Andrew scratches words onto lined paper. “I didn’t get to post the news today, Mama. I’ll have to post two issues tomorrow.”
Larkin is right. Rose climbs into the wagon, dries her wet hair with a towel, and changes into her second dress beneath the cover of a blanket. Without a word to anyone, she begins writing in her diary. It has never occurred to me to read her private thoughts, but now I wonder whether I should.
As pitch-black darkness envelopes us, the children put their books away, close their eyes, and sleep. There isn’t room for Larkin and me to stretch out, so we slump against each other and fall asleep slouched against our provisions. The corner of a wooden box presses into my back, and I can’t seem to wriggle away from it.
Sleep comes in brief installments. The night seems as long as the day. I’m startled by a loud knocking on the side of the wagon. A man’s voice shouts over the rain. “Larkin, it’s your turn to take watch.”
Larkin grumbles as he rises, puts on a raincoat, and disappears into the night. I feel sorry for him. Of all nights to have to stand watch. What can he see or prevent anyway? Then I feel guilty, enjoying the extra space, as I stretch my body, wedge between warm, sleeping children, and fall fast asleep.
David Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a member of the Historical Novel Society.
Alpine landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head. He is also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level.
Dave is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music. It should be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses.
A red-hot Hawaiian romance blooms for a buttoned-up botanist who must learn to let go and embrace the ancient voice within her.
After a failed engagement to a high-society suitor in San Francisco, Lokelani "Lucky" Letwin returns home to Hawaii, leaving her beloved rosebushes behind. She's desperate to establish a life of her own-a daunting task for any unmarried female in the early twentieth century but particularly for one passionate about the science of plants. A stubborn, song-filled girl now grown into an accomplished woman Lokelani is haunted by a family tragedy. She is as reluctant to acknowledge her past as she is to accept the supernatural force building inside her, strong and inevitable. She is a mākāhā, a Gate, ever connected to the power of the islands . . . if only she will admit it.
In her quest to retrieve her roses, Lokelani is reunited with Artemus Chang, a childhood friend, who's now a handsome and successful lawyer. As the spark between them grows, Artemus agrees to help her recover her roses, only to discover her kisses leave him literally breathless. When a mystical teacher enters her life, Lokelani's embrace of the voice of ancient power bubbling up within her takes on new urgency and new apprehensions.
Will Lokelani continue to be bound by guilt and fear? Or will she learn to reconcile her gifts - as both a practical botanist and a mystical Gate - to sing once more and claim her love?
Award winning author Katherine Kayne writes deeply romantic historical fantasy set in old Hawaii. Her critically acclaimed debut novel BOUND IN FLAME delivers myth, magic and all the sparks promised by the title. The next installment in her Hawaiian Ladies' Riding Society series, BOUND IN ROSES, is available for preorder now.
Katherine's novels are filled with horses and history and happily ever after . . . and heroes strong enough to follow their heroine's lead. She spends a part of each year on Hawaii Island immersing herself in Hawaii's past. Aided of course by the occasional mai tai. Katherine created the world of the Hawaiian Ladies Riding Society to tell the stories of the fearless horsewomen of the islands' ranches. Because who doesn't love a suffragist on horseback? With a bullwhip? Wearing flowers?
If you come along for the ride, be prepared for almost anything to happen. Katherine can promise you fiery kisses, charming cowboys, women who ride like the rainbow to save the day, and that rarest of beasts-handsome men who like to dance.
A collection of adventure stories featuring young heroines at turning points in history who use math to solve colossal problems. Smart girls take on buried secrets, villains, tanks, mysteries, codes, and economics to save their people.
“Stories, mystery and math go well together… a welcome addition.”
~ Jeannine Atkins, author of “Grasping Mysteries: Girls Who Loved Math”
and numeration systems, games and puzzles, geometry,
graphs, record‐keeping, money, weights, and measures, etc.
-- Paulus Gerdes, A History of Mathematics In Africa
“Come!” urged Isoke. “We can’t be late!”
The first day of the Igue festival was in full swing.
With a grunt, the girl shouldered one of the ropes.
“The Mundari are thoughtless merchants. They’ll let their best calves go first-- ”
She pulled the big-wheeled cart through the festival grounds.
Six of her brothers pulled alongside her.
“You’re a long way from home, umngeele,” called a smiling Xhosa woman standing before a tiger- patterned curtain. She used a term that meant something between “borderlander” and “boon-docker.” She waved invitingly.
“Save some time for me on the way back,” Simtho told her. She laughed. The other brothers, even grim-faced Ypiku, enjoyed this exchange.
The little outlander family, led by the skinny girl Isoke, made their way past the vendors’ stands and the livestock pens and the tapestry displays.
Isoke had visited the grounds the night before, to map out their route.
The festival grounds were a celebration of symbols and numbers – different tribes’ runes and patterns spoke of beliefs, cosmology, rituals, totem birds and animals. Seers threw sign-marked rune-stones and announced destinies. Hooded hawks perched on their masters’ arms. Teams of boys jousted, their patterned vests identifying each clan. A tethered panther paced to and fro in a large cage, its eyes resting on passers-by.
The fair seemed boundless. They could only see parts of the whole.
“Stay strong, brothers!”urged the girl. “We are almost there -- ”
Only fourteen years old, Isoke was the matriarch of her clan and the acting chieftain of the Atakora, a small, once- undisciplined tribe of hunters in the remote Cotinou region, on the eastern peripheries of the kingdoms of Benin.
They wore their bows and shields on their backs, for all outlanders are hunters, and all hunters care to keep their weapons close by.
“Here we go – this way -- ”
Isoke had been saving for over a year to buy a bull-calf, to sire the village’s heifers. A healthy herd would change the fortunes of her people, that much she knew. She was determined to do right. Her ingenious new design for the baskets was water-tight and had become much-favored among the river tribes. As word spread and others came to see, and acquire, the baskets, she had been able to collect two bags full of sarafu, the coins forged by the brass workers of Igbo Ukwu, coins which the traders of the steppes used as currency. These she would use to buy a fine bull-calf.
The Mundari bred a handsome line of cattle.
“There!” called Isoke. “The Mundari pennants are just beyond -- ”
They rounded a corner.
They had come to a sort of open space, or plaza.
It was the royal court.
They saw Nala, Queen of the Benin lands, the festival’s hostess, as she sat presiding over dances and livestock displays and various goings-on.
Beside her stood the wiry Portuguese, her most trusted advisor.
Behind Nala’s throne stood the royal guard, fine strong warriors in their war paint and feathered head-gear and imposing shields.
Around the perimeters of the plaza were arranged the Queen’s closest allies, some of the most powerful tribes of the Benin nation.
Isoke suddenly stopped.
Something is wrong …
“Why are we stopping?” asked Osahar angrily.
Isoke crouched and held her left hand high.
She fisted the hand.
Now a second time. …
Simtho, who was closest to Isoke in age and temperament, saw that his sister’s shoulders were tensed, trembling slightly.
“Something is very, very wrong,” murmured the girl.
With a signal, she bade her brothers notch their bows.
They did so on the instant, not asking why.
On their left, at the head of the plaza, was the royal court –
On their right, among the assembled wagons, stood a broad-berthed cart. Its open bay concealed behind a tapestry of moons and stars.
Without warning a blood-curdling scream tore from behind the curtain.
The tapestry was ripped away --
A clutch of roaring painted warriors appeared in its place.
The assassins burst out, spears raised, ‘DEATH TO NALA!!’ on their lips --
Isoke ran straight at them --
“Wait! Wait!” cried Ypiku, the eldest of her brothers, the cautious, rule-abiding first born --
But there was no waiting.
There never is. In a real life, the most fateful events can unfold at the snap of a finger –
The ragged-toothed assassins were young and big-shouldered, fearful killers bristling with knives. One wielded a short-sword, of the European fashion.
They wore leopard skins.
Isoke grabbed a torch from the Xhosa and hurled it crossways, to trip the slayers as they advanced.
Three of them toppled.
A round of her brothers’ arrows struck down the front-line assassins before they had closed half the distance across the plaza –
A slayer hurled a spear directly at Queen Nala --
Nala, a tall, fierce woman, plucked the spear from its trajectory mid-air and returned it with force.
It impaled its bearer with a ‘Thunk!’--
Now the Portagee swept a pair of pistols from his waistband, aimed and fired with loud double ‘Booms! --
Two slayers descended on Isoke, who had drawn a blade of her own --
Osahar appeared. He stood in front of his sister, shielding her –
Osahar kicked one slayer’s legs out from under him and garroted the second with his bow-string, until the bow snapped --
The royal guard, unused to actual fighting, fled --
The Queen threw herself into the shield-splintering melee.
The Portagee’s sword flashed cleverly.
Half-mad with frenzy, brave Simtho leapt on the back of a slayer, only to earn a deep wound in the shoulder for the effort --
But the leopard skins had planned poorly, for now – now that their initial rush had been blunted – they were trapped.
Now a dash of hunters from the Yoruba and Xhosa and (surprisingly!) Swahili delegations ran to the aid of their Queen --
For a long moment all was confusion and blood-lust. Terrible cries and shouts of Surrender! rose. The pretend-warriors who brag of their deeds but care not to wield a sword when blood is spilled huddled behind the throne.
It ended in a moment, as it had started.
And when the deadly combat had stilled, and when the dust and smoke had settled, it was the scrawny border girl, Isoke, who stood in the center of the plaza, still and tall among the fallen.
Shivering hilts and bloody spears and moaning bodies surrounded her.
In the distance, drums started up.
Isoke surveyed the square.
Now a war chant rose, in celebration of Queen Nala’s great victory, and the selfless bravery of her subjects.
The Portagee raised his sword in salute.
He shook his weapon.
“How did you know?” he called to Isoke. “What gave them away?”
She wiped her blade on the fabric of her skirt.
“Geometry,” the border girl replied.
Tom Durwood
Tom Durwood is a teacher, writer and editor with an interest in history. Tom most recently taught English Composition and Empire and Literature at Valley Forge Military College, where he won the Teacher of the Year Award five times. Tom has taught Public Speaking and Basic Communications as guest lecturer for the Naval Special Warfare Development Group at the Dam’s Neck Annex of the Naval War College.
Tom’s ebook Empire and Literature matches global works of film and fiction to specific quadrants of empire, finding surprising parallels. Literature, film, art and architecture are viewed against the rise and fall of empire. In a foreword to Empire and Literature, postcolonial scholar Dipesh Chakrabarty of the University of Chicago calls it “imaginative and innovative.” Prof. Chakrabarty writes that “Durwood has given us a thought-provoking introduction to the humanities.” His subsequent book “Kid Lit: An Introduction to Literary Criticism” has been well-reviewed. “My favorite nonfiction book of the year,” writes The Literary Apothecary (Goodreads).
Early reader response to Tom’s historical fiction adventures has been promising. “A true pleasure … the richness of the layers of Tom’s novel is compelling,” writes Fatima Sharrafedine in her foreword to “The Illustrated Boatman’s Daughter.” The Midwest Book Review calls that same adventure “uniformly gripping and educational … pairing action and adventure with social issues.” Adds Prairie Review, “A deeply intriguing, ambitious historical fiction series.”
Tom briefly ran his own children’s book imprint, Calico Books (Contemporary Books, Chicago). Tom’s newspaper column “Shelter” appeared in the North County Times for seven years. Tom earned a Masters in English Literature in San Diego, where he also served as Executive Director of San Diego Habitat for Humanity.
Two of Tom’s books, “Kid Lit” and “The Illustrated Boatman’s Daughter,” were selected “Best of the New” by Julie Sara Porter’s Bookworm Book Alert
Young adult fiction featuring gambling, bandits, swordplay, probability and Bayes’ Theorem. An English teacher hopes to engage students with colorful STEM adventures.
“In this outstanding collection, Tom addresses the chronic problem of our young women dropping out of STEM studies. His stories lend adventure to scientific thinking.” ~ Tanzeela Siddique, Math Instructor
From her hiding place, Bird Jaguar squinted at the giant, jagged-toothed barbarian.
Tillers’ blood dripped crimson from his sword and shield. The barbarian grunted. He looked around, searching the battlefield for Bird Jaguar and her sister and protector, Zac Cul.
“Come, little Toads!” bellowed the barbarian. “Let the Dark Gods embrace us together!”
The prophecies did not mention him, noted Bird Jaguar to herself.
She looked up. Far overhead, a flock of blackbirds split apart and rejoined.
In this year of 8. 17. 14. 12. 11, the Fifth Lord had risen from his slumbers.
The ruination of the High Maya had begun.
* * *
“Why is he even following us?” Bird Jaguar asked Zac Cul, her older sister.
Copper bands adorned their upper arms. They were free-women, tillers, valued members of a farming clan.
“I don’t know,” answered Zac Cul. She dried the hilt of her sword in her skirt. “Something about us must irritate him.”
This bloodthirsty, too-tall, too-strong warrior had for some reason tracked the two sisters all the way from the burning City, far from his barbarian cohort. He seemed intent on their deaths.
“You are often irritating,” said Bird Jaguar to her sister.
The Emperor had murdered his own advisors, who foretold dangers that could not be seen, or proven, and then been killed by those same dangers. The throne had fallen. The City was descending into lunacy. It had all been predicted, in the stars (with certain errors), in the detailed celestial charts. The movement of Venus across the night skies had been insightful.
The Tillers would find a new home, new soils for their rows of vegetables and grains, in the northern hills. All would proceed, according to the fates. Most of Bird Jaguar’s tribe were already on their way north.
All that was left now was to bury the codex.
* * *
The two girls were trapped in a rocky maze of ravines and caves. Bird Jaguar, a valued scribe, held fast to the codex tablet. It must be hidden, and well-hidden, for future readers.
Since birth, Zac Cul had been the younger girl’s escort and protector.
This cave would do. But this entrance was unprotected.
The giant would see them --
“I thought you said you were telling our story,” said Zac Cul, as she glanced over the tablet and its complex pattern of glyphs.
“These are just numbers.”
“Our story is hidden behind a scrim of numbers,” replied Bird Jaguar.
“Really?”
Bird Jaguar nodded.
“Am I in it?” asked Zac Cul.
“Yes. You are prominent, sister.”
Losing her patience. Zac Cul shouted and rushed out of their hiding place to engage the giant --
The barbarian’s eyes widened when he saw her approach --
He charged, with his bahlum hatchet raised to strike –
Seemingly out of nowhere, a soldier came hurtling down the rockface from above, landing with a thud and sweeping the barbarian’s legs out from under him.
Nimbly, the soldier rose, quicker than the clumsy giant. He stabbed the barbarian through the throat before the big man could get his balance.
The giant roared in pain. Choking, he writhed and swung his limbs violently to and fro …
But the soldier would not relent.
“You shouldn’t have followed my girls,” the soldier, Smoking-Frog, told his dying enemy. “You should have stayed with your friends … ”
Smoking-Frog was the girls’ grandfather.
The barbarian died there, gurgling, reaching out, far from his home. A grisly death.
“Let’s go,” urged Smoking-Frog. “Let’s bury this tablet and get out. Blackbirds are on the move.” Grandfather thought it wise to coordinate with the creatures whenever possible. They know things we don’t, he would say.
Inside the cave, Bird Jaguar filled in the hollow where she had hidden the codex.
Our descendants will find this… but not for many cycles.
Bird Jaguar smiled to herself.
They will need to be clever, if they want to read it …
Zac Cul called.
“Coming!” said Bird Jaguar.
Tom Durwood
Tom Durwood is a teacher, writer and editor with an interest in history. Tom most recently taught English Composition and Empire and Literature at Valley Forge Military College, where he won the Teacher of the Year Award five times. Tom has taught Public Speaking and Basic Communications as guest lecturer for the Naval Special Warfare Development Group at the Dam’s Neck Annex of the Naval War College.
Tom’s ebook Empire and Literature matches global works of film and fiction to specific quadrants of empire, finding surprising parallels. Literature, film, art and architecture are viewed against the rise and fall of empire. In a foreword to Empire and Literature, postcolonial scholar Dipesh Chakrabarty of the University of Chicago calls it “imaginative and innovative.” Prof. Chakrabarty writes that “Durwood has given us a thought-provoking introduction to the humanities.” His subsequent book “Kid Lit: An Introduction to Literary Criticism” has been well-reviewed. “My favorite nonfiction book of the year,” writes The Literary Apothecary (Goodreads).
Early reader response to Tom’s historical fiction adventures has been promising. “A true pleasure … the richness of the layers of Tom’s novel is compelling,” writes Fatima Sharrafedine in her foreword to “The Illustrated Boatman’s Daughter.” The Midwest Book Review calls that same adventure “uniformly gripping and educational … pairing action and adventure with social issues.” Adds Prairie Review, “A deeply intriguing, ambitious historical fiction series.”
Tom briefly ran his own children’s book imprint, Calico Books (Contemporary Books, Chicago). Tom’s newspaper column “Shelter” appeared in the North County Times for seven years. Tom earned a Masters in English Literature in San Diego, where he also served as Executive Director of San Diego Habitat for Humanity.
Two of Tom’s books, “Kid Lit” and “The Illustrated Boatman’s Daughter,” were selected “Best of the New” by Julie Sara Porter’s Bookworm Book Alert
