“If I’m remembered 100 years from now, I hope it will be not for looks but for books.” -Dolly Parton
When I found out that Dolly Parton had died last Tuesday after a brief battle with cancer, I actually gasped out loud. Not Dolly! She can’t leave us. We need her so much! Then I did something I haven’t done in a long time. I cried a full-on ugly cry with blubbering tears rolling down my cheeks and snot getting into my hair.
Dolly wasn’t a relative or a close friend. She was a famous person who I never met. She was an iconic celebrity. And at the same time, she was very down to earth.
I first became aware of Dolly Parton as a talented singer, musician, and songwriter when her hit “Here You Come Again” was racing up both the country and pop charts. She wrote the classics “Jolene” and “I Will Always Love You” (the latter song becoming a boffo hit for the late Whitney Houston) on the same day. And years later, I appreciated Dolly’s performances in movies like 9 to 5 and Steel Magnolias.
Another thing you couldn’t help but notice about Dolly was her unique look and image. For Dolly, “more was more.” The Queen of Maximalism, Dolly sported a wardrobe of many colors, not to mention sparkles and rhinestones. With her bodacious bustline and gallery of golden wigs, some people wanted to write off Dolly as a dumb blonde. But Dolly was no dummy. She was also was not a blonde.
Dolly’s fans were (and remain) a cross-section of people that included both rednecks and drag queens. Interestingly enough, a few days before her death, I caught a fascinating documentary about Dolly that included footage of young punk rockers, complete with studded leather jackets and bright pink mohawks at one of her UK concerts. Years ago, my friend Nora and I saw the goth band Sisters of Mercy in concert, and during one of the band’s songs, lead singer Andrew Eldritch morphed into singing “Jolene” and the entire audience sang along.
And then there was Dolly’s philanthropic projects, which benefitted a multitude of causes and helped men, women, and children. But probably the philanthropic project that means the most to me is Dolly’s Imagination Library. Established in 1995, Dolly’s Imagination Library has provided countless children age-appropriate free books from the moment of birth until a child turns five years old. These books also include those in Braille for blind children. In the more than thirty years it’s been in operation, the Imagination Library has donated books that so far has exceeded over 300,000,000 books, and I’m sure it will only grow with Dolly’s passing. Knowing her love of books, children, and giving back should make us so grateful that we existed the same time as Dolly Parton. Heaven has gained a beautiful new angel. Dolly, we will always love you.
To learn more about the Imagination Library and to also make a donation, here is link to its website.
Back in 2018, Mathias B. Freese reached out to me to review his book And Then I Am Gone: A Walk with Thoreau. I thoroughly enjoyed this book and was only too happy to read and review other books by Freese. Now Freese has released what he considers his last book Straw Shoes.
With Straw Shoes, it looks like Freese is going out with a bang. His final act of writing is already getting excellent reviews. His first review on Amazon raved: “Having read and been continually impressed with almost all of Mathias’ books, it is refreshing to enter his thoughts anew in what may just his finest work to date. Reading this fine novel reminds us of the profound depth of intelligence that is Mathias Freese. His eloquent words are never presumptuous or distancing, but instead invite us into the sphere of his insightful mind, a jurisdiction that becomes a golden opportunity to engage and be in his moment. Mathias is wise, thoughtful, inspiring – and a very fine writer. This is a gentle masterwork!
And reviewer Diana Stevan enthused: “I’ve read a number of Freese’s books, and I’ve been rewarded every time. Freese dives deep into his characters, explores the humanity there, and shows what humankind is capable of when faced with adversity. Straw Shoes is the story of Ah Ling, a 19th century Chinese farmer, whose wife has just given birth to a girl. Though he loves her dearly, he wished he had a son to help with the farming. Feeling life passing him by, he “gambles with Fate and leaves his fields for the brutal promise of Gold Rush-era San Francisco. Ah struggles with that age-old question: ‘Am I all that I can be?’ I was so impressed with the author’s ability to put the reader back in time and have them feel what Ah goes through as he works as a Chinese immigrant during the gold rush days in California. The author’s knowledge and research shine through but never overshadow Ah’s journey to find himself. A highly recommended read.”
At author Anthony Avina’s blog he claims Straw Shoes is a 10 out of 10 and says Freese’s final work is: “A poignant, heartfelt, and enlightening work of fiction, Author Mathias Freese’s “Straw Shoes” is a must-read historical fiction story that blends metaphysical themes with genre fiction. This novel immediately engages readers intellectually and philosophically while crafting an immersive narrative that highlights a journey of self-discovery and lessons earned through a lifetime of experience. If you haven’t yet, please be sure to grab your copy of this amazing authors final work today!”
Long impressed with Freese’s work, I couldn’t help but ask him If he’d be willing to be interviewed for my blog. He gladly said yes, and his thoughtful and wise answers not only give us more insight on Mathias B. Freese as a writer, but also as a fully-dimensional human being.
How did you get into writing and how did your personal and professional lives affect your writing?
I did not get into writing. Writing got into me. Looking back, I wish I had a set of drums to let it all out. I was a mediocre student in English. I was a highly frustrated, repressed, depressed and in express young boy who spent his life at home in a pool of benign neglect. I was there, but I was not there. So much like the species, my parents did not know any better.
I was intelligent, but I didn’t know that nor my parents. I awoke to my innate gifts about 32. My first writing effort was a poem during a miserable time of my life. I submitted it to my English teacher who grossly misread it and cut it down so much that I did not recognize it when it was published in my senior yearbook. I was Munch’s scream but no one knew, least of all me. I was unknown to myself. In short, psychic and emotional pain started me off as a writer.
All of my writing as I look back derives from a need to become aware of myself and the world I live in. It is a sweet curiosity that has led to a lot of good writing. Consequently, I suffered from all the assets and deficits of being an auto-didact. Some wit calculated that if we took all the grains of sand from all the beaches of the world it would not add up to all the stars in this one universe; add that to the fact that the odds of my birth probably have forty all more zeros after it. I have a good sense of my standing in this world. I am a mote borne by ephemera.
I do my due diligence knowing full well that nothing will be remembered, or is of importance. So why must I feel the need to write? I cannot answer. But I can say that I persevere for in some way writing clarifies who I am. Most if not all of my writing is confessional.
A sensitive therapist once offered a compelling interpretation that I have always kept in mind. She said I have a unique drive and an abundance of awareness. Since I took in as a young soul and could not give out, observations were banked; at this time, I have fairly used up my savings after eleven books. Drive often saw me writing short stories during hall duty as a teacher, on Saturdays, my day off; drive gave me persistence and perseverance. I never thought of myself as a writer or gifted, for this came much later on. The adage says, “We grow old too soon and smart too late.”
I wrote for years not as a writer earning his living. I wrote to ease confusion, pain and internal anger and rage. I recall once rewriting a paragraph at least 24 times and it still, although grammatically impeccable, sucked. So green I was I thought grammar made a story. The repetition, a Niagara flow, taught me how to cast out, at last, a decent sentence. As to theme and plot, as to meaning, I had no sense of that as yet. That was tomorrow. Years of wandering, Time, may be the writer’s stalwart friend.
Between 18 and 34 I wrote inconsistently but I wrote. What skills I acquired were serendipitous. Writing was my drums. By 34 I had grown, entered therapy, settled down, had children, but whenever I could the infection stayed with me in that I needed or I had to write. Much like a foot fungus I could not get rid of it, a hobby gone wild. I had evolved and I had diversified. I became dimly aware. By 1974 I had submitted a very primal short story about the triad, me, my mother and father; it was ladened, a wise reader said to me, with all kinds of primal needs, incestuous wishes and even a touch of cannibalism. It was a good story. I called it “Herbie.” because it required a nerdy name to it. Herbie was my father’s name as well.
Herbie was published in 1974 in a reputable literary magazine, my first short story. By 2008 I had enough stories to put out a book of stories, Down to a Sunless Sea. But I get ahead of myself. Of course, I was thrilled. I was even more thrilled to receive a letter from Martha Foley, who had edited Hemingway and now the editor of the Best American Short Stories anthologies. She advised me I had been chosen for Distinctive Short Stories of 1974. At that time, I realized, again dimly, that I was now a writer of note. I had arrived. It took sixteen years. But I never did count them. When I saw the names of Isaac Bashevis Singer and Joyce Carol Oates, I had no idea who they were. I had no writer friends. I was writing stories in rural America for all that mattered. I was a rube. In short, I felt like a baby elephant among majestic bull elephants; yet I had talent apparently. I was a member of the herd.
From then on, I just wrote to please myself and I wrote whatever came into my heart and soul; I never became a Joyce Maynard (do you recall her and J.D. Salinger?). I never sold out. My royalties are just enough for an extended lunch at Waffle House. It has been my blessing to knock a book out almost every two or three years in my eighties. No cognitive decline here. I was an existential and analytical psychotherapist for twenty years. Was I terrific? Was I very special? No. I was just good. “Good” is fine with me. I believe I am a good writer because I write not from my heart but from my soul. [I believe there is a difference; rather I be soul-felt than heartfelt.] And I really don’t care if you like my work or not. Don’t you realize I am healing myself? Make way. Allow me to exit the hospital doors alone on my crutches.
Describe your latest book. Why do you think it will be your last book?
I am asked to describe my latest book, Straw Shoes. I begin with a query I sent out to Chinese-American associations in order to publicize the book. The query says: I am an author of note. I am also a local author residing in Athens, Alabama. Google has about six pages about me; my site is www.mathiasbfreese.com. I have been writing for over 50 years. I have published two fictional works on the Holocaust and co-authored an early book on Black history. Between 1969 and 1972 I worked as a curricula writer on a Title III federal project designed to create racial and ethnic materials for the local school districts on Long Island, NY.
In this capacity it was my good fortune to meet with Betty Lee Sung, a librarian in Freeport. She had published Mountain of Gold. I interviewed her. Based on that I wrote a short story about Chinese working on the railroad; that morphed into a novel and later on it was submitted as my master’s thesis at SUNY at Stony Brook. I tried to have it published, but it was rejected. However, I was informed it was more than a worthy effort. I put it away for over five decades.
Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning consists of his experiences and reflections in a concentration camp. I find the title apt for my book. When I wrote Sojourner and only recently after editing changed it to Straw Shoes, I was seeking meaning in my own life. The book is very much a book of that time in my life—the book of a young man–in which I was seeking meaning, purpose, call it intention so as to align myself for the adventure that lay ahead. The adventure is coming to a close. Like all or most of my writing, the book is an explanation I give myself for what is my life. I have used this mantra to explain my transit in the cosmos: I am often the last one to know. As if everyone else gets it and I don’t until the final inning. That is coming to an end as well,
As I canoe through these few paragraphs, I see surroundings much better. It is time for observations. Straw Shoes really posed the question of what is one to do during this short sojourn; there was a taste of despair in this, an undercoating of depression as if life was dull without patina, unlived would be the better way to express it. It is more than fifty years ago but right now I can just taste a bit of that despair so I set out to write my way not out of it but to sink into this sargasso sea and muddle through which human beings do any way as far as history has shown or taught me. After all, what is the Odyssey about?
I put the book away for decades, never really thought about it. I viewed it as my first novel and a training ground for me as a writer. I underestimated its worth. That was a delightful mistake. Now in my eighties I retrieved it one day and wondered if it needed to be dusted off, tuned and lubricated. I asked my editor to read it. The fear was that I was coasting, resurrecting old stuff instead of inventing new. He felt it had much merit. I was taken by that, feeling it was amateurish. But I am the last one to know, often desiring to be the first to know about me! So I went at it like taking a Publix roasted chicken apart; I pulled here, tore there, dropped that, and really, I discovered, there was not much to do. The book stood on its own merits. This pleased me after reading it twice after publication. Not bad, I thought.
It is my final book as costs and the weird turn publicity has become, so much over my head that as a writer I feel I am attached to a digital leash. That is another essay. I am feeling much like Kurt Vonnegut who stopped writing because he felt he had spent all his savings. What I found charming about him was when asked questions about writing he responded in a way that I found instructive, encouraging, and artistic. He simply said that each of us should write a poem or paint a picture or build a hut like Thoreau at Walden Pond. He felt the creative act free of judgment is vital to each of us as an individual. I agree. So, in part I say enough is enough; be an artist in the way you go about your life. Have no fear. I will continue to write. I hate Trump and how he has trashed this country in collusion with a fair share of its people as well to write about.
What inspired you to write on so many topics and in so many genres?
The interviewer would like to know why I have written across genres and on so many subjects. Not by intent, that is for sure. Serendipity is my steed. I free associate a lot before I write and when I go down the Mississippi. I let the raft follow the river’s course. I have never felt I was a professional author. I just went my unruly way. You cannot harness a free association. You can suck it dry for inspiration. I say forget plot and follow association or stream of consciousness. Be brave.
Any new non-book related projects on the horizon? What will you do if you’re not writing?
I lived and existed before TV. My son, who is now 50, lived and existed before the Internet. He is viewed as the old man where he works as a computer specialist. We both laugh at the foolish question of how we ever got along without this or that. Before TV I read, I actually played! Radio made me imagine Superman’s flight. I sucked on the analog teat and I can read and write, thank goodness. The psychoanalytic term for deriving a reward from an activity which one does not plan for is called secondary gain. The secondary gain for cellphone use is to coalesce and coagulate about emptiness. In my time the secondary gain was reading, books that had pages, to listen, et al. All I needed as a young boy was a rubber ball as I walked the streets of my community. I created play. Rubber balls have disappeared. And so much creativity has died. The interviewer did not mean to be funny or inane when I am asked “What will I do if I no longer am writing? I will live. Writing is not life, never will be. It is the secondary gain of living life. Read Krishnamurti’s, Think on These Things. He does a better job of it than I can.
What will you do if you’re motivated to write again? What if that muse visits once again?
Will I ever write again? Yes. Does my heart pump blood? Allow me to put it this way. If all my books were set before me and incinerated, I would not shed a tear. We are all evanescent. Why not consider wonderful books the ashes of wonderful imaginings by creative people? We live a cosmic hoax. Birth. Life. Death. The horror of Donald Trump is that he has no idea that he is not alive, blowing off the time he has left to live. A great dramatist has yet to pen that tale in print. In the time I have left I wish only to suck out the marrow of existence, moment to moment.
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Advice sucks. What good is it? Why follow another human being’s patterns or idiosyncrasies? Become a better listener or what Theodore Reik called listening with the third ear. Thoreau said it best when he chose to take his own guidance and entered the woods to live deliberately. Do you realize that this adverb is one of the greatest ever used in literature? I am off to see the wizard.
Mental Health America (MHA): A community-focused nonprofit providing public education, screening tools, and advocacy.
The Trevor Project: Specialized 24/7 crisis intervention and suicide prevention services for LGBTQ+ youth.
Active Minds: A youth and young adult focused group changing mental health norms in schools and communities.
Office on Women’s Health: Provides official guidance, education, and a get help directory listing helplines for trauma, domestic violence, and depression. Postpartum Support International: Offers specialized support, online groups, and a helpline (1-800-944-4PPD (4773) for maternal depression, anxiety, and perinatal mental health. SeekHer Foundation: Focuses on women’s mental health advocacy, offering research-backed insights, virtual community spaces (SeekHer Circle), and nationwide leadership workshops. [1] Maternal Mental Health Leadership Alliance: Works at the national level to advocate for policies and improve mental health care for mothers.
Man Therapy: Combines straight talk and humor to break down stigma, offering an online “Head Inspection” self-check and connection to local care. [1] HeadsUpGuys: Dedicated to fighting depression and suicide in men, providing self-checks, practical tips, and recovery stories. [1] Movember: Funds breakthrough mental health and suicide prevention programs tailored to male populations worldwide. [1] Face It Foundation: Offers peer support groups and social settings designed specifically for men navigating depression. [1, 2] Black Men Heal: Focuses on the mental health needs of Black men by reducing stigma and providing access to culturally competent care and free therapy sessions. [1, 2]
Even before it was published, Caro Claire Burke’s novel Yesteryear was being buzzed about in the media and book-loving circles. Oscar-winner, Anne Hathaway, optioned the movie rights of Yesteryear before it was released this past spring caused even more of a frenzy. This is quite an accomplishment for a novice author like Burke who has quite a following on TikTok and a popular podcast called Diabolical Lies, but is still an untested when it comes to writing a book.
Yesteryear is now a huge bestseller and popular pick amongst book clubs. It’s flying off the shelves at book stores and the waiting lists at libraries to get one’s hands on a copy of Yesteryear is quite long. And boy, do people have their opinions about Yesteryear. Yesteryear is book that is both loved and loathed, which could be why I had such difficulty writing my own reviews of Yesteryear.
Meet Natalie Heller Mills. Natalie is married to Caleb. They live on Yesteryear Ranch with their five children. Natalie is currently pregnant with their sixth. But Natalie isn’t content to be a loving wife and devoted mother (allegedly. She is also a hugely popular trad wife social media influencer with a large following. She posts countless videos extolling the virtues of her life on Yesteryear Ranch, which includes living off the land, home schooling, strict traditional gender roles, and right wing Christian values. And Natalie’s loyal fan base licks it up like it’s chocolate frosting on wooden spoon.
Now you would think Natalie would grateful for her following but she regards them with nothing but derision and disdain. She figures her following include bitter feminists, childless cat ladies, and shrill girl bosses. And they must be so jealous of Natalie and her enviable life.
Before there was Natalie of Yesteryear Ranch and social media fame, there was a younger Natalie who grew up in conservative Christian home in Idaho. Smart enough to get into Harvard, where she has a very uneasy relationship with her party girl roommate Reena, Natalie soon meets Caleb. Caleb and Natalie fall in love and drop out of Harvard to get married. Soon Natalie is pregnant with their daughter Clementine (despite Caleb’s inability to get a decent erection).
Caleb is part of a wealthy and politically powerful family. He’s also rather dim and has all the ambition of a sloth. And despite his family connections, Caleb has a hard time finding a decent job. Natalie encourages him to buy a ranch thinking it will give him something to do. But it’s her social media savvy that makes Yesteryear a massive success.
Natalie tries to convince her audience that she and Caleb do everything themselves on Yesteryear. But things are quite different behind the scenes. Natalie and Caleb have a network of ranch hands, several nannies, and a social media producer named Shannon. And its Shannon’s involvement with the Mills family that completely turns Natalie’s life upside down causing her to go from social media sweetheart to public enemy number one.
Then one day Natalie wakes up in another dimension; it appears she’s gone back in time, to 1855 to be exact. The house she lives in looks familiar but it lacks modern amenities we take for granted like indoor plumbing. She appears to have four children, two girls named Mary and Maeve, and two younger boys. Her husband is a much older version of Caleb who she ends up calling Old Caleb. Natalie freaks out and tries to escape only to get her foot caught in a snare tramp. Just what the heck is going on? Has she been drugged? Is she having a really bad nightmare? Or is she caught up in the worst and most batshit insane reality TV show ever and the only thing she can do is be rescued by some kindly souls?
While in the past, Natalie deals with the challenges faced in the 19th century while also coming across things of the modern age, things like ramen noodles, television, and the “Manosphere.” The manosphere? Ugh. It’s all too trippy, and would probably drive even the most levelheaded person completely batshit. It’s all too trippy.
Suddenly, before you can start singing, “I Go the Outhouse Blues,” Natalie is back at Yesteryear Ranch. But now her eldest child, Clementine is a young adult. Did Natalie age that much while in the past or has she been thrust into the future.
Five years later Yesteryear Ranch is a thing of the past, and Natalie is in a really bad place. And her old nemesis, her former roommate Reena is now a successful journalist and is ready to interview Natalie on how her life went completely off the rails, much of it due to her very own deplorable actions.
As Yesteryear comes to its conclusion, we are thrown for a loop and probably in complete shock (well, I was). Natalie as mother, wife, and all-around human being is far from what we could have imagined. I have to admit, Natalie’s comeuppance was surprise to me. I really didn’t see it coming.
Yesteryear is a crazy salad mash up of straight narrative tale, mystery novel, time travel, satire, and one author’s glimpse into the world of trad wives and social media fame.
Is Yesteryear entertaining? Yes, it definitely kept my interest and I turned page after page. But I do have my less than favorable thoughts. Burke never really gives us a thorough on how Natalie’s youth and background shaped her as an adult. It’s never stated what exact religion Natalie was raised in. Is she Mormon, Evangelical Christian, or Trad Catholic? Plus, I think Burke could have done a deeper dive on various topics like motherhood, gender roles, marriage, politics, religion, and how all of these things make up the world trad wives.
Yesteryear maybe a novel you love. It maybe one you loathe. But it’s not one you’ll easily forget.
In Beth Morrey’s novel Delphine Jones Takes a Chance, Delphine Jones is barely eaking out a living. A single mom in working class England, Delphine lives with her father and daughter Emily (aka Em). Delphine’s life looks bleak. She works a go-nowhere job at a coffee shop. She and her depressed father are still mourning the death of Delphine’s French-born mother in a traffic accident. Delphine’s life is at a stand still. And she wonders if things will ever get better for her, her father, and her beloved daughter, Em.
Once upon a time, things weren’t so dreary for Delphine. A smart and diligent student, Delphine got pregnant while still in high school. Choosing to be a teen mom, Delphine pretty much had to drop out of high school. This meant no furthering her education, taking her A levels, attending uni, and settling into a promising and well-paying profession. Today, Delphine is bitter and battered. But she is also a devoted mom who wants to improve her lot in life. Delphine needs to take a chance.
Delphine quits her crappy job in a fit when of anger after a customer treats her poorly. But fortunately, she’s able to procure a better job at a local restaurant where the customers are much nicer and her bosses are truly benevolent. It’s at this point, Delphine’s life takes a more positive turn. I’m all for positive turns, but Delphine’s positive turns are a bit over the top and unrealistic. But let me go on.
Before you know it, Delphine’s life is on major positive trajectory. She joins a local music combo, which gains a bit of a following and promises so romantic possibilities. An older lady named Letty takes a grandmotherly liking to Delphine and takes her on a holiday to France.
And then there’s Delphine’s pursuit of her A levels in English. She connects with Roz, a former famous actress turned English teacher. Of course, Delphine is a dedicated student and excels in her lessons. Is there anything Delphine can’t do?
Speaking of being a student, Delphine lessons prompt her to seek out her high school boyfriend Adam, getting a bit stalkerish. It’s at this point the book goes back in time and we learn the truth about that night when Delphine got pregnant with Em. It’s quite shocking and a total doozy, yet Morrey chooses to just gloss over it and it’s regarded as no big deal. It’s a major plot point, but it’s written as if Delphine went to the corner store to buy a packet of crisps.
And it’s this reason why I can’t recommend Delphine Jones Takes a Chance 100%. Both Delphine Jones and the reader deserve not to be cheated out of what could have been a vastly more superior read. And that’s a pity.
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