Jewel

( 38 )

Overview

In the backwoods of Mississippi, a land of honeysuckle and grapevine, Jewel and her husband, Leston, are truly blessed; they have five fine children. When Brenda Kay is born in 1943, Jewel gives thanks for a healthy baby, last-born and most welcome. Jewel is the story of how quickly a life can change; how, like lightning, an unforeseen event can set us on a course without reason or compass. In this story of a woman's devotion to the child who is both her burden and God's singular way of smiling on her, Bret Lott ...
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Overview

In the backwoods of Mississippi, a land of honeysuckle and grapevine, Jewel and her husband, Leston, are truly blessed; they have five fine children. When Brenda Kay is born in 1943, Jewel gives thanks for a healthy baby, last-born and most welcome. Jewel is the story of how quickly a life can change; how, like lightning, an unforeseen event can set us on a course without reason or compass. In this story of a woman's devotion to the child who is both her burden and God's singular way of smiling on her, Bret Lott has created a mother-daughter relationship of matchless intensity and beauty, and one of the finest, most indomitable heroines in contemporary American fiction.

In this masterful portrayal of a mother's heartbreak and her devotion to a child who is both a blessing and a burden, Bret Lott takes a quantum leap forward. He transports readers to the backwoods of Mississippi, to 1943 and to the subject of truly great novels -- love's redemptive power.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Jewel and her husband, Leston, have been blessed by a fifth child, a girl they name Brenda Kay. But Brenda Kay, who was born with Down's syndrome, is also a challenge. In this inspirational and deeply moving audiobook, Jewel realizes that Brenda Kay is her special gift from God. Read by Celia Weston.
Judith Freeman
In this sweeping and beautifully written book, Mr. Lott has given us something unusual -- an unsentimental account of the life of a woman from rural Mississippi who transcends poverty and ignorance to become part of a pioneering movement in the treatment of children with Down syndrome. . . .He has written a story that portrays one family's devotion to the weakest of its members, and in the process he has created a parable for our age.
The New York Times Book Review
Chicago Tribune
Bret Lott's Jewel is a beautifully crafted first-person epic of one poor southern woman's personal duel with God....This is a voice we don't want to stop hearing....Some of the tenderest scenes of family love since those in Dickens....
Boston Globe
Bret Lott has a gift for making the ordinary seem luminous. In Jewel, he applies his art to a broad canvas and produces what may stand as his masterpiece....Lott matches the honest strength of his characters with that of his prose. His Jewel is a force of nature, her story rising out of a perfect, seamless union of teller and tale.
LA Times Book Review
Lott is one of the most important and imaginative writers in America today. His eye for detail is unparalleled; his vision -- where he looks -- is like no one else's in this country.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Jewel Hilburn, the strong-willed narrator of this haunting novel set in rural Mississippi, lavishes the parental love she never received upon her own child, who is afflicted with Down's syndrome.
Library Journal
Jewel Hilburn is 39 years old and the mother of five when Brenda Kay is born. A Down's Syndrome child, Brenda Kay becomes the focus of her mother's world and forever alters the life of the Hilburns. Jewel tells her own story, but her life becomes so intertwined with that of her daughter that such milestones as Brenda Kay's first step at age two and her learning to write the letter "B'' at age 18 become joint achievements. Based on the lives of the author's grandmother and aunt, Jewel captures the intricate details of raising a retarded child -- the total dedication demanded of a mother, the child's impact on the rest of the family, the joy and heartbreak of having a child who will remain eternally six years old. Lott has produced a powerful novel.
-- Thomas L. Kilpatrick, Southern Illinois University at Carbondale Library
Library Journal
Jewel Hilburn is 39 years old and the mother of five when Brenda Kay is born. A Down's Syndrome child, Brenda Kay becomes the focus of her mother's world and forever alters the life of the Hilburns. Jewel tells her own story, but her life becomes so intertwined with that of her daughter that such milestones as Brenda Kay's first step at age two and her learning to write the letter "B'' at age 18 become joint achievements. Based on the lives of the author's grandmother and aunt, Jewel captures the intricate details of raising a retarded child -- the total dedication demanded of a mother, the child's impact on the rest of the family, the joy and heartbreak of having a child who will remain eternally six years old. Lott has produced a powerful novel.
-- Thomas L. Kilpatrick, Southern Illinois University at Carbondale Library
Dallas Morning News
Brilliant...a reminder of one of the chief reasons to read: for the experience, for the story.
From the Publisher
The New York Times Book Review Sweeping and beautifully written....a parable for our age.

The Chicago Tribune Bret Lott's Jewel is a beautifully crafted first-person epic of one poor southern woman's personal duel with God....This is a voice we don't want to stop hearing....Some of the tenderest scenes of family love since those in Dickens....

The Los Angeles Times Lott is one of the most important and imaginative writers in America today. His eye for detail is unparalleled; his vision — where he looks — is like no one else's in this country.

The Boston Globe Bret Lott has a gift for making the ordinary seem luminous. In Jewel, he applies his art to a broad canvas and produces what may stand as his masterpiece....Lott matches the honest strength of his characters with that of his prose. His Jewel is a force of nature, her story rising out of a perfect, seamless union of teller and tale.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780783885919
  • Publisher: Cengage Gale
  • Publication date: 1/1/1950
  • Edition description: LARGEPRINT

Meet the Author

Bret Lott is a native of Los Angeles, California. His parents were raised in Mississippi and East Texas and relocated to Los Angeles in the 1950s. It is this Southern heritage — going all the way back to the War Between the States — that Mr. Lott has drawn on in writing Jewel. He is the author of five highly acclaimed novels, The Man Who Owned Vermont, A Stranger's House, Jewel, Reed's Beach, and The Hunt Club, as well as two collections of widely anthologized short stories, A Dream of Old Leaves and How to Get Home, and a memoir, Fathers, Sons, and Brothers. He lives with his wife and two sons near Charleston, South Carolina, and teaches at the College of Charleston and Vermont College.

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Read an Excerpt

From Book One
1943
CHAPTER 1

I was born in 1904, so that when I was pregnant in 1943 I was near enough to be past the rightful age to bear children. This would be my sixth, and on that morning in February, the first morning I'd known I was with child, I'd simply turned to Leston in bed next to me, the room gray from a winter sky outside the one window, that sky not yet lit with the sun, and I'd said, "There'll be no more after this one."
He rolled onto his back, his eyes still shut, the little hair he still had wild and loose on his head. He put his hands behind his head, and gave a sort of smile, one I'd seen enough times before this. Five times before, to be exact.
He said, "Another one," and kept the smile. Then he said, "What makes you think so?"
I said, "Doesn't take divining, not after five," and I paused. I reached a hand up from beneath the quilts, felt the chill of the morning on my skin, that skin the same color gray as the small strip of sky I could see above the box pine and live oak outside the window. I touched Leston's cheek, did the best I could to smooth out his hair. He was still smiling.
I said, "I just know."
Then came the morning sounds, sounds of the everyday of our lives: first the slam shut of the front door as James, our oldest, started on his way to work at Crampton's Lumber; then the scrape of our other two boys, Burton and Wilman, from their room above us, the first sounds of tussling and fooling that started now and ended only after dark, the boys back in bed. Those two, I thought as I lay there, my hand back under the quilts to keep warm as long as I could, we'd had too close together, Burton seven, Wilman almost six. Billie Jean, my second child, would not be up for as long as I would let her sleep, around her on the bunched and rumpled blankets of her bed the movie magazines she lived for, fanned around her like leaves off a tree. And Anne, my baby, would be stirring soon, then following Burton and Wilman around like a lost dog, wanting only to be one of them, blessed by the rough and tumble of pinecone wars and whittling knives.
I heard Wilman say, "That's not yours," then Burton putting in, "But it was," and then the pop and crack of the heart pine floor above us as the two started in on each other.
"Boys," Leston called out, his voice as deep and solid as every morning.
The fighting stopped, the room upstairs as quiet now as when they were asleep.
"Sir?" they called out together.
Leston smiled, though on my boys' voices was the certain sound of fear. He said, "Chunk up the stove. The two of you."
"Yes sir," they gave back to him, and then their whispering started, and I knew whatever they were fighting over wouldn't be settled until sometime late in the day, if at all.
Leston sat up in bed, turned so that his back was to me, his feet on the floor. He looked to the window, then down to the floor. He brought a hand to his face, rubbed it, ran that hand back through his hair. Wisps of it still hung in the cold air, copper going gray, the line of his shoulders still the same hard and broad line I'd seen the first time I met him, the same shoulders I'd held while we'd conceived each of our children this far. But now, his head hung forward, his hands holding tight the edge of the mattress, I thought I could see for the first time the weight of age upon him, those shoulders with the burden of our years and our five children, one of them already set to working his way through the world, and me with a brand-new one now on the way.
Leston had left the quilts pulled back, my face and shoulders and arms out there to the cold. He lifted his face to the gray window again, gave out a heavy breath that shone in a small cloud before him, the room so cold. Leston said, "No more after this will set fine with me."
Then I shivered, felt it through my whole body, a shiver so deep whatever warmth I'd had beneath the quilts disappeared entirely, and I knew my sleep was over, that day and all the days left to me until this next child was born now begun. I let out a deep breath, too, saw the cloud it made in the room, and in that breath I saw what I'd known all along, known all the days until this one when I'd been thinking maybe, just maybe I was going to have another child: it was me, too, that age was weighing down on hard.
I sat up in bed, put my feet on the cold pine floor, my back to Leston. I stood, called out, "Boys," heard Wilman and Burton holler, "Yes ma'am!" The floor above us filled up with the scrabbling of two boys trying to get their clothes on, then the rattle of them both on the stairs.
I was on my way to the door and breakfast when Leston, behind me and still on the bed, said, "Jewel Hilburn, you take care."
I turned to him, my hand already on the doorknob. He'd gotten the smile back, his eyes the same deepwater green I'd known for what felt all my life.
I said, "You know I will," and held my eyes on him.
He said, "That I do," and nodded, and then I was out the door and on into the kitchen.

I'd taken care of myself most all my days, though things had eased up once I met Leston. Before that, though, before Leston and the stop and start of our having children and trying to feed our own selves, there was a world sometimes I would like to sooner forget than think about at all. But it's history that matters, what keeps you together in the tight ball of nerves and flesh you are and makes you you and not someone else.
I was an orphan at age eleven, my mother dead of a fever, my father not two months before she passed on having broke his neck on a log just under the water at the bend in the Black River, the bend nearest town where the post oak lay low to the water, and where, in spring, light through the leaves breaks across the river so that nothing can be seen beneath. He broke his neck right then, right there, with the quick and simple dare of diving into water, and when I was a little girl of eleven with both my mother and father gone, and me living suddenly with a grandmother I'd only met three times before, I used to imagine it wasn't a fever that killed my mother, but a broken heart at the death of her beloved.
But the truth was he'd moved into a logging shack a year before he'd broke his neck, and only showed up to our house at twilight on Saturday nights to have at my mother, then to attend church the next morning, his black hair slicked back and shiny with pomade. It was the thick and sweet smell of his hair that woke me up Sunday mornings, me staying up just as late as the two of them the night before, listening through the walls to the mystery they tended to each Saturday night, sounds I'd hear again only when Leston and I were together, so that on our wedding night twelve years later the low moan he made and the pitch and twirl of sounds I heard coming from me were like the ghosts of my long dead parents, sounds I knew but had forgotten in the cloud of years filled with taking care of me and me alone.
Sunday mornings we would go to church, where we'd sit in the pew, me between my momma and daddy, their only child. I'd had a brother, who only now comes to me as part shadow, pail light, a baby born when I was three and who died when I was four, and there are times before I go to bed when I will stop in at Burton and Wilman's room, sometimes even James', though he has fast become a man and lost the look of a child, and I will see in their faces the faintest trace of my brother, the thin baby line of an eyebrow I believe may have belonged to him, the open mouth and pale lips soft with air in and out which perhaps I am remembering, perhaps imagining. No real memories do I have of him, except for the idea somewhere of my daddy holding Joseph Jr. on one knee and playing buggety-buggety, and the picture in my head of a baby asleep. But that's all I remember of my brother, and even calling that a memory is giving the image in my head more credit than is due.
After church we would file out of the sanctuary into air even hotter than inside, live oaks thick with gray moss like clumps of a dead man's hair fairly lit up with the noise of cicadas, everyone everywhere fanning themselves with bamboo and paper fans printed with the words to "Amazing Grace" on one side, Psalm 23 on the other. Daddy would shake hands with Pastor, pass time with whoever might want to, all the time his one arm round my mother's shoulder, his hair still just as shiny, little runnels of sweat slipping down his sideburns. He acted the part of my daddy, would even on occasion hunch down and kiss me on the cheek, pat my hair, smile at me, though everyone in the entire congregation, and even those heathens not in attendance, knew we no longer lived together.
Once we were home, he would simply see us to the door, give me the pat on the head good-bye I hated even more than his showing up at sundown the night before, and kiss my momma full on the lips. Then he would turn, step down off the porch. Without so much as a backward glance or the smallest of waves, he would head off down our dirt road, back to the logging shack not two miles away.
Momma and I watched him go each time, watched until the road took him deep into pine and cypress, the green of wild grape vines everywhere that swallowed him up. I wished each Sunday afternoon that green would never let him go, wished he'd never make it back to whatever pleasures he found during the week, pleasures he wanted to pursue more than plant himself at home with us, his own. We watched him go, and only once we could see no more movement, no more slips of white shirt through the shield of green forest, did we go in. My momma always went in first, though it had been her he'd given his kiss to, her who'd given her whole self to him. She turned, her eyes down to the porch floor, and moved on inside. I was always the last one out on the porch, just watching that green, hoping he would not find his way out.

The day he broke his neck was a Tuesday. I was already home from school, out on the porch with my tablet and thick red pencil, doing my figuring for the next day. I knew even then I wanted to be a teacher, something in me with the need to lead and stand before people and explain in a plain and simple voice bits of the world they could not know were it not for me. I was only eleven, but knew already, too, that my wanting to teach had to do with my momma and how she acted once Daddy had gone, how our trips into Purvis had become ordeals for her, her standing at the dry goods store and touching a bolt of gingham, a tin of baking powder, looking at them as though they were troubling bits of her own history, things she knew she needed but hated all the same. I ended up taking her by the hand to Mr. Robineau at the register, where she'd give her feeble smile to him as I placed our items on the glass counter, him never meeting our eyes but smiling all the same.
So that on that Tuesday, when I saw four men through the green of the forest, I was the one to go into the house and take her hand and lead her up from her cane rocker, the one she spent most hours of the day in, and out onto the porch. The men had cleared the trees by then, and I could see them, hair wet, faces white, jaws set with the weight of whatever lay in the doubled-up gray wool blanket they toted, one man to a corner, the middle sagging, nearly touching ground with each step they took. They wore only undershirts and blue jeans, all of them barefooted, their feet red with the dust of the road they'd walked.
I wasn't afraid, not even when Momma, behind me, whispered, "Oh," then, louder, "Oh. Oh." I heard her take one step back, then another, but there she stopped. The men were off the road and onto our yard now, their eyes never yet looking up to us; men I couldn't place from anywhere. I looked behind me to Momma, saw her there with a hand to her face, covering her eyes, the other hand at her throat and holding on to the collar of her dress.
I turned to the sound of the men on the porch steps, felt myself backing up too. The four of them moved toward me, struggling with the burden they bore, the wool blanket seeming heavier than anything I'd seen before. Yet they were gentle with it, eased it up and onto the porch itself and inched toward us, finally letting it down onto the wood with a grace I would never see again.
They stood back from it, four men with hands on their hips, eyes on the heap before us. Then one of them, a man with hair as black as my daddy's, hair flat and wet with strands of it long down and into his eyes, squatted, his elbows on his knees, eyes still on the blanket. He put out a hand, held it a moment above the wool, then reached down, took hold of the blanket, and pulled it back to reveal to us my dead and naked father.
His head was bent back from us, so that what I saw first was his throat, already swelled and purple. His face was gone from me, twisted up and away, and for a moment I had no genuine idea in my head who this was, or why he had been brought here. The blanket had been pulled back far enough to bare his chest and arms and stomach and one leg, the edge of the blanket left just below his waist, so that next I saw the pencil-thin line of hair that started at his navel and traced its way beneath the gray wool, disappearing there. He had no hair anywhere else, his skin already turning the milkwhite of the dead, his arms and the one leg I could see bent at the joints, him all movement and peace.
"We was swimming," the man with the black hair said. He still held the edge of the blanket, and my eyes went to his fingers, watched as he slowly rubbed his index finger and thumb together. "We was swimming, and then he just didn't come up. He was jumping off — "
"Benjamin," my momma let out, her word choked and hard in the air. "Stop."
The man, this Benjamin, looked up. His fingers stopped moving, his eyes on my momma.
I looked up to her. She still had a hand to her eyes, the other at her throat, and then I moved toward the blanket, toward the body I still didn't know was my daddy. I wanted to see the face, know who it was, and as I made my way toward where I would see him, two of the men who'd carried him here moved out of my way, their hands still on their hips.
I stood next to this Benjamin, and looked down at my daddy's face. His lips had gone blue, his eyelids gray, his hair matted and snarled.
Benjamin let go the blanket. I didn't move, not yet certain what any of this meant.
Then he put his hand to my back, held it just below my shoulder blades. The touch was near nothing, only contact.
He said, "Your daddy and me was brothers."
But the words didn't mean anything to me. I was thinking of Sunday mornings and the smell of pomade, and of me sitting between the two of them while Pastor gave up to God our congregation's prayers, and how my God had finally answered the prayer I'd been whispering to myself while Pastor pleaded for everyone else: I wanted him never to come back.
Here was my reward for righteous, heartfelt prayer, for asking in Jesus' name what I knew would make my momma and me better off in the long run, no matter what those sounds I heard from their room meant.
Which is why I reached down and picked up the edge of the blanket my uncle had let fall, and pulled it back over my daddy, covered him up. The four men were watching me now, waiting, I figured, for whatever might happen next.
I said, "Bring him on inside." I paused, then said, "Somebody go find Pastor, too."

It would be lifetimes later before I knew what'd really kept me out there on the porch Sunday afternoons long after my momma, kept my eyes on the green and searching for signs of his life. Only after the lifetime between my daddy's death and my momma dying, two months that couldn't be measured by any means of a calendar or the movement of the moon; then the lifetime spent on the little piece of childhood I had left, spent with Missy Cook, my grandma, in a house more dead than my parents would ever be. Then the lifetime of school I spent away in Picayune, lifetimes that ended, all of them, with my first night with Leston and hearing the ghosts of my momma and daddy there in the room with me. And since then have come countless nights spent with those ghost sounds surrounding us, the strength and power and quiet warmth of Leston's hardworked body the surest comfort I have ever known. My silent husband's language grew to be my own body and how he touched me, the miracle of a callused hand placed gently to my cheek, my neck, my breast word enough of the love he held for me.
But on that first night, our wedding night, those sounds of my momma and daddy rose up around us like the resurrected dead: I knew love then, the doom and joy of it, the pain of Leston inside me and the pleasure of knowing the promise of a future. I knew only then that I'd stayed out on the porch because I loved them both enough to wish my daddy dead, but loved them both enough to wish him back.

I have taken care of myself since the moment I pulled the blanket over him, a fact Leston already knew before he'd even let out his words to the cold morning of our room. I knew what loss was, knew what it was God could take away from you, His answers to prayer sometimes the greatest curse you could call down. But even so, I prayed right then and there, my husband sitting on the edge of our bed and growing old in what seemed only the few moments we'd been awake, myself going the same way, too, I knew, that the baby inside me would be born alive and breathing, with ten fingers and ten toes. That was all I sought, what I figured couldn't be too much to ask.

Copyright © 1991 by Bret Lott

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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

Book One: 1943
CHAPTER 1

I was born in 1904, so that when I was pregnant in 1943 I was near enough to be past the rightful age to bear children. This would be my sixth, and on that morning in February, the first morning I'd known I was with child, I'd simply turned to Leston in bed next to me, the room gray from a winter sky outside the one window, that sky not yet lit with the sun, and I'd said, "There'll be no more after this one."

He rolled onto his back, his eyes still shut, the little hair he still had wild and loose on his head. He put his hands behind his head, and gave a sort of smile, one I'd seen enough times before this. Five times before, to be exact.

He said, "Another one," and kept the smile. Then he said, "What makes you think so?"

I said, "Doesn't take divining, not after five," and I paused. I reached a hand up from beneath the quilts, felt the chill of the morning on my skin, that skin the same color gray as the small strip of sky I could see above the box pine and live oak outside the window. I touched Leston's cheek, did the best I could to smooth out his hair. He was still smiling.

I said, "I just know."

Then came the morning sounds, sounds of the everyday of our lives: first the slam shut of the front door as James, our oldest, started on his way to work at Crampton's Lumber; then the scrape of our other two boys, Burton and Wilman, from their room above us, the first sounds of tussling and fooling that started now and ended only after dark, the boys back in bed. Those two, I thought as I lay there, my hand back under the quilts to keep warm as long as I could, we'd had too close together, Burton seven, Wilman almost six. Billie Jean, my second child, would not be up for as long as I would let her sleep, around her on the bunched and rumpled blankets of her bed the movie magazines she lived for, fanned around her like leaves off a tree. And Anne, my baby, would be stirring soon, then following Burton and Wilman around like a lost dog, wanting only to be one of them, blessed by the rough and tumble of pinecone wars and whittling knives.

I heard Wilman say, "That's not yours," then Burton putting in, "But it was," and then the pop and crack of the heart pine floor above us as the two started in on each other.

"Boys," Leston called out, his voice as deep and solid as every morning.

The fighting stopped, the room upstairs as quiet now as when they were asleep.

"Sir?" they called out together.

Leston smiled, though on my boys' voices was the certain sound of fear. He said, "Chunk up the stove. The two of you."

"Yes sir," they gave back to him, and then their whispering started, and I knew whatever they were fighting over wouldn't be settled until sometime late in the day, if at all.

Leston sat up in bed, turned so that his back was to me, his feet on the floor. He looked to the window, then down to the floor. He brought a hand to his face, rubbed it, ran that hand back through his hair. Wisps of it still hung in the cold air, copper going gray, the line of his shoulders still the same hard and broad line I'd seen the first time I met him, the same shoulders I'd held while we'd conceived each of our children this far. But now, his head hung forward, his hands holding tight the edge of the mattress, I thought I could see for the first time the weight of age upon him, those shoulders with the burden of our years and our five children, one of them already set to working his way through the world, and me with a brand-new one now on the way.

Leston had left the quilts pulled back, my face and shoulders and arms out there to the cold. He lifted his face to the gray window again, gave out a heavy breath that shone in a small cloud before him, the room so cold. Leston said, "No more after this will set fine with me."

Then I shivered, felt it through my whole body, a shiver so deep whatever warmth I'd had beneath the quilts disappeared entirely, and I knew my sleep was over, that day and all the days left to me until this next child was born now begun. I let out a deep breath, too, saw the cloud it made in the room, and in that breath I saw what I'd known all along, known all the days until this one when I'd been thinking maybe, just maybe I was going to have another child: it was me, too, that age was weighing down on hard.

I sat up in bed, put my feet on the cold pine floor, my back to Leston. I stood, called out, "Boys," heard Wilman and Burton holler, "Yes ma'am!" The floor above us filled up with the scrabbling of two boys trying to get their clothes on, then the rattle of them both on the stairs.

I was on my way to the door and breakfast when Leston, behind me and still on the bed, said, "Jewel Hilburn, you take care."

I turned to him, my hand already on the doorknob. He'd gotten the smile back, his eyes the same deepwater green I'd known for what felt all my life.

I said, "You know I will," and held my eyes on him.

He said, "That I do," and nodded, and then I was out the door and on into the kitchen.


I'd taken care of myself most all my days, though things had eased up once I met Leston. Before that, though, before Leston and the stop and start of our having children and trying to feed our own selves, there was a world sometimes I would like to sooner forget than think about at all. But it's history that matters, what keeps you together in the tight ball of nerves and flesh you are and makes you you and not someone else.

I was an orphan at age eleven, my mother dead of a fever, my father not two months before she passed on having broke his neck on a log just under the water at the bend in the Black River, the bend nearest town where the post oak lay low to the water, and where, in spring, light through the leaves breaks across the river so that nothing can be seen beneath. He broke his neck right then, right there, with the quick and simple dare of diving into water, and when I was a little girl of eleven with both my mother and father gone, and me living suddenly with a grandmother I'd only met three times before, I used to imagine it wasn't a fever that killed my mother, but a broken heart at the death of her beloved.

But the truth was he'd moved into a logging shack a year before he'd broke his neck, and only showed up to our house at twilight on Saturday nights to have at my mother, then to attend church the next morning, his black hair slicked back and shiny with pomade. It was the thick and sweet smell of his hair that woke me up Sunday mornings, me staying up just as late as the two of them the night before, listening through the walls to the mystery they tended to each Saturday night, sounds I'd hear again only when Leston and I were together, so that on our wedding night twelve years later the low moan he made and the pitch and twirl of sounds I heard coming from me were like the ghosts of my long dead parents, sounds I knew but had forgotten in the cloud of years filled with taking care of me and me alone.

Sunday mornings we would go to church, where we'd sit in the pew, me between my momma and daddy, their only child. I'd had a brother, who only now comes to me as part shadow, pail light, a baby born when I was three and who died when I was four, and there are times before I go to bed when I will stop in at Burton and Wilman's room, sometimes even James', though he has fast become a man and lost the look of a child, and I will see in their faces the faintest trace of my brother, the thin baby line of an eyebrow I believe may have belonged to him, the open mouth and pale lips soft with air in and out which perhaps I am remembering, perhaps imagining. No real memories do I have of him, except for the idea somewhere of my daddy holding Joseph Jr. on one knee and playing buggety-buggety, and the picture in my head of a baby asleep. But that's all I remember of my brother, and even calling that a memory is giving the image in my head more credit than is due.

After church we would file out of the sanctuary into air even hotter than inside, live oaks thick with gray moss like clumps of a dead man's hair fairly lit up with the noise of cicadas, everyone everywhere fanning themselves with bamboo and paper fans printed with the words to "Amazing Grace" on one side, Psalm 23 on the other. Daddy would shake hands with Pastor, pass time with whoever might want to, all the time his one arm round my mother's shoulder, his hair still just as shiny, little runnels of sweat slipping down his sideburns. He acted the part of my daddy, would even on occasion hunch down and kiss me on the cheek, pat my hair, smile at me, though everyone in the entire congregation, and even those heathens not in attendance, knew we no longer lived together.

Once we were home, he would simply see us to the door, give me the pat on the head good-bye I hated even more than his showing up at sundown the night before, and kiss my momma full on the lips. Then he would turn, step down off the porch. Without so much as a backward glance or the smallest of waves, he would head off down our dirt road, back to the logging shack not two miles away.

Momma and I watched him go each time, watched until the road took him deep into pine and cypress, the green of wild grape vines everywhere that swallowed him up. I wished each Sunday afternoon that green would never let him go, wished he'd never make it back to whatever pleasures he found during the week, pleasures he wanted to pursue more than plant himself at home with us, his own. We watched him go, and only once we could see no more movement, no more slips of white shirt through the shield of green forest, did we go in. My momma always went in first, though it had been her he'd given his kiss to, her who'd given her whole self to him. She turned, her eyes down to the porch floor, and moved on inside. I was always the last one out on the porch, just watching that green, hoping he would not find his way out.


The day he broke his neck was a Tuesday. I was already home from school, out on the porch with my tablet and thick red pencil, doing my figuring for the next day. I knew even then I wanted to be a teacher, something in me with the need to lead and stand before people and explain in a plain and simple voice bits of the world they could not know were it not for me. I was only eleven, but knew already, too, that my wanting to teach had to do with my momma and how she acted once Daddy had gone, how our trips into Purvis had become ordeals for her, her standing at the dry goods store and touching a bolt of gingham, a tin of baking powder, looking at them as though they were troubling bits of her own history, things she knew she needed but hated all the same. I ended up taking her by the hand to Mr. Robineau at the register, where she'd give her feeble smile to him as I placed our items on the glass counter, him never meeting our eyes but smiling all the same.

So that on that Tuesday, when I saw four men through the green of the forest, I was the one to go into the house and take her hand and lead her up from her cane rocker, the one she spent most hours of the day in, and out onto the porch. The men had cleared the trees by then, and I could see them, hair wet, faces white, jaws set with the weight of whatever lay in the doubled-up gray wool blanket they toted, one man to a corner, the middle sagging, nearly touching ground with each step they took. They wore only undershirts and blue jeans, all of them barefooted, their feet red with the dust of the road they'd walked.

I wasn't afraid, not even when Momma, behind me, whispered, "Oh," then, louder, "Oh. Oh." I heard her take one step back, then another, but there she stopped. The men were off the road and onto our yard now, their eyes never yet looking up to us; men I couldn't place from anywhere. I looked behind me to Momma, saw her there with a hand to her face, covering her eyes, the other hand at her throat and holding on to the collar of her dress.

I turned to the sound of the men on the porch steps, felt myself backing up too. The four of them moved toward me, struggling with the burden they bore, the wool blanket seeming heavier than anything I'd seen before. Yet they were gentle with it, eased it up and onto the porch itself and inched toward us, finally letting it down onto the wood with a grace I would never see again.

They stood back from it, four men with hands on their hips, eyes on the heap before us. Then one of them, a man with hair as black as my daddy's, hair flat and wet with strands of it long down and into his eyes, squatted, his elbows on his knees, eyes still on the blanket. He put out a hand, held it a moment above the wool, then reached down, took hold of the blanket, and pulled it back to reveal to us my dead and naked father.

His head was bent back from us, so that what I saw first was his throat, already swelled and purple. His face was gone from me, twisted up and away, and for a moment I had no genuine idea in my head who this was, or why he had been brought here. The blanket had been pulled back far enough to bare his chest and arms and stomach and one leg, the edge of the blanket left just below his waist, so that next I saw the pencil-thin line of hair that started at his navel and traced its way beneath the gray wool, disappearing there. He had no hair anywhere else, his skin already turning the milkwhite of the dead, his arms and the one leg I could see bent at the joints, him all movement and peace.

"We was swimming," the man with the black hair said. He still held the edge of the blanket, and my eyes went to his fingers, watched as he slowly rubbed his index finger and thumb together. "We was swimming, and then he just didn't come up. He was jumping off -- "

"Benjamin," my momma let out, her word choked and hard in the air. "Stop."

The man, this Benjamin, looked up. His fingers stopped moving, his eyes on my momma.

I looked up to her. She still had a hand to her eyes, the other at her throat, and then I moved toward the blanket, toward the body I still didn't know was my daddy. I wanted to see the face, know who it was, and as I made my way toward where I would see him, two of the men who'd carried him here moved out of my way, their hands still on their hips.

I stood next to this Benjamin, and looked down at my daddy's face. His lips had gone blue, his eyelids gray, his hair matted and snarled.

Benjamin let go the blanket. I didn't move, not yet certain what any of this meant.

Then he put his hand to my back, held it just below my shoulder blades. The touch was near nothing, only contact.

He said, "Your daddy and me was brothers."

But the words didn't mean anything to me. I was thinking of Sunday mornings and the smell of pomade, and of me sitting between the two of them while Pastor gave up to God our congregation's prayers, and how my God had finally answered the prayer I'd been whispering to myself while Pastor pleaded for everyone else: I wanted him never to come back.

Here was my reward for righteous, heartfelt prayer, for asking in Jesus' name what I knew would make my momma and me better off in the long run, no matter what those sounds I heard from their room meant.

Which is why I reached down and picked up the edge of the blanket my uncle had let fall, and pulled it back over my daddy, covered him up. The four men were watching me now, waiting, I figured, for whatever might happen next.

I said, "Bring him on inside." I paused, then said, "Somebody go find Pastor, too."


It would be lifetimes later before I knew what'd really kept me out there on the porch Sunday afternoons long after my momma, kept my eyes on the green and searching for signs of his life. Only after the lifetime between my daddy's death and my momma dying, two months that couldn't be measured by any means of a calendar or the movement of the moon; then the lifetime spent on the little piece of childhood I had left, spent with Missy Cook, my grandma, in a house more dead than my parents would ever be. Then the lifetime of school I spent away in Picayune, lifetimes that ended, all of them, with my first night with Leston and hearing the ghosts of my momma and daddy there in the room with me. And since then have come countless nights spent with those ghost sounds surrounding us, the strength and power and quiet warmth of Leston's hardworked body the surest comfort I have ever known. My silent husband's language grew to be my own body and how he touched me, the miracle of a callused hand placed gently to my cheek, my neck, my breast word enough of the love he held for me.

But on that first night, our wedding night, those sounds of my momma and daddy rose up around us like the resurrected dead: I knew love then, the doom and joy of it, the pain of Leston inside me and the pleasure of knowing the promise of a future. I knew only then that I'd stayed out on the porch because I loved them both enough to wish my daddy dead, but loved them both enough to wish him back.


I have taken care of myself since the moment I pulled the blanket over him, a fact Leston already knew before he'd even let out his words to the cold morning of our room. I knew what loss was, knew what it was God could take away from you, His answers to prayer sometimes the greatest curse you could call down. But even so, I prayed right then and there, my husband sitting on the edge of our bed and growing old in what seemed only the few moments we'd been awake, myself going the same way, too, I knew, that the baby inside me would be born alive and breathing, with ten fingers and ten toes. That was all I sought, what I figured couldn't be too much to ask.

Copyright © 1991 by Bret Lott

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Reading Group Guide

1. Jewel's mother referred to the stories of who Jewel was and where she came from as "stones in your pocket." What did she mean by this? What were Jewel's "stones" and how did they affect the course of her life?

2. "I say unto you that the baby you be carrying be yo' hardship, be yo' test in this world. This by my prophesying unto you, Miss Jewel." These words of Cathedral not only carried great portent, but also haunted Jewel throughout her life. Discuss the various implications of Cathedral's prophecy.

3. With this same statement, the author interjects a spiritual element to the story. Is it believable? Or does it seem to run counter to the tone of the rest of the book?

4. When Jewel slaps Cathedral, it is a defining moment for them both. Besides expressing Jewel's blaming of Cathedral for Brenda Kay's accident, what else did this act signify? Was slapping Cathedral a slap at faith?

5. Did Jewel's determination and action-oriented path to help Brenda Kay diminish her own religious faith?

6. When Jewel returns to make amends with Cathedral, why does Cathedral reject her and offer no comfort? Why is Cathedral angry and unforgiving?

7. Why did the author assign the names Jewel and Cathedral to these characters? Are we to find meaning in them? If so, what?

8. Jewel's attitude toward blacks and her understanding of racial issues evolved after she moved to California. Was she able to overcome all of her prejudice? Did she eventually see blacks and whites as equal?

9. To what degree did the differences between the racial attitudes of the south and those of Los Angeles affect Leston's ability to adjust to life in Los Angeles?

10. Is Leston a racist? Discuss hisattitude toward blacks.

11. Was Jewel's decision to move to California based solely on her desire to get help for Brenda Kay or was she just as eager to climb out of the ignorance and stagnation of being "white trash?"

12. Can any of Jewel's determination to do better for herself, for Brenda Kay, and for her family be attributed to Missy Cook, the grandmother whom she despised?

13. What was the significance of Missy Cook burning Jewel's and her mother's belongings?

14. What did it mean to Missy Cook? What did it mean to Jewel?

15. Is Jewel fair to Leston? Does she sacrifice too much of him, his happiness, and his wishes for Brenda Kay?

16. Does Leston die a broken man?

17. Leston implies that because of Jewel's fierce love and determination, Brenda Kay would have progressed just as far if they had remained in Mississippi. Do you agree?

18. When Leston insists that they move back to Mississippi, did Jewel give it a chance at all to work? Did Leston deserve to live out his life there? Did Leston really want to return to California or was he bending to Jewel's will?

19. Does the author let us know Leston as much as we need to in order to understand all of his actions?

20. Why does Leston throw away the very lighter that he proclaims is the one thing that will always be his?

21. What finally makes him agree to sell the house he built and move to California? Is it weakness in the face of Jewel's fierce will, or is it the strength of his love for her?

22. How would the experience of a woman today giving birth to a child with Down's syndrome differ from Jewel's? How would it be the same?

.23 Jewel considers Brenda Kay both a burden and a blessing. Are these in equal parts? What blessings does Brenda Kay bring? In the end, does Jewel see her as the hardship she had to bear?

24. If Brenda Kay had been born a normal child, what would have happened to Jewel and her family? Would they have stayed in Mississippi?

25. Does Jewel love Brenda Kay more than her other children?

26. Is Jewel a believable character? Is she flawed enough or too good to be real?

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 38 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(11)

4 Star

(19)

3 Star

(5)

2 Star

(1)

1 Star

(2)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 38 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 23, 2009

    One Woman's Life -- Warts and All

    Jewel Hilburn's life story is not one that is particularly exciting or remarkable. She was a wife and a mother, and from the birth of her sixth and last child on, she became the full time caretaker of a developmentally disabled child. What makes the story worth reading is that we see the sheer effort involved in caring for a child who will never advance beyond a six year old mentally, and how it impacts an entire family in various ways. This story takes a long time in the telling, in part because it spans Jewel's entire lifetime, in part because it is told in a sometimes agonizingly slow pace.

    There was a second story going on here, one between the white and black races, and I would have liked to see more development between Jewel and Cathedral and their families. Was I the only white person who cringed every time I read the "N" word? I was glad that Jewel, once exposed to a world outside her sheltered "cracker" (as she called it) Mississippi upbringing began to see that the way black people were treated and regarded wasn't the way it should be. And I also thought it realistic that Leston never seemed to develop a different point of view--this because while Jewel provided virtually all of the day to day caring for Brenda Kay was exposed to black people who were regarded differently. Leston simply was not. But, I could not help but draw a correlation between the unfairness in the way black people were treated and Jewel living day in and day out struggling with how her own child's life would never be fair, and I didn't see her make that connection. Maybe I missed something, but I just didn't see her grieve much for Cathedral and the travesty of losing her child to racial hatred, and her unwitting role in it. Instead, I saw simply that it was another reason to move back to California. But all in all, this was one woman's life, warts and all, a good person, but far from perfect.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 10, 2008

    Disappointing

    This book came highly recommended so I bought it for my mother who loves to read good literature. I was surprised when she admitted that she really did not care for the book. I decided to read it myself and found it absolutely captivating right up to the birth of Brenda Kay, at which point it really took a strange turn. I found myself just slogging throught it, hoping it would get better. Sadly, it never did. Such a disappointment for a book that really did a great job of drawing the reader in right from the start. It began as a page-turner, but ended as something I almost dreaded to finish.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 21, 2003

    A Classic to be read again and again!

    I read all the time and never keep my books when I'm done unless it's one of the classics. Once I've read them I see no reason to read them again. However with Jewel, I can't part with it. It has earned a place on my classics' shelf. It is one of the best books I've ever read. It was written well and the story captured me. When I got to the end I locked myself in my room so I could be alone with the family I got to know so well. I am not an emotional person, but the depths of love and family commitment in this book brought me to tears more than once. Wow!!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 23, 2003

    Ended up loving this book

    I wasn't sure when I first started Jewel how much I would like it. But as the story unfolded, it got better and better. It's great in our day and time to read a story about a multi-faceted character who is coping with a huge heartbreak -- with commitment and love -- rather than drowning in our her own angst and loss. I found this book inspiring and would recommend it. Also, the sense of place evoked is wonderful.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 27, 2002

    Best book I have ever read!!!

    This book was the most accurate and poignant story I have ever read that attempted to describe the absolutely overwhelming feeling of love and sense of total responsibilty that a women feels for her children. I did not feel that it was especially about Down's Syndrome, but rather about the sacrifices women make for their husbands and the family as a whole. The time period was accurately shown, and the way Jewel grows throughout the book, including the way she comes to realize her subtle forms of racism as unacceptable, are incredibly moving.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 10, 2001

    A New Favorite

    Bret Lott has an incredible way drawing the reader into this novel about a woman who is completely devoted to her family. I laughed. I cried. I could not put this book down. I, too, was amazed that a male could write the role of a woman so well. When I finished this book, I felt as though I was leaving a friend behind. Jewel will warm your heart with each turn of the page.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 2, 2001

    Inspirational

    This book was a great story of a womans long life devoted to her family and her special daughter. I was very encouraged and motivated by how patient she was with her husband and her children. Her outlook on life broadened my own and also helped me to be a more loving and patient wife.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 10, 2001

    Excellent reading!

    Bret Lott did a wonderful job drawing his readers into the story. I felt like I knew Jewel and could share her pain along with her joy. I had a hard time putting the book down!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 23, 2000

    The best book I have read all year!!!

    Although this book was long I would not have left out a thing. By the time the end came I was crying because I felt I were losing a friend. I have never read such vivid descriptions of feeling and I too could not believe that a man wrote this book. I even went back and read the last 2 chapters again to make sure I did not miss anything and again was very emotional. I have never seen such depth given to a character and even though the other characters were not as detailed I feel enough information was given to continue the flow of the book. I can not recommend highly enough!!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 27, 2013

    Silverkit

    Lokks at angelkit. Lets be sisters! She suggested. She limped to the medicine cat den for a new poultice on her leg

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 19, 2012

    Good read!

    Giver of life!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 22, 2011

    great book

    couldnt put it down. great insight of a woman with a special needs child. Very thought provoking

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 25, 2005

    Tender, charming

    This is one of the most well written novels I've ever read. The slow pace of the writing kept me engaged and right there in the lives of all of the characters. From the simplicity of a retarded child looking to her devoted mother for direction and unconditional love to an often distant father who thought far more than he spoke. The author did a wonderful job of weaving Jewel's own story together in such a way as to keep the story current, moving and at the same time, reflective.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 30, 2002

    This "N" that

    I agree with the other reader who stated that this book is very wordy. I found the author to be very "long winded" and throughout the book I found myself wanting him to get to the point. But as I began to get more into Jewel's character I began to appreciate the time he took to allow us to notice the little things. Things that often go overlooked in life. I hope the author reads these reviews. I want to say to him that it is not necessary to use the "N" as often as he did. I think if he used it once or twice we would get the point. I noticed that to add balance he often tried to use the word "cracker". I just don't feel that those words brought anything to the story. They just didn't add anything to the character's storyline. Overall, I think he is a great writer who wrote a good, not great, book. The book was very realistic of the slow paced South, which for some readers of fiction can be considered drab.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 30, 2001

    An interesting read

    I enjoyed Jewel. It did drag however in book two. The attitude of Jewel's father was appauling, but I guess correct for the time. The author had great insights into personalities of all the characters.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 6, 2001

    Excellent Reading

    This was an excellent book that did a very good job on the topics and I felt like I could relate to everyone in a certain way.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 7, 2000

    eyeopening

    this is a very good book about a subject many do not wish to discuss, even in this day and age. It is heart warming and makes you wish things could have been better for them.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 12, 2000

    Unusual Structure

    Jewel is the story of a woman's life that is her 'cross to bear.' The landscape's imagery, the weather's elements and the spiritual struggle all reflect the theme of Jewel's life. The story structure is unusual in that it changes: in the beginning Lott flashes between past and present. Later, he remains predominately in the natural flow of events. There is no one climax in Jewel, but a series of point turns, essentially 'mini-climaxes. Jewel reflects the history of our culture both good and bad. It is to be savored rather than sped through.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 7, 2000

    Where's the climax?

    This book was very disappointing. 'Jewel' contains few pages that keep the reader interested. This book has no climax and the reader is left feeling 'that was it?'. This book lacks emotional connections to the charactors. I did enjoy the story line and descriptions of the settings. Just wondered where's the climax?

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 4, 2000

    I can relate

    Having grown up as one of the other children I can relate to them in this story. The author captured all the sides of the family and their feelings. The slight ups and the depressing downs that go with having a special child. The mother's struggle was so intense as to almost ignore the 'normal' children. It opened my eyes a bit more to what my own mother has lived through for over 50 years. I can recommend it to anyone who has difficulty seeing all angles.

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