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Sorrow Floats

Sorrow Floats

4.0 15
by Tim Sandlin

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Everybody in the small town of GroVont, Wyoming, knew everybody else's business — kind of like the Watergate stuff that was flooding the airwaves. But twenty-two-year-old Maurey Pierce Talbot had her own problems. Sunk low since her father died, she was still writing postcards to him in San Fran. Whiskey was her best friend. But the kicker was misplacing her


Everybody in the small town of GroVont, Wyoming, knew everybody else's business — kind of like the Watergate stuff that was flooding the airwaves. But twenty-two-year-old Maurey Pierce Talbot had her own problems. Sunk low since her father died, she was still writing postcards to him in San Fran. Whiskey was her best friend. But the kicker was misplacing her baby boy on the roof of her Bronco — which sent her life into a downward spiral where the only way clear was getting out of state . . .

Editorial Reviews

The Barnes & Noble Review
The GroVont Trilogy

When was the last time you were so taken with a book that you found yourself making excuses to read instead of: a) working, b) sleeping, c) paying attention to your wife and child, d) all of the above? Take my word for it, there's a price to be paid for each of these indiscretions. But Tim Sandlin's GroVont trilogy (SKIPPED PARTS, SORROW FLOATS, SOCIAL BLUNDERS) is worth it.

Earlier this year SKIPPED PARTS was recommended to me by two readers of very different tastes. At first I hesitated — if this Sandlin guy was such a great writer, why had I never heard of him? The answer to that question was, of course, somewhat humbling. In the final pages of the trilogy, Sandlin's hero, Sam Callahan, muses, "When I was young I had this strange feeling everyone around me knew something I didn't know. Turns out I was right."

I know exactly how he feels.

Let me make amends for this particular social blunder: SKIPPED PARTS didn't just take me by surprise, it blindsided me, left me dazed and desperately groping for the next installment. But don't just take my word: The new Riverhead editions are shamelessly prefaced with four pages of similarly awestruck blurbs, including raves from such luminaries as Larry McMurtry, John Nichols, and Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth (an endorsement that has earned Sandlin the dubious honorific, "the voice of grunge").

Beginning in 1963 and set roughly ten years apart in succession, these novels range from wide-eyed wonder to soul scorching catharsis to slapstick farce as they record a changing Americafromthe wonderfully skewed perspective of the extended Callahan clan. SKIPPED PARTS opens as thirteen-year-old Sam Callahan and his mother, Lydia, find themselves exiled from the family manor in Greensboro, North Carolina, to the Martian landscape of GroVont, Wyoming. This latest salvo in a titanic battle of wills has been fired by family patriarch and carbon paper baron Caspar Callahan, not only in response to his wayward daughter's latest indiscretion, but also to remove Sam from the corrupting influence of — would you believe it? — baseball. (Caspar not only burns Sam's prized baseball card collection in a ritual bonfire, but chooses GroVont precisely because it is "farther from a major baseball team than any other spot in the country.") Sam is admonished to restrict himself to the contemplation of his future role in the Callahan carbon paper empire, but his attentions soon stray to dark-haired, blue-eyed Maury Pierce. The short stories Sam is forever injecting into the narrative shift dramatically from pennant races to pubescent fantasies as he vies with Maury for the vaunted title of school know-it-all — and gradually the two outsiders find common ground in their mutual love of books.

While Lydia sulks in her taxidermically enhanced cabin, either nursing or recovering from her nightly pint of gin, — Sam and Maury begin to explore aspects of Steinbeck, Heller, and D.H. Lawrence not taught in AP English. Maury proposes to Sam that as friends, they should help each other lose their virginity — in order to avoid future embarrassments when they are old enough to have real girl and boyfriends. Sam is only too eager to comply, but when the physical logistics prove daunting, they apply to the resident expert for coaching. Lydia's hilarious Tex-Mex inspired instructions meet with resounding success, and a rigorous practice schedule is begun in order to perfect the technique. When Maury decides it is time to road-test their new found skills, she selects the moon-faced Chuckette Morris as a suitable steady for Sam, and for herself, chooses Dothan Talbot, scion of a family of relocated southern rednecks in which all the children have been named after cities in Alabama. Predictably, this is all too much for Sam — despite his promise not to "get squirrelly," he cannot bear the thought of sharing Maury with anyone else. At the ripe old age of thirteen he has found the defining love of his life, and, with his Romantic turn of mind, he half suspects that life is going to be all downhill from there.

His suspicions are confirmed when Maury announces to all concerned that she is pregnant. Worse, she has no intention of dropping Dothan and expects Sam to fulfill his social obligations to Chuckette! Confused, elated with the prospect of fatherhood and terrified at the idea that Maury's rancher father might appear at any moment with a gelding knife, Sam wonders, not for the first (nor the last) time, just where he fits in this unsolvable equation. SORROW FLOATS finds Maury Pierce married miserably to Dothan Talbot, mourning the death of her father and drowning her sorrows in Everclear. When Dothan uses her alcoholism as an excuse to take custody of their child and move in with the tramp next door, Maury knows her only hope is to get Sam's help. But Sam has moved back to North Carolina, and to get there she must team up with two symbiotically paired recovering alcoholics — one a "fat cripple" with a talent for imaginative prevarication and the other a weatherbeaten knight errant — on a Ken Kesey-inspired cross country road trip.

SOCIAL BLUNDERS once again focuses on Sam — now 33-years old and reeling from the break up of his second marriage. Carbon paper has given way to golf carts, and his scribbling has finally resulted in a string of popular Young Adult sports novels. But when he decides work through heartbreak by tracking down his real father — one of the five football players Lydia claims gang-raped her when she was 15 — he becomes mired in a Mrs. Robinsonesque dilemma that is likely to shock even the most unshockable reader. To give away more would be criminal — you'll simply have to read it for yourself.

At a critical point in SORROW FLOATS the crippled road warrior Shane likens his extravagant gloss on reality to an obscure third century cleric's defense of the miracle of faith: "Credo quia absurdum est — This is too absurd to be made up, therefore it must be true." Sandlin must have taken this as his personal credo, as his gift for suspending disbelief and transforming the most far-fetched situations into the realm of everyday occurrence is indeed nothing short of miraculous.

—Greg Marrs

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Able storytelling and an engaging cast of dysfunctional modern American pilgrims animate this winning tale of the road. When tipsy, 23-year-old Maurey Pierce Talbot accidentally drives through her Wyoming town with her baby on the roof of her car, she realizes just how far she has sunk since her father's death left her distraught and almost unhinged. (She writes him daily picture postcards, knowing full well he is gone but unable to come to terms with her loss.) After attempting suicide and being thrown out by her philandering husband, she meets Lloyd and Shane, two recovering alcoholics who have devised a scheme to smuggle Coors beer to the East Coast. Longing to be reunited with her eight-year-old daughter Shannon in North Carolina (Sandlin chronicled Shannon's birth in Skipped Parts ), Maurey decamps on an unlikely odyssey, pulling a horse trailer full of beer behind a broken-down old ambulance, sipping Yukon Jack from the bottle as her companions search for AA meetings. Maurey is not yet ready to deal with her alcoholism or her reluctance to be loved, but the hardships of the road and the bonds that unite this group of refugees (others join them along the way) will change that. Maurey's wry, cocksure voice evokes both her cowgirl roots and the novel's '70s setting. Despite the bickering, sarcasm, cynicism and personal tragedy that season the lives of his colorful, credible characters, Sandlin fashions a convincing tale of redemption. (Oct.)
Bill Ott
"I didn't really care where we went so long as we didn't get there." That sentence, spoken by 23-year-old Maurey Pierce Talbot from GroVont, Wyoming, defines the spirit of the road novel. It's not about a journey from one place to another, it's about motion and the freedom motion brings. Listen to Maurey again: "I needed a gap, a rest between this and that where no one could pull me up, put me down, or tear off little pieces of my energy." It doesn't work out quite like that, of course, but that's the other thing about road novels: despite your best intentions, you always do get somewhere. Fans of Tim Sandlin's quirky, iconoclastic novels will remember Maurey from "Skipped Parts" , which told the tragicomic tale of how she had a baby at 13. It's a decade later now (the mid-1970s), and Maurey's troubles keep piling up: her father has died, and she's hitting the bottle hard. Then she misplaces her second child, and her husband throws her out. Maurey's adventures on the road, in the company of two reformed drunks with stories to tell and a gaggle of other oddball characters, mix comedy and pathos effectively, though Sandlin gives in occasionally to some too easy sentimentality. Still, you expect a little of that on a road trip; if you don't feel free to turn maudlin on a journey to nowhere you might as well just stay home.

Product Details

Holt, Henry & Company, Inc.
Publication date:
GroVont Series , #2
Edition description:
1st ed

Read an Excerpt

Sorrow Floats

By Tim Sandlin

Sourcebooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4022-4174-1


The air made everything flat. Buildings, cottonwoods, and the mountains behind all had a two-dimensional glare, with shiny surfaces and a paint-by-number look to the colors. I sat in our window seat in my blue fuzzy bathrobe with my bare feet on a cushion, waiting for Paul Harvey News and watching the alcoholics wander in from different directions onto the lawn of the Mormon church across the street. Alcoholics Anonymous met at noon every day but Sunday, and whenever Auburn was at his grandma's I sat in the window studying the drunks and reformed drunks for signs of me.

The men carried a stretched look in their eyes, like old dogs—the look of punishment accepted. They wore caps instead of hats and mostly had long-sleeved shirts rolled up over their wrists. An Indian wore torn pants and moccasins, a long-hair had on a red-white-and-blue vest, one guy was in a wheelchair. A non-alcoholic pushing a manual lawn mower stopped to look as four AA members lifted the wheelchair like pallbearers on a coffin. The crippled guy perched above their heads, grinning and bobbing, playing a harmonica while they carried him down the steps into the basement, where they held the meetings.

Two women drove up in a blue-and-white Chevrolet that said BABE on the license plate. They sat for a moment, finishing their cigarettes. As they got out, neither woman checked herself in the rearview mirror, which I took as relevant. I still checked myself.

Paul Harvey's voice boomed: "Hello, America. Stand by for news."

Time. I poured myself a coffee cup full of Yukon Jack. Cradling the cup with both hands, I stared into the light molasses-colored liquid. Was there a connection between this and Dad? Closing my eyes, I brought the cup to my lips and smelled the fumes. The sweet fire swept around my tongue and under it onto the saliva glands, then to the back of my mouth, where, like advancing lava, it flowed into my body.

The shoulder muscles, the jaw tight from clenching in my sleep, the fist-size rock in my stomach—everything let go at once. It was better than a masturbated orgasm.

The empty cup dropped back to the windowsill as I opened my eyes on a softer reality. The church roof wasn't shiny anymore. The non-alcoholic had disappeared, leaving his lawn mower in the middle of a pass. One last AA member, an older man in a white ambulance, pulled up against the curb. I pretended I could see him but he couldn't see me, as if the window were a TV set. He had on overalls but no shirt, which is weird for ranch country, and sandals. I hadn't seen guys in sandals since the university.

While I poured another cup of Jack, I said a little prayer. I thanked God for Paul Harvey. As he plain-talked about the seal on Kerr canning jars, he was so sincere. Paul Harvey must be the sincerest man in the world. With all my heart I wanted to buy the jars. I could plant some lima beans and nurture them and watch them grow, and just at the perfect moment, I would pick my lima beans. I would boil them or whatever women do and can them in Kerr jars and stack them on shelves in the basement we didn't own yet, then my family and I would have security. Come avalanche or nuclear war, we would eat wholesome food.

Do beans grow above the ground like apples or below it like carrots? I knew horses, some about cows. I sure wasn't no damn farmer.

The old, skinny guy in the overalls had that farmer look. Before going down the steps he rubbed both hands on his legs, as if they were dirty. Farmers have dirt under their fingernails, ranchers have blood.

My cup was empty so I filled it.

The postcard was a photo of two girls in sunsuits on a chairlift with Jackson way down behind them. The picture must have been old because they had ratted and sprayed hair and cat's-eye sunglasses with little oyster-shell fans at the corners. A California nightmare.

I didn't gulp the whole cup this time. Had to pick up Auburn at Grandma Talbot's later, wouldn't do to show up crawling.

* * *

Dear Dad,

Hank called yesterday to say Jenny Lind foaled a chestnut colt with a blaze. He opened the Miner Creek gate and flooded the south pasture, which I told him you didn't want flooded. Mrs. Hinchman hit a pole and wrecked her Rambler and broke her hip. Knocked the phones out up Buffalo Valley.

Come back.


* * *

Hank Elkrunner was the only one at the ranch when Dad saddled Frostbite and went up Miner Ridge to find a cow and calf they missed when they moved the cattle off the forest lease. He took an old dog named Arnold with him. Arnold was a mean little dingo mix anyone other than a sentimentalist would have shot.

Frostbite came home that afternoon dragging the saddle, so Hank walked up the ridge and found Dad. Near as Hank could tell after backtracking, Frostbite stepped in a badger hole and rolled over on Dad, who caught a rib through the lungs. Dad knew he was dead soon, so instead of trying to make the ranch, he coughed blood and crawled clear up to a spine with a view of the Tetons he'd always admired. Hank found him leaning on a rock with a bunch of blue penstemon clutched in his left hand and his black beard turned to the sunset.

Son of a bitch cowboy died like a fucking poet. I could have killed him.

Arnold did the loyal-cowdog-of-the-West thing and bit Hank when he first picked up Dad's body.

* * *

I named Frostbite. Dad said animals deserve the same respect as people, and he hated names like Spot and Fury. Our herd was big on thirties movie stars.

On my tenth birthday I sat on the top rail of the corral while Dad led this skewbald colt in from the barn and handed me the reins. The yearling stuck the left side of his face up against mine with his nostril flare right in my ear. He wasn't all that tall, but his back was broad and he had perfect hips for vaulting. I looked in his eyes and I knew. Sometimes you just know these things, like in college when I would meet a boy and know within five minutes I was going to nail him. That's how I knew about Frostbite. We would fall in love and have one of those Disney Old Yeller, Lassie-and-Timmy relationships.

We did, too. Frostbite and I trusted each other like no one trusts a lover. For three summers we spent almost every waking moment together, until the year I got pregnant. We were Intermountain Vaulting Champions for my age group in 1962. Champions. Me and Frostbite. He ran full blast across the arena at the Denver Coliseum and I did handstands, sidekicks, somi swings. We had a backflip dismount that knocked the collective socks off the crowd.

It's weird when your true love and loyalty horse rolls over on your father and kills him.

Paul Harvey was talking sincerely about Watergate. The Senate did this, Nixon did that, Sam somebody was outraged. I couldn't tell what side Paul Harvey was on, but whichever it was, he really meant it. I poured another cup of Claude. I named this bottle of Yukon Jack Claude after a boy at college who followed me around like a pet beagle my whole freshman year. He was sweet, with horn-rimmed glasses, two-tone sweaters, and a calculator case holster on his belt, and I could have brought him untold joy if I'd let him sleep with me. I should have. He deserved untold joy if only for his persistence, and I'd have hardly been compromised at all. Lord knows I got nailed by enough boys who didn't like me in college; it wouldn't have hurt to get nailed by one who did.

Paul Harvey had discovered a man in Missouri with a twenty-two-pound cantaloupe. If you only heard the sound of the words but not what they meant, you'd think cantaloupes and Watergate and Kerr canning jars were all equally fascinating.

As Paul Harvey came to the daily bumper snicker, my phone rang.

"You broke her heart again."

"Hi, Petey, how's Mom?"

"She's an obsessive compulsive with a thankless daughter."

Here is that day's bumper snicker: "Love your kids at home and belt them in the car."

Since I wasn't talking, Petey went on. "Yesterday was Mother's Day."

"I'm a mother."

"We spent all day in the parlor next to the phone. I'd planned to take her to luncheon at Signal Mountain Lodge, but she was afraid you'd call while we were out. We had her hair done nice, too."

"Petey, are you saying you wasted a whole Sunday sitting with Mom?"

"I knew you wouldn't call. Too busy mooning over Dad who's eight months dead to call your live mom on Mother's Day."

Got me with that one. "Nobody wished me a happy Mother's Day. You don't see me whining in the parlor." Which was sort of a lie. Shannon sent a Mother's Day card made out of construction paper with models cut from a catalog glued to represent a family—me, Sam Callahan, Lydia, and her. Lydia, Sam's mom, who more or less raised Shannon the first five years, held a cigarette, and I was in a bra and slip. Playtex Cross Your Heart. I bet anything Sam made her do it. Probably even picked out the models to cut, because the one was me had dark hair and big boobs. Last time Sam Callahan saw me was at Dad's funeral when I was nursing Auburn. He laughed at my breasts—not the comfort called for from a best friend.

"Nobody wished you happy Mother's Day because you're such a bad mother," Petey said. "You lost the first one and you'll lose this one too. Or he'll grow up like Dothan. I'd drown a baby before I risked that."

"Petey, do you like boys?"

He hung up.

Before Paul Harvey got through the list of those turning one hundred years young today, Petey called back. I poured more of Claude's soul and answered the fifth ring. He said, "Take that back."

"I didn't accuse you of anything, I just asked. Dot says she's never seen you with a girl, so I wondered if you like boys."

"No, I don't like boys."

"But you don't like girls either."

"Girls smell bad; they make me sick."

"That leaves Mom."

He hung up on me again, although I deserved it. No one likes being accused of having the hots for a parent. Especially my mom.

I went back to the window and looked at myself in it and tried to picture Petey and Mom kissing. It wouldn't come. I'm usually good at picturing really disgusting sex acts. I can just see Dothan with all those Kiwanis wives, especially Sugar Cannelioski. He'd be on top; Dothan can't deal with any other position. He'd stick his pointy Talbot chin in her right shoulder and grind. That's the only way he knows how to do it. I'm in the grocery store and I see a Kiwanis wife rubbing her right shoulder, I figure Dothan's been grinding again.

He has a little brother, Pud, that everyone says does it with animals. I like to picture that. Pud's kind of cute in a retarded sort of way. I picture him behind a calf with the back hooves tied to his boots and his arms around her belly. He has this look on his face like Tony Randall eating a bad lemon.

The calf looks as if she's had better.

Sometimes at sporting events I like to picture men in bed with each other. The one I have the hardest time picturing in bed lately is me. After a semi-loose three years of college, then a real short rabbit period when I first married Dothan, I lost enthusiasm for sex as a personal experience. Since Auburn was born I'd only woken up with pain in my right shoulder twice, and at least one of those I think Dothan sleep-fucked.

Yukon Jack was my kind of companion. Jack never lets you down, never comes and goes to sleep just as I'm getting started. He's monogamous and predictable. A certain amount of Jack causes a certain amount of warmth. He's always there and he never calls me cunt.

The AA guys carried the harmonica player back up the steps. He grinned and nodded just like he didn't care he was a crippled old alcoholic who had to go to meetings in the Mormon church. The men stood around with their hands in their back pockets and talked, but the women adjusted foundation garments and drove away. AA over meant I'd lost some time and was late picking up Auburn.

Consistent as Tupperware, the phone went off again.

"I am gravely ill."

"I'm sorry I'm late, Mrs. Talbot. The Bronco wouldn't start, but I gave it a rest and it might now. How's Auburn?"

"Whenever I am late to the Great Books Club I get nervous, and when I get nervous I become ill. You know I become ill, Maurey. Why would you purposefully try to make me become ill?"

Always lie to in-laws. "The Bronco flooded, Mrs. Talbot. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"It's my day to deliver Lord Byron's eulogy, which I wrote myself."

"I'd love to read the eulogy if you have a copy."

"A rash is breaking out on my back."

"Spray some benzocaine. I'll be there."

I addressed the postcard to Buddy Pierce, General Delivery, San Francisco, and licked on a six-cent stamp.

In the bedroom, I shrugged out of the blue fuzzy bathrobe and into crack-climber cutoffs and a T-shirt. No bra, it was only Grandmother Talbot. No shoes for the same reason. I put on my King Ropes red windbreaker, checked myself in the mirror a second, then slipped Charley into my pocket and checked myself again. A before and after comparison. Definitely better after. Charley's blue barrel complemented the red nylon of the windbreaker.

I counted from twenty to zero backward to prove I wasn't drunk—I never drive Auburn when I'm drunk—took one more hit of Jack-Claude, stuffed a Hershey bar in the other pocket, and I'm on the way to Grandmother's house.


Delilah Talbot's feet hung over both sides of her sandals like oozing Silly Putty. She stood next to the television in her polyester slacks and matching jacket outfit, looking with distaste at Auburn on the floor.

She said, "Greens."

Once you rose above the feet, the rest of Delilah wasn't fat at all. In fact, from the knees up she looked kind of depleted. "Green what?"

Auburn's face took me in, and he crawled under the kitchen table where he turned around and stared through the legs of a chair. My nose said he needed changing.

Delilah expanded her first statement. "In Alabama we had green vegetables with every meal, but out west it's meat and potatoes, meat and potatoes. Manners are a by-product of green vegetables. That's why westerners don't have any."

She stood with one finger on her chin, watching me load up his diaper bag, blanket, the stuffed Cowardly Lion, and a sponge cake she'd baked for Dothan. She made no move to help me chase down my child.

Instead, the woman gazed into the air near my ear and said, "Manners." Often Mrs. Talbot stripped the front half and back half out of sentences, leaving one word to fend for itself.

I shrugged the load onto my shoulders. "You mind handing me Auburn?"

"Are you feeding my son green vegetables? I don't mean iceberg lettuce. Iceberg lettuce is not a green vegetable."

I bent on one knee to look under the table, hit my forehead on the metal strip that held the linoleum in place, and dropped the diaper bag.

Mrs. Talbot didn't notice. "Dothan was rude when he dropped Aubie off this morning; I suspect you of not serving green vegetables."

Auburn smiled and put some floor gunk in his mouth. I reached a finger in and dug out a dried piece of elbow macaroni.

"I still don't understand why you cut your hair, Maurey. You were so pretty as a little girl."

One thing about Delilah, she didn't see anything she didn't want to see. I could show up at her house toilet-hugging smashed and she'd say, "What a nice shirt. Did someone give it to you?" Right now she had no idea I was getting the whirlies under her kitchen table.

She said, "Lord Byron."

I reached one hand around Auburn's waist, and he frowned. If I moved too fast there'd be a scream scene, which had to be avoided at all costs. Scream scenes drove me to drink.

I truly enjoy being a mother, only I'm not naturally suited to motherhood. I love Auburn and couldn't live without him; it's the motherhood itself—the smells, the lack of sleep, the humiliation. I'm not one of those women born to nurture.

Mrs. Talbot droned on about Byron—Byron's foot, Byron's legacy, Byron's death.

I said, "I heard Byron slept around."

"I can't gab all the livelong day. Toodles." The door slammed, and after a moment, I heard Mrs. Talbot's El Camino pulling out of the drive.

"Thank God," I said to Auburn.

He put three fingers in his mouth.


Excerpted from Sorrow Floats by Tim Sandlin. Copyright © 2010 Sourcebooks, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are Saying About This

John Nichols
"Sorrow Floats is about a trip you will never want to end. It's blasphemous, cantankerous, full of insight and platfalls and all the relevant human yearnings."
W. P. Kinsella
"Tim Sandlin just keeps getting better and better. Sorrow Floats is funny, raunchy, and heartbreaking."

Meet the Author

Tim Sandlin has published eight novels. Two of his screenplays have been made into movies. He turned forty with no phone, TV, or flush toilet and spent more time talking to the characters in his head than the people around him. He now has seven phone lines, four TVs he doesn't watch, three flush toilets, and a two-headed shower. He lives happily (indoors) with his family in Jackson, Wyoming.

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Sorrow Floats 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 14 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I can, as a real person, relate to this book on every level. The fictional characters come alive for me and there are experiences to be had by all. If you are in any sort of situation where you have to think twice about where you are and where you want to go this book is for you. It's an amazing ability to over come of circumstance in ones life.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
CENookie More than 1 year ago
Tim's characters are real characters in every sense of the word. Laughable, easy reading. Read the entire Grovont Trilogy, then pick up Lydia, his newest. You won't be able to put them down, and will find yourself laughing out loud!
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great story about the adventures of Maurie and her gang of misfits. A book you won't be able to put down.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Rereading again to prep for latesr novel, Lydia Still great
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
I love these books. They are a good read anytime. Funny and soulfull.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was recommended this book by a friend. I started it on a plane hoping to fall asleep. I could not stop reading and read the trilogy. Sandlin brings his characters to life and it is hard not to relate to one of them!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Rainbreeze sighed and looked at her kits.