Widow's Walk by Ken Weene




Review: Widow's Walk by Ken Weene

This is the story of a woman, Mary Flanagan, a widow whose Catholic faith plays a predominant role her her life. When her son returns home from the war as a quadriplegic, he becomes her whole world, and in so doing she takes away his independence.

When her son goes off to a rehab center, Mary's life begins to take-off in a new direction, a direction she'd never have expected in her wildest dreams.

This is a love story, a tales about religion and faith, marriage, life and death. It's not a particularly happy story, but it is a a true slice of life, wonderful at times and heart-wrenching at others.

Author Weene's characters are realistic and multi-layered. This is the kind of book that will make you think while the people who fill the pages are working out what life has brought them. It's the kind of book that keeps you turning pages as you follow along in these people's lives.--Marilyn Meredith

Giveaways for those who visit along the way and leave comments:

*The first giveaway is Kenneth Weene's poetry book which will go to a few different commenters.

*The second giveaway is a copy of his book Widow's Walk to one lucky commenter

Winners will be drawn at random from all those who leave comments along the tour.

To learn more about the author's tour schedule, visit
http://virtualblogtour.blogspot.com/2009/07/widows-walk-by-kenneth-weene-virtual.html

About the author, Kenneth Weene:

A New Englander by upbringing and inclination, Ken Weene’s career – primarily in New York – included teaching, pastoral care, and psychology. Throughout his career Ken has also been devoted to writing. His poetry has appeared in a number of publications – both print and web. He authored a number of professional publications. His short stories and essays have also been published. One of his short plays was recently workshopped. An anthology of Ken’s work, Songs For My Father, was published 2002. His novel, Widow’s Walk, has been published in 2009. Ken and his wife, Roz, now live in greater Phoenix where he spends much of his time writing.

He started writing, primarily poetry, in the 1980s. Regarding Widow's Walk, Weene says, "Stepping away from full-time work was the best decision I ever made. Writing this story has given me tremendous personal satisfaction, and it has shown me an avenue for expression I will always treasure."

If you haven't already read Widow's Walk, be sure to pick your copy up at Kenneth Weene’s Author Website - http://widows-walk.webs.com/.

You can also connect with him on Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/kenneth.weene or Twitter - https://twitter.com/Ken_Weene.

And of course Widow's Walk will also be available at Amazon.com.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Comments

Marilyn,
Thanks for the review of Ken's book, it sounds interesting. Life is filled with difficult moments, and the test is how we handle it -- and it sounds like he has accomplished just that in WIDOW'S WALK. I will start following Ken on Twitter.

Best,
Kathy
Morgan Mandel said…
Sometimes the truth isn't easy to swallow. It's hard to do a story like that. Sounds like a great book.

Morgan Mandel
http://morganmandel.blogspot.com
http://www.morganmandel.com
Sounds like a powerful book! And the cover is great! I'll look for it! Thanks

Popular posts from this blog

Reunions: You Can’t Go Back Again (Because ‘There’ Is Gone) You hear about people going to Reunions: high school, college, family, war vets, et cetera. Well, not me. For example, my high school, St. Augustine’s Diocesan on Sterling Place in Park Slope, Brooklyn, was already out of business when the passenger jet made an unscheduled crash landing on its doorstep in the late 1960’s, erasing all prospect of reunions. No matter, I wouldn’t have been attending anyhow. As for St. John’s University College, whose ‘campus’ was in a seven-story former bank building on Schermerhorn St. in Downtown Brooklyn---it’s condos now and even if the doorman would let me in for old times’sake, I’d pass. I spent all of 1956 and half of 1957 at St. Augustine’s as a transfer student, having come from a low-rent seminary that was supposed to prepare you to become a member of the Franciscan Order of Teaching Brothers. St. Anthony’s ‘Juniorate’ (odd name for a high school, right?), no doubt why we boys simply referred to it as ‘Smithtown’, located as it was in the Town of Smithtown on Long Island, among the potato fields of Suffolk County. My short story: I got kicked out after two years, told I was mistaken in thinking I had a ‘vocation’ (I won’t bore you with my sins). So how’d I get there in the first place? Well, you’re graduating from eighth grade in St. Anthony of Padua grammar school (same ‘St. Anthony’, no coincidence); you’re twelve years old and, since the age of five-and-one-half, been shuttled from the school to the looming red brick Church next door when the steeple bells summoned us to prayer. There, all us boys, in our dark-blue worstered trousers, white shirt and clip-on black tie, have been kneeling for all eternity on the hard wood kneelers in the pews in the Lower (basement) Church, interminably humming the five Decades of the Rosary amidst the fourteen Stations of the Cross, as the priest parades up and down the marble-floored aisles spewing swirls of sweet smoke from his incense-burner. No surprise then: After the Good Franciscan Brother reveals to our class that some among us may be ‘called’, on Easter Sunday, at Mass in the Upper Church, drunk on incense fumes, I actually see God point a long index finger at me through the fog, and over the swell of the organ while the choir pounds out the Hallelujah Chorus, I hear Him say to me, clear as a bell: “You! You! Pack your bags!” Upon graduation in February, 1954, I boarded the LIRR, Ronkonkoma Branch, with my ticket punched for Smithtown. One recent Sunday, in the grip of an irresistible impulse to see Smithtown once more, I get on the LIE and head for the North Shore of Long Island. To get to the school, you must drive through the hamlet of Kings Park, once home to the Kings Park Psychiatric Center, which I see from my car on Route 25A, is still there, sprawling on top of a hill but empty, decommissioned. And I remember then being aboard the ancient yellow school bus, the name ‘St. Anthony’s’ painted in black on its sides--captive boys being taken to the movies in Kings Park on a Sunday afternoon more than half-a-century ago--the hospital full of life, the inmates hooting and hollering to us from their barred windows as we speed past. It’s a high point of the trip, riding past the Looney Bin: a happy feeling, I remember, as if them up there and us in our bus were connected. No more acres of potato fields as far as the eye could see along Rte. 25A now-- replaced by row upon row of suburban tracks, Divisions and Sub-Divisions. I drive onto the grounds of St. Anthony’s. It is not a functioning school, it’s obvious. There are some broken windows in the elongated two-story structure, and the white paint is peeling. I think of Iroquois Longhouses, I suppose because of the stretch of the building. I get out of the car and what strikes me is how small-scale everything appears: the buildings, the playing fields behind the main house, the grass badly in need of cutting. The chicken coops are gone as well as the fenced-in execution ground where I beheaded and plucked my first chicken for the Sunday dinner, on orders from the Brother in charge of the Refectory. Everything smaller than I remember it. For it’s vivid, larger-than-life in my memory. Jerome Megna, the pool shark; Joe Rogus, the polio-stricken basketball star; Bill Cullen, the gay librarian from Brooklyn and my best friend; the school’s principal Brother Henry, vain about his PhD in history; Brother Patrick “The Claw’, who taught Latin, had a crippled left hand and the DTs from drink; Brother Linus, the math teacher, who’d feel you up if you weren’t fast on your feet. I swear I remember them all, the faces and their names. I even remember the movie we saw that Sunday in Kings Park in 1954. The Bridges At Toko-Ri; William Holden, Grace Kelly and Mickey Rooney starring. I wrote the movie review for the school paper, The St. Anthony Star. Funny how it all stays with you. The important stuff.

The Historic Driskill Hotel by Kathleen Kaska

Need to Catch Up With My Blog Tour?