I Have to Tell You Something

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Regardless, it’s not pronounced like the verb, which means “to have a restraining effect on” and which is the opposite of my usually peaceful, nonbossy personality (at least I hope). I thought I’d noticed that crime novels were getting back to being a reasonable length, but there are still some that seem to think they have to be doorstops! We’d spend all day on the ice and even shine lights on it at night, devoting every moment we could to skating and playing hockey until the ice finally began to melt in the spring.

It’s a perfect juxtaposition of ordinary and extraordinary, told with humor, compassion, and unshakable hope. My grandparents planted permanent roots in Traverse City, Michigan (population 15,559 as of 2022), in 1959, when my grandfather was relocated as part of his service in the US Coast Guard. I always felt closest to Dad at camp, and moments like these dinners around the fire, when oftentimes it was just him and me preparing a meal off the bed of his pickup truck, made me feel especially helpful and important to him. I was happy to help Dad, and even from a young age, I saw the exhaustion in his face when he came home. In the years after I finished college, when I had to pay for something I didn’t quite have the money for, I sometimes thought about the moments when Mom was stressed about money and how she made it all add up.Time can be cruel, especially to stickers, so the image is long gone, but there are still remnants of the sticker there today, which she refuses to wash away.

The book covers his upbringing in Traverse City, Michigan; his senior year of high school in Germany; coming out; stints at multiple universities; teaching; moving to South Bend; and a presidential campaign. The right to build the plot carefully with generous detail and keeps you guessing right up until the end.As I stood backstage at the Ellen show, a woman quickly blotted my nose with a little more powder, checked my outfit, and told me to listen for the cue. I pride myself on having inherited my father’s excellent sense of direction, but I wasn’t sure walking miles alone through the woods in the dark was the wisest choice (again, I was thirteen). Because of the landscaping business, the Christmas tree lot, and the simple fact that my family had lived in the area for a long time, we always ran into people my parents knew, especially my dad.

Now that I’m older, I think about how lonely or sad that bully must have been to not have had anything better to do but make fun of somebody’s name.But honestly, I wish authors would accept that most middle-aged people are not constantly thinking about sex! And I agree about women in high-profile jobs who seem to be constantly distracted by romance, especially once they are out of their early 20s. The main mystery of the story sounds really promising, and I can see how your interest would be kept. Rows over land and property aren't uncommon, and I felt the plot was believable and the characters all had their own reasons for behaving the way they did (apart from one, who was just a pure weapon).

Gee, when are publishers going to quit haranguing authors to pad their copy, when most readers I suspect prefer a tightly-written, tightly-edited book that says what it should say and ends on time? We would come home from evening church service on Christmas Eve, my parents would kiss us good night, and I’d fall asleep watching the snow flurries outside my window while the whirling and knocking of the old bread machine on the kitchen counter hummed me to sleep.The way they raised us was neither hands-off nor controlling, which allowed me to develop my independence in a genuine way without feeling totally on my own or without good guidance. But authors need to realise that most middle-aged women are far too exhausted to cope with a job, a husband *and* a boyfriend! Chasten Buttigieg’s I Have Something to Tell You highlights how one person’s story and active engagement in fighting for change can be so critical in mobilizing others to see themselves in their future. The four of us would pile into Dad’s truck and make the seven-hour drive north with a truckload of coolers camping gear, and a bag full of Dad’s homemade beef jerky. For better or worse, that’s come back to bite me when I overpromise or stretch myself too thin among friends, work, and responsibilities at home.