2007, ISBN: 9780757304019

Bantam. Good. 4.1 x 0.52 x 6.9 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1984. 208 pages. Cover worn.<br>After discovering six gold Roman coins buried in the mud of the Devil's Dyke, Barn… Más…

Bantam. Good. 4.1 x 0.52 x 6.9 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1984. 208 pages. Cover worn.<br>After discovering six gold Roman coins buried in the mud of the Devil's Dyke, Barnabas Sackett enthusias tically invests in goods that he will offer for trade in America. But Sackett has a powerful enemy: Rupert Genester, nephew of an earl, wants him dead. A battlefield promise made to Sackett's fat her threatens Genester's inheritance. So on the eve of his depart ure for America, Sackett is attacked and thrown into the hold of a pirate ship. Genester's orders are for him to disappear into th e waters of the Atlantic. But after managing to escape, Sackett m akes his way to the Carolina coast. He sees in the raw, abundant land the promise of a bright future. But before that dream can be realized, he must first return to England and discover the secre t of his father's legacy. Editorial Reviews About the Author Ou r foremost storyteller of the American West, Louis L'Amour has th rilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men an d woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundr ed million copies of his books in print around the world. Excerp t. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 It was my devil's own temper that brought me to grief, my temper and a skill with weapons born of my father's teaching. Yet without that skill I might have emptied my life's blood upon the cobblest ones of Stamford, emptied my body of blood ... and for what? Unt il that moment in Stamford it would have been said that no steadi er lad lived in all the fen-lands than Barnabas Sackett, nor one who brought better from his fields than I, or did better at the e eling in the fens that were my home. Then a wayward glance from a lass, a moment of red, bursting fury from a stranger, a blow gi ven and a blow returned, and all that might have been my life van ished like a fog upon the fens beneath a summer sun. In that yea r of 1599 a man of my station did not strike a man of noble birth and expect to live--or if he lived, to keep the hand that struck the blow. Trouble came quickly upon me, suddenly, and without w arning. It began that day near Reach when I slipped and fell upo n the Devil's Dyke. The Dyke is a great rampart of earth some si x miles long and built in the long ago by a people who might have been my ancestors. These were the Iceni, I have been told, who l ived in my country long before the Romans came to Britain. When I slipped I caught myself upon my outstretched palms to keep the mud from my clothing, and I found myself staring at the muddy edg e of what appeared to be a gold coin. Now coins of any kind were uncommon amongst us, for we did much in the way of barter and ex change. Merchants saw coins, but not many came our way. Yet here it was, a gold coin. Shifting my position a bit I closed my fing ers over first one coin and, then, yet another. I stood up slowl y, and making as if to brush the mud from my hands, I knocked and wiped the mud from the coins. In a pool of muddy water at my fee t, I washed them clean. They were old ... very, very old. No En glish coins these, nor was the wording English, nor the faces of the men upon them. The first coin was heavy, of quite some value judging by the weight. The second was smaller, thinner, and of a different kind. Slipping them casually into my pocket, I stood t here looking about. The hour was before dawn of what bid to be a gray day. Clouds were thick above, and during the night there ha d been heavy rain. It was a lonely place, where I stood, a place about half the distance from Reach to Wood Ditton. We had worked in the quarries at Reach, some of us, and slept the night on a ta vern floor to be near the fire. Long before day I awakened, lyin g there thinking of the distance I had yet to go, with the work n ow ended. So, quietly I had risen, put my cloak about my shoulder s, and took my way to the Dyke, the easiest route in any weather. It was a time when few men got more than a mile or two from the ir door, unless following the sea or the fishing, but I was a res tless one, moving about and working wherever an extra hand might be needed, for it was in my mind to save money, buy a bit more la nd and so better my position. Now I had come upon gold, more tha n I was likely to earn with my hands in a year, although it was l ittle enough I knew of gold. Had my father stood by me he could h ave told me what each coin was worth. I made a thing of brushing my knees, which gave me time to look more carefully about. I wa s alone. There were willows yonder, farther away oaks and a hedge , but nowhere in the vague light of beginning day did I see movem ent or sign of men. Carefully I studied the ground where I had fa llen. For where there had been two coins there might be three ... or four. Something had scarred the slope here, and rain had fou nd it, as rain will, gouging a small ditch to escape over the Dyk e's edge. Where the trickle of water was, I could see what appear ed to be the rotting edge of a leather purse, or sack. A bit of a search with my fingers in the mud and I held three more pieces o f gold, and a moment later, another. That was the lot. I kicked mud over the spot, turned about a couple of times, then walked sl owly on, plodding as if tired, stopping a time or two to look abo ut. At a pool of rain water I paused to wash the mud from my han ds. Six gold coins! It was a fortune. Two of the coins were Roma n. Likely enough some brawny legionnaire had come this way from t he fighting, and when about to be overtaken had buried them. It w as likely he must have been killed then, for he had never recover ed his coins. Such a strong leather purse, if well buried, would need years to rot away, and it might have been some later travel er. Whoever it was, his ancient loss was my present gain. Yet if I appeared with six gold coins, what would happen? By some mann er of means they would certainly be taken from me. A poor man, ev en a yeoman such as I, had small chance of maintaining his rights . There were many tricky laws, and the rascals would surely find one that would deprive me of my findings. I was a freeman living on a small freeholding at the edge of the fens, a bit of land gi ven my father for his deeds in battle. Actually, a great piece of the fens was mine, but it was of small use except for the eeling and occasional mowing. There was a small piece of land adjoinin g mine, of good, rich drained land that I coveted. Now I could ha ve it for mine, and more, too, if it were up for the selling. Bu t if I came forward with gold it would set to wagging half the to ngues in the shire, so I had best be thinking of a better way. I t was then I remembered the man from Stamford. An oldish man, and bookish. His name had been mentioned to me in the streets of Cha tteris. A curious man, he would go miles to look upon some old wa ll or a ruined monastery. His name was Hasling, and sometimes he had bought some ancient thing found by a workman or farmer. It w as said he wrote papers about such things and talked of them with men from Cambridge. He had the look of a kindly man with nothin g of the sharper about him, and I'd been told he paid a guinea fo r a bronze axe dug up in a field. So it was that I went to Stamfo rd. It was no great house I came to but a fine, comfortable cott age, early in the day. A cottage with fine old trees about and a deal of lawn behind. There were flowers planted and birds who mad e themselves at home. When I put knuckles to the door a woman in a white cap opened it, a pleasant-faced woman with a look of the Irish about her, but no friendly smile for me, in my rough dress . When I spoke of business with Coveney Hasling she looked doubt ful, but when I said it was an old thing I had to speak of, the d oor was wide at once, and the next thing I knew I was seated with a cup of tea in my hand, although I'd have preferred it to be al e. The room had papers and books all about, a skull with a cleft in it giving me the round eye from black and empty sockets. Clos e by a bronze axe ... the very one. It was in my mind to questio n whether the cleft skull and the bronze axe had ever met before when he came in, bowing a short bow and peering at me with tilted head. Yes, yes, lad, you wished to speak to me? Aye. I have hea rd you spoken of as one with an interest in old things. You have found something! He was excited as a child. What is it? Let me s ee! I'd have to ask your silence. I'd not be losing the profit o f it. Profit? Profit, do you say? It is history you must think o f, lad, history! History you may think of, who live in a fine ho use. Profit is my concern, who does not. You are a freeman? Wit h a small holding. I see. Come, come! Sit you down! You get abou t some, I take it. Do you know the Roman roads? I do, and the dy kes and walls as well. Some earth-works, too, and I might even kn ow a floor of Roman tile. Lad, lad! You could be of service to m e and your country as well! These things you speak of ... they mu st not be lost or destroyed. They are a part of our heritage! No doubt, but it is my own heritage I be thinking of now. I have yo ur silence then? You do. From my pocket I took the first coin, and he took it reverently to hand, going off to the window for li ght. He exclaimed with pleasure, You would sell this? I would. ., Bantam, 1984, 2.5, Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. Good. 120 x 180mm. Paperback. 1969. 144 pages. Cover worn.<br>A harsh and deadly land... Rye Tyler wa s twelve when he saw his father cut down in an Indian raid. Taken in by a mysterious stranger with a taste for Shakespeare and an instinct for survival, Rye is schooled in the lessons of a hard c ountry. Then tragedy forces him to live a loner's life in a wild land of canyons and buttes, and on dust-choked cattle trails. But his skill with a gun has earned Rye a bloody reputation he can't escape. Though he's become the law in a lawless town, he had hop ed for a better life with the beautiful Liza Hetrick. When Liza i s taken away and held in a mountain-girded outlaw fortress, Rye m ust face his deadliest enemy--the very man who taught Rye about m anhood, friendship...and the ways of a gunman. Editorial Reviews From the Inside Flap A harsh and deadly land... Rye Tyler was twelve when he saw his father cut down in an Indian raid. Taken i n by a mysterious stranger with a taste for Shakespeare and an in stinct for survival, Rye is schooled in the lessons of a hard cou ntry. Then tragedy forces him to live a loner's life in a wild la nd of canyons and buttes, and on dust-choked cattle trails. But his skill with a gun has earned Rye a bloody reputation he can't escape. Though he's become the law in a lawless town, he had hope d for a better life with the beautiful Liza Hetrick. When Liza is taken away and held in a mountain-girded outlaw fortress, Rye mu st face his deadliest enemy--the very man who taught Rye about ma nhood, friendship...and the ways of a gunman. From the Paperback edition. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable ed ition of this title. Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All righ ts reserved. Chapter One It was Indian country, and when our whe el busted, none of them would stop. They just rolled on by and le ft us setting there, my pap and me. Me, I was pushing a tall twe lve by then and could cuss 'most as good as Pap, and we both done some cussin' then. Bagley, the one Pap helped down to Ash Hollo w that time, he got mighty red around the ears, but he kept his w agon rollin'. Most folks, those days, were mighty helpful, but t his outfit sort of set their way by the captain. He was Big Jack McGarry. When the wheel busted, somebody called out and we swung back. Big Jack had no liking for Pap because Pap never took noth ing off him, and because Pap had the first look-in with Mary Tatu m, which Big Jack couldn't abide. He swung that fine black horse of his back and he set there looking at us. We had turned to and were getting that wheel off, fixing to get it repaired if we cou ld. Sorry, Tyler. You know what I said. This is Indian country. Goin' through here, we keep rollin' no matter what. We'll wait a spell at the springs, though. You can catch us there. Then he tu rned his horse and rode off, and nobody else in the wagons said b y word or look that they even seen us setting there. Pap, he did n't waste no more time. He looked after them, his face kind of dr awn down and gray like, and then he turned to me and he said, Son , I don't mind for myself. It's you I'm thinkin' of. But maybe it 'll be all right. You take that there gun, and you set up high an d watch sharp. So that was the way it was, and Pap aworking to f ix that wheel so we could go on. He was a good man at such things , and he had built many a wagon in his day, and had done some fin e cabinetwork, too. He worked steady and I kept my eyes open, bu t there was mighty little to see. It was a long rolling grass pla in wherever a body looked. Here and there was draws, but I couldn 't see into them. The wind stirred that tall grass, bending it ov er in long rolls, the way the sea must look, and it was green-gra y and then silver in the changing light and wind. Overhead the sk y was wide and pale blue, with just a few lazy clouds adrifting. We had us a good Conestoga wagon and six head of cattle, good bi g oxen, to haul it. We had two horses and two saddles, and inside the wagon was Pap's tools, our grub, bedding, and a few odds and ends like Ma's picture, which Pap kept by him, no matter what. Pap had swapped for a couple of Joslyn breech-loading carbines be fore we left Kansas, and we each had us a handgun, Shawk & McLana han six-shooters, caliber .36, and good guns, too. Like McGarry said, this was Indian country. Not two weeks ago the Indians had hit a wagon train, smaller than ours, killing four men and a woma n. They hit it again a few miles west, and they killed two more m en. Ours was a big train, well armed and all, but Big Jack, I se en the look in his eyes when he sat there watching Pap aworking. He was just figuring to himself that he wouldn't have to worry an y more about Pap, and by the time the wagons got to Californy he' d be married up with Mary Tatum. Her and all that silver her old man carried in the big box under his wagon. When it was almost d ark, Pap called to me. Son, come on down. You ride your horse, sc out around a little. If the wagons get to stop at the springs, we 'll catch 'em. But cattle don't make no speed with a heavy wagon . Their feet spread wide on turf and they pull better, day in, da y out, than any mule or horse, but they can't be called fast. Ni ght came, and we set a course by the stars, and we rolled on west all through the night. When the first gray light was in the sky, we saw the gleam on the water. Least, I saw it. Pap, he was stil l too far back. I seen the water where the pool was, and the cot tonwood leaves, but no white wagon covers, no horses, and no brea kfast fires acooking. When the wagon came up I saw Pap looking a nd looking like he couldn't believe it, and I seen his Adam's app le swallow, and I said, Pap, they've gone on. They left us. Yes, he said. I reckon that's so. We both knew we had to stop. Cattl e can stand so much, and these had a tough night and day behind t hem. We'll water up, son, Pap said. Then we'll pull into a draw a nd rest a while. So that was how it was, only when we got to the springs we saw the wagons had not stopped there. Big Jack McGarr y had taken no chances. He pulled them right on by, and nobody to know he'd promised to wait for us there. Nobody but him and us. We watered up and then we pulled out. Maybe three miles farther on we found a draw with some brush and we pulled into it for a re st. Pap unyoked the oxen and let them eat buffalo grass. He taken his Joslyn up on the ridge and bellied down in the grass. Me, I went to sleep under the wagon, and maybe I'd been asleep an hour when I felt someone nudge me, and it was Pap. Here they come, b oy. You get on your horse and take out. He was down on one knee n ear me. Maybe if you hold to low ground you can make it safe. I ain't agoin' without you. Son, you go now. One can make it. Two can't. You take Old Blue. He's the fastest. You come with me. N o, this here is all we got, boy. I'll stay by it. Maybe they'll t ake what sugar we got, and go. I'll stay, too. No! Pap rarely s poke hard to me after Ma died, but he spoke sharp and stern now, and it wasn't in me to dispute him. So I loosed the reins and swu ng into the saddle. Pap passed me up a sackful of cartridges and such, then caught my arm. There were tears in his eyes. Luck, bo y. Luck. Remember your ma. Then he slapped Old Blue on the rump and Old Blue went off up the draw. Me, I was in no mind to leave him, so when we rounded a little bend I put Blue up the bank and circled back. I heard a rifle shot and saw dust kick near the wa gon, then a whole volley of shots. Along with the rest I heard th e sharp hard sound of Pap's Joslyn carbine. Tying Blue among som e brush in a low place, I grabbed my Joslyn and went back, keepin g low down. Maybe a dozen Indians were out there, and Pap's one shot had counted, for I saw a free horse running off. As I looked the Indians began to circle, and Pap fired again. An Indian grab bed at his horse's mane and almost slipped off. The sun was out and it was hot. I could smell the hot, dusty grass and feel the s un on my back, and my hands were sweaty, but I waited. Boy thoug h I was, and Pap no Indian fighter, I knew what I had to do. Nigh t after night I'd sat by the fire and heard talk of Indian fights and such-like from the mountain men we met, and a couple of othe rs who had been over this trail before us. I soaked it up, and I knew there was a time for waiting and a time for shooting. Pap w as doing right good. He downed a horse and the Indians pulled off and away. I lay quiet, having a good view of the whole shindig, me being no more than a hundred and fifty yards off. Sudden-like , I saw the grass move. They were crawling up now. Did Pap see th em? No, he couldn't see them from where he lay, but he had guess ed that was what they would do, for I saw him worm out from behin d the wheel where he'd been shooting and ease off into some rocks not far from the wagon. They were coming on and right soon I cou ld see four of the Indians. Pap waited. I give him that. He was no Indian fighter, just a good wheelwright and cabinetmaker, but he was smart. Suddenly he came up with his carbine and fired quic k. I saw an Indian jerk back with a busted shoulder. Then two of them ran forward. Pap fired and missed, and fired again and hit. And then I heard a whisper in the grass and saw four Indians wal king their horses careful behind him. Behind him and right below me. They weren't thirty yards off from me, at point-blank range. This here was what I'd waited for. My mouth so dry I couldn't sp it or swallow, I ups with my Joslyn. I took steady aim the way I' d been taught, drew a deep breath and let it out easy, and then I squeezed her off. The rifle jumped in my hands, and that first I ndian let out a grunt and went off his horse and into the grass. I'd shot him right through the skull. Pap turned quick, fired on ce, then swung back as I shot again. My second shot took an Indi an right through the spine, and the other two went to hellin' awa y from there. My shooting had caught them flat-footed, as the fe llow says. They'd figured the man at the wagon was the only one, and now I'd killed me two Indians, and all in less than a minute. Another shot, and I turned quick. Two Indians had rushed Pap an d now they were fighting with him. At the same moment the two I'd run off circled back. I shot and missed, too excited, and then I saw Pap go down and saw a knife rise and fall, and I knew it was too late to do anything for Pap. I hustled for Old Blue, jumped into the saddle, and rode out of there. But I didn't head for n o settlement, or try to catch up with the train. That wagon was o urs, and the stuff in it was ours. I circled around, walked my ho rse a couple of miles in a creek, then brought him out of the wat er onto rock and cut back over the hills. It was full dark when I got back there. All was quiet. There was no fire, nothing. I s tudied about it some, then decided those Indians would never figu re on me to come back, and once they'd taken what they wanted fro m the wagon, they'd not stay around. So I went down, taking it ea sy. Finally, when Old Blue began to get nervous, I tied him to a bush and went on alone. When I got close I could smell the burned wood. The wagon had been set on fire, but it was still there. I crawled up closer, and I found Pap. He'd been shot through, then stabbed. And they'd scalped him. Using a match, I hunted throug h the wagon. ... --This text refers to an out of print or unavail able edition of this title. From AudioFile Rye Tyler grows up fa st. At age 12, when his father is killed by Indians, he must fend for himself in the untamed, violent West. Jason Culps textured v oice is just right for characters who are decent but rough--born with the bark on. Rye is especially likable, with his soft drawl and will to survive. Others in the story are also engaging, and d isplay Culps vocal range. When he moves from the predominantly We stern twang to a polished lawyerly voice, its a genuine surprise. Culp also thoughtfully dramatizes Ryes inner wanderings as he po nders what it means to take a life and what kind of man hes turni ng into, reflections that give depth and life to a portrait of th e West in its rough-and-tumble infancy. J.C.G. AudioFile 2007, P ortland, Maine-- Copyright AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This tex t refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Louis L'Amour is undoubtedly the bestselling f rontier novelist of all time. He is the only American-born author in history to receive both the Presidential Medal of Freedom, an d the Congressional Gold Medal in honor of his life's work. He ha s published ninety novels; twenty-seven short-story collections; two works of nonfiction; a memoir, Education of a Wandering Man; and a volume of poetry, Smoke from This Altar. There are more tha n 300 million copies of his books in print worldwide. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. ., Hodder & Stoughton Ltd, 1969, 2.5, HCI. Good. 5.5 x 0.75 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2006. 350 pages. Spine chipped. Ex-library.<br>What Any Mother of a Pre schooler Needs (Besides a Week at a Spa!) Does your car CD colle ction range from The Best of Rock-n-Roll Classics to The Best of Barney? Does your idea of a good dinner out mean crayons and pape r placemats for all? Can hearing the words, I love you, Mommy mak e your whole day? Then chances are good that you are not only a m other of a preschooler (or soon-to-be one), but that you are in n eed of some laughter, inspiration and camaraderie from other wome n who've been there. Let's face it: Our little bundles of joy a nd boundless energy don't come with instructions, and every mom u ndoubtedly thinks at one time or another: Am I doing this right?! In this uplifting collection, you'll find true stories about the day-to-day minutiae and miracles of being the mom to a preschool er: from finding peace and purpose in what can seem (and look!) l ike chaos; from solving sibling rivalry to celebrating sibling re velry; from the sorrow of letting go to enjoying some personal in dependence as your big kid goes off to school. Included are stori es from well-known MOPS speakers, Lisa Moffitt and Rochelle Nelso n. In just a few minutes of alone time these stories will give m others of preschoolers a place to release the stresses of their d ay, connect with other moms who they can relate to and evoke much -needed laughter. Like only Chicken Soup can, these stories will rekindle your sense of self and spirit, and remind you how to enj oy this precious period of time in your life. Editorial Reviews About the Author Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are the #1 New York Times and USA Today best-selling authors of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Maria Nickless is the NY Times bestse lling coauthor of Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul. Maria is the former Director of Marketing and Public Relations for Chicken So up for the Soul Enterprises, Inc. Maria oversaw campaigns for ove r 45 Chicken Soup titles, including successfully orchestrating Th e Largest Book Signing Event in History in 1998, as recognized by Guinness Book of World Records. Maria lives in southern Californ ia and is a wife and mother of two young children. Elisa Morgan is the president of MOPS International and a sought-after public speaker to varied audiences. She's a regular contributing editor to Christian Parenting Today and has written five books and coaut hored five books (see below). Elisa received a B.S. in Psychology from the University of Texas and a Master of Divinity in Counsel ing from Denver Seminary. She served as Dean of Women at Western Bible College, now Colorado Christian University. She is a licens ed minister who resides in Centennial, Colorado, with her husband , her son and her daughter. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. On Parade Her children rise up and bless h er. -Proverbs 31:28 Daddy's home! Tiny figures stampede past, e ach clamoring to get the first hug, the first kiss, all squawking at once. I want a piggyback ride! Look what I made for you! D id you bring us anything? Daddy throws his arms wide and draws t hree squirming bodies off the floor. Squeals and giggles abound a s he spins them around, returns them to the floor and starts chas ing them in every direction. No more quiet house. No more bathti me. No more Mama. It's as if I've disappeared into the woodwork I 've been trying to find time to clean. He deserves this, I tell myself. He works extra hard so I can stay home with the kids. Thi s is his reward after a long day at the office. Who am I kidding ? It hurts to see them shower affection on David, after I've been here, all day long, changing diapers, wiping noses and mopping s pills. I'm the one who's not allowed to have a complete thought, stay seated through a meal or enjoy an uninterrupted phone conver sation. I'm in charge of work, worry and discipline; he's in cha rge of fun, frolic and fantasy. I'm the maid, the cook, the schoo l marm--and the policeman; he's the grand marshal of the nightly daddy parade. Where's my parade? Of course, we made this decisi on together, putting my career on hold to be here for the kids. I never doubted it was the right choice for us, and I still don't. At times, however, it's hard to watch David shower, dress and di sappear while I stay home, as steady and loyal as a lap dog. Just once, I'd like to walk in the door to shouts of Mommy's home! I know I'm being silly. Think of the things he misses out on, thi ngs I wouldn't trade for the most glamorous job on the planet. He wasn't here for Molly's first joke, when at a year old she reach ed into a basket of toys, pulled out a dumbbell-shaped rattle and held it across the bridge of her nose like Mommy's glasses. He d idn't hear her belly laugh then or mine when Hewson at two strode through the back door naked except for a pair of muddy rubber bo ots-- smiling ear-to-ear--to hand me a bouquet of ragweed. He's n ot here when Molly hurts herself, and before I can reach her, Hal ey has rushed over to console her. Or when I offer Hewson a cooki e, and he won't accept it unless I give him one for each of his s issies as well. I can hear the Daddy Fan Club in the bedroom, fi ghting over who gets to put his shoes in the closet and who may t oss his shirt in the hamper. I don't see anyone wrestling me for my dishrag. But as I clear the table for dinner, I catch glimpses of our day together--masks we constructed from paper plates, flo wers plucked on our morning walk, a mountain of library books bec ause we had to have just one more. Would I trade all of that for a paycheck and a little office camaraderie? As the daddy proces sion heads back my way, I have to admit the trade-offs are worth it. He may have lunch out with coworkers, but I get peanut-butter -and-jelly kisses. He might exchange clever repartee with clients , but I get to snuggle up and read Good Night, Moon just one more time. Let him have his parade. I'll celebrate each day's small joys. After all, those are perks no benefits package can offer. -Mimi Greenwood Knight </div ., HCI, 2006, 2.5<

2006, ISBN: 9780757304019

Pasta blanda

Corgi, 2000. Standard. Paperback. Good. Outline:- In my eyes she had always been old, always been mine, always been Granny Dan. But in another time, another place, there had been dancin… Más…

Corgi, 2000. Standard. Paperback. Good. Outline:- In my eyes she had always been old, always been mine, always been Granny Dan. But in another time, another place, there had been dancing, people, laughter, love... She was the cherished grandmother who sang songs in Russian, loved to roller skate, and spoke little of her past. But when Granny Dan died, all that remained was a box wrapped in brown paper. Inside, an old pair of satin ballet shoes, a gold locket, and a stack of letters tied with ribbon. It was her legacy, a secret past, waiting to be discovered by the granddaughter who loved her but never really knew her. It was a story waiting to be told. The year was 1902. A motherless young girl arrived at ballet school in St Petersburg. By the age of seventeen Danina Petrovskova was forced to make a heartbreaking choice - as the world around her was about to change forever. In this extraordinary novel a simple box, filled with mementos from a grandmother, offers a long-forgotten history of youth and beauty, love and dreams.-> the publisher of this PAPERBACK book is Corgi The date of this copy is 2000 booksalvation have grade it as Good and it will be shipped from our UK warehouse This book is from the Series. Shipping is Free for UK buyers and at a reasonable charge for buyer outside the UK, Corgi, 2000, 2.5, Headline Publishing Group. Good. 114mm / 178mm. Paperback. 1992. 608 pages. Cover worn<br>A web of intrigue, paranoia and secrecy, which unravels as the Russian Empire crumbles. Reviews A CIA p lot to spread disinformation among Soviet southern republics is t he brainchild of aging CIA operative Edward Stone, who neglects t o inform his superiors of his plans. Stone recruits bored CIA Ist anbul bureau chief Alan Taylor and fledgling CIA agent Anna Barne s, and the three of them set off to stir up the Uzbeks, Azerbaija nis, and Armenians. Ultimately, the CIA discovers Stone's adventu re and scrubs the operation, leaving Taylor and Barnes to fend fo r themselves. At no time does this come across as a serious spy t hriller. The main characters, Taylor and Barnes, are not very app ealing, and the plot suggests little in the way of intrigue and e xcitement. If author Ignatius intended to write a hair-raising, a ction-packed spy thriller, he has missed the mark. His Agents of Innocence (LJ 9/15/87) was a success; Siro is not. Previewed in P repub Alert, LJ 12/90.-- Brian Alley, Sangamon State Univ. Lib., Springfield, Ill. The tottering Soviet empire and a U.S. whose p ower is unraveling around the globe provide the context for a spy thriller that succeeds as both stunning entertainment and search ing probe of the contemporary political chessboard. Alan Taylor, CIA chief in Istanbul, sentimental nihilist and professional malc ontent, enlists nervy, vulnerable Anna Barnes, fresh from Harvard 's department of Ottoman history, on a mission to destabilize Mos lem-dominated Soviet Central Asia. Together they recruit a crude, burned-out ex-CIA man in Athens, an Armenian dissident intellect ual and an Uzbek ex-Nazi agent who has been living among Orthodox Jews in Brooklyn. But Taylor, who keeps overstepping company rul es and ethical norms, saves the most dangerous part of the missio n for Anna, with whom he is having an affair. Ignatius ( Agents o f Innocence ) ranks with Graham Greene in his knowledge of espion age and the human heart. Petro-hustlers, arms dealers, an obnoxio us CIA psychiatrist and Islamic nationalists seeking freedom from Russian rule crowd a tricky tale of power politics and double cr oss. 75,000 first printing; $100,000 ad/promo; BOMC selection. (A pr.) YA-- A spy novel in which readers are introduced to the rut hless world of international intrigue through novice CIA agent An na Barnes. The time is 1979 and the U. S. appears to be losing th e upper hand to the Soviet Union. The Shah of Iran has just fled, and in the U. S. Embassy Americans are being held hostage. The s tability of the Middle East is wavering. In Latin America, the U. S. backed dictator of Nicaragua has sought refuge in the United States, and a treaty has just been signed with Panama to turn ove r control of the Panama Canal by the year 2000. The good old boys of the CIA are being called to task for this unsettling state of affairs by watchdog Congressional committees. The novel is fast paced, accurate, and suspenseful; the characters are memorable. I gnatius draws upon his experience as the foreign editor of the Wa shington Post to create a story that is so realistic that it is d ifficult to believe it is fiction. First-rate. --Dolores M. Stein hauer, Thomas Jefferson Sci-Tech, Fairfax County, VA ., Headline Publishing Group, 1992, 2.5, HCI. Good. 5.5 x 0.75 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2006. 350 pages. Spine chipped. Ex-library.<br>What Any Mother of a Pre schooler Needs (Besides a Week at a Spa!) Does your car CD colle ction range from The Best of Rock-n-Roll Classics to The Best of Barney? Does your idea of a good dinner out mean crayons and pape r placemats for all? Can hearing the words, I love you, Mommy mak e your whole day? Then chances are good that you are not only a m other of a preschooler (or soon-to-be one), but that you are in n eed of some laughter, inspiration and camaraderie from other wome n who've been there. Let's face it: Our little bundles of joy a nd boundless energy don't come with instructions, and every mom u ndoubtedly thinks at one time or another: Am I doing this right?! In this uplifting collection, you'll find true stories about the day-to-day minutiae and miracles of being the mom to a preschool er: from finding peace and purpose in what can seem (and look!) l ike chaos; from solving sibling rivalry to celebrating sibling re velry; from the sorrow of letting go to enjoying some personal in dependence as your big kid goes off to school. Included are stori es from well-known MOPS speakers, Lisa Moffitt and Rochelle Nelso n. In just a few minutes of alone time these stories will give m others of preschoolers a place to release the stresses of their d ay, connect with other moms who they can relate to and evoke much -needed laughter. Like only Chicken Soup can, these stories will rekindle your sense of self and spirit, and remind you how to enj oy this precious period of time in your life. Editorial Reviews About the Author Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are the #1 New York Times and USA Today best-selling authors of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Maria Nickless is the NY Times bestse lling coauthor of Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul. Maria is the former Director of Marketing and Public Relations for Chicken So up for the Soul Enterprises, Inc. Maria oversaw campaigns for ove r 45 Chicken Soup titles, including successfully orchestrating Th e Largest Book Signing Event in History in 1998, as recognized by Guinness Book of World Records. Maria lives in southern Californ ia and is a wife and mother of two young children. Elisa Morgan is the president of MOPS International and a sought-after public speaker to varied audiences. She's a regular contributing editor to Christian Parenting Today and has written five books and coaut hored five books (see below). Elisa received a B.S. in Psychology from the University of Texas and a Master of Divinity in Counsel ing from Denver Seminary. She served as Dean of Women at Western Bible College, now Colorado Christian University. She is a licens ed minister who resides in Centennial, Colorado, with her husband , her son and her daughter. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. On Parade Her children rise up and bless h er. -Proverbs 31:28 Daddy's home! Tiny figures stampede past, e ach clamoring to get the first hug, the first kiss, all squawking at once. I want a piggyback ride! Look what I made for you! D id you bring us anything? Daddy throws his arms wide and draws t hree squirming bodies off the floor. Squeals and giggles abound a s he spins them around, returns them to the floor and starts chas ing them in every direction. No more quiet house. No more bathti me. No more Mama. It's as if I've disappeared into the woodwork I 've been trying to find time to clean. He deserves this, I tell myself. He works extra hard so I can stay home with the kids. Thi s is his reward after a long day at the office. Who am I kidding ? It hurts to see them shower affection on David, after I've been here, all day long, changing diapers, wiping noses and mopping s pills. I'm the one who's not allowed to have a complete thought, stay seated through a meal or enjoy an uninterrupted phone conver sation. I'm in charge of work, worry and discipline; he's in cha rge of fun, frolic and fantasy. I'm the maid, the cook, the schoo l marm--and the policeman; he's the grand marshal of the nightly daddy parade. Where's my parade? Of course, we made this decisi on together, putting my career on hold to be here for the kids. I never doubted it was the right choice for us, and I still don't. At times, however, it's hard to watch David shower, dress and di sappear while I stay home, as steady and loyal as a lap dog. Just once, I'd like to walk in the door to shouts of Mommy's home! I know I'm being silly. Think of the things he misses out on, thi ngs I wouldn't trade for the most glamorous job on the planet. He wasn't here for Molly's first joke, when at a year old she reach ed into a basket of toys, pulled out a dumbbell-shaped rattle and held it across the bridge of her nose like Mommy's glasses. He d idn't hear her belly laugh then or mine when Hewson at two strode through the back door naked except for a pair of muddy rubber bo ots-- smiling ear-to-ear--to hand me a bouquet of ragweed. He's n ot here when Molly hurts herself, and before I can reach her, Hal ey has rushed over to console her. Or when I offer Hewson a cooki e, and he won't accept it unless I give him one for each of his s issies as well. I can hear the Daddy Fan Club in the bedroom, fi ghting over who gets to put his shoes in the closet and who may t oss his shirt in the hamper. I don't see anyone wrestling me for my dishrag. But as I clear the table for dinner, I catch glimpses of our day together--masks we constructed from paper plates, flo wers plucked on our morning walk, a mountain of library books bec ause we had to have just one more. Would I trade all of that for a paycheck and a little office camaraderie? As the daddy proces sion heads back my way, I have to admit the trade-offs are worth it. He may have lunch out with coworkers, but I get peanut-butter -and-jelly kisses. He might exchange clever repartee with clients , but I get to snuggle up and read Good Night, Moon just one more time. Let him have his parade. I'll celebrate each day's small joys. After all, those are perks no benefits package can offer. -Mimi Greenwood Knight </div ., HCI, 2006, 2.5<

2023, ISBN: 9780757304019

SM., 1993 Libros infantiles y juveniles.(087.5) Literatura española. Novela y cuento. Cuentos. Leyendas. Sagas. Cuentos de hadas. Siglo XX. (860-34"19") SM. Madrid. 1993.… Más…

SM., 1993 Libros infantiles y juveniles.(087.5) Literatura española. Novela y cuento. Cuentos. Leyendas. Sagas. Cuentos de hadas. Siglo XX. (860-34"19") SM. Madrid. 1993. 19 cm. 124 p. il. Encuadernación en tapa blanda de editorial ilustrada. Colección 'Colección El Barco de Vapor', numero coleccion(8). Serie naranja. volumen coleccion( 3). Reimp. de la 1ª ed. , 1980. Muñoz Martín, Juan 1929-2023. Ilustraciones, Antonio Tello. Tello, Antonio. 1951-. El barco de vapor. 8. Ilustración, Antonio Tello. Primer premio "Barco de Vapor", 1979, Fundación Santa María . Cubierta deslucida. Ejemplar deslucido. Funda de Contiene pegatina en lomo. ástico. ISBN: 8434808633 (=2990989=) JP31. 1ª Edición. tapa blanda. Bien., SM., 1993, 0, HCI. Good. 5.5 x 0.75 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2006. 350 pages. Spine chipped. Ex-library.<br>What Any Mother of a Pre schooler Needs (Besides a Week at a Spa!) Does your car CD colle ction range from The Best of Rock-n-Roll Classics to The Best of Barney? Does your idea of a good dinner out mean crayons and pape r placemats for all? Can hearing the words, I love you, Mommy mak e your whole day? Then chances are good that you are not only a m other of a preschooler (or soon-to-be one), but that you are in n eed of some laughter, inspiration and camaraderie from other wome n who've been there. Let's face it: Our little bundles of joy a nd boundless energy don't come with instructions, and every mom u ndoubtedly thinks at one time or another: Am I doing this right?! In this uplifting collection, you'll find true stories about the day-to-day minutiae and miracles of being the mom to a preschool er: from finding peace and purpose in what can seem (and look!) l ike chaos; from solving sibling rivalry to celebrating sibling re velry; from the sorrow of letting go to enjoying some personal in dependence as your big kid goes off to school. Included are stori es from well-known MOPS speakers, Lisa Moffitt and Rochelle Nelso n. In just a few minutes of alone time these stories will give m others of preschoolers a place to release the stresses of their d ay, connect with other moms who they can relate to and evoke much -needed laughter. Like only Chicken Soup can, these stories will rekindle your sense of self and spirit, and remind you how to enj oy this precious period of time in your life. Editorial Reviews About the Author Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are the #1 New York Times and USA Today best-selling authors of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Maria Nickless is the NY Times bestse lling coauthor of Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul. Maria is the former Director of Marketing and Public Relations for Chicken So up for the Soul Enterprises, Inc. Maria oversaw campaigns for ove r 45 Chicken Soup titles, including successfully orchestrating Th e Largest Book Signing Event in History in 1998, as recognized by Guinness Book of World Records. Maria lives in southern Californ ia and is a wife and mother of two young children. Elisa Morgan is the president of MOPS International and a sought-after public speaker to varied audiences. She's a regular contributing editor to Christian Parenting Today and has written five books and coaut hored five books (see below). Elisa received a B.S. in Psychology from the University of Texas and a Master of Divinity in Counsel ing from Denver Seminary. She served as Dean of Women at Western Bible College, now Colorado Christian University. She is a licens ed minister who resides in Centennial, Colorado, with her husband , her son and her daughter. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. On Parade Her children rise up and bless h er. -Proverbs 31:28 Daddy's home! Tiny figures stampede past, e ach clamoring to get the first hug, the first kiss, all squawking at once. I want a piggyback ride! Look what I made for you! D id you bring us anything? Daddy throws his arms wide and draws t hree squirming bodies off the floor. Squeals and giggles abound a s he spins them around, returns them to the floor and starts chas ing them in every direction. No more quiet house. No more bathti me. No more Mama. It's as if I've disappeared into the woodwork I 've been trying to find time to clean. He deserves this, I tell myself. He works extra hard so I can stay home with the kids. Thi s is his reward after a long day at the office. Who am I kidding ? It hurts to see them shower affection on David, after I've been here, all day long, changing diapers, wiping noses and mopping s pills. I'm the one who's not allowed to have a complete thought, stay seated through a meal or enjoy an uninterrupted phone conver sation. I'm in charge of work, worry and discipline; he's in cha rge of fun, frolic and fantasy. I'm the maid, the cook, the schoo l marm--and the policeman; he's the grand marshal of the nightly daddy parade. Where's my parade? Of course, we made this decisi on together, putting my career on hold to be here for the kids. I never doubted it was the right choice for us, and I still don't. At times, however, it's hard to watch David shower, dress and di sappear while I stay home, as steady and loyal as a lap dog. Just once, I'd like to walk in the door to shouts of Mommy's home! I know I'm being silly. Think of the things he misses out on, thi ngs I wouldn't trade for the most glamorous job on the planet. He wasn't here for Molly's first joke, when at a year old she reach ed into a basket of toys, pulled out a dumbbell-shaped rattle and held it across the bridge of her nose like Mommy's glasses. He d idn't hear her belly laugh then or mine when Hewson at two strode through the back door naked except for a pair of muddy rubber bo ots-- smiling ear-to-ear--to hand me a bouquet of ragweed. He's n ot here when Molly hurts herself, and before I can reach her, Hal ey has rushed over to console her. Or when I offer Hewson a cooki e, and he won't accept it unless I give him one for each of his s issies as well. I can hear the Daddy Fan Club in the bedroom, fi ghting over who gets to put his shoes in the closet and who may t oss his shirt in the hamper. I don't see anyone wrestling me for my dishrag. But as I clear the table for dinner, I catch glimpses of our day together--masks we constructed from paper plates, flo wers plucked on our morning walk, a mountain of library books bec ause we had to have just one more. Would I trade all of that for a paycheck and a little office camaraderie? As the daddy proces sion heads back my way, I have to admit the trade-offs are worth it. He may have lunch out with coworkers, but I get peanut-butter -and-jelly kisses. He might exchange clever repartee with clients , but I get to snuggle up and read Good Night, Moon just one more time. Let him have his parade. I'll celebrate each day's small joys. After all, those are perks no benefits package can offer. -Mimi Greenwood Knight </div ., HCI, 2006, 2.5<

2006, ISBN: 9780757304019

Orion. Good. 18 cm. Paperback. 2001. 404 pages. Cover worn<br>A shot rings out, the woman dies instant ly. But she was not alone on the steps of the London hotel. A num ber of other… Más…

Orion. Good. 18 cm. Paperback. 2001. 404 pages. Cover worn<br>A shot rings out, the woman dies instant ly. But she was not alone on the steps of the London hotel. A num ber of other people could also have been the intended target of t he invisible sniper. But the assassin, Michael Weston, knows he has carried out his assignment successfully. One mistake was eno ugh, a long time ago, when a young American girl had accidentally received the fatal bullet. After all those years, the father of the dead girl still had a private eye named Hoffer on a permanent retainer to track him down. Every time Weston completed a job, h e knew Hoffer would not be far behind. But why had the police b een on the scene so quickly? Weston has to find out ? even if it means coming face to face with Hoffer . . . ., Orion, 2001, 2.5, HCI. Good. 5.5 x 0.75 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2006. 350 pages. Spine chipped. Ex-library.<br>What Any Mother of a Pre schooler Needs (Besides a Week at a Spa!) Does your car CD colle ction range from The Best of Rock-n-Roll Classics to The Best of Barney? Does your idea of a good dinner out mean crayons and pape r placemats for all? Can hearing the words, I love you, Mommy mak e your whole day? Then chances are good that you are not only a m other of a preschooler (or soon-to-be one), but that you are in n eed of some laughter, inspiration and camaraderie from other wome n who've been there. Let's face it: Our little bundles of joy a nd boundless energy don't come with instructions, and every mom u ndoubtedly thinks at one time or another: Am I doing this right?! In this uplifting collection, you'll find true stories about the day-to-day minutiae and miracles of being the mom to a preschool er: from finding peace and purpose in what can seem (and look!) l ike chaos; from solving sibling rivalry to celebrating sibling re velry; from the sorrow of letting go to enjoying some personal in dependence as your big kid goes off to school. Included are stori es from well-known MOPS speakers, Lisa Moffitt and Rochelle Nelso n. In just a few minutes of alone time these stories will give m others of preschoolers a place to release the stresses of their d ay, connect with other moms who they can relate to and evoke much -needed laughter. Like only Chicken Soup can, these stories will rekindle your sense of self and spirit, and remind you how to enj oy this precious period of time in your life. Editorial Reviews About the Author Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are the #1 New York Times and USA Today best-selling authors of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Maria Nickless is the NY Times bestse lling coauthor of Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul. Maria is the former Director of Marketing and Public Relations for Chicken So up for the Soul Enterprises, Inc. Maria oversaw campaigns for ove r 45 Chicken Soup titles, including successfully orchestrating Th e Largest Book Signing Event in History in 1998, as recognized by Guinness Book of World Records. Maria lives in southern Californ ia and is a wife and mother of two young children. Elisa Morgan is the president of MOPS International and a sought-after public speaker to varied audiences. She's a regular contributing editor to Christian Parenting Today and has written five books and coaut hored five books (see below). Elisa received a B.S. in Psychology from the University of Texas and a Master of Divinity in Counsel ing from Denver Seminary. She served as Dean of Women at Western Bible College, now Colorado Christian University. She is a licens ed minister who resides in Centennial, Colorado, with her husband , her son and her daughter. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. On Parade Her children rise up and bless h er. -Proverbs 31:28 Daddy's home! Tiny figures stampede past, e ach clamoring to get the first hug, the first kiss, all squawking at once. I want a piggyback ride! Look what I made for you! D id you bring us anything? Daddy throws his arms wide and draws t hree squirming bodies off the floor. Squeals and giggles abound a s he spins them around, returns them to the floor and starts chas ing them in every direction. No more quiet house. No more bathti me. No more Mama. It's as if I've disappeared into the woodwork I 've been trying to find time to clean. He deserves this, I tell myself. He works extra hard so I can stay home with the kids. Thi s is his reward after a long day at the office. Who am I kidding ? It hurts to see them shower affection on David, after I've been here, all day long, changing diapers, wiping noses and mopping s pills. I'm the one who's not allowed to have a complete thought, stay seated through a meal or enjoy an uninterrupted phone conver sation. I'm in charge of work, worry and discipline; he's in cha rge of fun, frolic and fantasy. I'm the maid, the cook, the schoo l marm--and the policeman; he's the grand marshal of the nightly daddy parade. Where's my parade? Of course, we made this decisi on together, putting my career on hold to be here for the kids. I never doubted it was the right choice for us, and I still don't. At times, however, it's hard to watch David shower, dress and di sappear while I stay home, as steady and loyal as a lap dog. Just once, I'd like to walk in the door to shouts of Mommy's home! I know I'm being silly. Think of the things he misses out on, thi ngs I wouldn't trade for the most glamorous job on the planet. He wasn't here for Molly's first joke, when at a year old she reach ed into a basket of toys, pulled out a dumbbell-shaped rattle and held it across the bridge of her nose like Mommy's glasses. He d idn't hear her belly laugh then or mine when Hewson at two strode through the back door naked except for a pair of muddy rubber bo ots-- smiling ear-to-ear--to hand me a bouquet of ragweed. He's n ot here when Molly hurts herself, and before I can reach her, Hal ey has rushed over to console her. Or when I offer Hewson a cooki e, and he won't accept it unless I give him one for each of his s issies as well. I can hear the Daddy Fan Club in the bedroom, fi ghting over who gets to put his shoes in the closet and who may t oss his shirt in the hamper. I don't see anyone wrestling me for my dishrag. But as I clear the table for dinner, I catch glimpses of our day together--masks we constructed from paper plates, flo wers plucked on our morning walk, a mountain of library books bec ause we had to have just one more. Would I trade all of that for a paycheck and a little office camaraderie? As the daddy proces sion heads back my way, I have to admit the trade-offs are worth it. He may have lunch out with coworkers, but I get peanut-butter -and-jelly kisses. He might exchange clever repartee with clients , but I get to snuggle up and read Good Night, Moon just one more time. Let him have his parade. I'll celebrate each day's small joys. After all, those are perks no benefits package can offer. -Mimi Greenwood Knight </div ., HCI, 2006, 2.5<

2006, ISBN: 9780757304019

HCI. Good. 5.5 x 0.75 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2006. 350 pages. Spine chipped. Ex-library.<br>What Any Mother of a Pre schooler Needs (Besides a Week at a Spa!) Does your car CD c… Más…

HCI. Good. 5.5 x 0.75 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2006. 350 pages. Spine chipped. Ex-library.<br>What Any Mother of a Pre schooler Needs (Besides a Week at a Spa!) Does your car CD colle ction range from The Best of Rock-n-Roll Classics to The Best of Barney? Does your idea of a good dinner out mean crayons and pape r placemats for all? Can hearing the words, I love you, Mommy mak e your whole day? Then chances are good that you are not only a m other of a preschooler (or soon-to-be one), but that you are in n eed of some laughter, inspiration and camaraderie from other wome n who've been there. Let's face it: Our little bundles of joy a nd boundless energy don't come with instructions, and every mom u ndoubtedly thinks at one time or another: Am I doing this right?! In this uplifting collection, you'll find true stories about the day-to-day minutiae and miracles of being the mom to a preschool er: from finding peace and purpose in what can seem (and look!) l ike chaos; from solving sibling rivalry to celebrating sibling re velry; from the sorrow of letting go to enjoying some personal in dependence as your big kid goes off to school. Included are stori es from well-known MOPS speakers, Lisa Moffitt and Rochelle Nelso n. In just a few minutes of alone time these stories will give m others of preschoolers a place to release the stresses of their d ay, connect with other moms who they can relate to and evoke much -needed laughter. Like only Chicken Soup can, these stories will rekindle your sense of self and spirit, and remind you how to enj oy this precious period of time in your life. Editorial Reviews About the Author Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen are the #1 New York Times and USA Today best-selling authors of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Maria Nickless is the NY Times bestse lling coauthor of Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul. Maria is the former Director of Marketing and Public Relations for Chicken So up for the Soul Enterprises, Inc. Maria oversaw campaigns for ove r 45 Chicken Soup titles, including successfully orchestrating Th e Largest Book Signing Event in History in 1998, as recognized by Guinness Book of World Records. Maria lives in southern Californ ia and is a wife and mother of two young children. Elisa Morgan is the president of MOPS International and a sought-after public speaker to varied audiences. She's a regular contributing editor to Christian Parenting Today and has written five books and coaut hored five books (see below). Elisa received a B.S. in Psychology from the University of Texas and a Master of Divinity in Counsel ing from Denver Seminary. She served as Dean of Women at Western Bible College, now Colorado Christian University. She is a licens ed minister who resides in Centennial, Colorado, with her husband , her son and her daughter. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. On Parade Her children rise up and bless h er. -Proverbs 31:28 Daddy's home! Tiny figures stampede past, e ach clamoring to get the first hug, the first kiss, all squawking at once. I want a piggyback ride! Look what I made for you! D id you bring us anything? Daddy throws his arms wide and draws t hree squirming bodies off the floor. Squeals and giggles abound a s he spins them around, returns them to the floor and starts chas ing them in every direction. No more quiet house. No more bathti me. No more Mama. It's as if I've disappeared into the woodwork I 've been trying to find time to clean. He deserves this, I tell myself. He works extra hard so I can stay home with the kids. Thi s is his reward after a long day at the office. Who am I kidding ? It hurts to see them shower affection on David, after I've been here, all day long, changing diapers, wiping noses and mopping s pills. I'm the one who's not allowed to have a complete thought, stay seated through a meal or enjoy an uninterrupted phone conver sation. I'm in charge of work, worry and discipline; he's in cha rge of fun, frolic and fantasy. I'm the maid, the cook, the schoo l marm--and the policeman; he's the grand marshal of the nightly daddy parade. Where's my parade? Of course, we made this decisi on together, putting my career on hold to be here for the kids. I never doubted it was the right choice for us, and I still don't. At times, however, it's hard to watch David shower, dress and di sappear while I stay home, as steady and loyal as a lap dog. Just once, I'd like to walk in the door to shouts of Mommy's home! I know I'm being silly. Think of the things he misses out on, thi ngs I wouldn't trade for the most glamorous job on the planet. He wasn't here for Molly's first joke, when at a year old she reach ed into a basket of toys, pulled out a dumbbell-shaped rattle and held it across the bridge of her nose like Mommy's glasses. He d idn't hear her belly laugh then or mine when Hewson at two strode through the back door naked except for a pair of muddy rubber bo ots-- smiling ear-to-ear--to hand me a bouquet of ragweed. He's n ot here when Molly hurts herself, and before I can reach her, Hal ey has rushed over to console her. Or when I offer Hewson a cooki e, and he won't accept it unless I give him one for each of his s issies as well. I can hear the Daddy Fan Club in the bedroom, fi ghting over who gets to put his shoes in the closet and who may t oss his shirt in the hamper. I don't see anyone wrestling me for my dishrag. But as I clear the table for dinner, I catch glimpses of our day together--masks we constructed from paper plates, flo wers plucked on our morning walk, a mountain of library books bec ause we had to have just one more. Would I trade all of that for a paycheck and a little office camaraderie? As the daddy proces sion heads back my way, I have to admit the trade-offs are worth it. He may have lunch out with coworkers, but I get peanut-butter -and-jelly kisses. He might exchange clever repartee with clients , but I get to snuggle up and read Good Night, Moon just one more time. Let him have his parade. I'll celebrate each day's small joys. After all, those are perks no benefits package can offer. -Mimi Greenwood Knight </div ., HCI, 2006, 2.5<