esther: Writing Portfolio

"Song for My Fathers: A New Orleans Story in Black and White" by Tom Sancton
by Esther Friedman
EDGE Entertainment Contributor
Tuesday May 30, 2006


It is 1963 and I’m in New Orleans. A funeral procession marches down the street. The band plays "The Saints," and people dance behind the casket, while pall-bearers carry the deceased to his final resting place. Well, not really. In truth, I’m sitting on a couch in Somerville, Massachusetts reading Tom Sancton’s Song for My Fathers.

In Songs for My Fathers, the former Time Magazine Paris Bureau Chief, best-selling author and Jazz clarinetist, Tom Sancton, not only recounts his childhood in New Orleans where black jazz cats of the French Quarter taught him how to play his clarinet, he resurrects New Orleans as it was in the sixties.

Back then Louisiana state-law prohibited blacks and whites from sharing a roof unless the white person had employed the black person. In one scene banjo-player "Creole" George Guesnon tells Sancton’s father (also named Tom) "You know something Tom, if the cops come around here and catch an ofay cat sittin’ here talkin’ to a spook, they gonna throw both our asses in jail."

Sancton and his parents defied racial barriers when they became immersed in the music at Preservation Hall, a venue famous for honoring and preserving traditional New Orleans Jazz. Sancton’s father-a journalist/novelist, fiery Civil Rights activist and a Neiman Fellow-had been stung by two failed novels. He found solace and camaraderie in the music and the musicians. Little did the elder Sancton know his son would embark on his own jazz odyssey.

Young Sancton was 13 when he first entered the Hall, and when legendary clarinetist George Lewis took interest in the white boy from "the far end of Canal Street."
Upon meeting, Lewis said, "What instrument you play,
Tommy?"

"I don’t play anything," Sancton responded.

"Better learn one. You got music inside you."

Soon enough Sancton became Lewis’ pupil, and Lewis initiated a series of black jazz greats - including Guesnon, trumpeter Punch Miller and drummer Joe Watkins - who would take the teen under their wings and tutelage: "The mens," as they called themselves, ranged in age from early thirties to almost ninety and became surrogate fathers for the author, as his own father became lost to, and weighed down by, an avalanche of professional disappointments.

The cacophony of jazz voices that made up New Orleans jump off the pages of this beautifully and soulfully written memoir; not only does the reader hear the "Burgundy Street Blues," as "the mens" play a funeral march, or gig at Preservation Hall, but important jazz figures spring to life in lively conversation, and lovely descriptive narrative.

When saxophonist and Olympia Brass Band founder Harold Dijon hires Sancton to play his first funeral march, he is suddenly thrust into the lively and dangerous reality of New Orleans’ black neighborhoods.

When Sancton reports for duty, his new boss Dijon, laughs, "There’s my clarinet man," he said. "Boy, I’m a work your ass today."

Sancton finds himself marching and playing under the New Orleans sun, through the humidity-laden air, and amid throngs of dancing and drinking, when he hears "Pop.pop,pop,pop!" A young woman falls to the ground next to him.

The dialogue that follows:

"Shit, every time we parade for them Treme Sports look like some dude want to play cowboy."

An arrest follows.

"They call him Shorty. I know him."

"He just done got out of jail las’ month."

"Shorty always been a bad dude, Look like they got him, now, though. He goin’
back in the joint."

"That girl hurt bad?"

"I think she hit in the leg. I seen blood all over the road."

Sancton’s prose sings scenarios, that a conventional middle class white teen wouldn’t normally see: For example when describing Buster’s restaurant on Orleans and Burgundy where "the mens" would eat, drink, and womanize he writes, "There were half a dozen big iron pots simmering on the stove, filled with mustard greens, cabbage and ham, gumbo, turtle soup, red beans, and shrimp. It all mixed together in a warm cloud of vapor that bathed the room in a pungent, spicy, meaty smell. Blown out onto the street by a big rickety window fan, the aroma of Buster’s kitchen filled the whole neighborhood."

As a reader I heard the water bubble, felt the steam and smelled the gumbo.

In regard to funeral marches Sancton writes the following:

"Not only were the all-day parades great for building up my chops, they also gave me an experience that very few local white people could have in those days: marching, playing, and watching from the inside of a brass band as it wound its way through the heart of the old black neighborhoods. I would find myself surrounded by writhing sea of people, hearing their whoops and shouts, marveling their supple, sensual dancing, occasionally dodging brick-bats and gunshots when tempers flared and violence erupted on the hot streets. This was more than music. This was life. I wanted to drink it all in."

His love of the music and "the mens" is deepened by the sanctified racism of the pre-civil rights deep south. He skillfully and honestly depicts his double life, white middle-class school kid by day, and jazz musician by night, and juxtaposes the guidance given to him by "the mens" to his complicated relationship to his biological father.

As the nation grieves the devastation Hurricane Katrina visited on the Gulf Coast, Song for My Fathers offers an often funny and sometimes heart-wrenching tribute to the battered city, a salutation to the wisdom, strength and humor of the music and musicians who give New Orleans its soul, and a guidebook to its heart. It is also a salutation to the power of music that melts down racial/class/economic barriers, and an important chronicle of the history of civil rights, as well as the city’s significance and contribution to our country.

For as Sancton quotes Danny Barker, jazz banjoist and curator of New Orleans Jazz museum, "Ain’t no good time, get down city like New Orleans. In this town
folks even throw a party for the dog’s birthday. Somebody going to jail? Give ’em a party. Somebody dead? Give ’em a party. This is the only city in the world where they bury a person with a brass band."

Publisher: Other Press, New York

Esther Friedman is a Boston based freelance writer.

A Walking Tour of Boston- Private Guide Included!
by Esther Friedman
EDGE Travel Contributor
Thursday Nov 17, 2005


When I realize I’ve lived in Boston since 1990, and never walked a guided tour of the freedom trail, or taken a duck boat tour, I wonder if I can really identify myself as a true Bostonian.

Luckily, www.AudisseyGuides.com has made the guts and glory of Boston’s illustrious history available to all, through a guided audio tour. All a curious explorer needs is a CD or MP3 player and two feet. East Boston resident, Robert Pyles talks you through the streets and the years, starting in 1623, on the Boston Commons (with Boston’s first settler) up to the Big Dig. Pyle is joined by a slew of prominent Bostonian proprietors, journalists, writers and character actors, including Dicky Barrett of the “Mighty, Mighty Bosstones.” They narrate stories and take on the voices of Boston’s famous and infamous, and bring them back to life.

If you don’t mind some bloody descriptions and violent re-enactments, highlighted by clashing swords, breaking glass, and some screams of agony, nd if your children are not squeamish, the tour can be educational and fun for the entire family. It walks the listener through Beacon Hill brownstones and ast the State House. It reveals little known, yet historically significant, cobblestone alleys (such as Bosworth Street) where a set of stairs represents last vestige of the “Province House,” the mansion which housed the Royal Governors of British Massachusetts. Squealing brakes on MBTA buses, Boston Shoppers and rumbling taxi cabs, fade away into images of marching Redcoats’ bayonets pointed at “patriot thugs” on State Street.

The tour is a blast. There are points which seemed intentionally over-dramatized, which actually makes the listen particularly enjoyable, especially in the midst of depicting some childishly violent behavior: An actor channels the dramatic voice of twenty-year old Benjamin Woodbridge, “On these grounds here I spent my last living moments, for he over-powered me.” Apparently on July 4th, 1728, a young man named Henry Philips accused Woodbridgeof cheating in a card game and felt the need to duel.

“He pointed to me and whispered a deadly invitation” Woodbridge intones. Next, swords swipe the air, clashing metal on metal, followed by Woodbridge’s anguished cry, “a burning; A flame in my heart. He ran me through, his blade down my back.” With that Woodbridge fades away into eternity.

But when Boston resident and social activist Judy Richardson, narrated and led me down Holmes Alley, part of the real Underground Railroad, I found myself feeling a bit less cheeky about the entire experience.

Richardson explains how slave catchers prowled the Northeast. “Imagine you are one of those slaves,” she directed me. I was transported back to 1850, a slave being pursued. “I’ll tell you where to go,” Richardson said. I ran down Holmes Alley, a tiny cobblestone path tucked between two Beacon Hill brownstones, right to the African Meeting House where abolitionist Frederick Douglas once orated and pioneered for equal rights.

As the tour continues, we honor literary giants such as Nathanial Hawthorne and Ralph Waldo Emerson at the “Boston Athenaeum.” We learn that in 1911, North Vietnamese leader Ho Chi Minh baked pastries at the Omni Parker Hotel, home of the “Boston Cream Pie,” and civil rights legend Malcom X bussed tables there in the 1940.

As you take in the history, Boston proprietors such as such as Mary Ann Milano Pyles, co-owner of the Union Oyster House, Luigi “Big Lou” DeMarco of Café Graffiti in the North End, and Paddy Grace of Boston’s “The Littlest Bar,” invite the listener, to enjoy a pint, a cappuccino, or to take a seat at the Oyster Bar.

Whether you are a tourist or a resident, I would highly recommend the journey. My only complaint is that the directions get confusing at some points. For example the recording guides the listener to historical landmarks on the Boston Commons but neglects to point out obvious landmarks like “Frog Pond” and a tall Civil War monument which looms above. I discovered that Merchants Row off of State Street doesn’t have a street sign. And finding Scott Alley, across the street from Quincy Market, seemed more complicated than necessary. However, in my experience of Boston residential life, one spends a great deal of time getting lost; it just wouldn’t be Boston without some befuddlement over directions or missing street signs.

So if you are a transplant, like me, who now calls Boston “home,” but haven’t taken the time to explore Boston’s history, the Audissey tour is your opportunity to claim your residency. By the time I stood on Long Wharf where I turned to take in a view of Boston’s Skyline, I finally felt, after fifteen years, like a true Bostonian.

For more information and to purchase the tour, go to www.Audisseyguides.com

Esther Friedman is a Boston based free-lance writer.

"Olga’s Story : Three Continents, Two World Wars and Revolution--One Woman’s Epic Journey Through the Twentieth Century" by Stephanie Williams
by Esther Friedman
EDGE Entertainment Contributor
Tuesday Jun 21, 2005

“Olga’s Story,” by Journalist Stephanie Williams, is no light summer read. The subtitle, “Three Continents, Two World Wars, and Revolution--One Woman’s Epic Journey Through the Twentieth Century” indicates the density with which Williams recounts her Grandmother’s amazing and heartbreaking life-story. Williams’s beautifully descriptive narrative is also timely and important.

The book begins at the turn of the century, on the Russian/Mongolian border. If you aren’t familiar with the region or its history, it is best to arm yourself with a dictionary, an atlas, and access to a few history books.

Born in 1900, Olga Yunter grew up the youngest of five siblings in a remote Siberian villager. Her family was affluent. Her father, Semyon, was a fur trader who owned gold mines. Her mother, Anna, was a philanthropic, religious woman, who ran a meticulous household. While raising five children, she managed a household full of servants, which hosted endless caravans of camel riding fur-traders and merchants. In her spare time she volunteered at an orphanage.

Williams’s description of the Yunter family brings to mind an early twentieth century Siberian version of the Beaver Cleaver clan. The closely knit family valued love, order, ritual and safety. Anna and Semyon instilled deeply held family and cultural rituals, especially around seasonal changes and holidays.

Admittedly Williams wrote the first section of the book--The Whispering of Stars:1900-1914-—with such astounding detail, it’s often hard to wade through.

For example the families Christmas feast of 1905:

“Before they sat down to eat, special prayers were said over the Christmas feast. Christmas was the season for stroganina, raw frozen fish—sterlet or nelma—sliced so thinly in the cold that they were transparent and curled. Huge dishes of it were placed on the table, ready to eat with salt and pepper and Chinese vinegar...”

The scene ends with Olga and father sharing a tender moment outside the house:
“The night was extremely cold. Overhead, the stars were shining with extraordinary brilliance...there was not a sound to be heard. Shutters shielded the light from the house. They were enveloped in blackness. Semyon opened his great bear coat and picked her up in his arms. He wrapped the folds of fur around her.
‘Be very still,’ he murmured. “Now listen.”
Olga strained her ears.
‘Do you hear that sound?’
She listened. The faintest tingling reached her ears. ‘What is that?’ she whispered.
‘It’s the sound your breath makes as it falls to the ground. It is frozen. People used to think it was the fairies talking. The Buryats call it the whispering of stars’...When she looked up into the moonlight, she could see tiny crystals falling. As the moonlight captured the individual particles, they looked like a shower of fire.
‘Is it snow?’ she asked. ‘No, it’s the dew,’ Semyon said.”

Williams’s thick description is necessary for the reader to understand the level of Olga’s losses. By 1913, Russia is in the middle of economic and political unraveling, which is further complicated by World War I. Williams instills a palpable sense of fear into the reader, as we witness the disintegration of the families economic stability and physical safety.

At this point the book’s pace picks up and the read becomes emotionally heart wrenching. Threats thicken with every page turned and the small Siberian town in which the family lives, is torn apart. News of Labor strikes across the country, and a little known adversary to the Czar named Vladmimir Illich Lenin, start filtering into the Siberian country side. Political loyalties grow and life-long neighbors become adversaries.

During the escalating tension, Olga’s mother dies unexpectedly, two of her brothers, Vladimir and Nikolai, join the fight against the Bolsheviks. At 17 Olga runs weapons and anti-Bolshevik literature. She also manages its secret distribution and posting. By the time Olga is 21, both of her brothers are dead, she’s running for her life, with “nothing but a handful of rubies sewn into her petticoats.” She never sees her sister, Lydia, her brother Vassily, her father or her hometown again.

Olga moves through her life, from Russia to China to Canada back to China, finally landing in England. As she grows from daughter to wife to mother to grandmother, her losses mount: she loses her first love to an earthquake; discovers the man she did marry was not who he presented himself to be; she loses a child while watching the build up to World War II; Japanese troops invade China; Nazism rises out of Germany; Tensions and culture clashes again escalate with prejudice and paranoia.

While reading I constantly had to remind myself that I was reading a true story. I am astounded at what a human can endure.

“Olga’s Story,” as written by her granddaughter, demands attention. It’s not a book that can not be read to a backdrop of music. However, considering that the journalist spent ten years researching her grandmother’s background, traveling to Russia, China and Canada, spurred forward by only a “handful of photographs and letters,” and a few stories handed down via oral tradition, it is well worth the wade.

We are now living a time in history when the old adage, “Truth is stranger than fiction,” seems especially apt. With a war raging in Iraq and the constant reminders that the U.S. is no longer a stranger to terrorism, there’s an uneasy sense that anything could happen. The promotion of patriotism, and the rise in cultural paranoia that is happening now, are echoes of the past as illustrated in this beautifully written book—albeit cumbersome at times. I think that Olga’s Story is a truly important read for anyone who wants to understand what war really means.

Doubleday

Esther Friedman is a Boston based free-lance writer.

The Sopranos - The Complete Fifth Season
Grade: A
by Esther Friedman
EDGE Entertainment Contributor
Tuesday Jun 7, 2005

When the Soprano family first graced the airways in 1999, they soon became a favorite-water-cooler topic. Quickly the show became the beachhead of HBO’s Sunday night line-up, and a huge artistic success winning numerous awards (most recently the Emmy for Best Dramatic Series in 2004.) Its fifth season, now out on DVD, again works its inherent dynamic -- the contradiction between the brutality of organized crime and traditional family values -- into hours of addictive viewing. It is little wonder that this series remains so absorbing: The plot lines surprise at every turn and the characters blow stereotypes out of the water.

At its center remains Tony Soprano (James Gandolfini,) who epitomizes the ambivalence at the center of the show. One hand he’s the intimidating, rage ridden, sociopathic mob-boss; on the other he’s husband and provider for his wife Carmella (Edie Falco) and his children Meadow (Jamie-Lynn DiScala) and Anthony (Robert Iler) Tony is still plagued with panic attacks that interfere with his business and threaten to tarnish his tough guy image; they have brought him back into therapy with psychiatrist, Dr. Jennifer Melvi (Lorraine Bracco,) whose professional detachment is often shattered by Tony’s behavior.

This season also introduces Tony Blundetto (Steve Buscemi), Soprano’s cousin, who comes out of prison wanting to go straight as a massage therapist. His hopes of opening his own practice, though, are quickly dashed when he explodes with rage, and returns to the family and a life of crime.

Then there’s Tony’s nephew, Christopher Moltisanti (Michael Imperioli) who is a writer, and actor, as well as extortionist, murderer and hot-headed addict. In a previous season his substance abuse interferes with business; and the family staged an intervention and forced him into rehab. Thus Christopher becomes a walking, talking twelve-step program, but remains engaged to Adrianna La Cerva (Drea De Matteo), a classic coke-addict.

This being “The Sopranos,” Christopher’s recovery is treated with characteristic dark humor. For example, in Episode 7, “In Camelot,” Christopher brings a friend from rehab named J.T. to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Meanwhile he nurses the guy’s gambling addiction. J.T. ends up owing Christopher $57,000. In between scenes in which the two men support each other’s sobriety, Chris shows up at J.T.’s door, with reinforcements, demanding payment. J.T. has no money, but Chris shows no mercy. He beats him up and then hoses the guy for all he owns. When J.T. falls off the wagon, Chris drives him to rehab telling him, “You can do this, man. I have faith in you.”

The show interweaves violent and disturbing scenes with Tony’s therapy sessions. Viewers become privy to all his secrets and inner conflicts, which include a healthy helping of Catholic guilt, but still, nothing is sacred, nothing is untouched, and no one is particularly safe.

That’s the thing about this series; it’s just weird enough so that you buy it as it seduces the viewer with brilliant writing and acting. The dialogue ranges from hilarious to tender to deeply disturbing. All of the actors are so good that it is difficult to pick stand outs, however Edie Falco is fantastic as Tony’s wife Carmella; and Aida Turturro, as Tony’s wacky sister, Janice, is so believable she all but fades into her character.

As a viewer, it’s easy to be consumed and repulsed by this family’s behavior. There are more than a share of horrible scenes, such as when Tony B. beats his boss with a two-by-four; and dialogue that includes deprecating remarks about women and rationalizations for some pretty nasty behavior. At moments you may wonder what the attraction is, but then you find yourself once again absorbed in the vicious machinations of this Jersey clan.

Esther Friedman is a Boston based free-lance writer.

Lords of Dogtown
Rated PG-13 » Grade: A
by Esther Friedman
EDGE Entertainment Contributor
Friday Jun 3, 2005

Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll, rule in the “Lords of Dogtown,” a film based
on a true story. The “Zeypher Team,” a skateboarding phenomenon, revolutionized the sport in the ’70s. The “Z-Boys”—as they were called--rode urethane wheels as though they were riding Pacific Ocean waves.

The film centers on three teens, Tony Alva (Emile Hirsch), Jay Adams (Victor
Rasuk), and Stacey Peralta (John Robinson) who are growing up in Venice Beach’s “Dogtown,” affectionately referred to as "ghetto by the sea." The boys are surrounded by crime, addiction, concrete, and graffiti. To escape, they surf the waves at Pacific Ocean Park, where a defunct amusement park sits on the coast, complete with an inoperable ferris wheel.

As the film opens, day is breaking, and the boys sneak out of their homes,
climbing through windows and such, surf boards tucked under their arms. They head to the park, where waves push surfers directly into a dilapidated pier.

Here the audience meets Skip Engblom (Heath Ledger), co-proprietor of “the Zephyr Shop”, a surf/skateboard store which doubles as the Dogtown social center, surf by day, party by night.

The whiskey swigging, pot smoking, coke sniffing, and paternal Engblom, acts as guru/role model for lost teens who gather at the shop and on the pier. Despite his constant intoxication, he organizes the “Zephyr Team,” inspired by his potential for financial gain. Surfing the cove becomes “practicing for the team.” Kids chosen for the team become "family." And those lucky souls follow Engblom’s instructions: “Approach every day like it’s your last.”

The film quickly unfolds into a cinematic tapestry of fast-paced
thrill-seeking, lined with irreverent humor, intoxication on a variety of
levels, a seething disrespect for authority, and sexual recklessness, all
hall-marks of the seventies.

When a draught hits, the flat surf sends the Z-Boys sneaking into empty
swimming pools owned by rich people. These pools provide concrete curves that simulate waves and opportunities to defy gravity on wheels, taking skateboarding into new heights of recklessness and grace.

The “Z-Boys” start to mop up the other teams at competitions, and begin an unexpected ascent towards skateboard fame; the vultures circle, promising money and glamour. The unexpected pressure wears on The “Z family” as each confused kid grapples with his new found celebrity status.

As a child of the ’70s, “The Lords of Dogtown” rang true for me: cheesy sayings like "far out," the long-haired hippy-freaks sporting dew-rags and
bell-bottoms, the girls wearing hip-huggers, and shirts that tied at the waist, and intoxicated grown-ups leaning on angry and driven adolescents. Throw in the back drop of Jimmy Hendrix, Foghat, Cher and Pink Floyd and I was transported back to my adolescence.

But more importantly, the flawed, characters are believable and endearing. There are no good guys and bad guys, just people trying to survive, with some more opportunistic than others. A well-written dialogue—authored by real life Stacey Peralta--coupled with wonderful acting makes “Lordtown,” simultaneously funny and poignant, hard core and tender. It’s an inside look at four kids with unpredictable lives. Director, Catherine Hardwicke and producer, John Linson don’t go for a fabricated feel-good Hollywood ending, but one that illustrates how quickly lives and relationships can crash like waves against an old pier, and sometimes survive anyway.

Esther Friedman is a Boston based free-lance writer.

Fame: The Musical
Grade: A
by Esther Friedman
EDGE Entertainment Contributor
Tuesday May 31, 2005

When I decided to review the North Shore Music Theatre’s production of “Fame,” I wondered how the theatre would pull it off. The 1980 movie, produced by David DeSilva, is a fictional depiction of one class at the New York City High School of Performing Arts from audition to graduation. It is one thing to cover four-years of adolescent driven hopes, dreams and angst, fueled by intense competition on film, but I couldn’t picture how it would play out in a two-hour stage production.

When I walked into the theatre, I knew I was in for a treat. Director/choreographer Richard Stafford brilliantly utilized the North Shore Music Theatre’s in the round format. As attendees filtered to their seats, various cast members, with numbers pinned on their shirts, were stationed in the audience: a vocalist sang warm-up exercises, a flutist practiced her scales, and an actor practiced a monologue. On-stage, dancers stretched, a pianist practiced, two actors rehearsed their lines. Combining the buzz and excitement of anticipating a live show, with the energy, hope and nervousness around auditions, made the setting immediate and real, starting the show before it started.

The opening song “Pray I Make PA,” sung by a group of teens nervously tearing at envelopes, followed perfectly. From there the audience meets the teachers and stories unfold. Romances, friendships, collaborations and mentor/student relationships, begin to develop and collide. As the cast breathed life into the ambitious, talented and hormone driven “Fame” teens, and their well-meaning mentors, I was delighted.

At that point, I put my pen down and stopped taking notes. I didn’t want miss anything. I wanted to know if rapper/break-dancer/choreographer Tyrone Jackson (Eric Anthony) would pair up with over-achiever, snobby, rich ballerina Iris Kelly (Kathleen Nanni.) I identified with singer/dancer/songwriter Carmen Diaz’s (Lynnette Marrero) impatience to become famous. I felt English teacher Miss Ester Sherman’s (Inga Ballard) frustrations as she stressed the importance of academics to her uninterested students. I empathized with dance instructor Ms. Greta Ball who recalled that as a young dancer, she once had big dreams.

The age-old themes and conflicts between the rich and poor, youth and age, idealist and realist, arts and academics are all explored and carried through by the well-written and funny script, and high energy performances. The Equity Association cast members were all great actors, but Inga Ballard, as Ester Sherman, stood out. In fact, when she was on-stage, I forgot that she wasn’t the tough-minded English teacher and disciplinarian. Not only did the songs and dances spur the story lines forward--as they are meant too, but the brightly colored pink, purple, blue and orange costumes, made the choreography visually beautiful and vibrant. The theatre’s cast and crew didn’t just pull-off “Fame,” they immediately sucked me in and, made me forget I was there as a reviewer. I enjoyed the ride so much, I would go back and see it again. The only disappointment in this musical was the intermission.

htttp://www.nsmt.org

Esther Friedman is a Boston based free-lance writer.

"The Garden of Eden" by Eve Adams
Grade: B
by Esther Friedman
EDGE Entertainment Contributor
Sunday May 1, 2005

"The Garden of Eden," by “Eve Adams,” (pseudonym for a New York Times best selling author) has all the ingredients of a good book: Eden, a sleepy town itching to wake up; Eden’s 47 residents which include two town derelicts--the “Barrow boys,” two tee-totaling, church-going gossips--“Eufala Davis” and “the Widow Wilfred”, two town hotties--sisters “Crystal and Diamond Ice,” and one town idiot/peeping tom named “Goofy” and, most importantly, a fresh solution to the age-old problem of infidelity.

When banker, Ed Harris, finds his wife, Anne, in bed with prosecuting attorney, Hayden Elkins (who also doubles as Ed’s best friend) he points a shotgun at the couple and tells Elkins, “Anne’s all yours; you are going to take her home.” Of course, Hayden is already married to Matilda.

The sleepy town suddenly buzzes with life, spreading word of Elkin’s misfortune—or fortune depending on one’s opinion of bigamy. The dominoes fall, and soon Eden is spinning out of control, or so we are told by the press release.

What doesn’t work for me, is that the many unfolding events do not weave together one cohesive plot line. It makes sense that the two town gossips filed a criminal complaint against the town prosecutor for bigamy. It follows that the newly hired, ambitious state trooper, Sam Neely, begins his first investigation only to find Eden’s crimes and misdemeanors don’t quite fit cop school codes.

It follows that town residents enforce law in their own ways. But when tee-totaling, Christ loving, Widow Wilfred falls in love with the town drunk and flasher, Elijah Murphy, I don’t really care. The Barrow boys appearances to randomly torture some vulnerable and unsuspecting Eden resident, feel contrived.

Corrupt Deputy Sheriff, Delmar Clay’s habit of photographing unsuspecting teenagers having sex in cars feels gratuitous. When, Richard Hudson, New York City transplant and successful comic book author, overturns his small farm digging up arrowheads with Goofy, the town idiot, it’s amusing but unrelated to the plot. And so on, and so on, and so on.

Because Adams didn’t weave separate events together into a cohesive plot line, the reader has to wade through character after character and scenario after scenario in order to discover diamonds in the rough.

While Goofy and Hudson are overturning arrowheads, Hayden’s two wives, forced to live under the same roof, become best friends. Yet “Adams” doesn’t illustrate how the two women go from arch-enemies to bosom buddies. And readers know nothing about what in Hayden’s marriage led him to Anne’s bed. We also know very little about Anne’s marriage to Ed. Yet I see these as the core relationships, with unlimited comic potential and ample opportunity to explore human nature at its best and worst.

My favorite scene is one in which the two wives invite the Reverend Davis and his nosy wife (the meddling Eufala Davis) over for dinner with the sinners. During the meal, two women relentlessly question the Reverend about why God planted forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, within reach of Adam and Eve.

“Surely (God) knew that forbidding the fruit to man was an absolute guarantee that it would be eaten,” Wife number two challenges the Reverend. “As Mark Twain pointed out, the mistake was in forbidding the fruit. If he had forbidden the snake, they would have eaten that instead.”

With more focus and digging into the inner thoughts and relationships between her main characters, “Adams” could have sewn “The Garden of Eden” into a tapestry of hilarity. The read was entertaining and amusing and a few sections even made me laugh out loud, but unfortunately, the book doesn’t hold together.

It’s disappointing to see a good idea ruined, when a little more time editing might have spurred that which reads like a rough draft, into a great book.

Esther Friedman is a Boston based free-lance writer.
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