...book review: The Cemetery Boys by Heather Brewer...

The Cemetery Boys by Heather Brewer

Paperback: 304 pages

Publisher: HarperTeen (2015)

ISBN-10: 0062307894

Heather Brewer, author of the Chronicles of Vladimir Tod series, uses classic horror elements to tell a Bildungsroman about loyalty and the power of belief. Of course, the author’s biography page on Amazon reads, “Heather Brewer doesn't believe in happy endings...unless they involve blood.” That isn’t exactly a give-away. Keep in mind that this is Young Adult literature. Since I am teaching Adolescent Literature in the fall, I have decided to dive right in to some YA with some fun summer reads. 

Lately, when I want to be *in* a spooky place, I'm finding that there just aren't enough horror films being produced on a regular basis that offer the right aesthetic. I don't want to see all those body parts chopped off (anymore). I want to see a haunted house, and maybe a realistic "hey, what was that?" I'm finding what I'm looking for more in books. The Cemetery Boys gave me a nice balance of feeling young again and feeling like I just arrived in a weird, small town where there is something just a bit off. 

Main character, Stephen, has moved to a small town named Spencer with the population of 814. That is even smaller than my high school (insert EEEKK! face). Stephen’s father has become the sole caregiver since Mom has been institutionalized back home. With increasing medical bills, Stephen’s father forces them to head to his childhood home moving in with the paternal grandmother who seemingly has never met Stephen. This, alone, sounds like it could be the creepy part of the novel but really the plot focuses on the town’s odd belief in the "Winged Ones," large flying *monsters* whom the townsfolk allegedly believe need human sacrifices in order to appease them and keep the "good times" coming. The Winged Ones show up during the “bad times”.   

Stephen meets twins (yep, twins are always creepy :p) but this time the pair includes mischievous, trouble-maker leader Devon and his punky hot sister Cara, whom our lead character will get to meet pretty intimately (well, as far as NC17 movies go). Cara also reads Tarot cards; Stephen is more than curious about this girl.

The teens enjoy playing in the playground aka the town cemetery after hours. They break into a movie theater to watch movies all night; and, well, it is summer so they go out drinking. Stephen is new to all of this but he doesn’t want to seem uncool to Devon and the group of guys.

The story continues with the events at the cemetery getting darker and darker; Stephen finds a mysterious feather that everyone says is a crow’s feather although it is much larger. Hmmm, larger than a raven? He also finds some articles about the town in the basement archives of the library. The librarian, of course, is cool.

Stephen begins to suspect that Devon may not be just a buddy; he just might be a leader of a cult!

Although the book did not receive the best reviews on Amazon, I quite liked it. It reminded me of the movie Lost Boys sans the vampires ;)  

...one gothy summer & why you should be reading _Frankenstein_...

 “My education was neglected,

yet I was passionately fond of reading.”

~ Mary Shelley

1816 was “the year without a summer” due to some severe climate abnormalities which caused global temperatures to decrease. In the eastern part of the United States, there was a persistent fog that never seemed to dissolve.   

In Virginia, one newspaper reported a complaint, "It is now the middle of July, and we have not yet had what could properly be called summer. Easterly winds have prevailed for nearly three months past... the sun during that time has generally been obscured and the sky overcast with clouds; the air has been damp and uncomfortable, and frequently so chilling as to render the fireside a desirable retreat” (Columbian Register, July 27, 1816). 

Internationally, there were food riots in France and in the UK. While some were looting warehouses, the Swiss government declared a national emergency because of famine.  This same very summer, 200 years ago, a group of talented story-tellers were creating legends that would continue to haunt us today.

During very stormy nights in June 1816, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and Doctor John Polidori gathered at the Villa Diodati near Lake Geneva, Switzerland. Stuck inside on holiday, they came up with the idea to have a contest to see who could write the scariest story. Thanks to the 1986 film Gothic many of us already know this story and its outcome (pauses to swoon over Julian Sands)… In many ways, the events surrounding the birth of Frankenstein have nearly equaled the novel itself.

But let’s recap… Lord Byron would write and later publish "The Burial: A Fragment" (1819) which would inspire Polidori’s The Vampyre (1819). Lord Byron also published the poem “Darkness” (July 1816) which many consider an apocalyptic tale. Mary Shelley went on to write Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus (1818). Percy Shelley wrote continuously through that time with “Hymn to Intellectual Beauty” (1817) or “Mont Blanc” (1817), neither of which are classically ghost stories but Shelley sought spiritual reality in ghosts and the dead in his youth, and he wasn’t one to follow traditions.  

My fella and I do not often read similar books. This summer I decided that I was going to read all of the works that were born out of those stormy nights. 

Aside: I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I read Polidori’s The Vampyre (1819) for the first time last week. I practically knew the entire plot and all of the characters; yet, because it has been sold to me as “poorly written”, I considered it a waste of time. Sigh. What is wrong with me?!? I continue to make my way through The Vampire Archives: The Most Complete Volume of Vampire Tales Ever Published (2009) and delight over some of the more ridiculous tales so Polidori’s work as short as it is was not a waste at all.

When I started Frankenstein, my fella decided that he was going to read along with me to mark the 200^th anniversary of that summer. I hope you’ll consider reading along too so that we can all mark Frankenstein Day (August 30^th, in honor of the author’s birth) in our gothy calendars. 

And of course, I cannot end this post without sharing this cute tote bag by LoveLit that I found on Etsy. The book nerd in me LOVES this bag because the Creature (whom we typically, and incorrectly, call "Frankenstein") is reading Paradise Lost, which happens in the novel so it is perfectly cute and perfectly accurate. Gwee! 

... playing tag with Death- you're it!...

Lucretia at Lucretia’s Reflection tagged me in her post Thoughts on Death, Part 1: Death Tag. The post was in mid-May and I promise that I haven’t been ignoring her. It’s just that I didn’t want to take the questions too lightly; I may have also been practicing a healthy dose of avoidance. It's probably important to know that I LOVE (no, I'm serious) filling out surveys, questionnaires, ridiculous Facebook tags... all of it.

Whenever I see “Tag”, I imagine Freeze-Tag when you’re kids chasing one another and running from the person who is “It”. What kind of metaphor is that for life?!? Regardless, I always enjoyed running like a banshee. In my post “...heading home to a forbidden graveyard...” I actually show readers where I used to play freeze-tag. That large tree in the post was our base. I cannot imagine how many times my little hands touched that tree, nor can I recall how many times my body slammed into it.

For this post, I like to think of Death personified. You know the Grim Reaper with a large scythe and cloaked in a black robe with a hood. He’s the one with whom I’m playing tag; and, well, Death is trying to make me *It*. Fortunately, that damn robe makes him trip often so he hasn’t caught me yet.  

There are seven basic questions for the Death Tag. Since I’ve set up this little scenario with Death playing tag, I’m going to make him the interviewer too. Humor me. Imagine for a moment that Death and I are playing freeze-tag. He trips on his robe and is trying to catch his breath. While resting his arm up against that old tree and holding his chest, he asks:

Death:  How would you like to die?

Me: I wouldn’t but then I do not want to live forever either. I suppose I would prefer to die in my sleep or doing something incredibly fun as long as that doesn’t cause my loved ones any extra anguish.

Death:  What would happen to your blog?

Me: It would be the least of anyone’s worries.

Death: Who will you leave money to?

Me: If my husband has passed as well, everything goes to my brother; after that, it all goes to my university.

Death:  What happens to your body after you pass?

Me: It begins to decompose right before it is taken to the crematorium. Of course, my fella keeps saying that he wants us “to be bones together” so we shall see. I’m terribly claustrophobic and somewhat taphophobic (afraid of being buried alive) so we shall see. Or rather, I’ll be dead so who knows!

Death:  What do you want your funeral to be like?

Me: When I was in high school and burying so many of my friends, those of us who were still alive planned elaborate funerals with seating charts and outfit plans. Today, there isn’t anything planned because it seems that most folks just do not attend funerals anymore. I know some people say that they’d prefer their funerals to be like parties but as an introvert who is easily assaulted by noise I think a nice intimate affair with perhaps a poetry reading and some adult beverages would be nice. And for heaven’s sake, no one needs to go on and on about how kind or nice I was. That happened at one of my snarkiest friend’s funeral and another friend and I nearly fell out of our seats laughing. She was a mean girl! We loved her but going on about how sweet she was made me question if I was in the right location.

Death:  What will you miss the most that still exists after death?

Me: Everything! The sound of my husband; sunrises; my garden; walks on cobblestones; the ocean; hummingbirds; crows; this Dark & Stormy I’m sipping; hugs from friends who mean it; learning; olives; cheese; the smell of libraries; reading….

Death:  How will you want to be remembered?

Me: That’s an easy one. I want to be remembered as a great educator. I think that is the number one thing I am good at.

Just then, Death sprints towards me. I maneuver around the headstones in the graveyard. He trips on a tree root while I get away safely.

Now, while Death catches his breath, would you like to play Death Tag?

... a memorable Memorial Day in cemeteries & listening...

 Patriotism

is supporting your country all the time,

and your government when it deserves it.

                                                           ~Mark Twain

I had a rather memorable Memorial Day weekend. On Saturday morning, I headed to Shockoe Hill Cemetery (the burial spot of Poe’s first and last love; as well as the Allan’s, the family who raised him) and spent the morning placing flags on the graves of soldiers from nearly every US war except Korea. 

 

I learned various state flags and some of the different Confederate battle flags during the Flags Across Shockoe Hill event, which was sponsored by the Friends of Shockoe Hill Cemetery. I also learned what a “flagger” is and worked side by side with some members of their group. Around here, I only hear about folks in organizations such as the flaggers through the news, and it’s never in a favorable light. Usually, the news story is about folks raising a Confederate flag in an area where it is especially upsetting to others. Flaggers will say that it’s “Heritage Not Hate”, as one of their badges read, while others will see this as a symbol of hate.

I joke that I’m from a mixed marriage—Mom is a Southerner; Dad is a Yankee. I code switch whenever I speak with my parents. You can always tell who answers the phone.

Me: (when Mom answers I sound something like this) Mumma, is Diddy there?

Me: (when Dad answers I sound like this). Hi Dad! May I speak with Mom please?

The meanings are exactly the same; I want to speak to the parent who did not answer the phone. How I pronounce ‘aunt’, ‘envelope’, and even the state where I reside (‘Virginia’), all sounds drastically different.

My father jokes that Monument Avenue, a street in Richmond, VA that includes numerous monuments of Confederate generals is made up of “second place trophies.” He isn’t being offensive. He just thinks the South needs to move on from the 1860s.

My mother doesn’t say much about the Confederate flag or the South. But then, on her side of the family my great, great, great grandfather, William Conrad Hensley fought for the South. I also know that he was peanut farmer, dirt poor, and it was a job not an honor. He needed to feed his family and it was a paying job. It paid enough so that he could afford to have his picture taken during the war.  In the picture (right), I am at the Virginia War Memorial for their Artifacts Roadshow event. An expert was way too excited when I brought in my ambrotype of my great, great, great grandfather (below). Hensley fought in the Battle of Petersburg but got sick and died of Typhoid.

 

One of the aspects that I adore about the United States is how we are a nation of diverse individuals. With that often comes struggle to accept that which is different. In my life and in my job, I often discuss White Privilege, and issues associated with diversity. While I sometimes feel *Southern*, I deeply understand what it means to be a Virginian and how difficult it must have been for many Virginians, who have ended up in the history books as Confederates, who had to choose. For example, Robert E. Lee was incredibly torn when Virginia declared its secession from the Union in April 1861 but he followed his home state even though he wanted the country to remain intact, and despite being offered a high ranking position in the Union army.

On Saturday, I had the choice whether or not to speak or to listen. Considering no one from my Meet-Up group showed up (I actually think some joined a tour group that was going on) and I was clearly noted for my clothing as having an interest in the macabre, I decided that I should listen.

I'm sure that our politics are different; I am certain that there is a great deal that we do not agree upon. I’m not going to disrespect any flag; my parents have taught me better. However, on Saturday, I carried the American flags, instead of the Confederate battle flags, and placed them from grave to grave.

It was such a rewarding experience—meeting and learning from people who are different; and, meeting and learning from those who are not that different.

On Saturday night, my fella and I met up with Connie from Hartwood Roses and her fella. We had dinner and then headed to Fredericksburg National Cemetery for the luminaria. They lit 15,300 candles in the cemetery to represent each of the soldiers buried there. “Taps” was played every 30 minutes and National Park Service staff shared information throughout in the form of a guided tour. It was overwhelming and beautiful. The one thing that struck me while we were standing among the soldiers was how the American Civil War was mentioned. They were careful to explain that the Confederate dead were buried in another cemetery after being left behind in the fields. We disrespected one another. I guess that is war. 

But, while standing on the hill at Fredericksburg National Cemetery, I could not help but think the only way we ever have a chance to learn anything is when we take some time to listen.