The Angels of Morgan Hill

From Publishers Weekly
The story of a black family's move to a small all-white Tennessee town in 1947 inspires inspirational novelist VanLiere (Christmas Hope; Christmas Shoes; etc.) to expand her fictional range while trying to expand her audience. Narrator Jane Gable recalls two critical life events on the same spring day when she was nine years old: the funeral of her alcoholic father and the arrival of a black family of sharecroppers, the first blacks Jane has ever seen in Morgan Hill. Both events converge to make life harder for the impoverished Gables; Jane's mother, Fran, is pregnant, and the black Turner family, hired to work on a tobacco farm, is slighted, harassed and threatened. When the Turners' house burns down, Milo, the only survivor, is taken in by the Gables. VanLiere uses humor, memories of growing up Southern and touching moments of family unity to enrich her story of overcoming racism and poverty. Her retreat into familiar territory (another charming Christmas pageant, another holiday full of joy and sentiment) will satisfy fans of her earlier work. Author tour.(Oct 17)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

From School Library Journal
Adult/High School–In 1947, there aren't any black families in the town of Morgan Hill, TN, until the Turners arrive to help on a tobacco farm. Nine-year-old Jane Gable first sees young Milo Turner when she is on the way home from her abusive father's funeral. Although the impression is vivid, she has no idea how closely their lives will become entangled. Jane's mother, Fran, becomes friendly with Mrs. Turner and stands up against some bigoted responses from the community. When the Turners' house is set on fire, only Milo survives. His mother's dying plea is for Fran to take him in. Jane and her brother are accepting of him, but the family still has to face those who think that the boy should live with his own kind. Fran stands firm in letting him decide. The Gables' faith and friends help them weather the insults hurled their way and give them the strength to continue without bitterness. Jane's memories capture a child's-eye view of the confusing adult world. Teens looking for a warm, gentle story that also provides food for thought will find it here. Those who enjoyed Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees (Viking, 2002) will note some of the same qualities in this novel.–Teri Titus, San Mateo County Library, CA
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

Review
Donna VanLiere’s novels are:
"Magical."
--Bookpage
"Touching and uplifting."
--Library Journal
"Compelling."
--American Profile
"Heart-tugging."
--Publishers Weekly
"Truly superb."
--Medina Gazette
"Delightful."
--Tampa Tribune & Times
"Heartwarming."
--The Sanford Herald
"Full of precious gifts for all of us."
--The Washington Times
--This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

Product Description
From Donna VanLiere—the author of the beloved Christmas Hope series—comes a moving novel of faith, family, and destiny.
You might think that what you’re about to read has a great deal to do with my father and growing up poor in east Tennessee, but there is so much more—what captured my heart was the hope of belonging and the dream of family. The woman I am has a great deal to do with that ninth year of my life. It started out as any other year, nothing extraordinary, but as each day unfolded it became remarkable in every way. There are times when I’m still amazed we made it through. It has been said that every life has a story. This is my story…--From the Prologue

Jane Gable thinks 1947 will be like every other year in Morgan Hill, Tennessee but but it’s the year everything changes. Jane first lays eyes on young Milo Turner the day that her abusive, alcoholic father is buried in the Morgan Hill cemetery. The Turners are the first black family ever to move into the area, and while their presence challenges the comfort of many in the small, tight-knit community, Jane and her brother, John, have found new friends.

Then tragedy strikes the Turner household, and the Gable family is asked to make a decision that could rip their world apart. One path might open up a whole new world and bring them closer than ever. Or it might bring them nothing but trouble and heartache. On their journey, Jane discovers that angels are all around us, every day, in the most extraordinary—and ordinary—ways.

The Angels of Morgan Hill is filled with unforgettable characters who show us the ways and means of the heart and prove that even in the darkest hours, we are never truly alone.
--This text refers to the Hardcover edition. From Donna VanLiere—the New York Times bestselling author of the beloved Christmas Hope series—comes a novel of faith and destiny that no reader will soon forget…

FAMILY BY BIRTH
It’s 1947. Nine-year-old Jane Gable first lays eyes on young Milo Turner the day that her alcoholic father is buried. The Turners are the first black family ever to live in Morgan Hill, and Jane can’t understand why some people are bitter.

FAMILY BY HEART
When tragedy strikes the Turner household, the Gables are asked to make a decision that could rip their family apart. One path might open up a whole new world to them and bring them closer than ever. The other might bring them nothing but trouble and heartache. As Jane struggles to make sense of the changes in her community, she will soon learn about the angels who surround her, every day, in the most extraordinary—and ordinary—ways.

“VanLiere uses humor, memories of growing up Southern, and touching moments of family unity to enrich her story of overcoming racism and poverty.”—Publishers Weekly
--This text refers to the Mass Market Paperback edition.

About the Author
Donna VanLiere is an actress and speaker, and the author of the New York Times bestsellers The Christmas Shoes, The Christmas Blessing, and The Christmas Hope. She lives with her husband and their two daughters in Franklin, Tennessee.
--This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
The Morgan Hill cemetery was right behind the church, so you can imagine how convenient funerals were at that time. After a message by the preacher, we would simply walk out the back door and say good-bye to the poor dead soul in the casket. On a day of rain, we’d have the funeral service in the church and leave the casket there until the rain let up; at that time the undertakers would come back and bury it. But an eleven o’clock wedding was scheduled on the day we buried Daddy, and apparently the bride did not want his casket up front with her as she exchanged vows with her beloved.

Never in the history of the Morgan Hill Baptist Church had it ever been double booked. The funeral was scheduled for ten o’clock but the rain kept folks in their homes. It was close to ten-thirty when the first mourners arrived, and the bride and her mother had already beautified our tiny building by hanging construction paper bells and hearts at the front of the church. A big red banner that read “Naomi and Cal Forever” was draped over the preaching podium—nice for a wedding, but not exactly proper send-off decorations for a dead man. A handful of mourners sloshed their way into the church. Poor Naomi was beside herself.

“Mama, there is a dead man layin’ here at the altar!” she sobbed. “He is goin’ to ruin my weddin’!” Naomi’s mother patted and cooed and soothed the best she knew how and greeted the smattering of early wedding guests that trickled through the door with a big, toothy smile as she corralled them to the back pews until further notice.

It was decided we would have to hold the service in the cemetery, but everyone wanted to wait till the rain slowed down to just a drizzle. So to stall for time we sang a few of the hymns that were sung at everybody’s funeral. First we sang “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.” The rain kept coming. Naomi kept wailing. Then we sang “Shall We Gather at the River,” and, by the sight of the water now standing in the cemetery, it seemed we would indeed be gathering at the river very soon. We waited and waited and sang and sang, and the longer we waited and the louder we sang, the more nervous Naomi and her mother became.

We all made a mad dash to the gravesite, praying that the leaves on the trees would somehow keep us dry. They didn’t. We stood like drowned rats huddled around a four-by-seven hole trying to act sad as water soaked clear through to our underpants. Our preacher for the past thirty years had retired, so Mama asked Pete Fletcher if he’d conduct Daddy’s funeral. Pete wasn’t a preacher, he was a farmer and mechanic, and I thought he’d come close to passing out at the thought of sending a dead man to his earthly resting place. Pete tried his best to talk about hope in the resurrection of Christ and being with Daddy again in heaven someday, but to be honest we were all too waterlogged to listen. Four men lowered the casket, the grave straps soggy and slippery in their hands, causing the box to slip and bang, then fall to the bottom with a wet thud. Not one of Morgan Hill’s most touching funerals, but certainly one of the most memorable.

Mama made my seven-year-old brother, John, and me ride with Aunt Dora back to our house. She was Daddy’s only sister and drove all the way from Cleveland, Ohio, for the funeral. Dora was thirty and had fat knees, thick ankles, and

a bad case of being hopelessly single. When a single man, regardless of age or lack of teeth, was anywhere near, she wrapped her fat, sausage arms around John’s neck pretending to be the consummate mothering type. John said he couldn’t wait for her to go back to “Ohi” as soon as possible. But if we hadn’t ridden with Aunt Dora, I wouldn’t have the memory of Milo’s little black face in the back of that beat-up truck etched in my mind today.


We lived in a tiny white farmhouse where mama had been born. It had two bedrooms and a porch that wrapped around two sides of it. The front of the house faced the railroad tracks, which didn’t make any sense because unless you were walking along the tracks or riding on the train, no one ever saw the front of the house. Our main entrance was off the kitchen at the back of the house, which faced the driveway. I was three years old when we moved in. I don’t remember where we lived before that, but Mama always said it wasn’t fit for a mean-tailed dog. I put on some dry clothes while the adults scrambled and fussed and flew around the kitchen, spreading out enough food to feed all of us, plus Naomi and Cal’s wedding reception guests. I fixed a plate and snuck out to the porch with John following behind. One night two years earlier, after Daddy threw Mama into a wall, John became convinced the bogeyman was in our house, under his bed to be exact. I checked under his bed every night. When John learned to talk he had a stammer. He’d get caught on a word and sound like a tractor engine starting in winter. “B-b-b-b-but,” he’d sputter. As he got older the stuttering faded but I always knew when he was afraid because words came hard for him then. If it was just Mama, John, and me at the house he could talk fine, but if Daddy came home it would take John forever to spit something out. Since Daddy died John hadn’t stammered one time.

John didn’t change out of his wet clothes and that galled Mama to no end. “John Charles. Don’t you have enough gumption to get out of them wet clothes?” I never knew if it was really a lack of gumption that bothered Mama, or if it was the fact that John had mannerisms that reminded her of Daddy. Whatever the reason she was determined to give him an extra dose.

“They don’t bother me, Mama. They ain’t that wet.”

“The water’s running down your legs and squishing out between your toes,” she said, pointing to the foot-shaped wet spot on the porch.

John slapped his foot to make another soggy print. “I know. I like it!” Mama rolled her eyes, mumbling something about John not having the gumption God gave a bump on a log, and walked back into the house. Since we’d heard the gumption speech a hundred times before, we dove into our plates and ate like pigs. We watched the rain pour off the front of the porch, stuck our feet under the waterfall that was flowing off the overhang, and never once mentioned Daddy—not that we didn’t want to; we just didn’t know what to say. Sadness for his passing never occurred to us.

Daddy worked as a carpenter (although you’d be hard-pressed to actually find someone who saw as much as a hammer in his hand) and his work took him out of town for weeks at a time. He would often go into Knoxville with Beef and a couple of the boys for work, but somewhere between Knoxville and home the money would be all but gone. Whatever money he hadn’t guzzled or gambled was given to Mama. She’d learned years earlier not to badger him for it because that only made him angry. He was scrawny but he was fast and could lay her out cold with one quick, hard whack with the back of his hand. Mama knew not to fight with him. When he’d hand over what little cash he had left, she’d just take it from him real easy and then sneak away and hide it in a coffee can she kept buried in the backyard.

They married on May 6, 1937, the same day the Hindenburg exploded. Mama would say years later that their marriage “was as doomed as that gigantic blimp.” I arrived nine months later to very little, if any, fanfare. (By that time Mama knew what she’d gotten herself into and adding another life to a home shared with Daddy wasn’t exactly a reason for celebration.) When Mama was young she was smart, funny, and pretty with long chestnut hair, blue eyes, a fine-drawn face, and China doll skin. She walked to school every morning with her best friend, Margaret, and a boy named Joe Cannon. Margaret used to tease my mother that Joe was sweet on her but if that was true Joe never did anything about it. He was too shy and backward to do anything more than walk to and from school with her. As people in the community would always say, nobody ever knew “how pretty Francine Parker ever ended up with Lonnie Gable.” Even then, my daddy was a cocky, scrawny, know-it-all who appeared to be on the fast track to nowhere.

Mama had lost her own mother six years earlier so who knows, maybe if her mother had been around she wouldn’t have been craving the attention Daddy gave her and run off with him after graduation. But Mama was never one for getting into a mess and then looking to somebody else to get her out of it. I think she probably hoped Daddy would just leave on one of his “jobs” and never come home, but that never happened. I think she saw his death as freedom from a whole lot of trouble.

John and I stayed quiet on the porch and gobbled down lemon pie, chocolate pie, and German chocolate cake like survivors of a POW camp, but if anybody came out on the porch we’d bring the food to our mouths, look real sad, and sigh. Every now and then Mama peaked her head out the door and we looked up at her with pitiful hound-dog eyes. “Jane, are you and John getting enough to eat?” We nodded our heads, glancing at our plates that looked as if they’d been picked over by vultures. It seemed a pathetic act but if it brought her some sort of peace to think that we were indeed sad in spirit over Daddy’s passing then we’d play along.

Aunt Dora popped her fat face out the door above Mama’s and said, “Your daddy’s with the angels.” We nodded again and looked somber as she and Mama closed the screen door behind them.

Henry did... --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.