Sunday, August 16, 2015

What Would Grainne do today?


What Would Graínne (Grace O’Malley) do Today?:

My novel Buccaneer Beauty is the story of Graínne O’Malley, a real female pirate living in 1500’s Ireland.  Graínne lived life on her own terms, manipulating fortune so that she and her clan prospered in the midst of a time of turmoil, bloodshed, and change.  The daughter of a chieftain, Graínne would not have had to take to the sea. She was a chieftain’s daughter, and her future as an aristocratic woman and a chieftain’s wife was guaranteed.  Unlike other female pirates, such as Mary Read, Graínne had no financial need to engage in so dangerous a profession, but she chose to follow in her father’s footsteps, supporting two of her husbands in their marauding quest for greatness. 

Graínne knew how to work the game.  She knew when to play by the rules and when to manipulate them.  Her reputed spying for the British Crown was to win favors for her family, and her role as spy didn’t exempt her from danger.  She was at times imprisoned and came very close to the noose on more than one occasion, but she knew when to fight (as she often did with the queen’s governors who didn’t know of her role and with neighboring clans who threatened her family) and when to play the aristocratic and refined lady.  When she met with Queen Elizabeth, Graínne knew how to play the subdued and educated woman, conversing with the queen in the Latin they both knew.  Unlike some people today, she knew when to show respect (even if she didn’t feel it).  Never would Graínne text during business meetings or giggle like a child as some people with short attention spans do now. 

Graínne took what life dealt her and rose above any adversity. She was a woman in a time when women were sold into marriage for an alliance.  Her first marriage to Donal O’Flaherty united two clans, but when her husband proved rash and stupid, Graínne saved their family and her children’s future.  After his death, Graínne formed her own marriage to Richard Bourke, an advantageous match for them both.  Richard was the one man very much her equal, but even when she had a less than perfect marriage to Donal, she carried on and didn’t berate him or cry about her unhappy lot.  Too many people today live their existences for prime time television, letting their colleagues know that they were thrown onto the street as teens or even that they may or may not have had disturbed parents.  They talk endlessly, hoping for sympathy as the rest of us are subject to their complaints.  We hear of everything from their premature graying, to their erectile dysfunction, to their problematic flatulence.  Graínne knew how to keep her peace.  Her spying for Her Majesty sometimes bought her and her family freedom from British oppression, and very few—not even some of the Queen’s advisors—knew of her service to the Crown.  She certainly didn’t confide in every churl working in her kitchen. 

Though tough, Graínne did not hold grudges against her family or her workers.  They were treated fairly, and even when she had to deal with her son Murrough’s madness, she easily forgave him after very dramatic discipline. She did not humiliate him unnecessarily or destroy him, unlike some people today who berate others in an unprofessional manner, send group emails to humiliate, or harass others simply because they are angry at the world and feel unloved by their parents.  Of course, I realize that holding a grudge is not limited to any time period; however, today, many people have found new ways to bully, degrade or harass others through technology.  Frankly, Graínne wouldn’t have played such a game.  She wouldn’t have put that much into writing.  No, Graínne would have ambushed them but not avoided danger.  She would have shown mercy in some cases, but she wouldn’t have gloried in the bloodshed.  Too many people today revel in metaphoric bloodshed.  They love committing small murders when they are at their computers or in positions of power.

Read about Graínne O’Malley in Buccaneer Beauty available now!

http://www.amazon.com/Buccaneer-Beauty-Viola-Russell-ebook/dp/B010MOFENQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1439779557&sr=8-1&keywords=buccaneer+beauty+viola+russeller fir


Sunday, March 22, 2015

St. Patrick and St. Joseph


The Feasts of St. Patrick and St. Joseph:

March 17th and March 19th are the respective feast days of two very powerful saints:  St. Patrick and St. Joseph.  What has always impressed me about the feast days of those saints is what they show about the tenacity of the people who celebrate those dates with abandon. 
The tale of St. Patrick is widely known to Irish Christians.  Patrick, a Roman Brit, became a slave at the hands of Irish pirates. After a daring escape, he became a priest and missionary to the very people who had enslaved him.  He baptized the King of Munster, and the conversion of the Irish people began. In modern times, Patrick’s feast—reputedly the day of his death—is a religious and cultural event. The riotous feasting says much about the people Patrick came to save as it does about the saint himself.  Like the Irish, Patrick was obviously a hardy soul.  He survived slavery and then returned to the people who had enslaved him, offering them mercy and salvation.  Like Patrick, the Irish have overcome much.  They survived a devastating famine, still persevere in the midst of occupation, and fight for their rights even in the midst of oppression.  The descendents of those older Celts stayed to fight the good fight or else set sail for other shores.  They survived and prospered.  Now, the modern Celts hold parades in honor of the man who symbolizes the importance of their heritage and faith.
On St. Patrick’s Day, the now prosperous descendents of the Celts catch cabbage, carrots, and onions at parades while wearing green beads and drinking Guinness beer.  We women receive kisses and flowers from men wearing green bowler hats. Now, my father and mother lived during the Depression.  If we did attend a St. Patrick’s Day Parade, we cooked the cabbage.  Waste was sinful, according to my mother.  Even more so to my father—and they were right.  Cabbage and carrots rotting in the street is sinful and an insult to those poor Irish souls who died with lips died the color of grass--so starved because they only had grass to eat.  Of course, many do cook the cabbage and carrots.  Many also still attend Mass in honor of St. Patrick as well.  Why? Well, he stands for the best of us—proud, tenacious, and faith-filled.  Still, we like fun.  Frivolity kept us from waddling in self-pity and misery.  We showed our oppressors.  We refused defeat even as we ate humble fare like cabbage and carrots.  That food fills the soul as well as the stomach. 
The patron saint of my church is St. Joseph.  My mother loved no saint more.  Like the Irish, the Italian people turned to St. Joseph in their desperation when famine struck their land.  After interceding to St. Joseph, they received relief.  Today, in memory and thanksgiving, churches and individuals host altars in the saint’s name.  The food on the altar is then distributed to the poor.  The faithful still write petitions seeking the saint’s favor, and young women take lemons from the altar, praying for marriage or pregnancy.  St. Joseph, after all,  is the patron of the family. Nevertheless, frivolity exists here as well.  Italians and other celebrants also hold parades in the saint’s memory, throwing food and beads.  Like the Irish, the Italians suffered through heartache, and phoenix-like, rose from the ashes. 
Maybe such is the human spirit.  We are a bizarre mixture of frivolity and mystical faith.  Those qualities sustain us through the worst of times, renewing our spirits. 





Sunday, January 11, 2015

Why I Want to Kill Cancer:


Why I Want to Kill Cancer:

In Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Pardoner’s Tale,” three arrogant young men set out to kill Death.  They have lost too many friends to Death and want to seek revenge.  The young men, however, become sidetracked by greed and deceit. They turn on each other, abandoning their search for Death.  I wish I could kill cancer.  I would not be distracted by greed or deceit.  The fiend would writhe as I strangled it. I would show no mercy to an evil killer who has taken people I love, murdering them in a slow and prolonged torture. 

My sweet mother was never officially diagnosed with cancer. By the time the growths developed, she was elderly and suffered from multiple health problems.  Even the doctors agreed that any radical treatment would be futile for her; however, they saw the growing tumors.  Cancer had no mercy.  The demon invaded her body, searing and scarring her very being. My beautiful mother withered away to almost nothing.  She had been elderly but hale.  Once the demon overtook her, she became too fragile, destroyed from within by an enemy she couldn’t fight.    As the end neared, I lay on the sofa by her bed, listening to her call for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to take her, to have mercy. On the anniversary of my father’s death, my beloved mother told me that I had to let her go. She died only a few days later, and I wondered for months if I could have saved her.  Alas, I couldn’t.  Nothing could. She was fighting an enemy more powerful than either of us and ten times more vicious.  Maybe some people survive this vicious illness but not many.

Now, I hate cancer anew because of what it did to my sweet cousin Trudy.  Trudy died this Christmas. She was so like my mother, a really sweet angel. As a nurse, she played an important role in helping me with my mother. She always looked out for others, caring about their feelings and well-being. No one was more beautiful or more vibrant. Less than two years ago, she was diagnosed with Multiple Mylenoma.  After undergoing chemotherapy, she was healthy for several months, but her aggressive cancer soon returned. This time, chemotherapy took her hair, her healthy weight, and exhausted her.  The treatments were almost as deadly as the illness, but they couldn’t stem the cancer.  The demon had invaded her body, filling her with deadly fluid and wrapping around her organs like a coiling snake.  Like my mother, she cried out in pain. Like my mother, she sought solace in faith.  No one was sweeter, kinder, or more loved. When she died, people came from around the world to tell her goodbye. Many traversed states and continents. Few people were so loved, and once again, I find myself hating cancer.  The thief has robbed my loved ones and me of one so dear. 

I hate cancer.  I wish it dead. It has taken too many. Let us raise an army against it.  


In Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Pardoner’s Tale,” three arrogant young men set out to kill Death.  They have lost too many friends to Death and want to seek revenge.  The young men, however, become sidetracked by greed and deceit. They turn on each other, abandoning their search for Death.  I wish I could kill cancer.  I would not be distracted by greed or deceit.  The fiend would writhe as I strangled it. I would show no mercy to an evil killer who has taken people I love, murdering them in a slow and prolonged torture. 

My sweet mother was never officially diagnosed with cancer. By the time the growths developed, she was elderly and suffered from multiple health problems.  Even the doctors agreed that any radical treatment would be futile for her; however, they saw the growing tumors.  Cancer had no mercy.  The demon invaded her body, searing and scarring her very being. My beautiful mother withered away to almost nothing.  She had been elderly but hale.  Once the demon overtook her, she became too fragile, destroyed from within by an enemy she couldn’t fight.    As the end neared, I lay on the sofa by her bed, listening to her call for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to take her, to have mercy. On the anniversary of my father’s death, my beloved mother told me that I had to let her go. She died only a few days later, and I wondered for months if I could have saved her.  Alas, I couldn’t.  Nothing could. She was fighting an enemy more powerful than either of us and ten times more vicious.  Maybe some people survive this vicious illness but not many.

Now, I hate cancer anew because of what it did to my sweet cousin Trudy.  Trudy died this Christmas. She was so like my mother, a really sweet angel. As a nurse, she played an important role in helping me with my mother. She always looked out for others, caring about their feelings and well-being. No one was more beautiful or more vibrant. Less than two years ago, she was diagnosed with Multiple Mylenoma.  After undergoing chemotherapy, she was healthy for several months, but her aggressive cancer soon returned. This time, chemotherapy took her hair, her healthy weight, and exhausted her.  The treatments were almost as deadly as the illness, but they couldn’t stem the cancer.  The demon had invaded her body, filling her with deadly fluid and wrapping around her organs like a coiling snake.  Like my mother, she cried out in pain. Like my mother, she sought solace in faith.  No one was sweeter, kinder, or more loved. When she died, people came from around the world to tell her goodbye. Many traversed states and continents. Few people were so loved, and once again, I find myself hating cancer.  The thief has robbed my loved ones and me of one so dear. 

I hate cancer.  I wish it dead. It has taken too many. Let us raise an army against it.