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Jan Karon, born Janice Meredith Wilson in the foothills of North Carolina, was named after the title of a popular novel, Janice Meredith.
Jan wrote her first novel at the age of ten. "The manuscript was written on Blue Horse notebook paper, and was, for good reason, kept hidden from my sister. When she found it, she discovered the one curse word I had, with pounding heart, included in someone's speech. For Pete's sake, hadn't Rhett Butler used that very same word and gotten away with it? After my grandmother's exceedingly focused reproof, I've written books without cussin' ever since."
Several years ago, Karon left a successful career in advertising to move to the mountain village of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, and write books. "I stepped out on faith to follow my lifelong dream of being an author," she says. "I made real sacrifices and took big risks. But living, it seems to me, is largely about risk."
Enthusiastic booksellers across the country have introduced readers of all ages to Karon's heartwarming books. At Home in Mitford, Karon's first book in the Mitford series, was nominated for an ABBY by the American Booksellers Association in 1996 and again in 1997. Bookstore owner, Shirley Sprinkle, says, "The Mitford Books have been our all-time fiction bestsellers since we went in business twenty-five years ago. We've sold 10,000 of Jan's books and don't see any end to the Mitford phenomenon."
Close by the pond in the sheep paddock, a buck, a doe, and two fawns stood motionless as an owl pushed off from the upper branches of a pine tree and sailed, silent and intent, to the ridge of the barn roof.
The owl hooted once, then twice.
As if summoned by its velveteen cry, the platinum moon broke suddenly from the clouds above the pond, transforming the water’s surface into a gleaming lake of molten pearl. Then, clouds sailed again over the face of the moon, and in the bitter darkness, snowflakes fell thick and fast, swirling as in a shaken globe.
It was twelve minutes after six o’clock when a gray light rose above the brow of Hogback Mountain, exposing an imprint of tractor tires that linked Meadowgate’s hay barn to the cow pasture and sheep paddock. The imprints of work boots and dog paws were also traceable along the driveway to the barn, and back to the door of the farmhouse, where smoke puffed from the chimney and lamplight shone behind the kitchen windows.
From a tulip poplar at the northeast corner to the steel stake at the southwest, all hundred and thirty acres of Meadowgate Farm lay under a powdery blanket of March snow.
Cynthia Kavanagh stood in the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen in a chenille robe, and gazed out on the hushed landscape.
“It makes everything innocent again,” she said. “A winter Eden.”
At the pine table, Father Timothy Kavanagh leafed through his quote journal until he found the record he’d jotted down. “Unbelievable! We’ve had snow one, two, three, four . . . this is the fifth time since Christmas Eve.”
“Snow, snow, and more snow!”
“Not to mention dogs, dogs, and more dogs! It looks like somebody backed up to the door and dumped a truckload of canines in here.”
Following his customary daylight romp, Barnabas, a Bouvier-wolfhound mix and his boon companion of ten years, was drowned in slumber on the hearth rug; Buckwheat, an English foxhound grown long in the tooth, had draped herself over the arm of the sofa; the Welsh corgi, aptly named Bodacious, snored in a wing chair she had long ago claimed as her own; and Luther, a recent, mixed-breed addition to the Meadowgate pack, had slung himself onto his bed in the corner, belly up. There was a collective odor of steam rising from sodden dog hair.
“Ugh!” said his wife, who was accustomed to steam rising off only one wet dog.
Father Tim looked up from the journal in which he was transcribing notes collected hither and yon. “So what are you doing today, Kavanagh?”
Cynthia mashed the plunger of the French coffee press. “I’m doing the sketch of Violet looking out the kitchen window to the barn, and I’m calling Puny to find out about the twins—they’re days late, you know.”
“Good idea. Expected around March fourth or fifth, and here it is the fourteenth. They’ll be ready for kindergarten.”
“And you must run to Mitford with the shopping list for Dooley’s homecoming dinner tomorrow.”
“Consider it done.”
His heart beat faster at the thought of having their boy home for spring break, but the further thought of having nothing more to accomplish than a run to The Local was definitely discouraging. Heaven knows, there was hardly anything to do on the farm but rest, read, and walk four dogs; he’d scarcely struck a lick at a snake since arriving in mid- January. Willie Mullis, a full-timer who’d replaced the part-time Bo Davis, lived on the place and did all the odd jobs, feeding up and looking after livestock; Joyce Havner did the laundry and cleaning, as she’d done at Meadowgate for years; Blake Eddistoe ran the vet clinic, only a few yards from the farmhouse door, with consummate efficiency; there was even someone to bush hog and cut hay when the season rolled around.
In truth, it seemed his main occupation since coming to farm-sit for the Owens was waiting to hear from his bishop, Stuart Cullen, who had e-mailed him before Christmas.
Now, here they were in the middle of March, and not a word. “You’re sighing, Timothy.” “Wondering when Stuart will get off the pot.” “He’s retiring in June and consecrating the cathedral—altogether, a great deal to say grace over. You’ll hear soon, dearest.” She handed him a mug of black coffee, which he took with gratitude. So here he sat, retired from nearly four decades of active ministry as a priest, toasting himself by an open fire with his good-humored and companionable wife of seven years, and situated in what he believed to be the most breathtakingly beautiful countryside in America. Why bother, after all, about some “challenge” that may or may not be coming. Hadn’t he had challenges enough to last him a lifetime? His wife, on the other hand, was ever drumming up a challenge. During their year at the farm, conveniently located twenty min-utes from Mitford, she’d decided to accomplish three lifetime goals: learn needlepoint, make perfect oven fries, and read War and Peace. “So how’s it coming with War and Peace?” “I despise telling you this, but I haven’t opened it once. I’m reading a charming old book called Mrs. Miniver.” “And the fries?” “Since Dooley comes tomorrow, I’ll be conducting my next experiment—to see whether soaking the potatoes in ice water will make them crispier. And I’m definitely using peanut oil this time.” “I’ll peel and cut,” he said. He hadn’t seen any activity around the needlepoint plan, so he declined to mention it. “Pathetic,” she said, reading his mind. “I’m all thumbs. Learning from a book is not the way to do it. I’ve decided to let Olivia tutor me, if she has a free day now and then. Besides, having lunch with someone who also wears eye shadow might be fun.” “I’m definitely a dud in the eye shadow department.” She thumped into the wing chair opposite him and took a sip from her coffee mug. “And what about you, dearest? Have you accomplished all your lifetime goals?” Oddly, the question stung him. “I suppose I haven’t thought about it.” Maybe he hadn’t wanted to think about having any further goals. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the wing chair. “I believe if I were charged with having a goal, it would be to live without fretting—to live more fully in the moment, not always huffing about as I’ve done in recent years . . . to live humbly—and appreciatively—with whatever God furnishes.” He reflected for a moment and raised his head and looked at her. “Yes. That would be my goal.” “But aren’t you doing that?” “No. I feel obligated to get out there, to open myself to some new and worthwhile service. I’ve been a bump on a log these last weeks.” “It’s OK to be a bump on a log once in a while. ‘Be still,’ He tells us, ‘and know that I am God.’ We must learn to wait on Him, Timothy. All those years of preaching and celebrating, and doing the interim at Whitecap—what a lovely legacy God allowed you to have there; and ministering to Louella and Miss Sadie and Hélène Pringle and Morris Love and George Gaynor and Edith Mallory and the Leepers . . .” She took a deep breath. “On and on, an entire community, for heaven’s sake, not to mention volunteering at the Children’s Hospital and rounding up Dooley’s little sister and brothers . . .” “One brother still missing,” he said, “and what have I done about it?” “There may be nothing you can do about it. There’s absolutely nothing to go on, no leads of any kind. Maybe God alone can do something about it. Perhaps Kenny is God’s job.” The fire crackled on the hearth; the dogs snored. His wife had just preached him a sermon, and it was one he needed to hear. He had a mate who knew precisely what was what, especially when he didn’t. “‘Let us then be up and doing,’” he quoted from Wordsworth, “‘with a heart for any fate!’ Where’s the grocery list?” “In my head at present, but let’s get it out.” She opened the small drawer in the lamp table and removed her notebook and pen. “Steak!” She scribbled. “Same old cut?” “Same old, same old. New York strip.” This would be no Lenten fast, but a Lenten feast for a starving college boy who was seldom home. “Russet potatoes,” she said, continuing the litany. “Always best for fries.” His blood would soon get up for this cookathon, even if he couldn’t eat much on the menu. While some theologians construed St. Paul’s thorn to be any one of a variety of alarming dysfunctions, he’d been convinced for years that it was the same blasted affliction he’d ended up with—diabetes. “Pie crusts,” she said, scribbling on. “Oh, rats. For the life of me, I can’t remember all the ingredients for his chocolate pie, and of course, I didn’t bring my recipe box.” “I never liked the recipe we use,” he said, suddenly confessional. “You’re not supposed to even touch chocolate pie, Timothy, so what difference does it make? Dooley loves it; it isn’t half bad, really.” “It needs something.” “Like what?” “Something more . . . you know.” “Wh...
--This text refers to the
Hardcover
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
119 of 132 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
THIS SEQUEL IS WORTH THE LONG WAIT,
By VAL ODUENYI (Switzerland) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Light from Heaven (The Mitford Years, Book 9) (Hardcover)
Well-written, well-bound, and overflowing with dynamic gists; this long-awaited final volume of "Light from Heaven" took almost eternity to be published. But the good news is that its contents truly justified the long wait. Expectedly, the book imbibed some new characters in addition to all the old ones with whom previous readers are familiar.
And whatever your opinion on Father Timothy Kavanagh's intriguing life, one thing is guaranteed: this latest volume did bring out the best from Jan Karon's narratives. This sequel is so captivating that even after devouring its close-to-400 pages, one will be left wondering why the author chose to 'summarize' such an exciting story. Without question, this book's 380 pages could have yielded a dynamic 580 pages with a little effort. Anyone who reads it would testify to this fact. Meanwhile, in the course of tracing their steps across the domestic minefield they called home, the priesthood of Father Timothy was consummately tested: just as the mystery and the muscle of Cynthia's house-sitting were laid bare. Despite its late arrival to the market, this book is a well-laid-out sequel, which will earn the interest of any story-lover. Another fine piece from Jan Karon!
38 of 41 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
A HEARTWARMING STORY WITH A MESSAGE OF HOPE,
This review is from: Light from Heaven (The Mitford Years, Book 9) (Audio CD)
Thanks to Jan Karon, Mitford has become a literary heart's home for many. And, thanks to John McDonough, Father Timothy Kavanaugh has become very real, a voice both rugged and kind, only slightly accented, appropriately rich and mature. One can imagine him delivering a homily to a rapt congregation. In this, the final installment in the highly popular series, we find Father Tim and his wife, Cynthia, doing a favor for friends. They're house sitting on a farm where, as the beloved cleric says, There's naught to do but "read, rest, and walk four dogs." Cynthia asks him to go into town to pick up supplies for their son's visit. While he's happy to do so, he also ruefully acknowledges that he might wish to be called upon to do something a bit more interesting. His wish is granted when the Bishop assigns him to Holy Trinity, a small church in the mountains that hasn't had a viable congregation in four decades. Father Tim and Cynthia arrive with little hope of finding very much in the way of a structure, but are delighted to find that Holy Trinity has been well maintained by loving congregants. Light From Heaven is the story of how Father Tim and Cynthia become acquainted with the people who live in the mountains and try to build a congregation. Throughout, listeners are treated to visits from characters met in previous installments, and enchanted by the Kavanaugh's new friends. Once again, Jan Karon has penned an entertaining, heartwarming story carrying a message of hope. - Gail Cooke
45 of 51 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
The Father Gathers the Family; Moving On,
By rodboomboom (Dearborn, Michigan United States) - See all my reviews (VINE VOICE) (HALL OF FAME REVIEWER)
This review is from: Light from Heaven (The Mitford Years, Book 9) (Hardcover)
Saliently Ms. Karon summarizes the series and this final installment in the Mitford series: the Father gathers the family; then moves on.
Weaving with her demonstrated skill at keeping multiple storylines going and keeping the reader's interest perked (or not all it seems from some of the reviewers with this finale) she marvelously weaves her magic through tales of ordinary folks on a mountain wrapped with Mitford folks we've come to know and love over the series. From runaway kids of dysfunctional homes to lead poisoning to hidden money to a chicken thief. Notably, however, this offering has more Scripture, more witness to the faith than the others. Thus, easily this reviewer's esteem and enjoyment following the reopened spiritual outpost. The interspersing of hymns and prayers and emails show that faith of old still functioning even in age of technology. What marvelous seaming together of the wonder of it all! Especially touching is ASL signing with Clarence and small congregation's learning to communicate with this neglected language group. What begins in the spring seems so encouraging to a book introduced as chill of fall turns to winter approaches, renewing one's longing for it. Ending as it does with a June scene and paths yet untrod ahead for our Father Timothy and Cynthia, seems the perfect jumpoff for what is to come from our beloved wordsmith Karon. Can't wait for Fr.T series, but now relishing this wonderful finale read!
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