Milam McGraw Propst

Review by Harriet Klausner:

Writer Honey Newberry knows that her eight weeks of writing belongs in the trash, which is what she does to her manuscript. Besides writer's block, Honey suffers from middle age despondency as she wonders who stole her youthful body and left behind an overweight corpse. Needing to get way, she flees her Atlanta suburban home for the beaches of Florida after "talking" with her beloved deceased black nanny Creola, who encourages her "Moonbeam" to rediscover her self.

In Florida the runaway meets free spirited senior citizen Beatrice, who reminds the beleaguered Honey of her cherished Creola. Beatrice like Creola encourages Honey to ignore what others think and remain true to your self. As Beatrice mentors her on life with one adventurous caper after another, Honey reflects on her relationships with her spouse Beau, her sister Mary, and especially her beloved "Crellie" as she called Creola when she was a little girl and begins to remember what the blessing of life truly is.

CREOLA'S MOONBEAM is a deep look at an individual suffering from a middle age woman believing she has nothing left to offer to herself, her loved ones, or anyone for that matter since she seemingly lost her ability to write. Honey is a terrific protagonist as her woes and her life lessons make for a powerful insightful look at aging. With the combined teachings of Beatrice and Crellie, Moonbeam begins to learn that life is to enjoy as you only have one shot at it. Milam McGraw Propst provides a strong inspirational character study.

Excerpt:

I stood in a condominium overlooking the beautiful Gulf beaches of Florida, but my attention was on myself. I’d left my husband, Beau, at home in Atlanta, thankfully. Naked, I gazed into the bedroom mirror. Students, teachers, writing, family, war and famine, world chaos--those concerned me not. A crime had been committed. Someone had stolen my youthful body and replaced it with one of an aging fat woman.

The tag on my Magik-Slim promised my brand-new, magically slimming swimsuit would take off ten pounds. I was a desperate woman. I took the bathing suit from its shopping bag. Right foot, left foot. I stepped in, wriggling and tugging, until up over my thighs rolled the black, floral-splashed suit.

“Curses on all cookies and crackers. Curses on sitting too much, munching and typing. Curses on summer.” Sucking in my stomach with a gasp, I jerked upward until my ample form compressed into the slim suit. “It’s magic all right. It’s turned an ordinary woman into a giant bratwurst.”

I wandered into the bathroom and viewed myself in that mirror. It was not a pretty sight. Each of the suit’s orange, pink, and purple tropical blossoms had been strategically positioned to emphasize every major figure flaw--my ample butt, my small boobs, and my fat belly. Thank you, Magik-Slim.

I squeezed 50 SPF sunscreen onto my palm and slathered it over my lily-white body. Actually, that’s lily-white with brown splotches, more akin to the hide of a giraffe. I remain determined to hold my own against a lifetime of well-earned sun damage. A childhood of unprotected play outside, coupled with the slathering on of iodine and baby oil, followed by college years devoted to tanning on the roof of the sorority house, had accomplished its mission.

That said, it frequently occurs to me that, were all the age spots to run together, I might just have the perfect tan. My unyielding dermatologist, Dr. Cox, vehemently disagrees with the concept.

Only when covered from forehead to toe with the cream, he insists, am I sufficiently protected from the rays of the sun. As usual, Dr. Cox wins. Donning my floppy straw hat and long-sleeved white shirt, I paused to again view myself, this time in the entry hall mirror. Was I expecting an improvement?

I would lie to myself. Employ an affirmation.
“Fetching, Honey Newberry, you are positively fetching.”

I sighed and headed outdoors. How I longed for the simplicity, and good skin, of childhood.