Book Review: The Haunted Forest Tour by James A. Moore, Jeff Strand

Moore and Strand deliver a fun blend of horror and humor in The Haunted Forest Tour, reminiscent of the campy monster movies from my youth, but with the gore cranked up to Scream-level intensity. If you're looking for a horror novel that doesn’t take itself too seriously but still packs some scares, this one is an entertaining ride.

The premise is intriguing, if not entirely original: a forest bursting with ghastly creatures turns an ordinary New Mexico town into a paranormal tourist trap. The idea of commodifying horror is both absurd and amusing, laying the groundwork for equal parts terror and satire.

While the writing may not break new ground, it does what it’s supposed to—it's fast-paced, accessible, and vivid enough to immerse you in the action. You can almost feel yourself on the doomed tour tram. The dialogue is snappy, often offering humor just as things get too dark, adding a lighthearted touch to balance the scares.

The monsters are the real stars of this book. Each is crafted with creative flair, blending traditional horror elements with modern, over-the-top gore. Think flying limbs and splattering blood—gruesome, yes, but it’s so exaggerated that it becomes part of the book's campy charm. It’s splatter horror at its most entertaining, perfect for fans of late-night B-movies where the over-the-top violence is half the fun.

Where the book might stumble for some readers is in its character development. The characters often feel like they're there to serve the plot rather than grow with it. But this feels intentional, in line with the homage to classic monster flicks where archetypes reign supreme and character depth isn't the priority.

For pure entertainment, The Haunted Forest Tour delivers. It’s like a rollercoaster through a haunted house where every turn brings a new fright or a laugh—sometimes both at once. The balance between horror and humor is well maintained, making it a great pick for readers who like their scares served with a wink.

The Haunted Forest Tour isn’t here to redefine the genre, and it doesn’t need to. It’s here to entertain, thrill, and evoke nostalgia for those campy, creature-feature films we all loved. If you’re in the mood for big scares, loud laughs, and plenty of monsters, this tour is one worth taking.

The Echo of My Momma's Wonder

"And she loved a little boy very, very much – even more than she loved herself."
~Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree

My Momma and me, 1973

"There is no love greater than that of a mother for her child; there is no love greater than that of a child for his mother."

~Me

This statement seems to presents a paradox, but actually it unveils a profound truth about the essence of love. It's an acknowledgment of love's multifaceted depth:

A Mother's Love: It's the epitome of sacrifice, care, and unconditional support. This love sets the foundation for security and emotional development, characterized by an instinctual, almost primal, protective quality that doesn't diminish with time. It's unconditional, enduring through all phases of a child's life, unwavering despite the child's actions or choices.

A Child's Love: Starting from a place of pure dependency, it grows into a complex tapestry woven with threads of admiration, gratitude, and reciprocal care. As the child grows, this love often seeks to give back what was received, embodying a cycle of nurturing. This nurturing transforms into a complex blend of gratitude, understanding, and a reflection of the mother's own sacrifices.

Complementary Greatness: Each type of love is "the greatest" in its own right because they fulfill different emotional roles. They are not measured against each other but appreciated for what they uniquely offer to the relationship.

The Cycle of Love: This mutual affection creates a continuous loop where love is given, received, transformed, and returned in new forms. It's about the depth and quality of connection rather than a measurable quantity.

Incommensurability: It's not about which love is comparatively "greater" but about appreciating the qualitative uniqueness and depth of each. They are different expressions of the same profound emotion, each boundless in its context. This statement serves as a reflection on love's capacity to be both boundless and uniquely intense in different forms, particularly within the mother-child dyad.

My Momma and me, California, 1973

moth·er 1 (mŭth′ər) n. A woman who gives birth to a child.

Technically true, but the essence of motherhood transcends this simple definition.

• It's the inception of love for a soul unseen, yet deeply known.  
• It's the stewardship of a life entirely reliant on you.  
• It's the shared sorrow when tears fall, where solutions are absent, so you join in their vulnerability.  
• It's the role of educator, protector, confidence builder, dream supporter, and the epitome of unconditional love.  
• It's the delicate balance of release and embrace.  
• It's allowing for stumbles to teach resilience.  
• It's a love that evolves, perpetually seeking to give more, to be better.  
• It's the silent fear of being unable to shield from life's pains, injustices, heartbreaks, or the finality of death.  
• It's the tough love that aches within, teaching lessons that are hard but necessary.  
• It's displaying strength in moments of weakness, laughter through tears, and tears of joy amidst pride.  
• It's the comfort of routine, like reading a beloved book for the hundredth time on the couch.  
• It's an eternal blessing, an unending gift, a bond unbroken by time, and a love that persists beyond life itself.

Me loving on my amazing Momma

My Momma passed away peacefully on Saturday, May 4, 2024. Surrounded by her three children and extended family, her final days were filled with love and comfort.

My Momma, an angel in life and in heaven

I was blessed with the very best mother. Her absence leaves a void that echoes with memories, and I miss her. Tremendously. You might wonder why she was so special. Allow me to share a glimpse into who my Momma was.

The cuteness of my Momma as a little girl

The cuteness of my Momma as a little girl

"If the whole world were put into one scale, and my mother in the other, the whole world would kick the beam."

~Lord Langdale (Henry Bickersteth)

She was born in Columbus, Nebraska, to Emil and Louise. The eldest of three children, she was a devoted big sister to her brothers, Ted and Junie.

My Momma and her brothers

She loved books. A lot. Precocious and perspicacious, at nine years old she saved up her own money to buy a set of Encyclopedia Britannica and spent most nights on the roof outside of her second-story bedroom window reading her encyclopediae and mystery novels (Nancy Drew being her favourite) or, when the moon and stars did not cooperate, reading under her covers by flashlight. Her mother's calls from downstairs, "Virginia, turn off that light and go to sleep!" were ubiquitous in the house. She could oftentimes be found among the stacks at the Columbus Carnegie Library, reading a book in Pawnee Park, or studying at the Y-Knot Cafe.

Columbus Carnegie Library

Impassioned by her love of learning and supported by her family, in 1955 she enrolled at Monticello College, a 2-year female junior college and academy in Godfrey, Illinois, known for its beautiful campus and rigorous academic programs patterned after Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, and became a proud ‘Monti Girl’.

Monticello College

Studious and smart, she excelled in the challenging curriculums of Monticello and was a frequent tutor to her fellow pupils. While attending her Monticello class reunion, many of her classmates made declarations such as, "I would have never made it through algebra without Ginny's help!" My Momma was good at algebra? I had no idea.

After final exams, which were public examinations that attracted big crowds of people wherein the students had to write a personal essay, answer questions from their professors and from anyone in attendance from the community on all the subjects that they had taken, as well as give a musical or theatrical presentation, She returned to Nebraska from Illinois to earn bachelor's and master's degrees in social work from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. It was during her time as a Husker that she met my dad, George, the love of her life, who was also studying social work.

My Momma Daddy

My parents were married in 1960 at St. Bonaventure Catholic Church in Columbus, Nebraska.

My Momma and Daddy's wedding

Swept off her feet, she traded in the cornfields of her youth for the high-mountain desert of New Mexico. Her Nebraska roots grew very well in the New Mexico soil and she soon came to love the Land of Enchantment as her own. (She was proudly recognized as an Honorary New Mexico Native, complete with an official certificate, in the 1980s, after 20 years.) She and my dad were a dynamo team, raising a family and building their community, including schools and daycares. 

Family was so very important to my Momma

Throughout her life, her generosity and kindness touched the lives of countless individuals. Whether as a devoted mother, supportive wife, cherished sister, doting grandmother, or loyal friend, Her presence brought comfort and joy to all who knew her. Known for her quick wit and her kindness, she was always soft-spoken but insightful. A feature at extended-family gatherings, everyone looked forward to her famous brownies—always one pan with nuts and one without—with in-laws, cousins, nephews, and nieces all clamouring for their favourite and always asking for her secret recipe.

The secret recipe brownies

Her love of books and learning was a constant theme throughout her life and she was always involved in teaching and caregiving, both in her home and in her professional life. From case worker to teacher to librarian to bibliopegist, She was always busy with her hands and her mind and her heart. She was the librarian at my high school, not, she attested, to keep an eye on me, but because someone had to love all those books.

Always a lover of books

Beyond her professional endeavors, she was a tireless volunteer, embodying the values of generosity and community spirit. A consummate doer, she was a lifelong Girl Scout, a 4-H parent and volunteer, a Master Gardener, a book archivist at the Zimmerman Library, active member of American Association of University Women (AAUW), a constant volunteer at her grandchildren’s schools and sporting events, and much more.

Always socially active, she had many friends with whom she shared many interests, including books (she and my dad helped form a book club in the 60s that is still active to this day), cooking and baking, sewing, colcha embroidery, scrapbooking, horticulture, arts and crafts, and attended and hosted many events.

That's what she did in life.

What about the who?

She was an interesting and captivating person who disguised herself with unassuming grace and a quiet manner. She was fierce and precocious and piquant and even outré, but you had to really know her to discover this. The who of my Momma is too capacious, too vast for anything less than a book. So instead, here's one of my favourite memories.

Momma reading to me. Snuggled up against her on that horrendously ugly orange couch that only the 70s could produce, I’d listen to her voice, a soft, soothing voice, and marvel at the unfolding of the magic of storytelling. She loved stories, especially those that hinted at something more—more around the corner, more behind an unopened door, more alluded to but not fully explained or explored. A good author, she told me, can tell you everything there is to know about a scene but a great author does that yet still leaves you wondering about what’s in the desk drawer, behind the curtain, or just outside the window. Not as a distraction, not in a way that takes away from the story being told, but in a way that gives you a sense of the vastness of the world, hinting at continuation. That gives you a sense of, well, wonder.

My Momma on that ugly orange couch, reading (of course)

About that word, wonder. It can be both a noun and a verb. As a noun, it means something that causes amazement or awe or curiosity or something that is astonishing and seemingly inexplicable. As an intransitive verb it means to be affected with surprise or admiration, to be struck with astonishment, to be amazed, to marvel; and as a transitive verb it means to ponder, to feel curiosity, to wait with expectation, to query in the mind.

That was my Momma.

She gave me many things, taught me many lessons, but the most valuable gift she imparted was her sense of wonder.

I don’t remember the first book she read to me—there were surely dozens and dozens before I understood the words—but I vividly remember the first time she read "The Hobbit" to me. It was one of her favourite books. She had cheap paperback copies of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings”—the same ones I have in my library and that I have read to my children, renewed by her amazing talents as a book binder into something even more beautiful. When she read, it was never just the recitation of words; it was an impartation of the wonder she felt. Her curiosity and excitement were palpable. On that ugly orange couch, in the safest, most comfortable place in the universe, held in her arms, that wonder seeped into my very bones and has stayed with me ever since.

The lovingly restored and bound-by-hand copies of The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings

Because of her love of wonder, I am a lover of wonder. She gave that to me. Because of her, I love mysteries, dragons, heroes, and quiet bravery. I love wizards and detectives and robots. Because of her, I am captivated by roads and paths that wander off into the distance, hinting at what could be, what might be. Because of the time she took to sit with me on that couch and share her love of books and reading and learning, I am who I am. I always want to peer around the corner. I always want to know what will happen next. Because of her, I am always curious, always asking questions. Of the many things that make up who I am, my Momma’s sense of wonder is a quintessential, foundational element.

Reading The Hobbit to my Momma just like she read it to me half a century ago

That word, wonder, has another meaning as a noun. It can also describe someone very talented at something. And my Momma was very talented at many things. Not only did she have wonder, she was a wonder. Her curiosity was matched by her creativity. She not only loved beautiful things, she created them as well. In the same way she was always busy with her mind she was also busy with her hands. Always creating and making something valuable, beautiful, and useful. She consumed voraciously all that she could find in stories and art and music. She took so much in. And then she gave back. She created, contributed, and effectuated.

My Momma with my daughters

The end of things is always sad. When you’ve read the last chapter and closed the book, there is an inevitable sense of loss. Endings are woeful. And I miss my Momma deeply. I can’t imagine anyone who knew her not missing her. But remember this and take comfort: there’s more around the corner; there’s something interesting in that closed drawer; if you peek your head out of the window, there’s always something else to see. Though she may have left us, she left behind her wonder. And in that wonder, she will always be with us.

More than just a mother, wife, sister, grandmother, friend, altruist, humanitarian, good neighbor, philanthrope, giver, champion, fan, Good Samaritan, my Momma was a truly good soul—a beacon of light whose kindness and compassion left an indelible mark on the world.

Quite the card when you got to know her

23 Years

"Our wedding was many years ago. The celebration continues to this day."

     ~Gene Perret

Twenty-three years ago, on a night very much like this one, I was filled with anticipation, trepidation, excitement, and joy and I did not know where my pants were.

If that's not the start of a damn good love story, I don't know what is. 

On the morrow of that night of worry about my missing pants I was to marry the woman of my dreams.

Twenty-three years of marriage. That sounds like a long time. In some ways it is. Yet I think it's relative. A 23-year car ride would be a very, very long time. Twenty-three years in this marriage? A heartbeat.

For me, that is. She might consider this to be a long car ride. She's stayed with me though. That says something.

But the truth is, our story goes back farther than 23 years.

It actually started 29 years ago when I met the most intriguing, breathtaking, amazing person I had ever come across. Beautiful. Funny. Clever. Beautiful. Witty. Beautiful. Kind. Smart. Frustratingly beautiful. Oh, and beautiful.

You see? I am not exaggerating.

I'm not going to be trite and say it was love at first sight. Nah. Actually, I am totally going to say exactly that. It was love at first sight. The crush that hit 19-year-old me was so hard that 48-year-old me is still forgetting my own name and where I put my keys. (All her fault.)

I'm not certain I believe in fate, but there was such a confluence of circumstances that led to our meeting at the particular time and place and under just the right set of conditions that William of Occam ordered an electric razor and sat down to watch Synchronicity. 

But this is not the story of how we met nor a treatise on her adorable white socks...

...this is just a declaration that I am a damn lucky man to have met, fallen in love with, and married this woman.

Almost three decades of twists and turns and surprises. 

We met. We became friends. We became pen pals. We started a long-distance relationship. We spent all our money on long-distance phone calls. We became frequent transatlantic travelers. We promised ourselves to each other. We got engaged. We got married. Twice. We made a home. We made a family. We renewed our promises and made new vows. We grew our family. Twice more. We again renewed our promises and affirmed our love. It's complicated. I made a helpful timeline.

Over the last 23 years we have said "I do" to each other before God and family and friends four times. She is so amazing, in fact, that not only did I marry her in multiple ceremonies of more than one denomination and on two continents, but I went all SCA nerdy to win the fair maiden's favour.

She's my kind of nerd. But also very cool. I like it.

Twenty-three years of marriage. Twenty-six years of commitment. Almost three decades of friendship. And you know what? She gets smarter, funnier, and more amazingly beautiful every single day. I am not kidding.

Whew! Am I right?

OK, so back to the matter at hand. On June 29, 2019, she and I will have been married 23 years. And that is amazing for a whole lot of reasons. I'm a lucky guy. And I thank this woman, from the bottom of my heart, for 23 years (actually 29 years as explained above, but you know...) of love, bliss, adventure, learning, laughter, and companionship. 

Happy anniversary, Eppu! Rakastan sinua kaikesta sydämestäni! Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being my partner. Thank you for being my wife. Thank you.

“So it's not gonna be easy. It's going to be really hard; we're gonna have to work at this everyday, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, everyday. You and me... everyday.”

     ~Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook

Where Does the Time Go?

Each minute bursts in the burning room, 

The great globe reels in the solar fire, 

Spinning the trivial and unique away. 

(How all things flash! How all things flare!) 

What am I now that I was then? 

May memory restore again and again 

The smallest color of the smallest day: 

Time is the school in which we learn, 

Time is the fire in which we burn.

~ Delmore Schwartz, "Calmly We Walk through This April’s Day"

MMIXI? Wait, what?!?

That's right. Two thousand nineteen.

2019.

Where does the time go?

Actually, I know exactly where it went. Building dreams. Big dreams. And making pancakes.

Let's a take a step back. A few steps. In fact, let's use the Wayback Machine.

When my wife and I moved from Eldamar -- sorry, Finland -- to the good ol' US of A, we didn't know how long we'd stay or what we were going to do. When it became clear that a Finn, whose only experience with "big mountains" was a summer trip to Haltitunturi, was completely enchanted (See what I did there?) with actual big mountains and loved country music more than a girl from that state over to the right of us, that big one...you know? Anyway, when it became clear that she loved it here and, despite an absence of what she called "actual green" (New Mexico's colours lacking a middle initial and simply going by ROY), wanted to stay longer than the expiration of her temporary permanent residence permit, we started to look at a place to live.

Simple stuff at first. We got an apartment.

Some time passed and things happened.

We decided to go big and started looking for land to build a house and have horses.

Southfork Ranch. The famous one. From that TV show (which my wife loved...)

We immediately discovered two things. First, the Southfork Ranch was way out of our price range and in the wrong state. (Again, that one to the right of us...) Second, when you're looking for a country property it necessitates going to the country. Which is not in the city. And we both had city jobs and did city things that made that not so easy. Basically, it was not the right time for us to make the life choices that would legitimize the wearing of Ropers on a daily basis. (OK, we still wore the Ropers.)

So we stayed city mice.

We traded in our city apartment for a city house and even added a kid to mix things up.

Also, we got a horse.

Cody, our Morgan-Quarter Horse mix.

Owning and riding a horse lends quite a lot of farm cred, even if you don't live on the Southfork Ranch.

More time passed. More things happened.

We looked around again at options, possibilities, and potential. But the peg was still square and the hole was still round. The myriad complications of a connected life, the things that make life worth living -- family and friends, relationships -- required hard choices.

We traded one city address for another. I don't think either of us regret making those choices and doing what we did. Taking care of family and being responsible adults meant we stayed city mice.

Life changed. Our family grew.

And we got chickens.

Backyard chickens

Again, farm cred is earned by owning animals that are not dogs or cats or fish in a bowl or small fuzzy animals in a cage with a wheel.

We built a wonderful life in a beautiful house. We made what we had ours. Life was good. But it was still city life. And that longing for what we both wanted was never far from our thoughts.

You didn't realise 20 years could go by so fast, did you? Yeah, neither did we.

Two thousand seventeen and 2018 were filled with changes. There was joy (much joy) and grief (much grief), gain and loss. And when the dust from raining debris settled we found ourselves with a much more round peg.

Again we wanted to go big. But realistic big. No Southfork Ranch, perhaps, but no city either. Maybe a small farm property? A home on the range? Neither of us was tied by work to living in the city. The skein of threads connecting us to one place was much less complicated. Painful loss also brought a kind of freedom. It felt like it was time.

The excruciating, slow wait of two decades suddenly felt like a mad dash, out of control and dizzying at times because it seemed that if we did not grasp the chance it would somehow slip away and we'd be right back at the beginning.

We looked high and low (literally so, with elevations ranging from 4,000 to 8,000 feet). And we found possibilities. We got excited. We did adult-y things involving banks and real estate agents. We confidently told our horse, Cody, that soon he would live on the same side of the river as we did. We examined and evaluated and rejected. Because this wasn't going to be a temporary thing, this was forever.

After what felt like another 20 years we found property with the things we wanted and needed. Not perfect, but a start to perfect. And we did the hoop jumping and made an offer. It felt like champagne time.

You know where this is going.

Life can be complicated. And disappointing.

But sometimes, often times in fact, what you think you want is not actually what you want. You just feel that way because of circumstance or an incomplete picture or misapprehension or the passage of time. It becomes easy to think that just reaching the stated words of a goal is what's important and you lose sight of the why behind you trying to get there in the first place. The point, the purpose, was not actually to move away from something. That's just what it began to feel like over so long of a time. The actual impetus, the inducement for us, was to move toward something. Our aim was additive, not subtractive.

Big, deep breath.

We were not at square one. In the game of Shoots and Ladders (Yes, I know it is Chutes and Ladders, but think about it for a moment...) we actually only slid down a few levels. We talked about what we really wanted. What was important. And what we had learned in the latest attempt. Alexander Graham Bell said,"When one door closes another door opens, but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us." We did spend perhaps a little more time than we should have looking at that closed door. But there were other doors. And we began examining all of them.

Sometimes waiting is a good thing. And sometimes when you are unwilling to wait the Universe steps in and makes you wait. God has a sense of humour, but always with our best interests at heart. Our joy distraction in finding what was to turn out to be a not-the-right-fit sidetracked us enough to let time march on and circumstances to change. Enough time passed, in fact, to allow a previously locked barn door to quietly unlatch.

Step back in time again, just under a year when we had started our search. A drive to visit friends in the mountains and a quick trip past a property that looked intriguing, at least on paper (on screen). Iron fences and gates and a two storey house and lots of land. And a price tag that made us both choke.

Now step forward in time. That unattainable property? Still had the beautiful fences, still had the gorgeous house, still had all that land. But while we were distracted chasing a phantasmagoria, other circumstances changed. Dramatically so. And another, more serious visit out to the property revealed a beautiful horse barn, a coop, and a pond.

Disappointment turned into relief turned into elation turned into determination.

More adulting. More hoop jumping. Lots of creative thinking. And mucho help from family and friends.

Up a bumpy, private dirt road, on the slopes of the mountains my wife loves so dearly ...

Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam,

And the deer and the antelope play,

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

And the skies are not cloudy all day

Where the air is so pure, the zephyrs so free,

The breezes so balmy and light,

That I would not exchange my home on the range

For all of the cities so bright

How often at night when the heavens are bright

With the light from the glittering stars

Have I stood here amazed and asked as I gazed

If their glory exceeds that of ours

Oh, I love these wild prairies where I roam

The curlew I love to hear scream,

And I love the white rocks and the antelope flocks

That graze on the mountain-tops green

                                                                           ~Dr. Brewster M. Higley

Truly a home on the range.

What followed was hard work. There's been lots of it. In a year we've taken the incredible potential of this place and turned it into a reality. We've cleaned and repaired. We've built and torn down. We've shaped and sculpted and created. It's not without frustration. It's not without cost. But the rewards?

We traded in our city shoes for boots.

We kept our promise to Cody.

We got Cody a friend, Strider.

We increased the flock.

We got a hinny.

We got goats.

We got barn cats.

We got our dogs, Otso and AmiBrown, a new friend, Finn.

For every bit of effort we've put into this dream we've gotten so much more in return. We're blessed. We're truly blessed to have this opportunity.

So where does the time go?

Building dreams. Big dreams. 

And making pancakes.