Posts Tagged With: memoir

Spotlight on Concha Alborg, Author of “My Mother, That Stranger. Letters from the Spanish Civil War”

About the book

 

Over eight-hundred letters were written between the author’s newly-engaged parents during the time that her father was on the Republican war front fighting against Franco’s forces, and her mother awaiting the end of the war. Her father, Professor Juan Luis Alborg, would live to become a well-known literary historian and critic. Her mother’s life, on the other hand, was overshadowed by her husband’s academic celebrity. The letters were discovered whilst preparing for a symposium marking the centenary of her father’s birth, celebrated at the University of Malaga in 2014

This unique memoir is a microhistory of the Spanish Civil War at an individual level; it illuminates the ‘official story’ as told in history books at multiple levels. Her mother’s personal narrative adds to the understanding of this significant time because she shows how a family lived in the midst of war. A primary relevance is that she lived in Valencia, which in November 1936 become the official capital of the Republican government. Working in a government co-op gave her an insider’s view of the ongoing political and military situation. She describes the contrasting burdens between family life in Valencia, and the life of her fiancé soldier on the southern frontlines. The author’s mother is exemplary of the women who were formed under the liberal Second Spanish Republic (1931–39) only to be silenced during Franco’s repressive dictatorship (1939–75). The long-lost letters made Concha Alborg realize how little she understood her mother’s passion to set down complex feelings in the most difficult of circumstances. My Mother, That Stranger will be of interest to Hispanists, historians and literary critics for its uniqueness on the epistolary genre and gender studies, and to the general public as a heartfelt family memoir.

 

Excerpt From My Mother, That Stranger. Letters from the Spanish Civil War

 

In this memoir My Mother, That Stranger. Letters from the Spanish Civil War, Concha Alborg included recipes from her family in Spain. Today, we would like to share one with you.

“Rollitos;” Christmas Anisette Cookies:

All the entries in my mother’s recipe notebook are of desserts; there is not a single one of her savory dishes. The recipes are written neatly, underlined with red ink and they encompass a life trajectory of sorts. There are several from the old Alborg aunts, Isabel and Vicenta, some from her Spanish friends, all the way to my recipe for sherry cake and another for chocolate chip cookies, written in English! My mother never ceases to surprise me. It is interesting that she would take the time to write down these recipes, but not any of the meals she was best known for. It is as if she believed that cooking is an art and baking a science. She did not need to record her masterpieces, but needed the exact ingredients of the sweet treats, although she wrote “as much flour as needed” for the “rollitos.”

Growing up we seldom had sweet desserts. Fruit was served at the end of each meal, but cakes and cookies were reserved for holidays, such as the Saints’ Days and birthdays. Only at Christmas time did we have special treats of almond nougat and marzipan. “Meriendas” (a late afternoon or early evening snack) were usually made up of a sweet roll or a croissant, but those were store-bought. As children we usually had plain bread with some chocolate and a glass of milk, nothing more.

She made “rollitos” in early December for our Saint’s Day on the 8th and the leftovers were reserved for Christmas. They were and still are my favorite cookies ever! Their liqueur smell permeated the house and when I was a little girl, I could smell them the minute I stepped out of the elevator. The recipe I have in my mother’s handwriting with red ink on a 3 X 5 card is yellowed and stained, but I would never think of copying it anew.

I started making them as a young bride and continued doing so religiously after my daughters were born. I was glad that most of my friends and in-laws found them strong and strange and preferred the traditional American sugar cookies for Christmas, the more for me to savor. I know that making “rollitos” is a tedious job. They take a minimum of two hours and they are all rolled by hand in small donut-like circles the size of a ring. They are dipped in sugar, which makes one’s hands sticky and you need to wash them often. When I was little, I liked them best eaten warm and I was supposed to wait until they cooled down or I would get a stomach ache. But I found out that it was not true, because once I ate at least a baker’s dozen (an expression in English I love and we do not have in Spanish) when the “rollitos” had just come out of the oven and absolutely nothing happened to my stomach.

Diana, my oldest, learned to make them early and I thought she was a fan until the day that she took the dough and made one huge “rollitón” announcing: “Here, I’m done.” Luckily, her sister was old enough to take over and, again, I thought she enjoyed the family tradition, only to find out that she hated making them too and did not like eating them, even if they were warm. When my daughters grew up and left the nest, I found friends and neighbors to join me making them. I soon got the feeling as soon as the first Christmas songs were heard, that no one wanted to see me, and they would disappear from my kitchen with the excuse of being really busy. My late husband Peter, despite his serious character faults, was very helpful in the kitchen and a fellow “rollito” lover and made them with me for years. In desperation, during my years as a widow, I have recruited unsuspecting boyfriends to bake with me with the expectation of perhaps winning my heart, which has not happened yet.

As we know, life can have very sweet surprises and now I have two lovely twin granddaughters who enjoy making “rollitos” with me, I think. At least they humor me as long as I make them a “tortilla de patatas” in return, a potato omelet, which they love. Having two helpers instead of one makes it more efficient. Actually, I have doubled the recipe since now the three grandchildren expect their own tin of “rollitos” to take home. The twins are amazing. They have figured out that one rolls out the dough and the other dips “rollitos” in sugar, which saves with the hand washing. They know how to charm me and speak Spanish during our baking day. One year, when they were in the “fighting-with-each-other phase,” I allowed them to insult each other as much as they wanted as long as they used the affirmative and negative commands in Spanish, which are so tricky to learn. There is nothing like being a retired professor and a grandmother to come up with this trick!

Here is the recipe:

INGREDIENTS

1 cup virgin olive oil
1 cup anisette
1 cup sugar and more for dipping
2 eggs
1 teaspoon lemon zest
2 teaspoons baking powder
Flour, as much as needed (about six cups)

METHOD

In a large bowl, combine the oil, anisette, eggs and sugar. Add the lemon zest and the baking powder. Add the flour little by little until it becomes manageable and it can be kneaded on the counter.

Form rings of half an inch-size wide dough. Dip them in sugar before baking. Bake in a 325-degree oven for 20 minutes. The bottom should be golden brown.

Makes about five dozen.

 

Bio

 

Dr. Concha Alborg was born in Valencia and grew up in Madrid. She has lived in the United States since the 1960s. She received a Masters from Emory University and a Ph.D. from Temple University. She was a professor of contemporary Spanish literature at Saint Joseph’s University, Philadelphia. Some of her academic publications include: Cinco figuras en torno a la novela de posguerra, a critical edition of Caza menor, and Temas y técnicas en la narrativa de Jesús Fernández Santos. Her fiction and creative non-fiction publications are detailed on the press website.

*********************************

Paul De Lancey

http://www.pauldelancey.com

Categories: book reviews and excerpts | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Spotlight on Barbara Hammond, Author of “Daddy du Jour”

About the book

 

This is a book about survival in many ways. Barbara became the primary caregiver of her younger brothers at an early age. There was a revolving door of men in her mother’s life. Some were good; some were not. Her favorite stepfather introduced her to the man she’s been married to for more than 50 years which proves how living in chaos can sometimes lead you to the other side. That’s a happy ending.

Excerpt From Daddy du Jour

 

Chapter
I

Running Away

 

“I’ll take care of putting your things in the trunk, Miss, you take the baby and get in the cab where it’s warm,” the Taxi driver said.

Warmth.

Something I had longed for through all the horrible winter months. And, here we were making our escape on the coldest night in the history of Toledo, Ohio. It was twenty-three degrees below zero on January twenty-third, nineteen sixty-three. I was twelve, and I could never forget the date.

The taxi had an odd exotic aroma I wasn’t familiar with but, it was warm. There were so few times we had been warm this brutal winter. It was heavenly.

I slowly loosened the quilt from my brother, David, and removed his stocking cap. He didn’t wake, so I laid him on the seat next to me with his head on my lap. He was so small for a three-year-old, but given our lifestyle, it wasn’t a surprise. It would be a fairly long ride, and it was best he slept.

The driver got in, and we were off to, what I hoped would be, a safe haven. My step-father, Al, was trying to take custody of us and, his sister and her husband were going to take care of us during the process. David was Al’s son.

Al was mom’s third husband. Here we were returning to the town we’d left four months before when mom’s affair with a local businessman blew-up all over us. He owned the local ice-cream shop, and I went to school with his daughter. This was going to be awkward.

I remember how mom and Al fought all night when he learned of her affair. He slammed out of the house pre-dawn and told her she had better be gone when he came back.

Her Prince Charmless came and loaded up his car with everything she could gather, including us. I had no idea where we were going, and I’m not sure she did either.

“I found you a great little place,” he said. “It’s only temporary but, you and the kids will be fine.”

I looked at the back of his large head as he sat behind the wheel. His name was Jack. He was much larger than Al and had a wide, pockmarked face. What in the world did she see in this guy?

“What about school?” I asked.

“I’m sure there will be one,” mom said sarcastically.

I was in sixth grade, and this would be my seventh school. I suppose I should have been used to it, but you never get used to perpetually being the new kid.

As I looked out the car window, the landscape became darker and seedier, like coal dust had enveloped everything. Where in hell were we going? Suddenly we pulled into a parking lot in front of a truck stop.

“You wait here, I’ll go get the keys,” Prince Charmless said.

As I looked around, I could see a trailer park behind the building. It could not have been uglier. It was October, and there was not a speck of fall color anywhere around us.

He came back with the keys, and we drove behind the building onto a gravel road lined with rusted out shitty tin boxes. One uglier than the next. My heart sank, and I wanted to cry.

“I know it doesn’t look pretty but, as I said, it’s temporary,” he said.

“God, I hope so,” I mumbled.

“You shut up!” mom yelled, “Jack’s doing us a big favor after Al threw us out. You should be grateful we have a place to go.”

“Why can’t we go to Mamaw and Granddaddy’s?” I asked.

“Don’t you worry about it,” she said, “we’ll be fine.”

My grandparents had always been there for us, even when they didn’t agree with mom’s way of handling the men in her life or how she treated her kids. I always felt safe with them and couldn’t understand why she was keeping them away this time.

The car stopped in front of a black and silver trailer with so much rust it resembled a calico cat. Jack got out and continued to assure her this was temporary.

“It’s completely furnished,” he said.

Mom nodded and followed him up the rickety wooden steps to the door.

“Come on, bring David and get in here,” she said.

The outside was depressing enough but, the inside was complete with the smell of cat piss. It kept getting worse. How could this be happening?

He began describing it like he was trying to sell it, which he was. Not that she had a choice in the matter. There was no plan B.

“You can put the kid down,” he said, “let him explore a little.”

I was afraid of what he might find. Whoever lived there last must have left in a hurry because there were dirty dishes in the sink. I put David down and said, “Don’t touch anything!”

“It needs a little cleaning,” mom said. That was the understatement of the year.

“Let’s unpack the car and then I’ll take you to the store to get some food and cleaning supplies,” he said.

They dropped our meager belongings inside the door and went shopping, leaving us there in the stinking tin box.

There was a small TV in the living room and, fortunately, it worked. I sat David in front of it and began looking through the cabinets for something to clean with.

The kitchen was tiny with a counter dividing it from the living room and a fold down table below a small window opposite the sink. There was a hallway down the side. The first bedroom had bunk beds where David and I would sleep, then a tiny bathroom and the (ahem) master bedroom taking the entire width of the back of the trailer.

I found a can of cleanser under the sink, filled a bowl with hot water and took a diaper out of the diaper bag to begin scrubbing things down.

I put all of the dishes in the sink. There weren’t many, and they were all plastic with a sticky film on them. It was warm outside so opening the windows helped air things out. Everything I could clean I did. But, where the hell were they with the groceries?

By dusk, they returned. Clearly, they’d stopped at a bar.

“Hey! We brought food and new sheets for the beds,” mom said.

For some reason, I thought he would be leaving. I was wrong. He brought in his own suitcase and took it to the back bedroom.

By November Prince Charmless was gone. Our temporary arrangement became permanent without any assistance. Mom got a job bartending 3pm-11pm. She made arrangements with an elderly neighbor

 

Bio

 

Barbara Hammond is an artist, children’s book author of The Duffy Chronicles and blogger at Zero to 60 and Beyond (https://www.zeroto60andbeyond.com). She’s been married to her husband Dave for over 50 years and has two grown sons and three grandsons.

Barbara and her family have moved many times over the years due to Dave’s career in retail. With each move, Barbara found ways to re-invent herself. She worked in the fashion modeling profession at an agency in Philadelphia and after several years and a move to Massachusetts, she opened her own modeling agency.

There she and Dave also owned a health spa for a few years. After a transfer to Pittsburgh, Barbara dabbled in real estate but did not feel it was her calling. Both she and Dave found jobs in radio sales at a classic rock radio station.

Eventually, the couple moved back to Philadelphia. Barbara went back to the modeling agency to begin a talent division that worked with actors from NYC and Philadelphia. Today, Barbara and Dave are retired and living at the Jersey Shore.

 

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Paul De Lancey

http://www.pauldelancey.com

Categories: book reviews and excerpts | Tags: , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Spotlight on Concha Alborg, Author of “Divorce After Death: A Widow’s Memoir”

The Matchmaker. DesencuentrosConchaCover

Let’s face it, we would all like to meet someone cute, someone sitting next to us on a plane or a train like in a movie—think of Before Sunrise. I have my own fantasy; I see a gorgeous, tall man who looks familiar at a writers’ conference and he starts coming toward me saying in a foreign accent “You look familiar, have we met before?” Trite, I know, but oh so perfect! But when all else fails, when we have tried several Internet sites, when we have placed an ad in The New York Review of Books and have answered a few of them as well, when our friends and relatives have introduced us to several suitable acquaintances and we have tried to strike up a conversation in airports, supermarkets, local bookstores and just about everywhere we go, there is always the matchmaker.
Yes, I’m not inventing this, a matchmaker, like in an old-fashioned film, say Fiddler on the Roof or Crossing Delancey. George, from my Pilates class, told me about her. I tried to hush him up, embarrassed to death that our teacher would hear him in the one place where I haven’t made it obvious that I’m on the prowl. He couldn’t say enough good things about Jo. She was lovely, so knowledgeable and courteous. With such a high recommendation, I jotted her number down on my gym membership card. She hadn’t yet given me her charming pink business card with a gold heart in the middle.
I drove to her place in suburban Philadelphia, a few exits off US 95 North from the center of town. Her tiny office walls were covered with pictures of happy, smiling couples just like an OBGYN doctor has hers covered with adorable babies. Jo was so chatty and friendly that I wondered if she had met her husband as a client. She kept saying how nice my skin was and how young I seemed—I shouldn’t tell my age to anyone—that I looked at least ten years younger. How was I not to like her? She wasn’t cheap, but gave me an introductory price of $200.00, perhaps given my lovely skin. That fee was good for two months and guaranteed four matches.
Going to a matchmaker, just like joining a new website, helps one focus. “What exactly do I want in a partner?” Jo asked. First of all, he has to be accomplished, cultured, attractive, energetic, financially conservative and politically liberal. He must want to travel. Of course he will be kind, pleasant, good company and all the usual social requirements. My therapist says that I’m not demanding, but that, since I have lots to offer, I want lots in return. Maybe I’ll have to lower my expectations if I ever want to find a mate.
Since I like to make a research project out of everything, I had some questions of my own for Jo: Who are her typical clients, how does she meet them, are the women happy with her services? Turns out that she has been in business for more than twenty years, and she advertises in the local press and on dating sites, but most of her men and women come referred by someone else. “No, they are not desperate,” Jo assures me, they are all professionals, like me, and they just don’t have time to waste on the Internet.
But, just like in a dating site, there was a protocol to follow. I would get a phone call from the men first. “Don’t expect to talk too long; men hate chatting on the phone,” Jo said. If it goes well, then a short date is set for coffee or an after-work drink. No one wants to spend time and money on dinner if there isn’t chemistry, a word she used often, making her service sound more like science than magic. She expected a call with my first impressions after the initial meeting and then we were on our own.
I’ve done some matchmaking myself, with little success I might add. I have been known to fix my ex-boyfriends with some of my own girlfriends. I think of it as a way to soften the blow, if I was the one who initiated the breakup. But, for some reason, the guys get touchy about this and by the time they make the contact I’m not even sure it was a good idea. Like the time I suggested to a Rutgers University professor, who loved his Maltese puppies, he would like to meet Mary, who was crazy about her Dalmatians. I’m not sure if he didn’t like her or her dogs. I also fixed Mary up with Charlie, a tango instructor, since she loves ballroom dancing. I don’t know what happened, but that was a fiasco, too, and I retired from the business of meddling in my friends’ love lives.
Jo fixed me up right away with three men and, she was right, their phone conversations were indicative of what there was to come. In fact, Jack and I never made it beyond the first phone conversation. Jack admitted that he hadn’t been in Philadelphia since the fifties and didn’t like it anyway. I said that he didn’t even know the city; it has changed so much in the last six decades! No wonder he mentioned Famous Deli as a good place to meet, which is about the oldest, most stuffy place to eat off South Street, while I was thinking of one of the many trendy places I’m familiar with, like Amada or Garces Trading Company.
He also told me he had written a memoir of his Italian family and their move to New York City. The unbelievable part is that, even though it hadn’t been published, it had been picked up by a director and it was being made into a film. Saying that I was envious doesn’t even come close to how I felt. The producers had given him a Lexus (he usually drove a Ford Taurus) and a credit card, so he could go from his Southern Jersey home to the big city to be a consultant. He couldn’t take me out yet, because they were filming in New York, and on the first snowy day he would have to leave immediately to shoot the outdoor scenes. All this conversation took place in what I would call immigrant volume. I remember how my family screamed on the phone when they used to call from Spain before the days of Skype. “Helloooo,” Jack would say and, without meaning to, I would answer “Whaaaat?” in a very loud voice. I never heard from him again.
The first man I met through Jo was Pietro, also an Italian, this one from South Philly. He was as good-looking as she mentioned, dressed all in black, with a tight muscle shirt to show off his physique. He smelled good, too. Come to think of it, all of Jo’s men smelled delicious. His best feature was his silver hair, sleeked back with lots of product, framing his handsome face and his eyebrows, which were shaped like upside down Vs. Think of Rocky Balboa without the broken nose. Unfortunately he was covered with gold jewelry: a big watch, a thick chain bracelet and most prominently, an elaborate crucifix, hanging from a gold chain, in the middle of his powerful chest. There was no doubt that Pietro was more handsome than I’m pretty, and I’m no wall flower. He spoke with a South Philly accent, which is funny if you hear it on a TV or radio ad, but is very embarrassing if you are in a sophisticated Society Hill bar and one of your neighbors is right behind him. Luckily, my neighbor was not with his wife, so he also pretended not to see me.
This Italian jock had never been out of the country; the only time he had been on a plane, he went to Florida. He admitted that he would need to be sedated to get airborne again. As I’ve said before, I won’t go to bed with Republicans, but this guy probably didn’t even vote. He was incensed when he heard that I had been to Cuba with my students and had loved my recent trip to China. “What are you, a Communist?” he said gesturing with his hand under the chin. No, he didn’t go to movies. No, he didn’t know Italian, although he spoke with his hands and showed me some not so nice gestures. How’s that for a match?
We spoke about our children. His daughter was a waitress and his son already had his own heating and air-conditioning business. And there I was telling him that not everyone needs to go to college. If either one of my daughters could hear me now! At that point he told me how perceptive he was and how no one could BS him. What a good time we were having and how much he wanted to see me again! He couldn’t wait to make some of his mother’s spaghetti with traditional gravy for me—that’s the word for sauce in South Philly. What was I to do? I told Jo the truth: that physically Pietro was very attractive, but that he wasn’t my type and that I could never take him home to meet my children.
Steven, a retired corporate man, also dressed in black, was my next match. His hair was perfect as well. I started to wonder if Jo had a dress code for her male clients. I made the mistake of dressing conservatively with a matching outfit that made me look like an Iberian Airlines flight attendant, without the white gloves and the box hat, because despite his business career Steven was a biker now and there were his helmet and leather jacket to prove it. That would teach me to dress to please my date.
Our conversation started well enough. At least he had made money from his real estate investments and I love talking about the ups and downs in the real estate market. But then, I don’t know how, The Bible made an unscheduled appearance and he was telling me that marriage was supposed to be between a man and a woman only, period. Appearances can be so deceiving; despite being Jewish, Jo attracted conservative Catholic men and, despite my goody-two-shoe clothes, I was a Communist and a radical.
Again, I called Jo immediately and told her that Steven and I weren’t a good match, only to find out that he had already called her and told her that there was no chemistry between us. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Concha. And here I had painted my nails a provocative deep red—something I hadn’t done in decades, certainly not for a date, maybe for a fund-raiser gala someplace.
James, however, took the cake. He was one of the most unpleasant dating experiences I have ever had. He was talkative on the phone, although there were plenty of red flags: this country is toxic, his sister is also toxic, his brother’s children are toxic. He described himself as a European because he had lived in Paris for a period of time (not). He did have an interesting career. He was a physician with his own practice that specializes in curing cancer with intravenous doses of vitamin C, although I had never heard of that kind of experimental treatment.
Setting up a date with James was a complicated affair. He was a vegetarian, so we couldn’t meet at a Jewish deli I suggested (as if they didn’t serve salads there). We met at a Starbucks at 12:30 PM, which I thought meant lunch. But when he arrived a few minutes late, I might add, he didn’t want anything, because he had already drank a protein smoothie somewhere and I had to buy my own sandwich and drink. No problem. From the very beginning, the conversation was strained and his toxicity list had grown to include some of his patients and friends. I changed the subject to traveling, mentioning some of the study tours I had taken with my students to South America, Cuba and South Africa…
“Oh, paid vacations,” he said. I thought he was kidding, so I laughed, but he was serious. When I mentioned that perhaps he said that because he never had children; traveling with fifteen or twenty teenagers is never a vacation, he said that he was offended, got up and left. I sat there eating my sandwich alone, shaking in my seat. Being left in a coffee shop, that was a first. This time, I told Jo that I was taking a leave of absence and that I wanted to take a break from dating. I didn’t mention to her how I missed using Google to find out information about perspective dates and how much better it is to communicate on e-mail for a while before having to pay for one’s lunch.
Several months later, out of the blue, Jo called me up with another possible match. I think she felt badly about my last one and I was again between boyfriends, so I agreed to try one more time. Dating is like childbirth; you forget how painful it is and you end up trying again. Clark worked around the corner from my home, so we could meet very easily. He was younger than me, but as young as I looked Jo was sure it didn’t matter. This time a happy hour meeting at a trendy new place, The Red Owl Tavern, was set effortlessly. Clark was not Superman, but he was also attractive, blond and dressed casually with a Hawaiian shirt and khakis. He had never been married, lived on the same street where he grew up in suburban Philadelphia. No, he didn’t come to the city on weekends, since he was there every weekday for work. No, he didn’t see foreign movies. No, he didn’t care for the opera, the orchestra or the ballet. His favorite activity was playing Trivial Pursuit on weekends with a so-called “meet-up” group (I made a mental note not to ever try that possibility).
This time I felt guilty calling Jo with the bad news; Clark was such a nice guy. I kept thinking of a Spanish word I haven’t been able to translate into English, desencuentro. The trusty Google dictionary says that it is a “disagreement,” a “misunderstanding,” a “failure to meet up,” a “mix-up,” and “unmeeting,” (is there such a word?). But none of these do justice to this Spanish concept. Literally it means an “un-encounter.” Let me illustrate it. A desencuentro is when two people would have never met had it not been for an introduction by a well-meaning matchmaker. A desencuentro is when two people would be on a different time zone even if they live in the same city, like Clark and I. Not surprisingly, when Clark called Jo with his report, he told her that I was delightful, but I seemed “a little long in the tooth.” How’s that for an apt American expression?

Author’s Bio

Concha Alborg was born in Spain during the difficult years after the Spanish Civil War and went to school in Madrid until she emigrated with her parents to the United States, ConchaAutwhere she finished high school. More than any other event in her life, this move defines who she is, an immigrant living between two cultures. She may seem Americanized to her Spanish relatives, but she is from another country as far as her daughters are concerned. Although Concha fits well enough in both cultures, a tell-tale Spanish accent marks her speech as well as her writing.
Concha Alborg earned an MA from Emory University and a PhD in Spanish Literature from Temple University. In addition to numerous academic publications on contemporary women writers, she has been actively writing fiction and creative non-fiction. Recently, she left Saint Joseph’s University, where she was a professor for over twenty years, to write full time. She has published two collections of short stories: Una noche en casa (Madrid, 1995) and Beyond Jet-Lag (New Jersey, 2000) and a novel, American in Translation: A Novel in Three Novellas (Indiana, 2011).
Concha Alborg didn’t think that anything could hurt her more than the death of her husband from cancer, but hours after his death she learned how wrong she was. Within days of being made a widow, she discovered that her marriage and her husband were not what she had envisioned. In Divorce After Death. A Widow’s Memoir, with a unique point of view, due to her bi-cultural background, and a self-deprecating humor, she takes us on a personal journey. Her strength and determination to build a new life led her down a path that allowed her to reject the veil of widowhood and instead embrace a life of happiness, love and acceptance.
Concha Alborg lives and writes in Philadelphia. See more information about the author at www.conchaalborg.com. Her Humor Outcasts’ author page link is http://hopress-shorehousebooks.com/concha-alborg/.

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