The House of Order–stories, the first collection of composite stories by John Paul Jaramillo, presents a stark vision of American childhood and family, set in Southern Colorado and Northern New Mexico.
Grateful for the thoughtful review at Indiereader.com:
“…the book is filled with beautiful moments, like shards of broken stained-glass window lying in the dirt. This book will open your eyes to a new way of life and will leave you with haunting images not soon forgotten. A worthy read.” –IndieReader.com
The House of Order spotted by my sister on display in Pueblo, CO Barnes and Noble.
The good folks at CIELO: Culturally Integrated Education for Latinos Organization here in Springfield, Illinois will be discussing my book at their August book club meeting. And they’ve invited me to come and discuss the book on Aug 6. I’m getting excited.
I’m grateful for the nearly half-page writeup in the hometown newspaper:
“Jaramillo is writing about working in Southern Colorado farm fields, driving and drinking beer and smoking pot; visiting family members in the state penitentiary; about tattooed pregnant girls, dirty kids in laundromats and their desperate mothers–and the pain-filled list goes on, back through several decades. What saves these stories is the grace in which they are written.”–Mary Jean Porter, Chieftain.com
Latino Literacy Now has listed my book The House of Order Stories as a finalist for their Mariposa Award Best First Book Fiction Award: 2013 Int’l Latino Book Awards Finalists. Could not be more pleased or honored.
The lady from the old neighborhood who read my book leans forward, her hair pepper gray and black. Her eyes really only half open the entire time. Her one hand holds a stack of envelopes and the other a blue and leather handbag as large as you think of the state of Colorado as large. Behind her an unending line of patrons waiting in line at the post office.
She is old with a round stomach, wearing purple stretch pants and white Keds. Her round arms jiggle with fat as she points towards me and speaks. There, in line, the woman begins with, “Hey, John Paul!”
And I stop. Her arms filled with letters and greeting cards for her grandkids still in between us.
“I have to tell you,” the woman and her Grandmother smell tells me, “the profanity from your people shocked me.”
I say, “Excuse me?”
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