THE
CAT’S MEOW
FOR WRITERS & READERS®™
Bringing you stories, poems, essays, and flash fiction
for your reading pleasure! Plus helpful
informative articles
and links to purchase authors’ books™
NOT YOUR TYPICAL ELECTRONIC MAGAZINE -
NO LINKS TO "READ MORE"!
April -
July 2011
Issue 60, Volume 11, ISSN: 2237-65
PLEASE NOTE: Although this is an Internet-based magazine, there are currently 7,000
subscribers who receive notification when a new issue is on this website. I
would like you to know that The Cat’s Meow for Writers & Readers’
subscriber list is NOT made available to others, including companies. I value
every subscriber and respect your privacy. Also, if any links are not working
in the magazine please notify me at The Publisher’s Box™ so I will know to fix them. Thank you.
In This Issue:
Publisher’s Letter
Birthday & Anniversary Wishes Corner
Coffee House 4 Readers Corner:
Frosting Fiasco (short story)
By Kay L. Schlagel
Places at the Family Table and
Sharing Life with Jay (short story and poem)
By Cynthia Groopman
My Daughter the Graduate and
A Father’s Forgiveness (short stories)
By Joseph J. Mazzella
An American Expat’s Journey to Bangkok (story)
By Ronald Estrada
The Crates’ Caper: A Slaying in Albuquerque
(a Daniel Duran Detective Series): Conclusion [story]
By Don R. Crawford
On Bear Mountain (story)
By Samuel Dickens
Oh Whoa Is Me and
Has Time Slipped Away (contemporary poems)
By Sandra L. Hoynacki
Legend and
Just Believe in Love (poems)
By Deborah Shepherd
Downpour
Poplar
My Daughter Bangs Pot Lids
Friendship and
Mirage: Silent Flowers (haikus)
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
This World Can Be a Better Place (story and poem)
By Conrad S. Cardinal
Helpful Nonfiction Articles Corner:
Narcolepsy: Part I
Narcolepsy: Part 2
Narcolepsy: Part 3 (articles)
By Carol Roach
The Second Middle-Ages and
The European Union as a Fear-driven, Defensive, and Phobic Project
(articles)
By Sam Vaknin
When Is the Last Time You Read the US Constitution? Take the July 4th Quick
Quiz (article)
By Alan Blume
Off
The Press! Corner
Where
links for BOOKS by many of this magazine’s contributors and other authors can
be found!
____________________________________________________
PUBLISHER’S
LETTER
From Rosanne Catalano, aka RC Kayla
Founder & Publisher
Welcome to my new subscribers! I am glad you joined my
many readers already enjoying this magazine. However, I am sorry that this
issue is extremely late.
The reason it is? For the past eight
months I have been on a very rough road with my husband health-wise. I was
finally able to finish working on this issue when he returned to his job on
June 20th after having two surgeries; the first one being in October of 2010,
the other one being this past February. Taking care of my hubby after lung
surgery (they thought he had cancer -- thank God he didn't!) and
ankle surgery (to repair three broken bones) is also why I am combining four
months instead of two. Now that I am officially back, I am pleased to bring you
my April through July issue! The next issue will be
August through October.
This issue contains the conclusion of an excellent
detective story that I began publishing in the Feb / March 2011 issue; a story
about an American who moves to Thailand; a story of a father’s unconditional
love, and many wonderful poems, plus nonfiction articles in the Helpful
Articles section.
Although in a previous issue I said that I was cutting this magazine
down in size, I decided it was not fair to all my contributors to have to
wait a long time for their work to be published. So I am publishing more
writers in this, and future, issues.
Contributors, if your work has not been
published in this issue please be patient. I will publish your stories, poems
and / or articles in future issues.
Also don’t forget my dear readers – The Cat’s Meow for Writers &
Readers now has its very own fan page on Facebook: www.facebook.com/catsmeowfor
Now my contributors have other news to
share with you…
FROM ARTHUR C. FORD,
AUTHOR, ENTREPRENEUR & CONTRIBUTOR
TO THIS MAGAZINE:
Rosanne, please post this in your magazine -- we need
your support!!!!
Thanks. Arthur
Dear Literary Artist,
The Poet Band Company is asking for poetry (maximum of 40 lines) and prose
(300 words) to be submitted for possible publication in “THE POETRY EXPLOSION
NEWSLETTER” (“THE PEN”), issued quarterly (January, April, July, October).
JULY'S ISSUES ARE DEDICATED TO ROMANTIC
POETRY!
OCTOBER'S ISSUES SPOTLIGHTS HOLIDAY
POETRY.
ALL OTHER ISSUES ARE “OPEN TO THE
WRITER”.
We publish poems and prose pertaining
to all subjects (love, holidays, current events, etc.) and in any form
(sonnets, haiku, rhyme, free and blank verse, etc.).
Simultaneous and pre-published
submissions are accepted. Bio-sketches are optional. Presently, we are not
paying monetarily, but if your works are selected, we'll send you a free copy
of the issue in which they (it) appear(s).
Send us your best! All submissions must
be typed and of “camera ready” quality.
Submit a maximum of five works (an
S.A.S.E. with correct postage if you want your works that are not accepted for
publication to be returned). Also enclose a $1.00 reading fee (for the five
submissions). Make Check or Money Order payable to: Arthur C. Ford, P.O. Box
4725, Pittsburgh, PA 15206-0725 or EM: wewuvpoetry@hotmail.com
Note: If sending currency from another country, please send International
Coupons (2 per dollar amount) or a Money Order or Check written in U.S. Dollars
from a U.S. Bank.
If you have never been published, this
may be your chance! Thanks for your love of the written word.
Subscriptions:
In the U.S.A and
$20.00 yearly (4 issues), or $38.00 for
2 years
Send $4.00 for a sample issue.
Outside the
$30.00 U.S Dollars for 4 issues, or
$58.00 for 2 years.
POEMS ARE CRITIQUED AT 15 CENTS PER
WORD!!!!
ADVERTISING RATES:
Size One issue four issues
1/8 page $10.00 $35.00
¼ page $20.00 $60.00
½ page $40.00 $120.00
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Ads must be “camera ready” and printed
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Logos are accepted.
Yours in Words,
Arthur C. Ford.
TOLL FREE: 1-866-234-0297
* * * * * *
FROM JOSEPH J. MAZZELLA,
AUTHOR & CONTRIBUTOR TO THIS
MAGAZINE:
Dear friends,
Just a note to let you know that two (2) of my stories have been included
in author Richard Lederer's new book, "A Tribute to Teachers." They appear on
pages 73 and 132-133.
Also, the Hardcover edition of my book ‘Walking the Path of Love’ is now available in addition to the Paperback
edition at both Amazon and now Barnes & Noble online
sites.
Thanks again to all of you who have already purchased a
copy. You have helped make this writer's dream come true!
Wishing you every joy, Joe.
* * * * * *
FROM CAROL ROACH,
PUBLISHER OF “STORYTIME TAPESTRY”
& CONTRIBUTOR TO THIS MAGAZINE:
Rosanne, please tell your readers about my three
wonderful columns at examiner.com :
First column
Women's Issues - covers all issues
relating to women's lives, from the fight for women's rights which started over
100 years ago in Alberta, Canada, to all the great women's achievements in the
USA, the feminist movement, women's legal, health, family issues and more,
later on I will incorporate eastern women's issues as well.
http://www.examiner.com/x-47386-Montreal-Womens-Issues-Examiner
Second column
Health - covers all aspects of health
from disease and conditions to most recent medical studies, to warning against certain
drugs and pharmaceutical drug recalls.
http://www.examiner.com/x-38644-Montreal-Health-Examiner
Third column
Mental health - covers everything
pertaining to psychology, psychiatry, self improvement, theories about behavior
and why we do the things we do and a lot more.
http://www.examiner.com/x-33888-Montreal-Mental-Health-Examiner
The articles are all well researched and as you know my
field is psychology – I have a Masters in counselling psychology. The articles
are also great for Storytime Tapestry members who do not want to wait for when
the story is finally published in Storytime Tapestry, sometimes several months
later.
* * * * * *
FROM ROGER DEAN KISER,
AUTHOR, CHILD ADVOCATE
& CONTRIBUTOR TO THIS MAGAZINE:
My new child advocate office website
is:
http://thewhitehouseboys.com/AmericanOrphan/americanorphan/index.htm
Thanks,
Roger
* * * * * *
Please do check out the ‘Helpful
Links for You’ on this site for
other interesting, fun sites and literary journals & magazines that you may
find helpful.
Enjoy this issue and have a wonderful
summer!
Copyright © April - July 2011 Rosanne
Catalano
Cats Rule, Dogs Drool
______________________________________________________________________________
BIRTHDAY & ANNIVERSARY
WISHES CORNER
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
TO:
Jessica Adams
Birthday: April 9th
Mandy Gray
Birthday: April 12th
Barry D. Infranco
Birthday: May 4th
Dara Cardillo Green
Birthday: May 4th
MaryLou Lavelle
Birthday: May 11th
My husband Bill
Birthday: June 7th
Denise Catalano-Shar
Birthday: June 22nd
Donna Welch
Birthday: June 26th
Deborah Welch Klostermann
Birthday: June 26th
My fur baby Cordy
Birthday: June 30th, 2000
Max Umland
Birthday: July 4th
My father-in-law
Birthday: July 6th
Lisa McGough Catalano
Birthday: July 6th
Clinton Welch
Birthday: July 6th
Annette (“Nette”) Rosenzweig Barr
Birthday: July 16th
Heidi L. Spargo
Birthday: July 22nd
Alex Umland
Birthday: July 30th
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!
TO:
Lisa McGough and Jim Catalano
Anniversary: April 24th
Jeanne and John Umland
Anniversary: June 5th
Linda and Stuart Steinberg
Anniversary: June 22nd
To see your birthday and / or
anniversary wishes here, email Rosanne with your
name (first & last, or just first name) and birth-day (year is optional)!
____________________________________________________________________
COFFEE HOUSE 4 READERS CORNER
(Bringing You Stories, Poems, Haikus, Flash Fiction and Essays For Your Reading
Frosting Fiasco
By Kay L. Schlagel
While cleaning out the garage, Cassie
and Tiff came across an old invention that they had worked together on. Tiff
pulled out a box that was full of parts of a particular invention that really
brought back memories.
“Cassie, why did you keep this? Wasn’t our total humiliation good
enough for you?!” Tiff laughed as she sorted through the box.
“Hey, it was a good idea when I had
it,” Cassie protested laughing. “There are just things that you shouldn’t try
to improve on.”
“Yea like….”
“Cake decorating,” they said in unison.
It didn’t take long before they were
laughing and retelling the story of when they had taken a cake decorating
class.
Cassie had decided that using the
normal cake decorating equipment was messy and took way too much
time. Since she had been forced to take the decorating class instead of
the auto-mechanic class she had wanted, she decided the least she could do was
make it faster and less messy.
She pitched the idea of an electric
cake decorator that could be loaded with all the frosting colors in separate
departments with interchangeable tips. Tiff thought it was a great idea.
Cassie and Tiff worked on the decorator
and although the class was almost over by the time they had come up with a
workable model, they decided to give the rest of the class a demonstration on
how well it worked.
All their practice runs with the
decorator had worked great but during the demonstration in class, the decorator
somehow clogged. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if the decorator
hadn’t exploded with quite so much force it splattered the instructor, the
other students, and the floor with great gobs of frosting. They still
could have salvaged some of their dignity if the principal had not heard the
explosion and come charging into the room.
Unfortunately for the girls, he slipped
on the frosting, slid head first into the teacher’s feet. The girls watched in
horror as a domino effect began with people slipping and sliding on the slick
frosting and falling into each other. The teacher and principle ended up coming
to rest in a heap at Tiff and Cassie’s feet. Since they were still
holding parts of the decorator, with black soot covering their faces, their
hair standing on end, it wasn’t hard for the principle to figure out who was
responsible for the mess.
He kicked them both out of the class
with an unfortunate amount of fanfare so that there was no one left in the
school who hadn’t heard what had happened. Needless to say, both girls
had to put up with weeks of teasing by the other kids. This stopped any more
interest in cake decorating. However, it didn’t stop their interest in
inventions and they had several inventions at different stages of
completion. However, all the left over pieces ended up in a pile in the
garage. Cassie’s mom had laid down the law and told them to get the mess
sorted out or it was all going to the dump.
By the time they had talked and laughed
about what happened, they realized that it no longer held the sting of
indignity that it used to. As they pulled out pieces that they might need they
talked and planned on how they were going to build their next project. The
school fair would be coming up soon and they wanted to build something that
would absolutely blow the judges away.
Building a robot would be the most
complicated project they had ever tried but both were confident that they could
do it. Cassie’s father was a computer repairman and tinkered with small engines.
When the girls showed interest in what he was doing he taught them what he
knew.
Copyright © 2010 Kay L. Schlagel.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kay L. Schlagel is a
published author, poet, writer, and an artist who is a mother to two
grown sons. She resides in the State of
______________________________________________________________________________
Places at the Family Table
By Cynthia Groopman
As I sit alone at my five-chair
table in my dining room each late afternoon eating my evening meal, I am
transformed to a joyful happy time when the dining room and the table and the
chairs were full of cheerful smiles, chattering voices of love, songs of
joy, religious celebrations and mealtime conversation on a variety of subjects.
I am transported via my magic carpet to
the 1960's when my brother and I were school children and when the family was
five: grandmother, mom, dad and the twins.
We had green walls, green carpets,
beautiful furniture a coffee table adorned with cut glass that were antiques
and a dining room table with five chairs.
Dinner time was happy time. We would
eagerly wait till after six when dad would arrive home from work, put on
comfortable clothes and wash up and we were all ready.
Each person had his or her own assigned
place at the table. There were two heads of the table. Dad would sit at the
head of the table near the wall that had our telephone and grandmother would
sit at the head of the table near the kitchen. Mom and I sat together between
the two heads of the table and my brother would sit on the other side.
We cherished our seats and we loved to
talk. We spoke about the happenings of the day, school piano lessons, religious
school, and dad would talk about work. Mom and grandmother would talk about
their happenings when they went shopping, friends, and moments in the park,
etc. We would also speak about current events and also about family members
such as our uncles, aunts and paternal grandmother.
We would even show our report cards,
special paintings or art work and even bring a new toy or doll to speak about.
Meal time was family time, which is rare nowadays since everyone ahs different
hours. Mealtime with a specific place at the table for our family gave us
stability, love, security, togetherness, sharing and caring and above all love.
Although the seats of the table are
empty now, they are full of memories as sweet as the desserts that my mom would
prepare. The seats are full of spiritual richness and in my mind's ear, if I
listen closely, I can hear the voices, of mom, dad, our childish voices and
grandmother's voice.
Precious memories are dear and
passports to feelings of comfort and reassurance during difficult times.
Nobody can take away memories from us. I now look forward to meal time as
I had done as a child fifty years ago; since my memories and the joyful moments
are part of my meal, they are my spiritual dessert.
Copyright © Cynthia L. Groopman.
* * * * *
Sharing Life with
Jay (poem)
By Cynthia Groopman
Dearest Jay
of blessed memory,
with you life we did share, for sixty
two years
Together we would walk down life's road
during times of happiness, triumph and tears
We would laugh and play when we were
small
Smiling and enjoying all
Together in school we would learn
to prepare ourselves for a living to
earn
You had your profession and so did I
Spare or quality time with each other
we would try
When my sight was gone,
you walked with me as a sighted guide,
protecting me from danger and harm
Printed pages you would read to me;
this helped me greatly
Places we would go hand in hand
as we explored learning and a musical
land
You would exalt as I would read my
Scripture and when I did speak
Services we would attend together each
week
Triumphs we would celebrate
Awards I would win and you would
appreciate
We would shed tears of grief and
sadness when our parents passed away,
We would clasp hands and gloriously
pray
Times were sweet with you,
As you smiled beaming were your
majestic eyes of blue
Suddenly one Saturday evening, God
called you on His phone
With an angel as your escort
To heaven you did go, leaving me
brother less and alone
Now you are one of my guardian angels,
as you already know
For I feel your warmth, and hear your
voice, in the smiling sunshine and wind's melodic chime so sweet and low
Thus rest in peace, dear beloved Jay
You enriched and touched my life
and my heart you did touch in a
splendid majestic way.
Copyright © May 31, 2011 Cynthia L.
Groopman.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Cynthia L. Groopman is a
published poet and writer. When not writing Cynthia volunteers her time at a
______________________________________________________________________________
My Daughter the
Graduate
By Joseph J. Mazzella
Author of “Walking The Path of Love”
My daughter graduated from college this
spring. I couldn’t be more proud of her! Through countless hours of study,
books read, papers written, and tests taken, her hard work has paid off. She is
no longer the little girl I once pushed on a swing and taught to ride a bike.
She has become a wise, mature, giving, caring, and loving adult. She has
learned so much and is ready to start the rest of her life.
I think the things I am most proud of
her learning, though, aren’t the ones she learned in the classroom. They are
the ones she learned through living her life. My daughter already knows things
that it took me much longer to learn.
She knows that money can’t buy or even
rent happiness. She knows that you never rise higher than when you stoop to
help up another. She knows that laughter exercises the lungs and love opens up
the heart. She knows that a good cry isn’t a bad thing. It washes out your eyes
so you can see more clearly.
She knows that petting a dog warms your
heart and hugging a friend uplifts your soul. She knows that doing what you
love and loving what you do turns work into play. She knows that children are
life’s most precious gift and that every child should be treated with
gentleness, kindness, and love.
My daughter knows that life often isn’t fair, that
society often isn’t wise, and that everyone of us will face our share of
problems. She also knows, however, that with love in our hearts we can bring
learning, laughter, and joy to even the toughest days. She knows that true
faith brings us closer to God’s love and never seeks to judge or hurt another.
She knows that life is a journey taken on a rocky road
and that sometimes we stumble and fall. She knows too that we can pick
ourselves up each time and even help someone else up as well. Most of all she
knows that she is still learning, just as we all are. May she always know too
just how much I love her.
Copyright © 2011 Joseph J. Mazzella.
* * * * *
A Father’s
Forgiveness
By Joseph J. Mazzella
Author of “Walking The Path of Love”
When I was a boy I always wanted to be
a cowboy. I remember my Mom worrying about me getting sick from the heat in the
summer, because I wore a thick blue sweater all the time. No respectable
cowboy, however, would wear short sleeves so I sweated while I played.
I was overjoyed too when one day my
parents gave me a bb gun. It looked just like a lever action rifle that all the
cowboys used in the movies. I spent hours each day during those summer months
shooting at stumps and pretending to be John Wayne. I even mastered the
one-handed, swing, cock and shoot move I had seen him do in a movie once. At
least that is what I thought.
As I was coming into the house one
afternoon, though, I tried it one time too many. The gun that I thought was
empty let out a soft pop and a bb flew across the room and parted the hair of
my Dad who was asleep on the couch. My Dad took one look at the bb hole a half
inch above his head, walked over to me, took my gun, walked outside, and calmly
broke it in half.
I didn’t cry too much over this; I knew
how close I had come to hurting my Dad with my stupidity. I didn’t expect to
ever get another bb gun either. That is why I was so surprised when my Dad
bought me another one the next year. I guess he thought I had wised up enough
to know how to use it this time. I never put a single bb in the new gun, but in
my imagination John Wayne rode again.
I eventually outgrew my cowboy stage,
but I never did outgrow my appreciation for my father’s forgiveness. He showed
me that even when I messed up in the worse way I was still loved. He gave me
another chance and let me know that I was forgiven whether I deserved it or
not. He shared with me some of the unconditional love and forgiveness that our
Father in Heaven has for us all. May we always embrace and share that love and
forgiveness as well.
Copyright © Joseph J. Mazzella.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Joseph J. Mazzella is a published writer and author who was born, raised and
still lives in the mountains of West Virginia in the USA. He grew up
walking in the woodland trails around his home and draws much of the
inspiration for his work from God's beautiful creation that is all around him.
He graduated from
_______________________________________________________________________________
An American Expat’s Journey to Bangkok
By Ronald Estrada
So here I am, an American expat,
sitting in McDonald's (of all places)-pondering the past, relishing the
present, contemplating the future. This journey is not exclusive to me
alone. Many other expats have made this trip from the motherland to a
foreign country. In my case, I relocated to the other side of midnight--
We expats have our reasons for choosing
the unknown and foreign instead of the familiar. If you are an expat, take
a second and think about it. Why am I here? What route did I take to
get here? Perhaps it was for a job, maybe a woman, warmth, economics,
escape,...? You know the answer. For me, simple-it was because of my
mortality or lack of immortality. Although I haven't died yet, I suspect
that I will be no exception to this rule, for no one leaves mother Earth alive
(except astronauts so far).
The grim reaper approaches ever so
slowly. I can't remember that day, the exact day that I realized my
mortality. Can you? Seems like this realization is slow to fruition
as we live life, enjoy life, and navigate its many obstacles and
hardships. But one thing for certain, sooner or later we all come to
realize that the grim reaper is lurking somewhere around the corner.
For me, the realization occurred in my
early fifties. I found myself more prone to sports injuries and more
concerned as recoveries were slow and less certain. Suddenly, I was no
longer invincible. My last grandparent had died, and my parents were
retired and addressing their illnesses. At some point here, certain
questions started gnawing at me. What will I do with my remaining
life? How many good years do I still have? Is this as good as it
gets?
No doubt, you have seen good times and
bad times, sacrifices and pleasures, feasts and famines, rain and
sunshine. Everything seems to run in cycles. Nothing stays status
quo. We learn that the only thing constant is CHANGE. Whether we
like it or not, change happens, and often it doesn't seem to be within our
control.
If you've lived fifty years, so much
has happened to you (well, unless you have lived on Gilligan's
We can all look back and connect the
dots from where we started to where we are now. It's easy to predict the
past, BUT the future-who knows? The earliest dots start with birth,
childhood, attending school to be educated. We study, we learn, we
sacrifice, we look forward to better times...as we are sure they will be once
we are educated and graduated-right? Eventually, however, we realize that
life and living is one continuous process of education, re-education, learning,
unlearning, and relearning.
Next usually comes careers and
relationships. Probably, you graduated from a school, started a career,
served your time in the military, and got married (or some combination of
these). Along the way came opportunities and sacrifices, income and debt,
complications and obligations, growth and change. This is all normal, all
part of our trip on this planet we call Earth.
When we are young, we look FORWARD,
always looking ahead, not wanting to wait, impatient. We have the whole
world and lots of living ahead of us. There is very little to look back to
and very little need. We are just starting out and not sure where this
journey will take us, but we are certainly on a voyage. We are having fun
or at least trying to have fun. Sometimes, we are waiting to have
fun. This is called deferred enjoyment. My generation was very good
at working first and enjoying later. I learned this from my father, and I
was a very good student. Sometimes, however, along this journey, I would
wonder: "when does the fun really begin?"
Somewhere along the timeline,
marriages, careers, children, and businesses ensue. Certainly some fun
and pleasure, certainly investment of time, certainly more obligations, usually
more debt. And all the time, tempus fugits. I was always busy,
mentally consumed, physically exhausted, welcome to modern civilization.
All the while though, I was looking ahead, building empires, and healthy as a
horse. Life was pretty good, and I was waiting for it to get
better. Yes, I was progressing normally on this trip.
By now, you have accumulated some
"things"-education, careers, business(es), spouse(s),
children,... Some people are lucky, very lucky in dodging
"bullets," others not so lucky. One-half of all marriages fail;
75% of all businesses fail; most couples bear children. The cost of
raising a child to adulthood is huge. The cost of a failed marriage or
business is large and lasting. Which of these bullets did you
dodge? Each direct hit takes it toll-stress, lost assets, more debt, and
failure. Even near misses can be mentally destructive. We find
ourselves "ageing" and starting to look back at the "good ole days,"
not just forward anymore.
Many of our setbacks linger and linger
and eat at us forever. If not careful, our failures seriously affect
future decisions. A divorce and its ramifications and scars last a
lifetime. Effects from failed business ventures and bankruptcies
linger. The more of these bullets you dodge the better. My father
was fond of saying: "it is easy to get into trouble but hard as hell to
get out of." How true! Sometimes it was even fun getting into
trouble (the taste of honey is hard to resist), but escaping was always hard,
costly, and time-consuming.
By now, after experiencing this journey
we call life, time has flown. The past can't be undone and reminiscing can
be happy or demotivating, depending on whether you are dwelling on your past
accomplishments or failures. Regardless, we can't live in the past and
sure can't rest on our laurels. We must continue, do more, strive for
more, and fill our time satisfactorily. Of course, easier said than done,
I know. If you have to ask yourself: "is this as good as it
gets?"-you've got a problem, unless you are willing to settle for
less. I wasn't, and I am now in
We will all die. The question is:
"how will we live?" The rest of your life is beginning
now. I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer and certainly not the
dullest either. Some bullets I dodged; others struck me right between the
eyes. Yes, this is my story, for I followed the usual path-college, military,
professional careers, wives, children, businesses. Seems like I did it
all, and sometimes it seems like I did very little. The obligations and
expectations of living life have taken their toll. At various points in
time, I began to wonder if this is all there is for me; my best years are gone,
and now is it time to settle for rocking the grandchildren on the front
porch? If yes, I had worked, accomplished, struggled, and sacrificed but
at a very big price- personal excitement. Time for a change, finally I'm
taking time for me-carpe
diem.
Fully aware of my impending mortality
and divorced (again) at 50, I couldn't help but look back, evaluate, and
conclude that with my remaining years things would change, things would be
different, there would be excitement, challenge, and romance in my life
again. I am not too old to take the bull by the horns and "Just Do
It." Sometimes I think maybe I am just crazy, maybe I should be happy
sitting on that porch rocking those wonderful grandchildren. But I have
too much energy and suppressed excitement, curiosity, and spirit of adventure
to settle for this--yet. Until then, off I went, in my case, all the way
to
I wanted it and I got it-an exotic
land, upside down from Western culture, Buddhism, a strange and challenging
language. Into the Land of Smiles I rode, a place where even a smile does
not necessarily mean you are happy! Yes, I got my wish. Of course, my
family thinks I am crazy for having left the protection of the
motherland. I have traded the familiar for the unfamiliar, the known for
the unknown and unknowable, literacy for illiteracy, the West for the East.
The choice of moving to
The only regret I have about moving to
Having previously dreamed about doing
nothing while being retired, what a rude awakening I had. It was easy to physically
stop BUT nearly impossible to turn off my well-trained, finely-tuned,
hardworking mind! Yes, I was physically retired, but my mind did not
agree. What a realization: retirement is not stopping but rather it is
having the freedom to choose what to do next. Time to be productive AGAIN,
and time to figure out what to do with the rest of my life…AGAIN.
The "journey" continues on
this train called "life" until I arrive at the final
destination.
Copyright © 2011 Ronald Estrada.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ronald Estrada is a
retired American professor, CPA (Certified Public Accountant), and
an entrepreneur now residing in
_____________________________________________________________________________
The Crates’ Caper: A Slaying in Albuquerque
(A Daniel Duran Detective Story series)
Conclusion
By Don Ray Crawford
Chapter Six
The husky man hustled both Duran and Cargo into the back
seat of a large, Chrysler sedan, and he and the Senator took the front seats.
The man held a gun on the two of them while the Senator drove west of
Interstate 40 where they were doing a lot of construction.
New additions were going up on that
side of the river faster than a greased pig on an oil slick. Cargo glanced over
at Duran, who winked for him to just sit quietly, and wait. Cargo had said
nothing all this time but he did have a very worried look on his face.
Just as they were passing Coors, still
going west toward Unser, the car hit a bump in the road which momentarily
caused the gun in the hand of the hood to slightly sway. Duran swiftly stomped
his foot into the back of the passenger seat. The husky man, startled, dropped
the gun from the impact and Duran caught it in mid air.
The car swerved and the senator, in
trying to look back over his shoulder, went off the road and landed in a ditch.
Cargo had fallen to the floor and was struggling to pull himself back up.
“Now, let us all just be calm here,”
Duran suggested, holding his Astra close to his chest. The senator had
hit his head on the wheel and blood was slowly oozing from his forehead.
“Senator, tell your man here to behave or he will be joining his friends. And
both of you get out of the car, nice and slow.
They had just passed the busy
intersection of Coors and I-40 and Duran was about to ask Cargo to walk back to
that intersection and call the police. But just as he was about to speak to
Cargo, seeing the car in the ditch, two cars pulled over to the side of the
road and came over to where they were. Then they saw the gun Duran was holding
on the two men.
“This is police business, but if either
of you have a cell phone we need to call headquarters.” One young man stepped
forward offering his cell phone. Duran was about to take it but then remembered
he didn’t know how to use one, so he asked the young man to dial 911 for
him.
The young man complied and Duran took
the phone and explained what he needed.
“Is there any thing else we can do
here, mister?” the other man asked, hearing Duran inquire for Sergeant Sonny
Castro.
“No, not a thing at the moment,”
wanting them to leave for fear the Senator or his henchman would use a crowd to
try something to change the circumstances.
“Before you go, I am Senator Asholt and
this man is holding us against our will!”
“Yeah,” his henchman echoed.
“It’s true, he is Asholt all right,”
Duran said, “but he is guilty of many crimes. You can read about it in the
local newspaper tomorrow. So best you be on your way,” he suggested, never
lowering his gun or taking his eyes off the two men in his custody.
The two men nodded to each other, got
into their respective cars and sped off west on I-40.
“People really don’t want to get
involved any more in this kind of thing,” Duran said, grinning at Cargo.
“I agree,” speaking for the first time
since they had started on their death ride. “Boy what a mess I got all of us
into, just for picking up a lady in distress!”
“You did the right thing, young man,
and it will all turn out okay, you’ll see. In fact, if it were not for you the
Senator here would still be getting away with . . . well, murder among other
things. Isn’t that right, Asholt?” staring into the Senator’s inflamed eyes.
After a few minutes the sound of sirens
wailed off in the distance. Duran wondered if Sonny would be among the police
coming to this almost laughable scene.
Two marked police cars and one unmarked
vehicle pulled up just back of where Duran and the four men were standing.
Sonny stepped out of the unmarked car.
“Well, old buddy, it looks like you
have been a bit busy here, huh? And if it isn’t Senator Asholt, of all people!
Now tell me, what is this all about?” motioning to the uniformed patrolmen to
place the Senator and his sidekick into the back of their patrol car.
Duran filled Sonny in on the ride they
were taking, supposedly their last, and what the Senator had bragged to him
back in his old office. Sonny listened without interruption, and nodded.
When Duran had finished filling Sonny
in, Sonny shook his head, “You are one lucky guy, man. I could be seeing you in
the morgue! And how are you doing, Cargo?” turning his attention to the young
man standing quietly beside the road.
“…thankful to Mr. Duran here for saving
my life. I really thought we were goners there for a minute. He is quite the
man, isn’t he?”
“Cargo, you don’t know the half of it.
You couldn’t have a better man in your corner than this big lug here,” slapping
Duran on the shoulder.
“Ah, cut it out you guys, you’re making
me blush. By the way, Sonny, did you ever find that Glenn guy for Cargo to eye
ball?” keeping his interest on the business at hand.
“Yeah, we located his apartment through
his job, the same place the girl worked. I think I mentioned that earlier. He
denies any involvement but says he is willing to come in for an interview if it
will help. He was only a little defensive. Maybe he thinks we can’t tie him in
but if he has any thing at all to do with it, I’ll find it out and nail him for
it.”
“The senator mentioned a ‘friend’ who
helped the girl get that job, and also the place where she lived, shortly after
her arrival in the Duke city. I am wondering just who that ‘friend’ might be.
If it isn’t Glenn, then there is someone else out there we need to talk to, and
quickly before the senator pulls his stuff and walks away scot-free.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right. Well, why
don’t you two get in the car and let’s get out of here.”
Sonny dropped off Duran at his old
office where his car was parked, and Duran offered to take Cargo home. Sonny
would meet them next morning at the station, where he and Cargo could fill out
their reports on what had happened to each of them. The charges would be
“kidnapping, plus “false imprisonment,” and violation of their civil rights,
for starters,” Sonny added as the two stepped out of his car. And, anything
else we can find to stick on them,” he added with a grunt.
The next morning, Duran and Cargo
showed up at headquarters and filled out their respective reports. Sonny
reported that the henchman of the senator, whose name turned out to be, Luis
Molina, wanted to make a deal. He had agreed to tell all he knew about the
Senator and his entire operations for leniency or perhaps for a sentence of
probation. Sonny said he would be talking to the District Attorney about it,
but the DA wanted to convene a Grand Jury to indict the Senator and not take
that responsibility on himself.
“It would be a real boon if Molina were
to tell what he knew since he had been with the senator for many years and had
been in on most all of his dirty dealings. He knows plenty, that’s for sure,”
Sonny quipped, “and it would really help to nail the senator before he could
pull any legal maneuvers to try and get out of all of this.”
They both knew the Senator had many
powerful friends in high places, including the ear of the Governor. But with
the right evidence, Asholt wouldn’t have a chance to duck out on his just
desserts.
Duran agreed that if Molina were to
spill his guts it would go very hard on the Senator, and assured his pal that
he was willing to do whatever he could to help. He could talk with the DA if
Sonny wanted him to, and tell the DA everything he knows for sure and what he
suspects. He told Sonny to set up an appointment with the DA if Sonny wanted
him to reveal his story.
Sonny said he would work on it.
After leaving the station, Duran
returned to his office where he received a call from Powers Driver. He
explained what had happened from his point of view and asked Powers if he had
already talked with Cargo. “You have a very brave son there, Powers; he never
quivered once throughout the whole ordeal, in spite of his youth. He is a son
you can well be proud of.”
He then told Powers of the prospects of
Molina spilling his guts, which should be enough to send the Senator away for a
long time. It was just a matter of waiting now, to see what would happen with
the DA. They chatted a few more minutes and ended the call.
He decided to call Arlene for dinner
and maybe some relaxation from the stress of the last couple of days. He needed
to unwind a little and Arlene was always the person who could best help him do
that.
Chapter Seven
Duran picked Arlene up at her apartment and they drove
out
Later, Sonny called Duran to tell him
there was going to be a delay in the DA’s making a decision, due to some legal
technicality, and that they just had to sit tight for a while until Sonny got
back to him. Sonny also told him he had a couple of other cases to work on in
the interim.
Duran also took on a new case while he
waited to testify in the senator’s case. It involved a young 16 year old girl
who had willingly, supposedly, gone with a couple of guys and another girl to a
remote area in rural
He spent most of two days in locating
the girls he had been hired to find, and he was forced to use some of his
training in Aikido and Kung Fu to rescue the girls, although they were not all
too willing to come with him back to
Once that case was settled, Duran had a
couple of days to just loaf around and he spent more time with Arlene in her
off hours. They had gone out dancing for the first time in a long time, at the
Caravan on east Central and he had several drinks too many, so that Arlene had
to drive him home. She also stayed the night, worried about him. It was the
first time in months that he had gotten drunk. But he was feeling good about
his life at that point. Things had gone good so far and he looked forward to
nailing the senator to the wall with his testimony.
A couple of days later, Sonny called
Duran at his office and told him he had good news. The DA had agreed to go easy
on Luis Molina for his giving a full accounting of the senator’s operations,
which Luis did. Sonny had all the facts he could now share with Duran. They
agreed to meet at his pal’s office the next morning, and Sonny agreed also to
bring the bottle of tequila. Duran said okay, although he had some misgivings
about drinking again, after his hang over.
Next morning, late, Sonny arrived at
Doro’s office with bottle in hand. “I’ve got a story to tell you,” watching as
Duran poured out two tall shots in the tequila glasses. “According to Luis, the
senator had connections all over the state, one of which was a young woman
named, Tanya Acosta, who worked part-time as a waitress at Guarduno’s and also
hooked on the side. A regular customer of hers was the Glenn guy the girl had
told Cargo about. She also serviced the Senator on a regular basis, sort of on
a retainer fee, if you will.”
“That sounds intriguing. Go on, I’m
dying to hear the rest of it.” He poured them another shot.
Well, it appears Tanya also has a
rather close relationship with another man of unsavory character, named,
“We have an APB out on this
Duran was very pleased to hear all the
good news Sonny was telling him, and wanted in on the action once this
While they both stayed busy for the
next several days, Sonny was having Tanya staked out, hoping
It was a late Thursday evening when he
received the call he had been waiting for. Sonny had been told
Duran parked a little ways down the
street from the address and casually walked across the street to Sonny’s car.
He had been waiting for him. Sonny also had several other plain clothes
officers in the area, both front and back of the building.
The plan was for he and Duran to go in
the front, go up to the apartment door, knock and apprehend Chino, hopefully
without incident, or at least flush him out. The other officers were to back
them up, guarding both entrances, and even the window in Tanya’s apartment,
which was a good drop to the ground. If he showed at any of those spots they
would nab him.
When Sonny rapped on the door, he
announced it was the police, and for
He slowly opened the door, hiding
behind Tanya and with his gun to her head. The two men agreed to place their
guns on the floor, which they did, and
As Duran was struggling to get to his
feet and holding firmly to his side, which was bleeding now rather profusely,
he heard Sonny yell to the other officers, “Stop that damn guy!” He then
heard several more shots, and then dead silence.
“Sonny, are you all right?” he yelled
out as loud as he could. Other tenants in the building began peeking out of
their doors, and he motioned for them to remain inside. “Police business, go
back inside and lock your doors!” Then, he told Tanya to go inside and close
her door. She obeyed without question.
“Yeah, Duro, I’m okay,” he heard Sonny
yell back. “We got the bastard and he has been hit, but he is still alive and I
think he will make it.”
“Thank God,” he breathed softly to
himself. “Sonny really needs what this guy can tell him.”
After Chino was taken into custody and
driven to the hospital ER, with two police guards on him, Sonny and Duran
followed and also went to the ER room at St. Joseph’s on Montgomery and San
Mateo. Luckily, it only took a wad of flesh out of his side but no real damage
was done. He had suffered much worse earlier in a shoot out which led him to
resign from the force years before.
It was not just the shooting, he hated
any type of authority since returning from ‘
Sonny took him home and had an officer
bring his car to his house as well.
When Arlene heard he had been shot, she
rushed to his side, providing him all the love and comfort a doting wife would
have given him. She refused to leave his side for days, calling in sick to the
airlines where she worked. In turn, Duro gave her all the love he could muster
and for several days they lived a very idyllic existence holed up in his house
on the
Chapter Eight
Sonny called almost every day and after
about a week had passed, filled his pal in on the latest happenings in the
Senator’s case.
Both Luis and Chino had spilled their
guts, telling a long and sordid story of the shady dealings of the senator,
including his being the brains behind all of it; he had ordered the killing of
his own daughter, the killing of his previous employee, his involvement in
drugs, his kickbacks and payoffs from the Casino gang, and his other
investments in questionable enterprises.
The DA had all he needed, or could
want, to prosecute the Senator to the fullest extent of the law. He probably
would get life, maybe without the possibility of parole. Which would be fully
justified based on all he was behind. The DA dropped the kidnapping charges to
keep the feds out of the case. He had more than he needed, anyway.
When he was fully recovered, he and
Arlene completed the one last task to close the book on the Asholt case once
and for all. They made another quick trip to
Serena was very pleased to hear the
final outcome of the murder of her daughter, whose body had been returned and
received a proper church burial, just as she had wished. Before they left
That really was a fitting conclusion to
the whole affair he summed up, and he and Arlene spent several days on a drop
off in
Copyright © 2010 Don Ray Crawford.
Publisher's Note:
I hope you enjoyed reading Don Crawford's
detective story as much as I did!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Don R. Crawford is a
published writer who received his Masters of Social Work Degree from the
University of California at Berkeley during the turbulent 1960s. His clinical
experiences have been varied: he has counseled with the mentally ill in
California State Hospitals, worked with the Developmentally Disabled in
Regional Centers in California, been in private practice, assisted substance
abusers and their families toward familial restoration in a Public Health
facility, worked in rural Clinics in northern California, for the State of
California, Departments of Mental Hygiene, and Social Welfare, acted as a
consultant to Nursing homes and County Welfare agencies, provided marriage,
sexual, divorce and family therapy in a Conciliation Court setting, provided
Mediation services and worked for the Department of Veterans Affairs in several
positions, both in and out of hospital, was a Team Leader for a Vet Center,
counseling with veterans, and their families, many from the
Vietnam era and the Persian Gulf engagement, experiencing Post Traumatic
Stress Disorder (PTSD). In addition to his clinical experiences and interests,
Don has a deep and progressive concern for the spiritual development of
humanity. He is, or has been, a member of several international
organizations dedicated to a study of the Ageless Wisdom, including the Order
of the Rosy Cross, the Self-Realization Fellowship, World Goodwill, the
Theosophical Society, Edgar Cayce’s ARE (Association of Research and
Enlightenment) at Virginia Beach, Virginia, and subscribes to a few
selective journals with an interest in these areas. Throughout his
professional career, Don has consciously peered deeper and deeper into the
workings of human behavior in an effort to better appreciate and understand the
activities of humanity. His continuous search is one for Truth, which he
believes to be the most important purpose of the human being. Don can be
reached via email at eagledino@yahoo.com
_____________________________________________________________________________
On Bear Mountain
By Samuel Dickens
One
gorgeous summer morning in June, a boy scurried up a dirt road like he was
anxious to get somewhere. Dressed in dirty jeans and a slightly too-small
Hawaiian shirt, he thought not one thing about his appearance. To him, clothes
were only for hiding your nakedness, keeping you warm in the winter and
protecting you from things like stickers and wasp stings.
Noisy as the morning’s chattering
birds, something in his pockets clicked loudly while his fast-moving bare feet
went “plop-plop-plop” in the deep, soft dirt. Breathing in sweet honeysuckle
air, his flying feet and swinging elbows slowed when he smelled another smell.
‘Breakfast! Mmm, bacon is frying with
coffee, eggs and biscuits. I’ll bet its coming from that rock house on the
corner!’
Not so many years earlier, Jimmy
Prewitt routinely woke up to that smell and he’d never forgotten it. He wore
clean clothes back then and lived in a house where he had two parents who
fought a lot. They got a divorce and Jimmy went to live with his dad--that’s
when home-cooked meals and clean clothes became things of the past.
Continuing up the road with the
wonderful smell of hot breakfast fading behind him, but not his hunger, Jimmy
mused ‘I hope I’ll find
an apple tree or some kind of berries today…’
Prepared as he knew how, for a
day of adventure, he carried a little aluminum canteen of water, six crackers,
plus some mustard that he had scooped into an empty Baby Ruth candy bar
wrapper. (Candy bars being good food, so his father thought.) Ready to defend
himself from wild animals or carve a magic flute from a piece of bamboo, etc,
he also carried a small pocket knife. With canteen sloshing, pocket clicking
and feet plopping, he hurried onwards; trying to outrun the mid-morning sun.
Passing by the Hardin’s house with all
the old junked cars in the yard, he came to the railroad tracks. It is a fact
that all boys love trains and railroad tracks. You can put a penny on the track
and let the train run over it. You can find things that have fallen from the
train like hats and tools, or dead things like turtles and possums that didn’t
get off the tracks in time.
One of the best things about trains,
though, is the tracks themselves. In Jimmy’s world, they’re for walking on
without falling off. Having walked the tracks for at least a mile and a half
once without falling off, he was certain that he held some kind of record. On
this particular day, though, he felt no need to prove himself.
‘I’m not going to try to walk this rail all the way to
With the smell of creosote in his
nostrils and the long tracks before him, Jimmy skipped happily across the
ties.The tracks and the trains were an integral part of his life, you see.
Lying in bed at night, he would hear Hank William’s “lonesome whistle” blowing
in the distance. In the daytime, he’d observe the silver passenger trains
flying through town, or the lumbering, clanking freight trains that always
stopped on the tracks, splitting the town in half.
A curious and imaginative boy, Jimmy
spent many hours designing and building robots and airplanes in his father’s
watch and clock repair shop. The train depot being just three blocks away, he
would sometimes take a break from his gears, springs and gizmos, and walk over
there for a drink of cold water. They had a drinking fountain inside the depot
that looked like other drinking fountains, but the water that came out of it
was the coldest in the world, so Jimmy reckoned.
While there quenching his thirst, he
would often observe the people who’d gotten off the train and wonder what
far-off land they’d traveled from. ‘That man has a funny mustache. Maybe he’s from some
place really far away, like
The nice little park beside the depot
had some big old oak trees that made great shades for people to cool off in.
Sometimes Jimmy saw ragged, dirty men sleeping in the shades of those trees. He
knew they were called “Hobos” and that they didn’t have homes and was always
hungry.
Across the street on the other side
from the depot was a big two-story house that the railroaders used for a hotel.
Jimmy was pretty sure that regular
people couldn’t stay there and that it was just a place where railroaders could
go and sleep in a bed that didn’t move. It was a strange thing, but they had a
black lady that worked there, and she never left the yard. The only time she
even came outside was when she worked in the flowerbeds. There weren’t any
black folks at all in Booneville except for her, and she had supposedly been
living there in the railroader’s hotel for most of her life.
According to what Jimmy had heard, she
and her parents were just passing through when a bald tire on their old Nash
blew out. Her father lost control of the car and it veered off the road,
tumbled down an embankment and ended up at the bottom of the city lake. Miraculously,
the little girl was thrown from the vehicle before it entered the water. Mr.
and Mrs. Curtis, who ran the railroader’s hotel, happened to drive by right
after the accident and found the distraught child standing in the road weeping.
They felt sorry for her and, after secretly getting her checked out and treated
by old doctor Hendricks, they took her back to the hotel with them. Not unlike
a stray kitten found wandering the neighborhood, they decided to keep her. They
may have even loved her, but no one knows for sure.
In conversations around the small
southern town, the black lady was never mentioned, and no one even knew her
name. The lowest of the low on the town’s social ladder, she was invisible,
just like Jimmy. It wasn’t that people couldn’t see them; it’s just that they
didn’t want to. Jimmy felt sorry for her. At least he had the freedom to leave
his yard.
Jimmy walked by the railroaders hotel
one day and she called to him.
"Come here young man!” she said.
So Jimmy walked cautiously over to where she was digging in a flowerbed.
Holding out her hand, she said “Here,
young traveler; take these three pretty stones that I found hiding in my
flowers. I think they need to go somewhere, but I can’t take them.”
Jimmy took the three stones and said
“Wow, they’re real pretty!”
One was green, one was yellow and one
was gold, and they sparkled like the stars. “Thank you!” said the excited boy,
and he stuck them in his pocket, grinned at her, and took off like a rabbit,
running and clicking all the way home. The lonely black lady then felt happy,
and she watched him run until he was clean out of sight.
After stopping to poke a dead, stinky
turtle with a stick, Jimmy continued down the railroad tracks and passed
through the poorest part of town. His mind filled with memories as he walked
near the house he was born in.
‘That’s where we lived when I locked
myself up in that old icebox. I didn’t know it would be so dark in there and
that you couldn’t get out…’’
Continuing further, he saw the creek
where he’d nearly drowned. ‘It’s a good thing my sister saw my feet sticking out of the water that
day, or I’d have been a goner!’
If you’re wondering why Jimmy had so
many close calls, the reason is simple—his parents were irresponsible. They
probably should never have had any children, in fact. His father grew up
way out in the woods where puppies and calves and babies died all the time. Out
there, people had the attitude that if you were going to be a good dog or human
or goat, you wouldn’t make too many mistakes and you’d learn to survive,
perhaps with God’s help. If God decided he liked you, he might not let you die
from influenza or when the horse kicked you in the head.
To be truthful, Jimmy’s dad loved his
children, but he didn’t know how to take care of them. His mother, on the other
hand, knew how to tend to a child’s physical requirements but not their
emotional needs.
‘OK, here’s my road,’ thought Jimmy, exiting the tracks and heading down a
small, seldom-used dirt road that had grass growing in the middle.
About half mile ahead was the creek
where Jimmy found one of his prize possessions--a perfect white flint arrowhead
with a point as sharp as a dagger. It was also the same creek where he and his
friend Johnny camped out one very cold January night and nearly froze to death.
Walking the half-mile in short order, Jimmy came to said, un-named creek and
waded across it. A steep bank awaited him on the other side, so he got down on
his hands and knees and began climbing the briar and vine-covered incline. It
was difficult going, but was the shortest route to the mountain, so up he went.
After about 75 yards of strenuous
clawing and pulling, the ground leveled off, and he found himself at the wooded
top of a hill. A short walk through the shady trees and there it was---a big
field where an Indian village used to be, and on the other side of it sat Bear
Mountain, rising high into the blue summer sky. Stepping from the shelter of
the trees and into the morning brightness, Jimmy commenced walking across the
sunlit field. Moving along slowly and methodically, he scanned the ground for
pieces of broken pottery or other artifacts.
‘This big field would be a great place
for a UFO to set down. It would probably leave evenly-spaced probe marks in the
ground—three or four, most likely. I’d better look for strange footprints,
too.’
Being a big fan of sci-fi movies and
the “Twilight Zone,” Jimmy had long been interested in UFOs. He’d spent many
summer evenings lying on a blanket in the yard, gazing at the heavens and
hoping to see one of the other-worldly crafts. Secretly, he hoped that some
friendly aliens would find him and take him away to their idyllic world where
love, knowledge, and lots of good space food abounded. They’d never found him
so far, but he kept hoping that they would nonetheless.
The day was becoming hot by the time
Jimmy crossed the large field and entered the woods on the other side. It felt
good to be in the shade again, and he went straight for a large rock beneath an
elm tree and sat down on it.
‘Whew, it’s hot today! I need a drink. Shoot, my
water’s almost gone already.’
Jimmy knew there was a farm house at
the east end of the field where he might get more water, but he wanted to be
invisible like a ghost and pass through unseen-- besides, he hated to bother
people. His feet were hot and uncomfortable inside his sand and gravel-filled
tennis shoes, so he pulled them off. ‘Ahhh, that feels good!’
Removing his hole-covered socks, Jimmy
spread his toes out and wiggled them around so they’d cool better. Then,
looking closely at his right big toe, he thought of the time he dropped the pee
bucket on it and made the nail fall off. In terms of outright horror and
trauma, the memory was right up there with the tumble he took out of a moving
car and the bicycle wreck that shattered some of his teeth and knocked a big
hole in his chin.
It’s not much of a story, really, and
probably was not an uncommon occurrence in the days before indoor plumbing.
Jimmy’s family had an outhouse that everyone used in the daytime, but at night,
they had a large Donald Duck orange juice can that was used for
“night-deposits”. Three-year-old Jimmy woke up needing to pee real bad one
night, so he crawled out of bed, went to the kitchen and turned on the light.
There, underneath the old Maytag
ringer-type washing machine was the family pee bucket. Seeing that it was
nearly full and not wanting to get other people’s pee on him, little Jimmy
barely pinched each side of the can, picked it up, and started relieving
himself. The can became so full that he couldn’t hold onto it, and then the
most tragic thing imaginable happened --- his fingers slipped.
The heavy bucket landed on his naked
big toe and then turned over, spilling 32 ounces of pee on the kitchen floor.
Hopping up and down in terrible pain, trying to hold his wounded toe, Jimmy
slipped and fell into the ocean of other people’s pee. It is almost certain
that family members came immediately to investigate the horror and pathos in
the kitchen, but the experience was so traumatic for Jimmy that his mind erased
anything that happened after he picked up the pee bucket. Only days later did
his senses returned to the extent that he knew the reason for having a black,
throbbing toe.
'That’s neat. My new toenail looks just
like the old one. I’m glad I don’t have an ugly toe -- girls wouldn’t like it.
Boys already have ugly feet -- Girls have pretty feet. Girls have pretty
everything…’
Thinking about girls, as he tended to
do more and more often, he remembered the time he was out exploring like this
and very unexpectedly came upon one. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone that
far out away from town, let alone a girl, and it really discombobulated
him.
“Jimmy, is that you?” yelled a
dark-haired girl from half-way across the field.
"Yeah!” he answered. ‘It’s Marilyn—what do I do? Uh, I can’t just run
away. I’ll have to try and not act too stupid or rude. Be brave—just walk on
over there and act normal.’
“Jimmy, what are you doing way out here?!” asked
Marilyn Larson.
“Oh, I’m just out lookin’ for, uh,
arrowheads and stuff.” ‘She’s
a rich girl—why does she want to talk to me?’
“Have you found any?”
‘I guess I can show it to her.’ “Yeah, I found this little tiny one. I think it’s for
shooting birds.”
“Wow, its red! I’ve never seen a
red one before.”
“Oh, you know, flint comes in a
lot of colors—white, grey, red, kinda brownish.” ‘Her hands are pretty. She’s standing so close! I can
smell her breath—it smells nice. I bet she brushed her teeth. I need to get out
of here.’
Handing back the arrowhead, she asked
“How far do you live from here, Jimmy?”
“Oh just a ways over that big hill over
there. It’s not too far.”
“It looks like a long way to me. My
house is just right through those trees. Let me go get mother, and we’ll give
you a ride home.”
‘Oh no! She’ll see that little crummy
camper trailer that dad and I live in….’ “No, that’s ok. I’ll just walk back,” he said.
Despite his refusal, Marilyn ran home
and got her mother. Moments later, Jimmy hid behind a tree and watched them
drive by on the dirt trail. Marilyn rolled her window down and called out, but
Jimmy wouldn’t answer. He knew he wasn’t good enough to ride in their car.
Jimmy’s feet felt better, so he slipped
his ragged tennis shoes back on. ‘I wish I hadn’t been so chicken that day. Maybe Marilyn was sorta
lonely like me. Maybe she liked me, even though I’m poor. Maybe I blew my big
chance to kiss a girl.’
The rock that felt cool to his bottom
at first was now starting to feel hard and uncomfortable, so Jimmy got up and
continued his walk on through the woods. He was delighted when he found a
blackberry bush with several big, fat berries on it.
‘Oh boy, it’s my lucky day!’ he thought, as he began picking all the best-looking berries. Some of
them weren’t very sweet, but he ate them anyway. Then, as he still felt hungry,
he ate his crackers with mustard and drank the last of his water.
Looking down at his belly, he wished it
stuck out further like it did when his dad took him to eat Sunday dinner at
elderly cousin Beulah’s house. She was one old lady that really knew how to
feed a starving pup.
A keen observer of his surroundings,
Jimmy took note of every plant he walked past, every insect that buzzed or
clicked, and every bird he saw. When a bright beam of sunlight broke through
the canopy and cast a spotlight upon a patch of wildflowers full of buzzing
bees, he thought of old Mrs. Finch.
It was she who had taught him about
pollination and so many other important things. Some of his teachers probably
saw him as just another poor, parentless kid who’d never finish the eighth
grade, and took no particular interest in him. But the old woman with her hair
in a bun and black shoes made him think she cared. His world was full of
failure and low expectations, but she told him that he was smart and that he
could accomplish whatever he set his mind to.
Most kids in his shoes wouldn’t have
even gone to school, but Jimmy did. There was a school-day morning when, as
always, he woke up in a cold empty house. His dad had already gone to work, his
younger brother had gone to live with his mother in another town, and his two
older sisters were who-knows-where. Jimmy didn’t think it was so bad, though,
living there with his dad. At least he got to sleep next to the window when the
weather was hot.
On this particular morning, Jimmy
looked at the time and saw that he was running late for school, so he hurriedly
put on his cleanest dirty clothes and, with nothing to eat, shot out the door.
He walked the half a mile to school as fast as he could, but seeing that all
the kids had gone inside, he knew he was late.
Reluctantly, he walked into the
principal’s office and stood at the counter, his knees shaking. Frowning, Mr.
Williams asked him why he was late. Jimmy didn’t reckon he had a valid excuse,
so he told the principal “I don’t know.” Then another tardy student walked in,
so the principal made Jimmy sit in the seat that kids who are in trouble sit
in.
“And what’s your excuse for being tardy
this morning, young man?” asked Mr. Williams of Danny Blythe, a local business
man’s son.
“My slacks were in the cleaners, so we
had to wait for them to open,” answered Danny, not seeming nervous at all.
“Well, we can’t have you coming to
school without your slacks on,” chuckled Mr. Williams, waving Danny on his way.
The well-dressed boy went on down the
hall and the principal turned his attention back to Jimmy. “You know, you can’t
succeed in life if you aren’t serious about getting an education. I’m going to
let you go to class, but you’ve got to bring me a 500 word report on ‘The
importance of being punctual’ by tomorrow.”
Later that year, Mr. Williams would
accidentally kill a man while deer hunting. When Jimmy saw him at school after
that, he didn’t think he looked right. There was something wrong with his eyes
and his face. ‘I guess
killing a man does something bad to you, even if it’s an accident’ thought Jimmy. He felt sorry for the principal.
Continuing on his summer’s day
adventure, Jimmy walked deeper into the woods. Rising up on his right was the
mountain, and to his left was the Petite Jean River, which ran around the base
of the mountain on its’ eastern side, then continued on, splitting into smaller
and smaller creeks until it no longer had a name.
Jimmy had seen a 90 pound catfish
pulled from this part of the river.
He and his friend Johnny spent all
night fishing there one time without getting a single bite, unless you count
bug bites, and that was a very good thing, because Jimmy had fallen asleep with
his fishing line tied to his toe.
Walking further down the river bank, he
finally saw the pile of odd-looking, blue rocks. No one knew what kind of
stones they were, or how long they’d been there, but it was the landmark that
Jimmy looked for, so he turned there and headed straight up the steep, rocky
side of the mountain. About half-way up, he came to a large, dead tree and gave
it a hard push with his shoulder to see if it would move, and it did. He gave
it several more hard pushes, and it finally yielded, making a loud cracking
sound and crashing down the hillside.
'That was fun,' he thought, as he looked admiringly at his
right bicep.
Testing his formidable strength
further, Jimmy rolled several fairly large rocks down the hillside.
Having worked up a sweat, he took off
his once-beautiful Hawaiian shirt that had gotten him so many compliments when
it was new. He’d picked it out himself and wore it to school one late spring
day when the weather was quite summer-like.
All day long, students and teachers
remarked “That’s a nice shirt Jimmy!” He’d never had anyone compliment him on
his clothes before and it felt pretty good. He wore the rather loud and
brightly-colored shirt again the next day, and very few people said anything
about it. On the third day, only Orville Nelson said it looked nice. (Little
Orville was sick a lot, and had missed school on Monday and Tuesday) When Jimmy
wore the shirt again on Thursday, nobody said a word, and he couldn’t figure
out why folks didn’t seem to like his beautiful shirt anymore.
Climbing higher up the mountain, Jimmy
came to a kind of “pathway” that ran around the mountain top. Following it, he
passed by several large, hollowed-out pockets in the cliff face that somewhat
resembled caves.
Entering the deepest one, he chose a
nice spot and sat down on the dirt floor. It was about noon, the sun was
directly overhead, and from his cool, shady spot, Jimmy peered out at the world
before him.
In the green valley below, he saw
cattle grazing. Further off, a car traveled down a dirt road, large dust clouds
rising in the air behind it. Birds sailed high on the wind and puffy-white
clouds floated by on a sea of light blue.
His mind drifted and mingled with the
clouds and the sky, and soon Jimmy was weightless, feeling nothing but the
sensation of the moment. Here was his utopia, and in that quiet, serene place,
he escaped the harsh realities of life down below. Here, he was no longer a
burden to anyone. No one would recoil at his bothersome, ragged presence, or
look down upon him. Here, he was a cloud, a rock, a tree, a boy--a perfect
example of creation. No difference was there between life or death, the future
or the past. All the doors swung open wide, receiving freely his vapid essence.
Living, dying and being reborn again,
Jimmy sat where the Indians and Cliff-dwellers had sat thousands of years
before, saw the great design with perfect clarity, and knew he was a part of
it. In this euphoric state, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
****
A sudden blast of cold air caused Jimmy to awaken, and he sat up shivering.
Through his bleary, just-opened eyes, he could see that the day had turned cold
and grey.
‘What the heck? It’s freezing! I was
sweating a few minutes ago, and now I’ve got to put my shirt back on.’ Stepping out of the cave, Jimmy creased his eyes to
see better and looked all around.
‘I swear it feels like January.
And--and, everything looks different! The pathway has a railing now and looks
well-used. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m freezing and I’ve got to
get back home.’
After starting to go down the same
place where he’d come up, Jimmy realized that it was much steeper than it had
been before.
‘Dang, I’d have to have rope to go back
down that way, and I don’t have a rope! I’ll see where this path leads…’
Running down the dirt pathway, Jimmy
searched for some way down.
He had gone a good distance when he
finally came to some stone steps that appeared to lead off the mountain.
Pausing, he studied them, wondering why he hadn’t seen them before. Cautiously,
he proceeded downward, winding back and forth until the steps, as he had hoped,
came to an end at the bottom of the mountain.
From there, he headed on through the
woods and towards the field where the Indian village used to be. He noticed
that the path through the wooded area even looked well-used, and some of the
trees had strange decorations hanging from them. Not like Christmas
decorations, but wicker birds, butterflies, bees and flowers that were ornate
and beautifully painted. Additionally, there were many feathers and wooden,
saucer-shaped discs hanging from poles in the ground.
Lost in wonderment and confusion, Jimmy
was startled when a young girl dressed in elaborately decorated buckskins
suddenly appeared.
She was about his age, with short, dark
hair, she ran up to him as if they were old friends.
“Jah-meh! Oh Jah-meh, you’ve returned!”
squealed the girl, bouncing like a ball and hugging him really hard. “Come with
me to the village! Everyone is going to be so happy. I knew you’d come back!”
“W-what’s going on, and who are you,
and where d-did the summer go?” stuttered Jimmy.
"Oh silly, have you
forgotten everything? I’m your best friend, Mar-leh, and I’m taking you back
where you belong!”
Nearly dragging him behind her,
the extremely excited girl led Jimmy through the woods until they entered a
clearing, and there it was! The Indian village that “used to be there” was
there again!
Jimmy was stupefied at the site
of a hundred small, dome-shaped, wooden huts. Each one had a little chimney
with smoke coming out of it, and the air smelled of cured ham and freshly-baked
bread.
Towed along behind Mar-leh like some
stubborn mule, Jimmy looked about and said to himself, ‘I’m not sure this is an Indian village!’
He saw the same wicker butterflies, feathers and wooden
discs flying from poles around the village that he had seen back in the woods.
People in buckskins with brightly-colored buttons and dangly feathers started
noticing the strangely-dressed boy in Mar-leh’s custody, and began following
them. Friendly-faced, dark-skinned and handsome, Jimmy noticed that they seemed
to favor him a bit. One hut in the center of the village looked larger than the
rest, and Jimmy soon found himself inside of that one, sitting on a soft fur
rug next to a stone fireplace.
Mar-leh sat close at his side, hanging
onto his arm and looking around with the world’s biggest and prettiest grin on
her face. From her apparent glee, Jimmy thought she was probably going to get
some kind of reward for catching him.
“What are you all going to do with me?”
asked Jimmy, nervously.
Mar-leh playfully punched him on the
arm and said “Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Jah-meh--you’re our hero!”
“Hero? I’m not a hero--I’m just a kid,
and why do you keep calling me Jah-meh?”
“Because you’re the bravest boy in the
village—the one who went after the three stones and your name is Jah-meh, you
silly!”
A man and a woman entered the hut, came
immediately to Jimmy, and started hugging and kissing him.
“We’re so glad to see you, Jah-meh! I
was worried that you weren’t ever coming back,” cried the woman. Then the man
spoke,
“I didn’t want to send you into the
waning years, but I thought you were the only one whose spirit was strong
enough to bring back the stones”.
Jimmy was very confused and becoming
more so by the minute. ‘Maybe
this is a dream, or, or, maybe I’m stuck in the ‘Twilight Zone” or something…’ Trying to make sense of it, he asked
“Who are you people? And what’s going
on?”
The important-looking man answered “We
are your parents, Jah-meh, and you are our son. Here, this will help you to
remember,” and he lightly pressed what looked like a silver and blue coin to
Jimmy’s forehead.
Something happened deep within Jimmy’s
mind. A door that had been closed for a very long time suddenly cracked open,
just a little bit, and memories of another life and another time began to seep
out.
He remembered the silver and blue ships
that brought his father’s people to this place, and the friendly Indians who
welcomed them and showed them how to live in their new world. He remembered
that their two races had combined into one.
Jimmy remembered that his name was, in
fact, Jah-meh, and that his father, Cladens, was the keeper of time, and that
his mother, Cor-leh, was the daughter of an Indian chief. More memories came
back to him, and he remembered how the Indian god, Haldeth, became jealous of
the newcomer’s knowledge of science and their ability to manipulate time.
“I’m very sorry you had to be gone so
long, son. Your grandfather, Hol-leh, and I pleaded with Haldeth for many years
before he agreed to tell us what he’d done with the other seasons,” said
Cor-leh, apologetically.
“It seems that Haldeth loved to look
down from the mountain and watch the children chasing butterflies in the
springtime, and he loved to smell the spring flowers and watch the birds
building their nests, too. He loved warm summer showers and the sounds of the
frogs and the crickets, and watching the fish flop in the river below. In the autumn,
he loved to see the bright golden colors of the corn and the pumpkins, and
enjoyed watching the children playing in the piles of leaves. He forgot how
much he loved those things when he had a selfish fit and decided to punish the
people with never-ending winter."
"Sealing spring inside of a green
stone, summer in a yellow one and autumn inside of a golden stone, Haldeth
flung them far into the future. Where they landed, even he didn’t know."
"Eventually growing weary of the
colorless, cold world he’d created, he finally admitted that he’d made a
terrible mistake. So, with Claden’s help, we sent you into the future to look
the world over for the three stones. Your encounter with the lonely lady was a
miracle of good luck, and goes to show that there are other, unseen hands
affecting the world of mankind. We are indebted to her for her invaluable
help.”
Jah-meh remembered everything now, and
he reached into his pocket and handed his father the three stones.
Mar-leh, smiling bigger than ever,
looked on proudly. “See, Jah-meh, I told you that you were a hero!”
Answering, Jah-meh replied, “I’m sorry,
Mar-leh, but I was just gone so long and lived so many lives that I forgot
everything. Now I know why I was always attracted to this field and to
“Well, Jah-meh, shall we make supper,
or let summer chase this winter away?” asked his mother, Cor-leh.
“I’m pretty hungry, but I think we
should make the weather warmer first. This place is too cold!” said the boy who
loved summer.
Together, Jah-meh, Mar-leh, (still
hanging onto his arm) and his mother, father, grandfather and all the village
elders, walked through the woods to the winding steps and climbed them to the
top of
From there, they followed the path to
the seat of Hildeth, which was the same small cave where Jah-meh had earlier
sat. Then Jah-meh’s grandfather, Chief Hol-leh, took the green stone of spring,
the yellow stone of summer and the golden stone of fall, said some secret words
and breathed on them.
The stones, surrounded by a golden
light, levitated into the air and went swirling out of sight. The mountain
began to shake. A gush of warm air and butterflies came pouring out of the
cave. Bullfrogs croaked and fish flopped in the yet-to-be-named
Then, so he’d never have to endure another
winter, Haldeth turned himself into a great bear. At the first hint of winter
each year, he would crawl into a deep hole in the mountain and not come out
till springtime. One day some settlers would see him roaming around the
mountain top and give “
A celebration of unprecedented
magnificence took place in the village that evening, and the son of the
time-keeper was the center of it all.
There was music, dance and food.
Plentiful and glorious fine food! Jah-meh stuffed himself while everyone came
by and gave him big, long bear-hugs that made him feel like he would explode.
He had never been as happy as he was that night, sitting there beneath the
stars, bathing in the ocean of warm love that surrounded him. The flickering
light of the campfires sparkled and danced in Mar-leh’s big eyes, and she
stayed close to her prize at all times. The rich food and sweet drinks made
Jimmy thirsty for some good cold water, so he said to Mar-leh “I need a cold
drink of water; do you know where I can get one?”
She smiled and said “Sure, come with
me!” and she led him down a path through the woods that came near to the base
of the mountain. Shortly, they came to a natural spring that was bordered with
blue rocks. A pool of cold, clear water bubbled up from the ground, and Mar-leh
pointed to it, saying “Here it is Jah-meh, the coldest water in the whole
world!”
Jah-meh bent down and began to fill
himself with the incredibly cold, satisfying water. As he drank from the pool,
he saw the reflection of Mar-leh’s pretty face above him, framed by a heaven of
twinkling stars.
‘She’s so beautiful! I want to stay here
forever!’
Bending down for a final drink,
Jah-meh’s hand slipped, causing him to fall headfirst through the mirror of
stars. Passing directly into eternity, he floated across the heavens, past the
Milky Way and beyond.
*****
A loud growling sound startled the napping boy and made him jump up
quickly. Wobbling about with bleary eyes, it took his fuzzy head a few moments
to stabilize and access the situation.
‘Oh my. Was I dreaming, or is this the
dream? Please, please, let this be the dream!’
Almost in a panic, Jimmy ran out of the
cave and looked around.
‘Oh, no. The railing—it’s gone! There’s that
tree down there that I pushed over…’
His heart aching, Jimmy plopped down in
the dirt and put his head between his knees. He’d known nothing but pain and
disappointment his whole life, but now he’d seen the other side. The lingering
effects of happiness, acceptance, and most of all—love, still held him in its
gentle embrace. Like the hot breakfasts and clean clothes that he once had but
lost; now he’d lost something even more important.
‘Ok, it was a dream. It wasn’t real.’
Survivor that Jimmy was, he accepted
reality, picked himself up from the dirt and wiped the tears away.
‘I’m thirsty. I’d better find some
water…’
Returning to the “here and now,” and
the arduous task of living, Jimmy walked along the trail beneath the cliff face
until he finally found what he was looking for--- an area where water seeped
out of the cracks in the rocks. Uncapping his canteen, he placed the mouth
under the drip and waited. Five minutes later, he’d collected enough for one
good gulp, which he hastily threw down his parched throat.
‘It’s a little funny-tasting, but at
least it didn’t have a bumble bee in it. Since I nearly choked on one at
that construction site, I’ll never stick a water hose all the way into my mouth
again.’
Another fifteen minutes of dripping
provided him with a nearly full canteen, so he took that and set out for home.
Following the path around to where there had been steps in the dream, he saw
only a few scattered stones that sort of looked like they might have been part
of something once.
‘I guess old man time has destroyed the
steps. Pity—they looked so nice.’
Smiling, he envisioned himself holding
hands with Mar-leh and walking down them. Step after precise step, he descended
down the mountain, making sure to touch his foot to each stone.
Through the woods and across the field
– where there had once been an Indian village – down the steep bank to the
creek, along the seldom-used road with grass growing in the middle of it, to
the railroad tracks, and all the way back home, Jimmy kept thinking about the
fantastic dream he’d had back there in the cave.
‘That Mar-leh looked a lot like Marilyn
Larson. I wonder if she really does like me. If I see her in the woods again,
I’m not going to run away and hide. No, I’ll ask her to go arrowhead hunting
with me—that’s what I’ll do!’
The sun hovered low above the western
horizon when Jimmy finally arrived at the tiny trailer house beside a catalpa
tree that was his home. Seeing that his father’s car was gone, he knew the
house was empty.
'I hope dad bought some food—I’m
starving. There’s a loaf of bread on the table—that’s good. Let me look in the
refrigerator—yay!--baloney! And milk!’
Two baloney sandwiches and a huge glass
of milk later, Jimmy sat outside on an overturned bucket and watched the summer
sky grow dark.
One by one, the stars came out, small
and barely visible at first, but then becoming large an bright. Before long
countless stars twinkled overhead. Wide-eyed, Jimmy Prewitt gazed up at the
wondrous sight and no longer searched for UFOs, but for something else.
Copyright © 2011 Samuel Dickens.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Samuel Dickens is a
retired
_______________________________________________________________________________
Oh Whoa Is Me
By Sandra L. Hoynacki
Author of “Purple Latches”, “Whispers From The Ledge”
and “On Call”
Thru hoops I jump both day and night
You say how high, I say alright
On and on I'm in a spin
All this work must be a sin
What's this thing you've hung me in?
~~~~
I dig for worms, plant fields of corn
My hair is squiggled, you blow the horn
Go fetch my Pepsi and buy me cheese
Bathe the dog, poor thing has fleas
Oh let me rest, I beg you please
~~~~~
Repair the roof, get up there now
It's almost time to fix my chow
I've things to do, like watch football
Go get my paper it's in the hall
I must rest, you patch the wall
~~~~~
For heavens sake, what's wrong with
you?
You ain't got that much to do
Now hurry up and shift your gears
If I'm to keep you a few more years
And wipe those useless, silly tears.
Oh Ho comme moi
Copyright © June 10, 2011 Sandra
L. Hoynacki.
* * * * *
Has Time Slipped
Away
By Sandra L. Hoynacki
Author of “Purple Latches”, “Whispers From The Ledge” and
“On Call”
Chameleonic getaways; an old wishing
well
An imaginary audience awaiting her tale
A master performer in her own seasons
Dressing well, under a canopy of
reasons
~~~~
Cinnamon surroundings amid tender
shades
Of Mardi Gras mornings and Easter parades
A deep South rendition of southern
charm
White lace parasols, her gentleman's
arm
~~~~
Plantations and rose gardens, weeping
willow trees
White-fenced honeysuckles, tea, if you please
The knelling of bells, an old church
steeple
Cupped in the shadows an angelic people
~~~~
The wind turns the pages; she holds the
book
Who's picking jasmine, alone, by the brook
She steps from the script into the next
day
But has it vanished; has time --
slipped away.
Le temps s'est-il esquivé ?
Copyright © May 19, 2011 Sandra L. Hoynacki.
~~~~
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
A resident of Florida, the
"hurricane" state, Sandra Hoynacki says her husband is her very life,
along with her four grown children and two grandchildren. She retired from the
Nursing profession to take care of her elderly mother who was diagnosed with
Alzheimer's disease, but still finds the time to write because, as she has
said, "I love writing and hope to write for many years to come!" This
very busy published author is a graduate of "The Institute of children's
Literature" and has been writing short stories and poems for the last
eight years. Sandra is a member of Gulf Coast Authors' Group, and is currently
in the process of working on book four. Her previous three books are: “Purple
Latches”, “Whispers From The Ledge” and “On Call”, which can be purchased at
her author website: www.SandraHoynacki.com
_____________________________________________________________________________
Legend
By Deborah Anne Shepherd
Author of “The Pages of Time”
Michael Jackson music streamed to
the top,
all his went platinum making him
the King of Pop
Michael showed no holes barred, no sadness;
each individual his gift didn't stop
He went to all ages: his famous
moonwalk, his legendary socks
his music abilities, and relating as he
talked
Because of the beautiful musical
tribute he painted forever true,
many children's dreams came
vibrantly through
Loving yesterdays to all the children
of the worlds
Gazing in paths to show they were not
alone;
they could dance, sing, and be someone great
For his footsteps showed many didn't
have to wait
His magical appearance came alive for the world to see;
each loving fan was important to his
heart angels seen
Lasting tributes on his journey many didn't get to see,
Keys for success, he would smile the
crowd did the rest.
~~Tribute to Michael Jackson.
Copyright © July 2009 Deborah Anne Shepherd.
* * * * *
Just Believe in Love
By Deborah Anne Shepherd
Author of “The Pages of Time”
Fairy's cello musical lights
Mother Earth's softest twilight
Mystical journeys of each creature
Aspiring butterfly painted wings,
gentle beings
Just believe in love
Of all azure looms, lights caressed in
blooms
Eyes share in each softest lilac's gaze
Laughter in rose's Celeste vows
Each one lifted in cherry rows
Just believe in love
Violin's choir silhouetted with
heaven's joys
Rose seeds in mankind's balance of time
Lights woven in threads all day
Shared to each soul mate soft he stays.
Copyright © 2009 Deborah Anne Shepherd.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Deborah Anne Shepherd is a
published author, poet and writer who lives in Carmel, California in the USA,
with a delightful family; a husband that was in the military for 25 years and
their son. Deborah says: “I am a teacher and a writer, my background is French,
English and Native American Cherokee.” She attended high school in
Deborah's book is currently located on Amazon.com and Barnes&Noble.com, under author:
Deborah Shepherd. "My poems tell the story of dreams. We have the beauty
of traveling into them to give us belief, hope and life…With our dreams we can
soar to our goals in life…awakening our heart to feel with each stance a
glimmer of beauty of the heart…" ~~Deborah Shepherd.
________________________________________________________________
Downpour
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Author of “Oblivious to the Obvious:
Wishfully Mindful Parenting”
Heavy clouds burst open!
Motorcades of happiness
Fall earthward; good crops.
Copyright © 2011 KJ Hannah Greenberg.
------------------------------------
Poplar
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Author of “Oblivious to the Obvious:
Wishfully Mindful Parenting”
Alluvial squatter
River brat, barren emperor,
Teach me sanguinity.
Copyright © 2011 KJ Hannah Greenberg.
------------------------------------
My
Daughter Bangs Pot Lids
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Author of “Oblivious to the Obvious:
Wishfully Mindful Parenting”
My daughter bangs pot lids together--
Cymbals
(Of) her growing independence
She stalks our cats’ here--
There
(Like) Sunny spots or dispositions
Reaching Mommy-ward, she praises
Life
(Is) good to me.
Copyright © 2011 KJ Hannah Greenberg.
------------------------------------
Friendship
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Author of “Oblivious to the Obvious:
Wishfully Mindful Parenting”
Golden rays of hope
Gleaming brightly, touching hearts
Singing a loud "love!"
Copyright © 2011 KJ Hannah Greenberg.
------------------------------------
Mirage:
Silent Flowers
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Author of “Oblivious to the Obvious:
Wishfully Mindful Parenting”
Butterflies, en masse,
Are talking on the tree branches,
Creating a deceitful illusion.
Copyright © 2011 KJ Hannah
Greenberg.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
KJ Hannah Greenberg is a
published author, poet and writer who was a rhetoric professor and National
Endowment for the Humanities Awardee. She has edited and contributed to
"Conversations on Communication Ethics", wrote for "The American
Journal of Semiotics" and "The Massachusetts Journal of
Communication", and also contributed papers to the annual meetings
of: The Eastern Sociology Society, The National Communication Association, and
The American Branch of the International Society for the History of Rhetoric.
KJ Hannah also served as a guest editor for "Communication Quarterly"
and as a founding member of "The Speech Communication Association's
Commission on Communication Ethics". These days, KJ Hannah also blogs for
_______________________________________________________________
This World Can be
a Better Place
By Conrad S. Cardinal
It seems to me that since the beginning
we have tried to complicate life and make it as difficult as possible. I
believe that God is the provider of the knowledge that comes to us in this
life. All of it designed to make life better and more livable.
Inventions, scientific achievements,
electronic technology, and so on are given to mankind to better our
existence. Unfortunately we have found a way to use much of it for
harmful and greedy purposes. A good example is the gun, which was given to
us to hunt food when instead we hunt each other.
My assumption is that God wants us to
have a good, joyful life while we are on this earth, no matter what our
circumstances are. We on the other hand have chosen to ignore His
principals and be as miserable and hurtful to each other as we
can. Assuming that I’m correct what we must do to set things right is to
follow the commands that we have been given. Although I’m aware that by
nature we tend to move in other directions, this would be our answer for
success.
I have run into a strange thing in many
of the churches I’ve attended, this being a need some have to find out the
mysteries of God. I was listening to a television preacher this evening
and he wanted to send everyone a pamphlet he has written revealing some of the
answers to these mysteries. There is a lot of speculation concerning what
is termed the Bible codes. The idea of secret codes in the scripture may
or may not be true; my question is what good are they to us in our search for
God? How will they help us to reverse the horror in the world? Some
folks spend so much time looking for secrets that they miss the simplicity of
it. Each group has instituted all kinds of rules and regulations to insure
that they are doing things right.
When Jesus was asked what the most
important commands were he said love God, love your neighbor as you love
yourself and love each other as I have loved you. I realize that I have
repeated these commands over and over again in other articles but it seems
necessary. In my mind this is the answer to the problems in our
world. Perhaps this is the secret.
What does love God mean to
you? When you love some one you honor them and do as much as you can to
please them. You appreciate what they do for you and let them know how you
feel. They have a special place in your heart that only they can fill and
you do all you can to please them. I could go on but I think you get the
idea.
What does it mean to love your neighbor as you love
yourself? We want all good things to come to us and the ones we
love. We all want to be healthy, wealthy and wise don’t we? This one
should be easy for us to comply with because we know what we want and we need
to want the same things for our neighbor.
What about loving each other as Jesus has loved
us? This one is the most difficult because it would take a selfless nature
and a love so strong that no sacrifice would be too great. He took our
burden of sin and then gave His life so that we might live. Most of us will
never be asked to give our lives for someone else. Of course we’ve heard
of those brave and selfless souls who have made this sacrifice. What we
can do is to follow the list in 1 Corinthians chapter 13 and apply them to
everyone we meet. A partial list includes charity, patience, kindness,
forgiveness and rejoices in the truth. We need to see the value of each
of Gods creatures, be they man or beast. Of course you’re saying to
yourself this guy must be crazy.
Please remember I’m trying to show what
I think would change things. I admit that I’m being a little optimistic,
but I also think that I’m hitting the nail on the head. Perhaps not
everyone will comply with this idea but each of us can do all within our power
to make it happen. Then perhaps your part of the world will be a better
place.
Copyright © 2010 Conrad S. Cardinal.
* * * * *
This World Can be
a Better Place
By Conrad S. Cardinal
It would be wonderful if spreading love
was our goal
Life would be fulfilling, love is food
for the soul
We're missing out on Gods' most precious blessing
It flows through the windows of heaven,
there for the taking
Love comes in many forms, all of them
special
A type to fit each need; none of it
superficial
Of all we deem valuable, only it
retains its worth
Its the only thing we can take with us
when we leave the earth
No matter the amount one gives away, the supply never
ends
It may be shared by all, both family
and friends
We may even share it with folks we
don't know
So easy to carry wherever you go
We each have a choice of what we may do
This world can be changed, it's up to
you.
Copyright © 2010 Conrad S. Cardinal.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Conrad S. Cardinal is a
published writer and poet who was born in
___________________________________________________________________
HELPFUL ARTICLES CORNER
(Bringing You Helpful Information and Tips of All Kinds)!
Narcolepsy: Part I
By Carol Roach
Author of “Picking Up the Pieces: One
Woman’s Journey”
and “Angels Watching Over Me”;
Publisher of “Storytime Tapestry”
Most Montrealers complain they do not
get enough sleep. Yet sleep affects are physical and mental health; not having
enough sleep affects our mood, our stamina, our home-life and career, and our
social relationships.
Sleep is an important human function
which is essential for good physical health and good mental health. Even though
sleep is so important, many Montrealers take sleeping for granted. They either
sleep too much or more often than not, sleep less than is recommended for good
health. Montrealers will catnap rather than sleep, burn the midnight oil
studying, play on the computer, or just insist that they are too busy too
sleep.
When You Just Can't Stop Falling
Asleep: Narcolepsy Symptoms and Diagnosis
Narcolepsy is a neurological sleep
disorder caused by the brain’s inability to properly coordinate the body’s
sleep (circadian) rhythms. Narcoleptics fall asleep at peculiar times, or they
crave sleep more than what is considered normal. Narcolepsy is one of the
rarest sleep disorders.
The sleep patterns of narcoleptics are
off base and they can crave or fall asleep at odd hours. Imagine how dangerous
that would be for people operating heavy machinery, driving cars, or even for
mothers with young children.
Less than one percent of people suffer
from narcolepsy. Which is a good thing; given how dangerous narcolepsy could
be.
Prevalence
Though narcolepsy can surface at any
time it usually does not surface until at less the ages of 15 – 25. There are
different triggers that will bring on narcolepsy and this determines at what
age the sleep disorder will manifest itself.
Causes
The cause and effects of narcolepsy are
complex and even scientists are not altogether sure of why it happens. There is
a theory that narcolepsy is the result of a neurotransmitter malfunction in the
brain. They believe that low levels of hypocretin is the cause.
Other causes for the condition is said
to be due to:
- Hormone imbalances
in the brain
- Brain injury or
disease
- Infection
- Genetics – up to 12
percent of narcoleptics have family members who are also narcoleptic.
Help for sleep apnea in Montreal click
here:
Mount
Sinai Hospital Sleep Center
Montreal
Sleep Clinic
Sources:
http://www.better-sleep-better-life.com/what-is-narcolepsy.html
Copyright © 2011 Carol Roach, M.Ed., B.A.
* * * * *
Narcolepsy:
Part 2
By Carol Roach
Author of “Picking Up the Pieces: One
Woman’s Journey” and “Angels Watching Over Me”; Publisher of “Storytime
Tapestry”
Most Montrealers
complain they do not get enough sleep. Yet, sleep affects are physical and
mental health; not having enough sleep affects our mood, our stamina, our
home-life and career, and our social relationships.
Sleep is an important human function
which is essential for good physical health and good mental health. Even though
sleep is so important, many Montrealers take sleeping for granted. They either
sleep too much or more often than not, sleep less than is recommended for good
health. Montrealers will catnap rather than sleep, burn the midnight oil
studying, play on the computer, or just insist that they are too busy too
sleep.
When You Just Can't Stop Falling
Asleep: Narcolepsy Symptoms and Diagnosis
Symptoms of narcolepsy
The obvious one is the compelling
desire to sleep. However, this need to sleep can go hand in hand with muscle
weakness. Worst still, narcoleptics can exhibit hallucinations, delusions,
and/or sleep paralysis.
What to do if you think you have
narcolepsy
The obvious answer is to see your
physician for a diagnosis.
Diagnostic tools used for determining
narcolepsy
The doctor will give you an exam, and
take your medical history. The tests used are a polysomnogram which is a
machine (electroencephalogram (EEG) that records the brain wave patterns during
REM sleep. This machine will also record eye movement (when you are in REM sleep).
The next test to be done is a multiple
sleep latency test. This test measures the time the patients lays down and
closes their eyes to the time (sleep latency) the patients actually falls
asleep. Both these tests are painless and are done overnight in a clinical
sleep lab. The tests also monitor heart rate and muscle tone while patients are
awake and when they have fallen asleep.
What often happens is that narcolepsy
can go undiagnosed for many years; especially if the symptoms are vague, such
as the desire to sleep.
There is no cure for narcolepsy at
present. Your doctor will discuss different treatment options available to you
at this time.
Help for sleep apnea in Montreal click
here:
Mount
Sinai Hospital Sleep Center
For other sleep centers in Canada click here:
Sources:
http://www.better-sleep-better-life.com/what-is-narcolepsy.html
Copyright © 2011 Carol Roach, M.Ed., B.A.
* * * * *
Narcolepsy:
Part 3
By Carol Roach
Author of “Picking Up the Pieces: One
Woman’s Journey” and “Angels Watching Over Me”; Publisher of “Storytime
Tapestry”
Most Montrealers complain they do not
get enough sleep. Yet, sleep affects are physical and mental health. Not having
enough sleep affects our mood, our stamina, our home-life and career, and our
social relationships.
Sleep is an important human function
which is essential for good physical health and good mental health. Even though
sleep is so important, many Montrealers take sleeping for granted. They either
sleep too much or more often than not, sleep less than is recommended for good
health. Montrealers will catnap rather than sleep, burn the midnight oil
studying, play on the computer, or just insist that they are too busy too
sleep.
The Symptoms, Causes, Diagnosis, and
Treatment for Narcolepsy Revealed
Narcolepsy is a sleep disorder which
causes the sufferer to become very sleepy and fall asleep at any time during
the day or night. Researchers are still somewhat battled by the causes for
narcolepsy; but there are a few favored theories to date:
Known causes for narcolepsy
Hyporcretin
Low levels of a brain protein called
hypocretin which is present in the hypothalamus is the most preferred theory to
date. This research was conducted by Emmanuel Mignot, of
Brain infections
Brain infections, brain injury and an
autoimmune system disorder could trigger narcolepsy.
Genetics
There also seems to be a significant
hereditary link. Ten percent of narcoleptics have a parent or sibling which has
contracted the condition as well.
Hormones
Hormonal fluctuations may induce
narcolepsy as well as elevated stress levels. It is believed that certain
factors such as diabetes or thyroid issues can trigger narcolepsy. Also certain
stages of maturity where hormones are fluctuating such as puberty and menopause
put a woman at a higher risk for contracting narcolepsy.
Sources:
http://www.emedicinehealth.com/narcolepsy/article_em.htm
http://www.better-sleep-better-life.com/narcolepsy-symptoms.html
Copyright © 2011 Carol Roach, M.Ed., B.A.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Carol Roach, M.Ed., B.A., a native
of Montreal, Quebec in Canada, holds a Bachelor of Arts in psychology and a
Master in Education in counseling psychology from McGill University in Canada.
She is the author of two books, titled “Picking Up the Pieces: A Woman’s
Journey” and "Angels Watching Over Me". Carol is also the moderator
for the Psychology Channel at www.factoidz.com, she
publishes “Storytime Tapestry”, an Internet ezine that is devoted to spreading
love and cultural awareness throughout the world, and is also a freelance
writer published in both print and electronic magazines. She is also a
freelance / ghostwriter for hire. Check out Carol’s new blog at: http://carolsstories.blogspot.com and her
three (3) new columns – Women’s Issues, Health, and Mental Health, at examiner.com.
_______________________________________________________________________________
The Second Middle-Ages
By Sam Vaknin
Author of “Malignant Self-love: Narcissism
Revisited” and
“After the Rain: How the West lost the
East”
The fourth quarter of the twentieth
century and the first decade of the twenty-first herald a period akin, in some
respects, to certain stretches of the Middle-Ages. The High Middle-Ages –
especially after the conquest of Spain by the Arabs (Moors) - was characterized
by rapid technological and scientific progress.
The very organizing principles, the
foundations of society were revolutionized by advances in commerce, travel, and
scholarship. It was a post-ideological, pragmatic, and materialistic age
concerned with money, power, and, yes, sex. Yet, these superficial similarities
rested on shift at the state and individual levels:
I.
The Monopoly on Violence
The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries
witnessed the rise of strong centralized polities replete with a monopoly on
(legitimate) violence (Gewaltmonopol
des Staates). Private armies, militias, idiosyncratic law, vigilantism, blood
feuds, duels, organized crime, and vendettas – staples of the Middle Ages -
were all frowned upon and harshly punished. A judicial system of lawyers and
courts – coupled with elaborate bureaucracies - provided the exclusive
royal-sanctioned means for settling disputes and allocating wealth.
The presumption was that – since the
realm (as reified by the monarch) belonged to no-one and to everyone – justice
was guaranteed in the shape of an objective, equitable, universal, and
neutrally-applied Law. This, of course, was never the case, but it still
remained the ideal to be asymptotically attained.
The disillusionment with the
aristocracies and monarchies in the late eighteenth century was followed by an
all-pervasive disenchantment with ideologies and politics in general. By the
late 1960s, the state’s erstwhile hold on power was being fast eroded through
technological progress which empowered individuals and via the emergence of
non-state actors on a national and global scale (such as crime conglomerates, multinationals, non-governmental
organizations, private military
companies, security firms, banks and
credit card companies, and the likes of Wikileaks on the
Internet). The state reacted to this worrisome and anarchic regression by
annexing more powers and becoming more intrusive (the “nanny-state”).
II.
Demise of the Renaissance Man
The explosion of knowledge and the
enhanced role of the state led to the demise of the ideal of the “Renaissance
man”: a courtier knowledgeable in all sciences, skilled in all arts and crafts,
capable in all sports and combat techniques. Instead, we now worship the
“expert”: the one-dimensional brainiac, athlete, or artist whose obsession with
his field leads to its ultimate mastery. We treat polymaths with suspicion and
derision. In an age of materialism we reward our heroes with women, wine, and
wealth. Our lionized Wall-Street mavericks, technology entrepreneurs, and
football and rock stars hail back to the much-idolized knights of the Middle
Ages: boorish, ignorant, one-track minded, exclusively concerned with sex,
power, and money and adept only at fighting.
III.
The Role of Art
The art of the Middle Ages was
concerned with religious messages. It subjected and sacrificed form, proportion,
perspective, and colour to this over-riding constraint. It paid no heed to
nature. This castigation of naturalism also characterizes modern art (starting
with the Post-Impressionists). Modern artists are as preoccupied with messages,
abstract and cerebral, as much as their medieval predecessors were besotted
with epiphanic revelations.
IV.
Transition from Communism to Capitalism
It is often said that there is no
precedent to the extant fortean transition from totalitarian communism to
liberal capitalism. This might well be true. Yet, nascent capitalism is not
without historical example. The study of the birth of capitalism in feudal
Europe may yet lead to some surprising and potentially useful insights.
The Barbarian conquest of the teetering
Roman Empire (410-476 AD) heralded five centuries of existential insecurity and
mayhem. Feudalism was the countryside's reaction to this damnation. It was a
Hobson's choice and an explicit trade-off. Local lords defended their vassals
against nomad intrusions in return for perpetual service bordering on slavery.
A small percentage of the population lived on trade behind the massive walls of
Medieval cities.
In most parts of central, eastern and
southeastern Europe, feudalism endured well into the twentieth century. It was
entrenched in the legal systems of the Ottoman Empire and of Czarist Russia.
Elements of feudalism survived in the mellifluous and prolix prose of the
Habsburg codices and patents. Most of the denizens of these moribund swathes of
Europe were farmers - only the profligate and parasitic members of a distinct
minority inhabited the cities. The present brobdignagian agricultural sectors
in countries as diverse as Poland and Macedonia attest to this continuity of
feudal practices.
Both manual labour and trade were
derided in the Ancient World. This derision was partially eroded during the
Dark Ages. It survived only in relation to trade and other
"non-productive" financial activities and even that not past the
thirteenth century. Max Weber, in his opus, "The City" (New York,
MacMillan, 1958) described this mental shift of paradigm thus: "The
medieval citizen was on the way towards becoming an economic man ... the
ancient citizen was a political man."
What communism did to the lands it
permeated was to freeze this early feudal frame of mind of disdain towards
"non-productive", "city-based" vocations. Agricultural and
industrial occupations were romantically extolled. The cities were berated as
hubs of moral turpitude, decadence and greed. Political awareness was made a
precondition for personal survival and advancement. The clock was turned back.
Weber's "Homo Economicus" yielded to communism's supercilious version
of the ancient Greeks' "Zoon Politikon". John of Salisbury might as
well have been writing for a communist agitprop department when he penned this
in "Policraticus" (1159 AD): "...if (rich people, people with
private property) have been stuffed through excessive greed and if they hold in
their contents too obstinately, (they) give rise to countless and incurable
illnesses and, through their vices, can bring about the ruin of the body as a
whole". The body in the text being the body politic.
This inimical attitude should have come
as no surprise to students of either urban realities or of communism, their
parricidal off-spring. The city liberated its citizens from the bondage of the
feudal labour contract. And it acted as the supreme guarantor of the rights of
private property. It relied on its trading and economic prowess to obtain and
secure political autonomy. John of Paris, arguably one of the first capitalist
cities (at least according to Braudel), wrote: "(The individual) had a
right to property which was not with impunity to be interfered with by superior
authority - because it was acquired by (his) own efforts" (in Georges
Duby, "The age of the Cathedrals: Art and Society, 980-1420, Chicago,
Chicago University Press, 1981).
Despite the fact that communism was an
urban phenomenon (albeit with rustic roots) - it abnegated these
"bourgeoisie" values. Communal ownership replaced individual property
and servitude to the state replaced individualism. In communism, feudalism was
restored. Even geographical mobility was severely curtailed, as was the case in
feudalism. The doctrine of the Communist party monopolized all modes of thought
and perception - very much as the church-condoned religious strain did 700
years before. Communism was characterized by tensions between party, state and
the economy - exactly as the medieval polity was plagued by conflicts between
church, king and merchants-bankers. Paradoxically, communism was a faithful
re-enactment of pre-capitalist history.
Communism should be well distinguished
from Marxism. Still, it is ironic that even Marx's "scientific
materialism" has an equivalent in the twilight times of feudalism. The
eleventh and twelfth centuries witnessed a concerted effort by medieval
scholars to apply "scientific" principles and human knowledge to the
solution of social problems. The historian R. W. Southern called this period
"scientific humanism" (in "Flesh and Stone" by Richard
Sennett, London, Faber and Faber, 1994). We mentioned John of Salisbury's
"Policraticus".
It was an effort to map political
functions and interactions into their human physiological equivalents. The
king, for instance, was the brain of the body politic. Merchants and bankers
were the insatiable stomach. But this apparently simplistic analogy masked a
schismatic debate. Should a person's position in life be determined by his
political affiliation and "natural" place in the order of things - or
should it be the result of his capacities and their exercise (merit)? Do the
ever changing contents of the economic "stomach", its kaleidoscopic
innovativeness, its "permanent revolution" and its propensity to
assume "irrational" risks - adversely affect this natural order
which, after all, is based on tradition and routine? In short: is there an
inherent incompatibility between the order of the world (read: the church
doctrine) and meritocratic (democratic) capitalism? Could Thomas Aquinas'
"Summa Theologica" (the world as the body of Christ) be reconciled
with "Stadt Luft Macht Frei" ("city air liberates" - the
sign above the gates of the cities of the Hanseatic League)?
This is the eternal tension between the
individual and the group. Individualism and communism are not new to history
and they have always been in conflict. To compare the communist party to the
church is a well-worn cliché. Both religions - the secular and the divine -
were threatened by the spirit of freedom and initiative embodied in urban
culture, commerce and finance. The order they sought to establish, propagate
and perpetuate conflicted with basic human drives and desires. Communism was a
throwback to the days before the ascent of the urbane, capitalistic,
sophisticated, incredulous, individualistic and risqué West. it sought to
substitute one kind of "scientific" determinism (the body politic of
Christ) by another (the body politic of "the Proletariat"). It failed
and when it unraveled, it revealed a landscape of toxic devastation, frozen in
time, an ossified natural order bereft of content and adherents. The
post-communist countries have to pick up where it left them, centuries ago. It
is not so much a problem of lacking infrastructure as it is an issue of
pathologized minds, not so much a matter of the body as a dysfunction of the
psyche.
The historian Walter Ullman says that
John of Salisbury thought (850 years ago) that "the individual's standing
within society... (should be) based upon his office or his official function
... (the greater this function was) the more scope it had, the weightier it
was, the more rights the individual had." (Walter Ullman, "The
Individual and Society in the Middle Ages", Baltimore, Johns Hopkins
University Press, 1966). I cannot conceive of a member of the communist
nomenklatura who would not have adopted this formula wholeheartedly. If modern
capitalism can be described as "back to the future", communism was
surely "forward to the past".
(To be continued…)
Copyright © 2011 Sam Vaknin.
* * * * *
The European Union
as a Fear-driven, Defensive, and Phobic Project
By Sam Vaknin
Author of “Malignant Self-love: Narcissism
Revisted” and
“After the Rain: How the West lost the
East”
The European project variably known as the European Community and the
European Union is driven by fear, not by promise. It is and has always been a
phobic, defensive enterprise rather than a hope-filled polity.
Its founders, in the mid-fifties,
sought to prevent future waves of virulent and aggressive nationalisms. Later,
in successive rounds, the framework was reluctantly and grudgingly enlarged to
encompass the poorer countries of south Europe and Greece in an attempt to forestall
uncontrollable tides of destitute economic immigrants.
When communism crumbled, the resulting
new and liberated states feared the clutches of a resurgent Russia. The
European Union offered “enlargement” (and NATO membership) as a solution. Again,
it was the dread of an external threat that shaped the bloc, not any overriding
vision.
More recently, the constituents of the
former Yugoslavia and Albania, having endured slaughters and internecine
warfare and poised as they are on the doorstep of a tranquil and prosperous
continent are blackmailing the European Union into accession: “If you do not
allow us to accede” – these kleptocratic poor imitations of nation-states
openly threaten – “we will erupt on your threshold and swamp you with blood, refugees,
immigrants, and crime”. Who can resist such an offer? Not the European Union.
Pomp and circumstance often disguise a
sore lack of substance. The summits of the Central European Initiative are no
exception. In November 2002, one such conclave was held in Macedonia's drab
capital, Skopje, the delegates including the odd chief of state. The
congregants discussed their economies in what was presumptuously dubbed by them
the "small Davos", after the larger and far more important annual get
together in Switzerland.
Yet the whole exercise rests on a
series of politically correct confabulations. To start with, Macedonia, the
host, as well as Albania, Bulgaria, Romania, Ukraine and other east European
backwaters hardly qualify for the title "central European".
Mitteleuropa is not merely a geographical designation which excludes all but
two or three of the participants. It is also a historical, cultural, and social
entity which comprises the territories of the erstwhile German and, especially,
Austro-Hungarian (Habsburg) empires.
Moreover, the disparity between the
countries assembled in the august conference precludes a common label.
Slovenia's GDP per capita is 7 times Macedonia's. The economies of the Czech
Republic, Poland, and Hungary are light years removed from those of Yugoslavia
or even Bulgaria.
Nor do these countries attempt real
integration. While regional talk shops, such as ASEAN and the African Union,
embarked on serious efforts to establish customs and currency zones, the
countries of central and eastern Europe have drifted apart and intentionally
so. Intra-regional trade has declined every single year since 1989.
Intra-regional foreign direct investment is almost non-existent.
Macedonia's exports to Yugoslavia, its
next door neighbor, amount to merely half its exports to the unwelcoming
European Union - and are declining. Countries from Bulgaria to Russia have
shifted 50-75 percent of their trade from their traditional COMECON partners to
the European Union and, to a lesser degree, the Middle East, the Far East and
the United States.
Nor do the advanced members of the club
fancy a common label. Slovenia abhors its Balkan pedigree. Croatia
megalomaniacally considers itself German. The Czechs and the Slovaks regard
their communist elopement a sad aberration as do the Hungarians. The
Macedonians are not sure whether they are Serbs, Bulgarians, or Macedonians.
The Moldovans wish they were Romanians. The Romanians secretly wish they were
Hungarians. The Austrians are sometimes Germans and sometimes Balkanian. Many
Ukrainians and all Belarusians would like to resurrect the evil empire, the
USSR.
This identity crisis affects the
European Union. Never has Europe been more fractured. It is now a continent of
four speeds. The rich core of the European Union, notably Germany and France,
constitutes its engine. The mendicant members - from Greece to Portugal - enjoy
inane dollops of cash from Brussels but have next to no say in Union matters.
The once shoo-in candidates and members
since 2004 - Poland, Hungary, the Czech Republic and, maybe, Slovakia, if it
keeps ignoring the outcomes of its elections - are frantically distancing
themselves from the queue of beggars, migrants and criminals that awaits at the
pearly gates of Brussels. The Belgian Curtain -between central European
candidates and east European aspirants - is falling fast and may prove to be
far more divisive and effective than anything dreamt up by Stalin.
The fourth group comprises even newer
members - such as Bulgaria and Romania – and countries such as Macedonia,
Albania, Yugoslavia, Bosnia-Herzegovina and even Croatia. Some of the latter
are tainted by war crimes. Others are addicted to donor conferences. Yet others
are travesties of the modern nation state having been hijacked and subverted by
tribal crime gangs. Most of them combine all these unpalatable features.
Many of these countries possess the
dubious distinction of having once been misruled by the sick man of Europe, the
Ottoman Empire. In a moment of faux-pas honesty, Valerie Giscard D'Estaing, the
chairman of the European Union's much-touted constitutional convention,
admitted in November 2002 that a European Union with Turkey will no longer be either
European or United. Imagine how they perceive the likes of Macedonia, or
Albania (to which they apply the epiteth “The Ottoman Bloc”).
As the Union enlarges to the east and
south, its character has been and is being transformed. It has become poorer
and darker, more prone to crime and corruption, to sudden or seasonal surges of
immigration, to fractiousness and conflict. It is a process of conversion to a
truly multi-ethnic and multi-cultural grouping with a weighty Slav and
Christian Orthodox presence. Not necessarily an appetizing prospect, say many.
The former communist countries in
transition are supposed to be miraculously transformed by the accession
process. Alas, the indelible pathologies of communism mesh well with Brussels’
unmanageable, self-perpetuating and opaque bureaucracy. These
mutually-enhancing propensities are likely to yield a giant and venal welfare
state with a class of aged citizens in the core countries of the European Union
living off the toil of young, mostly Slav, laborers in its eastern territories.
This is the irony: the European Union is doomed without enlargement. It needs
these countries far more than they need it.
The strategic importance of western
Europe has waned together with the threat posed by a dilapidated Russia. Both
south Europe and its northern regions are emerging as pivotal. Enlargement
would serve to enhance the dwindling geopolitical relevance of the EU and heal
some of the multiple rifts with the USA.
But the main benefits are economic.
Faced with an inexorably ageing
populace and an unsustainable system of social welfare and retirement benefits,
the EU is in dire need of young immigrants. According to the United Nations
Population Division, the EU would need to import 1.6 million migrant workers
annually to maintain its current level of working age population. But it would
need to absorb almost 14 million new, working-age, immigrants per year just to
preserve a stable ratio of workers to pensioners.
Eastern Europe - and especially central
Europe - is the EU's natural reservoir of migrant labor. It is ironic that
xenophobic and anti-immigration parties hold the balance of power in a
continent so dependent on immigration for the survival of its way of life and
institutions.
The internal, common, market of the EU
has matured. Its growth rate has levelled off and it has developed a mild case
of deflation. In previous centuries, Europe exported its excess labor and
surplus capacity to its colonies: an economic system known as
"mercantilism".
The markets of central, southern, and
eastern Europe - West Europe's hinterland - are replete with abundant raw
materials and dirt-cheap, though well-educated (though indolent and not
well-trained), labor. As indigenous purchasing power increases, the demand for
consumer goods and services will expand. Thus, the enlargement candidates can
act both as a sink for Europe's production and the root of its competitive
advantage.
Moreover, the sheer weight of their
agricultural sectors and the backwardness of their infrastructure can force a
reluctant EU to reform its inanely bloated farm and regional aid subsidies,
notably the Common Agricultural Policy (CAP). That the EU cannot afford to
treat the candidates to dollops of subventioary largesse as it does the likes
of France, Spain, Portugal, and Greece is indisputable. But even a much-debated
phase-in period of 10 years would burden the EU's budget - and the patience of
its member states and denizens - to an acrimonious breaking point.
The countries of central and eastern
Europe are new consumption and investment markets. With a total of 300 million
people (Russia counted), they equal the EU's population - though not it’s much
larger purchasing clout. They are likely to while the next few decades on a
steep growth curve, catching up with the West. Their proximity to the EU makes
them ideal customers for its goods and services. They could provide the impetus
for a renewed golden age of European economic expansion.
Central and eastern Europe also
provides a natural land nexus between west Europe and Asia and the Middle East.
As China and India grow in economic and geopolitical importance, an enlarged
Europe will find itself in the profitable role of an intermediary between east
and west.
The wide-ranging benefits to the EU of
enlargement are clear, therefore. What do the candidate states stand to gain
from their accession? The answer is: surprisingly little. All of them already
enjoy, to varying degrees, unfettered, largely duty-free, access to the EU. To
belong, a few - like Estonia - would have to dismantle a much admired edifice
of economic liberalism.
Most of them would have to erect
barriers to trade and the free movement of labor and capital where none
existed. All of them would be forced to encumber their fragile economies with
tens of thousands of pages of prohibitively costly labor, intellectual property
rights, financial, and environmental regulation. None stands to enjoy the same
benefits as do the more veteran members - notably in agricultural and regional
development funds.
Joining the EU would deliver rude
economic and political shocks to the candidate countries. A brutal, and rather
sudden, introduction of competition in hitherto much sheltered sectors of the
economy, giving up recently hard won sovereignty, shouldering the debilitating
cost of the implementation of reams, of guidelines, statutes, laws,
decrees, and directives, and being largely powerless to influence policy
outcomes. Faced with such a predicament, some countries may even reconsider.
Copyright © 2011 Sam Vaknin.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Sam Vaknin is
the author of “Malignant Self Love - Narcissism Revisited” and "After the
Rain - How the West Lost the East”. He has also served as a columnist for
"Global Politician", "Central Europe Review",
"PopMatters", "BellaOnline" and "eBookWeb"; a
United Press International (UPI) Senior Business Correspondent and the editor
of mental health and Central East Europe categories in "The Open
Directory" and "Suite101.com". Visit Sam's Website at http://samvak.tripod.com
_______________________________________________________________________________
When Was
the Last Time You Read the US Constitution?
Take the July 4th Quick Quiz
By Alan Blume
When is the last time you (or your children) read the US Constitution, or
for that matter, the Declaration of Independence? With our national birthday
just around the corner, thinking about the Constitution seems particularly
relevant. It's great to go watch a parade, but it is certainly worthwhile to
take a little time and read our Constitution.
If memory serves me correctly, I read
it back in my college days for a class I took on constitutional law. Recently,
however, I read a great book on my Kindle, called “The Nine: Inside the Secret
World of the Supreme Court by Jeffrey Toobin”. The Nine frequently referenced
the articles and amendments of the US Constitution.
So, after finishing The Nine, I decided
to reread the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution. I came away
with two surprises:
1. The Constitution is a surprisingly
short document considering all that it represents - those framers were clearly
a brilliant group.
2. Even with the formality of the
language of the times, you can really sense the pent up anger in the
Declaration of Independence.
The real question is, how much do you
know about the Constitution? If you're curious, take this quick quiz (answers
are below):
- How
many Articles are there?
- How many Amendments
are there (last one was in 1992)?
- What is Article 1
about?
- What is Article 2
about?
- What is Article 3
about?
- How many Amendments
are there in the Bill of Rights?
- When was the Bill
of Rights ratified?
- Which Amendment
abolished slavery?
- Where would you
find the famous quote, "WE hold these Truths to be self evident?
- How many states
were required to ratify the Constitution?
- Bonus question:
What is the Fifth Amendment about?
Some of the language in the
Constitution seems crystal clear to me, other language seems cryptic. After
reading through it (twice), it seems abundantly clear why the judiciary has so
many perspectives of Constitutional right and wrong and the myriad of
interpretational perspectives on the document.
This document represents one of the
most important, guiding principles of our everyday lives. When is the last time
you or your children read the Declaration of Independence and the US
Constitution?
Answers to the quiz are below, if I
made a layman's error on these, I guess I'll have to "plead the
Fifth". Feel free to send me comments, clarifications or corrections.
Answers:
1. (7)
2. (27)
3. (Legislative Branch)
4. (Executive Branch)
5. (Judicial Branch)
6. (10)
7. (1791)
8. (13th)
9. (Declaration of Independence)
10. (9)
11. (Shall not be compelled to be a
witness against himself)
Copyright © 2011 Alan Blume.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Alan Blume is a
platinum published Author on EzineArticles.com and he says: “If you're
interested in reading something on a leading edge business topic, try
"Your Virtual Success" (Career Press), my new book on web centric
sales, marketing and business management. Available at all bookstores, Amazon and on the Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Your-Virtual-Success-Finding-Profitability/dp/1601631014”
______________________________________________________________________________
OFF THE PRESS! CORNER
Take a Look at the BEST
In Contemporary Literature
then Order Your Copy Today
through the Amazon link below and at the end of this section!
A Mushy Mouse Tale
(Children’s Book)
By ROSALEE WILSON
This is your chance to meet Mushy, the most lovable mouse
you will ever meet!
Mushy Mouse is a mouse looking for love
and a family to call his own. He struggles with self confidence and the idea of
someone loving a fat mouse like him. But Mushy and an Indian mouse named
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“A Mushy Mouse Tale” by Rosalee Wilson will touch your heart forever. A must
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Mrs. Wilson is an avid writer with an
imagination that ignites a spark in children everywhere. She is available for
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Hurry! Go to www.lulu.com
and order your copy of “A Mushy Mouse
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OTHER BOOKS BY ROSALEE WILSON!
Elijah The Penguin
(CHILDRENS INSPIRATIONAL BOOK)
By ROSALEE WILSON
Ordering Info for Rosalee Wilson’s book
“Elijah The Penguin”:
Contact: Lacresha Hayes
Living Waters Publishing Company
Phone: (870) 739-4100
Fax: (870) 739-4108
lacresha.hayes@livingwaterspc.com
17 Gannt Street
Marion, AR 72364
www.livingwaterspc.com
_______________________________________________________________________
Seaburn
Media Group
Is Proud to Present:
Absolutely the Last Resort
Where Are You?
and
NEW! But! I’ve Always Loved You
(Fiction Novels)
By ROSE ANNA SCHOENE
Seaburn
Press Publishing Company, now known as “Seaburn Media Group”, is pleased to
introduce Absolutely the
Last Resort, the debut
novel of author Rose Anna Schoene.
ROSE ANNA SCHOENE is a native New
Yorker who made her writing debut with Absolutely the Last Resort, a charming and nostalgic family-oriented book which
fictionalizes many of the author’s personal experiences owning a resort in the
Catskill Mountains of New York for over 30 years. This book reflects just one
aspect of the author’s life and creative talents, and introduces us to her
artistic and comedic nature.
Rose Anna has a writing style that
is both entertaining and uplifting which reflects her true writing persona; yet
she proves the versatility of her literary scope with her second novel, Where Are You?, which offers a serious, dramatic and
paranormal-love storyline and is now available on Amazon.com, Barnes &
Noble.com and Seaburn.com…
Where Are You?, Rose Anna’s second book, is about Dr. Joy Evans and
Dr. Dean Judson, who collide in the corridors of St. John’s Hospital—their
introduction is the beginning of a torrid and tender love. Two weeks later,
they are married and in six months they relocate to the state of Pennsylvania,
where Dean takes over the practice of a retiring Doctor and feels that his
ambitions have been fulfilled. But when Joy does not return from a quick errand
to the store and her car is later found, Dr. Dean Judson’s entire life takes a
plunge into despair. Then strangely, Dean begins seeing Joy, or what he
perceives to be Joy. In the early hours of the morning, he is awakened from his
sleep and sees Joy at the foot of his bed. She seems to glide around and then
vanishes. Is he dreaming? Is he hallucinating? Is she a spirit or is he going
mad…?
NEW! But! I’ve
Always Loved You, Rose Anna’s latest book (and her third novel),
is about stunning Jessie, who is raped at twelve and bears a son who is taken
from her. Repulsed by men since her rape, she meets devastatingly handsome
Andre, who offers her a forbidden love amidst the magical, romantic Rome.
Will she succumb to his charm? Will she ever find her son? Her loyal friend
Debbie is always there, steadfastly aiding Jessie in her lifelong quest.
Seaburn Media Group says copies of
“Absolutely the Last Resort”can be ordered as can copies of Rose Anna’s second
and third books “Where Are You?” and “But! I’ve Always Loved You” by going to:
http://www.amazon.com, http://www.bn.com, or http://www.seaburn.com
Ordering Info for Rose Anna Schoene’s three books:
Absolutely the Last Resort By Rose Anna
Schoene
Publisher: Seaburn Press
Publication Date: 2003
ISBN #: 159232-060-0; 144 pages
Price: $14.95
Where Are You? By Rose Anna Schoene
Publisher: Seaburn Press
Publication Date: 2006
ISBN #: 159232-009-0; 124 pages
Price: $14.95
But! I’ve Always Loved You By Rose Anna
Schoene
Publisher: Seaburn Media Group
Publication Date: 2011
ISBN #: 159232-253-0; 169 pages
Price: $14.95
COMING SOON!
A new author website for Rose Anna Schoene. Stay
tuned....
_____________________________________________________
A Different Kind
of Love
Family Secrets Lies and Alibis
Bruised Love
and
Skeletons Beyond the Closed Door
(Fiction Novels)
By NANETTE M. BUCHANAN
NANETTE M. BUCHANAN'S new novel,
Skeletons Beyond the Closed Door, is now available - - Get Your Copy Today!
Also let us know about your readings of
the other novels by author Nanette M. Buchanan (below):
"Family Secrets Lies &
Alibis"
The Sequel... "A Different Kind of Love"
"Bruised Love"
And NEW! ... "Skeletons
Beyond the Closed Door"
All Are Available To Order on “I Pen Designs.net”…
Also send in your thoughts and comments
on what you’ve read and get the new novel by Nanette M. Buchanan, ‘Skeletons
Beyond The Closed Door’, at a Discount Price of $12.00!
Send your comments to: ipendesigns@gmail.com
----
Visit Nanette on:
www.ipendesigns.net
www.myspace.com/ipendesigns
Stay in contact with the author by
checking out her “WHAT'S HAPPENING” page at http://www.ipendesigns.net/
____________________________________________________________________________
On Call
(Fiction Medical Thriller)
By SANDRA L. HOYNACKI
SANDRA
L. HOYNACKI is a poet, a novelist, and an author but if you ask her what
title she prefers Sandra herself will say: “Writer”. That sums it up
perfectly, and what a writer she is!
Although Sandra has only been writing
for the last several years, she has already won several contests for her poems,
has had one of her short stories chosen to be performed at "The Pensacola
Little Theater" after Hurricane Ivan, was once invited to read at a Poet’s
Convention in Washington, D.C., and is a graduate of The Institute of
Children’s Literature.
Ordering Info for Sandra Hoynacki’s
novel:
On Call by Sandra Hoynacki
Publication Date: September 2009
Can be purchased through Sandra’s
author website: www.SandraHoynacki.com
* * * * * *
OTHER BOOKS BY SANDRA HOYNACKI!
PURPLE LATCHES
(A Book of Poetry)
and
WHISPERS FROM THE LEDGE
(A Book of Poetry & Short Stories)
Reader Review of “Purple Latches”:
****** “I'm
familiar with the exemplary life author Sandra Hoynacki leads; her book Purple
Latches includes some of the most beautiful poetry
your eyes shall ever read and witness. The words of imagery and artwork shall
instill within you an uplifted spirit like none I've ever read in my
fifty-eight years on earth. Each poem opens ones physical senses and starts a
movie in the minds eyes where you can leave at the end with the most dynamic
thoughts ever perceived in ones written words of truth and mystery. I strongly
recommend this book to anyone in need of a life changing experience or for the
benefit of a walk down memory lane. It is an honor and privilege to know the
Author Sandra Hoynacki, and the sacrifices she makes toward humanity on a daily
basis. Thanks for this opportunity to review her book.” ~~Michael Powell.
Drawn from real-life experiences and
creative visions, these collections of poems and short stories by Sandra
Hoynacki will inspire, surprise and entertain the most discerning reader.
Ordering Info for Sandra Hoynacki’s
other books:
Purple Latches by Sandra Hoynacki
Publisher: Lulu Press
Publication Date: June 2007
ISBN #: 978-1-4303-2293-1
Price: [Paperback print-book] $19.50;
[Downloadable ebook] $12.00
158 pages, and can be purchased at: Sandra Hoynacki.com, Lulu Press, Amazon.com,Barnes&Noble.com, or
wherever books are sold.
Whispers From The Ledge by Sandra
Hoynacki
Publisher: Lulu Press
Publication Date: December 2008
ISBN #: 978-0-557-02904-4
Price: Paperback print-book: $15.17;Not
Available in Downloadable Ebook.
148 pages, and can be purchased at: Sandra Hoynacki.com, Lulu Press, Amazon.com,Barnes&Noble.com, or
wherever books are sold.
_____________________________________________________
Angels Watching
Over Me
and
Picking Up the Pieces: One Woman’s Journey
By CAROL ROACH
Storytime Tapestry’s Founder & Publisher
(Storytime_Tapestry-owner@yahoogroups.com)
An Amazon.com Review, written by Shirley Johnson
-- a Senior Reviewer at MidWest Book Review -- about Carol
Roach’s book, ‘Angels Watching Over Me’:
Angels Watching Over Me
By Carol Roach
****** "In this
wonderful work by gifted author and publisher Carol Roach we meet a very
special girl named Carissa. Carissa’s life has been anything but easy. She had
known the scorn of poverty; the battle of rejection, the sorrow of death.
However, Carissa has a quality that hinges almost on the supernatural; her
faith and assurance in a God who is more than enough. We are taken through the
life of Carissa from her youth in a small rural community and her family to her
final victory as a woman who never comprised despite the hardships such
decisions would bring. Her life stood as a testimony.
This is a deep heartfelt read; one that
shows the strength and courage of the human spirit despite at times cruel
circumstances and unfair situations. The author definitely draws you into the
very heart of Carissa merging you with the fight and strength that she
possesses during her entire life. Her unselfish love is the main attribute that
shone out to me and one that I think author Carol Roach did an exceptional job
at portraying.
If you want to read a story of the
heart, this one is for you. A compelling story of a woman, a time and a future
where one can actually say, ‘everything turned out all right.’ It might have
happened much later than we as the reader may have wanted, but perhaps that is
exactly how life for most of us plays out. Well done Ms. Roach!"
--Shirley Johnson, Senior Reviewer for
MidWest Book Review.
* * * * * *
Ordering Info to purchase Carol Roach’s
book:
Angels Watching Over Me by Carol Roach
Publisher: Janelle McCarthy (Lulu Press)
Publication Date: March 2007
ISBN #: 978-1-4303-2003-6
244 pages, and can be purchased at Lulu Press, Amazon.com and / or Barnes&Noble.com. Or you
can order it at your local bookstore.
Price: [Paperback-print] $16.10;
[Download] $5.00
_______________________________________________________________________________
My Naked Mind: An Intimate Collection of Poetry
and
Fed Up Woman
(due to be published in 2011)
By TRISHA MARTIN
TRISHA MARTIN is a published author, poet, entrepreneur and
blogger. Her book publications include “My Naked Mind: An Intimate
Collection of Poetry” [April, 2005] and “Fed Up Woman”, due out in 2011.
You can visit Trisha over at: Trisha's World to purchase copies.
Readers Reviews:
***** “The words
contained within the pages of author, poet and entrepreneur Trisha Martin’s
book are filled with compelling, deep, emotional and inspirational poems that
readers should be able to identify with. Each poem is written with clarity as
the author pours her heart and soul into her writing. If you're a poetry lover
who likes reading personal works of others, this book of poetry is a
must-read!”
**** “I have never
read poetry so vividly written, taking me on a continuous journey from emotion
to emotion!”
Ordering Info for Trisha Martin’s book
"My Naked Mind":
My Naked Mind: An Intimate Collection
of Poetry by Trisha Martin
Publisher: Publish America
Publication date: April 2005
ISBN #: 1413744540
84 pages; Price: $14.95
COMING SOON!
Stay tuned for details about Trisha Martin's new
book "Fed Up Woman", and how you can purchase a copy for yourself....
______________________________________________________________________________
Pink
Poodle Pie
(Other Tales of How Women Get Even)
A Book of Short Stories
By BARBARA DEMING
THE
PUPPIES HAVE BEEN BORN!
"Pink Poodle Pie (Other Tales of How Women Get Even)” by Barbara
Deming has been released. All those stories are just "yapping" to be
read by all of you. This is what my editor calls "mid-life
chick-lit." I say it is a blueprint of how we gals can get even with
those cheatin' males in our lives, or dream of what we wished had happened to
such guys in our past."
"If you've ever been cheated
on, dumped, or mentally/physically violated by a yahoo in any way, this is a
must read for you. You will grin, gasp--maybe even give an "atta
girl!" yell at the antics of these strong women."
"Yours Truly, Barbara Deming,
offers nineteen women, many like us, who write their own ending to the stories
of an important time in their lives."
"You can find "Pink Poodle Pie (Other Tales of How Women Get
Even)" at iUniverse.com, Amazon.com, B&N.com, Books-in-a-Million.com, or
receive an autographed copy of the soft-cover edition by sending your check for
$16 (includes media postage-mailing) to: Barbara Deming, 1175 La Moree Rd. #68,
San Marcos, CA 92078."
"I welcome questions, discussion,
comments at mailto:demingwrites@att.net
"Happy Reading! ~~ Barb."
*****
Barbara (Barb) Deming is an Author, Instructor, Speaker, and owner of the
workshop: "I Can Write. Can You?" which promotes writing for fun,
mental health, and publication for both children and adults.
--"Pink Poodle Pie (Other Tales of
How Women Get Even)" has been released! Buy it at Amazon.com, iUniverse.com,
autographed copy from the author
--"The Quilt Maker" and
"Growing up Barefoot in the South" can be purchased at Amazon.com.
Autographed copy from author.
--Check out: http://barbswritetree.blogspot.com
_____________________________________________________
Introducing
A FREE Daily Newsletter
For You! ….
“Splash of Inspiration”
Published By JANET PEREZ ECKLES,
Author & Motivational Speaker
JANET’S DAILY NEWSLETTER
BRINGS YOU FAITH & LOVE
WITH A LATIN FLAIR!
To subscribe to Janet Perez Eckles' newsletter, just
send a blank email to: jeckles@cfl.rr.com
Write “Subscribe” in your subject line and mention to Janet that
"Rosanne Catalano, publisher of The Cat’s Meow for
Writers & Readers Magazine has
referred you". She will send you the latest issue of her newsletter
via email!
_____________________________________________________________________________
Spiritual, Inspirational and
Children’s Books
By CHRIS HANSEN
Imagine reaching others for Jesus and having your local
government pay for it?! Is that possible? It sure is! Just go to your local
Library and ask to check out the books by author Chris Hansen…
If your
library doesn’t carry these books, your library will be encouraged to buy them
if they see that there is an interest. And funds are already set aside for
buying new books. Libraries decide what to buy based on demand. Then once your
library carries these books, tell your friends how they can check them out and
read them for free at their library.
Some folks will read a book about Jesus
more willingly if it’s free! Some folks who really need these resources just
don’t have a lot of money. So, how about it? Help is available. Books by Chris
Hansen…
Do you have a child who is afraid of
death? More children are, or will be. You may even have a child who is facing a
terminal illness. “Grandfather’s Journal by Chris Hansen” may be just what you
need! The book is 96 pages, with 28 beautiful illustrations, and tells the
humorous and touching story of a boy who overcomes his fear of death. At long
last he understands that because Jesus conquered death, everything will be
alright again. The price is $32.99, a bit higher than many books simply because
the technology needed to reproduce the color illustrations costs more, and
because this book was self-published. However, giving a child peace of mind is
worth it!
“Grandfather’s Journal by Chris Hansen”
Ordering Information: ISBN#
1-4257-0258-9
$32.99; 96 pages
Available at local bookstores, or
available now through the self-publisher Xlibris Publishing or you
can call Xlibris day or night: 1-888-795-4274.
Do you have a skeptic in your
life who constantly questions the Christian faith you hold dear? “Secret of the
Psalms by Chris Hansen” may be just what you need! This book shows that the
entire life of Jesus was predicted in astounding detail hundreds of years in
advance, in the Psalms of Israel. “Secrets of the Psalms by Chris Hansen” can
be found at all bookstores or from the comfort of your own home by going to: Xlibris Publishing or
calling 1-888-795-4274; book orders accepted day or night.
“Secrets of the Psalms by Chris
Hansen”
Ordering Information: ISBN#
1-4134-4205-6
$21.99; 211 pages
Do you know someone who is curious
about the future of our world? What does the Bible predict? Can anyone make
sense of the book of Revelation? Some may even have a “Who knows?” or a “Who
cares?” attitude. “Revelation Revisited by Chris Hansen” may be just what you
need! $20.99, 149 pages (also self-published by Xlibris Publishing) This book
by Chris Hansen retells John’s amazing story while he was under arrest by the
Roman Empire. The book contains vivid and beautiful descriptions of heaven!
There are also terrifying visions of hell. This book also explains the symbols
in the book of Revelation from a historical point of view, making them very
easy to interpret.
“Revelation Revisited: A
Retelling of the Revelation Story by Chris Hansen”
Ordering Information: ISBN#
1-4134-4205-6
$20.99; 149 pages
Also available at all bookstores or
from the comfort of your own living room at Xlibris Publishing or by
calling: 1-888-795-4274, day or night.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
“Spring Arbor Publishing (1-800-395-4340) has also been
contacted and may carry Grandfather’s Journal soon… They already carry Secret
of the Psalms and Revelation Revisited. For those who attend my local
church, First Baptist, Modesto (www.fbcmodesto.com) my books
are also available to purchase at Tapes and Publications on Sunday mornings.”
About the Author:
CHRIS HANSEN, a published author, poet, and writer, has written and
published three books so far: “Revelation Revisited: A Retelling of the
Revelation Story”, a moving account of the visions of Saint John as told
in the book of Revelation. His second book, “Secret of the Psalms”, describes
in amazing detail the numerous prophecies which Jesus fulfilled. And his third
book, “Grandfather’s Journal” tells the story of a little boy who is afraid of
death after his grandfather dies, but after reading his grandfather’s spiritual
journals, in which he realizes Jesus conquered death, he no longer is afraid of
dying. The author holds a B.A. from Fresno Pacific Bible College. Chris
and his wife are happily married, have two adult daughters, and have both lived
in Modesto, California, for many years. He teaches Sunday school, leads worship
at the local Rescue Mission once or twice a month, and he and his wife minister
to inmates at a correctional facility on alternating Sundays. It is the
author’s intention to touch the world, one person at a time, one book at a
time. Other books by Chris Hansen are planned for the future.
For more information about Chris
Hansen’s three books and to purchase copies, contact Xlibris, day or night, at:
1-888-795-4274, or on the web at: www.Xlibris.com
_____________________________________________________________________________
Mirrored
Images
(A Book of Short Stories & Poems)
By ROSANNE CATALANO
The Cat’s Meow for Writers & Readers’ Founder & Publisher
(www.thecatsmeowforwritersreaders.com)
Founder, Publisher and Author ROSANNE
CATALANO is pleased to introduce her second book, Mirrored Images, which is a quick read at only 71 pages!
It is a book containing Rosanne’s
collection of short stories, story articles and two poems (some fiction, some
fact!) written by her for your reading enjoyment and for those who love
guessing games.
“Mirrored Images”by
Rosanne Catalano begins with a poem
about, and dedication to, her late father and still-living-mother and goes into
a short story about an experience with bullying in the eighth grade of school
to being saved by a guardian angel when the story character was in her
mid-30’s. An interesting read in which you, the reader, may want to guess which
of her stories are fact or fiction…
Readers' Reviews of “Mirrored Images”:
****** "I
purchased a copy of Rosanne Catalano’s book, Mirrored
Images, and this short collection of short
stories (you will have to try real hard to decide which are fact or fiction!),
articles and poetry, both touched my heart and made me smile. Rosanne’s book
Mirrored Images is truly a great read! Her book touched me because of
the love shown for her parents, God, and her husband. It touched me because I
was the kid with glasses who was bullied and picked on and I could feel
Rosanne's pain when it happened to her. It touched me because I have lost my
parents and her tribute to her father, grandmother, and mother, brought back
all of the good times and love I had with/for my own parents and
grandparents. It touched me because Rosanne, as I feel so many of us are
but never put it into words so eloquently, is a survivor! I believe we all have
guardian angels and Mirrored Images proves it
to all who will listen. No one but angels could have saved Rosanne from
bullies in junior high school, have looked over her until she found the perfect
mate, and still guide her to this day in her writing craft. These are stories
we should not only want to read, enjoy reading, but they are stories we all
need to hear. I get a glimpse of the love and courage that Rosanne shows, and
shares, in her magazine--and our most welcome online correspondence. She is
writing a continuation of Mirrored Images titled From Bags
to Riches. I can't wait to read that! But first, my
readers, you must read Mirrored Images".
--Barbara Deming.
***** "I
read Rosanne Catalano's book Mirrored Images and I
love it!!! Rosanne had somewhat of a hard life in some areas and a good
one in others. She had a lot of heartache, with the loss of friends early
in her life, and the ridicule and horrendous behaviors of other kids
when she was in junior high school. Though it sounds like Rosanne had
a most wonderful Dad and Grandmother too; her grandmother reminded me so
much of my own Grandmother who passed away last year. I enjoyed very
much reading all of her different short stories and the poems she
included. I especially loved reading about Rosanne's little cheese
episode in ‘Christmas With Grandma,’
and her little sneaky trek to the store thinking she could hurriedly
fix what she had EATEN…LOL!!!! I LOVED IT--------- And I can still
see her so clearly eating all of the cheese!!!! CONGRATULATIONS all the
way around, Rosanne!! I will be purchasing her next book soon...I also
like her book’s title by the way, and Rosanne's picture on the back
cover; she looks sooo relaxed."
--Sandra Hoynacki.
****"Rosanne
Catalano's book, Mirrored Images, was a
delightful read! I LOVED IT!!!! IF the abuse at school and all was about
her, she has become a beautiful person and woman. I'm so
glad Rosanne now has a wonderful spouse and that her life is
filled with love".
--Carol Dee Meeks.
Rosanne Catalano’s next book, From Bags to Riches, will be a continuation of Mirrored Images but it will be her 1st fiction novel.
COMING SOON!
From Bags to Riches by Rosanne Catalano
Mirrored Imagesis available to purchase for only
$8.75 in a downloadable ebook, $17.51 for the print edition! Be sure to pick up
your copy of “Mirrored Images” today at
Lulu Press and / or at Rosanne’s website: www.thecatsmeowforwritersreaders.com
Ordering Info for Rosanne Catalano’s
book:
Mirrored Images by Rosanne Catalano
Publisher: Jane W. (Lulu Press)
Publication Date: January 2007
Price: [Paperback-print] $17.51;
[e-book] $8.75
71 pages, and can be purchased at: Lulu Press or at: www.thecatsmeowforwritersreaders.com
_______________________________________________________________________________
Don't Forget to
Order Your Copy of the Books
Listed Here in the Off The Press Corner!
For your convenience in ordering, click on the Amazon link below....
LETTERS TO THE PUBLISHER
If you have a question, would like to make a suggestion on something you
would like to see or read in this magazine, or just want to talk about an
article, poem or story you have read here, send an email to The
Publisher’s Box™ and let
Rosanne Catalano know your thoughts, questions, news or anything else you want
to talk about. Rosanne will respond in a timely manner to your letters.
______________________________________________________________________________
TO SUBMIT YOUR WRITING
Send your short stories, poetry, flash fiction, essays, haikus, story
articles (nonfiction stories) and / or helpful (nonfiction) articles but please
follow the Submission Guidelines.
The SUBMISSION GUIDELINES link is
on the Home page. Click
back here and send your submission(s) via e-mail to “Submissions”. Remember,
submissions must be sent in the body of an email! Do not send as an attachment.
And please do provide a resource box or author bio along
with your work. The publisher reads every single submission and will respond
within four (4) months. Thank you, and keep on writing!
______________________________________________________________________________
The
Cat’s Meow for Writers & Readers is dedicated to:
Rachel Renée
Carman P. Catalano
Anna Inzinna-Pollicino-Catalano
Harold C. Welch
Pauline Mullé-Infranco
Joseph Infranco
Blitz, Zie, Shep, Floppy, Charity, Katcha, Mistie, Whitey,
Rocky, Smokey, and Tiger.
___________________________________________
Founder / Owner,
Publisher and Author
of The Cat's Meow for Writers & Readers:
ROSANNE CATALANO, aka R.C.KAYLA
Email: editor@thecatsmeowforwritersreaders.com
Copyright © 2004-2011 Rosanne Catalano:
Owner / Founder, Publisher & Author
All rights reserved.