The Pig Was Cute, But He Tastes Better

If Ever

“Educating the mind without educating the heart, is no education at all.”
~Aristotle

Feed your dream. Gorge it on passion and strengthen it with courage. Empower it with action. Whether you whisper it to yourself, to the empty night, or to God, it does not matter. What does matter is your heart hears it, and fervently remembers it. Only then will it urge you forward, a catalyst for every possible exertion to reach out and touch the gossamer fabric of your dream.

You will be told that once you learn to fake it, the world is your oyster. But always beware the power of the Trojan Horse; there are matters in your life which you can’t plausibly fake. As sure as the gentle dawn, there will be twilights to blister your spirit. Guard well the heart. Know it well. Love it, for it is beholden to no other but yourself.

Your heart won’t always know the right, or best, answer; it must be taught. . .
It must truly listen to properly hear. . .
It must weep to appreciate a smile . . .
It must laugh to absorb unavoidable tears.

The color of your very self will depend greatly upon your appetite for compassion. Remain principled but ever mindful of all constructs about you, perceived or real. Gambits upon the logical self are every man’s human folly, but you should never wager your heart in the absence of your soul’s accord. Think and feel — then do it again.

Do what you love, regardless of who may or may not participate with you. Pursue your dream for it can only be yours to pursue. Share your joys and attainments along the way, but never let them become greater demons than your better angels can assuage.

Believe in yourself, even when no one else will. I believe in you, especially when you don’t hear me say it.

If ever you need me, I will always be there. Look no further than within you.

~For my son

An Interview with Fellow Ranter Jim Rising

Those everyday annoyances and head scratchers: bounced check fees, stupid drivers, escalating gas prices—or perhaps something not as common but equally as maddening, like mailing packages during the holidays.

Blogging offers us an outlet, a vehicle for getting those things off our chest which most likely afflict the rest of the blogging community. We comment on them, and in a sort of virtual ripple effect manage to impart at least the mere vestige of a catharsis upon lots of anonymous readers. However, some of us can’t help but let slip a written tirade once in a while—or most every day in Jim Rising’s case.

Mr. Rising has bundled his own take on the stalwart rant into a book entitled But Then Again I Could Be Wrong – The Book Of Rants. I saw “Rant” in the title and immediately knew I had to see what was up.

Rising’s rants aren’t nearly as acerbic or embittered as my blatherings. They approach the rant from a more entertaining perspective, sprinkled with humor and humanity. I was fortunate enough to have his publisher send me a copy of the book and to have Mr. Rising available for an interview as well.

I hope you’ll take a few moments to enjoy my interview with Jim Rising, and perhaps even leave a comment for him as well!

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JWN: I’d like you to go waaaaay back, and recall your first rant. What was it about?

JR: In my senior year in high school we moved from Burlington, VY, which was flowers and beads and hippies in the trees to Barre, VT, which was (to my mind) hard scrabble, carhart wearing, tobacco chewing nowheresville. The first day we had an anti-drug assembly and I wrote 1,000 words on it about how much I thought the Principal looked like an EVIL Telly Savalas. To my utter amazement they printed it in the school newspaper. Mostly because I think the editor had a crush on me.

JWN: Was this crush to be the now regionally famous “long suffering wife”?

JR: Nope. To be honest I’m not sure what her name was…LSW is my second wife. Met her after 11 years of marriage # 1 and have been with her now for 25 years!

JWN: WOW! That’s highly commendable, respectable, and a slew of other “ables” I’m sure. That is, as you are keenly aware, no small feat. My genuine congratulations to you and the LSW for your marital longevity!

JWN: Have you always had a hunch that you were the ’soapbox’ type? When did you first have an inkling you were prone to fits of written or verbal browbeating?

JR: I chose a career in radio where you could make fun of people with very little fear of reprisal. Being an avowed pacifist (read: Coward) this worked well for me.

JWN: I’m a big fan of the rant because I believe it showcases us wrapped in our passions about whatever the subject matter. Some don’t care for it, prefering the staid, logical approach to argument. While that may be the more academic and/or learned approach, I think it fails to completely bring across the raw power of a solid rant. Using empirical datum as a carrier to make your argument is respectable, yes, but let those same thoughts piggyback upon a wave of emotion and I think it more solidly connects with more people. You can always (and should always) question facts, but being passionate is something most folks can really dig their teeth into.
Having said all that, how deep and varied are the colors you use upon your rant canvas?

JR: I like to think that I use very dispersant styles according to subject material. It always goes back to my radio days—that is, when I write I have clearly in mind what the voice will sound like when it’s read out loud.

JWN: Do you write (or rant) every day, or just when Catharsis taps you upon the shoulder? Do you have a routine you stick to?

JR: When I did a daily radio show I wrote a rant a day for that and one extra for my newspaper deal. Now I only write weekly (Weakly?) for the newspaper. It doesn’t much matter where or when. I have written some pretty good ones IMHO with my thumbs, on my handheld, on a plane.

JWN: I suppose the larger question there is: Would you, could you, write it in a box? Would you, could you, with a fox?

JR: Yes.

JWN: Is this your first book? If so, have you any plans for future tomes?

JR: Yup-first and only one that will get published probably, although I am writing romance novels under a pen name. The problem is they all end Stephen King like with the hero and heroine being killed in a blood bath. Lots of rejection slips there. I wonder why?

JWN: I’ve heard it said that romance is overrated. You’re just putting a little more intrigue into it; I see nothing wrong with that!

JWN: Ever considered a full-length novel, perhaps ‘inspired’ by your fist-in-the-air ramblings?

JR: See above. There is a novel in everybody. Most people should keep it there.

JWN: Rough guess: How many times have you been wrong?

JR: I wrote once about the Silly String company not helping out the troops in Iraq. I got a note from the President of Silly String who told me how wrong I was. I wrote a retraction.

I also wrote about Budweiser taking over Rolling Rock and got an email from a local Bud rep telling me how I knew nothing about beer. I suggested a tour of the brewery so he could teach me (Free beer!) but he never responded. To my knowledge those are the only times I have been wrong…but then again I could be…well you know.

JWN: Out here, at our County and State Fairs, a huge must-have when you go is the Indian Fry Bread; awesome with honey on it! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen funnel cakes out here; are those high on your list when you are carb-loading?

JR: OMG—as the kids text—YES! At the Bloomsburg Fair here they fry anything that will stand still long enough to dip into the oil. You have not lived until you have had a deep fried Oreo. Each serving comes with a free Heart Attack.

JWN: My brother (who lives in Arlington, TX), wrote to inform me that the big culinary thing this year at the Texas state fair is—and I swear I’m not making this up—deep fried butter. Would you consider trying such a delightful morsel?

JR: How do they deep fry butter? Freeze it first? I think I would have to try it just to say I did.

JWN: Admittedly, I am new to you and your rants. I know you’ve been involved in radio for quite some time, and still do a stint on 102 FM – The Mountain. I’m curious as to how your rants are received by your listeners.

JR: I actually have been off the air for about two years. I got a lot of positive feedback from what I did, more so in person when people recognized from my voice. “Oh you were the guy who got his lawnmower stuck all those times, right?”

JWN: A lot of people probably have no idea that you collect transistor radios, on the cheap if possible. Tell me the story behind the coolest, cheapest one you have!

JR: It wasn’t cheap (at the time it was probably $50, and this was in 1969) but it was a Sony 6F-21W, I was 15-years-old and it was the radio I first heard “Progressive radio” on—WBCN in Boston. It put the hook in me deep and I dreamed about being able to work at that station. My last job in radio—The Mountain—was my homage to that format.

JWN: I’d bet you get this question all the time since the book came out: Is that your silhouette on the cover?

JR: Nah-I’m the old fart on the back. If you look close at the back cover photo you will see the wine bottles are labeled “Ye olde paint thinner” in honor of my taste for cheap wine. Also the page in the typewriter reads “All work and no play makes Jim a dull boy” over and over again. A nod to Stephen King and “The Shining.”

JWN: In your book you tell a story about two disparate yet indirectly related obituaries. I won’t ruin it for those who might read it, but amidst all the daily junk life hands us (which you call to question) you find the smallest wrinkle upon the larger canvas, and yet that wrinkle gives the entire painting a more profound life. So the question is odd, yet I’m truly curious: Which do you find more personally gratifying, the cathartic rant or the poignant?

JR: I like it when I can do both. I was a big fan of O’Henry in my youth. I love to turn it around at the end. I like to think that, at my best, I can make someone think. But you have to do it in a manner that doesn’t cram it down the throat.

JWN: What is your favorite food/drink item to have at your side as you write?

JR: H₂O by the gallon. Tea. I don’t drink alcohol when I write. I also don’t really eat. I am very messy and it gets the keyboard all sticky.

JWN: In your book you state all the proceeds from sales will go to the Hoyt Library in Kingston. The majority of folks who read this blog aren’t from that area, so could you explain what happened.

JR: We had a big snowstorm and it collapsed the roof, pretty well destroying almost all the library and ruining most of the books.

JWN: That’s gotta be a whole lotta snow. For those of us who like the golly-gee-whiz kind of figures, do you recall how much snow was on the roof, preferably weight-wise?

JR: Dunno…It was probably a few feet but I think it was very heavy wet stuff and then froze.

JWN: Finally, what sage words of advice would you pass along to any aspiring writer (or rant progeny)?

JR: Nothing succeeds like excess. I write less than I should but the more I do the more I remember how much I enjoy it. For me it’s like breathing; I gotta get this stuff down. Like the flea market conversation I overheard yesterday: He says “It’s original!” She says “Original what?”

Priceless.

JWN:And for those readers who like a good rant every now and again, where can they pick up a copy of your book?

JR:Amazon still has it here , and you can learn more about it from my publisher, Tribute Books.

I would certainly like to thank Mr. Rising for taking time out of his schedule to do this interview with me, and to Nicole Langan and Tribute Books, who provided me with a copy of Jim’s book, But Then Again I Could Be Wrong – The Book Of Rants. If you’re looking for an entertaining read about the everyday things that drive us all nuts, then give Jim’s book a read. As added incentive, all the proceeds go to the Hoyt Library–and we sure could use more of those!

You can also visit Jim’s blog for more of his musings/ranting!

Nevermore

Bleak and sterile, as empty as a cracked eggshell and equally as fragile.

Feral for all its abandonment, yet sullen in its abandon.

Once shimmering in its vernal warmth at night, now pallid the moonlight falls; there I shall not go nor dance with the devil. Oceans once surrounded us, now we stand and watch as they disappear, parched beds lying face up and sun bleached in their stead. Death waits quietly in the distance, an apparition on a slow approach; His disquieting presence providing comfort to raven and snake alike.

We close the windows against the chilling dark, and wish for no haunting wind to blow through the cracks, to loose its disapproval into our rooms. The fireplace! Yes, the fireplace! A small fire, its protruding warmth and light should keep the stars’ icy fingers at bay—and yet even the flame provides an altar from which dancing shadows preach their fetid homily of loneliness.

No heed to be paid to the raven which may tap, tap, tap upon your window. Its eyes will reflect the folly within the hearth, but their true absence of color is unmistakable. Ask it nothing if it persists, for your soul may wither upon its response.

Death will be ever vigilant even while we sleep with our eyes open; His patience is always rewarded.

Fear Death . . . I do not. He will have me, cloaked in his austere raiment of physical decay, when the bell tolls. I shall know when I am called and I shall not beg, plead, nor pray for his temporary dismissal. This life is through, its cracked shell basking unfruitfully in the cold paleness of midnight.

When asked by the slow, coarse voice, “Do you know for whom the bell tolls?”, I shall not utter my answer, but close my eyes.

Checks and Balances – Where Have I Heard That Before?

Part of being published these days means that promotion of your work is up to you. It forces authors to become more hands-on than ever before; leaving all the publicity work to the publisher has gone the way of the Dodo and Wooly Mammoth. That doesn’t mean we don’t have resources we can turn to for help.

Enter the blogging community and all other manner of social networking.
This past week the FTC announced new guidelines for online advertisers, which in essence extends to anyone receiving some type of compensation for their review or endorsement of any product. The gist is, if you are schlepping a new product for someone then you must disclose your affiliation with that company. Failure to do so could result in a fine up to $11,000.

The circle I tend to travel in includes folks who blog about books, or review books and post their reviews online. So this piece of news sent something of a shockwave through our community. In its infancy the bits and pieces that trickled through ran the gamut from the FTC censoring reviews of products to the government imposing a tax on each and every book review. Anything in between got plenty of play, too.

Truth is, it’s not nearly as Big Brother as one may think.

Some of you may remember the days of “payola” scandals in radio, where a record label or other interested party would pay deejays and program directors a little somethin’ to get their artist some air time. This pay-for-play was never disclosed, and resulted in a whole lot of unhappy endings for lots of radio people back in the day. The same concept is at the root of the FTC’s addition to their guidelines for endorsements and advertisers—which, by the way, has been in effect since 1980. So this is nothing new. The FTC regards things such as pay-per-posts as essentially “payola blogging.” So they really are, in this case, trying to look out for consumers.

Book bloggers don’t get paid (at least those I know don’t) for reviewing books, but they do receive copies of those books from the authors seeking publicity or reviews. This really isn’t where the FTC is sharking about. They’re more concerned with popular bloggers being unfairly biased in their promotional efforts with big advertisers—just like in the days of radio.

Fact is, according to Richard Cleland, assistant director, division of advertising practices at the FTC, the whole “disclose anything or be fined” thing is completely overblown. If your post is sponsored, then you have to say so; pretty simple, really. “That $11,000 fine is not true,” Cleland states. “Worst-case scenario, someone receives a warning, refuses to comply . . . we would institute a proceeding with a cease-and-desist order and mandate compliance with the law. To the extent that I have seen and heard, people are not objecting to the disclosure requirements but to the fear of penalty if they inadvertently make a mistake. That’s the thing I don’t think people need to be concerned about. There’s no monetary penalty, in terms of the first violation, even in the worst case. Our approach is going to be educational, particularly with bloggers. We’re focusing on the advertisers: What kind of education are you providing them, are you monitoring the bloggers and whether what they’re saying is true?”

Which brings us to the checks and balances issue. If you run a popular blog (which I don’t, so I’m not overly concerned) and you mislead your readers by not pointing out the man behind the curtain, then you risk alienating valuable readership. That’s the last thing you want if you live off the revenue stream created by ad hits. Bloggers are pretty good at policing themselves, a virtual self-governing entity, if you will. If a popular blogger is found to have perpetrated some type of fraud against their readership, they run the risk of taking a huge hit to their reputation and credibility, which leads to lost readers, which leads to less ad money . . . you get the picture.

Book bloggers are, by the nature of what they do, all about disclosure. They have to be. Unless they’re taking princely sums under-the-keyboard then they have nothing to worry about where this new addition to the FTC Act of 1980 is concerned.

Go back to your books people. There’s nothing more to see here.

Step Right Up!

I begin this post a little disappointed. I had wanted to find a couple sound clips that you could click on as you closed your eyes—a mechanism to instantly flip a sensory switch in your brain and transport you to a place many of us easily recall: the distant mechanical thunder and rush of a roller coaster, high-pitched screams issuing from the passengers, and the loud clanging of a bell on the midway as a game starts or ends. Perhaps you remember attending county or state fairs as you grew up, or taking your kids or grandkids to them.

One thing I can’t do yet is send olfactory data over the wire. Can you recall the smells of wholly unhealthy food wafting in the air? Sure, the rides were fun, and the games momentarily entertaining, but I dare say that if you can’t recall the artery clogging pleasures of food at the fair, then you’ve missed out on a quintessential facet of growing up in America. Yes, seriously.

Soon I’ll be posting an interview I’m going to do with a gentleman named Jim Rising. He’s published a book titled But Then Again, I Could Be Wrong – The Book of Rants. I love a good rant. There’s something viscerally cathartic about a passionate unleashing of pent up, simmering logic that begins to foam and boil over into emotion. I’ll be receiving a copy of the book within the week, but in the meantime I was checking out some of his rants online. In a recent one he speaks of his ill-advised craving for “fair food.” Which got me to thinking.

Aunt Juicebox wrote of her trip to her local Renaissance Festival. Twenty years she’s been going to this thing, if for no other reason than for a specific food item. She ices the cake with a short diatribe about some mouth-breathers who stand in the middle of the road just to take pictures of a really bad accident that tied up traffic. Anyway, her whole reason for making the trek was to quell the mouth watering craving for the food she’d anticipated.

There are two biggies I remember as a kid: Indian Fry Bread and cotton candy. There’s all kinds of scare-your-cardiologist offerings nowadays, including deep-fried snickers bars and a bacon cheeseburger served on glazed doughnut . . . and no, I’m not kidding! To be fair (no pun intended), I haven’t been to our state or county fair in at least as long as Aunt Juicebox has been going to her Ohio Renaissance Festival, so I’m not current with what the gastronomic offerings are, but I certainly recall what they were like, and what memories they created. I don’t recall seeing funnel cakes when I went, but I think they’ve made their way out here into the desert southwest. But fry bread still reigns out here, especially with plenty of honey drizzled atop it, but powdered sugar will do in a pinch.

To this day, mom still loves to get cotton candy when she has the chance. Every ball game we’ve been to, she’s bought some. Sure, there are the staid standbys of hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, and snow cones, but as an adult one of the big reasons you go is for the food. Your kids will eat up the expensive rides and games, but you’ll always remember, amidst the sounds of the crowd, the midway barkers, and multi-colored strobing lights, the smells and wonderfull badness of all that food vying for your arteries and stomach.

Shine On, Harvest Moon

And so, we’re on our way now. Soon enough this post will be dated, but the relevance of all my guest’s posts will never fade. I don’t say that to be in any way self-aggrandizing.

It’s simply the truth.

Our heads fresh off the pillow in the morning, we begin the automatic task of mentally assessing what lies ahead for the day . . . next thing we know, Night has put its hand on Day’s shoulder and our eyes and bodies tell us it’s time for sleep. We hustle through the events of each day, week, month, and year, doing the same thing; living. At some point we all have that epiphany, that feeling that makes us stop and take stock of what all has transpired while we were busy living.

This past week has shown that clearly a good number of us are paying attention, and closely at that. Age doesn’t matter, as I can clearly see that even the youngest among us has closed our eyes and tenderly caressed our angel’s wings. We get why the sun rises and sets, how the moonglow is laced with magic, and where the true heart of a matter lies.

We’re all human, so we all innately have some degree of fear for when, but in the meantime we observe and capture the essence of those important times when when happens before our eyes. We store it for ourselves, and recount it for our posterity.

We are flesh and bone, you and I, but I wish for all you, and yours, that ole’ harvest moon will reside within the most peaceful and important of places . . . our ethereal hearts.

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I wish to, once again, thank my guest authors: Aunt Juicebox, Laurie Kendrick, April Pohren, Mckenzie Boltz, and Shoshana Ashley, for sharing their thoughts about love, hope, and their own memories of autumn. I’m also very thankful that so many folks dropped by to read and comment on the posts. It never ceases to amaze me how deeply we can be affected by simply stringing the right words together.

I would like to give all the commentors a copy of my book, but my pocketbook will shout many a foul thing at me if I were to do so. Having said that, I will give all the guest posts this entire week in full to provide for any late-comer commentors, and at the end of the week shall be selecting five folks who stopped by to read and comment to receive a signed copy of my book, The Light, The Dark, and Ember Between.

Thank you all for coming, and do please come back and visit my blog. It’s nice to have the company :^)

Sincerely,
J.W. Nicklaus

A Package Deal

We pick up again as the last couple days of my autumnal equinox “event” come around after the weekend. I hope yours was good! Last week was a lot of fun for me, and I think for the guest posters as well. I’d bet everyone reading this has heard, from someone they know, about how the internet/chatting/blogging isn’t real, about how everything is fake and people are not who or what they say they are.

Fact is, there is more than a shred of truth to that, but it is—in my opinion—overwhelmed by one simple fact that people rarely seems to overtly acknowledge: the human being on the other end of the connection/post/writing. Sure, people can be anonymous and hide behind a keyboard . . .

But we’re so far removed from that here as to be on another continent.

We’ve seen Aunt Juicebox, Laurie Kendrick, April Pohren, and Mckenzie Boltz each present offerings from the pages of their own memories, served warm from their hearts. My next guest does nothing to stray from that path.

I came to know Shoshanna Ashley via Bostick Communications. She was one of many folks who have read and reviewedThe Light, The Dark, and Ember Between. She has a lot of readers who visit her site for her scoop on all kinds of books. One of the cool things she does is kind of a catch-and-release sort of thing—she reads the books she gets, then sends them out to one of her commenters, thus the name of her site, This Book For Free.

She had asked me to write a guest post, and then for the giveaway of her review copy she asked me to write something that her readers could finish; a fun sort of writing contest. Since I had such a good time working with Shoshanna, I genuinely wanted to find some way to return the favor, and here she is.

Thank you Shoshanna for participating!

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When I think of ‘love and hope’, there are many instances in my life that demonstrate how these two come together. It’s almost like you cannot have one without the other.

Thirty days after my second child was born, rashes sprouted all over his cheeks in a short period of time. My instincts told me to have it checked out. The first pediatrician said that it’s only eczema—something almost all babies get—and it will go away.

At three months he had a serious yeast infection on his arms and neck. Even today I can recall the potent odor of yeast. His doctor still said, “It’s natural; it will go away. Don’t give him anti-histamines, it will make the yeast infection worse.”

Life went on. I had to peel his clothes every time I changed him.

Then one day my husband just got up and took him to the emergency room. His one goal was to get the baby into the hands of a nurse. Paperwork or not, get the baby into the hands of a nurse. He met his goal, the waters parted; they stopped ignoring the problem and flew into action.

This baby was pathetic, skin sloughing, red welts all over, a very sad sight to behold. They wanted to give the baby an anti-histamine. My husband refused to permit it until they lined up three doctors and assured him that it was the right thing to do. After all, the previous doctor said it would make the yeast infection worse.
Once administered the baby got much better. The suffering of this child, for all intents and purposes, was reduced by orders of magnitude.

Around this time, I was still breast feeding. To reduce the problem further, I gave up entire food groups, one by one, to see if he had a food allergy. The more food groups I gave up, the better he seemed. He would still ooze on his arms and legs, but I could see the difference.

Love was a giant lump of fear lodged in my chest. I was afraid my baby wouldn’t grow up to live a normal, happy life—afraid he would die. Love meant holding him non-stop; to make sure I spent as much time as possible with him before he might be taken to heaven. Love meant doing anything and everything possible to make sure my baby would get better.

Love is forgiveness to grandparents who cannot, and do not, want to be around a sick child. Love means hoping that all the things I’m doing are enough to make my baby healthy again.

I’m glad to say that my second “baby” is now 10 years old. He’s still allergic to so many things, but we have learned to avoid those things and he now enjoys life. Love and hope go hand in hand. I believe you can’t have one without the other.

A Seasonal Spirit

Our next guest post comes from a woman who, until recently, lived in my neck of the woods. For some reason I’d always thought she was an ASU student. Her blog posts were always entertaining and well written, so it only seemed logical to me. Soon enough Fate saw fit to allow me to actually meet this wonderful young talent.

She goes by the moniker of the little red writer, and you can find her blog of the same name here on WordPress. She’s unassuming, genuinely smart, and even though she may never outwardly admit it, also a hopeless romantic. Yes, Ms. McKenzie Boltz, it’s easy enough to spot one when you are one yourself!

I invited Kenzie to join our weekly East Valley Writers Group at a time when her life was suddenly turned upside down, and am pleased to report that she is every bit as charming as her blog entries imply. We have very much enjoyed having her join us as we share our writing efforts, and then of course for the social meet at Village Inn afterward.

When I asked her to write a guest post she had rather suddenly learned she would be moving back home, but readily agreed to write one anyway. I had every confidence she’d come up with something good, but also understood that she had a lot going on, so it might be short, or maybe (gasp!) not up to her usual quality . . . and I was okay with that, given her circumstances.

She sent it to me with the caveat that she wasn’t sure if it was what I wanted, and that she’d been very busy while writing it, what with packing, etc. She seemed almost apologetic.

I wrote her back later and expressed the following sentiment: “Kenzie, I think this may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read that you have written.”

Read on . . . I’m sure you’ll feel much the same way.

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I think differently of the seasons now that you’re gone. I never considered them much before – - the depth and beauty in each. You left mid-autumn, when the trees were ripe with red and orange leaves, burning against the evening sun. The deadened ground crunched beneath our Sunday shoes; the bitter breeze flushed our cheeks and hands.

I wiped my eyes, and held Grandpa’s hand. I missed you. I missed your brown curls and heavy sighs, your gold wrist watch and soft skin smelling faintly of Mary Kay. I missed you. My tears said so. But my heart felt at peace, for the words impressed upon me, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.”

You never wished for us to cry, only to be happy – - to embrace life together, and here was autumn, a time of harvest, of gathering. “It will be strange,” I told Shalyn, “not having her here this time of year.”

Shalyn smiled. “She’s here, just in spirit.”

“Too bad her spirit can’t make apple and pumpkin pie,” I marked, and we both began to laugh and cry, but mostly laugh. I could picture you, shaking your head, wagging your finger. I also pictured you in the kitchen, hands white with flour, the smell of warm cinnamon spice in the air. For a moment, I was a little girl at your side, watching your rail-thin arms flex as your hands pressed into a slab of dough. “What do you like most ‘bout Thanksgiving, Grandma?”

“Certainly not the baking, honey-bun, but you know what they say – - no rest for the wicked!” you teased, and paused to answer more seriously, “Family. I love my kids and grandkids and great-grand-babies. I love loving you, and I love knowing you all love me.”

Thanksgiving was different without you – - without poppy-seed cake, the pies, and homemade whipped cream; without the ho-hum of your voice, the laughter in your expression, as you began to clear away dishes, saying, “Time for the next holiday!”

Oh, but we celebrated you, not mourned! Together, like always, we named our blessings over the past year, you amongst them all. Over turkey and cranberry, we reminisced: pink mints in the bottom of your coat pocket, birthday cards and gypsy beads, volumes of old photos post-WWII, and your love of pink peonies.

And when Christmas came, I half-expected to find you busy about the tree: organizing presents, fixing a bulb, just admiring. But the tree stood alone. With its miniature colored lights, vintage ornaments, and tin star – - it stood alone, looked alone.

Grandpa slipped his arm around my waist. “You know, when she was a young thing like you, her hair was just as red.”

I smiled, thinking of the old black and white photo – - your hair in pin curls, your eyes aglow with laughter, a ball of snow in your hands. Grandpa knelt by your side, handsome and promising in his uniform, and baffled that you might actually clobber him!

You are gone, but so much of you lingers. Like the dark, shag carpet you never wanted to get rid of, because, “It’s just fine!” Or the turn-of-the-century wallpaper, a print of red flowers between faded lines. There are boxes of letters, all lavish with your bubble script, and a jacket – - your blue jacket – - lying over the arm of a chair. And here, on the tree, the old vintage ornaments passed down mother to child, mother to child.

Standing there, admiring the glass, oval bulbs and twinkling lights, I wanted to ask Grandpa if he remembered the blue-spotted bird’s egg, because I do. We found it one morning in the park, hiding in the long grass. He said not to touch it, because it was too fragile, and the egg had yet to hatch. So we just stared, admiring its simple beauty, wondering how something so small could hatch and fly free – - wings stretched against the sky.

That egg reminds me of you, now free and soaring.

And though I cannot see you, as the leaves turn from green to gold, and the cold air draws in loved ones for holiday warmth – - I think of you, I feel you, and I know you are a part of the gathering – - laughing and smiling with us in spirit.

No April Showers

The month of April; what seems like ages ago was really only a few months. I had set upon my maiden Blog Tour in advance of my book’s release, and was having a pretty good time with it. One of my stops was at a blog called Cafe Of Dreams. I’d been asked to write a guest post for it as part of the tour, and the response I received was far beyond what I had expected. The comments—as they do on any blog—represented only those who took the time to respond. For everyone who leaves a comment I think it’s safe to say there may be at least ten to fifteen other readers who don’t.

April Pohren is one of two book reviewers/bloggers I have ‘guesting’ for me this week. Believe it or not, book bloggers are becoming increasingly influential to the publishing industry, as are Virtual Book Tours; can’t see it? Ask Jon Meacham. He’s the chief editor for Newsweek and author of American Lion – Andrew Jackson in the White House. His book won a Pulitzer Prize, and yet Random House set him out on a VBT. That’s something of a virtual ‘fasces’ (fah-shees); a series of rods bound together for strength. A single stick by itself can be broken, but bind them together and they become a column, exponentially stronger.

Such is the quiet but growing power of bloggers.

April’s reviews have always been fair and honest, and more importantly she exudes life. She’s a kind soul and most always upbeat. It is my honor to have her appear here in what I only recently learned is her first-ever guest post, which genuinely surprises me. There is much humanity, and humility, in what she has to say. Thank you for being here, April!

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Life is such an amazingly precious gift. It is a gift to cherish dearly and to the fullest extent. I have learned over the years that nothing, and most importantly, no one should ever be taken for granted. When I look into my son’s brilliant blue eyes and my daughter’s hauntingly beautiful hazel eyes, I see love, and I see life’s truth and meaning. They bring to my life, as well as to the lives that they touch, an unending sense of hope, pride and love.

It is amazing how such tremendous innocence can be taken for granted at times. For me, my children are my love, my life and my hope of not only the future and the present, but also the past. How can someone be hope and love of the past, you may ask? Quite simply, if it had not been for the incidences and chain of events that took place in the past, both good and bad, I truly feel I would not be where I am today, with the precious gifts that have been bestowed upon me.

Many people wonder how I can possibly continue with a positive attitude, belief in God and look for the best in people and situations, after having so many “bumps” in the road throughout my life. My answer is quite simple: there is a reason for everything. I know that phrase drives many people crazy, however I truly and very deeply believe it. Perhaps that phrase can be considered my motto in life as well as my belief to live each day as though it were your last, you never know whether or not it just may be. Perhaps many would view this as a morbid thought, however after the loss of so many loved ones, this is one of the most important lessons that I have learned and hope to pass along to others.

When J.W. asked me to write a guest post on what love and hope mean to me, the first thing that popped into my mind was family. I’m not talking just biological family, but those close to you that you know will always be there no matter what. In many cases, that may be friends, in-laws, siblings, parents, those that you have had a chance meeting with and felt that there was an amazing connection to – turning into a closeness and a bond. This closeness and bond that you feel with others is a form of hope, like a candle that flickers and grows brighter withthe support of those you love and hold dear. Hope is the foundation of life. Without hope, there would be such suffocating darkness and bleakness, forcing love to live on the outside, trying with all of its might to fight its way inside. As a person who has fought depression their entire life and continues to do so to this day, I know how hard it can be to have hope, but it is truly harder to live a life without it. Life is so much like that of the seasons which Mother Nature provides for us. In the Winter, just when things seem to be taking a turn toward grayness and loss of hope, something beautiful occurs – the blooming and blossoming of new life. New hopes and a wonderful sense of
new beginnings take over. As Spring turns into Summer, we are blessed with the warmth of love, as the sun splits open the skies and enables family and friends to gather together for picnics, vacations and the joy of being
outdoors. With the coming of Fall, we rejoice in the colorful confetti ofcolored leaves and the knowledge that as the flowers, grass and nature around us seem to be dying off, they are truly making way for a glorious new
life to come. Also in Fall, we make the transition into a joyous time of celebrations and get-togethers, as we head into Winter and the many opportunities to come together to celebrate the abundance of holidays and the gifts of the lives that we have been blessed with.

As I gaze upon my children and see the glow of love and hope upon their faces, I am truly overcome with an all-fulfilling sense of hope and love, not only for myself, but for them. Sure, there are days that are not so
great and days I would like to run away and join the circus, but when it all comes down to it, I carry a deep and ever growing hope which fills my soul and allows it wings to grow and take flight for the future.

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What follows is a poem April wrote which I have included because it gives substance to the subtext of her guest post. I’m not much of a poet, but I must say, this little piece’s beauty is wrapped in elegance.

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Standing quietly
Darkness like a shroud around her
She glances up to the sky, where stars float like lit candles on a pond
She thinks of the past
Of loved ones lost
She thinks of dreams she let slip away

Gently, she feels a breeze tickle her ear
The chirping of crickets and cicadas playing a beautiful symphony
The rustle of leaves
A whisper
So soft
So gentle
“Let hope grow”
“Feel the power of love”

Where were these words coming from?
She did not know
It was as if the very wind was whispering secrets to her
“Where there is love, there is hope”
“Where there is hope, there is love”
“Never give up, it is never too late”
There it was again
That teasing tickle upon her ear
That soft and comforting voice
Glancing once again at the stars in the dark sky, their brightness like
nothing she had ever seen before
A sense of peace fills her heart
A lightness flows through her very being
Suddenly she doesn’t feel so alone, so scared and without hope

Standing quietly
A gentle smile spreads across her face
This time she sends her own message upon the breeze
“Thank you”