A Writers Journey

Curling up with an Electronic Book

2012-01-22T20:00:00.000-08:00

Within the next decade or so, one of the most enjoyable and inexpensive pleasures may become as extinct as the dinosaur; the simple act of reading a book. Books have not greatly changed since Johannes Gutenberg invented movable type in the 1400's. Even when printed by computers, the result is still paper and ink, the basis of books since papyrus was first used by the Egyptians. Thanks to the marvels of electronic technology, books as we have come to know and love could become as obsolete as stone tablets.
Initially, technological and reference works, such as Roget's Thesaurus and Bartlett's Quotations were installed in Word Processing programs to aid students, researchers and writers, but the publishing industry doubted if it could convince the public to read literature on the computer.
Random House met with the chairman of Apple Computers and announced that the famous book series, "Modern Library", would be published in electronic form, including such classics as Moby Dick and David Copperfield. The books would be offered on the portable Apple PowerBook, a computer no larger or heavier than the average dictionary. According to Nora Rawlinson, then Editor in Chief of "Publishers Weekly", It's the first thing I've seen that I could curl up in bed with."
The pages of the original electronic books turned with the pressing of a button, the print could be enlarged for easier reading, and the computer book read in the dark without disturbing a sleeping spouse. The portable PowerBook was run on batteries recharged every three hours, So if one happenned to be at the climax of an Agatha Christie mystery and the batteries failed, the reader would come to know, first hand, the power of the computer.
The trouble with computers (just to list one) is that they are difficult on the eyes, and staring at the screen for hours, no matter how advanced or clear, can cause headaches, nausea, eyestrain, and nervousness. The safety of long-term viewing has yet to be proven, but short-term studies have pinpointed certain health problems, including the possibility of contracting cancer and is considered to be potentially hazardous to pregnant women.
Still, electronic books have their place, becoming a big hit with American children, who already receive over 50% of stimuli from video screens, deriving questionable gain. Children and adults who hate to read but love video games are drawn to electronic books, which feature pictures and sound effects. This is not the best way to stimulate a love of reading in children, because it stifles the their innate creativity but for some reluctant readers it is better than not reading at all.
Advocates of this exciting technology predict that electronic books, both literary and reference, will soon replace traditional books completely. Those who love to read can carry their slim electronic readers to the pool or beaches,trains, planes and especially use them while waiting for appointments.
I love books and I respect computers, along with a little fear. Books, lifelong friends, have never let me down or disappointed me. My computer has browbeat me, manipulated me, changed my written text at will, shut down on me, lost umpteen pages of manuscript and even once ordered me, in bold print, to "TURN OFF THIS MACHINE AT ONCE"! Which, of course, I did.
Computers are "run" but books are fondled, caressed and enjoyed on much more than an intellectual level. Books are warm; computers are cold, relentless, unforgiving and, no matter who tells you otherwise, they can and do think independently.
True lovers of books will never willingly part with them in exchange for electronic screens. Books are treasured not only for their content, but also for the wonderful aroma of paper and ink; for the pleasant texture of a leather-bound hard-cover volume or the comfortable feeling of a worn, dog-eared paperback.
The thing that is most frightening is not the availability of electronic books, for they have a definite place in a modern technological society, but the dire prospect that they will, out of necessity, one day replace traditional books. This may be inevitable due to elevated publishing costs and more importantly the depletion of world forests. Even recycled paper cannot keep up with the demand for paper products. If it comes down to losing trees or losing books, the trees must take priority, for they promote life.
The new Kindle digital books and others like it are more user friendly than e-books. They are easier on the eyes, are the size of an average paperback book, and can hold thousands of books at once. If any electronic book replaces paper books, it would be this type of electronic book, and that’s scary in a way. It may have its niche but to replace tradditional books is reprehensible to me.
Therefore it would behoove book lovers everywhere to begin hoarding their supply of books and buying as many new ones as possible, so that on that terrible date when books become relics of the past, we will be able to cherish our lifelong friends and pass them on to future generations. The essence of what a book truly is must never be forgotten.

For the Love of Houseplants

2012-01-05T19:00:00.000-08:00

They don’t allow me plants in this dire, greenless place. I have no children to replace the ones I lost. Too long, I dwell in a carnival of maniacs and fools, endure the dulling drugs, the solitude, weeping through eternal night. And it’s all my husband’s fault.
He always hated my plants. He didn’t just dislike them, as one might a book, or painting, or a cold and rainy day – he hated them. I loved them as I would have loved the children we never had. I babied my houseplants, nursed them through root rot and mites, fed and pruned them and placed them in their favorite spots.
My Philodendron especially liked to sit on the warm place on top of the television set. The English Ivy preferred to dangle above the stereo and sway to the vibrations of the music. He was particularly fond of Bach. Some of my houseplants hung from the beamed ceilings in the living room. Some posed sedately on the window seat, watching out for strangers lurking about my home. The larger plants, mostly Rubber Trees and Palms, were content to stand erect, acting as my doormen. My house was filled with flora of almost every genus and I doted on them fondly. My husband hated every one.
“Why does this house have to teem with vegetation?” he constantly complained. “They’re running up my water bill! They’re using all my oxygen.”
His anger culminated on an otherwise ordinary Saturday night, for no reason I could foresee. He rose from his easy chair, brusquely shoving my Asparagus Fern away from his face, unaware she only meant to play, and headed for the kitchen. I hummed softly in an effort to ignore him and continued mixing up a batch of fertilizer. Stomping through the doorway, he kicked over my Fiddleleaf Fig tree with the tip of his work boot, and enjoying the look of horror upon my face, he smiled and went upstairs to bed.
I quickly righted my poor baby, crooning over him and carefully repacked the soil that spilled from his pot. The Fig tree sulked all night, with sagging leaves, his indignation clearly noted by his stance. Resentment built inside me slowly. By the evening’s end, it had grown to such proportions that I thought my chest would burst. My husband, while he made no effort to hide his hatred of my plants, had never harmed them until this day. I was filled with maternal rage and could not be consoled, not even by the caresses of my Purple Passion.
Fear, as well as anger, bode within my heart and I was frightened for all my plants. I felt no safety for them within my foliaged home. Nights that followed left me sleepless, filled with a restless urgency to protect them. I arose several times throughout the night to oversee them, remembering to leave the hall light lit; for my Palm Tree greatly feared the dark.
My husband made no apology, but in the days that passed he seemed contrite and even brought home a tiny cactus as amends. Perhaps he really was repentant. When it died two days later, he merely shrugged and said he lacked my green thumb. We lived in guarded accord, my plants, my husband and I. My babies were thriving and growing larger every day, drooping only in the presence of the master of the house.
Waxy Pink Begonias filled my home with splashes of color. The Snake Plants nearly reached the ceiling, while the Fiddleleaf Fig tripled his fullness, spreading his dark green branches to embrace me. Spider Plants, Coleus, and vines of all variety grew rich and full, crawling tentatively across my wooden floors. I was filled with love and pride.
On one particularly dismal evening, the harmony within my home was broken once more. My husband came home from work late and in a mood that made me wary. It seemed he’d had a bit to drink and did not see the offshoots of my Spider plant as they danced from the living room archway. He struggled blindly as the baby Spiders writhed about his face. I knew then this night would come to no good end.
He tore my lovely lady from her hook above the doorway, shredded her to pieces and smashed her into the wall. I shrieked and ran to gather up her remains. My heart pounded with love and dread, for I knew I could not save her. I took her babies from her, the ones that lived, and placed them in a vase of water, where they might grow again.
My husband cursed and staggered off to bed, swiping at whatever plant was in his way, kicking my Fiddleleaf Fig, yet again. My fury knew no end. I said nothing and with lowered head, tended my poor darlings; when I could do no more for them, I went to bed.
I did not sleep at all that night. My mind raced with thoughts of vengeance. Somehow, some way, my husband would never harm my lovelies again. By morning’s early light I knew what I must do and finally slept.
It was approaching noon when I arose. My husband, long since gone to work, left a note of regret on the kitchen table. I wanted no apology--it was far too late for that. I tended my beauties; took longer than I should, for I had things to do and the afternoon was well upon me. All my plants suffered intensely from the previous night’s attack. One of the Aloe Veras was still bleeding. I sensed that they were nervous; saw anger, instead of their healing juices, pulsing from their veins. I did my best to soothe them with a little touch of lime, and then left them to themselves,as I had things to do and time was running out.
I went down to the cellar, to the wall filled with shelves. I took my deadly Mistletoe, lying dormant through the winter, and borrowed a handful of berries that had not yet fallen from her branches. I reached for the higher shelves, which held jars of dried herbs, some for eating, some for healing, some quite lethal. I chose carefully; a spoonful of Henbane, a touch of Foxglove, and some bright red berries from my Belladonna – twelve would be enough. Treasures gathered, I hurried to the kitchen, and used the mortar and pestle to meld the herbs together. My work was nearly done.
By four o’clock,my husband was home, whistling as he strolled through the door. He smiled and handed me six yellow roses stuck into a plastic vial, whistled to himself again and went upstairs to shower. This time flowers weren’t enough.
“Bear with me a little longer,” I whispered to my Fiddleleaf Fig. “And you, my sweet Fern, you will never be struck again.”
Dinner was at five o’clock precisely, as was my husband’s rule. He gobbled up the meatloaf, wolfed down the mashed potatoes, and then filled his plate again.
“You’re not eating,” he noted, when the meal was near its end. “Are you still mad at me, or are you feeling sick?”
“Oh no,” I said and smiled my sweetest smile. “I had a late lunch and I’m feeling rather full. Perhaps I’ll nibble something a little later.
He barely nodded intent upon his feast, so ravenous, so greedy. He went to bed at seven o’clock, worn out from both the past night’s carousing and the heaviness of his repast. I gazed at him intently as he climbed the stairs, and then turned to tend my plants.
I slept in the spare room that night, the one meant to be a nursery, and my dreams were pleasant. I had moved my things into the room earlier in the day, including the metal strongbox that held my husband’s savings for a rainy day.
The next morning I took my largest, strongest Crown of Thorns, and hung him over my husband’s bedroom door. I did not enter the bedroom then, or ever again. My Crown of Thorns, so staunchly brave, would stand guard over my husband’s lifeless form. Had he cried out during the night in agony and pain, I did not hear. If he had called to me in penitence, I did not care. He killed my Spider plant and I, in turn, sought her revenge.
Within my home my plants grew voraciously. There was not a wall uncovered by vines, hardly a bare space on the verdant leafy floor. Even my tiny Bonsaied Fir grew to such enormity that his grotesquely elegant trunk was the size of a small child’s waist.
It was several weeks later, as best I can recall, when uniformed men hammered at my door. Neighbors, they said, complained of noxious odors seeping from my home. The men insisted upon coming in. They pushed past the growth that nearly blocked the foyer, and climbed the four steps to the living room, tripping over vines that grabbed at them in passing. Their eyes grew large in disbelief and I wondered why. I led them through my home and introduced them to my children with unadulterated pride.
They found my husband lying on the floor beside his bed, still and serene, though somewhat decomposed. Tearing off the spiky vines that chose to be his shroud, they gagged and held their noses. I smelled only the fresh greenness of a summer afternoon.
The look in their eyes turned to something near compassion as they led me firmly from my home.
“My plants!” I cried. “I cannot leave them!”
They looked away and held me tighter still, oblivious to my screams of pain; my cries for my poor babies, my broken shattered heart.
There is no sanity here. This institution, dank and stale, lacks the brightness of day and the cheerfulness of vines cascading over narrow walks. There are no Fiddleleaf Fig trees to guard my door, merely a pasty orderly in white. They allow me on the grounds when I’ve behaved, obeyed their rules; such petty stupid rules. The grounds are lush, the Lilac bushes call to me, the Pansies nibble at my feet. The Purple Mountain Laurel follow me back to my dungeon, but the attendants bolt the door, severing the tendrils of my life. Yearning for my children, I can bear no more.
They believe there was a toxic waste seeping slowly into my water lines, contaminating my mind. They believe it caused my plants to grow ten times their normal size. My husband was wise, they said, to drink only beer or wine. What nonsense! My plants thrived on mother love and will one day grow again. They must think me mad to believe such silliness.
Let them confine me! Let them shackle me and keep me from the sun, unable to absorb the elixir of chlorophyll. Let them do to me what they will.I have a secret I keep from them; a tiny Hemlock, dug up one day when the attendant was too enamored of a passing nurse to take note of my meanderings. I slipped the seedling into my cell, the dirt still clinging to his newborn roots. I housed him in a plastic serving bowl stolen from the cafeteria and placed him upon my windowsill. He sits there each endless day, hidden by the dull grey drapes, soaking up the sun cast meagerly through the bars of the window. Nurse remarked I seem to have a greenish pallor to my face. It is the flush of joy! My sweet young Hemlock grows larger day by day.

Micki Peluso

Musings On the Coming New Year

2011-12-30T20:17:00.000-08:00

The beautiful, lighted ball in Times Square has dropped, slowly, elegantly, a second at a time. A new year begins. I wonder how it would be if our lives were lived in the absence of structured time. There would be no past, or future, just the "now". Instead, we are subjected to the rhythms of time, living according to its laws. One thing we learn as children is that time seems to take forever, as we crave to grow up and test the waters of our future. Time appears to slow throughout young adulthood, then picks up speed aroung the age of fifty. It zooms forward just when many would prefer to slow down and savor the lessons learned. It is either an enigma or cosmic joke that the huge tortoise can live one hundred and thirty years or more, with little purpose, while human life stops just about the time we gain the the wisdom to enjoy and benefit from it.
The Creator has a penchant for supreme irony. A tortoise gets one hundred and thirty years to munch on lettuce while hunanity has about eigthy or so years to begin to grasp the meaning of existence. Given a choice, I would probably not opt to chew greens for over a century, yet the tortoise aggrevates me--so much time to do nothing while I have so little time to do so much! Each new year is magical in that it offers new beginnings, a chance to correct past mistakes, make resolutions for future projects and dreams. Resolutions, made in earnest, are not always kept, but it is important to make them for it proves the incredible ability of the human race to believe it can better itself. The tortoise just keeps looking for the next green leaf.
Successful or not, the attempt to improve, correct, or make better choices is a good thing. It shows that we have not lost our inherent ability to dream, hope and attempt to perpetually improve our lives. The year 2012 is upon us, a blank page waiting for us to write a new and exciting story. Let the first chapter begin. And let it be a best seller!!

HAPPY NEW YEAR,
Micki

Web Site: A Writers Journey

These Lights we Kindle

2011-12-16T18:29:00.000-08:00

Molosh Hashem

“Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice inquired.
“Please God. No!” My whole body trembled. Something, I intuited,
had befallen one of my children.
“Yes,” I acknowledged reluctantly. “This is Mr. Busch.”
“Mr. Busch, my name is Ann,” she began calmly. “I’ve just
left your daughter Kimberly.”
“Kimberly!” I panicked. “Is she alright? Is she hurt?
Tell me where she is!”
"Mr. Busch,” Ann continued, as calmly as she had begun, “we’re
about an hour south of Chicago at mile marker 80. Kimberly
was involved in an accident, but she isn't hurt, not one scratch,
but when I saw it happen, I pulled over to offer whatever assistance
I could. That’s when I met Kimmy. I promised I’d call you as soon as
the police and rescue arrived.”
“Ann, please,” I interrupted her as politely as I could. “Thank you
from the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much I
appreciate what you did. Thank you, thank you.”
I hung up but instantly realized that, in my haste, I had neglected to
ask Ann for her mailing address.
Kimmy’s Mom“Jan, Sorry to call you at work but, but …”
“But what,” she asked haltingly. I swallowed hard.
“Kimmy was in an accident.”
“Kimmy, my baby!” she cried out.
“But she’s fine, not one scratch.”
“What, what happened?”
“Listen, ‘Hon’ (even after our divorce, I called her “Hon”. Old habits,
you know …) I’m leaving to pick her up right now. I promise to bring
her back to you.”
A Familiar PathI had driven this way countless times over the years to visit family in
St. Louis. This portion of the drive, however, was only about a
quarter of the distance, but it afforded me the opportunity to revisit
Kimmy’s birthday. As I had done on the occasion of my first-born son’s birth, I dressed
in surgical garb and scrubbed alongside the obstetrical team. My job,
as the nervous dad, was to count fingers and toes. I am thankful to
The One Above for having given ten of each to all three of my
children.
Kimmy arrived, like I said, with ten toes and fingers, but the latter
were especially distinctive.
“Ma, it’s a girl,” I called from the dads’ waiting room, “that’s
right, yes, yes Ma, ten of each. I counted them myself, and she’s a
redhead. Her fingers Ma … yes, she has ten but they’re the most
beautifully shaped and graceful fingers you could ever imagine.”
From Daydreams to Miracles
I exited at mile marker 80 and turned into a gravel lot about a half
mile off the interstate. There she stood in front of the service station
that had towed her car. Appearing exhausted and fragile, I couldn’t
help but see the little girl whose hair I used to put up in a ponytail
like the one Wilma made for Pebbles on The Flintstones.
“Daddy, I … I’m so sor …” she trembled as I held her sobbing on my
shoulder.
“Shh, shayneh madele.”
“Dad, can we go home?”
“Yes Sweety,” I assured her, “in a few minutes. I’ll meet you by your
car. Don’t forget your bags.”
I walked over to the garage’s office.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bill, the paunchy garage owner,
admitted. “And I’ve seen quite a few of these in my time,” he added,
scratching his head.
We stared incredulously at what had been her candy apple red,
white convertible top Toyota Solara. The collision crumpled the
front end within several inches of the dashboard. It reminded me of
an accordion’s bellows.
How strange. The driver’s door opened cleanly. Taking hold of the
steering wheel, I slumped down in the seat. The crumpled airbag lay
on the passenger side.
My baby girl almost died here today.
I looked up. There she was.
“Kimmy, come sit by me.” I slid over.
“I need a few more minutes.” She understood.
Revisiting Ben
“Mr. Busch, I suggest you come down immediately," the eight words
I’d never forget.
Dr. Ibrahim Yosef, on call that morning in the ER at Cook County
Hospital, called me at 10 o’clock, Wednesday morning, the day
before Thanksgiving.
“Mr. Busch? Are you the father of Benjamin Busch?”
“Yes, Sir,” my voice quivered.
“I’m sorry but Ben has suffered massive internal injuries from a
traffic accident.” He paused. “Mr. Busch, I suggest you come down
immediately.” I sped away to the hospital in a state of focused
desperation.
I knew how this day would end.
One hour later, my father and I watched as Dr. Josef desperately held
the electric shock paddles to Ben’s heart.
“Clear!” Once. “Clear!” Twice. “Clear!” He turned to look at us.
“Dad, wake up,” Kimmy urged, shaking my shoulder.
Going Home
I kissed her on the forehead. “Okay, Sweety, I’m ready.” I thanked
The Almighty for having ended this day differently.
We didn’t talk much. Kimmy was skittish, gasping every time I
braked or switched lanes.
“You okay?”
“Yes Dad. Just beat.” I dropped her off at her mom’s house. My heart
sank. I would have liked more time with her but I had made
As I pulled out of the driveway, I saw the menorah Kimmy’s mom
had placed in the front window, its first candle shining brightly.
“My God,” I chastised myself. “Tonight’s the first night of Chanukah.”
Chanukah, The Festival of Lights, a season of miracles old and new
and for showering chocolate coins upon the heads of children. I felt bad but quickly realized The One Above had enabled Kimmy
and me to live the eternal message of Chanukah that day: nes gadol
haya sham-a great miracle happened there.
Later that week, Kimmy joined me and Zac, her younger brother, for
Friday night Erev Shabbat dinner when we would light candles for
both Chanukah and Shabbat.
We gathered around the table.
“Sweetheart,” I began, my voice cracking.
“Yes Dad,” she responded, drying a few tears.
“This Shabbat is extra special.” I lifted the Kiddush cup. "I am so
thankful to have you by my side.” My right hand trembled slightly.
A moment passed. The candles illuminated the serpentine path of a
single drop of wine running down my hand.
Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha Olam, bore pri ha gafen.
I rejoiced in my Chanukah miracle whose fingers I held tightly in the
palm of my hand, the best gift any dad could ever hope to receive.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 12/12/11

This is another short story regarding Chanukah written by my good friend Alan D. Bush, author of the wonderful book, "Snapshots of Ben".

What DO we Learn from Chanukah

2011-12-15T18:15:00.000-08:00

"What DO We Learn From Chanukah?"
What better time than the eve of Chanukah to share an important lesson of which Rabbi Louis reminded me in his Shabbos morning speech. While acknowledging that many Jews glory in their ancestors' military victory over the Greeks, that victory, Rabbi Louis argued, is not the central lesson of Chanukah. The Greeks had previously forbidden the study of Torah in pursuit of their objective to starve the Jewish soul of its nourishment which, they thought, would eventuate in the eradication of Judaism from history. Our Sages responded by shifting focus to the Hebrew Prophets, choosing themes that mirrored the weekly Torah readings.Rabbi Moshe Soloveichik pointed out the Greeks forbad Jewish homes from having front doors because they correctly understood the focal point of Jewish life to be the Jewish home. Whether he meant that literally or not, it is clear their intent was to extinguish "the fire" of Judaism where it burned most intensely.
Jews insert an additional prayer, the "Al Ha Nissim" (for the miracles) into their services during the eight days of Chanukah, In defining Chanukah's relationship to Jewish religious belief, the "Al Ha Nissim" praises G-d for His acts of kindness: "YOU delivered the mighty into the hands of the weak, the many into the hands of the few, the impure into the hands of the pure, the wicked into the hands of the righteous, and the wanton sinners into the hands of those who occupy themselves with Your Torah."
The crux of the matter is that the strength needed to achieve victory then as now resides in and emanates from G-d, a cardinal tenet of faith Jews should acknowledge more often. Just as man and woman do not alone create life, neither do they dig the well of their own strength by themselves.
As for the Greeks, they ultimately failed in their objective, as have all of the enemies of the Jewish people, but not before inflicting enormous physical and spiritual damage from which we have only partially recovered. Rather than imitate Greek hedonism, the psalmist advises that we look up and declare: "I will lift up mine eyes unto the mountains: from whence shall my help come? My help cometh from the Lord who made heaven and earth."
Alan D. BuschThe Eve of ChanukahRevised 12/15/11

This article is from my good friend Alan D. Busch, author of "Snapshots of Ben", a beautifully written memoir on the life and death of his beloved son , Benjamin. It's a warm and poignant story that one will not be able to put down, written with heart and courage.

A Christmas Family Portrait

2011-12-12T19:56:00.000-08:00

I smiled to myself when they told me of their plans. As a mother, I believe even grown children should learn by experience. I had to hang up the phone before spasms of laughter overtook me. My two daughters thought that taking all of their children to a professional photographer would make wonderful Christmas presents for the grandparents. Ideas are always best in their infancy.
On the hottest day of December in decades, the children were dressed in their winter finery and off we went to the Mall. One daughter’s three boys were all sick with low-grade temperatures with noses running like Niagara Falls. Endless nose-wiping with tissues on gentle skin resulted in red faces and grumpy dispositions. Makeup partially solved that problem. She is blessed with a good-natured five-year-old, a tyrannical terrible two-year-old and a one-year old with attitude.
Her sister has a nine-year-old, Nicky, already protesting the humiliation of posing with his “baby” cousins, and a daughter, Bailey, who at four believes that one cannot be too rich or beautifully dressed. Local clothing stores know her by name. The photograph studio is seasonally crowded, with tykes of assorted ages running amok and babies wailing—not my choice of a fun day.
The temperature keeps rising as well as parents’ tempers while appointments typically run behind. One-year-old TJ takes a power nap, while his two-year-old brother, Brandon, makes several escape attempts, one almost successful. At long last, my family is called for their shoot. Nicky, still disgruntled, is itchy from his woolen Christmas suit, has broken out into livid hives, and announces that he may throw up. His sister, Bailey, the ‘Calvin Klein’ of the four-year-old set, insists that the tights she’s wearing are certainly not the ones she chose with her outfit and begins to remove them, much to her brother’s chagrin and mother’s horror.
The wannabe, ‘Ansel Adams’, manages to get all five children lined up for the photo take. A smile seems permanently pasted on her face. Things begin to get scary. Brandon is sitting in the sleigh as the session begins. For reasons known only to her, she decides that this will not work and tries to remove Brandon form the sleigh. Did I mention Brandon has a bit of a temper? He screams so loudly that the security guards rush in like Marines on a mission. TJ begins to suck his thumb, a habit he’s never exhibited before, and Christopher, his older brother, slinks to the floor in an effort to appear invisible. Nicky tries to pretend that he does belong with this family. Bailey has her hand on her hip, a glint in her eye and one foot pushed forward—never a good sign. Now the future photo genius snaps the shot!
The photographer is determined to complete her job. She lines everyone up again for some final takes. It seems to be going well, until she snaps the picture at the precise moment Brandon, who now refuses to sit in the sleigh on principle, catapults backward off the platform. There are more blood-curdling screams, but he’s unhurt since he is a very tough little boy. By now the other parents are quietly moving away from my family, some actually leaving the store. The photographer makes one last attempt to catch the children on film. She is, if nothing else, courageous. All the kids are in place at last. It is a bit much to hope for smiles from them, so she clicks away at the exact moment Brandon once more falls off the platform, leaving both legs sticking up in the air. The shoot is over.
My daughters are not happy with the shots but I find them spectacular. TJ wears a startled ‘Oh’ on his mouth and it may take a while for him to recover from this experience. Christopher has a perpetual smile on his face, but it is rumored that he believes he was switched at birth. Nicky is disgusted by the entire event and Bailey is asking for a reshoot. All that can be seen of Brandon is his two legs sticking up—perhaps his best shot.
My girls wanted to know how I ever photographed all six of my kids.
“Are you crazy”? I asked “I never took all of you out at once, except to church, until you went to school.” Some things must be learned, not taught. Meanwhile the picture with all the kids is a conversation piece, especially the kid showing only two legs.

Homeless for the Holidays

2011-12-11T19:20:00.000-08:00

Homeless for the Holidays

Christmas carols waft through the crisp Manhattan air as the steady ringing of the bells of Salvation Army Santa sets the pace for shoppers hustling from store to store. The magnificent Rockefeller Center Christmas tree heralds the promise of Yuletide celebrations ushering in the season of love and joy.
But for thousands of homeless people in New York City, the season is a harbinger of struggle. Huddled in alleyways, bus terminals, doorways and other temporary hovels, attempting to ease the chill of winter, they find no joy.
Some keep their faces to the ground, too hungry and lethargic to honor the Christ child's birth. Others glance upward, perhaps searching for a special star to offer solace to a life of misery, but more likely hoping for handouts--a dollar or two to stem the ever-present gnawing of a tortured empty stomach. Years ago, it was a nickel, but inflation has reached the street people as well. New York City with the highest population in the country, also has one of the largest number of people for whom Christmas is just another exercise in survival.
Perhaps it is the fear of 'Except for the grace of God go I', mentality that keeps us from recognizing them or addressing the biblical question, 'Am I my brother's keeper?' Now that the holidays are upon us it's a good time to reconsider our priorities. We live in a country of great contrasts; from the extremely wealthy through the strong middle class to the struggling lower class. Not enough of us consider the 'no' class, the people who have nothing; because acknowledging the problem necessitates a resolution.
Still, the day after Christmas there will be those who, will ponder, just like in the old Peggy Lee song, 'Is that all there is?' Too often Christ is removed from Christmas and we sense, but cannot name, the hollow feeling left after the frantic rush to make one day memorable. The homeless, hunched around garbage can fires, or sleeping over subway grates to catch the warmth of a passing train, do not have the luxury of such contemplation.
As our world grows smaller, the plight of the homeless becomes a global concern, bringing crime, disease and poverty to our doors. No one appreciates a guilt trip during the Christmas season, and no one wants visions of starving people interrupting the Holiday feast, overflowing with homemade delicacies, cookies and candy canes hanging from decorated trees.We work for what we have, ever harder in this sluggish economy and we deserve the rewards of our labors. True. But in the spirit of Christmas it is important to remember that over 2000 years ago, the Christ child lay in a manure-filled stable in Bethlehem, on a straw mattress of questionable cleanliness, wrapped in swaddling clothes that did not come from Macy's.
Emphasis today weighs heavily upon material gifts. Charge cards promote a gluttony of expenditure that has little to do with the meaning of Christmas. The legendary Little Drummer Boy had nothing but a song to offer the new-born babe. That gift was cherished more then the gold, frankincense and myrrh brought by the wise men from the East, because it was a gift of pure love.
This season let us all think about how much we have, and how fortunate we are to be spending the holidays with loved ones instead of a damp, freezing floor in Grand Central Station. Above all, let us love one another. And if we can extend that love to the homeless street people, the next holiday season may witness a practical solution to our mutual shame. Love is a self-perpetuating emotion; and all it takes to activate it is to exchange it among ourselves. Merry Christmas!

2011-12-07T17:39:00.000-08:00

This is a essay addressing past and present problems as we celebrate a holiday with the hope and magic of the season, and look forward to a new and better future

HOLIDAY MAGIC

In spite of the economy and all its miseries, as the Holiday Season descends upon us like the first gentle snowfall of winter, we cannot help but be caught up in its magic. A magic instilled within us as children, passed on to future generations; a magic dating back to that most profoundly magical night in Bethlehem almost 2000 years ago. There was hope that year, for a new world and that hope has nurtured us throughout the ensuing centuries with all its horrors and its wonders. It is this same magic, which might be called faith, that will sustain us as we enter a turbulent new year.

The past year has been rough and it's been depressing. The upcoming new year offers little hope of immediate or lasting retrieval. The on-going recession looms constantly over the heads of middle-class Americans even as economic soothsayers insist that it is lifting. The public is not fooled, its members live in the real world, not one created by the number sheets of statisticians. What we need as the holidays approach is a little bit of magic to uplift sagging spirits.

Along with the relentless recession, we are still carrying the problems of the past with us, making some headway, but hardly enough to make a dent in the ills facing society. The homeless, to our great shame, are still homeless. City children are still being killed or maimed by random bullets and drug-related disputes. AIDS continues its merciless assault on young lives in spite of education, free condoms in the school system and safer sexual practices, using different avenues of transmission; for every one step forward, it seems there are two steps backward.

We have made major strides in the fight against cancer, but are no closer to a proven cure, although we are more aware of preventative measures through the adoption of healthier lifestyles.

Most people have been forced to cut back drastically in their spending habits. Food prices are up, but supermarkets thrive because we all have to eat, though not as well as in the past. Food coupons are dated to expire within a shorter time period, as industry tries to seduce the public into buying their products quickly. Yet nobody blames the very rich or the very poor for the recession. The middle-class takes all the heat for the "decadence" of the past decades.

The poor suffer because of the budget cuts slashing essential social services, but the middle class not only bears the brunt of the times, but is the only segment of the population that can reverse the recession by increased spending; and there is no extra money to stimulate a sluggish economy. The middle-class remains financially strapped, with misplaced guilt, yet helpless to make the needed changes.

Politicians are still found to be either corrupt or inept, and sometimes both. A long-lasting recession makes desperate people look for scapegoats. Instead of unleashing their frustrations on the government where it belongs, they tend to turn against minorities; one more flaw in human nature.

The fate of Mother Earth is still in jeopardy, although aware and caring organizations are struggling to institute beneficial changes that will halt the abuse of the planet. It would be prudent to remember that the earth is far more resilient than the humans presently in dominion of her. The world has undergone tumultuous changes throughout the ages and while we prefer not to think of it, the most endangered species is humanity.

The year has not been all bad. Freedom and democracy are rippling across the world like the waves of a stone tossed into a still lake. Most Americans are aware today that democracy and capitalism is a double-edged sword and can be used for both good and greed. Other nations embracing it are expecting it to be the panacea for their economic ills, a miracle cure, but possibly a false hope. Capitalism, given free reign by democracy can be manipulated and abused far more than despotism. History suggests that humanity has not yet reached the heights that freedom offers, yet succumbs easily to its pitfalls. In the biblical story of Eden, when Eve bit into the forbidden fruit, what she tasted was freedom and it was bittersweet.

Still freedom gives us the options of choice. All men are not created equal. Watch a cocaine-addicted or fetal-alcohol-syndrome baby if you doubt this. What is equal is the human capacity to rise above genetic annihilation tendencies and challenge the problems of a troubled society. If middle-class Americans are going to be blamed for the country's financial woes, then it is the obligation of that segment of the population to demand change and settle for nothing less.

During this Holiday Season, some of us may have less material things; a smaller turkey, batches of cookies that won't last until spring, and presents given with more feeling than material worth; which is what the holidays are supposed to be about. It is a time to gather with friends and loved ones, thankful to be together, mourning those we may have lost; a time to contemplate that most precious commodity, love, and consider how we might apply it to a shaky future. The magic of Christmas--thank God it exists, and may we all hold on to a little of it for next year.

Refelections on Christmas

The Christmas season is a time of reflection, at least for me. My family celebrates on Christmas Eve, a night arrayed with mountains of delectible food, piles of presents; the home nearly bulging from the onslaught of four married childfren, one single son, and ten grandchildren, a few relatives and friends. The evening is radiant, from both the holiday decorations and the expectation upon the faces of children who have waited so long for this most blessed of all nights.

The cousins, all close, both in age and love for each other disappear, the young ones to play and the older ones to catch up on with each other's lives. If a home could burst from love and happiness, this one surely would. This family is not a disjointed group, merging only on the most Holy of days--it is one unit, bonded by a love that keeps growing stronger. I like to think that might be what the Christmas spirit is all about. Love, potent, powerful love that makes the trials and losses of life bearable; meaningful as long as the the family remains intact.

Much like the trinity of God, Jesus and the Holy spirit, a family that is separate, yet one, nourishes itself by utilizing love for each other to bolster strength for the challenges of an ever-changing world. Alone, we tend to weaken, together we form a chain of support that withstands even the most brutal losses. Families like ours survive because we have each other.

As I reflect upon the virgin Mary bearing the Christ infant in an animal shed in Bethlehem, I recall my own first birth, bringing life into the world and helping create the first of a new generation. Mothers know, as do I, that it is as close to a God-like creation that any mortal can achieve. Nothing, no accomplishment on earth can ever compare to bringing the first wails of new life into the world.

I gaze upon my children, always missing the one long gone from a drunk driving death, and my grandchildren, who have been told stories of Noelle and her wonderful, albeit shortened life. I feel blessed and blissfully aware that this special night is meant to reinvent that night in Bethlehem that changed the course of the world, saving it from itself. The birth of the Christ-child is the personification of the meaning of our existence. Christmas is a celebration of life and love--not ordinary love, but unconditional love that surpasses all other.

One day, God willing, we will, as a world family, realize this and then there will be peace on earth, good will to all. May it come soon.

Merry Christmas and allow the love of this magical holiday to carry you throughout the coming year.

2011-11-16T20:26:00.000-08:00

This article explores the origins and history of one of our favorite holidays.

...AND WE THANK THEE

Spicy, aromatic whiffs of pumpkin pie, plum pudding, and candied sweet potatoes mingle with and enhance the hearty, mouth-watering smell of roasted, stuffed turkeys. Thanksgiving, a harvest festival thanking the Creator for a bountiful year, has remained virtually unchanged since the pilgrims in Massachusetts shared that first feast with Chief Massoit and some of his braves.

On Staten Island, New York, as in homes across the nation, people will gather in love and harmony to give thanks. Holiday fare on the Island will not differ greatly from traditional foods, except for the addition of ethnic dishes, such as home-made ravioli, succulent tomato sauce, crusty loaves of Italian bread, lasagne and delectable pastries indigenous to the NewYork area. In Italian homes, especially, a nine course meal is not unusual.

The turkey will dominate the day, whether served in homes, hospital rooms, soup kitchens for the needy, or meals on wheels for housebound senior citizens. Restaurants across the Island will also defer to the turkey, serving those who wish to celebrate, but hate to cook. Thanksgiving is a holiday that reminds people of the past, celebrates the present, and offers hope for the future; a day that gratifies body and soul.

Although Governor William Bradford, of the Plymouth Colony issued the first Thanksgiving proclamation in 1621, the concept of giving thanks is as old as the need for worship, and dates back to the time when humanity realized its dependence upon a Higher Power.The colonists of Plymouth observed three days of feasting,games and contests following their plentiful harvest in the autumn of 1621. The journal of Governor Bradford describes the preparations for that first Thanksgiving: "They began now to gather in the swell harvest they had, and to fit their houses and dwellings against winter, being all well recovered in health and strength and had all things in good plenty... Besides waterfowl, there was a great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many, besides venison, etc... Which made many afterward write so largely of their plenty here to their friends in England, which were not feigned, but true reports."

Staten Island, at that time, was a beautiful lush wilderness, sparsely inhabited by the Aqehonga Indians, who fished, hunted deer, raccoon, and fowl, and harvested corn, pumpkins, berries and fruit. Settlers arriving from England and Holland in 1630, added sausage, head cheese and pies to the abundant game and vegetation on the Island. Twenty years ago, it was common practice for butchers to hang plucked turkeys in store windows, while grocers displayed fresh produce and jugs of apple cider.

On October 31, 1777, the Continental Congress appointed Samuel Adams, Richard Henry Lee, and Daniel Roberdau, to draft a resolution "to set aside a day of thanksgiving for the signal success lately obtained over the enemies of the United States." Theresolutionwasaccepted onNovember 1, 1777.

George Washington issued a presidential proclamation appointing November 26, 1789, as a day of general thanksgiving for the adoption of the constitution. The first national Thanksgiving was celebrated in 1863, due to the unrelenting efforts of Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. While editor of The Ladies Magazine in Boston, she penned countless editorials urging the uniform observance throughout the United States, of one day dedicated to giving thanks for blessings received throughout the year. She mailed personal letters to the governors of all the states, and to President Lincoln, persuadingmany governors to set aside the last Thursday in November as a day of Thanksgiving. Her editorial was titled,"Our National Thanksgiving", and began with a biblical quote: "Then he said to them, go your way and eat the fat and drink the sweet wine and send persons unto them for whom nothing is prepared; For this day is holy unto the lord; neither be ye sorry, for the joy of the lord is your strength." Nehemiah, VIII:10

President Lincoln, moved by Mrs. Hale's editorial and letter, issued the first National Thanksgiving Proclamation on October 3, 1863, which reads in part: "The year that is drawing toward its close has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of almighty God." Lincoln designated Thanksgiving as a day "to subdue the anger which has produced and so long sustained a needless and cruel rebellion." The northern states, in response to the proclamation, held services in churches of all denominations, and gave appropriate sermons.

President Roosevelt, on December 26, 1941, approved the last Thursday in November as Thanksgiving, to be observed in every state and the District of Columbia.
The first international Thanksgiving was held in Washington, D.C. in 1909. It was the brain-child of Rev. Dr. William T. Russell, rector of St. Patrick's Church of Washington. Dr. Russell called it a Pan American celebration, and it was attended by representatives of all the Latin American countries. The Catholic Church was chosen for the services, since Catholicism isthe religion of the Latin American countries.

St. Patick's Church published an account of the celebration, noting that "it was the first time in the history of the Western World that all the republics were assembled for a religious function...When asked what prompted Dr. Russell in planning a Pan American Thanksgiving celebration, Dr. Russell said, "My purpose was to bring into closer relations the Republics of the Western World. As Christianity had first taught the brotherhood of man, it was appropriate that the celebration should take the form of a solemn mass." The Pan American celebration continued from year to year.

Some Eastern cities adopted the old world custom of dressing children in the over-sized clothes of their elders, masking their faces, and having them march through the streets blowing tin horns. The children often carried baskets, and solicited fruits and vegetables from house to house to help celebrate the day. This tradition was adapted from an old Scotch wassail custom.
The warm, loving atmosphere of this holiday has been immortalized in song, literature, and poetry, such as the well-known poem by Lydia Maria Child: "Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go..."

Thanksgiving signals the onset of the joyous holiday season which continues until New Year's Day. The only sad note is the number of people killed on the highways each year, en route to their destinations. Thanksgiving also proclaims the arrival of Santa Claus, who assumes temporary residence at the Staten Island Mall, which will be ablaze with Christmas decorations. Those shoppers brave enough to venture out on "Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, can take advantage of Island sales.

Today, more than ever, Thanksgiving is intrinsic to our time. The need to give thanks is profoundly American. As a people, we have pursued idealism, struggled for individual freedoms, and enjoyed the fruits of capitalism. Like the starship "Enterprise" on Star Trek, Americans have "dared to go where no man has gone before." The act of giving thanks acknowledges the greater force that inspires this nation, encouraging and demanding excellence. This Thanksgiving, when stomachs are bulging with savory, traditional food, and hearts are full with love for family and friends, it is fitting to give thanks.

Stand up on this Thanksgiving Day, stand
upon your feet. Believe in man. Soberly and
with clear eyes, believe in your own time and
place. There is not, and there never has
been a better time, or a better place to live.
-Phillip Brooks

THE WITCHING HOURS

2011-09-30T18:35:00.000-07:00

This is a story of the origins of Halloween from olden times up to the present

Strange shadows dart stealthily across sparely lit streets, as dusk settles heavily on quiet neighborhoods of tree-lined sidewalks and cheerful well-kept homes. The eerie scream of a screechowl,more likely the brakes of a passing car, echoes deep into the night. Looming ominously from nearly every window is the menacing glare of smirking Jack-o-lanterns, while the often nervous refrain of "Trick or Treat" rings out in repetitious peals. Halloween is here, and with it the shivery remembrance of things that go bump in the night.

Halloween, a holiday once favored second to Christmas, is not as much fun as it used to be. The last few Halloweens have brought tampering scares, such as finding razors in apples and poisoned candy. A sick segment of society has forced many parents to hold neighborhood parties, instead of allowing their children to trick or treat. The tricks have been turned on the children, ruining an a once magical evening.

Gone are the days when children, dressed up hideously, or gaudily beautiful, could enter the home of a stranger, and be offered chilled apple cider with cinnamon stick straws, and homemade gingerbread, or cupcakes with orange icing and candy corn faces. No longer can mischievous children creep up on neighborhood porches to toss corn kernels against the front door, or generously soap window panes, without triggering house alarms and angering guard dogs kept behind locked fences. The mystical lure of Halloween is becoming a commercial interprise for the sale of candy, costumes and decorations.

Halloween is a Christian name meaning All Hallows, or All Saint's Day, but the custom of Halloween dates back to the Celtic cult in Northern Europe. As the Roman conquest pushed north, the Latin festival of the harvest god, Pomona, mingled with the Druid god, Samhain. Eventually, the Christians adopted the Celtic rites into their own observances.

Halloween signified the return of the herds from the pasture, renewal of laws and land tenures, and the practice of divinations with the dead, presumed to visit their homes on this day. For both the Celts and the Anglo-Saxons, Halloween marked the eve of a new year. The Britains were convinced that divinations concerning health, death and luck, were most auspicious on Halloween. The devil, himself, was evoked for such purposes.

The Druid year began on November first, and on the eve of that day, the lord of death gathered the souls of the dead who had been condemned to enter the body of animals to decide what form they should take for the upcoming year; the souls of the good entered the body of another human at death. The Druids considered cats to be sacred, believing these animals had once been human, changed into cats as punishment for evil deeds.

The Druid cults were outlawed by the Romans during their reign in Great Britain, but the Celtic rites have survived, in part, to the present day. By the time these ancient rites migrated to America, the mystic significance was lost, and all that has remained is an evening when children can dress in outrageous costumes, and collect candy from obliging neighbors; yet a tiny part of every child still believes in witches, ghosts, and the nameless entities that creep about on Halloween, relatives, to their young minds, of the monster that lives under every child's bed.

In the ancient days, it was believed that Halloween was the night chosen by witches and ghosts to freely roam, causing mischief and harm. Witchcraft existed before biblical times, believed in by ancient Egyptians, Romans and American Indians. The Christian Church held varying opinions on witchcraft, at one time accrediting it to be an illusion, later accepting it as a form of alliance with the devil. As late as 1768, disbelief in witchcraft was regarded as proof of atheism.

Halloween customs varied from country to country, but all were related to the Celtic rites. Immigrants to this country, particularly the Scotch and Irish, introduced some of the customs remaining today, but there were many more that are unfamiliar. On Halloween in Scotland, women sowed hemp seed into plowed land at midnight, repeating the formula: "Hemp seed I sow, who will my husband be, let him come and mow." Looking over her left shoulder, a woman might see her future mate.

Apples and a six-pence were put into a tub of water, and whoever succeeded in extracting either of them with his mouth, but without using his teeth, was guaranteed a lucky year. In the highlands of Scotland in the 18th century, families would march about their fields on Halloweem, walking from right to left, with lighted torches, believing this would assure good crops. In other parts of Scotland, witches were accused of stealing milk and harming cattle. Boys took peat torches and carried them across the fields, from left to right(widdershins), in an effort to scare the witches away.

The Scots strongly believed in fairies. If a man took a three-legged stool to an intersection of three roads, and sat on it at midnight, he might hear the names of the people destined to die in the coming year. However, if he tossed a garment to the fairies, they would happily revoke the death sentence.

Scotland's witches held a party on Halloween. Seemingly ordinary women, who had sold their souls to the devil, put sticks, supposedly smeared with the fat of murdered babies, into their beds. These sticks were said to change into the likenesses of the women, and fly up the chimney on broomsticks, attended by black cats, the witchs' familiars.

In Ireland, a meal of callcannon, consisting of mashed potatoes, onions and parsnips, was solemnly served on Halloween. Stirred into this concoction, was a ring, a thimble, a coin, and a doll. The finder of the ring would marry soon, the finder of the doll would have many children, the thimble finder would never marry, and the one fortunate enough to find the coin would be rich. Jack-o-lanterns originated from Ireland, where according to newspaper editor and writer, George William Douglas, " a stingy man named Jack was barred from Heaven because of his penuriousness, and forbidden to enter Hell because of his practical jokes on the devil, thus condemned to walk the earth with his lantern until Judgement Day."

A more serious custom was the holding of the General Assembly(Freig) at Tara, in Celtic Ireland, celebrated every three years and lasting two weeks. Human sacrifices to the gods opened the ceremonies, the victims going up in flames.

England borrowed many of the Scotch and Irish customs, adding them to their own. Young people bobbed for apples, and tied a lighted candle to one end of a stick, and an apple to the other. The stick was suspended and set spinning, the object of the game being to bite the apple without getting burned by the candle. This custom was a relic of the fires lighted on the eve of Samhain in the ancient days of the Celts.

The only customs bearing no relation to the ancient rites is the masquerade costumes of today, and Halloween parades. But the custom of masked children asking for treats comes from the seventeenth century, when Irish peasants begged for money to buy luxuries for the feast of St. Columba,a sixth century priest, who founded a monastery off the coast of Scotland.

From the north of England comes the activity known as "mischief night", marked by shenanigans with no particular purpose, or background. Boys and young men overturned sheds, broke windows, and damaged property. Mischief night prevails today, but is mostly limited to throwing eggs, smashing pumpkins, and lathering carswith shaving cream. The custom of trick or treat is observed mainly by small children, going from house to house. The treat is almost always given, and the trick rarely played, except by teenagers, who view Halloween as an excuse to deviate from acceptable behavior.

Children today, knowing little or nothing of the history and myths behind Halloween, still get exited over the prospect of acting out their fantasies of becoming a witch, ghost, devil, or pirate. It is still pleasurable for an adult, remembering Halloweens past, to see the glow on a child's face as he removes his mask and assures you that he's not really a skeleton. Watching the wide-eyed stares of young children warily observing flickering candle-lit pumpkins, is an assurance that even today, thousands of years beyond the witch and ghost-ridden days of the Druids, a little of the magic of Halloween remains. Children need a little magic to become creative adults; adults need a little magic to keep the child in them alive. So if, on this Halloween, you notice a black cat slink past your door, trailing behind a horde of make-believe goblins, it probably belongs to a neighbor. And the dark shadow whisking across the face of a nearly full moon is only the wisp of a cloud, not a witch riding a broom... probably.

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.

Open, locks,

Whoever knocks!

-Shakespeare

This is the 10th anniversary of September 11th. I am re-posting this story I wrote at the time.

2011-09-03T18:45:00.000-07:00

The Uneaten Meal

The watch hanging from Ian’s belt loop under his white chef jacket read 8:15. The morning rush was in full swing. Patrons sat in the sunlit posh restaurant—some drummed their fingers with impatience, others read the Wall Street Journal. Many seemed barely awake, sipping coffee for a caffeine jolt.
Ian had worked the kitchen all morning, his third day on the job as a Sous Chef to the Head Chef. He had survived the breakfast rush; bagels with cream cheese and lox for the rushed, Quiche Lorraine for the ones too important to punch a time card. Still, most would be heading to their various jobs, many on the 104th floor below the restaurant. The conference room, a floor below the restaurant, on the 106th floor was catering a breakfast to the Waters Financial Technology Congress, serving seventy-one guests.
Ian was preparing for the lunch entrée special; a new recipe Chef would be offering to the lunch crowd--numbering hundreds. Ian worked quickly, with dozens of cooks helping to prep the ingredients. It was a gourmet delight – an aromatic concoction of bowtie pasta swimming in a rich white cream sauce, consisting of sweet herbed butter, heavy cream, white wine and an imported parmesan cheese. Large shrimp lightly sautéed in the sauce were placed on top, sprinkled with crumbled Greek feta cheese, sweet basil and freshly ground black pepper. Parsley sprigs added décor to the plate along with a few strips of fresh grilled red pepper. Chef Mike was confident of his creative cuisine. He was not of his new Sous Chef and often hovered over him, making Ian nervous. He was glad Chef Mike would not be coming in to work until the noon rush. This entrée could not be made completely in advance and the chef wanted a few made up to insure the recipe was followed to the letter. He had a fine reputation to maintain.
As customers rose to go to their perspective jobs; many glancing out of the rows of large windows overlooking the panoramic business district of Manhattan and the East River, the dining room was set up for the lunch rush.
Ian had Chef Mike’s creation ready to be sampled as soon as he arrived for his shift. He was afraid his job depended on how well he had prepared the dish. Still, he had done his best and felt confident it would suit the perfectionist chef.
Blinding light and roaring noise shut out his world. Fire and smoke filled the entire 107th floor, screams of panicked customers and workers alike died out quickly as they were overcome by suffocation and burns. The delectible shrimp and bowtie pasta entrée was destroyed along with most of the kitchen. Neither Ian nor Chef Mike would ever know if it met the chef’s high standards. His new recipe would go uneaten, along with all the meals scheduled for that luncheon meal. Windows on the World, Manhattan’s noted and loved restaurant was destroyed. It was 8:55 and the 104th floor was incinerated.
People on other floors were spared the direct impact of the first passenger jet, Flight 11 that slammed into the first tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. The ones on the top floor, along with the people in the restaurant were trapped. There was no way down. Many ran up the staircases to the top 111th floor and climbed onto the rooftop hoping to be rescued. Ian ran with them. He helped the few people alive make it to the roof. Helicopters tried in vain to reach them but black billowing smoke prevented this, as well as bursts of flame. People succumbed to the heat and smoke and died. Others chose to jump off the top of the building, rather than burn to death. Ian was one of them.
As he jumped, his thoughts were of his wife and their new born baby girl. It was such a beautiful day that they had planned a picnic in Central Park when his shift ended. Before Ian reached the ground, his spirit left his body. He saw his body splatter on the street below. He watched as financial wizards, secretaries, businessmen, maintenance workers, became one in the futile effort to escape the building. He saw a second plane hit the second tower, taking more lives in an instant. This plane hit closer to the top of the second tower giving more time for people below those floors to get out. Many made it, many more did not. Ian’s spirit drifted through the first tower, watching frantic people calling on their cell phones for help—some realizing their plight cried and said goodbye to their loved ones.
911 operators, unaware of the gravity of the situation, gave wrong advice to many who called--advising them to remain inside until help came. Help, that was unable to reach most of them. Most of the ones who survived had ignored that advice and hurried to escape the building.
New York City responded at once. Ian watched as police, search and rescue squads, and fire trucks rushed to the scene. Ambulances raced to help those who survived. People began the long trek down dark stairways, coughing and choking on thick black smoke; often meeting police and firemen on their way up the building. The heat was unbearable. Ian felt anquished, knowing that so many would never make it back down. He saw many like him who could walk through the ruins, already dead.
The second tower imploded almost without warning at 10:05 A.M., through time held no meaning for Ian. Thousands of lives were crushed into rubble. The ambulances and hospitals set up triages for the injured. Most beds lay empty, as few made it out of the towers alive. Except for the ones lucky enough to have escaped before the first tower imploded at 10:30, there were few patients to help. Ian observed the nearly 3000 souls wandering lost throughout the ruins. Many did not yet realize that they were dead.
The shock waves of horror extended past Manhattan, its neighboring boroughs, rippled across the country, impacted the world. America had been attacked by cowardly terrorists on her own soil. New York City wept, Mayor Guiliani wept, the free world wept. And Ian wept.
The Chef’s new entrée in the Windows on the World would go uneaten, never sampled for its flavor. There would be many uneaten meals that day and for many days to follow. Terror, death and inconceivable destruction had taken away the appetite of the City, the nation—most of the world. It left a bitter taste in the mouths of all those who lost loved ones and those who grieved with them.
Ian glanced through the rubble and saw his chef uniform buried beneath the debris. It held a quickly scribbled note of love to his wife and newly born baby. He hoped it would be found and given to her. He also hoped that she would tell his baby girl about her father—so that his memory would live on, even if he could not. Ian sensed that this most infamous day would never be forgotten. He wished for new twin towers to be erected for all the lost lives destroyed this day, taken so brutally. And maybe a new restaurant and new offices restored—not to replace those lost but to honor them. Perhaps there would be a new chef with an untried recipe that would be eaten and enjoyed. If that day arrived, it would signify healing in a shocked and saddened nation—a new beginning.
Ian turned to see a horde of people of all ages and occupations gathering together. He looked up and a bright, warm light spread across the sky. He saw arms outstretched to embrace those who walked toward the brightness. He joined them.

Seventy-three employees in the restaurant died that day, all seventy-one in the conference room and an unknown number of patrons. Remnants from the Windows on the World restaurant rubble included: a dinner spoon, soup bowl, salad plate, dessert plate and coffee cup. Also found was a table lamp, champagne flute, bottle of champagne, grill scraper—and a chef’s uniform.

Author’s note: The terrorists had counted on taking out from 30,000 to 50,000 lives that earth shattering morning. Their timing was a little off and many people had not yet entered the building. However, due to the toxins in the debris, such as mercury and asbestos, many of those who spent days, weeks and even years searching Ground Zero for body parts are now dying a slow and agonizing death due to cancers of the throat, lung and esophagus. Many more will die in the ensuing years—among them, families and small children whose homes were filled with this debris; which they were told to clean up themselves. The repercussions of disease from toxins spread to Staten Island, when they helicoptered the remains to the Staten Island dump. The dump blew the toxins across the seventeen-mile- long Island and many are dying of quickly striking and fatal cancers. It is conceivable that the total count of those lost on 911 will reach 30,000 to 50,000 after all. Damn the terrorists

Christmas; Past and Present

2010-12-02T20:40:00.000-08:00

This is a reflection of Christmas today as compared with the past.

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the Mall, last minute shoppers scurried from store to store; short on patience and with little evidence of the holiday spirit of love. The only ones smiling were the store owners and the costumed Santa, who gets paid to be jolly. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of talking dolls, video games, bicycles and other expensive toys, danced in their heads. Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap had just settled down to tackle the mountain of Christmas bills, which was larger than the national debt. The moon on the crest of the new fallen snow, reflected the concern of families awaiting the arrival of loved ones traveling on icy roads. Years ago, Christmas seemed easier, less commercial and more enjoyable. Many families lived near each other, and most of the decorations, foodstuffs and presents were homemade. While there was stress and haste to accomplish the needed tasks by Christmas Eve, the stress was different than what is experienced today. Generations past did not seem to lose sight of the reason for Christmas; a birthday celebration of sharing and love. The nostalgia of horse-drawn sleigh rides through wooded country roads is sorely missed. Bells jingling accompaniment to carols sung off key by bundled-up children in the back of the sleigh, is a thing of the past. Yet Christmas retains an aura of magic, nonetheless. Originally, the Christian church did not acknowledge Christmas at all, as such observance was considered a heathen rite. The earliest records of any Christmas celebration dates back to the early part of the third century. Gift giving, as a custom, may have originated with the Romans, relating to their worship of Dionysus at Delphi. The Christmas tree comes from the Germans, although its origin has been traced as far back as ancient Egypt. The tree replaces a former customary pyramid of candles, part of the pagan festivals. There is a legend that Martin Luther brought an evergreen home to his children and decorated it for Christmas. German immigrants carried this custom with them to the New World, but it did not gain popularity until 1860, when John C. Bushmann, a German, decorated a tree in Massachusets and invited people to see it. Evergreens, a symbol of survival, date to the 18th century when St. Boniface, honoring the Christianization of Germany, dedicated a fir tree to the Holy Child to replace the sacred oak of Odin. The "Nation's Christmas Tree," was the General Grant tree in General Grant National Park in California, dedicated May 1, 1926,by the town mayor. The tree was 267 feet high and 3500-4000 years old. Mistletoe, burned on the alter of the Druid gods, was regarded as a symbol of love and peace. The Celtic custom of kissing under the mistletoe comes from the practice of enemies meeting under the plant, dropping their weapons and embracing in peace. Some parts of England decorated with mistletoe and holly, but other parts banned its use due to association with Druid rites. Mistletoe was considered a cure for sterility, a remedy for poisons, and kissing under it would surely lead to marriage. The 4th century German St. Nicholas, shortened through the years to Santa Claus, has become the epitomy of today's Christmas spirit. St. Nicholas, taking pity upon three young maidens with no dowry and no hope, tossed a bag of gold through each of their windows, and granted them a future. Other anonymous gifts being credited to him were emulated and the tradition grew. The Norsemen enhanced the legend of Santa Claus coming down the chimney with their goddess, Hertha, known to appear in fireplaces, bringing happiness and good luck. Sir Henry Cole, impressed by a lithograph drawing, made by J.C. Horsley, instigated the idea of Christmas cards. It took eighteen years for the custom to gain popularity, and then it was adopted mainly by gentry. Christmas was banned in England in 1644, during the Puritan ascendency. A law was passed ordering December 25th a market day and shops were forced to open. Even the making of plum pudding and mincemeat pies was forbidden. This law was repealed after the Restoration, but the Dissenters still referred to Yuletide as "Fooltide." The General Court of Massachusets passed a law in 1657 making the celebration of Christmas a penal offense. This law, too, was repealed, but many years would pass before New England celebrated Christmas. When Washington crossed the Delaware River during the Revolutionary War, it was the observance of Christmas that made his conquest of the British a success. The enemy was sleeping off the affects of the celebration. Befana, or Epiphany, is the Italian female counterpart of Santa Claus. On Epiphany, or Twelth Night, she is said to fill children's stockings with presents. According to legend, Befana was too busy to see the Wise Men during their visit to the Christ Child, saying that she would see them on their way back to the East. The Magi, however, chose a different route home, and now Befana must search for them throughout eternity. The sacred song traditionally sung on her yearly visit is the Befanata. The number of Magi visiting the stable on that first Christmas Eve could be anywhere from two to twenty. The number three was chosen because of the three gifts; gold, frankencense and myrrh. Western tradition calls the Magi, Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar, but they have different names and numbers in different parts of the world. Though distinctly Christian, the social aspect of Christmas is observed and enjoyed by many religious and ethnic groups. Rabbi Eichler, during a sermon in Boston in 1910 explains why: "...Christmas has a double aspect, a social and theological side. The Jew can and does heartily join in the social Christmas. Gladly, does he contribute to the spirit of good will and peace, characteristic of the season. It was from the light of Israel's sanctuary that Christianity lit its torch. The Hanukka lights, therefore, justly typify civilization and universal religion." Dr. Clement Clarke Moore, a professor at the General Theological Seminary in New York, penned the famous poem, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Dr. Moore never intended for the poem to be published. Miss Harriet Butler, daughter of the rector of St. Paul's Church in Troy, New York, accompanied her father on a visit to Dr. Moore. She asked for a copy of the poem and sent it anonymously to the editor of The Troy Sentinel. A copy of the newspaper carrying his poem was sent to Dr. Moore, who was greatly annoyed that something he composed for the amusement of his children should be printed. It was not until eight years later, that Dr. Moore publicly admitted that he wrote the poem. Christmas is the favorite Holiday of children, who unquestionably accept the myth of Santa Claus. In 1897, one little girl began to have doubts as to the reality of Santa Claus, and wrote to the New York Sun, asking for confirmation. Her letter read: Dear editor, I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says,"If you see it in The Sun, it's so. Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?" Virginia D'Hanlon. Francis P. Church's editorial answer to the little girl became almost as famous as Dr. Moore's poem. In part, this is what he wrote: "Virginia, your little friends are so wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe, except they see... Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exists....Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as if there were no Virginias...No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood." It is sentiments like this that warm the heart of child and adult alike, as Christmas nears. It is not the gifts, soon forgotten, that make Christmas a time of wonder and magic. It is the love within all people for God, for children, for each other. During this hectic holiday season, take a moment or two to savor the true meaning of Christmas.

"And I heard him exclaim As he drove out of sight,
Happy Christmas to all, And to all a Goodnight!"
Dr. Clement Clarke Moore

Review for The New York Journal of Books

2010-08-26T19:56:00.000-07:00

The Postcard Killers by James Patterson and Liza Marklund
(Little, Brown, August 16, 2010)

The Postcard Killers by James Patterson and Liza Marklund is not a typical thriller. The riveting prologue sets the stage for promises the book is quick to deliver. Patterson’s penchant for unusually short chapters, which read more like scenes, propels the story forward with precision and expert pacing.Most serial killings have a distinctive pattern. So it is with this atypical story, one that baffles police all across Europe, including NYPD policeman, Jacob Kannon. Kannon’s interest is personal. The love of his life, his daughter, Kimmy, and her newlywed husband, are among the slaughtered victims. Catching the killer is the only thing keeping Kannon from blowing his brains out to put an end to his intense grief.None of the cities in the wide array of European countries will accept the American policeman’s help in solving these crimes—except for Stockholm, Sweden. Reporter Dessie Larsson gets the usual postcard, followed by grotesque Polaroid pictures of the first victims in Sweden. While Swedish investigators, Mats Duvall and Gabriella Oscarsson—the latter Dessie’s former lover—are not happy about it, they realize they need all the help they can get.Jacob has a strong sense that the case will be solved and presses Dessie to answer the postcard, offering the senders a huge sum of money for an interview. Dessie, hesitant, agrees, only if the often drunk and hung over Kannon will shower, shave, and change his clothing—but even through the filth she finds herself mesmerized by his sapphire-blue eyes and thick dark hair.To her horror, two more victims are found dead, posed much like all the rest, and Dessie feels responsible. Yet, in this and ensuing murders, something is different—not quite right. On a positive note, the killers, now presumed to be two people, are getting careless and are caught on camera at one of the crime scenes: a dark-haired woman and a fair-haired man. Patterson’s serial killers are like none ever known and just when the reader thinks the plot is headed one way, he throws a curve ball, sending the story off in new and different directions, aided by the deftly subtle Marklund, who adds her own feminine and European expertise to the writing.Sylvia and Mac, lovers and twins, are brazen enough to turn themselves over to the police and do interviews, to prove that, in spite of the resemblance, they are innocent. It’s difficult to believe these charming siblings are capable of the carnage done to the victims. And they are set free.Patterson, whose writing is reminiscent of Hemingway’s in its sophistry, occasionally inserts foreign sentences into the book, not always decipherable by the reader, but not enough to disrupt the flow of the story. Most times, but laboriously, the translation can be figured out by the content of the situation. The writing, generally fast-moving and entertaining, has some sentences that don’t make sense or offer appropriate imagery.But the only true flaw to this book is that it has to come to an end. James Patterson, teamed with widely acclaimed writer, Liza Marklund, is likely to catapult this novel into his best received yet.

Reviewer Micki Peluso is a journalist for three major newspapers, a short story writer, and author of . . . And The Whippoorwill Sang, a humorous family memoir

The Swimming Pool by Holly LeCraw

2010-04-26T20:51:00.000-07:00

The Swimming Pool by Holly LeCraw

The Hand That First Held Mine

2010-04-20T20:16:00.000-07:00

The Hand That First Held Mine by Maggie O’Farrell
(Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, April, 2010)

Lexie Sinclair’s mundane life during the early 1950s is about to take off like a rocket. Named Alexander by birth, called Sandra by her mother, she claims her new name given to her by Innes Kent, not more than minutes after meeting him. He is a charming British man, almost a decade older than Lexie’s eighteen years, and a character unto himself, as are all the players in this eccentric tale.
Love springs up between Innes and Lexie, as if from geysers and hot springs, as he introduces this bored country girl with big dreams to his world. It’s as if she’s come home at last. She drinks in the exotic nectar of artists and writers, an ethereal group that seems to drift above the reality of the masses. But the brightest flames are often snuffed out, as Lexie, acting as her own narrator in much of this unusual book, tells her readers. Writer O’Farrell thinks nothing of author intrusion, redundancies, odd metaphors, and adjectives—often switching tenses from one paragraph to the next. Yet she has moments where her writing is haunting, intriguing, almost an art form. Her story draws the reader into the complex lives of two different young women, fifty years between them, yet alike in so many aspects.
In a parallel story, Elina and Ted, living in present times, struggle to deal with the near fatal birth experience producing their son. The traumatic Caesarian delivery temporarily robs Elina, an artist, of her memory of both past and present. She is not yet famous, but not struggling either, and sees life through her hands and in her paintings—unlike Lexie, now a journalist, whose quick, observant mind conceives life from the branches of trees to the chaotic street life of the art district of London. Ted is a practical man, working in film production until his own memory heaves up images of his past—fast, distorted, and disconcerting as he struggles to make sense of his visions. The four might never meet but their lives will impact each other in a most unlikely scenario.
At the end of Part One of the book, a horrible incident occurs and in her omniscient way, O’Farrell drops it upon the reader as sudden thunder claps on an otherwise ordinary day. For Lexie, there will be no more of those, if in fact there ever were. Part Two picks up Lexie’s life without Innes and Elina’s struggle and worry over Ted. The plot begins to bubble and stir as the past insidiously creeps into the future.
Lexie, refusing to live with her off/on lover, Felix, finds herself pregnant and in “Lexie style,” has her baby alone, accepting only visits from the father of her child. Both women in the story experience difficult childbirth, yet are bound by intense love for their sons. But as Lexie foretold earlier in the story, she would not be around long, and Ted is soon without a mother by the age of three. As this odd mixture of stories and lives draws to a close, mysteries of the past are disclosed, taking the reader by surprise, and lending answers to Ted’s tortured soul.
O’Farrell’s tendency to avoid all rules of grammar and syntax seems to be deliberate on her part. While disconcerting at times—many times—her writing can read like poetry; as a result it’s hard to put this book down. Her descriptions of places, people, and events can be brilliant, full of insights into the human soul. Or, as Lexie says, “Everything she sees seems freighted with significance”—as is this book.
Reading The Hand That First Held Mine is like riding a roller coaster: never knowing what’s around the next bend, but anticipating a thrill; and when the ride is over, one wishes to buy a ticket for more of the same.

Reviewer Micki Peluso is a journalist for three major newspapers, a short story writer, and author of . . . And The Whippoorwill Sang, a humorous family memoir.
Posted by NY Journal of Books at 7:07 PM

Micki Peluso

2010-04-18T20:22:00.000-07:00

Monday, April 12, 2010

Her Mother’s Hope by Francine Rivers

(Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., March 2010)

Marta Scheider’s life story begins in the early 1900s, a period of hard times in Europe and in her Swiss homeland in particular. Marta’s own life is made harder still because she is despised and beaten by her father, who singles her out for this negative attention from her older brother, Hermann, and her lovely younger sister, Elise. Her mother, a gentle, loving, but frail woman, does nothing to stop the abuse and tells Marta to be strong and “Fly like an eagle,” all the while pampering the frightened and shy Elise. Their father constantly calls Marta “ugly,” among other derogatory names, yet their mother can’t help loving her drunken, cruel husband. If one good thing comes from this failure of her mother to protect her, it is that it makes Marta an independent, powerful young woman.
Marta’s hatred for her father makes her strong enough to leave home after her mother dies of consumption, followed by the sexual assault and subsequent suicide of her sister, Elise. Hermann has gone off to war, leaving Marta alone with her father, who has plans to work her half to death and keep her money. She feels a pang of remorse, but only for a moment, as her grief and determination move her forward to her own destiny.
One annoyance throughout parts of this book is the writer’s propensity to use several other languages, including French and German, without giving the translation. In most cases the meanings are made slightly clearer by surrounding sentences and events, but not enough to stop the slowed pace of the story as the reader struggles to translate.
Her Mother’s Hope is loosely based upon Rivers’ own family’s rich past, spanning two continents during the First World War. The history of the period is deftly intertwined within this story, especially the advent of World War I, which causes Marta to immigrate to Canada with her Swiss husband, Niclas Berhard, who speaks German and is looked upon with suspicion in a time of war and hatred. Marta uses her wits and faith in herself to succeed by owning her own boarding house, then refusing to sell it and follow her jobless husband to the wilderness of Manitoba, Canada, where he can realize his own dream of becoming a farmer. Marta struggles on her own throughout her first pregnancy and resourcefully rents out her business before finally taking her newborn son, Bernhart, and following Niclas to a place she hates.
Hildamara Rose, her second baby, is a frail, thin child who barely survives, bringing back the agony of her sister Elise’s death. Marta refuses to bond with the baby, making it her life’s work to push and strengthen Hildie, doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons. Marta has two more strong healthy daughters and dotes upon them, while remaining overbearingly strict with Hildie—who wonders why her mother seems to hate her. Marta does not see, for many more years, that in her good intentions, she has turned into her father. Tired of winters at 40 degrees below zero and blazing hot summers, Marta convinces Niclas to move to California, selling her old business to buy land to farm almonds and grapes. Niclas, a God-loving bible-reading man, is content at last—in spite of the tension threaded within the family.
This is not a book of fast-paced action and intrigue, but rather one to savor like a fine brandy as one turns each page, delving further into the lives of a family fraught with illness, abuse, and a relentless poverty that threatens to overcome everyone and everything. Marta is, and always will be, a survivor. The premise running throughout this extraordinary saga is the ongoing struggle by a mother to steel her so-called fragile daughter to the harsh realities of life.
The final chapter, called “Marta,” reads like an epilogue as Marta, after much introspection, realizes that Hildemara was never weak when it mattered and possesses an inner strength perhaps stronger than Marta’s own. Will this stunning revelation come in time to heal the damaged relationship with the daughter she has actually loved the most of her four children? The final chapter might have been even more powerful if written in the present tense, drawing the reader directly into Marta’s feelings, instead of observing them from afar.
Renowned Romance Writers of America Hall of Famer, Francine Rivers portrays the intricacies of love and betrayal, ending with a tantalizing hook: the promise of a second title in the series, Her Daughter’s Dreams, to be released in the Fall of 2010.
Reviewer Micki Peluso is a journalist for three major newspapers, a short story writer, and author of . . . And The Whippoorwill Sang, a humorous family memoir.

Posted by NY Journal of Books

2010-02-21T16:54:00.000-08:00

Facing My Fear of Public Speaking

First I must mention that I have a fear of public speaking and being the center of attention. That being said, while other authors may have jumped for joy at the thought of speaking into TV cameras, for me it was about as much fun as root canal without novacain. Luckily--or not--depending upon one's point of view, I had been cajoled(forcefully pushed lol) by my local MADD organization to speak to one of the school PTAs, as a victim of a DWI related death. I survived that and thought that I was now finished with all this public notice. I did sell books at the PTA to interested parents--a just reward for my terror in speaking before them. Just about the time I was relaxing from my ordeal and my heart had gone back to its normal rate, Carmen Rivera, president of the Red Hat Ladies Society, called to tell me we were going to do a cable TV spot in a few days. I considered packing fast and heading out of town. But there was no way I could avoid it as people were trying to help promote my book, which was a generous thing that deserved my thanks, rather than my cowardice. The morning of the live interview, I awoke to an attack of allergies in my eyes, general body aches, a sick stomach and every other ailment my subconscious mind could conjure up to make me call in sick. I pretended a false bravado and drove off into my worst nightmare . We got lost finding the place, in spite of Mandy, our sarcastic GPS system and I was sure I would get a reprieve at that point. But no--a kind man gave us directions and I soon walked up the steps into my personal ring of fire. I would not be alone in this interview. The host, Grace Feranti, had invited Carmen and three other women to sit at a table much like the television show, "The View." All had suffered a loss of some kind, but the show focused mostly on my book and my story. As the camera man called out, "Three, two, one," I felt like I was standing before a firing squad. I could see my husband and daughter in the small audience reserved for friends and family who had come with us. That did not calm me as both can be my harshest critics at times. The one thing that saved me from totally collapsing was not daring to look at the TV set showing us Iive. God must have heard my morning prayers because I became completely detached from myself throughout the half hour program. My heart raced and jumped a bit at first, then settled down, thanks to my trusty new pacemaker. My family assured me that I gave a calm, cool and wonderful performance. I would not know as I remember nothing, except for the blessed words, "Cut, we're off the air." Whew! I did it and my book was displayed on the screen, along with whatever I said,. I had help fulfill my death bed promise to my dying daughter, Noelle, 26 years ago. I breathed a sigh of relief and was quite proud that I'd faced my fears, thinking I'd never have to do this again. But no . . .Three more appearances were quickly scheduled at various places by Carmen in the upcoming months. Will I ever get used to this? I don't think so--I never did get used to root canal.

Micki Peluso, author of . . .AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG

My book review of High Noon by Nora Roberts

2010-02-18T18:56:00.000-08:00

Saturday, February 6, 2010

High Noon by Nora Roberts
G. P. Putnam, 2007
High Noon, written by The New York Times bestselling author, Nora Roberts, offers her wide readership a riveting suspense story about Police Lieutenant Phoebe MacNamara’s dangerous job as Savannah’s top negotiator and liaison in hostage and suicide situations.
Phoebe is drawn to this intense line of work by both the trauma of a hostage situation of her own as a child and the subsequent friendship of Police Captain David McVee, who becomes both father figure and mentor. She handles her job with finesse and professionalism, is the best at what she does and everyone knows it. One officer under her tutelage resents this in a most violent way. After being suspended from her classes, he becomes a dangerous enemy, backed by his influential ex-cop father.
Juggling her work with raising her seven-year-old daughter, Carly, and dealing with her live-in agoraphobic mother who never leaves the safety of her home, MacNamara has no time for romance—nor any desire after the disastrous marriage to Carly’s father, now out of their lives and remarried.
Two things turn her life upside down: meeting Duncan Swift, the boss of a suicide jumper that Phoebe successfully talks down from a high building, and having her own life and that of her family jeopardized by a deranged stalker bent on punishing Phoebe for her role in the loss of his own loved one.
Despite her tendency to solve both work and private problems alone, she finds Duncan’s presence reassuring. He soon captivates both her daughter and her mother, which gains him points with Phoebe, despite her resolve to avoid serious relationships.
Fans of Roberts may find her recent habit of dropping pronouns and nametags during dialogue a distraction. In some of her latest works, Roberts seems to take on the mutilation of the English language as she might a quest in one of her fantasy books. Still, this story is so well plotted, and fast paced, that most readers will be able to overlook the staccato dialogue that often disrupts an otherwise most enjoyable book.
Robert’s title, High Noon, is drawn from the old movie classic of the same name. She references lines from the movie throughout the story, but the link to the movie could be stronger. It’s an excellent concept not fully developed. However, this author of over 150 books has long maintained the ability to develop characters in a way that endears them to her readers long after the book is read. High Noon is no exception.

Reviewer Micki Peluso is a journalist for three major newspapers, a short story writer, and author of . . . And the Whippoorwill Sang, a humorous family memoir.

Return of the whippoorwill

2009-06-21T20:21:00.000-07:00

My original book title had to be changed six weeks before its release, due to the fact that it was being used by another writer. One of my daughters and I were editing a section of the book concerning a bird my three youngest girls had found intriquing so many years ago. They could only hear its three syllable trill, as it was an illusive nocturnal bird. They called it their 'Theodore' bird because its song sounded like that word. I had caught sight of the fantailed white and brown tail feathers of an unusual bird one day as the sun was setting. My neighbor told me it was a whippoorwill.
Kelly and I decided to listen to bird songs and find pictures of that bird and maybe use it in the title. This bird was a part of our lives and our loss, since it sings a bright lilting tune in spring but a gutteral, sad song of summer's loss. That summer of 1981 as the whippoorwill mourned, so did we. It is said in an old English legend that the whippoorwill helps carry a soul to heaven when someone dies. I found that comforting . . .and so AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG became the new title for the book--and just in time.
In late summer of 2007 as I was barely able to write the heartwrenching end to my memoir, I heard the song of the whippoorwill each night from dusk to midnight. All other birdsong had ceased by then except for some angry cackling by other birds trying to get their young ones settled down for the night. They didn't seem to appreciate the whippoorwills lullaby. I never saw it, except for glimpses of its unmistakable tailfeathers flying away from my house. I had never heard or seen a whippoorwill in the 26 years I lived here and it is not native to my city. It stayed as if to comfort me until I wrote the last two words to my book, 'The End', and was never heard again.
I was recently coming home from work after a gruelling week with tension and illness wearing me down. A low-flying bird flew right past me. I recognized the tailfeathers. "Could that be my whippoorwill?" I thought. It swooped down into my bushes and let me get as close as a foot away from it. I finally got to see the whole body and it was a handsome creature, completely unafraid of me. When I mentioned this to my husband, he said, "Oh yeah, I meant to tell you. It's been here a few days now. It follows me around and sits in the bushes outside my den window."
I felt warm inside, healed in body, mind and spirit. Once again the one I lost had sent me a sign from another realm, telling me, as my publisher always says, "Don't worry-it's all good." I hope it stays with me till summer's end as it reminds me that my loved one is alive and well and watching out for the family.

I Made a Speech without Picturing anyone Nude

2009-04-15T20:41:00.000-07:00

This is the first time I did a luncheon/speech/book signing at a prestigious restaurant without fear. Well, I finally did it. Of course I spent the mandatory three days prior to my speaking engagement in anxiety and turmoil--but somehow not as much as usual. I knew I was committed and had to do it so I accepted that, if somewhat terrified. It was rainy and windswept that noon as I drove up to the most prestigious restaurant in my area, The Staaten. An omen, I thought of dire things to come. I was speaking at the Grandmother's Club and invited for their monthly luncheon. I was too nervous to eat, sitting at an oval table with ten women I have never met, except for the one who had invited me. They were lovely,intelligent, yet jaunty women and I began to relax. Even the food started to look good. Just as the main entree was placed before me, I was called up to speak. Due to back problems, it's difficult for me to stand in one place for long and I figured I would have to ask for a chair. But I told myself I would try and stand at the lecturn and I did. I didn't knock it over, trip over the microphone cord, of knock over the drinks of anyone at the long table on either side of me. I carried a written paper with me in case I lost my train of thought or the whole train, as I am wont to do upon occasion. I spoke mostly without the need of the paper and adlibbed a bit. My heart did not race in an effort to set off my defibrulating pacemaker, my blood pressure did not rise, I didn't break into a sweat and flaming face. I looked and sounded like I had been doing this forever--and this empowered me--from the prayer I had asked for before my speech--that God would give me His strength to empower me to do all things. And He did. I will probably never like making speeches, or being the center of attention, but after this day I now know that with that blessed empowerment, I can and will do it. To end on an even higher note, I sold a significant amount of books for the size of the luncheon party and made new contacts. I think I have finally overcome the monster called fear!! Maybe, just maybe, one day these things might become fun. Nah . . . Micki Peluso Comments (2)

A Quirky Meditation Garden

2009-02-28T20:33:00.000-08:00

There are many forms of meditation, prayer being one of the best. Yoga is a deep gentle physical form of mind, body and spirit meditation and heals the body while soothing the spirit. I’ve tried them all and while each one is helpful in its own way, my personal favorite, after prayer, is visiting my meditation garden. This magical garden is a place where the conscious mind is free to interact with the subconscious mind within its surroundings and receive feedback from both areas of the brain. It’s a form of self-hypnosis and is easy and enjoyable to do—certainly more so than sitting in a cross-legged position chanting ‘ohhmmmm’ for a period of time. I enter my garden the same way I enter into self-hypnosis, starting with deep breathing and relaxation. I like to do it right before a nap or bedtime, often falling asleep in the middle of it. I walk down a long imaginary staircase—or if I am in pain I use an escalator for at least four flights down. That would be my conscious mind reminding me that with fibromyalgia and herniated discs, I can’t walk that far, or do steps. When I feel I’ve reached my destination, I stop at that landing which is a foyer of sorts with large sliding glass doors leading out to a beautiful countryside. My garden is an Eden-like area of grass, flowers, trees and a small stream. The sky is azure with puffy white clouds and a gentle breeze wafts about, the temperature just right. It’s quiet as I walk over to a large oak tree, sit down and lean against its smooth bark. Slowly animals appear and the air rings out with birdsong. A white snow owl perches on a branch above me. She’s lovely, but quite sarcastic. She has no patience for my complaints or excuses and accuses me of knowing the answer to my problems but refusing to act on them. She seems to be a part of me-my subconcious, perhaps. A large blue-gray Alpha wolf comes up and nuzzles me, his deep blue eyes full of compassion, assuring me that I am loved. His mate, shy and cautious, stands behind him. The wolf offers me courage. Then a roly-poly black bear cub tumbles out and plops on top of me, insisting on having some fun and cuddling. There is a sweet doe next to me who does not judge me but offers unconditional love. Rabbits, raccoons and a red fox often join the group, but usually only the owl, wolf and doe speak to me. One day, at a particularly trying time in my life, a new bird appeared—the whippoorwill of my memoir. Upon its arrival, all the animals became silent and many backed away as if aware of something supernatural in their midst. The whippoorwill spoke as it sings—in 3 sylable sounds. “All is well, all is well.” It gave me great comfort as I felt it was heaven sent from my lost daughter, Noelle, who loved and drew birds. The whippoorwill had played a part in her life, her death and beyond, appearing at strange times during our grief. I knew it was offering answers to the many worries I brought to my garden. When my time in the garden ends, I can leave and return to full consciousness, rested in body, mind and spirit. On another day, while arguing as usual with the snow owl, as the bear cub tried to get me to wrestle, a new arrival came waddling across the grass toward me. Somehow I sensed the white duck with the smirk across its face was going to say something not quite profound. As it neared, I called out, “Don’t you dare say it!” It ignored me and quacked a loud “Aflac!” The other animals seem to wonder why I was laughing. Humor is a great healer. The duck smugly settled among the rest of my animal friends. If ducks can smile, this one did. Now who says meditation can’t be fun?

On the tenth aniversary of September 11th I am re-posting this story

2008-09-14T18:13:00.000-07:00

The Uneaten Meal

The watch hanging from Ian’s belt loop under his white chef jacket read 8:15. The morning rush was in full swing. Patrons sat in the sunlit posh restaurant—some drummed their fingers with impatience, others read the Wall Street Journal. Many seemed barely awake, sipping coffee for a caffeine jolt.
Ian had worked the kitchen all morning, his third day on the job as a Sous Chef to the Head Chef. He had survived the breakfast rush; bagels with cream cheese and lox for the rushed, Quiche Lorraine for the ones too important to punch a time card. Still, most would be heading to their various jobs, many on the 104th floor below the restaurant. The conference room, a floor below the restaurant, on the 106th floor was catering a breakfast to the Waters Financial Technology Congress, serving seventy-one guests.
Ian was preparing for the lunch entrée special; a new recipe Chef would be offering to the lunch crowd--numbering hundreds. Ian worked quickly, with dozens of cooks helping to prep the ingredients. It was a gourmet delight – an aromatic concoction of bowtie pasta swimming in a rich white cream sauce, consisting of sweet herbed butter, heavy cream, white wine and an imported parmesan cheese. Large shrimp lightly sautéed in the sauce were placed on top, sprinkled with crumbled Greek feta cheese, sweet basil and freshly ground black pepper. Parsley sprigs added décor to the plate along with a few strips of fresh grilled red pepper. Chef Mike was confident of his creative cuisine. He was not of his new Sous Chef and often hovered over him, making Ian nervous. He was glad Chef Mike would not be coming in to work until the noon rush. This entrée could not be made completely in advance and the chef wanted a few made up to insure the recipe was followed to the letter. He had a fine reputation to maintain.
As customers rose to go to their perspective jobs; many glancing out of the rows of large windows overlooking the panoramic business district of Manhattan and the East River, the dining room was set up for the lunch rush.
Ian had Chef Mike’s creation ready to be sampled as soon as he arrived for his shift. He was afraid his job depended on how well he had prepared the dish. Still, he had done his best and felt confident it would suit the perfectionist chef.
Blinding light and roaring noise shut out his world. Fire and smoke filled the entire 107th floor, screams of panicked customers and workers alike died out quickly as they were overcome by suffocation and burns. The delectible shrimp and bowtie pasta entrée was destroyed along with most of the kitchen. Neither Ian nor Chef Mike would ever know if it met the chef’s high standards. His new recipe would go uneaten, along with all the meals scheduled for that luncheon meal. Windows on the World, Manhattan’s noted and loved restaurant was destroyed. It was 8:55 and the 104th floor was incinerated.
People on other floors were spared the direct impact of the first passenger jet, Flight 11 that slammed into the first tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. The ones on the top floor, along with the people in the restaurant were trapped. There was no way down. Many ran up the staircases to the top 111th floor and climbed onto the rooftop hoping to be rescued. Ian ran with them. He helped the few people alive make it to the roof. Helicopters tried in vain to reach them but black billowing smoke prevented this, as well as bursts of flame. People succumbed to the heat and smoke and died. Others chose to jump off the top of the building, rather than burn to death. Ian was one of them.
As he jumped, his thoughts were of his wife and their new born baby girl. It was such a beautiful day that they had planned a picnic in Central Park when his shift ended. Before Ian reached the ground, his spirit left his body. He saw his body splatter on the street below. He watched as financial wizards, secretaries, businessmen, maintenance workers, became one in the futile effort to escape the building. He saw a second plane hit the second tower, taking more lives in an instant. This plane hit closer to the top of the second tower giving more time for people below those floors to get out. Many made it, many more did not. Ian’s spirit drifted through the first tower, watching frantic people calling on their cell phones for help—some realizing their plight cried and said goodbye to their loved ones.
911 operators, unaware of the gravity of the situation, gave wrong advice to many who called--advising them to remain inside until help came. Help, that was unable to reach most of them. Most of the ones who survived had ignored that advice and hurried to escape the building.
New York City responded at once. Ian watched as police, search and rescue squads, and fire trucks rushed to the scene. Ambulances raced to help those who survived. People began the long trek down dark stairways, coughing and choking on thick black smoke; often meeting police and firemen on their way up the building. The heat was unbearable. Ian felt anquished, knowing that so many would never make it back down. He saw many like him who could walk through the ruins, already dead.
The second tower imploded almost without warning at 10:05 A.M., through time held no meaning for Ian. Thousands of lives were crushed into rubble. The ambulances and hospitals set up triages for the injured. Most beds lay empty, as few made it out of the towers alive. Except for the ones lucky enough to have escaped before the first tower imploded at 10:30, there were few patients to help. Ian observed the nearly 3000 souls wandering lost throughout the ruins. Many did not yet realize that they were dead.
The shock waves of horror extended past Manhattan, its neighboring boroughs, rippled across the country, impacted the world. America had been attacked by cowardly terrorists on her own soil. New York City wept, Mayor Guiliani wept, the free world wept. And Ian wept.
The Chef’s new entrée in the Windows on the World would go uneaten, never sampled for its flavor. There would be many uneaten meals that day and for many days to follow. Terror, death and inconceivable destruction had taken away the appetite of the City, the nation—most of the world. It left a bitter taste in the mouths of all those who lost loved ones and those who grieved with them.
Ian glanced through the rubble and saw his chef uniform buried beneath the debris. It held a quickly scribbled note of love to his wife and newly born baby. He hoped it would be found and given to her. He also hoped that she would tell his baby girl about her father—so that his memory would live on, even if he could not. Ian sensed that this most infamous day would never be forgotten. He wished for new twin towers to be erected for all the lost lives destroyed this day, taken so brutally. And maybe a new restaurant and new offices restored—not to replace those lost but to honor them. Perhaps there would be a new chef with an untried recipe that would be eaten and enjoyed. If that day arrived, it would signify healing in a shocked and saddened nation—a new beginning.
Ian turned to see a horde of people of all ages and occupations gathering together. He looked up and a bright, warm light spread across the sky. He saw arms outstretched to embrace those who walked toward the brightness. He joined them.

Seventy-three employees in the restaurant died that day, all seventy-one in the conference room and an unknown number of patrons. Remnants from the Windows on the World restaurant rubble included: a dinner spoon, soup bowl, salad plate, dessert plate and coffee cup. Also found was a table lamp, champagne flute, bottle of champagne, grill scraper—and a chef’s uniform.

Author’s note: The terrorists had counted on taking out from 30,000 to 50,000 lives that earth shattering morning. Their timing was a little off and many people had not yet entered the building. However, due to the toxins in the debris, such as mercury and asbestos, many of those who spent days, weeks and even years searching Ground Zero for body parts are now dying a slow and agonizing death due to cancers of the throat, lung and esophagus. Many more will die in the ensuing years—among them, families and small children whose homes were filled with this debris; which they were told to clean up themselves. The repercussions of disease from toxins spread to Staten Island, when they helicoptered the remains to the Staten Island dump. The dump blew the toxins across the seventeen-mile- long Island and many are dying of quickly striking and fatal cancers. It is conceivable that the total count of those lost on 911 will reach 30,000 to 50,000 after all. Damn the terrorists

PAROLE

2008-08-30T17:37:00.000-07:00

This is an interesting Assignment from Stephen King's, "On writing." I am to narrate a story about a prison escape but change the character from a man to a woman. I made it a parole instead of an escape to get more dialogue from it.

PAROLE

Rita counted the days. Her mental competency hearing was a week away. Convince these morons I am sane and I am outta here, she thought. Of course she was sane, no doubt of it. Imprisoned by a biased Judge and a jury of rednecks. Just let me get out of this hellhole and they will see how sane I am. These thoughts kept her calm.She pretended to take her mind-altering prescription drugs from the prison matron, then spit them in the toilet of her small cubicle. One more week. She could wait. Years had passed, waiting. Then a trip home to see her husband,ex, actually, since the bastard chose to divorce her while she was incarceratred. Like he hadn't helped her beat up the kid. Rita told him she never wanted a brat anyway. But she was here and he was out free. It ate at her like a canker sore, but not for long-not for long. And their little girl, grown now after five years. What would she be now? Ten years old, about. Probably don't remember her dear ole Mom, Rita thought. She will when I get out. Oh she will. and her father more so.Rita faced the panel of parole officers, the Warden, social worker, shrink, etc., on the date of her hearing. Her once rosy complexion was pale from years of prison life-her drab green prison garb accentuated it. Still the glitter from her steely gray-blue eyes, held a madness she fought to conceal. Beneath a mop of ash-blonde hair, her face held a reminder of cruel beauty, not quite lost.The panel was a somber group. Suited men, suited women, wearing a facade of importance and fake concern. God how Rita hated these hypocrits. She hid it well, sitting demurely before them, with as much innocense as she could portray and still be believeable. This had to work. She must get out-there were debts to pay, and Rita was never one not to meet her resonsibilities. Dick and Melissa first on her list, then her parents. Could she stop then? Rita had no idea but just the idea of killing gave her an orgasm of such intensity that she had to cross her legs to keep from crying out.The snob panel did not seem to notice. They sorted and shifted paperwork, in preparation for her question and answer session that would decide her fate. Rita was ready. Let the inquisition begin."Rita," asked the psycho therapist. "Have you learned from your years with us?""Yes Maam, so much that it would take a month of Sundays just to tell ya about it.""I see. And do you think you can live outside and be a credit to the community? When you answer, please give me details."" Maam, I know I can. I have learnt so much from you and everyone here. I have become a new woman. I've been thinkin' on how much my baby girl needs her Mama. I have lost so many years I intend to make up for them if I can , in the best way I know how." Rita lowered her head at the appropriate moment."Rita, it will not be easy to establish a relationship with your daughter," the social worker, interjected. "you will need a lot of support.""I realize that Maam, a big job, I reckon, and it will take time, but I got plenty of that."The Warden spoke next. "You do understand, Rita, that on parole, you will be required to report to your parole officer once a week, should we agree to return you to society?""Yes sir, I know that. I will comply with anything you want me to do.""You understand we have petitions from your family asking us not to let you go.""No Sir, I didn't know that. I will promise to stay away from them if that is your wish, much as I love them.""Rita," the Warden said, rising from his seat. "We expect you to do just that. If you go anywhere near them, except for your daughter, you will be immediately brought back, in violation of parole. Is this perfectly clear ?"" Yes Sir, " Rita nodded, with a face sincere and sad enough to convince them. She was edgy now. Her freedom was at stake."Leave us now, Rita," the Warden advised her. "We will discuss your parole request and inform you of our decision by the latter part of the week."The news came to Rita as she was folding prison laundry. Her psychologist brought her the answer."Rita, the panel has decided in your favor. I am happy to bring this news and hope you will make a worthwhile life for yourself.""Thanks, Maam, this means so much to me. I won't disappoint you."The therapist smiled, shook her hand and told her to call her if she had any problems. It was done. Rita was free. Her breast swelled with emotion. At long last, her revenge would begin. And after killing those who had rejected her, Rita would be happy. If not, there were always more to kill.

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2008-08-27T18:07:00.001-07:00

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A Most Unusual Wedding

2008-08-26T20:28:00.000-07:00

I hate weddings. They bore me, receptions deafen me. The noise from usually bad dj's wreak havoc upon my senses, setting off episodes of irregular heartbeats, trying to keep pace with the drumbeats. Most of the food at the buffet table is too salty or too high in fat for my heart problems, so as I savor a cold shrimp dipped lightly in cocktail sauce, I do it with trepidation, hoping it will not lead to an ER visit , hooked up to a ventilator for Pulmonary edema, a fancy word for too much salt. It has happened before so it is a real fear, yet hunger and food lust forces me to sample that shrimp and a few other delicasies, hoping the lack of salt or food before the wedding, plus an extra diriretic will save me. So far I have been lucky. But I am playing with fire. This wedding , on a Friday afternoon, was not one I looked forward to with any kind of anticipation. How little I knew! It was held at Ste. Rita's Catholic church in Neward, New Jersey. That should have been a clue. Nothing good happens in Newark and no one goes there unless they have to for some important occasion. Like a wedding. It is a city rife with crime, poverty, pollution, and drug traffic. To those living there unscathed thus far, I offer my appologies for my reprehensive view of your city. But hear me out.We got lost, of course, and like the old cliche, the men with us would not ask for directions. That and heavy workday traffic, made us late for the wedding. I was not unduly upset over this-the later the better, I thought.One of my three daughters and her husband rode with us, guys up front, women in the back. Just as well, as it spared us the illegal u-turns made my insignificant other, aka the driver.By the time we pulled up to the church, we realized it was not possible to enter, due to at least 30 police cars, city and state, ambulances, search and rescue trucks, helicopters hovering overhead, swat teams, and armed police swarming the area. "Perhaps the groom changed his mind," I quipped. We passed the church, turned around and my husband maneuvered his almost new Dodge Durango, through long lines of police cars and on-coming traffic on the other side. Pulling into the church parking lot, we saw the limo with the bride pull up, late as well. There was an armed guard in front of the church and a helicopter droned overhead. The officer explained there was a suspect on the loose. Overkill, I thought, never having seen such an arsenal in my life.We slipped in right before the bride and sat down in the back. Very few made it to the church since it was a work day. The bride walked down the aisle beautiful as are all brides, to meet her groom, who had in fact showed up. The church was the most exquisite I have ever seen. Marble pillars, marble walls, an arresting, (pardon the pun) statue of St. Michael the Arch angel wielding a sword, and high, arched ceilings with paintings resembling the Sistine Chapel in Rome. A beautiful ceremony was officiated by an elderly white-haired priest, apparently used to such events in his Parish.As we followed the newly married couple out of the church we asked the family what had happened and were grateful we were late. Two suspects had high-jacked a car and assaulted a police officer. One of them had run and hid in the church. As my sister-in-law was coming out of the church rest room, she walked into a hoard of armed, bullet-proof-vested swat team members brandishing rifles. Typically, she asked, "What did I do?" and then joined the rest of the entourage who had all been removed outside while they captured the perpetrator. It could have easily turned into a hostage situation.The limos and shuttle buses pulled away as we stood talking out in the parking lot, catching up , until my brither-in-law a mild-mannered man, asked nervously if we could please continue the conversation is a safer place. Noting the helicopters circling and the armed men all over the place, it seemed like a good suggestion. The reception was held at The Tides, a magnificent building with huge glass windows, winding staircases and chandeliers of near indescribable beauty. The cocktail hour served the most delectible food, all capable of easily killing me. Yet the ambience was a perfect ending for a wedding that will surely be told of for many generations to come. It is one wedding I will not soon forget. It almost made me forget that I really hate weddings.

A Most Unusual Wedding

2008-08-26T20:26:00.000-07:00

Night is Fallinf; You're not home

2008-08-26T20:23:00.000-07:00

I pick up the phone to call one of your friends, then drop it as reality delivers a sucker punch to my heart. You will not come home this night.I listen for your footsteps, knowing I will notr hear them. The door will not slam behind you as your rush into the house with exuberance. Looking for me, so you can tell me of your day.You went through some moody, sad years, as teens do, but this year you came into your own. You grew to like yourself, gained confidence and became even more comical than you were before, if that were possible. Well versed in irony, your humor was a combination of Carol Burnett and Lucille Ball, a mixture of slapstick and sarcasm.You are beautiful and you almost believe it yourself, but not quite. It happened so suddenly I nearly missed the transformation from gangly teenager to lovely young woman.You have fallen in a first love with a nice boy who will carry your picture in his wallet for 24 plus years. Life is so good for you at last. I have never been so proud or so close to you in both our lives. But you will not come home to me this night, my sweet Noelle, except within my dreams.I intened to do this differently, with a dialogue between my workaholic husband and myself, but the tragedies I suffered this past weekend turned me in this direction. I had no choice but ot go with it - the muse always gets his way.

Great Expectations

2008-08-26T20:20:00.000-07:00

The seed interrupting the last bite of her grapefruit was sprouting green. Might grow, Tess thought, slipping it into water. It soon rooted.Her amateur botanist husband placed it into a bonzai pot." You can't bonzai a grapefruit tree!"" Watch me," Bart replied. The tree sat on the windowsill, dwarfed, its roots trapped within a shallow pot. Tess empathized.It survived the years; observing. Children grew and married-grandchildren crayoned next to its ceramic tray. Attempts to grow stunted by routine trimming of its thick roots.Pleas to set it free denied, as was Tess's request for freedom from a love no longer blooming. Life continued except for Tess and the tree, their thirsts and needs entrapped within a prison not of their making.She found Bart face down in his garden; sudden death from emphesema. Tess felt rooted in grief for love unfullfilled, forever stunted - robbed by a lifetime of might-have-beens.One sunny morning, preceded by overcast days, Tess repotted the minicule tree. It first appeared lost in the huge vase. Soon it began to thrive. Within the year it stood six feet tall, forming blossoms. For Tess and the grapefruit tree came promise of long awaited rebirth- a new beginning.

The new Old age.

2008-08-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

It is a priviledge to live during a time when 60+ is no longer old age, but a fresh beginning. We will not escape some ailments along our passage into this new frontier, but it will be manageable as medical advances pop up almost daily.Our children need to look to us, for we, the baby boomers, push forward with renewed zest and dedication. It is our destiny. Never again will there be a group like us. We have changed the past, live the present and intend to promote and protect the future. It was our generation that paved the way,suffering death and tears and struggles to give todays children the things they take for granted. We gladly paid the price. Now we must educate them to understand what we endured that they might be free, well-fed for the most part, with avenues open to then that we only percieved in dreams. In hope that they will carry on the torch for upcoming generations,We were young in our twenties, and thirties, yet more politically aware than any other generation in that age group. Baby boomers believed they could change both the present and the future--each decade of our lives spurring mental and emotional growth. We thought we made a difference. Maybe we did. Maybe not. But we never stopped trying.Now in what was once the twilight of our lives, we are not retiring our convictions. The spark of interest in life that spawned our tumultuous youth has not gone out. We do not quit, we readjust. We do not relax, we regroup our priorities. For us the best is both here and yet to come. Blessed with time, health,and mental accuity, we press on to continue to achieve the goals of our youth. Baby boomers are the personification of what it means to be an active American, taking responsibility for the welfare of our country and loved ones. I am proud to count myself among them.

Noelle's Quilt

2008-05-18T20:08:00.000-07:00

NOELLE'S QUILT

When I was a young mother raising six children, all a year or two apart, I sewed most of their clothing. After years of collecting scraps from their many outfits, I decided to make quilts with the leftover material. At the time, with so many children, I was always short of blankets.

The first quilt was quickly claimed by my fifteen-year-old son, Dante, who still treasures his baby blanket. It was made of mostly denim squares, and was bright, warm and practical. Now thirty-four years-old, my son will not part with that quilt.

Twelve-year-old Noelle begged me to make her a similar quilt. Her quilt, howerer, was more whimisical, filled with squares from nightgrowns and tee-shirts to party dresses, reminding me of the biblical, "Joeseph's coat of many colors," and Noelle loved it. It covered her bed ever day, accompanied her to sleep-overs with friends and was a favorite possession until the day she was struck down by a drunk driver on a lovely summer day when she was fourteen-years-old. She died of massive spinal cord injuries, after lingering in a semi-coma for the ten longest days of our lives.
Her quilt was passed on to her closest sister, Kelly. who wrapped it arround herself in an effort to retain the closeness of Noelle. I lost all desire to sew another quilt.

Now nineteen years later, with the loss of Noelle still causing a soreness within our hearts, my daughters and I take out her quilt and reminisce her life.
"Mom, see that square ? It was from the skirt and vest that she wore constantly," her oldest sister Kimber says in a soft, awed tone.

"Look Mom, that piece was from her favorite nightgown," her sister Kelly adds, in an equally subdued voice. "You made one almost like it for me."
I run my hands lovingly across a red plaid square, a piece from matching Christmas outfits that I had made for my three youngest girls, and let my mind drift back in time.
"I can't remember any of these squares," says Nicole, who was only eleven when her sister died. "Except for this one, which you made into those awful jeans that only Noelle liked."
Some of my children were embarrassed, especially during their teenage years, to wear home-made clothes instead of name-brand clothing. But not Noelle. She loved the outfits I sewed and wore them proudly
My sons Michael and Dante do not share these times with us nor does my husband. The memories are too painful for them to recall. Women, and my daughters are all women now, seem to need tangible things to cling to in times of great loss.
As we contemplate the soft, colorful squares of her quilt, we are made poignantly aware that Noelle's quilt, though somewhat tattered with age, holds a rememberance of her life. And we find comfort in this. Noelle is gone from us, but her favorite blanket is quilted with memories of her love, her essence-fabrics woven forever in time.

New exerpt from AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG

2008-05-10T16:50:00.001-07:00

My mother moved into the apartment building in October. The beach house was too expensive for her now that Sal was gone. She took the vacant apartment at the opposite end of the hall and began redecorating the drab three rooms with the ardor of a high priestess adorning her temple. I shuddered in apprehension. My mother had an obsession with certain colors, particularly pink, black and gray; heavy on the pink. My childhood homes were inundated with those horrid colors, every room without exception. She wasn't alone. Those colors were popular in the fifties, but my mother took the fad to extremes. I hated pink so much that I refused to buy clothing, even baby clothes for Kim, or household furnishings that bore any hint of the putrid color.
“Now Baby, I don't want you to see the apartment till I'm all finished,” Mom said, lugging her supplies down the hall. “It's going to be a surprise. Your Momma's gonna turn this hovel into a palace.”
It's going to be worse than I thought, I said to myself and willingly stayed barricaded behind the walls of my own apartment, dreading the day when her artistic endeavors would be completed.
Two days later, Billy knocked on my door.
“Mom says come see the apartment,” he said, a whimsical smirk spreading across his freckled face, his hazel eyes trying hard to look innocent.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“You'll see,” he said, grinning.
I had to admit as I gingerly moved throughout her small apartment that my mother had surpassed my wildest expectations.
The ceilings were painted jet black with sparkles glued to them. Mom flipped on the glaring overhead florescent light fixture and the ceiling became a starlit night sky. The walls were various shades of pink, ranging from rosy mauve to hot fuchsia. The old enameled stove shone a glossy black with iridescent pink knobs, and the refrigerator radiated hot salmon. The floor tiles, which were pale gray to begin with, did little to tone down the gaudy ambience of the room.
Since pink was strictly a feminine color,(something my brothers may have pointed out) my mother did the boys' room in red and black, with lots of stripes. Her own bedroom continued the pattern of pinkness, and included a starlit ceiling.
“What do you think, honey?” she asked proudly.
“There are no words to describe it,” I hedged.
“I know,” she sighed. “It's better than even I could have imagined. But wait. The bathroom is the best yet.”
I steeled myself and followed her to the bathroom. As I walked into the tiny cubicle, I fought the impulse to cover my eyes with my arm. The sink and toilet were painted in slick black, the walls shocking pink with decals of gray swans attached at random. The ceilings were, of course, sparkled black, and the shower curtain, partially concealing a bright purple shower stall, was a nauseating shade of light lavender with zigzagging stripes of black and gray. A fluffy purplish-pink rug hugged the floor and matching towels hung from the single towel bar behind the door, topped with black wash cloths.
“Mom, you've outdone yourself,” I said, edging toward the outer door of the apartment, fighting a wave of vertigo.
She nodded. “I knew you'd love it.”
“But you know, Mom, I don't think enamel fixtures are supposed to be painted.”
“Don't worry, Baby,” she said. “By the time the paint starts to chip off, I'll be long gone. I'm not staying in this dump forever.”
“What do you suppose the landlord will think?” I called down the hall as I headed home.
“Honey, he's gonna love it!”
I had my doubts about that. Our landlord was a short, squat, grumpy man in his sixties, with thinning white hair, and quick, darting eyes that seemed to constantly evaluate whatever they fell upon. He had a tendency to spit when he spoke, and we soon learned to stand at least six feet away from him, preferably not downwind. He was always dressed in threadbare, gray suits when he visited the apartment house each month to collect the rent, and was notorious for popping in unannounced. His wife was about four and a half feet tall, almost as wide and had the largest thighs that I had ever seen on a human being. From the knees down, her legs resembled tree stumps, with no definition at her ankles. She had small, beady eyes placed too close to a hawkish nose which nearly met her thin, bitter lips. Her hair, what there was of it, was a wad of steel grey that matched an unyielding personality.
Their names were Mr. and Mrs. Miller, and we had immediately dubbed the apartment building, “Miller's Landing”. Aside from charging exorbitant rents for a run-down hole of a building that they were not inclined to maintain, their major vice was nosiness; particularly Mrs. Miller. They had master keys to all the apartments and thought nothing of entering our home during our absence. This really annoyed Butch.
“I'm sick of this nonsense,” he said, one day after we returned home from shopping in time to see Mrs. Miller leaving our apartment.
“We'll have to get a bolt lock and a chain for across the door,” I said. “I want one anyway for the kids. They're tall enough now to open the door and leave.”
“Right,” he said, thoughtfully. “But first I'm going to teach that ugly old bat a lesson.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You'll see,” he said, refusing to say anything more.
The first of the month rolled around and the Millers came for their rent. I had taken the kids for a walk down the five-mile boardwalk that ran along the beach. I was on my way home, when I spotted Mrs. Miller charging down the long staircase faster than I had thought it was possible for fat people to run.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Miller,” I said, lifting the kids out of the stroller. “Is something wrong?”
She sputtered something unintelligible at me, and hurried out of the building, her face beet red and small venomous eyes blazing furiously.
What has he done now? I thought. He probably insulted her and now we're going to get evicted. I carried the kids upstairs, leaving the stroller in the doorway, and called out to Butch.
“In here,” he said.
I walked over to the bathroom. He was sitting there, buck naked, reading the Reader's Digest.
“You didn't.” I said.
“Yep, she walked right in on me. I bet she never sneaks in our apartment again.”
It was unlikely that she would. She purposely avoided us both after that incident, but we put the chain across the door anyway.
When I told my mother the story later that day, I asked her what the Millers thought of her apartment.
“They never said a word,” she said. “They just walked around the apartment and stared at it for the longest time.”

rewards of writing, AND THE WHIPPOORWIL SANG

2008-05-04T19:36:00.000-07:00

The rewards of writing . . . And the Whippoorwill Sang
By
Micki Peluso

While writing the book was something I had sworn to do as a promise to the one I lost, it was both blessing and bane. There were times when I laughed and times when I cried—just like my readers. Assome of you know, many supernatural events happened as I finished the book. Parts of the book seemed written by someone other than me and while I was happy and relieved to finally write, ‘The end’, that was also painful. I had brought my daughter back to life while writing of her funny, wonderful life and in ending it; I lost her, yet again.
Now that I have marketed and sold the book for the past six months, I’ve been blessed with remarkable happenings. I knew the book would both entertain and move many people, but I had no idea to what extent. I have been pleased and amazed by the amount of letters, e-mails, and phone calls I get from readers. This book has been able to ease their pain, promise them hope, and comfort them in their own trials. I never saw that coming and it contines to astound me.
I have boys, aged fifteen and up, to older men at eighty-two reading the book and finding something in it for them. I had imagined my audience would be strictly women with children, but that has not been the case. Teachers and librarians from her High School write me with their own remembrances of her, as well as her classmates and friends. Many, after reading the book go to her gravesite and leave flowers. Some of them e-mail with stories and experiences with Noelle that I never knew, and for that I am grateful. Again, I am overcome by these things. Some, having known her long ago, are torn between wanting to read the book and afraid to trust their emotions. What was started as a promise has become a fulfillement far beyond my wildest expectations. I could ask nothing greater than to have this book make a difference in the lives of those who read it. Knowing that some who read this book may become more aware of the dangers of drinking and driving, and more importantly, realize that life is made up of choices—choices which dictate life and death—inspires me to want to write more books. Having teenagers read the book is another blessing, as they realize that teenagers from 1959 to today are basically the same. I pray that they will, with help from this book, stop and take responsibily for the both their safety and the lives of others. As proud and humbled as I am from the reaction to . . . AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG, I believe that somewhere in another realm, Noelle is smiling.

The Return of the Whippoorwill

2008-03-21T16:15:00.000-07:00

THE RETURN OF THE WHIPPOORWILL
My original book title had to be changed six weeks before its release, due to the fact that it was being used by another writer. One of my daughters and I were editing a section of the book concerning a bird my three youngest girls had found intriquing so many years ago. They could only hear its three syllable trill, as it was an illusive nocturnal bird. They called it their 'Theodore' bird because its song sounded like that word. I had caught sight of the fantailed white and brown tail feathers of an unusual bird one day as the sun was setting. My neighbor told me it was a whippoorwill.
Kelly and I decided to listen to bird songs and find pictures of that bird and maybe use it in the title. This bird was a part of our lives and our loss, since it sings a bright lilting tune in spring but a gutteral, sad song of summer's loss. That summer of 1981 as the whippoorwill mourned, so did we. It is said in an old English legend that the whippoorwill helps carry a soul to heaven when someone dies. I found that comforting . . .and so AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG became the new title for the book--and just in time.
In late summer of 2007 as I was barely able to write the heartwrenching end to my memoir, I heard the song of the whippoorwill each night from dusk to midnight. All other birdsong had ceased by then except for some angry cackling by other birds trying to get their young ones settled down for the night. They didn't seem to appreciate the whippoorwills lullaby. I never saw it, except for glimpses of its unmistakable tailfeathers flying away from my house. I had never heard or seen a whippoorwill in the 26 years I lived here and it is not native to my city. It stayed as if to comfort me until I wrote the last two words to my book, 'The End', and was never heard again.
I was recently coming home from work after a gruelling week with tension and illness wearing me down. A low-flying bird flew right past me. I recognized the tailfeathers. "Could that be my whippoorwill?" I thought. It swooped down into my bushes and let me get as close as a foot away from it. I finally got to see the whole body and it was a handsome creature, completely unafraid of me. When I mentioned this to my husband, he said, "Oh yeah, I meant to tell you. It's been here a few days now. It follows me around and sits in the bushes outside my den window."
I felt warm inside, healed in body, mind and spirit. Once again the one I lost had sent me a sign from another realm, telling me, as my publisher always says, "Don't worry-it's all good." I hope it stays with me till summer's end as it reminds me that my loved one is alive and well and watching out for the family.
Micki PelusoPosted on Friday, Mar 21, 2008, 06:16 PM (UTC -4)

interview with AuthorIsland

2008-03-19T21:11:00.000-07:00

Home Interviews Womens Fiction Author Interviews Micki Peluso Interview
Micki Peluso Interview
Micki Peluso, author of the moving memoir AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG, was sweet enough to take a few minutes from your very busy promotional and writing schedule to talk with us about life, writing and her new book. Thanks so much for answering some questions for us Micki. Tell me what brought you into this crazy writing world.
I always loved writing and when I was unable to attend college due to family problems, my stories went without me. They got good grades too! I kept a few journals raising my six kids, but didn't get serious about writing until a tragedy struck my family. At that time I wrote as a catharsis for my grief. The first short story of the accident was published first time out in Victimology: An International Journal, along with two related poems. Encouraged by that, I began writing slice of life stories, mostly nonfiction or based on the antics of my family. I sold a few short stories to small magazines, but was quickly shot down by rejections following my earlier success. I happened to send a story to my bi-weekly Staten Island newspaper and that led to a 26 year journalism career as staff writer for The Staten Island Register, doing my own commentary column, full page interviews and news coverage. I wrote regularly for the daily paper, The Staten Island Advance under a pen name, Malllie Woodham; finding a perfect outlet for my humous slice of life stories. I've sold a few horror and paranormal short stories to other newspapers, magazines, on-line e-zines and contests.
AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG is centered around the tragic death of your daughter, why did you decide to take a more upbeat spin with it?
I wanted this story to be a celebration of life rather than a eulogy of death. My daughter was a funny girl, who loved life and this book needed to reflect that.How did this book bring closure to you?
It was the culmination of a deathbed promise to my daughter that I would make sure that many would know her and that her life, through this book might have meaning. Tell me about your road to publication.
Like the short story version, it was almost magical. The publisher came to me and said that something spiritual came to her and said she was to publish my book, as it was a story that needed to be told. At the time It was not finished. I never queried, or submitted it anywhere and even avoided the dreaded synopsis! Lucky lady!!! Do you know how many writers hate you right now? LOL – only kidding, it’s nice to know there’s still magic in the world! Now that the book is on the shelves, what do you hope readers will get out of reading your story?
I hope that my readers will laugh, love, identify with and yes, maybe shed a tear or two--while sharing our journey through tragedy to the other side of sorrow.
Each year thousands of lives are lost or injured through DUI offenses. Each one was loved and has a story to tell. This book was written for each of them. And for those who loved them that they may know that they are not alone--I hope to leave them with a feeling of peace and respite from their own losses.
What inspires your writing?
Real people inspire me the most. I read fiction and have sold short fiction. I am trying fiction novel writing, but I love to write about real people, whose stories are stranger than fiction. I am writing several children's books as well, as a shorter entry into the world of fiction. What is your favorite part about writing?
I don't write to live or live to write. I write when I have something to say. I never sit and try to think up plots or stories. When they come to me--usually through an annoying muse, while enjoying a short, blissful cat nap--I sigh and throw the pillows and get up and write it down. Most of my stories are written that way. I enjoy editing, a good thing, since I am a terrible typist, and also rewrites, making a good sentence become a wonderful one.What do you like to read?
I read just about everthing, but especially love horror and paranormal from Stephen King and Dean Koontz, as well as historical Scottish romances, especially with time travel involved , like the Diana Gabaldon series. Harry Potter, of course, is a favorite and any lively fantasies with elves, gnomes, shapeshifters, etc; and the early Irish trilogies by Nora Roberts. I have enjoyed all the classics and great writers of the last hundred or more years and now read more for simple pleasure.What’s next for Micki Peluso?
Whatever comes to me, I will write, but I am giving fiction and perhaps scriptwriting a chance. Writing is not what I do; it is who I am, so I will always be writing something, even if it's a creative grocery list.

[ Back ]

What's in a word?

2007-11-10T21:24:00.000-08:00

"What's in a Word?"
By
Micki Woodham

"In the beginning was the word . . ."
John 1:1 King James Bible

Remember the childhood taunt, "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never harm me?" This is not true. The "Pen is mightier than the sword," and the complexity of language plays upon everyday living. It can be subtle,(my favorite) sarcastic, ironic, menacing, hateful, loving, instructive; the list is long. Ultimately words hurt much more than stones, because the scars from hurtful words do not heal.

Words make or break relationships, erase the tears of a crying child, soothe an aching heart, cheer on an athlete, or manipulate an enemy. Words are power and it is essential to learn to use them wisely and to understand the strength behind a simple word.

As applied to writing, proper word choice is critical to a successful essay, short story or novel. Making an error in word usage can change the tempo and alter the perspective of any given piece of writing.

Years ago, four years of Latin was a required course in High School. We all groaned, but this now obsolete language was the best example of how the nuance of a word can completely change the meaning of a sentence or story. English, based in part, on Latin, is no different. The words one uses in narrative or description show character traits and personality.

"He was a tempting, seductive piece of work," shows the reader much about this character, as does, "She put on her reading glasses and began stamping the books the children brought to the library desk." Words define characters, build plot and suspense, and describe settings. Words in dialogue show emotions and character behavior. Words are all one has to work with, both in real life and in writing. It is prudent to choose them well. Roget's Thesaurus should be evey writer's bible, packed as it is with synonyms that shift context and meaning in the most subtle ways.

"Words express ideas, name things. Words have momentum. They carry you from one place to another. When your words change, you change." Taken from The World Book Complete Word Power Library."

"'In the Miracle Worker,' based on the life of Helen Keller, the little blind and deaf girl's mother asks the child's teacher what is to be taught first. 'Language, I hope, replies the teacher . . . what is she without words?'" Taken from from the Dictionary of Problems and Expressions," by Harry Shaw.

Words are critical to writing. Without them the page would be blank. Words help communicate thoughts and feelings. What would we be without words? Mastery of words would take an lifetime and more. And should.

As for drafts, to my mind, no story is ever completed until some caring person rips it out of my hands and says, "Enough already!"

Passage

2007-11-10T21:12:00.001-08:00

PASSAGE

The six-foot Blue Spruce tree leaned against the wall, ignored by garage sale enthusiasts in Midwestern Pennsylvania, where real trees took preference.
"Buy it Mom," Nicole begged. "Please!"
"Okay, Okay!" Unable to resist her impetuous teenager, Annie agreed. "But you're lugging it to the car."
Decorated with homemade ornaments, the tree dominated a corner of their old farmhouse.
It was so regal they kept it, bare, between holidays. It calmed them somehow, eased the pain and loss of Nicole's father.
Ghostly apparitions shared their home, some benevelant, some not. The most haunting events emanated from the attic. Nicole and her Mom gathered Christmas decorations stored there the following year. This time when the attic door slammed shut, forcing it open was futile. Panicked, they ran to the window.
The scene outside depicted another century. Wagons replaced cars, farms flourished where modern homes once stood. The door swung open. They ventured to an unfamiliar downstairs, the ambience from a bygone era.
In the corner of the room stood a live Blue Spruce tree decorated with homemade ornaments. Nicole grabbed her mother's hand and whispered.
"Mom, I think maybe we found our real home."
Annie nodded.
Her husband held out his arms to embrace them.

Micki

203 wds

another 200 wd story

First two chapters of Whippoorwill

2007-10-26T21:38:00.000-07:00

. . . And The Whippoorwill Sang

by

Micki Peluso

ISBN: 978-0-9792030-4-6

To the one I loved and lost . . .

I kept my promise

Prologue

September 2, 2005

“Oh, Mom! There she is,” Brandon says with a big grin on his face.

“Really? Where?” his mother, Kelly asks.

“Right there in the clouds--can’t you see her?”

“Brandon, I can’t see anything but the sky.”

“Never mind, she’s sitting right in the seat next to you . . .duh. And she says you never listen to her, so I hafta tell you that she doesn’t want me to play in the street with the big boys no more.”

To Weep . . .

To Laugh . . .

To Grieve . . .

To Dance . . .

~ Chapter One ~

August 23, 1981

The doctors stride into the emergency waiting room, nodding curtly to neighbors and friends, indicating that they want them to leave. The door swishes shut, entombing me with these harbingers of death, who sit in a semi-circle about ten feet from me--as if getting too close might somehow contaminate them. They introduce themselves, one by one, but their names wash over me unheard. It is the looks on their faces that I will always remember.

“I'm sorry,” one of them says, “there's nothing we can do.”

The room begins to close me in.

“You may as well let us disconnect the life support machines,” another one adds. “The spinal cord is completely severed.”

“No,” I say, my voice sounding calm and detached--someone else's voice. “No, I want the machines connected.”

“Mrs. Peluso, why don't you come with us now and look at the x-rays,” says the third doctor, sitting closest to the door.

The room seems to grow dimmer and dimmer and the faces of these men who choose to mandate life and death are a blur.

“I don't want to see the x-rays. I want to see my child.”

They flinch slightly at the cold fear inflecting my voice, then shake their heads in agreement. Glancing furtively at each other, they rise in unison and leave. People slowly filter back into the room, and someone places a jacket over my shoulders to stop the uncontrollable shivering. Finally, a nurse comes to lead me to my child.

When I reach the cubicle in the emergency room and pull back the gray curtain, I lose all remaining sense of reality. This cannot be the child who had run out my front door only an hour ago, too excited to give me a kiss goodbye, calling out, “Bye, Mom.” What I am seeing is some stranger, bloodied and swollen beyond comprehension, fighting for life within a mass of human destruction; shattered jaw, broken nose, missing teeth. My tears mingle with the blood that slowly trickles down an alien face that does not even vaguely resemble my child.

“Please God,” I pray. “I'll do anything you want if you just fix all this.”

An orderly comes and wheels the gurney into the elevator and up to the Intensive Care Unit; and I follow.

Someone contacts my husband and he calls the hospital. I try not to scare him, but he knows me too well, and is driving the five hour trip back from New Jersey in apprehensive terror. Two of my children are with me; numbed into a silence they seem incapable of breaking. Shock, maybe, but I can barely console them. My thoughts are linked with the one in the room next to us. Ten-year-old Nicole is with a neighbor, and the other two cannot be located.

I feel so cold and so alone--like being in a dream where something terrible is about to happen which I can avoid if I run; run fast away from it. Instead, I drift in slow motion as my senses struggle to obey my mind to hurry, to escape from here, back to the safety of a time that now seems an eternity away.

~ Chapter Two ~

February 11, 1959

The office of the Justice of the Peace had barely enough room for all of us to stand. If I fainted I would have had little chance of hitting the floor, which was cluttered with old furniture and a huge desk overflowing with legal paraphernalia. But I wouldn’t faint. The prospect of eloping to Elkton, Maryland at the questionable age of seventeen, was an adventure I found both exciting and more than a little frightening.

What would my mother say? Probably “congratulations,” since it was her idea to remarry in a double ceremony. The bizarreness of a double elopement with my own mother wouldn’t occur to me until years later.

My husband-to-be, eighteen years old, looking sixteen, turned to me, a smile lighting up his handsome, dark face; beaming reassurance that I didn’t share. I never stopped to wonder whether he felt as confident as he looked; such was his personal power and charisma, or maybe love really is blind. He reached for my hand and squeezed it.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he had asked the night before, as we sat nervously preparing to spend the night in the back seat of my mother's Buick, in the vacant parking lot of the A&P, waiting for the courthouse to open.

“Do you think we should?” I had answered, well past the point of decision-making, and not wanting to take responsibility for something as enormous as this.

“All I know is that if we don't get married tomorrow, your mother will take you out of school and drag you off to Florida with that gigolo she's marrying.”

“Be quiet, my mom and Sal will hear you.”

He turned on the seat to face me, taking both my hands in his. His face was deeply shadowed, highlighted only by the parking lot lights, but I could still see the intense shine in his olive brown eyes.

“You are the epitome of my life's dreams, and the only hope in my future.” He had a sincere flair for poetic rhetoric, which both amused and moved me. I had to drop my eyes, unable to bear the raw emotion reflected in his.

“I know you're right. It's just so scary.” My nerves were frayed from the long wait and my voice hoarse from the effort of whispering. There was so much I had to say, so many questions to ask. My doubts and fears battled against the intense love I felt for this man/boy and the conflicting emotions tearing at me left me speechless.

The moon had set over the A&P before we finally relaxed and nestled into each other's arms. Butch moved my hair away from the nape of my neck and kissed me behind the ear.

“It'll be all right,” he’d said. “I promise I'll always try to make you happy.”

The tension had drained from my body as I lay against his. He seemed so strong, so much stronger than me, and so safe. A small voice inside me countered, maybe it won't be all right and if it isn't, remember that this was your choice. I surrendered to the strong male scent of him, melted into the warmth of his body and nothing else mattered.

My mother planned on moving to Florida soon after we all returned to Easton, taking Sal and my younger brothers with her. Stevie, at twelve years old, would not mind the move, nor would Billy, who was only ten. Their lives had been so traumatized by the messy divorce that moving to a new life could only be a welcome change. My mother would be relieved to leave me in Pennsylvania, a married woman no longer her responsibility.

The Justice of the Peace pronounced us man and wife; all four of us, and my life on that bright and cold February morning took a turn that would forever alter whatever course was set in another direction. I walked out of the courthouse, blinded by the dazzling sunlight of a brilliant day, as a different person . . . a married woman.

Our elopement had to be kept secret, because I was graduating high school in June and in 1959, school officials frowned on married students. If a girl became pregnant she was automatically expelled from school. The education system was strictly totalitarian and rules were not made to be broken and rarely bent to fit the needs of individual students. Butch's parents could not be told due to the real fear that they would have the marriage annulled.

We had taken on the mantle of lifetime commitment, but had no place to live together, no full time jobs and no real future. My attic bedroom became our honeymoon suite, with the sounds of my brothers horsing around and Sal's hearty belly laughs wafting up through the walls.

“Doesn't that guy ever shut up?” Butch complained, as he perched on the edge of the narrow daybed where I had slept for the last four of my seventeen years. I sat on the other side of the bed, busily fluffing up my two pillows and picking imaginary lint off the quilted comforter overflowing with stuffed animals. Butch kept glancing over at me, expecting me to do something. I kept fidgeting, wondering how I would tell him that we couldn't make love.

“Since I didn't get to carry you over the threshold, do I at least get a kiss?” He looked so young and so dreadfully hopeful. I slid over to him and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“We um, what I mean is . . . well it’s just that we can't do this tonight. I have my um . . .” My cheeks flamed red as I struggled for the words.

“Oh. Oh, I know. I get it. No, no, it's okay. We don't have to do this tonight. We can wait. We have our whole lives to make love.” He put his arms around me and we snuggled under the soft blankets, both of us uttering a barely audible sigh of relief. All at once we were the best friends of a few days ago as we giggled over the absurd imagery of short, fat Sal making love to the statuesque beauty that was my mother. Much later, Butch left for his own home as if nothing unusual had happened that day.

~

During the following weeks, I helped my mother pack for her trip south. Sal spent most of his time on Long Island, where he was from originally; doing whatever it was he did. Business, he always said, expecting that statement to satisfy everyone's curiosity. My mother never seemed to notice that Sal's life was about as open as the gates to Sing Sing. She hadn't known him very long before she married him, but he had sweetened the sour taste of the divorce and made her happy.

After they left for Florida, I felt a twinge of abandonment. I had never been separated from my family before and it caused an unsettling sensation in my stomach. My father lived in the next town, not ten minutes from me, but when my mother divorced him, he broke all contact with his children, as did all the members of his family. I didn't miss him. He was often cruel and I bore a lump on the side of my once-broken nose as proof of it. He was my mother's second husband and had adopted me at the age of five. He treated me exactly the way he treated his own sons--harsh and uncaring much of the time. I took comfort in the fact that he wasn't my real father. Still, I felt truly orphaned, with no one to call my own, except my new husband. After my mother left, I moved into the spare attic bedroom of my boss's married daughter, who worked with me at her parent’s pizza parlor. I tried not to notice that I had spent most of my life sleeping in attics that were freezing in the winter and stifling in the summer.

~

Graduation was four months away. It couldn't come soon enough for me. I worked late every night after school which stifled any motivation for arising at six a.m. and walking several blocks in the cold to catch the school bus. Being married had set me apart from school life, even though no one knew about it. The ordinary locker room chatter between girls, seemed childish to me now. After all, I was doing the things my friends snickered and whispered about. Almost. Butch and I were afraid to consummate our marriage. We were not well-versed in birth control, which, except for the packets carried in boy's wallets, but seldom used, was a taboo subject. I was busy working and going to school. Butch, having graduated the year before, was too exhausted working days as a stock boy for a men's store and nights as a busboy, for either of us to worry much about our lack of a sex life. We made time for sock hops and quarterly teen formal dances, as if we were ordinary teenagers unshackled by the bond of matrimony.

June finally rolled around and two important things happened. I graduated high school and realized I was pregnant. Passion had finally overcome fear and ignorance and while it was only one time--one time was all it took.

The graduation party was held at the Easton Hotel. I finally told my friends about the elopement and consequent pregnancy. Most of them were stupefied, yet excited by the tinge of naughtiness about it, but Jeanie, my best friend since the sixth grade, was appalled at our lack of responsibility.

“How could you do something so stupid? What about college? You've ruined your future! You know that, don't you?”

“Look Jeanie, what choice did I have? My mom would have taken me to Florida if I hadn't got married and then I'd never see Butch, you or any of my friends again.”

“Don't give me that crap. We could have thought of something. Anything would have been better that what you did,” she said. She stormed off to the ladies room, ignoring me throughout the rest of the party. Her intense reaction startled me. I reflected again on the reasons behind my elopement; true love or cowardice at the thought of being totally on my own? For I never would’ve gone with my mother. I found no answer and resented Jeanie for the twinge of shame I felt on a night that had held the promise of fun and short term notoriety. Jeanie knew as well as I did that I couldn’t afford college, although we shared the dream. Grants and student loans were not easily attainable then and my grades, which had always been high, had slipped dramatically, due to my work schedule. I wondered if it was her voice inside my mind that night in the car. She didn't speak to me for several weeks, but I suspected it was more for not telling her than for the dastardly deed itself.

Becoming pregnant moved up the problem of telling Butch's parents that we were married. We told them as gently as possible in late June. It was all we had expected and more. His parents had always liked me, at least up until that night. The fact that I wasn't Catholic, a big fact, and that Butch dared marry outside his church, condemning him to excommunication, was inconceivable to his parents.

“How could you do this to me, Ormond?” his mother wailed, sinking down into the kitchen chair, her hands covering her stricken face. No one in his family called him by his nickname, which he’d acquired in school after joining a gang of nice boys who wanted to sound tough. His father, noticeably upset, also had quite a bit to say, but most of it was angrily muttered in Italian and I wasn't anxious for the translation. After the shock wore off and the tears subsided, they offered their home to us, realizing that the act could not be undone. Being gracious people, they were willing to make the best of what they considered a deplorable situation. We were not in a position to refuse and we both knew it. Morning sickness had struck like the Black Plague and I knew my working days were numbered.

~

Within the week, I moved into Butch's home and was treated like a member of the family. I shared a bedroom with his two younger sisters. Butch slept in his room with his brother. His mother, like a Crusader of God, monitored the hallways at night to make certain we didn't get together in the biblical sense. No matter what time of night I got up to use the bathroom, a compulsion brought on by the pregnancy, she was up, too. She could not accept a marriage outside the Church and told me repeatedly that my baby was illegitimate. In spite of my indignation and anger over what I believed to be religious fanaticism, much of the time I felt like a wanton sinner, a Mary Magdalene.

In order to marry her son “legitimately” I had to attend Catholic indoctrination by the priest. One of the stipulations was my promise to raise our children as Catholics. The priest who instructed me in the ways of Catholicism was young, barely out of the seminary; and I was a feisty Baptist, raised on fire and brimstone. We argued constantly, mostly over theology, but in order to marry Butch and finally get some order back into my life, I conceded my own beliefs and agreed to the dogma of the Church. The young priest, after four weeks with me, was sent to a rest home for frazzled priests; a just reward, I thought.

~

On July eleventh, an unusually hot and sultry day, we were married in the eyes of God (who apparently wasn't watching the first time). On this auspicious occasion, someone did faint. Butch went down for the count, either from the heat or the fact that this time he was “really married.” The family reception was held at his parents’ home, a day I spent alternately retching and smiling. Butch's relatives descended upon us in droves, all talking at the same time as they wished us well. They resembled each other to the point where I gave up trying to tell which aunt from which and married to which uncle. They were boisterous and loving, enveloping me in that love as if they had known me all my life. The air was charged with warmth and genuine caring. I thought how strange I must look to them, a tall, Scotch-Irish girl, standing five feet nine among these shorter, compact Italians. Butch was the first person in his family to marry both outside his nationality and his religion.

After showering us with hugs and kisses, giving new meaning to the term, “kissing cousins,” family and friends got down to the important business of the day; eating. There was more food set out on the twelve-foot dining room table than I had ever seen at one time. Italian dishes of every variety, some that I couldn't even pronounce; roast beef, ham, turkey, salads, vegetables, crisp Italian bread and dessert heavy enough to weigh down the table.

“Eat! Eat!” Butch's Uncle Hubert insisted. “You're too thin. You want that baby to starve?” He put his arm around my waist and laughed when he realized that his head barely reached my shoulder.

~

The day mercifully came to an end and Butch and I were more than ready to embark upon our honeymoon. We planned to drive to Florida to visit my mother and if jobs were good, maybe stay there for a while. I was uncomfortable living with my in-laws. I was pregnant and I wanted my mom. The old ‘52 Studebaker that we had pooled our money for was packed to the brim with all our belongings. We said goodbye, were kissed and hugged a hundred times more and set off for the 2200 mile journey, alone for the first time in our marriage--well almost alone. We were returning Judy, my family’s ten-year-old dachshund that Butch’s mom had taken care of when my mother left.

We started off, the three of us in the front seat, the back seat filled to capacity with all our belongings. We had hopes of driving four or five hours and then stopping at a motel and initiating our honeymoon. After three hours on the road, I noticed that the landscape looked increasingly familiar. The truth became evident. We had driven in a complete circle and were only a few miles from Butch's home. Exhausted as he was, Butch was not about to drive home and admit this to his family, so we started off again.

“How are we going to find Florida if we can't even get out of our own state?” I asked Butch, who had grown quiet.

“Don't worry, we'll find it all right,” he muttered sheepishly. He was more tired than he would admit and we ended up pulling into a motel just off #309, fifteen miles from Easton. On the inside the motel was shabby, but the bridal suite was available. At least that's what the night clerk called it. To our tired eyes it was the Waldorf Hotel. Within half an hour we’d unpacked our necessities and were snuggled beneath the cozy, well-worn comforter . . . just the two of us and Judy.

~

The drive south was interesting and relatively uneventful, until we reached the border between Georgia and Florida. It was late evening and we had been traveling all day. Instead of stopping where there was civilization, Butch decided to log a few more miles while it was still light. Before we realized it, darkness fell and the winding road became treacherous, cutting through misty swampland. Dense, eerie fog rolled in like low clouds, lifting only sporadically.

“We better stop somewhere soon, before I fall asleep at the wheel,” Butch said. “I can't see more than six feet in front of me.”

A few miles down the road, we passed a small, dimly lit diner called “Ma's Place” and backed up to it.

“What do you think?” Butch asked me.

“How bad can it be?” I answered, my stomach rumbling from hunger. “It's probably family run with home-style cooking. Let's go in. We might not pass another place for hours.”

We ordered our food and while we waited, I made a hurried exit to the rest room; a glorified outhouse sitting behind the diner in the midst of dense trees and weeds. I flipped the light on as I entered, too anxious to use the facilities to notice that I wasn't alone. When I saw them, I stood motionless and screamed. I was surrounded by hundreds of large black spiders that looked like they’d stepped out of a horror movie. Butch heard my screams and came charging in like Sir Lancelot on a quest, followed by Judy, whose genes were geared for the hunt. The spiders, previously stationary, began to scatter in all directions. I screamed again and bolted out the door.

“That was really bright,” I said to both my saviors, one of whom was about to get kicked if he didn't stop laughing.

“What are you so worked up about?” Butch asked, trying to keep a straight face. “They were probably only harmless Clocks. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Hmm, maybe a fly but not you.”

“Is that so?” I asked. They sure looked like National Geographic photographs of black widow spiders to me.”

He put his arm around me to stop my shivering as we walked back to the diner. Our order had arrived. I noticed a huge black fly floating feet up in my milk. That was the final straw. I ran back to the car, followed by Butch, who found the fly in the milk much more horrible than the spiders in the rest room. While we were in the diner the car had filled to capacity with vicious, hungry mosquitoes, delighted by our arrival. The fog had lifted and we sped at 80 miles an hour with the windows open, but didn't lose the last of them until we crossed the border into Florida; the land of sunshine and things that go bite in the night.

~

We arrived in Fort Lauderdale shortly before dawn and were welcomed enthusiastically by my mother, brothers and Sal. Judy, happy the trip was over, showed her joy at seeing my mother by peeing on her carpet. My mother was renting a rustic country home just outside Fort Lauderdale. The house stood a few hundred feet from the shore of a small lake, flanked by tall coconut palms, with lemon and orange trees right outside her kitchen windows. It was a veritable Garden of Eden, and like Eden, housed serpents; not only in the form of snakes but scorpions, black widow spiders, (curiously resembling the “Clocks” of Georgia) as well as chameleons, those strange little lizards that can change color to match their environment. The local mosquitoes made the ones who’d ridden with us seem harmless. The palmetto bugs, large, hard-shelled cousins of water bugs, two inches long and half an inch thick, could only be killed by stepping on them, causing a sickening crunch as they met their just rewards. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom.

There were many parts of Fort Lauderdale that were spectacular. Most of Florida was beautiful, the beaches taking priority in the order of loveliness. The ocean was a calm blue-green, so clear that you could see through the water. The beach sand was pure white, unmarked by the debris of constant tourism, and the breakers in the ocean hardly broke at all, cresting like the gentle waves of a mountain lake. The tall palms were majestic, even when bent nearly to the ground by sporadic summer storms that blew up from nowhere and were over almost before you got wet. But beauty notwithstanding, Florida's insect population gave me nightmares.

~

Butch found a job in a nearby gas station and came home tired and reeking of motor oil, which hampered our sex life. The smell of him, which I could perceive even in another room, sent me running to the bathroom. His usually optimistic attitude was being flagged by my constant complaints, the intolerable humidity and the futility of our situation. Both my mother and Sal worked, so I passed the days babysitting my brothers and doing light housework, very light, careful not to disturb anything with more than two legs.

My brother Billy spent his days fishing in the lake behind the house, while Stevie, who hated the sport, whiled away the hours with me, coloring with crayons, reading or playing cards. One afternoon Billy came home with a large, ugly, unusual-looking fish in his bucket. He decided to keep it as a pet and hand-fed it daily. Several days later, a neighbor walked over to the backyard and nonchalantly asked us why we were keeping a barracuda. Oh God, I thought to myself. Please help me leave this jungle of poisonous bugs, lizards and man-eating fish.

~

I cried often that torrid summer, feeling sorry for myself and puffed up with righteous indignation, angered that no one understood me. No one did, myself included. My outbursts surprised even me, and while Butch was always moved by tears, his patience shortened and the tension between us grew faster than the baby inside me. I couldn't help it. I missed the Pocono Mountains rising above my hometown, the serenity of the valley, and summers that were hot but not unbearable; and most of all, familiar.

Butch and I knew that as much as we hated Florida, we were trapped. All of our traveling money was gone and Butch's job paid for food and little else. He had stringently managed to save up two hundred dollars in the hope of leaving for home, but Sal had borrowed it from him.

“How could I say no?” Butch asked, when this news infuriated me. “We're living in his house and only kicking in money for food.”

“You're right, I know it,” I answered, tonelessly. “It's just that I want to leave this place so bad and Sal will never pay you back.”

“Don't you think I know that?”

“Keep your voice down,” I warned, shifting my body in an effort to get comfortable on the double mattress lying on the floor of the sun porch that was our bedroom.

He turned his back to me and I knew the subject was closed.

~

One afternoon, in my usual fit of melancholy, I decided to browse through all our wedding cards, hoping to take my mind off the weather. To my amazement, I came across several cards that we must have overlooked in our rush to be off on our honeymoon. Cards with checks and cash in them. There was more than enough money to get us back to Easton, and I could hardly wait for Butch to get home so I could surprise him with the news. Within two days we were packed, in the car and driving north on I-95, heading back to civilization.

excerpt from AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG

2007-10-24T18:29:00.000-07:00

Forgive me not

A soft tapping at my front door . . . I am alone. I know before I open it who is standing there. My shotgun is loaded and ready to fire. I feel calm.

He steps into my carpeted foyer, stops

beneath the hand-carved sculptured chestnut archway. Crafted right before the blight destroyed those lovely trees, the hundred-year-old farmhouse is enhanced by its beauty.Each detail of the entranceway is the seared into my mind.

Except for him. His face, a countenance I refuse to ever gaze upon, is a blur,as he removes his cap and lowers his head.

“Maam, won’t you please forgive me this time?

I can’t go on living without it.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t.” My voice flat, no emotion.

He slumps to the floor, as I recoil from the impact of the weapon.

I awake in a sweat. Calmness replaced by a rage I cannot name. It tears through my body like a thing alive. The dream is always the same.

This drunken loser took my sweet Noelle’s life, breaking her neck with the mirror of his pick-up truck. The impact sent her flying 20 feet into the air, smashing her face down on the country lane. The stain of her blood never washes away.

It was a brilliant sunny August afternoon. Noelle, fourteen, going on fifteen had just fallen in love for the first time-puppy love. She was radiant. Fate screwed up, leaving this child/woman with her life before her, in a semi-coma for ten days on life support. I could not disconnect her, nor watch her lie in a prison of hopelessness. I

summoned the courage to tell her it was okay to go toward the light.

Awake, I forgive him, for there is no room in my heart for hatred or anger-- grief and sorrow saturate my soul.

The drunkard will come again and knock upon my door. I would prefer to break his neck,letting him suffer her loss, nothing left but eyes not quite seeing, distant, yet a perfect, sound mind. Shooting him is too easy, too quick a vengeance and one he might prefer.

His teenage years, were troubled, I hear. A stretch in Vietnam pushes him into a life of alcohol and drugs. I contemplate the irony. My husband, brothers, sons and relatives were all spared from from serving in Vietnam. Yet this senseless ”police action” takes the life of my daughter twenty years later. A stranger, so affected by that conflict, destroys my daughter and himself as well.

Yes, I forgive him, except in my dreams and as long as I never see his face. This killer comes again and again, knocking at my door. I shoot him again and again, until one night in my dreams, anger gives way to true forgiveness, setting us both free.

Micki word count 470

This is an essay on anger--word limit--500 workshop assignment

E-blast for ...And The Whippoorwill Sang

2007-09-16T17:55:00.000-07:00

SEPTEMBER 2, 2007: FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
ISBN: 978-0-9792030-4-6

A PROMISE KEPT
Contributed by K.L Wren

Micki Peluso, author of . . . AND THE WHIPPORWILL SANG, penned a story, part memoir, part Americana for one purpose. She made a promise to her stricken child….

“It was a day like any other, except that the intense heat wave had broken and signs of early fall were in the air. The dining room table was filled with my kids and three of their friends—greedily gulping down a chicken dinner. When the last morsel was eaten, they all took off in different directions, except for the youngest, who was ten years old.

The one whose turn it was to do the dishes impishly offered me the sum of one dollar, to cover the chore. I laughed and caved in to that deceptive smile.

The last one ran out the front door, calling out, “Bye Mom,” as the door slammed shut. And then the nightmare began . . . ”

Micki Peluso faced the horror every parent fears—awaiting the fate of one of their children. While sitting vigil in the ICU waiting room, Micki traversed the past, as a way of dealing with her immediate pain.

From the bizarre teenage elopement with her high school sweetheart in a double wedding with her own mother, to comical family trips across country in an antiquated camper with six kids and a dog; they leave a path of chaos and destruction in their wake. She’ll take you through happy times, the antics of raising six children while living in a haunted house as they grow up with their kids. You’ll be with her as she bravely attempts to be the man of the house while her husband is out of town. She heard strange noises, tiptoed down to the cellar, with her youngest child wrapped around her legs, shotgun in hand and nearly shot . . . an Idaho potato. It had fallen from the pantry and thumped down the stairs. Just when their lives were nearly perfect, a drunk driver struck--and the laughter died.

She takes her readers on an eventful trip; starting with the bliss of young love and passion, into the depths of Hell; and brings them, along with her family, to the other side of sorrow. Brace yourselves. It’s a rough trip. Be prepared to laugh until your sides’ ache and cry until the words blur across the pages.

When the journey is over, the author will have shown her readers love, laughter and tears . . . and the strength to move on, swept by the currents of the tumultuous river called life.

And so it was in the throes of grief, a writing career was born.

Micki Peluso has been published in many magazines and newspapers beginning with the short story version of this book, which was published in Victimology: An International Journal. Most of her stories are remembered for her clever wit and slice of life humor--usually at her family’s expense.

Micki Peluso also published poems as well as a fiction horror spoof on killer houseplants published in the Princeton New Jersey Womens’ Magazine.

Over the past 25 years she has been frequently published as a freelance writer for the New York City Staten Island Advance, a local daily newspaper, and written political commentary, news items, analysis, and interviews, as a staff writer for the bi-monthly Staten Island Register.

She continues to hone her skills by competing in various computer writing contests, winning many of them. She also publishes in e-zine magazines, including Skyline Magazine, both in on-line and print issues.

She has fulfilled her promise, long past, in the publication of a beautiful memoir—as her readers come to weep . . . to laugh . . . to grieve . . . to dance with her . . . AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG.

Her book release is September 2, 2007, a significant date in her life for various reasons, and can be purchased at Light Sword Publishing, Barnes and Nobles, and Amazon, on-line. It will be soon become available in book stores.

http://www.lightswordpublishing.com
Light Sword Publishing LLC
P.O. Box 851556
Westland, MI 48185
Mallie1025@aol.com

Today my book has been released

2007-09-02T17:11:00.000-07:00

To all my friends, readers, and support groups--the big day has arrived!! My first book . . .AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG HAS BEEEN RELEASED. It can be ordered at WWW.LIGHSWORDPUBLISHING.COM, WWW.BARNES&NOBLE.COM, and at www.authorsisland.com.

As soon as I find my way around this new blog, I'll be adding pictures of the book and various info on the contents. To all who helped make this happen--and you know who you are--my humble thanks!! From time to time I'll be adding press releases and newspapers stories on my book, assuming I figure out how to do it--but I did get this far and that is quite a coup d'etat!!

Come visit--offer help and comment-help me make this blog a home.

Micki

Mallie1025@aol.com