Here is my usual apology, both for taking so long to get another Bainstorming Blog published and for failing to advise all my contacts of the last one. I‘ll try to do better in the future, but no promises (see Problems of an aging Writer) below). Thanks for your patience.
It seems that everyone who reads my books wants a sequel, but unfortunately, they also seem to want sequels to different books. I really want to do sequels to many of my books but I have no idea when I can get to them (see problems of an aging writer). There’s just so much I need to do that they’ll have to wait in line. However I can say that I’m leaning toward a fourth Apertures book. If you haven’t read the Apertures trilogy, they are what I consider my best writing now that the first two have been professionally edited and the third one copy-edited. Unfortunately, I used a version that had not been copy-edited. I’ll change that by uploading the clean copy as quickly as I finish with this Bainstorming. What will happen is that it will be unavailable for a few days.
Problems Of An Aging Writer
I’m 78 years old and trying to do too much, and there’s too much to be done is the problem. Here’s where I’m at right now. I have about a dozen more books to self-publish now that the Apertures Trilogy is finished. This Bainstorming Blog needs to be finished and all my contacts notified. I’m trying to write an article for a magazine. I want to start on writing sequels. I need to begin a new book. I haven’t written a short story since my last collection was published. It is among those books that I’ve regained the rights to, Robyn’s Rock, and it needs to be re-published. I’m not posting enough on Facebook or Twitter. If I want to sell any books I have to do some marketing. Actually, I need to do a lot of marketing. My web Page is badly in need of updating. I have to keep up with my reading, especially the on-line science and medical material and general new on-line news, and the daily newspaper plus a weekly newsmagazine we subscribe to.
And of course, correspondence with my electronic friends and my family, especially my brother. Then I have to read books, both fiction and non-fiction to rest my eyes from the computer and for relaxation. Also have to exercise by walking and using weights for upper body exercise and doing sit ups and leg raises when I take a nap or go to bed (Damn, I hate exercise, especially the weights). Errands and Appointments with Dr. and Dentist and haircuts and taking trash to the dump and going to the bank and so on occupies a lot of time. Some days I think I need to get a job so I’ll have some time off to write!
Impossible Charge On Credit Card
I had some fraudulent charges on one of my credit cards. I reported it, of course, and my old card cancelled and a new card issued. But another problem popped up. A charge came through that I’d never heard of on the new card, but well before the card was even activated by me! I called customer service immediately and was told that was impossible. When I read off the information, including my correct address, phone number, etc. she then told me that impossible or not, it seemed to have occurred. The new card was deleted and I had to get another one issued. In the meantime, the customer service representative told me she would refer the “Impossible” charge to higher headquarters. In my 57 years of dealing with credit cards this had to be the strangest encounter I’ve had. I just hope they find out how all my personal information was obtained. This is scary!
I think I’ve written about this before, but briefly, for the last three or four years I’ve been subject to episodes of extreme chills combined with very high fever and mild muscle aches. No other symptoms, especially not respiratory, for which I’m grateful. Doctors haven’t been able to diagnose it. On average the episodes occur about every 6 to 8 weeks. However I hadn’t been bothered for almost six months and thought maybe I’d finally wore it out. Wrong. Oh, yes: a peculiarity of past episodes is that they have all invariably occurred at midnight, plus or minus a half hour. However the recent one upset that schedule by beginning in the late afternoon, about five o’clock. I have no idea of the significance, but I can say it was a severe episode, ranking up near the most bothersome. These chills and fevers always leave me debilitated for a week or so then I’m fine again. Weird, huh?
Special Treat: One story each from Life On Santa Claus Lane,Laughing All The Way, and Doggie Biscuit.
December is on the way and it will probably be here by the time I get this blog out. This reminds me of a few Christmas books I’ve written that make great Christmas gifts. These books are all interrelated and they all have ratings of 5.0, as good as it gets! They are available in print or as ebooks. To give you an idea of the content, I’m going to select one story from each and print them here, along with a couple of review by Amazon customers.
The first is from Life On Santa Claus Lane:
GiVE ME BACK THOSE EGGS!!!
I mentioned in an earlier story that possums like chickens and eggs. By that you may infer that shortly after our move, Betty informed me that we needed chickens and eggs on the place. When I asked what was wrong with the ones in the grocery store she told me that they are much better if you grow your own and when was I going to get that chicken house and chicken yard built?
“I don’t know,” I said. “Shucks, I didn’t even know I was going to build them until you mentioned it.”
“Well, now you know. Get busy. We live in the country now. Country people have to have chickens.”
I still didn’t quite get the connection, but if there is anything I like to do in this life it is to please Betty, so I got very industrious and picked up the phone and called my stepson Mike and asked him to build us a possum-proof chicken yard with a fence around it, which he did, only charging me a week‘s salary. It was a very good chicken house, too, especially since I hadn’t had to do much work on it, other than to pick up the phone. And best of all, there wasn’t a way in the world that a possum could break into it.
Snakes, on the other hand, can squeeze through an opening a cockroach would turn its back on. And snakes love eggs. Perhaps Betty wasn’t thinking about that when she asked for a place to put her chickens.
When we first moved out to the farm Betty practically walked on tippy toes everywhere she went, afraid she might step on a snake. Heck, she is so afraid of snakes that at first she would hardly go outside for fear of just seeing one. When she began to go berry picking, she not only carried a big stick to beat the bushes before sticking her hands near them, she trained our new German Shepherd, Deputy Dog to be a snake dog. And boy was he ever a snake dog.! The bigger the better was Deputy Dog’s motto. One day he cornered a snake up against a tree and wouldn’t leave it alone. He also wouldn’t kill it like he usually did; he just kept barking until Betty went to see. She came running back to me, waving her arms and shouting, “Get your gun! Get a hoe! Get my stick! There’s a big snake out there!”
I didn’t get very excited because Betty’s idea of a monster snake usually turned out to be a harmless grass snake about a foot long. I did have my trusty six shooter handy at the time since I usually carried it when we first moved out here. I casually headed toward the tree where Deputy dog was barking, accompanied by Betty jumping up and down and shouting, “Big snake! Big snake!”.
I just grinned, knowing I would find maybe a two foot long black snake or something like that. And I was still wondering why the Deputy Dog hadn’t already eaten it. I knew he had a snake because he was using his snake bark. I got closer and then I saw the snake. And then I jumped up and down and shouted “Big snake! Big Snake!”
It was a gigantic snake. I don’t blame Deputy for not tackling it. Its head looked almost as big as his own--and it was much longer than him. I drew my pistol. Unfortunately, I was suffering from tendonitis in the arm I used for shooting (really, and no comments about my marksmanship with possums) and missed the dern snake every time until my gun was empty. Trying to avoid shooting the dog and trying to draw a bead on a weaving snake’s head didn’t help.
I was out of bullets and didn’t know what to do next. Betty did though. Ignoring my sore arm, she thrust a hoe into my hand. A hoe to tackle a snake twenty feet long? Well, it seemed like it might be. With more courage than sense, I charged, screaming every time I swung the hoe and hurt my already sore arm. Between me and Deputy Dog, we finally subdued the snake. When I measured, it was eleven feet long. I looked in our wildlife book but there was no snake resembling it there. I can only conclude it was someone’s pet which had gotten loose--and it sure didn’t help Betty’s snake phobia, not even a little bit. Truth be told, I started watching a little more closely when I was outside.
Well, every storyteller strays sometimes and that’s what I’ve done here. What I was really going to tell about was when we (read Betty) first started raising chickens and our overpopulation of snakes discovered the fact. They began getting into the henhouse and stealing eggs, causing me to have to go out and kill a snake every two or three days while Betty watched from a safe distance. One day, however, I wasn’t around at the right moment, Deputy Dog had gone missing and Betty had to make a decision: does the snake eat the eggs or does Betty save the eggs?
I heard her yelling as I came around the house.
“No you, don’t you shoulderless monster!”
“You give them back, you footless thing you!”
Then I heard sounds. Whap! Whap! Crash! Bang! Whap! Whap!
“That’ll teach you not to eat eggs you dirty sneaky snake, you!” “Whap! Whap!
“Give me my eggs back!Give them back! Right now, you snaky excuse for a handless lizard!”
I cringed as I neared the door to the henhouse, hoping Betty wouldn’t mistake me for an egg thief.
I dodged a wild swing of the hoe and watched in amazement as my gentle, snake-fearing wife proceeded to pound a huge chicken snake to pieces. And as it got pounded, it began disgorging eggs.
“That’s one! Give me the rest, you thieving trespasser!”
I watched as the snake dodged the wrong way and got whapped again. It spit out another whole egg. “That’s not all of them, you wriggly rascal, you! Give me that last egg back!” “Whap! Whap!
The snake let out a long defeated sigh and spat out the last of the three eggs it had swallowed, perhaps hoping that having surrendered the loot it could slither away and try again another day. Unfortunately, it spit the last egg right into the path of the hoe. It spattered to pieces, throwing yellow egg yoke all over the place. And then Betty really got mad. Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!
“Break my egg, will you? I’ll teach you!” Whap! Whap!
“Uh, sweetie---” I tried to interrupt.
“Did you see what that stupid snake did? It ate my eggs! And it broke one of them when I told it to spit it out!” Whap! Whap!
I didn’t try disputing who broke the egg, not while she still had a hoe in her hand and fire in her eyes. However, I did get a glance into the chicken house. The nests were a shambles, broken into splinters and straw. The snake was breathing its last.
Betty saw where I was looking.
“Gather the eggs,” she said triumphantly, wiping egg yolk from her face with her shirt sleeve and heading for the house.
Dubiously, I picked up the two intact eggs, still wet from the snake’s gullet but miraculously unbroken amidst the carnage of battle.
As I followed Betty to the house I began wondering whether any other farmer ever had to eat second hand eggs for breakfast.
This just has to be the funniest book I have ever read. I was doing a job for the publisher Bookmice, improving the appearance and usability of the HTML versions of several books: background, headings, internal links and so on.This kind of work doesn't involve much reading from the book, but when I started on 'Santa Claus Lane', my eyes were caught by a sentence, and I got to reading, then I went to the start of the chapter to make sense of it. Before long, I gave away all pretense of working on the book, and simply read it from end to end. Even then, the content wouldn't let me alone. Many of the stories were well worth a second read, and now weeks later, they still make me chuckle. Darrel has a wicked turn of phrase: * "I was watching a football game through closed eyelids (this is something only men can do)." * "...anyone who has been owned by kittens..." * "What's that noise?" she asked. "The wall," I said. "Walls don't make noise." "They do when I bump them with my head." He describes perfectly ordinary domestic episodes in a way that'll have you laugh. I suspect this book is not for youngsters, but the more mature among us will identify with this self-effacing rogue and his ever-victorious wife Betty.
From Doggie Biscuit!
Stumbling Into Heaven and a Clockwork Farm
On one of my first dates with Betty before we were married, I bought a six-pack of beer and drove us way out into the country and instructed her to lay on the hood of the car with me. We then watched a meteor shower and provided a fine meal for the local mosquitoes.
Heh, heh. I bet you thought we were going to do something different on the hood of that car, didn’t you? Anyway, I promised Betty not to ever write about our sex life. I can sort of write around it though, so long as a dog is involved--and no, neither of us were having sex with Biscuit. In fact, sex was the last thing on our minds when this little episode began.
It was a dark and stormy night. Well, it was dark anyway. I mean, really dark. Four o’clock in the morning. A moonless night. Completely clouded over. And we live almost a mile from the nearest light source. Way out in the country. Really, really dark after the electricity goes out.
Now, I can’t say this for a fact, but I have the feeling that someone from the electric co-op has it in for me and was watching our bedroom through a telescope, just waiting for the proper moment one night to switch off the electricity--and our lights. The proper moment came right after I finished up in the bathroom and walked back into the bedroom and began pulling on my long winter underwear.
Ordinarily, I sit down on the edge of the bed to do this because if I don’t, just sure as shootin’ I will catch my big toe in the narrow part of one leg of the underwear and either fall down or stagger around the bedroom like I used to do after having a couple too many before-bed brandies.
I was innocent this time though. The reason I didn’t sit on the edge of the bed was that Biscuit was trying to help me get dressed and I had to stand up to get my drawers away from him. I was holding one leg of the underwear up in the air with one hand and trying to pull the other leg of it over my own leg while simultaneously turning in circles to prevent Biscuit from getting a grip on the part I was trying to stick my leg in. At that moment, the lights went out.
Darkness. Utter and complete, so dark that the bottom of a well would have looked like spotlights were shining into it by comparison. Now, for those of you who think they can balance themselves on one leg in the dark while turning in circles and simultaneously trying to locate where the dog is so you won’t trip over him--well, you just haven’t ever tried that trick. I fell flat on my face--and onto the dog.
Biscuit yelped like he thought I was trying to feed him to the cats.
I yelped because I thought I had killed myself.
Betty woke up and yelped because she thought a half dozen burglars had broken into the house and me and Biscuit were fighting for our lives.
“Get ‘im Biscuit!” Betty hollered, certain that our little dog was a match for any number of miscreants.
“No, no, Biscuit! It’s me! Your master!” I countered when he began snarling and barking at Betty’s imaginary burglar.
Biscuit can see in complete darkness. I know this for a fact because just as I got back up as far as my hands and knees, Biscuit decided he was ready to play some more and grabbed the trailing leg of my long-legged drawers. He tugged.
I fell. My nose smashed into the carpet. I yelled again.
“Darrell, what are you doing? Are you having a seizure?” Betty shouted into the darkness, forgetting about possible burglars. She sounded as upset as she did that time a skunk got into the kitchen cabinet beneath the sink.
“No, I’m not having a seizure. The lights are out,” I said, swiping my hand around where I couldn’t see a thing, but where I thought Biscuit might be.
He wasn’t. The bedpost was.
I hit my knuckles and yelped again.
“Would you quit playing with that dog and either come back to bed or get out of here and let me sleep?” My helpful wife said, now that she knew what was going on. Or thought she did.
“I told you, the lights are out,” I said, rolling over onto my back, then sitting up.
Biscuit now thought it was a game and he could still see in the dark.
Biscuit charged, landing square on my chest, knocking me backwards. He isn’t a dumb dog. He knows he isn’t supposed to lick me on the face, but he had me sprawled on my back on the carpet and slurped me a dozen times in three seconds, knowing I couldn’t see to fend him off.
“Yahhh! Quit it, you dumb dog,” I said, wiping slurp off my face.
Biscuit immediately licked me again, right in the mouth. He was having a grand time.
“Quit playing with your dog, I said,” Betty said. It’s always ‘my dog’ when he’s doing something she doesn’t like.
“If I can find my flashlight, I will,” I said.
“Why don’t you just turn on the lamp?” Betty asked.
“Because the blankety-blank lights are out,” I said.
“Oh, is that why you can’t turn on the lamp?” Betty asked with impeccable logic.
Biscuit darted in and slurped my face again before I could answer.
I struggled to push him away from my dripping face.
He barked joyfully, getting his licks in while the licking was good.
“Honey? Why don’t you answer? Is that you or a burglar?”
“It’s me, I promise, and if you don’t tell your dog to put his tongue back in his mouth, I’m going to amputate it.” It’s her dog when he’s doing something I don’t like.
“Don’t talk about my doggie like that,” my dear wife said from somewhere in the room. It’s hard to pinpoint the direction of a voice in total darkness--or anything else for that matter.
By this time, I was on my feet. I took a step in what I thought was the direction of my bedside table where I usually keep a small flashlight.
Biscuit was in front of the step.
I wasn’t going in the right direction anyway because I crashed into the wall when I tripped over the dog again, who still thought I was playing, but was now under a death sentence from me and being protected from harm by her.
“@%@%$^&&,” I said.
“Don’t talk like that in front of the doggie,” Betty said, as if he could understand what I was calling him.
“I’ll be glad not to, if he’ll get the #&!*(^(% out of the way and let me find my flashlight,” I said.
“It’s on your bedside table,” Betty told me.
“I know it’s on the bedside table, “ I said. “Where in #%^#^** is the +@$^#$&* bedside table?”
“By the bed.”
I didn’t think I ought to answer that one right at the moment. I began crawling toward Betty’s voice.
“What’s that noise?” she asked.
“The wall,” I said.
“Walls don’t make noise.”
“They do when I bump them with my head,” I complained.
“What are you doing bumping your head into walls?” I heard my wife say.
I thought I could detect a snicker in her voice.
“Because I can’t catch the dog,” I said.
“Here, Biscuit!” Betty called. “Come to Mama!”
Sixteen feet thumpety-thumped over my back as Biscuit ran for Betty. He flattened me onto the floor again for the third or fourth time.
Then I heard noises sort of like bedsprings. Was Betty getting up? I held still, then slowly rose to my feet.
“I hear you,” Betty said.
“Good,” I answered. “Pretty soon you’ll be able to see me.” I touched the comforting edge of the bedside table. Somewhere on it rested my little emergency flashlight. I felt around, ignoring the crash as the lamp tumbled to the floor, followed by the clock, my book, my glasses, the phone and the empty bowl which had held cherry-vanilla ice cream only hours before.
Biscuit loves ice cream, even dried-up remnants of ice cream. He smelled it. Just as I located the flashlight--by a process of elimination; nothing else was left on the bedside table--Biscuit leaped for the bowl, which had miraculously landed right side up, unbroken.
His leap occurred between my legs just as I turned the flashlight on for one small microsecond. It’s flash illuminated the walking tongue just as I began falling sideways. The flashlight crashed to the floor and went out. Utter darkness again as I lost my footing for what seemed like the tenth or twelfth time.
“Watch out!” I heard a cry as bodies met.
My body met something soft, covered by something silky. It dern sure wasn’t the dog. It wasn’t a burglar. It must be my wife.
She laughed and collapsed backwards.
I fell forward on top of her. Fortunately, this time I landed on the edge of the bed. Before the bed decided to try escaping into the darkness, I crawled toward what I thought was its center, moving my hands and legs and neck and head to make sure of where I was, which was where I decided I wanted to be, amidst silky skin, silky stuff momentarily covering the skin and other nice things revealed when the silky stuff disappeared.
The heck with playing outside.
Who needs lights anyway? The sun would come up eventually.
It did, three hours later.
One night I’d like to try that again.
.......Without the dog.
.......And a review:
......."Biscuit is a little dachshund that exemplifies what we all love best about our canine companions. Doggie Biscuit follows this charming canine character throughout his entire life story. Writing with a tongue-in-cheek style humor, author Darrell Bain lays out a remarkable story of love and adventure (Biscuit may be the only dog in the world to have received a traffic ticket!) that will completely engage the reader's full and rapt attention from first page to last. Indeed, it would not be unexpected for readers with canine companions of their own to see in Biscuit some of those special times and qualities that is to be found in their own dog's behavior. Not to be missed is a very special section of Doggie Biscuits that deals with Biscuit's extensive vocabulary and is complete with his ability to communicate through, and respond to, an amazing list of words, phrases and gestures. A pure joy and entertainment, Dogie Biscuit is also a story that is thoughtful and universal in its appeal. Highly recommended reading!
From Laughing All The Way:
Gary And The Guineas
Right after Gary retired from the Marines he rented a house out in the country on a hundred acres in North Carolina. He lived there for about a year and put in a garden and what he said was tobacco but which looked to me more like that other funny stuff you smoke, but never mind. Maybe it was real tobacco. Besides the garden, he bought some guineas. (Don’t ask me why-I haven’t the faintest idea.) Anyway, he was divorced then and his son, who must have been about ten or eleven, came to visit just about the time the guineas were big enough to eat.
Now Gary really did live on a farm when he was a boy, the same as me, but I don’t remember a whole lot about it so I know he hardly remembers anything. Nevertheless, he tried to pretend that he was an old farm hand in front of his son, which brings us back to the guineas. Gary decided to kill a couple of them for a meal and brought Bryan out to watch, all the time rambling on about how it takes a special skill to chop a chicken’s head off (or a guinea’s in this case). The guineas were pretty tame so he had no problem capturing one and stretching its neck onto the chopping block. (The guinea did begin to suspect all was not well with his world at this point but it was a little late by then.)
“Now this is how we used to do it on the farm, son,” Gary said. “Watch closely.” With that, holding the bird’s feet with one hand, he raised the hatchet in the other hand and brought the blade squarely down across the guinea’s neck, severing its head. The look of satisfaction on Gary’s face at a job well done lasted approximately one tenth of one second because he had forgotten to let go of the guinea. He was still holding it by the legs and it was flopping wildly and spraying arterial blood from the neck over him, over Bryan, over him again and back over Bryan. By the time he had the presence of mind to let go of the guinea’s legs he and Bryan were a bloody mess from head to toe.
Gary is stubborn-or perhaps a little short on gray matter. We all know about Marines, don’t we? Quickly, he whipped out his bandana and wiped the blood off their faces while assuring Bryan that guinea blood would have no lasting ill effects and that as soon as he showed him the really proper way to kill a hen they would wash the rest of it off and have roast guinea for supper. Bryan was an obedient boy at that age and still thought his dad had all the answers so he held still until enough of his face was wiped off that he could see again.
“Now, son, it has been a long time since I’ve done this, I have to admit,” Gary said. “I simply forgot that you’re supposed to fling the hen away from you the second you chop its head off. Let’s catch another guinea and I’ll show you.”
The guineas had an idea something was not right about the way Gary approached them with a hatchet in his hand and a gleam in his eyes, so it did take a bit of scrambling to corral another one, which allowed the blood on their clothes time to dry and ruin them (and later on, causing Bryan’s mother to launch an investigation to find out what the hell was going on at that farm while her son was there). One guinea had the bad luck to get caught after being trapped in a cul de sac where it couldn’t fly and it was brought over to the old chopping block.
Gary held the guinea by its legs again and stretched its neck out on the chopping block. “All right son,” he asked. “Are we ready?”
“Ready.” Bryan said, peeking from between the fingers covering his face. He didn’t intend to get blood in his eyes this time.
Gary made a couple of little practice swings, wanting to get his rhythm right so he could fling the bird away just after the hatchet severed its neck. Then, thinking he had his movements all timed and scripted, he took a mighty swing down with the hand holding the hatchet, while almost simultaneously up went his other hand with the legs, flinging the guinea away, intending for it to be sans head and far enough away to avoid a blood bath this time. Thunk! went the ax. “Squawk!” went the guinea. “Squawk, squawk, squawk,” it went, the cries becoming fainter and fainter as it disappeared over the horizon, never to be seen again. Gary had flung it away before the ax got to its neck! After that, he retired to the house to show Bryan how to make rum disappear from a bottle and other manly deeds bearing no relation to his years of growing up on a farm.
From Great Diet-Busting Dessert Recipes Along With Wonderful Articles On Humor, Medicine And Travel By Betty Bain:
I’m sure you’ve had a taste of what restaurants or cafeterias call strawberry shortcake. If so, forget about them. You haven’t really had strawberry shortcake made the old fashioned way, barring the use of a prepared mix and extra creamy Cool Whip. Don’t worry, though—Betty alters the mix until it is the real thing. The real REAL thing. I think she got part of this one from my mother but I’m not sure. It really doesn’t matter, anyway. This is the one dessert Betty makes that I can absolutely make myself sick on. It is so scrumptiously good that I pile my bowl high, even knowing how bad it’s going to make me feel afterward. Ah, but the eating! That makes up for any signs of sickness from a bloated stomach, caused simply by eating too much of this dessert. I love it!
One pkg biscuit mix (Biskit brand, preferably). Add 1/4 cup butter (left out until soft) and 1/4 cup of sugar. Add milk to mix, just enough to allow to drop. Vary milk according to whether you like fat shortcake or slim ones. I like the spread out flat ones, which makes them have a nice brown crunchy edge. Cook on cookie sheet (spread with Pam first to prevent sticking) for 6 minutes at 375 and 3-5 minutes on broil until brown.
One pkg sliced sugared strawberries. If you use fresh strawberries, slice, add lots of sugar and let them sit, stirring occasionally, until you have lots of juice.
One container of Extra Creamy Cool Whip.
Butter one shortcake while hot, add strawberries, add another buttered shortcake on top, add strawberries, top with big gobs of cool whip. Continue altering one buttered shortcake with Strawberries and Cool Whip until bowl is full. I use a fairly large bowl, but suit yourself. I predict that once you’ve tasted this, you’ll use my size, too.
This is good for one 5,000 calorie dessert and is guaranteed to break any diet in existence, because once you have it the first time, you’re liable to want it every evening after supper for a good long while. In fact, you may want to have it for supper by itself, with nothing else to go with it except a glass of milk. Yummie!!!
And a Story From Betty’s Dessert Cookbook:
THE COMMITTEE ON AGING
Betty wrote this little piece during some slack time of her last years of work, some ten or twelve years ago. Somehow it got lost and wasn’t found until last year when we remodeled the office. What’s ironic is that it’s even truer now than when she wrote it. I can only imagine the words she might use if she were to write it today!
COMMITTEE ON AGING
When you’re young, your body is just there; one doesn't notice, think or worry about it. In fact, you probably abuse it and for sure you ignore it. Ah, but as the years pass your body begins to demand attention like a whining child pulling at your pants legs. It's not so worrisome, those first little tinges. Deciding to stop after two sets of tennis rather than your usual three. Electing to lay pool-side rather than swimming ten laps. Refusing a week night party invitation because you have to work the next day. Insidious little things that singly, you don’t notice, but taken together are the first letters of the handwriting on the wall. The bologna sandwich and coke breakfast, the taco special lunch, the pizza with all the trimming dinner and the Cookies and Cream late night snack begin to arouse the ire of the stomach and raise the discomfort level of the waist line. After meals and bedtime snacks become harbingers of antacid tablets followed by antacid liquids. Horror of horrors, one finds oneself choosing a healthy salad and sugarless tea for lunch.
Your clothing becomes too tight and your skin too loose. A glance in the mirror shows your chin sliding down into your neckline. The person in the mirror looks astonishingly like your mother or father. Your waistline curves out, not in. Shoes are chosen for comfort, not fashion. One never gets further than a locked dressing room door in a swim suit.
A short dash across rain swept parking lots results in a slower and wetter you, gasping for breath and cautiously massaging cramping leg muscles. It becomes habit to circle the parking lot to locate the parking space nearest your destination. In fact, you give thought on how to obtain a handicap parking permit.
Those long romantic walks with that significant other become heart healthy laps in the air conditioned shopping mall.
Eyes that could spot a clearance rack two stores away have difficulty reading price tags
without those dratted glasses. Glasses become an integral part of your makeup. In fact, no glasses--no makeup. Eventually your arms will extend no farther and another indignity occurs--bifocals.
Your part of conversations consists of huh? what? and speak up! Plain speaking people have disappeared and only mumblers are left. Lungs require more air and it takes more effort to get it to them. Hearts have more problems than just getting broken. Kidneys suddenly have a mind of their own, instead of quietly taking care of business. Livers, especially if they are accusing you of abuse, begin demanding all manner of compensation.
Each morning brings a heretofore perfectly compliant body part to mind and task. One lies in bed each morning performing a systems analysis and shoring up today's whining, whimpering or complaining body part. Who would have suspected it would take a majority vote of the committee just to get out of bed? Why, when a body really needs total support, does all of its organs and members begin to revolt? Threats of divorce to these errant parts are ignored.
Giggle, snicker and smirk you youngsters. Age creeps up on you one sneaky step at the time and before you know it, you will be having your own daily committee meetings.
Apertures Trilogy Finally Re-Published
The three books of the Apertures Trilogy represent what I consider my best writing and on top of that, the first two have been completely re-edited by a top notch (and expensive) editor and the other by my brother. They are so good now (if I do say so myself) that I hate to just self-publish them but I guess I have to. Looking for, and finding an agent or publisher when a book has been published elsewhere previously is very hard, and at 78 I don’t have time to waste.
These are alternate world stories, reference quantum theory, which many theorists believe happens, although none of them know of a way to see or go to those alternate worlds. I described a method of reaching alternate worlds (but it turns out that some of them are rabidly hostile) that uses the quantum function of our brains, along with many personality attributes. Probably didn’t know you had any quantum functions, did you?
Note: The Apertures Trilogy has been re-published, finally, by me. You may find it on Amazon now and on other on-line stores a little later. To avoid confusion with previous versions posted, the new book covers will look like this: Apertures One, Semi-desert with cacti. Apertures Two, blackboard with equations, Apertures Three, Forest with underbrush and small, slender trees.
This is just a short notice to those of you who are with face book. Probably over 90% of you are. The notice is: I am so far behind and so involved with catching up that I am unable to answer individuals who send me messages. I barely have time for an occasional post to let my friends know what I’m up to in my lit’ry endeavors. Sometimes I’ll include some other happenings, such as the eye surgery, but that’s about it.
Me and both my younger brothers are all veterans but we don’t make a big thing of it because we volunteered for service with the military. My thanks goes to those who were drafted but served their two years uncomplainingly (or at least honorably), unlike the cowards who ran off to Sweden or Canada. Perhaps they thought they had good reasons to run, but if so, they weren’t paying much attention to world affairs nor to history. From 1917 until 1990 or thereabouts when the soviet union broke up, Communism was an expansive ideology, trying to spread their stupid theories all over the world, by force when they thought they could get away with it.
In a couple of reviews at Amazon the reviewers imply that I’m making up the science. Not true! In both cases I had done a hell of a lot of research as well as using some of my own scientific knowledge to make sure the science was correct. If these same people happen to review The Afterlife Cabals or a couple of other books, I’m sure they’ll think I made up the science there, too, but I didn’t. Again, I do a heck of a lot of research in order to get my facts straight and make the science accurate. So there, and a big Bleah! to those reviewers.
This is about the longest blog I’ve published, so I believe it’s time to wrap it up. Thanks for reading and I sincerely hope you enjoy it.