Harvest Moon

          (Photo of 2012 Bay Area Harvest Moon, photographer unknown) 

By Mark W. Danielson

In layman’s terms, the Harvest Moon is the full moon that is closest to the fall equinox.  I have many memories of them.  As a kid, I once pedaled my bike over a hill at sunset and unexpectedly came face-to-face with a huge yellow one that was at least a gazillion miles wide.  Petrified, I raced home and hid under my bed until my heart slowed.  Many moons later at age seventeen, my fifteen year old buddy and I were camping under the wing of my rented airplane at a small airport near Mount Shasta.  Since we had the only airplane on the airfield and it was quite dark, Dan and I swapped lies while star gazing and munching on the Kentucky Fried Chicken Momma June got for us earlier that day.  Suddenly all was quiet as a red glow appeared over the Sierra Nevada, silhouetting the mountains.  As the glow intensified, we anxiously spoke about fire season and how quickly fires spread this time of year.  Just as we were about to slide out of our sleeping bags and notify the authorities, the top of the full moon peeked over the ridge.  Relieved, we laughed and swapped more stories as the moon made its Heavenly ascent.

Like the sun, the moon also has a dark side.  On October 29, 2012, the full moon’s high tide, a cold front, and Hurricane Sandy created a perfect storm that bulldozed New York City and the New Jersey coast.  Soon after Sandy made landfall, the Manhattan skyline went dark, making technology on every level worthless.  Granted, this storm’s path was a fluke, but it should always remind us that our frail existence is far too dependent upon energy and outside help. 

On September 29^th, the east and west coasts both enjoyed the beginning of a Harvest Moon.  This particular moon will forever hold special meaning to my family.  On this night my father and mother admired it from the deck of their Napa, California, apartment.  For two hours they held hands, sharing memories of their sixty-four wonderful years together.  The next morning, the actual date of the 2012 Harvest Moon, Dad was gone.  He passed in seconds and never suffered.  We are all grateful for that.

Four weeks later, we celebrated my father’s life under another near full moon.  As fate would have it, this was the same moon that wreaked havoc on the east coast, yet in Napa, it shined as a beautiful reminder of my father’s life and his last evening with his bride. 

Heaven does not recognize east or west, political boundaries, war, devastation, bloodshed, or sorrow.  It is a peaceful place where Dad now lives.  I feel his presence every day, and in time I hope to join him.  Until then, Dad, God bless you, and thanks for everything.  I miss you dearly.

What does the dog mean?

by Bill Kirton

These are the things that happen when you’re a writer.

 I went for a walk up a hill near where we live. It’s just a 20 minute drive away but takes me up and out of streets and into heather and vistas. And as soon as you start climbing away from cars and people, you can let yourself think that mystical stuff is possible. In fact, in an absurd world, it’s not only possible, it’s a more acceptable response to life than the logic, solutions and explanations that seek to make sense of everything.

As I walked, I kept thanking whoever had set the granite blocks in place at some points along the track to make it easier to climb. A little aside then made me start wondering whether I could use these carefully arranged blocks, and even the path itself, as a metaphor. It’s an obvious one but maybe I could distort it, undermine its obviousness. Maybe it wouldn’t be a symbol of our taming of nature or our determination to go somewhere, but a scar which would heal when we’ve gone. Maybe it would disappear behind me as I walked on, just as my past was. More than all that, though, I was wondering why I hadn’t remembered to bring any chocolate with me.

Then came the stump – dead, whitened wood, beside the path. A tree that had stepped aside for a rest and just snapped off and rotted away, except for the twisted bole and useless roots. It was like Sartre’s tree root in La Nausée, grotesque, challenging, excrescent. It was also a good excuse to have another pause and pretend I was thinking deep thoughts rather than taking deep breaths.

And it was just past that stump that the dog appeared. No barking or snuffling, no crackling twigs to announce it. I turned a bend and there it was, sitting on the path. The most mongrel of mongrels. Scruffy, yellowish, bits of fur missing, and a face that would never make it onto a puppy calendar. I put my hand out to it but it backed away. Not fearful, just private somehow. And it followed me to the top. And I know that some of you will lose any vestiges of respect you may have had for me but I started to get fed up with it. I’d come here to be on my own and this cur was interfering with that wish. So I shooed it away.

For a while, it stood some way off, then a final rush and a shout from me and it ran off on its stubby little legs. The trouble is that it had set me thinking of the dog in Byron’s poem Darkness. If you haven’t read it, give it a try. Nasty, scary stuff – the black Romanticism, not the troubadours, minstrels and princesses stuff.

Later that evening, just before I went to bed, I went out to lock the garage door and the dog was there, sitting on the other side of the road. The hill where I saw him is maybe 16 miles from where I live. But there he was, squatting in the darkness, looking at me.

In fact, all of this is true except that final paragraph, but what does it all mean?

Mine-Law School 3

Environmental law was the topic for the third session of the Mini-Law School at the University of Colorado. The lecture focused on natural resources but not pollution control. The foundation for federal law in this area goes back to the Hardrock Mining Law of 1872, which has remained primarily unchanged for 140 years. The professor then analyzed the January, 2012, decision by Secretary on the Interior Salazar to withdraw over a million acres of land near the Grand Canyon from new mining claims. Mining claims can be filed on Federal land unless there is a withdrawal, and this one targeted uranium mining. Existing claims can continue to be worked, but no new claims can be made for twenty years. A permanent withdrawal would have required legislation, which in today’s polarized climate would have been impossible. Under the Federal Land Policy Management Act, land can be withdrawn for up to twenty years through an executive decision. Message: you have to know the system.

Mike Befeler

THANKSGIVING STORIES FROM CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

By Jackie King

A normal childhood has always seemed a mystery to me. My family life wasn’t miserable because I had a strong, smart mother who never gave up. But my growing up was unorthodox, very unorthodox. We lived hand-to-mouth and the only constant in our lives was my grandparents who lived on a farm in the Oklahoma Panhandle.

Gilbert (Gib) and Lillie Hodges traveled from Arkansas very early in the 20^th century and brought with them two small daughters; the oldest was Aunt Lena and the youngest was my mother, Delia. Nine other children were born to them and all grew to adulthood except for one girl who was never named. Her tombstone simply reads: Baby Girl Hodges. Perhaps life on the prairie was too hard to find names for children who only lived a day or two. There were many infants buried sans first names in the Forgan, Oklahoma cemetery.

But back to my childhood. Mother taught school and she never got a check in the summertime, so we spent those lean months with my grandparents. Living on that flat, grassy land taught me to love the plains and the resolute people who had settled a land where many built their houses from sod.

Perhaps that’s why it seemed so natural for me to spin three novellas set in 1889 Oklahoma Territory. (Not in the panhandle; of course, more in the center of the state.) One of these stories, Thanksgiving with a Mysterious Stranger, is included in the anthology called TWO FOXY HENS AND ONE BIG ROOSTER. The theme was holidays, and I picked Thanksgiving. Here’s the gist of it:

Hannah Smith determines to prove out her land stake in 1889 Guthrie, O.T., after her mail-order husband is murdered. This arduous task is complicated by a villain who tries to kill Hannah. A rancorous rooster and a mysterious stranger complicate her life, but this resilient woman still manages to solve her husband’s murder and save her homestead.

Ah yes, I always have to bump someone off in my stories. This one was especially fun to write. I’d just heard a talk by Nancy Picard who said it was good to start a story talking about food. The favorite thing that I put into my mouth is coffee, so that’s how I started. Here are the first couple of paragraphs so you can judge for yourself:

All Hannah Smith ever wanted was a house with yellow curtains, a small garden and a good cup of coffee. Right now she’d settle for the coffee, but she had only enough grounds for one final pot and she was saving that treat for Thanksgiving Day.

It was her own fault. She’d deliberately annoyed her brand-new husband George, who disliked coffee anyway. Sometimes a woman’s mouth opened and words popped out unbidden. And because of that one slip, George swore he’d never again buy her another ounce of coffee.

If you love Thanksgiving and enjoy historical mysteries, then Thanksgiving with a Mysterious Stranger is the story for you. You’ll also get two other novellas in the anthology THE FOXY HENS AND ONE BIG ROOSTER.

 

http://tinyurl.com/ck8bk6c

Guest blogger Lois Winston

 Award-winning author Lois Winston writes the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries series featuring magazine crafts editor and reluctant amateur sleuth Anastasia Pollack. Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun, the first book in the series, received starred reviews from both Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Kirkus Reviews dubbed it, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” Death By Killer Mop Doll was released this past January. Revenge of the Crafty Corpse will be a January 2013 release.

 We Never Forget Our First Love

For authors, that first sale is like our first love. No matter how many sales or lovers we have afterwards, we never really forget our first one. My first sale occurred in 2005 with the book debuting in April 2006. Talk Gertie To Me was humorous women’s fiction about Connie Stedworth, a menopausal mom, attempting to convince her daughter Nori to return home, settle down with the town’s most eligible bachelor (the son of her best friend,) and begin producing those grandbabies that would bring meaning to Connie’s golden years. Nori had other ideas – and an acerbic imaginary friend named Gertie. The book received critical acclaim and several awards. And then it went out of print.

Along the way, I published a romantic suspense, then turned my attention to writing mysteries. My Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries have been published since 2011 by Midnight Ink with the third book in the series, Revenge of the Crafty Corpse, due out in January.

But I started out this blog post talking about first loves and first books and how we never forget either. Well, apparently, there are also many readers who never forgot Talk Gertie To Me. Over the years I’ve been asked countless times if there will ever be a sequel.

A sequel had never occurred to me. I’d moved on. I was firmly entrenched in writing mystery. Gertie had other ideas, though. Once readers asked about a sequel, she latched onto the idea and wouldn’t let go. She began nagging me the way she nagged Nori in the original book. And Gertie can be one really persistent nag until she gets her way.

But besides Gertie’s nagging, something else occurred: I had received my rights back to Talk Gertie To Me and launched it as an ebook. Gertie says this meant the stars were now aligned, and I couldn’t possibly ignore such a powerful sign.

So one day I sat down to pen a sequel, but my brain kept spinning mystery plots. Talk Gertie To Me was a combination of chick lit and hen lit, two genres that really aren’t selling right now. I guess my brain was telling me something. Finally, I listened to it. The result was Elementary, My Dear Gertie.

In this mystery novella sequel, Nori and Mac journey to Ten Commandments, Iowa for a Christmas they won’t soon forget. Connie’s Christmas gift to them is a cross-stitched pillow with a none-too-subtle message prodding for marriage and children. Mac is all for exchanging I do’s. He’s even bought the ring, but before he can pop the question, an explosion hurls him and Nori right into the middle of a murder investigation, and Gertie can’t help but lend her acerbic wit to the twists and turns as yet another scandal envelopes the not-so-pious residents of Ten Commandments.

Want to read more? An excerpt can be found here: http://www.loiswinston.com/booksgertie2.html

Of course, now that I’ve given in to Gertie’s demands for a sequel, she’s making noise about additional books. Seems she liked playing Sherlock Holmes. Then again, Gertie likes anything that places her in the spotlight. I have a feeling I’ll be giving in to her for years to come, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing, considering that (according to her) she’s always right.Buy link for Talk Gertie To Me: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0099Q1QJ0/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B0099Q1QJ0&linkCode=as2&tag=loiswins-20

Buy link for Elementary, My Dear Gertie:http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B009W93LYM/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B009W93LYM&linkCode=as2&tag=loiswins-20

Lois is also published in women’s fiction, romance, romantic suspense, and non-fiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Visit Lois at http://www.loiswinston.com, visit Emma at http://www.emmacarlyle.com, and visit Anastasia at the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers character blog, www.anastasiapollack.blogspot.com.

A Hurricane By Any Other Name

Hello from Cape Cod MA, where we were so fortunate to dodge most of the wrath Hurricane Sandy hurled at most of the Northeast this past week. Unfortunately, close family in New Jersey weren't so lucky, and are still struggling along with no power and no gasoline. Governor Chris Christie has ordered gas rationing -- hope it helps. The choice of name for this hurricane was a poor one for our family. Our daughter-in-law's name is Sandy, and believe me, she's been the brunt of a lot of wisecracks because of it. The Sandy name thing got me thinking along more book-related lines. For example, has anyone ever (unintentionally) used the name of a real person in a mystery, and then had that person contact them, irate, and demand the character name be changed? Just wondering. After all, a rose by any other name....

Images In Sand

by Leighton Gage

In northeastern Brazil, in the State of Rio Grande do Norte, the dunes overlooking the sea are permeated with salts and minerals.

And the same is true here, in the sandstone cliffs of the Morro Branco, in the State of Ceará. 

In both places, the presence of such salts tints the sand into an astonishing variety of very distinct colors.

And the availability of that colorful sand has given rise to a uniquely Brazilian art form.

It would be wrong to call it bottle painting, because what you see here hasn’t been painted, or even sketched in advance.

It’s formed by adding layer after layer of sand, and by the shaping of each layer with a wand inserted into the mouth of the bottle.

The artists pass on their techniques from generation to generation.

And, with few exceptions, the designs follow traditional patterns.

You’d think they’d be costly, wouldn’t you?

But no. It’s one of the poorer regions of the country and labor, even skilled artisanal labor, is cheap.

The smaller examples of this work can be had for as little as two American dollars.