John Winter 1967-2007

When I lived in Tampa John became part of my morning ritual. As I showered and dressed for work I heard John’s voice in my living room. I relied on the young man' s help with the first major decision of the day.

“Rain expected,” John reported. I closed my windows before leaving for work.

“Cooler air dropping south,” he said. I peeked around the corner of the bathroom to see him sweep his arms down from the north. I grabbed a sweater.

“Inland temperatures could reach the mid-nineties.” Sounds like short sleeves.

I looked forward to his boyish grin, his fun-loving spirit and playful attitude. Regardless of how early, he had a sparkle in his eye. He loved pets and featured animals needing homes on his segment. I knew Mom would have loved this guy. He visited schools and whenever a child asked him a question he took great interest in that child's curiosity.

I missed the meteorologist when I moved away. Shortly after my return I surfed the local TV stations to see if he still stood in front of his weather maps. I smiled when I found him right where I left him, at WFLA. With John, returning to Tampa was a little like coming home. How sad I am to learn that yesterday, John Winter died of a self-inflicted gun shot wound. He was thirty-nine.

Cat Fur

They went nose to nose leaving clumps of fur in their wakes. This morning noses touched as tentatively as two strangers, sizing each other up. “Who are you?” they asked.

They are my stupid cats. I returned from kayaking to find the two hissing and growling at each other. I got real nervous standing between the two felines.

What is it that sets them off causing the two to act as if they never saw the other before, remains a mystery. They haven't had a vicious episode since June and the behavior started in January last year. The first time Phoenix was possessed and unrelented in her attacks. I had to physically separate them. Phoenix howled to get at Diablo. That lasted a week.

Last night if Diablo moved too fast, or let her guard down, Phoenix attacked. I actually tripped her on the way through the living room and she never lost her focus, returning to her feet hell-bent on taking a chomp out of Diablo’s hide.

It surprised me to see them sleeping on the bed this morning, but growls lingered in their throats. By mid morning they touched noses at the food bowl, but slinked off making sure their flanks were not exposed to sudden ambushes.

The two are exhausted. So am I.

Title Seven

Nine years ago, I left Florida. Nine years ago Tennessee won their last National Women’s Basketball Championship. Tonight, Tennessee clinch their seventh title - 7 in 2007.

Did I have to return to Florida to make it happen? Congratulations to the team on the Summit – Rocky Top.

By the way, I could care less about Florida Men's Basketball.

Wind Chimes

I wondered what the cats would do when face to face with a cockroach. Hunt it down like a rabbit. Except I can’t bear the thought of cat fangs piercing the hard bug body and slurping down white juices. Blahk! That’s how I accidentally clobbered Phoenix with a magazine when she lunged after the roach at the same time I took a deadly swing. Phoenix lived and the cockroach escaped under the living room couch. It is still there as far as I know because I went out for my morning run. (The couch weighs a ton.)

The annual Tarpon Springs Fine Art Show came to town, temporarily interrupting my run as the park gets fenced and the entrance fee becomes two bucks. Out early on Saturday, I slipped through the gate and got a sneak preview of the exhibits along the water front. Later I spent most of the afternoon in the park viewing the rather large show. Very unique combination media work – and I even saw some work done with bark. So just maybe I’ll use the tree bark smuggled from Hawaii in my bike box two years ago. I saw a few things I liked, but nothing too affordable outside of the ceramic fish hooks, for hanging bathrobes in the bathroom.

I did find a wind chime with a pleasant sound. Except I think I am the only person who ever bought a wind chime and now can’t get it to chime. Although there has been a good breeze every since I have been here, the purchase seemed to have started the doldrums.

Alive and Well

Last night Dad told me that Robin expressed concern that I had not written a blog in over a week. Was I okay? He assured her I was fine.

I am fine.

I wrote a short couple of paragraphs for a magazine called Remarkable Woman Magazine. They were looking for stories about remarkable dads. So I wrote about mine. I immediately got an email from the editor saying she was touched by what I wrote. She asked for a photo of dad. If it gets published in the June issue, I’ll let you know.

I have been writing a short story for a contest. First prize $3000, a trip to NYC and a meeting with a few agents and publishers. 2000 word limit. I plan to read it to the writers group tomorrow and get some feedback. If you want a copy, I’ll email it to you. Since it is a contest entry, I’m not going to publish here until after I am rejected.

I have also continued to plug away at The Kayak, developing a few of the characters and conversations.

Last weekend, Melissa and her brother stopped in for a couple of nights. It was great to see a Peace Corps friend and catch up on what we have been doing since Micronesia. She took a teaching job in Korea for fifteen months, saved a bunch of money and paid off her school debt. Yahoo! Now she can travel about the country. She started in Wisconsin after the first of the year and plans to make her way to Seattle. No rush, no plan. Well, maybe one plan. She and Jody might join the carnival in Louisiana. Carnies! What a life!

Cockroach

It was a big freaking cockroach—I don’t care what they call them in Florida. A palmetto bug is still a cockroach—that hid from Phoenix under the bathroom rug after she chased it from God knows where. The thought of her eating it was too repulsive for me. So I smacked it with the only magazine in the house—Womens’ Health—and then unceremoniously carried the carcass outside. Flashbacks of Micronesia filled my head. I saw my Peace Corps host mom coming to my rescue when I found a roach in my room. Like a fox terrier after a rabbit she hunted the blasted thing down and managed to pick the bug up—ick—and toss it outside. I am sure it eventually returned to my room or went to the outside bathroom to lurk in the shadows while I nervously peed in the middle of the night. Every once in a while they would jump on me…for the fun of it. After sixteen months of living in the jungle and having these things everywhere, I got a little use to them, but never tolerated the ones that crawled into my bed. Once I had one tickle my face with its antenna. Shivers.

When I was in Kona, Hawaii, I’d find cockroaches every once in a while in the condo. There they seemed to run in packs probably escaping the spray of a neighboring condo owner try to eradicate the pests.

Writing

I have written, read to an audience of writers, solicited their critique and have rewritten 1788 words in the past three weeks. While the rate of progress has been slow and what I have is good, I don’t know why I am writing it.

My objective in Florida was to write about what happened after I left the Cosmic Muffin. I’m not writing about that. Instead I have been writing about my father’s kayak. The truth about the origins of the canvas boat was shared last summer when a boyhood friend of my Dad’s came to Mom’s memorial. After the service Dad, his friend and my uncle were telling stories of their boyhood home back in Ogdensburg, New Jersey. Dirk, my father’s friend revealed that he had stolen the kayak.

This piece of information surprised all of us. My mother always accused Dad of stealing it and he never denied this nor offered any other defense. Never hearing any other details but knowing that my parents lived in Saranac Lake many years ago and the kayak being quite old I assumed Dad found and took the boat from some unsuspecting mountain man in the Adirondacks.

I have begun the new tale using the few facts I now have. My story however is fiction. At my present rate, it will take three years before it is completed, but I want to share the beginning. Enjoy.

Dirk Salazar looked up to see the sun sparkle through the maple leaves. Under the tree’s massive branches the day did not seem as stifling and if he stood still long enough he could feel the slight breeze that tickled the leaves. The cooler weather of autumn and shorter days had yet to turn the leaves a brilliant red, but the dry summer had tinged the foliage a dirty yellow and caused the tree to prematurely begin to lose its cover. Had he been listening he would have heard the squabble of blue jays disturbed from their roost when the two boys dropped the kayak in the shade. Instead his attention turned to his brother’s deep sigh.

Dirk looked back at his younger brother, three years his junior and acknowledged him with his quick smile. Alonzo slumped next to the maple feeling its bark press his sweat stained t-shirt against his back. The wet cotton felt cool, but offered little relief from the late summer heat or the chore in which his brother had enlisted him. Alonso still carried traces of his chubby baby fat at age thirteen, the result of his Mexican mother’s pride to see that her two teenage boys were well fed and greatly fussed over.

He wanted to complain about being tired and hot. He rubbed his aching muscles while he watched Dirk dig a crumpled cigarette out of the front pocket of his jeans. Alonso knew his older brother would not tolerate his whining. He acknowledged his brother’s smile with his own then he closed his eyes and wished they were closer to their destination. His belly growled with hunger as he thought of the dinner his mother would have waiting for them. He imagined her in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour from making tortillas. He hoped she had made his favorite meal—tamales.

Dirk had gently awakened Alonso before sun rise, whispering softly a promise to swim at Lake Mohawk seven miles away near the town of Sparta. As the sun rose over the cow pastures and corn fields of northern New Jersey, the two teenagers caught a ride sitting in the back of a dairy farmer’s 1937 pickup. The smell of hay and manure filled the truck, a familiar odor to both boys although their father made a living as miner employed by the local zinc company. The thin fog that collected along with banks of the narrow stream that paralleled the windy road between Ogdensburg and Sparta burnt off as the sun rose higher in the sky. Before long, Alonso dozed off resting his head on a couple of bales of hay.

Despite his eagerness to get to the lake Dirk patiently enjoyed the ride through the little valley. A week early he had discovered the kayak. It appeared to be abandoned. The canvas covered boat had been sitting in the tall cat tails near a deserted footpath. When he had turned the boat over the two man cockpit served as a home for a family of field mice and one rather homely possum that snarled at Dirk before seeing a quick escape as a wiser strategy. Upon inspection he noticed a few of the wooden ribs had been cracked and while the canvas remained in tact the summer’s sun had weaken the covering. There were no paddles. He had never seen a boat like this before, but he knew it was a kayak. In his social studied class he had learned about the Eskimos who used a similar boat for hunting seals. Dirk planned to return to get the boat and unknown to Alonso he had been recruited to help carry the nineteen foot long boat back to Ogdensburg.

The farmer rapped the side of his truck indicating that he reached his turn off and their ride came to an end. As they scrambled out of the truck Dirk slapped at a few pieces of straw stuck in Alonso’s thick black hair. It brought an opportunity to pick a friendly fight with his brother. The morning dew soaked the legs of their jeans as they chased each other across an open field toward the lake, still quiet from the night resembling a silver platter. The boys flushed a covey of quail from the low bush which momentarily surprised them bringing them to a quick and quiet halt as they watched in awe the birds appear and disappear as quickly as a dream.

“Come on,” Dirk directed, bringing Alonso out of his struck wonder. Dirk preferred to go directly to where the kayak laid in the weeds, and begin the long trip back home before the day became too hot, but he had promised Alonso a swim and he would keep his word. Alonso had been here before and knew where the best swimming hole hid, yet he relied on his older brother to lead the way as if Dirk took him there for the very first time.

By mid-morning they reached the short rise. Just beyond, a deep pool tucked under a rock cliff made a perfect spot for diving. The outcrop would not shade the shore until late afternoon. The rocks below bathed in the sun’s rays were known to be the best place to dry and warm up after spending hours in the cool waters offered by the northern lake. School had not started but, they had the place to themselves. The Salazars were sons of a miner, not a farmer and did not spend their summer days toiling in the many fields and barns of Sussex County. This did not mean the boys did not have chores and responsibilities around their home—chickens and pigs were kept in the back yards of nearly every family living on Bridge Street and their family was no exception. Before leaving the house, both boys tended to the needs of the animals.

Noontime hunger and the cold water chased the two teenagers out of the water. They took refuge on the marble rocks. If the two boys could have been seen from the sky, their cinnamon-colored bodies naked except for tee shirts modestly draped over their lower waists would have looked like two crucifixions spread-eagle on the smooth rocks. From a small paper bag Dirk tucked inside his tee shirt before leaving the house that morning, Dirk gave Alonso a tortilla. When they first arrived at the swimming hole, he placed the bag on the rocks to allow the bread to absorb the sun’s warmth. Dirk quickly at his meal while Alonso slowly ate a series of holes in his flat bread. As he chewed each bite he held the bread to the sky using it like a flat telescope and stared at the clouds gentle passing over head. The flat bread quelled their hunger.

Dirk knew that if they were to reach home before dark, they needed to get the kayak and begin their journey. Unsure if the boat would be where he found it he decided to check before telling Alonso about what he found. His brother continued to play with his food. “Stay here,” he commanded as he wiggled into his jeans. Alonso acknowledged Dirk’s order momentarily interrupting his cloud-gazing to meet his brother’s eyes. No other words were needed. Alonso instinctively knew not to ask where his brother was going, or to ask if he could tag along.

When Dirk returned he found Alonso sleeping right where he left him. Using the end of a thin stick, he gently brushed the brown skin of his brother’s ribs, stirring an unconscious swatting from his Alonso’s hand. Again he ran the stick lightly down his side mimicking the light touch of an insect. From his slumber the young boy became aware of the intrusion and thinking it might be a spider he hastily sat up swiping away at the annoyance. Dirk laughed. His brother’s slight irritation suddenly vanished when Dirk announced, “Put your clothes on. I found something.”

Alonso silently followed him around the perimeter of the lake on the narrow footpath wore down by boys, fishermen and hunters who seldom used the trails at the same time of year. Where the land leveled off and became marshy the path split off in different direction, avoiding the wettest parts of the swamp. The late summer and dryer year allowed Dirk to follow the path closest to the lake’s edge. There he found the kayak, just as he had left it.

Alonso’s eyes widened. “A canoe!”

“It’s a kayak,” Dirk corrected without acknowledging his brother’s mistake.

“Like the Eskimos.” His statement had more of a tone of wonder than question. Alonso’s mind raced as he thought of how the Eskimos got to New Jersey and where they were at that moment. Despite the summer day, he imagined the men dressed in heavy seal skins their hoods pulled up over their heads. He looked toward the marsh expecting to see them, but all he saw were the dried cattails every so slowly dancing in the slight breeze.

Alonso had never been on a boat. He had been on several home-built rafts constructed by Dirk with the help of his friends. The assemblage of barrels salvaged from the mine and scrap lumber pilfered from various construction sites became imaginary pirate ships launched on Heater’s Pond. His water bound experiences had not been pleasant, for as the youngest, but not always the smallest, he was never the captain or mate and usually one of the first boys tossed off the ship when war broke out.

He wanted to go out on the lake in the kayak, even without the paddles, but he would not suggest or ask. However, he never anticipated Dirk’s plan to take the boat and his excitement turned to reservations. He looked back over the marsh waiting for the Eskimos to return. Alonso rarely challenged his brother and Dirk had not foreseen his younger brother’s protest, but he laughed when Alonso blurted, “what about the Eskimos when they come back?”

“There aren’t any Eskimos.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Dirk had known about the kayak for week, but he had not thought that far ahead. His plan had been nothing more than an urge to take the boat because he reasoned anyone who wanted it would not have left it there. Nevertheless, he looked around to be sure the owner did not lurk in the marsh and then he ordered Alonso to take the bow while he picked up the stern and they began to carry the boat home, stern first, Dirk lead the way. By the time they reached the maple tree, both boys were exhausted and the afternoon sun would soon disappear behind the ridge.

Daylight

I must plug Latitude 38, a popular sail magazine from the West Coast. You might recall the editors mentioned my book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin in the December issue when it was suggested as a gift for the sailor who has everything. Well, maybe not everything, because I don’t think it is possible for a sailor to possess all the things he/she needs, as illustrated in some of the interesting and too funny letters responding to a man who lamented the fact that his female companion wasn’t as enamored with sailing as he was. What to do, what to do? Find out. Visit the link to read those letters and see my little blurb appear waaaaaay down the page.

I hate it when the clocks change. It messes up my routine which is based on daylight, not the time of day. The cats pester me to feed them at what is now 6 am, but was 5 am the day before. After I feed them I can snooze until 6:30 instead of 5:30 because I can’t go running in the dark for the fear of not being able to see the cracks in the sideway and I could trip in the drink as I explained in blog dated March 8, 2007. Instead of being the only one out at 6:30 running, there are others out running, strolling, walking dogs and even outrigger canoeing at 7:30. The school bus parade which rumbles out from the nearby schools is over by this time of the morning, so the roads are quieter. And there is that extra hour of daylight at the end of the day, which actually makes me feel guilty for not getting out to enjoy it, because that wasn't part of the routine. But it will be, until the clocks fall back and the cats wake me up at 4 am, which was 5 am.

Book Reviews

Glenda Larke responded to my comments left on her sight.

She writes…

I am fascinated by this whole concept [of bought reviews]. I want to know if it really works, because I honestly doubt it. I have the uncomfortable feeling that authors who use the service are being ripped off. (Please note that I have not made any comment about your writing,or your book, merely about the review and the whole idea of a paid review).

To give you some examples:

as I said earlier, my Amazon/Barnes & Noble reviews/ online/magazine reviews generally have been great, five stars all over the place. And yet I don't seem to be selling like the proverbial hotcakes. The inference seems to be that reviews really don't make that much of a difference.

Look at The Da Vinci Code for the opposite. I haven't read a good review of it yet and we all know how well it sells!

And I am not sure that buzz always works either. Janine Cross's "Touched by Venom" sure got a lot of buzz in the sff world generally, and on Amazon and other review sites, but I don't see a corresponding surge in sales.

Have you any evidence to suggest that your book is selling because of that review? Would you do it again? Do you feel you have been ripped off? Do you think the review was an honest assessment by the reviewer?

I dunno - the concept makes me feel uneasy. Anyway, good luck with the book. Anyone who would call a boat the Cosmic Muffin deserves to go far!!

My reply: The question is do book reviews work?

What about book signings, radio interviews, blogging, e-books, etc. How about belonging to a writer guild and attending conferences? Or how about donating books to public libraries? Publishing an article in a magazine, being a guest speaker, book tours. What about promotional items like book markers, post cards, key chains? Does standing on the corner of a busy intersection with a sign “Starving Author’s Book Sale” help sell three books before getting arrested for being a nuisance?

If a new author is taking the time to create a solid marketing plan to promote a book to a community relations manager or book buyer, reviews should be included as part of the package. How does a new author get a review in a competitive market where professional reviewers are overwhelmed with book choices as are the chain book stores? They focus their resources on the proven big named authors. A review from a subject matter expert or a well-known author is more credible than one from a good friend.

But a bought review? If a writer belongs to a guild, a book review may be exchanged for one done for a fellow member. Let’s be realistic, that too qualifies as a bought review.

With thousands of manuscripts floated by agents, publishers, and book buyers every week a review is a valuable tool for getting attention. As for getting the attention of the reader, for a new author I find that face to face contact and a 25 word pitch to capture the interest is the best way. And when one of those readers buys a book and writes a review, I’m grateful.

The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin’s review by Ellen Tanner Marsh was a fair and honest review, later supported by media and readers. Unknown to the general public the book’s initial reviews were so honest that when the captain of the Cosmic Muffin was described as arrogant, single-minded and eschews commitment, I changed his name and a few other details when he threatened to sue. (When you throw a stone into a pack of dogs the one that yelps is usually the one you hit.) Character development--a good description of an ornery sea caption-- is one element of solid writing.

Perhaps I was lucky to end up with a good book and a good review. Surely, the concept of “paying” for it can’t be that novel.

By the way, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin continues to get more play about this. Here are are two more sites: The Gawker and the Slate.

Manatee

It has been at the crack of dawn when I leave the condo to go running. At that time of day the lawns are usually wet from the sprinkler systems that blast on about 5 am. Low tide leaves the canal outside the condo resembling a drainage, but the bay looks like a mirror of glass. Across the water there is a church with a huge tiled cross on the roof and it catches the first rays of the morning sun.

I run down the bay front to a town park where a side walk follows the water’s edge. There is about a five foot drop into the water and there is no protective railing. I’m waiting to stub my toe on an uneven seam between two slabs of concrete and take a header into the shallow water. If I survived the fall, I don’t know how I might be able to get back on dry land unless this unfortunate event takes place near on of the boat docks.

The other morning a bright red splash of color reflected off the clouds in the east while a full moon sat suspended in a hazy pink sky to the west. Between the two horizons sat the quiet inlet where the waters are clear but dark. I was on my return when I saw a disturbance in the water. A large dark object broke the surface, snorted and ever so slowly disappeared. There was no fin. It was not a dolphin.

I stopped to watch three very large manatees browse the bottom of the inlet. Incredible. My first sighting of this endangered animal.

I want to be in the kayak and see one.

Photos are from Bob Terbush.

One Rainy Day

There is a little produce stand just down the road from my condo. It is housed in an old gas station and owned by a Greek couple. Lots of things in Tarpon Springs are owned by Greeks. Tarpon Springs is notable for having the largest percentage of Greek-Americans of any city in the U.S. The first Greek immigrants arrived to this city during the 1880s, when they were hired to work as divers in the growing sponge harvesting industry. In 1905, John Cocoris introduced the technique of sponge diving to Tarpon Springs. Cocoris recruited Greek sponge divers from the Dodecanese Islands and by the 1930s, the sponge industry of Tarpon Springs was very productive, generating millions of dollars a year. (info found on Wikipedia).

I didn't need a sponge, but I needed a couple of avocados. In Publix, the local grocery store, the avocados were ninety-nine cents a piece, while at the produce stand a dollar bought two.

The owner, a heavy-set Greek with wavy sliver hair and mustache, who had never seen me before, asked if I was married. Despite his heavy accent, I completely understood him when he went on to say, “A beautiful woman like you should be married.” Oh, boy.

His audience was a slim middle-aged Greek, shamefully single in the eyes of the owner. “Why aren’t you married,” he needled his friend, "with such beautiful women around?" Embarrassed, his friend walked away and if not for the rain, I am sure he would have slipped outside. As the owner took my dollar, he told me his friend was shy. He suggested I should call him and he handed me a business card for a Handy Man named John.

With this much meddling in my life from complete strangers in this Greek town, I’ll be married and living in Greece before the end of the year.

He Flew Beneath Me

Here in Florida we got the tail end of the monster storm that swept across the nation that dumped every imaginable form of precipitation and spawned numerous tornados that killed and destroyed. If you have been one digging out from a mountain of snow or a pile of debris—I pray for you.

The high winds that have been blowing for two days diminished after a brief shower past. The skies remained gray and low, but not threatening, so I dropped my kayak off the dock at high tide and went out the canals to the Anclote River which runs through Tarpon Springs and out to the Gulf of Mexico. In the bay outside the canals the water turned to glass.

Bob and I were talking about dishwashers when less than three feet before the bows of our kayaks a dolphin surfaced, exhaled and disappeared beneath our boats. My mouth fell open in disbelief, if not concern with the possibility that the rather large animal might tip one of us over. I did not get a good look at the dark gray mammal and was sure the opportunity wouldn’t present itself again.

Except, it did. Not only did the magnificent animal continue to surface just beyond reach, he swam under my kayak so close I could see him looking at me. He turned on his side to get a better view of me his white belly exposed to the white belly of my kayak. I extended my hand out over the water and tried to coax him to the surface. In his watery world he seemed to be chatting with me, and I could see tiny rows of teeth in his long mouth. He continued to surface. Sometimes to my left. Then between our two kayaks. On Bob’s right. He disappeared to only to resurface either right off our bows or behind us, his whereabouts given away with his exchange of oxygen.

He was easy to identify. Three notches on his dorsal fin and several white scars behind the fin told a tale of hard life at sea. As we reached shallower waters in the river, his wake extended out like wings of an angel floating across the glassy surface. When he completely surfaced and exposed the fluke of his tail I accused him of being on break from Sea World.

I was amazed and blessed on this gray day on the Gulf-side of the Disney State. Sorry, Ra. No photos.

Sly One

It was 3:55 am when I heard the clank of wood and metal hit the bottom of the tub. Definitely, not the time of night to see a decapitated mouse, so I did not get up, but Phoenix and Diablo were off the bed in a shot. Ah, my guard cats. Actually, I think they used the incident as an excuse to rouse me for a feeding. Having nothing to do with this, I turned over and pulled the sheet up over my shoulder only to be disturbed by an early morning hot flash and later my 5:30 alarm.

It was after my morning run, the first cup of decaf, and a shower before I ventured to see what dead varmint lay beneath the tub. Unbelievably, the trap had been sprung, the cheese was gone and nothing was in the jaws of death. That had to be a cockroach.

Mouse in The Wall

I did not want anything to do with the killing and felt awful that my roll in the whole affair was that of the informant. I expected the trap to break its neck as it would have my finger, as this was an industrial strength mousetrap. Instead, the animal was left fighting for its life when the metal bar snapped off the latch. It was a large mouse (not a rat) and it managed to carry the trap under the drain pipe. The trap wedged between the pipes and the underside of the tub where the struggle to escape caught the attention of Phoenix and Diablo. I knew what happened and did not want any part of its end.

I called Joe, the landlord, to remove the mouse and kill it. Then he reset the trap. Although I provided the cheese for the new setup, every time I heard a noise in the bathroom I banged on the sheetrock or kicked the porcelain hoping to scare the potential victim from taking the bait.

The only noises I hear now are coming from the ceiling vents.

Last night the emotion caught in my throat. I felt guilty and sad about the death of the mouse in the wall. Worse than a Democrat. Geez, next thing I know I’ll dream up some story that the whole incident contributed to global warming.

Hippo

Maybe it was brought on by the unknown beast that lurks in the walls, crawls through the vents and poops under the tub in the bathroom. Whatever it is, it has the strictest attention of Phoenix and Diablo. I haven’t been too concerned about the scurrying noises I have heard. Most of the time the two cats are in close proximity, but lately I have gone looking for the missing felines to find them patiently sitting in the bathroom facing the wall behind the toilet or peering through the slats of the air vent in the closet. But it might be playing subconsciously on my mind.

I had a dream. I was lying in a bed in the bedroom of a Tudor-style house built on the shores of a beautiful shallow lake. From the window I had a panoramic view of the water where small boats sailed across the way. On the near shore which was right outside the window stood a low black rock retaining wall. A disturbance on the water caused the boats to change their course. Suddenly a hippo rose out of the water and came crashing over the wall and through the window sending broken glass across the room. Its huge pink mouth gaped before me, leaving hippo slobber all over my face. The hippo head thrashed so close I could see the hair follicles around its stubby snout and nostrils. Its fat legs kicked into the room and I knew I was going to be trampled if not gored to death on its ugly yellow stained teeth. I woke up and found a heavy cat sitting on my chest waiting for her breakfast.

One Demerit

I got my first condo ding. It came as a bright red note placed underneath the wiperblade of my Jeep. It suggested that I should not park over the sidewalk. The front end of my Jeep extended over the curb protruding into the path of the walkway an obtrusive three inches, if that, apparently making it difficult for anyone in a wheelchair to pass. The odd thing is I have ridden my bike around the complex only to find two sidewalk ramps, both located at the far end of the complex, making it difficult and inconvenient for any wheelchair-bound person to get on to the sidewalk in the first place.

Nevertheless I backed my Jeep up and now feel like the rear end is hanging out in the driveway waiting to get clipped.

Were You There?

It seemed like a good thing to do…help me begin connecting with others in the community. Having never been to one before, I did not know what to expect. Nevertheless, I had some notion that the authors would read what they had written while the others critiqued the work. It is a very vulnerable place to be.

The Palm Harbor Writers’ Group met at the library and began promptly at 6:30 pm to give those who had something to read plenty of time within the hour and a half meeting. Monitored by Joy, most of the attending members read for five minutes—poems, essays, working chapters—then listened to feedback from the others. I offered very little.

I noticed that if the speaker did not speak up a few attendees could not hear, spoke louder than needed and a few times spoke during the presentation and feedback. Yes, the group’s average age was considerably drawn down when my age was added to the equation. There was good natured banter, some helpful comments and some interesting readings including a radio play where I was recruited to read the part of a character who quoted lines from Shakespeare. Needless to say, those lines were not read too smoothly, but I think I did a fair job despite the fact that I can’t read out loud.


I saw the osprey catch a fish. Cool.

Raptor

Its powerful wings beat the surface of the water. The great fish eating bird of prey looked like it was trying to avoid its own drowning. Either that or the osprey was taking a bird bath in the canal outside my condo’s sliding glass door. Moments after I saw it in the water and before I could get up to go “rescue” the drowning bird (Now how in the hell that was going to happen, I don’t know.) it lifted its brown and white body from the water, a large silver fish captured in its talons. With water dripping from feathers and fins the medium sized raptor took to the air and disappeared only to be seen circling even higher moments later. Wow! Maybe one day I’ll catch its dive into the water.

Book Buzz

Look at something cool. Click on this link - logbord. It is exposure. I would prefer English, but what the heck. I wanted to email the place, but couldn’t figure out what to click on. I found this link when I did a search for Cosmic Muffin at blogger.com.

And then there is Amazon Japan!

This piece of advice was found on the current The Book Marketing Expert (mini) Newsletter. It was item number 8 in the list of 10 things to do now that you are published. “Get your book reviewed. Maybe this sounds like a no-brainer yet you’d be amazed how many authors forget this step, but it’s important and here’s why: people like what other people like. What someone else says about your book is a thousand times more effective than anything you could say. Do reviews sell books? Well, yes I believe they do, and here’s why: if your book is up on Amazon or some other online portal and no one’s talking about it, a potential new reader might not be motivated to buy. Readers rarely buy “naked” books.”

I was surfing through blogs the other night and came across a couple of mentions of the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Glenda Larke’s blog’s entry titled Want Review Anyone goes on…

"Amazon now has a Print On Demand division, called Booksurge. and Booksurge offers - for a mere a $US 399, a wonderful book review. It doesn't matter what your book is like, the review is gonna be great. (For that price, it had better be.)

Of course, I immediately thought "Just what I need". I mean, how could one resist such deathless prose as this:

"We are drawn into this seaboard existence, seeing the stars pronging the sails at night, the flying fish that land on deck, and even the birds that fly, unaware, into the mast," offered by the reviewer about a book called The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. "

Glenda, it is all about promotion, promotion and more promotion. Book marketing is all about creating a buzz. Thank you. While a review is a review - a good review doesn't hurt. Was it worth it? Well, I have found several blogs talking about my book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Pick up a copy from my site and do your own review. I won't pay you for it so feel free to provide your candid and honest opinion.

Glenda goes on… “Now let me think. If I was a POD author, just how many copies of my book would I have to think such a review would sell in order for me to get my $399 back?

And readers, if you buy a book based on a paid-for review, then I have a lovely set of twin-towers for sale, situated at the present moment in downtown Kuala Lumpur, but easily portable to a new location, bargain price...drop me an email. Don't be put off by the fact that I live in Nigeria.”

Ouch Glenda – the wit of an environmentalist wacko.

10° to 70°, 1503 miles

I’m here.

At the end of the second day, the cats settled into the sparse and lifelessly decorated room at Microtel, a hotel voted best economy hotel for the past five years. Why? I can not tell you. Everyone on the TV was some shade of purple, the towels were as thin a sliced bologna in a Russian soup kitchen and as rough as a farmer’s hand, and the door had a gap near the floor big enough to intrigue Phoenix in to figuring out how to escape the room when she wasn’t sitting behind the drapes staring out the window at the tractor-trailer idling its engine all night long in the parking lot. But I slept well, exhausted after two ten hour days of driving and worrying about the cats. They did not drink, eat or use the litter box the whole time they were in the Jeep.

I set out early on the third day aiming to reach Tarpon Springs before dark and to escape the bad weather sweeping out of Birmingham. Middle and South Georgia were due for strong winds, thunderstorms and possibly hail. That morning a tornado hit New Orleans and the same system was due across north Florida. It looked like I was headed right into it, but as I got further south blue skies stretched out before me. The rains past before I got to the Billboard Alley promoting every tourist attraction from “See Disney Free” to “Free Girls” at the next exit. All that free stuff and gas has gone up about ten cents a gallon in the ten days since I was here last.

So begins the next year.

It is not about an RV trip.
It is not about a book tour.
It is not about sailing across the ocean.
It is not about living in Hawaii.
It is not about drowning.

It is about removing the anchor and writing.

So what will you find in the coming months on this blog? Hell if I know.

A Year Without a Toad

Actually, it's been a pretty darn good one.

Photo Log

ice rocks
three chairs
one gull
swamp
blue ski

ice on windshield

Artic Invasion

A biting wind swept off the roof carrying a swirling dust of crystallized snow. It blew across the yard as if a baker shook out the flour from his apron. The wind-powered cat vane endlessly pawed at the tin butterfly its silhouette contrasted against the blanket of snow. The flight of the chickadees resembled leaves tossed about in the updrafts as they rode invisible waves of artic air on their determined way to the feeder that hung under the skeleton branches of the maple tree which rattled in the wind with the somber sound of dead bones. Any bee or bear or bud that stirred from their dormant state during the warmth of December has retreated to the hive and den to wait out the last six weeks of winter—at least according to the over-stuffed rodent Punxsutawney Phil. The air was so cold that any thing more than the shallowest of breath froze nose hairs.

One week of winter for me.

When was the last time I watched the Super Bowl with my Dad? Weren’t those commercials just awful?

Almost Normal

When a cold air mass meets a warm air mass conditions become ripe for tornados. I knew a cold air mass was coming to Florida, so I left not wanting to spend any more money for the pleasures of being cold in South Florida. Fortunately, I beat a path to Tennessee before the tornados struck central Florida.

I bogged down in Tennessee waiting for a mixture of snow, freezing rain and sleet to pass. The forecast did not materialize, but the time gave me a chance to rummage through my storage unit looking for my roller blades.

Few of us choose where we end up living. Usually circumstances of birth and later economics determine our geographic anchorages. We ended up in places like Manhattan, Kansas because of an employment opportunity (there isn’t any other reason), or we tagged along with a spouse, other person we thought to be significant enough to uproot with everything we own and cram it into the back of a Honda Element or Volkswagen Bus or even a Datsun Honeybee depending on how old we are.

While some people just plain run away to the big city lights or the oil fields of Texas or the wilds of Alaska, it is usually a situation of an over active imagination or the result of not having much of a plan. Once the sense of adventure runs out and the reality of the situation sets in, going home or someplace else may not be an option and the choice to move to a more “appropriate” place is not available because of economic reasons.

Most people just don’t relocate for no go reason. Most stay put for no good reason.

For me, I am almost normal. For the next year I’ll be in Tarpon Springs, Florida. I know my heart was set on Hawaii and I had an opportunity to go to Kauai and housesit, but I gave myself a week or two to ponder the logistics of the move and concluded that the costs were not adding up. It nearly killed me to say no.

It wasn’t all about economics. I applied a bit of logic to my options. I outlined my four—Saratoga, Bean Station, Kauai and Tarpon Springs. I came up with a list of the pros and cons for each. Then I assigned points, added up the totals and threw the results away when it said I should live with Dad. The most compelling reason to live at home was economics, proving my theories.

The other day I ate at a Chinese restaurant and my fortune cookie said, “This year your highest priority will be your family.” But my decision-making mantra I adopted was to take care of myself. It would be hard to focus on writing if I stayed in New York and eating three meals a day with Dad would not do me any good.

Sticking to my logical approach, the second outcome was Tennessee. Again economics weighted the result. But if I moved into one of my apartments, I’d find myself standing in the kitchen with a hammer and a strong inclination to tear the cabinets out. Another kitchen renovation, as fun and appealing as that might be (I know that is weird), would distract me from writing and while I’d lose weight, I would not exercise beyond hauling building materials up and down two flights of stairs.

My serious contemplation was stressing me out. I had driven 1600 miles south and never got into a pair of shorts or a t-shirt. I needed to make a decision. I had to surrender.

In the scheme of things this is not really a big life decision. Yes, it is a major event—moving. But it is not a major decision. Hell, I have lived in 11 states and 16 cities and two foreign countries.

The fact was I was having a hard time making a commitment to living in one place for any length of time. My problem is I want to see so many places and I only have so much time and money. I’ll run out of both before I run out of places. Being "stuck" in one place was making me...ill?

Why Tarpon Springs? I found a large one bedroom condo on a canal, close to paved trails, where I can roller blade, run and bike for $795 (cable included) and it is completely furnished. I can kayak on the river, in the bayous or in the Gulf of Mexico. I’ll be able run, bike and swim with gators and stingrays. And I’ll sit on the screened in porch and write while looking out over the canal where heron and seagulls will tease Phoenix and Diablo.

That is taking care of myself, even if it is not as warm as Hawaii. The islands are not going anywhere and now maybe I am.

Forty-nine Felines

They are descendents of Snowball, the seven toed cat belonging to Ernest Hemingway. This one is named Ragamuffin. Get it? Muffin? Last Voyage...

Last night I slept at the KOA near mile marker 70. My enthusiasm for this drive south ran out about three hundred miles ago, but since I had come this far I might as well finish the trip south and see the place where Hemingway lived with over fifty cats. Visit the website and see if you think this cat is Ragamuffin. (I don't think so.)

It continued to blow all night, hard enough to rock my Jeep. It was a good night for sailing--moon is nearing full and wind ripping across the gulf. I spend the night curled up in my sleeping bag and slept okay, but woke with a stiff back that I wasn’t able to work out all day. For the $77 dollars it certainly was the most expensive campground I have ever stayed at. No telling how much a night in an RV costs. I got up and headed south to the end of the road–Key West
and the southernmost point in the Continental USA. I have also been to the southernmost point in the USA, South Point, Hawaii. (I have no desire to go to the northernmost spot.)

Ninety miles away across the milky green waters lies Cuba. Sixteen hundred miles back to New York. I’ll need another oil change by the time I get back to Saratoga Springs. 310586 miles on my Jeep.


Key West is the Last Resort, eclectic and wild, except when the cruise ship comes in. Then the town turns a shade of gray and settles for gawking mild.

I spent $16.00 to park for four hours as I meandered about the streets and shops. After a while one junky tee-shirt-souvenir shop looked like the next and looked like the ones found everywhere else in Florida except the ticky-tacky items for sale all said Key West. Come to think of it they looked like the same stuff found in shops from North Carolina and California.

“And then, there were the reefs. Long established trade routes came close to the Florida coast and the reefs just seven miles offshore of Key West. Stormy weather, or a captain's inexperience with this treacherous area, could easily cause ships with valuable cargoes to founder just off shore. As a result, wrecking and salvaging soon became the island's primary business and its citizenry became wealthy on the proceeds.

Storehouses and chandleries abounded, and people came from all over to bid on the valuable salvaged items. Between 1828 and the 1850s, Key West was considered the richest city, per capita, in the United States.”

For more History visit www.floridakeys.com.

I found the Keys a bit shabby, devoid of tropical color and way over-priced. Probably lots of mosquitoes too when the wind stops blowing.

Kayaking with Chuck

Key Largo

“When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses.” Frank McCloud

What about the heart? Doesn’t that influence the outcome?

The Keys did not start looking like my 1948 Key Largo image of the Keys until I reached Long Key. And like the movie, a storm is coming. It is blowing a good one. A cold front sweeping down. It is like I had one tied to my Jeep’s bumper and I dragged it all the way down from New York. In South Florida, it could go as low as the upper forties. A good night to keep your Indians on the front porch.

There is a windblock for my campsite, but there is no doubt that the winds are strong and kicking up white caps on the Gulf. Once I parked my jeep, immediately I appreciated the living offered by the RV. No refrigerator to plug in, radio to tune in, no stove to cook a bowl of soup and no lights after sundown. No heater. No cat to keep me warm. I just brought the tent, sleeping bag and pad with me. I won’t pitch the tent, but sleep in the back of the jeep. Warmer, I think.

Florida verses Hawaii. For the most part, it is warmer in Hawaii.

Southbound

I left for Florida last Wednesday, when I left for the boat show in Philadelphia. After spending the weekend in Harrisburg with my brother, so I could see the Colts take on the Patriots on Sunday night, I headed south to Tennessee driving through heavy fog, but fortunately no ice, snow or freezing rain. I arrived at the office to camp out in the training room for a couple of days so I could get a hair cut, pick up my kayak, pay a few bills and respond to every state on the eastern seaboard about unpaid, unreported, uncollected and otherwise what they perceive as delinquent sales tax. Between the possibility of getting collared in New York for outstanding traffic violations and chased for tax evasion from Maine to Louisiana, I might give a more serious consideration to relocating to the remoter reaches of Kauai. (Okay, there is a lot of kidding here. It is up to you to figure which is jest and which is half the truth and in some cases, a complete fabrication.)

Tomorrow, I’ll slip down through Chattanooga and into Atlanta. From there, I’ll travel down to Tampa, then Sarasota, Ft. Meyers and down into the Keys. Warmth, at least for a couple of days.

Fusion of Food and Conversation

As a New York Giant fan I had not much use for Philadel- phians—the Eagle fans born of rowdiness at best and pure hostile rudeness at worst. But if you go to Philly and mention you are from Tennessee, well they just about roll out the red carpet. Charles the bellhop at the Hilton Garden Inn gave me a warm embrace at curbside when he learned this was my first overnight trip into The City of Brotherly Love.

I thought I might do a little site seeing around the city. It had been a warm January day when I made plans to visit and attend StricklySail at the Philadelphia Convention Center. But true winter dropped in fast. The Jeep was still covered in ice when I reached the city—a five hour drive from Saratoga Springs. It was 6 above with a "feels like" temperature of minus 10. The back hatch to the Jeep froze shut, requiring an ice pick and hair dryer to free the hatch. After loading the Jeep, I went back inside to warm up with a cup of tea. By the time I shoved off, I had to thaw the latch again. Dad told me to take the hair dryer.

It was warmer (not by much, but warmer) in Pennsylvania, but I could not bring myself to go see the Liberty Bell. The aquarium sounded interesting until I realized it was in Camden, NJ and unlike George Washington I really did not have a burning desire to cross the Delaware River.
So my taste of Philly occurred at The Market on Market Street, specifically on the corner where Tommy DiNics, John Yi Fish Market, Martin’s quality meats and sausages and Mezze Mediterranean bring together a collection of regulars and locals mixed with tourist and conventioneers in a fusion of food and conversation.

At DiNic’s conversations across the cream and maroon ceramic tile bar exchanged opinions on the weather and local news, gossip about friends and no-good sons of bitches, and ailments maligning mothers and lazy cousins. Customers dressed in white shirts and ties conversed with those dressed in khaki and topsiders. Behind the counter Tommy served up advice while his staff donned in maroon aprons prepared the house specialties of roast pork, roast beef, Italian sausage and scallopne, a thin cutlet pounded and floured.

It was all business at the sparkling clean glass case displaying John Yi’s scallops, squid and mountain trout. The neon sign “Eat Fish Live Longer” gleamed above on the glass curvature that separated the fillet and flounder from customers, but allowed passer-bys to inspect the neatly presented fish.

Enter a train of preschoolers decked out in toboggans and jackets. With little mittens dangling from their sleeves each ran their hands against the cool smooth glass surface as they trooped pass the case. “Who needs to go to the bathroom?” A chorus of little voices raised up, “I do.” As they paraded off, one little munchkin pointed toward a bronze casting and announced, “A cow.” Spotting the statue the teacher corrected, “That’s a pig.”

When in Philly, eat local. I ordered a steak and cheese with onion rings from Rick’s.

StrictlySailing

It’s all about sailing. You want it, need it, see it, touch it, smell it, got to have or dream it. It is here.

Quit dreaming and do it.

Photo: by Eric J. Gana. To purchase visit Philly Pictures

Ice Storm

Tree limbs cracked like rifle shots. Crashing branches took out roofs, houses, cars, other trees, bird and squirrel nests and of course, power lines.

By 1:30 PM I was starving and ready for a bowl of cabbage soup. The main road, between Glens Falls and Saratoga was clear, but heavy with traffic diverted from the Northway were trees heavy with ice splintered and fell across the interstate bringing the southbound traffic to a stand still. Dad and I had ventured out into the crystallized landscape to buy gas for the generator. We hooked it up after the power went out mid-morning when the half inch coating of ice began to bring down tree limbs and power lines. We had lights, the furnace, refrigerator and water pump. The only ting we couldn’t run was the stove and range, but heck, when you got a microwave…

I was ten in 1963 when upstate New York fell into a deep freeze that gripped many communities for days if not weeks. Without power we relocated our sleeping quarters to the living room where the fireplace became the focal point of family life much like in the days when French and English settlers were still convincing the Indians to take sides with unknown foreign nations.

We stoked the fire with wood gathered from the surrounding woods or donated from the Skidmore College’s camp located about a half mile down the road. Borrowing a neighbor’s toboggan, Mike, Robin and I dragged the loaded sled over a road still covered with snow and ice. We melted snow for water so we could cook, drink and flush the toilet. To this day the bathroom floor in my parent’s house remains cold regardless of the time of year—haunted by the cold that seeped into the house during those days without power.

We survived playing games; scrabble, monopoly and domino brought the family together at the card table where candles provided a dim light. We told stories, shared experiences of the day or listened to Mom read to us. We didn’t miss TV, as we did not have one. And we went to bed safely, securely each night wondering when the power would come back on. I never remembered being cold except when I went to the bathroom.

Other families in the neighborhood were not so lucky. One evening while Mom and Dad were out shopping, a red glow lit the sky to the north. Robin and I knelt on the couch and gazed out the picture window at the eerie light shimmering on the night sky, knowing it was a fire, but not knowing what was burning. Mike left the house to investigate and came back to report that the Helenek’s house was on fire.

Mom told me to write about these experience, but I never did.

Buy the Numbers

I have been tracking my Amazon Ranking every since The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin was published back in early July. I don’t remember the exact numbers (the numbers are only worth remembering when they jump from seventeen to number one on the best seller list). My numbers were more in the 1,234,567 or so range. The ranking hovered there all summer long.

It had been a while since I last looked at the numbers. Last week, I checked them and discovered I broke the Million Mark—994 thousand and change. I was impressed, but since I have yet to see a royalty check I wasn’t too excited. I checked today I had reached less than half a million. Some one is buying my book. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I was curious to see what kind of internet coverage I had, so I did a search on Metacrawler. (I don’t use Google unless I am looking for aerial photos of al-Qaeda terrorist training camps.) The usual suspects came up(my website, yahoo, authors den, blogging authors, author zone, gloucestertimes, etc..). Then I found a listing for Latitude38, a prominent west coast sail magazine.

I discovered back in December they had a list of suggested gifts for that “hard to buy for” sailor on your Christmas list (everyone has one—a sailor that is, not a Christmas list). Low and behold there was my book with the website www.valerieperez.com.

I sent the following email to their editors.

I wish to thank you for mentioning my book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, on your “All I Want for Christmas” wish list (December 4). I appreciate the mention. It must be why my book has rocketed to 430, 981 on Amazon’s book ranking. Took a long time to break the million mark. Maybe best sellers like You: On A Diet: The Owner's Manual for Waist Management by Mehmet C. Oz, Michael F. Roizen can inspire only so many dreams, while the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin can inspire a few more.

Keep up the good work and have a great sailing year.

Valerie Perez
The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin


Now don’t go rushing out to buy my book on Amazon.com. Okay, go ahead, but be aware that The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin is available on my website for $25.00 which includes tax and shipping. Yes, it is cheaper to get it at Amazon, but you can only get a personalized autographed copy from me. Hell, I’ll even toss in a good looking bookmarker!

Last Photo

Dad usually makes a point of shooting a photo or two whenever I’m about to hit the road. His "one for the road". In July the morning I left on the book tour for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin he got out the little instamatic camera to take a photo of me in front of the RV. As we headed out the door he took a photo of Mom and me. Of all the photos Dad took on the roll, many of flowers found in his flower beds and hanging pots, this was the only one that wasn’t focused. It was the last photo of me with Mom, taken on the last day I would ever see her as my Mom.

Last night I sat on the bed holding an old photo of Mom and her two sisters. I don't know how old she was in the studio photo. It captured her youth, her dreams, her promised future...an innocent time for the three young girls captured in black and white.

Photos never reveal what is ahead. They hold moments paused as a memory. In the photo of Mom and her sisters I will never know what memories mom had of that time. In the photo of Mom with her daughter, I know she had a lot of faith and confidence in my summer's adventure.

Cheap PR

If I put my mind to it I could sell a few more books.

I got so irritated at a Al Roney, a local talk radio host on WGY for going on and on about man caves, the place to where a man can retreat, to gather his three thoughts and be female-free to scratch his ass, belch in peace and hang with his buds.

Geez. Isn’t this a term found in John Gray's book Men are from Mars, Women are for Venus? I haven’t got a copy readily available so I can’t check that, but man cave is hardly a new term or concept. Does the term "den" ring a bell?

A week ago Al talked about this subject and today he spent nearly his entire three-hour show fielding suggestions from the audience for a term that could be used mano a mano (okay that isn’t exactly the correct usage of the term, but Al's search came up with some lame terms such as Man-atorium and I felt compeled to follow suit) in public. Al's dilemma was that if he saw a man buying a mini-size refrigerator how could he ask if the refrigerator was for the man cave, and not get clobbered. I say mind your own business. The mini-refrigerator could be for his daughter’s dorm room.

I wrote Al two emails. My first one suggested the Man Hole. In my second email I wrote...

Al-
Good Lord, you are still talking about it? I have had breakfast, took a shower, read the paper, checked my email, did the crossword, organized my taxes and you are still talking about the man cave. Okay, I analyzed why this irked me so much and have a confession.

I had a boyfriend whose man cave was his 40 foot sailboat. He sailed blue water and made the huge mistake of asking me to sail with him from Hawaii to California. Thirty days trapped in his man space, I tried to create my own space within his man cave. A woman cave inside the man cave. Well, I got off the boat in California, was congratulated by his family for surviving the ordeal and went back to Hawaii. That was the end of the relationship. Still gives me the shivers.

Valerie Perez
PS- I wrote a book about it.
The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin

Al wrote back: That's a great story! Well to hear - not experience. I'm just as surprised to be talking about it as you are.

He mentioned my email on the air. This afternoon I got a book order from one of his listeners. Click on http://www.wgy.com/pages/onair_roney.html if you want to see the whole list, add your own suggestion and vote on a universal, safe name for the man cave.

Well, at least he was not talking politics.

Taxes

I have begun to compile the information needed to file my income (or lack there of) taxes. The opposite of income is outgo, and that is what I have to report to the IRS. Between the publishing of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, and the promotional book tour down the east coast (Someone asked if there will be a west coast tour and I responded not until Santa Cruz slides into the Pacific Ocean.) being a published author has left me without a shirt. In other words, I lost my shirt.

I am not glum about this. It was totally anticipated and expected. One now might say that was a self-fulfilling prophesy. My response to this is that I had a very realistic picture of the book business and knew what to expect—writing and publishing is easy; selling is hard. I tell any who asks what I do for a living that I am an unknown author.

I have managed to put all the receipts on the table but can’t muster the enthusiasm for sorting and adding all the expenses or even tallying the actual number of books sold and given away.

Instead, I tackled the business of Kenai Properties, my apartment building where I house four tenants who faithfully pay rent for the privilege of residing in one of my units. After a kitchen remodel, new porch roof and repairs, and other miscellaneous upkeep including grass seed for a lawn that died in June when for five weeks I couldn’t get it to rain after I fixed the roof this enterprise too shows a loss. I usually don’t tell people I am a landlord. It is not as cool as being an author, but is more lucrative.

So just how do I afford my life-style—the vagabond lifestyle where I live out of a box and carry my toiletries in a bucket, don’t own a home, or a twelve-place setting of fine china, but instead own free and clear a seventeen year old Jeep with 308,000 miles, keep a 20 by 20 storage unit containing a sixteen foot sea kayak, ice-climbing boots, all the camping gear needed for an expedition to just about any place in the world (warm or cold) and an antique pharmacy ice-box? Thank God for the stock market, plant closings and debt-free living. If I could figure out a way to get my health, auto and property insurance paid for…

Woolly Bear

They are fuzzy fat caterpillars with 13 segments to their bodies. Typically, the bands at the ends of the caterpillar are black, and the one in the middle is reddish-brown or orange, giving the woolly bear its distinctive striped appearance. The most familiar caterpillar of 11000 moths in North America is the subject of a myth that suggests the wider the middle reddish-brown band is the milder the winter. An average of 5-6 segments means the winter will be mild. Apparently this little forecaster, the larval form of Pyrrharctia isabella, the Isabella tiger moth, is 80% accurate in determining the severity of the winter.

Myth or not, I was running the other day and almost stepped on a woolly bear as it made its way across the road. I stopped to ask the little guy where he was going. After all, it is January. This time of the year they should be tucked away under bark and leaves patiently waiting for spring when they emerge to spin a cocoon.

I picked the little guy up and put him in the leaves along the side of the road, taking note of the very wide band around his body.

Yesterday it reached 71 degrees in Albany.

A Request

There hasn’t been a Christmas in Bethlehem that there wasn’t snow clinging to the pine bows. The silence of the wood prints its own Christmas card in my soul and for a few days I tolerate if not relish the cold bite of the north country, but this year Robin and I went on our pilgrimage to the Rock’s Tree Farm under a low hanging ceiling of fog as dense as Jennifer’s oatmeal. Instead of plowing through drifts we slogged around muddy ruts and admired the undisturbed rain drops clinging to the top bows, residue from the previous night rain.

When the temperatures are above freezing the time it takes to find the perfect tree diminishes considerably. In need of some exercise and knowing that unless we made a thorough search of the spread of trees planted between moss covered rock walls and outcroppings we wouldn't do justice to any tree we found, we covered the upper and lower fields reminiscing about previous ventures to The Rocks. No story tops the minus fifty-seven degrees, with strong winds riding over the hill crests that carried us long faster than either of us wished. Robin accused me of pushing her and I charged her of running away from me. We still laugh about that, and got one of the most beautiful trees ever.

On Christmas Day we did not open presents until late that evening-after dinner, after dessert and after dishes. We might have been avoiding an empty joy of exchanging gifts without mom, but we had done the same thing the year before.

We got up late, had breakfast and while Dad and Darryl went off to see the remains of the Man in the Mountain Jennifer, Robin and I went for a walk. Along the way I collected three dollars worth of returnable beer cans. The cloud cover lifted and gave us a spectacular view of Mount Washington, covered with snow gleaming in the sunlight. It looked out of place behind the lower darker foot hills. How warm was it? Jennifer found a four leaf clover. On Christmas Day! That has to mean something.

When we returned to the cabin sitting above Otter Pond, Darryl and Dad were still out. The three of us opened our stockings, each missing Mom, yet determined to share the day as if she was still with us. In the past Mom had always been Santa Claus. Our stocking might be as old as we are, but we still hang them anticipating a special magic to come in the night to fill them.

Last year “Santa” forgot the shopping bag of presents—a small collection of Avon products, chocolate coins covered in gold foil, oranges and one dollar bills—left behind in New York, the bag never made it into the sleigh. The elf error never fazed Mom. Foraging into her purse she came up with band aids, safety pins, used tubes of hand lotion and other notions to put into our stockings. After all, we were not bad.

This was when I missed Mom most. The stockings were her signature. But during the night her daughters put those things their mother would have into the empty stockings—the oranges, the chocolate coins, the Avon creams and lotions. Some gifts still had their price tags; it was a habit Santa had. Mom was with us.

Robin’s venison racks were fantastic—moist, tender and without a gamey taste expected of wild deer. Cooked to a medium if not medium rare, it melted under a knife and certainly did so in the mouth. There wasn’t any apple pie, but Jennifer baked enough cookies to serve a division of soldiers so Darryl trooped out for vanilla ice cream and found a quart at an opened gas station. After we finished munchin' we opened our gifts.

Jennifer wrote the family a beautiful little poem that touched us all, leaving Dad in tears. We all missed her, each in our own way, yet we celebrated Christmas as she would have wanted us to do and as we all wanted to.

Before leaving the house on Tuesday, I crawled behind the couch, searched under the baseboard registers and peeked under the bed in a last ditch attempt to find my missing $1800 watch. It remains lost. Could it be in the back seat of Mike’s car?

Yikes

What ever it is that compels a person to jump into 42 degree water has yet to find its way into my bloodstream, but I was enticed into paying the five dollar entry fee and signing a waver relinquishing all my God-given rights so I could get a cool t-shirt. By the time I managed to worm my way through the Polartec-clad line to the signup station about 800 others also had waved their rights to sue if they suffered any injury or heart attack. Many with the intentions of plunging into the glacial waters had stripped down to their alabaster skin tones—not a pretty sight—ready to turn as red as Maine lobsters at a New England clam bake. Upon the final note of the Star Spangle Banner the young, the old, the drunk, the hung over, the fat and the fit raced to the clear waters like lemmings. The senseless dove head first, swimming toward the kayakers who were ready to resuscitate any who suffered cardiac arrest. As quick as these polar bears entered they retreated to find towels, blankets, hats, mittens and other warm attire left on the beach. They did not find too much sympathy from the spectators who shivered under gray skies.

The t-shirt was extra large and this doesn’t break a New Year’s resolution.

My Resolutions

The Not’s

1. Snickering about global warming
2. Over throw the government of some small country – mainly Micronesia - and declare myself queen.
3. Declare a Christian-crusade on Muslims every time they declare Jihad on a Christian.
4. Adopt another cat.
5. Either buy more than ten new t-shirts, or a sailboat.

The Do’s

1. Pitch The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin to Oprah
2. Sell 700 more books
3. Write the first draft of Beyond the Sail (Working title)
4. Learn to sail
5. Drink more milk

Under Consideration but Waffling on the Commitment

1. Get a job

On the last evening of 2006, instead of partying and ringing in the New Year under a sea of confetti, which I never do anyway, I was surfing the internet researching life in Hong Kong and updating my resume. Geez. Now I should REALLY be depressed.

Near The End

Three things can cause a writer to stop writing: there is nothing else to express, there is so much to write about the writer can’t find the beginning or in my case, the writer's scared.

Technically, there is no such thing as a catch-up blog, a capsule of events for the past four weeks. Blogs were intended to be “hey world, this is what I did today.” Everyone and every cause has a blog because there is an innate need to assume some importance, if not to someone you know at least to some unknown individual who accidentally stumbles across the ramblings while surfing the web for something important, and while doing so found you. Even that obscure connection can make you and your daily activities seem important.

So for the sake of not catching up on the events since December 8th I’ll say that when dad said the snow felt good under his feet as we walked Broadway in Saratoga Springs, I let it pass. But fifteen minutes later when he said it again I had to pause in my pace and tell him I thought white warm sand on a beach would feel even better. Yeah, the snow felt fine.

I am depressed.

Red Ball Express

The 30th Division of the First Army swept across France. The young infantry soldier had been separated from his division after being hospitalized. When he was ready to return to his unit he was accidentally reassigned to the wrong division. In the confusion of war during a time when an infantryman’s life expectancy was a matter of days, if he was damn lucky, the soldier had trouble catching up to his proper unit. The circumstances most likely saved his life, but also gave him an opportunity to go to Paris on the Red Ball Express, “a mostly colored unit moving supplies to the front.” That was 1944.

From the 10026 foot summit of Haleakalā after watching the sun rise over a low cloud bank, Dad met two young men from southern California who had just climbed to the volcano from sea level. They congratulated themselves on their accent—a bush whack of sorts using nothing but a map and compass. Looking at the relief map in the Visitor’s Center, the two planned their next route with high fives and “Dude, it is a straight line from here.” referring to their destination, a trek across the crater and descent into Kaupo.

Dad and I looked at each other. When I was in my early twenties I hike the crater trail and came out the far side near Hana. That took two days, and I had not climbed the mountain the day before. A few years later, Dad and Mom also hiked it and took three days.

On the drive back down the mountain, Dad reflected on the duo’s adventure. “They were foolish to climb that mountain like that.”

“Dad, when you went to Paris, you were foolish. These two kids are not at any risk of getting shot by a sniper or end up AWOL.” Dad laughed in agreement. That was today.

1177

One thousand one hundred and seventy-seven souls rest beneath the clear waters of Pearl Harbor. Sixty-five years ago, they perished onboard the Arizona which lies below the Memorial. I stared into the water at the outline of the battleship corrosion slowly melting the thick haul. Two tropical fish idly searched for food. It was the event that changed my father’s life as it did every single person in the United States on that day December 7, 1941.

In the darkened theater we watched a brief video of the attack. It was impossible to keep tears from falling. Few spoke on the boat ride to the white building that seemed to hover above the blue waters. I could not comprehend the brave, heroic acts of many young men in the midst of chaos and confusion spawned by the surprise attack that Sunday morning. How could I ever thank the men who paid for my freedom with their lives? By paying silent respect to their resting place. By remembering, never forgetting. I wondered how we can so easily place 9/11 in a distant place, the event removed from our present threat.

I spotted a young man who wore a ball cap with the campaign of Iraq. I asked him if he served in Iraq. He said yes. I shook his hand and thanked him for his service. Freedom is not free and the greatest achievements of our nation occurred because young men went to war to fight.

At lunch we shared a table with a gentleman from San Francisco who had toured the Missouri that morning. He suggested we take the guided tour, as he had an excellent guide who had served as the steward for the captain. I don’t think we had any intention of taking a guided tour, but when I was asked at the gate if we liked to have a guide I said, “Only if our guide is the gentleman who served onboard.” Turned out that gentleman happened to be standing there. Of course they wanted to know how we knew of Toby.

Toby greeted Dad as a special guest once he learned that Dad had been a World War II prisoner of war. Dad’s celebrity status got us into a couple of places that only few get to see (Dad got to sit on the captain's bed.) Since Dad knows someone who served onboard the Missouri when Japan surrendered, Toby gave Dad his card since Dad's friend has some Missouri memorabilia.

Toby was full of stories about being onboard the great battleship. If you ever get to Honolulu and decide to take a tour of the Missouri, ask for Toby. It will be a memorable expereince.

Antibiotics

One of the worst things that can happen to you before going on vacation is catching a cold. Despite downing enough Airborne to ward invading cold bugs picked up somewhere between Houston, TX and Worcester, MA (but not in either one of those places) the germs managed to latch on me after first attacking on Dad.

It wasn’t a bad cold. It did not turn into one of those scratchy, itchy, sneezy, runny messes. But it did manifest itself into a sinus infection that left the right side of my face feeling like I got clobbered by a baseball bat. It hurt to smile, to chew, or sleep. After one long painful night in Maui, I decided to seek medical attention.

The antibiotic side-effect is that skin becomes sun-sensitive. The good thing is that this will guarantee a beautiful sunny day in a tropical paradise. Sure enough on the far side of Maui at the foot of Haleakalā in Hana the sun lit up the blue surf that crashed against the black lava shore.

I did not die of exposure and my face feels so much better.

Dad, reluctant to go swimming for the first week in Hawaii due to his cold, finally took a dip in the `Ohe`o Gulch, formally known as The Seven Sacred Pools.

Soggy

I have got to get another blog entry posted. After all, I have been in Hawaii for seven days and not written a thing. (That's a bad habit for a writer.) This afternoon I am on the road to Hana and will spend two nights there. I doubt I will have an internet connection at the cabins so posting won’t happen until I return. I should have some good snaps and stories.

So that you don’t envy me too much…I was given a Jeep Wrangler to drive from Alamo. It only took getting into the vehicle decide that I would return it the next day. The drive to my aunt and uncle’s place in Lahiana, confirmed I would return it, because I didn’t feel safe driving it. My field of view was blocked by the side mirrors—being too short. If I needed to be convinced further, the next day after a torrential rain, there was an inch of water in the passenger foot well in the front and back seat. Dad had to sit in the back seat behind me with his feet up. Don’t think I have seen that much water in a car since I left the top down on my MG Midget twenty years ago. Alamo exchanged the Jeep for an Impala.

I expected rain for the entire trip. It is that time of year in Hawaii. But it is warm.

Returning from Kahului the sky looked as if a frustrated painter couldn't decide on either the texture or the shade of blue.