Mom's Birthday

This morning Dad and I took a bouquet of daffodil to the Saratoga National Cemetery. We picked them from the back yard near the old school house. They were for Mom. Today would have been her 79th birthday.

RotoRooter

12:45 PM
Outpost: Central Command, we have a problem.

12:50PM
Me: This is Central Command calling emergency plumber. Do you copy?

Image: Well no, Chuck the plumber is not responding. The poor weekend on-call guy must be wading through knee-high slop caused by backed up drain pipe in some God forsaken basement that never sees the light of day expect in late November around Thanksgiving when someone retrieves the outdoor Christmas light and fake tree, and again in mid-January when the stuff is crammed back in the wet, spider infested cellar. Of course he can’t get to the phone.

12:55 PM
Me: This is Central Command calling Outpost. Do you copy?

Outpost: Copy.

Me: Waiting for response from emergency plumber. Tell occupants to cease showering and flushing, or you will be cleaning up sewage.

Image: Four unhappy tenants waiting to go to the bathroom and rents are due on Tuesday. Well, maybe not?

Outpost: Roger, sewage.

1:45 PM
Me: Central command calling emergency plumber. This is an Emergency. Water is coming into first floor bathrooms. Drain needs to be unclogged. Do you copy?

Image: Chuck is now up to his waist. Cellar rats have evacuated. Cave Crickets clinging to the rafters.

3:20 PM
Me: This is Central Command calling outpost. Update?

Outpost: Situation is desperate.

Me: How much longer can you hang on?

Outpost: We are doing everything we can. We could really use some back up. Sorry, we have a back up, that’s the problem.

Me: Waiting on response from emergency plumber. Will attempt to get a response from competitor.

Image: HUGE DOLLAR SIGNS. There goes this month’s rent. Scan the yellow pages on the internet. Sunday afternoon. This out to be good.

3:55 PM
Me: Central Command calling RotoRooter.

RR: We’ll have a man out there within the hour.

Me: Unbelievable!

RR: How would you like to pay?

Image: Firstborn.
Image: Emergency Plumber eating Doritos on over stuffed couch. Looks at ringing cell phone. Recongizes number. Flicks on TV, adjusts rabbut ears. Ignores call.

Me: Credit Card.

Image: Dave Ramsey having a heart attack. Check's in the mail, check's in the mail.

4:23 PM
RR: Hey, we are here. Where’s the Outpost?

Me: He’ll be there in five minutes.

Image: Auto wreck on Broadway.

4:26 PM
Me: Command Central calling Outpost.

Outpost: Shit. I am on my way.

4:45 PM
RR: Roots. $295 to clean the pipes. $1350 to repair.

Image: Another month of rice and beans. Got any good recipes?

6:20 PM
Outpost: Command Central, we just finished. Guess what, now the washer doesn't work.

Me: Sigh.

Emergency Plumber: Just got your message...

Image: Explosion

Cold

Some snowbird returned to the north and took the unsecured wireless connection to the internet with him. I got lazy logging onto the internet with one click. I returned to using my Verizon Access, which is easy and convenient but I have to turn it on. The difference is like unlocking the car door with a remote, or actually placing the key into the lock, which I have to do to get into the Jeep. My life is soooo difficult!

I read a story about a barbershop experience at the Tarpon Springs Writers Group. While the descriptions were solid, the story was “buried"-- not much story to the 1800 words. It is the end of summer when the main character, who turns out to be a little girl, goes to the barbershop with her dad. Summer should never end, but she sees a cute little boy in the shop and suddenly the start of school doesn’t seem so bad.

Afterwards, I sat in Danny’s, a local restaurant across the street from the Public Library. I looked at the art work hanging on the walls and wondered if artists meet with samples of their work for fellow artist to critique.

"Today, this is an acrylic about a toad."

"Looks like a dead toad in the middle of the road."

"I like how you used the red. Dramatic."

"I'm sorry, I got completely lost in the use of brown near the end. Made no sense to me. Maybe if it was a watercolor."

"Where do you expect to sell that?"

The ideas for the Peace Corps book and the RV book are beginning to float into my head. I like this, but find it too scary to begin. Regardless of when I get started, both will be much better because of the feedback I get from my fellow writers. Florida has been a good move because of them.

But boy oh boy, it is still too cold for my blood. Went to Howard Park last night to watch the sunset, something I don't do very often since coming here. (In Hawaii, it was a daily ritual.) I sat on beach in a sweatshirt with a beach towel wrapped around my legs. I hunkered down waiting for the sunset figuring smoke from the fires in Georgia would make a beautiful sky. Nope, it fizzled out.

Rest in Peace

Last year Jeremy helped his grandfather plant twenty-five apple trees. He promised to return this summer to build a fence around the trees and stake them up so they would grow straight and strong, bearing delicious fruit. Jeremy won’t be able to keep his promise. He and thirty one other men and women are no longer with us, robbed of their hopes and dreams. No one promises tomorrow, but never do we expect it to be stolen by such evil.

Jeremy never got a chance to walk among the mature trees on an October afternoon and taste the fruit from his trees he planted with his grandfather. His family grieves and asks why. No one will ever be able to explain.

Photo: Andrew Undercoffer, a freshman, reads inscriptions on one of the many boards set up in the Drillfield on the Virginia Tech campus. (AP Photo/Mary Altaffer)

War at Dawn

I don't know why I write this stuff.

An early morning gust howled like an urban coyote trapped inside a dumpster sending the empty sound through the bedroom window. The blast violently rattled the metal frame. Scouting parties had earlier reported back to the waiting soldiers using a sophisticated communication system of touch and pheromones. The transmitted messages went undetected by the enemy. The coast was clear and the invasion plan was a go. Cloaked in the darkness of the predawn sky that promised to capture the rising sun before it broke the horizon, the invaders slipped silently into position.

Dressed in protective armor the invaders route tunneled through a labyrinth of wood, concrete, plasterboard and construction debris before they emerged to cluster around the electrical outlet. Once given the signal to proceed, the mass swarmed through the entry way and assembled on the sill. Others staked out higher posts on the wall near the opened window. Another gust played the Venetian blind like a harmonica, and when the last stale note slipped away, the window dressing crashed against the glass. Undeterred by the foul weather, the invasion continued ahead of the coming rain.

I laid in the dark since 3 am listening to the storm’s prelude. At 6:30, the alarm went off. I snapped on the light. My blurry vision caught their dark silhouettes pressed against the wall. “What the hell is that?” I asked, fumbling for my glasses without taking my eyes of the shadow that remained beyond my depth of field. My two sentries, a chunky tabby and a scrawny calico, hunkered down at the foot of the bed warily listening to the rustling palms and hibiscus on the other side of window didn’t bother to respond. “Cats,” I whispered. No response. I flung back the floral sheets draped over my legs and went to investigate.

The lungless creatures with black exoskeletons poured into the room, unfazed by my presence towering over them. I shivered in disgust at the tiny creatures relentlessly overrunning the room. Their trails reached out from the electrical outlet like the tentacles of the giant squid from 2000 leagues below the sea.

“Crap,” I said knowing I had no defense or weapons to wage a counter attack against the siege. I needed the lethal mixture of deca-hydrate and sodium tetra-borate and the nearest arsenal was a mile away. Winds chased me across the parking lot; drops of rain spattered at my heels like bullets. I ducked into Walgreens where my quick entrance startled the lone clerk manning the front register.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Without losing my stride I asked, “Bug spray.”

“Aisle five.”

I marched onward and found stockpiles of gas canisters sitting in pretty rows of red, orange, blue and yellow. My choice had a new and improved scent of citrus. $4.49 plus tax—the cost of war.

I raced back to the battlefield, envisioning the worst—a carpet of invaders spreading beyond the bedroom to the bathroom floor, down the hallway and onto the sacred realm of the kitchen cabinets where caches of sugar, honey and chocolate syrup waited for plunder. Instead, I found the troops mobilized across the faux marble window sill. Easy targets, like shooting pigeons off the eaves of the county courthouse.

“Directions. Directions. Read the directions,” I warned as I fumbled with the safety tab that prevented accidental release by foolish consumers before purchase. The innocent needed evacuation. I tempted the felines with food. Once the refugees safely escaped to the kitchen to gorge themselves on rabbit and peas, I barricaded them from the war zone.

I crossed the room shaking the pressurized can to assure a proper mixture of noxious chemicals with the propellant laced with the aromatic scent of Florida fruit trees. The counter attack began with only a plan to ready, aim and fire. A forceful spray spent across the wall and doused the invaders with a sweet, sickly dew. The slaughter was quick and seemed too easy until a gust of wind from the opened window blew the toxic vapor back from the enemy’s line. The scent of orange filled my nostrils. I hacked and exhaled in disgust as I lunged for the open window, slamming the glass pane shut.

I held my fire and surveyed the carnage. The march had ceased. Satisfied the poison reeked havoc on the gathered masses, I took cover in the hallway. In hasty retreated I tripped over the refugees whose curiosity planted them just beyond the war zone—the other side of the door. They scattered like leaves blown in the storm’s wind as I collapsed.

Rain drove through the gray morning and pelted the window. Drops merged together and formed a stream which snaked its way down the streaked glass. The barrage continued as I huddled in the hallway with the refugees. Their uprooting left them without a place to stretch and cleanse themselves after their morning meals. “Cats,” I whispered. Diablo, the tabby, blinked at me while Phoenix, the calico, lifted her nose as if detecting the light drift of citrus. I waited for the gas to dissipate with the same patience of a cat stalking a sparrow as it scratched in the dead leaves under the hibiscus looking for insects.

I felt violated and angered. My morning routine disrupted. The trespassers had crossed the eight inch wide barrier that separated my internal space from the external places I’d relinquished. As I waited in the hallway, my annoyance grew spurring me to punish the enemy. I planned to foil the retreat of any deserters who might escape.

The deluge made me hesitate at the front door. “I can do this later,” I thought. But mission had begun. The downpour pelted my back as I inched my way between the exterior wall and soaked hedges that grew inches away from the building. Water dripped from my elbows and I wondered if I could keep a tight grip on the nozzle. By the time I reached my destination, I spit rain from my lips. Crouched beneath the sill, I inspected the ground for clues of a retreat, yet saw nothing but a pooled puddle of water soaking my feet. I flushed the cracks and crevasses between the vinyl siding and the window casing to assure no enemy left unharmed.

I held the damp towel to my face as I surveyed the killing field. Their armored bodies were stuck to every surface. The saturation instantaneously killed the warriors freezing them in place. The wall looked like a miniature replica of a battle scene staged with storm troopers from Star Wars. I collected the carnage by sweeping the shriveled bodies into a dust pan and disposed the remains by tossing them to the wind out the back door.

The next morning my alarm clock went off at 6:30. First light would soon seep through the Venetian blinds. Phoenix and Diablo curled their warm bodies against my legs content in the morning calm. I peeked over at electrical outlet. “Damn, ants.”

Wipe Out

Last Saturday I latched onto an idea for a short story. By Sunday, I had set the scene, and decided the twist. I wrote about half the story and on Monday morning I revised what I wrote, expanded on the last half and felt confident that by Friday I’d read the story to the writers group. Except on Tuesday when I opened my computer and the document I found a significant chunk of text missing. The title from page one sat at the top of the page, followed by a quote from one of my characters on page six. Where the rest of the document disappeared to? I had no idea. I searched a few possible places, but the work was mysteriously gone. It felt like an appropriate time to spew a few choice words, but with the help of the Lord, I resigned to the sad fact I would have to start over.

The prior week my wrists hurt, so I stopped riding my bike and kayaking. I slept in wrist braces to keep from waking with my wrists tucked beneath me like chicken wings. And I bought a wrist rest and a computer gloved filled with magical beans (kidding) to type in an ergonomically correct position. It rained so my recuperation seemed perfectly timed and these days were productive until I lost the data.

I went to Block Busters and rented two movies—Happy Feet (stupid environmental message, but beautifully done.) and Babel (way too long and the story’s connection to the Japanese family focused on the daughter when it should have been the father. Critical reviews cost no extra.).

By Wednesday, after running in the morning, I recreated about a third of the story and prayed that I lost it only to make it better. Thursday found me patiently waiting for an unexpected turn and I found it, when my six year old protagonist decided to hit a little boy in a barbershop. I wrapped the story up, but wasn’t confident that story could hold up to the Friday morning review, so I held back. Four authors read and for some reason each received picky critique from the other thirteen writers. I made a few mental notes about my story, and worked it again Friday night. I’m done until I read and get some feedback from the group next week.

Now the blog.

Easter

I thought of His pain and suffering as I stood on the lawn of the Church on the Bayou. A sliver of light cut across the horizon. The below normal temperatures caused me to shiver and I jammed by hands deeper in my jean pockets. Relax.

I hate the cold. I suffered with the pain of cold. What a wimp! It was nothing compared to His agony. Suddenly, my regret melted. The half mile walk along the bayou in the darkness to stand in the new light of day with fellow worshippers didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Sure I was still cold and I missed my warm bed.

As I waited I thought of my aunt and uncle in Hawaii. Still asleep, but they will wake to hike up the mountain to Fagan's Cross near Hana to witness the sun break on this glorious day. It is a good day to be a Christian.

Rainbow River Race

It was a cold morning for April - in Florida. I couldn't see my breath, and we didn't have to crack the ice on the river, but it was cold. I wore three shirts!

Don't forget. You can click on any photo to enlarge it.













Bob, race chair, and his brother Chuck. I kayak with these guys every Sunday afternoon. Except this Easter weekend because we are eating Easter ham at Chuck's.

The Committee: Camile, Bob, me and Chuck. I need a hair cut.
The park would not allow us to put our boats into the water. We did however have permission to take our boats out in th park. Go figure! So we carried the boats to the other side of the road, ducked under the bridge and hit the water.
A North Carolina entry, Nancy. She and her husband Jack won their class.

Honestly, every one won. What a beautiful day.

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.