The Pirate Queen

I have met the most incredible woman.

It's all right, my wife isn't jealous. After all, Grace O'Malley has been dead for over four hundred years now. I, like many others over the past twenty or so years am just getting acquainted with her.

Grace O'Malley - known as Granuaile in her native Ireland - was a famous leader in the 16th century. Irish history has all but erased her memory because she dared to do things that civilized women just weren't supposed to do. Things like running a thriving shipping business, managing a Gaelic fiefdom. Oh, yes, and that piracy on the high seas thing.

Ironically, most of the information we have about Grace comes from accounts recorded by her rivals in England, which was in the process of reconquering Ireland during her lifetime. English state papers speak of her notoriety, her boldness, and preserved a detailed question-and-answer correspondence between the Pirate Queen O'Malley and the English monarch, Queen Elizabeth I. These queens later met face-to-face in London to try and settle the desperate situation Grace found herself in because of the English governor, Richard Bingham.

My interest in the pirate queen began when I started planning the third book in my Molly O'Malley trilogy. Wouldn't it be great if Molly, the twelve-year-old heroine who rescues dragons and befriends leprechauns during her vacations, was able to meet Grace O'Malley in person? Imagine what they might learn from each other!

Readers will get just that opportunity in July 2010 when Molly O'Malley and the Pirate Queen is published by Buried Treasure Publishing. There is much adventure, with sailing on a war galley, plots and attacks by the English, friends new and old, and a touch of time traveling.

While you're waiting, now would be a good time to read the first two books in the trilogy. Things have a tendency to come full circle, you know!

The Molly O'Malley Trilogy:
Molly O'Malley and the Leprechaun
Molly O'Malley: Rise of the Changeling
Molly O'Malley and the Pirate Queen

The Magic Trash Can

We have a magic trash can in our home. It's in the kitchen, oval, white, 13-gallon model.

I know it's magic because when I go out of town for a few days, you can put as much trash as you want into it and it never gets full. Ever.

No one complains, no one says anything, and no matter how much is crammed into or stacked on top or beside the magic trash can, it will still hold more. At least no one ever changes the bag.

However, the second I return, the magic trash can is full. Only when I am there. I sometimes wonder about that, because it looks to me like it must have been full before I got home. That's the magic. No one can empty the trash can but me.

I'm sure that our magic trash can was designed by professionals to be easily emptied by children, working moms, and pretty much anyone who is capable of putting trash into it in the first place. You don't have to be an engineering type or an information technology guru to figure out the process.

And yet, our trash can is never full, never in need of emptying until I am present. It's magic.

I'm not grousing over it, really I'm not. I don't have any particular aversion to bundling up the stinky garbage and carting it off to the garage. I'm happy to spread a fresh, clean bag into the trash can so that it looks empty to me, too.

I have an important role in our home. If part of that function includes taking out the trash, so be it. I will shoulder that burden gladly if it helps the family out.

Besides, if I rebel too loudly, I'm sure the subject of the magic clothes hamper will come up.

A true Irishman is never in a hurry

I haven't been blogging much recently, and I wanted to share with you the reasons why.

No, it's important, really it is. Everyone has good, solid reasons why they haven't gotten around to doing the small, but important things in their lives, don't they? As a writer, I should be able to add writer's block to my list or something equally convincing.

Actually, writer's block has little to do with my situation. I'm currently writing the third book in my Irish trilogy, Molly O'Malley and the Pirate Queen. I'm into chapter ten at the moment, and I'm on a roll. So it's not writer's block.

I took a few days out to enter a writing contest at my work, called Art/Work: Creativity from the Cube. They expanded it to include literary categories this year, so naturally I had to give it a try. I entered in four categories, won first place in two of them and placed second in the other two. You can read about it in my News and Events on my main website.

The main reason I can point to for not blogging is that my youngest daughter is getting married on July 4th. There are LOTS of activities associated with planning a wedding: finding the church, finding the minister, finding the dress, deciding who to invite, making the invitations, making the programs, making up gift baskets, designing the table centerpieces for the reception, reserving the tux, deciding the tux that I already own can be used by renting only the shirt, tie and vest the groomsmen are getting and saving $100, finding the reception hall, planning the food for the reception, making special gifts for the bride and groom that I can't tell you about right now, reserving the limo, and so on.

A word of advice to other bloggers out there: a wedding actually gives you a lot to write about.

I know there is a lot of personal stuff associated with a wedding, and many readers really aren't that interested in my personal stuff. I'm still trying to find my niche, though, and it's possible that many readers will actually be interested in the topic, and even my take on it.

The interesting thing about this wedding is that my daughter has an Irish background and her fiance's background is Scottish. So we're going to have a Celtic-themed wedding. We've made a weddin' ba, a Scottish tradition for the children attending who are too young to catch the bride's bouquet or the garter. It's essentially a round ball-shaped pinata filled with candy and coins.

I've made a PowerPoint show with pictures of both kids growing up, using an Irish font for their names. We're sharing an Irish blessing with guests who stay at a nearby hotel. We've made custom handkerchiefs for the tux pockets out of the groom's clan tartan.

Still, you get around to doing the things you want to do. Or that your loving spouse yells at you to do because you're busy doing other things. Bottom line, procrastination is all about finding excuses for not doing things early.

Here's an example: I just save the best things for last.

Blizzard stops the Wizard

We had a freak snowstorm yesterday, Saturday March 28, 2009. I was safely nestled inside and could enjoy watching the monster flakes come down, knowing that today's forecast was for 44 degrees and sunny, drawing comfort from the thought of rapidly returning to spring.

Yesterday's five inches was not as memorable for me as the late snow thirty years ago, however. The events of that freak snowstorm are still fresh in my thoughts.

In April of 1974 I was a freshman at the University of Missouri - Columbia. My favorite class was Econ 51 - an introductory course to the study of Economics. Our professor was Dr. John Kuhlman, a legend on campus for both his humor and his take-no-prisoners approach to teaching. Dr. Kuhlman was completely aware that many students were intimidated by both the coursework and the instructor, and was equally committed to helping everyone who wanted to pass the course succeed.

Each week the professor and his staff hosted a unique opportunity for all students in the class to earn extra-credit points. Dr. Kuhlman was famous for his multiple-choice questions; they were the only format he used, and were so elegantly crafted that selecting the right answer required that you know the material. Guessing was a pure gamble. Each Tuesday we could come in after classes in the evening to take a five question multiple-choice quiz. If we got all of the answers correct, we passed, and we received the extra-credit for that week.

If we missed even one question, we failed the quiz. The teaching assistants (TAs) would only tell us that we had not passed the quiz.

On Wednesday, we could return to try it again. Slightly different quiz, of course, over the same material. If we got all five correct, we passed the quiz and received our extra-credit for the week. If we missed anything, the TAs would tell us only how many questions we missed.

On Thursday if we missed anything, the TAs would tell you which questions you missed.

On Friday, the TAs would tell you what the correct answer should have been for the questions you missed.

For those unfortunate enough to have fallen short on all four quizzes, a special makeup session was available on Saturday from 8:30 to noon. If you didn't pass on Saturday, a TA would sit down with you and cover the answers in detail, the reason for the correct answer, what was wrong with the other responses, and in short prepare you to become a productive member of society. But no extra-credit for Dr. Kuhlman's Economics class for that week.

I found Econ 51 to be a stimulating and enjoyable class, and had little difficulty passing the quizzes early each week. One week, though, I found myself struggling, and for the first and only time that semester I needed to come in and attempt the Saturday quiz.

That Saturday was the day of the freak, late-season snowstorm.

I wasn't too worried. I considered myself to be a good driver, certainly a better driver than most of the other idiots behind the wheel. Snow didn't bother me, and it was only three miles to the campus.

My ride in those days was a 1967 Camaro, mint-green and three-on-the-tree. For those of you too young to remember that car, it had rear-wheel drive, a light rear end, and was one of the worst choices you could make for challenging serious road conditions. Still, I had never had to abandon my car. Ever.

I picked up the highway route a few blocks south of my house. Right away, I could see the long hill ahead was going to be trouble. The other idiots I mentioned earlier had gotten to the hill before me and were scattered all over the roadway.

Oh, I gave it the old college try. I kept my speed constant, not giving too much gas which would start the wheels futilely spinning. But there were just too many of them, spinning in circles, veering slowly into my lane and slowing to a stop as they gunned their engines in the wet snow. I lost momentum, and my faithful Camaro could not make it up that hill.

I made the tough choice to coax the pony car to the shoulder and abandon it. In April.

My plan was to walk the mile or so home, borrow the family station wagon and hope to make it to the campus and the quiz before noon. I made it about a third of the way and realized there was not enough time. An old Volkswagon Beetle came chugging down Rollins road, handling the slippery route with ease with its rear-engine, rear-wheel drive. That's when I made my second memorable decision of the day.

I stuck out my thumb.

I had never hitch-hiked before in my life, and I never have since. I had no idea whether this guy was going to pick me up or even slow down. But miracle of miracles, he pulled over and rolled down his window. "Need a ride?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied. "I need to get back to my house, it's just a couple of blocks from here. I'm trying to get over to the University campus by noon..."

"Well, I'm heading over that direction anyway. You want me to just drop you there?"

Well, what the heck. The day's been going splendidly so far.

I hopped in and the good Samaritan dropped me off on the west side of the Quadrangle. As I raced across the snow-covered sidewalk in front of the landmark six stone Ionic Greek columns that are the symbol of the University, I could hear the Student Union bells tolling the hour. The twelve o'clock hour. Middlebush Hall was just across the Quadrangle, and I was still going to be late.

As I dashed into the testing room, I explained my situation. The TAs were quite understanding or amused, I couldn't tell which, and they agreed to let me take the quiz.

Which I failed.

After my personal tutoring session, I called my Dad at home to come and get me. We went back for the Camaro later that afternoon. The snow had stopped, and the warm weather had melted most of the slick stuff away.

It's all right, really it is. I still got a solid "A" in Econ 51, and went on to major in the subject. Despite the feelings of events floating out of my control that morning, my memories are all good ones now of meeting problems and using everything I had to solve them. Even the setbacks provided me with new life experiences.

And don't forget the preparation to become a productive member of society. It must have worked. After all, it gave me something to write about.

Snow on the rooftop?

You'd think I could film a disaster movie just because we got four inches of snow!

Every new snowfall I am continually dismayed and amused at the number of drivers who just can't figure out that something has changed. Or worse yet, they suspect something has changed but can't seem to adapt to it.

This morning I watched a driver travel through a level intersection from a standing start. It was a front-wheel drive car, normally an advantage in slippery conditions. Her (oops, did I say that out loud?) front tires were spinning madly as she inched forward at something just shy of walking speed. She didn't seem terribly stressed about the car's lack of response to her urging, as I imagined her gas pedal was into the floor. Give it enough power, and she would eventually get where she wanted to go.

Now I don't have a degree in rocket science, but I have figured out that sometimes you can go faster by slowing down. If a runner tries to compete in a marathon by sprinting all the way, he or she will likely not even make it halfway to the finish line. You save the sprint for the end of the race unless it's a very short race.

Most things in life are not a very short race. Most of us have long-term goals. You live longer by eating fewer junk foods and drinking less alcohol. Moderation is not something to be ashamed of; it's a template for success.

This morning I was able to drive around Blue Springs - and around less adaptive drivers - by using a more moderate touch on the gas pedal. Maybe it's just because I'm getting older.

I intend to keep it that way.

It spins clockwise north of the equator

The typical American family has 1.87 children. Numbers can be so terribly fascinating, don’t you think? Using a strict interpretation, no American family could be considered typical because children always arrive in integer quantities.

No one uses a strict interpretation in this context, however. Only writers who are obsessed with wordplay make serious attempts to create humor, interest or blogs from this type of verbal fodder.

I can tell I’m losing 74.6 percent of my audience at this point, and rightly so. Let’s get to my inspiration for today’s thoughts.

We visited relatives over the New Year’s weekend. My wife’s cousin lives in a house next door to her mother. Perhaps due to the holiday fare, it was my distinct pleasure to unplug not one, but two toilets today. One in each residence. Making this process more interesting is that these two households share a single plunger.

I don’t need to go into great detail for obvious reasons, but these are brand new homes sporting the legally-required low flush toilets. I’m probably dating myself, but the units from the old days that used more water didn’t seem to plug up as often, and were easier to unplug. One of the plugs today was particularly troublesome, requiring five minutes and several flushes to clear the blockage.

The lesson learned in 1.9 days of holiday fun? Families that have 2.3 toilets of the 1.6 GPF variety should maintain 2.2 plungers per household. At least that’s my 2.5 cents worth.

It's Saturday - Wal Mart needs us

It all started with our first baby.

We did the new-parent thing and attended classes to learn how to breathe properly and plump a pillow. Two nurses from the ob-gyn office led the training, and they were as different as night and day.

In their examples of being prepared for the onset of labor while out and about, one always placed the location at Westlake’s and the other placed the location at Wal Mart.

This was back in the dark ages when there were no Super Wal Marts in our part of the country, and Westlake’s was the upscale store in town. Not wanting to take sides, my wife and I split our time between the two businesses.

One day we went out to Westlake’s to pick up a can of spray paint. Westlake’s makes it easy to get whatever you want, laying out the store with excellent signage and a wide variety of products. We found so many things that we had just put off picking up, that when we checked out our bill came to just over $100.

Now we were newlyweds. We had never, ever spent $100 in one place in our lives as a couple. We really needed that trash can, though. And that clock was essential to fill that blank spot in the kitchen. All necessary, all required to maintain our frugal existence. So we took a deep gulp and paid for it all.

I mention this because that $100 has become a magic number in our household. Ironically, it is now associated not with Westlake’s, but with Wal Mart.

As we had our children and continued to build a home, rooms and cupboards and refrigerators had to be filled again and again. Wal Mart became our destination of choice as it was conveniently located and the prices were low. We couldn’t help but notice that nearly every time we went to Wal Mart, the total ended up being at least $100. That astronomical sum that shocked us at Westlake’s was now the norm. It became a standing joke that if we didn’t break $100, it didn’t seem like we had really been to Wal Mart.

Last weekend my wife and I prepared for our weekly pilgrimage to the Super Wal Mart so that the hungry residents in our house wouldn’t starve over the next seven days. My youngest daughter, now twenty-four, looked up from the computer and asked “Where are you guys going?”

I looked at her without breaking a smile and replied, “It’s Saturday. Wal Mart needs us.”

She understood. She’s family.

I like airplanes

I like airplanes. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not in my blood, inherited from my family as it infected my wife, who practically grew up on Eastern Airlines and was bitten by the travel bug at a tender age. It’s not the allure of the plane thing or the culture of flight or anything like that.

My wife and I visited the Florida Air Museum in Lakeland, Florida. It houses mainly civilian aircraft and a few military examples. The smaller plane sizes allow more exhibits to be squeezed into the limited display space. I spent most of my time snapping photos of the classic aircraft, looking for the most interesting compositions. As I struggled to get all six propeller blades of the Lockheed XPV-1 into the picture while checking carefully behind me so I wouldn’t back into the wing gun of the P-63, I realized what it was I like about airplanes.

Airplanes look cool.

You’re right, that is oversimplifying. Yet that is the point – airplanes look cool because of what makes them fly in the first place.

The most efficient wing design when seen as a cross-section resembles a curved teardrop, with a rounded leading surface that arcs to a tapered trailing edge. Let’s just say that it disturbs the air moving around it in a way that it generates lift so the plane can do what it was designed to do.

All of this means that the plane as a whole has a lot of smooth, rounded surfaces to reduce drag wherever possible to make forward and vertical motion as efficient as possible. It’s beautiful. The lines are simple and basic. It just looks good.

Perhaps it is in my genes: the joy in simple, uncluttered presentation. I hope you are familiar with Strunk’s Elements of Style. After 90 years of testing, William Strunk’s rules of composition still provide a strong voice for simplicity in writing the English language. I enjoy writing that is simple and uncluttered, just as I relish the smooth lines of an airplane.

Yes, I also cringe when I encounter writing that drifts or presumes too much or has a protagonist act in a way that is totally out of character. I treasure consistency while prizing mystery. Mysteries, after all, will ultimately be unraveled to show a logical sequence. Something that is, after all, simple and uncluttered. It’s great to have a clear standard.

Now all I have to do is figure out why I think the F-117A looks cool.

Teal Green Arches

Sedona, Arizona is a picturesque town founded on the twin principles of aesthetic beauty and unbridled commerce. Two major roads lead into the area; one from the north that snakes through the hairpin turns of Oak Creek Canyon, and one from the south that favors the flatter terrain of the desert. When we visited Sedona several years ago, we decided to enter using the southern route as we didn’t want to risk the unfamiliar turns of the canyon in the approaching darkness.

We couldn’t miss the sign as we neared the outskirts. “The Only Teal Green Arches in the World!” The Sedona McDonalds has teal green arches? What an advertising coup! We had to check this out come the morning.

The next day, sure enough, there was the McDonalds restaurant, clad in adobe and sporting very fashionable arches in a gorgeous green teal. It looked like it belonged in this community where everything seemed to be color-coordinated to fit a southwestern theme.

While talking with the locals a different story emerged. It seems that McDonalds, that corporate giant of fast food, swept into Sedona several years back to plant their world-renowned image in this tourist Mecca. They planned to stand out from the competition with their trademark red-and-gold color scheme attracting the attention of children and their obliging parents. The opposition came as a complete surprise.

Sedona, it turns out, has a very strict zoning ordinance. Those mellow combinations of tans and yellows and teals that you see everywhere? It’s a mandate, not a happy accident. Everyone must conform to the approved color scheme. Even a swaggering juggernaut like McDonalds.

McDonalds didn’t knuckle under without a fight. They battled the requirement in court, seeking relief from this ridiculous burden on their business. And lost. If a McDonalds restaurant was going to grace the streets of Sedona, the famous arches were not going to be gold.

Ultimately someone realized that instead of being defeated, McDonalds was teetering on the edge of a great opportunity. If they couldn’t be like all of the other thousands of McDonalds, they would be unique! How many McDonalds restaurant arches do you take pictures of while you are on vacation?

So was born the marketing campaign to advertise the world’s only teal green arches – as if McDonalds had thought up the idea themselves in the first place.

There’s a wonderful lesson lurking here. How often do we encounter adversity in our lives, something that at first glance seems to block our progress in life and makes our existence miserable?

Why can’t we embrace the situation and look for ways to turn it into an opportunity? Many of the world’s great inventions were products born of looking for ways to solve a problem. It was the noted Greek philosopher Plato who said “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

The next time you run up against the unexpected and the unwanted, take time to figure out how to make that boulder into a stepping-stone. It’s your happiness at stake. Look for the teal green arches in your life.

Making your obituary creative

I belong to a writer's group in Blue Springs. One of the staples of any writing group are regular creative writing challenges. This helps keep you sharp and pushes you in new directions.

This week the challenge was to write your own obituary.

I didn't really want to be pushed in that direction, but I'm usually up for any challenge. This is not really a prediction as much as it is an attempt to push back!

Obituary: Duane Porter

Duane Lynn Porter passed away on March 30, 2038 at the age of 82. He is survived by his daughters, Karen Marie Rose and Susan Gayle Craig, their husbands, four grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, and the beloved family robot, Rosie. He was preceded in death by his wife of 51 years, Cathleen Gayle, who got tired of waiting for him to go first.

Services will be held at the Speaks Memorial Chapel in Independence on Sunday, April 4^th. The family has requested there be no visitation because Rosie went berserk and wouldn’t let anyone near the casket for 24 hours. A Speaks Chapel spokesman said they were confident that Rosie’s batteries will run down in time for the funeral.

Mr. Porter was a successful author, starting with children’s books and never really getting out of that rut. He has dozens of adoring fans throughout the greater Blue Springs area. Some of his better known works are the Molly O’Malley trilogy, the Stanley the Little White Dragon series of picture books illustrated by his daughter, Karen, and of course the very popular Robotics Handbook for Children: Help When Your Parents Say No.

The family requests donations to be made to the local library in lieu of flowers. Rosie is allergic.

Alex in the Big Easy

I accompanied my wife to New Orleans recently while she worked at a convention event. I secured my laptop in the hotel room using an old combination cable lock. When I tried to remove the lock later, it would not come out. A quick internet search revealed that this type of lock was prone to resetting itself and was generally a lock to stay away from.

There’re not too many things worse than a writer having their laptop permanently attached to a hotel room in a distant city. The front desk was very polite, and sent a maintenance man up to help.

Alex brought some light-duty wire cutters and a pair of needle nose pliers. While he went back to look for heavier cutters, I managed to twist the lock’s cable wires off with the pliers, and covered the sharp remaining stubs with electrical tape.

You never know who you will meet on a given day. I was short on cash for a tip, and offered to give Alex a copy of Molly O’Malley and the Leprechaun. He eagerly accepted, and we started to talk about where he was from.

Alex hailed from Estonia, one of the former Baltic Republics. Estonia, along with Latvia and Lithuania, has been ruled for centuries by Russia. The three states achieved independence briefly in 1917 with the simultaneous collapse of the Russian and German empires at the end of World War I. They were re-annexed by the Soviet Union in 1939-1940 as Stalin prepared to fight the Nazi war machine.

Not until 1991 did the Baltic States regain a measure of independence. They have but a short history and tradition of existing outside the Russian sphere of influence.

Alex was more than willing to speak of his native land in his thick Russian accent. He told me that when Estonia declared independence from Russia the Russians cut the flow of natural gas into the country. The Russians said in effect, “You want to be independent? We will show you what it is like to be independent from Russia!” It was very cold, and the Estonian people suffered greatly. Alex had a portable radiator he used to keep warm. The Germans, Finns and Swedes sent old tires to burn for fuel in the power plants.

Even before independence while Estonia was still part of Russia, the economy was caught in the throes of sweeping changes. When Russia moved to a private economy, all of the state-owned assets were given as certificates, or shares to the people. The average person knew nothing about finance, however, as the state had planned everything for them their entire lives. Some of the people who understood finance went around the country and bought these certificates in exchange for a bottle of vodka or a carton of cigarettes. In this way they accumulated control over the Russian industry, and the Russian people got basically nothing.

Alex was something of a dissident in his country. Now he is in America, free to speak his mind. Life has not been easy for him, but freedom is precious to him.

As a writer I look for opportunities to find meaning in the things I experience. I did not expect to find an Estonian maintenance man in New Orleans, any more than I expected to have my laptop accidentally locked to my hotel room.

It’s a wonderful feeling to hear Alex’s story of Estonian independence, even as I regained independence for my laptop. I am happy for both of us.

Duane Porter, March 16, 2008 – New Orleans

Groundhog Day

It was 7:25 in the morning. Phil was not a happy groundhog.

“I tell you, Gladys, these humans are crazy! Trusting a groundhog to plan their lives. It’s not like I have any special powers!”

“Phil, if it bothers you that much, just come back to bed.” Gladys pulled the blanket up under her chin.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t like to. But do I have a choice? Nooo, at 7:29 every 2nd of February, that big hand in the white glove comes in and grabs me. Then I’m shoved up above ground, a thousand reporters blind me with their camera flashes, and I’m lucky to make it back into the hole before some kid beans me with a stale bagel. Don’t tempt me, Gladys, don’t tempt me!”

“Well, try going with the flow instead of fighting it this time. That might make a difference.”

“Go with the flow? Oh, that’s brilliant, Gladys, just brilliant. It doesn’t make any difference what I do anyway. If I see my shadow, we’re in for six more weeks of winter. If I don’t see my shadow, spring will be here within a month and a half.”

Gladys yawned and blinked sleepily. “If it doesn’t make any difference what you do, just do whatever makes you happy.”

“Makes me happy? Do you know what would make me happy, Gladys? It would make me happy if this whole Groundhog Day business just went away! Do you know how this started, Gladys? There was a holiday called Candlemas they celebrated in the old country. The animal they watched on Candlemas to see if he saw his shadow was a hedgehog. A hedgehog, Gladys! Only there weren’t any hedgehogs around when they came over to the new world, so they decided to watch groundhogs. I’m a second-rate substitute for a hedgehog, Gladys! I’m the first runner-up in the beauty contest for hibernating weather predictors!”

“Well, Phil, at least you’re not in the running for Miss Congeniality. Why don’t you just show them that you are unique this year? Do something different?”

Phil scratched his nose impatiently. “That might be just the thing to do, Gladys, you might be on to something there.” The tiny grandfather clock in the hall tunnel chimed 7:29. Phil groaned. “Well, here we go!”

A huge white-gloved hand appeared in the tunnel and gently grasped Phil by the scruff of his neck. He was dragged to his front door, and the hand began to push him up from behind.

“Hey, hey, hey, watch where you’re pushing, there!” Phil barked. Then he was outside.

Multitudes of people began cheering as cameras flashed from every direction. Phil closed his eyes to dull the pain. In a moment, his vision cleared and he looked around to see his shadow on the ground behind him. “Hey, what do we have here?”

He lifted his right foot, and the shadow lifted with it. “Hmmm… what else can we do with this?” He lifted his foot higher, and raised his paws higher above his head. “Haiii-yah!” he screamed.

“Look!” someone shouted. “Punxsutawney Phil is in the crane position!”

A man in formal attire and wearing white gloves stepped between the crowd and the kung-fu groundhog. An airborne stale bagel bounced off of his striped vest. “Phil is fine, folks, he’s just a little upset like the rest of us that we’re going to have six more weeks of winter!” Twisting his neck around, he hissed to his assistant, “Get that groundhog back into the tunnel!”

Phil was unceremoniously hurried back into his warm home. He saw the shadow of the front door close above him. He stared up, listening to the jabbering of the crowd outside.

“Phil, honey, are you finished already?”

Phil smiled to himself. “It seems so, Gladys.”

“Then come to bed. It’s six weeks until spring.”

Back to Business

Our family was down with serial flu over the holidays, so it's good to be functional again. I hope your holidays were blessed!

During this time our shipment of the first edition of Molly O'Malley and the Leprechaun came in, so I'm very excited to get copies out to all of my fans who were waiting for their book! Plenty of copies still available, and I'm extending the initial discount for a little while longer.

I'm going to start creating podcasts of Charlie and the Chess Set and posting them here on the blog.

For today, here is a short story about resolutions - marginally, at least, but I was looking for something a little bit January.

Mission: Resolution

Agent Jason Stone approached the front door warily. He checked behind him; no sign that he was followed here. The street was quiet, with streetlights casting halos that clung to the road, leaving the yard and entryway cloaked in the late-night darkness.

Pressing a small button on his keychain, a dim LED illuminated the lock. He selected a key and carefully slid it into the cylinder. Soundlessly he opened the deadbolt, swung the door open and stepped into the foyer.

The first floor was clear, but what he was looking for was on the second floor. Jason tested the steps. No squeak, he was in luck. At the top of the stairs he took the hallway to his right, second door on the left. He turned the knob and peered in.

Clare was asleep, as he had anticipated. He watched her from the door for a moment, drinking in her beauty as she breathed softly.

Next he moved back down the hallway to the door he had passed by. He rested his hand on the knob and paused. He wondered if he was too late. Slowly he pushed the door open to find Michael’s eyes fixed upon him. “Come in, Agent Stone.”

Jason stepped into the room and casually draped his jacket over the chair. “Good evening, 006. Is everything in order?”

Michael smiled. “You’re the one coming back in from a mission. How did it go?”

Agent Stone smiled in return. “Well enough, I suppose. I made it back in one piece. You’re up late.”

“I worry about you when you’re out. Anyway, ‘M’ is waiting for you.”

Jason nodded and picked his jacket up. “Well, I’d best report in, then. See you in the morning.”

Proceeding past the staircase, Jason approached the final door at the other end of the hallway. He opened the door slightly. The lights were out, but he could tell that ‘M’ was there.

He hung his jacket in the closet and changed into his PJs. Slipping under the sheets, he wrapped his arms around Maggie and kissed her passionately. She touched his lips with her finger. “Are you still playing that silly ‘Secret Agent’ game with Michael?”

“Who? You mean 006? That is his age. It’s hard to believe that Clare is almost nine now. I’m glad I resolved to take the late flight home after the conference instead of waiting until tomorrow. I miss you guys something awful. Family comes first this year.”

Maggie smiled. “I resolve to love you even more,” she whispered. “It’s a new year, Agent Jason Stone, and your new mission is to be the perfect family man.”

Jason grinned. “Now some resolutions you just want to keep!”

Ready for podcasting? Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3...

I'm venturing in to the unknown today. I'm pretty sure I need to do something to shrink the size of this file, and I haven't figured that out yet. But it is an mp3 file which should play.

Here is the link to Chapter 9 of Molly O'Malley and the Leprechaun: Three Wishes.

Try it out!

Baby Steps

This is my first blog, ever. Actually I think I was blogging several years back on our church web site where there was a forum to express opinions - and there were a lot of opinions - but this is my first modern blog.

I am a writer. I plan to share my writing with you. Feel free to comment, make suggestions as to what topics you would like to see in a book or story, share your own writing on the blog. My goal is to make the best writing available to anyone who wants it, and listen to what people are sharing.

I also participate in a couple of writer's groups. Yes, writers need some one else to share their woes, too. :) My local writer's group in Blue Springs is sponsored by Parkside Books. Parkside Books has a newsletter which hosts some of our group's writings. I'm going to share my humble article that was featured in the December newsletter. Let me know if you would like to see more!

December Magic

The early morning sun glinted off the ice crystals that clung to the old oak tree. In the hollow between two great branches, water warmed by the sun trickled down to pool and freeze again. As the sun rose higher it made the tiny frozen pool sparkle, and a sliver of ice quivered in the warmth. Another sliver fluttered, then another, until Acorn was fully roused. The little frost fairy sat up in her treetop sanctuary and yawned.

“December already?” she murmured, stretching as she stood up. “Marvelous! That will make up for that horrid early Spring we had!”

Setting a dainty foot confidently on the gnarled branch, she pushed off and slid down its length, hopping over knot holes along the way. When she reached the end she leaped out into space, her wings spread wide to catch her. With a glorious lazy spiral she glided to the ash tree next door.

“Poco! Poco, wake up! The first frost has come!”

A second fairy, curled up in a crook of his tree groaned in reply. “Go away, Acorn! I’m dreaming about a lovely blizzard, and you’re not in it!”

“That’s not fair!” Acorn pouted. “I want to be in the blizzard! Anyway, the first frost has come, and it’s time to get up! I want to play, and paint pictures on windows, and make the grass stiff so it crunches when people walk on it!”

Poco sat up, blinking his blue eyes under his tousled hair. “When we grow up, can we make a blizzard?”

Acorn laughed and shook her head. “Then who would make the frost? Come on, everyone is waiting for us to put the bugs to sleep, and make their breath float like clouds, and make their noses and cheeks rosy so they feel good when they get warm again!”

The boy fairy climbed to his feet and shook his wings. “People are so strange. Who wants to be warm? Let’s go have some fun while we can!”

The two friends flew off, no more than reflections from the sun to the casual observer. They would freeze flagpoles and paint snowflakes and chill everyone around until the warm days of Spring would lull them into slumber again.