Carenen Cottage Red

I am not an oenologist, nor have I ever been a sommelier, and never will be. Wine is not my passion, but it is my delight. I have tried several hundred over the decades, ranging from a delightful Boone's Farm Strawberry, vintage last week, to a bottle of Merlot that cost over five ($5) dollars! And now I have settled on what I call "The Carenen Cottage Red," a modestly-priced but wonderful full, red wine that we enjoy with everything, even fried possum road kill.

Let me share the label with you by means of explaining my affection for this particular liquid pleasure. What follows is mostly word-for-word from the back of the bottle itself.

'This is a pleasurable, comfortable wine, reflecting the comforts of home. It is a wine for everyday life. It is made from grapes grown in a perfect climate, grapes kissed by soft winds bearing the scent of Zephirine Drouhin roses. To truly appreciate this wine, please withhold judgement until after the sixth glass. And kindly remember that consumption of this beverage might impair your judgment, so you should not operate heavy equipment, automobiles, or trucks if you can't, using both hands, find your derriere. If you are pregnant, don't drink this wine until after the baby is delivered. Then have all you want, behavior which may lead to becoming pregnant again. But that's your problem.

A lack of this wine may cause health problems, surliness, and generally crummy behavior, so drink up!'

If you are interested in acquiring this wine for yourselves, I will give you a hint. It's from California. Cheers!

Ab-tastic

I have decided that I am not going to shred my abs. I was in the supermarket the other day looking for 9-volt batteries, good marshmallows, and frozen berries (a new diet) and I gazed at the magazines on the rack just down from the battery display. Since there were no 9-volt batteries, I took another look at the magazines.

Mostly bikini-clad girls standing next to choppers and hot rods, tattooed athletes with surly facial expressions, and fitness magazines. One of the fitness magazines suggested that I should "Shred" my abs.

I like my abs just fine. They're there, just like yours, and over the decades I have done thousands of crunches, knee-ins, and twists holding barbell plates in my hands. But I have never shredded my abs.

I like my abs just fine. So much so, I have coated them with a comfortable layer of protective padding that keeps them warm and happy.

In keeping with that theme, there was a diet book next to the magazine about the abs (the abs magazine had a man showing off more than his shredded abs with no sense of modesty whatsoever). On the cover of the diet book was the heading, "Eat All Your Favorite Foods and Lose 30 Pounds!"

On the way out, I added a second bag of marshmallows to my little green carry basket. I like my abs just fine.

First Friday Fun

No television, no radio, no music, no video games. Just conversation. What!? Every First Friday of each month at the Carenen Cottage in northern Greenville, my long-suffering wife and I host an informal gathering of people beginning at 6:30 PM and lasting until the National Guard moves in and make us disperse. We provide beer and wine and pizza and maybe brownies, and people show up and sometimes bring snacks and hang out and have conversations in the cottage, around the firepit, on the front porch and, when it gets warmer, we'll probably find folks on the deck in back. It is a beautiful setting, especially now with blossoms all over the place. Crabapple, azaleas, dogwood, tulip trees, hyacinths, and many others adorn our little spot up against Paris Mountain. And what do people do there? Converse. That's it. Oh, we occasionally burn a heretic after dark, but there is no other entertainment. Just people talking.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines conversation as "a talk, especially an informal one, between two or more people, in which news and ideas are exchanged." We are informal for sure. And we talk and laugh and tell stories and lies and converse about politics, religion, sports, cat-choking, and a general love of dogs.

No television. No radio. No video games. Conversation. Imagine that.

Be Better, Boston!

As I write this, my team, the last-place (last year) Boston Red Sox are beating The Forces of Evil in the very pit of Hell. That means the Red Sox are whipping the Yankees in the new Yankee Stadium. This bodes well for the season, and the possibility of a 162-0 record still exists.

Opening Day, Opening Day, are there better words in the English lexicon? All things are possible, the sights and sounds of smells of baseball have returned, and all is well, at least for the moment.

My most memorable Opening Day was 1971, when using a ticket I ordered when I was still living in Israel, I got to see the Red Sox and Yankees in Fenway Park. With snow flurries most of the time. With the great Yaz making a sliding catch in left field, one leg in front of him to keep him from sliding into the wall down the left field line.

I have been a Red Sox fan for 57 years and counting, and that includes mostly bad seasons. Never a front-runner, it was a delight to win the World Series in '04, ending 86 years of futility.

A good friend of mine is a serious, committed Cubs fan. It's been over a century, 113 years, since they've won a World Series so, after Boston, I'm pulling for Chicago. A dream World Series would be Boston and the Cubs. Right now, it is possible.

Play Ball!

Lips and Lagers

My walks down life's roads have taken me many places. I lived on a kibbutz in Israel and harvested grapefruit when I wasn't shoveling out chicken houses. I was in the Philippines in the Air Force, spent my freshman year of college in California before graduating from the University of Iowa, and worked in an officer's club in Germany. I've hitchhiked all over the country, I milked an English Bulldog once, and also hit myself in the head with a baseball bat.

So just a couple of days ago I found myself in Florida having lunch at a joint call "Squid Lips," and I thought, how did I end up here?

I found myself accidentally stumbling into introspection there at good ol' Squid Lips, and then I fought that off. Introspection slows me down. And I was left with deep philosophical questions as I sat there, namely: why do my cars' windshield wipers always wear out on the exact sight line that I need to see clearly, and why do birds of all varieties always crap on that same sight line?

And then I ordered another Sam Adams Boston Lager.

A most sincere thank you

I just want to take a moment and thank each of you who purchased any version whatsoever of my debut novel, Signs of Struggle. I just received my first-ever royalty check from a publisher and I am humbled and happy. I truly set zero expectations for
sales. Well, y'all left zero sales way back in the dust and I'm very, very pleased. You have no idea how blessed I am to have you as readers.

Next, if you haven't already, would you kindly take a moment and go to Amazon and write a short(or long) review of Signs of Struggle? That is helpful to boost readership. Don't ask me how, but that's what the professionals tell me.

If you liked it, consider recommending it to a friend. Or two. Or three. That helps, too.

Finally, I'm happy to let you know that the sequel, A Far Gone Night, is now into its 11th chapter and I'm beginning to understand how it might turn out. It's the second in what is going to be a series called "Thomas O'Shea Mysteries." So, yes, there'll be more of Thomas, but also Lunatic Mooning, Bunza Steele, and Olivia Olson. I'll keep you posted on that.

In the meantime, thank you. You are the best.

Charming Children

I like (most) children. What I do not like is children being manipulated to sell everything from used cars (tiny voice: "Get a great deal at Paw Paw's Cars.") to heat pumps (squeaky little voice: "Go to Dinglebutt's Heating and Cooling. That's my daddy!"). Usually it's the parents' idea, I suspect. A chance for the world to discover their precious little future American Idle dropout while making a couple of bucks using the child. A recent, local ad on the radio is a prime example. A little girl says something like this: "Mommy, why does Grandpa not like me?" It turns out it's a hearing aid commercial, but every time I hear that ad on the radio, I turn it off and answer: "Well, little princess, it's because you're a shallow, insipid, conceited, and self-centered little twit who is never satisfied unless she's entertained every waking moment and catered to as if you were a drug-soaked rock star. If you weren't such a demanding little thorn in everyone's side, maybe more people, including Grandpa, could stand to be around you. Clearly, you're going to be a selfish, high-maintenance, whiny drama queen who will turn everyone away because you want to the Most Important Person in the Room. And you're not.

I feel better now, but I just had to vent for my mental health. Let children be children.

Neighbors being Neighborly

A few days ago there was a fierce midnight wind storm where our "country cottage" is located. It was a Tuesday night, and we weren't there, but the next day two neighbors called to say that big trees were down on our property, and there had been a fire.

I immediately took off cross-town to take a look, praying the Lord had spared our cottage. Two giant trees on our property and a neighbor's big cypress had been snapped off and were leaning down our driveway, suspended about eight feet from the ground by thick power cables. A small grass fire had erupted but was quickly put out by the fire department - called by our neighbors. The cottage was untouched; a direct answer to prayer.

The next day I found the trees sawn into chunks and the power restored. AND, a woman I had never met cleaning up the debris from OUR driveway. And she did it again the next day, working hard, wearing heavy gloves, and stacking the debris to the side of the driveway in bundles according to size. When I thanked her and told her we would take care of it, that it wasn't her problem, this woman, a grandmother, who weighs about 90 pounds, said she enjoyed the exercise.

It gets still better. The lady doesn't even live in South Carolina. She is an Asian-American, native Hawaiian who only comes to the mainland once a year to check on the house she owns! It was her cypress tree that had fallen onto our driveway and she felt responsible.

Good neighbor? You bet! Beyond numerous, heartfelt "Thank you's" there wasn't much else we could do. She would have been offended by payment and, besides, she said she liked the exercise.

The next night Lisa baked bread and we took it over to her as a small token of appreciation. She flies back to Honolulu tomorrow morning. I'll be she's a good neighbor there, too.

Sternums Ain't Sexy

Recently, while going through the checkout lane at my favorite supermarket, I scanned the magazines available for purchase while the lady was checking me through.

Two headlines on women's magazines caught my eye. One said, simply, "Suddenly Slender." The other, also simply stated, proclaimed "Instant Bliss."

It's not as if women in this country aren't constantly harassed with lies about how they should look. So "Suddenly Slim" lie didn't surprise me. It just made me angry. You ladies need to understand that red-blooded American males are not turned on by seeing where your ribs attach to your sternum. Please don't wear low-cut dresses that reveal a skeleton if you are interested in attracting Y-chromosome attention.

On the other hand, I identified with the "Instant Bliss" message. I didn't read the article, of course. I already knew. "Instant Bliss" can be attained. It's hot brats and cold beer.

By the way, the lady checking me out had a nice figure. No need for her to be desirous of becoming suddenly slim. I was buying olives for my wife, peanut butter for me, and marshmallows for the dog (that's how she takes her meds). The lady announced the total, then took a look at what I had purchased.

"New diet," I said, attempting to be humorous.

"Oh," she said, genuinely interested, eyebrows going up as she reviewed the items as she bagged them. "Maybe I'll try that."

I smiled and left, striding out into a gray, cold, and drizzly day.

Real Romantic

Valentine's Day is looming and so I'm going to come right out and say it: I am a romantic. The Oxford English Dictionary's second defintion of romantic is, "of, characterized by, or suggestive of an idealized view of reality. . . " Further, the OED defines "idealized" as "regard or represent as perfect or better than reality."

My idealized view of reality has many faces. For example, I believe certain scenes in movies are real. The battle scenes in The Lord of the Rings, for example, are real and make my heart swell every time I see them. They make me want to participate. I believe, and I don't want any additional footage trying to convince me that special effects, camera angles, and choreography were involved. I DON'T WANNA HEAR IT!

Another face of my romanticism works for me in literature. For example, I believe every word of The Life of Pi. I believe the story. I believe Richard Parker was a real tiger and that he and Pi made it to Mexico and Richard Parker strolled off into the jungle and found a girl tiger and they had cubs and a nice habitat and pizza delivery. So don't tell me Richard Parker was a symbol for something else. He was a tiger.

Also, I tend to be a romantic when it comes to sports. I believe my Iowa Hawkeyes will win next year's BCS championship and this year's Final Four. And the Red Sox will win the next World Series.

Finally, I must say that my romantic view of my long-suffering wife is based on facts that interface perfectly with "an idealized view of reality" and "perfect or better than in reality." You can look it up.

Wonder as I wander

Sunday, February 3rd, was teh 54th anniversary of the deaths of Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper (J.P. Richardson of "Chantilly Lace" fame), and Richie Valens ("Donna," "La Bamba," etc.).  They were killed in a plane crash in Iowa, where I happened to be living at the time.  A big story.  Theyhad finished a performance at the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake and were headed for the next stop when Buddy chartered a four-seater plane, going on ahead while the rest of his group would take a bus.  The plane crashed shortly after takeoff into a blizzard.  The pilot was not trained in instrument flying, and the crash killed everyone.  Buddy Holly was 22 years old.

Someone had posted the anniversary on Facebook, and I commented that Holly had $193 on him when he died.  Several people have wondered, with some trepidation, how I knew that.

It's because I'm a writer.

I am doing research on my sequel to Signs of Struggle, a Thomas O'Shea Mystery.  The second in the series is called A Far Gone Night.  Thomas, while taking a lonely walk in the middle of the night, discovers a woman's body in the river that runs through the Iowa village where he lives nearby.  The death is ruled a suicide and ... , but, well, nevermind.  The point is, I had to know a little bit about coronoer's reports, death certificates, who has access to such information and so forth.  And, in the process, I bumped up against a copy of Buddy Holly's coroner's report.  Not pleasant reading (his injuries were catastrophic) but useful.  It cataloged his effects, including money on the body.

As a writer, I engage in considerable research to make sure I don't write something stupid, or inaccurate.  Actually, I enjoy the research, and I learn things.  Imagine!

One final fascinating bit that came from my research.  Buddy Holly and a person in his band kidded each other about which one of them would take the last seat on the plane, and Holly won out.  He joked, "I hope your ol' bus freezes up."  The bandmate kidded back, saying, "Well, I hope your ol' plane crashes."  The person who took the bus was Waylon Jennings.  He said his last words to Buddy Holly haunted him for decades.

Nanny-nanny

The weather's been a bit blunt lately, not only in the north, but here in the Upstate of South Carolina as well. All the blizzards remind me why my long-suffering wife and Ivacated Iowa when we finished school up there. We made our decision the morning we let our Bulldog (Dudley) out and, when he didn't come back as usual, we looked out the front window and saw him frozen to a fire hydrant.

Which brings me to the nanny-local-weather and the nanny state we live in. They tell us to dress warmly when it's cold, take an umbrella when it's raining, don't shovel too much snow when you're trying to dig out from a blizzard, and don't get wet when the weather's bad. I appreciate the advice. I mean, I would never have figured any of that out on my own. I did figure out not to put my tongue on the flagpole when it's -15 degrees. And I remembered not to ever do that again, and I learned that independently. Once was enough.

What's next? Well, I suspect the gummint will start fining people for not listening to them. Heart attack from shoveling heavy snow? Big fine. Out in a misty morning without an umbrella. Medium fine. Not dressing warmly when it's cold out (THEY will decide what's cold out), maybe just a warning. Seriously, if the feds can tell us what kind of light bulbs and commodes we can have . . .

On my way to where I need to be

John Irving once wrote that he spent half his life revising. I can relate, with multiple revisions made on my first novel, Signs of Struggle, before I turned it loose. SOS is the first of a series of mystery novels featuring Thomas O'Shea. Stephen King said the scariest part about writing is just before you write the first word. And Elmore Leonard said that if it sounded like writing, he'd revise. Think about that one for a while and it actually does make sense.

I am well into the sequel to SOS, working title, A Far Gone Night. But this is after two false starts where I wrote two chapters and twice completely deleted both chapters. They were boring ME! Yikes! 

But now I'm on my way to where I need to be, so you Thomas O'Shea fans who want to know more about him and who want to again enjoy Lunatic Mooning, Bunza Steele, and Liv Olson, please be patient. I will keep you posted.

The Boy in the Bridal Boutique

Shortly after Christmas, my long-suffering wife and I drove to Florida for a visit with her sister's family in Melbourne. An unexpected highlight awaited. Given the choice of watching a bunch of men in shorts kicking each other's shins or accompanying my wife, her sister, and two nieces to The Bridal Boutique, I chose the latter.

I had wisely avoided such enterprises when my daughters married, so why was I going now? Well, my gifted, talented, lovely, witty, and brilliant niece is getting married in March. She had purchased a wedding gown and was going in for a fitting. Being a lifelong learner, I thought I'd tag along.

While Anna was getting fitted, I roamed around the estrogen-rich environment, looking at wedding gowns on a rack that extended about the length of a football field. The cheapest gown was $1,800, and they escalated into the low 4's. Off the rack. Above the rack were posters of the Bulemia All-Stars modeling various gowns. One young woman appeared to have failed in her attempt to escape vampires.

Backtracking to the front of the business, I proved useful in picking out the color for the Mother of the Bride dress. Blue. Later passed over for a mauve taupe sea mist stone aqua.

And even though Anna looked radiant in her tasteful gown, I just might pass when it's time for my niece Amy to visit the Bridal Boutique. And maybe give soccer another look.

Living the Dream

I have heard others who are enjoying their lives say they are "living a dream." The kid who works hard and makes it to the big leagues, the starving artist who begins to make a living with her art, the little boy who wanted to be a soldier and is now a Navy SEAL.

You can add me to that list, and part of my own "living a dream" took place last Saturday at the best bookstore in the Upstate, Fiction Addiction, owned and operated by Jill Hendrix. My book concierge, Rowe Copeland, with significant help from Jill, was largely responsible for refreshments, a cake with the book cover on it, and getting people to stop by and, in several cases, buy autographed copies of my debut novel, Signs of Struggle. (And trust me, signing copies of my novel is a big part of living a dream, folks.)

So, a big thank you to Rowe and Jill; my long-suffering wife, Lisa, who added glamour and dash to the gathering, and each of you who stopped by. Now, the show moves to Barnhills in Winston-Salem this coming Saturday, December 22nd, from 2-4 PM when I will be reading from SOS and then signing books after the reading. Living a dream continues. Hope to see those of you in the area at Barnhills.

Now, back to work on the sequel to SOS, A Far Gone Night.

Socially Signing Signs of Struggle

There's an enormous, hugely-exciting, and breathtaking social EVENT taking place this Saturday afternoon in Greenville, South Carolina, from 4-6 PM at Fiction Addiction, the best bookstore east of the Mississippi River. And, in a moment of shameful self-promotion, I must admit that it's a Launch Party for my debut novel, Signs of Struggle. Copies of the book will be available for signing, and not only that, but there will be free refreshments, ranging from cake to punch to veggie trays to hot cider. Conversation is free, of course.

So come on by Fiction Addiction (which has launched other authors' novels, including Moby Dick, Last of the Mohicans, True Grit, and The Old Man and the Sea) at 1175 Woods Crossing Road, Suite 5, Greenville, South Carolina 29607. Your GPS will get you there unless, like ours, it occasionally breaks into Mandarin Chinese. Or you can Google "Fiction Addiction" and get directions from their website.

In any case, I would be delighted to see you and sign your copy of Signs of Struggle. Blessings!

Signs of Struggle Sequel....

Some writer once said that there is real fear when beginning to write something new. There is that blank page, or screen, and nothing to build on. Just the author and the idea and all that can be, or not. I admit, it is a little scary, but I am a writer, and I understand. And I've been pleased to have several people (including my publisher) who read Signs of Struggle tell me that they wanted a sequel; that the characters were fun, and more would be just fine with them. So here I go.

The novel's working title is A Far Gone Night and it will pick up where SOS ended, with Thomas finally able to look forward to the next stage in his life. I'm not for sure what's going to happen, what the big conflicts will be, but that's part of the fun of writing. Interesting things can emerge, and that's a kind of magic. But the magic doesn't occur until the writing begins.

I'll keep you posted, dear readers. Let's see now, how should I begin? Maybe,"'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . " Better not. How 'bout, "In the beginning . . . " Nope. Has a nice ring to it, but it's been done by a better writer than I.

Guess I'll go with: "Covington was the name of the Georgia State Trooper who told me my family was dead." Stay tuned.

Fruitcake and Follicles

This is truly the season of giving, but have you noticed that everyone who has something to sell claims their product or service is 'the perfect gift for Christmas'? I just heard on the radio a commercial claiming that their product was 'the perfect gift for Christmas.' The product is a HAIR REMOVAL SYSTEM! It's not an ordinary hair removal system because it works with men and women, all races, all ages, all hair types, and any place on the human body. Not to mention people who breathe in and out. Now, I ask you: Would you like to receive a HAIR REMOVAL SYSTEM for Christmas? What does that mean for the giver (idiot)? They think you're some kind of simian creature who needs to stop combing their back hair and have all that foliage removed? And what about the receiver (victim)? Did you know you had a problem? Maybe you didn't realize you had a problem, and now an idiot has subtly suggested that might be the case.

As for me, I'm quite content with fruitcake. Figures.

Just another tequila mockingbird...

Things and more things filter through my mind, snips and snatches I can't explain. And sometimes things happen to me that are just plain weird. So I'll share a few. Why do people look at the hymnal in their hands when they're singing the "Hallelujah Chorus" with 1,328 "Hallelujahs" in a row? Same for that song with all the "glorias" in it, "Angels We Have Heard On High." Same words, over and over again, singers looking at the book. LOOK UP, PEOPLE! YOU LOOK STUPID!

I never knew it before today, but "Tequila Mockingbird" was that novel written by Harper Lee. Students really need to read more. Maybe they were thinking of Jimmy Buffett.

How do I explain having a cat in my underwear the other day at our "escape cottage"? I could explain it, but I won't. But if I don't explain it . . .

I did not watch one minute of any college football game last week. No wonder I don't feel well. It's been decades since I could say that, and trust me, it's not going to happen again.

I have had two concussions in my lifetime, both provided by baseball bats. One, by my older sister. One by me. Both stories should generate concerns, by you, about my cerebral functioning. On the other hand, it might explain a few things.

I was struck by lightning one time on I-95 south of Jacksonville, Florida. That might explain some of my snarled synapses, too.

Do you detect a pattern?

Theological Thanksgiving

In Flannery O'Connor's short story, 'Greenleaf,' one of the characters says, 'I thank God for ever'thang!' That's a pretty solid theological approach to Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for, and I try not to take anything for granted. I have a wonderful (albeit long-suffering) bride who inspires and loves me, daughters who make me enthusiastically proud, and a dog (Zimbabwean Cattle Retriever - Crested) who adores me. I'm not going to say anything about the cats.

But when we have blessings, we also have those annoying, tenacious responsibilities. I have excellent health as a gift, but I also try to be wise in exercise, nutrition, and rest (especially rest). I have a great job, but I need to keep trying to be a better professor. You get the idea.

But there's another element in life for which I give thanks, a cause for thanksgiving that I can do nothing to improve. And that's God's grace, His unmerited favor.

So while Thanksgiving specifies a national day to pause and count our blessings, and that's fine, shouldn't we be doing that every day? Do we need someone to tell us to be thankful? I hope not.

Mr. Greenleaf's joyful exclamation needs to ring true for all of us. And, like him, I thank God for everything. Happy Thanksgiving!