Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
For many years, my family, especially my sister, Dee, and I hunted for this song. We had loved it since it had come out in a Disney film of the 40s. This happy-go-lucky song came to mind this morning, perhaps because of a recent discussion on The View, and especially led by Whoopi Goldberg... She and I agreed that it is so important for us, today, to take historical artistic endeavors as they are, for the "reality" of what was happening during our past. This particular film was taken into the Disney vaults because of criticism. Finally, it came back, only to, in these recent days, find that we are once again dealing with people who refuse to accept art as it was created for that time...and enjoy it because of being able to see what was happening then...
It is truly a false assumption that, by taking something away, after it has been seen and enjoyed by a few, many, or millions, that it will be forgotten... That is NOT how our minds work... We want to remember what was meaningful to us during a given period of our lives... For me it is through literature and music...and also to a great extent, some types of paintings, sculptures and other art work created by so many. The latter is so widely inspired by the artist that their work might not be pleasing for all. But that's OK because others will see the beauty in it and be inspired from their own personal experiences... That's why any form of artistic endeavor is so important to all of us! We want and need to share that part of ourselves with others!
I remember my very first historical novel when the Gullah-English or Creole English was used. This is a form of language found in the Coastal low country region of South Carolina and Georgia including the Sea Islands... It took me time to sit and determine what was being said, but it didn't take long to pick up. Check out the articleto learn more if interested!
So what got me thinking about this? Well, many of you know there are some, especially in Florida, who are trying to delete our history if it is not related to the WASP background. Such a sad shame... I reviewed another book that you may be interested in... An Anthology called How Dare We Write!Our personal family is important to all of us... How dare we not be able to share that personal history as we lived it?
Which leads me to a main issue today. You may have seen that I've been away from my blog and online. I have once again begun having what I called nightmares, which are really flashes back to certain periods of my life when something traumatic was happening. Most of us think of it today as PTSD. Post traumatic symptoms can linger on for many years dependent upon what the trauma was... For me, when I see or experience something that is not logical, not rational thinking, I will be sent back to the time when changes were made based upon whoever the latest boss was, for instance. The resulting additional work was often enormous even if it required just a few words by the boss that said..."we're doing it this way now and I don't care how you did it in the past (even if it was a better way...)
As you may know, I had once again tried to write about my two issues that have caused trauma in my life...and find I really don't want to go back into thinking about those experiences. I may do some basic memoir type writings, without any effort to make an evaluative critical statement of significance... that could be more fun to think about. Maybe...
You know, folks, for the majority of my life, I was always working to achieve higher jobs, and then, later, when I got into publishing, combining my love of reading with publishing and then reviewing, I had led a very insular life. If I'm average in my lifestyle, you might have been just like me--we were always working to get our personal life in order. We may have voted, but it was a minor issue in our lives--something that was routine, like going to church or to the library or to get groceries for the week.
Post-January 6th has been a rude awakening for me. I thought much of what was happening was incited by the past president and, soon, things would get back to...routine, again. During the past several months, however, I have been shocked about just how much corruption has been uncovered--and, by how many people have been involved. The most recent confession by the head of Fox News that they all knew they were peddling lies--and doing so for the profit and ratings, has left me having no desire to even listen to the news. Has it always been like this? Should it require a major portion of anybody's time to deal with the issues evolving out of the political arena? I am shocked, disgusted, and unwilling to deal with this type of "crap" on an ongoing basis. Yes, I may feel differently from time to time, but I earlier just did not comprehend how bad things really are in America... Something must change; hopefully, we'll see how that can happen...It will take a majority of Americans being willing to continue to say we will not accept lying, election fraud, refusal to deal with gun control...and so much more... For me, it will take a lengthy hiatus from politics for the foreseeable future.
Happy to say I am now driving again! Free to get into my car and go out without trying to get somebody to take me...I don't think I realized just how confining a place can be without the easy ability to leave when you want to. However, I will be having cataract removal on both of my eyes beginning in April which will greatly limit my time on the computer. Hopefully, I can talk about all the great books I've been reading this month! At the time of that surgery, they will input my prescription for correction of my eyesight and I won't need to wear glasses after that! Wow! Praise God for giving the gifts of science and medical expertise to so many people!
You may have noticed that I've been inviting guest bloggers to share here at Book Readers Heaven. If you'd like to contribute in some way, send me a message! I've also been posting some reviews; however, they are NOT done in response to requests at this time. I may do some for long-term authors with whom I've worked, but, at least for now, I don't foresee an ability to receive and respond to specific requests. Feel free to use the comment section below for questions, suggestions, or just to say "Hi!"
I hope you take the time to consider just how important our historical artistic and magical creations have been in bringing our lives both joy as well as important social information. We cannot delete our history unless we lie about it... How do you feel about a country that is based upon lies... Consider just how badly things are at present. We need to ensure that we help our young people understand our past--not try to wipe it from the pages of books, movies and all other media instruments! Don't you wonder how God feels about the prejudice and bias that some of his children have for others?! I know I do!
I had planned on spotlighting a number of authors during this month; however, a family medical issue intervened and as I thought about it, I routinely read and talk about books written by Black authors, so I will continue to do that instead and share the last day of Black History Month talking about a recent song I was introduced to which has come to be known as the Black National Anthem--Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing. (I hope you like listening to various arrangements of the same song...I Did!
1942
James Weldon Johnson and his brother wrote the words of this extraordinary and beautiful song, but it was brought to life by Elizabeth Catlett with her artistic contributions to merge with each stanza. This book needs to be added to every library across our nation...
O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS
O black and unknown bards of long ago,
How came your lips to touch the sacred fire?
How, in your darkness, did you come to know
The power and beauty of the minstrel's lyre?
Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes?
Who first from out the still watch, lone and long,
Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise
Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song?
Heart of what slave poured out such melody
As "Steal away to Jesus"? On its strains
His spirit must have nightly floated free,
Though still about his hands he felt his chains.
Who heard great "Jordan roll"? Whose starward eye
Saw chariot "swing low"? And who was he
That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh,
"Nobody knows de trouble I see"?
What merely living clod, what captive thing,
Could up toward God through all its darkness grope,
And find within its deadened heart to sing
These songs of sorrow, love and faith, and hope?
How did it catch that subtle undertone,
That note in music heard not with the ears?
How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown,
Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears. Not that great German master in his dream
Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars
At the creation, ever heard a theme
Nobler than "Go down, Moses." Mark its bars
How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir
The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung
Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were
That helped make history when Time was young. There is a wide, wide wonder in it all,
That from degraded rest and servile toil
The fiery spirit of the seer should call
These simple children of the sun and soil.
O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed,
You—you alone, of all the long, long line
Of those who've sung untaught, unknown, unnamed,
Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine. You sang not deeds of heroes or of kings;
No chant of bloody war, no exulting pean
Of arms-won triumphs; but your humble strings
You touched in chord with music empyrean.
You sang far better than you knew; the songs
That for your listeners' hungry hearts sufficed
Still live,—but more than this to you belongs:
You sang a race from wood and stone to Christ.
My Very Favorite Spiritual And Others!
SENCE YOU WENT AWAY
Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright,
Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light,
Seems lak to me der's nothin' goin' right,
Sence you went away.
Seems lak to me de sky ain't half so blue,
Seems lak to me dat ev'ything wants you,
Seems lak to me I don't know what to do,
Sence you went away.
Seems lak to me dat ev'ything is wrong,
Seems lak to me de day's jes twice es long,
Seems lak to me de bird's forgot his song,
Sence you went away.
Seems lak to me I jes can't he'p but sigh,
Seems lak to me ma th'oat keeps gittin' dry,
Seems lak to me a tear stays in ma eye,
Sence you went away.
THE CREATION ( A Negro Sermon)
And God stepped out on space,
And He looked around and said,
"I'm lonely—
I'll make me a world."
And far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp. Then God smiled,
And the light broke,
And the darkness rolled up on one side,
And the light stood shining on the other,
And God said, "That's good!"
Then God reached out and took the light in His
hands,
And God rolled the light around in His hands
Until He made the sun;
And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.
And the light that was left from making the sun
God gathered it up in a shining ball
And flung it against the darkness,
Spangling the night with the moon and stars.
Then down between
The darkness and the light
He hurled the world;
And God said, "That's good!"
Then God himself stepped down—
And the sun was on His right hand,
And the moon was on His left;
The stars were clustered about His head,
And the earth was under His feet.
And God walked, and where He trod
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out
And bulged the mountains up.
Then He stopped and looked and saw
That the earth was hot and barren.
So God stepped over to the edge of the world
And He spat out the seven seas;
He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed;
He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled;
And the waters above the earth came down,
The cooling waters came down.
Then the green grass sprouted,
And the little red flowers blossomed,
The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,
And the oak spread out his arms,
The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,
And the rivers ran down to the sea;
And God smiled again,
And the rainbow appeared,
And curled itself around His shoulder.
Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand
Over the sea and over the land,
And He said, "Bring forth! Bring forth!"
And quicker than God could drop His hand,
Fishes and fowls
And beasts and birds
Swam the rivers and the seas,
Roamed the forests and the woods,
And split the air with their wings.
And God said, "That's good!"
Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that He had made.
He looked at His sun,
And He looked at His moon,
'And He looked at His little stars;
He looked on His world
With all its living things,
And God said, "I'm lonely still."
Then God sat down
On the side of a hill where He could think;
By a deep, wide river He sat down;
With His head in His hands,
God thought and thought,
Till He thought, "I'll make me a man!"
Up from the bed of the river
God scooped the clay;
And by the bank of the river
He kneeled Him down;
And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand;
This Great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till He shaped it in His own image;
Then into it He blew the breath of life,
And man became a living soul.
Amen. Amen.
THE WHITE WITCH
O brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
Trust not your prowess nor your strength,
Your only safety lies in flight;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight. The great white witch you have not seen?
Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth,
Like nursery children you have looked
For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth;
But no, not so; the witch appears
In all the glowing charms of youth.
Her lips are like carnations, red,
Her face like new-born lilies, fair,
Her eyes like ocean waters, blue,
She moves with subtle grace and air,
And all about her head there floats
The golden glory of her hair. But though she always thus appears
In form of youth and mood of mirth,
Unnumbered centuries are hers,
The infant planets saw her birth;
The child of throbbing Life is she,
Twin sister to the greedy earth.
And back behind those smiling lips,
And down within those laughing eyes,
And underneath the soft caress
Of hand and voice and purring sighs,
The shadow of the panther lurks,
The spirit of the vampire lies. For I have seen the great white witch,
And she has led me to her lair,
And I have kissed her red, red lips
And cruel face so white and fair;
Around me she has twined her arms,
And bound me with her yellow hair.
I felt those red lips burn and sear
My body like a living coal;
Obeyed the power of those eyes
As the needle trembles to the pole;
And did not care although I felt
The strength go ebbing from my soul.
Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs,
And heard your laughter loud and gay,
And in your voices she has caught
The echo of a far-off day,
When man was closer to the earth;
And she has marked you for her prey. She feels the old Antaean strength
In you, the great dynamic beat
Of primal passions, and she sees
In you the last besieged retreat
Of love relentless, lusty, fierce,
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.
O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
O, younger brothers mine, beware!
Look not upon her beauty bright;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.
MOTHER NIGHT
Eternities before the first-born day,
Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame,
Calm Night, the everlasting and the same,
A brooding mother over chaos lay.
And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay,
Shall run their fiery courses and then claim
The haven of the darkness whence they came;
Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way. So when my feeble sun of life burns out,
And sounded is the hour for my long sleep,
I shall, full weary of the feverish light,
Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt,
And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep
Into the quiet bosom of the Night.
O SOUTHLAND!
O Southland! O Southland!
Have you not heard the call,
The trumpet blown, the word made known
To the nations, one and all?
The watchword, the hope-word,
Salvation's present plan?
A gospel new, for all—for you:
Man shall be saved by man.
O Southland! O Southland!
Do you not hear to-day
The mighty beat of onward feet,
And know you not their way?
'Tis forward, 'tis upward,
On to the fair white arch
Of Freedom's dome, and there is room
For each man who would march.
O Southland, fair Southland!
Then why do you still cling
To an idle age and a musty page,
To a dead and useless thing?
'Tis springtime! 'Tis work-time!
The world is young again!
And God's above, and God is love,
And men are only men.
O Southland! my Southland!
O birthland! do not shirk
The toilsome task, nor respite ask,
But gird you for the work.
Remember, remember
That weakness stalks in pride;
That he is strong who helps along
The faint one at his side.
BROTHERS See!
There he stands; not brave, but with an air
Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he
Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!
No light is there; none, save the glint that shines
In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs
Of some wild animal caught in the hunter's trap. How came this beast in human shape and form?
Speak, man!—We call you man because you wear
His shape—How are you thus? Are you not from
That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race
Which we have known three centuries? Not from
That more than faithful race which through three wars
Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes
Without a single breach of trust?
Speak out! I am, and am not. Then who, why are you?
I am a thing not new, I am as old
As human nature. I am that which lurks,
Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed;
The ancient trait which fights incessantly
Against restraint, balks at the upward climb;
The weight forever seeking to obey
The law of downward pull;—and I am more:
The bitter fruit am I of planted seed;
The resultant, the inevitable end
Of evil forces and the powers of wrong.
Lessons in degradation, taught and learned,
The memories of cruel sights and deeds,
The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate
Filtered through fifteen generations have
Sprung up and found in me sporadic life.
In me the muttered curse of dying men,
On me the stain of conquered women, and
Consuming me the fearful fires of lust,
Lit long ago, by other hands than mine.
In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers
Of wretches now long dead,—their dire bequests,—
In me the echo of the stifled cry
Of children for their bartered mothers' breasts.
I claim no race, no race claims me; I am
No more than human dregs; degenerate;
The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin;
I am—just what I am. . . . The race that fed
Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same
To-day, but I—
Enough, the brute must die!
Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist
The fire much longer than this slender pine.
Now bring the fuel! Pile it'round him!
Wait!
Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose
The agony and terror in his face.
And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames
Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek!
And there's another! Wilder than the first.
Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on
The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so!
Now let it slowly blaze again. See there!
He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out,
Searching around in vain appeal for help!
Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh
Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts
Down through the coils of chain that hold erect
The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree. Stop! to each man no more than one man's share.
You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain—
Let us divide its links; this skull, of course,
In fair division, to the leader comes.
And now his fiendish crime has been avenged;
Let us back to our wives and children.
—Say,
What did he mean by those last muttered words,
"Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we"?
FIFTY YEARS (1863-1913)
On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation Proclamation.
O brothers mine, to-day we stand
Where half a century sweeps our ken,
Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand,
Struck off our bonds and made us men. Just fifty years—a winter's day—
As runs the history of a race;
Yet, as we look back o'er the way,
How distant seems our starting place! Look farther back! Three centuries!
To where a naked, shivering score,
Snatched from their haunts across the seas,
Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore. This land is ours by right of birth,
This land is ours by right of toil;
We helped to turn its virgin earth,
Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.
Where once the tangled forest stood,—
Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,—
Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood,
The cotton white, the yellow corn. To gain these fruits that have been earned,
To hold these fields that have been won,
Our arms have strained, our backs have burned,
Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun.
That Banner which is now the type
Of victory on field and flood—
Remember, its first crimson stripe
Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood.
And never yet has come the cry—
When that fair flag has been assailed—
For men to do, for men to die,
That we have faltered or have failed.
We've helped to bear it, rent and torn,
Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze
Held in our hands, it has been borne
And planted far across the seas. And never yet,
—O haughty Land,
Let us, at least, for this be praised—
Has one black, treason-guided hand
Ever against that flag been raised. Then should we speak but servile words,
Or shall we hang our heads in shame?
Stand back of new-come foreign hordes,
And fear our heritage to claim?
No! stand erect and without fear,
And for our foes let this suffice—
We've bought a rightful sonship here,
And we have more than paid the price. And yet, my brothers, well I know
The tethered feet, the pinioned wings,
The spirit bowed beneath the blow,
The heart grown faint from wounds and stings;
The staggering force of brutish might,
That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed;
The long, vain waiting through the night
To hear some voice for justice raised.
Full well I know the hour when hope
Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere
Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope
With hands uplifted in despair.
Courage!
Look out, beyond, and see
The far horizon's beckoning span!
Faith in your God-known destiny!
We are a part of some great plan.
Because the tongues of Garrison
And Phillips now are cold in death,
Think you their work can be undone?
Or quenched the fires lit by their breath?
Think you that John Brown's spirit stops?
That Lovejoy was but idly slain?
Or do you think those precious drops
From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain?
That for which millions prayed and sighed,
That for which tens of thousands fought,
For which so many freely died,
God cannot let it come to naught.
--James Weldon Johnson. The Book of American Negro Poetry includes poetry from many other American poets!
She paused to listen, ‘One Fine Day’, by the Chiffons was playing on whatever sound system the Hound provided. The Owl’s Nest usually featured light classical music or Celtic melodies. The differences were on far ends of the spectrum. Indeed, this grand, old building served very different purposes in its time, both shops serving a community in their own, special way...
~~~
“There’s Louie’s Little Mardi Gras,” Winnie pointed out. “And someone’s pulling out of a spot right in front, lass.” “I’m on it,” Alexa said, whipping into the spot a red, Ford F-150 had just abandoned....Alexa made her way toward the bar, Slater followed, Winnie waited near the door. The bartender was an older man, most likely in his mid-seventies, yet he appeared healthy and vital. He was on the short side, thin, except for a small paunch around his black, half-bistro apron. His gray hair was full and thick, and a jester mask tattoo peeked out from the rolled, short sleeves of his white shirt. He was all-in with the Mardi Gras theme. Slater leaned in close to Alexa. “I think that’s Louie Santorini. If it is, man, he looks old. He was considerably younger than me. Makes me wonder if I’m dead by now.” Alexa felt it was best to leave that comment alone. “What can I get ya?” Louie hollered over the racket. Quickly, Alexa pulled her cellphone from her purse. Earlier, she’d downloaded a photo of Logan Reeves when she went to her room to change clothes. She didn’t want to take the time to explain to Slater what she was doing or how she was doing it. Bringing the photo up, she held the phone out to Louie. “Has this man ever been in here?” Alexa yelled. Louie pointed to the cellphone. “That’s the guy whose been on the news. The one who kidnapped that cop from the jewelry shop.” Alexa nodded her confirmation. “Are you a cop?” Louie returned his attention to the photo on the cellphone. “It’s like this, I try to pay attention to who comes in here, but this guy, could be any guy. He looks pretty average to me. Nothin’ special about him.” He glanced at his watch. “Hoboy, it’s almost time for karaoke. Look, I’ll tell you the same as I tell the others, I’ll keep an eye out.” He shrugged. “That’s all I can do, right?” Several men sat down at the bar. Louie held up a hand. “Excuse me.” He hurried over to take their orders.
Alexa shooed Slater toward the door, then waved at Winnie to step out of the bar. When they were on the sidewalk, she said, “He’s got a cellar, and I want to get a look at it.” “Why?” Winnie asked. “I can’t believe Louie would have anything to do with Cliff’s disappearance.” “People aren’t always who you think they are, Winnie. You heard what the man said, Slater, he doesn’t allow anyone in the basement. Why not? Furthermore, that bar is jam-packed with Mardi Gras beads. It’s a lead and I want to see it through.” Her eyes met Slater’s. “Isn’t that what you’d do, Detective Slater?” “I would. What do you have in mind?” Slater asked. The conversation came to a stop when a small group of young women approached. Alexa, Winnie, and Slater waited until they entered the bar and closed the door.
Then Alexa said, “I want to get a look at that basement. I know it sounds crazy, but if we don’t look, and he’s down there—” She took in a deep breath. Slater cupped her shoulder. “You’re right. It’s worth checking out. If nothing else, it will eliminate this lead.” “Good. At least, I know I’m thinking along the right lines. I’m going to need a distraction,” Alexa said. She raised an eyebrow at her dear, Irish, sidekick. Winnie chuckled. “You leave that to me, lass. Now c’mon, let’s get this goin’. It’s past me bedtime, if ya don’t mind me sayin’.” Winnie marched across the sidewalk and opened the door to hear Louie announce, “Good evening, folks! It’s time for a Little Mardi Gras magic, karaoke style!” The crowd exploded with hoots and applause. Some swung their Mardi Gras beads over their heads like lassos. A devilish, wide, smile stretched across her face, Winne said, “Karaoke. This is gonna be like takin’ candy from a baby. But be warned, I might be a little late comin’ in tomorrow.” With a wink and nod, she went inside the bar. Slater turned to Alexa. “Should we be worried about this?” Alexa opened the door. “Absolutely. Now, follow me.” With Slater on her heels, Alexa slowly made her way along the wall, searching for a doorway or a hallway, or an inlet with a door that may have a sign posted with a warning, NO ENTRY. If she came upon such a sign, that’s the exact door she intended to enter. The masks on the walls seemingly followed her every move. The jesters’ roguish smirks sending a rebuking caveat…we’re gonna tell! They were hauntingly hard to ignore.
“Okay, who will be first for our karaoke entertainment tonight?” Louie bade the rowdy crowd. Alexa’s attention jolted toward the stage when she heard Winnie’s Irish lilt. “I think you and I could get this party started quite nicely, Louis Santorini.” She boldly stepped onto the stage holding a bottle of beer in the air. She was wearing layers and layers of Mardi Gras beads. The mound around her neck was so thick, Alexa feared the tiny woman would face plant. Louie smiled at the wild Irish rose. “Shame on you, Wynona Mulaney. You broke my heart years ago. I would’ve married you in a heartbeat.” Winnie waved a flippant hand. “Ah, Que Sera, Sera, Santorini. I wasn’t one to be tied down, but I still like me fun. So, let’s show this crowd a good time, then.” The room burst with applause and hoots of encouragement. Slater leaned in close to Alexa. “What is Winnie doing?” Alexa chuckled. “Exactly what I asked her to do. She’s causing a distraction, not that it’s a hard thing to do for Winnie. Now, let’s find that basement and hope it’s not somewhere behind the bar.” That was the moment the karaoke machine started playing, ‘I Got You, Babe’. Alexa came to a complete halt. Bobby. Slater bumped into her, almost knocking her forward to the floor. Swiftly, he grabbed Alexa by the arm to steady her. “What’s wrong?” She shook away the thought. “Um…nothing…let’s go.” In the short distance, beyond the throng of patrons, she could see a lit hallway. Alexa figured it was the restroom area, and with any luck, at the end of that hallway would be the door that led to the basement. She picked up her pace, carefully wriggling her way through the tables and bargoers standing to watch Louie and Winnie swaying to and fro while belting out a sad rendition of, ‘I Got You, Babe’! Finally, Alexa stepped into the hallway, and it was as she thought, restrooms. As Alexa hoped, there was a door at the very end of the corridor marked, NO ENTRY. The hall was empty. Alexa rushed to the door and tried the knob. It was locked. Quickly, she rummaged through her purse until she came up with a bobby pin. Holding the pin up, she said, “Good thing I’m always armed.” Slater grinned. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” Alexa slipped the pin into the tiny hole and jiggled it around until she felt a click. Her lips curled, she twisted the knob, and the door opened. Handing him the bobby pin, Alexa turned to Slater. “You’re the lookout. I’m going down there.” Slater grabbed her arm. “No way. It may not be safe. I should go.” “I can’t let you do that—” “You can, and you will.” Alexa wriggled from his grip. “Listen. This is time travel. I don’t know all the rules, but I do know this: we cannot change history. It’s a firm, non-negotiable rule, as per Saint Peter, himself.
~~~
When you're working an investigation with an angel, it just might get confusing, especially, as to what year it is! Or where you might be at any given time... But, Alexa is in the best place to help--with Alexa Owl’s lucrative divorce settlement, a former pub was purchased, and then transformed into the Owl’s Nest Couturier Shoppe.
Alexa had chosen to agree to help an angel who was working hard to get into Saint Peter’s prestigious Guardian Angel Squad. So sometimes Alexa is in the present in her home or back in time when her home was a bar... Yeah, it gets confusing... And there are a couple of rules to follow: Don't meet anybody you know in that time, if you are there from another time... Duh! And don't do anything that will change history! St. Peter declares that a no-no! LOL
Most authors both highly desire or highly hate book reviews... So when a new book reviewer turns out to provide only bad reviews, she is a thorn for two NY Best-selling Authors. So, as these two meet, one writer declares he's going to do something about it... And as he's talking to another writer friend, he brings up the idea of getting rid of her...and dares his friend to do what needs to be done... Only to get a Double Dog Dare Back!
But no matter how you cut it or whodunit...there is soon a murder to be solved... And Alexa is working with Detective Slater, an angel working to solve enough cases to be permanently placed on St. Peter's Squad! And this one just might make it happen...
Prepare for fun. Prepare for tracking clues that will take Alexa and Slater back and forth across time to determine exactly what has happened!
One character I really enjoyed is Winnie who in present time works with Alexa in her shop, but who was also a teen with Bobby Slater when he was young and restless, often visiting the pub. Her Irish accent is done perfectly and provides an interesting focal point as relocations occur between decades! And is able to carry on a relationship with Bobby that is both fun and informative to his present goal...
Detective Bobby Starr. The ornery angel always showed up at an inconvenient time. He was always sporting the same look: a double-breasted, grey suit, cuffed trousers, pristine white shirt, red and black striped tie, and that finishing touch, a grey fedora. Oh yeah, he was also wearing that bad boy grin of his. More often than not, he came off as a wayward angel, and perhaps that’s exactly what he was. Regardless, he was determined to do whatever was necessary to get into Saint Peter’s prestigious Guardian Angel Squad. To date, he was but one requirement away from that objective.
So here's the issue, I had with this book...if Bobbie gains his desired goal to be on the Squad, does that mean that Alexa Owl would no longer be an amateur detective who is out there helping to solve crimes (and thus continuing this wonderful series)? I sure hope not, and yet, I would feel bad if Bobbie didn't make the Squad just because I've an avid fan of the Owl's Nest Mysteries... Sigh... Hope the author can figure out how to keep this fun series around for a while longer! Don't you?
ketchem allea The cold wind has moved on. This coffee comforts me.I think later on a long drive listening to music is in order. Not sure if to the hills or where. When I hop into my pony I just drift away.I'll park somewhere where no people are. And do a lot of thinking. Sometimes I think too much. But it is in my nature to. I wish you all well and be safe. I know I can be an irritant, but I don't mean to be. Have a blessed day with much healing.
lioj emomak tawa ~~~
When I was growing up, the males held in their feelings and emotions, and the only things they revealed, behind masks, was bravado and machismo, tough guys, who acted hard core. But I saw in them, behind their masks, pain and sorrow, misery and confusion, fear. "Sharing your emotions is a sign of weakness." I got to see their lives play out, in drunkenness' and anger, and unforgiveness. Then they died. Never having healed. And suffered greatly along their journey's, with relationships, and the world and their well being and health. The cop-out, was always in these terms, "Don't ever tell people your problems, because 80 per cent of them don't give a flying'f, and the other 20 per cent, are glad you got them."
Then, I met some righteous men, elders. They got me to finally let go of all the anger and bottled up emotions, held in for many years. I cried rivers.
A lot of people aren't honest about themselves. They wear masks to cover up their insecurities and character defects. Everything is so groovy according to them.
I think if we helped each other with our burdens, a lot of healing can take form. But that takes courage, and commitment, and willing to take the criticism and ridicule of looking weak to the cop-outs. And the world. Even your own.
I share in honesty my life, in this place, really hoping and believing that through my highs and lows, somebody will relate, and maybe, find their own healing. If I am going to be ridiculed, or seen as weak, for sharing in my sufferings, then, laugh away. No one here see's what I do out here, helping where I can, because those times and people I keep to myself. But I can say this, there is much sadness out there. Not everybody in this world is doing ok. And it's okay to cry with them. I do so a lot. It's good to cry for yourself too. Why are we created with tears?
Thank you Itom Achai, for all the good, and the bad. I am weak and small, of no status or fame, nor do I want that. I am just a common man, tired of seeing good decent people suffer so much. We need to pray for each other. Always. Together, we grow strong.
Just my opinion and perspective.
Including six chapbooks I have done over time, with these, makes ten books so far. I have been working on a new one slowly but surely. Short stories with poems.
I never imagined I would have done so many/ so far. I'm not boasting, but I am showing this to the people who have helped me along the way. It wasn't and isn't a waste of your time and efforts. These all are at the museum.
I kept my commitment to do this, like I did with not drinking, and other things too. I learned that is what it takes. Self-discipline. Growth through the healing process. Not overnight. Not just with words. But through hard work, struggle, pain, suffering and faith. Perseverance.
So can you.
So when the critics flap their gums about me in a bad light, just look at them, and ask them to show you the fruits of their labors.
The rain has been pounding on my trailer. I hear the leaks falling in the pots. But it smells so gooood outside.
I am constantly in awe of my adopted brother, Manny, He is a warrior in his own way, fighting to share all that being alive as a Native American is... His words have captured my heart many times, and his art work is uniquely his beautiful world... I'm so happy to have the opportunity to know him and have him share here at Book Readers Heaven. You'll find him most at Facebook, but he uses PayPal to sell his books and art... Manny is just one of the elderly in America who needs your help and prayers as well...
