Steven Manchester's Award-Winning Novel - Three Shoeboxes - Another Family-Oriented Novel!

Three Shoeboxes Takes the Grand Prize at the 2018 New York Book Festival! Steven Manchester must have known his latest book was going to be a sensation, when he provided a prequel for his readers...Check out not only that free prequel, but my review ... I will add, though, that some of that will be duplicated in the later novel, but that helps readers once again get into the entire store.  If you haven't yet read the book, I recommend you go directly to the fantastic novel! “How can someone take something from you when it lives in your heart?”  – Dr. Faust Fiore The ambiance was perfect, the service reached beyond doting, yet neither of these could compare to the meal. The filet mignon swimming in béarnaise sauce melted like ice cream in July.  “Surprised?” he asked, grabbing for her hand.  “I actually am this time,” she admitted. After so many failed attempts at keeping a secret, she was impressed her husband hadn’t leaked a word—especially to the kids, she thought. “Thank you.”  A pink hue spread evenly across his boyish face. “You’re welcome.”  Jen studied her husband, wondering, How did I ever get so lucky? Beyond his dark hair and penetrating eyes, he was the definition of a devoted husband and father who considered spending time with his three children a favorite pastime. And he’d worked hard for years, finally reaching a point in his life—at thirty-eight—when he could start breathing easier.  “How’s work?” she asked.  “Ross just assigned us a pretty big project,” he said and stopped. “But I don’t want to talk about work tonight.”  What about talking about me returning to work then? she asked in her head. “The kids then?” she teased.  “Nope,” he said. “I couldn’t love them any more than I do, but even they can survive without our attention for the next few hours.”  She was taken aback. With all our day-to-day responsibilities, I can’t remember the last time we shared a night like this, she thought, her chest feeling warm. They’d just ordered coffee and dessert when the pianist stopped playing and made an announcement.  “I’d like to ask everyone to join me in wishing Mr. and Mrs. Mac Anderson a happy anniversary. Fifteen years ago today, they took each other as man and wife, and we’re honored to have them celebrating with us tonight.” There was a buzz of polite applause.  Stunned, Jen looked across the table to catch the blush of a little boy paint her considerate husband’s face again. Before she could say a word, the pianist broke into his next song—their wedding song. Her chest filled with emotion, causing her eyes to swell.  “Thank you, Mac,” she whispered past the lump in her throat. “I…”  He leaned across the table and grabbed her hand, interrupting her. “Happy anniversary, babe,” he said. For whatever reason, she expected him to reach into his pocket and pull out his annual token of love. He didn’t, so she grabbed the wrapped present from the empty chair beside her and handed it over to him. “This gift is the one thing that means more to me than anything else in the whole world,” she told him, her eyes swelling more. While the pianist filled the room with a nostalgic melody, Mac tore through the wrapping. In one magical moment, he reached the prize. It was a framed photo of them and the kids—Jillian, Bella and Brady. “Our family,” he gasped. Before he could react any further, she hurried over to kiss him. “God, do I love you,” he said.  “And I love you too,” she said, hugging him tight and ignoring a room full of stares. “So, I get another fifteen years then?” he asked. She never answered. Their shared embrace said it all. After a few moments, he pushed her away to look into her eyes. “You’re not going to ask me where your present is?” he asked, smiling.  She half-shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it,” she fibbed.  He laughed. “I’ll give it to you at home. It was too big to bring here.”  “Oh, I bet it was,” she said, giggling. He laughed again, quickly raising his hand to call for the check.  ⧝ As they stepped out of the restaurant, Mac stopped short on the sidewalk and turned to face her. “Hey,” he whispered.  “Yeah?” she said, stepping into his arms.  “I really love you, you know.”  “I know.”  “Do you?” he asked. Her lips parted to reply when he pulled her even closer. “I mean it,” he said. “I love you, Jen.”  She felt overwhelmed by this genuine display of affection. She knew this proclamation went far beyond the three words they exchanged each day—a nice little habit they’d established from the beginning. This was intended as a confirmation of all they were—and will be forever. It was as though they were young again and he’d professed his love for the first time—sincere and unashamed.  She grabbed his face in both her hands and considered all they’d been through together. They began as any first love—filled with innocence and thrills—before life eventually ushered in reality. Back then, our romance was so intense, burning as brightly as the sun, she thought, and twenty-four hours in a day wasn’t nearly enough time to be together. “I know,” she told him, “and I love you more today than ever before, more than I have the words to describe.” A ball of raw emotion choked her.  He kissed her long and hard. “I do,” he said.  “What?” she asked. “I still do,” he repeated with a smile. “After fifteen years, I promise to take you as my wife in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health—all of it. I want you, no, I need you as my wife for the next fifteen years and the rest of my life after that.”  She kissed him back, matching his fervent passion for her. “I still do, too,” she vowed, feeling like she was being reborn. When they reached the car, she turned to him. “There’s no way you’re ever going to top this one,” she said, grinning. It was the best memory she’d ever been given. “So, what’s the big gift waiting for me at home?”  He winked. “The consummation,” he said.  ⧝ After gazing at his beautiful wife, Mac looked up and slammed on the brakes. The car in front of them had stopped short. “Jackass!” he barked, his heart racing.  Jen leaned forward in the passenger seat. “I think there’s been an accident,” she said.  Once the rubbernecker in front of them had inched past the scene—never even considering to stop—Mac slowed to a crawl and surveyed the scene. Two cars had been involved in the wreck. “It looks like it just happened,” he told Jen.  She nodded. “I hope everyone’s all right.” The windshield of one of the cars had been shattered, half of it now covered in crimson red. That’s a lot of blood, he thought, his own blood turning cold. Should I stop? Almost involuntarily, he pulled off to the side of the road. “They need help,” he said to his worried wife. And someone really needs to help them, he thought, trying to steel himself to be that someone. His body’s fight or flight response, however, pled for him to drive on and avoid the gruesome scene.  As Mac swung open the driver’s side door and took one step out of the car, a siren wailed in the distance. Leaning to his right, he peered into the rear-view mirror. Flashing red and blue lights strobed into the dark night behind them. “The cavalry’s arrived,” he said aloud, more for himself than for Jen.  “Thank God,” she said, nodding. “I just hope no one’s hurt bad.” As the siren got louder and the flashing lights brighter, Mac glanced at the blood on the windshield one last time. Someone’s definitely hurt, he thought. There’s nothing worse than a friggin’ car accident.  Jen sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, her oversized bouquet of flowers sitting before her in a crystal vase.  Mac entered the room, grunting and pounding on his chest like a silverback gorilla. “Be honest,” he said, “last night was amazing, wasn’t it?” Jen dropped the paper and kissed him. “You were an animal, babe. It was the most incredible eight minutes of my life.”  Mac grabbed for his chest, pretending he’d just been wounded. Jen laughed. Goofball. His eyes drifted off for a moment. “Eight minutes?” he muttered. “I didn’t realize it lasted that long.” He shrugged. “That’s not bad after fifteen years, right?”  Laughing, Jen handed him a cup of coffee. “You know I’m teasing,” she whispered, kissing him again. “Last night was amazing. You were very sweet for putting so much thought into it.” She gazed at him. “And I’m holding you to that promise.”  “Ditto,” he said.  “And I really love my treasure box.”  Mac smiled. “And I love the framed photo, Jen.”  ~~~ Three Shoeboxes By Steven Manchester In an interview about Manchester's latest book, he noted that he wanted to write a story about PTSD, that occurred outside the military setting. I applaud Steven for that decision. When trauma occurs in an individual's life, it is only that individual who can realize it. And sometimes even that individual does not understand what is happening... Mac and Jen were very much in love, even after 15 years and the 3 children who had been added to their marriage were all special to Mac, especially. He spent time with his kids, and made sure to teach and answer questions that inevitably arose. So, when Mac started to become short-tempered and listless, not being able to maintain attention, even on the job, he recognized the problem and decided to see his doctor. It had started with an inability to breathe and he wondered whether he was having a heart attack. Adrenaline raced and his extremities tingled. Was he dying? But the attacks kept coming... And right in the middle of his angst about his own life, Jen started talking about going back to work, as they had always planned when all the children were in school. Now, Mac felt nothing but dread of Jen not being home...and available... Finally he told Jen, but decided to go alone to the ER...only to hear medical staff chatting about another one coming in with chest pains which were bound to be anxiety attacks... Learning it was probably stress, he lied when he told the doctor that he had somebody to talk to...not even realizing he meant a professional... And actually he thought it was physical--how could it not be? The sad part of stress-related diseases is that many times they result in physical symptoms and are not properly diagnosed as soon as possible. Mac was trying to deal with his sporadic spells of not being able to breathe. But in trying to deal with it on his own, those around him were receiving the brunt of his deteriorating moods and outbursts... Three Shoeboxes is not an easy book to read. But it is written so closely in factual reality for those suffering from some form of PTSD, that it is a welcome look at a family drama situation often occurring, but not completely understood in America. As a victim of job burnout, which resulted in clinical depression, I was impressed with the life-like situations provided by Manchester. Not everybody knows, as I did, what has happened to them. But that knowing did nothing to prepare me for the chemical changes that resulted for me, and which are still with me after over 15 years. Please take the time to read this book; it may someday help you through adjusting to the same or a similar situation like Mac experienced. Not understanding the reason for the book's title until the very end made this a much more poignant story. The inability to deal with real life sometimes brings about a totally different family dynamic. One that the victim of Stress or PTSD or Clinical Depression, whatever is diagnosed, cannot easily gain control of... The whole family suffers and some do not make it through the results of the illness. But Mac would not give up in Three Shoeboxes and his fight back is both heartwarming and an inspiration to those who may one day need to remember this one book they once read... Any reader interested in Family Drama - this is a must-read... GABixlerReviews

Through the Year With Jimmy Carter - A Wonderful Daily Meditation

A Shocking Revelation 


Large crowds were traveling with Jesus, and turning to them he said: “If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters — yes, even their own life — such a person cannot be my disciple.”

LUKE 14:25 – 26 
I cannot “hate” my wife and four children, our twelve grandchildren, our six great-grandchildren, or the memory of my mother and father. So what can Jesus mean in this verse? In the original Greek, the word translated “hate” is miseo, which could mean “to love less,” or to put in a secondary position.

Christ is saying that his followers must put their faith in him above family obligations or natural feelings of love for their closest kin. While this is easier to accept than “hate,” it’s still a difficult and even disturbing requirement. We must put every priority in life below our commitment to Christ. Our top priority must be to follow him, to keep his commandments, and to emulate his actions. That is a profound but greatly beneficial directive. 

It gets even more profound and unsettling when Christ says his disciples must also choose to carry their cross and follow him. Ordinarily we think of carrying a cross as enduring some kind of trial. If we have a debilitating disease, we might say, “This disease is my cross to bear.” Sometimes we treat it as a self-congratulatory thing: “I’m being courageous in the face of difficult setbacks.” But that isn’t what Jesus has in mind. 

In those days, when Romans gave a sentence of crucifixion, they required the condemned to carry his cross to the place of execution, thus giving the impression that the condemned both acknowledged and accepted the justice of the sentence. Christ is saying, then, that we must associate with him and acknowledge the justness of his demands. We choose to follow him and identify with him — regardless of the cost. 

God, I’m grateful that even disturbing lessons from your Word are designed to make a permanent and positive impact on my life. Teach me, in practical ways, what it means to put you first in everything I do, and then give me strength to identify with you even in situations where doing so might cost me dearly. I ask these things in Jesus’ name. Amen.

~~~

As I've been so affected by the present chaos with our president, I have found I've turned to other presidents to seek and learn from men who have held the position while at the same time, keeping their basic beliefs and morality. This daily meditation by President Jimmy Carter has been a wonderful choice for exactly what I was seeking. 

Combining sometimes thoughts on his time during the presidency, or just a statement on a selected scripture for thought and prayer, Carter has given his readers a time to rejoice with the Lord without dealing with our own daily thoughts...turning only to Him for guidance and a time of learning.

When I read the meditation, a Shocking Revelation, which talks about choosing God above all others, including family, Carter's discussion on the word "hate" was especially enlightening for me...as we find ourselves in the nation being torn apart, where even religion has become part of the political scene and so closely entwined with their beliefs, that I have been dismayed at Who exactly we are Following and why there is such a wide divergence in the opinions held by many.

Follow Me was always a special song that I used as a solo for church services. It helped me to understand what it means to Follow Him. As did the specific meditation and prayer that was provided for one day as I'm walking through the year with Jimmy Carter. I haven't finished the book but have read enough to know it is both a powerful statement of President Carter's faith and beliefs, but also provides a daily teaching moment for readers that will help in understanding our life as today's Christian... 

I'm sharing about another meditation because of the discussions now taking place in Washington. We must all acknowledge, if only to ourselves, that we are not free of sin, and when challenged, sometimes it takes a wrong turn for some of us...But He is always there to guide us through His Holy Spirit if we but stop to listen...


A Sin of the Heart


“I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”
MATTHEW 5:28 On his deathbed, my brother called in one of his good buddies from Plains and said, “Everybody knows that I have only a few days to live. I don’t want to die with something on my conscience. I have to tell you, in complete candor, that your wife and I have had an affair for the last three years.” 
His friend’s face dropped. The man gulped a couple of times — and then Billy laughed and said, “No, I’m just joking.” That was Billy. In real life, of course, adultery is no laughing matter. In fact, I almost lost the presidential election because of it. As a Sunday school teacher, I felt qualified to explain what Christ had in mind when he spoke about adultery. I said he was setting an example that would force all of us to recognize our sinfulness. My mistake was that I explained this to magazine reporters, who published my edited remarks as an admission that I was constantly unfaithful to my wife by thinking sexually about other women. 
Once the magazine came out, it was too late for me to correct their misimpressions. In fact, these verses prevent those of us who have remained loyal to our spouse from claiming that we’ve upheld the standards of Christ — which are nothing less than perfection. 
If we want to claim for ourselves a righteous moral standing, then Jesus insists that we meet his perfect standards. None of us can do so, of course. We all fall woefully short — and that is the point. 
Jesus died on the cross because of our status as sinners in need of forgiveness. Only through faith in him, who led a perfect life, can we be reconciled with a holy God. That keeps us from bragging, even to ourselves. 

Dear Lord, thank you for the teaching of Jesus Christ, which shows me that all people, myself included, fall short of your standard of perfection. Remind me of this truth to prevent my becoming smug or self-satisfied in my religion. Give me compassion for those who stumble and the grace to treat them as equals in your sight. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.

If you are looking for a small book to challenge you daily about your faith, and help teach you a lesson in a short, meaningful fashion, then this book may not be what you are looking for. And, if you have concerns about what is going on in America right now, seeking the words of a former U.S. President...it can't hurt to see what he went through in politics and worked to live in his faith! Highly recommended!


GABixlerReviews

See also my review of another important book from Carter

Wonderful Fantasy Ghost/Time Travel Mystery by Casi McLean

At the base of the Chestatee River, North Georgia, May 24, 1865 

Isabelle O’Neal wiggled her toes in the squishy mud. A cool trickle seeped through, soothing her swollen feet. She loved sitting by the water’s edge, watching the ebb and flow sparkle reflected sunbeams across the river. But today necessity took precedence over pleasure. Her very life hung in the balance. She squeezed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath filled with the scent of spring flowers drifting on the breeze. Holding the air a moment before slowly releasing, she centered her thoughts. In the distance, pounding hooves tromped across firm Georgia clay, breaking through the mid-morning silence. Stiffening at the approaching danger, she pressed splayed fingers against the ground to gauge the threat. She listened, attentive to their pace and direction. The hoof beats were closing in despite her evasive tactics. Shadowing the creek to confuse her pursuers averted capture, but only briefly. She had little time for pampering wounds or resting tired legs. She must forge ahead with haste. Scooping cool water over her feet, Izzy rinsed away soft sludge comforting the blisters that burned and bit at her toes. She blotted the dampness then winced in pain. Thankful she borrowed more suitable apparel from a random clothesline and abandoned her crinolines when she took to the road, she hastily ripped her undergarment into strips and wrapped the tender injuries...

A soft crunch rustled behind her, and a hand slid over her mouth and nose. Izzy had no time to counter. She screamed––but no sound escaped the suffocating grip. No plea for help. No air. Squirming and yanking, she struggled, desperate to free herself, but to no avail. Trapped body to body, she fought for air, unable to see her assailant. The odor of sweat laced with tobacco and spirits heaved her stomach, causing the whirling in her head to spin faster and deeper, until the sunlight narrowed into tiny stars against a midnight sky––then faded into darkness. 

**** 

Lake Lanier GA, May 24, 2018  (Abingdon Manor)
Gazing across the lush, green forest edging his property, Attaway York stood on his front porch. Twilight dusted the evening sky, fireflies awakened, twinkling like tiny stars to light their flight through the darkening woodland. He relished the sounds, from crickets chirping and birds warbling to animals rustling through the forest. The unfamiliar whispers of nature he’d missed as a child. Though this solitude suited him, he dreamed of more.

For two years he’d labored on this land, restored the old abandoned estate to the splendor Abingdon Manor once held. But a burning desire to fill his home with children’s laughter and the love of a good woman weren’t likely to occur in such an isolated existence. He glanced downward at Prince’s slightly cocked head, the deep bronze eyes staring back as if the dog understood his mood. “Not totally alone, am I, boy?” York squatted and scratched the chocolate lab’s neck. “I have you…and friends, too.” 

Prince woofed, his tail wagging, and he nudged at his master.

“Ready for our walk?” York treaded down the porch steps with an unleashed Prince pacing beside him step by step. He enjoyed his evening walks with his dog. The treks provided a time for reflection and to ponder for new tomorrows. Tonight, he headed toward his favorite jaunt...

Through darkness, his gaze followed a pale blue haze, swishing through the brushwood toward the beach. A soft glow sparkled like an energized cloud. “Rrrrrrrr.” Prince warned again. 

“Hush, boy,” York whispered, inching toward the haze, Prince at his side. But the mist dimmed as they approached. Within the cloud, York could see a blurred image of a young woman. “Wait.” He paused and reached his hand toward the shimmer. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You see me?” Her hollow voice stuttered and she jerked as if taken aback. “Yes. Of course. Do you need help?” He stared at her translucent image, edging closer, confused, but not fearful. The young woman was little more than a child. Dressed in a long, tattered white shirt and little else, she wore her hair in a fat golden brown braid that fell over her left shoulder. 

“I’ve seen you here before, watched you and your dog.” 

“Yes. We enjoy walking along the beach.” He smiled and glanced at his pet. “Say hello, boy. We have a new friend.” He looked toward the woman again. “This is Prince. And I am York. Who are you?”

The young girl shivered. “Izzy,” she muttered. “I mean Isabelle. Isabelle O’Neal.”

~~~

Between the Shadows:

Lake Lanier Mysteries

Lake Laneir

By Casi McLean

It was 1845, and Isabelle was home alone at the family estate where only she and her brother remained. The Civil War was over but there was still danger from soldiers and others who were traveling home or to find a new location to work...maybe even to find some of the riches they felt they were due...

Izzy heard the many travelers heading her way and knew she could only be safe if she ran, but they had heard her as well and started the chase. She had no choice but to run, in the water as much as possible to hide her path. What happened to her that day was now part of history...or was it?

For in the year, 2018, Attaway York was also in those same woods where Izzy was running for her life... And he saw her...

Izzy had been out walking, caught in a place where she could not escape. Each time she walked around, she was soon back in a small hidden place that she was unable to leave. York and his dog Prince watched her, for she seemed to need help, her clothes were old and torn and she seemed somehow, translucent. But York's only thought was to help her and moved closer, introducing himself and Prince. Izzy seemed surprised that he could see her... and though she was afraid, she also moved closer, reaching out her arm to touch him lightly.

A soft glow sizzled around her like a protective sheath, but the moment they touched, the radiance eclipsed and Isabelle stood before him.

Very Cool, right?! I was totally hooked by that time, and still enjoying the beautiful scene, where York, who was looking for someone to share his newly restored home, was suddenly seeing a lovely young lady appear before him! OK, she happened to be dead, but that didn't stop the relationship developing! Loving it, with the feeling of "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir..."

The Tesseract, Tess for short––named in 

honor of Drew’s favorite childhood story, 

A Wrinkle In Time––was an

 artificial intelligence with

 the capability of wrinkling 

time to connect past to future.

~~~

And just think! The adventure has barely begun! For now readers get to meet Tess...

So before you begin to wonder who Tess is, like I did, we soon find that she is the time machine built by the matriarch of the family who is now near death. Kenzi and her father are using the time machine, when required. And this is the time! Their friend York has talked with Izzy and has figured out that the only way to free her from where she has been imprisoned since her death, is to try to free her in her own time!

Let it begin! Using all the modern technology of today's world, they are able to figure out exactly where they should travel to. York and Kenzi are soon in 1845...and the soldiers who chased Izzy are still there. Soon one has captured Kenzi and took the horse they had found at the home and rode off with her. In the meantime, Izzy's brother returns home, finds York--and Izzy gone. The hunt begins and readers  follow each of the three as they deal with danger from the soldiers, stolen gold, finding the location where Izzy might have been taken--all in time to hopefully save Izzy from what happened to her! With romance as well!

This was my first time reading McLean, but she provides the type of paranormal, mystical, spooky tale I enjoy. The series doesn't seem to keep the same characters from book to book, but rather the mystic lake atmosphere. I enjoyed it enough that I went out to pick up the first book as well.

So, what we have is paranormal events that move characters in time, and Tess allowed other characters to travel there and hopefully help, without changing history... At the same time, we meet a wonderful set of characters with "first-love" tendencies which magically add to the final climax of the tale, which both didn't and did surprise me...Very cool and a lovely conclusion for everybody. Even the story of Kenzi's grandparents was a love story in itself... I loved the whole tale and happily escaped from reality for hours! If my words sound interesting to you, I highly recommend you check out Casi McLean. Her creative imagination, her detail to fine points of her story as well as continuity and use of seeming coincident was a joy in itself. Well worth finding her as a new author to follow!


GABixlerReviews

Award winning author, Casi McLean, pens novels to stir the soul with romance, suspense, and a sprinkle of magic. Her writing crosses genres from ethereal, captivating shorts with eerie twist endings to believable time slips, mystical plots, and sensual romantic suspense.

Known for enchanting stories with magical description, McLean entices readers with fascinating hooks to hold them captive in storylines they can't put down. Her romance entwines strong, believable heroines with delicious, hot heroes to tempt the deepest desires, then fans the flames, sweeping readers into their innermost romantic fantasies.

With suspenseful settings and lovable characters you'll devour, you'll see, hear, and feel the magical eeriness of one fateful night. You'll swear time travel could happen, be mystified by other worldly images, and feel the heat of romantic suspense, but most of all you'll want more.

Casi's latest series enters the realm of political thrillers with Reign Of Fire, exclusively found in the #1 bestselling, romantic suspense boxset, Love Under Fire.  

Her three-book, time slip, romantic suspense, Lake Lanier Mysteries, hit the stands running with book #1, Beneath The Lake, winner of the 2016 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence for BEST Romantic Suspense. Watch the trailer on this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvf0IC4ndBw

Beyond The Mist, book #2 in her romantic time slip treasure chest, is a stunning tribute to the victims and first responders of the 911 World Trade Center terrorist attack. Here is the trailer link: https://youtu.be/Bj6ySTh_7xI

Between The Shadows brings the saga full circle with an amazing time slip to 1865 and a search for the Confederate gold. 

Uniquely qualified to write self-help and inspiration, Casi tops the scale with her powerful memoir, Wingless Butterfly: Healing The Broken Child Within, sharing an inspirational message of courage, tenacity, and hope, displaying her unique ability to excel in nonfiction and self-help as well as fiction.

Discover the magic, with Casi McLean books: http://CasiMclean.com

Adolph Caso, Guest Blogger, Publisher and Author Shares on Plagiarism

Plagiarism—Overdue Retort

By Adolph Caso

One of my professors believed that the pursuit, in higher education degrees, has to be limited to those individuals having specific educational backgrounds. He/she has to be aristocratic in nature, restricted to birth-right nobility. In her classroom deliveries, wherein the use of Italian was a requirement, she was a true tyrant. In teaching classes in English, however, she was a complete disaster; her low English language proficiency made her incomprehensible to the students. Yet, she stood there in full awkward ignorance and defiance.

     Her pride and joy, however, rested in her wish to publish or cause to be published specific concordances through specific student assignments, on the works of the poet, Giacomo Leopardi. She, therefore, assigned each student the task to copy a single word from a single line repeated in its full sentence on a second line. A reader, therefore, looking for a specific word, would be able to find the single word, and how it was used in that line—not necessarily in its sentence. No plagiarism as such suggested here.

     The problem, however, was that students had typewriters whose fonts were different from those of other typewriters. Furthermore, because many of those students didn’t even know how to type, they depended on their wives or girlfriends who, for the most part, were unfamiliar with materials in foreign languages. The whole project never saw the light of day, of course, because as a professor, she was completely oblivious to basic technical requirements, resulting in a huge waste of time without anyone learning anything about the subject matter. Some of us remember, however, how her thighs increased in size when boasting about the aristocracy of her erudition and educational achievements.

Having been born on a farm, therefore, in a village of about 500 people where there were no school buildings other than private temporary rooms to function as classes, a person like me who completed first grade only, stood no chance. In the War, schools were closed, and people like me, therefore, should not pursue degrees such as doctorates. On hearing her expound further, I knew I would not succeed, with her as my prime professor. As a result, I applied and was accepted by another university. There, I found the professors to be impressively great--in their classrooms; at the same time, they were very cruel in dealing with their students, as I quickly found out.

     Imagine being called into a private meeting wherein, the professor extols you for having written a great essay on poetics and, at the same time, accuses you of plagiarism!

     “Look here,” he said as he began reading from my paper… This is the writing of a great author. Unfortunately, you are not him. You are a plagiarist!”

     “I am not!” I quickly replied, forcibly pulling the paper from his hands. “So, you’re claiming that I am a plagiarist. If that is so, then, whom am I plagiarizing? Being you know so much and are so sure of yourself, give me the name of that author. You have a nerve!” I added in disgust. “And you are not even able to give me the name of the author I am supposedly plagiarizing from? Besides, you assigned the topic for me; I didn’t have a choice in the decision.” I got up and left with specific thoughts on what had happened:  I was sad in that I knew I was never going to receive a doctorate whether I was up to it or not.

     At the same time, that Professor confirmed, for me, that I may have had talent--after all—in combination with a strong will that made me the successful and the honest teacher I became (for more than 20 years, I became a successful promulgator of Italian language and culture having single-handedly petitioned public schools and institutions of higher learning to introduce the study of the language and culture, resulting in thousands of high school and college students learning the language together with the opening of hundreds of jobs in the field.)  Outside the door, I looked at his name on the door. “Che imbecille!” I said to myself; then added with my eyes semi-closed: “Che srtunzu!

     Angry and joyful, I immediately re-typed the essay on the poetics of Nobel Prize winner, Salvatore Quasimodo, and sent it to the editors of, Le Ragioni Critiche, in Sicily. A few weeks later, the editor sent a copy of the magazine containing the article. It was published just as I had written it;-not one comma was changed.

     One would think this news would have made me feel avenged and happy; instead, it increased my anguish. There’s something in me, or about me, that allows individuals, the likes of that professor, to berate me, to draw conclusions that are either erroneous or outrageously wrong, resulting in a behavior of depression and inactivity throughout my life. In aesthetics, I know, there is no rigid rule surrounding measurements of beauty, despite Croce’s efforts to show otherwise. Through beauty, however, every human being seeks either to assuage pain, or to enhance feelings of happiness.

In our society every individual has to face financial challenges. Success, for just about every aspect of life, has to be related to it. Measuring it, however, is practically impossible, for the simple reason that any value to be attached to it is personal. The owning and management of property has a different goal than owning cash or securities. Property values of all kinds may be subject to shifts in population, to commercial demands and social needs. Monetary value has no such flexibility. For that kind of demand is arbitrarily created by entities with specific goals on degrees of gains. The success of one individual may be measured by assets managed through funding companies. If, for example, one manages a fund with a million dollar value at the beginning of the year, which goes up 50% by the end of the year, that person has been accordingly successful. Proportionally, if in several years the portfolio grows from $50,000 to $2,500,000, than that success is more than commendable. I have always tried to increase the value of my portfolio by the larger proportions.

     Now, an octogenarian, I give lectures on the Tuskegee Airmen, I deliver ten 1-hour courses on the ideological history of our Constitution, and I also continue to write essays and books, having more than 40 publications to my credit, including live, interactive computer courses. Perhaps the book that has sold zero copies may well be my best accomplishment—The Kaso Phonemic English to Italian Dictionary. It is the first and only such dictionary in the world. 

     Imagine a simplified phonemic alphabet system that can be employed for every language throughout the world. Imagine dictionaries without phonetic transcriptions! Imagine a universal language translation program which would allow the first world-wide language such that has never existed even during the time of The Tower of Babel. Of course, no such singular language has ever existed, just as The Tower of Babel has never existed.

     Of significance, personally, is my latest book: Amalfi Re-Visited, presently being featured on Amazon.com with five 5-star reviews. I wrote it three years ago during the month of July while vacationing at Martha’s Vineyard. I opened the computer in the morning of July one, and completed the manuscript by the 30^th—no outline, no plot, no list of characters, no landscape descriptions. After about the first page, I could not put the computer down, and I didn’t! To be sure, this year I read the completed novel, and I liked it.

Do I have a favorite publication? Yes! To America and Around the World—the Logs of Columbus and Magellan. In a sense, this book is an anthology designed with a specific goal in mind: give the reader to read, first hand, the stories of those great explorers, and to conclude, for ourselves, that what they saw through those eyes are the same things we can see today, with our own eyes, without the interference of other people’s interpretations. The Logs are the Logs, and the original words are as meaningful today as they were when first written down. One can never go wrong reading the original. Columbus charted his way to the East by sailing west. He is the only single and the best story-teller of them all. He is also the first author from the New World—America. Ironically, it was named after Americo Vespucci and not Columbus.

     Ironically, too, is that, the first Christmas Mass in the New World was celebrated in 1492 by Columbus in the presence of Native Americans. The second similar celebration occurred in 1500 by Vespucci.

     New York legislators have replaced Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples Day. Their story line, however, is long on praises of the native “Indians”, and unbelievably outrageous against Columbus, claiming he is the father of slavery in all of America, first of the natives and afterward of slaves from Africa, where institutionalized slavery originated first and foremost by its natives. In his first log, Columbus learned that the natives had both slaves and practiced cannibalism.  Yet, in his four voyages to the New World, there is no mention by Columbus of abducting any native for that cause. There is no mention of the fact that institutionalized slavery is a product of Africa itself.

     One is to remember that Columbus was in charge of the first voyage. During his second, Columbus was but a figurehead; every order or activity emanated from the Spaniards. On his third voyage, in which, once again, he showed the Spaniards how to navigate the Ocean, the Spaniards placed him in chains and sent him back to Spain. There, the Queen ordered him free. If slavery was his goal for the natives, why was he in chains and not the natives? After his fourth successful voyage to America (not yet named as such), he was able to show the Spaniards, finally, how to cross the Ocean without his assistance.

     Having been given an apartment to live in, he finally passed into oblivion. On the day of his death, not one single notice was posted outside his apartment or anywhere else in the square. Regardless, Columbus died not knowing that in his first voyage, he had discovered the New World—a landmass not inhabited by Indians from India, but by a different race of people, savages for the most part unaware of God until the Spaniards introduced Catholicism. 

The reason why the American continents are named after Vespucci and not Columbus is understandable. Columbus had discovered the route to the new land masses; Vespucc1 had realized that the land masses were unknown to the people in the world at large. Based on the information given to the German cartographer Waldseemüller, by Vespucci, he drew the first maps ever of the new land and gave each continent the name of Americo—America. 

In view of historical events throughout the ages, Columbus’ significance is beyond enormous, especially on the Native Americans. On religion alone, they became Christianized. Educationally, they began to record their history for their future generations. They were introduced to the horse--the single most important tool on their behalf. Corn was introduced to Europe while wheat immediately took hold in America. The exchange of everything took on a feverish pitch the likes the world had never seen before. Certainly, it all came about pursuant to Columbus’ first voyage. With the second, together with a multitude of other voyages by an infinite number of Europeans and other people, Columbus’ influence diminished to a point that his name had practically disappeared from conversations. As already observed, on the day of his death in Spain, there was no announcement on the walls of the city square. Columbus wasn’t even alive. What a payback for a man who is second only to Jesus Christ with his contributions on behalf of his fellow man.

Of significance to me personally, and to those in love with American history, is the book, We the People: Formative Documents of America's Democracy. My goal was to give answers to two questions: What did our Founding Fathers mean, with the phrase, “we, the people,” when they knew that only white male property owners had absolute political and social power? And: What actual documents make possible America’s form of democracy, knowing all along that in their society, individuals of all kinds existed to serve the government and not vice versa? Of the several documents, beginning with the Mayflower Compact, the two that actually established the form of America’s government were the Declaration of Causes of 1775 and the Declaration of Independence of 1776.

It is important to know that the typical forms of government existing in Europe were monarchies, first and foremost in England, and followed by that of France and Spain. The people, in general, were always considered subjects of the state, and never the opposite. In other words, the people existed for the convenience of the rulers who were monarchists. Forget about the slogan: liberté, égalité fraternité-- it was just that—a slogan without meaning, without conviction for those who recited it with would-be pride! Like other Europeans, the French came to accept the guillotine instead, because they saw closure with each head that was chopped off.

When 26-year old, Cesare Beccaria, published his anonymous book, On Crimes and Punishment in 1764, his book became an immediate hit; among others, it forced him to acknowledge his authorship, and go public with his second edition. It was a best seller in the colonies. Among the readers were Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, Hancock, and many others. In the colonies, the book sold in the original Italian Language edition as well as in an English edition imported from England until it was finally printed in America. Thus, Beccaria’s book became the first Italian-language book published in America.

Sadly, no professor of Italian in Italy or in America cares to learn about a book that was revered by Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, and many other Founding Fathers and local citizens. As for our teachers and professors of Italian language and culture, in general, not one has felt the need to deliberate on this author. Yes, his book was sold in the Colonies where it was also published to become a best seller. Any quick reading would allow us to conclude, as observed in, A History of Italian Literature. by Harvard Professor, Ernest Hatch Wilkins, that Beccaria’s work carries serious connections with America’s Bill of Rights.

In the more than thirty publications, no one has ever launched any charge of plagiarism on my books, except for Professor Glauco Cambon. Although he kept me from achieving a doctorate, my integrity, basic intelligence, honesty, and strong ethics have continued to stay strong with me in all these years. Glauco did not hold me back in any way, in that respect. My latest work, Amalfi Re-Visited, to my great satisfaction, appears on Amazon.com with five 5-star reviews—no thanks to Professor Cambon. What a way to payback!

It is hard to reflect on the behavior of fellow human beings such as Glauco’s. I never did anything against him; I never said anything derogatory against him. I never rejected his opinions about my work, nor defended them in the public square. Like anyone else, he has the right to his opinions. But to accuse me of plagiarism without proof is a crime. Having made the accusation without proof is also a moral and ethical crime that should be dealt with even after rigor mortis sets in.

~~~

I thought it was ironic to have Adolfo write about Plagiarism at this time. Has that once legal mandate slowly evolved along with other changes that has become Fake News, so that nobody is ever now sure of the Truth...and what it is...and means...

Consider Adolfo's comment that Columbus Day had been changed to Indigenous Peoples Day... How cruel to both Columbus and our indigenous people. One, most of us still attribute the finding of America to Columbus. Two, Making it the Indigenous Peoples Day without telling anybody, at the same time, Native Americans are, as far as I am aware, never "recognized" in any national way, nor even treated fairly... is illustrative of our inability to treat others as we would want to be treated.

Or can we receive such critical analysis and use it to drive us, to move forward to show, even if it is even because of one person, that we can indeed become an individual of stature, proving to the one critic that we are now known to the world as a man of honor and integrity...

Only to realize that I, the blamed individual, had always been that same person.