Don't Be 'Fraid Of Life - Song Lyrics 1974

It was late last August,
my love for you had grown.
Instead you said
we'd have to say goodbye.

Now my arms are empty
'cause I don't have you to hold.
I can still hear you sayin',
don't be 'fraid of life.

I've paid for nothing more
than regret with my lonely pain.
How could I ever leave you?
You were the only one.

Will you find another's arms?
Find comfort from loneliness.
Or wait in our special place
until I've come back to you?

If we were not meant to be,
why in absence do I long?
For the softness of your touch
together forever as one.

Silence is my lover tonight,
for me there's no one else.
I don't know where I'm going
hope you're my journey's end.

Now it's late September
I'm feeling very cold.
I'll return to you, I promise,
or else I'll die in the trying.

My arms filled with your warmth
the pleasure of your touch.
I'll hear your voice say to me,
don't be 'fraid of life.

The Interface - Based on One Over X

Horrific!
The word echoed within Andy's mind
as smothering panic overcame him.
He remembered an impression,
from some way station along
the course of his
mental meandering.

He'd returned to the nightmare
flame consuming all within,
the crumpled mass of steel;
inverted he had dangled,
unable to escape the burning.

Rescued at some point,
all he could do was surmise.
Him mind was elsewhere,
and else when
He wish to be anywhere else.

Awakening he was immersed
within oxygenated, healing
gelatinous goop.
His life depended upon it
but his instinctual response
was revulsion and gagging.

Lung scarred
from breaths of flame
He fought the fear
of suffocation;
the fear of drowning
while starving for air.

When he could not
hold his breath
any longer
he gave up,
fully expecting
that his heart
would lud-thump
and thud-lump until
the oxygen expired
and then thud-thump
and lud-lump harder
and at an accelerated pace in panic
until vital conduits burst
and his heart ruptured
as his lungs finally exploded,
contained only by his rib cage.

Amazingly, that did not happen.

He realized that he could breathe the goop.
There was air dissolved in it
that filled his lungs; he drew oxygen from it
and by it he survived.

With that revelation,
that he had always survived,
the ocean of madness
compelled him
toward the source,
the unifying identity
that was still tied into
the Ethosphere.

There was something
he needed to do and
he needed the resources
of the interface.

First In Her Family

In her family she was born the shining star.
She grew up most intelligent of all by far.
How could she do anything but succeed?
All she needed was some advice to heed.

With her gifted beauty, she had the look.
Attentions of boys she always could hook.
Charming mere mortals to their bended knees,
Gaining attention of all with great ease.

When we met, she was already well on her way.
So lending encouragement was easy to say.
Her combination of beauty and brains was rare;
No other could compete or begin to compare.

When she finally received her bachelor's degree,
First in her family was her mother's decree.
I was very proud of her and what she'd endured,
Her life she had changed and her future assured.

To me she became an adopted daughter,
Being her best friend I had also taught her.
I said I would do anything to help her; it was a fact,
Commitment to her shining future I would never retract.

Going To The Fair - A poem

T'was a fine afternoon
On the sixth day of June
When our mother took us to the fair.

Apples dipp'd in candy
Boys dressed up dandy
The girls wearing calico and bows.

There were sights for ev'ry eye
See them all we did try
Even clowns with red noses and big shoes.

In long lines we did stand
To see the one-man band
The bearded lady and world's strongest man.

Rode a merry-go-round
With Calliope sound
And a house of many mazes and mirrors

Evening came the rain
Promises to come again
The next time the fair came into town.

Sentinel Tree (In honor of Memorial Day)

In winter's lonely night endured
a tree, stood in silhouette
against flash and flames flicker
of battle's bombs bursting.

Within a foxhole, pitched and tossed
with near impact of enemy shells
I looked up to the single tree
safe as long as it still stood.

Throughout the dreadful fight
over me, stood a silent sentinel
in its shadow reassuring me,
the hole dug was not my grave.

In the morning, with grateful prayer
for faith found in barren boughs
not knowing whether its life
still remained, deep in its root's heart.

In the midst of dire doubt,
its shadow bolstered hope
I needed that most, against
cold cruel circumstance.

Months passed, then in spring,
marching past the battlefield
life returning all around,
concealing the scars of war.

Standing, the same solitary tree
shaped just as I had recalled,
throughout night it once reassured,
now budding from friendly form.

Life did not depart me,
as too, its own was spared
our lives bound together in dirt,
as friends we were one night.

A Book Of Everything About Anything - Fantasy Fiction

Story time came early one evening, before the encroachment of the shadows upon Sky Ark. There was still time left before I needed to return to the Outworld. So Strawb invited me to follow her on an adventure, exploring the interior of her house. Having been inside only a few times, and only then to the puzzle room, as Lucy referred to it, I looked forward to looking around the mysterious, windowless house.

We left Lucy outside in the backyard to entertain the regulars, continuing to read from The Adventures Of Billy. Having already heard all about Billy, I was ready for some new diversion.
Strawb went inside the house to show the trio of newcomers around and eagerly I tagged along.

"Do you really live here?" one of the newcomers named Tracy asked.

"Where else would I live?"

"It's dark and spooky in here," she complained.

"It's dark but hardly spooky. Why, the spooks were long ago chased from this house!"

"But there are no windows."

"And for good reason. Windows leak. Good riddance to them, I say!"

"I thought you ate them?" I said.

Strawb laughed. "Who told you that?"

"A letter carrier, the first time I came here--"

"The first time most recently?"

"Yes, well, when I came to make the computer delivery, I stopped to ask directions."

"Whatever for? I told you exactly how to get here."

"Your directions didn’t make sense."

"Do they make sense to you now?'

"Uh, yes, but—"

"Then, they were exactly correct, weren't they?"

"Anyway, I stopped to ask directions from a letter carrier and he told me about the windows."

"And you believe whatever absurd things an Outworlder tells you?"

"I'm an Outworlder, by your definition, anyway. So are they?" I indicated the children.

"These are my babies!" Bending over to corral them in her arms, she protected them from my blasphemous assault on her version of truth and reason. "They have not had their minds stolen from them. I refuse to allow them to hear such rubbish, that they are Outworlders! As for you, what's wrong with you can be fixed, Carlos, as I have told you many times already."

"Then what happened to your windows?"

"My windows? I don't have any windows."

"The house had them at one time, right?"

"There were never any here because there never needed to be any. I refuse to allow leaks in my walls - same as my avoiding a hole in my roof!"

"But they let light inside and they allow anyone who is inside to see outside."

"Why would you want to see outside when you've chosen to be inside? If you prefer to be outside, then go outside! You don’t stand inside lamenting that you're not outside. Windows are pointless leaks and potentially dangerous."

"How are they dangerous?"

"Have you ever fallen through one?"

"No, I can’t say I have."

"Then you're lucky. And don't stand too close to any or you eventually will. Windows create the opportunity to fall through them. That's the best reason ever to never have a window!"

She went on to answer another child's question as she continued the tour. I decided to be quiet and listen. Nearly everything I said proved to be wrong, anyway. Strawb was better than my wife at pointing that out to me.

When the three's tour was completed, she dispatched the children to the backyard for playtime – seeing that Lucy was standing up and had obviously finishing the story time. Then she turned to me. "The book."

I nodded. Ostensibly, I came along with the tour of the house to assist her in locating the book she told me about - the one she claimed would help me better understand everything about anything. I continued to reserve judgment on any book's ability to do such a thing for me, but it piqued my interest. She told me it was necessary for me to reread it – claiming I had read it many times before, but I had no recollection.

"Wouldn't the book be in the library?" I suggested as I peered into a room containing many filled book cases. Other books were stacked on chairs, tables and a desk or directly on the floor. To me it seemed an obvious place to begin looking for a book.

"If a book is lost, it certainly would not be in there."

"How do you know that? I mean, there must be thousands of books in there."

"Yes, there are and none of them are the book we're seeking."

"But isn’t this where you keep your books?"

"Keep books?" she questioned. "I don't keep books. It's simply not done here. It is a crass suggestion, keeping books. In the Outworld it refers to accounting which is something no one needs any more knowledge of than is natural. Anyone can count. Knowing when there is enough is whenever you've lost interest in counting. This is a room for the books to rest, that's all. It's their room, not mine. I have never kept a book in all my life and I certainly will not begin it now. They are free to come as go as they please. They do that often enough and very well, mind you. That's why you go into a library. Always there's a new arrival and some old friend who has returned with fresh twists on what you think you knew before. It would be nonsense trying to keep books!"

"Wasn't the book we're looking for here before?" I asked as I stepped inside.

"First of all I'm not looking for the book. Perhaps you are, but that will only lead you to frustration, I assure you. Second, yes, the book was here before. It is a library after all."

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt to look there."

"I'm not looking," she insisted. "That's the problem. Your assumption is all wrong."

"Okay, then." I ventured further inside.

"Suit yourself, but you'll never find it in there."

"Why not?"

"Do you know what the book looks like?"

"It looks like a book." Shrugging my shoulders I began looking around.

"What color is it?"

"I don't know? You tell me."

"Is it hard cover or paperback?"

"Give me a clue."

"You're hardly clueless. You take the clues you have and look for more. Don't expect anyone to generously offer theirs to you. At any rate, you've come back to asking for my advice anyway, so why not take it in the first place. The book is not in there."

"I'm trying to be logical."

"Then don’t be. The book is forever lost."

"Then, you're saying it's hopeless to find it?"

"It's not hopeless. It's pointless looking for it, though. It's forever lost. Obviously, it would never be where it should be. That makes a library precisely the wrong place to begin looking for a book that's forever lost."

"It just seems there are so many books in there, it could have been overlooked in your previous searches."

"Previous? When would I have ever searched for anything that's forever lost?"

"Then how would you find it?"

"If I were to look for something, it would presume I had lost it, which is not the case at all. It is merely hiding very well. We must sneak up on it while we're doing something else. That's the way you must find anything that's run away and is hiding from you."

"Do you lose things easily?" I asked.

"Why would you ask such a silly question? Of course, I don't. I have never lost a thing in my life. That's not to say that things don't like to play hide and seek with me. That's the way of things, though. It's their way of having fun. Far be it from be to spoil fun. So, we must always play along."

I laughed. "So you've never lost anything but things hide from you."

"All the time."

Continuing to laugh, I decided to follow her on the off chance her unorthodox method of searching actually worked.

"I suppose you’re going to tell me things don't hide from you."

"I wouldn't say that. But my kids are often responsible for things I've lost, though."

"You blame them?"

"They're kids. Eventually things turn up, usually after I've replaced them."

"You embarrass your things into coming out of hiding. You're no fun at all!"

"I seem to lose the TV remote most often. But I'm convinced the couch hides that from me. Usually, it’s swallows it."

Strawb paused, turning to stare at me, then scolded, "Don't talk about malicious couches around the children."

"I was trying to be funny."

"Well not very."

"Usually, when I lose something, it’s because someone else had taken it from where I expected to find it – claiming they borrowed it, if they confess to it at all."

She laughed. "You may as well blame the faeries, then. Sometimes those things are lost forever, especially if the faeries traded them away."

"Faeries steal things?"

"No, no, no, they always borrow things. They would never steal anything. It's just they never put anything back where it belongs, making it difficult if not impossible to find what they borrowed."

"So the faeries borrowed this book we're not officially looking for?"

"Whatever would they want with a book? It would take a dozen of them to spirit the thing away. It is not a small book. It contains everything about anything, you know?"

"I'm glad. I wouldn’t want to upset any faeries," I said.

"Yes, it's not wise."

"I was being facetious."

"Why? Have you made a habit of messing with faeries?"

"No, not that I know of. I've never seen one."

"Because they are best at hiding, of course...and surreptitiously borrowing things."

"My kids and a couple of neighbors could teach them lessons, I'll bet – the latter being the reason I keep my garage door shut even when I'm working in the yard."

Strawb shook her head without direct comment.

"I'm just saying."

"You have odd rules where you reside, Carlos. It gives me a headache considering how anyone could live in the Outworld. It has always impressed me as a mess that never improves."

"Sometimes it makes sense."

"Maybe to you. I can see my work is cut out for me with you. To teach you anything new at all, you must unlearn three things, at least."

"Why would I want to do that? Wouldn't I end up knowing only a third of what I did before."

"What you know is mostly useless to you, isn’t it?"

"Maybe so," I allowed.

"There you go, then. You can afford to unlearn many things, I think."

"Well, it's not like I'm going to run out of room if I learn a few new things. People only use about a fifth of their minds."

"Whoever told you that?" she asked.

"Scientists."

"What do they know?" Strawb laughed. "Why, I assure you I have forgotten more things than any of them will ever know."

"So I need to forget three things to learn one."

"Did I say that?"

"Well, yes."

"Most certainly I did not! Why would I want you to forget anything? You've already forgotten quite enough."

"To make room for more things?" I suggested.

"Oh, now, I see the confusion. You think unlearning is forgetting."

"It's not?" I stared at her, feeling more confused.

"No, it’s quite different, actually. You can unlearn anything you know well. Later on, you can relearn it quickly. Didn't you tell me to know Chinese?"

"I learned it to a certain level. I haven’t kept in practice so I've forgotten—"

"No, you've unlearned it, not forgotten it! You can go back to it and it’s still there. All you have to do is reacquaint yourself with the thoughts. For it to be forgotten, it would be as if you never learned it at all."

"That actually makes some sense."

"Why wouldn't it? It's the truth. The truth always makes sense – which is not to say everyone believes the truth."

"People prefer being deceived."

"No, people are easily deceived. There is no preference involved. You've forgotten so much, Carlos. I wish you'd unlearned it. It's very unfortunate how much has been lost."

"I learn quickly."

"But how quickly do you remember? That's what you should be asking." She reached into a dark corner with both hands, producing a physically large, thick dark brown leather-bound book with gold leaf writing across the spine and front. "You see, there it is! Exactly where I would have never looked." She handed the book to me.

"This is it, the book that will teach me everything about anything?"

"The book cannot teach you anything you don't want to learn from it. But yes, everything about anything is contained in that book."

Starting to open it, she slapped the back of my hand. "You do not open a book like that in a dark corridor. It's just not done!"

"Why? I was just going to peruse it a bit."

"It will blind you, of course."

There was no point in arguing with her. Knowing that from experience I tucked the volume under my arm and followed along as we backtracked, navigating to the back porch of her windowless house where she told me I could open the book. I sat on the swing with the book across my lap as I opened it. Lucy came to sit beside me, taking a break as Strawb continued playtime with the children.

Unknown Caller - (Fast Fiction Short Story)

Why do they call them smartphones? He wondered as he glanced at the display of his ringing cell. Not very intelligent if it doesn't know the caller's number. 'Unknown Caller' could be anyone with a blocked number, he supposed. It must be a bill collector. Lately, he'd had a lot of those calls. The most obnoxious of them come through as 'Unknown Caller'. He allowed it to go to voice mail, intending to delete it.

Since before the divorce, he'd been ignoring anything from 'Unknown Caller'. He assumed it was the same caller, but it might have been one of a number of creditors he or his ex-wife owed. As his father used to say, 'you can't squeeze blood from a turnip'.

His ex took everything he had and still wanted more. They could call her to pay the debts. She had all the money, the house, and the better of the two cars. She could pay the creditors. Most of the debt was hers, anyway.

He checked the display for the correct time, and then deleted the missed call from the queue. A text message came. He paused to read it. His best friend since college told him 'Happy Mutha's Day'. It was a joke between them. He text messaged back, 'You da mutha!' And then chuckled.

Before he could hit send, the phone rang again. Another 'Unknown Caller', he shook his head. Angry, he answered, "Hello?"

"Is this Jonathan Sparks?"

"Is this a collector?"

"No, a friend of your Uncle Sam."

"Is he okay?"

"He passed away. Is there a time and a place we can meet?"

"What about?"

"His estate. I'm the executor."

"You mean like a reading the Will?"

"You're the only heir mentioned. Samuel J. Sparks died a very wealthy man."

New Release The Resurrection (The Attributes Book Two) on Kindle

The Resurrection (The Attributes Book Two)

In the world named The Truth, the authorities have been lying to the people all along. There is a dark secret in the origins of the terraformed world named Pravda, a human colonial world in another star system, information the controlling Colonial Authority will do anything to suppress.

The Resurrection, Book Two of The Attributes concludes the adventure begun in Colonial Authority.

In book one Cristina and Alix receive orbs from couriers with which to develop their supernatural powers, attributes which make them a different species than the rest of mankind. Cristina's brother Paul, joins the clandestine group calling itself  The Resurrection and arrives on the wrong side of the law and fleeing capture as he is wanted in the death of am elderly switching station manager.

In book two, Cristina and Alix have arrived in Star City, two days before becoming fugitives themselves, all because of their relationship with Paul. Can the intrepid members of a rock band locate Cristina's missing brother and save him from incarceration? Will they discover the reason The Colonial Authority is pursuing them?

Fighting blind obedience to authority, Cristina and Alix learn the majority is not always right because people are too easily mislead. The Colonial Authority control all channels of communication and dissemination of information. They control the educational system and enforce their rules and regulations through the Security Agency that has broad police powers. Through fear of incarceration and torture the subversive elements are kept in check as the Colonial Authority continues to withhold the truth from the masses and cover up a secret that could bring and end to the peace they maintain in the colonial world of Pravda.

In the course of their adventures at the edge of disaster, Cristina and Alix come to understand that success at trying is accepting failure. They must find a way to save Paul's life and bring an alien creature dead for over eighty years back to their world to provide them with the truth in the past that can restore mankind's future.

Filled with mystery, intrigue and insight into the perspectives of authority, The Attributes explores relationships between siblings and friends. Characters are compelled to achieve extraordinary things when confronted with difficult problems requiring extreme solutions. It is a deviation from the norm in the sci-fi genre. It is a realistic look at what life on a colonial world might be like and the challenges faced in not repeating humanity's failures on their dead and abandoned mother world, the Earth. (ASIN: B00CYYSVP6) $3.99

New Release - The End Begins – One Pack - Book Five (Volume Two of The Wolfcat Chronicles)

The saga of the wolfcats continues with The End Begins. What happened before:

In Spectre of Dammerwald, Ela'na and Rotor are two young wolfcats growing up near the forest close to the mountains. As pups their lives are nearly idyllic. Their fathers are important wolves in the Pack and most consider both pups future leaders of the Pack. Ela'na. Upon the death of the Alpha Male, Old Tull their worlds change with obligations of the Pack forced upon them as they mature too quickly.

In Shattered Truce, Book One of One Pack, drought and fire has forced the Pack to migrate south to arrive dangerously close to the border of the Hovdin Empire, the Pack's mortal enemies. Rotor, now honorably named Hunter, inadvertently violates a truce that ended hostilities generations ago. As the result of a Hovdin ambush the Pack is decimated the Alpha Male killed. Of the few who survived, Red, clings desperately to life after being severely wounded.  Ela'na leaves her Pack on a quest into the Valley of Death's Shadow to return the spirit of her friend, Red. Unsuccessful in her attempt, she becomes lost in the process of returning and after meandering through the maze like tunnels beneath the eastern mountains she emerges on the eastern face of the mountains with no idea where she is or how she will return.

In A Necessary Evil, Book Two of One Pack, news of Ela'na's disappearance and suspected death reaching the Pack. The wizard Magus arrives offering a solution to the wolves dilemma over its leadership. He assists Mang in Red's recovery from his near mortal wounds.

Rotor continues his journey toward an appointment with destiny, though he is still uncertain of the details. Hildi who assists in his recovery gives him a map to help him along his way, showing tunnels beneath Mt. Sael'nop that stands between him and Mt. Art'vl, his destination.

Tomas, a would-be knight from England has mysteriously arrived in the world he believes is Hell. Having recovered from his serious injuries, sets out in the company of Shealu the Shal'na, member of a Hovdin folk religion, on their way to the Imperial capitol city of Hovd.

In A Change of Heart, Rotor becomes the leader of a Pack of wild dogs and leads them on a exodus to join the wolves north of the Hovdin border. Ela'na learns about Ea from Terry Harper, a human she met on her way. After weathering dangerous storm she sets out to find Hildi's place but in the process of recalling what Magus did to her and her ancestor, the amulet transports her to a possible version of a future Earth. On his way to a rendezvous with Anseil, Tomas learned more about himself and the mysterious powers he seems to possess but not entirely control.

In As One. Roeveh leads the dog Pack north to meet with the wolves. Although apprehensive the wolves see the benefit of combining the to Packs, but also the many problems ahead. Mang steps aside to permit the union of the two Pack though he voices his concerns to the newly formed government. Tomas meets the Emperor and learns of the Tah'min ways setting out on a journey with Miku as his first mission for the brotherhood. Ela'na becomes a mother and deals with the reality of her four pups. Ela'na must find Rotor.

The story of the wolfcats continues with the final installment of One Pack, The End Begins. Circumstance and obligation draws many former enemies to The'xus, compelling difficult choices whether to attack or defend the beleaguered city. Caught in the vice between and Emperor's desire to hold on to power and a half-breeds desire to maintain the illusion of his immortality, the Wolfcats Jade and Ela'na forge and unexpected alliance of forces. The Sabatin must be stopped from invading the lands west of the mountains.

In the conclusion to the second volume of the Wolfcat Chronicles, the manipulations are revealed but why do the Wolfcats need to be spared to fight another time? Available exclusively at Amazon for Kindle (ASIN: B00CVA2FLY) $2.99

The Perils Of Self-Editing A Novel – Or Ten

At some point, when the writing process ends, the editing begins. That's how it's supposed to work, right? Whatever the process you employ to put a book together, there is a conclusion to it all. You should be able to wrap it up, send it off to publishers and wait for the likely - if not inevitable - letter of rejection. You need one more to fill in the last remaining spot on that wall you've been using them to paper.

Always there's hope of acceptance, though. So you go on. Being published may not be why we write, but being accepted is a good thing. It helps pay some bills, anyway. And it justifies why we spend so much time seeming sedentary to everyone else in the world.

The problem most of us have is that we haven't arrived at our destination - becoming good enough at writing to be popular and able to afford writing as a career. Until we do and turn our hobby into a profession, we can't afford professional editors. Sometimes we can't afford them even if we have turned writing into a profession. So, in lieu of such services, we end up editing our own material. This is generally a bad idea for many reasons.

Foremost, you're going to skip over a lot of little things, not noticing redundancies or that for the last ten sentences you've started off with the personal pronoun 'I'. You may skip over words altogether. Why? Because it's natural. Everyone does it, even professional editors. There are ways around it, but usually the reason someone is a good editor - good enough to charge money for editing - is that they naturally find typos, misspelled words and bad grammar. Somehow they can look at a page and zero in on the miscues like a heat-seeking missile on a warm body.

Editors are either born or created, I'm not sure which. Are they a godsend to a writer or the bane of any creative person's existence? That one's debatable. A good editor will give advice and suggestions. A bad editor will try to rewrite something you've spent a good chunk of your life creating. Certainly, you need to clean-up a piece of writing before sending it to a real editor. So you will have to edit your own stuff from time to time. But a writer should not be the final editor of anything. Trust me on that.

Your own bullshit wears thin quickly. You are about to bore yourself to sleep ten to twenty pages into a book you wrote. Sorry to break that news to you, but reading your crap is going to do one of two things. Either it disgusts you into giving up a potentially rewarding writing career or render you brain dead, unconscious or just numb and dumb from overexposure to something you wrote a while back that - at the time - you believed was especially brilliant. There is something to be said about the quality of a piece of writing - or lack thereof - if in the course of his or her reading it, the author is rendered comatose.

Having said all that, you, as the author, know the story too well. You created it. So a lot of the interest a stranger - a.k.a. your audience - might find in reading your piece is removed from the work whenever you feast your eyes. I think of it this way: irony exists in the world because God didn't want His creation to bore Him, so be glad He lets us in on the joke sometimes. Anyway, the same sort of thing can apply for a writer and his or her work. Make everything as interesting as you can because you are going to read it many times.

All writing is a work in progress, so you'll never finish editing something. Things you wrote years ago and set aside for later review are immediately thrust to the front burner as soon as you look at them. You may notice errors in other people's writing whenever you read it but your own writing is forever subject to personal review and alteration. Should you get to the end of a piece and feel like there's something missing, you immediately start another session. If not, you bravely arrive at a moment of elation. A wave of euphoria passes over you as you feel completion is at hand. Celebration is in order!

Crack open a beer, pop the cork on a bottle of champagne or wine, it's party time! The spouse or significant other gets an invitation to dinner or a night out on the town. It's only fair. After all, you've been ignoring him or her for weeks, months or years during your creative spurt. If you're still a significant couple after all that neglect, your other has been very patient and understanding along the way. At some point, though, you will open the file and start reading it anew and, alas, a new edit begins.

The only way to combat this urge to perpetually work on a piece of writing is to submit a work to review for publication. It seems this signals some finality - at least until it is rejected or whatever. Afterward, especially if it is rejected, you try to improve it with additional effort. Sometimes, even if the damned thing is published, you end up going through it again. That's what second and subsequent editions are for, right?

Writing is a process. As such, you continue to learn how to write while you're writing. This is similar to something called 'undersplaining'. That's a word I made up a while back to describe how economists answer questions for which they don't know the answers - which is just about all the time. If you've ever listened to the nation's chief economist, you know what I'm talking about - as opposed to what he or she was talking about.

One thing you need to remember is that any writer can be a good story teller well in advance of ever being a good writer. Maybe you'll evolve into some prolific sort of person who can bang out a decent story on the fly with hardly an error, but that's an extremely rare achievement, comparable to winning a Power Ball jackpot. Actually, I think the odds are better with the lottery.

Ordinarily, you'll suffer through the learning curve until it flattens out. At that instant you've reached what's called the point of diminishing returns. Continuing to learn, you never seem to get as much out of the experience as you think you should. Worse you may suffer from the momentary hubris of wrongful assumptions - that you actually know what the hell you're doing. That happens whenever there doesn't appear to be all that much room for improvement left ahead. There's always enough time to find something wrong with anything. Under the guise of reading through a piece just one more time, I'm sure you'll find yourself reaching for a pen or the keyboard, your fingers twitching and sweat breaking out on your brow as you itch to edit.

Years into the process, whether you learn anything further about writing depends on your desire, motivation and, sometimes, your susceptibility to the influence of whatever novel you have been reading on the side. You see, writers also learn from reading the works of other writers. That's a good thing for the most part, as long as you don't become a clone of some famous or semi-famous author. Usually one of any author is more than enough at any given time.

Denial about what you're doing when you're editing is another issue. It starts with calling what you're doing 'revisions'. Technically, a revision is pretty much the same thing as editing, so in the mind of someone who works with words, it is a matter of semantics and therefore easily confused. In practice, though, editing is taking what is there and fixing the minor details without structurally or materially altering the content. Some might argue that anytime an author of a piece edits it, that constitutes a revision. What is the actual case is that an editing session rapidly turns into a major revision, just because it's the writer involved in the editing and he or she is naturally inclined to revise as opposed to editing a piece.

An actual revision is something between an edit and a full-blown rewrite. The latter is when you pretty much throw out everything and start over. Back in the day of typewriters, when composing anything was actually done on paper, it involved wadding up a page and trying to hit the trash can with it. The waste paper basket needed to be across the room, of course. That made it more of a challenge, simultaneously creating the illusion of exercise and sport. After a while, I became pretty good at making the three-point shots from beyond half court in the arena of my study.

Here in the more modern world, there is the delete key and the trash or recycling bin on the operating system's desktop. I miss the trash can, now - figuratively.

The problem with an honest-to-god revision is that you will never know how good a previous idea was or might have been. You scrapped it. A serious push forward with some real editing could have done the trick, but you'll never know. You burned that bridge. Of course there are other ideas. Chase those geese until you trip over something important along the way.

Writers can tend to over-write things especially while editing/revising. There is always more story to tell, isn't there? Sometimes less is better. Scratch that. Often less is better as far as writing goes.

This brings me to a touchy subject. It's about the difference between a short story and a novel. Contrary to uninformed fantasy, a novel is not a long or extended short story. It's not a bunch of short stories, either. That would be called, aptly, 'a collection of short stories' or perhaps an anthology through which a thematic thread of continuity exists.

Writing a short story is a balancing act. Sometimes you're on a high wire walking over a bed of broken glass and sharp spikes without a safety net. Does it get any better than that? It depends. A short story never needs to be confused with any other type of writing. Clearly it is not poetry, although some prose writers wax poetic at times. Occasionally, a decent paragraph or two might work as a free or blank verse poem. But I think short stories should remain in their corner of the literary arena, leaving poetry to poets.

Short stories are structured differently in order to convey a point or message with a dominant theme in the process of creating a character or two within a specific setting or context. Like a poem, a short story doesn't need to be long. There is a reason it's called a 'short' story, after all. Great poetry, in my humble and mostly unprofessional estimation, says a lot in a little space. Any writing needs to have just enough space to convey what is intended. Yes, it's up to the writer to be concise.

Editing and revising a novel takes a lot of time. Even if you do nothing else, it takes about three of four days to plow through a couple hundred pages with any kind of meticulous attention. It's insufferably boring to read that much of your own stuff. And, no matter how often you are compelled to add in some new tangent, you must resist because you are well aware where that may lead - another novel!

Why would anyone who writes novels ever want to edit his or her own stuff? It's beyond me. Where's the excitement and the fun? It's nothing like writing a new one. That's always an adventure.

Composing a novel is more like plate juggling - you know, spinning them atop those flexible rods, trying to keep any from wobbling and crashing down to the floor. Why, you can have sixteen characters, each of them like a plate. You cannot do anything like that with a short story - or a poem for that matter. Therefore, a novel is not nor should it ever be confused with a story. Don't even think of it as a story. It's not.

Yes, certainly, there are stories contained within a novel. There is an overall theme tying things together, a thread of continuity through each of the stories as they are told and relate the characters. The characters have a relationship of some sort, often the stories they tell provide the linkage. The foundation for all of it is the plot, where those characters' stories converge. Season everything with a little conflict and intrigue and you have a novel in progress.

As a writer, a plot can sneak up from behind. You'll be sitting at your computer typing (or evoking the age-old method of hunt-and-peck) about a particular character and there it is, a plot line - a connection between two or more characters. While one of your characters is distracting you, another may be mugging you, stealing a credit card while yet another is calling to use the card for ordering a large pizza with everything but anchovies to be delivered post haste.

Having regained your wallet and credit card you acquiesce to the need to eat something. You chastise the character who ordered the pizza because he or she added on the exorbitantly priced two litre bottle of soda when there are three sitting in the fridge already.

You hear a scream from the apartment downstairs. Listening, hoping nothing is wrong, of course, you sort of expect something more to happen. Without anything further appearing to be going on, you look at the computer screen and there it is, your main character is telling you something is wrong. Margaret is missing. She said she was going to Spain for a holiday, but she hasn't made it back.

Now you have a mystery to consider while you answer the door. It's the pizza delivery guy. He needs to see your credit card. So you run back to retrieve your wallet from where you left it on your desk - remembering that earlier you had a pretty decent wrestling match with one of your characters over possession of that scrap of leather. Hurrying back, you flash the card to the driver and you give the delivery guy a tip because they don't get paid enough otherwise. You bring the pizza to your desk and continue writing, splitting the large pie with your newfound friends while you listen to them tell you all about themselves - their likes and dislikes. Oh, and what about Margaret. Has anyone heard from her?

That's what writing a novel is like. Now, why would anybody want to edit or revise one? Where's the fun in that?

You and I - A Poem Across Space And Time

Your idealism won't feed you,
I've had a belly-full of dreams.
Your sadness tears my eyes,
I've suffered all the games.

You ask how it's going,
I wondered at your concern.
You say because you care,
I was unsure which 'it' it was.

You tell me you're alone,
I was in isolation too.
You ask if there's a reason,
I couldn't say what was.

You are lost as a child,
I was missing as a man.
You are happier being without,
I was saddened with all I had.

You talk of satisfaction,
I laughed in my despair.
You say it's better,
I saw your smile's lie.

New Release on Kindle at Amazon - As One - One Pack - Book Four

As One – One Pack - Book Four  (Volume Two of The Wolfcat Chronicles)

The saga of the wolfcats continues with As One. What happened before:

In Spectre of Dammerwald, Ela'na and Rotor are two young wolfcats growing up near the forest close to the mountains. As pups their lives are nearly idyllic. Their fathers are important wolves in the Pack and most consider both pups future leaders of the Pack. Ela'na. Upon the death of the Alpha Male, Old Tull their worlds change with obligations of the Pack forced upon them as they mature too quickly.

In Shattered Truce, Book One of One Pack, drought and fire has forced the Pack to migrate south to arrive dangerously close to the border of the Hovdin Empire, the Pack's mortal enemies. Rotor, now honorably named Hunter, inadvertently violates a truce that ended hostilities generations ago. As the result of a Hovdin ambush the Pack is decimated the Alpha Male killed. Of the few who survived, Red, clings desperately to life after being severely wounded.  Ela'na leaves her Pack on a quest into the Valley of Death's Shadow to return the spirit of her friend, Red. Unsuccessful in her attempt, she becomes lost in the process of returning and after meandering through the maze like tunnels beneath the eastern mountains she emerges on the eastern face of the mountains with no idea where she is or how she will return.

In A Necessary Evil, Book Two of One Pack, news of Ela'na's disappearance and suspected death reaching the Pack. The wizard Magus arrives offering a solution to the wolves dilemma over its leadership. He assists Mang in Red's recovery from his near mortal wounds.

Rotor continues his journey toward an appointment with destiny, though he is still uncertain of the details. Hildi who assists in his recovery gives him a map to help him along his way, showing tunnels beneath Mt. Sael'nop that stands between him and Mt. Art'vl, his destination.

Tomas, a would-be knight from England has mysteriously arrived in the world he believes is Hell. Having recovered from his serious injuries, sets out in the company of Shealu the Shal'na, member of a Hovdin folk religion, on their way to the Imperial capitol city of Hovd.

In A Change of Heart, Rotor becomes the leader of a Pack of wild dogs and leads them on a exodus to join the wolves north of the Hovdin border. Ela'na learns about Ea from Terry Harper, a human she met on her way. After weathering dangerous storm she sets out to find Hildi's place but in the process of recalling what Magus did to her and her ancestor, the amulet transports her to a possible version of a future Earth. On his way to a rendezvous with Anseil, Tomas learned more about himself and the mysterious powers he seems to possess but not entirely control.

The wolfcats story continues in As One. Roeveh leads the dog Pack north to meet with the wolves. Although apprehensive the wolves see the benefit of combining the to Packs, but also the many problems ahead. Mang steps aside to permit the union of the two Pack though he voices his concerns to the newly formed government. Tomas meets the Emperor and learns of the Tah'min ways setting out on a journey with Miku as his first mission for the brotherhood. Ela'na becomes a mother and deals with the reality of her four pups and feels the jealous envy of Jesse, Copter's sister. Ela'na decides to find Rotor. (ASIN: B00CT6VK2U) $2.99

Reflections On Daughter's Graduation

Some of you may have heard the story. I tell it often enough when, out of pride for my daughter's accomplishments, I use it as an example. You see, Amanda's second grade teacher believed she had a learning disability.

No parent wants to hear that sort of thing. But it was particularly alarming to Amanda's mother and me. Her teacher told us we were just going to have to adjust to the reality that our daughter would never live up to our expectations. In an odd sort of way she was right. She exceeded any expectations.

When the teacher told us that in her professional opinion Amanda needed to be transferred into the school's special education program,  I was dubious. You see, Amanda started reading to herself around age three. When I pointed out this observation the teacher brushed it aside saying there was another explanation for it. It wasn't what it seemed.

"What should it seem? She reads the story to me."

"She remembers it."

"Verbatim? Anyway, isn't that the sign of higher cognitive abilities, memorizing things?"

"I assure you I've been trained to identify developmental disorders."

"Yeah, well I took a few psych classes in college as well."

"Your daughter has a learning disability. I know you don't want to hear that and its completely natural..."

"She doesn't have a learning disability."

"She's not attentive in class."

"Maybe she's bored."

"You're in denial, I understand."

"Look, she doesn't have a learning disability. The only on with a disability here is you. You've got a teaching disability."

It got got uglier. I insisted the teacher's professional analysis be scrutinized, else I'm not sure what might have happened. I don't think anyone, in the longer term, would have believed Amanda had a learning disability but in the short term she might have been misclassified and put into a classroom environment not designed to best develop her mind. I hope this doesn't happen to others but I suspect it happens more often than we realize. We trust experts to tell us things. But who makes them an expert.

As Andy Hunter says in my One Over X series, "The difference between a sage and a fool is often a credential."

On May 12, 2013 Amanda received her Master of Fine Arts in Scenic Design from the University of Illinois.

E        

New Release: A Change Of Heart - One Pack - Book Three

A Change Of Heart – One Pack – Book Three (Volume Two Of The Wolfcat Chronicles)

The saga of the wolfcats continues with A Change Of Heart. What happened before:

In Spectre of Dammerwald, Ela'na and Rotor are two young wolfcats growing up near the forest close to the mountains. As pups their lives are nearly idyllic. Their fathers are important wolves in the Pack and most consider both pups future leaders of the Pack. Ela'na. Upon the death of the Alpha Male, Old Tull their worlds change with obligations of the Pack forced upon them as they mature too quickly.

In Shattered Truce, Book One of One Pack, drought and fire has forced the Pack to migrate south to arrive dangerously close to the border of the Hovdin Empire, the Pack's mortal enemies. Rotor, now honorably named Hunter, inadvertently violates a truce that ended hostilities generations ago. As the result of a Hovdin ambush the Pack is decimated the Alpha Male killed. Of the few who survived, Red, clings desperately to life after being severely wounded.  Ela'na leaves her Pack on a quest into the Valley of Death's Shadow to return the spirit of her friend, Red. Unsuccessful in her attempt, she becomes lost in the process of returning and after meandering through the maze like tunnels beneath the eastern mountains she emerges on the eastern face of the mountains with no idea where she is or how she will return.

In A Necessary Evil, Book Two of One Pack, news of Ela'na's disappearance and suspected death reaching the Pack. The wizard Magus arrives offering a solution to the wolves dilemma over its leadership. He assists Mang in Red's recovery from his near mortal wounds.

Rotor continues his journey toward an appointment with destiny, though he is still uncertain of the details. Hildi who assists in his recovery gives him a map to help him along his way, showing tunnels beneath Mt. Sael'nop that stands between him and Mt. Art'vl, his destination.

Tomas, a would-be knight from England has mysteriously arrived in the world he believes is Hell. Having recovered from his serious injuries, sets out in the company of Shealu the Shal'na, member of a Hovdin folk religion, on their way to the Imperial capitol city of Hovd.

A Change of Heart, the third book of the One Pack series, continues the stories of Ela'na, the Wolfcat and Rotor who was once a revered hunter of the wolf Pack and Tomas who is lost in time and space.

Having survived a violent sand storm that spanned many c'eun, Rotor takes shelter in a cave, only to discover its occupant is a mysterious being with strange plans for the male wolfcat.

Ela'na learns about Ea from Terry Harper, a human she met on her way. After weathering the storm she sets out to find Hildi's place but in the process of recalling what Magus did to her and her ancestor, the amulet transports her to a possible version of a future Earth.

On his way to a rendezvous with Anseil, Tomas learned more about himself and the mysterious powers he seems to possess but not entirely control.

In A Change of Heart two wolfcats continue toward different destinies that are leading to a convergence with a stranger from another world and a unanticipated purposes. Ela'na discovers obligation apart from the Pack while Rotor acquires dependants who are not really his. Tomas prepares to meet the Hovdin Emperor and hopes to find someone who can show him the way back home.  On Kindle at Amazon (ASIN: B00CPT8FJC) $2.99

Lessons Learned (Aftermath Of 2004 Florida Hurricanes)

Experiences change the way we see the world. Devastating storms that hammered Florida for a period of several weeks in the late summer of 2004 made me consider what is truly important in my life.

It should come as no surprise that my family mattered most. Unequivocally, I could not have made it through the couple of months of frequent storms without my kids. Then again, they were the only reason I wanted to make it through those months, anyway. Funny how that works out, isn't it?

I would like the list some of the things I learned:

1. Somehow, my daughters know how to play all sorts of card games that I have never heard of. After the past couple of months, I now know how to play some of them as well. Despite how large a pain in the butt it may have seemed taking them to this and that Girl Scout thing over the years, they learned a lot of useful things from being involved with others and that organization. Not only did they learn invaluable socialization skills, but also they learned a few card games. Enduring the recent power outages in the wake of violent storms would be much less bearable without those candlelight card games whether I was good at them or not.

2. For the sake of one's nerves, if not safety, please, always evacuate when the authorities tell you to. Despite curiosity, lunacy, responsibility to an employer, or whatever, experiencing a category three hurricane at landfall is something best left to those silly enough to do it in front of a TV news camera. At least they are getting paid to be incredibly stupid. Hopefully their producers are selective about the relative danger of staging their stunts. I suppose it is in the public interest intended to reinforce some kind of safety message to the viewers – storms are really dangerous and it's a bad idea to be outside in them. However, seeing someone whether male or female buffeted about or lifted off their feet as they attempt a first hand experience of what it feels like plays mostly to the nut cases who might actually attempt it for themselves. Having needed to go outside to secure something that came loose during a Cat 3 storm, I can tell you this. Whatever the reason, being lifted off your feet and letting the wind carry you is not worth the brief if intense adrenaline rush.

3. Freedoms can be taken away in an instant, by fate and/or natural circumstance. Suspended liberty can also linger as an emergency situation for several days afterwards, in the interest of the public good. At my age, having anyone tell me when I HAVE to do anything is at the least irritating. I am not certain that I like the fact that the elected officials in my county can impose an arbitrary curfew, but I do like the fact that the police charged to enforce the times of suspended freedoms seem very interested in relinquishing the power as soon as the emergency has passed. Maybe that is how our country really is different from some other places in the world. The police officers are us and the authority is used only when it is necessary for them to protect us from ourselves. They watch out for whatever there is in human nature that makes people act like idiots.

4. The power of nature trumps everything. No one is impervious. I think storms are a little, not-so-friendly reminder that everyone is equal. There is no immunity. You are not bullet-proof. A storm does not give preference or deference to wealth, creed or ethnicity. It doesn't care whether you eat white bread or whole wheat. It doesn't want to know whether your belly button is an 'innie' or an 'outtie'. Your Atkin's diet doesn't matter. How great you were playing baseball in high school is immaterial. Nature doesn't mind removing a few shingles from your roof either, if that is what it takes to get your attention. The wrath of the elements will humble you into admitting that every person is a puny subject cowering in a corner, hunkering down and hoping for the best until the unleashed fury has passed.

5. Appreciation for electricity, more than almost anything else in life except for my kids, was underscored and highlighted. Having hot water to take a shower because there is electricity is a marvelous thing. It's funny though, I realize now why they call electricity 'power'. Having the 'power' is much preferable to having 'no power'.  However, it is always nice when someone that has 'power' offers to share some of it with you, especially when you don't have any. By the way, Air-conditioning is the greatest invention ever! Trust me on that one.

6. The strangest and most personally uplifting thing I have witnessed over the past couple of months is that emergencies, like this series of storms that my state has suffered, brings out the best in some if not most people. I don't know if it is an American thing or just a human thing - or even if any of that matters. I am relatively certain that it is part of the overall equalizing factor of an event or series of events of the magnitude of a disaster Floridians have sustained. When we are reminded how insignificant each of us is before the awesome display of the forces of nature, we tend to have a sense of community and become nicer to one another. When was the last time you volunteered to help a neighbor trim some palm fronds? - Or remove a tree that had fallen in his or her yard? When was the last time you stopped to ask your neighbor if he or she wanted a ride to get a few bags of ice? It has happened here lately and almost everyday!

The disastrous, violent storms, I would not wish on anyone. It is not that I feel blessed or even particularly singled out to have survived. All the same, I am grateful to be alive. It is only that I noticed a few things that reaffirmed my faith that somehow we will all get through even the hardest of times. It is not because we can or must, but because we are all together in this strange and sometimes twisted little world. Sometimes, it takes a disaster to get our attention and remind us that this is our unique sandbox. This is the only place we have to play. We need to behave ourselves and share, regardless how immature we are. What a pity it is that it takes disasters to bring the 'human' out of our common 'humanity'. The shame is that most of us aren't a little more human to one another all the time. We wait until there is a tragedy become who we really are, members of the same tribe.

E

Fright Of Flight

I have never wanted to be one of those people, but I guess I am. You know the type, the ones who need special attention almost constantly. I'm a grown-man, for god's sake. Why do I act like a baby?

In my mental self-image, I'm remarkably self-sufficient and, at times, amazingly brave. I'm wrong, though; I usually am. Still, brave is how I'd prefer to be considered. So humor me. I'm mostly harmless; I promise.

I'd be remiss if I didn't admit to one, overwhelming trepidation. I dread it more than getting up before dawn to go to work. That's the experience of flying on a commercial airline, a.k.a sitting in a space smaller than a linen closet for a couple of hours, with seat belt fastened just in case 'we' experience unexpected turbulence.

Recently, I needed to fly. Time dictated the necessity. It always does. I didn't want to spend all of my vacation riding a bus north to spend only one day with my two daughters in Illinois, and then riding a bus back home. Enduring the trauma of flight allowed me to spend a couple more precious days with them.

* * * *

I recall my first few experiences with flying. When I was a kid, the flight attendants were generally female; they were called stewardesses back in the pre-politically-correct day. I'm not sure why calling a male flight attendant a steward was ever in anyway demeaning or wrong. I suppose in the interest of equality between the sexes we have to neuter-down just about every job that has ever been gender specific. If it advances equality in the workplace, I'm all for it. If it doesn't equalize the pay differential between males and females, what's a job title worth to anyone?

As I recall, stewardesses tended to be very kind and very pretty, especially to a wide-eyed little boy.

The first time I ever flew was in a helicopter. Imagine that! Being a few thousand feet up in the air and able to look straight down through the bottom of a bubble canopy quickly established the awareness of my acrophobia.

The second time I flew was in a turbo-prop airplane. It was a chartered flight in support of a tour of the manufacturing facilities of a farm equipment manufacturer, Massey-Ferguson. My father, who was a farmer, used Massey-Ferguson equipment almost exclusively.

The flight began in Columbus, Ohio. At the time, that was a really big city to me, even though its population was around 500,000. I lived in a farmhouse surrounded by cornfields. It was exactly two miles from nowhere, which was a small town, population one thousand seven hundred and three. So a city of a half million was huge.

Our trip was to eventually reach Toronto, Ontario. There was a brief stay in Detroit, Michigan to tour a foundry that made castings used in all Massey-Ferguson farm equipment.

Except for some visits with relatives in neighboring Kentucky, I was never  before outside of the State of Ohio. So landing in Michigan established new territory for my personal explorations on this vast planet. When we left Detroit to fly to Toronto, a greater first was established. I was going to land in a different country!

At the time, Canada and the US enjoyed an extremely open, common border. I believe it was the world's longest shared border between two sovereign nations that was virtually unguarded. For one thing, I didn't need a passport. That made some sort of sense to me, as a twelve-year-old. After all, the people of Canada were a lot like Americans. We all spoke English - for the most part, anyway. I'd heard in school that in Quebec they also spoke French. Fortunately we were going to Ontario. But I expected that even in Quebec I could find someone who spoke English. That was important to me because I didn't know anything but English. Despite over a decade of experience living in a rural Midwestern American setting, I barely spoke what other native speakers might recognize as English, but I called it that. 

You see my folks were hillbillies. Where I grew up in Ohio was relatively flat land, so maybe that might moderate the 'hill' part of that equation a bit, but still, my parents were hicks. On multiple choice English grammar tests, I could usually eliminate at least two of the suggested answers by asking myself whether my parents might say those things. 

The two-day adventure in Canada exposed me to many things. At the restaurant in the lakeside hotel where we stayed, I first experienced the delight of eating a few slices of roast beef, served rare. My mother had always assumed that I liked my meat prepared in the same way she preferred, well done. That became one of my many deviations from my mother's tastes.

Money had different values depending on what side of the border you were on. At that time, the Canadian dollar was valued at ninety-six cents American. Coins were handled interchangeably and without quibble because of the negligible valuation difference, but whenever something reached or exceeded a dollar in value, the international exchange rate came into play.

I wanted to keep some Canadian money to take home as souvenirs. I still preferred American money. To a twelve-year-old in 1968, four cents was still a lot of money to lose in every transaction. As I recall, that was the sales tax rate in Ohio. It mattered. My dad allowed me to save one Canadian dollar note, a five, and whatever pocket change I had left, which, for the record was: five pennies, two nickels, four dimes and three quarters.

When I returned home, I was a seasoned world traveler! I'd been to far away places and had the physical evidence of money from another country to show for it!

My fifth grade teacher had allowed me a furlough for a few days to enjoy my trip. Of course, the backside of that liberation was an obligation to report back to classmates on my experiences. I was very shy, so standing before the twenty-five or so other kids in my classroom to share my experiences was painful and traumatic. Still, it was well worth getting the time off from school. After the  presentation, I made certain I got all the Canadian coins and bills back.

* * * *

My subsequent flying experiences have never been comfortable. I served in the United States Air Force, irony of all ironies. For someone who hates flying as much as I do, how does serving in the Air Force make any sense? By that time I had logged several thousands of miles in the air as a commercial airline passenger. I'd come to a point of harmony with the universe about flying. But I assure you; I never enjoyed a moment of any of those flights. Gratefully, what I did for the Air Force usually required me to keep two feet planted firmly on the ground. But every time I have ever flown, it was because I had to be somewhere at a given time. Otherwise, I would gladly ride a train, a bus, a car, a bike or walk.

* * * *

For my aforementioned recent vacation, I needed to visit two of my three children, my daughters who share an apartment in Illinois. The elder of the two, Amanda is a graduate student at the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana. My baby is a freelance artist who also works as a cake decorator in the bakery at a grocery store. My girls share the apartment with Amanda's fiancee, Marcos. They invited me to visit them for a week, something that I really wanted to do, despite the logistical and temporal concerns.

Getting time off from work has very often been the issue. Despite how bad I am at doing my job - judging from my annual evaluations - I appear to be indispensable in some ways. I guess it's because I'm trusted to carry keys that open doors for people who need to remove things from secured areas. Or it could be my body is still warm, has a pulse and, when tested, my breath will fog a mirror. Also, I had the least seniority with the company so everyone else was permitted to take vacation time ahead of me, despite any tentative plans I had made.  

Finally, at the end of January, the stars and planets properly aligned so the powers that be signed off on a week's paid vacation. Unfortunately, going north to see my girls still involved flying.

It had been years since I'd last flown. Certainly, it was well before the tragic events of 9/11. I knew some of the restrictions and regulations. My kids have flown often enough in the interim. I have taken them to the airport and picked them up. I knew, for example, it is no longer possible to greet someone at the arrival gate. The welcome home greeting party must wait outside of the Transportation Security Agency's checkpoints.

Thank you Osama Bin Laden for the destruction of a pretty good tradition. May a hundred camels piss on your tent and defecate on your fetid corpse to bar you from ever entering the realm of the 77 virgins!

In advance of the flight, my son warned me that the pocketknife I carry everywhere, the one Sarah bought for me when she was in Switzerland, would be confiscated if I tried carrying it onto a plane. So, I left it at home. I also left my toenail and fingernail clippers behind. No biggy; I never carry them with me anyway. Some of the things my son told me were banned from an airplane are really kind of silly. If the airways are safer, oh well.

After dropping me off curbside in front of Delta Airlines counters at Orlando International, my son, Rob asked me if I would be okay.

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Thank you for getting up early to give me a ride."

"Call me if there is any change in your arrival time when you come back."

"No problem."

I really believed I had everything completely under control. I was certain I handled the automated check in exactly per instructions. But I had to return to print my boarding passes. The print out neglected to state that. Who knew you need a boarding pass to get through the security checkpoint? Last time I flew you got your boarding passes at the gate. 

As I was staying for only a few days, I brought carry-on luggage only. At the security checkpoint, I stripped down, becoming a belt-less, shoeless entity. The screening process the Orlando version of the Transportation Security Agency operates doesn't rely on metal detectors. I was relieved when they told me my pacemaker was probably not an issue anymore. However, my backpack was. They asked permission to open it and once I consented, they basically ransacked its contents, seeking out a normal sized tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. They confiscated both.

My toothpaste tube exceeded regulations for the size that was allowable in carry-on luggage. I'm not sure what prompted them to seize the toothbrush. Maybe they know something about hijacking a plane with a toothbrush that I don't. After all, it is what they do, right?

As I stood there in dumbfounded shock, I imagined a guy foaming at the mouth, from recently brushing, brandishing a dripping toothbrush as a weapon to seize control of a jetliner. I mean, how can you really tell if a toothbrush is cocked and loaded? I had no idea sticking a dentifrice into my mouth on the head of a toothbrush was so dangerous. Could it really down an airliner? If I ever knew that a toothbrush was a deadly weapon, I could have easily vanquished many of the bullies that tormented me in grade school.

"Take that", he said with bristles bared.

Oh wait, shooting your mouth off takes on an entirely different meaning, now doesn't it?

Sir, please put the toothbrush down and slowly step away. No one will get hurt.

Seriously, for all the good they do in granting us the peace of mind to fly, in this instance, I feel the TSA stepped over the line. Will someone with a sense of reality and specific knowledge throttle them back about toothpaste and toothbrushes? Had I protested on site, I know I would have been detained and would have missed my flight. They have that authority. All of it was over a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. Who knew they were so dangerous?

Wait! Did I miss my fifteen-minute window of fame? I could have made a scene and even been on the news. The media circus would have arrived while I was in holding bound for jail, all about toothpaste, a toothbrush and my insistence about my rights as a human being and an American citizen.

Obviously, I'd be an immediate suspect! I'm cue ball white. I'm so white I glow in the dark. I sunburn whenever I walk past a picture of the sunset. I don't fit the expected profile for a hijacker. But damned if I wasn't challenged!

Anyway, like anyone with any intelligence in such a situation, and knowing that I needed to get somewhere, I acquiesced on my rights and tolerated the invasion of my privacy and confiscation of personal property, namely one tube of mint flavored Crest and a medium bristle toothbrush. But I felt wronged. We're seizing toothpaste and toothbrushes for fear of a hijacking?

Can someone reel me in on this and explain it? If not, can someone in Washington DC see how insidious the potential for this is? I mean, in my hood, - yes, I live in a hood; it's the economy - if I pulled out a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in self-defense against a knife or gun, I'd be dead. But damn, if I couldn't have downed an airliner with those same tools!

* * * *

You know what? It was a good vacation, overall. I love my daughters very much and spending time with them was what mattered most. They are so much like me and yet completely unique, even from one another. You have to respect human genetics! With every birth you have a new revelation in the possibilities of human life, someone who has never before been and will never again be. My daughters are a lot like my ex-wife and me, but there is always another part of each of them that is unique. I don't pretend to know how that works, but it's real and perceivable.

Obviously, I made it back home; thank God, providence, or whatever you may believe in. I will say that the flight attendants were efficient, friendly and effective in their roles throughout my flight experiences. I really felt like they cared about what they were doing. One of the two male flight attendants seemed to be obsessed with the safety of a single passenger who had to go to the restroom while the plane was in final approach. It was a violation but he allowed it and suffered with the decision every moment until she was safely in her seat, just before the plane actually touched down.

I guess when you ride a plane with other humans you see how self-centered and ape-like we can be. What an asinine move, getting up during final approach and going to take a tinkle? The silly girl reached her seat exactly thirty-seconds before the landing gear touched the runway, oblivious to the fact that at the velocity the plane still maintained, in the event of a sudden stop, her body would respond as if it weighed about ten-thousand pounds, likely killing or maiming many other passengers in the process before coming to a complete and, I do mean, dead rest.

Although we often pay half-hearted attention to the pre-fight instruction of our flight attendants, they are telling us the truth. All that any of us want is to have a safe flight.

For the record, I still hate flying and always will. But on this occasion, I had good flights to and from Chicago's O'Hare International. It restored my faith in commercial aviation, at least until my next fright flight.

E