James Osborne's Blog, page 8

It’s a Winner!

Wow! Still more good news. My novel “The Maidstone Conspiracy” has won the McGrath House Indie book award for best Contemporary Fiction.

London-based McGrath House issued the announcement a short time ago. Pretty cool. Contemporary Fiction is one of nine categories. [image error]Panels of judges selected five finalists in each category from among English-language books published around the world. Then it was up to readers and supporters to decide.

My deepest thanks to everyone to took the time to vote for The Maidstone Conspiracy. YOU did it!

“This is great recognition for your book,” McGrath House said in its statement. “And we are pleased to celebrate your success… !”

I’m doing a happy dance, thanks to all of you! If you would like to check out The Maidstone Conspiracy further, here’s a link to the listing on Amazon: http://a.co/feRnmht

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Rein of Error

I wanted to stay home that day. So did my big sister. Our mother had other ideas. Minutes later, Carol and I were outside in the early morning darkness battling a mid-winter blizzard on our way to school.

Grumbling, we started across the front yard of our remote farm home. Driving snow stung our faces. The bitter cold forced its way deep inside our boots, mittens and parkas. Our next warm haven was a mile down the road: our one-room country school.

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Just then, Marion Brown’s form came swirling out of the heavy snow, all snuggled up warmly in her shiny new horse drawn sleigh.

Maybe we should try catching a ride, I thought, although I was quite sure she wouldn’t allow the intrusion. After all, Mrs. Brown was our teacher and she had a well-earned reputation for being cranky. Instinctively, Carol and I decided to go for it anyway.

“Hold on, damn it,” I remember muttering under my breath as I ran, stumbling through a foot of snow toward the sleigh. I knew better than to shout those words out loud. Mrs. Brown relished disciplining kids who swore. Damn was a pretty strong swear among her prohibited verbiage.

“Come on!” I shouted over my shoulder at Carol. “Hurry up!”

I looked back. A hidden snowdrift in the darkness had tripped her up. I fought the urge to laugh at her lying face down in the snow, her head half buried. I’d learned that younger siblings are well advised to avoid laughing at those who are older.

“Wait!” I called out toward the sleigh.

I shouted as loud as I could this time, hoping to be heard above the musical jangling of the harness and the howling blizzard. A spirited bay gelding pulling the shiny maroon sleigh trotted briskly past us on the country road. The ensemble of horse and sleigh raised clouds of swirling snow.

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As they swept by, I caught sight of our imperious teacher shaking the reigns vigorously, leaving no doubt she wanted the frisky horse to trot even faster. That dashed any hope we might catch a ride.

Carol caught up with me and went racing ahead, determined to catch the sleigh and prove the faceplant had not compromised her self-assumed age superiority. I followed close in her wake. Almost within reach of the speeding sleigh, she stopped abruptly. Caught off guard, I charged headlong into her back, knocking both of us down.

“Forget it,” Carol said as she rolled over. A resigned look covered her glum snow covered face.

Again, I suppressed the urge to laugh. Instead, I glanced up.

Ah, hah!

Two fellow students were clinging to the back of the retreating sleigh, their feet on the runners. There’d be no room for Carol and I. And the open-top sleigh’s passenger compartment was fully occupied by Mrs. Brown’s ample personage, enveloped in a huge buffalo robe.

“Shit!” I said, watching the lucky neighbor kids disappear into the snowy pre-dawn darkness. “Shit!” I said again, more loudly this time, confident it was safe now to invoke my favorite curse word.

Thirty minutes later, Carol and I arrived at our school, a small green clapboard structure with white trim around the windows and on the corners. Shivering from the laborious one-mile trek in the fierce sub-zero blizzard, we hung our coats, hats, scarves and mittens on nails pounded into a board mounted on the wall inside the door.

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We were looking forward to joining the other students around the big black and silver wood-burning stove that commanded the center of the room, the school’s only source of heat. Just as Carol and I got close enough to begin feeling the radiated warmth, Mrs. Brown announced:

“All right pupils. Get to your places. Hurry up now!”

The other 14 children spread out across the room. Students in the highest of the eight grades headed for desks nearer the front. Not incidentally, they were closer to the stove. Kids in the lower grades like me were relegated to the back of the classroom, next to the drafty wooden door that sprung open when hit by strong gusts of wind from time to time.

Shit! I thought as I headed for my desk. Double shit! I thought brazenly.

My feet and hands were freezing. But it was clear from her tone Mrs. Brown’s mood was not to be trifled with today.

She called the classroom to order. As usual, she became preoccupied with the older kids, giving little attention to us younger students.

My friend Mike and I were the entire third grade in that single-room school. There were no first or second graders.[image error]

Mike and I had become close friends. It was a good thing – we were the only boys our age in that vast wilderness surrounding the cluster of small farms served by the school. Our fathers and other farmers had built it on a two-acre parcel of land donated by a centrally located farmer.

To be honest, Mike and I were relieved at not having to endure the withering oppression of her instructional ministrations. Besides, we enjoyed inventing games to keep us occupied. It didn’t occur to either of us at the time, or to Mrs. Brown evidently, that at this stage of our pedagogical journey we ought to have been acquiring basic proficiencies in the fundamentals of arithmetic and grammar. Truth be known, we were having far too much fun to concern ourselves with such visceral matters.

Our made-up games helped fill the time while awaiting recess, then while looking forward to lunch, then recess again, and then while counting the minutes until it was time to go home.

I will admit, Mike and I often forgot to keep our voices down. Today was one of those occasions. We were deeply into a competitive made-up game when Mrs. Brown’s voice boomed out:

“Just what do you two nerdowells think you’re doing? Both of you! Outside! Go get some firewood! Then, maybe we’ll have a little peace and quiet around here. Get out there! Right now!”

Shit! I thought. I glanced over at the wood box. It was almost full. I looked sideways at Mike. We both knew the real purpose of Mrs. Brown’s order: to punish us for distracting her. I was sure Mike was feeling as I did… I sure didn’t want to go back outside again. It was hard enough staying warm inside. Besides, my hands and feet were still cold from the long walk to school.

“Out!” Mrs. Brown shouted again, recognizing our reticence to leave the comparative comfort of the schoolroom. “Go get that firewood like I told you. Do it RIGHT NOW!”

Mike and I grumbled as we donned our coats and mittens. Outside, we were dismayed to find that two inches of snow had blown onto the woodpile in the few hours since school had started.[image error]

“The faster the better,” I shouted to Mike over the howling wind as he and I hurriedly cleared snow off one area of the woodpile. We loaded our arms quickly with as many pieces of chopped firewood as we could carry and headed back inside.

Stop!” Mrs. Brown shouted just as we were about to drop the firewood into the woodbox. “Stop right there!” She rushed over to Mike and I, both straining under huge armloads of firewood. She was puffing and visibly angry.

“Take that wood back outside and clean off the snow!” she shouted, waving a beefy hand dangling from the end of a puffy arm. “You’re making a mess! Out! Get out of here!”

I glanced at Mike. We knew the firewood was almost clear of snow. We’d worked hard to clean it. Mike and I had seen the glint in her eyes. Both of us understood Mrs. Brown’s intent was to extend our punishment. We were annoyed but knew better than to show it, much less say anything.

So back outside we went, grumbling even louder to each other. With bare hands we went to work scraping and banging, trying to eradicate from each piece of firewood the few specks of snow we’d not previously removed. However, as quickly as we cleared the snow, it would blow right back.

“I’ve an idea,” I shouted to Mike over the howling wind. “Let’s wrap the wood with our coats. That’ll keep the snow off.”

The plan worked. It did indeed keep the blowing snow off the firewood, but now we were out there in the raging blizzard in our shirtsleeves. Not surprising, by the time we returned inside both of us were shivering violently.

Mrs. Brown’s pudgy face loomed over us. An unruly crop of scraggly hairs on her chin and upper lip emphasized her triumphant scowl as she watched us dump the firewood into a woodbox now overfull. With that, she abruptly turned her back on us and stomped to the head of the room.

Trudging back to our desks, Mike and I, still miffed, sat and exchanged glances. We were so cold our shivering was more akin to shaking. My hands and feet were colder than I could remember. I could see that Mike was cold, too. Silently, we tucked our frigid hands firmly up into our warm armpits.

“Get out your pencils and scribblers!” Mrs. Brown barked at Mike and I from the front of the room. Her voice boomed out loud and impatient. She’d turned our way again, unleashing her intimidating demeanor upon us. I could see the other kids pretend to be busy, hoping to minimize the risk of ricocheted wrath.[image error]

“You are going to practice your penmanship. That’ll keep you two busy for a while. Now get at it!”

WHAT? I thought. My fingers felt more like icicles than digits belonging to my hands. I could barely close my fingers, much less write neatly. At that moment, penmanship was not among my higher priorities.

Mike and I grabbed our pencils. As usual, the leads on both were broken. We pulled out our pocketknives. [image error]In our remote farming community, every boy carried one, proudly. Of all the telling symbols in our region, folding knives were seen to differentiate little boys from ‘big’ boys, that is, ‘real’ boys on their way to becoming ‘real’ men. Both of us went to work sharpening our pencils.

Crack!

Mike and I looked up, startled by the sharp noise of a chalkboard brush crashing into the wall behind us. [image error]I looked at Mike. We glanced around the room, assuming one of the big boys was trying to bully us again when Mrs. Brown wasn’t looking. It was a common event but usually they did it outside at recess or during lunch.

We looked around again. Mrs. Brown was glaring back at us. Perhaps we shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d thrown the brush!

“Over the woodbox!” she shouted. “Sharpen those pencils over the woodbox! Where do you good-for-nothings think you are, in a barnyard? Get over there!”

I caught sight of a few other kids chuckling at us, their faces hidden behind opened scribblers and textbooks.

With the sharpening mission accomplished, Mike and I returned to our desks and opened our scribblers.

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We tried to concentrate on copying the perfectly formed letters that Mrs. Brown had inscribed earlier in the year on four large blackboards, really green boards. Across the tops, capital letters both in script and printing, and numbers from zero to nine, embraced three perfectly straight parallel lines. Lower-case letters nestled beside each capital, fitting exactly between the lower two lines.

That’s when it happened.

I was concentrating hard. Most likely this is why I felt it before realizing what had occurred. Something had flashed past my eyes, and smacked my hand hard. The blow sent my pencil flying. My hand hurt intensely, even though it was still numb from the cold.

That’s when I smelled the acrid odor of Mrs. Brown’s sweat-diluted perfume swirling around us. There she was, standing right behind me. I turned slightly and looked up. Her eyes flashed with anger; her mouth was twisted in a snarl. In her right hand she clutched an 18-inch ruler, her favorite disciplinary instrument for students she deemed errant. One edge of the ruler held a thin metal insert. I glanced down at my throbbing left hand. A drop of blood was oozing from a narrow cut on the knuckle where my index finger joined my hand.

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“I warned you before about using THAT hand!” she shouted, a spray of spittle erupting from her pursed lips. I felt the mist settle down upon my face and hair.

“Listen to me!” she continued loudly. “How many times do you have to be told? Only retards use their left hand! Do you hear me? Don’t you understand that? They’re mentally defective, that’s why they do it! Only people who are sick in the head write with their left hand. Aberrant behavior, that’s what it is! Are you some kind of ignorant deranged freak? Well, are you?”

I understood that no answer was required. Regardless, I shook my bowed head side-to-side acknowledging her questions. I was overcome with shame for what I’d done instinctively… used my left hand. I fought back tears, as much from humiliation as from the pain.

“Pick up your pencil!” Mrs. Brown ordered. “With your RIGHT hand! Do it NOW! You will use that hand and only that hand from now on. Do you understand? I don’t allow retarded freaks in my school. DO… YOU… HEAR… ME?”

I nodded my head, this time slowly moving it up and down. I could feel my face burning with embarrassment.

“Right?” Mrs. Brown shouted at me. She stomped her foot repeatedly on the rough wood floor. “Right?”

I was sitting at my desk. My eyes were level with her abundant girth. Each time she stomped her foot, I could see her ample belly jiggle under her massive dress like a litter of kittens romping around in a potato sack. Such a picture in my mind’s eye at any other time would have left me struggling unsuccessfully to keep from bursting out laughing. Not this time.

I nodded my head once more, a bit faster, feeling my face flush red-hot again with the shame of having instinctively used my previously forbidden left hand.

“Say it out loud!” she shouted.

More spittle sprayed down upon me.

“Stand up and say it!”

I stood slowly.

“Yes, Mrs. Brown,” I said.

My voice was timid and subdued with fear and embarrassment.

“Louder!” she shouted at me. “Turn around. Look at everyone! Say it! Say it louder!”

Looking back, I’m not exactly sure what came over me at that moment. But without thinking, I refused to face the other students. I turned toward her instead, and shouted at the top of my lungs:

“YES, MRS. BROWN!”

All I remember was that my eyes were focused intently on hers. Mike told me later he saw my blue eyes radiating anger and defiance like he’d never seen before.

With amazing speed, Mrs. Brown’s pudgy right hand caught me on the left side of my head, knocking me to the floor. [image error]I remember staying down, unable to hear now over the loud ringing in my left ear, fighting to keep from crying. I lost that struggle. I hid my wet face in my hands so she wouldn’t see my tears.

Mrs. Brown waddled back to the front of the room, stomping her feet as she went. Nearby desks shook and rattled in her wake.

I crawled back up to my desk, wiping my face on the forearms of my plaid shirtsleeves. The other kids were ominously quiet. Some glanced furtively back at me, shock in their eyes. Mike reached over and touched my left arm gently, reassuringly… a true friend.

Near the end of the day, having completed what little schoolwork we were assigned, Mike asked if he and I could go home early.

Mrs. Brown looked out the windows on the east wall. The storm had begun to ease. She agreed, leaving no doubt about her relief to be rid of a pair she considered more trouble than we were worth.

On the way home, after making a brief stop, Mike and I burst out laughing as we debated, and pondered:[image error]

1. How long would it take Mrs. Brown to find her horse? Upon leaving, we’d gone to the small barn behind the school. We opened the heavy plank door and chased the rambunctious horse down the road. The newly freed animal, clad in a horse blanket, ran off through the gently falling snow kicking up its heels. We enjoyed a few moments mimicking how our rotund teacher would be forced to waddle through deep snowdrifts all the way home, four miles away.
Even if she found the horse that day, how would she manage to drive it with only one rein? We’d taken the other.
Hiding the rein posed a challenge. Where could we hide the contraband securely enough to evade having it traced back to us? We knew that reins, made of long strips of leather, were too valuable to be destroyed. That precluded throwing it down a well or into a manure pile. We understood also that an angry Mrs. Brown would question vigorously all of the parents along the routes to school.

She did just that. Each set of parents obligingly interrogated their school-aged offspring and checked through their homes, barns, garages and other outbuildings. Our schoolmates knew we were the prime suspects. Mike and I understood that being discovered would mean spankings at home as well as some unspeakable retribution by Mrs. Brown in front of the entire classroom. We swore a vow of silence. Our fellow students honored our secret without words ever being exchanged. Many also had endured the consequences of Mrs. Brown’s volatile personality.

For a few days, Mrs. Brown was forced to replace the missing rein with a length of decrepit old rope. This amused all of the kids. Behind her back they pantomimed the challenges we imagined she’d experienced driving the spirited horse with one rein.

Outside during recess, beyond the range of Mrs. Brown’s hawk-like eyesight and awesome hearing, the more thespian among us tried to outdo each other’s imitations of her. They waddled around in a fake daze, a faux rein held aloft in one raised hand while another student portrayed an unruly horse verging out of control. The performances inspired much hilarity among our fellow students. Mike and I were among the more enthusiastic members of the audience.

Early the following week Mrs. Brown’s husband discovered the missing rein. It had mysteriously reappeared under a horse blanket tucked under the seat of that maroon sleigh he’d given her for Christmas. Mr. Brown suggested his wife might have misplaced the rein. She indignantly denied any such notion.

The rein thieves never confessed and were never caught, although both Mike and I later admitted our transgression to our parents. We explained the precipitating circumstances, thereby receiving only verbal admonitions, each administered by fathers struggling to maintain straight faces while concealing the gleams in their eyes.

Thereafter, Mrs. Brown’s behavior toward us changed. She began treating her pair of third graders with an unaccustomed measure of restraint combined with a subtle deference that Mike and I found enormously satisfying.

#

 

Notes:

1. “Rein of Error” is one of two short stories of mine chosen to be included in LIMITLESS, a fund-raising anthology containing stories donated by 29 authors from around the world to support the AMAR Foundation. Proceeds from the sale of LIMITLESS are used by AMAR to help displaced families resettle in the war-torn Middle East. Patron of the Foundation is HRH Prince Charles.

2.  The story is fiction but was inspired by true events that occurred in the mid-1900s. Some of the language was in common use then and is employed here to reflect those times accurately. Such language today is considered offensive. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How Good Is That?

 

Something good just happened! Received word this morning that one of my novels has been chosen as a finalist for an award.

The Maidstone Conspiracy is among five other novels selected to be finalists in the “Fiction-Contemporary” category in an international competition.

The contest is run by McGrath House, the same publisher sponsoring Limitless, the anthology that’s raising funds for the AMAR Foundation to help families get re-established after the wars in the Middle East. [image error]

As I remember it, authors whose stories were chosen for Limitless were invited to enter a novel-length work in UK-based McGrath’s annual book awards without charge. It was their way of thanking the authors for contributing our stories for free. Hey, it’s a good cause.

Quite frankly, I’d forgotten all about the offer to enter the competition, so it came as a pleasant surprise to wake up learning that The Maidstone Conspiracy was a finalist. Sweet!

Now comes the pitch:

Winners will be chosen by the public. That is, while a panel of judges selected the short lists of five finalists in each of nine categories, McGrath House has decided to ask the reading public to choose the winners. That means people from around the world will be voting for their favorite author/novel.

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So, I’m inviting your support. You can click on the link below and scroll down to the “Fiction–Contemporary” category and then click on The Maidstone Conspiracy. If by any chance you’ve also read any of the other finalist novels, well then why not vote for them too? Here’s the link: Finalist Voting Link

Many thanks in advance for your support.

By the way, the print version of Limitless has just been released and is available on Amazon. Here’s the link: http://viewbook.at/limitless.  I ordered it today. It’s looking like the ebook version could be released sooner than the planned Oct. 31 release date.

Even though the print version was only released on Friday, it has already reached #85 on Amazon’s bestseller list for anthologies. [image error]Not bad, considering Amazon has more than six million books on offer. Not sure how many of them are anthologies, but my guess it would be in the thousands.

Think you’ll agree, it’s always a delight to share good news… especially your own. (Chuckle!)

Have a fabulous day!

LIMITLESS – A Very Special Project

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I’m pleased to announce that two of my short stories are about to be published in a very special international anthology due for release on October 31.

What makes this so special is that all proceeds from the anthology, aptly named LIMITLESS, go to a foundation that’s helping people uprooted by wars in the Middle East to rebuild their lives. And the patron for the AMAR Foundation is none other than Prince Charles. 

One of the stories is called “Dragonflies & The Great Blue Heron”, a real-life love story. It’s the signature story leading off my collection, ENCOUNTERS WITH LIFE – TALES OF LIVING, LOVING AND LAUGHTER. I’m really pleased to say the book was named Best Short Story Collection of 2015 by an international readers poll.

The second story is called “Rein of Error”, a creative non-fiction memoir about the consequences of being different half a century ago. It will be making an appearance soon on my website, JamesOsborneNovels.com.The flattering part is the two stories are among only 39 from among submissions that came in from around the world.

The galley proofs arrived the other day, which means we are on track for the planned October 31 release!  It’s a huge job to edit any book, and especially a 325-page anthology containing 39 stories. Normally in the publishing world, we’d be looking at a year or more from submission deadline to publication. So, a short timeline like they have set for themselves is remarkable.

There’s more good news. Publisher McGrath House has dropped the price for the pre-order Kindle version to 99 cents (US). The price will go up on release date October 31, probably to $4 or $5 (US) (TBD). The print version price has not been announced yet. McGrath House hopes to release both formats simultaneously.

You might like to know that while reading through the galley proofs, I was blown away by the biographies of some authors. One of them has 14 novels published, another 13 books (novels, poetry and collections of short stories), and there’s a poet with seven books of poetry published. Wow, that is some auspicious company. A very nice feature, too, is that a few of the writers are having their work published in LIMITLESS for the very first time, and their work is impressive.

It’s humbling that two of my entries were chosen from among stories and poems submitted by writers from countries such as Australia, Portugal, Thailand, England, Ireland, the United States, India, Greece, The Philippines, and elsewhere. Oh yes, and Canada

All of the money raised will be administered by the AMAR Foundation, which is based in London, UK. The writers are contributing their stories free of charge, and McGrath House is donating its services.

Those wishing to pre-order can click on this link: http://viewbook.at/limitless

Wonderful project… proud to be part of it.

 

 

 

LIMITLESS – A Special Project

[image error]

I’m pleased to announce that two of my short stories are about to be published in a very special international anthology due for release on October 31.

What makes this so special is that all proceeds from the anthology, aptly named LIMITLESS, go to a foundation that’s helping people uprooted by wars in the Middle East to rebuild their lives. And the patron for the AMAR Foundation is none other than Prince Charles. 

One of the stories is called “Dragonflies & The Great Blue Heron”, a real-life love story. It’s the signature story leading off my collection, ENCOUNTERS WITH LIFE – TALES OF LIVING, LOVING AND LAUGHTER. I’m really pleased to say the book was named Best Short Story Collection of 2015 by an international readers poll.

The second story is called “Rein of Error”, a creative non-fiction memoir about the consequences of being different half a century ago. It will be making an appearance soon on my website, JamesOsborneNovels.com.The flattering part is the two stories are among only 39 from among submissions that came in from around the world.

The galley proofs came in the other day, which means that we are on track for the planned October 31 release!  It’s a huge job to edit any book, and especially a 325-page anthology containing 39 stories. Normally in the publishing world, we’d be looking at a year or more from submission deadline to publication. So, a short timeline like they have set for themselves is remarkable.

There’s more good news. Publisher McGrath House has dropped the price for the pre-order Kindle version to 99 cents (US). The price will go up on release date October 31, probably to $4 or $5 (US) (TBD). The print version price has not been announced yet. McGrath House hopes to release both formats simultaneously.

You might like to know that while reading through the galley proofs, I was blown away by the biographies of some authors. One of them has 14 novels published, another 13 books (novels, poetry and collections of short stories), and there’s a poet with seven books of poetry published. Wow, that is some auspicious company. A very nice feature, too, is that a few of the writers are having their work published in LIMITLESS for the very first time, and their work is impressive.

It’s humbling that two of my entries were chosen from among stories and poems submitted by writers from countries such as Australia, Portugal, Thailand, England, Ireland, the United States, India, Greece, The Philippines, and elsewhere. Oh yes, and Canada

All of the money raised will be administered by the AMAR Foundation, which is based in London, UK. The writers are contributing their stories free of charge, and McGrath House is donating its services.

Those wishing to pre-order can click on this link: http://viewbook.at/limitless

Wonderful project… proud to be part of it.

 

 

 

Motherhood… Full of Surprises

“Did I ever tell you a horse once tried to eat Mom’s car?” David asked.

“C’mon, my love!” Rosemary laughed. “I may not know much about ranching, but I don’t buy that. Horses eat grass, and hay and oats. I’ve even seen them nibble on fence rails, too, but not cars!”

[image error]It was spring and the young couple was celebrating their first wedding anniversary. David and Rosemary were on horeback,  stopped on a rise overlooking a herd of cows tending their newborn calves.

David didn’t know it at that moment, but within minutes he would be in for the biggest surprise of his life.

The calving season was ending, and David had taken Rosemary to a calving-out pasture. He wanted to show her how groups of cows would take turns caring for each others’ newborn calves, allowing the rest of the bovine mothers to graze or to get a drink of water at a nearby creek.[image error]

Shortly after they were married, David and Rosemary moved to a ranch his family had owned for generations. David’s parents asked them to manage the sprawling 5,600-acre ranch were he’d grown up.

[image error]The couple happily agreed.

Rosemary was a  petite 24-year-old city girl but loved the outdoors. She was apprehensive at first about leaving friends and the urban comforts she had enjoyed. But Rosemary was drawn both by her love for her 25-year-old life mate, and by her love of Nature and the outdoors. She focused immediately on becoming a full working partner with her tall, handsome husband.

Rosemary found the car-eating story farfetched, and now she wasn’t about to believe the babysitting yarn, either.

“That’s the truth, my love,” he laughed. “A horse really did nibble on Mom’s car. One winter evening when I was young, Mom drove home in a whiteout. Dad was away. Her car went off the road in the blizzard and ended up in a corral near our front yard.

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“The car got stuck and she had to leave it. Mom didn’t know that a few horses were waiting out the storm in a lean-to beside the corral. When she came out the next morning one of the horses, and maybe more, had been nibbling away at the car’s bumpers and moldings and the side mirrors. Cost us a few thousand dollars to get it fixed.”

“Come on, David!” Rosemary exclaimed. “I’m not that gullible.”

“It’s true, my beautiful bride,” David said smugly. “Turns out the horses were pregnant mares and had been nibbling at road salt on the car to get minerals their bodies were craving. Their strong teeth did the damage.”

Rosemary reluctantly accepted the truth of her husband’s unusual story.

“Hey, look over there!” David said, pointing down into the lush green valley.  “There must be 20 or 30 calves. And look, only a few cows with them.  Right?”

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Rosemary had to admit the scene David described was accurate. She smiled at the sight of the  adorable little calves, most of them lying in the fresh spring grass. Four cows accompanied them.

“Want to guess where the other cows are?” he asked, turning his horse toward her. She could see there was a twinkle in his eye.

“Want to bet they’ve gone to the creek for water?” he asked. “Their babies are being looked after by those babysitters. The cows take turns.

“Yes, really!” David insisted, seeing the disbelief in Rosemary’s beautiful hazel green eyes. “When the other mothers come back, the babysitters will take their turn to go for water, or go grazing.”

“Well now, isn’t that something,” Rosemary said, interrupting him. Her gaze was focused on the valley behind her handsome husband.

As David was speaking, her attention had been drawn to a string of cows emerging from behind a grove of trees. The cows were walking slowly single file along a path leading from a creek back to where their babies were waiting.

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As the cows drew closer, the calves scrambled to their feet. Some jumped up  and down, and pranced around like exuberant children on a playground. Others raced to the arriving cows and tried to start nursing from their mother’s milk-laden udders while they walked.

Rosemary was looking forward to becoming a mother. As she watched the cows and calves, she wondered if she could ever trust anyone to look after her babies once she became a mother.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you that animals are dumb,” David continued, blissfully unaware of Rosemary’s thoughts.

“Most animals are far more intelligent than we give them credit. They draw that wisdom from Nature. And Nature’s really got it figured. Sadly, most folks don’t get it.”

“David.” Rosemary broke into his thoughts. “Do you remember right after we were married, you took me to Livingston Valley up in the mountains?”

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“I sure do, love,” he replied with a wistful smile.

“We stretched out naked under the trees after a dip in the pond,” he chuckled. The thought stirred his desire.

“Oh yes, I sure do remember!” he added enthusiastically. “Were we watching Nature do her thing? Or was Nature watching us do our thing? We should go back soon!”

“Oh, yes, David,” Rosemary said. “I’ve been thinking what a profound experience in Nature we shared that day. Really spiritual.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the ‘spiritual’ part of the experience, exactly,” David chuckled with an adoring smile, winking at her as he reached for her hand.

“I’ve written something,” Rosemary said, gently declining his affectionate advances. “I want you to have this, to celebrate our first anniversary.”

David was proud of Rosemary’s blossoming career as a writer. He was often more enthusiastic about it than her. They’d met in grad school while Rosemary was finishing a graduate degree in fine arts. He was finishing a master’s in business administration.

Rosemary leaned over from her saddle and kissed him warmly.

[image error]

Then she handed him an envelope. He opened it and removed a sheet of paper.  It read:

My Dear Husband  

When we first began dating I was uncertain whether this city girl could have a life with a country boy like you. Then you shared with me the extraordinary insights about Nature that came to you in the wilderness while you were herding cattle. What you shared with me set my mind at ease but also challenged me. 

As you know, my grandmother is of the First Nations people. I went to see her and asked her counsel. She helped me realize that you and I have come to hold a reverence for Nature, each in our own way yet both similar to that embraced by Grandma’s people for thousands of years.

She helped me to understand how blessed we are by that knowledge. And now you and I have been blessed again by Nature.   I Love You, 

Rosemary 

PS: We’re pregnant. Happy Anniversary, Daddy!

David’s face lit up with an enormous smile. He nudged his horse around until he was beside Rosemary. He reached over, tenderly holding her close, and gave her a long passionate kiss.

[image error]

“No one has ever received such a wonderful anniversary gift, or been so honored to have such an awesome bride,” he managed to say, his voice choked with the emotions that welled up inside.

“Can I ask you something?” David asked his radiant wife as he regained his composure. “Do you want to know whether the baby is a boy or a girl?”

“No,” she replied immediately. “All I want is for our baby to be healthy. That is more than enough to wish for. Besides, I like surprises.

“Got any other surprises in mind, cowboy?” she added.

“It might not be a surprise,” he replied, “But I think I can come up with something at home.”

“You sure?” Rosemary smiled, her excitement rising as she thought about how they might be spending the next few hours.

She turned her horse and dug her heels into the flanks of her favored quarter horse, urging it into a gallop.

[image error]

I might not know much about ranching just yet, she thought, but Grandma taught me how to ride like the wind!

The shadows were getting long as they raced their horses back home. They unsaddled quickly and cooled the horses, and then made sure the animals had adequate supplies of food and water.

No one saw David and Rosemary again until very late the next morning.

*

“Motherhood… A Few Surprises” is Copyright © 2017 By James Osborne. All Rights Reserved.

 *

Image Credits: super stock.com’ beefyherfords.com; onlyinyourstate.com; riversleagroup.com; professionalplanner.com; pinterest.com; jeuxdemonstre-apkdownload.rhcloud.com; horsenation.com; DavidStockler.pinterest.com; Bonnie DeMossPhotography.com; http://www.tumbler.com

 

Motherhood… A Few Surprises

“Did I ever tell you how some of our horses tried to eat Mom’s car?” David asked.

“C’mon, my love!” Rosemary laughed. “I may not know much about ranching, but I don’t buy that. Horses eat grass, and hay and oats. I’ve even seen them nibble on fence rails, too, but not cars!”

[image error]It was spring and the young couple was celebrating their first wedding anniversary. David and Rosemary were on horeback,  stopped on a rise overlooking a herd of cows tending their newborn calves.

David didn’t know it at that moment, but within minutes he would be in for the biggest surprise of his life.

The calving season was coming to an end, and David had taken Rosemary to a calving-out pasture. He wanted to show her how groups of cows would take turns caring for each others’ newborn calves, allowing the rest of the bovine mothers to graze or to get a drink of water at a nearby creek.[image error]

Shortly after they were married, David and Rosemary moved to a ranch his family had owned for generations. David’s parents asked them to manage the sprawling 5,600-acre ranch were he’d grown up.

[image error]The couple quickly agreed.

Rosemary was a  petite 24-year-old city girl but loved the outdoors. She was apprehensive at first about leaving friends and the urban comforts she had enjoyed. But Rosemary was drawn both by her love for her 25-year-old life mate, and by her love of Nature and the outdoors. She focused immediately on becoming a full working partner with her tall, handsome husband.

Rosemary found the car-eating story farfetched, and now she wasn’t about to believe the babysitting yarn, either.

“That’s the truth, my love,” he laughed. “A couple of horses really did nibble on mom’s car. One winter evening when I was young, Mom drove home in a whiteout. Dad was away. Her car went off the road in the blizzard and ended up in a corral near our front yard.

[image error]

“The car got stuck and she had to leave it. Mom didn’t know that a few horses were waiting out the storm in a lean-to beside the corral. When she came out the next morning the horses had been nibbling away at the car’s bumpers and moldings and the side mirrors. Cost us a few thousand dollars to get it fixed.”

“Come on, David!” Rosemary exclaimed. “I’m not that gullible.”

“It’s true, my beautiful bride,” David said smugly. “Turns out the horses were pregnant mares and had been nibbling at road salt on the car to get minerals their bodies were craving. Their strong teeth did the damage.”

Rosemary reluctantly accepted the truth of her husband’s unusual story.

“Hey, look over there!” David said, pointing down into the lush green valley.  “There must be 20 or 30 calves. And look, only a few cows with them.  Right?”

[image error]

Rosemary had to admit the scene David described was accurate. She smiled at the sight of the  adorable little calves, most of them lying in the fresh spring grass. Four cows accompanied them.

“Want to guess where the other cows are?” he asked, turning his horse toward her. She could see there was a twinkle in his eye.

“Want to bet they’ve gone to the creek for water?” he asked. “Their babies are being looked after by those babysitters. The cows take turns.

“Yes, really!” David insisted, seeing the disbelief in Rosemary’s beautiful hazel green eyes. “When the other mothers come back, the babysitters will take their turn to go for water, or go grazing.”

“Well now, isn’t that something,” Rosemary said, interrupting him. Her gaze was focused on the valley behind her handsome husband.

As David was speaking, her attention had been drawn to a string of cows emerging from behind a grove of trees. The cows were walking slowly single file along a path leading from a creek back to where their babies were waiting.

[image error]

As the cows drew closer, the calves scrambled to their feet. Some jumped up  and down, and pranced around like exuberant children on a playground. Others raced to the arriving cows and tried to start nursing from their mother’s milk-laden udders while they walked.

Rosemary was looking forward to becoming a mother. As she watched the cows and calves, she wondered if she could ever trust anyone to look after her babies once she became a mother.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you that animals are dumb,” David continued, blissfully unaware of Rosemary’s thoughts.

“Most animals are far more intelligent than we give them credit. They draw that wisdom from Nature. And Nature’s really got it figured. Sadly, most folks don’t get it.”

“David.” Rosemary broke into his thoughts. “Do you remember right after we were married, you took me to Livingston Valley up in the mountains?”

[image error]

“I sure do, love,” he replied with a wistful smile.

“We stretched out naked under the trees after a dip in the pond,” he chuckled. The thought stirred his desire.

“Oh yes, I sure do remember!” he added enthusiastically. “Were we watching Nature do her thing? Or was Nature watching us do our thing? We should go back soon!”

“Oh, yes, David,” Rosemary said. “I’ve been thinking what a profound experience in Nature we shared that day. Really spiritual.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the ‘spiritual’ part of the experience, exactly,” David chuckled with an adoring smile, winking at her as he reached for her hand.

“I’ve written something,” Rosemary said, gently declining his affectionate advances. “I want you to have this, to celebrate our first anniversary.”

David was proud of Rosemary’s blossoming career as a writer. He was often more enthusiastic about it than her. They’d met in grad school while Rosemary was finishing a graduate degree in fine arts. He was finishing a master’s in business administration.

Rosemary leaned over from her saddle and kissed him warmly.

[image error]

Then she handed him an envelope. He opened it and removed a sheet of paper.  It read:

My Dear Husband  

When we first began dating I was uncertain whether this city girl could have a life with a country boy like you. Then you shared with me the extraordinary insights about Nature that came to you in the wilderness while you were herding cattle. What you shared with me set my mind at ease but also challenged me. 

As you know, my grandmother is of the First Nations people. I went to see her and asked her counsel. She helped me realize that you and I have come to hold a reverence for Nature, each in our own way yet both similar to that embraced by Grandma’s people for thousands of years.

She helped me to understand how blessed we are by that knowledge. And now you and I have been blessed again by Nature.   I Love You, 

Rosemary 

PS: We’re pregnant. Happy Anniversary, Daddy!

David’s face lit up with an enormous smile. He nudged his horse around until he was beside Rosemary. He reached over, tenderly holding her close, and gave her a long passionate kiss.

[image error]

“No one has ever received such a wonderful anniversary gift, or been so honored to have such an awesome bride,” he managed to say, his voice choked with the emotions that welled up inside.

“Can I ask you something?” David asked his radiant wife as he regained his composure. “Do you want to know whether the baby is a boy or a girl?”

“No,” she replied immediately. “All I want is for our baby to be healthy. That is more than enough to wish for. Besides, I like surprises.

“Got any other surprises in mind, cowboy?” she added.

“It might not be a surprise,” he replied, “But I think I can come up with something at home.”

“You sure?” Rosemary smiled, her excitement rising as she thought about how they might be spending the next few hours.

She turned her horse and dug her heels into the flanks of her favored quarter horse, urging it into a gallop.

[image error]

I might not know much about ranching just yet, she thought, but Grandma taught me how to ride like the wind!

The shadows were getting long as they raced their horses back home. They unsaddled quickly and cooled the horses, and then made sure the animals had adequate supplies of food and water.

No one saw David and Rosemary again until very late the next morning.

*

“Motherhood… A Few Surprises” is Copyright © 2017 By James Osborne. All Rights Reserved.

 *

Image Credits: super stock.com’ beefyherfords.com; onlyinyourstate.com; riversleagroup.com; professionalplanner.com; pinterest.com; jeuxdemonstre-apkdownload.rhcloud.com; horsenation.com; DavidStockler.pinterest.com; Bonnie DeMossPhotography.com; http://www.tumbler.com

 

Close Quarters

 

My friend Graham is an unusual fellow. He’s blessed with that rare ability to think instinctively outside the box. This talent played an unconventional role after his elderly mother became ill.

Here’s what happened.

First, you should know Graham grew up on a farm. His parents were self-reliant and staunchly independent, just like most farmers. They worked the land until their late 60s, then sold and moved into town. [image error]By the time they’d reached their mid-80s both had developed health challenges. A future of assisted living seemed imminent, causing them much alarm.

Good fortune intervened.

One day Graham learned a next-door neighbor was selling his house. It was almost identical to his 60-year-old 900-square-foot two-story, and about 10 feet away. Houses were built close together in those days on long narrow lots. Graham bought the house and moved his elderly parents into it.[image error]

The arrangement worked well for several years, until his Dad passed away. By then his Mom was in her early 90s. He was concerned about her being alone but respected her stalwart sense of independence. He felt reassured by her living right next door.

Graham, the eldest of three children, had learned early to be a take-charge kind of guy. With his two sisters married and living in other cities, Graham assumed responsibility for checking on his Mom every day, and sometimes twice. She enjoyed her son’s company but made it abundantly clear she disliked being ‘checked up on’. So while in her presence, Graham would refer to his regular checks on her as “visits”.

He joked that his mother probably was the most visited parent in the country.

Occasionally, his Mom would suffer from a cold or the flu. At those times Graham would slip home at noon from his job to check on… ah, to visit… her, despite her protests that he was being overly protective.

A confirmed bachelor, Graham was by no means celibate or reclusive. [image error]He never let his fondness for weekend parties, nor his propensity for sleepovers with attractive women, keep him from visiting his Mom on schedule or from tending to both homes and yards, summer and winter.

The prairie city where we lived was infamous for fiercely cold winters and severe snowstorms. But none of us ever heard Graham complain about shoveling snow off two sidewalks and two driveways. All this even though his Mom didn’t drive and rarely went out except to medical appointments with him as her driver. Graham even shopped for her groceries, making certain to follow scrupulously the lists she drew up for him.

Late one winter, his Mom was diagnosed with a heart ailment. The prognosis was uncertain. Her condition made her frail body even weaker. At times she was unable to make her own meals or even get up to take her medication. It was clear to Graham that he needed to look in on her even more frequently than he had previously, regardless of the bitter weather and his Mom’s independent nature.

[image error]

A solution formed in Graham’s creative mind.

It came as no surprise to those of us who knew him; after all he was a respected research scientist.

A group of us gathered one weekend to help Graham draft plans to covert his clever idea into reality. The following Monday he went to city hall and applied for a building permit. Since he owned the two almost identical properties, some 10 feet apart, he could see no reason why he couldn’t build a ground-floor link connecting the houses.[image error]

His application assured the city that construction would be done by a qualified contractor and the exterior finished to blend with both houses. He also promised to remove the link and restore the houses after his mother’s departure from this planet.

We all considered his idea a brilliant ‘no brainer’ solution. It would allow him to go back and forth in shirtsleeves, regardless of weather, with the increased frequency made necessary by his Mom’s infirm state. Graham especially liked the shirtsleeves aspect—it would create the illusion for his Mom that they were in the same home, and technically would be.

The bureaucrats at city hall reviewed his proposal with bemused surprise but little compassion. They turned him down. Appeals proved fruitless.

What to do?

Spring arrived and curiosity grew in his neighborhood as several of us helped Graham, seated aboard a rented backhoe, dig sloping trenches down to the foundations at the back of both houses. A few days later, doors appeared in the concrete foundations exposed by the removed dirt.[image error]

As the weeks rolled by, layers of dirt appeared in the extensive back yards of both houses. Neighbors must have wondered about us arriving after work every day, toiling late into the evening under lights, and on weekends, as we navigated convoys of wheelbarrows loaded with dirt out of first one basement and up the sloping trench, and then the other.

Our agreed-upon standard response to inquisitive onlookers was that Graham was enlarging the basements of the two houses in preparation for new concrete foundation work. Sure enough, one day in late summer the first in a succession of cement trucks arrived in the alley and backed into his Mom’s yard. The next day more loads of concrete were delivered to his back yard.

A few days later, trees and shrubs and sod appeared in the two back yards where earlier the soil had been dumped and spread. We listened with patience and humility, and barely concealed amusement, as neighbors voiced their approval of the landscaping and their admiration for the creativity of the walkout basements.

[image error]

We were relieved to see their curiosity was satisfied, but the tale was not yet ended.

That winter, with his feisty Mom still recovering, Graham was able to visit her multiple times a day at leisure, in his shirtsleeves no less, bringing her meals and his stimulating company, regardless of what Mother Nature was doing with the environment outside.

He admitted later the concrete floor did slope slightly downward as he left his basement and the floor sloped slightly upward as he arrived at the door to his Mom’s basement, and while en route he did have to duck slightly. But otherwise, the concrete-reinforced tunnel between the two houses was warm, dry and brightly lit.

[image error]

City hall was never the wiser, other than having issued two building permits for basement renovations.

 

#

Postscript

Graham’s mother was in her late 90s when she passed away peacefully in her sleep. A few weeks later, both doors to the tunnel were sealed with concrete, ending its once strategic connection.

Soon after, Graham sold the house to a nice young family. He never told them the story, although they marveled at how a home that age had come equipped with a walkout basement, one lined with what appeared to be relatively fresh new concrete.

At last report, the tunnel remains buried underground, with at least a foot of soil on top. Few people know of its existence. But it’s there, its secret hidden, for now.

#

Note: “Close Quarters” was inspired by a true story.  However, some details are best not taken literally.

#

“Close Quarters” is Copyright 2017 By James Osborne. All Rights Reserved

 

We Were Made for These Times*

Below is an excerpt from an essay by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés, a therapist and writer, offering steadying thoughts amidst our turbulent global environment; they are especially appropriate for Easter weekend.

By Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés

My friends do not lose heart. We were made for these times. I have heard from so many recently who are deeply and properly bewildered. They are concerned about the state of affairs in our world now. Ours is a time of almost daily astonishment and often-righteous rage over the latest degradations of what matters most to civilized, visionary people.

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You are right in your assessments. The luster and hubris some have aspired to – while endorsing acts so heinous against children, elders, everyday people, the poor, the unguarded, the helpless – is breathtaking. Yet, I urge you, ask you, gentle you, to please not spend your spirit dry by bewailing these difficult times. Especially do not lose hope. Most particularly because, the fact is that we were made for these times. Yes. For years, we have been learning, practicing, been in training for and just waiting to meet on this exact plain of engagement.

I grew up on the Great Lakes and recognize a seaworthy vessel when I see one. Regarding awakened souls, there have never been more able vessels in the waters than there are right now across the world. And they are fully provisioned and able to signal one another as never before in the history of humankind.

Look out over the prow; there are millions of boats of righteous souls on the waters with you. Even though your veneers may shiver from every wave in this stormy roil, I assure you that the long timbers composing your prow and rudder come from a greater forest.

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That long-grained lumber is known to withstand storms, to hold together, to hold its own, and to advance, regardless.

In any dark time, there is a tendency to veer toward fainting over how much is wrong or unmended in the world. Do not focus on that. There is a tendency, too, to fall into being weakened by dwelling on what is outside your reach, by what cannot yet be. Do not focus there. That is spending the wind without raising the sails.

We are needed, that is all we can know. And though we meet resistance, we more so will meet great souls who will hail us, love us and guide us, and we will know them when they appear. Didn’t you say you were a believer? Didn’t you say you pledged to listen to a voice greater? Didn’t you ask for grace? Don’t you remember that to be in grace means to submit to the voice greater?

Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world all at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach. [image error]Any small, calm thing that one soul can do to help another soul, to assist some portion of this poor suffering world, will help immensely. It is not given to us to know which acts or by whom, will cause the critical mass to tip toward an enduring good.

What is needed for dramatic change is an accumulation of acts, adding, adding to, adding more, continuing. We know that it does not take everyone on Earth to bring justice and peace, but only a small, determined group who will not give up during the first, second, or hundredth gale.

One of the most calming and powerful actions you can do to intervene in a stormy world is to stand up and show your soul. Soul on deck shines like gold in dark times. The light of the soul throws sparks, can send up flares, builds signal fires, causes proper matters to catch fire. [image error]To display the lantern of soul in shadowy times like these – to be fierce and to show mercy toward others; both are acts of immense bravery and greatest necessity.

Struggling souls catch light from other souls who are fully lit and willing to show it. If you would help to calm the tumult, this is one of the strongest things you can do.

There will always be times when you feel discouraged. I too have felt despair many times in my life, but I do not keep a chair for it. I will not entertain it. It is not allowed to eat from my plate.

*

* About the Author: Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés is an American poet, psychoanalyst, post-trauma recovery specialist, author and spoken word artist. Estés grew up in the now vanished oral tradition of her immigrant, refugee families who could not read nor write, or did so haltingly, and for whom English was their third language overlying their ancient natal languages

Giveaway Time!

As the carnies say, “Come and Get It!!!”

This is  your opportunity to get a personalized signed copy of my novel The Ultimate Threat, absolutely free.

Why? Lots of good reasons:

First, today is the opening day of a draw to giveaway free copies. (See below)

Second, people who know about these things tell me I should be offering book giveaways on a regular basis to promote my books. Sounds like good advice, but I must confess I’ve been lax. (Psst: Been busy writing!)

Third, the first giveaway attracted almost 1,300 entries, so that’s a big incentive for another giveaway.

Fourth, The Ultimate Threat became a #1 bestseller in Amazon’s thriller category.

And fifth, it will scare the pants off you… if you’re so inclined![image error]

The draw is being handled by Goodreads, a website that helps readers find books to match their interests. They also offer reviews of books by other readers. BTW: reviewers have kindly given The Ultimate Threat an amazing score of 4.03 out of 5, and some really nice reviews. I’m pumped about that!

Anyway, here’s the pitch:

Almost five years of research went into the preparation of this novel, learning about the religious extremists ISIS and about Islam, the religion they pretend to represent but don’t. That research  formed the basis for the plot. Simply put: it’s about the very real possibility of ISIS spreading its savagery across North America in a big way .

We have seen that as ISIS strongholds are being wiped out in the Middle East there has been an increase in attacks by those savages and by copy-cat nutcases in Europe, Africa and America. When written, The Ultimate Threat was not expected to be quite so prophetic as it’s turning out to be. I would have preferred to be wrong, frankly.

(As an aside, my smart and intuitive wife is convinced that my being “randomly selected” three times in a row by airport security for “routine” secondary screening is not a coincidence… that it’s connected to all the online research I conducted into ISIS, al Qaeda, and other religious radicals. She’s right, you know. I’m also convinced this mindless bureaucractic stupidity at airports makes our security vulnerable: chasing ‘shadows’ my age gives the appearance of doing something without having to actually do anything.)

For those unfamiliar with The Ultimate Threat, the novel, will appeal to readers drawn to action-packed novels with lots of blood and gore. Think Stephen King, Nelson DeMille and Clive Cussler.

So here’s a caution for those of a more gentle persuasion: perhaps it would be better to wait. [image error]In a couple of months, I’ll be offering a giveaway for my novel, The Maidstone Conspiracy, which combines an engaging murder mystery with a gentle love story. Think Jeffery Deaver  and Agatha Christie.

A few months after that, I’ll be offering a third giveaway… my collection of short stories: Encounters With Life: Tales of Living, Loving and Laughter. I’m delighted to tell you that an international readers’ poll chose Encounters as the best short story collection of 2015 in it’s open class. Yeah, that was pretty nice!

[image error]So, come on… enter the draw now to win a personalized copy of The Ultimate Threat. Winners will be announced by Goodreads on April 22.  They will send me the addresses of the winners — maybe yours! — and I’ll sign and mail copies within a few days. Here’s a link to that draw: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh...

Oh, almost forgot: The Ultimate Threat also received a major award from that international readers’ poll conducted by Preditors & Editors, an independent website that supports readers and writers. The novel placed third i[image error]n a field of hundreds of other thrillers. I’m kinda pumped about that too! When a writer’s books get this kind of recognition it makes all of the sweat and tears worthwhile.

You can check out The Ultimate Threat on Amazon here: : http://a.co/i6irPtX  and on Facebook here: https://www.facebook.com/TheUltimateT....

(One of these days I’m going to figure out how to condense those damned links!).

One last thing: A recently-released study by Yale University says those who read[image error] books tend to live longer. Well, now, I just happen to know of a few good books I could recommend to help you extend your life span…

Your Welcome!

Hope you have a really great day!