Ernest Gordon Taulbee's Blog: A possible blog, page 2

Books in the Mail

Hello,

If you won a copy of _A Sibling in Always_ it is in the mail. They went out yesterday. There were over 600 entrants. I know it is nothing more than clicking on a link to get a chance to win something free, still . . .

If you do read it and feel if warrants a review, I would be honored to have it. Reviews really are the best tool independent authors have to prove the merit of their works.

Thanks again.

egt

CreateSpace Store

I have three titles available in the Createspace store (link below) and all of those titles have been marked down to the minimum price Createspace allows. The three titles are _A Sibling in Always_, _Until Hell Wouldn't Have You_, and _Three Stories Rejected_.

I'm not marking these prices down for a money grab. In truth, I am doing it to try to get some sales to fund a marketing campaign. Any money made is not going into my pocket, it's going back out the door.

As you may know, I don't have a publishing company helping me. I'm doing this on my own.

If you have read my work on an e-reader and would like a copy of that work in the form of an actual book, now is the time to do that.

If you one who has read my work and feel it has merit, I would sincerely appreciate you sharing with your friends and fellow readers your thoughts and my work and encourage them to read as well.

The link to the Createspace is below:

my link text

I'll probably leave this pricing like this for a few days. The prices will not reflect on Amazon and are only available in the Createspace store.

Thanks a million and take care.

Sincerely,

egt

Titles Available

To celebrate the holiday and the recent publication of my poem "Vacant Houses," I have reduced the price of the titles I have available for purchase on Amazon.

Follow this link:

https://www.amazon.com/Ernest-Gordon-...

Or paste into your browser.

Samples for _Until Hell Wouldn't Have You_ and _A Sibling in Always_ are available for download on Goodreads.

If you've read my work and felt it had merit and is worth reading, please encourage others to do so well. I appreciate that sort of thing more than I can ever express.

Thanks,

-egt

Recent Publications

I have some new publications. If you are curious about my work and want a free preview, here are some examples.

Issue 4 of Nixes Mate Review contains my poem "Vacant Houses."

Issue 10 of Sediments Literary-Arts Journal features my "The Address Numbers."

Enjoy.

Current Titles & Publications

Hello,

The giveaway for _Until Hell Wouldn't Have You_ has concluded. All of those books have been shipped. The giveaway for _A Sibling in Always_ will be ending in a few days. I will have those mailed by the end of the week.

Thanks to those who have entered. Special thanks to those who reviewed the books.

In gratitude, the Kindle Editions of _A Sibling in Always_ and _Until Hell Wouldn't Have You_ are on sale for $0.99. If you have thought about buying, that is as low as the price is allowed to go.

If you would like to sample my work, it can be found on-line. My story "[Dry County]" is available on _Fried Chicken and Coffee_. Another story "The Address Numbers" is available in Issue 10 of _Sediments Literary-Arts Journal_. I have a poem, "Sulfur Water," published in _Live Nude Poems_. My poem "Vacant Houses" will appear in the next issue of _Nixes Mater Review_, which will be out in July.

I'm going to try to do better about the Goodreads thing. Seems like an excellent platform.

Let's keep it civil.

Sincerely,

-egt

EBook Samples

There are currently giveaways running for both _A Sibling in Always_ and _Until Hell Wouldn't Have You_. I have added samples of both works that can be downloaded.

Part Two Section One & Two

1

Dear Mr. Paul,
It has been approximately one year since you and I made our agreement, and it has been nearly that long since you and I spoke. I have made several phone calls to you in this time. Your assistant has advised me this is not a matter for the phone, and I will respect that request, but I cannot continue to allow this matter to gnaw at me, Mr. Paul. It is of vital importance you and I speak in some manner: by telephone, return correspondence to this letter, a face to face meeting during your next visit to your home here in Always. Of course, you know the matter to which I am referring, and I will not hesitate to write it here: your child, Aquila Rose.
I have kept my end of the bargain. My first scheduled visit to check on your child after your departure was on a Thursday, and I have visited the child every other Thursday since the first visit. So far, there have been 26 visits total. I have, as your requested, written summaries of my appointments with Aquila Rose in the student’s notebook on the desk placed in the hallway just outside Aquila Rose’s bedroom door. Each of those entries has been dated as we agreed. I spoke to the housekeeper and the nanny you have hired. I asked them if you are in fact calling to have those summaries read to you. They informed me that your wife calls roughly once per month to inquire about the child, and they read my notes to her. This was not the agreement, Mr. Paul. The deal we made was you – the child’s father – would be active in this child’s development.
I receive your checks religiously and, as you stated I should, I deposit them into my bank account upon receipt. I am inclined to return that money to you, sir. How would you feel about that? Would that prompt a response from you? You can trust I will return the next check to you as soon as it is received unless the matter is addressed!
You do not know me, sir; you do not know me at all. I am nothing if I am not a man of integrity! Our introduction and the events leading to our agreement were riddled with haste, so let me tell you something about who I am. I do not apologize for any redundancies to what you already know of me.
My name is Elmer Ellsworth: an old name in this country and a name I share with men of notoriety in American History. If you turn through the pages of Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography you will see the name mentioned and the name’s high character commented upon. In the next century, a brave man with this name would march deliberately towards a house in Virginia to remove a Confederate flag from its exterior. Moments later, this Elmer Ellsworth would be the first confirmed casualty of the Civil War. As you can see, the name binds me to a life of ethics and principles. This name was given to me in an early summer of this century’s infancy, when I was born in this town, the town that has been the setting for my entire life: Always, Indiana. The town you seemingly injected with new life, only to abandon as she was reborn!
Have you abandoned this child? Have you left this child without a father and a mother? What of the sister? Will she not know of her sibling?
In my youth, Always had been a small town, and it remains a small town to this day. It is located across the Ohio River from Louisville, KY, the largest local city and the city where I attended both college and medical school. Upon completion of my degrees, I began to practice in my father’s office, taking it over from him ten years later after an abrupt stroke left him incapacitated. Death came for him six months later. My father’s practice had been open to all patients – he being the only local doctor during the bulk of his career – but, as I progressed on my own, the availability of local physicians increased, and I shifted my practice to focus on children.
For more than thirty years, I have been the only practicing pediatrician in Always, and, in that time, I have overseen the health of nearly all of the youths in this town. I took my specialization, because, as I saw it, the needs of the children in this community were not being met. Early in my career my father had charged me with the care of children when they were brought to the office. Not that he thought the children should be treated by me, due to my inexperience.
In other words, he did not put the children in front of me to wipe noses or to place bandages on boo-boos. Quite to the contrary: Always had an uncommon rate of childhood mortality, and it was his hope I, being fresh out of medical school and versed in the newest tests and treatments, would be more apt at diagnosing the young. It was my father’s hope we could reduce the death rate in the children of Always. It has been my life’s passion and the singular vision of my career. I have no children of my own, my wife and I trying but never succeeding, and it is the care and attention to health that has let me place my parental mark on Always. My work being successful, a child born in this town is all but guaranteed a chance at a long, healthy life.
That is entirely what I intend to do here, Mr. Paul. I am determined your child will live a long and healthy life. Not only that, but I am dedicated to finding a quality of life I can call human for this child, but I must know that you are a worthy partner in this endeavor, sir. I have kept our bargain. I have not contacted the local child services regarding your child. The child is fed. The child is clean. The child’s needs are being met, sir, but you know as well as I do that this situation is one that could easily come under harsh scrutiny. Do you doubt for one second that there would be a bit of a, shall we say, uproar if a social worker were to visit that handsome home of yours on Ingersoll Street? This is not my desire, sir. I do not want any attention for that child. I want this matter to stay as private as you do, but my patience with your silence has ended. I expect your return contact upon receipt of this letter. Again, you may call, write, or pay me a visit in my office, but I expect your return communication within two weeks.
Sincerely,
Dr. Elmer Ellsworth

 
2

Dear Mr. Paul,
I hope this letter finds you and your family well. My wife and I are in good spirits. I am approaching my retirement, you see. Many doctors do not retire, Mr. Paul, they just die. Their bodies are found slumped over their desks in their offices, a stethoscope still around their necks. There is something about the career, the profession, which draws those who are dedicated to working. There are long hours, and one does feel compelled to see to the needs of the community he serves. When my father began his practice, he was the lone “country doctor.” I took his place when he left this world. I suppose you could say I have been a country doctor myself, and I am very happy with that thought. Times have changed though, much like Always has changed. Your entrepreneurship is a large contributing factor to that. Much of the growth, I am told, is still due in large part to your business transactions in our small town. To that, I compliment you.
I do not see the idea of the country doctor persisting. The field of medicine is growing and progressing at an untold speed. The people of Always are changing as well. When I was a child, a trip to Louisville was an undertaking. Transportation not being then what it is now. But into my adulthood, the roads improved and so did the automobiles. Still, people retained a sense of suspicion towards Louisville. The citizens of New York or Chicago would probably not understand, seeing a city the size of Louisville as quite small. I am not completely sure of your origins, Mr. Paul, so maybe you do not understand, but, for many small town people, any and all cities have an aura of intimidation of them. Country people regard them with suspicion as well.
Being the son of a physician and attending college in Louisville, it does not, nor has it ever bothered me. I share that with the new crop of adults in Always. These children I doctored are now becoming the leaders and citizens of this community, and most of them would not give any hesitation to a jaunt to Louisville. Nor would they hesitate to board a plane for Chicago or New York. Also, many travel into the city daily for their jobs. As troublesome as that was in 1973, it is not the case now.
With the change in times have come a rash of new doctors, and your average citizen has choices when it comes to their physician. I do not know if this is good or bad, but I do know I have fewer children walking into my office. Also, I know I can retire without a sense of guilt that I am abandoning my community. I think my career would make my departed father proud. I think I have lived up to the family name and placed my trophy of achievement on the mantel. I plan to move on to this phase of my life next year. My wife and I plan on enjoying the rest of our lives in leisure, prayer, and celebration of the life we have made together.
I have taken a new, young doctor into my practice. He too is from Always. He has a sharp intellect and is also trained specifically in Pediatrics. As I think I have stated to you, my focus on children was out of local necessity rather than academic focus.
I plan to sell my practice completely to him. We have agreed to a selling price, and he is in the process of acquiring the money that is necessary. As soon as this transaction is finished, I plan to remain on his staff for one year to assist with the transition. After that, my remaining years are to be dedicated to my loving and patient wife.
This brings me to our agreement, Mr. Paul.
First, let me start by saying I am much more pleased with our agreement than I was at this time last year. It was nearly a year ago that I wrote you in anger, and since that time I have appreciated your phone calls. I know the phone will ring once a month on the day and at the time we agreed upon. I appreciate your studious attention to this matter.
With that in mind, I would like to tell you for the time being at least, I intend to continue with our arrangement. I must be honest, the additional money will be a great assistance, and I doubt I would be retiring at this time without it. My home is paid for and my car is new. My wife and I would like to travel a bit though, which is something we have rarely done in our time together. I have saved all the money you have sent me, and she and I have agreed to take a vacation immediately following my last day of work. Your payments will fund this.
I will be arranging my trip around my visits to your Aquila Rose. I do assure you of that. My trips to see the child have been as faithful as ever. It is so interesting, Mr. Paul. I do wish I could get you to accompany me to these visits. Perhaps you could in the future?
With this said, I do want to pass on some news on Aquila Rose’s development. Along with the other issues the youth is facing, it does appear that the baby is also suffering from deafness. The child is now turning two, and I have been using sound stimulus to test the baby’s hearing. At this point it is safe to say that the complete lack of reaction to sometimes very loud, striking noise is proof enough hearing is another developmental issue. On my last visit, I confirmed Aquila Rose was sleeping, I banged two frying pans together repeatedly. The child did not stir.
I know this is sad news, Mr. Paul. I had hoped the child would be able to hear to assist with forming some type of communication skill, but that does not seem to be the case. This is especially unfortunate since we know that vision is not an option, since an eye exam is not possible. As we discussed in our last few phone calls, I would love to bring a specialist to address the hearing issues. It may be possible to fit the child with a hearing aid, which would allow us to talk to the child and allow for an understanding of language. Should you reconsider, I can assure you, I would bring in only the most discreet of professionals to inspect the child’s ears.
I have followed your wishes, and, other than the help you have hired in your home, I believe myself to be the only person who visits your child. I look forward to our next phone call, and I want to reiterate my continued dedication to our agreement.
Sincerely,
Dr. Elmer Ellsworth

 

Ad and Samples

I am running the ad on good reads. I am going to attempt to post samples from the book. If you arrived at this page from the ad, this may help you decide whether you want to purchase.

I will have to do this in separate posts, due to space limitations.

Please keep in mind all these samples are copyright protected and I am the copyright holder. They may not be reproduced or distributed in any way.

Part One Section One

Okay
old man alone
grows by two, his sad life.
They called him good, until it came –
a coarse sadness that would not let him go.
So it grew stronger and it kept him breathing hate,
then it began to subside – ninety years.
His name now dim: drunk and crazy.
The doctor no one knows
gave all his life
to you.

The first step is to wash the body. The clothing is removed and any jewelry is placed in a manila envelope, noting a full inventory and the body part on which it was worn is recorded. If the deceased has eyeglasses anywhere on his or her person, they will be kept. At the family’s request, they may be placed on the face of the deceased during the viewing and funeral. Thick lenses, which would cause a magnifying effect on the closed eyelids, are removed and replaced with pieces of cut Plexiglas. Any debris left behind from the less than humble process of dying is washed away with soaking wet rags. These towels are discarded. A strong disinfectant spray, that would reel the living into a coughing fit, is sprayed all over the body, and it is then wiped down thoroughly, making sure not one square centimeter of the body is missed. The body begins to decay immediately and the disinfectant kills all the microbes colonizing on the skin and orifices of the deceased. Next, the body is massaged, if still in the grip of rigor mortis. The joints and muscles stiffen soon after death, and they must be moved and kneaded to make the dead flesh supple. This allows the body to be positioned and manipulated. Then the face is shaved; men and women alike. Children, too. Everyone has traces of hair on their faces, and, if not removed, the makeup can clump and become unsightly during the viewing and funeral.
These first steps are to prepare the body for embalming, and, some professionals in the field assert they are as important as the funeral process itself. I complete these steps textbook and methodic each time a body is placed before me, breathing meditatively the whole time. I have to learn the dead, so I will know how to proceed with making them look alive again, reminding myself the entire time this used to be a human being. I permit myself to be sentimental, “Pretend you are the one who truly loved this person.”
Now I am about my work.
Sometimes I delay – I sit back and think of how many ways there are to die in a small town. I see new ones all the time. Bodies come in the door mangled and dismembered in new and unusual ways. Many people do die while having a great time. Those can hard ones. I don’t know if it is the boredom or mundane nature of small town life. If life in a small town is mundane and boring, that is. I don’t know it to be. I have lived my life in a small town not too far from a medium sized city. Many people do. There is life between the coasts, some of it very exciting. Not mine: I sit on my stool in front of a table. On that table lies a dead body. This is my work.
But it’s time to get on with it.
Believe me: procrastination is not a quality you want if you work in the funeral industry.
I have to start though, so I do as I always do, with the image of my mother. I see her sitting on the ground beside the Ohio River. Her head turned back to gaze at me. Pillars of gray breath steaming from her mouth in the cold morning air, and I wait for her to speak, just to say my name and acknowledge I am there. I hear her, “Horace?”
The image comes from a real event: the first time I found her there after I became an adult. I was eighteen years old, and my uncle Seth told me he had received a phone call from the institution where she was committed. She had wandered off again. He told me where to go, there was no doubt where she would be. She was to be my responsibility.
I found her there, kneeling by the tree growing on the bank. Its roots washed naked by the river, turned backward, desperately clinging to dry land. She had been there for hours I imagine, but I was yet to fully understand why this place was where she would go whenever the orderly or nurse looked away for too long.
And once I leave there, I come back to this moment and to my work.
“Horace?”
“Yes, Seth?” I say, not bothering to look at him. He is standing in the doorway. For a funeral director he is peculiar about dealing with bodies. He doesn’t like them when they are fresh: the blood and fluids still oozing from the orifices pooling into little puddles and the gases still exiting in little squeaks and sighs. No, he prefers them after they have been embalmed and quieted. The one before me arrived late last night -- the coroner’s assistants wheeling in the gurney.
“How does this one look?” he asks.
“Not good,” I answer.
“Elaborate.”
“Most of the face has been chewed away. He’s old too. One of the oldest I have ever seen. The skin is hanging from the bone. The neighbors complained about the smell. He’s good and ripe.”
“Give him the full treatment,” he says.
“Really?” I ask. “He has an estate to pay for it?”
“No, Horace, he has a benefactor. I just got the call. He is going to get the full touch. Do you know who he is?”
“I remember him,” I answer. I have the memory of him. I remember walking down the street with my hand being held by my mother. We crossed the street as he approached. I can remember him screaming into the air, waving his fists wildly at no one. Shouting accusations at names I had never heard.
“I know what you are remembering, but he wasn’t always like that. He was respected when I was young. A doctor. A good one. I thought he died years ago.”
“I just remember him wandering the streets and screaming and yelling. A crazy man,” I say.
“And you’re right, he was that. But that happened when he got old. He was my doctor when I was a child. Your mother’s and father’s too.”
I am always shocked when I hear Seth refer to my father.
“My father’s?”
“Yes, all of us. He was the only doctor in Always who saw children. I remember him well.”
“Do you want to see him now?” I ask, wanting him to leave.
“Maybe.”
“Really,” I say, “that’s not like you.”
I hear his feet step into the room. I still haven’t bothered to turn around and look at him. I had thrown the sheet back over the body when I first heard my uncle’s voice, knowing his weakness when it comes to the fresh corpses. “It’s really not good. He’s been dead for a while --long enough for rigor mortis to pass and decomposition to really settle in. Can’t you smell it?”
“I can,” he says, “I can, but I think I want to see this one. Like I said, he has a benefactor, and I am rather curious as to why he does. I have to call this man back, and I want some sort of idea how bad it is, so I can say how much I am going to charge.”
“Then take a look,” I say, as I pull back the sheet. Thin as it was, it was holding back some of the smell that wafts in the wind the sheet produces. I hear the retch in Seth’s throat. He begins to cough. I know he is seeing the full mess of cobweb flesh nibbled to scraps.
I turn to look at him. He is standing still, eyes locked on the body. “You’ll be able to fix that, you think? I doubt there are any pictures of him, but I can ask when I call. Like I said, I thought he died years ago. It’s been a decade at least since I saw him last or heard anything about him.”
“I haven’t seen him prowling the streets lately either, but I don’t get out much.”
“You’ll be able to fix this?” he repeats.
“Yeah, there is enough of the face left to get an idea how what is missing should look.”
“Good, good,” he says, “Cover him back up.”
“No, I am going to go ahead and get started. You may want to leave,” I answer.
“You’re going to need to cover him up,” he reiterates. “The new man is upstairs. He is starting today. I want you to meet him.”
“I met him at the interview,” I respond.
“I know that. What was his name?”
“I don’t remember,” I answer, though I remember it clearly.
“Come on,” he says. “We need to get him started.”
I throw the sheet back over the corpse. My uncle has already exited the room and managed the stairs to the ground floor. I wait till I know he is upstairs before I follow. The funeral home we work out of was built with intention, but it was built in a different age. By that, I mean though it was constructed as a funeral parlor, it has nothing in common with the funeral homes being built now. It is ancient and somewhat Victorian. Air conditioning and central heating unnaturally thrust into its bones. Sound carries. We are only set up for one funeral at a time.
He’ll be talking about the flowers. I am sure. That is his standard lecture to all the new people. As you may imagine, it can be difficult to keep good help at a funeral home. If you are the one embalming and preparing the bodies or the one directing the funeral, chances are you are going to stay. You see death every day and you see mourning every day. You have a skilled position within the establishment, but when you bring in an employee for general help it is a different story. They are not accustomed to the sound of constant crying. I would say wailing, but there is not much of that at your average funeral these days. People aim for dignity in silence.
For the new people just looking for something to pay the bills, it is a different thing completely -- the constant stream of people always at their lowest moods. The quiet and calm of the place can be unsettling as well. Also, the bodies. Seeing them. Smelling them. Knowing they are in the place is too much for some people. For others it is the mourners. The crying faces and the soft moans of grief. It gets to some people. We’ve basically given up on keeping anyone on staff to work upstairs, so we hire people to work the grounds and other less glamorous work.
I can hear Seth’s voice echoing through the hallway, so I go to join my uncle and the new employee. I slowly ascend the steps, wondering how long this one will last.
I approach him with my hand out and he takes it saying, “Mason Beel. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Yes, it is. And it’s Horace Carver. I understand if you don’t remember,” I say.
“No, I remember,” he says. “You’re the Carver in Parsons and Carver Funeral Home.”
“Sort of,” I say, as my uncle interrupts me.
“Again, Mason, welcome to Parsons and Carver Funeral Home. We’re glad to have you onboard. Horace is going to be doing most of the training with you, since he’s done all the work you will be doing at some point in his time here, but I wanted to give you and introduction to the place,” Seth says and motions for us to follow him.
He speaks as he is walking, “Horace’s mother is my sister, and his father and I opened this funeral home about two years before Horace was born. We have been in business well over thirty years. Horace began learning the trade as a child, but there will be more time for that sort of information later. Like I said, my nephew will help you acclimate to this place. Also, you need to understand your duties. As I explained, you will have many.”
“Right. We talked about it on the phone and in the interview,” Mason offers.
“Good. You remember. I, also, hope you remember I said it would be labor intense. You said you were up for the job though, so we’ll see what you are made of.”
He opens the door and holds it for us, “Outside. Let’s go.”
We follow, squinting against the sunlight.
“Oh, and you are to call me Mr. Parsons. You may call my nephew Horace if he so chooses, but you need to call me Mr. Parsons.”
“Okay, I understand,” Mason answers.
“Don’t take that the wrong way,” Seth continues. “We just have a lot of people in and out of here. People who have lost their loved ones. You won’t interact with them much at all, but, if they hear you talking, it needs to be formal. No joking around. You may see people standing outside smoking cigarettes and slapping each other on the backs and having a good laugh, but you are not to join them. Horace and I will deal with the customers, which we would never call them to their faces. You only speak to them if they speak to you, and then only to answer their questions as succinctly as possible.”
“Sure, they’re sad. Only speak when spoken to,” Mason states. “Got it.”
Every new employee gets the same sermon. Mason would be tending the flowers, my uncle starts. It is explained to him, as his duties are being described by my uncle, that he was to perform this first thing in the morning after the sun rises, but before it’s shedding its full heat.
We walk around the building and Seth points to each and every type of flower that decorating the building. There is a flower box nestled under every window and the vast parking lot is dotted and decorated with many islands – all filled with blooming flowers. At the end of the building, there are two spigots and a couple of long water hoses wound up and hanging from long flat hooks.
“If one is going to die, Mason, it is best that they do it during this time of year: the spring. Summer is okay as well and early fall, but once the leaves turn the place becomes different. It loses its vibrant appearance. And, in all honesty, to hell with anyone who dies during the winter.”
Mason and I both have a little laugh at this, “Oh, I’m not joking, gentlemen,” Seth snaps. “Remember, keep it serious.”
He continues:
“It’s very important you get this done early. I don’t want this being done while a funeral is in service. I want these flowers soaked. Drench them. The petals need to be wet before the light really gets to them, and the soil has to be saturated with water. This isn’t just decoration. This isn’t my hobby, and I have no interest in them. I am not a botanist or a gardener. I am a funeral director.”
Mason nods his head, indicating he understands. Seth has already shown him where the hoses, watering cans, and sprinklers are located.
“Take this sprinkler, hook it to the hose, and point it at one of the flower beds in the parking lot. While you have that going, take the can and hit the beds underneath the windows and the flower boxes. Then, move the sprinkler and start watering the beds by the house. You have to really pay attention to the ones at the entrance. I want them to be pretty. Gorgeous. People meander by the doorway, so it needs to be especially nice.”
There is a long, thick brick fence lining the parking lot and separating it from the street. From the top of it, flowers are sprouting in one long bed, continuous and about a foot in width.
“This one I would do last, but don’t skimp on it,” Seth says. “It takes forever. You just don’t want to mist this one but get it really good with the hose. These get the most sun and the soil in the bed dries out quickly, so do those dead last that way they are good and soaked right before it starts to get hot. After you’re done watering, you need to do a walk-through. This is when you will check your work. Make sure you didn’t miss any of the flowers. Also, when you are doing this, you need to look for weeds. I have a barrier down for them, but some may work their way through. You need to get them and get them quick, so they don’t take over. Weeds are decay, and we pretend that decay doesn’t happen here. Got it?”
“Yes, I understand, Mr. Parsons,” Mason says. I’m standing quietly by my uncle, watching Mason. I am trying to see if he is getting nervous listening to my uncle. He doesn’t seem to be, but maybe he is just hiding it. Most of the men that have worked for us are shaking by this part of Seth’s lecture.
“Also, look the parking lot over really well. Let me know if you see anything out of place. If someone leaves a beer bottle tonight, it needs to be gone tomorrow morning. I had the asphalt resurfaced last year, but if you start to see any cracks let me know. You need to look for weeds in the blacktop too. Make sure the lines in the parking spots are bright white. There is paint, tape, and rollers if they start to fade. My nephew will show you where. We get a lot of old people here, and they will complain if they are the least bit faded.”
“Make it look perfect,” Mason says. “Be your eyes out here.”
“Exactly. It has to look perfect. No one comes here happy. This is where they come to send off their dead, so the place has to look alive. It can’t be festive, but it has to have a certain appearance about it. People have to feel comforted by looking at it, just pulling into the parking lot. There can be no distractions and no frustrations, just tranquility. They have to see beautiful flowers and clean lines. They have to think about how flowers bloom and then how the petals die, but it is all reborn. It makes them feel better. That is what this business is about. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely,” Mason answers. “It’s about aesthetics, I got it.”
Seth pauses for a moment, looking at Mason.
“You can make it about philosophy if you want, but it is not. People are simple. This is basic psychology. When people are mourning, they want it to be over, so they will look for anything to make them feel better. Psychology. You tell them what to think, and they think it. They will look at the pretty flowers and think about how they will die and come back again. Now, again, does that make sense?”
“It does,” Mason says.
“Do you have any questions so far, Mason?” I ask.
“The apartment?”
“We’ll get to that,” Seth says. “I think I was pretty upfront when I interviewed you. I’ve had problems keeping this position filled. It is a bit of a, shall we say, diversified job. But this is what it hinges on. If you can do this, that’s a big part of it, and I can forgive other shortcomings. If I see dead flowers and weeds, I can’t deal with that, and I’ll be placing another ad in the paper.”
“No, I understand. Every morning. Make sure the flowers are impeccable.”
“Well said, well said, Mason,” Seth says and taps him on the shoulder. “That is it. There is no grass here, just flowers and asphalt. This is the face of my business, and it must be maintained meticulously. If you can do it, fine, but, if not, there is the street.”
“I think he gets it,” I chime in.
“I do, Mr. Parsons, I understand.”
“That’s right, Mason, it’s Mr. Parsons. Always Mr. Parsons. I never want you to call me by my first name like my nephew does.”
“He even tried to get me to call him Mr. Parsons. Not happening.”
“There will be a family arriving soon to make some arrangements, so I want you both out of sight. Horace, you see, does not like to get involved with the business aspect of what we do. He prefers his embalming chamber. I’m the licensed funeral director; he is the licensed embalmer. He does join us among the living from time to time, but he’s not always presentable, and, as we’ve discussed, appearances are more important here. That is what we do here.”
Seth pauses and clears his throat, looking around the parking lot and stopping to look at the funeral home, “I’ve spent my adulthood building this place’s reputation, and I won’t have it compromised. I am glad you understand about the flowers. You will have other responsibilities, and this is not even close to being the most physically demanding.”
“What would that one be? The most physically demanding one?” Mason asks.
“It’s the graves, Mason. Hand tools only. You can use shovels, picks, post hole diggers. It doesn’t matter. But, in compliance with local ordinance here in Always, all graves must be dug by hand.”

Inaugural

I've tried several times to start blogs. My efforts to write and maintain a blog go all the way back to dial-up. Part of the problem was I just could not find a host/platform I liked. I was really happy to see Goodreads add this option.

The reason I am starting this one is to assist in promoting my writing. That is it. I have been writing my whole life, and my writing is about creating fiction.

The main book I am trying to promote right now is titled A SIBLING IN ALWAYS. I started on that book in 2010 and finished it in 2015. In truth, I wrote a short story that would be the basis of the novel in 2008.

I am convinced, if I could just get people to turn its pages, they would like it. I am further convinced they would like it in a way that stays with them. I have books I read as a teenager that are still with me nearly 20 years later. All pretension aside, I think A SIBLING IN ALWAYS does have that sort of potential.

Indy writing is a lonely affair, so -- if there is a secondary goal with this blog -- it is to connect with an audience.

I have started an add on Goodreads to try to get it out there. I have also ran ads on Amazon, but have not found them to be very effective. Other forms of indy marketing aren't very effective either as they are geared towards genre work.

We'll see.
A Sibling in Always