Jude Stringfellow's Blog, page 45

Hey Lady, Your Dog Only Has One Ear!

     We are members of the local rehoming page on Facebook so that when we find, foster, or find the need to rehome one of our animals, we can go there, write up a post, and be more selective as to who answers the call to further rescue or home the animal. With that being said, we had a cat that we rescued about three years ago, and he was for all purposes OUR cat after that long of a time. We called him our cat, fed him, took him to the vet when he needed to go, and all those things. Lately, however, he had developed behavior issues that warranted that he be rehomed; perhaps to a home without as much stress. We have other animals; some animals do better in homes where they can warrant the most (if not all) attention. I placed the post asking for someone to take him in. We didn't charge a rehoming fee, we just made sure their vet and character references checked out; it worked out.

    While my daughter was removing the post today, she came across one that caught her eye, and she decided to call me up and ask if I would mind if we took in a deformed puppy that seemingly no one wanted, or perhaps (as the foster parents put it) they couldn't continue to keep him as he would need to be an outdoor dog and with his particular deformity, it would be impossible. The puppy, a 10-week-old German Shepherd/Rotty mix male, only had ONE ear. When I say he only has one ear, I mean the dog only has one ear. The right ear is perfectly sound, and normal, and is where it is supposed to be, but the left ear has no outer flap, and the inside of it is closed up and even a tiny bit of it is protruding from where the ear hole would be. He has one ear.

    If he were to be left outside in the rain, the rain could definitely penetrate into his ear without any protective covering, and he could become infected for sure. It was not something I wanted to think about; of course, I told my daughter we would take him. We've been fostering a couple of puppies lately, hoping to find my daughter a dog she can train to become an emotional support pet for herself. She won't take him to work, but use him when she feels nervous, anxious or depressed about things; which happens from time to time. Giving up her horses has caused a great deal of separation anxiety for her, but owning a dog is far less expensive! Believe me, the old saying "I used to have money, but now I have horses" makes a whole lot of sense to anyone who has horses.

    We called the home after speaking with them on Facebook. We drove 18 miles to get him, and we immediately fell in love. He made himself very comfortable on Laura's lap as we drove home, and trust me when I say he has had zero difficulties acclimating to his new digs. He came into the place, saw the others, made sure they saw him, and he's been chewing on their toys ever since. I think he'll be just fine. Laura named him Hugo after a wolf-type character in some anime show that she watches. He's a tough cookie, and this pup fits that bill to a T.  He's 100% confident in his demeanor, and that sort of reminded both Laura and me of another deformed pup we came across some 21 years ago - Faith, my famous two-legged dog; the one you saw on all the shows. Faith, despite having only two back legs, didn't let anything stop her. If she wanted something, that dog took it. This dog seems pretty close to what I remember Faith being like -- alpha much?

    Well, the good news is, I think Hugo is going to be a good cuddler and he'll make an ace of an emotional therapy dog soon enough. We just have to let him know who the boss is - - that is once we stop cooing over his squishy sweet face long enough to be firm and commanding. Yeah, probably not going to happen. He'll run all over us like all the others do. It's a pattern. We don't mind.

Photo Credit: Me

That Would Suck Donkey Donuts!

 Come to think of it, and yes, from time to time, I think about things, I haven't written a good old-fashioned Southern blog in a minute or two. I'll do that now, so you don't have to. Shall we? The thought occurred to me today, while driving down to  Norman, OK from Oklahoma City, that there are a few ways to get to the Football Capital of the Southwest. You see, Norman is considered somewhat more holy than other cities, and from time to time you'll want to make your appearance if only to say you've been there. I was traveling to our fair city of fine football funness because I needed to get my fingerprints run on a digital contraption so I could send said fingerprints to the state of Florida, where they'll use them to register me as a licensed insurance claims adjuster. Things happen, things need to be done, and I respond accordingly.

    While driving down to Norman, taking an alternative route, I realized something else that may or may not be a bit Southern by nature. People drive in two specific caste systems in my state. They either drive like the proverbial bat out of hell, or they take their sweet tea time and sip along the highway as if they had all gosh darn morning to do so. I'm typically a sipper, not gonna lie, but the highway is a place where one should at least attempt to keep up with the others. I remember once being pulled over by a cop in Indiana for going too slowly, but the sign was clear...it read a minimum of 45 miles per hour, and that's about what I was doing. I didn't need to get anywhere quickly. The good man only gave me a warning, but we did have a nice talk about his two favorite uncles who had moved to Oklahoma in the late '50s when they got married. (That sounded funny. They married two separate women.)

    In the South, as you know, we cook. The Southwest is no different. We cook here too, but we throw in more spice, a few chipotle peppers and maybe we don't use as much celery; that's my thought. I think we double up on the B's as well. We put in more bacon, more butter, more bananas, and certainly more breadcrumbs if the casserole looks a bit thin from the side. Did I say "casserole", yes, I did. Here, we are prepared to feed a few folks who may just happen by; so we always have a 9x13 glass pan ready to go - - God forbid we run out of stuff to put in it! If that ever happens to you, no worries, you can thaw whatever is in the freezer, but throw in a bit of butter and maybe even a bit of basil to cover up any freezer burn if it's been there a while. Cook it in a hot oven until it's done, and don't ask me how long that will be. I can't even read a recipe because no one ever taught me that. You cook it until it's done. The reason behind that statement is clear enough; if it ain't done you can't eat it. I should say you shouldn't eat it.

    I mentioned recipes. Don't need them. We don't call anything (down here) by its recipe name. If you want an Italian cream cake you say you want Aunt Wilma's white cake with nuts and coconut. If you want a yam pie instead of a pumpkin pie you say you want the other orange pie; and if you want to know what goes into a stew, well I may have to hug you some and tell you I'm really sorry for your upbringing. You put what your daddy put into the pot. Didn't you watch? OK, if you didn't, and this is your first time, I understand, but I do have to shed a tear or two when you're not looking. Maybe even say a prayer. Cornbread goes with stew, by the way, and if you think I'm using a glass pan for that you must be from up north.

    Grannies in this part of the world probably need to invest in iron skillets so that each of their grandkids ends up with one; that would be the solution, rather than waiting until she dies to see who she loved the most. My poor granny had 23 of us, so yeah, I was really happy to steal, I mean, take the big crock bowl when my own mom wasn't watching one Thanksgiving afternoon. She wasn't using it. I let her know about four years later that I had it and that there was no way I was gonna bring it back, not even for a selfie. It will stay in MY KITCHEN for the duration. When I die it goes to Caity, she has the grands, and they need it more. Laura gets my skillet; not because I love her more, but because Reuben may end up putting it in the dishwasher. He can't be trusted.

    OK, so besides all that, I had time to think about my fingerprints as well. This is where it gets my goat. It sucks donkey donuts too. I had to pay an extra $50.75 to the state of Florida so they could have a set of my digital prints. I didn't even get a hard copy. They get them by email, and since they are of record and have been of record since before I don't know when; they should be able to call up a database, pay $5 and have them sent. Hell, I'd pay the $5! Why am I driving 30 miles to have my prints run again, only to pay $50.75 to have them emailed? It's a scam. It's a money-grabbing no good scam, and it really burns my grits. I'll get over it, I mean, I did already. I drove to Norman. When you go there you know you're a bit closer to God so it's all good. 

Boomer Sooner!

Photo Credit: FoodNetwork. com

    

Pinball (Part of the Story)

 Niall Wilson lay in his bed in the shared flat that he had found at the last moment, the moment the government had given him to either find a place or they'd find one for him. If he had left it up to the council he wouldn't have been homeless exactly, but living in a dormitory-type hostel wasn't what he wanted at his age. Hostels, he felt, were like shelters for younger men; places you end up when you haven't got a quid to spare, so the good-natured desk clerks usually turned their heads when it came time to collect your weekly rent. Sometimes he may have had it, but not most of the time, not now, not after his divorce. Not after his stint with the hospital, the rehabilitation center, and the court-appointed mentor, he had to see twice a week. He lay in his bed in that shared flat wondering why it was that God wasn't listening to him. He asked again.

    God wasn't listening; that's what it felt like. He could stare at the ceiling for all God cared. He couldn't find the right words to even describe what his head was telling his soul. Even the inside of his own heart seemed to be on vacation, it wasn't taking any calls from his brain and he just felt so disconnected all the time. He didn't feel as if he belonged in the flat; he was the old man. At forty-three he had lived a bit longer and had far more experiences than the other addicts that happened upon the place before they too, were shuttled off to the wards of Hosteland. "Find a bed! Find somewhere, and get an address so we can count you done. You're out now, you're no longer our responsibility!", that's what he was being told by the good nurses and doctors who had forced him for weeks and months on end to eat whatever they told him to eat, to drink whatever they gave him, to take the meds they pushed, but God forbid he smoke a cigar! God forbid he spoke of drinking again. 

    This was his fourth trip to the gallows, the end of the line for him really, as the council attendants made it clear to him that his last prayer had just set sail. If he failed again, he could be a permanent resident; he knew he didn't want that. He found a place to lay his head. The second-floor flat occupied the same street as the best-kept secret in Edinburgh; Lola's Breakfast Bar. Every morning just before dawn Lola MacLean and her crew fetched, found, and floured some of the best sausage rolls, pretzel buns, doughnuts, and pastries ever cooked. The smell rose and infiltrated his room; gloriously waking him and reminding him for a brief moment that there was a God to pray to. Would today be the day He finally heard the prayers of the beaten sinner? It wasn't as if the man didn't already know there was something between him and the Almighty; but what it was, he couldn't put his finger on it. 

    Another day, another sleepless late night into the earlier dawn hours, finally being aroused by the succulent scents of seasoned sausage and the pleasant aromas of pastry dough boiling in oil.  What was it holding his prayer at the ceiling, he questioned; what held him in the misery that he knew he had personally created? Without warning there was a rap, three strong thumps on his door. He knew who it was on the other side of the door. Immediately, and as clear as the sunlight now making its way across the diamond-paned window, cascading over his small wooden desk, over the chair, across the rails of his bed, and finally upon his face. There it is. There he is. His sin.

    Before rising to answer the door, Niall Wilson called to his mate on the other side of the oak barrier to let him know he wasn't dressed. Some sort of call was returned, a laugh, a half-meant and half-joking call, something about it wouldn't be the first time both men had seen each other "otherwise disposed of". Nevertheless, it was painfully present, the knowing, the absolute knowing that he had been living not only a lie but a lie that when coupled with what it really was, was an abomination unto God. Niall's mind, as well as his heart, were finally communicating. It only took a second; the time it takes one to see the flash of lightning in the distance, or the time it takes for a heart to break; he knew.

    Given that, only a second or two had passed, and only a few more would pass before the man on the other side of the unlocked door would make his entry, Niall knelt beside his bed in prayer. His few but pointed words were whispered as he asked his true Refuge to not only forgive him but to give him the strength to stand alone in the next decision he felt (and he knew) he needed to make. Upon entering the room Scotty Riggs stopped short of moving forward toward his lover; something wasn't the same, he knew it the moment he entered the room and saw an unusual light surrounding the bed where Niall had been kneeling and was now standing fully to his feet; his face nearly glowing from the light of the sun.

    Niall didn't have to say a word. Amazingly, the moment wasn't his to share, but the battle belonged to the Lord and to His servants. Forgiveness had been shown, it had been given to the man who had repented and had asked freely for it. Nothing needed to be verbally proclaimed. Without a word, without a single word, Scotty turned and left the room alone. 

    

Photo Credit: Unsplash.com

Summer Lovin' (Well, it's Close Enough)

 I am so, NOT a Summer fan. I hate the heat with a purple passion. I am more of an Autumn in Edinburgh kind of person, to be honest. I really, really, don't like sweating before I wake up in the morning. I prefer to snuggle with the blankets a few minutes longer and then maybe talk to the dog about the possibility of getting up and taking her for a walk.  Summer, to me, is way too much work to breathe.  This summer, however, things are a bit different than they were last summer. I should back up and tell you what has happened to me just before, during, and after the big, bad, pandemic, so you'll understand my hatred of all things over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. 

    Before the summer of 2020, I worked from home, so being asked to stay home and social distance was really never a problem for me. What was a problem for me, was when the sales and prospects of insurance sales dried up and I was forced out of my job. The good news is, I had not been renewed as a teacher from the fall semester (why is that a good thing) and I was able to live off the money the district had to pay me because the principal chose to lie about me, and my union rep not only found the lie, she exploited it to the point that I was given full contractual pay throughout the school year. That would be until June 2020. Summer meant applying for jobs, working out, and getting prepared for another job where I would be questioned about what I brought to the table even though my 20+ years of being a professor weren't enough. Online work isn't "work" to many people. You have to be out there sweating it out or at least trying to make the best of the season...but I hate the season.

    I began working for an insurance company sometime in March I think, but by June when they closed their doors. I was out of work and hadn't spent the money I was given, so I was able to live off of it until it went away, then I filed for unemployment, and we all know what happened then. Donald Trump was in the Office and we got not only our original money but another $300 a week to boot.  Yes, the summer of 2020 was not bad! Not bad at all. Then reality hit, and I was forced back into the workforce, but just like everything else, no one was going to work. I was forced to work for literally half the pay that I was used to making, but at least I wasn't spreading germs you know, that so very much matters! It was summer again, out of work again, beating the streets again...in the heat again, driving and trying not to look like I was drenched after I left the comfort of my car's A/C.  I live in Oklahoma! 

    Fast forward to the fall of 2021, I was again teaching, and again, I was lied about, but this time it only took about eight weeks! By the end of September 2021, I was placed on Administrative Leave while the school "investigated" the allegations about me being a serial killer or something to that effect. I may have exaggerated there, but it's for dramatics, and it works.  I was lied about, I let my union rep know, he took the ball and ran with it, and in the end, I was released from duty, but paid through the entire year for being ridiculed needlessly and put through unnecessary duress. I had parents calling my house and threatening me because I write about murder.  I'm a freaking published NON-FICTION NOVEL author, and my Master's degree in English Literature and another one in Creative Writing should have been a clue before they hired me, but the books on Amazon bearing my name could have been another clue! Here's a thought, when a teacher you're about to hire hands you one of her books to read and you KNOW she writes about murder, it shouldn't come as a surprise to you when a parent of a student is telling you so! Your answer is, or should be, "Yes, she's published, isn't that exciting?"

    Anyway, by the spring of 2022, I decided to go back to work since I could do so. I was hired by a major insurance company that most have never heard of. They deal with catastrophic events; I wanted to learn to become a desk adjuster. I was promised I could be. I was not given that opportunity. The woman who hired me decided to hire her best friend and she terminated me after 30 days. No worries, I have good-ole unemployment to get me through the summer right? (and the last of what the school district owed me.) I should have written another book, I have no idea why I didn't. I just stayed inside and worked out, read books, and applied for every claims adjuster job possible. I was never hired.

    A trading company hired me to be a financial back office person, with the promise to move me up onto the trading floor. That didn't happen. After my 90th day on the job, I was approached by two department heads to move into their departments. So I could not actually do that, my own manager fired me without cause so I couldn't apply for another six months. She had just made the Board of Directors and wanted to flex her little boo-bear muscles to the men she had beat out (paid out) of the position. They were furious, I was unemployed. This time, I took the severance and stayed home and wrote: "Of Kilted Pleasure".  I didn't waste any time either. I put it out there and got it published!

    About the first of February, I got a call from an insurance man who wanted to go full-blown Claims Adjuster in the future, and he wanted me to help him do that. OK. I liked the sound of that. I worked for him, examining claims before he submitted them to the actual Claims department. I have NO IDEA why he didn't go the traditional route of just learning the modules and putting in the time, but there are lag times in Claims, and he didn't want to just quit his day job. Well, it didn't take me long to discover his...shall we say... discrepancies? When I brought them to his attention, I was out of a job. Go figure. No severance, and since the unemployment claim from the last year hadn't run its course, I was FLAT out of luck! That's OK, luck is for the Irish. I have God!  Jesus makes sure I'm OK. ALWAYS

    I looked into becoming a full-time full-fledged Independent Claims Adjuster. Turns out it's not hard to do. You don't even need much experience either. That made me happy. I connected with over 200 employees from all the different agencies on LinkedIn. I found Chris Stanley at I.A. Path, Matt Allen at AdjusterTv, and Master Adjuster James Mathis; I call them the Three Amigos. Together, they helped me find the videos for training, the modules, the programs, and all the free stuff so I don't have to put out any money while I waited for the right to file for unemployment. I still had a bit of money in the bank, and my sweet daughter Laura took an outside job making more so she could pull more weight than she had in the past. Let me just say she has really stepped up to the plate on this one. So proud.

    So, right now, as it sits, on June 2, 2023, I'm a licensed Claim Adjuster in the States of Oklahoma and Texas.  I am State Farm Auto certified, and about to become State Farm Property certified. I missed the cert by 2 questions. I'll take it again after I learn how to measure a room correctly for new flooring. There are Facebook groups that help you, there are thousands of great people in the industry willing to help, and they give of themselves just for the asking. I am so happy I am making this change. I will be one who helps others as much as I possibly can. It's cliche to say "We are all in this together" but if the pandemic taught me anything, it's that we can do a hell of a lot more than we used to do for one another.

    I don't say this lightly. It's no fun being broke. But, I've learned to live for so long on so little that I can do just about anything with next to nothing. I don't overspend. I don't buy things I don't need. I eat at home. I don't go anywhere. I am on the computer learning the industry from the time I get up until the time I go to bed, and it's OK, I may end up being "deployed" from my desk and working seven days a week and 12 hours a day for the next year, and I may end up working less; but the fact is, I'm finally able to say that my summer will be GREAT. One of the reasons is because I'm not stepping out into it, but other than that...I have a plan, and the plan is to drill down as much as I can to learn the auto claims side to a fine science. I'm learning to examine, review, estimate, and make decisions and I know more about my car now than I ever did. I KNOW what the 16 digits on my VIN actually mean!

    I guess what I'm saying is, when you have a plan and it gets disrupted over and over again, and you can't figure out which way is UP, you can turn to self-employment as an Independent Adjuster with a minimal upfront cost. You can be hired onboard a company, or work for several at one time. There are too many options, and the pay is really really (no, seriously) really good.  The average first-year adjuster without experience can make over $60,000.00 on the conservative side. No, I'm not kidding.  The average first-year teacher in Oklahoma makes $36,000.00; let that sink in for a minute. The first-year cop in Oklahoma makes $44,000.00 with no experience but they have to have a degree and pass training. With the Claims Adjuster route, you don't. 

Here, go here and see what it's all about:  www.adjustertv.com (Let Matt know I sent you. He'll laugh)

Go  here too:  www.iapath.com (Tell Chris I say hi)

    This is a field adjuster. I work from my desk in my jammies. People will send me photos of the damage.

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com

    

Books Are Flying!!

 I think it's hilarious when I get emails out of the blue from my publisher saying how many books I've sold over the past 30 days. I thought it was just at the end of the quarter, but no, this one reports the sales at the end of each month, and I have to say, it made me smile. Now, don't get me wrong, I haven't sold thousands upon thousands of books, and in fact, if truth be known, I want the sales to cease until I can make the necessary corrections on the book, but there they are, being sold. People are reporting back to me saying they love it, and that makes me happy. I still wish I could pull it, make the corrections and put it back up for sale. I'll do that when I get the money to do it; believe me when I say it's not as simple as asking them to stop the print of it for a minute.  

    Who knew that a disgruntled employee could get a burr up under her saddle and decide to write a really good book in about a month's time? Then, I took the next month to tweak it, and make changes and corrections before sending it off to a really bad (I mean BAD publisher); that was before I knew better. I know better now. I wrote to release the one, and took the PDF file back, sent it to the new publisher, and I never thought to check it for multiple mistakes because I didn't realize there were any. Oh yes, there were...and are.

    The thing is, I see the mistakes even if the typical reader won't. I mean, three or four of them are impossible to miss, and that's too many as it is, but there are time mistakes, and then I didn't capitalize something; no...say it isn't so. It is. I missed about four grammar iron-clad rules, and that's not counting the HUGE mistake of saying women when I meant one woman, and the time I said the dog was found under HIS buggy when it was some random buggy. I hope no one decides to do the white glove test on my page counting boo boo, where at first I said a man wrote a single-page letter, then later said the separate pages! OH MY GOODNESS! I suppose, when all is said and done, the great sex scenes will make up for these minor issues. One would hope.

    I have to confess, I'm in the middle of writing another book, and it is taking far longer than this one took. I'm only on Chapter 9, whereas that was nearly a month ago! I literally haven't written anything in three weeks. I must be going mad. I am writing the blogs of course, but the book isn't coming along because I need to focus on getting hired and being "deployed" as a desk claims adjuster. Sometimes work must take priority if you're used to eating, paying bills on time, and putting gas in the car. It's OK, I'll survive. I'll just write between breaks and before I go to work after I get off work, and then, when no one is looking, I'll squeeze in a murder plot, twist, or backstory right in the middle of the day when I should be examining something dealing with auto collisions.

    The hope, of course, is that the books take off and I'll never need to work again, but until that happens, I at least have a good Plan B to fall back on; that's for dang sure.  Once the murder book hits the streets I think it may sell more than the romance novel does; at least that's the other hope. I'll follow up the romance novel of course, with a sequel and possibly a third book in the series. The murder book will be an ongoing thing, with as many books and stories as I can possibly squeeze out of my brawny somewhat tainted Southwestern hero.  Whatever happens, I'm sure I'll grin ear to ear when I see that the murder book (titled "Murder Book") has sold as many copies as the novel has already. Woot!!  No worries, before it hits the press I will go over it 100 times to be sure the mistakes are minimum; non-existent if possible.

    For now, I'm just beamingly happy and thrilled to know that Ewan and Aria are spreading their cheer and interesting lives among so many in the U.S. and in Europe. So far, according to the records, the U.S. is buying the bulk of the books, with Italy following a close second, the UK in third, and France not doing too badly. I'd love to see it hit the presses in India too!! Woot!  It's a great feeling to know the words you wrote (no matter how quickly or slowly you wrote them) are being read, understood, liked, and commented on. It makes me giggle and feel all warm and fuzzy...I hope I never lose that feeling. EVER.

Photo Credit: Getty Images

    

I Decided to be Positive Instead.

 I was literally here, at my desk, about to write a scathing blog about the treatment I received at (and from) the people at the Half Price Books store near my house when it dawned on me that I am in control of my emotions. I don't have to be mean; I don't have to be rude. I don't have to complain. I don't have to lower myself to the standards of those people who get really pissy and then go off half-cocked on the internet, thus making a complete spectacle of themselves. I can just be informative, tell my side, and push through. Are you ready?

    My friend Jeannie came over yesterday, and we cleaned out so much clutter from my room and from my master bathroom that I felt as if my spirits were lifted over a dozen times higher than usual. That's saying something because I'm usually pretty happy!  I found myself carrying on the same activities today as she and I had been obliged to carry out, and I decided to clean out the bookshelves in my hallway and my living room.  I'm an author; I read. I collected way (way) too many books along the way. I gave about 200 of them away last year, and this year, today, I found another 43 that didn't need to be sitting around my house.

    I took the books to Half Price Books. I thought I could sell them to the store, get a store credit, maybe pick out a few LPs, and finish the chore. That didn't happen. My daughter helped me take the books into the store, and we walked around while the manager and/or assistant in the returns and resell section went over my books. You trust these people not to take a book or two, keep them or try to shaft you. That's not what happened.  I was called back to the counter, and I was offered an amount of money for the 43 books I had to sell.  Actually, that's not a true statement. I was offered an amount of money for about 25 books, and the rest they had decided they couldn't use, but they would take them as a donation if I didn't want to take them back with me.  The amount of money that was offered for books totaling more than $400 was $3.26.  I am NOT kidding you. It was insulting. EVEN if you offer .50 per book it's $21.50.

    I decided to take all of the books back and donate them to Goodwill. There they can be sold for $2-5, and they can be enjoyed by folks who otherwise couldn't have afforded the prices that Half Price Books would have slapped onto the used books; some were Harry Potter books, others were professional training manuals such as how to get your SPHR and how to trade on the stock market. The trading book was a Dummies series and still sells on Amazon used for about $14.00, so yeah, the caliber of books I brought in was not bad. I had about six murder mystery types from people like John Grisham; don't tell me $3.26 is a fair assessment for 43 books. Six were recipe books, and four of them were in the pile they said they couldn't find a buyer for. No worries, I'll give them to the Goodwill. Someone will want them. 

    I decided to go through one of the recipe books again before I gave it to Goodwill because it was one with pictures! I love pictures. This was a simple recipe for kids and/or young people who haven't had much experience in the kitchen. Something caught my eye, and I decided to memorize the recipe and mimic it tomorrow morning! Here we go.  I'm going to make cinnamon cream cheese rolls! You take flat white bread and cut off the ends. You roll the bread FLAT, and spread butter, and cream cheese in the middle.  You dip the whole thing in butter, or you can brush it on, but you roll it in cinnamon sugar and bake it for 10 minutes at 350 degrees. DONE. What fun. Don't tell me people in their right minds wouldn't want to know that. You want to know that! I know you do. You're welcome.

    I'm not saying I think you should boycott your local Half Price Books store; nothing like that, but you can talk to the manager and let them know that they need to work on that policy of reselling. To tell a customer we won't pay you for these books, but we'll put them out on the shelves to sell them, and keep 100% of the profit if you want to donate them, is silly.  Well, it's a bad practice if you ask me. I won't go back into that store now. I won't. I'll go somewhere else, anywhere, really. I have a Kindle, so I don't buy books anymore that I have to hold. I can get my cards and my LPs at other shops. I have NO reason to darken their door again. If I did want to hold a book in my hands again, I might sneak in and buy the Waverley novel set that I saw. But no, I have the entire collection on my Kindle.  I'm good.

    Can't wait for tomorrow to get here now. 

Photo Credit: Pinterest

The Year was 1979.

 Some years, some months, some days stick with you. I was honored, I was blessed, and I know it. The year was 1979, and before  November of that year, I was 17. I have to say it, 17 may be the best year ever. It was the year I knew I knew what love was, and it was the year I knew it would slip away too.  I lived through it. I had a really, really good job, too; I worked for Concerts West. I was what we would call a "Go-For" today; someone who goes here goes there, does what they're told to do, and gets whatever done that needs to be done. I made food, ran for food, rejected food, drove people, drove equipment, drove myself crazy, and dated a few rock stars along the way.  Why not? I was 17!

    The thing is, I was still a virgin until I was 22, and actually, if I had to be really super honest about it, I didn't have to be. I chose to be. I knew then, as I know now, that celebrities can be some of the most insecure, rude, nasty, over-exposed, and under-behaved idiots to ever walk the face of the Earth. I wasn't really all that impressed with their tight pants or what they put in them to make people think they had more than what they had. Yeah, working in the background, you do see a few things. I had to laugh...and I did.

    Before I divorced in 1997, I had a collection of LPs (albums) that ranked right up there with all those people you wish you knew because they had all the songs, all the vinyl, and here I was with about 3,000 individual LPs, but no money in my pocket. I got that way later with horses, but yeah, I was just as stupid, I guess, thinking that music was the way to go. I thought Concerts West would lead me into a career in music production, actually, and it did in one way or the other. I still have a few connections (Hi Michael Givens!!) I worked a lot of concerts, more than 500 I know, and that was from 1979 to 1984, so in about five years I went to more than 500, so that's about 1 every three days, if you think about it. I mean, it was closer to 16-22 in a row, day and night after day and night. When you work for the unit or the promoter, you're not really going home at regular hours.

    I had my own private phone! Let me say that again, in 1979, before cell phones, I had my own landline. My mom actually answered it for me, so it seemed as if I had a secretary. I'm not kidding you. That was my schtick! I had people. She took messages, and I called people back. I took gigs I wanted to take, flew where I wanted to fly, drove where I could, and I had a freaking blast. Most of my jobs I got because I wasn't a drinker, I wasn't using drugs, I never stole from anyone, and no, I wouldn't sleep with the band or the roadies. I got called a lot!! They trusted me. That's not to say they didn't make fun of me; no, they absolutely made fun of me. I was branded with the name "Christian."   OK, if that's the worst you do, yeah, pay me to drive three long hairs to the drugstore so they can refill their Rx. I'm good. (That was before we could pick it up for them.)  Once, I was paid to call in an Rx for a drummer, and no, I won't say his name. I did it, too, I shouldn't have, but I did.

    Today, because I can, I popped open the new vintage-inspired Victrola and slapped on a few of the really good oldies. Funny, when I bought them originally, they weren't oldies....but yeah, Billy Joel's "52nd Street", the Bee Gees, "Children of the World," Van Halen's "1984" (which was recorded in 1983).  I'm living it. I'm loving it. I'm sitting here trying to ignore my daughter telling me to turn it down. Go away, Laura. Go away. I'm 17....well, ish. I may have to pull out the entire collection of artists I was privileged to work, help, assist, hang with, or just shake my head at, which were many. Before you ask, I wasn't with Van Halen when Sammy came on board. That was after I left the unit. A girl has to earn a living, and toward the end, it was all about drug running, "favors" and such. Nope. Not me. I don't regret the time I spent, but I do think I could have used better judgment in a few cases. I could have charged SO MUCH MORE than I did. 

    I will say this; by the middle of 1981, I was living most of the year at a mansion in Beverly Hills called Gray Hall at 1100 Carolyn Way, and that's where, in 1982, I met the famous and often misunderstood, certainly underappreciated Sir Michael Givens. Check him out at www.michaelgivens.com  filmmaker, artist, and an all-around great man. We worked on a film called "Love Scene," a Raleigh production. By today's standards, it was quite tame, but then...hot! I was standing around minding my own business (working) when the director decided he needed another warm female body in the party scene. Enter Jude Leigh. I was too embarrassed to use my real name. What if my mom found out?  LOL 

    It doesn't happen often, but sometimes I just have to slip away into the mental stages of my earlier years, before kids, before college, before bills, before I had a freakin' care. I mean, c'mon, I would buy a VW Bug from the paper, have my friend Kenny work it over, and drive it to Los Angeles in the evening hours, mostly as we all know a VW's radiator can blow in the desert heat!! (If you know, you know) I just preferred driving at night back then. I did this 11 separate times. As long as the thing ran, had great tires, had a great 8-track player, and the floor wasn't falling out from under me, I made it to L.A. in about 20 hours, resting either in Albuquerque at my uncle's or in Gallup with a friend. I'd buy the car for $500, have it worked over for another $400, but sell the damn thing for $3000 once I was ready to go home! No, I'm not kidding. I would put an ad in the paper, and it would be sold either that day or the next. (11 times!!)

    Damn.  I miss the young me sometimes. I graduated high school in 1979 (on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's birthday, May 22) At least I know I can escape now and again with this time-sound machine.  (all I need are those really cool ice cream pop cycles that look like they come in a toilet paper roll, and you push them up...orange, remember?)

Photo Credit:  www.bringatrailer.com

My Road Leads to Edinburgh (It took a minute, but I got there)

 My ancestors were Scottish. I know this. They were also English, and I try to ignore that fact. When I did the DNA thing, the one I chose first (My Heritage) used information from way back, something like the 800 A.D., so if I used it, I am 33% Scandinavian. Let's use our history lessons to discover what happened to these particular Norsemen. They came down to what would become Britton. It was Bernicia before that, I believe. Who knows, maybe I'm actually related to Ida. That's another blog; I doubt I am.  There was a greater need inside my soul to find out if I truly was more Scottish than I was English. I know that sounds incredibly boring, petty, and useless, but it's my journey, right? 

    I can at least trace my father's side back to Scotland in the 17th century, and before that, yes, they were English, but...and this is where I get all argumentative; the area(s) my people were from were disputed lands! Ha! There you go. Even the English could be Scottish at that point. They are in my head. They are my heart as well. Screw the English! Sorry Bee Gees, but to be HONEST, they were born on the Isle of Man, and it's closer to Scotland than English. I will always love you. I also love a few others who profess or confess to being English, but only a few. 

    My line, on Dad's side, here we go.

I was born in Oklahoma in 1961.  My dad is Reuben Wayne Stringfellow

Reuben Wayne Stringfellow was born in Arkansas in 1932

Reuben Jefferson Stringfellow born in Arkansas in 1909

Reuben Jefferson Stringfellow, Sr. was born in Arkansas in 1847

William Robert Stringfellow was born in Virginia in 1815

John Reuben Stringfellow was born in Virginia in 1780

Richard Reuben Stringfellow was born in Virginia in 1760

William Richard Stringfellow, born in Virginia in 1729

William Richard Stringfellow, Sr., born in Virginia in 1687

James Richard Stringfellow, born in Virginia 1662

James Stringfellow born in EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND in 1640

Sir. Robert Stringfellow, born in disputed lands Scotland, 1615

William James Stringfellow, born in Yorkshire, 1590

Reuben Thomas Stringfellow, born in Yorkshire, 1567

That's as far back as the records go, but there is another James Reuben Stringfellow in 1271 who appears as a witness to a land dispute in Yorkshire, so he's MAYBE another one of us. We can't be sure, but hey, he's a Stringfellow, and he has the name Reuben in there, so it's a real possibility. I do have to add that my son was born in 1986, and his name is Reuben Andrew Stringfellow. I was not married to his dad, but his father's name is RICHARD! Ha! Just thought that was hilarious. 

    My people moved to the new world in 1660 when Charles II took the throne and was not that pleased with the loyalties that my people had. I'm not sure I'm that pleased with their loyalties either, in that Robert was knighted, which means he was faithful to the Crown. He was given a Coat of Arms, which is cool and all, but yeah, it doesn't make me happy.  At least he was smart enough, as was his father, to marry a full Scottish woman. My Stringfellows were mixed with the Armstrongs and then the Campbells. (I am rather surprised that the people who bore and raised Sir Robert Stringfellow were married to Armstrongs. If you know your history, that's about as defiant as you can get -- Rebels!! I love it. Shove it England, although at the time Robert was being raised, James I (a Scot) was King. So, there's that. I freaking love history.

    My mother's line leads straight to England. Dad really should have been a bit more careful! He was smitten, and I get it; she's adorable, but it really didn't do my DNA any good, now, did it? My mom is an Edwards, then a Free, then a Hague, and up the line to the damn freaking Windsor family, but they weren't the same as the later Windsors, thank God. If I had to admit I was related to them, I would barf. I realize that sounds mean and nasty since, after all, the Queen was, in fact, a bit Scot, but I suppose I have a bit of Jacobite in me when I think about it, despite my Campbellness. REBEL!!

    So that's it. The next DNA test, Ancestory.com called it.  I'm 48% Scottish, 47% English, 4% Italian, and 1% Iberian. You just have to love that Iberian who seduced someone I don't know. They were like, YES...this is my chance to go to America!! The Ancestry test only went to about the 11th century, not the 9th, and it makes a huge difference historically.  I mean, we can all say that we are related to Noah. Think about that for a minute! Yes, you can take it too far.  My sister goes only back to the 17th century, not wanting to become too bogged down with details. I'm pushing that envelope because I know that the Scots were pushing it in the 17th century to regain the lands and plans the English took from them. You can only do so much with sticks and stones. We did have the whole paint-yourself-blue-and-swing-naked-from-the-tree thing. That was cool.  I can see myself doing that in another life and time. 

    OK, so that's about it, that's all I wanted to say. I can PROVE I'm Scottish. I know the Scots like to say if you're not born there, you aren't Scottish. I understand that, but it's not true. If you're not born there, you aren't BRITISH, but you are Scottish if that's in your blood. For anyone who argues or disagrees, remember, I'm first an American, and I will claim that, but that's where I was born. There is no such thing as "American" blood. Not even the Natives will say that; they are from various tribes. SADLY, and I mean this, I am not a single percent Native. That sucks, especially since I live and was born in Oklahoma, the Native capital of the WORLD.  Oh well, I'm good. I'm OK. I have my little list; I know the truth. Thank you, Sir Robert, for moving to America, but damn, couldn't you have left a few kids there who could have kept the line going? People need to think about their ancestors!

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com 

A Burden Like No Other!

 Many of you read my blog, "My Bad, Mistakes Were Made." (here is a link: https://judestringfellow.blogspot.com/2023/04/my-bad-mistakes-were-made.html )  wherein I lamented about the sad, sad fact that I had not only made mistakes in my book "Of Kilted Pleasure," but that there were 12 mistakes, and most of them were committed by ME!! I was the culprit. I was the problem. I didn't re-read the text another 100 times, as I had read it before I had submitted it, but about four or five of the mistakes were actually made by the publisher. STILL, and nevertheless, I made a bunch of stupid boo-boos that needed to be fixed.  I am writing today to tell you just how I will fix those issues. This is not going to be a lot of fun.

    When you send off a manuscript, you send it off without being saved as a PDF. Everyone knows this. I did this. I was 100% sure that everything was fine when it was not. After sending off the Word document, I then saved my document as a PDF so I wouldn't make the mistake of erasing something, and in doing so, I sealed my fate! I couldn't (and can't) open it up again to make the corrections. I fired the publisher after they published the book with the mistakes because, as I said, some of them were NOT my mistakes; they couldn't have been. There's no way I'm going to randomly put in a "w" here or there, and in one instance, there were two random "ww," and they were in italics! C'mon, sorry, I didn't do that. I think there was an issue, and they refused to correct it. That doesn't change the fact that I had (a) fired them and (b) couldn't get my Word document sent back to me. I couldn't.

    The only way to make the corrections at this point was to pull the book from publication and literally retype it word for word. I can't copy it and paste it into another Word document, as the ONLY copy I have is, in fact, the PDF. I did actually save it 1000 times along the way, but I deleted all of those copies so I would only have the one PDF file. Then it hit me!! I did make another copy! I had, in fact, sent copies to friends to read, too, so I could essentially go back to those emails and find it and copy it onto a flash drive! All is not lost! I copied it on March 2, 2023, just days before sending it to Xlibris to be published. Between March 2, 2023, when I had copied it, and March 14, 2023, when I had sent it off to Xlbiris, I had made a few changes. Now, all I need to do is pull up the PDF, situate it side by side with the one I have copied to the flash drive, go through it PAGE BY FREAKING PAGE, and make the needed corrections. I can do this.

    One thing I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE is that I can use my Find/Replace to make the changes I needed to with everything EXCEPT the random "w"s because they aren't on my flash drive since I didn't make those mistakes. There were three or four other things like that, mistakes the publisher made that would not be on my flash drive, but (and this is soooooo big) I found all the Cromwell issues and corrected them FIRST. I did that tonight. I went into the document, did a search for Cromwell, changed his name for the Duke of Cumberland, and/or used the words "Royal Army" when I said "Cromwell's Army"...you get the picture. I fixed the biggest literary plunder of my entire career. I feel really good about that.

    I made tiny changes to three issues that I didn't have to change but thought it would make more sense if I did. The reader may never know, but I did it because I knew it was there on the page, screaming at me. Thankfully, no one else will ever hear that, just me. Tomorrow and the next day, I will go through the PDF and read it page by page, making the corrections and adding the additions to the flash drive saved copy; then it will be saved again, NOT IN PDF, so I can have it if I need it. I didn't tell you the other weird thing! I had changed computers between having sent it off and having it redone. My new WORD program won't open the old documents fully, and I was completely freaked out about that, but I'm good now. I'm good. Nothing that a bit of chocolate and a lot of coffee won't fix. 

    After I make all the necessary changes, I'll pull the book from being published and resubmit it on the same day, thus leaving a very small window to when the book is not available. Any books sold right now and up to that day are going to be collector's items, you know. Well, maybe not, but I have about 20 myself, so I'll be sure and use them for fire starters or something worthy.  I did have a really sweet surprise today; a woman I know in Australia bought my book, and she said she read it in a few settings. She said it was well written, and though she saw a few mistakes, it didn't take anything away from her experience. She didn't know her Scottish history well enough to know that Oliver Cromwell had died many, many years before Culloden, so he couldn't have led that charge. That was good news. She pointed out to me that she would like to see a sequel to see how Ewan and Ariel make out down the road  -- no worries there. I'm working on it in my head. I have about two more books to write before I can write that one. 

    I really do need to be rich so I can just write. I need that in my life. Thank you for your patience with me. I appreciate it. I really do.

Photo Credit: ME

Galashiels, The New Plan.

 Where I damn well love Edinburgh, and in fact, it is my favorite city, there is no way I would want to live there on a permanent day-to-day basis. First of all, if I did, the poor man I pray for would be torn between pulling his beard out or diving off of Arthur's Seat, and I really don't want him feeling stressed; nope, only blessed. I think it's best, for his sake if nothing else, that I make my plans to reside about an hour's distance by train, to the city of Galashiels, in the Scottish Borders. I'll tell you why. 

    Galashiels, like Avon, Indiana, is really an amazing little place that is both affordable and beautiful in its own right.  Galashiels is not very big, but it's the same size as Avon, maybe a bit smaller, but it has all the shops I'd need, and it's smack dab in the middle of the moors, streams, dwellings, estates, and historical places that I would have so much fun visiting.  There's even a museum of sorts for a $7,000,000, 143-panel tapestry of the history of Scotland, which of course, I would have to see.  If I had to go to Edinburgh (she says with a giggle), which I would be going, it's only about 54-60 minutes by train, as mentioned, and the train is a great way to travel! I would simply love it. I wouldn't need a car, but I may rent one after learning to drive in the UK. I wouldn't drive the said car to Edinburgh or Glasgow, but I would drive around the moors and backways. I would do that. I would visit the sheep and coo.

    Galashiels' prices are amazing compared to Edinburgh and, really, compared to a lot of places.  The same two-bedroom and one-bath apartment I could buy for (I have to use USD since I don't have a symbol for the British Pound on my keyboard) $90,000 would cost me 3x that in Edinburgh. No, thank you. Yes, I would be closer to the castle, but I can see it on my trips once or twice a month.  Yes, I would be closer to the Royal Mile, the Surgeon's Hall, etc., but again, I can visit those. They aren't going anywhere. $11.00 train ride (times two, as I would be returning) would be worth the price of not driving myself, not paying for insurance, and not paying for a car payment if I chose to not get a car and not pay for gasoline or maintenance. Why in the hell do I have a car? I'm really thinking this through now, aren't I? 

    I would most likely (very likely) live in a flat downtown and rent for $650 a month for a two-bedroom, one-bath flat. Not kidding. It's unfurnished, but it has the "whites" or the appliances, and it has a bathtub. I'm not going to rent anything that doesn't have an actual tub. That's just silly talk right there. The same apartment in Edinburgh would be $1100+, and it would not necessarily have a bathtub as they have closets for bathrooms, and sometimes, no, I am not kidding, the sink and toilet are in one closet while the shower is in another. In Galashiels, I would have a regular flat, no crazy tourist noises, no crazy nightlife noises, and I could lease a horse. Yes, I could lease a freakin' horse! But, I would have to find someone who wouldn't mind me riding said horse western style. That may be harder than I think. I may have to buy my own horse now that I put my brain to it. 

    Galashiels has been a burgh since 1599 and has a "Braw Lads' Gathering" with riders on horseback running through town, and they're not all boys now. There are quite a lot of horse enthusiasts there. I like that. Sir Walter Scott built his enormous estate just outside of Galashiels; it's too amazing. There's one university there, the Heriot-Watt University, a school for textiles and design. I could ask if they need a general ed professor, one who visits and teaches Philosophy, Logic, Humanities, Composition, and/or Romance Novel writing. I could do that. The thing is, I'm going to be a claims adjuster, work really hard throughout the summer and early autumn, then take off and rent in Galashiels this coming year or early next, and when I do, I'll have the withal to figure out if I want to stay or just have extended visits.

    I can write, I can trade, I can lecture. I don't have to be paid. I can volunteer as long as I'm, again, not being paid, and I can research my books. I can stay up to six months without needing a visa, and with the claims adjuster gig, I can find sponsorships. I could stay! I don't know if I want to yet, but I could; the thing is, I could IF I wanted to. I think what I'll do is take it one pass at a time. I'll go, I'll hang out, maybe stay 5-6 months this time, and see what I think I could handle. I passed on Fife because I really think I want the moors over the sea. I know that sounds incredibly silly to some, but I'm a land lover, a woodsy kind of girl - - I like castles, trees, creeks, and streams over larger bodies of water. I like the architecture of the Scottish Borders over what I've seen in Fife. (Don't get me wrong, I love the Kingdom!)

    This is my plan. It's something I can hang onto and dream about. I could wake up, walk the town, get my coffee, get my steps in, research, talk to people, and hang with the horses and the dogs. You really can't get better - - unless you take the train to Edinburgh and stare at musicians in the park; not all of them, just you know...interesting men with guitars and stories to tell through their music.

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com