Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 30
October 4, 2020
A hardcover book for just ten dollars ... somehow
Amazon has the hardcover edition of Images of America: Albion and Noble County set at only $10, which is a heck of a bargain. I don't know why it's six bucks less than the paperback version--in fact, it's so low for a hardcover that I honestly wonder if they made a mistake.
But it would be a great Christmas present, and rumor has it we're going to take a shot at doing the holidays this year. If you do give it as a present, you can say you got it at full price--we won't tell.
https://www.amazon.com/Albion-Noble-C...
(And of course our other books also remain available. Gotta ramp up for the holidays!)
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
But it would be a great Christmas present, and rumor has it we're going to take a shot at doing the holidays this year. If you do give it as a present, you can say you got it at full price--we won't tell.
https://www.amazon.com/Albion-Noble-C...
(And of course our other books also remain available. Gotta ramp up for the holidays!)
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
October 3, 2020
Poking Through Another Medical Week
I started out last week in something of a good mood, because I finished the third draft of Smoke Showing and then took the preliminary steps toward writing a novel involving the Land of Oz--a project close to my heart that I've been planning in my head for years.
Then the week turned into one of those Medical Weeks. You know the ones I mean: When for a certain period of time everything that happens seems to be health related, usually in a bad way.
Starting from worst, my uncle and my grandmother both fell and broke their hips, and as I write this both are scheduled for surgery today. For my grandmother it was supposed to be yesterday, but they couldn't transfer her to the hospital where the operation will be done because all their beds were full.
You knew the coronavirus was going to pop up here, somewhere.
So everything after that is pretty minor. In fact, very minor, and begging to be made fun of, although sometimes even I'm not in a fun-making mood. It's just that it all happened at the same time.
I got poked by needles four times, for instance, but that doesn't really count because I get two regular allergy shots, anyway. The third was a routine flu shot, so only the fourth--my annual blood draw--led to anything worse than a little soreness.
Besides, one needle was a withdrawal and three were deposits, so doesn't that count as a net gain?
The first day saw the two allergy shots and the blood draw, which my employer has done so they can shake judgemental fingers at me. I had a feeling about the results, so I downed a half gallon of ice cream between then and the follow up ... I figured it was likely to be my last guilt-free food treat ever.
Two days later, we took our dog Beowulf to the vet to get his ear infection looked at, so that counts as one. He's been walking sideways with one ear drooped over, and no, I don't share booze with him. Last time I walked that way was after two strawberry daquiris. (I'm a lightweight. Well, in that way, I am.)
He's doing a lot better. Yesterday he had enough energy to dig his nails into my left big toe, so for awhile I was walking just like him.
Where was I? Oh, yes, the chiropractor. As usual, my vertebrae were trying to pass each other on a curve, but she pounded them back into submission.
Then came the flu shot, which was entirely uneventful as shots go. My wife and I were together for those last two, because it's important to experience pain as a family.
We closed out the week with a follow up at the doctor's office, where I mentioned two strange little bumps on my left hand that didn't really seem worth mentioning. Turns out they might be the beginning of a condition that can lead to the inability to use that hand without surgical intervention and GAH! I've always had a fear of not being able to type. Talk to text just isn't the same, because the whole reason I started typing to begin with is because I can't speak.
Oh, and also I'm fat.
But you already knew that, and thanks for being polite. The doc didn't actually say so, in so many words. She said my cholesterol was going through the roof, I had a fatty liver, and my PSA levels took a huge jump. Since two out of three of those things mean I'm fat, I took it that way. The third had to do with my prostate, so I guess another visit to Doctor Finger is in my future.
Prostate cancer is one of the cancers that's more common in firefighters, so of course I'm going to have it checked, but I'm not too worried ... and there's nothing I can do about it, anyway. Doctor finger will poke around until he digs out the problem.
Weighing 233 pounds is whatI can do something about.
First I took all the stuff out of my pants pockets, then I cut my hair, and finally I bought a cheaper pair of shoes, so I'm already down to 232.
Other than that, it's the same old story: Eat less, exercise more, make better food choices. My goal is to lose around five pounds a month, then maintain it somewhere below 200. The timing couldn't be worse, as I've gained weight during winter all my life, and the holidays don't exactly help. But losing weight might also help my back problems, and I'm starting to think my chiropractor enjoys causing me pain.
Anyway, that was my medical week. If I read back through this I'd probably feel ashamed of myself for whining, and delete most of it. Then I'd have to find something else to blog about, so hang the edits! I'm going back to my story outlining.
Maybe a trip down the Yellow Brick Road will shave off some pounds.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
Then the week turned into one of those Medical Weeks. You know the ones I mean: When for a certain period of time everything that happens seems to be health related, usually in a bad way.
Starting from worst, my uncle and my grandmother both fell and broke their hips, and as I write this both are scheduled for surgery today. For my grandmother it was supposed to be yesterday, but they couldn't transfer her to the hospital where the operation will be done because all their beds were full.
You knew the coronavirus was going to pop up here, somewhere.
So everything after that is pretty minor. In fact, very minor, and begging to be made fun of, although sometimes even I'm not in a fun-making mood. It's just that it all happened at the same time.
I got poked by needles four times, for instance, but that doesn't really count because I get two regular allergy shots, anyway. The third was a routine flu shot, so only the fourth--my annual blood draw--led to anything worse than a little soreness.
Besides, one needle was a withdrawal and three were deposits, so doesn't that count as a net gain?
The first day saw the two allergy shots and the blood draw, which my employer has done so they can shake judgemental fingers at me. I had a feeling about the results, so I downed a half gallon of ice cream between then and the follow up ... I figured it was likely to be my last guilt-free food treat ever.
Two days later, we took our dog Beowulf to the vet to get his ear infection looked at, so that counts as one. He's been walking sideways with one ear drooped over, and no, I don't share booze with him. Last time I walked that way was after two strawberry daquiris. (I'm a lightweight. Well, in that way, I am.)
He's doing a lot better. Yesterday he had enough energy to dig his nails into my left big toe, so for awhile I was walking just like him.
Where was I? Oh, yes, the chiropractor. As usual, my vertebrae were trying to pass each other on a curve, but she pounded them back into submission.
Then came the flu shot, which was entirely uneventful as shots go. My wife and I were together for those last two, because it's important to experience pain as a family.
We closed out the week with a follow up at the doctor's office, where I mentioned two strange little bumps on my left hand that didn't really seem worth mentioning. Turns out they might be the beginning of a condition that can lead to the inability to use that hand without surgical intervention and GAH! I've always had a fear of not being able to type. Talk to text just isn't the same, because the whole reason I started typing to begin with is because I can't speak.
Oh, and also I'm fat.
But you already knew that, and thanks for being polite. The doc didn't actually say so, in so many words. She said my cholesterol was going through the roof, I had a fatty liver, and my PSA levels took a huge jump. Since two out of three of those things mean I'm fat, I took it that way. The third had to do with my prostate, so I guess another visit to Doctor Finger is in my future.
Prostate cancer is one of the cancers that's more common in firefighters, so of course I'm going to have it checked, but I'm not too worried ... and there's nothing I can do about it, anyway. Doctor finger will poke around until he digs out the problem.
Weighing 233 pounds is whatI can do something about.
First I took all the stuff out of my pants pockets, then I cut my hair, and finally I bought a cheaper pair of shoes, so I'm already down to 232.
Other than that, it's the same old story: Eat less, exercise more, make better food choices. My goal is to lose around five pounds a month, then maintain it somewhere below 200. The timing couldn't be worse, as I've gained weight during winter all my life, and the holidays don't exactly help. But losing weight might also help my back problems, and I'm starting to think my chiropractor enjoys causing me pain.
Anyway, that was my medical week. If I read back through this I'd probably feel ashamed of myself for whining, and delete most of it. Then I'd have to find something else to blog about, so hang the edits! I'm going back to my story outlining.
Maybe a trip down the Yellow Brick Road will shave off some pounds.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
September 28, 2020
Movie review: Hamilton: An American Musical
My initial reaction when hearing about the Broadway musical Hamilton was surprise that all these historical characters were being played by non-white actors. How was this better than having a white actor play a real black person? How would black people feel if they did an all-white version of Roots? Pissed, that's how they'd feel, and with good reason. (There are white actors in Hamilton, my favorite being the guy who plays the sometimes villainous, but mostly confused King George III.)
But that comparison is not the same. Stay with me; I'll get back to that.
Hamilton is not a movie version of the Broadway musical. It's the Broadway musical itself, filmed for release on Disney's very own streaming thingy that I got because I wanted Star Wars stuff. (The Mandalorian, see it!) In addition to my initial issue, Hamilton seemed over-hyped, had a lot of that rapping and hip hop stuff I never cared for, played fast and loose with history, and seemed a pale, puny thing beside my favorite musical, "1776". (Which also plays fast and loose with history, but never mind.)
But I watched it.
It is not over hyped. Oh, it is so very not over-hyped.
Spectacular, energetic, emotional, and wow. Sure, if you hate musicals you won't like it, but what kind of monster are you, anyway? (Sorry, William--inside joke.) I don't ever recall watching a musical that had me sitting on the edge of my chair. I don't recall the last time a movie made me tear up--more than once. And, having left drama club myself many years ago, I'd forgotten about the pure joy of a stage show.
Oh, and what's the show about? Well, shame on you if you don't know your history. (Which is why inaccuracies shouldn't be an issue--you people should already know this stuff.)
It's all about the life of future first U.S. Treasurer Alexander Hamilton, who as an orphan worked his way up from his dirt-poor beginnings and arrived in New York at an interesting time--just before the outbreak of the American Revolution. He meets future statues such as Aaron Burr, the Marquis de Lafeyette, and those Schuyler sisters, and eventually becomes the right hand man of the Continental Army's steel-willed commander, George Washington.
You've heard of Washington, right?
That's all covered in the first act. After all, there's a country to build in the second.
The story, in the end, is about Hamilton trying without much success to balance family and his own ambitions, which are pushed by memories of his impoverished childhood. His chief nemesis is future Vice-President Aaron Burr, and their power struggle fuels much of the conflict until an ending that you should have seen coming, if you cracked that history book. On the other side we have Eliza Schuyler, whose love for her husband Alexander causes her joy and pain over the course of their lives, and who provides much of the emotional center for the show.
Which is spectacular. Did I mention that?
Hamilton is mostly sung (or rapped) opera style, and there never seems to be a moment when the cast, and even the stage, isn't on the move. It's almost exhausting, while also hilarious, heart-tugging, and engaging. Maybe it'll even get some people to pick up a history book.
And what about the color of the actors' skin?
Well, in short order you just don't notice it. Still, I think my comparison of white actors playing the black parts in Roots is unfair. There's a thread here, of people freeing themselves from the chains of another power, of the underprivileged trapped by their surroundings who fight to bring themselves up. Sure, lots of white people have been slaves through history, but rarely here, on the American continent. That's the story of black people, and it has its parallels with both Hamilton himself and the drive for American independence. Maybe someone at first just wanted to hire the people they knew for this play, or maybe to some it was a great gimmick, whatever ... but it works.
It hasn't pushed "1776" out as my favorite musical, but it's an apples and oranges thing anyway--and Hamilton is a solid number 2. And regardless of whether it makes you think, it sure makes you want to dance in your chair.
On a related note, keep this in mind for your Christmas list: I want the soundtrack.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
But that comparison is not the same. Stay with me; I'll get back to that.
Hamilton is not a movie version of the Broadway musical. It's the Broadway musical itself, filmed for release on Disney's very own streaming thingy that I got because I wanted Star Wars stuff. (The Mandalorian, see it!) In addition to my initial issue, Hamilton seemed over-hyped, had a lot of that rapping and hip hop stuff I never cared for, played fast and loose with history, and seemed a pale, puny thing beside my favorite musical, "1776". (Which also plays fast and loose with history, but never mind.)
But I watched it.
It is not over hyped. Oh, it is so very not over-hyped.
Spectacular, energetic, emotional, and wow. Sure, if you hate musicals you won't like it, but what kind of monster are you, anyway? (Sorry, William--inside joke.) I don't ever recall watching a musical that had me sitting on the edge of my chair. I don't recall the last time a movie made me tear up--more than once. And, having left drama club myself many years ago, I'd forgotten about the pure joy of a stage show.
Oh, and what's the show about? Well, shame on you if you don't know your history. (Which is why inaccuracies shouldn't be an issue--you people should already know this stuff.)
It's all about the life of future first U.S. Treasurer Alexander Hamilton, who as an orphan worked his way up from his dirt-poor beginnings and arrived in New York at an interesting time--just before the outbreak of the American Revolution. He meets future statues such as Aaron Burr, the Marquis de Lafeyette, and those Schuyler sisters, and eventually becomes the right hand man of the Continental Army's steel-willed commander, George Washington.
You've heard of Washington, right?
That's all covered in the first act. After all, there's a country to build in the second.
The story, in the end, is about Hamilton trying without much success to balance family and his own ambitions, which are pushed by memories of his impoverished childhood. His chief nemesis is future Vice-President Aaron Burr, and their power struggle fuels much of the conflict until an ending that you should have seen coming, if you cracked that history book. On the other side we have Eliza Schuyler, whose love for her husband Alexander causes her joy and pain over the course of their lives, and who provides much of the emotional center for the show.
Which is spectacular. Did I mention that?
Hamilton is mostly sung (or rapped) opera style, and there never seems to be a moment when the cast, and even the stage, isn't on the move. It's almost exhausting, while also hilarious, heart-tugging, and engaging. Maybe it'll even get some people to pick up a history book.
And what about the color of the actors' skin?
Well, in short order you just don't notice it. Still, I think my comparison of white actors playing the black parts in Roots is unfair. There's a thread here, of people freeing themselves from the chains of another power, of the underprivileged trapped by their surroundings who fight to bring themselves up. Sure, lots of white people have been slaves through history, but rarely here, on the American continent. That's the story of black people, and it has its parallels with both Hamilton himself and the drive for American independence. Maybe someone at first just wanted to hire the people they knew for this play, or maybe to some it was a great gimmick, whatever ... but it works.
It hasn't pushed "1776" out as my favorite musical, but it's an apples and oranges thing anyway--and Hamilton is a solid number 2. And regardless of whether it makes you think, it sure makes you want to dance in your chair.
On a related note, keep this in mind for your Christmas list: I want the soundtrack.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
September 13, 2020
Reading Potato Books to Your Pink Flamingo
This was originally on our newsletter, which you can check out and sign up for here: https://us10.campaign-archive.com/hom...
You may have also seen it on Humor Outcasts. But I'm putting it out to everyone because it's about reading, which is important (trust me), and also because I had a lot of fun writing it, and we could use some fun right now. (And also because I've got my first sinus infection in more than a year, and I'm not feeling very creative.)
By the way, the newsletter version has a crazy cute photo of my granddaughter on it.
--------------------------------------------
September is a month dedicated to reading. I’m not sure why. Reading months should be in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to do anything but curl up on the couch under a mound of blankets, pour hot chocolate over your head, and whimper about the weather. Or maybe that’s just me.
Or you could read, which seems more constructive.
But they didn’t ask me, and in fact they didn’t even tell me who “they” is, so September is both Adult Literacy Month and Read a New Book Month, which certainly do seem to go together. I don’t need to explain those, do I? If you don’t already know how to read, you’re probably not reading this right now, anyway.
September is also, according to the mysterious Them, Be Kind to Writers and Editors Month. Also related. As it happens, I’m a writer (thus this writing), and so I approve of Their decision. Since my fictional works have now been officially bought by editors, I also approve of editors.
So September is a month in which adults should read books written by writers, of which I am one. We writers shouldn’t let this go to our heads: It’s also Pink Flamingo Month, National Potato Month, and Save the Tiger Month. So They say.
Therefore, I’m going to start writing a new children’s book about a Tiger who gives up his Pink Flamingo diet and becomes a vegetarian devoted to potatoes. It’s working title: Potato Tiger Picks Pink Feathers From His Teeth.
That title … well, it’s a work in progress. Anyway, I recommend celebrating Read An Edited Writer’s Adult Literacy Month in October. Why not? It’ll be colder then anyway, and for those who’ve already read one book, this will be your chance to read two.
I recommend my books. Still available, mostly.
In fact, I carry around a backpack full of copies, going door to door like a literary Jehovah’s Witness, only without the snappy tie.
Okay, fine– read whatever book you like, but please read one. I don’t get why I even have to ask people to read. I don't understood why people wouldn’t want to spend most of their time reading, with the possible exception of the late Hugh Hefner. And let’s face it, reading is way cheaper than sex, especially when you factor in certain prescriptions for someone who lived as long as Hugh. Not to mention alimony.
The irony is that I haven’t had much time in recent years to read; I’ve been busy writing. Stacks of books around the house tower over my head, ready to bury me in the most ironic death scene ever, and I’m not talking about just my own product. But by the time I’ve worked my full time job, then my second full time job of trying to get a fiction writing career going, I run out of time for my favorite relaxation activity. (I’m talking about reading – get your mind out of the gutter.)
So I dedicated myself to reading one new book every month, in addition to catching up on my magazine reading. (No, not one of Hef’s magazines … mind. Out of gutter. Now.) Frankly, I need the relaxation, and I began with a book my wife got for her literature class: Strong Poison, a 1930 mystery starring some guy named Lord Peter Wimsey.
Well, it was new to me. And more to the point, it happened to be on the coffee table when I learned this was Read a New Potato Novel to a Pink Editor Month. It’s shameful, really. I used to go to the Noble County Public Library and load up on the limit of books I could check out – every month– but that’s just another example of how grown up life lets us down. One book I can manage, these days. I challenge everyone else to do the same, and although I’d prefer it be one of mine, make it something you enjoy, something fun.
Stay away from Moby Dick, unless you’re a fishing fan.
Read to your pink flamingo, or read while feeding a potato to your tiger, or your editor, or whatever – but read. Let’s make this world literate again, in the way it was back when reading was fun instead of a chore. Oh, and be kind to the writers; maybe with a review, or a cup of hot chocolate. Be kind to editors, too … if they buy my stuff.
http://www.markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R-Hunter/...
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R. Hunter"
You may have also seen it on Humor Outcasts. But I'm putting it out to everyone because it's about reading, which is important (trust me), and also because I had a lot of fun writing it, and we could use some fun right now. (And also because I've got my first sinus infection in more than a year, and I'm not feeling very creative.)
By the way, the newsletter version has a crazy cute photo of my granddaughter on it.
--------------------------------------------
September is a month dedicated to reading. I’m not sure why. Reading months should be in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to do anything but curl up on the couch under a mound of blankets, pour hot chocolate over your head, and whimper about the weather. Or maybe that’s just me.
Or you could read, which seems more constructive.
But they didn’t ask me, and in fact they didn’t even tell me who “they” is, so September is both Adult Literacy Month and Read a New Book Month, which certainly do seem to go together. I don’t need to explain those, do I? If you don’t already know how to read, you’re probably not reading this right now, anyway.
September is also, according to the mysterious Them, Be Kind to Writers and Editors Month. Also related. As it happens, I’m a writer (thus this writing), and so I approve of Their decision. Since my fictional works have now been officially bought by editors, I also approve of editors.
So September is a month in which adults should read books written by writers, of which I am one. We writers shouldn’t let this go to our heads: It’s also Pink Flamingo Month, National Potato Month, and Save the Tiger Month. So They say.
Therefore, I’m going to start writing a new children’s book about a Tiger who gives up his Pink Flamingo diet and becomes a vegetarian devoted to potatoes. It’s working title: Potato Tiger Picks Pink Feathers From His Teeth.
That title … well, it’s a work in progress. Anyway, I recommend celebrating Read An Edited Writer’s Adult Literacy Month in October. Why not? It’ll be colder then anyway, and for those who’ve already read one book, this will be your chance to read two.
I recommend my books. Still available, mostly.
In fact, I carry around a backpack full of copies, going door to door like a literary Jehovah’s Witness, only without the snappy tie.
Okay, fine– read whatever book you like, but please read one. I don’t get why I even have to ask people to read. I don't understood why people wouldn’t want to spend most of their time reading, with the possible exception of the late Hugh Hefner. And let’s face it, reading is way cheaper than sex, especially when you factor in certain prescriptions for someone who lived as long as Hugh. Not to mention alimony.
The irony is that I haven’t had much time in recent years to read; I’ve been busy writing. Stacks of books around the house tower over my head, ready to bury me in the most ironic death scene ever, and I’m not talking about just my own product. But by the time I’ve worked my full time job, then my second full time job of trying to get a fiction writing career going, I run out of time for my favorite relaxation activity. (I’m talking about reading – get your mind out of the gutter.)
So I dedicated myself to reading one new book every month, in addition to catching up on my magazine reading. (No, not one of Hef’s magazines … mind. Out of gutter. Now.) Frankly, I need the relaxation, and I began with a book my wife got for her literature class: Strong Poison, a 1930 mystery starring some guy named Lord Peter Wimsey.
Well, it was new to me. And more to the point, it happened to be on the coffee table when I learned this was Read a New Potato Novel to a Pink Editor Month. It’s shameful, really. I used to go to the Noble County Public Library and load up on the limit of books I could check out – every month– but that’s just another example of how grown up life lets us down. One book I can manage, these days. I challenge everyone else to do the same, and although I’d prefer it be one of mine, make it something you enjoy, something fun.
Stay away from Moby Dick, unless you’re a fishing fan.
Read to your pink flamingo, or read while feeding a potato to your tiger, or your editor, or whatever – but read. Let’s make this world literate again, in the way it was back when reading was fun instead of a chore. Oh, and be kind to the writers; maybe with a review, or a cup of hot chocolate. Be kind to editors, too … if they buy my stuff.
http://www.markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R-Hunter/...
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R. Hunter"
September 9, 2020
Smoke Showing: Can you picture it?
First draft of the Albion Fire Department photo book is done!
Now, on to the second draft.
My "final" count is 1,200 photos, but I'm figuring the final product will have no more than 750 at most. A lot of this next paring down will be up to Emily: Pictures that are not of good enough quality, or which don't quite work after being converted to black and white, and so on.
Meanwhile, when I started this project I said it would be easy for me, because I didn't have to do a lot of actual writing--it was mostly all pictures. Well, by the time I finished all the captions, plus introductions, chapter openings, and such, the manuscript weighed in at 29,500 words.
That's over half as long as my first published novel. And now I've got to go in and polish that.
Ah, well. Say, would you like to know the working title we settled on?
Smoke Showing: A Fully Involved Photo History of the Albion Volunteer Fire Department.
A little long, but ... what do you think?
Now, on to the second draft.
My "final" count is 1,200 photos, but I'm figuring the final product will have no more than 750 at most. A lot of this next paring down will be up to Emily: Pictures that are not of good enough quality, or which don't quite work after being converted to black and white, and so on.
Meanwhile, when I started this project I said it would be easy for me, because I didn't have to do a lot of actual writing--it was mostly all pictures. Well, by the time I finished all the captions, plus introductions, chapter openings, and such, the manuscript weighed in at 29,500 words.
That's over half as long as my first published novel. And now I've got to go in and polish that.
Ah, well. Say, would you like to know the working title we settled on?
Smoke Showing: A Fully Involved Photo History of the Albion Volunteer Fire Department.
A little long, but ... what do you think?
September 4, 2020
Movie Review: Bill and Ted Face the Music
Decades ago, slackers Bill and Ted learned that they would someday be loved worldwide, and that they would write a Song that would bring the world together.
Backed by that knowledge, they formed a band that became insanely popular ... but as time went on the Song didn't come, and as Bill and Ted Face the Music opens, they're slacker dads reduced to playing at nursing homes and open mic nights.
Which, naturally, sets the entire universe to unraveling.
So Bill and Ted try to solve the problem the easy way. Experienced time travelers, they'll simply travel to the future, and take the already written Song from the future Bill and Ted. Excellent! Meanwhile their daughters, Thea and Billie, take matters into their own hands by traveling to the past, to collect famous musicians into a backup band for their fathers.
Bill and Ted Face the Music is exactly what we need in these times--pure fun. If you hate time travel stories, or if you're one of those purists who questions every aspect of time travel cause and effects, I can't help you. Otherwise, just relax and have fun as Bill and Ted try to save the universe and their marriages. The further into the future they go, the more outlandish their future selves are. Meanwhile, the daughter of their original helper, Rufus (George Carlin naturally gets a shout-out), and a murder robot sent to institute Plan B--killing Bill and Ted (again)--are playing catch up.
The only problem I had with the long time between movies is that occasionally Keanu Reeves just looked too old to be this character again. It's not his fault--in fact, Reeves and Alex Winter race through the movie with the same innocent, zany energy of their first appearance. I think it was the lack of a beard, and long hair that, as my wife put it, actually made him resemble Harry Potter's Severus Snape. Believe me, it didn't prevent me from enjoying the movie.
A special shout-out to Anthony Carrigan, who plays the robot--its actual name is Dennis Caleb McCoy, he points out. It's an hysterical performance that just gets funnier as it goes on. We also get another great mix of historical figures, this time all music related. Oh, and Death. It wouldn't be the same without William Sadler showing up.
My favorite new characters were Bill and Ted's daughters: Thea and Billie basically take on the same job their fathers did in the original Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. They're just like their fathers, and they even take on some of the same mannerisms as the older pair. I wouldn't at all mind seeing a sequel headlining the two women--or even a series.
My score:
Entertainment Value: 4 out of 4 M&Ms. The ending was a bit abrupt, but otherwise it was plenty of fun.
Oscar Potential: 2 out of 4 M&Ms. Movies aren't easy to make, but everyone makes this one look like a gathering of friends just having a good time. The Academy hates happiness.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
Be excellent to each other.
Backed by that knowledge, they formed a band that became insanely popular ... but as time went on the Song didn't come, and as Bill and Ted Face the Music opens, they're slacker dads reduced to playing at nursing homes and open mic nights.
Which, naturally, sets the entire universe to unraveling.
So Bill and Ted try to solve the problem the easy way. Experienced time travelers, they'll simply travel to the future, and take the already written Song from the future Bill and Ted. Excellent! Meanwhile their daughters, Thea and Billie, take matters into their own hands by traveling to the past, to collect famous musicians into a backup band for their fathers.
Bill and Ted Face the Music is exactly what we need in these times--pure fun. If you hate time travel stories, or if you're one of those purists who questions every aspect of time travel cause and effects, I can't help you. Otherwise, just relax and have fun as Bill and Ted try to save the universe and their marriages. The further into the future they go, the more outlandish their future selves are. Meanwhile, the daughter of their original helper, Rufus (George Carlin naturally gets a shout-out), and a murder robot sent to institute Plan B--killing Bill and Ted (again)--are playing catch up.
The only problem I had with the long time between movies is that occasionally Keanu Reeves just looked too old to be this character again. It's not his fault--in fact, Reeves and Alex Winter race through the movie with the same innocent, zany energy of their first appearance. I think it was the lack of a beard, and long hair that, as my wife put it, actually made him resemble Harry Potter's Severus Snape. Believe me, it didn't prevent me from enjoying the movie.
A special shout-out to Anthony Carrigan, who plays the robot--its actual name is Dennis Caleb McCoy, he points out. It's an hysterical performance that just gets funnier as it goes on. We also get another great mix of historical figures, this time all music related. Oh, and Death. It wouldn't be the same without William Sadler showing up.
My favorite new characters were Bill and Ted's daughters: Thea and Billie basically take on the same job their fathers did in the original Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. They're just like their fathers, and they even take on some of the same mannerisms as the older pair. I wouldn't at all mind seeing a sequel headlining the two women--or even a series.
My score:
Entertainment Value: 4 out of 4 M&Ms. The ending was a bit abrupt, but otherwise it was plenty of fun.
Oscar Potential: 2 out of 4 M&Ms. Movies aren't easy to make, but everyone makes this one look like a gathering of friends just having a good time. The Academy hates happiness.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
Be excellent to each other.
August 31, 2020
What would Martin Luther King say?
An excerpt from Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech:
"But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the worn threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
"We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protests to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy, which has engulfed the Negro community, must not lead us to a distrust of all white people. For many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom."
Was he perfect? No, who is? But when that guy got to talking, man, he could cook. And he understood that hate just begets more hate.
"But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the worn threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
"We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protests to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy, which has engulfed the Negro community, must not lead us to a distrust of all white people. For many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom."
Was he perfect? No, who is? But when that guy got to talking, man, he could cook. And he understood that hate just begets more hate.
August 26, 2020
The Joy of Cooking: It's In the Eating
While my wife recovered from surgery a few years ago, I did most of the cooking. I learned something about myself during that time:
I hate cooking.
Oh, who am I kidding? I already knew that.
That is to say, I hate doing the cooking; I do enjoy eating the cooking of others.
Ordinarily she cooks and I clean the kitchen, which has the benefit of us not coming down with food poisoning. I pretend this is a huge sacrifice, but sometimes a little mindless work can be nice and non-stressful.
But cooking? Pure stress, a panic filled hour of spinning from place to place, measuring and timing and trying not to burn the house down. I hate cooking with every bran fiber of my being.
Except for S’Mores. S’Mores are definitely worth working for.
Some people love cooking. They revel in it, joyful in their creation of fancy dishes.
Can we not do something with these people? Help them, somehow? How can we let them just wander around in the streets, searching for ingredients and the newest kitchen device? Isn’t there some medication that could help bring them back to reality, some procedure to help them see the real world? What kind of society are we?
When I told all this to Emily – okay, after a week and a half of cooking it was kind of a rant – she just looked at me calmly and said, “You know, some people think the same thing about writing.”
That hit home, because she and I have been known to spend hours happily pecking away at our keyboards – and no, that’s not code for something.
Okay, maybe the love of cooking isn’t a mental illness. Maybe it’s a … choice. But when it comes to cooking, I choose no.
I didn’t even cook all that much, by most standards. The day of Emily’s surgery, my mother brought over a gallon of spaghetti, a truck load of bread, and enough salad to clean out a whole field. For at least two other days we had takeout, because contractors tore up the kitchen. (I know what you’re thinking: suspicious timing. Let’s just say I left a calendar, with a twenty pinned to a certain date, for the roofer.)
A few times I sneaked in something really simple, along the lines of: “Remove cover. Heat at 400 degrees for thirty minutes. Be careful, product will be hot”.
Emily couldn’t give me advice even when not heavily medicated, because as a cook she’s what's called a pantser. For her a dash here, a bit there, 350 degrees or so until it looks done … I need an amount, doggone it, and a time. Sometimes I think she just faked being asleep whenever I ran through the room with my hair smoking, yelling “But what does parsley DO?”
So I avoided cooking for as long as I could, but we’d bought ingredients and planned meals. Once she got to the point where she could get up and shuffle around a little, it became too hard to sneak Chinese food through the back door.
After that, from time to time I had to throw together more than three items to make one item, which is when I start to get Harried and Confused, which will be the title of my autobiography. The more items, the harder it is for me to keep my head straight. The more different dishes – and apparently meals are supposed to have, say, veggies and fruit along with the meat – the more confused and stressed I get. Cooking, for me, is like doing brain surgery would be for you. Unless you’re a brain surgeon, in which case you can probably afford a cook.
For awhile it was a tossup whether I’d burn the house down, kill us with salmonella, throw a pot through the window, or all three at the same time.
The joy of cooking was the very opposite of joy.
This brings me to the big discovery I really made about myself. I already knew I hated cooking, no shocker there, but my epiphany was on a grander scale. Since my teens I knew I wanted to write for a living, and be successful at it. I wanted to be so successful that I could do what I want in my life.
Now I know that I picked the absolute worst career path for financial success, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
And was my ultimate goal a beachfront house in Hawaii? A yacht? Private plane?
Nope.
The older I get, the more I realize all I really want is to hire a private cook, and if they can stick around to clean up, so much the better. Emily might disagree, as she’s one of those poor, sickly souls who like to cook. But I know the true secret of happiness.
And it wears a chef’s hat.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
I hate cooking.
Oh, who am I kidding? I already knew that.
That is to say, I hate doing the cooking; I do enjoy eating the cooking of others.
Ordinarily she cooks and I clean the kitchen, which has the benefit of us not coming down with food poisoning. I pretend this is a huge sacrifice, but sometimes a little mindless work can be nice and non-stressful.
But cooking? Pure stress, a panic filled hour of spinning from place to place, measuring and timing and trying not to burn the house down. I hate cooking with every bran fiber of my being.
Except for S’Mores. S’Mores are definitely worth working for.
Some people love cooking. They revel in it, joyful in their creation of fancy dishes.
Can we not do something with these people? Help them, somehow? How can we let them just wander around in the streets, searching for ingredients and the newest kitchen device? Isn’t there some medication that could help bring them back to reality, some procedure to help them see the real world? What kind of society are we?
When I told all this to Emily – okay, after a week and a half of cooking it was kind of a rant – she just looked at me calmly and said, “You know, some people think the same thing about writing.”
That hit home, because she and I have been known to spend hours happily pecking away at our keyboards – and no, that’s not code for something.
Okay, maybe the love of cooking isn’t a mental illness. Maybe it’s a … choice. But when it comes to cooking, I choose no.
I didn’t even cook all that much, by most standards. The day of Emily’s surgery, my mother brought over a gallon of spaghetti, a truck load of bread, and enough salad to clean out a whole field. For at least two other days we had takeout, because contractors tore up the kitchen. (I know what you’re thinking: suspicious timing. Let’s just say I left a calendar, with a twenty pinned to a certain date, for the roofer.)
A few times I sneaked in something really simple, along the lines of: “Remove cover. Heat at 400 degrees for thirty minutes. Be careful, product will be hot”.
Emily couldn’t give me advice even when not heavily medicated, because as a cook she’s what's called a pantser. For her a dash here, a bit there, 350 degrees or so until it looks done … I need an amount, doggone it, and a time. Sometimes I think she just faked being asleep whenever I ran through the room with my hair smoking, yelling “But what does parsley DO?”
So I avoided cooking for as long as I could, but we’d bought ingredients and planned meals. Once she got to the point where she could get up and shuffle around a little, it became too hard to sneak Chinese food through the back door.
After that, from time to time I had to throw together more than three items to make one item, which is when I start to get Harried and Confused, which will be the title of my autobiography. The more items, the harder it is for me to keep my head straight. The more different dishes – and apparently meals are supposed to have, say, veggies and fruit along with the meat – the more confused and stressed I get. Cooking, for me, is like doing brain surgery would be for you. Unless you’re a brain surgeon, in which case you can probably afford a cook.
For awhile it was a tossup whether I’d burn the house down, kill us with salmonella, throw a pot through the window, or all three at the same time.
The joy of cooking was the very opposite of joy.
This brings me to the big discovery I really made about myself. I already knew I hated cooking, no shocker there, but my epiphany was on a grander scale. Since my teens I knew I wanted to write for a living, and be successful at it. I wanted to be so successful that I could do what I want in my life.
Now I know that I picked the absolute worst career path for financial success, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
And was my ultimate goal a beachfront house in Hawaii? A yacht? Private plane?
Nope.
The older I get, the more I realize all I really want is to hire a private cook, and if they can stick around to clean up, so much the better. Emily might disagree, as she’s one of those poor, sickly souls who like to cook. But I know the true secret of happiness.
And it wears a chef’s hat.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
August 22, 2020
Coming Attractions: The History of the Drive-In
This was meant to go out way back a year and a half ago, when Coming Attractions was first released, but somehow it got lost in the shuffle. I decided to post it now to remind everyone that Auburn-Garrett Drive-In is still open and could use the patronage in this particularly rough year for movies ... and also, of course, that Coming Attractions is still available, and I could use the patronage, too!
-----------------------------------------
Remember the joy of going to the drive-in movie theater when you were a kid?
You don't? That stinks.
You're missing a unique experience. All the way back in 1921 a fellow named Claude V. Caver projected films in downtown Comanche, Texas, which people didn't have to use speakers for because the films were silent. In fact, 2018 was the 85th anniversary of when a guy in New Jersey patented the idea to watch movies from the comfort of your car. I do have to wonder how many people thought he was insane, when there were perfectly comfortable movie houses that gave you some extra amount of shelter from the elements, but by the 50s there were four thousand drive-ins in the United States.
Today there are only about 330, with none at all in Alaska, Delaware, Hawaii, Louisiana, or North Dakota.
When I was a kid there were three within a more or less easy drive from my home. One was up in the Angola area, as I recall, and later went to showing X-rated movies (if you can imagine a time when you couldn't stream those directly into your home). One was the Hi-Vue south of Kendallville; because its screen faced the highway, it generally showed family films or other G to PG rated fare. The third, the Auburn-Garrett, had a screen facing away from the road, so that's where any R rated features would show up, at the time. By the time my kids were old enough, only the Auburn-Garrett remained.
So that's where we went, and after my divorce that became a go-to days off trip for my kids and me. Then I married again, and my wife--gasp!--had never been to the drive-in, so as the kids started families of their own I had a new partner for the double feature.
Yeah, the drive-in meant a lot to me.
I like to get there early, to find a good spot. As a writer I'm always looking for more time to write, so I came up with an idea: Why not spend that pre-movie time working on a new novel?
But … whatever would that novel be about?
So, with my kids helping to plot it out and create characters, I outlined a new book about--a drive-in movie theater. Write what you know. The main characters include a single father with two kids, and … well, write what you know pretty much covers it.
While the drive-in that appears in Coming Attractions isn't quite the same as the Auburn-Garrett (for instance, the marquee along the highway is different), that's definitely where I got the inspiration. It's a quirky place populated with some sometimes odd and wonderful people; I hope it will invoke nostalgia in some, and curiosity in others, and bring drive-in theaters more business. It would be great to see my great-grandkids going there, someday.
Find all of our books at:
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
-----------------------------------------
Remember the joy of going to the drive-in movie theater when you were a kid?
You don't? That stinks.
You're missing a unique experience. All the way back in 1921 a fellow named Claude V. Caver projected films in downtown Comanche, Texas, which people didn't have to use speakers for because the films were silent. In fact, 2018 was the 85th anniversary of when a guy in New Jersey patented the idea to watch movies from the comfort of your car. I do have to wonder how many people thought he was insane, when there were perfectly comfortable movie houses that gave you some extra amount of shelter from the elements, but by the 50s there were four thousand drive-ins in the United States.
Today there are only about 330, with none at all in Alaska, Delaware, Hawaii, Louisiana, or North Dakota.
When I was a kid there were three within a more or less easy drive from my home. One was up in the Angola area, as I recall, and later went to showing X-rated movies (if you can imagine a time when you couldn't stream those directly into your home). One was the Hi-Vue south of Kendallville; because its screen faced the highway, it generally showed family films or other G to PG rated fare. The third, the Auburn-Garrett, had a screen facing away from the road, so that's where any R rated features would show up, at the time. By the time my kids were old enough, only the Auburn-Garrett remained.
So that's where we went, and after my divorce that became a go-to days off trip for my kids and me. Then I married again, and my wife--gasp!--had never been to the drive-in, so as the kids started families of their own I had a new partner for the double feature.
Yeah, the drive-in meant a lot to me.
I like to get there early, to find a good spot. As a writer I'm always looking for more time to write, so I came up with an idea: Why not spend that pre-movie time working on a new novel?
But … whatever would that novel be about?
So, with my kids helping to plot it out and create characters, I outlined a new book about--a drive-in movie theater. Write what you know. The main characters include a single father with two kids, and … well, write what you know pretty much covers it.
While the drive-in that appears in Coming Attractions isn't quite the same as the Auburn-Garrett (for instance, the marquee along the highway is different), that's definitely where I got the inspiration. It's a quirky place populated with some sometimes odd and wonderful people; I hope it will invoke nostalgia in some, and curiosity in others, and bring drive-in theaters more business. It would be great to see my great-grandkids going there, someday.
Find all of our books at:
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
August 13, 2020
Derecho Isn't Just a City in Texas
I woke up late and had a fire department meeting in an hour, and it was a horrible day for a drive, so we went for a drive.
In our defense, it was a time-sensitive errand ... and we didn't know it would be a bad day for a drive. As I dragged myself out of bed Emily told me about a line of thunderstorms to the west, but we were headed east. Surely we could get things done and be back before it hit.
We didn't know it was a derecho, which is meteorological term meaning "big honking storm like a hurricane except in the middle of the country", which wouldn't have fit as easily in a headline. We also didn't take into consideration that the system was moving at 60 mph. By the time we got back it was, as the old timers say, all over but the shouting.
Just after we turned back I crested a hill on a country road and almost ran down a group of wild turkeys. Um, flock. Herd? Wait, let me look it up ...
Huh. Rafter. A group of turkeys is called a rafter. Who'da thunk it? Anyway, that was my first clue that this wouldn't be an ordinary trip.
There would be a lot of shouting. And wind. And those big huge drops of rain that look like there's a bucket full in each drop, and yeah, a little hail mixed in with that. We hit some of that, then about five miles out of town Emily told me the clouds were rotating, which I could believed because by then the western third of Noble County was under a tornado warning. (We were under a thunderstorm warning, which in retrospect seems underwhelming. It occurs to me there should be a derecho warning, or possibly they could call it a land hurricane, which sounds cooler.)
We pulled over at a good spot to watch. (In other words, safe.) I got out to see, yes indeed, there was a small rotating wall cloud going over our heads. I never thought to get some video, which is odd, because I'm usually all about grabbing the camera; but I stayed standing outside the car long enough to see it wasn't just a random cross wind--it was, indeed, rotating. I didn't see a funnel, and so far as I know all the damage around Noble County came from straight line winds ... which did just fine by themselves, thank you.
Emily, who's much smarter than me, and the dog, who's also no dummy, had stayed in the car. So I was the only one who got clobbered when another wall of those bucket-sized raindrops reached us.
We tried to drive on, but have you ever tried to drive while inside an automatic car wash?
You have? What the heck's the matter with you?!?
So we didn't drive, for a while, having found another place to get completely off the roadway. Eventually we went on, once all the foliage around us was no longer leaning at a 90 degree angle. Or 75 degree. Or ... oh, who am I fooling? I hated math. They were blowing sideways, okay?
Now, people can sometimes cause problems by trying to do the right thing. As we inched down the highway, an oncoming car flashed its high beams to get out attention. It was probably the driver who did it, not the car, but never mind.
They were trying to warn me, but it had the opposite effect, because I was looking at that passing car when Emily said "TREE!"
My wife doesn't yell about trees unless they suddenly appear in front of us, in the twilight haze of sideways rain. It had blocked about half of State Road 8, and it wasn't something I was going to move, so I called the Sheriff Department business number.
It was busy.
You gotta understand, that just doesn't happen often. My first impulse was just to leave them alone, but the tree was across a state highway, after all. I got through by portable radio, and after we determined we'd do more harm than good if we stayed where we were, we headed back toward Albion.
That's when we came across a tree branch, halfway across the road from the other side, but this one was something we thought we could do something about. It was obviously just a large, dead branch, so we hopped out, dodging cats and dogs (still raining, you see), ran over to it, and realized it was way bigger than we'd thought from inside the dry car, where the dog was laughing at us.
Okay, it was a tree.
But it was a dead tree, so by hauling on it together, we were able to break the worst of it off. then we threw the larger broken branches off the roadway, and then we got the heck out of dodge, because dodge was a highway and visibility wasn't exactly 100%. Especially since the pavement was starting to flood, and who knew which way other drivers were looking?
Yeah, I missed the fire meeting.
But we made it home safely, and we had dry clothes, and even electricity, which is more than a lot of other people could stay. The moral of the story is, I suppose, the same as it's been all year:
Stay home.
(Just the same, after we were safely home I looked at Emily and said, "But now that it's over, it was kinda fun, wasn't it?" She agreed. The dog was a dissenting vote. And this attitude is how people get into trouble.)
I suppose I should advertise my novel Storm Chaser here, but the weather was a windbag enough for all of us.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
In our defense, it was a time-sensitive errand ... and we didn't know it would be a bad day for a drive. As I dragged myself out of bed Emily told me about a line of thunderstorms to the west, but we were headed east. Surely we could get things done and be back before it hit.
We didn't know it was a derecho, which is meteorological term meaning "big honking storm like a hurricane except in the middle of the country", which wouldn't have fit as easily in a headline. We also didn't take into consideration that the system was moving at 60 mph. By the time we got back it was, as the old timers say, all over but the shouting.
Just after we turned back I crested a hill on a country road and almost ran down a group of wild turkeys. Um, flock. Herd? Wait, let me look it up ...
Huh. Rafter. A group of turkeys is called a rafter. Who'da thunk it? Anyway, that was my first clue that this wouldn't be an ordinary trip.
There would be a lot of shouting. And wind. And those big huge drops of rain that look like there's a bucket full in each drop, and yeah, a little hail mixed in with that. We hit some of that, then about five miles out of town Emily told me the clouds were rotating, which I could believed because by then the western third of Noble County was under a tornado warning. (We were under a thunderstorm warning, which in retrospect seems underwhelming. It occurs to me there should be a derecho warning, or possibly they could call it a land hurricane, which sounds cooler.)
We pulled over at a good spot to watch. (In other words, safe.) I got out to see, yes indeed, there was a small rotating wall cloud going over our heads. I never thought to get some video, which is odd, because I'm usually all about grabbing the camera; but I stayed standing outside the car long enough to see it wasn't just a random cross wind--it was, indeed, rotating. I didn't see a funnel, and so far as I know all the damage around Noble County came from straight line winds ... which did just fine by themselves, thank you.
Emily, who's much smarter than me, and the dog, who's also no dummy, had stayed in the car. So I was the only one who got clobbered when another wall of those bucket-sized raindrops reached us.
We tried to drive on, but have you ever tried to drive while inside an automatic car wash?
You have? What the heck's the matter with you?!?
So we didn't drive, for a while, having found another place to get completely off the roadway. Eventually we went on, once all the foliage around us was no longer leaning at a 90 degree angle. Or 75 degree. Or ... oh, who am I fooling? I hated math. They were blowing sideways, okay?
Now, people can sometimes cause problems by trying to do the right thing. As we inched down the highway, an oncoming car flashed its high beams to get out attention. It was probably the driver who did it, not the car, but never mind.
They were trying to warn me, but it had the opposite effect, because I was looking at that passing car when Emily said "TREE!"
My wife doesn't yell about trees unless they suddenly appear in front of us, in the twilight haze of sideways rain. It had blocked about half of State Road 8, and it wasn't something I was going to move, so I called the Sheriff Department business number.
It was busy.
You gotta understand, that just doesn't happen often. My first impulse was just to leave them alone, but the tree was across a state highway, after all. I got through by portable radio, and after we determined we'd do more harm than good if we stayed where we were, we headed back toward Albion.
That's when we came across a tree branch, halfway across the road from the other side, but this one was something we thought we could do something about. It was obviously just a large, dead branch, so we hopped out, dodging cats and dogs (still raining, you see), ran over to it, and realized it was way bigger than we'd thought from inside the dry car, where the dog was laughing at us.
Okay, it was a tree.
But it was a dead tree, so by hauling on it together, we were able to break the worst of it off. then we threw the larger broken branches off the roadway, and then we got the heck out of dodge, because dodge was a highway and visibility wasn't exactly 100%. Especially since the pavement was starting to flood, and who knew which way other drivers were looking?
Yeah, I missed the fire meeting.
But we made it home safely, and we had dry clothes, and even electricity, which is more than a lot of other people could stay. The moral of the story is, I suppose, the same as it's been all year:
Stay home.
(Just the same, after we were safely home I looked at Emily and said, "But now that it's over, it was kinda fun, wasn't it?" She agreed. The dog was a dissenting vote. And this attitude is how people get into trouble.)
I suppose I should advertise my novel Storm Chaser here, but the weather was a windbag enough for all of us.
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/&quo... R Hunter"
