P.G. Shriver's Blog, page 10

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I was born in California, my family moved to Minnesota after eight years, and then we moved to Texas when I was fourteen. No, we were not a military family; we just had family in those states and moved with them. I still live in Texas, but the restless urge to move to another state rises and falls within my nomadic personality.
After graduating from U.T. Arlington with an M.Ed., I began teaching English and Literature to middle school students and then changed paths to teach a comp and lit at a technical college. Though I dream, like every other author in the world, of spending all my time writing and traveling, I love my job of teaching. Teaching gives me the chance to meet new personalities, form new ideas and create new characters or actions for my books from bits and pieces of life.
My writing career began at an early age, with the nurturing of my second grade teacher who entered my poem for class into a newspaper contest. I won and was published. Seeing my name in print, even at that young age, was an incredible feeling along with the emotion my poem stirred in family members and friends. I found that writing provided me attention I desperately needed within the codependent environment where I grew up.
Following the publication of my poem, I began writing daily, reading as much as possible, and while at community college, I sent out short stories for publication. Looking back at them, they weren't very good, but I was striving for that chance of breaking into the world of writing. I wanted to see my name in print, again. 

My dream was fulfilled in 2008 when I received a phone call from an independent publisher who was interested in my manuscript for a children's book. After No More Stinkbugs! was released, I moved into the booming world of self publishing. The internet became my best friend and my research skills roared into action. I have since published 10 more books for children and young adults, and am awaiting decisions by publishers on an interactive classroom book about bullying and on my new adult romance novella, BTW, I Love You, that I wrote for the first ever NaNoWriWee--a grueling thirty hours of writing--competition. 
When I'm not writing or teaching, I enjoy traveling, reading, sewing, cooking, relaxing and working on our small horse farm, swimming, and spending time with my husband and daughter. I also love roller coasters. Sometimes, I am an emotional roller coaster. Still, my family tolerates me and they are my sounding board, my inspiration and my teammates in this journey to live the dream of an author.

Paranormal Surprises

Turn to the person next to you. Nobody next to you? That's okay.

Say these two words to the person next to you, or aloud to yourself: paranormal investigation.

Now, what was the reaction?

Many years ago, I would have scoffed at those words. I would have crossed my fingers in front of my face and said, "Devil be gone!" I will say right now that I am not trying to convince any readers otherwise, either, so please don't take offense. What you believe, is what you believe, and I do respect the beliefs of others. I wish to share, however, a few spiritual events that have changed my reaction to those two words to... intrigue.

Think me weird if you like. Point your finger and judge if you must. Tell me I better change my ways now, if that will make you happy. Pray for me--I'm more than happy to accept as many of those as I can get, and will do the same for others. Throughout my life, I've relied heavily on prayer, especially in my youth. Many of my prayers were answered, too.

The first reason my reaction has grown to intrigue stems from an incident in my life that changed me. My first niece was born 21 years to the day after I was. We shared our birthdays, our lives and many secrets. She died from juvenile diabetes the November before she turned 21, two months after she was married. My heart broke. I prayed often and cried more. The night she died, I lay awake while my husband snored softly next to me. I couldn't sleep. Tears drenched my pillow as I prayed for comfort. Silent sobs grew louder; so as not to wake my husband, I slipped into the bathroom where I cried into my hands, on my knees, and called out to her. I missed her so desperately.

A part of me died that day.

That night, in my bathroom, amidst my shameless sobs, her voice broke through the pain and said, "It's okay, Aunt Penny. I'm free now!" and her beautiful smile filled my thoughts. Surprised? You bet I was! And at that very moment, my tears stopped; I smiled; in my mind, I hugged her. I was at peace.

The second incident that changed my mind was eleven months later, in October 2004, when her mother, my  sister, died from cancer just before her 40th birthday. Again, the night she died, I couldn't sleep. My tears had dried after so many weeks of crying over her diminishing body covered by hospital garb and sheets. I was more relieved that her struggle was over, her pain gone, but I still couldn't sleep for thinking of her, missing her, knowing I would never be able to pick up the phone and call her again. At one point on the night she gave up the fight, between doses, I rolled over on my side facing the open door of our bedroom. My eyelids tugged open, once again, with thought, and as they focused on the dark hallway just outside our door, I saw her, my lovely sister, dawning her favorite night time ensemble, a white tee-shirt and shorts, walking into my daughter's bedroom. Was I afraid? No. Knowing my sister, I understood that she was checking up on her only niece one last time.

The third incident--cliche, yes, but it happens in threes--was the night my mother finally gave up her battle with COPD. Again, her death was completely expected, but with the support of my aunt, cousin, and husband I stayed by Mom's side to her last breath. She died in our home, where she had lived for the previous two months, under the care of hospice. She'd spent most of the three days leading up to her last in bed, and the morning before her last, she told me that she'd be "going home soon." I left the room to cry and call the hospice staff thinking that day would bring the end.

To my surprise--whether it was my tears, my cracking telephone voice, or her motherly instincts--soon after her comment she came to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and sat at the table where she had spent most of her time watching our animals through the window. It was Spring Break, so I was at home working on books. She asked me to take care of some loose ends for her and I began to cry. She said, "You can cry now, but don't you cry when I'm gone." I then knew the same thing she had known for a week or so. I also knew in my lifetime of mother/ daughter relations with her, I seldom did what she told me to do. I was a rebellious child.

She passed away around 4:30 pm that next day, and we did what we always do after a death: celebrate life. That night we watched her favorite comedian--Jeff Dunham with Walter-- and when I just couldn't stand it any longer, I laid down on the couch and cried behind my laughter. I closed my eyes and tried to let her go, but I wasn't quite ready. We had already lost so much, so many, and I couldn't let go and I couldn't not cry. It had been just us four for the entire time my brother was in the navy: Mom, me, my sister and niece. It had been just us before I met my husband and my sister had her second daughter.We had always been together. We babysat for each other. We spent every holiday together. We spoke or saw each other every day. We traveled to Colorado to meet my brother on his way to Washington when he was in the Navy. We did everything together. We were so very close. Suddenly, I felt alone... miserably alone.

Mom was not an affectionate person, but at that very moment, my teeth chattered uncontrollably, every limb trembled, and through clicking teeth, I asked if anyone else was cold. "No," they shot concerned looks my way. It was March in Texas, and not a cold evening.

The tears kept coming.

Then, the chill embraced me, spreading around my body as if I had fallen into an ice covered lake face first, belly down; it gripped my back and I knew... it was exactly as I'd heard it would be when a live person encountered the dead--extremely cold. My mother had given me a hug before leaving our home. To me, she was saying, "I told you not to cry, and I love you."

Those three incidents changed my views on paranormal activity, and when one of my students hung back after a class to discuss my book Dead Perfect, he stated, "I get the feeling that some elements of this book come from real life experiences." I told him he was correct. Then we discussed the ghostly elements of the story. He wondered if I had ever experienced "paranormal" incidents. I told him I had, which is a strange conversation to have in front of other students, but I explained the story behind the story. When he asked how I felt about paranormal investigations, intrigue lit my face. Then he told me he was part of a non profit group that investigated paranormal activity.

Interesting...

Courtesy of PIMT Facebook Page/ Jennifer, Kira, Andy
The Reverend Andy Ramirez, my ex student/ current friend, is the owner of P.I.M.T. (Paranormal Investigations Moody TX) Entities, a non profit paranormal service, and he invited me to tag along on an investigation with him, his wife and his daughter, Kira, on Saturday, May 31, in Groesbeck, Texas. The three, individually, are highly sensitive to entities and energies in a location. The three as a team are phenomenal! Andy once shared a story with me after class about a loved one's death and how she said goodbye to him before his parents had even returned from the hospital with the news that she had passed on.


Andy in Full Gear/ Courtesy PIMT FBI have to admit, though very excited about this opportunity--especially from a writer's perspective--I was also worried. What exactly would I encounter at this strange house? Would the activity be as I had experienced with my own family? Would I see people of the past? And, exactly why were they investigating the home? Dangerous clips from "Poltergeist" filled my mind. "Supernatural" episodes reached through the crevices in my brain, bringing a hint of fear. Would I return to my home? I asked my husband to join me and he agreed to go along. (He also saw my sister roaming our halls the night she died.)
Picture contributed by Tim WaldieWe arrived at 8:00 pm in the driveway of the home owned by Tim and Buffy Waldie, an Emergency Medical Tech and High School Teacher, who purchased the beautiful, two-story house three years ago. During that time, many strange incidents have occurred. Tim shared a video he took of one of their many house cats playing with two orbs. The two orbs are seen against the wall, dancing and playing with the cat as well. Upon further discussion about the previous owners, I wondered if the two orbs in the video were the late Judge A.M. Blackmon, man of the house, who died there in 1953, and his youngest daughter, Augusta, who preceded her father in home-bound death when she contracted meningitis. She had been sick and waiting for a doctor to arrive from Kosse, according to Mr. Waldie. Two deaths in a house of unusual paranormal activity. It's not strange for people to die at home. Hospitals were not readily available in those days. EMTs were non existent. Still, those who die at home don't usually "stick around" and terrorize the current owners. Do they?

So, what was keeping the previous owners in this particular house?

Tim told me that coins had been sliding off tables, dressers, or counters; a man's nonexistent cologne sometimes engulfs their olfactory senses; cats often play with nothing readily seen by the human eye; unexplained, burning scratches appear in various places on Buffy's body; the more Tim told me, the more intrigued I was to be a part of this adventure into the spiritual realm of "real" paranormal. With the many incidents taking place, I couldn't even guess at what these previous owners could want from the current ones. Why were they trying to reach out to them?

Mrs. Blackmon, the judge's wife, sold the home in 1956--wouldn't you after so much sadness? Had she been experiencing the same activity for those three years after losing her husband and daughter? Had her daughter haunted the rest of the family through the duration of their stay? During Mrs. Blackmon's time on this earth, the very mention of ghosts in her home might bring the straight jacket. When she sold the home, she only moved down the street from her beautiful two story house where she had raised her children, then lost her husband and daughter. Was she unable to handle her late husband's and daughter's desire to communicate with her through various activities?

Upstairs with Andy and Tim, in the sitting room where Buffy's first scratches appeared, I sat in the dark. Infrared cameras, high tech energy readers, and other devices Andy dawned lay in wait of response. I hoped for a presence to address. I listened as Reverend Andy--he is ordained--guided Tim in speaking to the entities in the home. Slight changes in room temperature occurred, but nothing seemed to happen there. After several minutes, Andy suggested we move to the spare room where one of the cats would sit outside the door peering in and crying into the darkness. The cat had been locked away in the bathroom during our visit, but while we sat in the room, he yowled ceaselessly at the bathroom door across the hall. I wish I knew what he knew, what he was trying to tell us.
The camera picks up an entity on the bed. Courtesy P.I.M.T.
Camera picks up entity near chair in spare room. Courtesy P.I.M.T
Waldie began to address the past owners, Augustus--the judge--and his youngest daughter of similar name. Each time he addressed the daughter, Augusta, the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. The hair on my neck tingled and rose. I could feel something in the room with us, someone, an unusual pressure, but I wasn't sure who it was. My mind was not conditioned to focus without relaxation, but I knew something, someone was there. Without much more than temperature changes, we decided to return to the downstairs where Andy's wife, Jennifer, and Kira were working the kitchen, but before we reached the upstairs hallway, Jennifer was calling to Andy.
Bottom Left: Tim on bed, me in chair. Bottom right: Jennifer in Kitchen. See the orbs?
Something had happened in the kitchen!

Excitement surged through, pulling me toward the stairs, but I hung back allowing the two men to descend first. Andy held the light, leaving the stairs behind him in darkness. As the hair on my neck prickled and a shiver brushed my spine, I moved cautiously and quickly downward.

Kira's arm hair stood straight up, as if rubbed by a balloon suspended above it. No balloon lurked there. The energy from the previous owner caused the hair to rise. After dishes had rattled in the cabinet, one of the cats rose to the safety of another cabinet and vultured Kira and the entity from his perch above. Kira had been speaking to the entity, asking questions in which the subject would "light up" a high powered energy reader. Kira had asked the right question and Augusta lit up the panel, scaring Buffy to tears.

This girl from the past, this young person who had died so many years ago, had been tormenting Buffy--a caregiver of children, a teacher--and now, no matter how much Buffy wanted to not believe, the spirit was real. Buffy's fears were affirmed. She knew she was truly being haunted by this girl and not losing her mind. Her husband, seeing her pained expression, ushered her out the front door for a break. My heart ached for her. I considered the deep cavern that divided learned knowledge and experienced knowledge, the beliefs and history we are taught by others as we grow up versus the reality. Are we supposed to know the truth? Why not?

Waiting with Jennifer and Kira in the kitchen during the break, we discussed the possibilities of the scratches being cat related and Buffy not remembering. The thought had crossed my mind. Devil's advocate isn't a bad play when trying to reason the harm of another. I offered that given the apparent young age of Augusta, perhaps it was the cat play influencing her to scratch Buffy. The cats received attention. Perhaps young Augusta only wanted the same, and when Andy returned to the kitchen with Tim and Buffy, scratches had once again appeared on this terrified woman, this time on the back of her neck.

Why?

Why was this little girl targeting a teacher?

My mind reeled with possibilities. The writer in me wanted to discover her story, share her life with the world.

This time, Andy asked if I wanted to sit with Jennifer and Kira in the bedroom upstairs. I agreed, but Buffy refused to come with us. I didn't blame her. Jennifer kept watch on the temperature readings. Kira lay the energy reader on the bed and spoke to Augusta. I felt the sudden urge to hug this poor young girl who had lost her life so early. In my mind, I spoke to her, "Just let me hug you." Having worked with abused children in my past, I knew it wasn't likely she would allow me to hug her, and somehow I had the feeling, deep in my heart, that this girl had been abused in some way. As Kira spoke, the temperature in the room dropped. I began to shiver a little. I knew that feeling. Jennifer read off the temperature at 55, 57.5, 54 in various parts of the room. Since I had sat in that same room not thirty minutes earlier with Andy and Tim, just before the kitchen experience, the temp had dropped over ten degrees. Augusta was in the room and this room seemed to belong to her.
Kira on the bed: Me in the chair. Check the time stamp. I had been sitting in the chair, feeling as though the child I learned about needed a hug, talking to her in my mind.
Again, I thought nothing significant had occurred upstairs, and we returned to the kitchen. I was glad as the room had turned so cold. Andy seemed to receive little response downstairs. Augusta didn't appear to want to communicate with the men other than hovering. It wasn't a man she needed to get a message to. Why did she seem to ignore them, yet constantly reached out to Buffy, to Kira? Kira is young, a daughter who understands. Buffy is a mother of many, as a teacher. I speak from experience as an educator. All students touch the lives of their teachers.

Andy had spoken to Augusta earlier asking her if she wanted him to leave the kitchen, and the lights on the reader had lit up. He took it that she was afraid of men, or that a man had harmed her, and perhaps he's right. That was my first thought, too. However, if that were the case, why would she attack a woman?
Andy in Living Room
Tim had explained to me that young Augusta died while waiting for her father, the judge, to return with the doctor. My mind to turned to cures of that era. Though blood letting was phasing out in favor of newer methods for curing a fever, it still remained a treatment in the late 19th century during which time both parents may have grown up with that knowledge. Were the scratches significant of blood letting? Was Augusta a failed blood letting performed by her mother? Or, had she been an object of her father's affection and her mother's hatred--an act that has been around as long, if not longer, than blood letting. The storyteller in me immediately wanted to write Augusta's story, release her obligation to tell the truth so she could move on and leave Buffy and Tim in peace.

The torment felt by Buffy, the fear she endures over the scratches and haunting, is evident in her face, though she tries to hide it. I wanted to hug her, too, tell her it would be okay, but she didn't know me from the entities in her home. I hope the truth is discovered behind this tiny tormentor. I cannot imagine living in fear of being scratched almost daily, not sleeping to the point of hysteria, never knowing what spiritual surprise awaits you at home.

Having left the house before the investigation was complete, I missed a few more incidents, but the next morning, discovered one of my own. When I woke up, I felt a burning sensation on my body in a well clothed area. Mistaken for heat rash due to humidity, I applied some cream to stop the burn. It didn't help, but Neosporin did remove the burn and ache. The next day, the outer redness had disappeared, and the scratch looked like a cut, as if the top layers of skin had been sliced by something sharp, yet had not drawn blood. That crack--in a very sensitive area--brought a shoot of intuition that blossomed into a rose of possible truth.

I, too, am a mother and educator.

Through email, Andy shared the resolution to the evening with me: With permission, I share his words with you, "later that evening, I performed a house blessing. I went back up to 'Augusta's Room' with Mr. Waldie. I had an idea to pray for her and lift the bondage of sickness that has been holding her there. I did not tell her she had to leave, but I wanted to release the shackles of pain from her so if she wanted to stay around, she could just be a playful little girl. I also apologized if any man had done her wrong etc, then explained Mr. Waldie was an EMT and I was a minister, and that we only intended to be of service. I felt it safe to continue in that room praying. As I recited prayer and sprinkled holy water, with my priest garb (stole, crosses, etc) I felt the energy shift. I continued on, and about 5 minutes later I walked out and sat on the porch. I turned every shade of sick and could not stand.

I believe I took her illness into me (the symptoms) and when I prayed and blessed myself while sitting on the stair, after about five minutes, it lifted from me. This was witnessed by several people. On the voice recorder, you hear Mr. Waldie and I get up and walk back to the room, when we caught the EVP voice as clear as day 'hey come look at me' in a cheerful little child's voice...here is the link to that EVP. "

Sunday Give or Take

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Worth Feeling

Roller coasters are my favorite ride at amusement parks. I love the reel of emotions they provide--the thrill, the shock, the danger, the joy.

My stories should reflect the same.

My reviews should reflect the same.

All of my writing should reflect the same.

Too often today, people don't have time to feel. I want to change that. I want people to feel through reading. That's the way it should

Blog Overhaul

I do not like my blog. I want to overhaul it, but I'm not sure what I should do. When I ventured into this book blog for my books, I wasn't sure how to do it then, either. I feel like my blog is just part of some grand sales venture, and that's not what I wanted it to be. Not happy at all. I guess I just don't understand all of this blogging business.

I have some ideas for my new blog, and

Puzzle #1

It's puzzle time!
Each day from May 14 through June 30th, a week before the release date of The Gifted Ones: The Dream, a scrambled word puzzle related to The Gifted Ones series will be posted on my blog. The first puzzle solver to unscramble the words and comment correctly with the sentence will receive a free digital copy of The Gifted Ones: The Fairytale.




If you like puzzles, dystopian

The Standard Weird Dreams

So, today is the first day of class for the semester. Why is it I always have the same type of weird dream the night before classes start? This one went like this:

I just started a "new" teaching job in a first grade class at an elementary school??!!!?? (NOT!) Don't misunderstand--I love first graders. I just don't want to teach that level. There's a level for every teacher, and right now, mine

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to those of you who are mom's or are about to be.

I'm proud to be a mom. I always hoped I would be as good of a mom as my own mother, but I'm afraid I fall quite short of her many kindnesses and generosities. All children were her children. I suspect that's where I get the ability to treat all of my students equally and fairly.

Mom was the most mild mannered, even tempered

They're Coming

Fire rages in their dream. Whirlwinds threaten their bond. Evil
fuels their anger.




Nathan, orphaned by murderers, steals his grandmother's car
to flee his home in Paradise

Good News

Many good deals are coming my way. First, five of my children's lit books have been compiled into one book by TSTC Publishing for use with my Children's Literature course. My three novels are also being compiled to use in class for the FA/14 term.

Next, I have been hired to write articles on a part time basis and I am somewhat excited about that. It doesn't pay much, but I will get exposure as