P.C. Zick's Blog, page 5

Can’t See the President for the Beer

Jimmy Carter received the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002 for his humanitarian work around the world. On a trip through Georgia late that year, we decided to make a detour through Plains, Georgia, to see the small town where President Carter and his wife still lived.

My travel companion–my now ex-husband–and I entered the small general store in the middle of downtown, which consisted of about two blocks of old-fashioned storefronts. We could have arrived in 1952 instead of 2002 except for the new flip phone residing in my pocket and two black SUVs parked at the curb outside the front door. Time had stopped in a good way for the home of the thirty-ninth president known as the peanut farmer with a colorful mother and outrageous brother.

The clerk behind the wooden counter greeted us warmly. “Welcome,” she said. “You’re in for a treat today. The monthly rotary meeting is going on in the back.” She pointed to a door at the rear of the store.

Not sure why that would be a treat for us, we smiled warmly and said we were excited to be there.

“Take your time and look around. The meeting will be over soon. If you stay long enough, you might get to meet the President and Rosalynn when they come out from the meeting. Those are the secret service vans out front.”

It seems that we chose our visit wisely to coincide with the Carters return from Geneva where he was awarded the 2002 Nobel Peace Award. They had come to the rotary meeting in their hometown so the leaders in Plains, Georgia, could offer up their own brand of pride and congratulations.

So, what else could we do but immerse ourselves into the store that had many shelves dedicated to the Carter presidency? Our daughter, a sophomore in college, had developed a strong interest in Carter and the work he was doing post-presidency. She hadn’t even been born until after his four years in the White House. I quickly put her on notice via my flip phone and kept the phone in my hand with her number up. I planned to tell Mr. Carter that my daughter was a fan and ask him to say hello to her via the phone.

Then we began our journey up and down the aisles intent on finding a souvenir to mark our visit. On the last aisle, furthest from cash register and front door, we found a six-pack of unopened Billy Beer, the beer made famous by Billy Carter, the untamed brother of Jimmy. My ex–an inveterate collector of ephemera–examined the cans and studied the price. He wanted to buy it, but I was reluctant. Seemed we could find a more appropriate way to remember President Carter.

Several people suddenly pushed behind us in the aisle, but we were so intent in our discussion of the beer, we moved in closer to the shelves to allow them to pass without turning around. We were slightly annoyed that in the empty store, they had chosen our aisle to move through the store.

We finally decided upon a magnet for our refrigerator and took it back to the pleasant clerk at the front.

“Did you get to talk to him?” she asked with a lilt to her voice.

“Who?” I asked.

“President Carter and his wife. They passed right by you back there.” She pointed to the place where we’d been negotiating our souvenir choice. “There they go.”

We looked out the window and the two black SUVs we’d noticed earlier were pulling away from the store and headed down the road.

Because of our intense focus on something right in front of our noses, we missed the bigger picture. The beer fogged our attention, and we missed the opportunity to shake the hands of two people who stood for all that’s right with humanity.

Lesson learned and still learning. Focus may get the job done but if it causes us to lose sight of our surroundings whether it be natural beauty or people then we’ve sacrificed missing the important things in life.

In the twenty years since that day, I’ve learned that the moments we are engaged with all that teems around us give us the most reward. And it’s always good to be reminded.

Rest easy, Mr. President. May your passage be as peaceful as the rest of your life where you made a difference in the lives of millions. Your legacy through Habitat for Humanity and your other causes will continue to help others for many years to come. Thank you.

#OhioChemicalDisaster – Shows Us We’ve Learned Nothing Thirteen Years After Deepwater Horizon #Oilspill and Upper Big Branch Mine Disaster

When I published my novel Trails in the Sand in 2013, I had hoped one of my messages would be heard and repeated. On the surface, the novel appears to be a family saga with more secrets and drama than an afternoon soap opera. That was my vehicle for telling the story of two major corporate disasters that occurred within fifteen days of one another in 2010. Both disasters and the death of forty men should never have happened.

BP’s Deepwater Horizon explosion that caused a major oil spill and killed eleven men working on the rig should not have gone forward. One of the workers, before his death, noted that Mother Nature didn’t want them drilling there because of the many failed attempts. However, the master minds at the top ignored the warnings and moved forward into one major tragedy for humans, wildlife, and the environment.

Similarly, Massey Energy’s Upper Big Branch mine explosion in West Virginia on April 5, 2010, would not have happened if Massey Energy and its CEO Don Blankenship had received more than taps on the fingertips for their unsafe practices over the years. Cutting corners to pad the pockets of the big guys at the top became the standard practice and cost the life of twenty-nine miners when the unsafe conditions in the mine caused the explosion.

Thirteen years later, another disaster has occurred, and it appears the same corporate mentality brought about an environmental and health tragedy for the many residents living near the train derailment near East Palestine, Ohio. Norfolk Southern, the responsible party, has been accused of unsafe practices as well.

This time around get it right, folks. Use Norfolk Southern as the new standard for halting the practices of corporate greediness. A fine is merely a penny in their deep pockets while they fly far away from wherever they’ve left their toxic residue on the tracks running through the backbone of this country.

Make Norfolk Southern accountable for the fear and danger they unleashed when their cars derailed in a small town that may have to pay the highest cost of all.

Grab your copy of Trails in the Sand by clicking here.

Remembering the Brave Heroes

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My great-grandfather, Harmon Camburn, enlisted in the Union Army in 1861 two weeks after the start of the Civil War. He was nineteen. His infantry unit, 2nd Michigan, fought in several major battles during the horrific war. His final and nearly fatal active participation in the war occurred on November 24, 1863. His unit had been assigned to secure the Confederate arsenal outside of Knoxville, Tennessee, as the Union Army attempted to capture the city. Here is his account of that day.

NOVEMBER 24, 1863 – Day broke with a heavy mist hanging over hill and valley, completely shutting out all view of the enemy’s lines from us. As soon as it was light enough to see, the 2nd Michigan was ordered to “fall in.” Without the usual cup of coffee, the line was formed, and the roll was called. In the absence of the Sergeant-Major, I collected the reports of the orderly sergeants of the various companies and turned over to the adjutant, a report of 160 men present for duty in the regiment. Immediately, this little band moved down the slope into the railroad cut. Halting here, we were informed that our destination was to capture the center redoubt out on the open plain. There was no remonstrance against the undertaking, but the general expression was that one-half of us would not return alive. The signal to charge was to be one gun from Fort Sanders. The signal to retreat two guns.

While we waited the signal, the utmost freedom was given the discussion of the chances of our undertaking. There was no thought of hesitation. There was no blanching. And when the signal came, with set teeth, the men sprang up the bank as one man. A slight breeze had cleared the mist, and the sun poured its glad rays upon many a brave boy for the last time.

Wheeling slightly to the left to squarely face the objective point, our line moved rapidly forward. The watchful foe, discovering us, poured in a deadly volley. Several fell at the first fire. The guns of Fort Sanders opened a point-blank fire on the work over our heads. With wild mad shouts, our line dashed on into the vortex of their curved line where they poured on us a murderous fire from both flanks as well as in front. Bullets screamed and whistled through the air from all directions. There seemed to be lead enough in the air to almost shut out the light of the sun. As we came within range, the guns of Fort Sanders ceased firing, leaving the fight all to us.

Coming upon the redoubt, our right swung forward so that they could fire directly into the end of the redoubt. At the first volley, the enemy broke and fled back to their reserve in the woods close in their rear. Now having full possession of the earthwork, we took shelter on its outer face and fired over the top at the foe in the timber. I had seen Adjutant Noble and Lieutenant Gilpin fall before we reached the work. Lieutenant Gulver had also been killed. Men had been falling all the way and were dropping every second now. While aiming over the work, a ball struck me in the right breast, passed through the lung and out at the back near the spine. Major Byington who was in command, came and said to me, “You are badly hurt,” passed on and had not gone ten feet when he was hit almost simultaneously in the leg and in the side. Raising upon his knees he called, “Pass the word to Captain Ruckle to take command and tell him for God’s sake to get the boys out of this.” Just at this moment, the two guns belched forth the signal to retreat. Those who were able got away. The enemy now advanced to reoccupy the work, and the infantry around Fort Sanders commenced firing to cover the retreat of our men. As the rebels approached us, they began calling to one another to bayonet the wounded. A swarthy rebel major with long black whiskers and a cocked navy revolver in each hand, dashed to the front and roared out, “Who says bayonet the wounded? Show me the son of a bitch.” There was no more such talk.

Reaching over the work, some rebels dragged me inside by the collar. I was semi-conscious by this time, but I remember that a rebel sergeant took my watch and gave it to one of my comrades with instructions to send it to my friends if he got out alive. I also remember the big rebel major ordered four men to place me on a stretcher and march in step without flinching back to the woods. This order he enforced at the muzzle of his two revolvers, although the air was full of shrieking leaden missiles of both friend and foe.

This action did not last half an hour, yet in that time, 160 men had driven 200 men from an entrenchment, they being supported by a whole brigade not eighty rods away.

Eighty-six out of the 160 were killed and wounded. No advantage had been gained. It was impossible to hold the work without moving a large force outside our entrenchments. This was apparent to most everyone before the work was taken.

In view of all the conditions, the person or persons ordering this move were pronounced guilty of official murder by all who witnessed it.

Civil War Journal of a Union Soldier
From the Army Reminiscences of Harmon Camburn (1842-1906) Presented by Patricia Camburn Zick

He survived the shot that entered his chest despite the lack of care after capture by the Confederates. For six days, he existed on his youthful strength, whiskey, and morphine. Finally, the Union negotiated his release and for two months he healed in the makeshift hospital in Knoxville’s post office. He was sent home in 1864, he promptly married my great-grandmother. Eventually, four children completed their family, but my great-grandfather never fully recovered from his wounds. But he lived a life that continued to show his true character. His obituary in the local paper says it all. 

The very sad passing of Harmon Camburn occurred Thursday morning at 4 o’clock after an illness of nearly two years. The immediate cause of his death was lung and heart trouble, but ever since the war, during which he was badly wounded, he has not been strong. With Mrs. Camburn he went to Florida last November where it was hoped his condition would be bettered, but he became worse and they returned to Adrian on March 7. Since that time he has been growing steadily worse. He has suffered a great deal during his last illness, but has always maintained a spirit of fortitude and always had a kind, patient word for his immediate family, friends and members of the Grand Army, who often visited him. Very quiet and unassuming he has led an exemplary life, been a very good citizen, a home loving man and a kind father and husband.

Adrian, Michigan paper, March 22, 1906

A hero. I remember him with gratitude. So many others have given of themselves to defend and protect. I send a prayer of thanks to them all.

#FREE Days – May 23-27

Download on Kindle

Misty Mountain is the second sweet romance I wrote for the Smoky Mountain Romance series. The four stories in this series take place in a small fictional town in southwest North Carolina. Lacy and George face all the challenges that come from families and divorces. Once they are able to navigate the perils of family history tainting the present and solve the conflicts involved in child custody, they might find their way to one another.

Enjoy your free download on Kindle May 23-27 and fall in love with the folks of Laurel, North Carolina where a community comes together to make families of choice. Click here to get your copy today.

Four Sweet Romances Set in the Smoky Mountains

A Bit of Spring as Summer Surges

Last year, my husband constructed a butterfly garden next to his raised beds. This year, we are enjoying the flowers of his labor. And so are the butterflies and bees.

 

Something #FREE for You – May 16-20

Love on Trial is the first book in a seven-book sweet romance series, Rivals in Love, which features the six Crandall children and their parents. This first book in the series chronicles the love story of the oldest of the Crandall kids, Jude, and another lawyer who opposes her in the courtroom. Malik Moore followed what his mother wanted for him not want he wanted for himself.

But with the help of Jude’s and Malik’s dogs, they overcome cultural differences, professional arguments, and personal pride. Yet not all is smooth on the road to falling in love.

Download your copy for #FREE this week (May 16-20) and get started on reading about the Crandalls of Chicago and their complicated loves.

On Ducks and Geese

ON DUCKS AND GEESE Ugly Duckling AKA UD

During the pandemic, we found different ways to entertain ourselves. Some may question our affinity to one of our new pastimes, but it kept us out of trouble and perhaps sane. Although some may be questioning the sanity part as we move into the third year of COVID.

Our house sits across from a pond known as Twin Lakes. There is a question where the twin resides, and the lake designation seems optimistic. Our road, subdivision, and pond are all named Twin Lakes, so the whole thing is one big misnomer. No wonder the wildlife here may be disturbed.

The saga began when two Muscovy ducks took up residence on the “lake” several years ago. This species of duck is a pestilence in certain parts of the city, but we only had the pair. Until someone got tired of waiting for the ducks to cross the road one day and ran over one of them. We were told by the wildlife officials the male of the couple had bit the pavement. So, the one lone female with large red warts on its face remained. We named her the Ugly Duckling, but she seemed so pitiful in her aloneness that we decided we mustn’t mention the Ugly word in her presence. Instead, we took to calling her UD.

The only time UD perked up came in January during the first two years of her widowhood when the Canada geese arrived for the winter. One pair came every year, and UD began making it a threesome, even going so far as sitting on the nest when the female laid her eggs. For two years, we enjoyed the ducklings born in the early spring, although it was difficult for vehicles when two adult geese, one UD, and six ducklings decided to own the road.

Then in April, the Canada geese and their offspring would depart, leaving UD alone and depressed. We did our best to give her a cheery, “Good morning, UD,” on our daily walks, and eventually, she became used to us and even followed us for a few feet. One night, my husband went out to the yard to gaze at the full moon, and UD waddled over and stood next to him. We became her people.

In January last year, the geese returned, and the threesome once again resumed their odd little trio of waterfowl. One day in March, I heard a ruckus on the water. I walked toward the disturbance on the single pond Twin Lakes and saw something quite disturbing. I called for my husband, and when he saw, he said, “Is UD trying to kill it?”

“No,” I replied. “UD is mating with the female.” All the while, the male goose sat in the water watching, not more than ten feet away, while UD’s beak held the neck of the goose.

Several things shocked us about this scene. First, UD is a male. And “he” disrupted the habit of the Canada geese that are usually monogamous and pick mates for life. And geese don’t run in packs, especially during mating season. UD and Twin Lakes had turned nature upside down in our little isolated world.

Soon enough, the nest was laid, eggs deposited, and the female began incubating the potential offspring. We couldn’t go near the nest without the male goose or UD coming after us, so we left them in peace. During the day, the male goose floated guard on the water. And at night, UD took over the duties. Then about two weeks later, the female abandoned the nest. The geese ignored it, even allowing me close enough to take pictures of the six eggs—not broken but abandoned. Sometimes, UD would stand over the nest sadly looking down at the eggs.

The Eggs

A few weeks later, the geese flew away leaving UD alone once again. But he had us. Whenever a day passed without seeing UD, we would call for him, and he would appear from the marsh on the opposite side. Not all Muscovys fly, and UD fell into that category with swimming and waddling as his only form of travel.

As usual, in January of this year the geese returned. I drove into the subdivision one day and saw them land on the water. And then I noticed UD at the other side of the pond swimming—as quickly as I’d ever seen him go—toward the geese. They ignored him and swam away.

For several weeks, we would see the two geese and one duck swimming together, but soon I noticed UD had stopped following them around, and while the geese pecked at lawns, UD would sit with his back to them.

There were no repeat performances of the ménage trois of Twin Lakes. And the female hasn’t laid any eggs yet. And sadly, it has been two months since there has been a UD sighting. And we look. Oh, do we look. And we call his name. No UD.

We don’t know what happened to the mascot of Twin Lakes, but I have my suspicions. Those geese have been acting guilty. One of them even screeched at its own reflection in the neighbor’s sliding glass door the other day. Now if that doesn’t reek paranoia, I don’t know what does.

They came into our yard last week. I screamed, “Murderers,” and they hissed at me. I chased them with a stick. Mourning UD has taken a decidedly questionable turn.

When I told my daughter about chasing the evil geese, she suggested we find another pastime. One that doesn’t involve our chasing and yelling at the geese, which is now not limited to our front yard. Yesterday, we went golfing, and one of my drives hit a Canada goose in the fairway.

“Way to go,” my husband shouted. “Revenge for UD.”

He high fived me, and I grinned.

We may have survived the time of COVID but how well remains questionable.

In Memory of the Twin Lakes Mascot

Morsels of Romance

Download for #Free!

Eleven excerpts from eleven sweet romances in one book in Morsels of Romance – Tastes of Love. The bits of stories come from my Rivals in Love series and Smoky Mountain Romances. All yours for free. And if you like the sneak peeks, links are provided for downloading each book in its entirety.

Pulling together this book came during a lull in my current project while I waited for editing comments to be returned. What’s an author to do but sit down and pull together an easy project? One I hope that pleases readers of romance.

My new project? I’m taking a sharp left turn and writing an edgy contemporary women’s saga. More on that later. 

For now, sit back and download Morsels of Romance from your favorite online retailer.

And now that I’m finally figuring out the changes to WordPress editor and can actually edit pages, I hope to regularly post once again. Learning curves.

Smorgasbord Cafe and Bookstore – Meet the Authors – #Memoir #Africa Ann Patras, #Romance P.C. Zick, #Fantasy Lorinda J. Taylor

I appreciate Sally Cronin and the Smorgasbord Cafe for their support of Indie Authors. Check out the three she featured recently.

Smorgasbord Blog Magazine

There are over 150 authors in the Cafe and Bookstore and I wanted to keep it to key pieces of information such as buying links, recent review, website and covers. However, I know that readers also like to know more about the background of authors.

In this series during June and July I will share the bios of all the authors in the cafe in a random selection. I hope that this will introduce you to the authors in more depth and encourage you to check out their books and follow them on their blog and Twitter.

Meet Ann Patras

A long time ago Ann Patras was born in Burton Upon Trent, England. Actually that’s a lie. Ann Johnson was born, but she married a weirdo named Ziggy and became Ann Patras in the mid 1970’s. She was quite normal until she married him, or that’s what she’d have you…

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GRATITUDE FOR OUR HEROES

[image error]Photo by  Jonathan Borba  from  Pexels

The mark of a person shows through in time of crisis. And we are in a worldwide crisis right now. Those healthcare workers who are sacrificing their own health deserve more than we can probably ever repay. Their families are sacrificing as well as some nurses, doctors, and hospital personnel can’t go home or if they do, have to go rigorous safety measures just to come into their own home.

Even more than that, they are also serving as the emotional support for patients because their families can’t be there in person. I am so grateful they can play that role, and I know the families must feel even more gratitude. They are saviors.

I lost my brother to a blood cancer in December. We were able to be with him when he was put on a respirator. We were at his side when the doctors and hospice helped him make his final life decisions. He was able to stay in the hospital. As horrible as it was to watch him suffer and then to mourn his passing, I am so grateful his cancer took hold when it did. If it had waited three months, it would have been a whole other level of grief. His wife of more than fifty years wouldn’t have been at his side holding his hand when he took his last breath. Or equally disturbing, he might have been sent home without the drugs to help ease him into a place with no pain or discomfort.

Every time I hear a story about a COVID victim dying alone with the family at home, every time I see pictures of nursing staff holding up a phone so the patient can say good-bye, and every single time I watch family members fight tears as they tell their story, I feel their pain. My heart aches for them.

It’s such a confusing time, but as I’ve told my family and friends, I can only control my own actions. They each have to make the decisions that will allow them to sleep at night. Even as I tell them that, I also tell them it’s really not about them. It’s about every one else. It is not the time for selfishness.

This time of slowdown is an opportunity for all of us to examine our lives and how we live. It’s a time to look to our heroes–those people who are often overlooked in our society but who give of themselves and who sacrifice so much to make sure our lives run smoothly, COVID or not.

The medical profession are at the forefront, but so are the teachers juggling and struggling to find ways to keep students engaged, the restaurant servers and delivery folks and grocery store workers, and so many others.

They should serve as our example for how to move forward from here. I thank them all.